How to Love a Duke in Ten Days Read online

  Ah yes, Francesca. He made a noncommittal sound, hoping that would end their discussion of his future bride.

  “Do you love her?”

  He scowled. No such luck. “It is not necessary for Lady Francesca and I to have anything in common but our names and our children.”

  “That’s a rather … mercenary view to have of marriage.”

  “I’m a rather mercenary sort of fellow.”

  She chewed her lip. “Do you even like her?”

  He coughed to hide a bark of laughter. Francesca Cavendish was a sparkling ruby in a lake of pearls. She was bold, brilliant, and beautiful.

  And he could barely stand the extraneous energy of her presence for longer than an hour before he wanted to tie her to something to keep her from moving. He didn’t like her. And yet, he didn’t dislike her. Come to think of it, what was his opinion of the woman? He’d met her all of twice. “I admire her … tenacious spirit.”

  “You mean to say, you don’t even like her?” she accused, cutting through his veneer. “Then why marry her?”

  “Why not marry her?” He shrugged. “We’re betrothed after all. Rarely do persons of our class like their spouses. I don’t have to like my wife to do my duty by her. Lady Francesca is a fair woman, she’ll bear me strong sons and beautiful daughters.” Or she would, if he could bring his cock to attention around her.

  Thus far … it’d not even twitched in Francesca’s direction.

  “The betrothal is good for our families. My father—”

  Mercury whinnied, leaping forward and crashing into Piers, who then stumbled into Alexandra, knocking her off balance.

  Piers was barely able to seize her and draw her into his body, twisting as they tumbled to the ground. He grunted as his shoulders and back took the brunt of the impact, then relaxed into a roll to soften the fall.

  He planted his arms on either side of her shoulders, stopping them before they pitched off the cliff. He imprisoned them there in a tangle of limbs and panting breaths, lowering his body to shield her should Merc be close by.

  He spotted the sodding stallion a few paces away, prancing around a criminal bumblebee.

  It was a good thing, he decided, that Lady Alexandra had not given him the pistol, he’d have shot the animal between the eyes right then and there and dragged the gunman home himself.

  His thoughts stalled at the intimate press of uncorseted breasts against his chest. Her thighs shaped to his, strong and sinuous beneath her modest skirts.

  He tensed as arousal shot into his body with all the awe-inspiring power of last night’s lightning. It blazed through veins unprepared for the visceral rush, flooding his cock with such an aching need, he swallowed a groan against the exquisite pain of it.

  She was built to be beneath him.

  His body screamed for him to move. To settle his hips into the cradle of her thighs and press his intimate flesh against hers.

  Her lips, he noted, were parted in the most inviting way. The soft little puffs of her breath a sweet-scented breeze against his beard.

  His tongue found the indent of the scar in his lip. He hadn’t kissed a woman since …

  The metallic click of her pistol broke the moment.

  “Get. Off.”

  Piers froze. The glint in her eyes, the set of her jaw. He’d seen that desperation before. In the eyes of his cornered prey, right before they attacked.

  In that moment, he was certain if he made one wrong move, she’d shoot him in the chest, toss his corpse into the ocean, and be home in time for tea.

  She scrambled to her feet the moment he rolled to his side, and it wasn’t his imagination that she kept the pistol cocked as she backed away from him. “I’ll make my way to Castle Redmayne from here.”

  “I’d prefer to see you safely—”

  “Don’t be absurd,” she spat. Her lovely features arranged themselves into a mask of disdain. “What would people say if I were to approach Castle Redmayne unchaperoned, and then you announced a betrothal to someone else tomorrow? I’d be ruined, and so would the wedding.”

  On a normal day, Piers would have thought her a bit melodramatic, but he recognized that an assassin slumbered—hopefully—not paces away upon the back of an unruly horse. She’d narrowly missed being shot. Falling off a cliff.

  And, if he were honest, being kissed by her friend’s fiancé.

  What a bastard he was.

  “Very well, Lady Alexandra, I will watch you home from a safe distance and follow when you are within the keep.”

  She met his honeyed acquiescence with vinegar. “You may call me Dr. Lane,” she insisted, wagging the pistol at him like the finger of a scolding schoolmarm.

  Piers put up his hands as a gesture of surrender.

  “And … and … thank you.” This was said with more vehemence than politeness as she turned on her heel and stalked away with a starched-kneed march that would have made a brigadier general proud.

  Piers reclined in the indent their bodies had made in the soft grass. Watching her leave did exactly nothing for the state of his nethers. It certainly wouldn’t do to return to the stables with a bleeding brigand and a cockstand.

  Alexandra Lane.

  Her name would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “If you don’t hold still, I’m going to stab you,” Alexandra warned, hand poised overhead, her weapons of choice a selection of ruby pins.

  “I’m almost finished,” Francesca promised. She lifted her knee and pressed it into Cecelia’s hip, causing Cecelia to emit a little cry of surprise.

  Francesca gave Cecelia’s corset strings one final, two-handed tug, and cinched them off with all the alacrity of a sailor mooring a ship to the dock.

  As was their habit, they’d eschewed lady’s maids for the evening in favor of unbridled conversation.

  Cecelia ran a hand down her newly compressed figure, splaying her fingers over a waistline several inches smaller. “It’s so tight, I’ll have to speak in a whisper all evening.”

  “Should we loosen it a little?” Alexandra suggested.

  “No.” Cecelia’s lips parted in a triumphant smile. “That means it’s perfect.”

  “Besides, we can’t undo my concentrated efforts.” Francesca would have wandered off had Alexandra not seized her shoulder and thrust the ruby pins home, completing the magnificent coiffure.

  “Really, Cecil, you’ve a lovely figure.” In lieu of a corset, Alexandra rolled the wide panels of silk over her chemise, flattening her breasts to her ribs. “I don’t think you need to accentuate it so dramatically that you’re miserable all evening.”

  Alexandra didn’t miss the subversive glances her friends gave her wrap when they thought she wasn’t looking. They refrained from commenting, as they understood this had been a practice of hers for years, one meant to divert the male eye as often as possible.

  “If I cannot breathe, I shall be deterred from the refreshment table.” Cecelia settled the cage of her bustle to her generous hips and checked her reflection in the mirror before gathering her petticoats. “Besides, I want to look especially good for this occasion.”

  “I don’t see why.” Francesca accepted Alexandra’s assistance with pulling her crimson skirt over her head while avoiding her hair. “If all goes as planned, this won’t be an engagement masquerade, but the unmasking of a massacre plot.”

  “Should we find anything condemning in the duchess’s rooms, do you have immediate plans to unveil it publicly?” Alexandra queried. “Tonight?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The vehemence of Francesca’s reply drew the corners of Alexandra’s mouth down. “Are you certain that’s wise?” She pictured the duke’s features, scarred and weather-beaten and absolutely furious as his family was deposed and dishonored in his ancient keep.

  Something about that scenario tugged at her heart just as much as it terrified her.

  It shouldn’t bother her so much, most especially if Re
dmayne was complicit in evil. But what if he wasn’t? Should a man be crucified for the sins of his family?

  She thought of the charming, self-effacing man who’d strolled with her along the cliffs. His wit such a contrast to his bearing. To look at him, one could imagine the Terror of Torcliff. And not because of his scars, but because of the violence of which he was capable. Because of the predatory way he moved. As though he owned the very land he trod upon.

  Which, come to think of it, he did.

  “The more quickly any Redmayne or Ramsay involvement is exposed, the less likely we are to have a repeat of yesterday,” Francesca said sensibly as she turned her back to Cecelia, who abandoned her hair to fasten Francesca’s crimson bodice. “If we were to reveal the truth, we would be much safer than if we were to enact our own private revenge.”

  “In light of recent events, I’m inclined to agree.” Cecelia nodded, her voluminous curls, caught in violet ribbons and pearl combs, threatening to come tumbling from their confines at any moment. The effect was marvelous, as one might catch oneself wanting to pluck out a comb or pin in order to make it do just that. “Should anything happen to us subsequent to the reveal, the finger of guilt would automatically point to Redmayne or Ramsay.”

  “Precisely.” Francesca, in turn, fastened and flounced Cecelia’s teal gown, settling the train over the bustle in a fall of shimmering silks. “And since it was confirmed that the gunman was after me, it’s more imperative than ever that we act quickly.”

  The morning prior, Alexandra had found her friends instantly upon her breathless arrival at the keep. She’d informed them of the paper the duke had found in the gunman’s pocket and a great deal about her interactions with Redmayne.

  She’d studiously left out the physical parts of their interaction, though she didn’t want to examine why. It had only been a tumble, hadn’t it? So why couldn’t she bring herself to speak of it?

  Because he’d been on top of her? Because, for a moment, she’d looked up at his bold features weathered by the foreign sun and fearsome scars, and she’d seen something she’d recognized.

  A weariness. No. A wariness.

  Something familiar reflected from eyes as blue as the sky and fierce as the sea. Something tired and wounded.

  When the tip of his tongue had tested the scar interrupting his lip, the uncertainty of the motion had elicited something tender within her. An emotion warmer than pity, softer than curiosity. It had tugged at her and, for a miraculous moment, she’d forgotten to be afraid.

  A strange awareness had flooded her. A shocking sense of something she distantly identified as … shelter? Safety? His body above her was solid and heavy. It didn’t seem ludicrous to imagine that he was invulnerable, a bulwark against all that would do her harm.

  And for a moment she’d felt as though she could have remained beneath the temple of his strength forever. Safe. Protected.

  Until his eyes had found her parted lips. And the warm, yielding muscle above her had become hard as iron, and the uncertainty had heated to …

  She didn’t want to think the word. Men didn’t desire her anymore. She made certain of that. No, Redmayne had reacted like any man might do with a woman beneath them.

  Any woman.

  Mortification still needled at her when she thought of her response. She’d threatened him with a pistol. If she wasn’t mistaken, to do so with a duke might be considered criminal.

  She’d been beyond caring. Helpless terror had lanced through her with such violence, her options had been to escape or pitch herself off a cliff.

  She’d die—no—she would have murdered him before considering the alternative.

  Alexandra pulled the unfussy silver gown up over her hips and slipped her arms into the long, gossamer sleeves. She eschewed a bustle or corset, or anything else that might garner her favorable male attentions.

  To avoid unfavorable attentions of the female variety, she acquiesced to fashion with artful gathers of material for her train, and the tight silk wrap that, on her trim figure, imitated a corset without accentuating her curves. Even if she sparkled with diamonds and gleamed with muslin, she’d be covered from throat to toe.

  “Don’t you find it passing strange that the Duke of Redmayne was in the ruins yesterday morning at the same time we decided to take our exercise?” she remarked.

  “I found it exceedingly strange.” Francesca pulled her skirts up past her thighs, revealing surprisingly muscular legs as she fiddled with the ribbons securing her stockings.

  “Did you see his face as he beat our aggressor?” Alexandra couldn’t forget the mask of demonic rage as the duke had driven fists the size of pike hammers to devastating effect.

  She was unused to such displays of brute strength.

  “He’s certainly no stranger to violence,” Cecelia concluded. “That’s something we mustn’t forget. but also, his wrath was unleashed in protection of us, or … at least of his fiancée.”

  “To think that one of you could have been shot yesterday.” Francesca’s voice wavered with aberrant sentimentality. “It’s a tragedy beyond imagining. One I’ll do anything to avoid.”

  Gathering her courage, Alexandra smoothed at a bejeweled tassel in her friend’s twinkling gown. “All three of us were exploring the ruins, Frank, we can’t be absolutely certain the attempt was on your life, alone.”

  Francesca tossed her head and let out an undignified snort. “Who else?”

  “Itmighthavebeenme.” The words fled on a whoosh of unsteady breath, pent for days and dying to escape.

  Her friends gaped at her, their faces identical—if lovely—masks of unadulterated astonishment.

  “How is that possible?” Cecelia cried.

  “What are you talking about?” Francesca demanded.

  Alexandra swallowed profusely, suddenly reticent to heap another mound of trouble on to shoulders already weighted with so much. But the attempt on their lives yesterday illustrated the direness of their situation.

  There was no time left for secrets. She knew that now.

  “Someone knows,” she whispered.

  None of them moved. None of them breathed. Her words transported them to a place they desperately avoided.

  Except in their nightmares.

  Every crystal lantern, glinting silver hairbrush, and glowing mirror disappeared into the darkness of a horrific night ten long years prior. The glisten of their gowns became the grime of the garden. The red ringlets of their hair became the blood they would scrub from their skin once the deed was done.

  “Alexander?” Cecelia’s husky, usually soothing voice quivered with uncertainty. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

  It took Alexandra longer than she wanted to clear a tight ache from her throat. She clung to her friends’ hands, terrified that they’d pull away from her. That she’d be left in this dark memory alone. “Someone knows what we did. What I did back at de Chardonne.”

  “How?” Francesca breathed. “If it wasn’t one of us, it had to be Jean-Yves.”

  “It can’t be!” Cecelia cried. “Jean-Yves lives with me and could want for nothing in the world! I even brought him along to Castle Redmayne as my manservant. Alexander, you can’t believe—”

  “I don’t know.” Alexandra shook her head, standing to collect herself and gather something from her trunk, wrapped in a handkerchief. She returned to the settee and sank onto it, feeling almost as numb as she had the night it happened. “Perhaps someone watched us as we buried him in the gardens. They’ve known where he’s been all this time, and I’ve been paying them for their silence every month since the Sorbonne.”

  A dumbfounded silence greeted her confession as the enormity of their situation sank into the two women who’d been blessed with a decade of ignorance.

  Cecelia recovered first, swiping her spectacles from her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. “You mean, you’ve paid him…” She performed a hasty calculation in her head. “One hundred and twenty-six times, and never mentio
ned it to either of us?”

  “I’ve been trying to protect you!” Alexandra rushed to stem the tide of emotion attempting to carry her away. To stall the condemnation surely forthcoming from her friends. “As long as I’ve paid, our secret has been safe … but … but the thing is … My father has recently revealed that the estate has been floundering for quite some time. He called me back from Cairo to announce that we are bankrupt. I haven’t been able to make my payments for two months. And only last week, on the very same day I received your invitation, this was delivered to my doorstep.”

  With trembling fingers, Alexandra unwrapped the handkerchief, unveiling the pearl-handled razor she’d used to open Headmaster de Marchand’s throat.

  The one they’d buried in his pocket.

  “Oh, Alexander,” Francesca said gravely.

  “I know.” Alexandra dashed a tear from her cheek before it could finish its trail down her chin. “I am so ashamed of the danger I’ve put you in. I wish you’d just hate me as much as I hate myself. I deserve it.”

  Heedless of her dress or even of Francesca between them, Cecelia lunged forward and scooped both women into her. “We only hate that you’ve carried this terrible thing with you for so long without our help.”

  Alexandra’s tears fell in earnest. “I don’t know what to do.” The bereft confession tore out a piece of her soul. She always knew everything. Could handle anything. But this … this was beyond her scope.

  The dinner gong vibrated throughout the house, driving them apart.

  Cecelia pulled back and took a centering breath, her quick mind working behind eyes bright with emotion. “Here’s exactly what we’ll do.” She stood, pacing to help her think. “We’ll go down to dinner and make certain it is known we enjoyed ourselves immensely. We’ll be absolutely dazzling, won’t we, ladies?”

  Alexandra and Francesca nodded.

  “Once the dancing begins, we’ll excuse ourselves at five-minute intervals and rendezvous at the blue sitting room at the top of the east wing stairs just as we’d planned. We’ll use the key that Francesca pilfered—well done, you—and search the duchess’s study. Alexander, you’ll stand watch and divert anyone who might happen by.”