Forbidden to Love the Duke (4 page)

J
ames Merrit, Duke of Ellsworth, bachelor and returned soldier, who had promised himself months of shallow pleasures before succumbing to society's expectations, found himself in an intolerable situation. His younger brother had gone off to war, which was good. But his brother's wife had gone off to Sweden with another man, which wasn't good, and James had a bewildered niece and nephew occupying the bedchamber that Elora had chosen for her suite when she stayed at Ellsworth.

A gnarled hand touched his arm. It brought him back to the present. “Your Grace, are you well?” Carstairs asked with a troubled look at the brandy bottle clutched between James's hands.

James raised his head from the desk. “There's only one solution.”

“You would like me to pen a letter advising Miss Denman that this is not a proper time for a visit?”

“No, Carstairs. I would like you to pen an advert for a governess to protect my niece and nephew from the appalling behavior of their mother. And myself.”

“But the process of interviewing suitable applicants for a noble household is not one to be taken lightly, Your Grace.”

“That is why I depend on you, Carstairs, to research all character references.” Although with Elora's arrival imminent, James might hire the devil's handmaiden to assure his personal affairs weren't interrupted. “Have the children gone to bed?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Unwillingly, I might add. They are eager to see you.”

“Under other circumstances, I'd be delighted to see them, too.” James pushed aside the bottle on his desk. “Carstairs, do you remember the Tudor house by the stone bridge that runs through an oak wood?”

Carstairs straightened his bony shoulders. “Indeed, I do. Such a tragedy, Your Grace. To tumble from splendor to shame virtually overnight. It shocked those of us who knew of the family.”

James sat back in his chair. “Are you sure you and the staff don't write for the scandal sheets?”

“Your Grace, really.”

“I've caught you reading them. Tell me what you know about the place.”

“It's called Fenwick Manor. The earl who owned it left it to his four daughters, in addition to an inheritance of debt and disgrace. He died in a fool's challenge.”

“Over a woman?”

“He cheated at cards. How the sisters have survived one dares not speculate.”

“Four of them?”

“Unless one of the sisters has perished.”

James didn't feel this was an appropriate time to admit that at least one of the young ladies seemed fleet of
foot and another two capable of mustering a strong defense against a duke who thought himself persuasive and quick on the offense. “Do you suppose they'd consider selling the manor?”

Carstairs threw him a poorly veiled look of contempt before he returned to his usual respectful mien. “That would be a sacrilege, Your Grace.”

“Why?” James asked, thoroughly amused. “Was the manor built on the ruins of a sacred abbey?”

Carstairs lowered his voice.

James leaned forward.

“The ladies who reside within Fenwick Manor are of royal descent.”

“Well, no wonder they slammed the door in my impertinent face.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Find out more tomorrow, Carstairs. Tonight I wish you to write that advertisement and have it posted in the morning.”

Wanted, immediately, a respectable young woman as governess, for two young children in a nobleman's household. She must be honest, well educated, and unencumbered. Wages no object. Interview, Friday next, Ellsworth Park.

WANTED, EMPLOYMENT as GOVERNESS, in a respectable house. Knowledgeable in French, literature, history, and finishing. Available immediately. Inquire at Fenwick Manor.

It was James, and not Carstairs, who realized that his notice had been printed in the newspaper directly above
that of the goddess he had pursued in her private garden. A mere coincidence. It meant nothing. His was a need motivated by selfish desire, while she sought the job out of desperation.

For a moment he imagined himself in her place. It must be humiliating for the descendant of Harri Tudur to apply for service.

His moment of empathy passed. He needed a governess. She needed the position. Hostilities would have to end the instant she came before him.

He would not take advantage of her in any manner. Not as means to buy her house or as a man could do with a woman in a vulnerable situation. He hadn't even seen her face. A Tudur governess, indeed. She could look like a gargoyle for all he cared, although her posterior view had shown promise. No matter, he would treat her with the respect she deserved.

And he would count the hours until Friday came, because she had stirred more than his curiosity.

I
t wasn't even daybreak when Ivy closed the door of Fenwick Manor behind her. For some peculiar reason Rue, pushing on the other side, could not get the latch to hold. Listening to her sister's struggles, Ivy suspected she and Lilac might have damaged the frame the other day when they slammed it on that arrogant man.

So, what was the sensible thing to do? She could count on Rue to do the opposite. Rue threw herself upon the door again. This time the tarnished metal door knocker broke loose from the bolts that secured it and dropped to the steps.

Ivy stared down in trepidation at the dragon lying between her feet. The dragon was her family's adopted heraldic beast, and his fall seemed to portend something dire. Did it mean that Ivy should not go on this interview?

Rue's muffled voice startled her. “Was that our dragon?”

“I'm afraid so. He's broken.”

“What?”

“No. His bolts have snapped. It could be a bad sign.”

“Nonsense. He wants to protect you.”

Ivy laughed. “Do you think so?”

“I know he does,” Rosemary said in a louder voice. “Take him with you. And do go now or don't go at all. There are women who would die to work for a duke.”

“Yes. I love you all. Stay safe until I return.”

She bent and, with some difficulty, slid her reticule up her arm and stuffed the dragon into her fur muff. She might not look fashionable. But she felt presentable in a blue-sprigged muslin dress, a warm overmantle, and Rue's gray shoes. Ivy had ruined hers while helping their only footman clean the chimney. When he had gotten stuck, Ivy had climbed up in the soot to rescue him, shouting for help that never came. Eventually he had wriggled out and fallen into the hearth.

Every day brought another deprivation, another embarrassment. But at least Ivy was taking a step to alleviate their misery. She wasn't leaving Fenwick Manor forever, she assured herself during the carriage ride in the dark.

However, the moment the gates of Ellsworth Park came into view, she wondered what had possessed her to apply at an elegant estate obviously built for entertaining, when she had been hidden away for years. She doubted the duke would consider hiring her.

“Be careful, my lady,” said the coachman, who often served as footman and the family butler, as he handed her down from the lopsided carriage.

“It's almost light,” she said, her eyes widening in chagrin. “Look how many other ladies are here to apply! I'm too late. Rue was right. These women would do anything to work in the duke's household.”

“Forgive me for speaking my mind,” the coachman
said. “But they aren't you, Lady Ivy. Not one of 'em could hold a candle to you in a crisis.”

“How kind you are,” she murmured. “I wish I shared your confidence in me.”

Before she could assess the competition that lined the driveway, a slight silver-haired man in a plum jacket and gray trousers appeared from the top of the line and marched toward her.

“Good. You are the first, I believe. Your name, please?”

“Fenwick.” She hesitated. She couldn't bring herself to use her title. It was too degrading to admit she was of nobility. “Miss Ivy Fenwick.”

“Pardon me, sir,” a woman in a bonnet said, squeezing Ivy off the path. “I believe I was first.”

“I believe you are wrong, madam. This lady had an appointment, you see. Please wait in line. The reception room will open in a few minutes. Hold your patience until then, if you will.”

Ivy's heart thumped. Her reticule bumped the other woman on the wrist, earning another cross look.

Appointment? There had to be a misunderstanding. Should she correct it? Or was it possible the duke's manager had already investigated the applicants' backgrounds before their arrival?

She had been chosen first. Why?

She walked down a winding hall, rising sunbeams dancing across the marble tiles. The study into which the steward escorted her was neither light nor dark. And it didn't seem to matter what she had worn to the interview.

The Duke of Ellsworth undressed her in a single look from the desk where he sat, his long booted legs propped between piles of letters and books. Ivy fought back a wave of panic, remembering the reason she was here.

“Please, sit down,” he said in a pleasant voice, indicating the chair his steward had brought to the desk for her comfort.

But the steward had disappeared.

And the duke's voice awakened a chain of conflicting memories in her mind.

“Oh, no,” she said after an eternal silence. “You're the man who chased me through the garden.”

He grinned. “Yes. It's me. I don't believe we were ever properly introduced.” He drew his legs off the desk.

She lowered herself into the chair before her nerves could betray her. This was the time for Tudur courage. She would not lose her decorum over a man whose stark masculinity made her mouth dry. So, he had ensnared her, after all. She had walked into his trap. And she had no plans to escape—her sisters' future was resting on her shoulders.

*   *   *

James stood, more as a defensive instinct than to be polite. He recognized the woman the instant she entered the room. Even though he'd had but a fleeting glimpse of her, her memory had robbed him of sleep and provided fodder for countless daydreams until he had convinced himself to let her go.

He recognized her not merely as the woman whose privacy he had violated just this week, but as the young debutante he had kissed at a masquerade ball before he went to war. She had been clutching a velvet mask in her hand. And he had searched for her the next morning at the breakfast party, wondering how many proposals she'd received and whether she would recognize him without his mask.

He never learned her name. He had never forgotten
her face. He stared at her intently as she rose unexpectedly from her chair.

“Sit down, please, Miss—”

“—Fenwick. And I prefer to stand.”

Lady Ivy was her correct title. God help her, he knew about the royal mischief in her ancestry. But she showed no sign of recognizing him, which disappointed his male pride. How self-collected she was. A man wanted to know he'd made an impression.

“I'm expecting a female guest to arrive next week,” he said bluntly.

“And I am to be her governess?” she asked with a composure beneath which he detected the slightest hint of reproach.

“No,” he said wryly. “While she and I were making our arrangement, there was an emergency in my family.”

“An arrangement.” The mouth he had kissed lifted at one corner. “I understand.”

He made a face. “Good. I don't understand it myself. My niece and nephew have been sent here until their situation at home can be remedied. It's a most inopportune time for me.”

“I'm sorry, Your Grace, to hear this. I hope it isn't a grave matter.”

“It is from my point of view, and for my brother,” he added hastily, lest she perceive him to be the selfish demon he was at heart.

She lowered her eyes. “There's no need to explain.”

“Sooner or later one of the servants would tell you. I prefer you hear the truth from me. The children will ask. It is better we agree upon the story they are to believe.”

She frowned as if questioning the wisdom of this strategy. “But if this story is untrue and they learn the truth?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we? First things first. Let me finish.”

“Pardon me.”

He could pardon her a hundred sins for the secret they had shared in the past. “My brother, Viscount Bramhall, is in the thick of battle,” he said. “His wife abandoned her children to the care of servants for another man. The servants sent my niece and nephew here and then deserted the household, citing an immoral atmosphere and lack of wages for their actions.”

“I can't say I blame them,” she said, then bit her lip. It was obvious that she was no more born to serve than was he. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“It's nothing I haven't thought.” He walked around the desk to motion her into the chair. It was an excuse to move closer to her, to test his self-control, his memory. He recalled that her eyes were an extraordinary shade of green. But he couldn't peer into her face without seeming a little peculiar. What if he had the wrong woman? How could he find out without seeming like a complete scoundrel?

There was no need to frighten the lady half to death. But he'd rather she knew what she was getting into now than run off in a panic later because she remembered when they had first met and how.

“I need you to know who I am,” he said, reaching for her hand.

She gave him a smile that drew the air from his body. “I do remember, Your Grace. But I'm willing to forgive and forget if you are.”

T
he last thing she had expected was to be greeted by such a breathtaking man. It was his voice she recognized. The pitch sent ripples of forbidden delight straight to the toes of her ill-fitting shoes. It carried a command that she might have ignored in her garden, but in his domain, and in his captivating presence, there was no question of ignoring him.

He was a peer of the realm, a duke, even if he looked rather young and offhanded about his role, with his long coat unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his wrists.

A grin counterbalanced his brooding stare. “If you aren't comfortable sitting before me, I insist you at least put aside the muff and reticule you're holding like a battle shield. They appear rather awkward.” He reached to unhook the reticule from her wrist, lifting his teasing face to hers. “I thought you clanked against the door when you entered. Is there a dagger or gun on your person? Are young governesses so imperiled these days that they must carry weapons to their interviews?”

“I wouldn't know,” she said, miffed at his mockery and disconcerting charm.

“This is your first interview?”

His smoky eyes studied her intently; she wouldn't dare lie when she needed this job. The newspaper notice promised good pay.

“Yes.” She lowered her reticule to the empty chair. The dragon and its accoutrements slid from her fur muff to the bare wooden floor. An embarrassing clunk echoed in the room. A governess, like the children in her care, should not draw the master's attention. Yet the duke stared down in bemusement at the brass ring, dragon, and plate.

Quickly, she bent, aghast at her clumsiness. He looked down at the floor in astonishment. So much for the door knocker bringing her luck. The duke studied it a moment longer before looking up again. “That's an unusual token to bring to an interview. Does it hold a personal meaning for you?”

She winced. “It's our door knocker. The bolts severed when I closed the door this morning to come here. You saw the condition of the manor house.”

They went down on their knees at the same moment. Ivy swallowed; his hard chin brushed her head. She supposed it was too much to hope he would act as if it were completely normal for a potential governess to carry a heraldic door knocker to her first interview. Perhaps he'd excuse her as an eccentric, and not an impoverished lady who'd brought along evidence of her desperation on her person.

“It's a sanctuary hold,” he said in surprise, “not a door knocker.”

Their fingers met across the ancient brass ring.
Warmth suffused Ivy at the unexpected contact. “Yes,” she said, caught off-balance. “It belonged to the medieval monastery on the grounds behind the manor before it was built. Cromwell's troops destroyed the priory during his reign, and my great-great-grandfather salvaged it from the ruins.”

“A dragon is the insignia of my regiment in the infantry.”

“The dragon is our Welsh talisman.”

She started to withdraw her hand; his fingers closed over her knuckles, a strong grip, alive, in contrast to the cold brass.

“In days past a fugitive had only to lift it once to receive sanctuary,” he said. “The question is—”

Ivy's heart pounded. “What is it doing in my muff?”

He smiled. His eyes drifted over her inelegantly poised form. “That's a good question, yes. But what I meant to ask is which of us at this moment is in greater need of sanctuary.”

The warmth turned to smoldering heat that reached deep inside her.

Sanctuary?

She wasn't sure of that.

Never had she felt so drawn to a man, it was true. Although she didn't know whether she should trust him. She needed this position. If he offered it to her, it should not be because his smile made her clumsy and . . . his attentions made her weak. Somehow it was almost as if she knew him.

His eyes shone as if they were keeping a secret, too. He probably thought her a fool for bringing a sanctuary hold to his house. “I might have been better off applying for a position at an alehouse,” she thought aloud.

“Does your dragon breathe fire?” he asked, grinning at her.

A little of her anxiety melted. “I suspect he does when no one is looking.”

He raised his other hand to her face. “Do you think he's looking now?”

“Looking at what, Your Grace?” she asked blankly.

“At us,” he said, and stretched forward to kiss her with a sweet familiarity she did not understand.

She had been kissed only once before, just like this, and as romantic as she remembered the moment, her entire life had fallen apart afterward. She had attended a party in the hope of meeting a suitor who would make a good husband. Instead, a masked scapegrace had flustered her, as the duke was doing now.

Did she
want
to be employed by a man who was kissing her during her interview? What favors would he demand at a later time? He drew back slightly. Moment by moment she regained her wits. Then he pressed his forefinger to her lower lip, and she lifted her eyes to his. His arrogant smile seemed too familiar. But it couldn't be. . . .

“It is you!” she said in astonishment. “The man at the masquerade in London.”

“I was rather hoping you'd remember me,” he said ruefully. “I knew right away who you were.”

“I was unmasked,” she said in self-defense. And he'd swept her off her feet.

She laughed then. It was unwise of her, but really, she couldn't imagine how the duke's kisses could portend anything but problems.

He had risen to his feet, however, and it was impossible to appear self-possessed while she remained on the
floor in a worshipful pose. Not, she supposed, that he was unaccustomed to worship. But she wasn't used to sprawling and dropping door knockers about. He didn't seem to care what impression he had made on her. But then he had no need to impress anyone.

“You could have simply introduced yourself to me,” she said. “Or never have mentioned our meeting in London at all.”

“Think of how awkward it would be for you to remember where we met while you were in the middle of a history lesson.”

She glanced away before he could see the disbelief cross her face. He was offering her the position. Were there strings attached? She had to accept whatever crumbs he would throw her way. Still she said nothing. He'd made no secret of the fact that he wanted Fenwick Manor. Was she to be his means of acquisition?

He couldn't have known, years ago, that they would meet again like this.

His voice filled the silence. “We could consider it a kiss to seal our agreement.”

“It's hardly how I expected to begin service.”

He smiled at her. “It was rather uncivilized.”

It was more of a Norman conquest. He had made up his mind. Should she ask for a day to consider his terms, whatever they might be? She thought of the other hopeful applicants gathered like a horde outside these walls and decided she couldn't take that risk.

“Remember the children,” he said, extending his hand. She stared at his wrist for a moment before he pulled her off the floor with a strength that brought their bodies together.

“Children?”

“Mary and Walker.” He drew her around the desk and placed a pen in her hand. “I know this seems rushed, but they need a stable influence in their lives. Do you mind signing the contract right now? It would take a burden off my shoulders, I'll admit.”

“Shouldn't I read it first?”

“It's a standard contract. You will be committed to me for a year. Your wages will be forty pounds, which I think you will agree is more than fair.”

It was twice what a top governess would earn, and now that Ivy had begun to emerge from her initial shock, she could hear voices rising from the hall. “We are about to be stormed like the Bastille,” he said, shaking his head as if sharing a weighty secret.

She smiled dryly. “How difficult it must be for Your Grace to turn down all the women who desire to work under your roof.”

“It won't be difficult for me,” he said with a smile to answer hers. “Carstairs will inform them.”

“Then thank you for your time. I'm grateful to have been chosen.”

Again those gray eyes took an experienced survey of her person. Already her doubts rose up. Had she made a mistake taking the position? A peer of the realm might assume he had certain rights over a governess that she did not wish to relinquish.

Her gaze met his. His eyes betrayed no further mischief. She'd like to think he had been studying her for neatness instead of as a woman he could take to bed. She lowered her gaze to the desk, staring at the contract she had signed. “Should I have read that document more carefully?”

“Why aren't you married?” he asked unexpectedly.

The question would have mortified her had she not noticed the letter sitting on his desk.

Dearest James,

I am more excited to be with you than words can express. How long we have waited to be alone.

The duke's voice put an end to her spying career. “Lady Ivy?”

She looked up in embarrassment. He'd asked her why she had never married, and she had discovered he was expecting a lover to arrive. Or so that letter seemed to suggest. Of course it could be old correspondence. Of course she could mind her own business.

He shook his head. “Have you loved and lost, perhaps?”

Only you,
she thought,
on the most tumultuous evening of my life.

She could invent a story, but she was too taken aback to think on her feet. So this was the unabashed rogue who had offered to marry her if she didn't have five proposals by noon the next day.

He looked gorgeous without his mask. More gorgeous than she'd imagined, and he had figured in her imagination on innumerable occasions since then. Sometimes he'd gone beyond kissing her. In her dreams she had met him at midnight and he'd seduced her until morning so that he had no choice but to marry her. His proposal had interrupted her father's duel. Instead of a funeral, there had been a wedding and honeymoon composed of wicked and wistful moments.

“Lady Ivy?” The duke's deep voice drew her back to the present dilemma. “It was a personal question. You don't have to answer.”

Question? What question? Oh, the one about marriage. She really should make up a story. The truth sounded quite unimpressive.

She thought of the eligible gentlemen she had once turned down. Only two, it was true. But surely if she'd married one, she would be in a better place than where she and her sisters currently found themselves.

The duke had investigated her background before he'd agreed to this interview, hadn't he? He couldn't know that Billy Wilson had proposed to her at Fenwick, vowing her father's scandal didn't matter, only to retract his offer a week later.

Then again, the duke wasn't a man to underestimate.

She sighed. “I never found the right gentleman before our family fell from grace. Or perhaps, I was always the wrong woman.”

His eyes searched hers until it became a battle to maintain her dignity. She had told the truth. He could order her out the door if he disapproved.

He nodded slowly. “Your father's sins are not yours.”

So he
had
heard. “You're one of the few men I've met in society to think so.”

“Society is comprised of sheep. I care more about your present behavior. I assume you are not given to flirtation?”

She could've hit him with her sanctuary hold. How presumptuous. Given to flirtation, he asked, and with a straight face. She blushed at the memory of the two of them on the floor. She certainly hadn't initiated that kiss. And in no manner was that to be interpreted as a prelude to a liaison. It was criminal what a handsome man could get away with.

“I assure Your Grace that
I
am not given to kissing or
flirting with random strangers. At masquerade balls or on floors.”

He rested his hip back against the desk. “Good. We're no longer strangers, by the way.”

“We were never introduced.”

“We know each other now.” He assumed a somber attitude. “As governess you must hold yourself to be the North Star for the children. The last thing they need is another person drifting off on a whim.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She knew how deeply a parent could damage a family.

“Can you start on Tuesday, please?”

“But that's only a few days from now.”

“The sooner, the better.”

She panicked. She needed a wardrobe, shoes, food for her sisters until she was paid and could give them a little to live on. She'd intended to make a final journey to London to pawn her pearls before committing herself to service.

“Your Grace, please, may I start on Friday next?”

He wavered. She remembered what he'd said. She must not drift off and be caught staring at him every time they crossed paths. It was rather difficult, however, when his eyes traveled over her person, stopping at every button and indentation of her gown as if learning the topography of a map.

“Fine,” he said. “My carriage will collect you early on Monday morning at Fenwick Manor.”

She curtsied, turned again, and darted through the door the steward held open for her exit. “Welcome to Ellsworth Park, Lady Ivy,” he said warmly.

Good heavens. She did feel wanted.

“Thank you, Mr. Carstairs. Thank you ever so much.”

She must have regained enough decorum to satisfy the steward, for he granted her an approving nod and politely overlooked the fact that she almost fell through the door he had opened. The duke, she feared, would not be as easy to please.

By the time she reached the end of the entrance vestibule, Ivy understood why Carstairs had warned the duke to remain hidden until the grounds had been cleared of hopeful governesses. Gentlewomen of all ages soon filed from the receiving room, Carstairs dismissing them like cattle. Within moments the wrathful eyes of the rejected noticed Ivy sneaking down the hall.