One Night with the Duchess
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Maggie Weston
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Maggie Weston makes her Harlequin debut with this spicy Victorian romance "May I ask a favor? I would like for you to bed me." Widowed duchess and virgin Isabelle must prove her loveless marriage was consummated or face losing her title and stepson! Her plan? Seek out a notorious rake to bed her! Her first stop is the famously indecent Lord Ashworth, who reluctantly agrees, to save her from the more debauched rogues on her list… Despite their fiery encounter making her feel wanted for the first time, Isabelle resolves never to seek him out again. Yet when their worlds collide once more, she's hiding a secret that would bind them forever…
Chapter One
‘Excuse me, my lord.’
‘What is it, Taps?’ Matthew Blake, Lord Ashworth, regarded his butler over the rim of his crystal whisky glass.
Taps, who had served the Blake family for nearly twenty-five years, was a contradiction in motion, a man as firm and stout in appearance as he was fidgety by nature. Even as Matthew watched him, Taps shifted from one foot to the other.
‘There is a young lady here to see you, my lord.’
Matthew raised one dark eyebrow and spared a glance at the rosewood clock on the mantel. The delicate brass hands indicated that it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. ‘Who?’
‘She refused to give a name, my lord. However, she said it was a matter of great urgency.’ Taps paused almost imperceptibly before adding, ‘She seems quite distressed.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘She is accompanied by another woman, perhaps her lady’s maid.’
Intrigued despite his fatigue, Matthew asked, ‘What does she look like?’ He didn’t know any young woman who’d risk visiting his private residence unchaperoned at such a time.
‘She is in mourning, my lord.’
He waved one large-palmed hand lazily. ‘Show her in.’
Taps paused and cast a subtle look at Matthew’s attire—or lack thereof. ‘Would you like some time to make yourself presentable, my lord?’
‘Taps,’ Matthew chided without looking down at his partially unbuttoned shirt, ‘it is one o’clock in the morning. Any woman coming to see me now doesn’t give a fig about propriety.’ He slouched further into his chair. ‘At this time of night, she’s lucky I’m clothed at all.’
While his butler would never dare to question him, Taps had long ago perfected a tone that displayed disapproval while somehow sounding nothing but polite. He used it now, issuing a crisp ‘My lord’ before bowing and leaving the room.
Matthew ignored his butler’s subtle reprimand and pondered his unexpected visitor instead. He wasn’t aware of anyone he knew having died recently, which could only mean that either he didn’t know the lady in question or she was wearing mourning garb as a disguise. Considering whose house she had entered, he considered that wise. Bold, undoubtedly. But wise.
There was a gentle announcing knock on the door before Taps re-entered the room, this time with a small woman in tow. Her slight frame was hidden under a mass of black fabric, her face completely obscured by the weeping veil that fell in one smooth sheet from the brim of her hat to the exact point at her throat where her high-collared dress started, leaving not even a single inch of skin exposed.
Seeming at a loss for how to introduce the woman, Taps floundered for a second, then gave up entirely, bowed, and left the room.
Curious as to what she’d do, Matthew said nothing. He made no move to greet the stranger, essentially breaking every rule of decorum that had been drilled into him from birth. He took a sip of his peated whisky, crossed one booted ankle over the other, and waited in silence for her to say something.
The woman bowed her head in greeting. ‘Lord Ashworth.’
Her voice was cultured and young—young enough that he instinctively knew nothing good could come of their meeting. ‘If you’re going to barge into my house in the middle of the night, I at the very least deserve the courtesy of knowing to whom I am speaking.’
Her head tipped forward, almost as if she were trying to regain her composure—or pray. ‘My name is Isabelle Con—’ She took a small breath and slowly straightened her spine. ‘I am Isabelle St Claire,’ she corrected, ‘the Duchess of Everett.’
Matthew’s heart constricted in his chest. Slowly, he put his drink down. ‘Your Grace,’ he greeted her politely, but his mind warred with this new information. He knew the name, of course. There were, after all, less than thirty dukes in all of England.
There’d been news lately... At the club, maybe... No, he remembered, at Giovanni’s School of Arms.
‘Your husband died a few days ago?’
‘Yes.’
Her affirmation was all he needed to have the memory surfacing. His best friend—Leo Vickery, Lord Pemberton—had told him about the Duke of Everett, who’d had a sudden heart attack at the age of fifty-five. A sad event, to be sure—made all the more unfortunate by the fact that he’d left behind a bride of eighteen, a woman barely out in society. This woman, as fate would have it.
‘My condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Your Grace,’ he chastised gently, ‘it is hardly proper for you to be here at this hour. If anyone were to see you in my home...’
There was no need to explain further. Matthew’s reputation aside, some things simply were not done, and visiting a strange man in the middle of the night was certainly one of them.
‘I am well aware,’ she countered immediately, her tone leaving no room for further argument on his part.
Hopelessly fascinated, Matthew leaned back in his chair. ‘Your Grace...?’
‘Isabelle.’
Uncomfortable with the familiarity, he simply nodded.
‘I am going to be frank, Lord Ashworth.’
She sounded like an ancient matriarch, chastising an errant toddler, but Matthew found the contrast of the stern tone and the young, birdlike woman intriguing.
‘Please do,’ he said, and although he did not move from his position, he fought the insane urge to go to her and tear the weeping veil off. For some unholy reason, he wanted to see her face.
The Duchess did not mince her words. ‘I was married a mere two weeks before my husband died.’ She anxiously clasped and unclasped her small gloved hands. ‘The marriage was decided upon when I was just thirteen.’ She cleared her throat daintily. ‘The Duke was a trusted friend of my father’s.’
The Duchess took three quick steps towards the door, spun around, and then hurried in the opposite direction like a mouse trapped in the corner of a barn.
‘You see, my husband was not a...’ She paused to consider her word choice before settling on, ‘He was not an unkind man. He was older, to be sure, but rather...soft...’
She tugged at her bodice with both hands, as if she could somehow rip the heavy dress off her body.
Matthew pushed himself to a stand, getting warier by the second. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, interrupting her nervous chatter, ‘please speak plainly.’
The Duchess spun around to face him. She inhaled a huge breath and as the black veil was suctioned inwards, plastering the dyed lace to her lips, she spluttered. Reaching up with both hands, she frantically ripped the entire hat off, scattering pins and scraps of fabric on the floor.
In any other circumstance Matthew might have been amused. His mouth even momentarily fought a smile as he watched the hairpins bounce across the carpeted floor before settling. But the moment he looked up his smile faded and any humour died.
The Duchess of Everett blinked at him from worried eyes the colour of onyx...eyes framed by impossibly long, inky lashes. Her skin was golden, stark against the cascade of black hair that had come undone and fell in thick ringlets down her narrow waist to her flared hips. Her sharp features were softened by a small, straight nose and a delicate mouth. She was a vision.
‘My marriage was not consummated,’ she blurted, and then immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, clearly mortified by her admission.
Matthew watched, fascinated, as a pink blush spread from the high collar of her dress up her neck and through her cheeks. At a complete loss for the appropriate thing to say, he merely repeated, ‘My condolences.’
The Duchess opened her mouth, closed it. She placed both hands on her hips and began to walk around his parlour.
‘With all due respect, Your Grace. How may I be of service exactly?’ he asked.
‘Is it not obvious?’
‘I’m not sure that it is.’
‘My late husband’s cousin is insisting upon a doctor’s...proof that I am really the Duchess of Everett.’
Matthew scowled at that. ‘Why did you not refuse? I’m sure most doctors would find such an examination archaic.’
‘I should have,’ she agreed. ‘However, that only occurred to me after the fact, and now the risk is that my marriage will be annulled.’
Matthew began to see her dilemma. ‘And you would lose your new title... Duchess.’
The Duchess straightened her spine and shot him a look that would have sent a lesser man running. For Matthew, her narrowed eyes and tight mouth had the complete opposite effect, and for some absurd reason he suddenly wondered what it would be like to tease those seriously set lips into sighing open for him.
‘I am a virgin,’ she stated, and although he’d inferred that much, hearing the actual words turned his momentary fantasy to dust. Though she tried to hide her embarrassment, she fidgeted with her gloves again. ‘A new match, however humiliating for my family, could be arranged...’
Her voice was clear, but Matthew could hear the heavy dread in it still. He did not move; he barely breathed.
‘My concern is for the new Duke of Everett—my husband’s son by his previous wife.’ She spun around again, making her stiff skirts sway back and forth like an ancient church bell. ‘Luke is only seven.’
Matthew saw her logic then. ‘And you fear what would happen to him should you be sent away?’
‘My husband’s cousin—Gareth St Claire—is an unbearable man. And he is next in line for the Dukedom after Luke.’
‘Common law would prevent him from assuming guardianship of Luke if he is next in line for the title,’ Matthew pointed out, even though he knew that such things rarely mattered. Without protection, a titled child alone in the world was easy prey.
‘Yes, I am aware,’ she replied dryly. ‘But my late husband named his wife—if there should be one—as Luke’s guardian in the event of his death. That is me.’ Her voice rose with her panic. ‘If my marriage is annulled, Luke will be placed as a ward of the Chancery. He’s a child, my lord. It will be years before he’s of age and able to assume the responsibilities of his title, and in all that time there will only be one stranger appointed to come between Luke and his uncle.’
‘You think he would harm the boy?’
Although he kept his tone cool, Matthew saw her distress was genuine. He knew even if it weren’t for her obvious anxiety, the facts remained. No man was as close to power and wealth than when he was separated from an inherited title by a single child—nor would he ever be that close again.
‘There are many ways to damage a child irreparably, my lord. More ways to manipulate and control one. I don’t know if Gareth would physically harm Luke, but I would not put anything past him. And I am the only person with the means to do something.’ She took two bold steps closer. ‘Many of my childhood summers were spent at the Everett country home, Moorhen House. I was always a bit...solitary. An only child. When the previous Duchess died in childbirth, Luke was completely alone. He is a little brother to me in many ways.’
‘Some might even say a son?’
‘Yes. Although he is only eleven years younger, some would say he’s like a son to me.’ Again, those thin shoulders squared, those black eyes slowly rose to meet his. ‘It’s my responsibility to ensure his well-being.’
‘And secure yourself the title in the process?’
‘I’m not denying that I would benefit, Lord Ashworth. Merely that benefit to myself is not my primary motivation. Being the Duchess of Everett is a duty I take seriously. However, Luke’s safety is my only concern.’
Matthew was no idiot. He had an inkling of why she was in his house, hiding in her widow’s weeds, at one o’clock in the morning. And even though he’d never touch an unspoiled daughter of the peerage, he couldn’t help but push her to her point. He needed to hear her say the words.
‘And you’re here because...’
She exhaled a deep breath. ‘I’ve come because...’
‘Yes?’ It was a single word, a simple word, but it left Matthew’s lips weighted with anticipation.
‘May I ask a favour?’
‘You may ask,’ he countered, ‘but I will most probably refuse.’
‘I would like you to bed me.’
Having become somewhat used to people expecting such behaviour from him, Matthew smiled grimly. But, in spite of that, when he said, ‘No,’ the word left his lips tasting bitter.
Isabelle was startled at the abrupt answer, issued from Lord Ashworth with no hint of doubt. ‘You’re not even going to think about it?’
The giant man standing in front of her grinned, his white teeth flashing wolfishly. He ran one large hand through his unstylishly shaggy hair.
‘There’s no need. I don’t bed virgins. I don’t ruin reputations—’
‘That is not what I heard.’
Matthew ignored her comment. ‘And I certainly will not be led by the nose into a situation where you could hold any sort of power over me. I’m not the man you’re looking for, Duchess.’
Isabelle couldn’t help the slightly hysterical giggle that worked its way up her throat. ‘You... You think that I would trick you into marriage?’ she asked, somewhat stunned by the notion. ‘Have you not been listening to anything I’ve said?’ She waved both hands down towards her heavy black dress. ‘I’m in mourning. I will be for years!’ she practically shouted. ‘And even if I wasn’t, marriage to you is the last thing I’d want!’
Because she felt hot and flustered by his looming presence and the entirely inappropriate conversation they were having, she started to pace.
She lowered her voice. ‘I’m a duchess. I don’t need your title. And marrying again before my mourning period is over would cause a scandal that would be completely antagonistic to my main goal—helping Luke.’ When he only raised his eyebrows, she continued, ‘Moreover, I have no desire to get married again.’
‘But you’re not a duchess—technically. And am I just supposed to trust whatever you say?’
Isabelle turned abruptly to find that he’d closed the space between them, and that instead of looking at his face she was staring at a patch of tanned skin where his collar lay open. She slowly craned her neck back, shifting her eyes away from his chest to his steel gaze.
‘Do you honestly believe that I’d be here with any other motive? That I’d want to lose my—’ she lowered her voice ‘—my maidenhead to a stranger whose name I picked off a list?’
Lord Ashworth did not try to fight his grin. ‘You have a list?’
Isabelle ignored the unsteady fluttering in her stomach, and even though it had not really been a question she felt compelled to clarify. ‘A list of ne’er-do-wells that I got from my very well-informed companion.’
‘Ne’er-do-wells?’
She waved her hand flippantly in his general direction. ‘You know...’ And when he just shook his head, she leaned closer and whispered, ‘Rakes.’
Lord Ashworth threw his head back and laughed. It was a lovely sound, deep and rusty, as if he wasn’t in the habit of using it often. But instead of appreciating the way it rolled over her skin, Isabelle felt the first true panic stick in her throat. It had been easier to get her feet moving once she’d had a plan and made up her mind, but now... Now her plan seemed as ridiculous as Lord Ashworth clearly found it.
Hot tears prickled her eyes.
Panic clawed through her chest.
Her breathing grew tight, each whoosh of air grating up her throat as if it were being forced.
If she couldn’t convince one of the five men whose names she and her cousin Mary had carefully selected to help her, she’d lose Luke mere weeks after she’d been put in a position to help him.
Luke was the entire reason she’d agreed to marry the Duke in the first place. Every time she’d thought of running away, of leaving to go and stay with her aunt Angela in Italy, she’d thought of Luke, alone and neglected at Moorhen House. And so she had stayed.
She’d stayed because it wasn’t Luke’s fault that his birth had killed his mother and practically estranged him from his grieving father. She’d stayed because on her worst days, including the day she’d been told she was to marry the Duke of Everett, she’d had only one person whom she knew loved her regardless, who looked at her as if she could solve any problem in the world, protect him from anything...slay his dragons. She’d stayed because she remembered what it was to be alone in a nursery with only speechless dolls and an uninterested nursemaid for company, and she could never abandon Luke to the same fate.
Remembering now had her taking a deep, calming breath. She removed the list of names from the inside of her glove and opened it with fumbling hands and blurred vision.
Leo Vickery, Lord Pemberton, was next.
Isabelle had met Leo before at a birthday celebration held for her dear friend, Wilhelmina Russell, which made things a little less awkward... Or at least one might hope it made things less awkward. Unlike the brooding Lord Ashworth, whose illicit affair with the Marchioness of Dunn had marked him a reprehensible rogue, Lord Pemberton was the quintessential peer—for, while he kept an expensive mistress, he did so fairly discreetly, and did not ruin any marriages in his pursuit of his own pleasure.
Isabelle took a harried step towards the door. Paused. When she turned back, Lord Ashworth was no longer laughing. Those cold, grey eyes were studying her with a quiet dread that she felt in the depths of her soul.
‘If it’s all the same to you, I would appreciate your discretion in this matter,’ she said.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
She got all the way to turning the brass knob before that deep, gravelly voice called, ‘Wait.’
She swallowed nervously and turned back to face Lord Ashworth.
He held her hat in his hand.
‘Oh. Yes. My hat.’
Isabelle strode across the room and attempted to pluck the hat from him, but instead of releasing it, his strong fingers closed tighter around the brim. She yanked—hard—but he didn’t move a single inch.
‘Is there a problem, my lord?’
‘Who else is on your list?’
Shame suffused her, heating her blood and crawling unpleasantly over her skin. ‘I’d prefer not to—’
Before she could finish the sentence, he’d plucked the crumpled paper from her hand and held it up to read.
With an indignant gasp, Isabelle tried to snatch the list back; however, Lord Ashworth merely placed one heavy hand on her shoulder and held her in place, stopping any further attempt. Humiliated beyond reason, she stood still and stared at a loose gold thread in the plush rug beneath her feet.
His big palm on her shoulder was heavy, almost comforting despite the restraint. His clothes carried the familiar scent of cigar smoke, but it was faint—as if he’d been standing in proximity to someone who’d been smoking. And instead of making her ill, as it had when she’d been a girl, curled up with a book in her father’s study while he’d smoked, the bitter tang soothed her now.
Her father, who was not an affectionate man by nature, had never minded Isabelle’s company, so long as she had remained quiet and not interrupted his business. And, Isabelle, who had never had much opportunity to interact with him otherwise, had spent many an hour sitting in silence in her father’s office, making herself ill on tobacco smoke in the hope of a casual word or a glance of affection that never came.
Lord Ashworth finished reading the list and released her, leaving Isabelle oddly unsteady. It was as if he had been grounding her, keeping her panic at bay, so that the moment he let go, it all came flooding back.
‘You can’t do this, Duchess.’
‘I have to,’ she insisted. ‘I lied. I told everyone my marriage was consummated. The physician is coming in two days to put Gareth St Claire’s mind at rest.’
‘No. I’m telling you now, Leo—Lord Pemberton—won’t touch you. He likes to have fun, but he’d never go through with something like this. Atkins and Williams might—but they wouldn’t keep quiet about it, which would not only ruin your reputation, but risk your marriage’s annulment anyway. And even if Cedric Finchley didn’t say anything it’d be because he had far worse intentions. His family’s fortune is in dire straits. He’s more likely to spend his entire life hounding you, blackmailing you to pillage Luke’s inheritance. Is that really what you want?’
A cold tendril of fear snaked through Isabelle’s resolve. ‘No. Of course that’s not what I want!’
‘There are other ways, you know... To make it seem as if you’ve...’ Lord Ashworth sighed deeply as his eyes studied the ceiling. Her hat dangled forlornly in his hand.
The hope that rose in Isabelle’s chest was so sharp, so real. ‘How? Tell me.’
‘It’s really just a matter of...penetration. You... I mean.’
Isabelle frowned. ‘I... I don’t understand.’
‘I apologise, Your Grace. But explaining the basics of screwing to a young woman wasn’t exactly something I’d prepared myself for when I got home an hour ago.’
Isabelle ceded his point with a small nod. ‘I’m not a child, Lord Ashworth. I am a widow—one who wouldn’t even be having this conversation if I’d been brave enough with the Duke that first time.’
Lord Ashworth pinned her with those unsettling eyes. ‘He tried...?’
‘He tried,’ she admitted tartly. ‘It was horrifically awkward. Once he started removing his clothes I just lay there and cried, and he couldn’t...or wouldn’t... He left. He said I needed some time to “grow accustomed” to the idea.’
‘I doubt time would have made it more appealing,’ Lord Ashworth drawled. ‘What was he? Fifty-five? And fat as a Christmas goose, if memory serves.’
Isabelle didn’t argue. ‘It doesn’t matter. I should have been braver. I should have done my duty—for Luke.’
‘It does matter,’ he snapped. ‘You should never have been betrothed to him—and age is the least of it.’
Seeing that he was growing increasingly frustrated with her, Isabelle calmed her tone. It didn’t matter that she agreed with him, or that she still sometimes woke in the night drenched in sweat and terror before she remembered that it was all over. She had married the Duke, as her father had demanded. And she had survived it as her mother had said she would.
‘If I don’t do this, nothing will change for me. I will be marked a virgin, my marriage will be annulled, and I will be married off a second time—this time to someone whom I don’t know and who very possibly isn’t as understanding as the late Duke was. I have lived through it once, and by God I could survive it again.’ Just the thought made her stomach roil with dread, but Isabelle pushed through it. ‘But Luke will be shipped off to boarding school. He’ll never be given the love and attention he needs. And that’s the best-case scenario.’
‘That I do understand,’ Lord Ashworth surprised her by saying.
‘Well, then.’ She held out her hand, palm up, fully expecting him to hand her the paper and send her on her way.
Instead, he turned and threw it straight into the blazing fire.
For a long moment, all Isabelle could do was stand and stare at the rapidly disintegrating paper. It flamed and curled, turning as black as the rage that snapped through her.
Instead of storming out, she simply lifted her chin defiantly. ‘It was five names; I can remember all of them.’
‘You don’t have to.’ Lord Ashworth walked back to the large tufted chair he’d previously vacated. He collapsed into it and picked up his whisky, the picture of a man up to his neck in trouble. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ she couldn’t help but ask, given his sudden change of heart.
He shook his head. ‘My options are either to let you try with someone who’ll undoubtedly ruin your life. Or explain to you the mechanics and then pray to God you don’t impale yourself on something. My way is quicker, and less dangerous to everyone involved.’
Isabelle couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘You’ll help me? Do...this?’ A shiver of nerves crawled over her body.
‘Yes. And just in case you get any ideas, I leave for a tour of the continent in two days’ time. I won’t be back in England for two years.’
Desperate to sidestep his remaining doubts, Isabelle crossed her heart on the bodice of her heavy black gown. ‘I swear on my life, my lord, I won’t ever contact you again.’
He nodded once and then, setting his whisky down, stalked to the door. For one mortifying second she thought he might call someone to come and remove this insane woman from his house, but instead he turned the key, locking them in together.
