Duke Ever After (Dukes' Club Book 5) (3 page)

“Not at first, no. Your brazen nature suggested you might be a lady who was free to give herself.”

“I am free to give myself,” she countered.

He was silent for a long moment then, with pointed strides, he closed the distance between them.

It had not occurred to her just how much taller he was until this moment.

The duke positively towered over her.

She should have found his wall of a chest absolutely intimidating. She didn’t. Oh no. In fact, she wanted to reach out and embrace that wall of man. Now, she wouldn’t actually follow her wants. She wouldn’t. Would she?

“Lady Ros?”

“Rosamund will do.”

“Lady Ros,” he said, and despite the cold, he didn’t shiver.

She licked her lips. And then she wanted to kick herself. What a girlish thing to do! “Yes?” she managed.

“Are you offering yourself to me?”

Was she? By God, it did certainly sound like it. If she did, she’d be mad. Absolutely mad. And yet, she’d been sane and bored to tears. Yes, perhaps fate really had sent this man to her to stir her life up a bit. Surely there was bad blood running through her veins. Her father had been a scandal. So had a grandmother. It was the only thing accounting for her sudden audaciousness.

“If I was?” she asked, wishing she sounded half as seductive as he.

“Then my answer. . .” He leaned down slightly, lowering his head until his beautifully sensual lips lingered just over hers.

“Yes?” she breathed, her lips parting as she readied herself for his what had to be earth shattering kiss.

“Would be
no
.”

And then, he did it again.

The duke turned on his heel and strode off, this time as if the devil were on his heels.

Rosamund swayed towards his departed form then shook her head as if coming out of a wild dream.

If he thought that was the end of it, he was very much mistaken. For though, she had no intention of throwing her maidenhead at the man, she had every intention of getting to know him. After all, if she was going to live the life that she wanted, what better teacher than a man such as he?

Chapter 3

Rosamund found herself walking into the castle as if on a cloud of perfect air. She hadn’t felt so. . . Well. . . Optimistic in some time.

She loved her brother. Very, very much. But he was a bit of a dour fellow. Not at all like he had been when they’d been children. Still, the death of their father had changed him.

No. Not his death. His life. His very scandalous and selfish life.

Truth be told her father had been a real degenerate.

Not a merry, cheeky fellow who apparently refused to have anything to do with an acquaintance’s virgin sister. Oh no. Her father had been public in his consumption of whores, wine, and song. From what she could gather, there had been nothing romantic or glamorous about his dissipated behavior.

The dukedom had suffered.

The lands had been neglected.

Frankly, she couldn’t recall more than a handful of experiences with her alcohol-sodden father. He’d always been kind to her when he’d stumbled into the nursery, but she’d never known him beyond a few pats on her head and a rancid-breathed inquiry into her daily study of the female arts which even small daughters of dukes were required to take part in.

Her brother, Duncan, on the other hand? His experiences with their father had turned him into a rigid man with an inability to enjoy himself lest he see signs that he was falling into sin.

It hadn’t always been like that.

Once, Duncan had laughed and smiled and teased and sung songs.

She missed that brother. Some days, she longed for him, especially when she was feeling especially lonely.

But that carefree Duncan was gone.

As if materializing out of her thoughts, her brother, the duke, strode out of his office, scowling, a ream of papers in his hands, kilt swinging about his legs.

“Is aught amiss?” she asked. Duncan scowled frequently, but at present his black brows had drawn together and his face was as dark as thunder.

“I’m going to have to fire my factotum.”

Rosamund gasped. Her brother had never fired a single servant that she knew of. He’d retired several on good pensions after their father had died. But he’d never been so cruel as to sack anyone.

“What has he done?” she asked, genuinely curious as to what could make her brother act thusly.

“He’s been lying to me.”

“Sold a few birds and pocketed the money for himself, eh?” It was easy to tease her brother. And it saddened her he cared for such miserly things now. He’d been growing colder and colder, month by month, as of late.

Only, instead of nodding and grumbling, Duncan’s gaze snapped to hers. “In fact, yes. But that’s not why I’m firing him.”

“No?”

“He defamed Lady Cavendish to me. Possibly to others.”

Ah. The fabled Lady Cavendish. Her brother had been cursing about her for months. Every time Rosamund had gotten a bit out of line, so to speak, he’d trotted out Lady Cavendish’s name as if the woman were a direct line to sin, hell, and all that was misery.

From what she’d heard through the local gossips, Lady Cavendish was quite merry and the villagers liked her.

Rosamund hadn’t tried to argue with her brother. Arguing with Duncan was like trying to force a Highland Coo to move when it had no wish to go.

But from the sheer anger on her brother’s face, it was as though his factotum had committed an entirely unforgivable sin.   “What did he say?” she asked. When Duncan had railed against Lady Cavendish, her terrible ways, and all English persons in general, she had allowed her mind to go wandering off. Often to London, attempting to envision what that Sodom and Gomorrah was actually like.

“He claimed her guests were poaching on my land,” Duncan said tersely.

“Oh dear. They weren’t?”

He gave a decisive shake of his head. “Worse, I believed his lies and I confronted her about it. I may have been unpleasant.”

She bit back a laugh. Poor Duncan. “Was she outraged?”

“She was. . .” Duncan’s face softened for the briefest instant but then he let out an annoyed breath. “She was infuriated. Not like a lady at all.”

“And?”

“I have to apologize,” he said, the words clearly causing him discomfort.

“Gentlemen do, though I’ve heard dukes don’t.”

“Then you’ve heard wrong,” Duncan intoned. “A duke, above all, should apologize when in the wrong.”

“So, when are you going to her lair?”

He sighed. “As soon as I can stand facing her again.”

Rosamund laughed this time. She couldn’t help it. Her brother sounded so distraught. “Is she that terrible?”

A strange look transformed his face from his usual hardness to one of almost worshipful contemplation. “She’s. . . She’s. . .”

“What?” she prompted.

Duncan blinked, the worshipful look disappearing. “Nothing and no one for you to concern yourself over. You’re not to meet her. She’d be a terrible influence.”

“Sounds marvelous,” she quipped. “Perhaps I should visit her myself.”

He glared. “Don’t you dare, Rosamund.”

She fiddled with her tartan. “Have you met any of her other guests?”

“Just one. Strange man.”

“Oh?” She widened her eyes, determined to appear innocent. “Who?”

“The Duke of Aston.” He gave her a warning glance. “And you’re not to meet him, either.”

“But we never meet anyone,” she protested. And they didn’t. The most discourse she had was with her maid, her horse, and her dog.

“These people are not the sort we associate with.”

“But if he’s a duke, surely—“

“Rosamund. He’s a scandal with a terrible reputation, if I understand him correctly. He’s not a proper duke at all.”

“What does that mean? Like Papa?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think. . . I don’t think he’s an utter wastrel, but he’s not to be trusted and certainly not by a young lady such as yourself.”

Well, it was true that he hadn’t behaved at all like a gentleman. Nothing like one. Except there had been his educated tones and then there had been his inherent arrogance.

Everything else about him had suggested an utter rogue. One with at least two principles. No unwilling maidens. . . And no sisters of men he knew.

One was admirable. The other most annoying.

“Do you think he’s a good shot?” she asked abruptly.

“Pardon?”

“This duke. Is he a good shot?”

Duncan eyed her carefully. “Yes, I think he’s probably excellent. From what I gather, he’s traveled vastly over the world, to parts unknown, and he has a certain edge about him. The edge of a man who has seen genuine danger many times and lived to tell the tale.”

So, that’s what that had been. That strange feeling about him.

“Why do you ask?” Duncan queried.

She shrugged. “Oh, no reason. One does wonder if a gentleman is any good at that sort of thing.”

Duncan nodded absently. “Did you know Lady Cavendish was well liked in the village?”

“Yes.”

There it was again. Duncan’s scowl. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She threw up her hands in exasperation and headed for the stairs. As she took the first step, she said over her shoulder, “Duncan, no one tells you anything.”

“That’s not true,” he called after her. “I listen.”

In answer, she laughed ruefully. She couldn’t help herself. Duncan was certain he knew the answer to everything . . . Perhaps even before the question had been asked. It would take someone of strong stuff to show her brother that he wasn’t always right and while she might attempt it on occasion, she knew she’d never change him.

As she climbed the main stairs and headed towards the west wing and circular stone stairs that would take her to her room, she shook her head.

Poor Duncan.

Oh! She really had to stop thinking that. Poor Duncan, indeed. He was wealthy, powerful, a duke! There was nothing poor about him. . . And yet, she knew he was lonely.

Loneliness. . . It was the worst. Or so she felt. When one felt alone, it was all too difficult to put one’s foot in front of the other.

Rather, the overwhelming temptation was to climb under the covers and never emerge again.

Duncan did put one foot in front of the other, of course. He’d never let anything like self-pity keep him abed.

And well, she’d made friends where she may.

Their clan, for the most part, was made of stern stuff. Moaning was not allowed. Her father had been an aberration because even her wild grandmother had had a will of iron. She’d run off, but then she’d returned, baby in tow, on the ducal castle steps and breezed in as though she hadn’t given birth to a by-blow, bolted, or done anything wrong.

Much to everyone’s shock, she’d carried it off and died an old lady happily drinking brandy and ruling the countryside after her own husband’s death.

Rosamund often wondered how she’d done it. For surely, after having acquainted oneself with the world, a small life in the Highlands would be a never-ending experience.

Even though she kept herself occupied and she was ever awe-inspired by the beauty around her, she couldn’t help but wishing a few people her age lived a trifle closer.

There was no other great family within thirty miles of their castle. She chatted regularly with the villagers but there was something about longing to share information on the books she read, the music she played, and the art she contemplated in their drafty but magnificent castle.

When her grandmother who had bolted with her lover ten years her younger had returned, it was not long after that wagon after wagon had arrived, or so legend went. Each had been filled with great art that she’d collected on her travels. Rubens, da Vinci, Botticelli. And tapestries. Glorious tapestries depicting scenes from worlds far afield and ancient times decked the cold walls, courtesy of that wild woman.

When the Highlands became terribly dreary, as they were wont to do in winter months, Rosamund had sat before those vast works of art and imagined herself into them.

It was a fanciful thing, but it did keep one from feeling sorry for oneself.

And of course, despite the impropriety, Rosamund had made friends with Maeve MacIntosh, her lady’s maid.

Her maid was a remarkable woman of fifty who had seen quite a deal. Though born into the Highlands, Maeve had worked for great families since she was twelve years old. And since those days when she’d first started out as a tweenie, she’d risen and risen high.

Her last position before she’d come home to the Highlands had been a grand one. She’d been the lady’s maid to the former Duchess of Hunt, a woman now riddled by scandal but once the toast of London.

Maeve had seen it all and Rosamund thanked the good lord for it!

Many a night before her bedroom fire, Maeve had regaled Rosamund with tales of life in London amidst the most powerful and most privileged.

Rosamund opened her bedroom door and, to no surprise, Maeve was waiting at the center with hot chocolate on a silver tray by her dressing stand, a gown laid out upon the bed, and a silver-backed hair brush in her wrinkled hands.

“Did you have a good swim, my lady?” the older woman asked in her beautiful voice that was now only touched by a burr when she was vexed.

Rather like Rosamund, who’d had the Highlands educated out of her speech by nannies and governesses.

Now, Rosamund kept secrets from her brother. In her opinion, all sisters had to. But, since she had no mother living and no close female friends, Maeve had become her confidante.

It wasn’t appropriate, but what was an isolated young woman to do?

“I had a fascinating swim,” she confessed.

“The icy water stimulates you more than usual,” her maid teased.

“Perhaps!” Rosamund widened her eyes and grinned. “Or perhaps it was the Duke of Aston.”

Any other maid might have dropped the hair brush in her hands. Maeve gasped and then waved Rosamund to the dressing table. “Sit and tell me all about it.”

Somehow, Maeve had convinced Duncan that she was a very proper sort. And when she’d been hired, her former employers had still been reputable. A duke’s family almost always was, even if touched by scandal.