How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  Soon they would be wed. And finally, after all the frustration and pain of their precarious situation, Eleanor and her mother’s troubles would be over.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After Charles had packed his own trunk at Somersville House, they had only one stop to make: Lottie’s town house.

  “We needed a second witness,” he said, in reply to Eleanor’s confused expression. “Aside from Thomas. I trust you approve?”

  She beamed up at him and accepted his proffered arm. “Most assuredly.”

  Charles and Eleanor were shown into the drawing room, where Lottie rose to greet them. The neckline of her red gown was a bit low-cut for Charles’s taste. Well, perhaps a lot low-cut for his taste. Her hair fell in a heavy curtain of glossy curls down one shoulder and she’d applied a thin layer of kohl to her eyes, giving her a dramatic, seductive appearance.

  Charles did not much care for that either.

  She ran to Eleanor and embraced her in a heartfelt hug. “Lady Eleanor, I am terribly distraught over what happened at Lady Canterbury’s ball.”

  Lottie did indeed appear distraught. The dark smudges under her kohl-lined eyes indicated a lack of proper sleep. And, now that he looked at her, the flush to her cheeks appeared to have been put there by cosmetics rather than good health.

  It was no wonder Lottie took Eleanor’s distress so personally. He knew Lottie saw her lessons as a personal failure. However, it also meant she would need to return to the life she’d led before her attempt at educating the daughters of London society.

  Lottie looked from Eleanor to Charles and her eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason the two of you have arrived together, without a chaperon?”

  “We require a witness.” He lifted his brow. “For our marriage.”

  “Well.” Lottie’s face remained blank for a moment, before she gave an overzealous clap and beamed a mite too brightly at them. “I am overjoyed for you both. Felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.”

  “We will leave as soon as you pack a trunk,” Charles replied. “We need an additional witness when we get to Gretna Green.”

  “Please, say yes,” Eleanor implored. “We will stay for a few days at Comlongon Castle, which is nearby. It will be such a delightful break from all the wagging tongues.”

  Lottie folded her hands in front of her. “Charles, may I speak with you a moment in the library?”

  Charles glanced at Eleanor, who nodded. “Go on,” she said. “Though if you still have those kittens, Lottie, I’d very much love to see them.”

  “I am certain they would very much love to see you as well,” Lottie said. “Once they’re a bit older you may choose one to keep as your own. As a wedding present.”

  She rang for one of the footmen to fetch the kittens and motioned Charles to follow her. She did not speak until the door to the library was closed behind them.

  “Tell me this is not all in the pursuit of those damned journals.” She glanced to the closed door, as if she could see Eleanor through it. “That young lady has been through so much already. The rumors of what happened last night are dreadful. I am ashamed that her association with me has left her so besmirched. I cannot in good conscience allow you to further use her.”

  “Lottie, I...” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, we had made an agreement for the journals, I confess.”

  An enraged snarl sounded from Lottie’s throat.

  “However,” he rushed on, “when I missed the ball where I intended to announce our agreed-upon arrangement I was in a frenzy to see her, to explain. It was only when she brought up the journals herself that I realized...” He shook his head at his own confused thoughts. “I realized I hadn’t even considered them. I had only been thinking of her.”

  Lottie’s frown melted into a slow smile. “Very well. I will come. Only I have one request.” She curled a length of dark hair around her finger. “I wonder...is it possible to leave tomorrow?”

  “Do you need so much time to pack?”

  She was silent long enough for concern to scrape at the back of Charles’s mind.

  “What is it, Lottie?”

  “I have an...engagement this evening,” she said softly.

  The confession hit him like a slap. Charles swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. “A lesson?” he asked with hope.

  Lottie’s stare slid from his. “No.”

  Hot anger flashed through him. “Lottie, you said you were done.”

  “I said I was trying a new venture.” Tears filled her eyes. “It didn’t work.”

  “Let me give you money to live on. Eleanor will understand. In fact, she’ll encourage it.”

  Lottie put up her hand. “Stop. Please. You know I won’t accept your charity.”

  It wasn’t charity. Charles bit back the argument, knowing it would do no good. “We must go now,” he said instead. “The Countess is unaware of her daughter’s departure—or perhaps she is aware now. At any rate, we cannot risk being stopped.”

  Lottie gave a deep sigh. “Very well. I will send my regrets and hope we can meet once I return.”

  Charles didn’t move, overwhelmed at his own self-hatred for having abandoned her all those years ago, when she’d needed him most. “I despise that you’re doing this.”

  “And yet you love me enough to understand I must live my own life.” She regarded him in silent search of confirmation.

  His shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

  Lottie rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Give me a moment to pack.”

  “You were more of a success with Eleanor than you realize,” he said, before she could turn away. “You brought a light to her world she never would have had without you.”

  Lottie’s smile touched her eyes. “And that is enough for me.”

  Charles nodded and left her to pack. For now he had everything he needed. Even though Lottie was forgoing a potential protector—at least for the time being. Eleanor’s reputation would be salvaged once they were wed, and he would be getting the remainder of the journals. Thomas would even stop haranguing him about his ducal duty to wed.

  For the first time since his return to London everything was going exactly right.

  * * *

  In all, the exceedingly bumpy trip took the better part of six days—primarily due to Eleanor insisting on several occasions that they stop at an inn for the night, to sleep in a real bed rather than endure another stiff slumber on the narrow seats of the coach.

  It was a curious thing to reconcile herself in those six days to the idea of having a husband. After seven failed seasons and a botched courting only two months prior, Eleanor had become resigned to a spinster’s future. Never had she thought she would be on her way to Gretna Green to wed an incredibly handsome duke.

  During those days she sat beside the man who would be her husband, very aware of every part of him. His intoxicating scent and the heat of his thigh touching hers. In truth, all of him was impossible to ignore. He gazed at her often, in a manner she believed he thought discreet, and glanced away each time she met his stare, perhaps accepting the idea of marriage to her very much the same way she was doing with him.

  Late into the afternoon of the seventh day, they arrived at the small inn near the blacksmith’s at Gretna Green where many clandestine marriages took place. As with all their prior stops, Charles got them each their own room, which were well-appointed and comfortable.

  Regardless, Eleanor lay awake, her body and her mind on fire with curiosity and anticipation for what the next day would bring, when they were wed.

  When the sun had finally risen high enough to deem the day worthy of waking, Eleanor was more than ready.

  Lottie helped her dress in a white gown of Brussels lace and silver beadwork that twinkled at her sleeves and hem when she moved.

  Lottie herself wore a pale blue gown of a much mo
re demure fashion than any other garment Eleanor had ever seen her wear previously. The clothing made her even more beautiful, with her silky black hair and those large blue eyes.

  It was Charles, however, who took Eleanor’s breath away. She saw him first when she began to descend the stairs of their quaint inn. He stood on the first floor, waiting for her, wearing champagne-colored silk breeches, white stockings and a blue waistcoat Eleanor had never seen him wear before, in a deep blue brocade set against a paler background. All of this was quite nicely complemented by his navy jacket.

  He stopped his conversation with his valet as if he’d sensed her approach, and looked up the short flight of stairs to where she remained in observation of him. His gaze moved slowly over her, devouring her like a delectable treat. He did not wait for her to descend to him, and instead climbed the stairs to be at her side.

  “You are stunning.” Charles offered Eleanor his arm.

  “And you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  And he was. His face was clean-shaven, his dark hair swept smoothly back, and the brilliance of those blue, blue eyes was shining as it rested on her.

  “Are you ready to become my wife?” he asked.

  “I daresay I would not have engaged in such a journey if I were not.”

  Charles chuckled. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I’m eager for a few days’ escape in Scotland.” He led her down the stairs and spoke in a low and intimate voice. “Alone. With you.”

  The breathlessness came rushing back, and the decadent torment of hot temptation. The journals, she reminded herself. Despite what he said, she knew what they meant to him. She would do well to keep that at the forefront of her mind.

  He led her outside to where an endless sky spread over the lush, rolling green hills. Eleanor closed her eyes and breathed it all in—the sweetness of the sun-warmed grass, the moisture in the air suggesting it might later rain, and the wonderful spice of Charles’s scent. Then together they walked to the squat white building where the infamous anvil awaited them.

  With Lottie and Thomas behind them, Eleanor and Charles strode through the wooden door of the simple blacksmith’s. The whitewashed walls were pocked and smeared with soot, and various odds and ends of the trade hung from pegs.

  A large man tottered into the room. Sweat dotted his brow and stained the leather apron he wore. His head seemed screwed down into the bulk of his neck and he eyed them for a considerable length of time.

  “Could you direct us to Joseph Paisley?” Charles asked.

  The man nodded. “’S me. Ye are here to get married, then?”

  A prickle of alarm washed over Eleanor. The man didn’t look like he’d bathed in some time, and there was a sickly pallor beneath the layer of sweat glistening on his skin.

  Joseph Paisley scoffed before Charles could answer. “Of course ye are, or ye wouldna be here. Let me make the necessary preparations.”

  Eleanor took the moment of his absence to look to Charles, who must have seen evidence of her concern for he nodded to her in silent comfort.

  Joseph Paisley staggered back into the room and grabbed a book off a nearby shelf. The odor of stale alcohol hit her and his lurching gait suddenly made sense.

  Joseph Paisley, the man who would see them wed, was entirely sotted.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was indeed fortunate that Charles held his bride in such high esteem, for truly the venue for their marriage was abysmal. Mr. Paisley leaned to the right and then to the left before swaying back to the center. For a tenuous moment Charles thought he might be forced to catch the man.

  A younger man appeared, thin, and wearing a dark jacket of some elegance. He approached them immediately and waved Mr. Paisley away. “Ye’ve been unwell. Have ye a rest. I’ll take care of these two.”

  Lottie stepped forward and gave an encouraging nod. “If he’s unwell, perhaps that might be best.”

  “I’m fine,” Mr. Paisley said firmly. “Stay to help if ye like, but I’ll wed them.”

  Content, the young man clasped his hands at his back and stood resolutely at Mr. Paisley’s side.

  Eleanor tensed against Charles’s arm.

  Mr. Paisley drew in a deep breath and braced his stance wide, his belly thrust out like a barrel. “We are now gathered here in order that I may solemnize your marriage in the presence...”

  He did not look down at his book as he read, and his words slurred together, thick with drink and bored memory.

  “Before ye...” He pointed at Charles.

  Charles stared back blankly, unsure what the man intended.

  “Please state yer name, sir,” said the younger man.

  “Charles Christopher Pemberton.” Charles nodded to the younger man in appreciation.

  “And ye...” Mr. Paisley pointed this time to Eleanor.

  Eleanor, having the great benefit of learning from Charles’s folly, replied promptly, “Eleanor Susan Murray.”

  Charles looked down at his soon-to-be wife. He hadn’t known her full name before, and it pleased him to know it now.

  Mr. Paisley cleared his throat and waggled a finger between the two of them. “Before ye’re both joined in marriage, it is my duty to remind ye—”

  The man’s face suddenly went bright red and he bent over with a hacking cough.

  Charles’s arm shot out to pull Eleanor back at a safer distance from the ailing man—for all the good it might do. “Good God, man. Are you unwell?”

  Mr. Paisley continued to cough, his face having gone nearly purple.

  The younger man led him to a bed set near the back wall, which Charles hadn’t noticed until that exact moment. Mr. Paisley continued to cough in great racking waves while the younger man tucked him into the bed with soothing tones.

  Eleanor glanced up at Charles, her brows lifted with concern. He was beginning to share her apprehension. As distasteful as London had become, they could at least have been wed there without fearing the spread of disease.

  “This is preposterous,” Charles conceded.

  His mouth twitched in a tickle of laughter and Eleanor’s did the same.

  “Truly disastrous.” Then the humor in her eyes shadowed. “Are you quite sure this union will be considered valid?”

  “Very.” He looked to where Mr. Paisley was being fed a posset of some kind by the younger man.

  “I now require that ye make a declaration!” Mr. Paisley bellowed from across the room. From his bed.

  Truly, it was shocking.

  He waved them over and they obliged, walking closer.

  The man eased himself into a sitting position and breathed heavily with the effort. “I would ask that everyone present please be upstanding,” Mr. Paisley continued. He indicated them each in turn. “Charles Christopher Pemberton and Eleanor Susan Murray. Before ye’re joined in marriage, it is my duty to remind ye...”

  Mr. Paisley’s voice rattled on and on, reciting words he had clearly spent a lifetime saying.

  Charles’s attention, however, was on Eleanor—the woman who would become his wife, the daughter of his father’s greatest enemy. There was a twinge in his chest as he regarded her, a sharp affection that had crept up on him through their lessons with Lottie, on those promenades through Hyde Park, in the quiet, intimate moments shared between them.

  “Charles Christopher Pemberton!” Mr. Paisley called. “Will ye take Eleanor Susan Murray’s right hand in yers?”

  Charles took Eleanor’s small, delicate hand in his and stared down into the eyes of the woman he was giving his name to, sharing his title and his life with. “I, Charles Christopher Pemberton, am taking Eleanor Susan Murray’s hand.”

  The young man quietly rushed over, took their joined hands and carefully pulled them in slow shuffling steps until they were directly over the anvil. He nodded, then dashed back to his pla
ce beside Mr. Paisley’s bed once more.

  Mr. Paisley proceeded to shout out the most important words of Charles’s life—the vows which would bind him to Eleanor and have him see her forever cared for. It was a series of “wilt thee” and “wilt thou” Charles could barely understand with the man’s slurred and shouted speech.

  “I will,” Charles replied when the man stopped talking.

  Mr. Paisley asked the same of Eleanor. The mirth quieted in her eyes and turned into something warm and affectionate. “I will,” she answered with reverence.

  “The ring?” Mr. Paisley barked from where he sat.

  The younger man ran over with his hand outstretched. Charles pulled from his jacket pocket the emerald ring he’d taken from the safe at Somersville House—his mother’s. It was the one his father had given her on their wedding day. The green stone glittered against the fashionable gold setting, almost a perfect match to Eleanor’s eyes.

  The younger man took it to Mr. Paisley, who muttered over it a moment.

  “We won’t have to kneel, will we?” Eleanor asked in a quiet whisper, with a grimace toward the dirty floor.

  Charles had only time to shake his head before the younger man brought back the ring and he was advised to present it to Eleanor. Complying, Charles slid the ring on her finger and smiled as it fit perfectly.

  “Oh, Charles, it’s perfect,” she whispered, and stroked the emerald with her thumb.

  Mr. Paisley hiccupped and then continued with the ceremony, until at last he uttered the final words they had all been waiting to hear. “I now pronounce ye man and wife.”

  The young man rushed over with his quiet steps once more, hefted a hammer and struck the anvil with a resounding smack. He grinned up at them. “Felicitations on your union.”

  Felicitations, indeed.

  Charles pulled close his lovely bride and kissed her full on the lips for all to see. It was a slow kiss, with the parting of mouths and the tantalizing skim of tongues—a tease for what would certainly come soon. Very, very soon. Thank God.