The Duke of Dark Desires Read online

  “Where is Miss Grey?” he asked. “We must go up to dinner if we are not to be late.”

  “Why are we in the hall if we are eating upstairs in the dining room?” Laura asked.

  “I knew your new gowns would show to advantage while you descended the stairs and I wanted to admire them, and you.”

  He’d sent a message to Jane to arrange the little procession. He might not understand everything that went on in the head of a certain governess but he was familiar with women. His sisters were women, small ones, and he understood them. But where the devil was Jane? With a twinge of anxiety he remembered her refusal to let him buy her a gown. Was she planning to recuse herself on the grounds of not being correctly dressed? The bargain had been that she would be a member of the theater party. He’d fetch her and carry her downstairs, in her nightgown if necessary.

  Perhaps unfortunately, it wasn’t necessary. He sensed a presence on the first floor landing and watched her make her own descent.

  “Your Grace.” Unlike her charges she wasn’t trying to impress him. She wasn’t a child but a grown woman of transcendent grace who held herself like a queen.

  As she approached, the blur of sensual pleasure at her general appearance resolved into appreciation of the details. Her hair had been coaxed into a cluster of curls and confined by an ivory satin bandeau that matched her slippers. The headpiece was her only ornament, but she didn’t need jewelry, any more than she needed a new gown, to look infinitely desirable. Jane Grey did indeed own an evening gown. For the first time he was treated to the sight of the bare skin of her neck and chest and the swell of breasts emerging from the confinement of a low bodice. The gown was old, or old in fashion, a simple affair of light blue material, a muslin or cambric, definitely not silk. A wide sash in a darker blue circled her natural waist, not the newer mode just below the bosom, matching a scattering of flowers embroidered around the hem. Best of all, the feature that sent blood rushing hot through his veins, was the fullness of the skirt. Yellow silk cushions intruded into his vision and his fingers itched to grasp those gathered ells of cloth and throw them over her head.

  Behaving with indifference was a trial when Jane’s first reaction on seeing Denford was to throw herself at him and resume the kiss where it had ended. Using all her skills, even down to the subtle application of eyelash blacking and rouge, was not sensible behavior for a governess, especially one who really shouldn’t end up in the bed of her employer, but it had been months since she’d been anywhere just for pleasure. More than pleasure. She’d been sure before the evening began that a visit to the theater with the Duke of Denford and his sisters would beat dining in one of Paris’s best restaurants with Henri and his political cronies.

  Dinner presented a new challenge to her outward display of calm. The dining room turned out to be magnificent, plastered and gilded in the French style. Seated at the table, reduced to its smallest dimension, brought back meals in the beautiful salle à manger at her family’s lost estate. In Paris the marquis and his wife dined with their children only on feast days; in the country they lived en famille every day. Jane couldn’t help thinking of the three Falleron daughters seated with their parents, just as the Osbournes now sat with the Duke of Denford. And with her.

  Not that Denford was anything like her father, a kindly man and doting father who failed for too long to understand the magnitude of the cataclysm that had shaken his world. The Duke of Denford was much cleverer than the Marquis de Falleron; he wouldn’t have been taken in by the scoundrel who, ironically, happened to be his heir. Papa was of course older than the man seated at the head of the table and he never abandoned the colorful silks and powdered hair of the French court. She, on the other hand, looked very like the marquise, although Maman wouldn’t have been seen dead in a garment with fraying seams and a patch on the skirt. But she’d done many things that would have appalled her fastidious mother, things far worse than wearing an old gown.

  Jane had given the girls instructions about dinner table conversation, but Maria seemed intimidated by the grandeur of her surroundings while Fenella, bless her, was practicing her mysterious smile. It was up to Laura, who had decided that her brother the duke was the best man in the entire world, to lead the way, commenting on the announcement in that morning’s newspaper that the play for tonight’s performance had been changed.

  “I’m not too sorry that we shall not see Henry VIII. We read some of the play with Miss Grey and it was hard to understand.”

  “In that case,” the duke said, “I will cease repining that Mrs. Siddons is ill.”

  “The Rivals sounds very amusing,” Jane said. “Henry VIII does not seem to have been an amiable man and I am sure we will all enjoy a comedy instead.”

  “I know Maria will enjoy it,” Laura said. “Mr. Bream told us during our drawing lesson that the play has lovers in it.”

  “You don’t know what you are talking about,” Maria said hastily, casting a guilty glance at her brother. Apparently Laura knew about her recent indiscretions, and if she didn’t stop being indiscreet herself, Denford would too. “I’m sure I don’t care about such things. I would have enjoyed the tragedy very much. Much as we may deplore King Henry’s behavior toward Queen Catherine, we cannot regret the divorce since it was the cause of England breaking away from Rome.”

  Jane had been mildly surprised to learn that the Osbournes were not Catholic; apparently they had Protestants in Ireland too. In revolutionary Paris, religion had been anathema; even when it returned, Jane had no further truck with a God who would allow such horrors. Accompanying the girls to a service at St. George’s, she’d been reassured to find the Church of England mercifully lacking in fervor.

  Laura rolled her eyes at Maria’s piety. “Who cares about that? Mr. Bream says there will be fighting with swords too. I hope no one will be killed.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Maria said. “It’s a play, not real.”

  “They might slip.”

  Before Jane could intervene, the duke rumbled into the melee. “You are quiet, Fenella, but I see you smile. Are you pleased about the change from tragedy to comedy or diverted by your sisters’ squabble?”

  Fenella said nothing, merely tilted her head at him and smiled some more. While applauding her efforts, Jane hadn’t intended her to refuse to answer direct questions in polite company.

  Denford looked amused. “A lady of mystery, I see. Very clever. Now we’ll all wonder what pearls of wisdom you refuse to share.”

  “She’s been doing that all day,” Laura pointed out. “I think she looks stupid.”

  “It isn’t polite to call your sister stupid,” Jane said.

  Maria narrowed her eyes at Fenella. “It isn’t polite for Fenella to laugh at me. She has been doing it all day and I wish she would stop. Make her stop, Miss Grey.”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself, politely.”

  Maria took a deep breath. “Fenella,” she enunciated carefully. “Please will you take that look off your face. I know you do it to annoy me.”

  “I never even think about you,” Fenella said haughtily, and continued to eat her soup between smirks.

  Wanting to laugh was not a governess’s appropriate response. A quick glance at Denford was almost enough to set Jane off into peals, so she avoided his eye and took a sip of wine. “That is quite enough, young ladies. This is a fine burgundy, Your Grace. Do you know the vintage?”

  “Wine is enjoyable to drink but boring to talk about,” he said. “I’d rather discuss Fenella’s smile. I am irresistibly drawn to a mystery.”

  “What kind of mystery do you think I am hiding?” Fenella asked.

  “I have no idea, but I could doubtless discover if I set my mind to it.”

  “I can keep a secret.”

  “I’ve never met a woman who could, which is a pity. The unexplained is much more interesting than the obvious.”

  Jane felt his gaze pierce her as he spoke, as though probing her secrets.

&nbs
p; “Don’t you think Miss Grey looks beautiful, Julian?” Fenella asked. The girl was much too perceptive now that she was emerging from her self-pitying gloom.

  “Miss Grey knows what I think.”

  Jane needed to control the conversation before the girls got the idea that something was going on between their brother and the governess. They might have lived quiet lives in Ireland but they weren’t entirely naïve. They absolutely did not need to hear His Grace’s thoughts on the subject. “Let us agree that we all look our best tonight, as is proper to honor His Grace for his immense kindness in taking us to Drury Lane.”

  “His Grace is most honored,” he drawled.

  “Do you think Julian looks his best too?” Fenella asked, still on the scent.

  “I do,” Laura piped up. “Even if he is always in black, like a parson.”

  “I don’t think anyone has ever compared me to a parson.”

  “A crow then,” Fenella said. “Why do you always wear black?”

  “I’m in mourning for my lost youth.”

  “When did you lose it?” Laura asked.

  “When I was twenty.”

  “What happened?”

  “I should have said my twenty-first birthday, of course. That’s when we all lose our youth.”

  “Is that when you started carrying your black walking stick?” Denford’s cane was a favorite topic in the nursery.

  “Exactly. As soon as I reached my majority I could no longer walk without help. Very sad.”

  The girls all giggled, even Maria.

  “I’m not going to wear black when I’m twenty-one,” Laura declared. “I’m going to have a red dress as soon as I’m old enough and don’t have to wear pale colors because Miss Grey says they are correct for a jeune fille. Why do you sometimes speak in French, Miss Grey, and call me chérie?”

  “Because I lived on a partly French island and because I am teaching you French.”

  “I don’t like French,” Laura muttered, not news to her governess.

  “When I’m grown up I’m going to speak French and wear black gowns and live on an island with crocodiles and ostriches,” Fenella said. “I’m going to be just like Julian and Miss Grey.”

  “I can assure you, Fenella, that I have never lived on an island with such exotic beasts. Neither have I ever worn a black gown,” the duke said.

  The quizzical look he gave her made Jane wonder a little about the stories she’d told about the flora and fauna of Saint Lucia. Did these creatures actually live there, or anywhere in the West Indies? And if not, would Denford know?

  Chapter 9

  Waiting for the curtain to rise, the three young ladies sat in the front of the box, awed by the magnificence of the theater. Exclamations of wonder at the decorations, the chandeliers, the huge audience punctuated the air. Jane sat behind them in the shadows. Unlike the Misses Osbourne she had attended the theater before, often; she was far more aware of Denford’s dark presence occupying the plush chair next to hers than of the spectacle before them.

  “What do you think of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Miss Grey?” His deep voice lent the question a disproportionate significance. She felt the weight in her chest that was becoming familiar in his presence.

  “It’s very large.”

  “The largest in Europe, so it is said. Perhaps there is something larger in the Americas. On the island of Saint Lucia, for instance.”

  Unable to detect any motive in the remark, beyond a gentle teasing, Jane felt an unrestrained smile form. Denford had been delightful with his sisters at dinner. She liked him, as well as finding him desirable. “The theater there is not quite as large as this.”

  “Do you think it elegant?”

  “It’s well enough.” She wondered if Denford had been to the theater in Paris.

  “You’re quite hard to impress. What do you think of the audience? Do you find our London notables fashionable enough for you?”

  “Since my gown is years old, I am hardly in a position to decry their à la modality.”

  “You are more refined in your old gown than a roomful of London beauties. How do you manage that, Jane? How do you make other women look shabby?”

  It was frightening how much the compliment pleased her. With the children absorbed by their surroundings, sitting next to Denford in the dim recesses of the box felt almost like being alone. “You talk nonsense, Your Grace.”

  “You also manage to make those two words sound like a cross between an insult and a caress.”

  Jane, who thought herself hardened beyond blushing, felt her cheeks warm. She hadn’t been conscious of it, but that was exactly how she said Your Grace. “You have never seen me in company of ladies of the ton. I assure you, sir, I would look like nothing in comparison.”

  Denford shook his head, and her fingers itched to touch his thick hair. When he placed his hand on her shoulder, she almost jumped out of the box and flew over the heads of the girls into the crowded pit. “Look around you,” he said, steering her attention back to the audience. “Especially at the second tier where the fashionables take their boxes. Tell me if you see a lady whose appearance meets your standards of elegance.”

  “They are too far away.”

  “So much the better. You may judge a lady’s air of fashion without the unfortunate details like pockmarks and unskilled laundry.”

  “Later. The play is starting.”

  Jane would have enjoyed Sheridan’s comedy more without the distracting presence of the duke, but not the evening. Half closing her eyes, she let herself imagine that all the horrors had never occurred and her life had proceeded as planned from childhood. She might very well be sitting in a theater with a duke, but the theater would be in Paris and the duke would be Monsieur le Duc to whom she had been betrothed as a child. She wondered what had happened to him; she never heard that Etienne de Fleurigny had lost his head. Very likely he had joined the stream of émigrés to Germany, Austria, or even England. She used to weave fancies about Etienne, creating a figure of romance out of a dull young man, very rich and of impeccable birth, but with a short, stout figure and undistinguished features. Doubtless they would have been content together, but would he ever have sent blood coursing through her veins and her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs the way Denford did?

  The duke beside her this evening was not her husband and never would be. Dukes did not wed governesses. Tonight was but a moment, a lovely byway from the grim path that had brought her to England. She must not allow herself to forget. She thought of Papa and Maman, Marie-Thérèse and Antoinette. She thought of the guillotine, that efficient killing machine, towering over the Place de la Révolution, as Place Louis XV had been renamed. And closed her eyes tight to dispel the painful visions that sometimes haunted her dreams and waking hours.

  “Are you well?” Denford had been watching her. “Did something upset you?”

  “Someone walked over my grave, that is all. Foolish when the play is so amusing.”

  “You look pale. Perhaps we are working you too hard.”

  “It’s a hard life being a governess,” she said with a wan smile. “I sleep in a duchess’s bed, dine with a duke, and attend the theater in a box.”

  “We’re almost at the end of the act. I shall fetch you a glass of wine.”

  When the curtain fell Denford rose. “Miss Grey is feeling faint,” he said. “We shall leave her in peace for a spell, and I will show you the public foyer.”

  It made an incongruous sight as he escorted the girls from the box—the tall, lean nobleman like a great black bird of prey herding a small flock of ducks, but there was a rightness to it.

  Not wanting again to succumb to the weakness of her emotions, she amused herself as Denford had suggested, appraising the clothing and appearance of the ladies in the opposite boxes. Nothing she saw suggested that her countrywomen need fear for their long-held reputation as exemplars of fashion. It did her French soul good to criticize the English, who tended toward the opposin
g faults of dowdiness and excessive ornamentation. Really, that woman in red silk, gilt lace, a ruby necklace, and no fewer than three giant ostrich plumes in her black hair needed some lessons in restraint.

  She was a handsome lady, even a beauty, in the prime of life rather than the first blush of youth. But her ensemble screamed that she was available for something more than morning calls and teacups. Perhaps she was a courtesan and the effect was intentional. Jane stood and moved to the front of the box to get a closer look at her, and at the two gentlemen in the woman’s box. One was an elderly man, quietly but finely turned out. Husband or protector, depending on which side of respectability the lady in red resided. The other man caused Jane to stumble backward, collapse into her seat, and slide her chair as far back as it would go. She hardly dared look lest he notice and recognize her.

  In an instant, everything she had assumed about being alone and without family changed. Her second cousin Louis was in London, seated only a few yards away.

  She’d never learned what happened to him but he must have escaped. He could have been in London all this time. Peering across at the other box, she found him deep in conversation with the red lady. He was almost forty now but still the handsome man who had romanced half the members of the court, including the queen herself according to some rumors. Not that anyone had told Jane about that, but she had a way of seeing and hearing what went on in the house. That’s how she knew about Mr. Fortescue and Papa’s worries. And how she knew that Maman, who would never openly speak ill of a cousin, disliked and distrusted Louis de Falleron. Papa had his reservations, but he liked everyone, and Louis was close family and therefore to be loved and respected.

  Her doubt about Louis’s character wasn’t the only reason she instinctively shrank from revealing her presence to him. In fact she was tempted to tear out of the box, find her cousin, and place her troubles and her future in his hands. Louis was the Marquis de Falleron now and it was his duty to avenge her family, her right as a Falleron to his protection. Yet she hesitated. Louis might not see things as she did, might even refuse to believe that Charles Fortescue was responsible and needed to pay. And she would have to confess to him that she’d surrendered her virtue in exchange for her life.