What a Duke Dares

by Anna Campbell

  “We have more than physical attraction.”

  “What? Childhood memories?”

  “Yes,” he said steadily. “You know me so well, despite our long separation. I think we’ll go along very well together. Producing an heir won’t be a hardship.” He paused. “And you don’t expect any lovesick romantic nonsense from me, which will give us a good start. I like you, Pen. I always have. I distinctly remember telling you that I liked you better than any girl I knew.”

  Oh, heaven lend her strength. She supposed he meant to flatter her. To her, the lukewarm declaration twisted a knife in an open wound. How he’d cringe if he knew that “romantic nonsense” powered her every breath. “That was nine years ago.”

  “You remember?”

  She remembered everything he’d ever said to her. That was just another curse of this futile, painful love. “I remember you wanted a conformable wife.”

  His laugh was wry. Long ago, she’d recognized that he didn’t laugh enough, weighed down even as a boy with old scandal, an unhappy family, and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. The overdeveloped sense of responsibility hadn’t faded. Why else would he be so set on marrying her?

  “I know when I’m beaten. Conformable is no longer part of the deal.”

  A wave of her hand dismissed his response. “Cam, you talk about the Rothermere scandals. What about the Thornes? We’ve become more ramshackle with every year since you proposed, and we were no shining example of respectability even then. My father ruined himself chasing whores. Aunt Isabel was decidedly eccentric. Peter died in penury. From what I gather, Harry plays the rake. I can’t imagine the ton approves of my junketing.” Even though the words pierced like darts, she forced herself to say them. “Far better you weather the gossip and make your peace with Lady Marianne. You need a duchess to enhance your name, who meets general approval, who fits the neat, useful, proper life you want.”

  This description left him less than delighted. “How dull I sound.”

  Her fight drained away. Instead she felt deathly weary, as though she’d walked twenty miles in ill-fitting shoes and found no welcome at journey’s end. “Not dull, Cam, just not for me.” In so many ways that she could never explain. “Confess everything to Lady Marianne. If she’s the woman you think she is, she’ll stand by you. Marry your perfect bride and forget me.”

  “No,” he said stubbornly. “We must marry.”

  “Don’t you like Lady Marianne?” It hurt to say the woman’s name. Pen wondered if she’d ever overcome the excruciating wrench of knowing that Lady Marianne would be with him every day; she’d bear his children, she’d accompany him into old age.

  “Of course I like Marianne. She’s a paragon.”

  Naturally. If Pen married Cam, she’d always know she was his second-best bride. “I’ll never be a paragon, even if you sacrifice your happiness to save me from social ruin.”

  His expression hardened. “I’m not saving you from social ruin, I’m saving myself. Everything I’ve worked for since I was a boy will turn to dust if I don’t make this right. I beg of you, Pen, marry me. Only you can rescue me.”

  Oh, the villain, the scoundrel, the cad. At this moment, she hated him.

  She stared at him, telling herself she wouldn’t cry. “Cam, it’s mean to play upon old obligations.”

  He shrugged. “You’re my only hope of emerging with my reputation intact. A man with one hope doesn’t surrender lightly.”

  She backed away as if distance would bolster her resistance. “You’re inviting years of misery.”

  The tension eased from his face, leaving him somber but adamant. “I’ll live with that.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  He paled and she was shocked to see that she hurt him. “I’ll do my best to make you happy, Pen.”

  In a low, trembling voice, she repeated, “It’s not enough.”

  He didn’t pursue her. He didn’t have to. He knew he’d won. “It must be.”

  Well, that was an epitaph for a marriage if she ever heard one. Harshly, because the grief ahead loomed like jagged mountains, she asked, “Even if we marry, I don’t see how we’ll avoid scandal.”

  “That’s easy.”

  His confidence didn’t soothe the dread stamping around inside her stomach. “It always is for you.”

  He winced at her jibe. “Not always. You’ve made me wait nearly ten years.”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” she said sharply, although they both recognized that she argued for pride’s sake. “While the world thinks we’re married, we’re not. If anyone learns the truth, our children will be exposed as bastards.”

  The thought of creating those children made her sick with apprehension, although this marriage could never have been a chaste arrangement. Cam needed an heir. Given the gossip about his birth, he’d countenance no doubts about that heir’s legitimacy.

  But how could she lie in his arms and know that duty alone brought him there? How could she lie in his arms and pretend mere liking when every beat of her heart echoed his name?

  “Credit me with some sense,” he said equally sharply. “We’ll say we fell madly in love in Italy and married in a Roman Catholic ceremony in some obscure village because we couldn’t bear to wait.”

  “How romantic,” she said flatly.

  He ignored her interjection. “We’ll arrange a quiet ceremony at Fentonwyck to confirm our marriage under English law. You’re in mourning for Peter so nobody will question a quick, private wedding.”

  “That’s… interesting.” Actually it was brilliant. If Cam wasn’t playing skittles with her life, she might applaud. “The sticklers will question the validity of the Continental ceremony.”

  He shrugged. “Most people will accept our story, especially once our first child arrives.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Just how many children are you planning, Your Grace?”

  Mockery curled his lips. “The prospect of fatherhood makes me feel quite dynastic.”

  “It makes me feel ill,” she snapped.

  The amusement drained from his eyes and he regarded her searchingly. “Pen, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you want. If I hadn’t barged into your life, you’d still be free.”

  Pen straightened her spine and staunchly told herself that she could endure a future with Cam. Perhaps marriage wouldn’t be too bad. Many ton couples lived separate lives. Surely once Cam had got her with child, he’d pursue other interests.

  Oh, damn, she didn’t want to think about those interests. He’d take a mistress and she couldn’t insist otherwise. This wasn’t a love match and she had no claim on his emotions or fidelity. This was a marriage of convenience. A business contract.

  Dear Lord, if she didn’t stop, she’d be sniveling like a lost puppy.

  Courage, Pen.

  But as she stared down the empty years ahead, she wanted to scream and cry and insist that it wasn’t fair. “It’s not your fault the ship sank. It’s not even your fault that Peter asked for your help.”

  Cam’s gaze was wary. “That’s remarkably reasonable of you.”

  The smile she summoned felt like a rictus grin. She had the sensation of entering a long, dark tunnel. “You’ve chosen a remarkably reasonable duchess, Cam. I hope you appreciate her as she deserves.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leath House, London, late March 1828

  I begged you not to go to James. Why didn’t you listen?”

  Vibrating with fury, Sophie paced the small Chinese summerhouse. The swish of daffodil yellow skirts added an incongruously sunny note to her tirade.

  “I’m sorry.” Harry slumped onto the bench and endured his beloved’s perfectly justified temper. He hadn’t spoken one word to Sophie since his disastrous meeting with her brother three days ago. “I loathe sneaking around. I wanted everything aboveboard.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t countenance your suit. I told you he wanted me to marry Desborough.”

  Of necessity, s
he kept her voice low. Discovery remained a whisper away, however well concealed this pavilion. It was late afternoon and the gardeners had finished for the day. The servants had dinner inside the house. Leath plotted parliamentary maneuvers at his club.

  “I hoped he’d give me a chance.”

  She stopped prowling and glared at Harry until he winced. “You should have trusted me when I said he wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, I should have.” Self-disgust twisted his gut. “But, Sophie, an honorable man doesn’t risk compromising the woman he loves.”

  Her rage didn’t abate. He hadn’t expected that it would. “Now James is sending me to my great-aunt in Northumberland.”

  He’d expected something like this, but hearing about it still struck him like a blow. He fought back the despair that had gripped him since Leath’s brusque dismissal. “I’ll follow you.”

  She shook her head. “My great-aunt is a dragon and she lives in the middle of a village full of busybodies. James told her that I’m allowed to go to church and that’s it.”

  Harry surged to his feet and seized her hands. “When do you leave?”

  Halfheartedly she tried to pull away. “Tomorrow.”

  His heart plunged. “So soon?”

  “Yes.”

  Still Harry refused to accept that Leath had won. “And how long are you away?”

  “A month.” Tears trembled on Sophie’s long eyelashes. “If I’m good.”

  Harry wanted to curse Leath’s tyranny, but he was worldly enough to recognize that the man acted in what he considered were Sophie’s best interests. “I’m up to circumventing a mere aunt.”

  An unconvincing attempt at a smile. “She’s not a mere aunt. She’s a bluestocking and a man-hater and she has huge dogs.”

  “For you, I’d brave a pack of hungry lions. What’s a dog or two?”

  “Harry, stop it,” she said on a pleading note. “When we’re parted, you’ll forget me.”

  Shock made him drop her hands and step back, drawing up to his full height until he towered over her. “What the hell do you mean?”

  She twisted her hands in her filmy skirts. “There are so many pretty debutantes this year.”

  “Oh, my darling.” Devastation flooded him. How could she think him so fickle? He caught her in his arms. “Never, never think that.”

  “How can I help it? James does nothing but talk about your intrigues.” She stood stiffly in his embrace. “You’re so handsome and charming. Every girl in London wants you.”

  He was appalled to realize that this vulnerability predated today’s quarrel. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” His voice lowered. “I’ve laid my heart at your feet, sweetheart, and there it will stay. I’ll kindly ask you not to kick it.”

  “Of course I won’t kick it.” He was mightily relieved to see the doubt fade from her eyes. “I’m glad that you’ll love me forever.”

  “Forever. So what’s a month?” Endless purgatory, but he didn’t say that. “We can write.”

  She rested her head on his chest. Touching her made Harry’s world revolve in the right direction. Heaven help him if she succumbed to family pressure and accepted Desborough. Harry would be useless to man and beast.

  “No, we can’t. I need to buckle down and behave or James won’t let me finish the season. He said he’s happy to let me rusticate until I marry Desborough.”

  Harry’s heart pounded in frantic denial against her cheek. “You’re not marrying Desborough.”

  “I don’t want to.” She released a broken sigh. “Why is this so difficult? I think I hate James.”

  “No, you don’t. He’s just trying to protect you.”

  “But he won’t let me marry you. He was scathing about your request to court me.”

  Harry grimaced. “I’ll wager he was more scathing to my face. It was perfectly clear that he’d give you to a rabid dog before he’d give you to Harry Thorne.”

  She stared at him. “If he knew you as I do, he’d understand.”

  “Perhaps.” Harry was far from sure. “He isn’t completely wrong, my darling. I have no fortune and the world considers me a wastrel. Even if we marry, I only have my allowance from Elias and even that’s looking devilish shaky right now.” His voice descended into glumness. “Perhaps you’d be better off marrying someone else.”

  She frowned as if he’d offered her an insult. “Do you love me, Harry Thorne?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then that’s the only qualification you need to be my husband.” She watched him steadily. “We’ll work the rest out.”

  He smiled. “You’ll make a dashed fine wife, Sophie.”

  She smiled back. “Because I sew a fine seam and I play the piano like an angel?”

  “Do you? By Jove, those are useful skills if we’re left on our uppers.”

  “Don’t joke, Harry,” she said.

  His smile broadened, even as his heart ached at their looming separation. He’d had three days of living in gray limbo without her. A month seemed like torture. “And because you’re the bravest girl I know.”

  The teasing light in her eyes dimmed. “I’ll have to be brave if I’m in Northumberland.”

  He couldn’t resist kissing her. “Courage, Sophie. If we’re true to one another, nobody can part us.”

  “Do you believe that? It seems too optimistic.”

  “I’m a man in love. I eat optimism for breakfast.”

  As he’d hoped, his silly response raised a smile. “You’re a fool.”

  “I’m your fool.” With one hand under her chin, he tipped her face until he drowned in her huge blue eyes.

  He desperately hoped that he deserved the trust he read there. Nobody had ever relied on him. As the youngest and most charming of the reckless Thornes, he’d never taken responsibility for anything. He swore that lack of practice in responsibility wouldn’t scuttle his plans. He intended to become the world’s best husband. If he had his way, Sophie would never suffer a moment’s unhappiness.

  “Now kiss me good-bye.” He forced a smile. He wanted her to retain a memory of pleasure amidst all the turmoil. “Make it good. It needs to last me until you return.”

  She rose on her toes and laced her hands around his neck. “If you put it like that.”

  His brief humor dissolved to ash under her passionate assault. After a surprised hesitation, his arms lashed around her and he pressed her full-length against him. He wanted to remember her warmth and scent, and the soft sounds of her excitement.

  His hands firmed on her hips and he kissed her back, telling her with his lips that he loved her and he’d miss her and the hours without her would feel like eternity. He also silently assured her that in time, they’d be together.

  Eventually he raised his head, knowing that if he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t stop until he’d lost all pretensions to honor. He pressed her against his heart, resting his chin on her head. Breathing unsteadily, he struggled for calm.

  “You must go,” she said with audible regret. “If James catches us, he’ll send me further than Northumberland.”

  Harry kissed her briefly. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  Disconsolately she surveyed him. “If James gets his way, you may have to.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Upper Brook Street, London, late March 1828

  Cam bowed as Lady Marianne Seaton entered the sunny morning room of her father’s house in Mayfair. He felt damnably awkward. He hadn’t seen her since spending Christmas at the Seaton estate in Dorset. An indication of his intentions and her family’s acceptance of those intentions, although he was yet to make a formal offer.

  As Lady Marianne curtsied with her famous grace, he was startled to notice how lovely she was. God forgive him, he’d forgotten. With her widely spaced blue eyes and full lips, she looked like a Renaissance Madonna.

  While he might have only a vague recollection of her appearance, Cam had remembered her air of tranquility. It was amo
ng the reasons he’d chosen her. After his chaotic upbringing, the prospect of marriage as a haven of calm was devilish appealing.

  Ironic that he ended up with an independent miss who stirred turbulent currents wherever she went.

  “Your Grace, what a pleasure.” Lady Marianne’s voice was low, like a cello. That voice would never challenge him or tease him or warm with wry humor.

  Whatever else Pen was, she was entertaining. Five minutes with her and his skin prickled with physical awareness, his brain fired with stimulation, he was laughing.

  He couldn’t imagine laughing with Lady Marianne. She was too like one of the Meissen figurines that his mother had thrown when no dinner plates or Chinese vases lay to hand. In the Rothermere residences, numerous shepherds lacked their shepherdesses, thanks to the late duchess’s tantrums.

  “Good morning, Lady Marianne,” he said.

  Lady Marianne sank onto an azure chaise longue. Her back was ruler straight, her hands laced decorously in her lap. She looked like she sat for a painting. Her pale yellow gown complimented her creamy complexion. Immediately Cam pictured Pen as he’d last seen her, wearing an ill-fitting, borrowed dress. She’d been fighting him. Why was that immeasurably more exciting than Lady Marianne’s serenity?

  Clearly he was mad.

  He’d been set on marrying this lady, to a point where he’d quarreled with his closest friends Jonas Merrick and Richard Harmsworth. Both were converts to the joys of married bliss and they hadn’t approved of Cam’s coldhearted plans for an alliance with the Seaton family.

  Yet now he felt like he faced a stranger.

  Lady Marianne gestured toward a chair upholstered in matching blue. “Please sit down. I heard about the shipwreck. I’m sorry about the loss of your yacht. And the brave men who perished with her.”