How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  Her mother stopped fanning herself. “You should toss aside all I’ve ever taught you. It will bring you naught but misery.” Her gaze slid to the path behind Eleanor. “Speaking of misery...”

  Eleanor turned to find a couple walking toward them. The two were leaning close to one another, deep in conversation. She’d recognize the man’s wavy brown hair and bold nose anywhere. Hugh and his blonde-haired, perfectly beautiful betrothed, Lady Alice.

  Eleanor’s heart gave a turbulent knock against her ribs. If love really was for fools and fiction, then surely Hugh and Lady Alice were the biggest fools of all. And as Eleanor felt a pang of envy at such closeness, what did that make her?

  The sun shone at their backs and lit them in a halo of gold. It obviously wasn’t bad enough that their faces were glowing—their bodies had to as well.

  They neared, and the knock at her ribs turned into a steady banging. She prayed heartily that they might continue to walk by without notice. She did not want added humiliation on a day already gone awry.

  The couple slowed as they neared Eleanor and her mother.

  Please pass by.

  But, unfortunately, they did not pass by.

  No, they stopped, and Lady Alice turned the lovely force of her open smile on Eleanor and her mother. If nothing else, Eleanor hoped that perhaps there might be some snideness to Lady Alice’s tone—some nasty upturn to her mouth or a disagreeable conversation which would sanction a justifiable dislike of her.

  “Oh, Your Ladyship, Lady Eleanor—it’s so good to see you,” Lady Alice said with delicate and authentic pleasure. “Lady Eleanor, your bonnet suits you so very well. Isn’t it the loveliest day you’ve ever seen?”

  The expression on Lady Alice’s face was sweet enough to bring to mind visions of angels. She even paused to offer a smile for Amelia.

  Eleanor inwardly sighed. Of course she would not be lucky enough to find fault with Lady Alice, who was, as she’d always been, agreeable, kind and absolutely perfect.

  And she was right. It was a fine day. Even with Eleanor’s stolen future standing so happily in front of her she could not deny the beauty of the day.

  “It truly is lovely,” she conceded.

  “Good day, Lord Ledsey.” The Countess of Westix’s tone was cool in her address to Hugh.

  Don’t look at him.

  If he replied to her mother Eleanor did not hear him. She intentionally gazed in the direction of the Serpentine River, where Lady Alice was looking with a wistful expression. The water glittered under the sun and reflected the wide stretch of the cloudless sky. A weak breeze swept from the river and brushed away some of the heat from Eleanor’s blazing cheeks.

  She would stare at the Serpentine for ages. Anything to avoid looking at Hugh. But, dash it, her traitorous eyes immediately disobeyed the direct order and slid over to the face which she’d one day anticipated being that of her husband. An ache began in the center of her chest, where her heart was still raw and wounded. She kept her smile small, for it felt brittle enough to crack if given too much effort.

  Her mother had been so proud of Eleanor when Hugh had directed his affections toward her, and the pressure of the ton had eased from her shoulders. Lady Eleanor, with her garish red hair, had finally found a man who might be willing to wed her.

  Except he had not been willing. And his newfound affection for Lady Alice had left her scalded with mortification.

  Eleanor should have expected such fickleness after his intentions toward her had come upon her so abruptly. At the time she had been too grateful to think on it.

  She was not grateful any longer.

  Hugh looked at Eleanor—a momentary flick of a glance, as if she were not worth his time. And when he had a woman such as Lady Alice on his arm surely she was not.

  It was at times like this that Eleanor was thankful for her father’s insistence that she never show emotion. Because at times like this Eleanor agreed that one must appear strong. She wore her indifference like a shield, staunchly guarding her wounds from prying eyes.

  Hugh’s hand came up suddenly and waved at a man several paces away. “Ah, here he is now.”

  Lady Alice gave an excited clap. “Oh, wonderful—he’s made it after all.”

  The man stopped between Eleanor and Lady Alice. He was tall enough to block the sun from where it shone into Eleanor’s eyes, but not so tall that she had to peer up at him foolishly. His hazel-green eyes crinkled nicely at the corners.

  Hugh clapped the man on the back. “This chap went to school with me several years back. May I introduce the Marquess of Bastionbury?”

  A part of Eleanor—a sad, pathetic part—perked up at the mention of his name. According to the Lady Observer, the Marquess was the most eligible man on the marriage mart. A man Eleanor had not yet had the opportunity to be introduced to.

  The ladies all nodded their amenability. “By all means,” said the Countess.

  Hugh indicated Eleanor’s mother first. “My Lord, may I present the Countess of Westix?”

  Her mother offered a stiff curtsey and nodded.

  Hugh’s eyes met Eleanor’s and her pulse gave a pitiful leap. “And the Countess’s daughter, Lady Eleanor Murray.”

  Lottie’s voice sounded in Eleanor’s head, reminding her to meet the man’s eyes. Eleanor nodded and held his handsome stare, but the smile trembled on her lips.

  The Marquess nodded and then his attention slid away. To Lady Alice.

  Hugh squeezed Lady Alice’s slender arm with an embarrassing show of affection, which Lady Alice did not chide him for. “And now may I present Lady Alice Honeycutt, my betrothed?”

  Lady Alice nodded and let her regard linger on the Marquess, much in the way a butterfly might over a choice bloom. A pretty blush colored her cheeks. “It is so very good to meet you, My Lord. I’ve heard such great tales.”

  Her smile was dainty and her eyes practically danced with the sincerity of her joy. She held out a hand to the Marquess, who readily took it and let a kiss whisper over her gloved knuckles.

  The Marquess was genuinely engaged in Lady Alice’s attention. Even her mother had a whisper of a grin teasing the corners of her stiff mouth. Lady Alice was warm and endearing, while still maintaining her cultured poise. An impeccable balance of breeding and manners and kindness.

  And a glaring reminder of what Eleanor had been doing so very wrong.

  In truth, Eleanor found Lady Alice’s behavior bordering on inappropriate. Her father would have been appalled at such behavior, and no doubt would have been violent in his distaste for it. But he was not here now. He was dead, having left them with no fortune, Evander missing, and a wall of ice to melt.

  Alice’s open warmth was the line Lottie had mentioned in the lesson—the acceptable level of flirtation. Skirting propriety, subtle and delicately danced, therefore being socially acceptable.

  Was this the kind of woman men wanted?

  Eleanor didn’t have to ask the question. She already knew. It was in the tinkling laugh Lady Alice did not suppress, in the measured, meaningful way her gaze met those she conversed with, and how men swarmed to her side, eager for any scrap of attention she was willing to offer.

  Regret nipped at Eleanor with sharp teeth. Perhaps she ought to have let herself be introduced to Lord Charles several times more. She should have been more patient with the process.

  “If you’ll excuse us?” said the Countess. “We must be on our way.”

  Eleanor let her mother lead them in the direction of a group of the Countess’s friends, where they clustered together in an array of colorful pastels, chatting under a tree by the river. Conversations blended around her, but her mind was unable to focus on any single one.

  “Ah, there is Lady Stetton.” Her mother nodded toward the shore of the Serpentine River.

  Energy hummed through Eleanor’s veins. She di
d not want to stop the steady rise and fall of her feet as she walked. To do so might give her mind cause to churn. And to think of all her failings—those she did not wish to ponder over.

  “Do you mind if I go on a bit further with Amelia?”

  Her mother eyed the path and gave an approving nod. “Join us once you’ve collected yourself.”

  Her mother swept off the trail and headed in the direction of Lady Stetton, leaving Eleanor and Amelia to continue onward. The absence of her mother’s barrage of questions was a balm to Eleanor’s racing brain, and she filled all her tumultuous thoughts with the rustling of trees and the twittering of birds.

  “Forgive me,” Amelia said in her gentle maternal voice. “But there is a man watching you.”

  Eleanor followed Amelia’s stare to where a tall dark-haired man was indeed watching her, his eyes brighter than the clear sky overhead.

  He smiled in invitation, his teeth impossibly white against his tanned skin. Her stomach sank. There would be no avoiding him, no matter how much she wished to.

  She would have to speak to Lord Charles.

  Chapter Four

  Charles had anticipated that he might see Lady Eleanor. It had been his sole reason for a promenade through Hyde Park.

  She was a beautiful sight, in a white gown with a pale green ribbon tied under her bosom and matching green ribbons on her bonnet. The color made her eyes stand out like emeralds beneath the brim of her bonnet. She had been pretty by candlelight, but by the light of day she was even comelier.

  Her expression, however, mirrored that of a person being sent to the gallows. After the exchange of introductions Charles had overheard, it was quite evident that Lady Eleanor Murray was not having a good day.

  It might have been kind to allow her to continue by and let her lick her wounds. If he were a sensitive man he might have allowed it. But he was not, and she had the journals he needed.

  He stepped in front of Lady Eleanor and bowed. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Lady Eleanor hesitated long enough to suggest she did. Yet when her maid whispered inaudibly to her Eleanor subtly shook her head, and the brown-haired lady’s maid stepped behind Lady Eleanor to make room for him.

  “That would be lovely, Lord Charles.”

  Lady Eleanor’s tone was flat and suggested it was anything but. Ever the charmer.

  He ought to correct her, he knew—let her know he wasn’t merely Lord Charles, but the new Duke of Somersville. Perhaps had she not been looking so crossly at him he would have been more inclined. But he owed this woman nothing.

  Later. Perhaps...

  He straightened and held out his arm to her, as was polite. She threaded her slender arm through his and rested her gloved hand atop the cuff of his jacket. Her light jasmine scent whispered at his senses. Although this time, in the afternoon’s gilded light, with her dressed in delicate colors and gentle ribbons, the soft sweetness of her perfume seemed more fitting.

  Lady Eleanor gave a little sigh. “I suppose you’re here to convince me to return to Lottie’s?”

  “I thought I might give the idea a go,” Charles replied.

  Tree canopies spread over the path like an awning and blotted out the heat from the sun, leaving the air cool and fresh. Charles took a deep breath and let the quiet crunch of dirt under their feet fill the silence. Lady Eleanor’s maid walked a few feet behind them, to grant privacy while still maintaining prudent proximity.

  “Do you think you’ll have any success in convincing me to return?” Lady Eleanor asked after a moment.

  So much for any hope that she might make this easy. He glanced back over his shoulder, to where the Earl of Ledsey and Lady Alice still conversed with the dark-haired Marquess.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d wager on it.”

  Eleanor’s arm stiffened against his. “You saw?”

  “I overheard,” he said. “On my honor, it was quite by accident.”

  “What a wild coincidence...” she said blandly.

  Charles did not bother to apologize.

  “May I be frank with you?” Lady Eleanor asked abruptly. “Or rather, ask you to be frank with me?”

  He inclined his head. “I believe our history dictates a level of candor.”

  Lady Eleanor glanced around them. The path had gone empty and they were all but alone. At least for a few moments. Or as alone as one might be with a chaperon in tow.

  She stopped and stared up at him with her catlike green eyes. Perfectly sculpted red curls framed her porcelain forehead. In fact, everything about her was so carefully refined it made him long to see something skewed out of place.

  “What is so unappealing about me?” she asked.

  She asked it bluntly, almost casually, the way one might ask what would be served at supper that evening.

  He hadn’t expected such a question and found himself quite without words. After all, she was Westix’s daughter, and certainly that brought her a plethora of ill traits.

  “I truly wish to know so that I might see how to improve,” she said. “I am from excellent lineage, and my manners are impeccable. I move in all the right circles. I know I don’t have the kind of beauty Lady Alice possesses, and that my hair is...awful. But what else is it about me, about my person, which is so heartily distasteful?”

  She turned her head away before he could see any kind of expression cross her smooth face or come to her eyes. She quickly began to walk once more, as if she regretted what she’d said. Her speech had been one of hurt, but her tone had been without feeling.

  Perhaps there was more to his enemy’s daughter than Charles had wagered.

  He resumed his stroll beside her at the slow pace she’d set. But, for all her steady pace and dispassionate voice, her hand trembled when it returned to his arm.

  “You want my honesty?” he surmised.

  “Yes.”

  Charles hesitated. These words would be important, ultimately forming her decision to return to Lottie’s and setting the foundation for a friendship which might allow him access to those damned journals.

  “May I begin first by saying that while Lady Alice is indeed lovely, so too are you.”

  Lady Eleanor looked up at him sharply, her eyes wide and the fullness of her pink lips slightly parted. After all her careful hiding behind an emotionless mask, the shock on her face was a surprise.

  “I do not find your hair ‘awful,’ as you say.”

  In truth, its color was vibrant and beautiful. Any distaste stemmed from the reminder of her relationship to a man whom Charles so bitterly detested.

  Lady Eleanor turned her head away and regarded the path once more. Several more people had filled the area around them, and he kept his voice intentionally lowered to ensure their privacy.

  “It is your demeanor which is unwelcome.”

  Lady Eleanor did not react.

  “Are you sure you wish me to continue?” he asked.

  She exhaled and nodded. “Yes. I believe I need you to.”

  And in truth she was right. She did need to hear what he had to say. For her own good, and to increase her desire to return to Lottie’s for lessons.

  He went on as bade. “You are cold, as they say. Polite? Yes. But you have no joie de vivre...your delivery is without feeling. You have no...passion.”

  “Passion is vulgar.”

  “Passion is necessary,” he countered. “It’s what colors our world, what provides change and excitement. A woman like you, so without passion, is like a painting without depth. You will go through life in an endless routine of changing gowns and attending luncheons and soirees until they all blur together. You will meet every encounter with bored uninterest, to the point of teetering on disdain, as if nothing will ever be enough to please you. And one day, when death comes knocking at your door, you will look back on the nothing of your e
xistence and realize that you never once lived a day in your life.”

  It wasn’t until the entire, ugly and honest truth was out that he realized the depth of the cut in his words.

  Lady Eleanor had stopped. The shade of trees had thinned out and her bonnet was dappled with splashes of gold. She turned toward him, pulled her arm from his, and slowly lifted her face. Her eyes gleamed in the light, glowing like gemstones with the gloss of what appeared to be carefully restrained tears.

  The realization struck Charles in the chest.

  He had gone too far.

  He opened his mouth to apologize, but Lady Eleanor spoke first.

  “My mother and her friends are waiting for me.”

  She nodded to the women on the riverbank. The entire group looked their way—and immediately snapped their heads in the opposite direction once they realized they’d been caught.

  Lady Eleanor gently cleared her throat. “Thank you for your candor. Good day, Lord Charles.”

  She ducked her head down, hiding her face with the rim of her bonnet, and slipped away. Her gait was stiff, her back ramrod-straight and her shoulders squared. The maid hurried along after her.

  Charles watched Lady Eleanor walk away, feeling very much the cad. He’d assumed such a speech would render him victorious, and yet his joy had been marred by something rather unexpected—the stab of guilt.

  * * *

  Later that evening Charles sat among a collection of his father’s greatest acquisitions. If Charles hadn’t thought it possible to feel any lower than he had after his honest assessment of Lady Eleanor, he’d underestimated what coming home to Somersville House would do. Especially as he surveyed the unboxed treasures.

  There was a sarcophagus containing an intact mummy, found in a sealed-off tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The paint stood vivid blue against un-flecked gold, as if it had been created only weeks ago rather than centuries before. Its discovery had earned his father a private audience with the King. Then there was a gold scarab encrusted with priceless jewels, of which the ton had talked for three months.