The Duke

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

The Duke

 

A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1995
by
Catherine Coulter

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-0958-5

 

A
SIGNET
BOOK®

Signet
Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET
and the “
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Electronic edition: February 2002

To my husband, who's the sexiest, smartest and the most entertaining man in the world. Second time around, babe, for
The Generous Earl
. Thanks for the first time and the all the other times.

 

 

ANGUS ROBERTSON–Earl of Penderleigh, now deceased

 

LADY ADELLA–Dowager countess of Penderleigh

 

Lady Adella's sons:

DAVONAN–deceased

CLIVE–deceased

 

Lady Adella's granddaughters: (Clive's daughters)

BRANDY

CONSTANCE

FIONA

 

Lady Adella's grandson:

PERCIVAL–Davonan's bastard son

 

DOUGLAS ROBERTSON–Angus's elder brother, deceased; disinherited and his line severed

 

Douglass's son:

CLAUDE

 

Douglass's grandson:

BERTRAND

L
ady Felicity Trammerley, eldest daughter of the Earl of Braecourt, had been taught from her cradle by her devoted mama what was due to her. Certainly a lot was due to her, she reasoned, from her betrothed, the Duke of Portmaine. After all, she had consented to marry him. Certainly it was an achievement for him to have won her consent. She knew he believed her docile and malleable, very probably like a sheep, and those qualities were what he desired. She did her best to convince him she possessed them. Diligence and hard work. Her mama had patted her beautiful black hair and told her diligence would always get her what she wanted. Ah, but sometimes it was trying, particularly now, after the duke had told her why he'd come to visit her. She held her tongue. She let him talk. She knew she still had to tread lightly, even though their engagement had been formally announced in the
Gazette
the previous week. Yes, she had to be careful not to scream at him when he told her in that clipped, arrogant way of his why he'd come, the selfish clod.

The charm came swimming through her voice as she said, “My dear Ian, you know I'm pleased about the inheritance, even though it's just a Scottish title and estate. But I fail to understand the urgency of your
traveling now, in the middle of the Season, to inspect some moldering old castle that has probably been close to ruin for the past hundred years. Surely, the turrets won't crumble if you postpone your trip until the summer. Oh, dear, it doesn't still have a moat, does it? They're dreadfully unhealthy. Now, no one could expect you to give up all the pleasures of the Season just for this.”

She didn't add that her own pleasures were very much intertwined with his, for the umbrella of his consequence as a wealthy and powerful peer made everyone treat her just as they ought now that they were affianced and she was recognized as the future Duchess of Portmaine. There were still a couple of old biddies who still hadn't accepted the fact, but when she finally married him, she'd fix them but good.

Ian Charles Curlew Carmichael, fifth Duke of Portmaine, regarded the dainty, altogether delicious specimen of womanhood seated before him with an indulgent look in his dark eyes. He smiled at her, for it was impossible not to, for it pleased him simply to look at her. She was very beautiful. She spoke softly, as a duchess should. She moved gracefully as a duchess should. Yes, he'd done the right thing.

“No,” he said finally, “you're right about that, Felicity. No one would expect such an excess of landlordly zeal—no one save myself and, of course, my late uncle Richard. He taught me to care for what was mine because if I didn't, someone else would, and that would leave me nothing more than a fool. I must go. If I leave within the week, I should be back within the month. I know you'll understand, my dear. I can't simply turn my back on my obligations, no matter if they must intrude upon other, more interesting pursuits.” Actually, he thought, it was more to the point that he would seize on any possible excuse to save him from all the flash and dash of the Season. The
endless parties and balls bored him to his eyebrows and completely deadened his mind.

Ah, but he knew that ladies enjoyed that sort of thing, and he was, after all, a gentleman. But now he could remain a gentleman and escape as well. He was enjoying exquisite relief with virtually no guilt.

Lady Felicity went stiff as a board at his despotic dismissal of her objections. He preferred going to the backwater of the world rather than remain in London with her, damn him. She carefully swallowed an acid reply and managed to say with reasonable good humor, “But, Ian, you have told me yourself that you don't even know these people. And you know the Scots—nasty barbarians, all of them. I can't believe they'd welcome an Englishman. Why don't you just send your solicitor, Jerkin, to see to things?”

The duke gazed into the soft leaf green eyes, slightly slanted at the corners, eyes that reminded him so much of his first wife's. No, he wouldn't think about Marianne, not now. It wasn't right. He had to forget Marianne. Surely once Felicity was his duchess, she would take Marianne's place. She would make him release his hold on his long dead wife.

He said, “You just might be right, my dear, but nonetheless, it is my duty to at least visit Penderleigh Castle and determine what I'm going to do with the place. After all, these offensive barbarians, as you call them, are related to me, though somewhat removed in bloodlines.”

“I said they were nasty, not offensive.”

“Forgive me, the two words seem remarkably akin to me. Now, the title comes to me through my great aunt, whom, I understand, still lives at Penderleigh through some sort of bizarre Scottish legal ruling made some years ago. I regret to leave you alone during the height of the social whirl”—at least he had the grace to avoid looking at her directly as he
spoke—“but you know you can always depend on Giles to take you wherever you want to go. You like him, he's witty and lighthearted. He dances well. He knows every scrap of gossip in London. I have no idea how he does it.”

The duke looked perplexed, then shook his head and grinned. “Can you bear that he wraps himself in a yellow-striped waistcoat with a row of huge silver buttons and plants a hunter green coat over all of it?”

He pictured Giles preening in that ensemble. He'd called him a peacock with his tail feathers all plumed out, but his cousin had only punched his arm and told him he was too stolid in his dress, an absolute bore, as a matter of fact.

It would have come as a drop-dead shock to the duke to learn that Lady Felicity held Giles in fashionable esteem and believed his mode of dress far more elegant than the overly simple styles the duke wore. And he would have laughed in denial had he known that she considered Giles, with his slender, far slighter frame, less intimidating than the duke. He didn't know that right at this moment Lady Felicity felt a cramp in her belly, remembering her brother, Lord Sayer, coarsely teasing her about the duke when he'd been told by their ecstatic father about her betrothal. He had tweaked her chin in that hearty, loathsome way of his, all the while allowing his laughing gaze to flit over her petite body.

“Well, little puss, the duke is a man mountain. I bravely took him on in the ring the other day, saw him stripped to his hide, you know. All hard muscle, my dear, not a patch of fat on him. Most
noble
proportions even in rest, if you glean my meaning, which I hope you don't, since you're a virgin and a ninny. I vow you'll have a lusty wedding night with him. You'll probably not walk straight for days.”

Felicity quickly looked away from the duke,
realizing that she'd been eyeing him with something akin to horror. She repeated to herself that Ian was, after all, a duke. One didn't look at dukes with horror. One admired dukes. When she became his duchess, she would be compensated for what she would have to endure in his bedchamber. She would give him an heir—she knew that was expected by everyone, including her fond mama, who profoundly regretted that her little treasure would have to be violated by a husband—but then, surely, he would leave her alone and be content to dally with his mistresses.

Lady Felicity managed to smile up at him. She knew it wouldn't be wise to protest his decision further. She had seen often enough how he would withdraw from her at any hint of opposition. She drew herself up confidently. When she became the Duchess of Portmaine, ah, then things would change.

She managed to keep her smile firmly in place. “You know I'll miss you dreadfully, Ian.”

The duke rose from the pale blue brocade settee and clasped her small hands between his large ones. “I'll miss you too, my dear. I'm delighted that you understand my reasons. I shan't be gone long, you'll see.”

Lady Felicity didn't understand his reasons at all, but she held her tongue. She allowed the duke to kiss her cheek. His mouth was warm. She didn't mind it. If only a husband would stop with a kiss, then it would be perfect, but her mama had told her that she would have to endure much more than just simple kisses. It was something all ladies had to endure, including her poor little precious, and she'd patted her head.

She said as the butler helped the duke into his cloak, “August seems a lifetime away, Ian. A full six months until our wedding. It will be the largest wedding of the year and at St. George's. Everyone who matters will be there.”

A vivid image of his first wife, Marianne, rose uninvited to his mind. They'd been married at St. George's. Everyone of any importance had begged to come. It had been the happiest day of his life. Marianne, his beautiful Marianne. She was indeed a lifetime away from him, an eternity.

He looked down at Felicity, in whose company he'd rediscovered pleasures that had long since been missing from his life. She bore a striking resemblance to Marianne, and as he had come to know her better, he had seen more and more the same gentleness and modesty, the same softness and kindness.

He could not deny that it was time for him to marry again. He was twenty-eight, life was always uncertain, and everyone expected it of him simply because he had to sire an heir. He reminded himself how lucky he was to have a Marianne and a Felicity come into his life.

He looked down at her a moment longer, then took his leave.

 

Later that day, in the drawing room of the Portmaine town house, Mr. Giles Braidston twirled the delicate stem of his brandy snifter between his slender fingers, remarking as he did so to his cousin, the Duke of Portmaine, “Felicity informs me that you've determined to travel to Scotland. Rather a troublesome adventure, I should say, but you like that sort of thing, don't you? All that endless hectic travel, never knowing if the bed at the next inn will have more fleas than the owner's dogs. Of course, you realize that Felicity is, shall we say, rather agitated by your decision. Actually, I'd call it a good old-fashioned snit, but what do I know? Felicity does a snit very well—nose in the air, lips all thinned out, eyes turning dark with meanness. Yes, she's quite good at the art of the snit. I
fancy her mama taught her how to do it before she was out of the schoolroom.”

Ian was leaning over a large oak desk, scrutinizing a map of Scotland. “Bedamned, Giles, as far as I can tell, it will take me at least five days to reach Penderleigh Castle. And from what I understand, the roads are rutted paths, more suited for sheep than for carriages. It's near to Berwick-on-Tweed, on the eastern coast. I'm sorry, old fellow, what did you say?”

“Your betrothed, Ian, and her snit.”

Ian said easily, “If Felicity has sent you to me to change my mind, you can forget it. I have to go. It's my duty. You'll see to her, of course.”

“Certainly I'll take very good care of her and enjoy myself as well, since everyone treats me very nicely when I'm in your place. Being your nominal heir has its benefits, and I do enjoy them all, thank you, cousin.”

The duke thought of the pile of bills he'd told Pabbson to pay to Giles's creditors only a month ago. He was fond of his fashionable cousin, and didn't begrudge Giles's occasional dipping into his much larger till. Thank God Giles wasn't addicted to the gaming tables, but only to silver buttons and outlandish waistcoats.

He said, “Do just as you please when you're in my place, Giles. The only favor I ask of you is to see to Felicity's comfort. You will do that, won't you, Giles?”

“Oh, yes, trust me to soothe her troubled brow, if she even has one. Her mama taught her never to frown. It would make her forehead wrinkle at too early an age. Have you ever thought that Felicity much resembles her mama?”

The duke didn't even pause but said, “Since you are my cousin, the gossips can't fault you as her escort. Felicity dearly loves town life, just as did Mari—well, damn.” The duke looked away, drew a deep breath,
and added, “If Felicity wishes her routs and balls, I don't want her to be disappointed.”

Giles was swinging the black velvet ribbon that held his watch back and forth, back and forth. “It seems to me, Ian, that your trip to Scotland is exquisitely timed. A rather drastic measure, I should say, to avoid the Season and all its gadding about.”

“Gadding? What a nonsensical word. The Season is a bloody bore and you know it. Well, perhaps you don't, but I do.”

“I pray you won't say that quite the same way you just said it to me to your betrothed. You just might be treated to an earl's daughter's rendition of ‘You're a bloody bugger and I'll make you pay.”'

The duke just waved him away, but he did look thoughtful for a moment. He carefully rolled up his map of Scotland and fastened it with a short length of ribbon. “Perhaps, Giles, you see too much. I know you say too much. If you want to know the truth, I'll tell you. Going to Penderleigh Castle is more a release from gaol than it is a duty. I do have some curiosity about my Robertson relatives and obviously I've got to see the place, but the thought of squiring another betrothed about for the length of the Season makes me want to draw my bedcovers over my head and howl. Indeed, if I was never again in London for the Season, I wouldn't give a good damn. Indeed, I would consider myself the luckiest of men.”