How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  His heart squeezed. How much of his conversation with the Countess had she heard?

  “I do not wish to marry him either,” she said. “And so I have one final proposition for you.”

  She rushed on before he could speak again, as though she were worried he would stop her.

  “Marry me, Charles. Marry me and we will venture to Scotland, to Comlongon Castle, where the remaining journals are. I will give them all to you.”

  Marry her.

  The boldness of this new offer should have shocked him. But it did not. He knew Eleanor far too well for that. She was determined, stoic in her resolve. Such very admirable traits. And yet he could not clear from his mind the thought of Eleanor alone in the vastness of Somersville House, surrounded only by the invisible presence of servants and loneliness.

  A memory panged in his heart—one of the boy he’d been and how very enormous Somersville House had seemed when there was no one to fill it.

  Could Charles do that to Eleanor? Leave her there, wondering what he was doing, as she stayed in that large, empty space, her imagination spiced with the readings of their fathers’ journals. How could he confine her to such an existence?

  “Am I truly so undesirable?” Her voice broke.

  She bumped into him and the dull thump of her hand frantically patted the wall. Clearly she was seeking a way out. It was all too much—not only for her, but for him. The break in her voice, her desperation to leave. The knowledge that Devonington would have her, that the journals in Scotland could be his. Knowing he’d hurt her. Knowing that although he shouldn’t, he wanted her.

  “Eleanor, wait.” He reached out for her in the darkness and sent something hard clattering to the floor.

  The frantic sounds of her search for the door ceased. His hand found her shoulder. Using only the power of touch, he swept his fingertips over her fine cotton sleeve to the delicate hollow of her collarbone and up to her smooth cheek.

  “I find you immeasurably desirable.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “I believe I have proved as much.”

  Her intake of breath whispered against his thumb. “Why will you not marry me?”

  “Because I would make a terrible husband.”

  Confessing as much out loud made something in his chest give an unexpected wince. He shifted his thumb to stroke the softness of her cheek.

  “Worse than Devonington?” she asked with obvious skepticism.

  “I intend to travel, Eleanor, the same as our fathers did. First to find the ruby, and then to explore, once I’ve seen to the duties required of me as Duke. I have never considered myself a man to sacrifice the world for a family.”

  “You will have to marry eventually,” she said softly. “As part of your duty. Why not let it be me?”

  Her question squeezed at his chest. Why not, indeed? Perhaps because she was too intelligent. Possibly even too dear to him. Because, as much as he did not wish to admit it to himself, he did care.

  More than he would like to.

  “And why would you have to sacrifice your adventures?” Eleanor pressed.

  He shook his head, though he knew she couldn’t see it. He had lived a life without love for so long he did not know if he could ever create it, if he could ever give it. On so many accounts he would be a terrible husband and father.

  “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I abandoned you while I sought my own way in life. What sort of a husband would I be to leave you constantly? I refuse to do to my family what our fathers did to us.” He spoke with quiet sincerity.

  “I’m not a woman easily broken or swayed.” Her voice was strong, with her usual show of tenacity. “And I can quite well take care of myself.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t I know it?” He hated this darkness, and his inability to witness the determined flash he knew must be in those green eyes. “But I fear you would eventually hate me.”

  “I believe I would hate you less than my other option.”

  Her other option. Devonington.

  A spike of discomfort shot through Charles.

  Damnation, was that jealousy?

  If he wed her he would have the rest of the journals. He would have her. Wholly and completely. His wife. In his bed.

  It was then that he knew he could never truly have allowed her to marry Rawley.

  “Hate me less, you say?” He couldn’t help but grin. “Such flattery from an Ice Queen.”

  He couldn’t stop touching her, letting his hands play over her cheeks, her neck, the graceful line of her collarbone. And she did not move to stop him.

  “Your mother will be unhappy.” He traced the edge of her collarbone. “And if we wed we ought to do so quickly. I could have a license in two days.”

  He stroked her neck and felt her pulse quicken under his fingertips.

  “Then you agree?” Her question was breathless with anxious hope.

  He would have her in his bed, the journals would be at his disposal, and part of his ducal agreement fulfilled. How could he say no?

  “Yes.” He drew her to him, unable to stop himself.

  “Will you be attending Lady Canterbury’s ball this evening?”

  “I have an invitation, but have not yet accepted it.”

  This earned him a playful tap on the arm. “You ought to respond to your invitations. Preparations must be made for intended guests.”

  “I’ve always been bad at such things. Fortunately for me that task will pass to my wife in the future.”

  “You’re hopeless.” Laughing joy was evident in her voice. “Attend tonight,” she said. “We can announce our betrothal and the banns can be called later this week. We could be married in a month, easily. It will all be proper, which will please my mother, and she will eventually forgive me, I’m sure. After the announcement is made and the banns are called she will not have me beg off our engagement. Not when it would cause a scandal.”

  It was an underhand plan, but a solid one nonetheless. “Are you certain, Eleanor? Your mother may not forgive such a deception.”

  “I cannot imagine my life with Devonington.”

  Nor could he. The very idea of winning her from the buffoon made Charles want to puff out his chest. Instead, he cradled her face and brought his mouth down to meet her lips. Except he met something decidedly not her lips.

  Eleanor gave a little laugh. “You’ve kissed my nose.”

  He kissed her lower, touching his lips to her warm mouth. However, once he had managed one kiss he knew it would never be enough again. He anticipated the future with something deeper, more passionate—an ignited lust that would not have to stop.

  He straightened, pressed his lips chastely to the top of her head, and breathed in the floral scent of her. Soon he would bury himself in that perfume, tangle in it amid tossed sheets and naked limbs.

  “I shall see you tonight.”

  A crack of light showed at the door and he realized she had pushed it open. She hesitated, her face cast in that slice of light, revealing her beauty to him and, more importantly, where her lips were located. He bent over her and gave her a kiss he was sure she would not forget.

  He lingered a moment longer than he should, hesitant to leave when he wanted nothing more than to deepen their kiss. “Tonight.”

  Finally, he slipped into the brilliance of the empty hall, making his regretful departure as he’d promised the Countess he would.

  At last, he would have his journals—and he would also have leave to fully taste Eleanor’s passion.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until Eleanor and her mother were announced at Lady Canterbury’s ball that nerves finally got the better of her. Not necessarily because of the public declaration of her engagement to Charles, but her anticipation of declining Devonington’s offer.

  Lady Canterbury had always possessed an affinity fo
r roses, and red blossoms now adorned every surface. Why, it almost looked like her own home, after all her hothouse deliveries from Devonington.

  Suddenly she recalled Lord Canterbury’s support of Lord Devonington in parliament, and her blood went cold.

  These roses weren’t there to reflect Lady Canterbury’s predilection for the flower. Good heavens, they were there for Eleanor. For Eleanor and the Earl of Devonington.

  No sooner had she thought of the man than he appeared before her. His thinning brown hair was slicked back against his scalp and he had a quizzing glass raised to one eye, so that it appeared three times its size within the lens. Beneath his black evening jacket he wore a red waistcoat.

  “Lady Eleanor.”

  He bowed over her hand, revealing the balding patch at the back of his head. His mouth pressed to the back of her glove and she found herself grateful for the barrier between her skin and his lips. He straightened and openly admired her, running his gaze down the length of her sapphire gown overlaid with black lace.

  His chest puffed out. “You look stunning.”

  Eleanor murmured her thanks—a difficult thing to do around the weight of her guilt. Devonington, while not the man she’d wanted to wed, had gone to great lengths to make the evening memorable.

  “My Lord.” The Countess inclined her head in a generous nod and held out her hand.

  Eleanor waited for the Earl to bend over her mother before her gaze swept the room for Charles and met only disappointment. He had not yet arrived.

  She glanced to the entrance, where Lord and Lady Canterbury were still receiving their guests, but did not find him there either. The music would begin soon. Surely he would want to be there for the opening set?

  The Earl of Devonington grinned down at her. “Lady Eleanor, would you do me the honor of allowing me to lead you out for the first set of the evening?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to decline, or at the very least offer some form of an excuse that might afford her some time to allow Charles to arrive. But the Earl’s smile wavered and she realized she was taking too long to reply.

  “How very flattering of you to consider me,” Eleanor said, as genuinely as she could muster. “I would be happy to.”

  All too soon Lady Canterbury was asked to declare the first set. She cast her sly consideration upon Devonington and announced that it would be the waltz.

  The Earl offered his arm to Eleanor, who had no choice but to accept. Her glance around the room turned desperate, but all she found were the same familiar faces of the attendees and too many blasted roses. Where was Charles?

  “This time have a care not to miss your steps as you did when last we danced,” Devonington said under his breath to Eleanor.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, distracted.

  “Your dancing could use some improvement, and as you are dancing with me I want to ensure you perform perfectly.” He touched her shoulders. “Straighten your back more.”

  The pressure of guilt in her chest lessened—especially as he’d nearly crippled her last time with his oafish steps. But if nothing else, the dance would help pass the time.

  However, it was also a revelation in her understanding that she could never have gone through with a marriage to him. From the closeness of his overwarm body to the unending stories of his hunting dogs and having her feet crushed again and again, she knew she could never have a life with him. Not a happy one.

  Finally the dance finished and he escorted her back to her mother while Eleanor searched the sea of faces. Without success.

  No sooner had they arrived at her mother’s side than the Earl grinned down at Eleanor. Fine red veins crossed like embroidery thread over the tip of his bulbous nose. “I’d like to dance the next set with you as well, Lady Eleanor.”

  Eleanor turned sharply to her mother, who simply nodded. Suddenly the air seemed too thin to breathe and all the blood in her body rushed to her head.

  “But a second set would imply...” Eleanor’s mouth went dry.

  Devonington smirked and wriggled his shoulders, very much like a cat about to pounce atop a poor unsuspecting mouse. Except that Eleanor did suspect.

  He took her hand in his. “Lady Eleanor, I’d be honored if you would join me in the next set, and be by my side as the Countess of Devonington.”

  “P-pardon me?” Eleanor stammered, though she’d heard him quite well enough.

  “Don’t stammer—it sounds common.” Devonington’s eyes were hard when he spoke. “I want to marry you.”

  Eleanor’s search around the room became frantic—a drowning victim seeking a rope. But Charles was not there. Why had he not shown? He should have been here to save her from having to reject Devonington. Had he changed his mind?

  “You do not want to wed this woman.”

  A masculine voice spoke up. While familiar, she knew at once the man was not Charles.

  Eleanor turned in surprise and found Hugh standing before Devonington.

  “Ledsey, what the devil are you going on about?” The Earl puffed up, seeming to draw the girth of his prominent belly into the expanse of his chest. “You had your chance at her. Leave her to your betters, boy.”

  “This has nothing to do with me.” Hugh gave a smug grin. “And everything to do with the courtesan who has been training her each night.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Eleanor stared in horror at Hugh. Had he truly said aloud that she had been visiting a courtesan at night for training?

  Her stomach sank as she remembered seeing him in the hackney by her house. Had it been him in the hired carriage near Lottie’s house as well? Eleanor had been so distraught when she’d left that night, so preoccupied with having been caught with Charles, she had not given the threat the attention it was due.

  Now she would pay the price for her careless folly.

  Devonington took a threatening step toward Hugh. “That is quite the accusation you make against the woman I intend to have as my wife.”

  Hugh regarded her, his nose wrinkled with distaste. “I’m sure she’ll make for a wicked wife...based on the lessons she has been given.”

  “This is a preposterous accusation,” the Countess said, her tone sharp.

  “I assure you it is no accusation,” Lord Ledsey said with a smirk. “I saw her leave your town house wearing a blonde wig after you had departed for Almack’s. I followed her to Russell Square and waited while she was in the town house of a courtesan known as Lottie. I didn’t think it was Lady Eleanor at first, but then I questioned the servants and I got the whole story about how Lady Eleanor has been instructed by Lottie these last few weeks in ‘special lessons.’”

  It had been him. Heavens!

  Eleanor’s stomach swam with something vile and her mouth filled with water, as if she might be sick. To have her secrets bared thus was almost more than she could stand.

  “Did you know?” Hugh tilted his head toward the Countess and tapped his chin in mock contemplation. “Or were you blissfully unaware of your daughter’s misdeeds.”

  The color leached from the Countess’s face. Eleanor would be ruined no matter how the conversation turned. Too many had been witness to the accusation. Too many were still listening.

  The Countess opened her mouth, but Eleanor stepped forward. “She didn’t know. I didn’t tell her as I feared it might give her an apoplexy. Look now at her face—at the shock you’ve given her.”

  Eleanor’s mother shook her head, her face falling with disappointment, though only Eleanor knew the truth behind the breaking of the Countess’s composure.

  “You told everyone how cold I was,” Eleanor said to Lord Ledsey. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to attract new suitors while saddled with the moniker Ice Queen? I wanted to learn how to be kinder, sweeter, more likeable—the way your lovely Lady Alice has always been.”


  A sad, despairing part of Eleanor bade her skim the room for Charles once more. But truly she did not need to confirm what her heart already knew. He had not come. He had abandoned her to this fate.

  It would appear she had been too aggressive in their conversation earlier that day. She had badgered him into agreeing to marry her.

  The Earl of Devonington turned to Eleanor, the quizzing glass firmly lodged against his owlish eye. “Are you saying this is true, Lady Eleanor?”

  How could she deny it?

  The attention of all attendees fell on Eleanor. “It is true,” she whispered.

  Hugh folded his arms over his chest, satisfied with her answer.

  Lady Canterbury strode forward and placed herself between Eleanor and Devonington. “Your Ladyship, kindly escort your daughter from my home. She is no longer welcome here.”

  Eleanor’s mother opened her mouth and shook her head. “It was—”

  “Forgive me, Mother,” Eleanor rushed in. “I should have told you.”

  Her mother gave a small nod and reached for her with a trembling hand. Eleanor took it and pulled her mother close. Together they slipped behind their societal shields, their faces devoid of all emotion despite the torrents driving through them.

  The music had stopped and the silence of so many people lent a surreal presence to the room. A wall of jewel-toned gowns and waistcoats parted to make way for Eleanor and the Countess as they made their shameful departure from the rose-laden ball.

  Their last ball. And not just for this Season.

  Charles had not come and now even the possibility of wedding Devonington was gone. Eleanor had lost her prospects and damned them to a life of poverty, all in one awful evening.

  The Murray women were completely and utterly ruined.

  * * *

  Charles’s head ached like the very devil himself. He groaned, and even the rasping growl in his throat set off a pain in his brain so deep the sound might as well be a sharpened weapon plunging through his skull.