by Eva Devon
“Deuce take it, send her up.”
"I'm glad you say so, Your Grace.” Hargrave let out a most unusual sigh. “I think it would have been very difficult to ask her to leave."
Adam’s lips twitched at that.
He imagined it would have been most difficult for Hargrave to ask Lady Augusta to go. Would the butler have had to worry her out like a border collie with a sheep?
Augusta did have a certain stubbornness about her, a ramrod steel spine, and, he thought, a rather rigid and determined nature. If she was a bit enthusiastic about the pleasures of this life, he would have quite liked her for pertness. But he often found that rigidity did usually go the way of sanctimonious preaching. She certainly had a reputation for prudishness.
He'd read a few of the letters that she had written to various news sheets (a surprising thing in of itself). Ladies were not often given to writing to news sheets. He'd asked his man to collect as much information as he could about her family and now he knew a great deal. Enough to fortify himself against potential difficulty.
He drew in a deep breath and drove his hand through his hair. He took his snifter to the sideboard, placed it down, and didn't bother pouring another glass. He wanted all his wits about him to deal with her. While it was true, he could revel with the worst of them and leave them all under a table, he had no wish to engage in a discussion with Lady Augusta with anything but absolute clarity.
Resigned and suddenly curious, he went back to his desk and made sure all the important documents which were sensitive to the state could not be peered at.
He did not bother to put on his coat.
She'd come to him and it was night. She would have to deal with the fact that he was not presentable. If rolled sleeves and a bared neck were shocking, she’d have to take the consequences.
He rather found that he hoped she was a bit shocked. He quite liked the idea of ruffling her feathers, mostly to see what she would do. She did have a witty, sharp tongue. . .
Sitting casually at his desk, he wondered what the devil she could have to say to him at such an hour?
Hadn’t he made the nature of their arrangement clear? If he hadn’t, he would. He wanted nothing from her. And tonight, he’d make that very clear.
Chapter 11
Augusta ensured her palms were firmly at her sides, her shoulders back, and her chin lifted. No silly wringing of her hands for her. She had come here determined and with a purpose. She knew it was a bit odd that it was evening, but the fact was she'd wanted to get it over with and the day had progressed to a point where if she'd stayed at home any longer, she would not have slept.
The idea that Lady Montcrief had put into her head was absolutely imperative that she put in practice. She could do this. She could speak to the Duke of Blacktower as an equal, and she could set their relationship on a path that would be acceptable to both of them. The fact that she was in his house at night did indeed set her slightly on edge, even if she was determined to give the outward appearance of calm.
After all, appearing calm had been her lifelong mantra and mission. Surely she could do it here. He was simply a man, after all. A tall, rather handsome, strong, well-spoken, powerful man, but a bounder, to be sure. Not entirely a bounder, she did have to admit. There were certainly good points about him.
Still. . .
He was not the sort of man for her, even if they must marry. A man like he? She had a very strong feeling that he might slip into complete dissipation at any particular moment and she would have to be wary of that. So, she would have to be on her guard this evening lest he think that he could manage her. He was no doubt used to managing ladies, given his reputation.
So as she followed Hargrave down the dark halls, golden wall sconces leaving a soft glow in the hall, she tried not to appear overawed by the beauty of her surroundings.
This was to be her house.
It was almost madness.
The home that she had grown up in London? It was falling apart. There were drafts everywhere and the furniture was moth-eaten. This abode? This was magnificent. With treasures hundreds of years old everywhere she looked. And yet the rooms and the hallway itself appeared to have been just given a fresh coat of paint. The molding was positively immaculate, made into perfect shapes of leaves and flowers.
This was to be her house. It was impossible to believe.
Well not her house exactly. It was his, but she would live here and perhaps so would her sisters. They would not know how to navigate the luxury of it all.
Indeed, did anyone?
Did anyone know how to live as luxuriously as this?
The Duke of Blacktower did, that was for certain.
She drew in a calming breath as Hargrave rapped upon the door at the end of the hall. The butler opened it slightly. He gave her a quick bow, his eyes searching over her, clearly curious as to her intent.
There was no dislike or suspicion in the older man's gaze, but he clearly was curious about her boldness. Then under his breath, he whispered, "Good luck, Lady Augusta."
Did she need it, she wondered as she crossed over the threshold?
The room was bathed in an amber glow, yellow tinged with a soft red from the blazing fire. She searched the chamber for him. The chamber was so large she did not spot him immediately.
But she sensed him.
The room fairly crackled with his presence.
There was no denying it.
In all her life she'd never met anyone with the ability to do that, to fill up a room strictly with their presence.
Books lined every possible surface. The tables, the desks, the shelves. Their golden lettering glittered on their multi-colored spines. She noted the delicious scent of oak in the air. There was a warm coziness to the chamber that surprised her given the grandeur of the rest of the house.
The carpet beneath her feet was a red and blue Axminster, woven to perfection with the inspiration of some far-off country in mind.
She took a step into his chamber feeling a bit like she'd entered some sort of lair.
"Your Grace?" she called, determined not to be timid.
It was no small thing.
After all, she wasn't exactly accustomed to speaking to men like him. Even so, she'd always been a young woman of strong voice and she wasn't about to change now. Even for a duke. Even for her future husband.
There was a low rumble of a sound.
His rich voice permeated the air. ”Yes, Lady Augusta? What brings you here?"
Slowly, he stood up from a wingback chair, a fascinating process of unfolding limbs. Nonchalantly, as if used to the arrival of young ladies in his chamber (which he likely was), he leaned against it.
So amazed by the intensity of his person, she nearly took a step back. His linen sleeves were rolled up exposing strong, sinewy forearms. His linen shirt was open at the neck, exposing the slight indent at the base of his throat. She could also see his clavicles. From those prominent bones, it was clear that the rest of his chest was remarkably defined.
And in the firelight his dark hair had the slightest tint of red, as if he was akin to the flames.
He cocked his head to the side, allowing the jetty strands of his hair to touch his cheeks. His jaw was a granite edge that looked as if it was defying anyone within ten feet of him to try to punch it. She would not do such a thing. She was not so foolish. His eyes gazed upon her with assessment, reserve, interest.
They crackled, their dark orbs almost black in the nighttime.
A slight stubble teased his jaw, suggesting that he had not shaved since the morning.
"Were you going to speak?" he prompted.
"Indeed, Your Grace," she replied, breaking her reverie and contemplation of his appearance. "I have come to discuss the list that you sent with your aunt today."
"Indeed," he said, his voice low, a soft seductive drawl.
She tried not to be taken in by it, but she found herself almost leaning towards him because the sound was so... Well, i
t was just absolute perfection.
It did things to her that she'd never experienced before. She refused to believe that she enjoyed it, but her skin felt absolutely delicious at the sound.
And she did truly find herself longing to take a step closer. She forced herself to hold her ground. "Your aunt is a treasure and I quite like her."
"I'm glad," he cut in, his lips curling in a wry smile. "I do like her myself. Given our differences, it is interesting that you and I should both enjoy such a person."
"I'm intrigued by it too,” she confessed easily.
He arched a dark brow, giving off a devil-may-care air. “I wasn't entirely certain if you'd find her to be a Gorgon or not."
"Oh, I do,” she blurted.
A deep laugh rumbled from his broad chest. "You do?”
"Yes, she is obviously a most resourceful person who has lived a full life. And I'm very grateful that you sent her to help me."
"Are you?" he queried.
She bit the inside of her cheek, bolstering herself for the exchange. "Yes, but I'm not entirely certain I need the rest of the advice from your extensive list."
"Don't you?" he queried.
“I say,” she declared, frowning. “Do you intend to answer everything I say with a question?"
"You don't like it?" he asked as his lips curled again into that mysterious smile of his.
"Your Grace, you are being absurd on purpose,” she accused, wishing to shake him again and once again recognizing that such a thing was physically impossible given his granite-like strength.
"Am I?"
“Your Grace!" she said, narrowing her gaze. "If you insist on persevering in absurdities, I shall be forced to call you something besides Your Grace.”
"It seems rather subservient of you,” he observed, clearly unperturbed by accusations of absurdity. “This calling me Your Grace every other moment.”
"But isn't that what you wish me to be?" she rushed. "Subservient? That is what the list of things you implied sent to me. Does it not?"
“I am surprised that you're willing to speak so boldly to me, Lady Augusta.” He paused, the silence stretching before he said, his voice low, “But I do not mind it."
"You don't?" she piped. Hearing the squeak in her voice, she cleared her throat and said at a much lower, steady tone, "Good. Then we shall be able to discuss this at once. I do not think—"
“I do not mind it, but I wish you to understand," he continued as if she had not spoken. “I have firm ideas about the way of this world. If you find yourself in adamant disagreement, things could be difficult."
"My goodness, you are used to having your way. Are you not?”
"Yes," he declared without apology. "I am. It is one of the perks of being a duke. I realize that you are unaccustomed to having things your way and so I shall listen to your suggestions."
Of all the cheek!
"Shall you?" she drawled. "How benevolent of you."
"Thank you," he replied, his eyes all but dancing with amusement.
She scowled. She'd meant to sound scoffing, but apparently he wasn't going to allow her to be disdainful of him. "Your Grace, I think..."
"Please do call me Adam."
"Adam," she repeated, the name tumbling easily off her tongue.
“Yes,” he replied with a shrug. “Since we're to be married. I don't particularly want you calling me Blacktower.”
“Goodness.” Augusta hesitated as it hit her and she marveled, “I’ve never called a man by his given name."
"You don't have any male relatives?" he queried, surprised.
"No," she said, amazed again by the oddity of her situation. "Just my father and one would not call him anything but Papa."
"It will be a new experience for you."
"Am I not a new experience for you?" she returned lightly, shocked by her own unbidden boldness.
"Indeed you are," he agreed, though from the muscle tightening in his jaw, he did not look best pleased. "I am not usually given to spending time with young ladies of your sort."
"You seem to have a very strong idea about what my sort is."
"Yes, I do,” he concurred. He cocked his head to the side. “Is it incorrect?"
"Based upon what your aunt told me, it is.” She lifted her chin. “I'm not particularly interested in Fordyce’s Sermons, thank you very much."
“What? Don't you pray every night before you go to bed?” he teased softly. “Do you not go to mass every Sunday?"
"Indeed I do. Which is what a young lady ought," she pointed out. "It is what we are supposed to do and what I've been taught to do ever since I was small. But that doesn't mean that I read only sermons for pleasure."
He smiled at that. ”What do you read for pleasure?"
"You and your aunt are most preoccupied with my reading habits, but since I enjoy it so much, I am happy to share.” She straightened, ready to be judged. “I have already shared with Lady Montcrief that I admire Mr. Burke a good deal. . . But I also must confess I do like Mrs. Radcliffe."
He gaped at her then. "Mrs. Radcliffe?" he repeated.
"Oh, dear," she sighed. "You must think that her novels are rather unimportant. Is it perhaps because she's a female author? If so—”
"Lady Augusta, if you go and look at that shelf”—he pointed across the room with his strong hand—“you will see that it is lined with all of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."
Her gaze moved to the indicated shelf and she was astonished to see that, yes, several of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels were upon it.
She felt her cheeks grow red at the realization.
Augusta drew in a deep breath. "It seems that we have been making rather strong assumptions about each other."
He nodded. “Our experiences together would lead us to believe certain things.”
"That is a remarkably vague statement," she said.
"But isn't it accurate?" he asked, pushing away from the chair. "I know that you have a terrible opinion of me. You think I'm nothing but a rake, a rogue, a devil amongst men. The beast.”
"Aren't you?" She dared him to counter her opinion.
“Am I?" he dared right back. "Would I marry you if I was all that you claim? I’m a rake, yes. A beast?”
“Perhaps you aren’t such a beast," she said, her heart pounding at the sudden intensity of their conversation, "but a great many men go on being rakes after they're married."
His broad shoulders tensed. "I shan’t.”
"You won't?" she asked, not truly believing him. How could she?
"No," he said firmly. "I'm not that sort of fellow."
"So you will not see any ladies after we are wed?"
"Correct," he ground out. "I don't believe in that sort of thing."
What sort of thing, she wanted to ask but could not quite manage to do it. Instead, she replied honestly, "I am astonished.”
“Why?” he growled, his gaze hardening. “Do you think I'm an absolute bounder?"
She winced. It was the exact word that she had used before.
He let out a low booming laugh that contained little humor. "Bloody hell, that is exactly what you think.”
The duke swept an elaborate bow. “I'm honored. It takes great effort to be a bounder through and through."
"You should not be honored," she bit out. Her breath came in short takes as she realized she had truly offended him and that he was now mocking her. "It's a terrible thing to be a bounder. My father's a bounder."
He snapped straight. "I am nothing like your father, that I'll tell you."
"I'm glad to hear it," she declared, praying it was true. "I often wondered when I read about you."
His eyes widened with amused horror. "Of course you've read about me with your love of news and writing and reading.” He groaned before he wiped a hand over his face. "But the news sheets are not an accurate representation of my person."
"But you confess to being a rake," she defended. Clearly the news sheets were not entirely wrong.
&nb
sp; "Oh, I am most definitely a rake,” he boasted. “I enjoy the companionship of women."
"Companionship," she huffed, hardly believing she was having such a conversation with him of all people. “That is an interesting choice of words.”
"I don't wish to embarrass you."
"Thank you. I don't wish to be embarrassed either, but still there is no chance getting around that you are not proper."
"Proper?" he echoed. "I am the most proper man in England. I do exactly as a duke should do. I do what I am expected to do."
"Dukes are also expected to have mistresses," she rushed, her stomach tightening at the idea of a marriage in which her husband was always with someone else.
"No," he replied, his face darkening with some memory. "I won't be doing that."
"Then you will wish me to have an heir?" she prompted. She had to ask, to know what he might expect of her.
He blinked. "I beg your pardon."
"An heir."
"No," he said tightly. "I don't require you to have an heir."
“But surely that is also the duty for a duke, to have an heir,” she protested.
He looked away then and she was surprised with the depth of feeling upon his face. The anger and misery there nearly caused her to step back.
“Augusta," he ground out. “This is not something that we should discuss further."
"But I don't understand,” she whispered.
"You do not need to understand," he all but roared, turning from her. “It is not my wish or my will."
"I am to marry without explanation or reason?” she pushed, even as she witnessed a passion in him she had never seen before. This was different than the rakish charmer she had always seen. This was raw and powerful.
"You are to be lucky to be married," he announced.
“Lucky?” she repeated, her throat tight. “Yes, I suppose I am, and yet it feels terrible."
Slowly, he pivoted towards her, a slow gaze tracing up and down her frame. "It feels terrible for me too," he said. "It is something that we will simply have to accept."
"The idea of marrying me is so very bad?" she asked, her voice nearly hitching in her throat.
He locked gazes with her, unyielding. “Yes. It is."