A Duke's Temptation (9 page)

“I didn’t realize there was a difference.” He scrubbed his stiff white whiskers. “Your Grace is incorrigible.”

Samuel waited several moments for the lawyer to enact his usual ritual of pacing before the fire and sighing several times before he settled his bulk comfortably in his chair. He braced himself for the well-deserved lecture.

Didn’t Samuel realize that he was acting on impulse, and that while acts of romantic aggression made for compelling fiction, not even a duke could command the world with a slash of his quill without suffering the consequences?

Did Samuel ever consider the cost of his ideals?

Did he care that booksellers and humble clerks depended on him for their bread?

Thereupon, Samuel reminded his solicitor that he retained him for legal matters, not grandfatherly advice.

Mr. Thurber threw up his hands in defeat. “What if you and this young Venus do not suit?”

“I have thought of that. Is there no way to negotiate a contract that allows either party to withdraw from the courtship in a manner that will not damage her name?” The implication being that nothing could tarnish Samuel’s.

“One can negotiate anything if the price is mutually pleasing. The Boscastle family is a good strain, by the way, if prone to scandal.”

“So I understand.”

“It does occur to Your Grace that the young lady’s family might have other plans for her future?” the solicitor ventured one last time.

Samuel glowered at him. He realized he could be hardheaded and difficult to reason with, but that was how he lived his life, and, aside from a childhood tragedy, he had done well for himself. “As of midnight the lady was accompanied by only her chaperone, and a man I assume to be a naive relation. This was her first party in London.”

“One would think it was your first party, too,” Mr. Thurber said tartly.

“Give me a little credit for my ability to recognize a pearl in endless miles of sand.”

“A pearl, is she?” The solicitor shook his head in surrender. “Meeting the lady of your dreams was bound to happen sooner or later, but as it has waited this long, I don’t see how another day could hurt.”

“Absolutely not. I will not wait. That would signify indecision on my part.”

“Give me until late morning to have my clerk draw up and deliver the papers for your approval.”

Samuel grinned in gratitude, extending his arm to help the older man from the chair. “I would like her to receive the documents as soon as possible. Her family is staying with Viscount Stratfield. I do not know the address.”

“At least you know her name.” The solicitor bowed, frowning closely at Samuel as if he had just noticed his party costume. “Don Quixote, isn’t it? I hope that is not prophetic. Congratulations, Your Grace.”

 

 

 

Congratulations.

Could it be that easy? Could a man choose the course of his life and expect everything else around him would fall into place? Samuel knew better than that. Life had played with him ever since he could remember. A lady’s heart was not a pawn.

But his deepest feelings had never failed him. He had written for years about love, death, loss, and betrayal. His characters were often felled by their lethal flaws and performed craven deeds. His most popular heroine, Juliette Mannering, was an unconventional lady who had escaped a convent and an arranged marriage.

Samuel circled his desk, deliberately not looking at the pen and stack of blank papers that was meant to be the last chapter. He had corrected every proof he could find at least ten times before facing what needed to be done. Tonight.

The damned installment would not write itself. Perhaps he should leave the characters hanging in unresolved conflict. Lord Anonymous had not promised a perfect ending. He had a contractual obligation to Philbert, which as a gentleman he would satisfy, but was he obligated to repeat the same tiresome plot? He had a bond with his readers, a mystical connection that he did not understand but tried his utmost to keep unbroken. But neither monetary reward nor the admiration of strangers had ever motivated him to pen a single page.

He approached his desk, frowning.

He preferred working at home in Dartmoor, even if over the years he had learned that his writing skill was not limited to perfect location or circumstance. He often resisted his revisions until the last moment. Once the words started to flow, however, he drifted into another place and time. His thoughts calmed. Something inside him rose above the clamor of all else. His characters demanded that he listen.

Why? Why did women adore such an unmerciful sod?

Why was Juliette Mannering attracted to a malevolent wizard who had abducted her? A murderer. A necromancer and thoroughly nasty son of a bitch who had killed his own sister to please Satan and then thought he could raise her from the grave.

Would Juliette triumph against Sir Renwick’s advances?

“Excuse me . . . Your Grace?”

Samuel stared absentmindedly at the long-faced man in silver-embroidered black satin livery who appeared in the door. “Your Grace?” the man said again.

Samuel grunted as his butler glanced surreptitiously at the tidy desktop before training his features into a mask of pleasant impassivity. Why did everyone who knew Samuel sense when he was procrastinating? Bickerstaff would never say a word, but presumably he had noticed the blank pages. He was a former bank clerk whose employer had been caught embezzling funds before Samuel had rescued him from debtor’s prison. He had an eye for detail that all his deference could not mask.

“Did I ring for you?” Samuel asked in a perplexed voice.

“You did not leave instructions for the carriage to be brought in for the night. Will Your Grace be returning to the masquerade?”

Samuel wavered. “I’m going to work. The book will be done by morning.”

“In that case, I will have the carriage packed for Your Grace. The proofs are wrapped in oilcloth. The books you requested on raising the dead shall be shipped on the morrow.”

“Excellent,” Samuel said, not having heard a single word.

“We should be ready to leave at daybreak, Your Grace.”

Samuel frowned. “Hang on, Bickerstaff. I think I forgot to tell you that our plans have changed. We will be staying in London indefinitely.”

“But the new book—”

“Never mind that. I have to finish the last one. I can work here, can’t I?”

“Your Grace can work in the middle of a military parade. But Your Grace does complain of the carts going over the cobbles, and the ladies who call at all hours.”

“I will ignore the carts and the tarts.”

Bickerstaff chuckled. “What about the opera singer who wished for a private audience? Shall I message her that you have changed your mind?”

“No. Her voice gives me the spleen.”

“I will bring coffee then, Your Grace.”

He regretted again that he hadn’t stayed to view Lily revealing herself to be a princess. She was comely enough in her fairy-tale disguise without drawing more attention to her charm. Suddenly he was jealous of the other guests at the party who would watch her shed her feathers. And he was jealous of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, because she loved their clever writing, and here Samuel sat, his book unfinished, his thoughts chasing one another’s tails like a nest of snakes.

But he could forgive the German brothers anything for the unwitting part they had played in what he assumed would be his own storybook ending. He
would
complete the book tonight, and by this time tomorrow he hoped to be with her again. Perhaps their interlude tonight would spark the inspiration that had eluded him.

Perhaps before the next
Wickbury Tales
saw print, he would even divulge his identity to Lily. Aside from her sweet, kissable mouth and penchant for mischief, she had a delightful mind and warm honesty that he admired in a woman. And while what Philbert had said was true, that she wasn’t the type that usually attracted Samuel, he had never been this attracted before. So maybe that had been Samuel’s problem all along. He had been associating with the wrong kind of women.

Which, of course, brought him back to his immediate problem.

Philbert.

The final chapter of the seventh
Wickbury
book.

The chapter that Samuel had been revising for eternity. The ending that refused to be written.

Perhaps he needed to take off his costume. Being able to breathe might help his brain. He struggled out of his absurd breastplate, resisting the temptation to run upstairs and change from the tunic he wore underneath into a comfortable linen shirt and pantaloons.

But then a trio of feathers drifted to the floor from the padded sleeve of his costume. He picked them up and sat down at the desk, intrigued.

Two white. One brown.

Two innocents and a hawk. Why was a hawk considered bad? It had to eat. It raised young. Few people knew that an ordinary sparrow cannibalized other birds. What if the hawk became the hero?

He arranged the feathers in a simple pattern across the blotter.

One white. The brown in the middle. The other white at the end.

Lord Wickbury. Sir Renwick Hexworthy. Lady Juliette Mannering.

What if he changed the pattern? Would his readers forgive him? What if, during this last scene, Lord Wickbury discovered his own capacity for darkness? Would Juliette decide that he needed redemption more than his vile-hearted half brother?

Brown. White. White.

There could be only two left by the last page.

L
ily stirred, opening her eyes as the carriage drew to a halt. She felt the warm shoulder she had been using as a bolster shift. “Wake up,” Chloe said, gently pushing her into an upright position. “We’re home.”

Lily glanced in embarrassment at the handsome dark-haired viscount who sat opposite them. “London exhausts me, too, Lily,” he said in sympathy.

Lily wanted to protest that she was more exhilarated than exhausted, that she hadn’t been ready to leave the party. But her physical appearance argued otherwise.

Her golden gown fell in ruinous wrinkles. Her hair curled wildly from the dampness of an after-breakfast boat ride on the river. Still clutched in her palm was a twig she had stolen from the garden during the official tour and the emerald brooch she had been awarded at the masquerade for Finest Fairy-Tale Princess in the Land.

“The brooch is beautiful,” Chloe commented, peering down to admire the antique setting. “I didn’t see it properly last night, but look how it catches the light. It’s a lovely token of your first party in London.”

“Your captain seemed to have enjoyed himself as well,” Dominic, Chloe’s husband, said in amusement. “He and his friends were burning up the tables, from what I hear.”

Chloe’s smooth forehead wrinkled in a reproachful frown. “It was his first genuine party, too, and he’s allowed his bit of fun. At least he covered his losses.”

Lily yawned. She yearned for a hot bath and a hundred more hours or so of sleep. “His losses couldn’t have been that large. He didn’t have much to gamble with.” Which meant that Lily would have to learn to economize as his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Grace would be well-off but never wealthy.

“Rich or poor,” Chloe said, covering her own yawn behind her hand, “I’ve never heard anyone applaud as loudly as he did when you won your prize.”

“From the door,” Lily said wryly. “I think he remembered only at the last moment that he was supposed to be with me during the contest. And then he disappeared again.”

“At least he remembered to announce your engagement,” Dominic said, as if it were his duty to defend his own sex. “And he was very attentive to you during breakfast.”

Chloe gave Lily a covert smile. “I don’t think Lily lacked attention during the masquerade.”

“Did I miss something at the party?” Dominic asked cautiously, glancing from one lady to the other.

Lily leaned toward the door, pretending she had no idea what either of them meant. A footman unfolded the carriage steps from the sidewalk. She gathered up her crumpled skirts, barely feeling the brooch pin pricking her palm. It was a beautiful piece, and she would treasure it, although secretly not as much as the boxwood sprig that had formed part of Sir Renwick Hexworthy’s wand. The sculpture had been virtually denuded during the garden tour by the other lady guests who had wanted a tiny piece of
Wickbury
magic to remember the evening by.

Whenever Lily looked at it, of course, she would think of the duke’s wicked kiss and not an evergreen clipping. Perhaps she would even follow his suggestion and use it as a bookmark. It made her smile to think of the scoundrel expecting her to believe he would keep her feathers as a sentiment. An inventive approach to seduction, she had to admit. How many ladies had succumbed to his illicit charm?

“My goodness, Lily!” Chloe’s chagrined voice interrupted her thoughts. “You have grass stains on your satin slippers, and they will never come off. And those aren’t leaves on your gloves, I hope. Dear me, I thought I was wayward before I married Dominic.”

Dominic cast Lily a confidential look. “She hasn’t changed, that I’ve noticed. And I don’t know why she’s going on about a twig. There’s a garden of the things growing right on the sidewalk.”

The three of them glanced around in unison as a pair of footmen opened the carriage door. The footmen stepped back. A breathless delivery boy darted forward. A smudge of yellow pollen glistened on his chin. In his arms, looking a little bruised from an apparent jaunt through the bustling streets, lay three dozen golden hothouse lilies looped in an enormous white silk bow.

Dominic cleared his throat. “Lily’s young gentleman must have come into a fortune at the tables. That is quite the gesture, considering we saw him less than an hour ago.”