Dreaming of the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 2)

by Eva Devon

  “I think the brandy will do,” Jack supplied dryly.

  “It is a bit early,” began Sir Bellamy.

  “Nonsense,” piped Sir Dillon as he inched his way around Smythe, his burgundy coat a decided contrast to the solicitor’s grey attire. In fact, Sir Dillon had the air of Falstaff about him, what with his full silver beard, plump belly, and jolly demeanor. “Brandy is just the thing for the nerves and to help Her Grace’s limbs relax. . . Given the examination we are to undertake, it is best she remain at ease.”

  “Examination?” Jack whipped to Cordelia, concern paling his bold features. “What kind of examination?”

  “Why to prove virginity, of course,” the doctor said merrily as he eyed the tray of brandy. “That is why I am here, am I not?”

  “Virginity?” sputtered Jack. His face taking on a blank sort of look as one might have if whacked over the head with a cricket bat.

  “Yes, as an added surety to your annulment?” put in Sir Bellamy carefully. His bushy grey brows drew together. “That is what you requested, Your Grace? Are we to understand that his lordship was not aware of this?”

  What color was left drained from Jack’s face, replacing his concern, with a definite hint of gallows. “Would you care to explain, madam?” his tone deadly quiet. “I thought you were protesting for divorce. For the devil’s sake, how in the hell could you possibly ask for an annulment?”

  Explain?

  That would probably be the best thing, but how on earth did she even begin? She lifted her chin and eyed him determinedly. It would be all too easy to be cowed in this moment, but there was every chance he would be tremendously pleased that they were to be able to have an annulment. They would both be free a great deal faster without being dragged through the divorce courts and consequently the rags.

  “You see, our marriage isn’t actually valid what with it being by proxy and. . . and,” she said with a forced air of brightness, but as she tried to continue, the truth, something she usually allayed with no fuss, stuck in her throat. “I’ve never actually. . .” She frowned, wondering why this was so hard to say, given the things she’d just said to him and the fact she never shirked from what needed saying. “That is to say, I’ve never actually had—”

  Kathryn stormed into the room, obviously having been standing just outside the door. No doubt accompanied by Smythe. She shook her blonde head and propped a fist on her hip. “For goodness sake dear girl, modesty gets you no where as I learned. Just say it. Say you’ve never been to bed with a man.”

  Cordelia arched an irked brow at her friend but then said factually, “There. You have it. What Her Grace said.”

  She forced a smile to her lips in the hopes that now the truth had been aired, the whole desperate situation would disappear. . . as would her reeling husband.

  Jack’s adam’s apple bobbed as he too swallowed back his shock. “You. . . You are a—”

  “Virgin,” she re-confirmed, wondering if he had been more shocked to learn she’d never made love to a man or that she was his wife. Perhaps it was the culmination of both that had seemed to steal his reason. Handsome though he was, he did appear a candidate for Bedlam what with his stunned look and opening and closing mouth.

  He shook his head and in dramatic fashion staggered to the tray of liquor and poured himself out a glass then as if in second thought poured out a second glass and handed it to her. “Drink it. We both need it.” He lifted his own and tossed back the contents. “The rest of you can help yourselves,” he rasped as he poured himself seconds.

  “Thank you, I will,” Sir Dillon enthused as he swaggered forward to the tray. The doctor was by the tray in a matter of seconds despite his bandy little legs. His cream colored vest pulled tight against the gold buttons which couldn’t quite restrain his jelly bowl of a middle. Still, despite the calamity, he appeared quite happy to pour out a glass with his pudgy fingers.

  Cordelia shuddered as she realized that those sausage fingers were going to be probing at her nether regions and suddenly she found herself wishing that she did indeed need a divorce which would not necessitate her giving herself over to the merry little Father Christmas of a man.

  “Shall we have another refreshment, Your Grace, or shall we adjourn upstairs?” inquired the jolly physician.

  Cordelia eyed her cognac then lifted it to her lips drinking it down in one burning swallow. “Upstairs,” she coughed.

  Anything to get her out of the difficult situation of answering her husband’s questions.

  “Yes. Do get on with it,” urged Kate as she swayed forward and poured out a glass for herself and the solicitor. “We shall all be here. Awaiting the verdict.”

  A grimace pulled at Cordelia’s lips. “Of course.”

  And so she and Sir Dillon went up the stairs to ensure that she was indeed, as she claimed, untouched. . . or at least, intact.

  *

  “She’s a virgin,” Jack found himself saying to no one in particular.

  “Indeed she is, Your Grace,” Kathryn said with an irritating note of enjoyment.

  He locked his attention upon his friend’s wife. A woman he usually liked. At least when she wasn’t foisting cannon like information upon his person. “That is not possible. I have seen first hand that she is not some innocent young woman—”

  “I’m sure you have,” she agreed readily her face alit with amusement. “But did you breach the gate? Can you be sure anyone has? Recall, I turned up on my husband’s doorstep determined to know affection and the world thought me to be an absolutely scandal when I’d never been more than a proper lady.”

  He did recall. London had called Kathryn a whore and he and the Duke of Darkwell had known different. Indeed, he’d given his friend good game over his predicament with the young widow. Now, in a similar situation, he was not amused. Was it true? Had she truly kept herself untouched all these years? It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t. For god’s sake. He didn’t expect women to be nuns. And yet. . . It put a different light on her. If she was still untouched, there wasn’t a scheming streak in her body. He was the villain in all this. So it would seem.

  He let out a groan. “Kathryn, you could have told me this the moment she arrived in London.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I could.” She gave a wicked grin. “But isn’t this far more fun?”

  He gave her a withering stare. He was going to have to have a word with Darkwell about his wife’s machinations. But for now, there was nothing to do but wait and find out the official verdict. For until he knew, there was nothing he could do. Hell, even once he knew, he wasn’t sure what he could do.

  An annulment.

  His grandmother would be overjoyed. Anything to keep them out of the papers. But what would grandmama do when she found out that his wife now in town was perhaps scandalous but also was virginal? It barely bore countenance.

  Grandmama would know what to do. If anyone would, it was she. . . and yet. . . Perhaps this was one ducal matter he should take hold of himself. He loathed the idea of turning Cordelia over to the old gel who would no doubt make minced meat of her in moments. Grandmama had had enough of scandalous duchesses what with his mother’s goings on.

  “Why did she say divorce?” he asked abruptly.

  Kathryn met his gaze. “Because no one would have believed her protestations of innocence. Would you have?”

  Jack swallowed his retort. The short of it was that he would not have. Not after her odd behavior and it did not bespeak his character that he had assumed the worst.

  The wait was painful. He imagined the birth of a child was something similar except longer and of course with a more joyous result. His future was being decided upstairs at this very moment and it was with a decided sense of trepidation that he faced the footfalls coming back down the stairs.

  Sir Dillon entered the room, his face kindly, a smile on his lips. “It is as the lady says. She is intact.”

  Jack’s stomach twisted up and he didn’t know if he should crow for joy
or rail at the unfairness of it all. He’d made his wife’s life hell. He’d neglected her, leaving her to her devices, and yet she had kept herself untouched so that she could come to London one day, at her own expense, and initiate an end to the marriage he had never bothered to start. “Thank you, Sir Dillon.”

  Sir Bellamy shifted on the silk chair by the much depleted stock of brandy. He rose to his feet, tottered, then smoothed down his waistcoat. “I shall begin the annulment proceedings immediately.”

  “Wait,” Jack bit out.

  “My lord?”

  “My grandmother, the dowager, must be consulted in this.” He hated that he even had to say it, but if grandmama was not involved, she would rain hell down upon them all. He knew her all too well to think she’d allow such an important matter to go unnoticed. When he’d assumed the dukedom, he made the decision to leave all important matters to his capable grandmother. His father had made it quite clear what a disaster it was that he’d inherited. And he was not about to run the dukedom into the ground as the old man had predicted. No, he’d given all control to his grandmother. At least, the old girl would ensure the title was unmarred until the next, appropriate heir could ascend.

  Sir Bellamy hesitated. “I understand your situation, but you must see that I am your wife’s solicitor and though I have no wish to give offense to the dowager, she has a strong case and should be awarded her freedom with ease. You have been married for many years and have abandoned her and failed to consummate the marriage, my lord. In truth as Lady Cordelia said, the marriage was never valid to begin with as you were married by proxy as children.”

  Well. There it was and from a disapproving old trout of a man. “Yes,” he agreed with no attempt to defend himself.

  “So, you can hardly protest. You’ve shown no wish to make this a legitimate marriage.”

  “No. I have not.” It was incredible how vacant he felt at this moment, as if this was all happening to someone else. “She would be far better off without me in any case.”

  “And you will be free to pursue a duchess of your own choosing.”

  Jack nodded. How did he explain he would never choose a wife, that he would never have children, and that he would always do the worst. It was in his nature, his father had assured him so, time and time again.

  So, why should now be any different?

  Still, in all technicality, she belonged to him, didn’t she? What he was thinking was completely perverse, but it was who he was. If she wanted her freedom, if giving it to her was the right thing to do. . . Shouldn’t he do the opposite? His father had fated him for a man who always took the wrong path. Jack hesitated, marveling at the thoughts careening through his head. He glanced up at the ceiling contemplating the woman above. The woman who had nearly burned him to a cinder with her kiss. Could he let her go? Did he have to?

  A slow smile quirked his lips. Why on earth should he start walking the path of righteousness now? Oh no, he would walk his path. The wrong path. The path that seduced wives. And it was time to seduce his own.

  *

  “He’s gone.”

  Cordelia curled up on the barely warm sheets of her mammoth bed and pulled the covers tightly under her chin. How she wished she could go back to a time when she’d been very little and she’d slept in a rickety cot in a tent, her father puttering away at his discoveries, cataloguing away while her mother had sang to herself as she finished sketches of the sites they’d been excavating. A time when things had been simple and all seemed as if everything would always be safe and well.

  But simplicity had ceased to be a part of her life when her mother and father had begun to bicker. And then the bickering had escalated to vicious words followed by long stretches of silence.

  With every subsequent year, her life had traveled farther and farther from that assurance children feel when protected and unconditionally loved.

  She sniffed at her own silliness. She didn’t need unconditional love. She simply needed a good dig site, the men to work it, and her trusty tool kit to brush away the last bits of sand that hid the treasures of the past. Those treasures were reliable. They had been there for several millennia after all. They would never betray her.

  “Cordelia?” Kathryn urged.

  Cordelia blew out a sigh and rolled over, her chemise twisting about her thighs under the crisp sheets. “Of course, he is gone.”

  Kate’s skirts rustled as she made her way to the bed then lowered herself onto the edge. She sat in silence for a while then finally asked, “I know we have become acquaintances through letters, but I believe we have become close. I hope you feel you can confide in me if you are dismayed by the day’s events. Are you as well as you seem? Once I would have been reticent but now, if I were in your situation, I would be tearing my hair out.”

  Cordelia nodded, not quite trusting her voice. It was so kind of her friend to offer such comfort, but how could she tell Kathryn that she was not at all well, that she felt sick to her very soul with the way the day had turned, the way all her plans had disintegrated. Where was the proud, audacious woman who planned to dismiss her husband the way one might do to an ineffectual dig foreman?

  That woman had been swept up in the Duke of Hunt’s renowned ability to bring any woman to sensual life, and here her traitorous little heart was beating faster for him. It was a foolish thing and she would ensure it ended here and now.

  “This is what you wanted?” Kathryn asked carefully. “The annulment? If so, Sir Bellamy says he shall begin proceedings on the morrow.”

  This was exactly what she’d wanted and she shouldn’t be surprised at how swiftly Jack had bolted from the house, but there had been the smallest hope within her that he’d genuinely wanted her, wanted her so badly that perhaps he would stay and discuss this as if she were more than a toy for his personal amusement. But he’d done what he’d done the whole of their marriage. He’d stayed away.

  “Yes. Of course it is.” She swallowed a strange knot in her throat. “I shall be most pleased if it can be expedited immediately.”

  Kathryn nodded. “I believe Sir Bellamy has every intention of drawing up the papers post haste.”

  In a short time she would be free. Free from the man who had thrown her perfectly ordered world into an unacceptable riot of emotion. Yes. That’s what it was. Unacceptable. And the sooner she was rid of him the better.

  In one violent motion, she threw the covers back. “What parties have we been invited to this evening?”

  Kathryn’s blond brows drew together. “Pardon?”

  Cordelia swung her legs over the side of the bed, dangling them. “I need amusement.”

  “But surely—”

  “No.” Cordelia wiped a hand over her tired face then pushed herself up. As she crossed to the bell pull to summon a maid for washing, she said over her shoulder, “I cannot stay here and wallow in my own self-pity.”

  Kathryn laughed. “Whatever you wish, my dear. And I’m glad to hear it.”

  Whatever she wished. If only it were so simple.

  Chapter 8

  The Rapier Club

  Six o’clock in the evening

  That Same Day

  “I’m married,” Jack just managed to say without sinking into the floor.

  Charles whipped off his white shirt then, without thought, dropped it. “Must you state the obvious?”

  The glowing candlelight tossed from a dozen free standing candelabras cast a glow on his bared skin. He snapped his black gloved fingers, his steely eyes trained on the razor edged blade of his cavalry sword. “Fresh linen,” he ordered.

  One of the many servants Charles employed at the Club scampered forward in his red and gold coat, a perfectly pressed linen shirt in his white gloved hands. Which Charles promptly snatched up, swiped over his swarthy face, then dropped onto the highly polished oak floor.

  Apparently owning the most notorious fencing club in London had its benefits. No one knew Charles owned it, of course. Gentlemen didn’t actively ov
ersee or own any commercial venture, but those in Charles’ employ certainly were aware of who gave the orders, and well, Charles spent most of his days sweating away on the fencing strip or training areas wielding an exceptionally sharp sword, waiting for some idiot to challenge him. Waiting for it to be late enough in the day to begin getting soused and raising hell.

  At present Charles was dripping with sweat, his rapier in his right hand, and he wasn’t the least bit winded. The Club was more his home than any of the Eversleigh abodes and it reflected his brother’s dark tastes. Red velvet, towering mirrors on every wall, gilt, and black teak. And absolutely no training swords. Only real blades for real men. “You should join me,” Charles urged, his voice a dry rustle from one too many cigars.

  Jack eyed the rapier, considering. His brother wielded the thing like it was an extension of himself and given the amount of time he spent with it, really, it was. One would think he was still subduing natives in their homes for King and country. “I think I shall refrain. With you, I prefer pistols.”

  Charles rolled his eyes, testing the balance of the sword, spinning it in his palm. It was a pointless, repetitious gesture. He already knew the balance and every nick and scratch quite well. “Pistols are for weaklings,” he drawled.

  “Pistols get the job done.”

  Charles snorted.

  “Keep your disdain to yourself,” Jack said. One might have to worry about a lead ball being lodged in one’s person in a duel (something that had never occurred to him. It was his pistol shot that ended up in the other fellow’s, usually a husband’s, soft tissue) it was true, but one did not have to worry about a limb being severed like a pig’s hamhock in the Smithfied markets. That didn’t stop him from being more than proficient with a blade, but he didn’t have the rabid loyalty to it that his brother did. If the Duke of Darkwell had been available and not lavishing his new wife with every imaginable indulgence, he would have enjoyed a good bout.

  “Disdain?” Charles echoed. “I should never engage in such a condescending action with my dear, dear brother.”