The Duke’s Desire Page 13

  More difficult than that, though, was going to be masking his feelings for Verity. He would have to hide his affection that had blossomed into something he now felt in the depths of his heart, and disguise his desire.

  How did Verity feel about him?

  He suspected that she liked him, and he knew there was a powerful physical attraction—yet he did not know if there was more on her part, as there was on his.

  He had to find out.

  Tonight, somehow, some way, and with all the subtlety he could command, he would find the means to speak to her privately.

  Not to try to ascertain her feelings with any certainty, but only to arrange a meeting. A secret rendezvous. Then he would try to discover—

  “Do you require some assistance, Your Grace?” Rhodes inquired.

  Galen had forgotten Rhodes was there. “Yes, please. I cannot seem to get the damnable thing tied.”

  Despite his offer to help, Rhodes approached as if being led to the guillotine.

  “Whatever is the matter, Rhodes? You look like you’re going to your death.”

  “I was just thinking, Your Grace,” Rhodes intoned gravely as Galen lifted his chin and Rhodes took hold of the ends of his cravat.

  “It seems they would be thoughts of a serious nature.”

  “They would be, yes.”

  “Not too troubling, I hope?”

  “I’ve found out your little secret.”

  Galen’s throat constricted and he coughed.

  “That’s a bit tight,” he said as an excuse. “What secret might that be?”

  “I was wondering why we’ve come to Sir Myron’s, but now it’s as plain as the buttons on a peacoat.”

  “I came because Myron was my friend at Harrow. I have been very remiss not accepting his invitation before this.”

  “If you say so, Your Grace, but it’s quite a coincidence Sir Myron happens to live in the same village as that pretty widow,” Rhodes noted before he stepped back to examine his handiwork.

  “I don’t chase after widows, Rhodes.”

  “I thought you might be making an exception,” his valet replied as he went to fetch Galen’s evening coat. “She’s very pretty.”

  “I did not come because of Mrs. Davis-Jones,” he replied, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He had originally set out for Jefford to see Jocelyn again.

  He drew on his coat. “My answer hasn’t made you any happier,” he noted.

  “If you’re not here after the widow, are you after Lady Mary?”

  “I should rather think the question is, is Lady Mary after me? She followed us here, after all, Rhodes, not vice versa.”

  Rhodes did not smile. “I would merely like to know the state of things with regards to my future, Your Grace. If there’s going to be a wife, I would like some time to prepare myself, and to do all I can to stay on her good side.”

  “If I am going to be married, Rhodes, you shall be the first to know. Will that suit you?”

  Rhodes relaxed visibly. “Yes, Your Grace, it will.”

  “Just to satisfy my own curiosity, what do you think of Lady Mary?”

  Rhodes began to brush Galen’s coat vigorously. “Pretty. Sweet. Good-natured, or so I hear. Fine qualities in a wife, I think. There you are, Your Grace. All finished.”

  Galen checked his reflection in the long mirror in the corner of the bedroom.

  What did he want in a wife? He wanted a woman like Verity—loving, gentle, passionate, intelligent, as well as an excellent mother and wonderful lover.

  Hell, he wanted Verity. He needed her.

  He loved her.

  Chapter Eleven

  A s Galen left his bedchamber and headed toward the wide stone stairs, he could already hear Myron’s booming voice in the drawing room.

  At the bottom of the stairway, he paused a moment to straighten his shoulders and prepare to be charming to Lady Mary, while paying as little attention to Verity as possible, until he could speak to her alone.

  It would be enough to be in the same room with her.

  No, that was a lie. However, if he was denied the banquet, he would have to accept what crumbs he could.

  “So then I knew I had the beast for good!”

  Myron declared as Galen strode into the drawing room decorated with pictures of Myron’s deceased relatives and horses and hounds.

  Attired in a pretty and youthful gown of pink satin and with her hair done in a modern yet simple style, Lady Mary regarded Myron with what looked like awe, making the poor fellow blush as red as an army tunic.

  With a start, Myron turned away from the admiring Lady Mary. “Oh, Galen, here you are!”

  “And he landed the trout,” Galen finished, for he didn’t doubt Myron was relaying his version of that day’s fishing. “I would have lost it for certain. Ladies, I must say our host is the finest man with a line I have yet encountered.”

  This was quite true. Galen had only been fishing one other time, in his distant youth, and had hated it so much, he had never cared to repeat the experience until now.

  “I told you Galen wouldn’t keep us waiting long, Mary,” Eloise said playfully.

  Ensconced on the sofa, Eloise wore a gown of blue muslin printed with something that Galen supposed were intended to be birds. Instead, they looked like splotches of spilled wine. Her hair was again tortured into a fashionable bundle of braids, curls and ringlets, and adorned with ribbon.

  Galen sauntered toward Lady Mary. As loath as he was to deceive her, he had to avert any suspicion as to where his affection really lay.

  There was also the extremely unwelcome notion that if Verity did not reciprocate his love and refused his offer of marriage, he might have to settle for someone else. “I am flattered you were impatient for me to arrive.”

  When Lady Mary returned his smile, he realized that if he asked her right now to be his wife, she would probably agree. Would she be eager to accept if she knew she would be his second choice?

  He turned toward Eloise. “Where’s George?”

  “His favorite dog has a cold in her chest and he wanted to stay with her,” Eloise answered. “He assures me he will be joining us for dinner—after he has washed and changed, of course.”

  Her peeved expression made Galen suspect that there had been an argument over this, yet he didn’t dare hazard a guess as to who the winner had been, George for staying with his dog until the last possible moment, or Eloise for getting George to come to dinner at all.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone, Mrs. Davis-Jones,” a footman intoned from the door.

  Clive Blackstone bustled into the room as if shoved by a supernatural force and headed straight toward Galen instead of his host.

  His nondescript wife came trailing behind, and after her came Verity, wearing a stark black gown unembellished by any ornament, her hair in the plainest of knots at her neck—and yet she would not be any more beautiful to him if she wore a queen’s raiment. Her cornflower-blue eyes shone brightly and her cheeks glowed with vitality.

  For the briefest of instants, she caught his gaze and held it.

  That moment was not nearly long enough.

  “Your Grace, how wonderful to see you again!” Blackstone cried as if they were old friends who had not seen each other in years.

  “Quite,” Galen answered.

  He glanced at Lady Mary, who couldn’t have looked more horrified if Clive Blackstone had been the Minotaur. She sidled away from the newcomers toward a somewhat dumbfounded Myron.

  Meanwhile, Eloise ignored the Blackstones and went directly to Verity.

  “Mr. Blackstone, Mrs. Blackstone, allow me to introduce you to Lady Mary Seddens, the Earl of Pillsborough’s daughter,” Galen said, leading them toward the lady and their host. “Lady Mary, Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone.”

  “So pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Mary,” Clive breathed in seeming ecstasy.

  His wife murmured softly, “So pleased.”

  Lady Mary held out a limp hand, which Black
stone immediately snatched up as if she had money in it to give him. Lady Mary just as quickly snatched it back.

  Meanwhile, Galen wondered what Eloise and Verity were talking about. Short of walking over to them, however, he had no way of discovering their subject because, unfortunately, he had no reason to intrude, other than to listen to Verity’s voice.

  A footman came to the door and summoned Eloise, leaving Verity momentarily alone.

  Was this his chance already?

  Then Eloise turned to address them.

  “It seems dinner is served, and my husband will not be joining us after all,” she declared with obvious annoyance. “His dog is not any better.”

  She marched toward Galen. “I fear, cousin, I am going to have to commandeer you to take me in—or perhaps Sir Myron will?” She raised her brows and glared at him.

  “Oh, yes, of course, glad to,” Myron stammered.

  “And I shall escort Lady Mary,” Galen said, fighting the urge to suggest that Verity go in to dinner with him.

  “I shall be delighted to take my sister-in-law,” Blackstone offered.

  Galen didn’t like the way the man smiled when he said that, while his wife bowed her head with such submissiveness, Galen could believe she possessed no backbone, either figuratively or in reality.

  His jaw clenched. She could very well be the type of woman who would forgive her husband anything, including lusting after another.

  “No, no, it’s quite all right,” Verity said, her vivacity a direct contrast to Fanny Blackstone’s lack of it.

  And so it was decided. Eloise took Myron’s arm, Galen escorted Lady Mary, then came the Blackstones and finally Verity, all alone.

  As the meal progressed through an astonishing number of courses and several glasses of wine, Verity wished she had stayed at home. It now seemed certain that Galen was courting Lady Mary, and she was more than inclined to accept him.

  Verity reminded herself that she couldn’t complain about that. She and Galen could never be together, so she should be glad to think of him married to another and making a happy life for himself. She could not fault him for wanting a wife and other children.

  Nor could she fault Lady Mary for desiring him. How could she, when even now she yearned to be with him herself?

  But, oh, she didn’t want to have to watch him woo his future wife, or to watch Lady Mary make it plain that she was anxious to take on that role.

  Being there with Clive and Fanny only added to her torment. Clive kept up a running stream of chatter complimenting Sir Myron on his house, his servants, the meal, until Verity wanted to order him to be quiet. Meanwhile, Eloise spoke continually to the unresponsive Fanny about her family connections.

  Verity’s heart nearly stopped when she caught the name “Lord Langley,” but in another moment, Eloise had moved on to another subject.

  That reference was too close for comfort, nonetheless. What else might Eloise inadvertently say? What might Galen say that could fuel speculation, especially with Clive in attendance?

  She should have stayed at home! She should have found another opportunity to speak with Galen.

  As if she did not have enough anxiety, Lady Mary innocently inquired about Clive’s business.

  “Cotton mills, Lady Mary,” Clive eagerly replied, his face lighting up as if he had just been awarded a prize.

  No doubt he felt he had, for he had been given the opportunity he had undoubtedly been waiting for. “Wool previously, cotton now. As I’m constantly telling my dear sister-in-law, mills are the place to invest and there could not be a better time than the present.”

  “Mrs. Davis-Jones and I were speaking of this very thing the other day when I had tea at her charming house,” Eloise declared.

  “Why, you said nothing to me of this,” Clive chided.

  “I did not think you would care to hear about my conversation with a friend.”

  “That fellow in our class at school—the one with the six sisters—didn’t his father have money in mills?” Myron asked Galen.

  “Thompkins?” Galen replied as if barely interested. “Is that where the family fortune came from?”

  “That, or spices,” Myron said, his brow furrowing with concentration.

  “I would not be at all surprised to learn it had been cotton,” Clive declared. “A small investment now will surely yield great dividends.”

  “I confess I don’t understand investments,” Lady Mary murmured, looking at Galen with a shy smile.

  “You have no need,” he replied pleasantly.

  Sir Myron stroked his chin meditatively. “Investments can be devilishly hard to fathom.”

  “I shall be happy to explain it to you,” Clive offered. “It’s really very simple.”

  Verity recognized the greedy gleam in Clive’s eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if Clive managed to persuade Sir Myron to invest a considerable sum before the evening was over.

  She fastened her gaze on Sir Myron. “You invest your money and he builds a mill which then employs poor men, women and even little children to work slavish hours for very small wages.”

  Clive’s face reddened with annoyance, but Verity continued nonetheless. “Have you ever been in a mill, Sir Myron?”

  His bovine eyes widened. “No, never…no.”

  “The conditions for the workers are horrendous,” she continued, paying no heed to Fanny’s pale, timid face or Lady Mary’s furrowed brow, or Eloise’s frown. “They are herded in those huge buildings like animals, working long days in the heat without a moment’s pause.”

  “Verity!” Clive warned.

  But he had no right to silence her.

  Galen made a wry little smile. Of approval? She couldn’t wonder about him now. It was more important that Sir Myron understand there was more to investing with Clive than a potential profit. “I didn’t raise the subject, but if Sir Myron is thinking of investing in your business, he should understand all that it entails.”

  “She would have factory owners house their workers in palaces and feed them on ambrosia,” Clive said through clenched teeth.

  “I would have your workers paid a decent wage, and I would be ashamed to be a part of any business that forces children as young as Jocelyn to work all day and into the night in heat and noise, with no fresh air.”

  “You speak your mind very decidedly,” Lady Mary observed with quiet astonishment.

  “Especially for someone whose family made their money in the slave trade,” Clive snapped.

  Verity felt, rather than saw, Galen’s gaze on her as the heat of shame filled her.

  “What my dear sister-in-law fails to appreciate is that we do pay wages, and if we are to do that, we must make a profit. Nor are our workers slaves. They are free to leave our employ at any time. There are plenty of others willing to take their places, which would not be so if the conditions are as horrendous as my kindhearted sister-in-law implies.”

  “Mr. Blackstone makes an excellent point,” Sir Myron mused aloud. “Nobody’s forcing them to stay, after all.”

  “Nobody is offering them any alternative, either,” Verity countered.

  Feeling in need an ally, she instinctively fastened her earnest gaze on Galen. “You have not expressed an opinion, Your Grace.”

  “Perhaps because I don’t possess one,” he replied evenly.

  “I am sorry to hear that from a man of your influence.”

  He leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “You think I am a man of some influence?”

  “You are a duke. Of course you have influence. Surely you must agree that exploiting one’s employees and using the labor of children is, at the very least, false economy,” Verity insisted, fighting her disappointment in his response.

  “I must say I can believe that young workers and employees poorly paid will not give one a good day’s labor.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I don’t understand all this talk of mills and false economy for a moment—and I don’t think we ladies shou
ld have to,” Eloise said as she rose.

  “We shall leave that to you men along with your brandy and cigars. Won’t we, Verity, my dear?” she finished, giving her friend a very pointed and chastising look, which was not nearly so upsetting as Galen’s responses, or having her family’s past brought to light.

  Perhaps Galen Bromney was not the man she had come to believe him to be, Verity thought, if he could not be incensed by the evils perpetrated in the mills, or if he saw and did not care—and that was worse.

  “Forgive me, Sir Myron, for speaking so vehemently,” Verity said as she, too, rose. “This is, after all, a social occasion, not a parliamentary debate.”

  After the ladies had departed in a rustle of silk, velvet and bombazine, Blackstone sighed patronizingly and addressed his host. “Ah, women! They would wish the world a rose garden, although they never consider that there would have to be pruning and manure.”

  “And some of us are more familiar with manure than others,” Galen noted.

  “We cannot all be aristocrats. Some of us must dirty our hands with trade,” Blackstone said, still smiling with his lips.

  However, the animosity in his eyes was all too apparent, and Galen almost felt sorry for the man. If he wanted to succeed in business, he should govern his expression better.

  Not that Galen wanted Blackstone or others of his ilk to succeed, not when it meant the exploitation of his laborers. If it had not been for Verity’s strictures about hiding their relationship, he would gladly have told her brother-in-law exactly what he thought of him and his systematic abuse of the weak.

  In fact, he would be really quite delighted to see a man like Blackstone fail, and not just because of his business practices.

  It was becoming increasingly obvious that Clive Blackstone’s feelings for his widowed sister-in-law were far from brotherly. For that alone, Galen would gladly have banished him to the Outer Hebrides or the farthest, coldest reaches of Russia.

  More unfortunately, Galen could believe that, with her sheltered existence, Verity was too naive to realize that. He, however, had spent long hours with cads and scoundrels, and he could easily recognize the possessive lust burning in Clive’s beady eyes.