A Duke of Her Own

by Eloisa James

  “Here’s a bit from when Romeo promises to climb to Juliet’s window,” Roland said. He put his right hand at his side and it just touched Eleanor’s. “Juliet tells him to come before the lark with its shrill song has waked a world of dreamers. And Romeo promises to climb to her balcony in a ladder wrought out of scarlet silk and sewn with pearls.”

  His finger barely stroked Eleanor’s wrist.

  “Is that it?” Her Grace said after a moment.

  “That’s all I can remember,” Roland said.

  “Well, I like the idea of a ladder sewn with pearls,” the duchess allowed. “I have a red bonnet sewn with pearls that may be something of the same idea.” She turned to the squire. “Aren’t you a little worried that all this talk of red silk and pearls makes your son sound like a milliner?”

  “He’s a clever lad,” the squire said, pride evident in his voice. “He’s never caused me a moment’s worry.”

  “Well, that’s more than I can say for my daughters,” she said, glancing down the table. “Eleanor, you are too pink in the face. How much Champagne have you drunk?”

  “Not as much as I have,” Anne said cheerfully. She looked at Lisette. “Darling, don’t you think you could rise now, so that we could leave the table before I slip under it?”

  “Oh! Are you waiting for me?” Lisette said. “Goodness, and I’m such a slow eater. I eat like a bird.” She took another bite.

  Villiers smiled down at her. “A very graceful bird, my lady.”

  Eleanor turned back to Roland. “That poem is beautiful.”

  “It’s actually not that good,” he told her with a twinkle. “I wouldn’t even try to publish that in its current state. Too flowery, as my father said.”

  “Perhaps the ladder could be just silk with no pearls,” Eleanor suggested. “One has to think that pearls are not only ruinously expensive, but uncomfortable underfoot.”

  “Depending on the weight of the climber, they might even be crushed,” Villiers said, interjecting himself into their conversation again. “Is Romeo the one who’s fat and short of breath? Or is that Hamlet?”

  Roland threw him an unfriendly look. “That sort of verisimilitude has no place in the land of poesy.”

  “I’m just trying to point out a logical problem,” Villiers said innocently. “Cleopatra used to pulverize pearls and put them in her wine, after all. While I’ve never stamped on one, I’m certain that they would shatter easily.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Lisette put in. “I have any number of pearls and they aren’t crushed.”

  “But have you stamped on any of them?” Eleanor asked.

  Lisette stared at her for a moment, clearly searching her mind for the shards of crushed pearls. “No,” she said, jumping to her feet. “Let’s try it!”

  Villiers actually laughed, looking up at her. “You are a true original, Lady Lisette.”

  Eleanor felt her lips tightening. Glancing at Roland, she saw an expression in his eyes that she guessed mirrored her own.

  “Sorry,” he whispered to her, “I’ve lived next to Lady Lisette my whole life. Do you know that my brother is betrothed to her?” And, when she nodded, “It all happened in the cradle, naturally, and it would bankrupt my father to repay her dowry. So Lancelot never comes home. We haven’t seen him in six years. He does write now and then, hoping that she’s run off with someone.”

  He held back her chair. “We’re about to watch the demolishment of some pearls.”

  A short time later they were all in the sitting room, holding cups of tea, when Lisette’s maid appeared with a string of pearls and a most disapproving look on her face. The poor woman even tried to remonstrate with her mistress.

  Roland had come to sit next to Eleanor, as naturally as if they’d always known each other. He put his mouth near her ear and she could feel his breath tickle her neck. “If someone takes the pearls away she’ll turn into a whirling dervish.”

  “What’s a whirling dervish?” she said, giggling.

  “A monster who terrorizes the populations of India, as I understand. Or perhaps it was Turkey. Honestly, I hardly know, but I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “We must stop her,” Eleanor said. “It’s absurd to crush a pearl on such a pretext.”

  “Just look how she’s making the Duke of Villiers laugh,” Roland said. “I believe he’s quite taken with her. If you take the pearls away, you’ll ruin her chance of making a match that would free my brother from his bondage.”

  “Villiers wouldn’t,” Eleanor said.

  “Oh yes, I expect he would. She’s quite beautiful, you know. And the odd thing about her is that she’s not a bad person. He won’t know what she’s really like until it’s too late. She has enormous charm.”

  “I know,” Eleanor said, feeling guilty. “And she can be so joyful.”

  “Pity she’d be such a horror to live with.”

  The duchess had apparently just realized what was about to happen. She put down her tea cup with a little click, rose from her chair and snatched the pearls before Lisette could react. “Am I to understand that you are planning to crush these pearls?” she said in an awful voice.

  “Exactly,” Lisette said, as blissfully unaware as ever. “You see, Your Grace, we are wondering how hard it is to crush a pearl. The Duke of Villiers thinks that Roland would smash a pearl under his feet. But I don’t agree. He used to be roly-poly, but he’s not at all plump any longer.”

  Eleanor turned to Roland with a grin, but his brows were drawn together and his face looked black with fury. Villiers, on the other hand, was laughing openly. That’s the first time I’ve heard him laughing, she thought sourly. I should have assumed it would be at someone else’s expense.

  Lisette held out her hand for the pearls, her pretty smile not even slipping. It was a quality that Eleanor envied. Because Lisette never envisioned opposition to one of her plans, she didn’t flinch until the moment was upon her.

  “Absolutely not,” the duchess announced in a dreadful voice. “I have seen your mother in these pearls a hundred times.”

  Lisette blinked. “Mother is dead. She doesn’t care what I do to them now.”

  “Her memory is not dead.”

  “They’re my pearls,” Lisette said, her lower lip starting to tremble.

  “Here we go,” Roland murmured.

  Eleanor couldn’t bear to see it happen. She jumped to her feet and hurried to Lisette’s side. “We just want to make sure that your pearls remain intact,” she said as persuasively as she could.

  But Lisette’s eyes were taking on that wild spark that Eleanor remembered. “You are crossing me!” she cried, rounding on the duchess.

  “Of course I am!” she snapped back. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends.”

  Eleanor braced herself.

  Villiers stepped forward and put a hand on Lisette’s arm. She froze. “Her Grace doesn’t understand.” His voice was dark and cool and mesmerizing. “When my mother died I wanted to burn her clothing. Her jewelry. Her scarves.”

  Lisette stood still. Even as Eleanor watched, Lisette shed her anger and her eyes turned grief-stricken.

  “I know how you feel,” he finished.

  Lisette’s lip trembled. “I miss my mother,” she whispered.

  Eleanor retreated back to her seat.

  “For God’s sake,” Roland said in her ear, “an innocent bystander might think that Lisette’s mother died a year or two ago.”

  But Eleanor was watching Villiers. “I’m not sure you get over the death of your mother all that easily.” Though she wasn’t actually sure that Villiers meant to express grief when he talked of burning his mother’s clothing. There was a shade of something darker in his voice.

  “Would you like to hear a song?” Roland asked.

  “What?” Eleanor said, noticing that Lisette’s white-blond curls just reached Villiers’s shoulder; they looked quite striking together.

  Roland looked down at her, his dark poet’s
eyes flaring. “It’s the one thing Lisette and I have in common. We both love music. If I borrow a lute”—he nodded at the far wall—“at least it will halt the tender scene. Though in my opinion Villiers’s days as a bachelor are numbered. And his days of peace as well, but there’s no need for us to play witnesses to that tragedy.”

  Eleanor thought about confessing her own semi-betrothed state and decided not to. Besides, Roland was already striding over to the wall and pulling down a lute.

  He plucked a string and then called, “Lisette, you’ve let this go out of tune again!”

  She leaped away from Villiers the moment the note sounded in the air, sadness falling from her like a discarded cloak. “I played that one earlier this evening,” she said, running to his side.

  “I suppose it’s not too bad,” Roland allowed, sitting down, the better to tune the instrument.

  Lisette’s face brimmed with happiness. “Let’s all sing.”

  “I am fatigued,” the duchess announced.

  She retired with little more than brief goodbyes to the squire and his wife. She didn’t care for music any more than she appreciated poetry. It turned out that the squire’s lady shared her lack of appreciation, and so the elder couple left, promising to send the coach back for their son.

  It occurred to Eleanor as she curtsied goodbye that Squire Thestle’s smile seemed to indicate hope that his son would make an advantageous match. With herself. She felt a bit more sober at the thought.

  “A lute, for God’s sake,” Anne said, falling into the seat next to Eleanor that Roland had deserted. “Your medieval lover is far too passionate for me. I feel as if I’m caught in some sort of Shakespearean nightmare.”

  “A glass of anisette?” Popper said, offering a tray of small glasses.

  “If I drink that I’ll fall asleep in public,” Anne said, pulling herself upright. “No, I’m for bed.” She looked down at Eleanor, a wry smile on her lips. “How complicated is the game of love, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Shakespeare?” Eleanor inquired.

  “I haven’t the faintest,” Anne said, taking herself off to bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Oh lovely, all the old people are gone,” Lisette said gaily. “Let’s sing outside, on the terrace.”

  “Won’t we keep people awake?” Eleanor asked, sipping her anisette. It tasted like distilled licorice root, strong and sweet, with a sensual promise.

  There was no gainsaying Lisette, of course. A moment later the four of them were outside. Light streamed from the library, but the terrace itself was in shadow. The air was warm and fragrant, like evening primroses.

  Lisette had brought out another lute and she and Roland were seated together, so Eleanor made for the settee where she and Anne had sat that afternoon.

  Villiers had been leaning against the stone railing, but when Lisette and Roland began to sing, he joined her.

  For a few moments they just listened. The lutes had a tremulous sound, as if notes were barely shaped before they slipped away. “Who spoke to death?” Lisette sang, high and clear and beautiful. “Let no one speak of death,” Roland answered her. His voice was a silky honey-smooth tenor that wove around hers. “What should death do in such a merry house?” they sang together.

  Eleanor took another sip of her anisette and leaned her head back. Far above their heads the stars shone like silver buttons on a dandy’s waistcoat.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she said to Villiers.

  “Pearls,” he said laconically. “Crushed to make stardust.”

  She turned to meet his eyes and choked back a laugh.

  “Let death go elsewhere—” Lisette sang, and broke off at Roland’s impatient gesture.

  “You have the fingering wrong again. Listen.” He played the refrain again. And again.

  “You look extremely beautiful tonight,” Villiers said suddenly.

  “Me?” Then she remembered that Anne had painted her beautiful and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You are driving the poor poet mad with desire.”

  Villiers was looking at her so coolly that she didn’t know what he thought of Roland’s admiration. Perhaps he was suggesting that she might like to marry Roland instead of himself? She took another drink and the liqueur burned down her throat. It sang to her of confidence and passion, of men who would never leave her.

  “I’d like to kiss Roland,” she said, “before I make a final decision.”

  It was only when he made a small incredulous noise in the back of his throat that she realized she had been less than clear. “Before I decide whether to marry him instead of you,” she clarified.

  “You’ll decide on the basis of a kiss? His kiss?” A strand or two of Villiers’s hair had fallen from its ribbon and swung near the curve of his jaw. It wasn’t a poet’s jaw. It was a harsh, male jaw, the kind belonging to a man likely to issue decrees. And feel that women should pay attention to his proclamations.

  Roland and Lisette had started singing again, something about love this time. “I made the prince my slave,” they sang together. “He was my lord for the space of a moon.”

  “The space of a moon, my arse,” Villiers said into her ear.

  Eleanor started. She hadn’t realized he’d moved close to her.

  “Why don’t they just sing what they mean: I tupped him for a month?”

  She gave him a frown.

  “You’ll decide whether to marry me on the basis of his kiss?” His words were a low growl, and hung on the air.

  “I put a ring on his finger and brought him to my house,” Lisette sang, and Roland joined in: “I clothed him in hyacinth and fed him honey-berries.”

  Eleanor let her head fall back and examined the hyacinth-colored sky. Villiers made a small movement next to her, and she felt a surge of power. She knew exactly what to do. She turned her head, just slightly. She didn’t even smile at him; she just allowed the invitation to be in her eyes.

  “Are you playing the siren with me?” he asked, his voice low, almost incredulous.

  “Only for the space of the moon.”

  “You surprise me,” he said, bending toward her. His lips tasted of anisette, like spice and like a man. She opened her mouth, remembering instantly how delicious a kiss could be. How the touch of lips could change the whole feeling of her body. She leaned toward him and gave him everything he wanted.

  And he took it.

  She realized, in the first second after their kiss began, that Villiers would always take what he wanted. He crushed her mouth, cupping her face in his hands and pulling her toward him.

  Dimly, she thought how different this first kiss was from the one she had shared with Gideon, years ago. They were young and unpracticed. Gideon fumbled; she giggled; he apologized. It soon became clear that she enjoyed kissing far more than he did.

  Probably all young men were the same: eager, driven by lust. He longed to touch; she longed to kiss.

  She remembered chasing him around the barn once, trying to catch and kiss him, until he suddenly turned around and snatched her up, his hands falling on her—

  “What?” a dark voice said in her ear.

  “Yes?” she asked, startled.

  “I’m kissing you, damn it.”

  She looked up at him, confused. In the light falling through the windows behind them, Villiers’s eyes looked black. Eyelashes shaded his cheekbone, putting it into high relief. “I was thinking of something else,” she said honestly.

  He stared at her for a second and then let out a howl of laughter that punctuated the singing she barely heard. “Between you and Tobias, I’m achieving a modicum of humility, for the first time in my life.”

  “That I doubt,” she observed.

  His eyes narrowed. “I suppose you were thinking of Astley.”

  She felt a little dazed, as if the liqueur had gone to her head, and she couldn’t follow what he was talking about so she just shook her head. “I’m sorry if I punctured your vanity,” she said
honestly. “It was a nice kiss.”

  “Nice?”

  He sounded incredulous. Apparently the Duke of Villiers was accustomed to women falling at his feet after one touch of his lips. “You taste like anise,” she said, settling back into her position. “I’m very fond of licorice. Did you ever find the plants and chew them when you were little?”

  “No.”

  She turned her head slightly, just enough so she could meet his eyes again. Of course he hadn’t wandered about fields grazing on wild plants. He was likely swathed in velvet from his toes to his collarbone from age five. No, four.

  “Of whom were you thinking?” he asked. “Was it Astley?” There was something dangerous in his tone.

  She took another sip of anisette. It slid sweet and hot down her throat, adding to the heat in her insides that had jumped to life with his lips. And that was making her nervous. She had now kissed two men in her life, Gideon and Villiers. Both of them made her feel slightly delirious, wild with pleasure, wanting nothing more than to kiss again and again.

  She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was a wagtail by nature. Her mother would not approve. “In truth, it was the Duke of Astley,” she admitted.

  Villiers’s expression didn’t change. “He is pretty. A maiden’s dream, in fact.”

  “He was my dream,” she confessed. In the background, Lisette and Roland were quarreling over a musical notation of some sort or other. “After his father died, he started coming home with my brother during holidays.”

  “From Eton.”

  “Yes, exactly. I never really paid much attention to him, but then one day…well, there he was.”

  It was embarrassing the way that Villiers’s lips made her want to lean over and—and nip him. Lick him.

  “What then?” he inquired.

  “Oh, it took us months to kiss,” Eleanor said lightly. “Though I spent a great deal of time dreaming about it. It’s quite common to fall in love at that age.”

  He nodded, rather unexpectedly. Eleanor couldn’t imagine the Duke of Villiers in love with anyone. “You?” she asked.