The Duke’s Desire (8 page)

Again Galen reminded himself of his reason for returning to England. He wanted a wife and he wanted a family. This woman was young, she was rich, she was the daughter of an earl.

“You mean you would have purposefully avoided me?” Galen asked, letting his voice drop to a low, seductively intimate tenor. “I must confess I find that a distressing notion.”

A flush spread upon Lady Mary’s cheeks and her fingers tightened upon his arm.

Sadly, her touch didn’t move him at all, and certainly didn’t inspire him with any carnal longings.

He supposed he could try harder.

“Why, Sir Myron, you can’t mean that!” Eloise suddenly exclaimed so loudly that even the gamekeepers started.

“What are you saying, Myron, that has so offended my cousin?” Galen charged with a hint of laughter.

After a very stern glance at Myron, Eloise turned back to Galen. “Sir Myron tells me he has never invited dear Mrs. Davis-Jones to his hunting lodge, and that he hasn’t even seen her in months.”

“Oh, your friend the widow? She lives nearby?” he asked disingenuously.

“I seem to recall mentioning it to you.”

“Did you? Are you quite certain? Perhaps it was somebody else.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie, but judging by Eloise’s furrowed brow, it was enough to make her doubt her memory.

“I don’t think she would come even if I did,” Myron muttered, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “We are acquainted, of course. I know what she looks like and something of her family.”

Galen hurried to Myron’s rescue. “Eloise, you told me Mrs. Davis-Jones doesn’t accept invitations.”

“But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t ask her!” Eloise declared, apparently forgetting her own manners in her determination to set Myron’s right.

“Well, now that I have company, of course I shall ask her. I shall give a dinner party and she will be invited,” Myron replied manfully.

Galen’s heart leaped at the thought of seeing
Verity another time. His arm must have moved, too, for Lady Mary suddenly gave him a surprised glance.

“A twitch,” he whispered in a confidential aside. “I have an aversion to widows.”

Lady Mary nodded. “I, as well,” she admitted. “They make everything so gloomy and Mrs. Davis-Jones is so…so stern.”

So Verity might seem if one did not know her well, Galen thought.

“She has not had an easy time of it,” Eloise said with a hint of censure.

Galen silently applauded his cousin for coming to Verity’s defense. He hated being unable to do it himself. Unfortunately, Verity’s own determination to hide their relationship forced him to hold his tongue.

“I assure you, she was very different when she was young,” Eloise continued. “She always had the most delightfully wicked ideas for getting back at our teachers at school. For instance, she was the one who came up with the idea of spreading molasses on the stairs as if it had spilled, then shouting ‘fire’ at the top of her lungs. Oh, dear me, the to-do as they all came scurrying down calling for us to get out and then stepping in it!”

While Eloise laughed at the memory, Galen imagined Verity as a child, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief, like Jocelyn’s.

“She sounds like a terror to me,” Lady Mary said. “I would never have done anything so horrible.”

No, Galen silently agreed. He didn’t think Lady Mary had it in her to come up with such a scheme. He didn’t doubt that she had been a quiet, dutiful and dull child.

She would likely be a quiet, dutiful and dull wife.

“I shall be delighted to invite her,” Myron said.

“Wonderful! I knew you were a gentleman,” Eloise cried, “and I shall be delighted to take the invitation myself, as soon as you decide the day and time.”

“Whenever you think best, Lady Bodenham,” Myron offered. “I know nothing about dinner parties myself, so I shall count on your assistance—and Lady Mary’s, too, of course,” he finished, casting another timid glance at Galen’s companion.

“Very well,” Eloise answered, for she was never happier than when planning a party. “I shall insist that she come. I don’t think it’s good for a woman to waste away just because her husband is dead.”

“Perhaps she prefers to be alone with her memories,” Lady Mary suggested as they continued toward the house. “If a wife is very much in love with her husband, she may not want to socialize after he passes on.”

She gave Galen another tentative smile, and he felt the noose tightening.

“Then she must be made to,” Eloise declared. “It isn’t healthy being cooped up all the time, and when I think how amusing Verity used to be…well, she mustn’t be allowed to wallow in her grief.”

“I must say, cousin, I had no idea you were an expert on grieving as well as child-rearing,” Galen said, unable to keep silent, even if he did manage a tranquil tone distinctly at odds with his inner anger.

“Well, I’m not! And I might have known better than to talk to
you
about shutting oneself away,” Eloise retorted, eyeing him pointedly.

“Eloise,” Galen warned.

“Oh, very well, I shan’t criticize you—but at least Verity had a reason for banishing herself from society. She didn’t just take it into her head to do it on a whim.”

Galen smiled, but only with his lips. “You know me so well, cousin. I lived ten years in Italy on a whim.”

“Why
did
you leave England, then?”

As Lady Mary and Myron exchanged dismayed looks, Galen cursed himself for letting Eloise goad him. “As you said, on a whim. Then it seemed such an effort to return, only the death of my dear father could have persuaded me to do so.”

“That reminds me of the time the duke put horse dung on the headmaster’s door latch,” Myron suddenly announced. “Then he hid all the candles on the poor fellow. The master came stumbling up the steps and put his hand on the latch and gave out the most horrified bellow I have heard. Sounded like a bull caught in a fence.”

Lady Mary wrinkled her nose and Eloise frowned.

“Myron, you might have selected a more charming reminiscence,” Galen said genially, thankful that his friend had tried to change the subject, even if he had selected this rather vulgar tale to tell. “I was very young,” he said, by way of excuse to the ladies.

“You were fifteen!” Myron protested.

“Quite right,” Galen agreed. “I was a young and immature fifteen, obviously.”

“I shudder to think what you and Verity might have concocted had you known each other then,” Eloise observed.

“Indeed, yes,” Galen replied lightly as they walked up the terrace steps. “And if you think it worth the trouble, invite your dour, widowed friend. She didn’t seem to enjoy the company when she was visiting you, Eloise, but of course this is a more small, select group,” he said, implying that Verity was going to spoil the evening if Eloise did invite her and hopefully totally destroying any re
maining inkling Eloise might have harbored that he had come to Myron’s because of Verity. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I have to wash and change.”

“I, as well. Excuse me,” Myron said with a bow.

“And I suppose I had better go see what George is doing,” Eloise remarked with a long-suffering sigh as they departed.

Leaving Lady Mary slowly and pensively pacing on the terrace.

S
aturday afternoon, Verity sat expectantly in her parlor, pretending to darn socks.

Well, she was not pretending, exactly. She really was trying to pay attention to the task at hand; unfortunately, her resultant stitches looked little better than Jocelyn’s efforts.

She glanced at her daughter, whose feet were dangling and swinging as she sat on the sofa, reading—or reading as much as her mother was sewing, for she cast expectant glances at the window nearly as often as Verity.

Which meant, Verity told herself sternly, that she was acting no more mature than a ten-year-old.

And like her daughter, she had decided to wear one of her best dresses. It was black, of course, but cut a bit more fashionably than most of her mourning dresses, with tight-fitting long sleeves.

Jocelyn’s dress was white, and Verity had al
lowed her to wear a pink ribbon in her hair. It had been over two years since Daniel’s death, so a bit of color was not improper. Besides, Jocelyn had asked so sweetly, saying she wanted to look her best for the duke, Verity didn’t have the heart to deny her.

Once again, she attempted to concentrate on darning.

“Mama, do you think you’ll ever marry again?”

Verity started and jabbed herself with the needle.

“Whatever makes you ask that?” she asked as she made sure she wasn’t bleeding.

“I was just wondering.”

Verity turned her attention back to her work. “No, I don’t think I shall.”

“Why not?”

Again Verity looked at Jocelyn, this time with calm fortitude. “You loved Papa and you don’t think anybody could replace him, do you?”

Jocelyn scratched her nose. “Not replace, Mama, of course,” she said as if she had given this a great deal of thought. “But I know you’ve been lonely.”

“I have you, and Nancy, and that’s more than enough.”

“The duke’s awfully nice,” Jocelyn said eagerly. “And he’s handsome and I think he likes
you a lot, and me, too. He’s rich, besides. If he asked you to marry him, would you?”

“He will never ask me,” Verity replied with an only slightly strained smile. “I think he’s planning on asking Lady Mary Seddens, a young and wealthy daughter of an earl.”

Jocelyn frowned darkly. “Oh.”

“I want you to promise me you won’t ask the duke any questions about such things when he comes, Jocelyn.”

“But—!”

“Jocelyn?”

“All right, I promise.”

“Good.”

Verity tried to thread a piece of yarn through her needle. It kept fraying, until she felt like screaming with frustration.

“You like him, though, don’t you, Mama?”

“Who, dear?” she asked as she wet the end of the yarn between her lips.

“The duke, of course.”

Verity was having so much trouble with the damnable yarn, she wondered if her eyesight was going. “I like him.”

“If you were to marry again, wouldn’t somebody like him be nice?”

Verity gave up and regarded her daughter. “Yes, if I loved him.”

“If you married somebody like the duke, we
wouldn’t have to be nice to Uncle Clive and Aunt Fanny anymore.”

“We should always be nice to Uncle Clive and Aunt Fanny,” Verity replied as she put the un-mended stocking away in the basket at her feet. “They are our relations.”

Then they heard the sound they had been anticipating for the past hour: a horse coming down the lane.

Jocelyn set aside her book and ran to the window. “It’s him! It’s the duke!”

Verity got to her feet. “Come away from the window, Jocelyn.”

“But I want to watch—”

“Come away from the window. A lady should try to moderate her excitement.”

Fine words she would do well to heed herself, Verity inwardly commanded as Jocelyn grudgingly obeyed.

“Let me look at you,” she said as she surveyed her daughter’s attire and hair. “Have you washed your hands and behind your ears?”

“Why would the duke look behind my ears?”

An excellent question.
“I just want to be sure you’ve done a good job. Let me retie your sash.”

“But Mama—!”

“It will only take a moment and the duke will have to tie his horse. And remember what I said about asking him questions.”

With obvious reluctance, Jocelyn submitted to her mother’s ministrations.

When she was finished, Jocelyn whirled around, her blue eyes aglow. “Do you think he’ll like the tarts?”

“I’m sure he will. You did a very good job.”

A knock sounded on the front door.

“That’s him!” Jocelyn cried. She started to run to the entryway.

“Jocelyn,” Verity said, her throat suddenly dry as she followed her daughter at a more sedate pace. “A lady doesn’t run.”

If she were honest, she would add that she doubted she could have run to the door if she wanted to, for her knees felt shaky.

“Good afternoon!” Jocelyn said as she threw open the door and stood beaming at Galen Bromney.

“Good afternoon, Miss Davis-Jones. Good afternoon, Mrs. Davis-Jones,” he said as he bowed.

“Please, won’t you come in?” Verity replied stiffly, attempting to muster some calm.

As he came inside, she had the sudden sensation she was inviting a hurricane inside her house.

“This is a lovely home.”

“Thank you. Won’t you please come into the parlor, Your Grace?”

“I should be delighted.”

Jocelyn skipped forward, while Verity main
tained a dignified manner as she led the way, incredibly conscious that Galen was behind her.

She gestured toward the sofa in front of the windows.

His unremitting gaze fastened onto Daniel’s portrait, which hung over the mantelpiece between two silver candlesticks.

“That’s my papa,” Jocelyn offered.

“He looks…nice,” Galen said as he sat.

Verity took the chair opposite him.

“He was
very
nice,” Jocelyn replied decisively. “Would you like to see my book?” she asked, picking it up.

Verity wished he would look anywhere but at her and the portrait as his gaze flicked between them.

“I should enjoy that very much, and you can tell me about it,” Galen said. “Sit beside me here, and then I shall be able to see the pictures, too.”

With a gleeful grin and not an inkling of shy hesitation, Jocelyn did as he suggested. She snuggled closer and Verity saw him tense. “Jocelyn, don’t crowd the duke.”

“It’s quite all right,” he replied with a hint of sharpness.

She instantly regretted making him think she would deny him this little coziness with his child.

Jocelyn opened her cherished book, the last gift
Daniel had given her before he died. “Let’s read ‘Ali Baba.”’

“Why don’t you read it to me?” Galen suggested, turning his attention back to Jocelyn.

Jocelyn gave him another beaming smile, then started reading.

As she did, Verity didn’t even make a pretense of sewing. Instead, she watched as Galen listened, his dark-haired head close beside Jocelyn’s as he bent to see the pictures.

Verity had thought Galen Bromney would be out of his element when it came to conversing with children; however, as his behavior at Potterton Abbey and now in Jefford demonstrated, she was wrong.

He was wonderful with Jocelyn, and it was quite obvious she was happy being with him.

Was that so surprising? she asked herself. They were of the same blood, even if Jocelyn didn’t know that. Perhaps there was a bond between them that neither ignorance nor distance could destroy.

If only she and Galen could begin again! If only she had not been so impetuous—but if she had not gone to him that night, she wouldn’t have Jocelyn, and if it were not for Jocelyn, he would never have come back into her life.

Yet he could never be in their lives any more than this.

She stood up. “I shall make the tea. Would you
care for some tarts, Your Grace? Jocelyn made them.”

Galen gave his daughter a delighted smile. “That would be wonderful. I’m sure they’re very good.”

“They are,” Jocelyn replied frankly. “I spilled some jam, though, so Nancy was a little cross.”

“Nancy? Who is Nancy?” the duke demanded, the underlying stern tone in his voice making Verity linger.

“Nancy is our servant.”

“What does she do when she’s cross with you?”

“She makes me sit in the corner for a very long time.”

“Anything else?”

“If I have been very naughty, sometimes I don’t get jam with my bread at dinnertime,” Jocelyn complained, casting him a look that was both shy and indignant, as if appealing to his sense of justice and not sure he would concur.

His shoulders relaxed.

“I’m good most of the time,” Jocelyn hastened to add, “but sometimes I just
have
to do something and I don’t think whether I’m behaving myself or not and then it’s done and there’s nothing I can do but say I’m sorry.”

“This sounds serious.”

Jocelyn regarded him quizzically. “Don’t you
ever do things that other people might say are naughty? Don’t you ever feel you just
have
to do it, or you’ll burst?”

“I must confess I am guilty of hasty acts without proper consideration,” Galen said honestly, giving Verity a glance that set her heart racing. “What naughty things have you done?”

Jocelyn frowned and shook her head. “I’m not telling!”

“Not treason or some great crime, I hope?”

“No!”

“You are not a highwayman, perchance?”

“No.”

“Do you break into houses or pick pockets?”

“No,” she said with a giggle.

Galen heaved a sigh of relief. “I am very glad to know I am not in the company of a career criminal,” he remarked gravely. “And I think you really like Nancy, even when she’s cross.”

“I
love
her!” Jocelyn declared emphatically.

Galen told himself he had no right to be jealous. Jocelyn hadn’t even met him until a month ago; she had likely known this Nancy all her life.

“Although it is rude to leave our guest alone, I could use Jocelyn’s help with the tea things,” Verity said.

“I offer my humble assistance,” Galen said, rising. “I do know how to boil water and I would much rather go with you to the kitchen.”

“Very well,” she replied with a smile, the sort of smile that belonged to a girl who could play pranks on her schoolmistress. “I would like to see a duke in a kitchen.”

Galen made an elegant bow in response. “I shall endeavor not to disgrace myself if you will but show me the way.”

“Follow me, Your Grace.”

“Gladly,” he murmured as he obeyed.

“May we use the good plates?” Jocelyn asked as she skipped ahead of them down the hall.

“For a duke, we would use nothing else.”

“Does she always dance like that?” Galen asked quietly.

Verity tried not to notice how close beside her Galen was. “When she is happy, she does. Apparently you have that effect on her.”

“I am glad to think she doesn’t find me imposing.”

“There may come a day you wish she did,” she replied ruefully. “She can be quite stubborn.”

“So can I.”

He put his hand lightly on Verity’s arm to delay her, his supple fingers wrapping around her forearm. “I truly didn’t mind her sitting so close.”

“You tensed,” Verity replied, wanting him to understand why she had chided Jocelyn.

“It’s true that I am not used to such easy familiarity.” He gave her a sardonic, yet woeful,
smile. “The only intimacy I have known in the past thirty years is the sort we have shared.”

The intimacy she so well remembered. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“I was sorry to live it.”

Their gazes met and held for the briefest of moments—yet in that instant, Verity felt as if the world had suddenly tilted on its axis.

Or love—sweet, delicious, devoted love—had slipped unnoticed past the barriers of years and experience and gained a foothold on her heart.

His hand dropped from her arm and she stepped back, actually unbalanced.

“Mama, what’s taking you so long?” Jocelyn called from the kitchen.

Feeling as if she had been startled awake, Verity hurried to the kitchen, a large, whitewashed room fitted with all that was new and modern, and where Nancy usually held sway with despotic authority.

Then she gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

Jocelyn stood precariously on a stool in front of the tall dresser, reaching up for a covered plate on the top shelf.

“Jocelyn!” Verity cried, hurrying around the large pine worktable to grab her by the waist. “What are you doing?”

“The raspberry tarts are up there.”

“You should have waited. I will get them when
it’s time to serve them,” Verity said as she set her daughter on the stone floor.

“I only wanted to get them down for the duke,” Jocelyn mumbled, her head lowered.

“You might have fallen,” Galen said sternly, coming to stand beside Verity.

When Jocelyn’s bottom lip started to tremble, Galen went down on one knee. “If you had fallen, you might have hurt yourself, and I would have been very upset, especially if you injured yourself trying to get a treat for me.”

He rose and reached for the covered pewter plate. “And what if these had fallen, too, and been squashed? A tragedy!”

That made Jocelyn smile, while Verity suddenly remembered why they were in the kitchen and went to fill the kettle.

“Stop!”

Verity halted in midstep at Galen’s command.

Then he winked at Jocelyn, destroying the tension that had momentarily filled the room, before he strode forward.

“Madam, if you please,” he said imperiously. “I am to boil the water, am I not?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

He took the kettle from her, their hands momentarily touching.

Galen cleared his throat. “Yes, well, as I said, I
can boil water,” he remarked. “Sadly, that is all I can do.”

“If you can boil water, you must be able to boil an egg,” Jocelyn noted.

“Alas, I have never been taught, and when I think of all the times I have craved a boiled egg and been without a servant…” He sighed mournfully, yet his eyes twinkled as he set the kettle on the range.

“I can boil an egg,” Jocelyn said proudly.