The Duke’s Desire Read online

  “And you’ll stay for tea?”

  Galen raised his eyebrows quizzically as he looked at Verity.

  She hesitated for what seemed an eternity. “I think next Saturday, the duke may stay for tea.”

  It occurred to Galen that he could hardly be more pleased if he had been invited to dine with the Prince Regent.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  He was infinitely more pleased to be invited for tea with Jocelyn and Verity.

  “Oh, good, Mama!” Jocelyn cried, and he was delighted by her obvious enthusiasm.

  “You start back, Jocelyn. I shall just say my goodbyes to the duke and be right along. Stay in sight, though,” she warned.

  Galen’s heart sank. “Do you wish to rescind your invitation to tea next Saturday?” he asked quietly as Jocelyn started to skip through the clearing.

  “Nancy helps clean the church once a month and next Saturday she will be there. I think it will be safe enough for you to come, if you travel through the wood, but I would like your assurance that you won’t tell anyone where you are going.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I shall also suggest to Jocelyn that you might be embarrassed if she tells Nancy, or anyone else, that she met you in the woods today because you had lost your way to Sir Myron’s. I…I don’t want to have to ask her to lie.”

  “Nor do I.” He moved closer as if drawn by an irresistible force. He knew he should not kiss her again, and yet…

  She gazed at him as if she, too, felt the same need, the same compulsion, the same irresistible desire.

  “Mama?”

  “I am coming, Jocelyn,” Verity called as she turned on her heel and hurried away.

  Tuesday morning Galen and Sir Myron went fishing, and Galen was glad to go. If Myron was quiet when he was hunting, he was even more quiet when the fish were biting.

  Despite Galen’s wish to be friends with Myron, the man’s booming voice could get wearisome. It might have helped if Myron had had any interests other than hunting and fishing. Apparently he did not.

  For once in his life, Galen was actually anticipating George’s arrival with relish, for surely he and Myron would find much to speak of—to each other.

  As before, gamekeepers dutifully followed their master and his guest as they walked back to the house, except today they carried the trout Myron had caught.

  “Next time you will have better luck,” Myron said sympathetically as he clapped a large hand on Galen’s shoulder. “The trout might bite better after a rain.”

  “I fear I am no fisherman, Myron,” Galen answered honestly as they neared the forcing garden, its many panes of glass glimmering in the sunlight.

  “You fish for other things, eh?” his companion noted with a sly wink.

  It was truly tiresome that Myron apparently could not realize that Galen was not the gay young blade out to seduce the entire female population of England. “I told you, Myron, I have given that up. I will be content to be the frog on the lily pad, waiting for an accommodating fly.”

  “Why, Your Grace! Sir Myron! Here you are!” Eloise cried, appearing from behind another glass building like some kind of genie.

  She wore a turban like a genie, too, only with a drooping ostrich feather, and a spencer jacket that did not flatter her figure. “We arrived a short time ago and I said to George, ‘If you insist upon going to the kennels right away, Mary and I shall take a turn around Sir Myron’s garden until they get back.”’

  “Have you developed an interest in the cultivation of pineapples?” Galen inquired gravely.

  She pursed her lips before looking back over her shoulder. “I told you they would be coming this way,” she said to somebody they couldn’t yet see.

  Nevertheless, Galen was sure he knew who it was—and he was right, for Lady Mary sidled timidly out from behind the pinery.

  She was more conservatively attired for the autumn day in a hooded cloak of a becoming shade of sky blue trimmed with scarlet tassels. She looked very fresh and pretty, and very young and innocent.

  She made him feel like an old reprobate, whereas with Verity, he felt…mature.

  “Hello, Your Grace,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Sir Myron, allow me to introduce Lady Mary Seddens, the Earl of Pillsborough’s daughter,” Galen said, noting that Myron was blushing like a bashful youth.

  Myron went to take Lady Mary’s petite hand as she curtsied, then hesitated and awkwardly pulled it back. “I fear I smell of fish,” he mumbled.

  Lady Mary murmured that it was quite all right.

  “So, you were prowling the grounds looking for us, cousin?” Galen said, turning the ladies’ attention from the embarrassed Myron. “I must say it’s a very pleasant coincidence that you came here the same time as I.”

  “Oh, Galen, really!” Eloise cried, her expression not nearly as scandalized as her tone. “It’s a lovely day, that’s all, and Lady Mary and I have been cooped up in the carriage since very early, so why should we not walk out and meet you? As for our visit, we should be the ones amazed, for you never visited Sir Myron before, or so I thought.”

  Galen realized he should have kept his mouth shut about the timing of their visit. “I agree I have been most remiss.”

  “I say, I’ve ordered my housekeeper to prepare a luncheon. I’m sure Mrs. Minnigan has it ready now.” Myron smiled happily, then glanced at Lady Mary before turning to Eloise.

  “I shall be delighted to walk in with you, and you don’t smell of fish at all,” Eloise said.

  That left Galen to walk with Lady Mary.

  Lady Mary looked after Eloise and her escort for a moment, then glanced up with bashful expectancy at Galen, who gallantly offered his arm.

  “I really wasn’t prowling about,” she said quietly as she laid her hand upon his forearm, where it lay as limp as one of Myron’s catch. “I have never seen a pinery before and was curious about it. If I had known you were likely to come this way…” Her voice trailed off into an embarrassed cough.

  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 remaining 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.

  Chapter Eight

  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 allowed 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 t
ried 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?”