How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  The Countess of Westix nodded resolutely. “I do.”

  “Then so shall I.” A tremor of fear threatened to clamber up Eleanor’s spine, but she willed it away. “When do I start?”

  The Countess turned to the window, where the sky beyond had grown dark. “Tonight.”

  * * *

  Charles Pemberton was the new Duke of Somersville. The news was unwelcome, for it meant that in the six months it had taken him to return to London his father had died.

  He stood by the desk in the library within the massive structure of Somersville House, his father’s letter clutched limply between his fingertips.

  It did not feel right to sit at the desk, when for so many decades it had been the previous Duke of Somersville who had resided behind the great expanse of polished mahogany. The entire room had been off-limits to Charles for the majority of his life, and it left everything within him feeling too hard, too desolately foreign, to offer any comfort.

  Charles regarded the letter once more. Not the one which had taken months to reach him where he had been exploring in a remote location on the outskirts of Egypt. That one had informed him that he must return home immediately. No, he held the letter which reminded him of a promise made—a promise woefully unfulfilled.

  Rain pattered on the windowpanes outside, filling the room with an empty, bleak drumming. It was fitting, really, as it mirrored the torrent raging through him. His father had been the biggest part of his life—the reason Charles had sought to travel from the first. To witness the wonders of the world which had made his father so much larger than life in his eyes. To make his father proud of him for the first time in Charles’s life.

  And now the Duke was dead.

  Ridiculous that the notion still had not thoroughly soaked into Charles’s mind. Or perhaps it was his own guilt which prevented it. After all, he’d vowed when he’d left for his Grand Tour that he’d seek out the Coeur de Feu—the renowned ruby stolen from a French collector in the mid-sixteen-hundreds. It was said to be the size of a man’s fist and to burn with a fire at its core—hence its name: the heart of fire.

  It was the one artifact that had eluded his father, and therefore the one with which the previous Duke had become obsessed. It had been Charles’s intention to seek out the stone, but he’d been so busy in the last years, experiencing new cultures, learning from the people there and their way of life. Time had seemed limitless and his father had seemed immortal.

  Charles’s legs were too heavy to keep him standing, and yet still he could not bring himself to rest in his father’s cold chair. The grand home and all its fine furnishings might belong to Charles now, but he very much felt a stranger among his father’s effects rather than their new owner. His new title fitted as uncomfortably as did the rest of his inheritance.

  He looked down at the letter, which his father had left for Charles to read upon his return to London. It had been hastily written before the Duke’s death and was crumpled from where it had been found, clutched in his fist. Even to look at it wrenched at Charles. He hadn’t been there for the funeral. He hadn’t been there to say goodbye.

  The note was not filled with lamentations of time lost or proclamations of affection for Charles, who was his only living child. No, the letter contained only one scrawled line.

  Find the journal and use the key to locate the Coeur de Feu.

  Of course. The Coeur de Feu. Charles’s greatest failure.

  “The key” was a flat bit of metal the size of a book, with twenty-five small squares cut into it. The Adventure Club insignia had been stamped into the bottom right corner, indicating the key’s proper direction for use. Its size matched perfectly with the various journals his father had had in his possession, all embossed with a gilt compass—the insignia of the Adventure Club.

  The club had been started by his father and the Earl of Westix, and other members of the ton, several decades prior.

  Charles had, of course, tried fitting the key into the journals. While the size of the metal piece matched perfectly with the books, it did not reveal anything more than garbled letters. Charles had tried to scramble the random offerings, rearrange them and put them together again. Yet none of his attempts created successful words—at least none that made any sense.

  “Your Grace...” A voice sounded on the edges of Charles’s thoughts.

  Charles braced his fingertips over the desk atop one of the books, lest he leave prints on the polished surface. His father had always hated fingerprints on things.

  “Your Grace?” the voice said again.

  Perhaps the journals the late Duke referred to in his note were not within this collection. Westix had a stash, after all. Charles had been present and had seen his father’s objections on how the artifacts had been split after the final venture of the Adventure Club fifteen years before—specifically the ownership of important artifacts and documents.

  “My Lord,” the voice snapped.

  Charles turned in response to the familiar form of address. His valet, Thomas, was at his side with a parchment extended.

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, you are Your Grace now.”

  Thomas was ever the loyal companion. The man had traveled around the world with Charles, never once complaining, no matter how dismal the conditions. And they had indeed been dismal at times.

  Regardless, Thomas always managed a smile and a pot of warm water for a proper shave. And so it was that Charles knew his valet was not being disrespectful in issuing the gentle reminder.

  Charles nodded appreciatively. “Yes. Correct.”

  A roll of thunder rattled the windows. Thomas cast a disparaging look outside. “It would appear that Miss Charlotte is in town and she asks that you join her at her home immediately. Her servant also bade me give you this.”

  “Miss Charlotte? Lottie?” Charles asked with a note of surprise.

  Thomas lifted a brow and handed the parchment to Charles. “Yes, Your Grace. She is apparently most eager to speak with you.”

  Charles unfolded the parchment and glanced at the letter.

  Don’t say no, Charles.

  He couldn’t help but smile at that. How very like Lottie. She always had been bold with her requests, even when they were children. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d last seen little Charlotte Rossington, the vicar’s daughter from his local church near Somersville Manor. They’d grown up together, and had held a platonic fondness for one another ever since.

  She’d grown into a beautiful woman, with dark hair and flashing blue eyes, and was so similar in coloring to him that people sometimes confused them as brother and sister. They’d been close enough to be siblings.

  He hadn’t seen her since just before he’d left for his Grand Tour. There would be much to catch up on. By his estimation, and with his knowledge of her sweet, charming nature, she was most likely married with the brood of children she’d always wanted.

  The night was abysmal, but even the storm was preferable to a dreary house filled with ghosts and failed promises.

  Charles folded the note. “Have the carriage readied, Thomas.”

  He smirked to himself as his valet departed. It truly had been far too long since Charles had seen Lottie.

  Chapter Two

  It had indeed been a considerable amount of time since Charles had seen Lottie. He nearly did not recognize the sultry woman standing before him in the sumptuously decorated drawing room. It was too finely appointed for a vicar’s daughter—as was her tightly fitted gown of deep red silk far too tawdry. Especially when compared to the modest high-necked gown he’d last seen her in.

  Gone was the wide-eyed innocence of her smoky blue eyes, and in its place was a smoldering vixen with a length of midnight curls tumbling over one nearly naked shoulder. A courtesan.

  Charles stared a moment longer than was polite while the five years stretched out i
n the silence between them. Her fingers twisted against one another at her waist—a childhood show of nerves even her new guise could not mask.

  “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “I’m sorry about you,” he replied.

  Lottie winced and looked away. “I didn’t have a choice, Charles. There is no choice when your father dies and leaves you destitute.”

  Charles shifted his weight. The crisp new Hessians he wore pinched at his feet, and the slight discomfort was nearly unbearable when coupled with such agitation. “You could have wed.”

  Lottie’s chest swelled and those damn fingers of hers started twisting again. “I could not.”

  “What is this prattle?” Charles paced over the thick carpet. “Lottie, you’re lovely. You’ve always had the attention of men. How could you not find a husband?”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t find one.”

  “If you could find a husband why would you not—” Comprehension washed over him like cold rain.

  Lottie scoffed at his apparent consternation. “Now you understand.”

  Oh, he understood.

  Lottie had been compromised.

  The little girl who had tagged along behind him until he had finally allowed her to join him at play. The girl he had regarded with the same undying affection one would a younger, more vulnerable sister. And some rake had ruined her.

  “Who is the scoundrel?” he growled.

  “No one I’ll ever confess to you.” She strode across the room, away from him. But not before he saw the hopeless misery in her eyes.

  She still loved the man.

  Charles followed her. “Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

  She drew a bottle of amber liquid from a shelf and pulled free the stopper. “Even if I could have found a way to contact you I have never been one for charity.” She splashed a finger of liquor into a cut-crystal glass and pushed it into his hand.

  He accepted the drink and took a long sip. Scotch. Very fine Scotch. “It wouldn’t have been charity,” he protested.

  She regarded him with quiet bemusement. “Oh? And what, pray tell, would it have been?”

  “Securing a future for you.”

  A sad smile plucked at the corners of her mouth. “I’m not your responsibility, Charles.”

  He settled his palm on her shoulder, the same way he’d done when she was a girl and had needed comfort: when her kitten had scaled a tree too high for her to climb, the time she’d skinned her knee and torn a new gown, the day her mother had died. He’d always been there for her.

  Except, apparently, when she’d needed him most.

  “You know I’ve always regarded you as a sister. I’ve always cared for you as if you were.”

  “But I’m not your sister.” She waved him off. “You’re going to make me cry with all that.”

  Indeed, her nose had gone rather red. She poured a second glass of Scotch and carried it over to a chaise, where she settled comfortably.

  “I tried the opera first. I did well there, and...and offers began.”

  Charles took the seat opposite her and swallowed the rest of his Scotch at the word “offers.”

  Lottie pulled at a corner of the window coverings and peered into the darkness. “I resisted at first, of course,” she continued. “But the expense of such a life was more than the income it generated. After a while, I couldn’t refuse.”

  Charles stared into the bottom of his empty glass and savored the burn trailing down his insides, pushing past his heart and splashing into his gut.

  “This is far grander than I’ve ever lived before.” She indicated the room.

  It was indeed fine. The dark wood furniture was polished to a shine, the walls were covered with a luxurious red silk, the floors layered with soft carpets.

  “You intend to continue in this...this occupation for a while?” he asked.

  She leaned toward the window and glanced out once more. “No. At least I have the hope not to. Which is part of the reason I’ve called you here.”

  “What the devil are you looking for out there?” He got to his feet and glanced out the window to the quiet street below.

  “A new opportunity.” She beamed up at him and traded his empty glass with her full one.

  A warning prickled along the back of Charles’s neck. “I don’t know what scheme you’re up to, but please presume I’ll want no part of it.”

  Lottie crinkled her nose and laughed, reminding him all too well of the girl she’d been.

  “Nothing like that. Oh, Charles, you do know how to make me laugh.”

  She shook her head and the length of midnight curls swished against the disconcerting swell of her nearly exposed bosom.

  “I’m waiting for a countess’s daughter to arrive. A young lady who has fallen on rather unfortunate times. I’m to instruct her in the art of flirtation.”

  Charles eyed Lottie skeptically.

  She put her fingertips to the bottom of his glass and lifted it higher, toward his mouth. “I could use the help of a gentleman,” she said. “It would do well for her to have someone to practice on.”

  The glass was to his lips now, but he resisted and pulled his face away. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Plying you with drink isn’t going to work, I take it?”

  She gave a little mock pout he’d never seen before. The type of expression made by a petulant mistress rather than a well-mannered vicar’s daughter.

  He didn’t like it.

  “I think you know me better than that.”

  “Very well.” Lottie lowered her hands and freed his glass. “She’s the daughter of the Earl of Westix.”

  Charles lifted the Scotch to his lips once more. Of his own volition. And drank.

  The Earl of Westix.

  The Adventure Club would never have disbanded had it not been for the Earl. Charles’s father would still have all the journals and would have been able to find the Coeur de Feu on his own had it not been for the Earl. Charles would never have been such a disappointment in failing to fulfill that one final wish.

  And Lottie knew all of this. She knew, and yet she still asked for Charles to aid one of Westix’s whelps.

  “Oh, dear,” Lottie said with a frown. “You’re turning quite red about the face.”

  “Why would you presume I would be willing to help any offspring of that devil?”

  “The lady has had quite the time of it.” Lottie lifted her forefinger. “First her father died, some years ago, then her brother vanished, and now the man who had been courting her has proposed to another.”

  She held out her three extended fingers, as if the physical demonstration might alter his wits. Her pinky came up, bringing the total count to four.

  “And because every woman deserves a second chance.”

  The latter was expressed so solemnly Charles knew Lottie was not only referring to Westix’s daughter but to herself. No doubt she was aware that the best way to win his acquiescence was through staggering guilt.

  She knew him too damn well.

  “Just imagine it, Charles.” She sat upright. “If there is one countess willing to pay for her daughter’s education—the kind that cannot be obtained at any reputable institution—there will be more. Every mother wants her daughter to be desirable and to wed. Who better to teach such subtle seductions than a courtesan? I could even educate married women on the pleasures to be had in the bedroom—”

  “Enough,” Charles ground out. “For the love of every sacred saint, please cease this talk of intimacy.”

  He set his glass down and paced about the room, all too aware of Lottie’s anxious stare. Helping her would be a betrayal of his father’s trust, and hadn’t he already failed him enough?

  Charles’s head snapped up as an idea struck him. But if he
aided this Westix chit, perhaps she might be so grateful for his assistance she would assist him in locating the lost journals.

  From her watchful perch, Lottie straightened in anticipation.

  “I’ll assist you,” Charles said at last. “However, I’ll do so on one condition.”

  She tilted her head in silent inquiry.

  “You put on a shawl.”

  She rolled her eyes playfully. “Very well.” She peered out the window and beamed victoriously up at him. “And your timing is perfect. She’s just arrived.”

  * * *

  Eleanor awaited her fate alone. She had been divested of her domino, wig and mask—all taken by the footman. Without the shield of those items she was left feeling exposed in her precarious surroundings, and far too vulnerable.

  The double doors of the drawing room were closed and oil lamps cast a flickering golden light. A harp sat in the corner, its shadow stretching over the thick Brussels weave carpet like a great beast stretching for her. Childish fear nipped at her and left her with the urgent desire to lift her feet from the floor, lest it make a grab at her.

  A glass of sherry sat in open invitation on an elegantly carved table beside the chair. If it hadn’t been for the bust of a woman with her breasts thrust out that was set behind it, Eleanor might have accepted the proffered indulgence.

  But, while she appreciated the consideration, she was quite certain she could manage her nerves well enough on her own without the aid of alcohol. In fact, she knew she could. Murrays, after all, were strong.

  The double doors parted and a woman with tumbling curls of dark hair appeared. A crimson gown hugged her trim figure and a black lace shawl lay over the swell of her generous bust, lending her a far more decent appearance than Eleanor had expected.

  “I am Lottie.”

  Her voice was as smooth and sensual as her face—the kind which left other women with a disquieted sense of inadequacy. Was it any wonder men paid for her time?

  Eleanor hid the discomfiting thought behind a tight nod and had opened her mouth to speak when a tall man entered the room.