Dusk With a Dangerous Duke (13 page)

The
ton
knew her as Lord Greenshield’s natural daughter and the lady who had tamed Sainthill’s wild heart. Most would not believe him even if he were cruel enough to speak the truth—the marchioness had once beguiled the males in London as Madame Venna. Hunter saw nothing of the masked proprietress in the serene, confident Catherine. Along with her half-mask and exotic accent, she had cast aside her anger toward the parents who had abandoned her and her need for revenge against those who had hurt her when she was vulnerable.

Saint had altered her life as much as she had changed his. While Hunter missed those long, wild nights of debauchery with his friend, there was no doubt that Saint and Catherine were happy.

“It is so good to see you,” she said, returning to his side. She surprised both of them by kissing him on the cheek. For a former brothel madam, Catherine did not like to be touched, and it was this elusiveness that caused the patrons of the Golden Pearl to claim her as their own.

Although he would never admit it to Saint, Hunter would have welcomed Madame V into his bed if she had deigned to return his flirtation. Frost, on the other hand, had bedded the lady when Saint had abandoned all hope of claiming her affections. There had been a few weeks last summer when Hunter had wondered if Saint was going to throttle Frost over an incident that occurred years ago and had more to do with easing loneliness than with love. Still, if Frost was smart, he would refrain from mentioning the brief affair in Saint’s presence.

Catherine smiled up at him. “We are fortunate to have such a good friend.”

“Very nice,” Saint drawled from the doorway. “I discover my dearest friend fondling my wife in my drawing room.”

Unabashed, Catherine glanced back at her husband and grinned. “Really, love, being ravished in the drawing room sounds too civilized.” She winked at Hunter and walked over to Saint, who automatically enfolded his lady in a possessive embrace. “You are well aware that I want to be adventurous now that you’ve turned me into a staid married lady.”

If Saint had been genuinely jealous, Hunter would have offered an explanation and an apology. However, none was required. Saint knew his friend was honorable, even when caught in a compromising embrace with his wife.

Saint cupped Catherine’s face and kissed her, infusing enough passion into the gesture that Hunter wondered if he should take a walk in the back gardens.

“No one could accuse you of being staid,” his friend said, not taking his gaze off his wife’s face. “And later, I will prove to you that being ravished in a drawing room can be exciting.”

“Promise?” She playfully tugged on his cravat.

“You can trust me,” he assured her. “When I am finished, you will be unable to enter this room without blushing.”

“It is apparent you both are too distracted for a visit.” Hunter retrieved his hat from a table and headed toward them. “I will call another day.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Saint said, keeping his arm around Catherine’s waist. “Sit down and tell us why you are here.”

“Oh, that is simple enough,” Hunter said. “My betrothed is in London, and she intends to marry another man. I need some advice on how to court the lady. Otherwise, I will likely put a bullet in the first gent who offers for her hand.”

Chapter Twelve

“I’m so pleased you are amused,” Hunter muttered crossly.

Saint had been laughing for a solid five minutes. The only thing preventing Hunter from punching the happy bastard was Catherine. While she had seen her fair share of violence over the years, it would be rude to pummel one of his dearest friends in the lady’s drawing room.

“Forgive me, my friend,” the marquess said, trying to catch his breath. “How many times did you manage to lose your lady?”

“I did not precisely lose her,” Hunter protested. “She left with her servants, and I deigned not to follow. Lady Grace has the unfortunate habit of not staying in one place.”

“How long have you been betrothed to this young woman?”

The question came from Catherine. Hunter gave her a sheepish look. “Since I was twelve.”

Catherine’s gray eyes widened in surprise as she soundlessly counted the number of years that had passed. “Nineteen years is a long time to be betrothed. In all the years you patronized the Golden Pearl, you never once mentioned this marriage arrangement.”

Her soft condemnation was stinging, even if it was well deserved.

“I mean no insult, dear lady, but our association was strictly business. You provided me with nightly amusements, and I made you a very rich woman,” Hunter said bluntly.

A soft oath rumbled in Saint’s throat; his fury at the reminder that his lady had once peddled flesh and sin to the wealthy was evident. Catherine laid her hand on his forearm. The tender gesture kept her husband from tearing Hunter apart, for which he was grateful. He had no desire to fight his friend.

“You are correct, of course,” the marchioness said, her smile stiffer and less welcoming than it had been before.

Hunter instantly regretted his words. He had come for their help, not to upset either one of them about the past.

“Even if we had been friends, you likely would have never heard of Lady Grace Kearly.” He sighed with resignation. “I rarely spoke of her, even to my closest friends. Saint will attest that I am speaking the truth.”

“He is,” Saint said, still sounding furious on his wife’s behalf. “Regardless, he owes you an apology.”

Before Hunter could open his mouth, Catherine was shaking her head. “I do not require one. Nor should you insist,” she said, sensing her husband was planning to demand it regardless of her wishes. “He has been a good friend to both of us, and I trust him to keep our secrets.”

“You humble me, my lady.” Hunter would have preferred that she slapped him for his callous comment.

“I disagree,” she countered. “You were there the night my husband confronted Mulcaster and Royles. You delivered the punishment they deserved for hurting one of my girls, and even managed to impress upon them that spreading rumors might shorten their miserable lives. In many ways I owe you.”

Hunter’s forehead furrowed. “How so?”

Catherine glanced at her husband. “You and Frost kept Saint safe, even when he was determined to do something foolish like challenge Mulcaster. To this day, the gentleman keeps his distance for fear of pricking the temper of any Lord of Vice.”

“Royles never told him the truth about you,” Saint said, his voice roughening as he struggled with his anger.

“I am well aware of it,” she said, her gray eyes warming with amusement. “If he had, I suspect both men would have succumbed to untimely accidents.”

“If Mulcaster ever figures out that he knew you as Madame Venna, I might have to do more than break his jaw,” Saint said, meaning every word.

“And I can direct you to several locations where one can conceal a body.” When he and Saint stared at her in grim astonishment, she added, “Why are you both surprised? Running a brothel is a dangerous business. It was one of the reasons why I decided to close the doors to the Golden Pearl.”

It was time to change the subject.

“So tell me more about your Lady Grace.”

*   *   *

“The duke was following us.”

Grace and Rosemary never made it back to their residence. The park was closer, and her companion insisted on hearing every detail without other people underfoot.

“I am not so certain,” Grace countered. “He had already purchased the bouquets. I have it on good authority that His Grace is quite familiar with all the flower stalls in town.”

On the day of their accidental meeting, the duke had been nearby because he had intended to purchase flowers for someone. This afternoon, he had claimed he had appointments—appointments that required small tokens of his affection.

There was nothing anyone could say to convince her that the flowers he had placed into her arms had been intended for her.

Recognizing that pained expression on her mistress’s face, Rosemary gentled her voice. “Darling, you were so young when the marriage arrangement was struck. The duke was still a boy. That grandmother of his had a way about her. She frightened fully grown men, so it wouldn’t have taken much to bend a twelve-year-old boy to her will.”

“What are trying to say, Rosemary?”

The older woman hesitated, unwilling to add to Grace’s pain. “As you know, no one asked for my opinion at the time, and I would have given your grandfather an earful if I thought he might listen. Time has proven that the dowager should have waited until you were older before she bound you to her grandson. Perhaps, the duke would have not been so resistant to the notion of marrying you if he had had a glimpse of the lady you have become.”

Grace thought of the miniature Mr. Porter had presented to her years earlier as a birthday present. His Grace had been several years younger than she was currently when he had posed for the artist. Even then, she could see the man waiting to emerge from the boy. Her heart had memorized every line of his handsome face. The color of his eyes and hair. The enticing curve of his lips. How many years had she dreamed of him kissing her?

And when Hunter and I finally met, neither of us recognized the other.

As a child, she had fancied that they were soul mates. Though separated by the passing years, destined hearts would recognize each other. The romantic poets composed frivolous drivel. When she returned to Frethwell Hall, she intended to burn those silly passionate books that had led to her downfall.

Dear heaven, it hurt more than she could have ever imagined.

“Do you remember the miniature Mr. Porter gave me?” Grace said, feigning a calmness she did not feel. “He had told me that the duke wished for me to have it.”

It had been a tiny falsehood on Mr. Porter’s part to ease a young girl’s sorrow. She had lost everyone who had been important to her, and was beginning to doubt the duke’s affections for her.

Although she loathed admitting it, nature and time had improved upon the real man she had built her dreams of family and home around.

“Indeed, I had forgotten about it,” Rosemary said, speaking of the miniature. “I thought you had consigned the blasted thing to an empty drawer and had not gazed upon it in years.”

Grace grimaced, annoyed that she had neatly trapped herself with the old lie. How could she explain to Rosemary that she had retrieved the miniature within hours of abandoning it? The duke’s portrait was still one of her most treasured belongings. She had even brought it to London, all the while knowing that the journey was her first step in freeing herself from an arranged marriage.

She shrugged. “I did. Nevertheless, I have spent my entire life waiting patiently for this man to claim me. Is it so strange that my curiosity drove me to pull out the trinket from time to time and study the face of the gentleman who was picked to marry me?”

“What’s this?” Rosemary asked, stepping closer. “I thought we had come to London so you didn’t have to marry the scoundrel?”

“We did,” Grace protested, worried that she was feeling conflicted now that she had met the man. “I am. The duke’s reaction was unexpected. I thought he would be relieved when I cried off.”

“Need I remind you that His Grace was probably chasing ladies in Covent Garden?” The older woman uttered a wordless oath. “Do you need further proof that Huntsley is a debauchee? For all you know, he has several mistresses and a dozen bastards clinging to their skirts.”

Grace’s heart clenched at the possibility. She had been foolish to believe that the duke would have been faithful to a lady he never wanted to claim.

“What do you propose that I do?” she demanded, choosing anger over tears. “Lady Netherley has agreed to help me find a husband. The Duke of Huntsley has already proven untrustworthy. With my uncle plotting to seize my inheritance, I cannot afford to make any mistakes.”

“That’s my girl,” Rosemary said, pulling Grace close and hugging her. “Now that we have recovered from all of this excitement, I suggest we return to the house and get something warm in your belly. Once you feel better, we can discuss our next step.”

“Yes,” Grace said, allowing the woman to guide her toward the coach. “You take such good care of me, Rosemary. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The woman who was the closest thing Grace had to a mother said, “And God willing, you never will.”

*   *   *

“Honestly, I know very little about Lady Grace,” Hunter admitted, meeting the Marchioness of Sainthill’s gaze. “The fault is mine. Porter sent me reports, but I rarely read them.”

It was enough for him to know that the girl was being fed, clothed, and educated properly.

“You have been receiving these unread reports for nineteen years.”

When put that way, he wanted to order someone to soundly beat him for his casual dismissal of a girl who had no one but him.

“Yes.”

Though there was no accusation in her tone, his expression darkened. “We were betrothed as children, Catherine. A vast number of years have passed since that day.”

“Cease teasing Hunter, love,” Saint said, settling down beside her on the sofa. The gent could not seem to keep his hands off his wife. “Can you not see that he feels guilty for his neglect?”

It was not precisely true, but to deny it would cast him in an unpleasant light. “I am taking responsibility for her.”

Catherine clasped her hands together. “Have you considered that Lady Grace may wish to find someone else who might be more suited to her delicate temperament?”

“Lady Netherley has decided to play matchmaker. However, Lady Grace will have to struggle with her disappointment,” Hunter said, almost relishing the battle between them. “A bargain was struck, and it will be kept.”

“This has more to do with your cousin than the lady,” Saint reminded him needlessly.

And I have no intention of allowing the miscreant to win.

Feeling defensive, he demanded, “What does it matter? Lady Grace will be my duchess.”

She believes I have failed her.

Hunter was unused to failing at anything. It was just one more thing he could blame Lady Grace for.