The Duke's Captive

by Adele Ashworth

  His body responded. . . .

  . . . he needed me, begged me, and I couldn’t resist the desire to be with him. I’ve never felt anything so intense and wonderful, and doubt I ever will again. . . .

  He touched me in places I have never been touched before, places on my body that I have never touched myself. . . . I have shared these sins with a man I’ve grown to love. . . .

  Today was the end of my innocence, in every way. It was an end he sought, but to which I yielded, with compassion and desire and love in my heart, and now that it’s over, I have no regrets, only memories to last a lifetime. . . .

  He is ailing, and I must do all that I can to get him out of there. . . . Hold on, Ian. Help is coming. Please, my brave man, hold on. . . .

  The party is tomorrow night. Somehow I will see him rescued, even if I have to defy my family and destroy my future. I cannot let him die. He means too much to me now. . . .

  I am very frightened, for both of us. I am three weeks late for my monthlies, and now fear I carry his child. . . .

  “Viola . . . ,” he breathed, touching the words with his fingertips as if they’d been part of her.

  They rescued him last night, and although I helped to free him, doing so made it necessary to expose my sisters and the evils they’ve committed. I have disgraced my family and fear I may remain disowned and alone. With his baby inside of me, I can only hope to find a husband quickly. All of our futures now rest in God’s hands. . . .

  And then, at long last, he came to the answer to everything:

  I close this diary by omitting the gravest secret he whispered in his delirium. I cannot mention what I know, for if anyone should learn the truth behind his family secret, it would surely ruin him. For now, as a new journey for me begins, I will live in silence, with the knowledge that I, a common lady of modest means, saved the life of the noble Earl of Stamford. My new husband has agreed to keep my secret and raise my bastard child as his own, providing I paint and sketch lascivious art for him to sell. He is practically penniless, but is titled, and Mother insisted on the match for that reason. She—no one—will never know the truth, but it matters little to me as long as I have my baby. Pray God, thank you for giving me this precious life inside to cherish always, conceived from the heart of the man who will never know his child, but will forever be my greatest desire and deepest love. . . .

  Shakily, his mind numb, Ian closed the journal and wrapped both arms around it as he held it tightly against his chest. For a long while he just stared vacantly, unblinking, at the tea table in front of him, seeing nothing through the blur of tears that filled his tired eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The invitation to the unveiling party said seven, but Ian had arrived early, wanting to get a few moments alone with his son before he talked to Viola. Ian wasn’t exactly sure what he’d say to the boy, who was just barely five years old, but he assumed conversation with John Henry wouldn’t be too difficult. Or perhaps the opposite would be true. He really had no idea, since he seldom found himself in the company of children.

  He’d returned from Rye with Viola’s books and gown, intending to use them as an excuse to see her should he need it, but on arriving back at Tarrington Square two nights ago, he’d received his invitation. She’d finished a second portrait, the one they were about to view in some dazzling display she’d planned, and now he had his own display and would use this night to reveal it. It was time for truth, for decisions to be made, and for him, the first would begin with his son.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to ask to meet the boy inside the home, a situation that would no doubt field speculation and gossip among her staff. As soon as his coach pulled into the drive, he noticed John Henry in the small garden to the side of the house, hanging from a swing by his belly as two servant girls chatted nearby. A perfect opportunity.

  Ian stepped out the moment his driver stopped, then walked the path back the way he’d come. He spotted the child just as the girls, probably no older than sixteen, noticed him entering through the wrought-iron gate. They stopped talking at once, both of their mouths hanging open in surprise.

  “I’d like to speak with Lord Cheshire alone,” he said, coming to a standstill beside the swing. “I’ll bring him to the house with me in a few minutes.”

  The girls looked momentarily confused. Then, apparently gathering their wits, each one curtseyed, replied meekly, “Yes, your grace,” and quickly exited the garden through the gate.

  He glanced down to the boy, who had now twisted the swing’s rope so tightly that it lifted him to his tiptoes. Suddenly, he jumped, pulled his feet off the ground, and twirled, giggling as the twisted rope swung him round a half dozen times before spinning back in the other direction.

  “Is that fun?” Ian asked, amused.

  John Henry looked up, grinning. “ ’Course!”

  God, he looked like Ivy. Or, probably more accurately, he looked like him. Others would notice, some would talk, but in the end none of that mattered. He wanted his child in his life as much as he wanted the child’s mother.

  “Are you going to the party?” John Henry asked.

  Smiling, Ian clasped his hands behind his formal dinner jacket. “How can you guess?”

  John Henry giggled. “Mama says you’re gonna be sa-pized.”

  Frowning, he clarified, “Surprised?”

  John Henry started swinging again, concentrating on his feet. “Sa-pized when you—see the painting.”

  That thoroughly intrigued Ian. “Is that so? Have you seen it?”

  The boy looked up at him, grinning. “Yes. It’s funny.”

  “Funny, eh?” For a second it occurred to him that she’d actually done the unthinkable and painted a formal portrait of him in all his naked glory, intending to reveal it tonight. It would no doubt be the ultimate humiliation in front of friends and social acquaintances who didn’t need to know the size of his privates according to her imagination. That would surely make everyone laugh. But such a notion quickly vanished, for two reasons. First, if she planned to humiliate him, she would never do so in front of her son, or with his knowledge. And secondly, they had moved beyond trying to hurt each other. Whatever the future held for the two of them, from now on it would only include contentment and delight that satisfied them both. He would make certain of it.

  “I have something to ask you, Lord Cheshire,” he said very formally. “And you must keep this a secret between gentlemen. Do you think you can do that?”

  John Henry suddenly flipped over on his swing, then stood upright and hopped onto the wooden seat to watch him.

  “I s’pose.”

  Ian cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I was wondering if you’d like to come and live with me in the country for a little while. I have a big house and lots of horses to ride. I even have a nephew about your age who probably knows a lot about swings and toys and climbing trees outside. I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”

  John Henry leaned on the rope, eyeing him suspiciously, his little face pinched as he considered the offer. “Can Mama come, too?”

  “I sincerely hope she does,” Ian replied through a long exhale. “But you must keep it a secret until I ask her myself. Is that understood?”

  John Henry grinned again and began swinging upright. “A secret ’tween gel-men?”

  Ian nodded. “Exactly. It’s a secret between gentlemen.”

  John Henry flipped over again, then jumped back and fell onto his bottom into the dirt. Ian reached out and offered him his hand.

  “Did that hurt?” he asked, amused.

  The boy pulled himself up. “No. I fall sometimes.”

  “Ah.”

  John Henry rubbed his backside, then leaned over onto his head again to stare at the world upside down.

  Ian smiled. “Shall we go inside, Jo
hn Henry? I’m starving.”

  The boy immediately stood upright. “I am, too. ’S-go.”

  Without prompting, John Henry reached out to take Ian’s hand, then skipped along beside him as they wandered through the garden toward the house.

  Viola made her way to her drawing room to take note of the evening’s arrangements and make certain all was in order. Now nearly six, she had little more than an hour before guests would begin arriving for the event. The gathering would be small, with only twelve people or so, but she wanted it to be a night to remember, especially for Ian. That’s what terrified her.

  She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in the week since she’d left his bedroom after his ridiculous marriage suggestion, and truthfully, she couldn’t wait to see him again. She missed him, a revelation of her own that grew sharper every day. She only wished she knew the depth of his feelings for her, and where, dear heaven, they would go from here.

  Part of her realized he had fallen in love with her, though whether that had happened years ago or recently, she couldn’t guess. But she couldn’t just tell him what, or how, he felt. He had to recognize it for himself. And maybe he never would. She had seen it when he’d made love to her, when he’d been inside of her and had experienced such a powerful connection of souls. Perhaps only a woman could understand, but in the last few days she’d thought of that night frequently, recalling each intense moment, each delicious sensation and the expression of feelings between them, and if there was one thing she knew as fact, it was that he didn’t want to live without her.

  For tonight, though, she would do her best to entice him as any smart woman would do when she wanted the attention of the man she loved. She’d decided on the very same scarlet gown she’d worn to Lady Tenby’s party on the night she’d met him again, this time adding ruby earrings and a ruby teardrop necklace to draw his attention to her uplifted breasts, made as obvious as possible by her tightly drawn corset. With her hair swept up in curls, she decided to wear the tiniest trace of rouge on her cheeks and kohl on her eyelids to enhance her color under candlelight. In the end, she looked sophisticated, confident, and radiant. She only hoped he noticed.

  Viola stepped into her drawing room, already smelling of cinnamon and cloves, and surveyed the surroundings. Two servants were busy setting the buffet with hors d’oeuvres and champagne in one corner, and in the other, next to the mantel, stood the easel on which rested her painting, covered in a drape of red velvet. After a quick consultation with the cook’s daughter, Molly, her staff quit the drawing room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  The day had been rather warm for late August, so she walked to the wide French doors to the west and opened them, stepping onto the patio for a bit of fresh air. Though it was not yet dark, the sun had set behind the trees, and the lights of the city had begun to glow. She stood at the railing and closed her eyes.

  “You look stunning, madam.”

  Viola twirled around to the sound of his voice, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of his gorgeous form standing alone in the doorway, dressed entirely in black save for his gray-and-white-striped cravat. His hair had been combed back to expose all of his clean-shaven face, and when a trace of his spicy cologne reached her, she had to fight the sudden urge to walk into his arms.

  “Viola?”

  She blinked, feeling a rush of heat fill her cheeks as she realized she was staring. With a swift curtsey, she mumbled, “I beg your pardon, your grace, but—when did you arrive? Why were you not announced?”

  “I wanted to speak with you before the party began,” he replied with a gentle shrug, “and asked to see you alone. Needham escorted me to the drawing room and told me where you were.”

  The entire situation confused her. Her butler should have introduced him, but that was suddenly beside the point. Ian seemed different in manner, subdued, smiling faintly as he slowly looked her up and down, taking in every curve as if he’d never seen her before. It made her incredibly uncomfortable.

  “I take it you didn’t look at the painting?”

  He stepped away from the French doors and out onto the patio. “Would I still be here if I had?”

  She almost laughed, but her inability to grasp his mood kept her cautious. “I doubt it.”

  He strode easily to her side, covered the railing with his palms, and glanced out over the garden below. “What kind of portrait are you going to expose to the world, Viola? Should I fear you may have painted me . . . too small?”

  She grinned, clasping her lace-covered hands together in front of her as she turned to face him. “It’s not a nude, Lord Chatwin, rest assured. But I did alter the background, since you seem to have trouble with color contrasts and hues.”

  His mouth ticked up a fraction as he cast her a sideways glance. “I have no trouble with color contrasts and hues, sweetheart,” he drawled. “In fact, let me just say that you look truly breathtaking in that shade of red.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment she had no idea what to say.

  He inhaled deeply and turned to her, keeping his distance, though lowering his voice. “Is Miles Whitman attending tonight?”

  “No. Would it matter if he was?”

  “Not anymore.”

  She pulled back a little. “What does that mean?”

  With a vague smile, he replied, “I now realize how needless it was to worry that another gentleman might steal your heart.”

  She studied him again, his thoughtful expression, his intimate manner that implied nothing. Something very substantive had changed in him since their last encounter, since she’d walked out on him after he’d made love to her. And she had absolutely no idea what to think of it, or where his thoughts were leading.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured.

  Stepping closer to her, he glanced down to the ruby hanging between her uplifted bosom, then reached for it, cradling it in his fingers as he stared at the intricate diamond-shaped cut of the stone.

  Softly, thoughtfully, he said, “A gem unpolished is just another rock.”

  She stilled as a certain uneasiness budded within.

  “I think,” he added seconds later, raising his gaze to meet hers once more, “that no truer words were ever spoken.”

  “What’s happened, Ian?” she asked, her voice low and grave.

  Abruptly, he dropped the ruby. “I want to tell you something about me, Viola. Something I’ve never told anyone.”

  She said nothing, just watched him.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his evening coat and turned his attention to the garden again, staring out across the trees to the city park beyond, engrossed in his thoughts.

  “I’ve always blamed your sisters, and even you, for my capture,” he began. “But the truth is, I was partly to blame, because I was there at the time.”

  “Ian—”

  “Just listen,” he soothed, casting her a quick glance.

  She nodded, relenting.

  He sighed. “I had been on a destructive path for a long time, and finding the diamonds had become an obsession for me.”

  The Martello diamonds, she remembered. Stolen by Benedict Sharon, the man who’d owned the property in Winter Garden. Ian had returned there, following Sharon to confront him and retrieve the jewels, only to find him dead. That’s when her sisters had surprised Ian, struck him down, and dragged him to the dungeon beneath the house. Viola had discovered him the next day.

  “When I awoke and found myself lost,” he continued, subdued, “chained to the wall by my wrist in absolute darkness, I realized my life was probably over. I could see no way out and expected to die, and all for a handful of polished rocks. During the first day, before they began to drug me, I had nothing but hours in cold, total blackness to dwell on my past, and a future that might have been. It was a horrific time, and the f
ear immeasurable.”

  Her throat constricted with emotion, and she clutched her hands together in front of her to keep from reaching for him.

  “During that time of fear and uncertainty,” he disclosed, dropping his voice to just above a whisper, “I was able to reflect on every mistake, every decision that might have been, and I realized the only reason I had become so intent in the quest, had allowed myself to be captured, first by brilliant jewels and then by your sisters, was because I had lost faith in what mattered, lost faith in myself.” He looked back into her eyes, his gaze intense. “And I lost faith in myself, Viola, became a wandering, reckless man, because of my mother’s simple deathbed confession just a few short years earlier, when Ivy and I learned we were not the legitimate children of the Earl of Stamford. I was a bastard, a fraud who carried the title in name only, and for years a confused man who couldn’t share the anguish and anger with another living soul.” He reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips. “Until you.”

  She started trembling. Tears filled her eyes and she lowered her gaze from his, hugging herself with her arms closed over her stomach.

  He took a step closer, his legs pressing into the folds of her skirt, the pad of his thumb brushing back and forth across her lips.

  “I told you in the dungeon, didn’t I?” he whispered huskily. “And to this day you’ve never mentioned it to anyone.”

  Bravely, she straightened and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, Ian, and even if I told everyone I knew, nobody would believe me and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “You’re wrong,” he stressed with utter conviction. “You would never have told anyone because you’d fallen in love with me and cared enough to keep my secret as your own. And your love, your devotion, is what matters. It mattered to me then, and it matters even more to me now.”

  The intensity behind his words took her breath away. Instinctively, she reached up and placed her gloved palm on his chest, over his beating heart, closing her eyes to the teardrops that threatened on her lashes.