Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  He didn’t wait to hear the others’ response before taking a step in the direction of the house. She lingered behind.

  He threw a glance over his shoulder and, with a mischievous lift of his brows, indicated he wanted her to accompany him. So she did.

  They both crossed the threshold leading into a corridor. “Five of you? A library?”

  “We were being punished for various infractions. The senior boy made us sit in the library all day and write an essay about who we thought we were. The task eventually fell to Holloway, who wrote one essay for the five of us.” He stopped and shook his head, but his smile remained in place. “Thought for certain we’d wind up killing each other before the day was over. Turned out, we forged a friendship that’s endured for twenty years.”

  “No small achievement.”

  “Five boys couldn’t be more dissimilar. Myself, a ducal heir, Holloway, a commoner who was a brilliant scholar, McCameron, a Corinthian. Then there was Curtis, a criminal, and a . . .” He snorted. “I’m not sure what Rowe qualifies as. An eccentric, I suppose. Mayhap in our differences we found a kind of common ground.”

  “You like them so much you let them insult you.” It was impossible not to see the affection in his face, not to hear it in his voice. He’d never spoken of anyone with such fondness as he did these men who comprised his select cadre of friends.

  He lifted a warning finger, though there was no anger in the gesture. “Don’t ever say that in front of them, or I shan’t hear the end of it. They do so love to torment me.”

  “Men who torment a duke.” She smiled widely. “I must meet them.”

  “Brace yourself.” He waved her forward as he walked toward the front of the house.

  She could hear masculine voices in the Great Hall, rumbled words intended only for a few ears, followed by laughter. She thought she heard someone threaten to hit the other with one of the medieval flails attached to the wall.

  “I’ll set the dogs on the lot of you,” Noel said as he and Jess stepped into the chamber. Three men turned to face them.

  “That’s fortunate, as Curtis here is wearing beefsteak for drawers, and is particularly hard up for any attention below his waist.” This comment came from a man with almost vulpine features, his cheekbones impossibly high, his eyes the pale blue of a glacier.

  “Just because I don’t let any Tom, Dick, or Harriet into my breeches—like you—doesn’t mean I lack for amorous company, Rowe,” growled a man with a square jaw and shoulders as wide as a doorway.

  “Both of you, button it. There’s a lady present.” The man who uttered this had a Scottish accent and a bearing that could only be described as martial. His spine was straight and his gaze was keen and assessing, as if he was taking the measure of a battlefield. He bowed. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

  “Lady Whitfield,” Noel said, “I must insult you by introducing you to my friends.”

  “You are this month,” the one called Rowe said. “The check cleared.”

  She couldn’t believe that Noel could permit such insolence, even if these men were his old schoolfellows. And yet he only laughed in response.

  “Lady Whitfield, this is William Rowe.”

  “The political writer,” she said, shocked at both Rowe’s relative youth as well as his easy manner with Noel. He also did not seem unusually eccentric to her. “Your articles—they’re incredible. That one about the certain decline of the ruling class was especially fascinating.”

  “Lady Whitfield is a genius,” Rowe said to Noel, startling a laugh from her.

  “This towering edifice is Theodore Curtis,” Noel continued, gesturing toward the man whose muscles seemed to strain his jacket.

  She gaped at Curtis. He had the body of a Samson, and, according to Noel, had been on the wrong side of the law in his youth. “The barrister? You defend the poor. I’ve read transcripts of your appearances in court and the eloquence of them has occasionally moved me to tears.”

  “I agree with Rowe,” Curtis said. “She’s a genius.”

  “Finally,” Noel said, “and least of all, this is Major Duncan McCameron, late of the 79th Regiment of Foot.”

  “The hero of the Battle of the Pyrenees.” Jess couldn’t stop herself from staring.

  “You’re well-read,” Rowe said with a smirk.

  Noel sent her a look full of admiration. “There’s no one—Holloway included—who’s got a thirst for knowledge like her.”

  “When you know things,” Jess said, “you can take over the world.”

  “You best Wellington for ambition.” Noel beamed. “That’s a compliment, my lady.”

  “I took it as such. And you keep distinguished company.”

  “Ma’am.” McCameron bowed again, all military precision. “It was duty, nothing more. I’d take issue with the liberal use of the word hero.”

  “But that’s what the press dubbed you,” Jess objected.

  “They are out to sell papers, ma’am. Nothing more.”

  “McCameron is, as usual, nauseatingly modest.” Noel walked to the Scotsman and thumped his fist against his chest. It was a measure of the major’s strength that he swayed only slightly from the force of Noel’s wallop. “Ply him with enough whiskey, he’s sure to tell you a thrilling tale of him against an entire battalion of Bonaparte’s best riflemen.”

  Jess turned a wondering gaze to Noel. “You told me they were your friends with a ridiculous name—you said nothing about being bosom companions with some of England’s shining lights.”

  All four of the men laughed. “Shining lights?” Rowe repeated. “Good Lord, the things that pass for respectability these days.”

  “What the deuce are you reprobates doing here, showing up without a word of warning?” Noel asked, though there was no irritation in his voice.

  Curtis shrugged his massive shoulders. “Rowe wanted to delve into some manuscript archive in Leicester, and, as we were passing by Carriford, we thought we’d duck in and give our regards.”

  “It’s the height of the Season, and you assumed I’d be here.” Noel’s gaze was steady. “Or perhaps you hoped I wouldn’t be here. You know there’s an open-door arrangement for the Union regardless of whether or not I’m in residence. Free beds and a meal for any of you.”

  It was a generous policy that went above his usual bonhomie. Clearly, he cared very much for the men who made up the Union of the Rakes.

  “You ass,” McCameron said with affection. “Of course we hoped you’d be at Carriford. The beds and meals here aren’t that exemplary.”

  Noel snorted. “And Holloway? Where’s our scholar?”

  Curtis rolled his eyes. “Too busy in London with his wife. Only a new book can make him as happy.”

  “I think books fall a distant second to Lady Grace,” Rowe noted. “Would be that we’d all find someone who gave us the same contentment.” His expression turned suddenly melancholy, and he moved to look out the windows that fronted the house.

  Was Jess imagining it, or did Curtis send Rowe a look fraught with longing? She’d heard that some men preferred the company of other men. Was Curtis one of them?

  She wondered if Rowe knew how Curtis felt.

  Jess glanced at Noel. He watched Curtis with a faint frown, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle. Was it the fact that a man might desire another man? Perhaps his confusion came from another possibility—one of his dearest friends seemed to desire one of their close circle.

  “I’ve a houseful of guests currently,” he said after a moment. “If two of you don’t mind sharing a bed, then I ought to be able to accommodate you.”

  “Sleeping on the floor should present no difficulty for me,” McCameron said.

  “You’re not sleeping on any floor in my house,” Noel replied.

  “I can sleep outside, too.”

  “Goddamn it, McCameron, you’re getting a bed at Carriford.”

  The Scot lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “As you like.”

  “Curtis an
d I can share,” Rowe said distractedly—and seemed completely unaware that Theodore Curtis had gone perfectly still. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” Curtis said quickly. Too quickly.

  Another pause fell, and Jess could only speculate what any of the Union might have been thinking at that moment. Noel walked to the bellpull and tugged.

  Jess hurried up to him. “I can share a room with Lady Farris or Lady Haighe,” she murmured.

  “Absolutely not. I picked out a particular room for you and—” He stopped, and his jaw clenched. It seemed he’d said too much.

  “A specific room for me.” She tilted her head to the side as she considered it. Perhaps he’d put her in a room close to his, because he’d hoped that at some point during the night, one would visit the other’s chamber.

  Enticing. And . . . a little irritating, that he might be presumptuous enough to put her near him for easy access.

  “The Gillyflower Room.” An actual blush spread across his cheeks. “It’s very pretty—the wall hangings, and such. Has a view of the gardens, too.” As if reading her thoughts, he added, “My bedchamber is clear on the other side of the house. But your room is the prettiest of all.”

  “I— Oh. Thank you.”

  Before she could think of anything more articulate, Mrs. Diehl appeared. “Your Grace?”

  “Prepare the remaining bedchambers for my new guests,” he instructed. “Major McCameron in one, and Mr. Rowe and Mr. Curtis in the other.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied before hurrying away.

  “Such consideration as a host,” Jess murmured. “Just as promised.”

  “I always deliver. Besides,” he said with a shrug, “the bare minimum is hardly deserving of praise. That’s like congratulating a man for covering his belch.”

  “This has been very educational.” At his lifted brow, she explained, “The things I’m learning about you. They’re a continual surprise. A good surprise.”

  But it wasn’t good. It was, in fact, awful. She was deceiving him, and the more she discovered about Noel—his kindness, his generosity of pocketbook and spirit, his inquisitive nature that he had to keep hidden behind a veneer of rakishness—the more she understood that all the preventative measures she’d taken against opening her heart to him were in vain.

  If she wasn’t careful, she could easily love him.

  Chapter 18

  “Remember when we were here and Curtis challenged you to an axe throwing contest in the Long Gallery?” McCameron asked, coming to stand beside Noel.

  Like Noel, he’d changed into clothing more suitable for dinner, and Noel had to wonder if McCameron missed his dress uniform.

  Noel chuckled. “Observe.” He pulled back a tapestry to reveal gouges in the parlor’s wooden paneling. “Part of the house’s lore now.”

  “Never to be repeated?”

  “A rake by reputation I may be—”

  “And action,” McCameron added.

  Noel inclined his head in acknowledgment. “But I’m nearing my thirty-fifth year—all of the Union is—and, much as it pains me, it’s likely best to leave behind weeklong bacchanals. Rakishness isn’t the same as immaturity.”

  He and McCameron watched from the edge of the room as guests from the Bazaar mingled and chatted with his old friends. There was no worry that any members of the Union of the Rakes might embarrass him—they were all men of the world, and knew precisely when Noel’s manners needed loosening and when they needed to be constrained.

  “Does that mean you’ll seek the usual accoutrements of a duke?” McCameron asked. “Wife, heirs, and the rest.”

  “Been talking with my mother? She’s eager for the ‘dowager’ to come before her ‘duchess.’”

  “Her Grace and I have not been corresponding, but you’re the only one of us who has the obligation to get shackled.”

  Such cynicism from McCameron wasn’t unexpected, given his history. Still, it pained Noel to hear the edge in his friend’s voice and see the buried sadness in his gaze.

  “My father married at the advanced age of forty-one,” he said. “With such an example, there seems little hurry for me to marry, regardless of what my mother believes. It will be years before I put out the word that I’m on a bride hunt. Besides,” he continued, “the thought of courting some girl fresh from the schoolroom holds little appeal.”

  “What about pretty sandy-haired widows with amber eyes and incisive minds?”

  Noel’s gaze went right to Jess, who talked with Rowe and Mr. Walditch. She, of course, looked enchanting this evening in a dress the color of the sky just before dawn, pearls hanging from her ears but her neck deliciously bare.

  “Judging by the length of your silence,” McCameron said drily, “I can only assume that you’ve given the matter consideration.”

  “She’s recently out of mourning. If she’s anything like the widows I’ve known, she’ll want as much liberty as possible before taking another husband. If she wants another husband. Can’t see much to recommend husbands to anyone.”

  His own parents’ union had been a pleasant but not especially passionate one. In truth, he couldn’t remember them kissing in his presence, but then, they had both been scrupulously aware of decorum at all times, even at home in just the presence of their children.

  McCameron said, “She might, however, want the security that comes from marriage. If she hasn’t mentioned it to you, it could be because she’s set her cap for someone else.”

  Noel glanced at his friend, who spoke from painful experience. He didn’t know what to say—never truly did—when it came to McCameron’s heartbreak, and so he kept silent.

  But the notion badgered him—picturing Jess married. And not to him.

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” McCameron noted.

  “And your hearing needs attending to.” He studied the ornately carved ceiling. “Listen, McCameron, if I’ve been overbearing about anything—”

  “All the time,” his friend answered brightly.

  “What I’m trying to say,” Noel pressed on, his jaw tight, “is that if I have been a bit too domineering or high-handed about making decisions, or doing whatever I please without asking for anyone’s opinion, I, uh, I’m sorry.” Those last words were mumbled.

  Brows raised, McCameron regarded him. “I think you’re right. I do need my hearing attended to. Because I just heard you apologize.”

  “Do you accept my apology or not?” Noel irritably demanded.

  “I do,” his friend said. “And if this new, slightly more humble Rotherby is at all Lady Whitfield’s doing, then I must congratulate her on achieving that which no amount of Eton tutors, university dons, and members of the Union of the Rakes could.”

  “You’re an ass,” Noel muttered. “But thank you for your forbearance.”

  A bright, musical laugh sounded, and both Noel and McCameron looked to its source. Lady Farris stood flanked by almost all the remaining male guests, and as Noel and his friend watched, she swatted at Curtis’s arm in playful remonstrance.

  “You’re scowling at her,” Noel observed. “Can’t understand why. A delightful woman, Lady Farris.”

  McCameron snorted. “Do you know she asked me if I knew the way to the roof because she wanted to go there tonight and watch the moon rise? She said, and I quote, ‘What a lark that would be, standing on the roof and seeing the moon crest the horizon.’”

  “It shouldn’t matter a rat’s arse to you if she wants to climb the chimneys.”

  “Couldn’t she take up something less dangerous like, I don’t know, making flowers out of paper? Can’t break your neck making paper roses.”

  The surliness in normally even-keeled McCameron’s voice gave Noel pause.

  In truth, he worried about McCameron. The war had ended, his friend had returned, and yet since then, McCameron had drifted, aimless, from one thing to the next. He took occasional employment reviewing accounting ledgers for sundry noblemen a
nd businesses, but nothing had ever truly captured his attention. But he said nothing about what might be behind his lack of purpose, or his plans and hopes for the future.

  Something had to be done.

  “Your Grace, my ladies and lords, and gentlemen,” Vale intoned from the doorway, “dinner awaits.” He bowed and withdrew.

  As the host, and the highest-ranking member of the group, it was Noel’s obligation to escort the highest-ranking female into the dining room. He went to Lady Haighe and held out his arm.

  “Would you honor me?”

  She eyed his arm. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what food you intend to serve us. I don’t want to be led into cold soup and boiled potatoes.”

  “Fear not, my lady,” he said. “I am assured that there is an abundance of roast lamb and more than enough tarts made with fruits grown in my very own glasshouse.”

  When all the ladies partnered up with escorts, Noel headed the procession into the dining room.

  During dinner, the conversation moved easily from one topic to another, there wasn’t too much disagreement over political policy, and the food was, as he’d expected, excellent.

  “This is my third serving of buttered roast artichokes,” Jess said, helping herself to more of the vegetables. “I advise everyone to take what they want before I decimate the entire platter.”

  “My cook can always make more,” Noel said. “He’ll ask for an increase in pay if he knows how much we’ve enjoyed his dishes.” He shrugged. “A worthwhile expense.”

  “Don’t mistake me, it’s an excellent preparation, but the artichokes themselves are at their peak.”

  “They’re from Carriford’s garden,” he said.

  “Give a raise to your gardener, too. The meat of the artichokes is . . .” She seemed to search for the right word. “Luscious. And in the silky butter sauce . . .” Her eyes closed and she licked her lips.

  He couldn’t look away. Wouldn’t have been able to even if the other guests suddenly began throwing plates and glasses against the walls.

  For the first time, he resented the presence of the Union. Hell, he resented everyone who wasn’t her. This dinner would be far better if it was only the two of them, using their fingers instead of silverware, licking and nibbling and feasting on food and each other.