The Duke of Dark Desires Read online

  “My dear duke! I ask only for information. Should you be in possession of the collection, I would wish to know, that is all.”

  “You won’t hear it from me.”

  “Never mind. News has a way of getting out, and long experience has taught me to keep several irons in the fire.” He turned to the footman waiting silently next to his sumptuous town coach. “Come back in an hour. Good day, Denford. I’m sorry we can’t come to terms. I trust my negotiation with Bridges will be a happier one.”

  Too late. It was a small satisfaction to deprive Radcliffe of the Fragonard, and a larger one not to have his malevolent pale eyes defiling Jane’s likeness. The man got away with everything. He’d parlayed wealth and connections into an unassailable political and social position. He could only be beaten at his own game and Julian decided to learn how to play it.

  With his new wealth he could afford to make the Prince of Wales a trifling loan. He’d send over a bank draft along with a gift. The Bosschaert was just the kind of picture the Prinny liked and well worth the sacrifice to have the heir to the ailing king doubly in his debt. Meanwhile, George III was alive and healthy so Julian needed to find a way to reach Lord Cazalet. Time to mend fences with his well-connected Fortescue relations and other members of the ton. He was a duke, for goodness’ sake, and should begin to behave like one.

  Jane had given him one of her little lectures on the subject. That is what it means to be a duke, she had said. He wondered how she knew.

  Since he’d collected on his own bet in advance, tonight he’d summon her to the library for brandy and conversation and kisses. He was feeling exceptionally lucky.

  Whistling happily, he walked home. Near the corner of St. George’s Street and Hanover Square, he noticed a man leaning against a railing. He’d seen the fellow before, in his mid-twenties and good-looking in a rather commonplace way. Shabby shoes. Nothing suspicious about that; he could be a resident of the square. But it was a chilly April afternoon, hardly good weather for loitering. And he was staring at Fortescue House.

  Was he one of the irons in Radcliffe’s fire?

  “If you weren’t living with your mother and sisters in Ireland, where were you?” Jane asked. “What were you doing?”

  They were seated in a pair of armchairs on either side of the fire, like an old married couple or a pair of good friends. But the mood in the library was anything but cozy. The prospect of the kiss hung over their evening. Every word they spoke, every breath, every gesture either of them made heightened her anticipation. She couldn’t know for certain that Denford was in the same state of elevated awareness but she didn’t doubt it. She didn’t imagine the heat in the unwavering blue eyes trained on her face, or the subtle caress of his voice. She cared about the words that were formed by those sensitive lips too. She enjoyed the duke’s company far too much.

  “I went to school in England, putting the Irish Sea between me and my stepfather, an arrangement that suited us both very well. I went up to Oxford, briefly, then I was on my own.”

  “Since you didn’t expect to be a duke, what did you do?”

  “I bought and sold pictures. I was very good at it.”

  “What a wonderful occupation! I love to look at pictures.”

  “I can’t believe that your Saint Lucia possessed an abundance of good examples.”

  Unable to admit she had grown up among one of France’s finest collections of masterpieces, she searched for a new lie. “We had prints,” she said.

  “The productions of the excellent Bartolozzi, I suppose. They are everywhere. Who is your favorite artist? You mentioned Caravaggio once.”

  “Raphael.” Everyone loved Raphael. There was no reason to connect her with her family’s famous Madonna.

  “I am not surprised you have impeccable taste, Jane. Though Bartolozzi’s prints give but a pallid flavor of the glories of the Italian masterpieces.”

  “What inspired you to make art your profession?”

  “I matriculated at Oxford at Christ Church College, which happens to own some of the finest paintings and drawings in England. They changed my life. That such life and emotion could be expressed by a brush wielded by man astonished me.”

  “You speak with reverence,” she said. Not just reverence but fervor. She wouldn’t have guessed Denford could express himself without mockery.

  “To me the great masters seem like gods in their ability to create flesh and blood, trees and rocks, castles and ruins, from the humble ingredients of canvas and pigment.”

  “Do you paint yourself?”

  “I have no talent, but even if I had some ability, what would be the use? I could never rival the sublimity achieved by the least of Michelangelo’s efforts. No one does these days.”

  “Yet you help Mr. Bream.”

  “Don’t tell Oliver, but I think him talented. I do not, however, admire his work. I abhor the products of modern artists. Either sentimental hack work to please the masses or overblown historical scenes intended to express some important worldly point. Oliver’s always got some theory about what his painting means—the decline of the nation or the corruption of the government—but I pay no attention. I feed him because I like him, not his work.”

  Never before had Jane been so frustrated by her disguise, by the suppression not only of her deep past but also her more recent life in Paris. If she could converse openly she would ask Denford if he’d seen the work of Monsieur David, a leading French painter and ardent revolutionary whose atelier she had visited with Henri. She had to content herself with a general question. “You do not think politics belong in art?”

  “I don’t think politics belong anywhere.”

  “Even the Garden of Eden had politics in the influence of the serpent. Perhaps the practitioners are always corrupt.”

  “If not all, most. I suppose some form of government is a necessary evil. I prefer to have as little to do with it as possible.”

  “You are cynical.”

  “Of course. And you are too, Jane. How did you learn to have such a jaded view of life on your tiny West Indian island?”

  “I have seen regimes come and go, and most have both good and bad points.”

  She was talking about France, not Saint Lucia. In the years since the end of the Terror she had become philosophical about both the French Revolution and the abuses it replaced. She didn’t even blame it for her family’s disaster. The Revolution was a great, unstoppable wave, and you did not blame the ocean for being large and wet and likely to drown the unwary. You blamed the man who threw you overboard.

  “Shall I tell you one thing I admire about France after the fall of the monarchy?” Denford said. “The Musée du Louvre. Opening the collection to the public is, in my opinion, the greatest achievement of the Revolution. I only went there once, but it was an inspiration. Only when the English have such an institution may we call ourselves a civilized nation.”

  Jane wanted to cry out her agreement. Her father had also approved this action of the government and they had all visited the Louvre galleries soon after the opening, despite the fact that it was timed to coincide with the anniversary of the demise of the monarchy. At least, she thought so. She vaguely remembered that it had been summer, but Denford had said he left Paris in May so it must have been earlier. In any case, it was some months before the Terror closed in on her family. During the visit to the museum her parents had still been optimistic about coming to terms with the new order in France. The marquis had even mentioned donating parts of the family collection to the nation, so that they could be enjoyed by all. Not knowing whether the marquis’s efforts to hide his valuables had succeeded, she had no idea what had happened to his pictures. Perhaps they had been seized and ended up in the Louvre. Denford, as an art dealer, might have heard. But she dared not mention the name Falleron. There was absolutely no reason why an English governess from the West Indies would know it.

  “I would like to visit such a place,” she said.

  “Exactly.
If there was such a museum in London, an ordinary person would be able to see the glories that now are available only to the wealthy few.”

  “And this from a man who claims to be entirely selfish.”

  “Oh, I am. I have my own motives but it doesn’t mean I can’t also wish for the good of the nation. As long as it suits my interests as well.”

  “How would a public gallery suit your selfish needs?”

  “I have accumulated a collection of pictures over the years that I have tried to sell to a single buyer. I was in negotiation with the King of Prussia at one point, but nothing came of it. This group of fine works would make an excellent core of the national collection. Unfortunately selling them to the king gets us into the realm of politics.”

  She smiled, enjoying the glimpse of Denford’s history. “Now that you are a duke, and presumably rich, why don’t you keep them? That would be the action of the self-interested connoisseur that you claim to be.”

  “I have asked myself that question. It used to pain me to let go of a particularly fine canvas. But now that I can afford to own them, I find I miss the thrill of the chase after a rare masterpiece and a rich collector. There’s no joy in possession if all you do is throw money at it.” The intensity of his gaze hinted at a deeper meaning.

  “So you no longer buy pictures?”

  “Sometimes a work holds a special appeal to me.” He set aside his glass and walked over to the library table, returning with something extracted from a portfolio. “I bought this today. I paid too much but I didn’t care. I wanted it.”

  It was an unframed colored drawing, set in a circular mat, of a young girl, no longer a child but not quite a woman. “Fragonard,” she whispered.

  “You have a fine eye as well as good taste, Jane. Yes, a rare pastel by the greatest French master. Do you know why I wanted it so much?”

  The drawing transfixed her. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one in her father’s collection, but close. The same model in a different pose. This girl was peeping out from behind a hand mirror while her father’s had been sitting with a book in her lap. Tears threatened as she remembered her father saying it reminded him of her. He would never have let the drawing go. She wondered if he’d carried it with him to his death.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she? I bought her because she reminds me of you.”

  Her hand stole to her chest. She’d never seen the resemblance but apparently her father had not been wrong. “No,” she said, as she’d always told Papa. “I am not so pretty.”

  “Yes you are.” Denford stood behind her, looking over the shoulder at the drawing. “And something more, something even better. Earlier I said that the great painters were gods because they breathed life into their creations.” His breath was warm on her neck. “But not even Raphael himself invented anything as fine as you. I wish I had the skill of a genius with brush or pen to describe how you affect me.”

  “I think you do very well, Your Grace.” Her voice wobbled. “You are the most accomplished seducer.”

  “Are you seduced?” As his lips brushed her ear she yearned to lean back into his embrace.

  “No,” she said, jerking forward, away from his lethal proximity. “I told you before I would not be.”

  “And I still think you are wrong.”

  She had come to this meeting with the intention of kissing him, and she still meant to. But the encounter must be on her terms, not his, at a time of her choosing. Not when her heart fluttered wildly at his nearness and her mind blossomed at the pleasure of his conversation. Not when it was spring and she yearned to be a girl in love instead of a woman out for blood. Not now, when she would be putty in his hands.

  “I must speak to you about the children, Your Grace.”

  He responded with a lavish sigh and sat down opposite her, resting one elegant leg over the other knee. “Very well, Miss Grey. Let us speak of my tiresome sisters. I hope the conversation involves a visit to the theater but I have a feeling it’s going to be far more expensive than a box at Drury Lane.”

  She laughed, trying to relax. “How did you guess? Maria needs new clothes.”

  “Only Maria?”

  “They all do, but especially Maria. She’s old enough now that the simple dresses of a young girl are no longer right for her. She needs to be refitted from head to toe.”

  “And underneath too?”

  “I have been at pains to instruct your sisters that one does not discuss undergarments with gentlemen, even brothers.”

  “By all means, buy her some new stays. You see, Jane, I know all about ladies’ intimate necessities.” His hot gaze pierced her bosom. “Why do I wager that what you have on under that dreary gown is a good deal less practical?”

  “You’ll never find out.”

  His eyes gleamed brighter but he merely shook his head. “Fit them all out, and buy yourself a gown or two as well. I can stand the expense.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “You grow tedious on the subject. You know I do not believe either of us slaves to propriety.” How could she argue? For her, true propriety was a distant memory. Even if Denford couldn’t be sure, he seemed to have detected her lack of virtue. “When I accompany you to the theater I expect you all to be dressed as befits a party of ladies escorted by a duke. Don’t forget that I am a duke. A very important man.”

  “So you will take us to the theater?” she asked, taken aback and a little disappointed by his kissless capitulation.

  “I have already reserved the box. I knew you’d give in.”

  “I haven’t given in, you have.”

  His grin was positively devilish. “No theater, no new clothes. No kiss, no theater. Ergo, no kiss, no new clothes.”

  “You are an evil man.”

  “I believe you like me for it.”

  Adopting the pose of a martyr, she stood, arms at her side and chin raised. “Get on with it, then.”

  “You are supposed to kiss me.”

  “Make me.”

  His lips curved deliciously. “Don’t worry, dear Jane. I will.”

  Towering over her like a beautiful dark angel, he stood close enough to overwhelm her without contact. Her throat tightened and her breasts rose and fell, silently begging him to touch them. She glanced up, then hastily lowered her eyes, refusing to reveal a desire that equaled, perhaps even exceeded, his own. When he raised his hands she closed her eyes tight to concentrate on suppressing a moan of longing. In the dark she felt fingers on her hair, soft as a gentle breeze.

  “Why do you dress your hair like a Botticelli goddess?” The bass voice vibrated the strings of her heart. “Are you trying to drive me mad?”

  “Why do you keep yours long?”

  “Because it pleases me to flout the fashion.”

  “And it pleases me to follow it.”

  “I will cut mine if you wish it.”

  No! She didn’t say it aloud, merely envisioned loosening the queue and threading her finger through the black tresses. “Don’t do anything on my account.”

  He held her head now, his thumbs caressing her cheekbones. “I don’t know the limits of what I would do for you. You frighten me.”

  Not as much, surely, as he frightened her. “That’s very good, Your Grace, very seductive,” she replied mockingly.

  “Julian. Say it.” A finger traced the rim of her mouth. “Say it.”

  “I will not.”

  “Why do you have to be so difficult?” A butterfly kiss landed on each eyelid. “Look at me and tell me what you want.”

  Instead she clenched her eyes shut and choked back a sob. Why didn’t he get on and kiss her? Then she would flee the room before giving in to her devastating desire to sink into the golden cushions of the divan, raise her skirts, and beg him to fill her, hard and fast, to assuage the ache that burned inside her. “Kiss me,” she said. Take me, she did not.

  At long last his lips met hers, but in a sad, pathetic, meaningless brush of a kiss that did noth
ing but stoke her frustration.

  “Damn you, kiss me,” she cried.

  “Damn you, Julian.”

  “Damn you, Your Grace. Kiss me. And put your arms about me too.”

  He allowed her one victory because she had rendered him a greater one. With a shudder of relief she was pulled against his chest and enclosed by an arm like an iron band, while his other hand raised her chin.

  But he didn’t kiss her. After a little while, during which their hearts thumped in counterpoint in the silent room, she gave in and looked at him. Oh, but she would drown in those magnificent eyes. Before she could talk herself out of it, she seized his head and pulled his mouth down onto her parted lips and knew that she had never been kissed before.

  The texture of his lips, his spicy taste spoiled her for any kiss, past or future. It was perfect and mind numbing and body awakening and utterly dangerous. He possessed her and she owned him back in blazing mutual exploration. Her fingers clawed his scalp to tug him closer, as though she would consume him as she felt consumed, by heat and the drumbeat of surging desire.

  In a second’s pause for breath he murmured her name. Jane Jane Jane. His hand spread tingles along the sensitive skin of her neck and reached into the high but loose bodice of her gown. Ravished by joy, she clung harder to stay upright and demanded the return of his mouth.

  Only when she felt her skirts shift upward did a modicum of reality penetrate the sensual fog that had invaded her brain. When she thrust aside his questing hand he withdrew from the kiss and his dark tones flooded her ears. “Let me, Jane. Please. Let me lay you on golden cushions and pleasure you until you scream.” His hand on her bottom reaching between her legs gave her a taste of what he promised and she wanted desperately to accept.

  With strength that almost slew her to summon, she stepped away and turned her back. Easier to say no away from his touch and the lure of his dark beauty. “You had your kiss, Your Grace.”

  “I want more.” His words were ragged, his breathing rapid.