“Brother, at times you do vex me. The only malicious rumors are the ones you do not refute. You use them as a shield to prevent the ton matrons from consideration as an eligible bachelor.” She turned to leave.
“Camille?”
“Yes?”
“Miss Moreux is never to be alone with any man.” He no longer trusted his instincts.
“Does that include you, my brother?” She pointed her finger at him in jest.
“Yes.” I am better than most people believe.
Camille frowned. “Your wish is my command. Be careful, Wolfie. Her honor is in our hands.”
At the sound of Camille’s pet name for him—since his Christian name signified a red wolf as well as a shortened version of his title—a smile curled his lips. He rose from the leather chair. “If you use this name in front of anyone, sister or no, I’ll have you drawn and quartered…or burned at a stake.”
Camille ran to kiss him on his forehead. “I love you, too, brother. You always hesitate to display your feelings.”
He Wolferton pushed her away with a gentle touch. “Now be gone with you, I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Wolfie.” She laughed as she ran to the door. He made a gesture to run after her in chastisement as they did when they were children. Of course, he allowed her to escape.
If there was any woman he trusted, it was she. Fate had dealt her a blow, but he would protect her with his life. He touched the chair Miss Jaclyn had occupied and became aware he had encountered true virtue. He picked up a globe with a wolf surrounded by snow-laden trees and shook it. The flakes fell to the bottom of the globe. The peaceful scene always soothed him.
He glided his fingers over the antique desk where as a lad of fifteen, he’d taken the virtue of a servant girl who blew him a kiss as she left. Never did he intend to compromise her, but her promiscuous ways enticed, and he wanted more than a kiss. Inexperienced, his sexual knowledge was non-existent. Even though consensual, his stomach roiled. Clumsy fingers toppled an inkwell. The coal black ink seeped into a small crack in the inlaid design beyond any repair. It remained there forever as a reminder of his encounter of sexual congress.
Afterward, when his father called him to the study, he expected punishment. Instead, the duke clapped him on his back. “That’s my boy. I’m proud of you. I’ve been wondering where your proclivities lay. You’re your father’s son.” With a slobbering smile, the older man handed him a prized antique Simeon North pistol as a reward which confused him as to right and wrong.
So he began and upheld the former duke’s history of debauchery. His morals decayed…
Girl by girl.
Woman by woman.
Sin by sin.
In retrospect, he questioned if his evil father conspired to place temptation in his path since Wolferton’s pistol collection grew by unimaginable proportions.
The unfortunate girl was his past and the beginning of a sadistic part of his life. They would meet one more time, and the reality of his actions and the consequences of carnal desire would alter his present and future behavior.
Back to reality, he affirmed Miss Jaclyn would tempt the most resolute of men. It would be best to marry her off with haste before he performed an act he might regret—or enjoy. His own worst enemy, he opened the desk drawer, took out the locket, and flipped it open. A winsome girl with dark hair and beguiling violet eyes peered at him.
An earthen container of black roses he cultivated resided on the left side of his desk. Imported from Halfeti, Turkey, they were his pride and joy. Somehow, he knew Miss Jaclyn Moreux, his ward, would be the white rose to change his future.
Now he was to endure the supreme test. The devil had sent him a saint to torment him.
Chapter Two
The Dilemma
Wolferton held the miniature locket for a long moment, then he snapped the piece shut and returned it to its place. He cupped his chin with his left hand, elbow on his polished desk, only to decide it was best to keep his pent-up emotions—good and bad, dark and evil, desperate and in need—close to his heart.
Halbert, a war companion and his batman-turned-majordomo, tapped on his door to announce dinner. Wolferton rose and headed to the smaller dining room to await Camille and Miss Jaclyn. At their arrival, he nodded and motioned them with a quick flick of his laced wrist to seats on each side of him.
Miss Jaclyn still had the look of a wary rabbit about to exit its hole. It didn’t amuse him in such a situation. He saw so much of his dear comrade in her face and wished to employ all his skills and audacity to see her well-married and out of his sight. Not because he held any animosity toward the young woman, but because deep inside, the devil taunted. He gazed over his crystal goblet. The sight Miss Jaclyn presented in her lace gown did not disguise the voluptuous figure wrapped in innocence about to be offered to the ton’s society. Again, high-necked dress with soft folds demanded a second glance, after the first one stunned any male viewer.
Of necessity, in a fight with his conscience, he changed the subject. Yes, it was a relief to know he still had one. “Tomorrow, Miss Jaclyn, my sister and I will show you some of the wonders of the London fashion establishments. Do you think you’d like such an endeavor?” He graced her with one of the smiles he used to disarm most women who fawned at his feet like sycophants. It pleased him Miss Jaclyn seemed immune to such gestures. Thus she gained an ounce of respect from him.
“I’m aware of your generosity. However, you have already purchased many garments for me.”
“Nonsense. Camille will tell you socialization during the season is a serious event for we English. It signifies you are worthy of such distinction and indicates you are amenable to courtship by suitable admirers. You are aware of this?”
He snapped his serviette to attention, placed it on his lap, and sipped the second glass of wine the steward had poured during their conversation.
“Indeed, I’ve had my head filled with the advantages and disadvantages of a proper introduction to English society. I find it rather arrogant. Forgive me. My intent is not to appear ungrateful, but it can be tiresome, Your Grace.” She corrected, “Wolferton.”
He arched his brows in surprise. “Humph, I see you do have strong opinions.”
“Like my father?” She arched her left eyebrow.
“Yes.” The female had courage.
He admired the tilt of her head, the pertness of her nose, and the serious demeanor reflected on her face. This woman could grace any nobleman’s house and lend her purity, charm, and spirit to a tarnished image. What in heaven’s name overcame him? Such balderdash. It would take more than charisma to redeem his legendary, sometimes unwanted, and yes, sometimes unwarranted reputation. The idea was out of the question.
“If I’ve offended you, I apologize.” Jaclyn lowered her fringed eyelashes to gaze at her plate, but the little curl at her lips told him otherwise.
“No offense taken. I see a lot of your father’s traits in you.”
Now bright-eyed, she gave him her full attention and the widest of smiles. “Such as?”
“For one, you do not accept facts but take relish in the challenge. Many females accept the dictates of Almack’s as if they were mindless cows.”
He skewered a piece of rare beef, placed it with meticulous care in his mouth, and chewed slowly. He closed his eyelids in the savory enjoyment of the meat, aware of Jaclyn’s stare and changed the subject. “In the army, even though I was a colonel, I ate the same food as my soldiers. If a superior officer wanted to earn respect, he did not keep the best for himself. However, now my cook assures I will have my favorite at least three times a week.” He paused, grabbed his water goblet, and drank. “Camille, you’re quiet tonight. Are you well?” Now he laid his utensils across the top of his plate.
“I am well, brother. My embroidery sometimes fatigues me.” Wolferton scrutinized her with his gaze, concerned there might be something amiss. She was a solitary soul who’d endured malice and abuse from her lat
e husband. Jaclyn was what Camille needed—someone to fuss over and perhaps give and earn love in return.
He leaned back into the high-back mahogany chair. “I believe since you’ve been with me, you’ve embroidered enough seat covers and tapestries to fill a cathedral.”
“I find it a comfort. It helps shoo away negative thoughts.” Camille smiled and sipped the white wine.
“I do believe we shall find two suitors this season, sister. It’s way past time for you to consider marriage again.”
Camille turned to him with a stern expression on her face. “Never, ever, will I marry again. I am happy with you and your filial love. No more, Radolf. We should spend our time in discussion of Jaclyn’s introduction to society.”
He rested his elbow on the table, placed two fingers to his lips, and nodded, but not in agreement. “You’ve never spoken of the difficulties in your marriage to that scoundrel. Did you know, Miss Jaclyn, our esteemed father wagered my sister’s hand in marriage and lost it at cards? He forced Camille to marry an obnoxious lout. I disliked him and did not care to remember his name to this day. The brute decimated her generous dowry.”
Jaclyn held her fork in mid-air. She looked to Camille, whose face reddened. She placed her cutlery on her plate. “Camille, I am sorry your husband mistreated you. While younger than you, I do have a sympathetic female ear.” Her brimmed eyes conveyed concern.
“Jaclyn, your kind words are appreciated, but I am content now. I’ve learned to commit the past to where it belongs. It still aches but no longer consumes my thoughts. To our misfortune, when we grew up, Radolf and I learned not to expect kind words or deeds from our father. Let us continue with the enjoyment of this wonderful meal.”
Camille then faced her brother. “Enough. Do not embarrass me further in front of this young woman. My misfortune should not deter Jaclyn who should anticipate marriage without fear or regret.”
To Wolferton, his sister appeared about to rise and leave the table, and it was wrong of him to cause pain to an innocent who had endured the most brutal of treatment until he came back and rectified the injustice his father had perpetrated on his blameless daughter.
“Accept my apologies, sister. You are correct. Let’s speak of other things. He skewered a piece of rare beef, cooked to perfection. “I do hope, Jaclyn, you enjoy our English fare.”
“It is not too different. In school, part of our curriculum was to experience the gastronomical tastes of other cultures. I chose English and French, of course. Tempted as I was to study East Indian foods, alas, I ran out of time. I consider it fortunate since one needs a cast-iron stomach for such strong spices.” Her joy bubbled. “My finishing school was known for its eclectic international reputation. You know this already since you selected the institution.” Her cheekbones flushed with pride.
He could see her now at any event beguiling the men, young and old, with her innocent demeanor. Such naiveté had a duality of allure and seduction to rogues well-schooled in the arts. To the lesser men, she would enchant with her wit and comeliness. Of course, he would suggest only suitable gentlemen bachelors, but his scrutiny would be all-inclusive.
The women continued to chat about social mores, but he suspected the sensation that now snaked through his core portended no good. If Henri Moreux looked on him now from above, he’d laugh at his friend’s plight but would extend a cautionary pointed finger.
Somehow Wolferton became convinced he’d rue the day he ever set sight on the delightful Miss Jaclyn.
Chapter Three
The Next Morning
Wolferton waited in the foyer in his three-tiered cape as the ladies descended the steps well-dressed in their pelisses and bonnets. The butler handed him his accessories and opened the door where footmen waited. Jaclyn had a look of unbridled anticipation on her face as she and Camille chatted. The tall servant opened the coach door and pulled down the step for them to enter.
Inside the regal coach, Camille was the first to say, “Jaclyn, you’ll find the Bond Street shops are where the elite spend their money. Radolf’s driver clears the way of all traffic because the aristocrats gawk at the coach and four. You’ll not know where to look. My brother is an expert on ladies’ fashions. The matrons of Almack’s seek his advice all the time.” She tilted her head toward her brother. “He acts as though he designed the clothes himself.”
“My dear sister, I wouldn’t like my ward to think I enjoy effeminate pursuits. However, I do appreciate a well-dressed, sophisticated lady. If they ask a question, I reply with honesty. Yes, you might say, I’m a connoisseur of all things female.” His smile lit the corners of his mouth. He turned to Jaclyn, gazed at the widened orbs. “You may not like my suggestions, and you are free to disregard them. However, as a man I appreciate a woman whose talents and form are not in blatant display. There is something to be said about modesty that does not flaunt a female’s physical charm but defines it in its subtleties—and I might add, leaves all to a healthy imagination.” His chuckle filled the coach.
“You must forgive my brother, Jaclyn. In his lexicon, he refers to us women as females to categorize us in some clinical laboratory form,” she chided. “So there are times I must call it to his attention since it does not define who we are.” Her smile to him held humor.
“Wolferton, I’m in awe of all of this, and I’d appreciate yours and Camille’s advice. Fashions in England are unfamiliar to me, although I’ve read the magazines we had available to us.” She lowered her bonneted head, and a whimsical feather fluttered and lent a delightful sight to him.
He reached for her gloved hands and held them. “Do not fear me, for I would not hurt you with harsh words. I do wish for any suitable bachelor to admire you from afar. I predict a brilliant future for you, and we will guide you in any way we can. Relax, Miss Jaclyn. We will soon be there. Enjoy the moment. It would make your father proud.”
Why had he attempted to perform the role of a guardian when it was all he could do to erase any untoward visions from his head? Bloody hell, Satan, be gone. She’s an innocent and deserved his protection.
In essence, he prepared her for marriage with another man. True, this was his duty, but it roiled his stomach at the thought of any man’s intimate advances to her untried body. Why did that fact bother him? Soon, they arrived at the modiste’s shop. He descended first. and the footmen assisted the ladies.
The proprietress greeted him. “Your Grace, what a surprise to see you here with your sister and a beautiful young lady.” She curtsied low. Two seamstresses joined her and nodded in silence.
“Good morning, madame. We are here to select gowns and the like for my ward, Miss Jaclyn Moreux.” He pointed to her who gave a short nod and broad smile. “You know my sister, Lady Hattersley.” He’d insisted she change her last name to the family’s, but she refused. So be it.
“Mon Dieu, Miss Moreux is a beauty. Please allow us to escort you to the private salon. I will join you in a moment.”
They entered the room. A servant came in with a pot of tea and petit fours followed by the modiste. “Are the ensembles for a particular event?” she asked.
Camille was first to speak. “Yes. She requires proper gowns, dresses, hunting ensembles, hats, gloves, and all the accessories for this season. She has come to us from Belgium.”
The proprietress motioned for the seamstresses to leave the room. “But of course, and how much time do we have before the event?”
Wolferton placed his accessories on a side table. “Thirty days for certain gowns and dresses. And every thirty days thereafter for another year.”
Jaclyn’s expression startled at the timeframe mentioned. She fidgeted her gloved fingers.
“The final event will be at our London Townhouse at season’s end. All the merriment begins now that she’s arrived.” The duke removed his gloves and handed them to an assistant.
“Your Grace, this is a heavy task with limited time. I’ve asked my ladies to prepare some fashions to show you, but did you
and the lady have anything special in mind?”
In a graceful motion, Jaclyn sat on a satin tufted chair and waited for the opportunity to express her opinion, but Wolferton never asked her.
“We are here because I consider you the best modiste in London, perhaps even in England. The current fad of semi-nudity has no appeal for me. Tasteful necklines with a hint of exposed flesh for gowns in modesty’s sake will do, and short sleeves with matching long gloves, etc. I do not have to preach to you. You already know my tastes.” An arched eyebrow defined the last statement and all it implied.
“Your Grace, I’m grateful for all your suggestions with regard to modesty, but may I speak about some of my preferences? Please understand I’m not questioning the designs, but rather there are certain colors I dislike intensely. May I speak?” She held her breath and thought she would burst. Would he discipline her like an errant school girl?
Wolferton cocked his head toward her. “It would appear I’ve been remiss, Miss Moreux. Do please enlighten us about your color preferences.”
Jaclyn exhaled. “Yellow. I hate yellow. With my dark hair, it makes me look like a sunflower.” She spotted a bright yellow gown and went to the rack. Pulling the skirt near her face, she asked, “Camille, do you see what I mean?”
“Why, yes, I do. Certainly not your best color. Tell us what colors you prefer.” She smiled at her brother. “Unfortunately, my color choices have not always been the best.”
Emboldened, it appeared she took care not to offend the duke. “I prefer violet and lavender because of my eye color.” Again, she went to the rack of gowns. “See? I think it makes my eyes more pronounced. What say you, Your Grace?”
He surmised Jaclyn was scared to death of what he would say but felt a need to assert herself and would allow it for the time being.
“I agree it is a most suitable color for you, and you will have many gowns in it if you wish.”
Camille arose and went to the dress rack and looked at a blue satin outfit.
The Blue-Eyed Black-Hearted Duke Page 2