Lady Rachel's Dangerous Duke
Автор
Christine Merrill
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Chapter One
‘No.’
When it came to proposals, Rachel Graham had said the word a dozen times to a dozen different men and felt no desire to change her answer. It was not that there was anything wrong with Lord Perriman, who knelt before her, the perfect image of what a supplicating suitor should be. It was simply that she had no intention of marrying anyone, now or ever.
‘You are practically on the shelf,’ he reminded her, unconvinced by her refusal. He had lured her away from the Duke of Belston’s ball to a remote sitting room to make this proposal in private. Now he was giving her a look that had nothing to do with the sort of love and devotion Rachel expected to see in a candidate for her hand. ‘I do not think you have the time to be particular when it comes to marriage.’
‘And I do not think a true gentleman would remind me of the fact,’ she said, moving back on the settee to put distance between them.
‘I have your father’s permission,’ he added, as if this would make a difference.
‘You should marry him, if he is so fond of you,’ she said, annoyed. After three years of her being in the marriage mart, her father was more than willing to give her to any man that asked. He did not understand that this casual attitude towards her future happiness made it even less likely that she would say yes to a man of his choosing.
Lord Perriman rose, brushing off the knees of his breeches as if he was shaking off her rejection. ‘I doubt you will get a better offer.’
‘I will take my chances,’ she said, rising from the settee and walking towards the closed door. She stopped by it and pointed a finger at it as if she had the power to command him from a room that was not hers.
He gave her a speculative look. ‘If we are found here unchaperoned you will have to marry me, you know.’
The thought was an alarming one. She liked the idea of a forced marriage to him even less than the politely arranged one he had been suggesting. ‘We will not be found,’ she said firmly.
‘If there was a commotion, we might,’ he said, still considering. ‘If you should cry out, for example.’ His arms were reaching for her as he stepped between her and the door.
‘I have no intention of crying out,’ she retorted, glancing round her for a weapon but finding none.
‘Then you will be a willing participant in what happens next. That is, in my opinion, far better.’
‘Or you could leave the poor girl alone. She has said no, and a true gentleman would accept her answer.’ It was a voice that she had not heard in two years, yet it was as familiar as the beating of her heart. But Rachel doubted that Perriman was as well acquainted as she with the man who they had not noticed sitting in a darkened corner of the room. Thus, he did not share her desire to sink through the ground in mortification.
There was a flare of light as a candle was lit from the banked ashes in the fireplace. The Duke of Scofield stepped out of the shadows, his tall form even more menacing than usual in the half-light.
He had not been a duke when she’d known him, only Hugh Bethune. Nor had he been the talk of London, a man widely known as a cold-blooded killer.
‘Really?’ He directed the single word to Rachel in a tone of obvious disappointment. From his height of over six feet, he squinted down at her companion as if he were examining some lesser animal that had wandered into the house by mistake. ‘Perriman, is it?’
The other man gave a moan of acknowledgement.
‘You should make sure the room is empty before you start to make romantic overtures. And doubly sure if you mean to make threats.’
‘I did not mean—’ Perriman said hurriedly.
‘How strange,’ the Duke interrupted, his movements as slow as those of a cat stalking a mouse. ‘You sounded quite sincere to me. Perhaps, if the lady wishes to leave us alone, we can discuss the importance of honesty—or, for that matter, honour—when speaking to the fairer sex.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Rachel assured him hurriedly. Considering Hugh’s reputation, she doubted that the unfortunate Lord Perriman wished to be anywhere near him, much less abandoned to face him alone. ‘I believe my friend is aware of his mistake and wishes to go back to the ball.’
‘That would be best,’ Perriman said, grabbing for the door handle.
‘Go, then. And if I hear that you have said a word about what happened here...’ The Duke shrugged. ‘That would be most unfortunate.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Perriman said in a faint voice, then disappeared and left the two of them alone.
Rachel made to go after him. But before she could leave the Duke reached over her and leaned a hand against the door, shutting it. ‘It is better that you wait here a few minutes and arrive back at the ballroom alone,’ he reminded her. His voice had lost its menacing edge, but it was still different from the lover’s tone she remembered.
It annoyed her.
But most of all it bothered her that, after all this time, her heart still beat faster at the sight of him. Without meaning to, she was searching his face for differences from the man she had loved two years ago.
It seemed that, for him at least, far more time had passed. She thought she saw a few strands of silver shining amongst the gold, and his eyes no longer lit with mischief as he smiled at her. Instead, he looked tired and a little sad.
‘The last time I spoke with you, you did not care for me or my future,’ she reminded him. She had accosted him in the street to offer condolences on the death of his father. She had expected some sign that they would meet in private to discuss it. Instead, he had given her the same look he’d just used on Perriman and dismissed her as if they had no history at all.
Was it a flicker of the candlelight, or did she see him flinch at the memory? ‘What I did in the past was for your own good.’
‘For weeks you told me that you loved me,’ she said. ‘And then, when you should have needed me most, you pretended not to know me.’ Of course, the words of love had been said in private. In public, it had been a different matter entirely.
‘I did not think you would wish to be associated with a murderer,’ he said with a bitter smile, and she saw the lines forming at the corners of his sea-green eyes, making him look much older than his twenty-nine years.
‘We both know that the rumours are not true,’ she snapped. ‘I was with you in your room the night your father died, and I saw your face when you learned of his murder. You knew nothing about the crime. I’d have told the Bow Street Runners the truth if you’d asked me to.’
‘And ruined your reputation in the process,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘You should not have been in the house at all, much less alone with me.’
‘We were doing nothing wrong,’ she insisted. He had promised marriage and all the pleasures that came with it. She still dreamed of his passionate kisses, the feel of his hand sliding up her thigh and the whispers of what they would do together as soon as he could secure an advance on his portion of the estate. ‘I would not have been ruined had you wed me as you promised.’
And now he said nothing, just as she feared he would. Despite what he had claimed during their clandestine meetings, it seemed it had never been his plan to marry her. Apparently, time had taught her nothing for here she was again, alone with him and hoping for something that would never be. ‘What happens if I am caught here with you tonight?’ she asked.
If she had hoped for some assurance that he would make things right this time, she was disappointed again. He reached for the door and shot the bolt. ‘This will prevent any surprise interruptions.’
Her heart jumped and she took a deep breath to steady it again. She willed herself not to look at him, for she was afraid of what she might do now that he was close enough to touch. ‘You have done more than enough to protect my reputation, Your Grace. Too much, in my opinion.’ And yet, not the one thing she wished above all others. ‘If you would be so kind as to unlock the door and check the passageway for people, I will be going now.’
‘A moment longer,’ he said, a wistful note creeping into the deep, silky voice. His hand circled her wrist, the gentlest of manacles preventing her exit as effectively as the lock. ‘Two at most.’
‘We have nothing more to say to each other,’ she replied, but her own voice was hoarse, as if rejecting the lie.
‘You know that is not true. I, at least, have something to say.’
‘Then say it,’ she snapped, wondering if there were words that would make any difference after all this time.
‘It is only that I am sorry,’ he said, his voice low and urgent. ‘I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to leave you. But there was no other way.’ Then he turned her wrist in his hand, unbuttoned her glove and pressed a kiss onto the bare flesh where her pulse was beating.
Before she could respond, he unlocked the door and pushed her out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.
That had been a mistake.
Hugh walked across the room and sank back into the chair that he’d occupied when he’d been interrupted by Rachel and her suitor, trying to regain control of his feelings. It had been over two years, but the memories of the kisses they’d shared were never far from his mind. The brief taste of her flesh just now had been like opium, heady and addictive, bringing the old senses flooding back until he’d wanted to fall to his knees and beg for her hand as Perriman had done.
She was every bit as lovely as he remembered. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head in a tangle of braids and curls. Her eyes were still the same clear blue as a country sky in spring. And her body...
He closed his eyes, remembering how much he had seen of what was hidden tonight beneath a demure white gown. He would give a year of his life for another glimpse of those breasts.
When he’d realised she was in attendance tonight, he had come to this room to escape a meeting. He rarely received invitations to public gatherings and had grown good at accepting only those where there would be no chance that he and Rachel might meet.
But tonight his instinct had played him false, and fate had been cruel. He had been forced to sit mute while another man had proposed to his beloved. The relief when she’d refused marriage had been as strong as it had been unreasonable. He had no right to care about her future. She was free to marry whom she liked.
He could not help but notice that in two seasons she had not married anyone. And she had refused Perriman just now. It raised the unattainable dream that somehow they could still be together.
But he was not free. He had his sisters to think of, and the family’s tainted blood. His father’s murder, and the unspeakable things that had happened afterwards, had convinced him that the world would be better off if none of the Bethunes reproduced. Margaret had escaped him for marriage and a home of her own. Even if Olivia magically disappeared from his house and care, there was his own black reputation to consider before seeking a wife.
Title-hunting mothers might forgive a little drinking and whoring, and claim that reformed rakes made devoted husbands. But none of them were likely to tell their daughters that a murderer fell into the same category. Instead, they frightened the girls with cautionary tales of the Duke of Scofield and the fate of anyone who crossed him.
Only one woman knew the truth, or as much of it as he was able to tell. But just now she had given no indication that she wished to renew their acquaintance, even though she was free to do so. Perhaps it was time to stop torturing himself, dreaming of the one woman in London who he wanted but could never have.
