A Duke's Temptation

by Hunter, Jillian

“Words?” Kirkham echoed in disbelief. “You talk of words when I mean to kill you? You’re mad.”

  “I know.” Samuel nodded. “I know. It can’t be helped.”

  “There are rumors that question your manhood,” Kirkham taunted, staggering as he swung his sword in an arc.

  “Are there?” Samuel laughed. Had he invented them? Damned if he could recall at the moment. But then, Lily had repeated the same slander about Lord Anonymous.

  Kirkham’s eyes mirrored contempt. “You . . .”

  He had run out of breath. He needed whatever energy he could gather now for defense. His shoulders hunched; his stare became unfocused.

  Samuel felt his own strength challenged. He had lost awareness of Lily. There was only the other sword that sought an opening in his chest.

  He beat again and again until Kirkham fell back, barely sidestepping a lunge. Kirkham retreated until his heel caught in a murder hole. Timing. Samuel forced him against the crenellated wall.

  Conquer the night.

  Embrace what is right.

  I’ve never killed a man except with a pen, he thought. Could he do it? Blood. The man had drawn Lily’s blood.

  He hooked his sword under Kirkham’s left knee, notching the blade to the joint. “This is going to be painful,” he said with a grimace. It would not kill him, but it might make Kirkham wish it had.

  He set his teeth. But as he jerked the blade, anticipating the pop of broadcloth, flesh, and fibrous cartilage, Kirkham pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband. His bloodstained hands shook as he leveled the gun at Samuel’s chin.

  Samuel, knowing how much Kirkham liked to play with guns, was not entirely surprised. He twisted the sword through Kirkham’s knee, wrenching it out and up so that the blade hit the pistol from the man’s wrist. Samuel caught it in his left hand before it fell. Renwick’s hand.

  He braced himself and squeezed the trigger. He detested loud noises. They reminded him of missed deadlines and the clocks that went off daily at home.

  The shot echoed between the towers and the merlons and across the moor.

  Death made a mess he would not forget.

  He averted his face.

  He noticed Lily from the corner of his eye. Emmett was shielding her at the top of the stairs. Samuel could feel both of them staring. He planted his legs apart and stepped over the body, the broadsword resting across his hips.

  He was sure he looked like a predator over his kill. All he cared about was keeping Lily and Emmett from seeing what was left of Kirkham’s face.

  Disgusting.

  He swallowed back a surge of bile and brushed the gristly parts from his shirtfront. He hoped never to enact a death scene in such accurate detail again. He preferred romance, adventure, a political editorial, anything to this.

  He understood now what Wickbury had been trying to remind him all along. Or what Samuel had been trying to remind himself. A hero had to come through in the end. There existed villains in the world who could not be saved by humankind. And some, like Kirkham, had to be stopped.

  The crisis that had been building between Wickbury and Renwick had been only a manifestation of the conflict inside Samuel. He wanted to believe the best of everyone. Sadly not everyone wanted to be redeemed.

  But all that could be pondered at another time.

  Samuel intended to change and hold Lily for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 41

  Samuel paid for Captain Jonathan Grace’s funeral in London. He paid for the hearse and six black horses, the mourning coaches, the cloaks for those in the procession. At first, when he was notified by the Plymouth innkeeper of Grace’s death, he was uncertain what the captain’s family would think of him. After all, Samuel would soon stand in their son’s place and marry the woman Jonathan had lost.

  He was relieved—moved, in fact—when the elder Lord Grace asked him to serve as pallbearer, along with Lily’s brother. She was upset and Samuel understood her sorrow. Jonathan Grace had made a mistake and paid the ultimate price in attempting to redeem himself.

  Lily’s father, Sir Leonard Boscastle, also attended the funeral. Afterward, he invited Samuel to a private dinner at the Park Lane mansion that belonged to Chloe’s eldest brother, Grayson Boscastle, the Marquess of Sedgecroft. It was one of the finest homes in Mayfair. Samuel and Sir Leonard sat alone at the table. Lily had been taken off by the other ladies in the family, many of whom she had not met until now. Samuel’s sister had decided to stay at the castle, daunted by the long journey to London.

  “I despised you when I learned of your repute and that Lily was working in your home,” Sir Leonard said. Neither man had eaten much of the sumptuous meal. Samuel’s stomach had curdled when the marquess’s senior footman brought a tureen of turtle soup to the table for the first course. He ate a sprig of parsley and drank innumerable glasses of white wine.

  It would not help his cause to drop drunk at Sir Leonard’s feet. Nor would it disprove his reputation. Then, at some time during dessert, he realized that Lily’s father was outdrinking him two glasses to one.

  It was likely that neither of them would remember much of this conversation in the morning. They would wake up with hammering skulls. Samuel would not write a word, blaming the wine, the intensity of making a good impression, the relief that Lily’s family had forgiven him for taking her away. By far the deepest relief he felt was when her father asked Lily’s forgiveness at the end of the evening and admitted how miserable it had been since she had left home.

  The wedding party overflowed the Park Lane mansion. A procession of carriages blocked the streets of Mayfair for hours. Lily would have been at her wits’ end had she not learned a few things recently about what mattered in life, and why it was the small moments and not the grand gestures one tended to treasure most.

  She stood, her father giving her away, her mother dabbing her cheeks as the ceremony began. Lily loved her dress, another of Chloe’s inspired creations—glimmering gold silk with a flowing down-the-back veil of white lace. She wore the diamond-and-pearl necklace that Samuel had given her the night before. A cap of small white feathers had been attached to the bridal cape, a poignant reminder of the costume she had been wearing when she met Samuel.

  “The only thing you will shed this time,” Chloe assured her, “will be tears of happiness.”

  Lily’s eyes did grow misty as she exchanged vows with the Duke of Gravenhurst. Samuel looked divine in well-tailored trousers and a long-tailed dark blue coat. For now she held his total attention. There were no pens, books, or unfinished manuscripts in the chapel to lure him away. She realized that she would lose him again from time to time when they returned to St. Aldwyn House. But she entered this marriage with full knowledge of who her husband was and the happiness she could expect in their life together.

  Samuel had wavered between wanting a private wedding at home and a traditional ceremony that included Lily’s relatives. Tradition won out. There were so many Boscastles in the banqueting hall that Lily’s family filled most of the chapel. Samuel had invited a few friends himself. It satisfied his principles to know that a member of Parliament was sitting between a pair of milkmaids. He laughed when, during the wedding breakfast, Lord Philbert asked if Samuel had sold tickets to his own nuptials.

  “I might have if I’d thought of it,” Samuel said. “But you remember what I told you before. That young lady in the white dress and feathered cap has swept me off my feet. I have difficulty thinking properly when she is in the room.”

  Lord Philbert sighed. “Lily is very lovely. I shall take credit for introducing you to her. Not that I’m convinced I did her any great favor. Does she understand what it means to be married to a writer?”

  Samuel looked at his wife, who looked right back at him from the bride’s table, where she presided with not only her parents and brother, but also with her cousin Chloe and Viscount Stratfield.

  “Lily knows me better than anyone.”

  “Good. Then I shall approac
h her when your next book is late.”

  “Take my word on it, Philbert. The duchess considers it her duty to keep me on task.”

  “Congratulations, Samuel,” Philbert said with uncharacteristic warmth. “I should have trusted your instincts from the start.”

  Lily had sent Samuel so many inviting looks that even her father noticed. He clasped her hand in his. “He is the right man, Lily.”

  She felt tears sting her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “Forgive us?”

  Lily lifted her other hand to his face. He had aged since their estrangement. Although his disbelief had hurt her, she had become the stronger for standing her ground. Admittedly she’d had help from Samuel and his staff of characters. “None of us knew the entire truth,” she said, thinking of how she had misjudged Jonathan, convinced that he had committed murder. She would have testified against him.

  Her brother lifted his champagne flute in a blatant bid to dispel the somber mood. “This is a wedding. All is well and forgiven.”

  Lily’s mother started to cry. “I can’t help myself. I missed you so much. And I worried about you. . . .” She glanced up briefly, watching Samuel approach the table. “If only I had met him before you left, Lily,” she said in a quieter voice, “I would have known in my mother’s heart that you would be safe. Who do you suppose is wicked enough to spawn all the gossip about him?”

  Lily looked up at Samuel, her eyes kindling in delight. “Whoever it was has quite an imagination.”

  And everyone in the wedding party seemed content to leave it at that.

  Epilogue

  Early Summer

  St. Aldwyn House

  “What is the only true religion?’ ” Samuel read from the manuscript, pacing before the dramatis personae gathered in the gallery.

  “Compassion,” a voice answered.

  He halted, his gaze seeking out the respondent. “I did not write that line. Who,” he demanded, stopping in front of Lily, “did?”

  Bickerstaff flushed. “I confess, Your Grace.”

  Samuel shook his head. “It is—”

  “—quite brilliant,” Mrs. Halford said, “and I do not give my praise to just anyone.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Bickerstaff said, then turned to acknowledge her. “But thank you, Mrs. Halford. It is a high compliment, coming from you.”

  “It is a lovely line, Mr. Bickerstaff,” Lily said, sneaking a look at Samuel.

  He drew a long breath. “May we continue? And the line . . . will stand. For now.”

  Lily cleared her throat. “I have a question about this new character you have introduced. This Baroness de Beaucoup.”

  “De Beauville.”

  “Unless I am misreading, it says toward the end of the scene that the baroness invites Sir Renwick to her bed in exchange for a potion of eternal youth.”

  Samuel nodded. “That is precisely what it says.”

  “But . . .” Lily looked down at her pages. “The stage directions also indicate that they disappear into a tavern room together and do not come out until the next morning. Two lines later you refer to a castle.”

  “What of it?” Samuel shrugged dismissively. “Scenery can be changed. This is for a libretto, not only a library.”

  “And Wickbury has thrown his broadsword in the air.”

  “It’s a dramatic gesture,” Samuel said. “You do not understand the nature of creativity.”

  Lily frowned. “You do not understand the law of gravity. Bucephalus is standing in the courtyard below. As is your mounted groom.”

  “Change the directions, Wadsworth,” Samuel instructed the valet, who was wearing a pearl earring in his left ear and a rapier at his side. “Does that sit well with you now, Lily?”

  She pursed her mouth. “It’s fine. Sir Renwick may sleep with any strumpet he chooses. I do have to wonder, though, why you gave Marie-Elaine the baroness’s part. I would like to wear a high French wig and diamond heels instead of a priest’s cumbersome clothing or a revealing bodice.”

  Samuel gave a weary sigh. “She is of French descent and carries herself with a certain Gallic arrogance that suits the part. I believe she also has more experience in—”

  “—everything,” Marie-Elaine said. “Do not fret, Your Grace,” she whispered to Lily. “The baroness is going to come to a bad end. She doesn’t last through the next act.”

  Lily expelled a sigh. “I should have known.”

  “No,” Samuel said crisply. “You shouldn’t. Not if I am doing a decent job. How do you know, Marie-Elaine?”

  “I saw Your Grace’s notes on the carpet yesterday,” Marie-Elaine said, “and I picked them up. Naturally, I put them right down when I realized what they were.”

  “Naturally,” Samuel said in a droll voice, resting his head on the railing.

  “The baroness is a fraud, an assassin paid by one of Renwick’s metaphysical rivals,” Marie-Elaine added.

  “All the better,” Lily said with enthusiasm.

  Marie-Elaine shrugged. “If you would prefer the part, I don’t mind exchanging it for yours.”

  They stared at Samuel’s down-bent head.

  “No,” Lily said, her mouth lifting in a smile. “I shall remain Juliette. Our characters should be consistent.”

  “Thank goodness.” Samuel straightened, full of his usual energy. “Let’s start at the top of the page.”

  Marie-Elaine cleared her throat. “ ‘It was a stormy night. The moat waters crashed against the castle walls.’ ”

  “Why,” Lily asked, lowering her pages again, “does it always have to be a stormy night? Why, this reader wonders, shouldn’t it be clear and starlit for once?”

  Samuel walked up to her. “I like stormy nights, and I am the author. Stormy nights lend themselves to drama and to gentlemen called upon as guardians.”

  “Yes,” Lily said after a short hesitation, “but he’s going to put her in the turret again, and it’s obvious what will happen next.”

  Samuel raised his brow. “One more editorial and I shall have to deal with you in private.”

  He turned, motioning with his manuscript to continue.

  “In that event,” Lily said quickly, “let me just slip in a few tiny corrections, lest I forget to mention them later. Your referral to the Battle of Worcester is off by a mere thirteen years. A minor error. And it is a trifling mistake, to be sure, but the sun rises in the east. It does not set there.”

  His eyes darkened.

  “Furthermore, Your Grace,” she said, “there is a place on page—” She broke off to sniff the air. “I smell something. Are Renwick and the baroness burning herbs in a mystical incantation to weaken Lord Wickbury?”

  “There are no fires in this scene,” Samuel said, alarmed.

  The assembly broke apart, Wadsworth checking the fireplace at the gallery’s end, Marie-Elaine behind closed doors, and Mrs. Halford pounding down the stairs to the kitchen. Nothing was found except a scullery maid scraping the black off the bottom of the pot.

  Samuel stood alone with Lily in the gallery, shaking his head in resignation. “What you smelled was probably the foul miasma of this manuscript. Obviously I am not holding anyone’s interest, or we would not be so easily scattered.”

  Lily clasped his hand. “We are going to hold a private editorial. The scene will be all the better for another revision.”

  She lay beside Samuel on their bed, sifting her fingers through his hair. It was still light outside. The moor seemed to be swathed in magic. “I’ve had a change of heart,” she said from out of the blue.

  Samuel stirred. “Tell me.”

  “I’ve decided that I prefer a hero to a villain.”

  He lifted up on his elbow. “Does this mean you’re no longer in love with Sir Renwick?”

  “He will always have some of my sympathy,” she said with a wistful shrug. “But it is one thing to enjoy reading about an evil character and quite another to encounter him in actual life.”

 
He reflected for a long time. “I am neither good nor bad. What kind of man does that make me?”

  “An exceptional one.”

  He turned over and lightly kissed her on the mouth. She closed her eyes and waited. She waited to be surprised, seduced, swept into another world. But when she finally roused herself, she saw her husband had left her side and was sitting at his desk.

  “I shall be right back, I swear it, Lily. I have this idea—the ending for the next book.”

  She scooted against the pillows. “Shouldn’t you worry about writing the rest of the story first?”

  He didn’t even pretend to look back at her.

  “I am trying a different approach. It is my hope that once I envision the end, everything else will fall in place. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Half the time.”

  “And the others?”

  “The other times don’t matter. I’m happy enough to wander about in the dark. And—”

  He bent over his desk, pen in one hand, the other raised at his shoulder to forestall her. “Wait just another moment, my love.”

  “As I was going to say, Samuel, we will have a little Lord or Lady Anonymous after Christmas.”

  “I know,” he murmured, nodding faintly. “Yes. Tell me again later. Catch me up on all the news.”

  Later—seven hours later, in fact—he got into bed beside her and gently shook her awake. “Repeat what you just told me.”

  “That was yesterday!” she exclaimed. “You’ve a mind like a colander. It needs to be refilled every few minutes.”

  “It was a few minutes ago that we spoke.”

  She turned her head, only to find him lying beside her. His dark eyes searched hers. “I am a dunce, Lily. Is it true?”

  “Your dragon’s-blood doctor seems to think so.”

  He caught her face in his hands. “What shall we name this little progeny?” he asked.

  “We shall have to sleep on it. Or maybe when you’re not working, it will come to you. Go on. Finish your writing. It’s where your heart is.”