How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  “Mother!” It was Eleanor’s turn to gape in horror.

  The Countess waved dismissively. “Don’t be so shocked, Eleanor. I’m being entirely pragmatic. Once he is dead you will be a widow with the bulk of his wealth. You will have freedom to do as you please without the obsessive scrutiny of the ton.”

  Her mother’s words were hollow, but they were true.

  “And the alternative is far more dismal,” the Countess said with great gravity.

  Eleanor nodded, unable to speak around the aching tightness in her throat. Her options were an abysmal marriage or a degrading, destitute existence. This was not how it was all supposed to turn out. She was supposed to have found a man who offered her a life of passion, of excitement.

  The Countess patted Eleanor’s cheek. “We are invited to a ball at Lady Canterbury’s tomorrow evening. The Earl of Devonington will ask you to wed him. What will you say?”

  Eleanor swallowed. Her heart throbbed with the weight of her burden and her ribs ached with every breath. “I will say yes,” she answered dutifully.

  It was not happiness or relief which showed on the Countess’s comely face, but concern. “I think that is for the best.” A smile twitched at her lips, but the display of discontent did not leave her features. And then her mother did a curious thing: she put her slender arms around Eleanor and embraced her.

  Despite the chill of her mother’s hands at her back, Eleanor leaned into the embrace and put her face to her mother’s sharp shoulder.

  “I should have done this more,” her mother said on a choked whisper. “When you were a girl...before it was so very awkward.” She laughed and leaned back. “I’m proud of you, daughter.”

  She gently kissed the top of Eleanor’s head and left the room.

  Eleanor stared at the closed door and tried to ignore the dull pang in her chest. So this was her success, her grand victory. After working hard to allow herself to truly feel, to expect a brilliant life, she was now going to have to shove it all down deep within her once more so that she might become the Countess of Devonington.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Charles was in a devil of a mood when he returned home. So when Kentworth extended an invitation for a night on St. James’s Street Charles was all too eager to agree. They started at White’s, of course, with several rounds of brandy and a bit of faro. They played for over an hour before Kentworth decided the table’s luck had run its course and they retired to one of the many tables to drink.

  All night Charles waited with an anxious blend of fear and eagerness for Kentworth to mention Eleanor again. Thus far the conversation had not broached anywhere near women, let alone Eleanor.

  Rawley glanced at his pocket watch—a habit he often employed prior to announcing his readiness to depart. Once Rawley departed, Kentworth would have no one to tame his crass commentary. If Charles meant to ask after Eleanor and Devonington, now would be the time to do it.

  “Have you heard any further information about Devonington asking Westix’s daughter to marry him?” Charles took a sip of brandy to cover up a grimace at his indelicate bluntness.

  Rawley’s perceptive scrutiny landed on him with too much interest. Kentworth, however, bellowed a laugh and put his drink onto the table. “You interested?”

  Charles gulped down more brandy, his thoughts and tongue loose with drink. “I may be.”

  “In the wedding or the woman?” Kentworth waggled his brows.

  Charles looked between Kentworth and Rawley. Hell. He’d opened the topic—he might as well see it properly closed. “The woman.”

  Kentworth chortled. “Would you even stay in London long enough to see her wedded and bedded?”

  Irritation jangled Charles’s nerves and he didn’t bother to offer a reply.

  Kentworth narrowed his eyes and his expression turned more serious. “You could do worse than her...” He tilted his head in latent consideration. “Far worse, actually.”

  “Are you going to ask her before Devonington has a chance?” asked Rawley.

  “Always thinking ahead, this one.” Kentworth reached across the table and ruffled Rawley’s hair.

  Rawley waved him off and brushed his hand over the mussed brown strands until they were swept neatly to the right, as he always wore his hair.

  “It is merely a consideration.” Charles leaned back in his chair.

  “Are you considering when you’ll ask or if you’ll ask?” Kentworth probed.

  Charles shrugged. He didn’t know himself what he was talking about. He only knew that the idea of Devonington taking Eleanor into his bed made his world darken.

  Kentworth barked a laugh and got to his feet. “I need to attend to the call of nature. You gentlemen continue this discussion and I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Rawley tapped a finger on the table as Kentworth strode away. “Do you love her?”

  “What?” Charles asked, chuckling at the ridiculousness of the question.

  “She won’t increase your social standing, and while her family properties are substantial they’re nothing compared to what you already hold. In offering to wed her before Devonington does you’d create a lifelong enemy. Why would you marry her for any other reason than love?”

  That was a damn good question.

  It was because Charles enjoyed her company and appreciated the frankness with which she spoke, and how she didn’t make him guess as to her thoughts and desires as other ladies. Because a passion had been lit within her and it made her glow with a sensuality that drew him like the most attentive of moths. Because every time he thought of Devonington taking her as his wife, wearing her like an expensive bauble on his arm, undressing her and bringing her to his bed, it was like a punch in Charles’s gut. But love...

  Charles scowled and settled back in his seat. The aged leather under him creaked. “By God, Rawley, I daresay I had forgotten how damn insightful you are.”

  “It’s part of my charm,” he replied dryly.

  Charles shook his head and chuckled at his old friend. More was the pity the chap couldn’t find himself a lady he might be happy with. Many men weren’t the marrying sort, but Rawley certainly was. Honest, dependable—a good man any way one looked at him.

  “Another question.” Rawley held a hand up in silent inquiry. “If I may?”

  “By all means.”

  “Would you remain in London?”

  Damn. Charles turned his focus to the cut-crystal glass in front of him.

  Rawley continued before Charles was forced to answer. “I do not profess to know the hearts or minds of ladies. However, if you did intend to marry Lady Eleanor for love, I would venture to say she would not do well left alone while you seek adventure.”

  There always had been a gentle, considerate side to Rawley. Charles had forgotten that too. Perhaps it was because he’d been raised primarily by his mother, after his father had died within days of his birth.

  Regardless, Rawley had brought up a point Charles already knew well enough. It was why he knew he could never have Eleanor in the first place. Charles’s true love was travel—the same as his father. The idea of him even considering marriage was ridiculous.

  And yet the idea of Eleanor wed to that pig Devonington coiled in Charles’s gut like something cold and ugly.

  Rawley tapped the flat of his hand on the table, severing Charles’s ruminating, then got to his feet and nodded politely. “It appears Kentworth might have been waylaid by another faro game, and I have much to do in the morning. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Charles rose and nodded to his good friend as Rawley made his departure, leaving his brandy glass with several sips remaining at the bottom.

  Kentworth was indeed at the faro table, where the conversation about Eleanor did not resurface. Once more he soon declared the faro table to be absent of luck, his tone boisterous with drink, and they fo
und themselves in the West End, at a gambling hell of questionable reputation.

  A smoky haze filled the room and the lights cast a low glow. Voices cried out in victory and defeat alike as dice rattled, cards snapped on tables and coin clinked from one hand to another.

  Kentworth immediately made his way to the hazard table, sitting beside a woman who tossed him a coy glance as he called his bet. Charles stood several paces behind, not inclined at all to participate. He’d never been one to throw his wealth away.

  “What’s your pleasure, Your Grace?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Charles turned and found a red-haired woman in a crimson silk gown that had seen better days gazing saucily at him. She had green eyes, only not as green as Eleanor’s...more of a moss-green, where Eleanor’s were the color of vibrant emeralds or sunlit grass. Eyes that could penetrate the soul.

  “I’ll fetch you a drink if you like.” The woman bit her lip in the obvious way women did when they wanted a man to stare at their mouths. “Or do you have other vices you’d like to see sated?” Her gaze wandered over him with interest.

  A proposition. With a woman who looked like Eleanor. Would that quell the desire raging through him or only whet his appetite? Charles’s mind was a sloshing jumble. He needed no more spirits.

  “What would you do if you knew a lady was to marry a disgusting pig of a man?” Charles asked her abruptly.

  The redhead’s mouth pursed. “Depends on how you feel about her, I’d imagine.” She gave a knowing smile. “Considering you’re asking a woman who’s all too willing to give you a night you won’t forget a question about another woman, I’d wager you rather like her. And if I were in your position I imagine I’d try my damnedest to stop her.”

  Charles rubbed at a tense muscle along the back of his neck and nodded, considering her words.

  She eased closer to him and the edge of one pert breast brushed his arm. There was a dry, powdery scent about her. “I can make you forget about any woman...”

  Except he didn’t want to forget Eleanor. Even if he should.

  The redhead’s words echoed through him. I imagine I’d try my damnedest to stop her.

  Charles cleared his throat. “I think perhaps I should go.”

  The woman lifted a single shoulder, indicating that his refusal was of little consequence to her. “You know where to find me.” She turned away with a suggestive wink.

  He made his way from the gaming hell, knowing Kentworth would not notice his absence. Charles’s mind was made up. He would speak to the very devil herself the following day and demand that Eleanor not marry Devonington. And while he was at it he would request the journals he knew to be in the Scottish castle. The journals Eleanor had given him that fateful day had yielded nothing of import.

  Yes, in the morning, he would call on the Countess of Westix.

  * * *

  Eleanor stared down at the fresh bouquet of red roses on her dressing table. That made a bouquet every day from Devonington since they’d danced at the masquerade ball.

  No doubt it was meant to entice her. Yet the delivery served quite the opposite. The bright blooms inspired no affection in her. They didn’t even hold a modicum of cheer. Rather they were a symbol of an ominousness that was far too imminent: her engagement.

  It was through will alone that she did not give way to the threat of tears. After all, she’d yielded to the luxury of such emotion once she’d gone to bed the prior evening. Her eyes were still gritty with the aftereffects and slightly swollen.

  The door to her bedchamber swung open abruptly and startled her into surprise. Amelia quickly closed the door and ran—truly ran—to Eleanor.

  Amelia’s hands fluttered anxiously in front of her. “My lady, he’s here. I think to ask for Her Ladyship’s blessing.”

  Eleanor’s stomach dropped like a heavy stone. “But I thought I had at least until tonight?”

  Amelia shook her head and her mobcap flapped around her narrow face. “Not the Earl of Devonington, my lady. The Duke of Somersville.”

  Eleanor stared at her maid, sure she’d heard incorrectly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Duke of Somersville.” Amelia bounced up and down in a bundle of excitement. “I think he’s here to seek your hand in marriage.”

  Eleanor’s pulse tripped and then wildly scrambled on at an erratic pace. Elation and excitement, pure and undeniable, thrilled through her. But surely he wouldn’t truly offer. He had never expressed interest in marriage. As it was, he had needed time to consider her request even when he was not likely to have to honor it.

  She shook her head, determined to tamp down the flame of insipid hope. “How do you know that’s why he’s here?”

  Amelia grinned. “Because he’s telling the Countess not to allow you to marry Devonington.”

  Eleanor leapt to her feet, unable to stop the foolish jolt to her heart. If there was a possibility of being with Charles she would not lose it—especially not for the likes of the Earl of Devonington.

  “My lady, stop.”

  Eleanor stopped and turned back to Amelia. “Yes?”

  “You shouldn’t go.”

  Eleanor gawked at her maid. “You told me he was here to put an end to this dreadful engagement with Devonington. Why would you stop me?”

  “This way if anyone asks you can tell them I told you not to go and not be lying about it.” Amelia winked and shooed at Eleanor. “Go on, now.”

  Eleanor flew from her room and went as quickly as she dared down to the first floor, where she leaned her ear toward the crack between the double doors of the drawing room and strained to listen.

  Charles’s voice was the first she heard. “Your Ladyship, if you would only give me a chance.”

  Eleanor’s heart soared with recognition. It truly was Charles. He had actually come here to seek her mother’s permission to marry her. Just as Amelia had said.

  “Your Grace, you demand my daughter not marry another, and yet you have no one else to recommend.” The Countess’s tone was on the verge of exasperation.

  “I do have someone to suggest.”

  Charles’s deep voice rumbled through the doors. Eleanor could scarcely breathe. Would he suggest himself?

  The clink of a glass sounded. “By all means,” said the Countess with some amusement.

  Eleanor held her breath to ensure she would not miss a single word.

  “Viscount Rawley.”

  Had Eleanor not been pressed to the door, she might have toppled over. Viscount Rawley?

  “Viscount Rawley?” Her mother’s incredulity matched Eleanor’s own.

  “He is responsible, mild-mannered, considerate.” Charles rattled off the attributes like one might a list of items to obtain from the market. “He would be a loyal husband, and one with whom I believe Lady Eleanor might find happiness.”

  “Viscount Rawley has not asked for her hand but the Earl of Devonington has.” The pause suggested the Countess was delivering one of her powerful pointed stares. “Will that be all?”

  Eleanor closed her eyes to stay the prickle of tears. Charles had not come to ask her to wed him, but to suggest she to wed another. Someone he deemed adequate.

  A lengthy silence followed. There was something else. She straightened, her curiosity piqued, her pathetic hope reignited with a miserable spark.

  “My father had several journals,” Charles began. “I believe you may be in possession of some. Possibly within your holdings in Scotland.”

  Eleanor clenched her fists. Blast him and his dogged determination to get those journals.

  “I know nothing of such dreary things.” The Countess sighed. “If there is nothing else...?”

  There was another clink, more gently set than the other. “Thank you for your time, Your Ladyship. I’ll see myself out.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded toward t
he door and Eleanor scrambled back to hide beside a large Oriental vase.

  Charles had opened the door to a colorful life—one of feeling, of passion. All of that was now slipping through Eleanor’s fingers. She would be left with nothing. Nothing but the memory of how life might otherwise be.

  Her chest heaved and her mind spun with the beginnings of a desperate plan taking shape.

  Charles emerged through the door, looking smart in a pair of polished Hessians with dove-gray breeches, a deep blue waistcoat and a charcoal jacket. She waited for him to walk partway down the hall, near the alcove by the stairs, and then she darted after him. After all, this might be her last chance to avoid marriage to Devonington and to truly live her life—especially when she had the very thing Charles needed: those damned journals.

  Chapter Twenty

  Charles was so enraged he almost did not hear the whispered call of his name. He turned cautiously, still unsure he’d heard correctly. Eleanor stood under the stairs in a white day dress, her lovely red hair bound back. Something hard thudded in his chest. God, but she was beautiful.

  She pulled open a door in the wall beneath the stairs, revealing a narrow room within, and waved him over. A surreptitious scan confirmed that they were alone. For now.

  She slipped into the darkness and he followed suit, ducking into the small space so he wouldn’t bash his head against the low ceiling. She pulled the door shut behind him, plunging them into a darkness so great he could not see his hand in front of his face.

  But he could smell her. Sweet jasmine, enticing femininity and all those memories, both tender and scorching.

  “Charles...” she breathed. “I thought I would never see you again.”

  The familiarity of her voice, soft and intimate, pulled at a place deep within him. He wanted to follow her words, to blindly locate her face. Devil take him, he wanted to do more than touch her soft skin. He wanted to press his mouth to hers, to be rewarded with her gasping cries of pleasure.

  “I know you have no desire to marry me.” Her tone pitched slightly and she paused. “You told me to marry Devonington, though clearly you do not wish for that.”