The Duke of Dark Desires Read online

  “Is that all he says?” Jane asked. “Nothing about when he arrives?”

  “I am to dine downstairs! Will you help me with my gowns, Miss Grey? Can we go now?”

  “First let us hear what His Grace has to say to your sisters.” And when he was going to see them. “Will you share your letter, Fenella? Does he say when he arrives?”

  Fenella smiled mysteriously. “Mine is the best. Here, read it yourself.”

  Jane tried not to let herself be distracted by Denford’s powerful slashes of black ink, neat but distinctive and, unlike their writer, easily read.

  Dear Fenella,

  Don’t go riding alone. It would be a confounded nuisance if you fell off and damaged your horse.

  Yours etc.

  Denford

  “Isn’t it a wonderful letter?” Fenella said. Sometimes there was no understanding the girl.

  “As Shakespeare says ‘Brevity is the soul of wit,’ ” Jane agreed.

  “Mine is even wittier, then,” Laura boasted. “He says, ‘Dear Laura. Do whatever Miss Grey tells you. I always do.’ ”

  “I am obliged to His Grace but I can assure you that he obeys only himself.”

  “We know that,” Fenella said. “Julian is so funny.”

  While he had failed to follow any of the rules of correct correspondence, the duke had managed to make each of his sisters happy and that was what mattered.

  These sweet, odd little letters sparked a tender glow in her breast and assuaged any lingering doubts about Julian. A man who could please his sisters so well simply couldn’t have willfully caused the death of hers.

  “Miss Grey,” Maria said. “There’s one for you too.”

  She would have preferred to read it alone, but the girls stared expectantly. Since they would think her very odd if she kissed the letter, or clutched it to her bosom, she broke the seal with all the calm she could muster.

  My dear Jane,

  I miss you. If I’d known how long my business would take, I wouldn’t have let you leave London. Evenings in the library no longer entertain and my best brandy tastes like ashes. I arrive on the sixth with the first of my guests. Ask the house steward if you need anything, for yourself or the girls. Did I mention that I miss you? Don’t run away before I get there.

  D.

  “What does he say?”

  “Will you read it to us?”

  “Nothing very much,” she said. “Your brother doesn’t like to write long letters.”

  Don’t run away before I get there. Why did he think she would disappear? He was right, but how could he know it? She was always poised for flight but not yet. Whatever happened, whatever she discovered, even if her family’s murderer appeared with the word guilty branded on his forehead, she would not leave before she saw Julian again.

  Chapter 15

  Fenella tore into the schoolroom. “I see Julian’s carriage crossing the moat. Can we go down and meet him? Please, Miss Grey?”

  It would be more correct to wait for the duke to summon them to his presence, but this particular duke, as he frequently reminded her, didn’t care about what was proper. “Very well.” Her hand flew to smooth her hair. “No, wait. Let me make sure your appearance is as it should be.”

  She tweaked Laura’s ribbon and told Fenella to straighten her stockings. Maria looked impeccable, as usual, and the other two would do. It was all she could manage to admonish the younger girls for running and not to run faster herself.

  “Julian!” Laura shrieked when they reached the foot of the main staircase, which was separated from the hall by an elaborate wooden screen.

  Jane grabbed the little girl’s skirt. Through the open gothic tracery she saw that he was not alone. “Remember your manners, children. His Grace has brought company.”

  They made her proud, curtseying like little mademoiselles when presented to the Countess of Ashfield, Lord Cazalet, and Miss Cazalet.

  “And this is their governess, Miss Grey,” Denford concluded.

  Cazalet, a trim, middle-aged man in a blue coat and buff breeches, nodded with the polite indifference her position merited. His daughter produced a friendly smile while looking about her with bright-eyed curiosity. About Jane’s age, she had an attractive, intelligent air. She was the sort of young lady Jane would like to have as a friend. Only Lady Ashfield afforded her more than a glance. Jane avoided the old lady’s eagle eye and looked at the floor. That one was undoubtedly a Tartar, and unlikely to have missed the significant look Julian had shot her while he made his introductions, or the way Jane found it impossible not to smile back at him. From the moment he’d walked into the hall her heart had threatened to burst from her chest. If only all these people—guests, children, servants—would disappear.

  Instead another carriage pulled up at the front door, disgorging three new arrivals. Although she’d only seen them at a distance at the theater, she immediately recognized the lady in the excruciatingly fashionable orange silk spencer and matching bonnet and her much older husband. She hardly had time to wonder why Denford had invited Sir Richard Radcliffe, a man he’d described in brutally unflattering terms, to his house, when their companion sent her into a state of panic.

  Quick as lightning, she dodged behind the screen and watched her cousin, Louis de Falleron, presented as Comte Louis de Beauville.

  “I hope you can squeeze dear Louis into your little castle,” Lady Belinda Radcliffe said to Denford, caressing his arm in a way that made Jane want to hit her. “When he heard where we were going he begged us to take him with us. He adores castles.”

  This was news to Jane, who remembered Louis as a courtier and Parisian through and through. Her father had vainly tried to interest his heir in the land and country people at the Normandy estate. She’d also like to know why he was representing himself as a scion of an ancient Limousin family with no connection to the Fallerons. His ambiguous appearance confirmed Jane’s instinct not to approach him, at least for the present. Since he’d last seen her nine years ago and believed her dead, the odds of his recognizing her were slim. Not that he would notice an inferior. She was safely invisible as long as she did nothing to draw attention to herself.

  “Any friend of yours is welcome,” Julian said. Through the tracery of the screen Jane saw his most derisive smile. “I’ll speak to my steward about a room for him.”

  “You are gracious, Monsieur le Duc,” Louis said.

  “I expect you’d like to be placed near your dear friends the Radcliffes. We want you to feel at home. And since you are so interested in castles, I will ask Mr. Hillthorpe to give you a tour of the place. You must see the Maiden’s Keep, Lady Belinda. The view from the top is quite remarkable.” Julian glanced at his guest’s embroidered satin slippers.

  Hah! Julian had her measure and probably Louis’s too. She’d like to see that hothouse pair make the steep climb.

  “We’ll all go together.” The lady, keeping her hold on Julian, drew Louis to her other side while her husband looked on complacently. “Are there any bedchambers in the tower? That would be most romantic. If we could stay there, I mean.”

  Jane ground her teeth.

  “Who are those people, Jane?” Oliver’s silent arrival behind her made her jump. “I was hoping Cynthia had arrived.” He floated out into the hall in his usual abstracted state then stopped short. “Oh my goodness! What a beautiful creature.”

  Miss Cazalet returned his regard with an alert expression. If Oliver had fallen in love again, he appeared to have picked a lady who might just return his interest. Then he walked straight past the young woman and planted himself in front of Lady Belinda Radcliffe.

  “Introduce me, Julian.”

  Denford disengaged himself from Her Ladyship. “Certainly, Oliver.” Jane could hear the amusement in his voice as he performed the formalities.

  “I must paint you,” Oliver said to Lady Belinda, evincing no interest in either Radcliffe or Louis. “I’m working on a series of religious pictures. You shall be m
y Madonna, my Virgin.”

  “There’s a challenge to the imagination,” Julian muttered.

  “A Madonna in scarlet! I don’t think it’s been done before.”

  The lady kindly extended her hand to her new worshipper. “I adore being painted, Mr. Bream. I’ve sat for Romney and Lawrence and I suppose even they were unknown artists once.”

  Oliver, oblivious to Lady Belinda’s condescension, received support from a new quarter. “Mr. Bream is talented,” said Miss Cazalet. “I saw his Rape of Lucrece at the Royal Academy last year.”

  “No one else did,” Oliver said, distracted for a moment from the glories of Lady Belinda’s bosom.

  “I don’t recall the name,” Lord Cazalet said. “Did you remark on the work to me at the time, Henrietta?”

  “I believe I noticed it when I visited the exhibition with my aunt, Papa. It was ill-hung in a dark corner and deserved better.” That would make Oliver happy. Jane had heard his theory that the members of the hanging committee had engaged in a conspiracy to hide his light under a bushel.

  Unlike his daughter, Lord Cazalet apparently hadn’t much time for a painter whose works were consigned to dark corners. He turned to Denford. “I look forward to seeing those pictures you promised me, Duke. I see that you don’t keep them in the hall.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. The gallery where they are hung has been undergoing repairs and isn’t quite ready, but I anticipate an unveiling that will astound all the cognoscenti.” He bowed to Radcliffe, whose thin lips stretched without warmth. No love lost there. Louis, on the other hand, expressed enthusiasm for the event, surprising since his lack of appreciation for the family collection had disappointed the late Marquis de Falleron.

  Jane scrambled out of the way when the party moved toward the staircase to be shown to their rooms by the house steward. “Keep back girls,” she said softly. “Let the guests go first.”

  None of the guests noticed her but Julian did and dropped back to join her. “Jane,” he said in his most caressing tones, the single syllable sending waves of longing through her. “Confound these people. Where can I see you?”

  “I shall be in the schoolroom with your sisters, Your Grace. No doubt you will wish for a report on their progress.” She raised her voice a little, in case anyone heard them, and to remind him that the children were only a few feet away.

  “I wish we could meet at the usual time and place.”

  “You have guests.”

  “No need to state the obvious.”

  “You invited them.”

  “And so I did. I have my reasons.”

  “You draw attention to us,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Go,” he said to the children. “Go . . . somewhere. I need a word with Miss Grey.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking to me when your guests are waiting for you.” For a second she felt alone with Julian in an enchanted circle where they breathed the same air but could not touch. Though out of earshot they were still under observation. With Lady Ashfield and Miss Cazalet regarding them curiously they couldn’t even gaze into each other’s eyes.

  “Dine with us,” he said when she looked away.

  “Absolutely not. You invited Maria to do so, which is completely proper, but I shall remain in my place with the younger girls.”

  “That is not your place, Jane.” Without moving or touching her with so much as a finger, his whisper sent a tingle all the way down her spine. “Your place is with me.”

  If only it were so. “You delude yourself.”

  Mr. Blackett approached and the guests still expected the attention of their host. Maria had obediently followed the house party that she was so enraptured to join, but the younger girls, having circled the hall, reappeared, eager for their brother’s company. They’d missed Denford too.

  “I’ll find a way to see you later,” he said quickly. “Where have they put you?”

  “Our bedchambers in the nursery quarters are most comfortable, are they not, children?” He needed to be reminded that little pitchers have big ears.

  “You could dine with us, Julian,” Laura piped up.

  “I wish I could.”

  Lady Belinda Radcliffe might be the love of Oliver Bream’s life, but she made a disappointing model. Carrying his sketchbook, he had lured her to his favorite spot among Denford’s formal parterres, a walled knot garden, scented with herbs and early summer flowers. The mellow brick wall, covered with espaliered trees, was the perfect background for his scarlet Virgin. He was gripped by the revolutionary idea of making red the color of purity.

  “I’m tired, Mr. Perch.”

  Oliver didn’t care if she got his name wrong, but she hadn’t given him more than five minutes, ten at the most. He’d barely outlined the smooth white brow, so perfect for the Madonna. “I suppose you could take a short rest.”

  Dizzied by her smile, he missed the appearance of that Frenchman, Beauville, who was always hanging around and removing her from Oliver’s range. “Louis!” she called. She had a voice like rich ochre. “Mr. Pike has been drawing me. So amusing.”

  “Ma chère Belinda. How can a man copy what was created by the gods?”

  “All of the great artists,” Oliver said, defending his profession.

  “Bien sûr,” Beauville said. “The great ones can. Will you walk to the river with me?”

  “But she’s sitting for me,” Oliver said.

  “He has taken up far too much of your time. I reclaim you.”

  “I have barely started.”

  “I am rather tired. Dear Louis, let me lean on your arm.”

  Speechless, Oliver watched them leave the garden. Where was Jane? he wondered, thinking he should return to his portrait of Delilah. He’d hardly seen her in two days, since the other guests arrived. The Osbourne girls approached, but there was no sign of their governess.

  Fenella and Laura ran up to greet him, followed more sedately by Maria, arm in arm with Miss Cazalet. He always remembered her name because she had noticed the masterpiece that had failed to impress anyone at the Royal Academy. Anyone except for this exceptionally perceptive young woman.

  “We were looking for you, Oliver,” Laura said.

  “Are we supposed to have a drawing lesson?” He’d forgotten to wind his watch.

  “No, silly,” Fenella said. “That’s tomorrow. Miss Cazalet wanted to speak to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask her. We must go. Miss Grey said we’d have to miss our riding lesson if we were late for geography.”

  “I’ll see you later, Miss Cazalet,” Maria said. “I look forward to hearing more about your presentation at court.”

  While the young ladies made much ado about parting from a lady they would see again in a few hours, a vista through the arch of a box hedge caught Oliver’s eye. Perching on a stone bench, he became absorbed in work.

  “Ahem. Mr. Bream?”

  He looked up and blinked at Miss Cazalet with the sun behind her.

  “Do you mind if I watch you draw? I’ll be quiet.”

  “Noise doesn’t bother me.”

  He worked away for a few more minutes until it occurred to him that his composition would be improved by a figure and for once he had a handy model. “Would you let me draw you?”

  “I’m flattered. How would you like me?”

  He arranged her in a simple pose at the opposite end of his bench. “Do you mind removing your bonnet?”

  “Not at all. Who am I?”

  “No one in particular.”

  “A portrait then?”

  Oliver scowled. “I hate doing portraits.”

  “They are the best way for an artist to get noticed,” she said “You don’t have to do many, just enough to make your reputation and keep your name in the public eye.”

  Oliver sketched in Miss Cazalet’s rather fine profile. “You know a lot about the subject.”

  “I’ve grown up among painters and collectors. I find the busin
ess of art quite fascinating.” Happily, Miss Cazalet had the ability, so important in a model, to speak without moving and upsetting the composition.

  “Like Denford?”

  “Not buying and selling. I’d like to help artists succeed. I could help you.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “There’s a big demand for pictures, not only among the wealthy but also people of the middling kind. I read in the Morning Post that Bartolozzi’s prints of masterworks have added over one million pounds to the revenue of Great Britain. Artists can do very well nowadays but it’s difficult to win the attention of the public because there are too many of you. You need to cultivate those who write about art.”

  This was a topic on which Oliver could wax eloquent. “Puffery! It is everywhere. Untalented hacks get ignorant fools to praise them in print.”

  “A necessary evil. I hope you won’t be angry with me, but I took the liberty of writing to an editor of my acquaintance reporting that you are staying at Denford Castle for the summer, executing a portrait of the duke’s sisters.”

  “But I am not.”

  “It doesn’t matter. As long as people believe you are patronized by a duke, they will think your work must be good.”

  “That’s dishonest.”

  “Is your work good? I think so.”

  “Of course I am good.”

  “Then there is no dishonesty.”

  Oliver couldn’t put his finger on why that didn’t seem quite right. But he couldn’t resist Miss Cazalet’s enthusiasm for his work. She might be able to help him sell something.

  “What are you painting now?” she asked.

  “I was sketching Lady Belinda in preparation for a canvas.” He showed her the meager outline he’d managed. “She is to be the Madonna.”

  “I’m curious. What made you think of Lady Belinda as the Virgin?”

  “She’s beautiful,” he said reverently.

  “So she is, but not in that way. I would think more of a Judith, or Delilah perhaps.”