The Dark Duke

“Isn’t the scent delightful?” Damaris said, holding up a rose for Hester’s inspection and catching her quite off guard. “Don’t you think so, Reverend McKenna?”

“Beautiful,” the young man murmured, blushing, as Damaris bent her head toward another bloom. She colored very slightly, and Hester couldn’t be sure if it was because of her action, or because she, too, realized the remark was not strictly intended to refer to the flower.

Hester hoped Damaris would fall in love with Hamish McKenna. Damaris could do much worse for a husband, and she wanted the young woman safe from her father’s machinations.

And those of the Dark Duke, if she was being absolutely truthful.

Adrian spent the next few days closeted in his bedroom, where he did not have to put up with his stepmother, or make pleasant conversation with Sir Douglas and his daughter, who visited every day, or listen to the canon attempt to lecture him on the errors of his ways while trying not to offend him.

He saw nothing of Lady Hester, but he could guess that she was spending her time attending to his stepmother, whose various and sundry ailments would all have been made worse by the arrival of her prodigal stepson.

If Adrian regretted anything about his self-imposed confinement, it was missing the opportunity to study that interesting miss a little more. She certainly did not seem to begrudge Damaris Sackville-Cooper her beauty. Perhaps that could be explained by Lady Hester’s lovely sisters. She was probably used to being the plain woman in any gathering. However, he had been rather more surprised by her apparent lack of jealousy where the attentive young reverend was concerned. Adrian was quite sure of his ability to gauge reactions, and he was certain that Reverend McKenna was smitten with Miss Sackville-Cooper. Did Lady Hester see this, too, or did she simply not care?

That Sir Douglas was making grandiose plans for his daughter was also painfully obvious, and completely useless, for Adrian did not intend to marry for a very long time. He had enough responsibilities without adding those of a wife and subsequent children.

Nevertheless, by this time Adrian was heartily sick of his own company. To make matters worse, it began to rain, making his bedroom unremittingly gloomy. If the weather brought any comfort, it was that no unwelcome visitors would come to Barroughby Hall on such a day. Therefore, Adrian reasoned, he could venture to the library, a room his stepmother never entered. Jenkins could be counted on to have a fire there, for he lived in perpetual fear of the late duke’s library falling prey to mildew. It would be warm and cozy and he could find himself something new to read.

As he had hoped, a fire burned merrily in the library’s grate, making the dark-paneled room seem like a book-lined cavern. Adrian felt like Robinson Crusoe, marooned with only books for company. This did not particularly trouble him, for he had spent many such hours in this comfortable room, which had been his father’s favorite. His mother’s, too.

The peace of the room enfolded him. How much better it was to be here, instead of clubs and theaters with the men people liked to call the Dark Duke’s Dandies. Not a one of his London cronies was what a man could call a good friend. They simply amused him, and helped him pass the time.

He chose a book at random, something silly by Mrs. Radcliffe, and settled into a wing chair. He propped the foot of his sore leg on the grate as he prepared to read about the terrible dangers faced by the virtuous heroine in The Mysteries of Udolpho.

Soon Adrian was lulled into sleep by the warmth of the fire and the dull pit-pat of the rain on the window.

He drifted down into a dream, a memory. Of finding Elizabeth in that hot, filthy, dingy room. The efforts of her labor. The way she wailed and sobbed. The long, terrifying wait for the doctor and the dismissive look on the man’s face when he entered the room. Then the doctor’s fear when Adrian grabbed him by the throat and identified himself.

Too late. He was too late. The doctor was too late.

But there was someone else in the room. A woman. Quietly and competently swaddling the dying baby, cooing softly. Then, with infinite tenderness and patience, she turned to Elizabeth and wiped her feverish brow before looking up at him, with calm forgiveness and understanding.

It was Lady Hester, her smile like a balm on his tortured soul.

“Your Grace!”

Adrian awoke at once, to find Lady Hester shaking him gently, her face close to his, looking at him with worry and concern. Without thinking, he took her face between his two hands and pulled her toward him, kissing her deeply as if he could drink her in, like a dying man who finds water in the desert. For the briefest of moments she yielded, her lips soft and pliable against his.

How much he wanted her, he realized, the strength of his desire shocking him.

But only for a moment. She pulled back, staring at him with what could have been surprise or horror, her hand wiping her lips of his unclean touch—so different from his dream.

He cursed himself for a fool. Why, she wasn’t even pretty! It had to be because of the lingering effects of his dream that he had kissed her. “What do you want?” he demanded, wearily leaning back in his chair and waiting for her to slap him, or denounce him, to start crying, or run from the room.

She did none of those things. Instead, she took a step back, watching him, the expression in her large and shining blue eyes changing from shocked surprise to puzzlement. “Why did you do that?” she asked softly.

“Why not?”

“Because it was not a gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Given my reputation, this surprises you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered calmly.

What a strange woman! Does she never react like other females of her age and rank? he thought. He smiled cynically. “My stepmother would tell you I am no gentleman.”

Lady Hester nodded her head slowly, although not with agreement, he didn’t think. It was more a pondering of his words with a gravity he found extremely disconcerting, considering what they were discussing. “You were very rude to Reverend Canon Smeech.”

“He’s a greedy hypocrite.”

She didn’t look at all shocked. “That is no excuse. He is a representative of the church.”

“That excuses him, I suppose.”

This plain woman in her simple, unadorned gown of gray regarded him so steadily that despite his efforts to assure himself that her opinion could not be important, he was quite nonplussed. “No, it does not,” she said, “although I agree with your estimation. However, you can’t expect him to change because you are discourteous to him. You would do better to use your influence to get him appointed to a position where he will have less opportunity to be a greedy hypocrite.”

“Well, well, well,” Adrian said, rising slowly. “You seem very confident of my influence.” He went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

“Your rank alone assures it.”

“If not my personal attributes?”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Your Grace. If you will excuse me—”

“I don’t excuse you.” Surprisingly, despite moments of discomfort, he was enjoying himself, perhaps because it had been years since anyone had responded to him with something other than blatant animosity or fawning flattery. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“I came for a book.”

“And instead you found me. Why didn’t you creep away?”

“You were…dreaming. I thought…”

“I take it I did not appear to be enjoying my dream?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“As it happens, I was not. Grateful to be awakened, I kissed you. A moment of weakness.”

“I gather you have many such moments,” she noted dispassionately..

Adrian frowned slightly. “Where is my stepmother? Doesn’t she require your constant attendance?”

“She fell asleep. That’s why I came for a book. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Your Grace.”

Quite unexpectedly, he realized he didn’t want her to go. “There is no need for you to rush off. I haven’t had a decent conversation in three days. Sit here beside the fire and tell me how you come to be living in my house.”

Hester hesitated, torn between the desire to flee and the desire to stay. She knew she should leave, especially after the duke’s impetuous and impertinent kiss, which would seem to lend credence to the popular opinion of the duke as a notable lecher.

However, she felt more confident in his presence now, because of the look on his face when she had awakened him. He had not been the handsome, sardonic, provocative nobleman then. He had been as vulnerable as anyone she had ever seen, and his eyes had been full of anguish, as had the soft moans that had escaped his lips as she had entered the library, sounds that had compelled her to approach him.