The Duke of Dark Desires Page 17

  The Duke of Denford was no saint, that was certain. She was sure he could be selfish, callous, and ruthless. But she also knew him capable of generosity and kindness. Above all, she did not think him a deceiver. She found it impossible to believe that the man she knew would have deliberately lied and cheated her father.

  Perhaps Mr. Fortescue was an even more distant relation than Charles. A man who would betray an entire family for gain would think nothing of lying about his relationship with a duke. She must cast her net wider for Fortescue men and Denford Castle was the place to look, home of archives and family trees. She lay in the dark, afraid to sleep, contemplating another terror: that the duke would not return from Belgium and she wouldn’t ever get to the castle.

  She didn’t know which would be worse: to live without revenge or to live without Julian.

  On the third night she borrowed a good splash of Nurse Bride’s whiskey and went to bed blissfully drowsy, taking back every harsh thought about the old woman’s habits. Her dream was a pleasant one and she emerged from sleep with a sense of warmth and well-being. Hugging herself under the soft linen sheets, she didn’t at first wonder what had roused her until she heard faint thumps through the open door of the boudoir. Straining her ears, she heard a soft imprecation in unmistakable tones.

  Joy flooded Jane’s being; her heart beat a merry tattoo and a hallelujah rang in her ears. Without stopping to think, she leaped out of bed and reached in the dark for her writing desk and the key she kept in its drawer. She jabbed clumsily at the tiny light of the keyhole, and by the time she had it unlocked and the door swung open, the duke was there.

  For a moment she was struck motionless by the sight of him, clad only in black breeches, white shirt, and a look of joy such as she had never seen on him before. Her lips opened to speak but she was breathless and nothing emerged. Then she pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside.

  “Here’s a welcome,” he said. “Many times in the past miserable weeks I’ve dreamed about a greeting like this but never dared hope for it.”

  Her foolish tongue wouldn’t function so she dispensed with the formalities and hurled herself at him, clinging to him with all four limbs. He teetered a little but stayed upright, managing to lurch back the dozen yards to his bed where he fell backward, sinking into the mattress with her straddled over him.

  “Good evening, Miss Grey,” he said. “I like the way you curtsey.”

  She wanted to eat him alive, consume him, so great her relief that he had returned to her safe and sound. She still couldn’t speak but decided it didn’t matter for her mouth was in full working order when it came to other activities.

  After a long, blistering kiss, she sat back on her knees and watched him smile in the way he had only for her: lazy and carefree and filled with sensual promise.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.

  “I told you I was hard to kill. I’ve come back to you weary but in one piece.”

  She leaned forward with her hands on his shoulders, to bury her face in his neck and inhale his heat and scent. A muted wince jolted her back upright. “What?” She clutched the opening of his shirt and ripped the garment to expose his chest, then pulled the sleeve off his shoulder and discovered a bandage around his upper arm. “Mon Dieu, you are hurt.”

  “A scratch, that is all.”

  “You told me you were in one piece. Who did this?” she demanded. “Who dared wound you?”

  “You are very fierce, my sweet Jane. Would you avenge me? There is no need,” he continued before she could answer. “A little contretemps with the French occupying authorities, that is all. The gentleman who has been taking care of my property for me was also, it turns out, a leader of the Flemish revolt against the French. They seemed to think me guilty by association but I escaped with no great harm done.”

  She folded her arms as sternly as was possible when naked and kneeling over a man with a torn shirt. “It is not right for a gentleman in your position to be running around and getting into fights with the authorities.”

  “Are you instructing me about the proper habits of dukes again, dear governess?”

  No, the proper habits of those she loved. Her heart leaped and she averted her eyes from the twisted smile that she now understood was a cloak for tender feelings. She couldn’t afford to be in love. “I have an affection for you, Your Grace, as I do for your sisters. I do not like to see any of you in peril. I can assure you nothing happened to them in your absence.”

  “I know. I spoke to one of the footmen before I came up to bed.”

  “They never let the girls never leave the house alone, and neither did I.”

  “I had every confidence in you,” he said. Foolish man. It was only pure chance that she was still here. But while she must guard her heart against him, she could still enjoy him. She brushed her naked sex against his breeches. Having hardened her heart, she would harden him too.

  “That’s a wicked smile,” he said.

  She increased the pressure.

  “I am flattered by your attention,” he said, laughing,” but I think I should warn you that I may be too tired to rise to the occasion.”

  She licked her lips. “Leave that to me.”

  “Sweet words.” He gasped as she worked her way down his body, licking and nibbling while her fingers saw to the buttons of his breeches. Almost at once he began to stiffen under her hand but she knew something that would get him hard faster.

  His head fell back with a strangled groan of bliss when she took him between her lips and all the way in, as far as she could manage. Wonderful to have him back and under her command, doing exactly what she wished to do to him with every confidence he would enjoy it, no matter what she chose. Gentle hands guided her head until she found the rhythm that made him thick and hard, filling her mouth with his particular taste and texture. Her power to arouse him sent her blood coursing and primed her own desire. She clenched her inner muscles in concert with her mouth and wondered if she could reach fulfillment this way.

  Before she could test the theory he lifted her head and pulled her up the length of his body.

  “But . . .”

  Her objection was silenced with a kiss.

  “I wanted . . .”

  “I think you’ll find,” he said, breathing hard, “that I can indeed now rise to the occasion.”

  “I think you already have.”

  His penis nudged her inner thigh insistently and it took little adjustment to move her aching core over his straining sex and lower herself, reveling as he glided in and filled and stretched her until she was moaning and panting as much as he.

  She rode him in a rhythmic counterpoint of cries and murmurs and mindless words of passion. We were made to be together and I want this forever were the foolish, incoherent notions that gripped her mind as ecstasy seized her body. And when it was over she collapsed on his chest, and his arms came around her and she knew that at least for a while she had found a home in Julian’s embrace.

  She remained awake for a long time. He had fallen into the deep sleep of the weary and she learned that he was a messy bedmate, stretched out on his front. His head rested on one bent elbow while the other arm weighed on her, as did one heavy leg. He did not snore.

  It enchanted her to know these things about him and to feel his long, thick hair tickle her neck. There was more she wished to know. Did he like to wake up in the night—unlikely when this tired—and make love? Or was he a morning lover? Or both? Was he tetchy on waking, or lively and cheery? No, not cheery. That was not an adjective she would ever apply to Denford. If he woke in a good mood he would smile lopsidedly and make a sardonic observation about the aggravations of the coming day, which he would proceed to meet with complete competence and a cynical commentary. She would laugh at him and when they met that night, at the usual time and place, he would relate what happened and admit, only when pressed, that it wasn’t really so very trying.

  She wanted to lear
n everything she didn’t know about Julian and—she smiled into the dark room—do many wicked things with him. They were to spend the summer at Denford Castle. Warm months in the English countryside beckoned where she would surrender to joy. Surely the ghosts of her past wouldn’t begrudge her one summer of happiness?

  Chapter 13

  After over a month’s absence, Julian found himself deluged with business, including tasks arising from the unexpected news that his heir had died. First on his list was to send someone to make sure that Charles Fortescue’s widow and child were well provided for; if necessary he’d bring them to live at Denford Castle. Unwillingly, he was beginning to accept that his position came with responsibilities, including seeing to the succession. Not suffering from undue modesty about his intellectual abilities, the challenge of learning how to oversee the business of a dukedom surprised him. If he didn’t sire a son of his own, he must do something about training Charles’s.

  He still found most of the work tedious, which was why he was desperate enough to receive a caller he would, under normal circumstances, have shown the door.

  The Countess of Ashfield sailed into the library in a swish of petticoats, very much à la mode despite her advanced years and repellent aspect. He hadn’t seen her for a year or two and never had much to do with her. She used to occasionally harangue his old friend Caro Townsend, now Duchess of Castleton, and he’d heard plenty of complaints from Cynthia Windermere, who was terrified of the old witch. The social dragoness, related to half the ton, had always made it clear Julian Fortescue was beneath contempt. He wondered what she wanted with the Duke of Denford.

  “Lady Ashfield!” He pretended not to notice the lavender-gloved hand he was supposed to kiss, making her settle for a stiff bow. Unabashed, she plunked herself in the chair next to the fire, where she didn’t look one hundredth as good as Jane. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your condescension?”

  “I come to offer my condolences on the loss of your poor cousin Charles.”

  “Thank you. I am surprised you were acquainted with him. He wasn’t received in your kind of circles. Rather like me.”

  Trying to embarrass Lady Ashfield was a fruitless endeavor. “I daresay I met him somewhere over the years, but that really isn’t the point. Once he became the heir to Denford he was a person of significance.”

  “And I became Denford and the last time I looked I was still alive and by no means in my dotage.”

  “Don’t be frivolous, Denford. Of course you are not and that is why I have decided to take you under my wing for the greater good of the Fortescues.”

  “Why do you care about the Fortescues?”

  “Heavens above. I am related to the family in half a dozen ways.”

  “I had no idea we were cousins. You should have told me years ago. I’d have been sure to send you greetings on your birthday.”

  “I don’t know that we are connected,” she said with a sniff. “The marriages between my connections and the Fortescues are recent and with less obscure members of the family. But since you are Denford, I consider it my duty to help you.”

  “I wasn’t under the impression I needed help. I’ve managed to reach the age of thirty in good health and fortune without the slightest assistance from you.”

  “Of course you need me, Denford. Here we are, halfway through the Season, and I haven’t seen you at a single event. I am prepared to smooth your entrée into the best circles where you now belong, by reason of your title.”

  “Thank you but I am quite content in my existing circles. Let me show you to your carriage.”

  The lady remained planted in her seat. “Don’t be obtuse. How are you going to find a suitable bride?”

  “Am I looking for a bride?”

  “I certainly hope so. You need an heir.”

  “I was under the impression I had one.”

  “I was shocked, shocked to learn that Charles Fortescue had married the daughter of a butcher. Is her son to pollute the corridors of Denford Castle?”

  Moderately amused for a while, Denford was getting tired of this. “I don’t see how the boy, whose grandfather is a farmer not a butcher, not that it matters, can be worse than me.” He shouldn’t let her under his skin, but ten minutes in her company brought back every sneer against his native land he’d ever suffered.

  “Your mother may have been Irish but I’m told she came from quite a decent family. Think of your sisters. If they are introduced by someone of impeccable connections, unfortunate aspects of their birth will be quite forgotten and they’ll be almost as good as Fortescues.”

  “They will be obliged, I am sure, ma’am.” He almost smiled thinking about what Fenella would have to say about Lady Ashfield. He toyed with the notion of ringing for the schoolroom party to come down and make their curtseys to the old harridan so he could find out. “I have no intention of presenting them. My mother will see to the matter. And absolutely no desire to attend a lot of routs and breakfasts and balls. I am too busy.”

  “Of course you are, and that is where I can be helpful. I have the perfect bride for you and can arrange a meeting without you having to go to much trouble.”

  At the moment there was no room in his thoughts for any woman but Jane and he was a long way from being tired of that affair. He imagined Lady Ashfield’s face if he told her he’d rather marry a governess, and one with a very shady background.

  His unwelcome guest droned on. “Her mother is my second cousin and I am Henrietta’s godmother. She’s an excellent girl, quite pretty enough and no nonsense about her. I know how to make a good match so I wouldn’t inflict you with a ninny. Best of all, she knows all about pictures because of her father.”

  Julian barely heard her until she reached the last item. “Who did you say this girl was?”

  “Cazalet’s daughter. I daresay you’re acquainted with him.”

  Julian had been wondering how best to lure Cazalet, advisor to King George on art purchases, down to Sussex. Lady Ashfield was about to achieve her ambition to be helpful.

  “May I offer you a glass of madeira or sherry? Or do you prefer tea in the afternoon?”

  For the first time since she arrived, Lady Ashfield smiled, an alarming sight involving a display of large teeth. “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking. Sherry will do very well and don’t be miserly when you pour. We have your future to toast and much to talk about.”

  Taking his time serving the drinks and repressing the horrible notion of the dragon countess in her cups, Julian adjusted the plan he’d been forming since depositing the Falleron pictures at Denford Castle.

  “I’d be interested in meeting Miss Cazalet,” he said. “With no obligation on either side, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’m planning to spend the summer at Denford with my sisters. Why don’t you bring the Cazalets for a couple of weeks? We’ll make a party of it.”

  He was careful not to commit himself to anything more than entertaining the Cazalets at his country house, yet the idea of marriage had entered his mind. Much as it pained him to give Lady Ashfield any credit, if Henrietta Cazalet was everything advertised she would be an ideal partner for him.

  He had to think of his sisters. Since he wouldn’t give a groat for the chances of Captain and Mrs. Lowell turning up in London anytime soon, he faced the fact that Maria couldn’t stay in the schoolroom forever. His current cozy arrangement by which the efficient and delectable Jane oversaw the nursery by day and shared his bed at night would not continue to suit everyone’s needs. His, yes. But not Maria’s. As her governess, Jane could not present her at court, and even he, careless of appearances, realized she wouldn’t be able to do it as his wife either.

  Which was a great pity because while a suitable wife seemed a necessary evil, Jane Grey as a bride stirred his soul.

  Same time, same place, same brandy. But his evening meetings with Jane Grey were no longer conducted seated decorously in chairs. Julian lay stretched out
on the divan with his head in Jane’s lap as she read him the letters the girls had written in his absence.

  “And finally there is one more from Maria.”

  “Can we not bother?”

  “She is the only one who follows the rules.”

  “That’s why I don’t want to hear it.” The rules probably said he shouldn’t be lolling around on silk cushions with a governess. And the rules mostly definitely said he shouldn’t get under her skirts. He turned over and buried his face in the interesting bit. Now to plan a strategy for getting through to the lode.

  “It’s charming how much your sisters’ letters reflect their characters,” she said, stroking his head. His anticipatory growl was cut off when she seized his hair by the queue and turned him to his original position. It wasn’t all bad; he loved looking at Jane when she scolded him. “They put a great deal of effort into trying to please you—”

  “Not Fenella.”

  “Especially Fenella.”

  “She certainly amused me the most.”

  “You must listen to Maria’s last letter.”

  “Will I be rewarded?”

  “I expect you will.”

  He might feign indifference while Jane read out Maria’s effusions on the subject of tulips in Hyde Park, but he was touched that his sisters had bothered to write, several times each and sometimes at length. He would have enjoyed receiving the letters while he wandered in disguise around obscure Belgian villages, dodging the French authorities and searching for Jan, who had gone into hiding. It had been a tedious and lonely few weeks. Once he located Jan, things became less dull but much more fatiguing. All the time they managed the transportation of the pictures to the coast, he worried about interference from Radcliffe’s agents in addition to the French. In the end it was a French bullet that winged him.

  He doubted Radcliffe had given up; he was saving his “irons in the fire” for when the Falleron pictures had been conveniently returned to England. What his next move would be, Julian couldn’t guess. He continued to keep a watch on his sisters and his eyes and ears open.