A Duke of Her Own

by Eloisa James

  “The slave trade is entirely governed by money: those with it, and those who wish they had more. And it has long been my opinion that the only way to end it is to cut it off at the root. You can make all the proclamations you wish, but it’s only by cutting profit that that damnable practice will end.”

  “Wonderful!” Eleanor’s mother said brightly. “I can see that you’re both working toward the same goal.”

  “So to speak,” Villiers said. His eyes slid to Eleanor, and suddenly she knew that he had guessed her most private secret. He knew.

  “I doubt we have ever had similar goals,” Gideon said.

  “Given that my intentions are entirely honorable, I believe you,” Villiers said with a faint smile.

  Gideon drew in his breath sharply. The insult flashed by like a poison dart, so sleek and so pointed that Eleanor almost missed it. Her mother just smiled.

  “That must be a novel sensation for you,” Gideon said, making something of a rejoinder.

  Apparently he had heard rumors of Villiers’s illegitimate children. Both men were tall, but Villiers’s physique was so much broader that Gideon looked willowy in comparison. Villiers didn’t say a word, but all of a sudden he looked…dangerous.

  Eleanor’s mother apparently decided the same thing, since she suddenly shrieked, “Goodness me, just look at Mrs. Bardsley’s absurd wig. It’s tilting to the side!”

  Villiers paid her no attention at all. He turned from Gideon as if the duke were no more than an impudent servant, bowed before Eleanor, and smiled at her.

  That smile…

  It could have seduced Cleopatra out of her golden boat. It would have lured Bathsheba from her bath. It was the smile of a wicked man, a man who didn’t bother much with honor, but promised to bother a lot about…other things.

  “I know that you prefer I spare you a storm of gossip.” His voice caressed her like a touch of his hand, just loud enough to be heard by Gideon. “I fully meant to stay away from you, but when I glanced across the room and saw you, I could not resist.”

  He took her hand. Then, without smiling at her, without saying a word, without doing anything other than meeting her eyes, he slowly peeled off her glove. It was utterly surprising—and scandalous. She heard her mother make a small huff of disapproval as he drew it off.

  But Villiers didn’t look away from her eyes, just lifted her bare fingers to his lips as if they were entirely alone. His gesture was the antithesis of Gideon’s polite greeting. Villiers’s kiss was slow and deliberate, giving everyone in the tent more than enough time to enjoy the spectacle.

  For Eleanor, the world tilted—and changed. She suddenly saw the man before her in focus: his thick lashes, his deep bottom lip, the hard line of his chin, the thick hair tied back and defiantly unpowdered. The maleness of his shoulders. The coiled strength of his body.

  A sultry warmth spread from her cheeks and flooded down her body. Yet it wasn’t the kiss that did it. It was something in those black eyes that made heat rise in her cheeks…and in her body.

  The Duke of Villiers was notorious for his chilly, indifferent eyes, famed for surveying the world from a height defined by his disdain and his title. What she discovered at that moment was a rather terrifying truth: when the duke’s cold eyes turned voluptuous, it would be a rare woman who could resist him.

  She was not one of them.

  It was the first time in years that she’d felt a melting sensation course through her body, the very kind that had persuaded her to throw her chastity to the wind and seduce Gideon—but she knew it. She recognized it. And some treacherous part of her body welcomed it joyously.

  Villiers saw; he knew. There was laughter in his eyes now, competing with a dissolute, and altogether enthusiastic, invitation to pleasure.

  In one swift gesture he turned her hand over and pressed a burning kiss on her palm, a touch so fast that she didn’t see it, though her hand curled instinctively, as if to protect the kiss itself.

  She didn’t have to see it to understand it.

  It was the kiss of a man who was staking a claim.

  There wasn’t a man or woman in the tent who could possibly have misunderstood that.

  Chapter Five

  London residence of the Duke of Villiers

  15 Piccadilly

  June 15, 1784

  To the boy’s mind, the duke looked almost sleepy, despite the fact that he was holding a rapier with a dagger-keen edge. He padded in a slow circle, holding that blade as casually as another man might an enameled snuffbox.

  But there was something about the way Villiers lazily watched his opponent…The silent boy slipped through the door, keeping his eyes fixed on his father.

  Even so, he almost missed the opening foray. The duke’s blade slashed forward with such quick force that the boy expected blood to splatter the floor. The ballroom rang with the clear, high notes of clashing steel.

  “Sharpen the angle of your arm, Your Grace!” Tobias had heard that kind of accent before. French, he thought. A Frenchman had hired him to hold his horse once, but afterwards he rode off without giving him a penny.

  This particular Frenchman had a chiseled nose and an excitable look to his wide-set eyes. He wore no wig, and his short hair stood around his head like the needles of a pine tree. He was perspiring so heavily that Tobias could see the wet on his upper lip, even from the side of the room.

  Tobias looked back at the duke. Villiers had raised his right elbow, but even so, the Frenchman seemed to be beating him back, step by step. Tobias slid quietly down the wall onto his heels. His heart was pounding, which was stupid, because he knew it was only practice. It looked violent, but that was nothing more than pretense.

  “I would advise—” The Frenchman’s voice broke off.

  In one lightning quick motion, the duke slipped through his opponent’s guard. His right arm was poised high in the air; his rapier just touched the Frenchman’s throat.

  The only sound to be heard in the ballroom was the panting of the two men.

  Then the Frenchman fell back a step. “Your cavazi-one is still too easily countered.” He sounded peevish. He turned to the large glass on one side of the ballroom and readjusted the hang of his waistcoat.

  “Damn it, I’m covered in sweat!” Villiers complained. He put his sword down, hauled his shirt over his head and threw it to the side.

  Tobias’s eyes widened. The duke was all taut muscle in his middle, and above his waist those muscles widened to a broad chest. He had never seen anything akin to the duke’s stomach. It was covered with ridges formed of muscle.

  He couldn’t help a glance at his own skinny limbs. He looked better than he had a month or two ago, remarkably well, considering he’d spent the last few years in a “highly undesirable situation,” as Ashmole the butler had described it. Tobias didn’t quite see how “undesirable” covered wading through sewers filled with muck, fishing for silver spoons and lost teeth, but he got the idea.

  The men started circling each other again. He had never seen his father without a shirt before now. In fact, he’d never seen him in less than formal attire, clothed from head to foot in silk or velvet adorned with fantastical embroidery.

  Just this morning the duke had paid a visit to the nursery, and the children had all sat about, staring at his coat. It was made of red velvet with a pattern of small flowers, the whole of it covered with twining vines made from gilt thread with pearls sewn here and there.

  Even one of those pearls could keep a family in meat pies for weeks. Months, maybe. He was getting used to Villiers’s extravagant clothing, but his little sister, the one whom the duke had fetched a fortnight ago, and his brother Colin, who had arrived a mere week before, had been struck dumb.

  Suddenly, Tobias realized that the duke was staring straight at him. He quickly came to his feet, back against the wall. The duke opened his mouth as if to say something, and then pivoted to parry a thrust from the Frenchman.

  Tobias felt his heart beating i
n his throat again. Their swords clashed until his ears rang. Then the duke twisted his wrist sharply and his blade darted forward. His opponent’s blade flew down and to the side, skidding to a halt a foot or two away.

  The Frenchman broke into a string of incomprehensible curses, but the duke walked away as if nothing were being said. He plucked up a linen cloth from the bench and walked toward Tobias.

  Tobias pulled his shoulders back. It was hard to imagine that someday he too might have a body like that, all gleaming muscle. Like that of a wild animal, really, he thought, remembering the body of his former employer. Grindel was flabby and soft, even though he had terrible strength in the swing of his arm. But Villiers was stronger.

  “Your Grace,” he said, barely inclining his head. The butler, Ashmole, had instructed him to bow whenever he met the duke, but he couldn’t make himself do it. Bowing was for—for people who bowed. He had a strong feeling that if he started bowing to people, he might just find his head down all the time.

  That was what life was like for bastards, he reckoned.

  Villiers answered in that dusky voice that Tobias knew well enough was an older version of his own. “That was bloody hellish in the nursery this morning,” he said, pulling the ribbon from his hair and rubbing his head all over with the linen cloth.

  Tobias quelled an impulse to grin. You weren’t supposed to smile around a duke. Ashmole had made that clear too.

  “Are those children always so quiet?”

  Given that Tobias had fled the nursery an hour ago because Violet’s happy, high-pitched screaming was threatening to drive him out of his mind, he could answer that. “No.”

  The duke pulled his shirt over his head again. “I have met a lady whom I’ll probably marry. Clearly, we need a woman in the house. And since I’m going in a few days to look at an orphanage in Kent, and there’s another appropriate candidate living close by, I’ll meet her as well. I can choose between them.” His head reappeared through a billow of white linen.

  “A—A wife?” Tobias stammered.

  “You and I could probably just rub along together, but I’m no good with girls. They need a mother.”

  Tobias just stared at him.

  “All right,” Villiers snapped. “I’m no good with boys either.”

  He strode off before Tobias could say another word, but he paused next to the Frenchman on his way out the door. “Naffi, I have a feeling my son might have a talent for the rapier. I think he would benefit from some lessons. See Ashmole about arranging it.” And he was gone.

  Tobias had learned a lot about the natural order in the months since Villiers plucked him out of a back street in Wapping and brought him to the mansion. Dukes were gods, and servants were rubbish; gentlemen were somewhere in between. Bastards were at the very bottom of the heap.

  But as far as Tobias could tell, Villiers treated everyone as if they were rubbish. He had walked straight past Naffi without waiting for an answer, even though the Frenchman had lost two bouts in row. The man was quivering with annoyance, and Villiers’s abrupt command could only have made things worse.

  Tobias watched warily as the Frenchman walked over to him, rapier in hand. His lower lip was curled so savagely that Tobias could see the pink flesh inside. “So I’m to teach the by-blow to fence,” he said in a low, dangerous tone, picking up his wig and jamming it onto his sweaty hair. “I, the great Naffi, lauded in three courts, am to waste my time teaching a trollop’s bit of rubbish. As if you would ever have cause to defend your honor. What honor?” He threw his head back, laughter erupting from his mouth like a horse’s whinny. “Honor! I hardly think so. Bastard begot, bastard in mind, bastard in valor, I say!”

  Tobias had learned that watching people silently made them uneasy: it was only after he moved into the duke’s house and observed his father’s chilly eyes that he realized it was a family talent. So he said nothing, just let his eyes rest on the sweaty hair sticking out from under Naffi’s wig, the red patches high in his cheeks.

  “I don’t care even to cross my sword with a whoreson like yourself,” the Frenchman said. “To contaminate my blade jousting with a bastard. I, who jousted with His Grace the Duke of Rutland only last week? You don’t need to learn proper conduct. Blood tells, and your sort will always end in the gutter.”

  Tobias didn’t give a fig about insults to himself, but “whoreson” was different. Naffi was saying something about his mother. He never thought all that much about his mother until he met the gilded, glittering duke. Then he realized that it wasn’t her fault, what had happened to him. It was the duke’s fault.

  “If blood is a reliable guide to conduct, it would explain your father’s horns,” he said, spacing the words so that Naffi would understand.

  It took a moment for his insult to sink in. Then the Frenchman’s voice rose. “You impudent little goat! You dare imply my maman—” His voice broke off as he unexpectedly shot forward, like a cork from a bottle.

  Tobias jumped to the side just in time as Naffi bashed against the wall and rebounded, his nose gushing startlingly red blood.

  Ashmole, Villiers’s ancient butler, grinned at Tobias. In his right hand he held a large golden staff with a huge knob, with which he had apparently jabbed Naffi in the back. The Frenchman lurched around, clutching his nose with one hand and screaming incoherently.

  “That’ll teach you to insult the young master,” Ashmole said, his voice cracking only once.

  Blood was splattered down Naffi’s white shirt. “How dare you lay a hand on me, you disgusting imbécile!” he shrieked.

  Tobias began to laugh, when he suddenly realized that Naffi still had a rapier in his right hand, and that if the man would hesitate to assault a son of the house—even a bastard—he would feel no such compunction about a servant.

  “I’ll teach you to touch your betters!” Naffi snarled, bringing his blade up.

  “Stop!” Tobias cried.

  But the Frenchman was already poking the old butler hard in the chest, prodding him with the button-covered tip of the rapier. His lips curled happily, and Tobias could see that he was enjoying Ashmole’s squawking protests and the way the old man stumbled back each time he was struck.

  Villiers had left his rapier on the bench, and Tobias picked it up.

  Naffi swung to face him, uttering his horsey laugh. “You dare to face me with a sword? Moi, the great Naffi? The man whom even the Duke of Villiers begs to train him?”

  “That duke beat you twice this morning,” Tobias observed.

  “I could slash you,” Naffi hissed. “Such a regrettable accident. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. A little slash to the face that will mark you as the gutter rat you really are.”

  Naffi had spittle around his lips, which made Tobias feel faintly nauseated. He tossed the rapier to the ground between them. The man broke into that donkeylike laughter again, throwing his head back so his chin pointed to the ceiling. “So you’re not so stupid but that you—”

  Tobias snatched the staff from Ashmole’s hand and slammed its large knob under Naffi’s chin. The man fell straight backward without a word.

  The thump echoed in the empty ballroom. “I doubt you kilt him,” Ashmole said. He prodded the man with his toe. Naffi made a snorting noise but his eyes stayed shut.

  “Unlikely,” Tobias agreed. He picked up the duke’s rapier and twisted the button off its tip. It was sharp as a needle’s point.

  “Are you going to kill him now?” Ashmole inquired. He didn’t sound terribly scandalized. “It’ll make a terrible mess.”

  Tobias put the rapier in position and brought it carefully straight down. “Absolutely not.”

  Ashmole cursed and jumped back. “You’re set to ruin the polish on my floor.”

  “No.” Tobias was concentrating. The rapier was heavy, and employing it as precisely as a knife took all his attention.

  Ashmole peered over his shoulder. “No blood.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You�
��re putting a cut in his coat? What’s the good of that?”

  Tobias looked at him incredulously. “Have you been wearing the duke’s getup your whole life? This fool is wearing all his money on his body.”

  Ashmole cackled. “Not anymore.”

  They both looked down at the floor. Naffi’s mouth hung open; he was breathing heavily through it. His brocaded waistcoat was now vented like an apple pie.

  Ashmole raised an eyebrow. “Yer leaving him with his breeches, lad?”

  Tobias raised the rapier again.

  “Careful around them jewels of his,” the butler commanded. “Wouldn’t want to be responsible for changing him from a rooster to a hen.”

  Tobias cut a slice down the right leg of Naffi’s pantaloons.

  “I’ll get one of the footmen in here to drag off the riffraff,” Ashmole said with palpable satisfaction. “He won’t wake up for a while, from the look of him.”

  “A blow beneath the chin can put a man out for hours,” Tobias said. He was wiping the duke’s rapier carefully. “This blade might have been slightly dulled by slicing that brocade. Perhaps you should have it sharpened.”

  “Frosty, that’s what you are,” Ashmole said. “You’re yer father’s son all right.”

  “The duke is leaving in a few days for Kent,” Tobias said.

  “He’s got to follow up on them twins,” Ashmole said. “Not that we need more brats around this house.” He started rubbing his chest. “I’ll have bruises tonight, so I will, thanks to that French varmint. The duke’ll never take you with him. You stay at home with the little girl. It’s sweet the way she’s taken to you.”

  “What time of day does he usually call for his carriage?”

  Ashmole peered at him. “Think you’ll beg him to take you?”

  “I never beg,” Tobias stated.

  “Father’s son,” Ashmole cackled. “Father’s son. He’s prone to leaving early, for him. He’s not one to see the sun rise. Likely around ten of the clock. So you can make your case, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s like you, if you see what I mean. Not going to take you up just out of the goodness of his heart.”