Forbidden to Love the Duke (20 page)

She was still awake when the sun rose. Mary had come back to Ivy's room, where they had held a nightlong vigil, each one taking turns to scout the hall and return with news.

“His valet knocked and was admitted at two,” Mary reported.

“The maids brought in boiling water,” Ivy announced at dawn.

“You should have seen his breakfast.” Mary crawled into Ivy's bed. “It was enormous, and I'm so hungry.”

“So am I,” Ivy said, sighing in relief. “Sneak back to your room, miss. Try to get some sleep.”

Mary turned onto her side. “Do I have to?”

“A good spy can't be caught in her night rail. I shall commend you to the Alien Office for your intelligence work.”

Mary rolled off the end of the bed. “You're ever so silly.”

“Be sure to take your passport. Beware of iron spikes in the hall.”

“Lady Ivy?”

Ivy listened to the clatter of activity outside her room. “Later, Mary. I have to wash and dress and look presentable.”

Mary giggled. “Good luck.”

“You—”

Mary darted into the hall and closed the door.

B
y morning, word had spread through the house that in the physician's opinion the bloodletting had caused the duke to run a high fever, which proved that his body had responded to medical treatment. Dr. Buchan had completed an anatomical examination of the duke and declared him fit.

Ivy was astonished when she was called into the drawing room. Smartly turned out in a white muslin shirt with a steel gray coat and matching trousers, James did not resemble the monster she had met in the hall last night. True, he looked a trifle pale. His cheeks seemed drawn. And she was hesitant to meet his gaze. She was afraid she would find his eyes devoid of any emotion for her. She was too vulnerable to have him dismiss what they shared with a look, or worse, to act as if nothing had changed between them at all. Nonetheless, she had known what she risked.

But then courage compelled her and she looked straight up at him. There was a sexual heat in his gaze that she might have attributed to lingering fever—until he strode from the fire to kiss her on the cheek in front
of Wendover, Carstairs, and the two footmen who had just entered the room behind her.

“I've shared the news,” he said in a hoarse voice that made her shiver in her shoes. “I hope you don't mind. Wendover is to be my best man. We'll arrange the wedding plans this week.”

She glanced around, savoring the smiles and murmured congratulations reassuring her that James had remembered his promise. His smug grin also reassured her he hadn't forgotten the hours of pleasure spent in his bed. She felt as though she'd walked through a storm and emerged in the middle of a rainbow.

How had he managed to return so quickly to his devastating self after scaring the wits out of her? It was a tribute to his unbendable will and stamina and her answered prayers. Now if only she could forget Oliver's surprise visit and hope that Mary had already put it from her mind.

“If you don't stop touching me, James, everyone in the house will guess what we've been doing,” she whispered as one of the footmen placed a tea tray on the table.

He led her to a chair, speaking in her ear. “I'm only doing my duty.”

“Seducing the governess?”

“Begetting an heir,” he said rather loudly.

She glanced around. She was certain she saw one footman grin at another. “Not before the wedding.”

“A fortnight or so won't matter. Nor will anything else in the past. It's not as if we're going to stand at the altar after we've said our vows, waiting for the vicar to shout, “On your marks, get set—”

“I hope not.”

“Whether we marry here or in London, we'll have to celebrate with our tenants. Do you ride a horse?”

“It's been years,” she confessed.

“Can you hold several glasses of apple cider?”

She gave him a strange look. “Do you mean in my hands while I'm astride?”

He grinned. “I'm not asking whether you can perform in a circus. Our tenants will want to toast our well-being, and Ellsworth produces a potent cider.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the least. In that case, however, I think several sips will probably be my limit.”

“We'll decide on your limits later, shall we?”

“Do you have to speak in such a loud voice about these things?” she whispered.

He blinked. “What does it matter? We have nothing to hide.”

He didn't. Ivy did, and she felt horrible. To start things off by keeping a secret from him felt like a betrayal. And she hadn't done a thing to encourage Oliver. He'd brought nothing but trouble into her life.

James straightened, leaving her to blush and meet Wendover's knowing smile. How was she supposed to conduct herself now? Like a servant or a newly engaged lady? Despite James's insatiable appetite for passion and his return to good health, she had to consider what sort of impression she made. As duke he could get away with murder.

He could even make a covert gesture to his best friend, ignore the second footman who brought him the post on a salver, and mumble some excuse about asking Ivy's opinion on whether she preferred that their wedding be held in London or here in the
country, and would she mind walking upstairs to inspect the late duchess's suite that she would soon take personal possession of . . . in which the duke, she assumed as he trailed on, was to take immediate possession of her.

O
liver brushed down and watered his horse. He knew Rosemary had awakened and watched him from her window, so he gave her a jaunty wave on his way to the gatehouse. A gatehouse, for God's sake. Had he remained with his feckless circle of friends in London, no one would even ask him why he'd been dressed as a maid. He wouldn't be sleeping alone. He wouldn't have been rejected by one temperamental woman and had his writing mocked by her sultry sister.

He mounted the gatehouse stairs, took a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and drank its contents so quickly he couldn't make up his mind whether it was Peony or Primrose he fancied most. He stretched out on the uncomfortable trundle bed with his pistol on his chest. He doubted Ivy would tell the duke he'd broken into his house, but the woman did have a mind of her own. Then he fell asleep wondering how he would find a treasure that had eluded discovery for centuries. How did he even know it actually existed? It was certain that he wouldn't find it lying half-drunk in the gatehouse. Was it worth the price of facing the duke in a duel?
Oliver had heard rumors that Ellsworth had lost his abilities as a marksman. Except he didn't appear at all incapacitated. Anyway, if Oliver killed him, he'd be forced to flee England, without benefit of an heiress or her fortune. One didn't kill a peer of the realm and resume his activities the next day.

His plan was unraveling. He had to recover something from the time and money he had invested.

He was too perplexed to have come to any decisions when hours later he heard Quigley in the garden catching snails. There was a vehicle traversing the bridge, to judge by the muffled clop of hooves and grinding wheels. Or was that Lilac bringing up his tea? Poor lady. For all her loveliness, she could never make a graceful entrance. Her gait unfairly ruined her worth. The girl needed a prince.

He grunted, pulling a blanket over his head. A moment later Lilac screamed and the clatter of broken china, underscored by a furious roar from Quigley, propelled Oliver down the stairs and out into the glare of a gray morning.

And a vicious assault in progress.

Was he seeing things? A man appeared to be chasing Lilac through the roses, and Quigley had taken a shovel to swing at—God, it couldn't be.

Oliver opened his mouth to call out the man's name. But then the front door opened, and out ran Rosemary, holding a pistol in her hands. Oliver thought for a moment that she might shoot him.

The damned pups escaped and started to bark. He strode out into the garden and shook his head. Terrible mistake.

He saw two of everything.

“What's happening?” he demanded of Rosemary and her blurry double.

She ran past him with a look that labeled him as helpful as horse manure. “There's a man attacking Lilac. Can't you see?”

He realized he had his pistol in his hand. He was also still wearing the apron, but its removal would have to wait. He blinked several times. His gaze picked out Lilac in the garden. She had hefted a crumbling urn full of geraniums into her arms and heaved it at her attacker, whose mask had begun to slip.

And who happened to be the last man Oliver had gambled with in a silver hell in London. “Help me, Oliver!” Lilac cried, reduced to flinging clods of dirt to defend herself.

He snapped out of his trance to obey, the dogs barking as if echoing Lilac's plea. Joseph Treadway had his hands around Lilac's throat, and Oliver raised his gun, aware of Rosemary rushing up behind him. “Please do something,” she beseeched him. “He's strangling her. I'm afraid if I shoot, I'll hit her.”

“The treasure,” Joseph said, spittle and dirt running down his chin. “I want your—”

“Move back, Rosemary!” Oliver said. “Move out of my way now.” Strangely, she did. Perhaps it was his voice. Perhaps she was indeed an intelligent woman, for she retreated several paces with only a covert glance at Lilac.

He waited another second, took aim, and said quietly, “Jesus. Joseph, look at me.”

The man turned reflexively, his grasp loosening on Lilac's neck, and Oliver pulled the trigger. He hit his acquaintance in the chest; a kill he'd intended and a kill
he'd made. He felt Rosemary rush around him. He looked up to find her handing him her gun.

“Help Quigley.”

He didn't know if she'd heard him call the dead man by name. There could still be time for him to find a way to cover the slip. Besides, she was too engrossed in pulling Lilac out from under Joseph's crumbled body to argue such a point now.

He turned, sidestepping dogs and geraniums, and took off up the path to help Quigley. But the old gardener had fended off his attacker like a swashbuckler, with a few swings of his shovel.

Oliver raised Rosemary's gun and trained it on the man Quigley had beaten. Good God. Look who it was. It wouldn't be difficult to take down a man of Ainsley Farbisher's age and half-arsed ability. In fact, the old roué was running from Quigley before Oliver needed to intervene. No mask could conceal his lumpy nose and potato-shaped chin.

“Well, shoot him,” Quigley said, throwing his shovel at the clumsy figure headed for the small carriage on the bridge.

“I have just killed one man,” Oliver said, lowering Rosemary's dueling pistol.

“Aye, a fine shot that. Now do it again.”

Oliver considered that option, but Ainsley had reached the bridge, and if Oliver gave chase, he took the risk of the old bugger revealing their acquaintance. “Damnation,” he muttered. “He's got away.”

“You let him escape.” Quigley wheeled back around toward the sisters.

Oliver strode through the neatly weeded garden to
the spot where Lilac stood, Rosemary trying to shield her from the body at their feet.

“Oh, Oliver,” Lilac said. “I don't know what we would have done if you weren't here. He was going to—”

“Don't talk about it,” Rosemary said. “He didn't do anything.”

“Yes, he did,” Lilac said. “He choked the breath out of me and said he would kill me if I didn't yield my treasure. We know what that means. How hideous of him. As if I would give up my valuables without a fight to the death.”

“We shall talk of it after we're inside,” Rosemary said, her face colorless. “You need to come into the house, Lilac.”

“Is Quigley all right?” Lilac asked, craning to look around her sister's shoulder.

Oliver wrenched off the apron he was still wearing and dropped it over the face and chest of the man he had just killed. “Quigley appears to be fine,” he said, straightening to study her. “What about you?”

“I broke the china,” she said. “And the silver tray got dented when I hit this person in the chops with it. What would have happened to us if you hadn't been here, Oliver? It doesn't bear thinking about.”

He tasted bile in his throat. “I should never have cleared the garden.”

Rosemary put her arms around Lilac's shoulders and dragged her toward the house. “I'll trust you to take care of this,” she said to Oliver. “If the magistrate needs my word as a witness, I shall be happy to give it in your defense, Sir Oliver.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

She stared down at the apron. “Of course.”

J
ames led her through the hall and up a side staircase that Ivy hadn't known existed. A row of footmen bowed to her and James as they passed, and it was dreadful of her, but she wanted to break into giggles. She and the other servants had been playing cards for pennies not three days ago. And now she had to act as if she were their better.

“I'm embarrassed,” she whispered, balking at the landing built beneath a domed skylight. The clouds drifted by, a discontented shade of blue.

“Whatever for?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I was one of them and now I'm one of you.”

He laughed. “In that case, there'll be more embarrassment in the months to come.”

“I don't think so,” she said, looking down from the skylight with a prim face. “I intend to set a good example.”

“It's too late for that,” he said, and pulled on her hand.

She caught the mahogany handrail, resisting. “I dislike the tone of that. I came to this house with the best intentions.”

“You couldn't follow any of the rules.”

“Not that again.”

He pulled her off the railing and into his arms. “Ivy, you and your sisters are the most original young ladies I've ever known. You can't fault me for what happened during the five years I wasn't in England to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

She laughed. “And that's why you are leading me to the Duchess Suite, is it? To redeem me from all those years of disgrace and originality?”

He shrugged, a typical man with only conquest on his mind. “I did mention that your sitting room adjoins your own personal library?”

Ivy felt herself falling under the spell of his guileless smile. Typical female, she thought wistfully, encouraging the conquest with her willingness to be led on. “There is a library downstairs, James,” she said.

“Not one quite as intimate as this.” He smiled into her eyes.

“That's what I suspected.” She let him tug her up another three steps. “What do you mean by suggesting we were on a crooked path? I take exception to that.”

“Forgive me. I should have known better than to insult the females of Fenwick.”

He glanced at her again over his shoulder. To judge by his vitality today, Ivy would almost have believed him to be immortal. She had realized last night that he was not. “What did I or my sisters do to justify that comment?”

His deep laugh pleased her senses. “For one thing Rue threatened me behind the door with a sword like Joan of Arc. For another, Rosemary greeted me with a dueling pistol in hand. In the midst of this hostile
welcome Lilac acted as if I had arrived for tea. And, you, my wicked heart, kissed an absolute stranger at a masquerade party. I suppose it is a blessing, considering convents are no longer an option, that the walls of Fenwick sheltered the four of you from the world for as long as they have.”

“Ah,” she said softly, “then you must see why the fault lies at your door.”

“I chased you
to
your door. That was a poor impulse on my part. I've admitted and apologized for it.”

“You're to blame for everything,” she said, drawing free from his grasp.

He arched his brow. “You look sad. What have I done?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I was just thinking how different everything might have turned out if you had proposed to me at the masquerade and sought my father out before he got into that fight.”

“I've wished, too, it had happened that way.” He leaned with her against the railing. “Would you have waited that long for me? And been faithful?”

“How could you doubt it? Of course my father might well have fought another duel. It was his nature.”

He laid his hand over hers. “But I would have been able to help. I'll take care of all of you now.”

She felt a shadow fall upon her contentment. His chivalry enchanted—and humbled—her. She didn't care if he teased her about what she and her sisters had done to survive. She'd do it all over again if she had to. She'd long ago accepted her past. She had nothing to hide anymore, except for Oliver's visit last night, which she hadn't had a moment to explain to James. Should she tell him now? Should she ruin his high spirits? Would a few hours more really matter?

Moments later, when they left the stairs and he opened the doors onto the octagonal sitting room that was to be her retreat, she was so overwhelmed that Oliver was the furthest thing from her mind.

Sunshine broke through the clouds and into the suite from a bow window that looked out across the lake. The room smelled pleasantly of beeswax and lemon oil. Ivy could not imagine the work needed to maintain the French tapestries and central chandelier on which she could not detect a single cobweb. The walls had been painted a restful yellow hue between the floor-to-ceiling Ionic columns.

“It's charming, James. It's warm and—well, this is so lovely I may never want to leave.”

She walked through an arched doorway into an alcove that contained a small library. A coat of arms hung above the fireplace. A game table sat in front of two cozy chairs.

“What do you think of the bedroom?” he asked, strolling into yet another room.

She followed. There was a circular dressing room and a tall chest of drawers, one of which James paused to open and briefly explore, but her eye went straight to the Chippendale bed hung with yellow damask embroidered with pink cabbage roses and poppies. James removed his vest and tossed it onto the matching counterpane.

He turned and took her into his arms. “Well?” He started to kiss and undress her at the same time.

“James, at least draw the drapes.”

“I want to see you in the light. No more chasing you into corners or hiding in your bedroom.”

“I agree. Our engagement calls for good form.”

“Yes—all I'm asking for is a good look at your form.”

“Did you untie my dress already?”

“Be patient, Ivy. I'm not as fast as I used to be. Bless you for not wearing buttons today.”

“So that's the secret to keeping you under control.”

He pulled off his shirt. “Wide eyelets would be helpful. I'll have to hire a personal dressmaker for you.”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “I would think you'd be mortified to run upstairs the way we just did after what happened last night.”

Her bodice and sleeves fell alongside his shirt. He smiled faintly. “I might have been, if I could remember everything that happened after you took advantage of me and left my room. Surely I can't be held accountable for behavior I don't recall committing.”

“I took advantage of you?”

“It's all right, darling. You forgive me. I have forgiven you. I know you were only trying to distract me.”

“You do have a distorted memory.”

“Not of you. All I remember is a goddess with a beautiful face and a body to match.”

She frowned as her shift and undergarments met his trousers on the floor. “James, where is your jacket? And your cravat?”

“I think I left them outside the door.” He knelt to take off her garters and stockings.

“You didn't,” she said with a gasp.

He laid his cheek against her thigh, smoothing his hand up the curve of her backside. “I've wanted to do this forever.” He leaned back, his hands skimming her hips. “Would you take down your hair?”

“Really, James. I need an hour to pin it back properly. People will know.”

“Take it loose and hold it up with your hands. Yes. That's nice. Turn around slowly.”

“It's not even noon,” she said, a flush working up her neck.

“I know how to tell time, Ivy.” His dark brows drew into a scowl. “Is this too much for you?”

“I haven't a clue why you would think that, James. It was only last night I believed you were dying and we slept together for the first time. Now, before breakfast, you inform the entire house that we're to be married.”

“Why didn't you have breakfast?”

“Do you honestly think I could face the rest of the household across a table after last night?”

“I did. Faced the servants, I mean. I took breakfast in my room as I often do.”

“Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?”

“You'll have to eat sooner or later.”

She contemplated him in concern. “You really don't remember coming out of your room?”

He grimaced. “God. I didn't run up and down the stairs naked in front of Cook, did I?”

“Not quite,” she said, dropping her hair to cover her breasts. “James, please, do we have to hold this conversation in front of the window? I feel extremely uncomfortable.”

“I'll close the drapes.”

She sighed in pleasure as he strode across the floor without the least inhibition and casually drew the curtains, like a Greek god disappearing into the obscurity of Olympus, to the disappointment of any mortal who happened to be standing below. Who would have thought that she would admire a man's backside? Or that the way his lean body moved could make her mouth go dry?

“Thank you,” she said.

“You're welcome.” He strode up to her, raking a hand through his hair. “Tell me about last night.”

“You had a nightshirt on, with that hideous poultice dripping down your legs. You lumbered down the hall like a wounded beast. Yes, Cook stood guard at the stairs so that you wouldn't break your neck. Mary saw everything.”

His gaze turned inward to a self-torture Ivy could feel. She looked away, wishing she hadn't told him. He would despise her, however, if she hid the truth. At last he gave a rueful laugh that broke the tension.

“I apologize,” he said. “Wendover tried to tell me this morning, but we were interrupted. Is that the worst of it?”

“As far as I know. I was locked out of your room after that.”

She looked up. So much for self-torture. He was sprawled out across the bed in complete disregard for his effect on her senses. Enough light entered the room that she could make out the blistered skin on his right arm, his muscular thighs and the rigid organ that he made no coy effort to conceal. He was incongruously magnificent on the floral counterpane, a lion in a field of roses and poppies. But she was not the least bit easy standing before him with every dimple and flaw exposed. His eyes raked her with raw desire.

He smiled. “You still look uncomfortable.”

He looked utterly dangerous while she stood suspended in a sensual daze.

“Ivy, lie down beside me and close your eyes.”

She did, her blood quickening at the request.

“Is that better?” he asked, caressing her back until she gave a deep sigh.

“Yes.”

“There are three conditions I will require of you from this day on.”

“Hmm?” This was certainly the sweetest day of her life. He had survived the night. He wanted to marry her. The past five years of grief, shame, and deprivation would be erased.

“Anything,” she whispered. And she meant it with all her heart.

“First, you will never drug me again, no matter what the physician says, no matter that I might be taking my last breath. I want to be aware at all times. Do you agree?”

She sighed. “I don't know that it's a wise choice, but, yes.”

“It is a wise choice, believe me. I became quickly addicted to opiates after I was injured. It was hell to break their hold on me. I don't want that to happen again. I'm afraid I wouldn't have the willpower the next time.”

“I didn't realize that. I apologize for forcing it on you.”

“Second, you will always tell me the truth, no matter how embarrassing or how unpleasant it might be. I should have told you before about my addiction.”

She had always given him the truth until now. She would before the day ended. “And the last condition?”

“We take pleasure in each other whether it is dark or light, whether others approve of what we do or not. Do you agree?”

A pulse throbbed deep in her belly, responding to the sexuality in his voice. Her body agreed. Her mind had a few doubts, but they were swept away as soon as he started to kiss her, and all that mattered were the hands
moving over her in persuasion and her need to belong to the potent male who was proving to be every bit as dangerous and delicious as he'd looked a few minutes ago.

“One more thing,” he whispered, squeezing her nipples until she didn't care if the ceiling flew off the roof.

“What?”

“Don't expect proper behavior from me in the bedroom.”

And next he proved exactly what he meant.