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

by Eva Devon

  Kathryn’s lips twitched with barely contained amusement, apparently undaunted by the older woman. “Your Grace, may I present you to Cordelia, The Duchess of Hunt.”

  Cordelia sank into a curtsy suddenly concerned she might just keep sinking down through the floor until she was buried at least six feet beneath the town home, for certainly the dowager’s eyes could kill.

  “My dear duchess,” the dowager drawled. “How interesting to meet you at last.”

  Cordelia rose from her curtsy and managed her most winning smile, one that had just enough edge to convince the recipient she was no fool. “Yes, it is a shame that circumstances have prevented my establishment in London sooner.”

  The dowager leaned on her cane. “Yes. It was thought it best you remain with your family until. . .”

  “Until your grandson cared to collect me?”

  The entire crowd was leaning in, straining to hear them.

  The dowager’s lips quirked ever so slightly, as if she were trying to suppress a sudden grin. She coughed then pointed to the hall with her cane. “Shall we converse over a glass of punch?”

  What else could she do but acquiesce? Making outright enemies with such a powerful woman would be a mistake. And so, she followed the dowager away from the probing gazes of the ton and into the slightly shadowed hall.

  Taking the lead, the dowager remained silent until they stepped out onto a balcony. It occurred to Cordelia that she didn’t have to follow, but she was far too curious to see what the bastion of London society had to say.

  Large gold torches had been placed all along the limestone stairs which led down into the dark garden. A chill in the air gave promise to the coming fall. Cordelia resisted the urge to hug herself. She’d never get used to the damp. But she wasn’t about to let the dowager think she was a weakling.

  Truly, Cordelia wanted to loath the old woman, but infuriatingly she found she couldn’t. There was something about her. The woman had no doubt fought tooth and nail to achieve her position of power, and whilst Cordy didn’t have the greatest of respect for the nobility, she did admire ladies who didn’t faint at a bit of battle.

  It was on the tip of Cordelia’s tongue to demand how she could have condoned Jack’s complete neglect of her or at least his inability to set her free. “I wish you had arranged to meet me some years ago,” she said instead.

  The dowager pursed her lips, a calculating glint to her gaze. “For years, I was relieved you were in some far off backwater. I never forgave my son for gambling Jack’s life away and to a Basingstoke. Your family is notorious for stepping out of line.”

  She tripped slightly on the granite stones, but the old girl slipped her hand into the crook of Cordelia’s arm.

  A gesture that Cordelia had no idea what to make of. “That was rather insulting, Your Grace. My family isn’t exactly ditch water.”

  The dowager stared for a moment than laughed, a slightly dry but delighted sound. “You astonish me. You’re nothing like your mother.”

  That stopped Cordelia. “You knew her?”

  “Oh yes. Beautiful. Intelligent. She had everything but she acted like an Italian what with all her passion. I was always stunned your studious father withstood ten years with her let alone ten days.”

  It was so odd, hearing this perfect stranger describe her parents in such a frighteningly accurate way. Her parents had loved each other, but two more different people there couldn’t have been. “So, you were expecting someone like her?”

  “Harrumph.” The dowager thumped her cane. “The scandal sheets certainly do you no service. They make you sound as scandalous as she, but now I wonder. . . You seem a prickly piece for dancing from bed to bed.” The older woman sighed. “You don’t do you. You’re just a bit odd.”

  “Odd,” Cordelia echoed.

  “Yes. Don’t do things the way these sheep think they should be done. You take charge, meet men on their own terms. Men who don’t understand that kind of woman will insist she’s a succubus.”

  Cordelia blinked. Where was the loathing that Gemma had insisted was present? “Your Grace, I was led to believe you found me quite wanting.”

  The dowager drew in a deep breath then pulled her hand back and placed it on her cane, leaning a good bit of her weight on the sturdy stick. “There is much against you. Frankly, when I heard you’d come to town, I’d every intention of giving you the cut direct and sending you packing, but I did a little investigating of my own and my man brought back enough facts from your exploits to leave me with the impression that you are a most capable woman. . . And therefore, just the thing for my grandson. You will make an excellent Hunt Duchess. . . With my guidance, of course.”

  Cordelia felt a wave of sudden longing. Longing to belong. And by god, the dowager duchess of Hunt could see she belonged. But no. “Your Grace, I’m here for an annulment.”

  The dowager sniffed. “I know. What preposterous idea. How could you possibly not wish to be a duchess?”

  Cordelia’s lips twitched. “I admit it is most unusual. But I’d far prefer to dig about the dirt uncovering the past.”

  “My dear girl, there is enough dirt in England for several lifetimes. You cannot be serious.”

  “I am,” Cordy said firmly, refusing to give fresh life to a growing fantasy that her husband had actually wanted her for his wife. A true marriage. The kind she’d read in foolish tales. “I was examined this morning. And the papers are to be submitted.”

  “Examined?”

  Cordelia drew in a fortifying breath wondering how the dowager duchess would receive such news. “I was confirmed a virgin this morning by Sir Dillon.”

  “A court physician?” the dowager echoed, her bold features relaxing for a single moment into astonishment. “A virgin?”

  She bit back a grin and said soberly, “Yes.”

  The dowager was silent for several moments, her face unreadable before she said simply yet unquestionably, “You will come home with me this evening and your things shall be sent for in the morning. You are an Eversleigh after all and I shall vouchsafe your honor if you insist on this annulment nonsense.”

  “Will you be my jailor, Your Grace?”

  She let out a deep laugh. “Why ever would you say such a thing? I am a reasonable old woman.”

  Reasonable? Reasonable as mad old King Lear.

  “Now, you can continue to stay with Kathryn, but if you stay with me, it will go much further in keeping you out of the papers. Staying with your family cannot be seen as scandalous. Staying with Kathryn? It will only flame the gossip.”

  Was this absolute madness? But she could see the dowager’s point. The less scandal about her, the faster she could have her annulment and the more seriously she would be taken when raising funds for her work. It wasn’t ideal, but perhaps it was best. “I will agree to this because I wish my annulment expedited and I assume with your assistance that will be the case.”

  “If that’s what you truly wish, but I reserve the right to attempt to persuade you. Too many years have been wasted and Jack. . .” her face softened. “Jack cannot depend on me forever. He will need a strong woman to be his duchess.”

  The genuine tenderness in the older woman’s voice stunned Cordy. Perhaps the old harridan really did have a few feeling bones in her body. And so, she couldn’t resist asking “Did you ever consider that this situation was your fault.”

  Her brows rose. “My fault?”

  “If you had sent for me when my father died—

  “I was not the duke when your father died, Cordelia. And the one person with more power than me was my son. He didn’t wish you here and there was nothing I could do to either divert the marriage or ensure your safety. If you suffered, for that I am sorry. But if you wish to rail against the previous duke’s actions, you must take it up against him.”

  “But he is dead,” Cordy exclaimed with a uncommon measure of exasperation.

  “That doesn’t stop me. Now, let us go.” With that, the dowager
duchess paraded her out through the back halls of the Tallaght town house and out to her waiting footman.

  “I need to see, Kathryn.”

  “All right, you may do so. But I am expecting you at my carriage within a quarter of an hour. If I’m to assist you, I will do so immediately.”

  Cordelia gave a tight nod and started back towards the ball.

  “Your Grace,” the dowager duchess called, her voice deeper than before, “Do not think to change your mind. I could make you regret it.” With that the older woman turned and strode off toward the foyer with a remarkable dexterity given her cane.

  The wind whipped slightly, a damp edge to the night air. She glanced to Her Grace and couldn’t help but wonder if she simply should have stayed in Egypt forever. A married woman, true, but at least then she never would have been crossed by an Eversleigh.

  Chapter 10

  Lord Charles Eversleigh’s Townhouse

  The next day

  One o’clock in the afternoon

  Or thereabouts

  Jack squinted against the dawn light piercing through black brocade curtains then oh-so-carefully lifted his head from the green silk chaise-lounge across from his brother’s towering explosion of a bed.

  He immediately regretted the action.

  Charles had promised to prove a distraction for the evening and he had most definitely succeeded.

  Gambling with the Chinese for half the night, drinking, and listening to the most ear splitting quarter tonal music had left him near eardrum less, and probably brainless. And that was before they’d slummed their way down to the docks to drink with a few sailors and a fair share of buxom and brash doxies.

  The bed before his gaze moved and Jack blinked, convinced that he was still drunk. A usually pleasant sensation. But nothing had been terribly pleasant since his wife had come to town.

  Then he realized it was the forest green bedclothes which were moving and not the mahogany four poster decked out with gold silk hangings and long peacock feathers. The peacock feathers had come from a fan he’d pilfered from a dancer two years ago. A night he’d never live down. Charles had hung them as a challenge to himself apparently. No debauchery was ever too. . . well. . . debauched.

  A blond head popped out from the bottom of the bed and then a slender arm dangled over the edge. Moments later, a red head joined the blond one. . . and then a black haired girl, their long locks sliding and tumbling as they slid around at the bottom of the bed. The covers rolled and shook like a shining sea of fabric over their bodies.

  Jack propped himself up on an arm and wondered in an Aquinas fashion, not how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, but rather how many women could fit in his brother’s bed?

  It always struck him as fascinating the difference between himself and his twin when it came to women.

  He bedded women for the pleasure but also a specific end, the continual proof to himself that women were fickle creatures and a trap he would never fall into. His brother on the other hand, reveled in them and seemed to love each woman he met in his own way, even if he did send them all off with a light kiss and a handful of extra flash.

  The giggles began as they always did when more than one female congregated. Soon four women were sitting up right quite unashamedly baring four different sets of bosoms ranging from voluptuously large to delicately pert.

  It was a lovely sight. Usually, he would have strode forward and taken part. . . Ironically, he found himself thinking instead on his wife’s breasts and what category they might fall into, delicate or voluptuous. . . Something most likely in-between. From what he could tell, her breasts seemed perfect. Certainly more perfect than any of these ladies of the night.

  This line of thought terrified him and simultaneously made him wish to jump up and vacate the room to find said wife and spend time with her bosom.

  Charles slowly pushed himself up at the top of the bed and sat himself against the carved headboard in a sort of wrecked ease. A dissipated sultan who leaned over to the side of his bed and pulled a long black cigar from a silver box, lit it with a match and reclined, his eyes half lidded and his mouth a smirking line. He drew in a long puff then as he exhaled he said, “Jack, how could you leave all these ladies’ pleasure up to me?” He reached out and casually stroked the blonde’s arm, his fingers tracing small circular patterns along the pale flesh. “You quite abandoned me on the field of battle.”

  A general murmur of disagreement came from the girls and they began to wriggle toward Charles to show him that in no way had he proved himself unequal to the task. He held up a hand, keeping them at their distance. “My dears, I thank you for your company, but alas, all good things must end.”

  He crooked his finger towards the blond who crawled forward. Taking her chin in between his thumb and forefinger, he gave her a soft kiss. “Thank you, darling.” And then he gestured for her to get off the bed.

  Which of course she did in a rather dreamy state, a loopy smile on her lips as she wobbled off and a few moments and parting kisses later, the other women joined her. A veritable parade of naked, well pleased women.

  They all pattered out into the hall, their clothes in various states about their body. Charles was an odd sort who treated ladies like whores, and whores like ladies and sometimes let the lines bleed to a point where it was impossible to tell who was a lady and who was a whore.

  But it could never be said that Charles was cruel to women. He liked them too much to send them packing with a terse nod, no cab fair, and an empty stomach.

  If he knew his brother, there was a feast of fantastic proportions waiting for the woman of questionable origin downstairs, and the servants would treat them all as if they were the daughters of princes, no matter how they behaved or what hideous accent came out of their otherwise skilled mouths.

  It was something to be admired in his otherwise unstable brother. For years, he’d attempted to live with the same sort of wild abandon as his twin, succeeding most of the time. But he’d never quite been able to escape his father’s ever looming declaration that he was a horrific disappointment.

  Charles hauled himself off the bed and swung on a black velvet dressing gown, puffing on his cigar. “So, why didn’t you join in the fun?”

  Jack avoided the question for as long as possible but knew total avoidance was impossible with his twin. He shoved a hand through his hair. “I—I’m not entirely certain.”

  “I am.”

  “Bravo. That makes one of us.”

  Charles stalked across the room, picked up a half empty bottle of brandy that had found its way to the floor in the previous night’s adventures, then lowered himself into the leather, brass studded chair beside the green chaise. He took a swallow of the dusky liquid then offered the open bottle.

  Jack shook his head, tempted to try to cure his headache with what had given it, but even he wasn’t quite ready to wake up to brandy. The world was not come to an end just yet.

  Charles shrugged and cradled the bottle on his lap like it was his beloved child, as he sat relaxed, confident and completely unapologetic for his behavior.

  Jack sighed and shoved himself up to a sitting position, wishing the throbbing in his head would fade. “What is your diagnosis then?”

  Charles arched a black brow eyeing him up and down with a surprising measure of derision. He pointed a finger at him, the smoke from his cigar whirling like a devil’s tail. “You are in her thrall,” he accused.

  Jack thought about that absurd idea for a moment and tried to formulate a reply. He failed, supplying instead a pathetic, “Pardon?” instead.

  “Thrall,” Charles repeated slowly and a little too loudly as if that would somehow make him understand. “As in she holds you in her power.”

  Jack scowled then shook his head. And then wished he hadn’t as his brain rattled around within his skull. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why didn’t you come to one of those lovely young women’s dire assistance last evening?”<
br />
  “Because group frolics have lost their appeal.”

  Charles snorted. “Group frolics never lose their appeal. One simply refrains because they have allied themselves to a single individual which is otherwise known as monogamy.” Charles shuddered. “Monogamy,” he said again. . . and then shuddered once more before he took a very long draw on his cigar.

  “I’ve known her for forty eight hours. I hardly think she has such power over me.”

  Charles just smiled his half mocking smile and propped his head up with his free hand. “She’s your wife, you want her and she wants everyone else but you. You don’t see the irony in that? Or should I say appeal?”

  Cordy couldn’t possibly want everyone else besides him. She’d certainly wanted him when they first met. How could he help it that as her nefarious husband, she was fated to hate him right down to his innards. “What the buggering hell is the appeal?” he demanded.

  “It is the ultimate challenge, brother.” Charles leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “To get her in your bed? A woman, so fascinating, so desired and yet so unattainable. Of course you’re in her thrall.”

  Jack let out a long sigh, unwilling to admit that his brother might be right and so circumvented such an admission by asking, “What exactly is it then that you suggest?”

  “I told you yesterday, or weren’t you listening?”

  Jack ground his teeth down, thinking that if he punched his brother there wasn’t a soul in London who would blame him. “I’m not convinced of the merits of such advice.”

  “Fine then. I shall offer it once more, slowly, and then its your choice to have restricted balls or not.” Charles tilted his head to the side and explained carefully, “She’s yours. Seduce her, and then annul her, divorce her, whatever tickles your twisted fancy. . . Just ensure that you give her her freedom.” He paused then declared, “You’ll both be happy. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Happy?” he echoed then dropped his head back against the green chaise lounge. “I worry at your definition of happiness, Charles.”