How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  And it was not only Lottie looking at Westix, for he was staring as intently at her, his face equally pale.

  “Lottie?” Charles asked, from where he stood holding Eleanor’s shoulders.

  Westix opened his mouth and closed it, then opened and closed it again.

  Lottie was not so indecisive. She marched forward, drew her hand back and slapped him across the face.

  Westix touched his cheek. “Lottie, I’m so sorry...”

  Lottie. Charles was rankled. The Earl was uncomfortably familiar with her.

  “You lied to me,” Lottie said sharply. “You swore to come back for me and you never did. I waited—” Her voice cracked.

  Realization slammed into Charles with the suddenness of an unexpected punch to the gut. He recalled Lottie’s refusal to discuss the man who had ruined her, the insistence she’d placed on helping Eleanor. And now here was Westix, standing there, saying Lottie’s given name when he hadn’t been in London in four years.

  Good God.

  Westix was Lottie’s lover.

  Charles’s hands rolled into fists, ready to exact vengeance for the woman whose life had been ruined—whose good prospects had been dashed by the Earl’s lust.

  Without so much as a passing thought Charles released Eleanor. He lunged with his arm cocked back and let his fist slam into Westix’s face.

  Eleanor and Lottie screamed in unison.

  It was Eleanor, though, who grabbed Charles’s coat in an effort to draw him away. “Charles, explain yourself.”

  He let himself to be pulled away—for Eleanor’s and Lottie’s sakes. Certainly not for the piece of rubbish standing before him with a reddened cheek on one side of his face and a blackening eye on the other.

  “He ruined Lottie, Eleanor!” Charles snarled. “She was a vicar’s daughter—a woman with many prospects. Your brother seduced her and abandoned her. If he hadn’t robbed her of her virtue when her father died she wouldn’t have had to—”

  “Charles.” Lottie put a hand on his tense arm. “I believe this is a conversation I ought to have with the Earl myself, rather than see my scandal aired so publicly.”

  Charles’s anger clenched into a searing knot in his gut. “Very well.”

  “You and your wife ought to be shown to your rooms.” Lottie’s smile didn’t reach any part of her face but her lips. “You and I can leave this discussion for later. For now, I would like a moment alone with the Earl of Westix.”

  Thomas indicated the closed door. “Shall I summon the butler to show you to your rooms?”

  Charles glanced behind him to find Eleanor’s cheeks had gone quite red. She gave a subtle nod, and he realized she was agreeing with Lottie and Thomas. The door to the room clicked open and Thomas disappeared.

  Westix bowed to Charles. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace? I would very much like to speak to Lottie alone.”

  Charles gritted his teeth. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

  Westix did not so much as blink at the threat. “If I hurt her in such a way again, I’ll kill myself.”

  “Evander!” Eleanor gasped in horror.

  Her brother shook his head. “I have committed many egregious wrongs, sister. And for all of them I’m heartily sorry.”

  The Comlongon Castle butler entered the room and politely asked Charles and Eleanor to follow him.

  This time Eleanor did not protest, and neither did Charles. They obligingly followed the butler from the drawing room, leaving Westix with Lottie and the ugly truth about what his abandonment had cost her.

  * * *

  Eleanor was unsurprised to find they were shown to her girlhood room at Comlongon Castle, with its billowing white curtains framing a cherrywood four-poster bed.

  “We have several maids who can see to your unpacking,” the butler said in a drawl of regal nonchalance, and nodded to the small pile of their effects.

  “Perhaps later.” Charles nodded his thanks and the butler took his leave.

  Then Charles turned toward her, his gaze full of concern. “Eleanor...”

  The way he said her name was tender, and weighted with all the sorrow of what had transpired. Laughter bubbled up in Eleanor’s throat. Or was it a sob? By her word, it was impossible to tell at this point.

  Evander was alive, in Scotland, at Comlongon Castle. And he had tried to send letters. If they had got through, how many years of heartache might have been avoided?

  Her throat grew tight.

  “Eleanor...” Charles said her name again and strode toward her, his arms open.

  She needed no further encouragement and ran into his embrace. His body was strong, protective.

  Once she’d confessed to Evander why she’d married Charles he had offered to allow her to stay there in Scotland. It would be so easy to set herself free of the entire mess of it. Even the scandal they’d caused in London would soon be buried beneath something more salacious. Fortune, after all, did have a way of encouraging acceptance.

  Except that her marriage to Charles could not be annulled.

  It would be safer for her to stay in Scotland—for her heart at least. This last day with Charles had pressed upon her with more difficulty than she’d imagined. How could she be with him and not fall in love? And if she lost her heart in her attempt to live a true life would that be a worthy sacrifice? Or would it only bring a greater misery?

  Her head ached at the torrent of thoughts smashing around in her skull.

  “The journals are no longer mine to give you.” She was grateful her face was buried in Charles’s chest, so she did not have to see his face when she spoke the horrible truth.

  “I’m well aware.” Charles rubbed a gentle circle over her back.

  “My side of our arrangement is woefully short.” She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could as easily close off her hurt.

  “I still needed a duchess,” Charles replied. “I am glad to have you as my wife.”

  A wife he would soon leave in pursuit of the ruby. For she knew he would never abandon it. No doubt he would approach Evander about the journals the first chance he got.

  The ache in Eleanor’s chest became palpable.

  “I want you,” Charles said softly. “As a confidante, to continue our candid discussions, as a beautiful woman on my arm, and to share my bed and explore the passion we share.”

  Eleanor’s breath caught and her body immediately reacted with a low, warm pulse between her thighs. She drew her arms around the back of his neck, eager to give in to the pull of passion and liberate herself from the chaos in her mind. For right here, right now, she would allow herself the luxury of unfettered longing and the beauty of being sated.

  And for this one blissful spot in time she would allow herself to be swept into the sweet oblivion of his embrace, where she didn’t have to think of the challenges ahead—including the very precarious state of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Eleanor’s fine warm glow cooled as she descended the stairs for an early dinner. Evander and Lottie awaited them.

  It had been all too easy to put her brother from her mind when she was upstairs with Charles. Evander. But not only was he alive, he was the scoundrel who had destroyed Lottie’s future.

  The very thought settled as an ache in Eleanor’s chest.

  As if sensing her unease, Charles put his hand to her lower back and carefully guided her down the stairs. The touch was intimate and surprisingly reassuring. She looked up at her husband and hated the tightening of her chest and what it meant.

  She’d seen those blue eyes alight with passion. She’d kissed those lips and experienced the pleasure they could bring. And it was because of this knowledge that the most handsome man she’d ever seen was suddenly all the more so. Dangerously more so.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Charles leaned in
close. “All will be well, my Duchess.”

  Together, they approached the dining room, where Lottie and Evander sat at the long, familiar table with the blue runner down its middle. Their voices were impassioned with a loud whispering that went silent when Eleanor and Charles entered.

  Evander rose immediately in welcome. At least he had not lost his manners.

  Lottie got to her feet as well, her cheeks stained with a deep flush. “Excuse me. I find I am without an appetite this evening.”

  She did not give anyone a chance to reply and all but ran from the room.

  “What did you say to so offend her?” Charles asked Evander, with an edge.

  “The offense was given long ago.”

  Evander pushed a hand through his hair and a tuft of it jutted out over his right temple. That particular bit of hair had always been stubborn, even when he was a boy. It was a stabbing reminder of the young brother Eleanor had loved, and it endeared him to her, in a deep place in her heart, where her affection for that young boy could never be uprooted.

  Evander sighed and motioned for them to sit. A muscle worked in his jaw. “It is an offense for which I will never be able to make amends,” he said. “And I believe the cost is no more than I deserve.”

  Charles scoffed and then helped Eleanor into her seat before taking his own.

  The footman came forward and presented them with a delicate savory soup.

  Evander stared into the distance, forgoing his soup in favor of the wine at his side. A crease showed on his brow, similar to the one their father had often had when he was disappointed.

  “Will you tell us of your adventures?” Eleanor asked. “The journals make everything seem so very fascinating.”

  Charles stiffened at her side at the mention of the journals.

  Evander turned his gaze in her direction. “You have read them?”

  She lifted her chin. “I have.”

  “Elly...”

  He said his childhood nickname for her in a sad, slow tone. There was a tired look about him that made her want to coddle him.

  “Those aren’t appropriate for you. There’s so much in them...”

  “I am well aware.” Eleanor slid the spoon into her soup. “I am no longer a child.”

  “But you are still a lady.”

  “We have more journals here, do we not?” She kept her gaze from gliding toward Charles. He had accepted her without the journals, but she knew what they meant to him regardless.

  Evander settled back in his chair, with no interest in the food before him. “Our fathers were men without honor.”

  “Not both of our fathers were,” Charles replied evenly.

  “Both of our fathers.” Evander steepled his fingers and touched his forefingers to his lips in contemplation before speaking. “They stole their treasures. They looted the wealth of poor countries without any means to stop them. Reaping treasures from religious and holy sites. One of the other members of the Adventure Club was apparently exceptional at discovering artifacts in a way they were not. They stole from him as well.”

  Charles slapped the table and set the wine glasses trembling. “Ridiculous!”

  Eleanor stared in shock at her new husband. After some of the hideous entries she’d read in the journals she possessed, Evander’s claims did not seem unlikely. Unfortunately...

  Evander regarded Charles. “I assure you it is not ridiculous. I followed the path detailed in one of the journals I had with me. There were many villages with starving people whose temples had been plundered.”

  Charles simply stared at Evander.

  “You know the truth of it even if you don’t want to accept it.” Eleanor’s brother gave a wry twist of his lips. “I was trying to rebuild my family’s fortune, but I could not bring myself to take what belongs to others. I dealt primarily in the purchase of spices and silks—a task made difficult with the war, which appears to have finally ended now that I’ve established enough wealth.”

  “My father was honorable. A man determined to bring ancient cultures to London for all to experience,” Charles countered. “He was admired for his relics...for the care he took with them.”

  Eleanor knew that Charles had also admired his father, and held him in the highest esteem. Therefore she also realized it was not rage behind his words, but fear.

  And with good reason.

  From what she’d read in their own hand, their fathers had not been good men.

  If Evander had other journals here, and if he gave them to Charles, Eleanor had a strong suspicion that in getting exactly what he most wanted Charles would also be learning exactly what he most feared.

  * * *

  Charles no longer had an appetite. Who could with such dinner conversation?

  Westix pushed away from the table and rose, giving up all pretense of attempting to find interest in his own food.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, Somersville, but our fathers spent more money on acquiring their treasures through bribery than any profit they might have generated. Tell me, did you not encounter the situations of which I speak in your own travels?”

  He pulled his glass from the table by its rim and strode toward the window to stare out into a field of vibrant green.

  Charles knew the Earl was giving him a moment to contemplate what he’d said. It was true, there had been great poverty in the foreign countries where Charles had traveled. And there had been rumors of treasures taken from those countries. But those had been by thieves—not English gentlemen. And certainly not Charles’s father, whose acclaim had grown with each unique discovery.

  Charles himself had acquired treasures on his travels, all accumulated through morally correct avenues. Indeed, there had been the opportunity to bribe, but Charles had not permitted himself to be drawn into such temptation. He’d assumed his father would never have engaged in such immoral actions.

  “I have something to show you,” said Westix.

  He opened a drawer in a large chest near the window and withdrew a journal. Its battered binding was of similar appearance to the ones Eleanor had given him in London.

  She sat higher at Charles’s side. “You do have them here...” she breathed in wonder.

  His heart smacked his ribs. Damn him for not having brought the key.

  Westix tossed the book unceremoniously on the table beside Charles. “Look for yourself.”

  He turned and requested the footman bring more wine.

  Charles picked up the journal. The script within was choppy, written in the same hurried hand as the one Eleanor had shown him.

  “That’s the handwriting we need,” Eleanor whispered. “Get the key.”

  “I don’t have it,” Charles muttered.

  “Read it.” Westix nodded to him.

  Charles ignored Eleanor’s questioning look and read aloud. “‘Avarice has pervaded the Adventure Club, rendering it rife with treachery and perfidy. What was once a group of morally sound men has descended into a group of men committing the sins of debauchery, bribery and blatant theft. The taking is done without regard to the owners, or to the deficit such losses will press upon the cultures they have plundered. It is ironic that the greatest offenders are none other than the esteemed men of good breeding who conspired to instigate the club’s institution—a certain earl and duke whose names I will not put to paper.’”

  Charles stopped, unable to bring himself to read more. The author did not have to put such names to paper—not when Charles already knew.

  His father had been a thief. A great man brought down by the force of his own greed.

  The soup churned in Charles’s stomach.

  The footman placed a glass of wine before him. Charles reached blindly for it and drained it in one gulp. The alcohol burned a path down his chest and pooled in his unsettled stomach, assuaging the need to retch.
/>
  If only the pain in his chest could be so easily quelled.

  The foundations of Charles’s life—the greatness of his father and the accolades surrounding his incredible findings—had all been built on a lie.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Charles grappled with what he’d read in the journal. In fact, with what he’d read in several more journals. All of which Evander had gladly turned over to him.

  Dinner had gone largely uneaten and they had all retired immediately afterward, overwrought with the events of the day.

  Now Charles made his way to the room he shared with Eleanor, weighted with the burden of newfound knowledge. No, with the confirmed knowledge of what he hadn’t allowed himself to consider previously. It settled like a rock on his chest, rough-hewn and heavy.

  Eleanor didn’t say a word until they were in the privacy of their room. Then she turned to him, held out her arms and drew him into a tender embrace. “I’m sorry for what you have learned of your father.”

  Charles let himself be cradled against her perfumed warmth, breathing in that lovely jasmine smell of her. “I’m sorry about your father as well.”

  Eleanor released him and shook her head. “My father was never held high in my esteem. He was not...not kind.”

  Charles bristled. “Not kind?” he repeated.

  “He did not like what he could not control, and that meant me and my emotions.” Eleanor slid her gaze away and walked toward the vanity, where she sat and began to pull the pins from her hair, her back ramrod-straight as she spoke. “He did not like us to show emotion of any kind. Not happiness, for it made us too excited, and certainly not rage or fear, for that made us weak. Except I did feel, and it was a visceral ache when he left so often.”

  Charles approached Eleanor and helped pull the small pins from her beautiful hair.

  “I missed my father when he was gone,” she said quietly.

  Something in Charles’s chest went tight. He would need to be gone soon too, the way her father had been gone. This was the truth he had not wanted to face—the reality of the critical issue of their marriage. He would need to leave, to put the calamitous piece of his soul to rest with travel, while she remained in London, alone. He slid a pin free and gently uncoiled the length of red hair it had held in place.