The Wicked Duke (2 page)

T
he flower had noticed him.

That was what Lance first thought he saw through the branches—a flower abloom in the graveyard despite the January cold. Impossible of course, unless someone bought a bouquet from a hothouse to lay on Percy's grave. He could not imagine anyone doing that. It would be a very belated sentiment after nine months, squandered on a man who left no positive legacy.

It was not a flower, but a vision just as pretty, as it turned out. A woman had ridden here, on a horse the same dappled gray as the barren branches. The horse ate grass near the low wall surrounding the graveyard. She must have used the wall to dismount. Now she examined Percy's grave without emotion. She might be viewing a new painting.

The deep rose hue of her riding habit contrasted starkly with the dull trees. Even the steel-toned stones of the chapel appeared designed to make her more obvious. Her copper hair, shot through with gold, drew attention to her deep blue eyes.

It had been some time since he had enjoyed the sight of a lovely female at Merrywood Manor who was not a relative. His blood stirred. He might be one of these old oaks, and spring had arrived.

She had noticed him now, and to lurk in the woods would make him a fool. He stepped forward, to the edge of the clearing.

She arched one eyebrow. Whatever she saw in him did not impress her much. He could see the conclusions she drew about the musket and hares that he carried. He stepped over the wall, then set the gun and the day's kill down on the ground.

“Are you paying your respects?” he asked as he walked closer to her. He thought her upturned little nose and wide mouth very attractive. Of course, in his current state of isolation, he would probably find any young woman appealing. Abstinence did that to a man. Right now it had him thinking he preferred little upturned noses to all other kinds.

“I personally did not know any of them.” She pointed to the monstrous pyramid. “He must have been much admired, to have such a sepulcher built for him.”

“He built it himself. Or at least began it, then left funds for its quick completion should he die early.”

“You mean like the pharaohs of ancient Egypt. It is
said those pyramids were started as soon as a man became king, because each one dared not trust his successor to see it done for him.”

An educated flower, it appeared. She had the kind of face that would appear fresh, friendly, and girlish even when she grew old. Bright doe eyes, full cheeks, dimples . . .

“Are you a visitor to the manor?” He knew she was not, but he wanted the conversation to continue.

She shook her head.

“Are you lost?”

“No. I was just curious. I suppose I am trespassing.” She gave him a sly smile. “Like you?”

It was an excellent opportunity to explain who he was. Only if he did, she would most likely flee. His reputation had never been the kind to encourage nice young ladies to dally, and this past year even grown men treated him with caution. The Wicked Duke, he had come to be called, his valet had mournfully told him. So much for almost a year of living like a monkish country squire, concerned only with the welfare of his neighbors.

That had been his brother Ives's idea—that correct and moral living would lead people to think the best of him. Ives tended to be too optimistic about his fellow man.

“I am not trespassing. I am allowed to be here,” he said. “It is required of my situation. I am not a poacher, if that is what you assumed.”

“Oh.” Her color rose. She glanced to the musket and hares. “Of course. Why have hunting lands if no one hunts?
No doubt a duke has many huntsmen. The wonder is that I did not see one today before this.”

“I am such a sure shot that Aylesbury does not need an army to fill his kitchen and the winter pots of his tenants.”

He ambled closer, watching her much as he watched his prey when he hunted, looking for signs she would bolt. He hoped not. This simple exchange had him enjoying himself more than he had in weeks. Months. The sap had begun to flow strongly now. Given half a chance and the slightest encouragement, he might pluck a pretty flower today. Sniff his fill of its nectar's scent. Nibble and lick the velvet surfaces of its petals—

He put such considerations out of his mind. He was not really a wicked duke. Well, not with the daughters of county neighbors. Not normally, at least.

Only he could not remember seeing her about in the county in the past. “Do you live on one of the neighboring properties?”

She thought before answering, which he found peculiar. “Yes and no,” she said.

Even more peculiar.

“I am visiting a relative,” she explained. “He has offered that I live in his home. I am dependent on him, but I am not sure I like the idea of being that dependent.”

“He sounds to be a generous man. Perhaps you would do well to allow him to help you even more than he has.”

“It does sound generous, doesn't it? Since he is not by nature that kind of man, I am suspicious.” She blushed,
and made a little waving motion with her hand. “I am sure all will be well.” She turned her attention once more to the monstrous sepulcher. “Do not tell the family anyone said so, but it is not well carved, perhaps due to its haste in construction. The figure of this man here is unnatural in appearance, and almost deformed in the way he is twisted.”

As was the character of the person whose body lay beneath the pile. “That is the thing about grave markers—it is considered rude to take them down later. It will remain as you see it for generations, I expect.”

“Maybe the new duke will grow some ivy over it.”

She paced between the other markers. He trailed along, far enough not to alarm her, but close enough to catch the scent of rose water. She even smelled like a flower. He wondered if it were warmer inside the little chapel, and tried to remember if there were any cushions that might make a rough bed.

Not that he was so wicked as to seduce an impoverished young woman related to one of his neighbors. And if he were that wicked, which half of him contemplated being and the whole of him badly wanted to be, he would never do it in a chapel on a cold stone floor. Even driven mad by isolation and boredom, he had some standards.

The tree canopy broke above the center of the graveyard. She stepped into a pool of sunlight that formed beneath it. The golds in her hair shined brightly and her eyes took on the color of violets. He pictured her hair unbound, falling freely around her shoulders, mussed from a night in bed.

She peered down at his father's marker, as plain in design as his brother's was bold. “I used to live in this area,” she said. “Years ago. I remember this duke. He was known as a good man.”

“He was one.” A good man, but not perfect. Still, not bad. Not twisted and not wicked. “When did you live here?” No images came to his head of a girl who looked like her, but she could not be more than twenty-two or so. If by years ago she meant even five years, he would have paid no mind to the girl she had been when she last inhabited his world.

“It has been a long time. Still, I know some people.”

“Then you will not feel uncomfortable if you attend county assemblies. There should be one at the next full moon.”

For some reason that brought her full attention on him. She examined him suspiciously. Her gaze spent a good amount of time on his garments.

Her nose rose. Her lids lowered. Her back stiffened. “I think you have been misleading me, sir. You are no huntsman.”

*   *   *

“I
never said I was a huntsman.” The man offered a slow smile while he said it.

“You allowed me to believe it.”

“I allowed you to conclude I was not a poacher, which I am not. We never talked about my specific situation here. I am curious, however. What gave me away?”

“Your coat and your boots. In the shade their quality
was not apparent. But here, in the sun, with you—”
With you so close
. She almost said it. He
was
close. Somehow, as they chatted, he had sidled nearer. So she could see the fine wool of his coats, and the superior craftsmanship of his boots. The hat, with its low, flat crown, still had little to recommend it, and his beard indicated he bowed to no fashion, but he was higher than a huntsman in the duke's entourage of servants.

“Then there was your mention of assemblies. I doubt a huntsman attends them, or thinks of them so readily. Your speech is educated too.” She listed the evidence, some of which she only now gathered as she surveyed him. “I think I know who you are.”

A twinkle of humor entered his eyes. They were dark and intense but not threatening or unkind—at least she did not think so, even if his proximity caused her some discomfort. She did not experience fear as such, but a jumpy nervousness, as if this ride might turn out unlike what she expected on setting off, and this man was the reason.

He was a stranger, after all. Nice coats notwithstanding, she had been too quick to enter into conversation with him.

“Who do you think I am?” he asked.

“The steward.”

“The steward.” He laughed quietly. “First a poacher, then a huntsman, now a steward. I am rising quickly in your esteem. If we dally another ten minutes, you will proclaim me the duke.”

She burst out laughing, and he joined in.

“Do I look like a steward?”

“Not at all. Hence my mistake. I think your master is in London raising the hell he has long been reputed for enjoying, and without him here, you enjoy a more rustic practice in your grooming.”

He felt his face. “You mean the beard?”

“I do.”

“You do not care for it?”

“I do not, but my opinion does not signify. I assume you shave immediately when the duke comes down from town.”

“If I shave it on my own, will you dance with me at the next assembly?”

His tone of voice possessed a flirtatious softness, but that was not what dazed her. Something to it that she could not name—a very masculine current—took her aback.

“Do not shave on my account, sir.”

“Are you saying you will not dance with me under any circumstance, or you will even if I do not shave?”

“I—uh—if we are properly introduced, I may— That is—” She stammered like an idiot. It seemed he had come closer yet, except he had not moved.

She glanced around. Here she stood in a graveyard, talking to a stranger who in the last moment had revealed himself to be a formidable presence. It was as if he exercised a power that urged her toward more familiarity, and more physical closeness. He might have removed a cloak under which he hid his true self, and revealed the ability to mesmerize like a magician.

She was not immune to the spell he cast her way. She found herself hoping he
did
ask her to dance at the next
assembly. At the same time, she could not ignore a sense of impending danger. This coincidental meeting had become too familiar, in spirit if not in words.

Gathering up her skirt, she turned to her horse. “I must go.”

He bent and picked up the long train that made a riding habit inconvenient for anything except riding. “I will help you onto the horse.”

“The wall will do. It is how I dismounted, right there where that tree stump rises halfway up the wall. I am very agile, and Calliope is very well trained.”

“If the horse moves, you will hurt yourself. Also, you will appear very clumsy clamoring up first onto the stump, then the wall, then the horse.”

“No one sees me to care if I appear clumsy.”

“I will see it today. If you were not so pretty, I would stand back and enjoy the theater. However, I prefer to help you mount with some grace.”

She could think of no way to dissuade him. She certainly should not allow him to do anything more than hand her up the tree stump onto the wall and hold her horse, however.

She explained all of that once they arrived at Calliope. He looked down at her as if she had just spoken in Chinese. Her heart beat hard.

He draped her train over her arm. “Are you ready?” His voice teased, as if they were about to do something audacious.

He stepped very close. She smelled leather and
something spicy. His hands firmly closed on her waist. Her feet left the ground.

He did not hoist her up in one quick swing. Rather, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, slowly. So slowly that for a long spell her face remained near his and he looked deeply into her eyes. So slowly that her body felt the warmth of his. Her breath left her.

Then she was sitting on Calliope, embarrassed and awed.

He looked up. “Did you think I was going to kiss you?”

“Of course not. What nonsense. You don't even know my name.”

“If you think a man needs to know a woman's name before he kisses her, you are very innocent. Too innocent to talk to strangers in the woods.” He handed her the reins and managed to cover her hands with his as he did so. Warm hands. Strong and surprisingly soft. “I will make sure we are properly introduced very soon, since it matters to you.”