Last Duke Standing

by Cheryl Bolen

  “I’m not interested in marrying Freddie’s brother—or in marrying anyone.” Georgiana stormed to the door.

  “But, my darling, Hamford is so much nicer than stiffy stuffy Freddie ever was.”

  “Fordham, not Hamford.”

  “Oh, dear, I truly did mean to say Fordham.”

  Chapter 8

  Night had just fallen when Alex paid a call at Hartworth House. He’d not planned on returning until the following day, as he’d promised Lady Hartworth, but since he found himself free of any activity for a the next two hours, he thought to assist Freddie’s affianced with her nearly insurmountable task. And, selfishly, he was growing anxious to read the correspondence from members of the shooting party, hopeful of gleaning any possible motive for murdering his brother.

  Lady Hartworth’s frail constitution had sent her to bed for the night already, so he was shown once more into the dinner chamber where the daughter of the house was busily organizing his brother’s papers. When she turned around and smiled at him, he caught his breath. The woman was stunning. Her dark tresses had been stylishly arranged around her lovely face. Had her near-black eyes always been so large, her lashes so lengthy?

  His gaze whisked over her appreciatively. So the woman did possess fashionable clothing of impeccable taste! The thin muslin gown matched the rose in her cheeks. He swallowed. Freddie had been a most fortunate man to have won this woman’s hand.

  Of course, her forceful personality was another matter altogether. She was void of the feminine helplessness he’d always been attracted to.

  “You have disabused me of the notion you care not for appearance, my lady.”

  She started laughing, those jet eyes of her flashing with mirth. “Most other men would have told me how pretty I now looked.”

  “I am not most other men.”

  “Indeed, you are not. You are, after all, a duke—a duke who has, I believe, just delivered to me a back-handed compliment. Now, do tell, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit.”

  “To be honest, I wished to gauge your progress, and I’d like to begin reading the correspondence from Freddie’s last guests.”

  “I have made good progress.” She waved a hand across the table, which was no longer centered by a mountain range of paper. “While I haven’t read a single letter in its entirety, I have read all the signatures. It did speed up things considerably that a large percentage of the letters were written in my own hand.”

  She pointed to the floor where a huge, basket was crested with letters. “Those are all from me.” The basket must have held over three hundred letters. “Never, I am certain, has there been a higher concentration of dullness in one place. The only function of those letters would be as an aid to induce sleep.”

  He chuckled. He found her ability to poke fun at herself refreshing. “I doubt Freddie would have agreed,” he said.

  “But—and I mean not to speak ill of the beloved dead—Freddie was a dullard himself.”

  “I cannot refute your statement.” He chuckled again. He felt beastly for laughing at his late brother’s boorishness, but as she had put it, Freddie was beloved, even if he was a dullard. It did them both good to be able to laugh in the midst of such fresh grief. Eyeing her with amusement, he shrugged. “Your mother must have been exhausted from her journey, in spite of her claims.”

  “You were very perceptive about her. And while we’re speaking of my mother, I do apologize for the zealous manner in which she rather bludgeoned you with my attributes. Ever since I disappointed her the year of my debut, she’s feared I’ll be the ultimate embarrassment—a hopeless spinster.”

  He grinned at her. “I have been given to understand that you received several marriage offers the year of your debut.”

  She hung her shoulders. “Alas, that’s true. I am most spectacularly deficient. I keep finding faults with every man who pays me court.”

  “Were you holding out for a duke? Is that why you went through half a dozen seasons before getting betrothed?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and any sense of levity was gone from her face. “It mattered not to me that Freddie was a duke. I suppose I was just tired of having people murmur behind my back about my lack of a husband, tired of living in a house where I was not its mistress, tired of my mother’s constant chastisement.”

  “So that’s why you agreed to marry my brother?”

  “And other reasons.”

  “Love?”

  She did not respond for a moment. “Freddie was very much in love.”

  “And what about you, Georgiana?” Why had he called her only by her Christian name? It was far too intimate. Had she even noticed?

  “I found him most compatible.”

  “What about love? Were you in love with him?”

  “That is no concern of yours.”

  She hadn’t been in love with Freddie. By God, she was a woman without feeling. Except, of course, by all accounts she was completely devoted to her mother. Lady Hartworth likely would not be alive today had her daughter not sacrificed herself to see to her mother’s recovery.

  They stared at each other until her stiffness uncoiled, and that touch of mirth was back in her voice. She cast a glance at the table piled high with Freddie’s papers. “I shall be thrilled to finally be able to read some of these letters. And I must own, I shall be even more delighted not to have to bend over that table a moment longer. I feared my spine would turn into a giant comma.”

  Shaking his head, he smiled at her. Yes, he could see why Freddie had fallen in love with this amusing little beauty who was anything but retiring. Not at all in Alex’s line, of course.

  “I don’t think we have a place to read in this room,” he said.

  “You’re right. We’ll go to the library. The footmen can help us.”

  Moments later, they were sitting across from each other at the long cherry wood writing table where correspondence from each member of Freddie’s shooting party had a square of the table’s surface. A fire glowing in the hearth and a tall silver candelabrum upon their table illuminated the darkly paneled room. Because it was not large, the library was an exceedingly cozy room.

  Roses. Their scent had him searching for a bouquet before he realized the pleasant fragrance came from the woman who sat across from him.

  “Before we begin,” she said, “I’d like to know a little about your cousin, Robert Cecil. Since you are presently the last duke—at least, the last sired by your father—I was wondering who would be next in line to the Fordham dukedom—if you don’t father a legitimate son?”

  How foolish of Alex not to have considered that before. Because his father had no living brothers and had, at the time of his death, three living sons, ducal inheritance outside of his immediate family had never occurred to Alex.

  But now the succession was a grave concern. Who would inherit if Alex died tomorrow? His heartbeat drummed. His hands sweat. Robert Cecil. As the eldest son of Alex’s father’s deceased brother, Robert was a direct male descendant of Alex’s paternal grandfather, the fifth Duke of Fordham.

  A kind-hearted, jolly fellow a few years older than Alex, Robert could not possibly be capable either of murderous thoughts or most especially of murderous actions. Moreover, one capable of killing Freddie for the title would then have to kill Alex in order to succeed to the dukedom. Even though Alex knew Robert was incapable of murder, the prospect of double murders was a most distressing thought, to be sure. A concerned look swiped across his face.

  “I can see by your expression, it’s Robert Cecil,” she said.

  He nodded solemnly. “If you but knew the fellow, you’d know how preposterous such a notion is. He’s no murderer. He’s an honorable man.”

  “If you hope to find your brother’s killer, you must push aside all opinions and force yourself to examine the facts in a coldly calculated manner. It would be far easier if you didn’t know any of those men.”

  This woman could easily suppress emotions. A more calculated w
oman he’d never met. “You’re right, but I still cannot countenance that my cousin would ever contemplate anything so evil.”

  She threw up her arms. “Fine. Then let’s forget that Freddie was murdered. Let’s pretend he died peacefully in his sleep. Then you won’t have to deal with any further unpleasantness. Unless, of course, the murderer then decides to kill you in order to become a duke.”

  This maddening woman ignited anger in him. If she were a man, he would likely have delivered a blow to her face. He’d contemplated storming from the chamber. How dare she insinuate his cousin was a murderer! She even believed Robert could be plotting Alex’s murder next. The idea was ludicrous.

  In one matter, though, she was right. Alex must not allow himself to be blinded by personal feelings.

  As much as he wished to refute her suspicions, he decided to say nothing. He would show her the killer was not his cousin. He would start with Sir Arthur’s correspondence. It was the shortest stack. The first letter was really more of a note, written to accept Freddie’s invitation to the shooting party. Although Alex’s instinct was to quickly eye it, then go on to the next, he must be extra conscientious with this. Every word bore scrutiny.

  He carefully read Sir Arthur’s correspondence. He’d started with this man because he hoped—if one of Freddie’s friends had to be the murderer—it was Sir Arthur. It couldn’t be Robert or Lord Pomfoy or Lord Barnstaple. Alex had known those three most of his life.

  Another advantage to starting with Sir Arthur was that he had only written a handful of letters to Freddie. It wouldn’t take long to go through them, even if Alex was carefully reading each word.

  After reading the first note, he put it aside. Nothing whatsoever could be found to hint at any conflict between the two men. He looked up at Lady Georgiana. As she read beneath the glow of a dozen candles, he noticed her exceedingly long lashes nearly rested on her cheeks. He’d never before realized how beautiful dark-haired women could be. “What are you reading?”

  “Your cousin’s correspondence, if you do not object?”

  He shook his head. “I warn you, you will not find anything in there that will bear scrutiny. Robert’s a simple fellow—who, by the way, is an appalling speller.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I quickly discovered that. He writes Remember when we were lads—which he spells L-A-D-D-Z—and planned to go to Europe.” She stopped and showed him how Robert had spelled Europe: U-R-U-P.

  “I don’t think I’d have figured that one out,” he said, grinning at her.

  “I’m quite good at it because my brother Philip—who’s an officer in the Peninsula—is also a most inept speller. He believes cats are spelled with K’s and phaeton with an F. But in many other ways, he’s quite brilliant.”

  “Philip Fenton’s your brother?”

  Her dark eyes danced. “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Not well. We were posted together at Salamanca for a short while, and he was at Eton when I was there, but he was two or three years younger than me. Fine fellow.”

  “Thank you. He’s very dear to me.”

  So she did possess a heart.

  They returned to perusing Freddie’s correspondence. Most of Sir Arthur’s notes were impersonal and of no interest—save one:

  It is my good fortune, your grace, that you’ve fallen in love with your beautiful betrothed and are no longer in love with Sophia Langston. How you could have spurned dear Sophia mystifies me. A more beautiful, perfectly amiable woman I’ve never known. Even after all these months I’ve been honored to have Sophia under my protection, I am still a man very much besotted.

  Though there was nothing in the letter to show any resentment toward Freddie, it did reveal Sir Arthur’s deep attachment to Freddie’s former mistress.

  Within fifteen minutes, Alex had read all the missives from Sir Arthur.

  “Oh, your cousin speaks of you in this,” she said. “He must be quite fond of you. I try to write to Alex every week and try to be cheerful, though God knows—he spelled N-O-Z—I worry like the devil about him.”

  Alex was touched. Even though Robert was closer in age to Freddie, he and Alex had always been exceedingly fond of each other. Sadly, Alex had been closer to Robert than he was to his own brothers. But Robert was very much like a brother. He’d spent most of his childhood at Gosingham, and Alex’s father had always treated his nephew like a son. Alex eyed the lady with mock scorn. “And you believe he’s plotting to kill me.”

  “I never said I thought he was plotting to kill you. I merely said it was a possibility, and after what happened to your brother, you ought not to dismiss any possibility.”

  “I vow to keep my bedchamber door locked at night.” He returned his attention to a new stack of correspondence, this from their neighbor, Lord Barnstaple. How he wished people would always date their letters. There must be nearly a hundred here. Alex had no way of knowing which had been penned recently or which were ten years old. Or did he? Freddie had been a duke less than two years, therefore anything addressed to Your Grace would have been written more recently.

  It took Alex several minutes to scan each in order to place into two groups, one for those addressed to His Grace and one for those to Freddie.

  She, too, must be sorting for the shuffling and crinkling of her papers drew his attention. “Pray, my lady, whatever are you doing?”

  “If I’m to do a proper cataloguing of his papers, I must put them in chronological order. Thank the saints he wasn’t ninety years old!”

  He shook his head. “Glad I am it’s you, not me.”

  “Lord Harley employed a learned man for several years to catalogue his family’s papers.”

  “Then it’s a very good thing Freddie only lived three decades.” He frowned, mad at himself. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Her voice softened. “I know. K-N-O-W. You see, I can spell.”

  He offered her a smile, then he settled back in his chair to read. He read for half an hour before he found anything to draw suspicion. He sat up straight. “Listen to this.” He proceeded to read the letter from Lord Barnstaple.

  Your Grace,

  I will own that I was exceedingly disappointed over your refusal to sell me that small parcel near the river where our lands connect. It’s such a small piece of your estate, but to me would make a significant improvement. Even more than my disappointment in your refusal is my hurt at being rejected by the man I have esteemed throughout my life, the man I had considered one of my firmest friends.

  “There’s more, but it’s not of this topic,” Alex said.

  “You believe he might have killed Freddie in the hopes the new duke would allow him to purchase the parcel?”

  “I never said I believed it. It’s a possibility, and a certain lady has warned me to be open to all possibilities.”

  Their eyes met again, and then both broke into smiles.

  “This is nothing to smile about, but I agree with you. This is a possibility we cannot ignore. I wonder how long before the man approaches you. If he’s that eager, I daresay he won’t wait long.”

  He rose. “We shall have to see.” Looking down at Sir Arthur’s and Lord Barnstaple’s papers, he asked, “Can I help you put these up before I go?”

  Her face fell. “No. I need to devise a way of storing these in an orderly fashion.” She sighed as she circled the table and came abreast of him. “I suppose you’ll go back to White’s tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “How I wish I could be there. I’ve become most passionate in our pursuit of this vile murderer.”

  Passionate. Yes, he thought, hard as she could be, this woman might be capable of passion. She just hadn’t met the right man. He moved closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers. The firelight danced in her blazing gaze. In that instant a profound desire rushed over him like a roaring tidal wave. He pulled her close and lowered his head to settle his lips upon hers for a scorching kiss.

  Chapter 9

  Beast
ly, beastly man! The only time a kiss had ever elicited in Georgiana a response akin to passion—no, not akin to passion, most decidedly passion—it had to come from a rake! Upon terminating the (very long) kiss, the profligate man at least had the decency to treat her with a semblance of respect—something she doubted he bestowed on the opera dancers and unfaithful wives with whom he normally shared dalliances.

  “Forgive me.” His glassy gaze trailed over her. “My actions were unpardonable. I’d best leave.” He began to walk away, then turned back. “Will you permit me to call on your mother tomorrow? And to check on your progress, my lady?”

  The gall of the man! He acted as nonchalant as one who’d just been introduced to a stranger. How could he be so unaffected by THE kiss when it left every nerve ending in her body aflame?

  Her cheeks heated. How wanton she’d been! She could not meet his gaze. For the first time in her life, Georgiana was speechless. Truth be told, she did not trust herself enough to speak without betraying the quiver she knew would be in her voice. Finally, glaring at him, she nodded.

  Once he departed, it was impossible to return to Freddie’s papers. In those moments she’d been crushed in Fordham’s embrace, it was as if a cyclone had erratically reordered her bland life. How could she even attempt to look at the late duke’s correspondence when her breath had been taken away by the scoundrel who was his younger brother? The wicked man had more than made good on the promise of turning her into porridge. She felt as if he could have licked her limp body off the Turkey carpet.

  Long after he left, a roaring tremble rolled over her from the top of her head to the tips of her unsteady toes. Her brain, too, had liquefied. She was stunned that she—pragmatic, unemotional, icy Lady Georgiana Fenton—had been so physically enraptured in the odious man’s arms. But enraptured she had most certainly been. So hungrily had she enjoyed his kiss, she’d felt an enormous void when he drew away.

  Even after her heartbeat was restored to normal, she could concentrate on nothing but that wretched man. In spite of his devastating effect upon her, she made a vow to resist him. She must do so out of respect for Freddie—and respect for herself. No two men could be more dissimilar than he and Freddie. This man was accustomed to toying with women’s affections without honorable commitment.