The Duke of Dark Desires Read online

  “Not just at night, but that’s not the point. I wouldn’t presume to recommend you dismiss one of your servants. I was going to suggest, rather, that I sleep up in the nursery, where I can keep an eye on your sisters’ well-being.” She didn’t mention that this morning she’d been woken on Laura’s bed by the sound of Fenella trying to sneak out. She didn’t want to get the girl in trouble again. “They need more attention than Nurse Bride can give them.”

  “You can give them attention when they aren’t asleep.”

  His patent indifference raised her hackles. “They are your sisters,” she said, striving for calm. “They would appreciate more attention from you too.”

  “I promised to take them to the theater, didn’t I? Under certain circumstances.”

  “Your Grace,” she said, as politely as she could. “I am asking you for permission to move to the nursery floor. It’s more suitable than the room you gave me.”

  “You don’t like your quarters?”

  “Of course I like them. Who would not?”

  “Then keep them. I’ll hire a maid for the nursery to watch the girls at night. Better still, you choose someone. You’ll have to work with her. Pick someone alert.”

  “The rooms you gave me should belong to your duchess, not to a governess.”

  “Since I have no duchess, it pleases me to have you use them.”

  “I’ll be honest, Your Grace. I do not feel at ease in the rooms adjacent to yours. The door between the dressing rooms is locked, but I don’t have the key. I presume you do.”

  “I thought I’d made myself clear last night,” Denford said with a look that made her think it better not to arouse his enmity, “but apparently it bears repeating in daylight. You have nothing to fear from me. I am not interested in unwilling women and you may sleep in peace, knowing that I have no intention of using that door.”

  “Good,” Jane said. There wasn’t much more she could say or do, apart from speaking to herself very firmly about wishing the door to remain closed. “Now I must go. It’s time for the lesson, and I shouldn’t leave the young ladies alone with Mr. Bream.”

  “Heaven forbid,” the duke said, pouring more coffee. “He’s a danger to all womankind.” She turned her back smartly, but he called to her when she was halfway to the door.

  “One more thing, Jane. Should you decide to knock on my door, I will welcome you in.”

  What Julian should be doing today was planning his foray into Belgium to retrieve forty priceless masterpieces. Moving such bulky and precious cargo presented a logistical problem he hadn’t been able to solve during the years of war. What he’d do with them, he wasn’t sure. When he was offered a stake in a collection that included works by Raphael, Titian, and Veronese, his twenty-year-old mouth had watered with intense lust. He still wanted them. What lover of art would not?

  Yet he found he was in no hurry. Another work of art, one made of delectable flesh and blood, held his attention. Right now he was consumed, to the exclusion of all else, by the ambition to possess Jane Grey, and he wasn’t above using guile to achieve it. It was time to give her a little encouragement. After a leisurely breakfast and a consultation with Blackett about hiring a couple of nursery maids, he wandered up to the Blue Saloon where the drawing lesson was in progress with Jane as the model—for both teacher and students. If he’d had any worries about a potential romance between Oliver and Jane, they would have been set to rest by the quarrel he discovered in progress.

  “I will not stand for it,” Jane said. To be accurate, she was half reclining on a chaise longue and for some reason brandishing a knife. Not a very dangerous weapon—he recognized the pearl-handled fruit knife that Oliver must have filched from the breakfast table—and he couldn’t tell if her fierce expression was part of the pose or exasperation with the artist.

  “Please, Jane. Ten more minutes and I’ll have the pose sketched.”

  “You are supposed to be teaching the young ladies to draw, not planning your own masterpiece.” The dripping sarcasm in the last word told Julian all he needed to know about the progress of the conversation. He’d heard—and largely ignored—a hundred descriptions of dozens of Oliver’s grandiose paintings, few of which ever came to canvas.

  “And so I shall, but I know you won’t want me to lose this. The look on your face is perfect now. Hold it there.”

  Judging by her scowl, she was posing for the role of a murderess. A very seductive one. Despite the nunlike gown, slate blue today, seeing Jane Grey leaning back against the cushions, her legs slightly parted and bosom thrust forward, made Julian think of her naked and in bed, not a new sensation. He stood in the doorway and watched for a while, trying to define what it was about her he found so fascinating. His reaction was akin to what he felt when he saw a great picture, an instant recognition of extraordinary quality. But while he’d often experienced that frisson in the presence of a painted masterpiece, he couldn’t remember ever having such a feeling about a woman.

  Oliver was the first to notice his presence, when he stopped drawing to scratch his nose. “Julian! The very man we need. Lie down with Jane and be Samson. You are perfect for the part.”

  Lying down with Jane was very much his plan, but not in public. She was as alluring as the biblical temptress; he trusted she wouldn’t turn out to be equally treacherous. “I don’t think you’ll do much damage to my hair with that knife, Miss Grey.”

  “I doubt they had scissors in those days.”

  “Many of the masters, such as Rubens and Van Dyck, have painted the scene and used the costumes of their own age and sometimes the tools as well. I recall a Guercino Delilah wielding a pair of scissors.”

  He strolled across the floor to stand next to her sofa. She looked up at him and, as if suddenly conscious of her wanton pose, snapped her knees together, even though he’d been careful not to be obvious about which of her attractions he was examining. Indeed, her pretty round face with the improbably knowing eyes was as appealing in its own way as the promise of her luscious body.

  “Don’t you think,” he said softly, “that Delilah should be rather less covered? She and Samson are in bed when she betrays him.”

  “Caravaggio painted her fully dressed. I daresay it was cold at night.” She sat upright and planted her feet firmly on the floor against Oliver’s protest. “This is not proper conversation in front of your sisters.”

  A distinct giggle—or two—greeted this admonition. He hadn’t given the girls a thought since he entered the room. They were seated on a row of chairs, oldest to youngest, each with a sketchbook and pencil, observing the byplay as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Which had laughed? Was it intractable Fenella? Or had pretty, pious Maria shown a glimmer of humor? Not Laura, he thought. The youngest alone appeared rapt by her drawing and plied her pencil with unabated diligence.

  “I’m not a proper man,” Julian replied. “That’s why I hired a governess: to mitigate the dire consequences of time spent in my company.”

  “No danger of bad influence when they see so little of you.”

  She kept her voice low so the children wouldn’t hear. Just to bait her he raised his. “I knew there was a reason I left them alone: my overdeveloped sense of responsibility.”

  “You are impossible, Your Grace.”

  “And you, Miss Grey”—he bent over to whisper in her ear—“are impertinent for an employee.”

  Watching her bite back her retort amused him, though he was sorry to miss the retort itself. He liked his governess just the way she was and she knew it too. He raised his voice again. “I have offered the Misses Osbourne my company at the theater.” He cut off three girlish gasps of glee. “Under certain conditions. Miss Grey knows what they are and the matter is in her hands.”

  The governess narrowed her eyes in disgust and he smiled blandly.

  A chorus of “Please, Miss Grey” arose from the schoolgirl ranks, but Oliver, insensitive as ever, balked him of the pleasure of learning how she’
d deal with the fox he’d tossed into her dovecote. “Ten minutes, Jane. Sit down again for ten minutes.”

  A woman of uncommon intelligence, Jane had clearly already learned that Oliver, however much he might claim to adore her, was not easily gainsaid when it came to his work. With no more protest than a toss of the head, she resumed her inviting posture, threatening fruit knife, and expression of murderous fury worthy of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth. This time, surely, Julian was the object of her violent thoughts. Just as long as he eventually became the object of her passion.

  “Won’t you be Samson, Julian? Go to sleep against Jane’s bosom and let her cut your hair.”

  “A tempting offer that I must, I fear, decline. In all the years we’ve known each other I’ve never sat for you,” he said, “and I certainly won’t break my rule for Samson. You need someone much beefier. Besides, if I won’t permit a barber to cut my hair, I’m not going to risk it in the vicinity of a governess with a fruit knife.”

  “Why do you keep it long, Your Grace?” Maria ventured to ask. “I still see longer hair in Ireland where they aren’t so fashionable. Everyone in London seems to wear a crop.”

  “Mere affectation.” He dismissed her question with a flick of the wrist. “You are my sisters,” he said brusquely. “You may as well call me Julian. Or Denford if you insist on formality.” Then, because it would please Jane Grey and for no other reason, he decided to display a little interest in them. “Show me your drawing, if you like, but I warn you I’m a harsh critic. Oliver will be kinder, when he gets round to looking at your work.”

  Maria held up her drawing with an air of modest pride. She’d sketched Jane’s body roughly and concentrated on the face.

  “You have a certain facility and it’s a passable likeness. But there’s no life to the portrait. I don’t recommend you set up as an artist.”

  “Well, of course I wouldn’t do that,” Maria said. “I’m almost old enough to be married. Gentlemen admire a lady who is accomplished with a pencil or brush.”

  “I suppose some do.” Personally Julian despised genteel lady painters, finding the banality of their production an insult to his senses. “What about you, Fenella? Do you aspire to catch a husband the same way?”

  Fenella scowled. “Here,” she said, thrusting her pad of paper at him. He choked back laughter. True to form, the troublesome middle sister hadn’t made the slightest effort to sketch the designated model. Instead she’d drawn a tall male figure with dark clothing and long hair and endowed him with a beard, horns, and a tail. What she lacked in skill she made up in raw emotion, so lacking in her sister’s bloodless effort. He turned his attention to the fledgling caricaturist, who met his gaze with a kind of fearful scorn.

  His mouth twitched with amusement. “That’s very . . . interesting, Fenella. I look forward to hearing Oliver’s judgment. I’m sure he’ll be able to give you some hints to help you improve.” He would not have expected one of Frederick Osbourne’s spawn capable of such originality in her defiance. “Tell me,” he asked, despite his resolution never to speak to them of the pompous hypocrite who’d ejected him from the family, “what did your father think of your drawing?”

  Fenella pinched her lips tightly, to the detriment of her already indifferent beauty, and said nothing.

  “I believe he would have enjoyed this effort of yours. It seems you and he held the same opinion of me.”

  “I never thought the same as Papa about anything. And I never will think the same as you either.”

  “Too late,” Julian said. “We already have something in common.”

  “What?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I also never agreed with your father.”

  Fenella chewed her lower lip while she digested this statement. “Is that why you never came to visit us?”

  “I was busy,” he said shortly, having no intention of going into the cruelty inflicted on him by a stepfather who resented any attention paid him by his beautiful mother and made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in their home, with their new family. He’d locked the door on that part of his life, and Osbourne’s death meant he could throw away the key. Withdrawing from the group, he stared out of the window with his back to the room. He emptied his mind, taking himself out of the company, even that of the delectable Miss Grey. The early spring garden in the middle of Hanover Square, a prosaic collection of trees and shrubs bearing their first leaves like a misty green veil, held no interest for him, and he let his mind drift to the limpid skies and blue hills found in paintings of the Italian Renaissance. No wonder England rarely produced decent artists. They might have the skill but they lacked the inspiration.

  A tug on his sleeve recalled him to the present.

  “Julian? Brother?” It was Laura. “Will you look at my picture?”

  “Are you any better than your sisters?”

  Laura wafted him a sly grin that made him rethink his assessment of Maria as the beauty of the family. The youngest had also inherited her mother’s looks, but she had a saucy charm that he hoped she wouldn’t lose as she grew up. Not with Jane Grey as example, possessor of her own saucy appeal. “I don’t know. I didn’t draw the same thing. I wanted to do something different.”

  “I see.” Had this little black-haired cherub also depicted her brother as Mephistopheles? Probably not. After this morning he wouldn’t make the mistake of regarding his sisters as indistinguishable. They were still a confounded nuisance, but a slightly interesting one.

  “I didn’t want to draw Miss Grey,” she said. “I drew a cat instead.”

  He supposed it was a cat. It had whiskers. And a tail. And those must be ears. “It’s terrible,” he said.

  She giggled. “I know. Can I have a real one instead? Papa never let us have a cat. Or a dog.”

  “Certainly not,” he said, disguising his amusement at the blatant manipulation. No question that this one was related to him. “Or perhaps,” he said softly, “I might change my mind if Miss Grey thinks it’s a good idea. You should speak to her about it. Make sure you discuss it with her in great detail.”

  Chapter 6

  Jane spent the rest of the day being badgered by her charges about the theater and a cat and a dog, all of which she was supposed to speak to the duke about. The wretched man had managed to get his sisters to unwittingly plead his cause for him.

  She looked forward keenly to giving him a piece of her mind about his behavior when they met after dinner. Then perhaps, maybe, she would negotiate. A kiss wouldn’t be so terrible, and the girls didn’t need to know what means she’d used to obtain their theater excursion. However, there would be only a kiss. She did not like to imagine what he might demand for a cat or dog, but she was determined there would be no pets. For the moment.

  Half an hour before nine o’clock, she descended to her unsuitably ornate chamber to get ready. She had pretty gowns hidden in the back of the wardrobe, including an evening gown that had been the latest mode in Paris last year. Henri had given it to her to celebrate his most recent promotion, along with an offer of marriage.

  Henri had courted her while Mathieu was away in Italy with the army. When news arrived of the latter’s death, she hadn’t hesitated to accept Henri’s protection, relieved to be free of her seducer. As Henri’s career advanced she’d been able to hide away some money, with the idea of eventually coming to England in search of revenge.

  His unexpected proposal had forced her decision, finally, to make the break. She had wavered. In some ways it would have been easy to settle down as Madame Henri Dupont. But she couldn’t forget that her family had died horribly while she lived in relative comfort; her nightmares came back; there could be no peace for her in France. While Henri professed to be heartbroken, she knew that he was also slightly relieved. He loved her but he was an ambitious man, and an English wife, even one who spoke French perfectly, was a small patch of rust on the shining patriotic shield of his reputation. She left him a week later, keeping the gown and other gifts. She di
dn’t feel guilty. She’d used Henri for her own purposes, as he had her. She had been a good mistress but agreeing to be his wife would mean forgetting the past, turning her back on Jeanne de Falleron forever.

  She fingered the fine material, picturing the appreciative gleam in Denford’s eye should she present herself in the dark rose silk, cunningly designed to cling to her body. But a governess would never own such a luxurious thing. While she could claim it came from Saint Lucia, she wouldn’t put it past Denford to recognize the fashion. Despite several years of war, the English were still able to find out what was worn in Paris and copy it.

  Regretfully she closed the wardrobe door, washed her hands and face and tidied her hair. Her sole concession to the occasion was a crisp muslin fichu to lighten the unrelieved gray of her plain, round gown and a small gold cross and chain that had belonged to Mathieu’s mother. Considering what Mathieu had done to her, she certainly deserved this small piece of jewelry.

  She needn’t have taken the trouble. A footman appeared at the door with a small package containing a key and a curt note.

  I am dining out so we will not meet tonight. This is the key to the door between our chambers. You are welcome to use it at any time.

  Denford

  She grasped his game. He was toying with her, hoping to pique her with a show of indifference. Annoyingly, it worked, or would have done so had she not understood him so well.

  Returning to the wardrobe, she opened the drawer at the bottom. Folded inside a gauze shawl, another item too fine for a governess, was the knife Mathieu had given her when he left for Italy. He’d shown her how to defend herself. Holding it up, she let the wicked blade catch the candlelight. She’d never had to wield it in defense but she knew how to use it to kill.

  It was a good thing that the duke had canceled tonight’s meeting because her attraction to him interfered with her purpose. Denford must mean nothing to her save as a source of information about his unidentified relation. As anything else he was a distraction from her main goal.