Sins of a Duke (2 page)

“And I love you, sweetling. Be good.”

“I will try.”

“Bloody, short-sighted, penny-pinching—”

“Melbourne!”

Drawing his frayed temper back under hard control, Sebastian slowed his exit from the hallway outside the House of Lords. In all the years he’d been attending Par
liamentary sessions, he could only recall a handful of times he’d escaped the building without being hounded for some reason or other. After the way he’d spent the luncheon break, though, he was almost eager for this encounter. “Yes, Kesling?”

The viscount trundled up the hallway, stopping two feet in front of Sebastian and reeking of some kind of French cologne that did little to disguise his overripe body odor. He tightened his control further to keep from taking a step backward.

“Melbourne, I thought you were more progressive-minded than that.”

“Than what?”

“You claim to care about the welfare of the common people, and yet every time Prinny asks for funds for one of his follies, you vote to support him. I don’t underst—”

This conversation again
. “Perhaps you could explain to me, Kesling, why it is that every time a vote arises which places a tax on property, the resulting government income to be used for public relief,
you
vote it down. And that doesn’t even begin to explain the callousness with which you treat the people who live on your own land.”

“Why should the burden be placed on us, simply because of an accident of birth? It’s hardly—”

“Ah, that’s the problem, then,” Sebastian cut in. “
My
birth wasn’t an accident. I’ll explain it to you—once. In order for the United Kingdom to remain a power in this growing world, we must be able to progress. For that we need citizens who are educated and content. And in order for the rest of the world to see us as a power, our government must appear to be healthy. This government, therefore, supports its monarch and its people. Or it will, for as long as a Griffin remains in the House of Lords. Good day, Kesling.” He turned on his heel.

The front door of Griffin House opened the moment his coach stopped on the drive. “Stanton,” he said, stepping to the ground, “has Lady Peep returned yet?”

“Not yet, Your Grace. But you have a note from Carlton House.”

The duke lifted it off the silver salver and opened it in the doorway. “When did this arrive?”

“Twenty minutes ago, Your Grace.”

He turned around again. “Tollins, wait there,” he called, stopping the coach before it could head around to the stables. Sticking the note in his pocket, he reclaimed his hat and gloves. “Please let my daughter know where I’ve gone, and that I’ll return as soon as I can.”

The butler inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

With a sigh Sebastian headed back into the streets of Mayfair. He had a good idea what Prinny wanted; whatever the events of the morning, the Regent continued to be obsessed with finishing his pavilion at Brighton regardless of how empty his coffer might be. And today had been the preliminary vote in the House of Lords.

Somewhere along the way Sebastian had moved from being a staunch supporter of the monarchy to being Prince George’s confidante and advisor. Despite the occasional inconvenience, it did give him some additional control over the course of the country. And it let him into what seemed to have become a secret: If one could overlook his occasional tantrums and frequent, theatrical dramatics, Prinny was a bright fellow with exquisite taste.

As soon as he arrived at Carlton House one of the attendants ushered him into the formal white room, which was odd. The white room was for guests, and he’d long since ceased being anything that formal. Obviously Prinny had something in mind, though, so Sebastian walked to the window that overlooked the garden and waited.

He was still standing there five minutes later when the door opened again. “Melbourne!” Prinny’s familiar voice came, “I hadn’t realized you were here. No doubt you have some pressing matters to discuss with me.”

Sebastian faced the Regent, masking his confusion with a smile as he realized Prinny had a dozen people following him into the room. Ah, so now he was an ornament for tourists. “I do, Your Highness,” he agreed, bowing.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment, then,” Prinny returned. “First, I would like to present His Majesty Stephen Embry, Rey of Costa Habichuela. Also his wife, Queen Maria. Your Majesties, His Grace, the Duke of Melbourne, one of my closest advisors.”

The man standing at the forefront of the entourage stepped forward and offered his hand. “Very pleased, Your Grace,” he said, in an accent that sounded distinctly Cornish.

Hm. As far as Sebastian knew, Cornwall had not seceded from England and altered its name. “Your Majesty,” he returned, shaking hands.

In addition to his accent, the rey was tall with yellow hair, a golden moustache, and decidedly English features despite his Hispanic title. He wore a striking black military-looking uniform, as did the four men who surrounded the group. His was differentiated by a narrow white sash over his left shoulder and tassled at his right hip. Several obvious military decorations adorned the sash, all of them dominated by a simple green cross at his breast.

Unlike her escort, the lady with her hand on the rey’s arm was clearly of Spanish decent—tall, black-haired, olive-skinned, and brown-eyed. Queen Maria, undoubtedly.

“May I ask where Costa Habichuela is located?” he asked after a moment, focusing on the rey.

“Ah, glad you asked,” Embry returned, smiling. “We’re on the eastern coast of Central America. A wondrous place,
really. I was greatly honored when the Mosquito King deeded it to me and my heirs.”

This was the third country to be formed in South or Central America over the past year and a half, then. “The Mosquito King,” he repeated. “That would put your territory along the Mosquito Coast.”

“Yes, very good, Your Grace. You know your geography.”

“It’s a much less well-known fact, however,” a soft, feminine voice slid in from the left of the rey, “that the area is named after a group of small islands known as the Mosquitos rather than after the insect.”

Sebastian turned his head. Brown eyes gazed into his. Deep brown, like rich, newly turned soil in the springtime, set into a face the color of fresh cream, smooth and flawless. And her hair, long and loose with a hint of curl, the flowing mass as black as a raven’s wings.

“Your Grace,” the rey’s voice broke in, “my daughter, Princess Josefina Katarina Embry.”

Blinking, Sebastian mentally pulled himself back. He felt distant, off balance, as though he’d been staring for an hour—but it must have been less than a minute. “Your Highness,” he intoned, bowing.

She returned a shallow curtsy, her eyes glittering as though she knew precisely the effect she’d had on him. “Your Grace.”

“The rey and his family are here to secure some loans,” Prinny put in. He clapped his beefy hands together. “You know, Melbourne, you would be the perfect contact for that. I’m appointing you British liaison to Costa Habichuela. How do you like that?”

Not much at all
. “I’m honored, Your Highness,” Sebastian said aloud, setting a cool smile on his face. “I’m not certain how much actual assistance I’ll be able to provide, but I’m happy to lend my advice—such as it is.”

“Splendid. You’re attending the Elkins soiree tonight, are you not?”

“I had planned to.”

“Then you’ll escort our new friends there. Unfortunately, I have a previous engagement, or I would do so, myself.”

For a moment Sebastian wondered whether Prinny considered just how much legitimacy he was granting this new country by involving the Duke of Melbourne in the rey’s introduction to London Society, but in almost the same instant he knew the answer. What Prince George saw was an opportunity to impress a few foreigners with his generosity and influence.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, because at the moment he didn’t have any alternative.

“I’m afraid Queen Maria and I also have a previous obligation,” the rey said with an apologetic look.

Thank God
. “I’m sorry to hear th—”

“Princess Josefina, however, will do a fine job of representing Costa Habichuela in our stead.”

“Yes, it would be my pleasure,” the rich voice came again.

A responding shiver ran down Sebastian’s spine. “Then tell me where you’re staying, and I shall be by at eight o’clock.”

“Josefina, please see to it,” the rey said, turning to ask Prinny about one of the many white marble figures lining the room.

“We’re presently lodging at the home of Colonel Winston Branbury, until we find a suitable consulate,” the princess said, taking Sebastian’s arm.

“Branbury. I know it.” He didn’t want to stand still, so he walked them away from the others, toward the nearest window.

“Good. I would be incapable of providing directions,”
she continued with a smile, “being a stranger to London, myself.”

He found himself staring at her mouth, at her full lips with their slight Spanish pout. “Don’t worry yourself,” he forced out. “My coach will arrive at Branbury House promptly at eight.”

Her smile deepened. “I do like a prompt gentleman. Rumor has it, Your Grace, that you performed some heroics this morning.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I performed my duty. That’s all.”

“Ah. Gallant and modest.”

Attractive—mesmerizing—as she was, Princess Josefina conversed in the same way, and seemed impressed by the same things, as any other woman of his acquaintance. But those eyes…“My gallantry has yet to be proven,” he said, freeing his arm from her fingers and glad she wore gloves. He had the distinct feeling that her flesh would burn his. He backed to the door. “Until this evening.”

Out in the corridor, Sebastian leaned back against the wall to catch his breath. He felt abruptly as though he’d run all the way from Marathon. What the devil was wrong with him?

Firstly, he should have realized what Prinny’s intentions were and excused himself from participating. Secondly, he was not some fresh-faced schoolboy. He was four-and-thirty, for God’s sake. And he’d set eyes on pretty chits before. He’d married one. And he hadn’t felt as…off-kilter since then. Even ordinary conversation with her felt unique.

Shaking himself, he pushed upright and headed for the front entrance of Carlton House. He’d been put in an unfortunate position, but he would deal with it in the same
way he did everything else in his life—swiftly and efficiently. As for the rest, he’d turned ignoring anything other than family and business into an art form. Putting Josefina Katarina Embry aside would be no challenge at all. He wouldn’t allow it to be.

S
ebastian climbed into the coach opposite his brother and sister-in-law. “Shall we?”

Zachary rapped on the ceiling, and the coach jolted into motion. “Are you going to tell us?” he prodded after a moment of silence.

“Tell you what?”

“Why we’re in my coach tonight. Peep’s not eloping in yours, is she?”

“I sent it to bring someone to the soiree.”

“Who?”

“Zachary,” his wife, Lady Caroline, chastised.

As far as Sebastian was concerned, the less said about any of this, the better. His brother, however, was more curious than a cat, and possessed the tenacity of a bulldog. He would have to tell them something. “I’m doing a favor for Prinny.”

“I thought you already did one of those this morning.”

Sebastian ignored the comment. “He asked me to escort a foreign dignitary to the party.”

“And again, why are you in
my
coach?”

“Because it wouldn’t be seemly for me to be in mine.” And because he didn’t care for a repeat of the oddness that had come over him earlier, the feeling of being supremely focused and completely scattered all at the same time, heat burrowing into his skin.

“It’s a female someone, then.”

Sebastian yanked himself back to the conversation in time to lift an eyebrow. “Your mental acuity continues to amaze me.”

“Doesn’t the chit have a maid or something? That would remove any appearance of impro—”

“I’m sure she does,” the duke countered. “I opted to share a ride with the two of you, though now I’m beginning to think your wife and I might have done very well without you.”

Zach scowled. “I only asked a question.”

Caroline patted him on the knee. “You were prying.”

“You can’t pry when it’s family.” He shifted on the leather seat. “So how ugly is this chit?”

“Zachary!”

Flashing a quick grin at his wife, Zachary sat back again. “That’s it, isn’t it? A foreign dignitary that Prinny pawned off on you for the evening. She must be an absolute rotten sack of potatoes. You don’t have to dance with her, do you? Or is she gouty? Probably. The—”

“Caroline, how goes your portrait of the Duke of York?” Sebastian broke in.

“Quite well, thank you. As long as no one reminds him that I’m now part of the Griffin family, we get on famously.”

“I don’t know why you’re avoiding the subject, Seb,” Zachary attempted again. “We’re going to see her at the party. And I am going to stick to you like spots on a leopard until you introduce me.”

A shiver ran down Sebastian’s spine. Reluctance? Dread? Anticipation? He didn’t know. But the sensation wasn’t a pleasant one, regardless. “Do as you will,” he said coolly. “Just know that Willits and Fennerton will be dogging me as well, so you’ll all have to stand there together.”

Zachary wrinkled his nose. “Fennerton?”

“Fennerton.”

As they disembarked from the coach, Sebastian put the dark-eyed image of Princess Josefina away from his thoughts again. Hopefully being the liaison to Costa Habichuela would involve nothing more than introducing the rey to Sir Henry Sparks at the Bank of England. For tonight, as a matter of courtesy he was providing transportation and an arm to hang on. Nothing more. And the unsettled feeling in his gut was purely due to something he’d eaten. Most likely it had been the fricandos of veal Cook had served up at dinner.

“Shay and Sarala are here,” Zachary noted, raising an arm as the middle Griffin brother and his wife approached.

“Did you hear,” Charlemagne said without preamble, “that Prinny’s been named something called an honorary Knight of the Green Cross? He’s apparently over the moon about the royals from some new South American country—Costa something. Even appointed one of his minions their translator or some such nonsense.”

Damnation
. “Liaison,” Sebastian corrected stiffly. Of course the more politically active Shay would have a better idea of what was going on than Zach. “To Costa Habichuela.”

“You?” Zachary choked.

“Yes, me. I don’t expect it will entail much, and Prinny requested it of me.”

“Still, Seb,” Shay countered, his expression a combination of amusement and surprise, “appointing the Duke of
Melbourne any kind of liaison to…what? I’ve never even heard of it.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Is Prinny angry with you for stepping in this morning?”

Usually Sebastian would never have tolerated anyone speculating about his duties and motives. Tonight, though, Shay was probably only echoing what the rest of his peers were or would be saying once they heard the news. If he wanted to stop any unflattering comments, he needed to know what they were likely to be.

“No, Prinny’s not angry with me,” he returned. “A new, apparently stable regime in the southern Americas is a rarity, and especially one that favors England. I don’t know all that much about it yet, but I do know that if England doesn’t provide what they need, they may go elsewhere—France, for example. Besides, if the rey gets his loan here, it could be a potentially lucrative opportunity for trade and even settlement.”

“Lucrative?” Shay repeated, his light gray eyes beginning to gleam.

Beside him, Sarala grinned. “‘Potentially lucrative,’” she corrected. “I believe that means wait and see, does it not, Sebastian?”

He nodded. “I am glad you two have married ladies with sense, as you clearly have none on your own.” A ripple of movement by the ballroom doors drew his attention, and he caught a glimpse of raven-black hair.

“That’s hardly fair, when y—”

“Excuse me,” he said, cutting Zachary off.

Princess Josefina, a maid and one of the black-uniformed men flanking her, faced him as he approached. Tonight she wore a rich yellow gown, low cut enough that the creamy mounds of her breasts heaved as she drew a breath. God, she was spectacular. Of course that didn’t signify anyth—

She slapped him.

Sebastian blinked, clenching his rising hands against the immediate instinct to retaliate. The blow stung, but of more concern was the responding roar from the onlookers in the Elkins ballroom. He looked directly into her dark brown eyes. “Never do that again,” he murmured, curving his lips in a smile that felt more like a snarl.

“My father and your Regent made a very simple request of you,” she snapped, no trace of the soft-spoken flirt of this afternoon in either her voice or her expression. “If you are incapable of meeting even such low expectations, I will see you relieved of your duties to Costa Habichuela immediately, before you can do any harm with your incompetence.”

It took every ounce of his hard-earned self-control to remain standing there, unmoving. No one—
no one
—had ever spoken to him like that. As for hitting him…He clenched his jaw. “If you would care to accompany me off the dance floor,” he said in a low voice, unable to stop the slight shake of his words, “I believe I can correct your misapprehension.”

“My
misapprehension? I, sir, am a royal princess. You are only a duke. And I am most displeased.”

The circle of the audience that surrounded them drew closer, the ranks swelling until it seemed that now people were coming in off the streets to gawk. Sebastian drew a deep breath in through his nose. “Come with me,” he repeated, no longer requesting, “and we will resolve our differences in a civilized manner.”

“First you will apologize to me,” the princess retorted, her chin lifting further.

All he needed to do was turn his back and walk away. The crowd would speculate, rumors would spread, but in the end his reputation and power would win the argument for him. As far as he was concerned, though, that would be cheating. And he wanted the victory here. He wanted
her
apology,
her
surrender,
her
mouth,
her
body. Slowly he straightened his fingers. “I apologize for upsetting you, Your Highness. Please join me in the library so we may converse.” He reached for her wrist.

The princess drew back, turning her shoulder to him. “I did not give you permission to touch me.”

At the moment he wanted to do so much more than touch her wrist. God. It was as though when she hit him, she’d seared his flesh down to the bone. “Then we are at an impasse,” he returned, still keeping his voice low and even, not letting anyone see what coursed beneath his skin, “because I am not going to continue this conversation in the middle of a ballroom.”

She looked directly into his eyes. Despite his anger, the analytical part of him noted that very few people ever met him straight on. Whatever she saw there, her expression eased a little. “Perhaps then instead of conversing, we should dance.”

Dance
. He wanted to strangle her, and she wanted to dance. It did admittedly provide the best way out of this with the fewest rumors flying. The rumors it
would
begin, though, he didn’t like. Was she aware that she was making this look like some sort of lover’s quarrel? He couldn’t very well ask her. Instead he turned his head to find Lord Elkins. “Could you manage us a waltz, Thomas?” he asked, giving an indulgent smile. “Princess Josefina would like to dance.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The viscount waved at the orchestra hanging over the balcony to gawk at the scene below. “Play a waltz!”

Stumbling over one another, the players sat and after one false start, struck up a waltz. That would solve the yelling, but not the spectacle. “May I?” Sebastian intoned, holding out his hand again.

After a deliberate hesitation, the princess reached out
and placed her gloved fingers into his bare ones. “For this dance only.”

With her now in his grasp, the urge to show her just who was in command nearly overpowered him. Mentally steeling himself, he slid a hand around her waist, in the same moment sending a glance over his shoulder at Shay. “Dance,” he mouthed. Not for all of heaven and earth would he prance about the floor alone.

“Are you going to explain to me why you sent a carriage without bothering to attend me yourself?” Princess Josefina asked.

“Your English is surprisingly good for a foreigner,” he said deliberately. “As a native, allow me to give you a little advice. No matter who—”

“I will not—”

“—you may be elsewhere,” he continued in a low voice, tightening his grip on her as she tried to pull away, “you should consider that in England you do not strike a nobleman in public.”

“For
your
information,” she returned in the same tone, “my English is perfect because until two years ago I
was
English, raised mostly in Jamaica. And I will strike anyone who insults me.”

That settled it. She was a lunatic. “You’re mad,” he said aloud. “I can conceive of no other explanation as to why you would speak to me in such a manner.”

She lifted an elegant eyebrow. “If I am the only one who tells you the truth, that does not make me mad. It makes everyone else around you cowards.”

The muscles of his jaw were clenched so tightly they ached. “I should—”

“You should what, Melbourne?” she cut in, her gaze unexpectedly lowering to his mouth. “Arguing with me excites you, doesn’t it?” She drew a breath closer in his arms. “And there is nothing you can do about it, is there?” she whis
pered, lifting her eyes to his again. Abruptly the smooth-voiced seductress of earlier swayed gracefully in his arms.

She felt the attraction between them as strongly as he did. That realization should have made the dance, the conversation, the looking at her easier, but it didn’t. Just the opposite. As Sebastian spun her about the polished dance floor, his focus narrowed until all he could think of, all he could imagine, was Princess Josefina naked and spread beneath him, begging for him, begging for mercy, begging for release. He’d never felt so close to the edge of his famous control as he did at that moment.

“Come now, duke,” she cajoled, “do you have nothing to say at all?”

“I prefer action to words,” he ground out.

“Do you, now? What sort of action?”

Princess Josefina Embry just barely kept herself from wetting her lips. Only the look in Melbourne’s eyes, and the suspicion that he would jump on her right there in the middle of the ballroom kept her from doing so. The stays on her gown felt so confining that she could barely breathe. All afternoon she’d anticipated…him. The touch of his fingers as he handed her into his coach, the witty banter they would exchange on the way to the ball—the kind of banter she’d missed and longed for while spending the last three weeks crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a very cramped ship with only sailors and her father’s people for company.

And then his carriage had arrived—without him inside.

“I don’t wish to further offend Your Highness by describing the action I’m imagining,” Melbourne returned in a low, sensual growl.

A tremor ran down her spine. Did he have any idea how his mere presence must affect women? Dark brown hair just curling where it brushed his collar, that tall, lean, hard figure, those high cheekbones and that Roman aristocrat’s
chiseled nose and jaw, and especially those glittering, storm-gray eyes—how could he not know? He could have any female he wanted. He probably did, whenever he chose.

“You’ve already offended me,” she goaded, trying to keep her voice steady. “Answering my question couldn’t possibly make matters worse. What action would you take against me?”

He lowered his head toward her, so she could feel his breath warm against her skin, their mouths only inches apart. “You’re panting for it, aren’t you, Princess?” he murmured.

The music crashed to a crescendo and stopped. Everyone began applauding.

“You’ll have to imagine,” he whispered, brushing her ear with his mouth as he released her. “Because next time, you’ll have to ask
my
permission for a touch.” Straightening and stepping back in the same motion, he gestured her toward the side of the room where Conchita and Lieutenant May stood waiting.

Blast him, the devil
. “You are still my escort for this evening, Melbourne,” she countered before he could vanish somewhere. “Pray do try to remember that.”