Even as he was grinning to himself about that, Mother went out into the hall to oversee the delivery of the refreshments to the crowd in the dining room.
Meanwhile, he went to join his wife. “Mother likes you,” he said as he offered her a hand to get up off the sofa. “I’m not surprised. She’d have to be out of her wits to dislike you.”
“Why?” Olivia said with a wry smile. “Because you like me?”
“Precisely,” he said. “And I have excellent taste in women.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll have to take your word for it since you have yet to give me the name of even one of your former paramours.”
“And I don’t intend to do so ever,” he warned. “You’ll just have to trust me when I say that none of them could hold a candle—or a bit of phosphorus—to you.”
She laughed. “You are incorrigible.”
He pulled her into his arms. “Precisely why you like me, sweeting. Women are always drawn to us wicked fellows.”
“That may be true,” she said, smiling up at him. “But what drew me to you wasn’t your wickedness.”
“Oh?” he said as he kissed a path from her temple to her ear.
“It was your acceptance of me and my quirks. Before we got caught that first time, you clearly liked me, despite my obsession with chemistry and my refusal to take anything in society at face value.”
“I liked you because of all that, my darling wife,” he murmured. “It just took me a long time to realize it. Apparently, you’re not the only slow learner in this marriage.”
“Then let me do the explaining this time,” she whispered. “Though perhaps we should close the door before we scandalize your family.”
“Or retire to our bedchamber?” he suggested.
“Thorn!” she cried. “It’s still morning! If we return to our bedchamber now, everyone will know what we’re doing.”
“I should hope so. You married into a family of wicked fellows like me, sweeting, and we’re all rather unrepentant about such things.” He released her, only to go over and shut and lock the drawing room door before returning to her side. “On the other hand, enjoying another consummation of our marriage in the drawing room might actually scandalize them, my love. Shall we experiment?”
“Oh, yes,” she said with a laugh. “You do know how I like experiments.”
All in all, the experiment was a resounding success.
Read on for a preview of the next book
in Sabrina Jeffries’s Duke Dynasty series…
UNDERCOVER DUKE
Coming in Summer 2021
from Kensington Publishing Corp.
London Society Times
THE LAST DUKE STANDING
Dear readers, I, your esteemed correspondent, cannot believe it. Not only has that randy devil, the Duke of Thornstock, actually married, but he chose Miss Olivia Norley as his bride! And this, after she refused him most soundly. He must have reformed because Yours Truly knows full well Miss Norley would never have married him otherwise.
This means that his half brother, Sheridan Wolfe, the Duke of Armitage, is the only one of the Dowager Duchess’s offspring not yet married. What a coup it will be for the young lady who snags him! Although the usual wagging tongues claim he must needs marry a fortune to shore up his estate, that will not matter to anyone with an eligible daughter. He’s a duke, after all, and a young, handsome one at that, which is particularly rare. I daresay he will not be left unwed for long.
How delicious it will be to watch him hunt for his bride. Armitage is discreet where Thornstock was not, and he’s more reclusive even than his other half brother, the Duke of Greycourt. So it will have to be a most intriguing lady to pierce his armor and seize the rare heart that surely beats beneath. We await the result with bated breath.
Chapter One
Armitage House, London
November 1809
“The Duke of Greycourt is here to see you, Your Grace.”
Sheridan Wolfe, the Duke of Armitage, looked up from the account ledgers for his family seat, Armitage Hall. “Show him in.”
Grey, his half brother, was supposed to be in Suffolk, but Sheridan was glad that wasn’t the case. Grey would be a welcome distraction from the thing Sheridan detested most. Numbers. Arithmetic. Double-entry accounting. Which, try as hard as he might, he could not fathom.
Unfortunately, running a ducal estate required dealing with endless permutations of the method, so he must master it.
But not just now. Sheridan would rather have a brandy and a pleasant chat with Grey than continue slogging through the books. To that end, he poured himself a glass and was about to pour one for his half brother when the butler showed Grey in, and Sheridan’s idea of a pleasant chat evaporated.
His brother looked as if he’d drunk one too many brandies already and was now about to cast up his accounts. Pale and agitated, Grey scanned the study of Sheridan’s London manor as if expecting a footpad to leap out from behind a bookcase at any moment.
“Do you want anything?” Sheridan asked his brother, motioning to the butler to wait a moment. “Tea? Coffee?” He lifted the glass in his hand. “Brandy?”
“I’ve no time for that, I’m afraid.”
Sheridan waved the butler off. As soon as the door closed, he asked, “What has happened? Is it Beatrice? Surely you’re not in town for the play, not under the circumstances.”
In a few hours the whole family would be attending a charitable production of Konrad Juncker’s The Wild Adventures of a Foreign Gentleman Loose in London at the Parthenon Theater. Although Sheridan barely knew the playwright, Thorn had asked him to go because the charity was a cause near and dear to his wife’s heart: Half Moon House, which helped women of all situations and stations get back on their feet.
Grey shook his head. “Actually, I came to fetch an accoucheur to attend Beatrice. Our local midwife says my wife may have our baby sooner rather than later, and the woman is worried there will be complications. So I rushed to London to find a physician to examine Beatrice, in case the midwife is right. The man awaits me in my carriage even as we speak.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Sheridan said, “I would suspect you of having taken Beatrice to bed ‘sooner rather than later,’ but you’ve been married ten months, so this is hardly an early babe.”
“No, indeed. And the midwife might be wrong, but I can’t count on that. That’s why I stopped here on my way out. Because I need a favor.”
Sheridan cocked his head. “Sadly I have no skills in the area of birthing babies. So I don’t see what sort of favor you could possibly—”
“Do you remember how we said I should be the one to question my Aunt Cora about what she remembers of those two house parties we suspected were attended by my father’s killer?”
“I do indeed.”
Their mother’s five children had finally come to the conclusion that her thrice-widowed status had not been just a tragic confluence of events. Someone had murdered her husbands, including the father of Sheridan and his brother. They suspected it was one of three women, all of whom had been at the house parties going on when the first two husbands had died. So Sheridan and his siblings were engaged in a covert investigation, trying to learn who it had been. To that end, they’d each taken assignments, Grey’s being that he question his Aunt Cora, otherwise known as Lady Eustace, who was no relation to any of the rest of them.
Belatedly, Sheridan realized what the “favor” must be. Damn. “No. God, no. I am not doing that.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to ask,” Grey said.
“I can guess. You want me to question Lady Eustace.”
Grey sighed. “I find it necessary, given the situation.”
“You’ll be back in town soon enough. It can wait until then, can’t it?”
“I don’t know. I honestly have no idea how long I shall have to be in the country.”
Sheridan dragged in a heavy breath. “Yes, but why ask me to do it? I barely know
her.”
“The others don’t know her at all,” Grey snapped. “But you’re friendly with Vanessa, and that gives you an excuse.”
Which was precisely why Sheridan didn’t want to do it. Because it meant being around Lady Eustace’s daughter, Miss Vanessa Pryde, who was too attractive for his sanity, with her raven curls and lush figure and vivacious smile.
“I’ve chatted with Vanessa a handful of times,” Sheridan pointed out, although he knew Grey was right. “That hardly makes me ideal for this.”
“Ah, but my aunt and I hate each other. That hardly makes me ideal, since it seems unlikely she’d share her secrets with me.”
“And why should your aunt share them with me?” Sheridan sipped some of his brandy.
“Because you’re an eligible duke. And her daughter is an eligible young lady. Not that I’m suggesting you should even pretend to court Vanessa, but her mother would certainly offer you more confidences if she thought it would snag you.”
“I would never court Vanessa, pretend or otherwise,” Sheridan said. “For one thing, she’s spoiled and impudent, a dangerous combination for a man who won’t ever be able to afford expensive gowns and furs and jewelry for his wife. I’m already barely treading water. A wife like Vanessa would drown me.”
Grey narrowed his gaze. “Vanessa isn’t so much spoiled as determined to get her own way.”
“That’s even worse since it means having constant strife in my marriage.”
“Beatrice and Gwyn are both of that ilk, and so far their husbands are quite content. Indeed, I rather like being married to a woman with spirit who knows what she wants.”
“Good for you,” Sheridan clipped out. “But you have money, and I don’t. Nor does your wife have an absurd fixation on that damned poet Juncker.”
“Ah, yes, Juncker.” Grey stroked his chin. “I doubt that’s anything more than a girlish infatuation.”
“Trust me, I’ve heard her babble on about Juncker’s ‘brilliant’ plays plenty of times. She once told me some nonsense about how Juncker wrote with the ferocity of a ‘dark angel,’ whatever that means. Frivolous chit has no idea about what sort of man she should marry.”
“But you know, I take it,” Grey said with an odd glint in his eye.
“I do, indeed. She needs a fellow who will curb her worst excesses, who will help her channel her youthful enthusiasm into more practical activities. Sadly, she has romantic notions that will only serve her ill, and those are leading her into wanting a fellow she thinks she can keep under her thumb, so she can spend her fortune as she pleases.”
“Juncker,” Grey said.
“Who else? You know perfectly well she’s been mooning after him for a couple of years at least.”
“And that bothers you?”
The query caught Sheridan off guard. “Certainly not.” When Grey smirked at him, Sheridan added, “Juncker is welcome to her. She could do better perhaps, but she could also do a hell of a lot worse.”
“You’ve certainly convinced me,” Grey said blandly. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“You’re merely chafing at the fact that she thinks dukes are arrogant and unfeeling, or some such rot. So she would never agree to marry you anyway.”
“Yes, you told me,” Sheridan said. More than once. Often enough to irritate him. “And I’m not looking for her to marry me, anyway.”
“I suppose it’s possible you could coax her into liking you, but beyond that . . .”
When Grey left the thought dangling, Sheridan gritted his teeth. “You’ve made your point.” Not that Sheridan had any intention of making Vanessa “like” him. She was not the right woman for him. He’d decided that long ago.
“Didn’t you agree to fund Vanessa’s dowry?” Sheridan said as he took another swallow of brandy. “You could just bully Lady Eustace into revealing her secrets by threatening to withhold the dowry, you know, unless your aunt comes clean.”
“First of all, that only hurts Vanessa. Second, if my aunt is cornered, she’ll just lie. Besides, all of this depends upon the women thinking they got away with it while we pursue our investigation. That’s why I haven’t told her or Vanessa that we’ve already determined my father died of arsenic. Which is another reason you should question Lady Eustace. She won’t suspect you.”
“What about Sanforth?” Sheridan asked. “Originally we decided that I was to ask questions in the town. What happened to that part of our plan to find the killer—or killers—of our fathers?”
“Heywood can manage Sanforth perfectly well.”
That was probably true. Sheridan’s younger brother, a retired Army colonel, had already made significant improvements to his own estate. Compared to that, asking questions of Sanforth’s tiny populace would be an afternoon’s entertainment.
“So you see,” Grey went on, “there’s no reason for you to even return to the country. As long as you’re in town for the play you might as well pop into the box my aunt has at the theater and see what you can find out. You can pretend you’re there to chat with Vanessa.”
“That’s assuming they even attend the play,” Sheridan said. “Charitable productions don’t sound like things Lady Eustace would enjoy.”
“Oh, they’ll be there,” Grey said. “Vanessa will make sure of it. It’s Juncker’s play, remember?”
“Right.” He stared down into the shimmering liquor and bit back an oath. “Very well. I will endure Lady Eustace’s suspicions to learn what I can.” Which meant he’d also be enduring Vanessa’s foolish gushing over Juncker.
His throat tightened. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t care.
“Thank you,” Grey said. “Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“I know. Beatrice is waiting for you at the estate, and you’ve got quite a long journey.” He met his brother’s anxious gaze. “It will be fine, you know. The Wolfes come from hardy stock. Not to mention our mother. If she can bear five children to three husbands before the age of twenty-five, I’m sure my cousin can give you an heir without too much trouble.”
“Or give me a girl. I don’t care which. As long as Beatrice survives it, and the child is healthy . . .”
“Go.” Sheridan could tell from Grey’s distracted expression that the man’s mind was already leaping forward to the moment he would reach his wife. “Go be with her. I won’t disappoint you.”
Sheridan knew firsthand the anguish love could cause, how deep it ran, how painful the knot it tied around one’s throat.
That was precisely why he never intended to be in such a situation. Just seeing Grey’s agitation was more than enough to caution him. Love could chew a man up and spit him out faster than a horse could run. Sheridan already had plenty of things to worry about. He didn’t intend to add a woman to that number.
* * *
“Wait, girl,” Vanessa’s mother said as she stopped her daughter from entering the Pryde family box. “Your headpiece is crooked.” She shoved a hat pin into Vanessa’s fancy turban, skimming her scalp.
“Mama! That hurt!”
“It’s not my fault it won’t stay put. You must have put on the trim unevenly. Serves you right for not buying a brand new turban in the first place.”
Her mother always wanted her to buy new instead of remaking something. Unfortunately, the small estate of Vanessa’s late father didn’t produce enough income and the widow’s portion for her mother never stretched far enough for Vanessa to buy anything she liked. So she was always practicing small economies to make sure they lived within their means.
Mama didn’t approve of living within one’s means. For one thing, she was incessantly trying to impress someone with how lofty they were. For another, she was pinning her hopes on Vanessa marrying well and being able to support the two of them quite handily.
“It’s not the trim, Mama,” Vanessa grumbled. “The whole thing is lopsided from all your fooling with it.”
“I’m merely trying to fix it. You want to look nice for the
gentlemen, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Vanessa really only wanted to look nice for one gentleman, but he would probably ignore her as usual. If he did, she would give up hope of ever gaining his attention. So far nothing seemed to have worked in that regard.
Uncle Theo, her favorite relation, patted Vanessa’s arm reassuringly. “You know your mother—always thinking about your suitors.”
“And with good reason,” her mother said. “The girl doesn’t have the sense God gave her when it comes to suitors. She should be married to Greycourt, but instead she dragged her feet, and now he’s married to that low chit Miss Wolfe.”
“That ‘low’ chit,” Vanessa put in, “is the granddaughter of a duke just like me. So if she’s low, then so am I. Besides, I like her.”
“Of course you do.” Mama sniffed as she fussed a bit more over the turban. “You always prefer the wrong sort of people.”
“I find they’re generally more interesting than the right sort,” Vanessa said.
“Like that playwright you’re enamored of.” Her mother shook her head. “Sometimes I think you want to marry the poorest fellow you can find just to vex me.”
“Mr. Juncker is very talented,” Vanessa pointed out, precisely for the reason her mother had given—just to vex her. He was handsome, too, with a winning smile, teasing eyes, and good teeth, but Vanessa didn’t care about any of that.
Her uncle huffed out a breath. “Are we going to enter the box sometime before the end of the century, sister?”
“Oh, stubble it, Theo. The orchestra is still tuning its instruments.”
“That sounds like an overture to me,” he said. “That’s why the corridor is empty except for us.”
“Almost done.” Her mother finally left off adjusting her turban. Instead, she gave Vanessa’s bodice a tug downward.
Vanessa groaned. “It will just creep back up. Honestly, Mama, do you want me looking like a strumpet?”
Who Wants to Marry a Duke Page 26