My Dark Duke (3 page)

Arthur Rossiter, the Earl of Mulgrave, and another man stood before them. Despite the black domino mask that hid the upper half of his face, Alethea recognised him immediately. She would have recognised him even if he had been clad in a toga. The thought made her blush. Bother her rebellious mind! She felt her pulse race as their eyes met.

‘Alethea, may I introduce to you a good friend of mine, James Cavendish, Duke of Trent.' The earl turned to the dark-haired man. ‘James, this is Lady Alethea, Alton's daughter, and Lady Ruth Montagne.' The ladies stood up and curtsied.

The duke gave them a brief bow. ‘Lady Alethea, Lady Ruth.'

‘Your Grace.' Alethea heard Ruth reply in her well-modulated voice.

‘Your Grace,' murmured Alethea, cursing her own breathless voice. His eyes held hers captive. She vaguely wondered how long she could remain conscious without drawing breath. The last thing she needed was for the duke to come to her aid again. That would be beyond the pale.

Thank goodness for the earl. ‘Alethea, we shall continue our rounds, but I will return and then we can talk.'

She looked at her godfather. ‘Of course, Uncle Arthur.'

The two women watched in silence as the men walked away.

Alethea started when Ruth's hand suddenly grasped her arm tightly. Frantic blue eyes bored into hers. ‘Alethea Sinclair! Please tell me you did not fall atop the Dark Duke!'

Our Heroine is Informed About our Hero's Dark Past

‘Her Ladyship, the Countess of Pembroke,' intoned Thompson, the Sinclair household's butler. A moment later, Ruth appeared in the doorway to the salon, looking as lovely as ever in her lace-trimmed pale blue day gown, which perfectly matched the shade of her eyes. Alethea beamed, rushing forward to greet her friend.

‘Ruth!'

‘Alethea.' They reached out and took each other's hands, exchanging wide smiles. ‘Your Grace.' Ruth curtsied to the duchess, who was seated on the sofa.

‘Ruth, how is Pembroke? I hear he has been indisposed.'

‘He is much improved, Your Grace.'

‘Good; that's good,' replied the older woman, sounding distracted as she returned to perusing a fashionable paper through a hand-held pair of reading glasses.

‘You look well,' said Ruth, turning back to her friend, a teasing light in her eyes.

Alethea stifled a laugh. She turned to look at her mother. ‘Mother, will it be all right if Ruth and I sit by the window?'

‘Fine. It's very unlikely that you will receive any other visitors, in any case,' her mother replied dismissively, sparing her only the briefest of glances.

‘Thank you, Mother.' Ruth bit her lip at the barely disguised sarcasm in Alethea's voice as the two young women moved to the wide window seat.

‘So, tell me, did you manage to sleep at all last night?' asked Ruth in a low voice.

‘Why, Lady Ruth, I'm sure I have no idea what you mean,' retorted Alethea, batting her lashes furiously, drawing a choked laugh out of her friend.

‘You know
very
well what I mean.' Ruth lowered her voice. ‘Your little falling-on-the-Dark-Duke episode. Did you see him again after I left?'

‘No, we left soon after you did. Mother thought it was time for us to go. Lord Bentley had been paying some attention to Charlotte and I think Mother thought leaving then would further pique his interest.'

Ruth raised her eyebrows. ‘Where is Charlotte, anyway? And Lord Bentley? As in the heir of the Marquess of Kentbridge? That
would
be a good match.'

Alethea shrugged. ‘The excitement was rather too much for her; she's lying abed with a megrim, much to Mother's disappointment. If you ask me, Charlotte is entirely too young to know who would be a good match for her. She has barely spoken to the opposite sex aside from Marcus and Father.'

‘All the more malleable she will be, then, when your parents decide whom she shall marry. I was fortunate that mine decided that Henry would be a good match for me. Even so, I never imagined that I would fall so deeply in love with him.' A dreamy look had entered her blue eyes and Alethea laughed.

‘You were always a romantic, Ruth. I remember when we played together as children, all you wanted to do was have your dolls marry each other.'

‘Whereas all you wanted to do was put yours on one of Marcus's wooden horses and ride into battle with his soldiers.'

‘That's what happens when the only companion you have is a brother. But enough reminiscing. What were you about to tell me last night before my mother interrupted us?'

‘Ah, yes: the Dark Duke.' Ruth leaned closer and Alethea felt her pulse speed up. Whatever the rumours were that surrounded him, they were clearly less than savoury. ‘What I heard was that eight years ago, Trent met his wife, Lady Catherine, the daughter of Viscount Huntley. It was her second season. Apparently her father had refused a number of offers for her hand already, as he had set his sights on someone much higher up.'

‘A duke.'

Her fair-haired friend nodded. ‘The Duke of Trent, to be exact. Apparently the duchess was not a famed beauty, but she had charm in spades and men flocked to her. Trent was newly returned from his year abroad. He was young and it seems impressionable, and didn't stand a chance against Lady Catherine's determination. They were married within the space of six months.'

Alethea felt her heart skip a beat as Ruth's eyes clouded over. Here was the part of the story she was waiting for. But now that it had arrived, she suddenly wasn't sure that she still wanted to know.

‘It took less than three months before the duchess started to, well . . .' Her companion looked uncomfortable. ‘Started being seen in the company of other men.'

Alethea had to admit she was not completely surprised. Very few couples married for love. It was not unusual to hear of either party straying, although it was more frequently the gentleman. She was startled, though, at the timing of the affairs. ‘She was seeing other men before she presented Trent with an heir?'

Ruth nodded. ‘It seemed she despised being married. The duke has a large estate in the country and spent most of his time there. Despite having constant guests and hosting a great many soirees, the duchess was not satisfied. She missed her life in London and took it out on Trent, blaming him for her unhappiness and accusing him of forcing her to marry him.'

Alethea felt a sharp pang in her chest as an image of a much younger duke appeared in her mind, his dark eyes hurt at the unfair accusations that his beloved wife was flinging at him.

‘They had a terrible row and the duchess left Trent, fleeing to her father's estate. When he went to retrieve his wife, it seems she was so distressed that in an effort to avoid the duke's physically escorting her home she . . .' Ruth's voice trailed off and, for the first time, doubt appeared on her normally guileless face.

‘Ruth, what happened?' Alethea's voice was a little too loud and she glanced over at her mother, relieved to see that she was still engrossed in her reading. Alethea reached over and took her friend's hands. ‘You can't stop now,' she implored in a low voice.

Her childhood friend moistened her lips. ‘The rumour is that when he tried to force her to come with him, the duchess was so desperate to avoid his grasp, she jumped out of the window of her bedroom. She broke her neck.'

Alethea gasped.

‘The viscount accused the duke of causing his daughter's death but nothing came of it as there was no proof. After the funeral, Trent retired to his country estate. It was only last year that he slowly started to rejoin society,' continued Ruth.

Who could blame him? thought Alethea. Even after his lengthy absence, the rumours still abounded, never having been put to rest. Why, last night at the ball, she had overheard the whispered conversations and seen the speculative looks among the
beau monde
. If Trent hadn't been a duke holding one of the oldest titles in England as well as being astoundingly wealthy, he would have been shunned. Of that she was certain. It was true that she had only spent the briefest time in his company, but she could not believe that he would have forced his wife into doing something against her will.

Oh, she had no doubt that he could be dangerous. He was certainly physically imposing. The body she had accidentally found herself pressed up against did not belong to someone who spent their days lounging around eating, drinking and making merry. No, it was a body that was used to physical exertion. He lived in the country, so he must be an excellent rider. But that couldn't be all. She also remembered the calluses on his palms, and she suspected that like her father and brother, he was a man who would pitch in to help his tenants during harvest time or whenever they required help. If that were so, surely he could not also be the type of man who would use his strength against the weaker sex.

Alethea knew that women were viewed as the weaker sex; she would have had to be blind and deaf not to know. But her father had certainly not raised her to accept the status quo. She could ride better than any man she knew, with the exception of her brother, and according to her fencing tutor, she was one of the finest fencers he had ever come across. Even her mother, who had many a fault, was a fine example of a strong woman. Never in her life had Alethea known her parent to back down from any opinion she held, and it was not unusual to overhear her parents' raised voices over some disagreement or another.

Alethea had been taken aback at how feminine, indeed, how vulnerable she had felt at that moment of startling intimacy when he had almost kissed her. She wondered now if that moment had been an anomaly, an artefact of her embarrassment over her clumsy fall earlier, or whether there had in fact been something between them.

Not that she would ever know. It would be too much of a coincidence if they met again. From what Ruth had just told her, it seemed doubtful that he would be attending all the balls and soirees during the season. And even if he did attend some of them, it wasn't as if she could seek him out.
He
was certainly unlikely to seek her out. He could have his pick of women, while she, despite being a daughter of a duke, was well and truly on the shelf, a living embarrassment to her family. Or so her mother liked to tell her, repeatedly.

‘Alethea. Alethea?'

Alethea blinked at the sound of Ruth's voice. ‘I'm sorry, I must have drifted off.' She smiled sheepishly.

‘Oh, I'm sure you did.' Ruth didn't bother to disguise the laughter on her face. ‘And I know exactly where you drifted off to. And you call
me
the romantic.'

‘I was merely—' But Alethea did not get the chance to complete her sentence. Because right at that moment, Thompson appeared at the doorway and announced the last name Alethea expected to hear.

‘His Grace, the Duke of Trent.'

A short time earlier . . .

James stared at the lion's head brass knocker on the door to the Sinclair residence. He hadn't planned his destination when he rode away from his town house, so it had come as a surprise to find himself standing in front of this particular door. A door behind which was Lady Alethea Sinclair. He found her so enchanting that he had taken the unprecedented step of enquiring where she lived. He was a close acquaintance of Mulgrave's, and was able to casually insert the question into the conversation. His friend, of course, was not fooled, if his narrowed eyes were anything to go by, but he refrained from asking why James was interested in his goddaughter.

It was Mulgrave, in fact, who had been instrumental in persuading him to re-enter society, telling James that he was too young to live out the rest of his days as a hermit. The earl had also reminded the younger man of his duty to produce an heir. Cole was not the first person to suggest that it was time he remarried. James was still ambivalent about that proposition, and would have more than likely put the thought out of his head if it hadn't been for the unexpected encounter with Lady Alethea. Not only was she much more beautiful than he would have expected, she was funny and witty and an undeniable bluestocking. She was incredibly entrancing.

Really, though, he had no real plans to marry, and thus had absolutely no business being here. James stifled his thoughts and took a deep breath, tapping on the knocker before he could act on any second thoughts. The door opened almost immediately and the footman bowed, standing aside as the butler came sailing forth, his thin lips pressed together under a hooked nose. ‘Yes, my lord? May I be of assistance?' he asked haughtily.

James handed his card to the butler. ‘I am Trent. Is Her Grace receiving today?'

The butler bowed. ‘Yes, she is, Your Grace. Please follow me.'

James paused a moment to hand his hat, gloves and swordstick to the footman before following the butler down the corridor to a room where the door was already ajar.

‘His Grace, the Duke of Trent.' The butler waited for James to enter before bowing and closing the door behind him.

The first thing James noticed was the identically stunned expression on the faces of the three women in the salon. The Duchess of Alton was standing next to the settee, while the younger women were by the large bay window, where the two of them had obviously been engaged in a private conversation. It was equally obvious that the conversation had been about him, judging by the faint colour on both their cheeks.

‘Your Grace,' said the duchess.

James bowed to her as she curtsied. He turned and did the same to the other occupants of the room. ‘Lady Alethea, Lady Ruth.'

‘Your Grace,' they replied simultaneously, curtsying.

James let his gaze linger for just a moment on the way the sunlight streaming through the windows brought out the dark red sheen of Alethea's midnight-black hair. Nor did he miss how her buttercup-yellow gown accentuated the contrast between her dark hair and her fair skin. Even across the length of the room, he felt the jolt of recognition the moment their eyes met, as if they had known each other in some past life. Mentally shaking his head to rid himself of the fanciful thought, he turned his attention back to the duchess. She indicated, with a wave of her hand, the armchair to her right. He sat down, facing the older woman while Alethea and Lady Ruth walked over and settled themselves on the settee facing the duchess.

‘And how is the weather this morning?' ventured Lady Alethea's mother.

‘It is very pleasant.' James was never one for making small talk, and an uncomfortable silence descended. ‘You are all . . . well?' he forced himself to ask.

‘Yes, thank you for your concern. Do forgive me, Your Grace, but your visit has taken me somewhat by surprise.' The duchess narrowed her eyes. ‘Did you perchance come to enquire about Charlotte?'

Startled, James was speechless for a moment. Charlotte? Who the blazes was . . . Ah, the younger Sinclair. The one that looked as if she had just stepped out of the schoolroom. ‘I'm afraid not, Your Grace, although I certainly do hope that you, Lady Charlotte and Lady Alethea, as well as Lady Ruth, have fully recovered from the ball.' The duchess inclined her head, and James continued. ‘I wondered if I might escort Lady Alethea for a turn around Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon in my curricle?' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alethea's mouth part in surprise. To her credit, she made not a sound.