She Tempts the Duke (14 page)

Chapter 14

“Y
ou were most fortunate, Your Grace,” the physician said, as he finished wrapping a bandage around Sebastian’s midsection. “The knife didn’t slice into any organs.”

If the pain in his side was that of a fortunate man, then Sebastian would hate to experience the pain of an unfortunate one.

“Not a professional assassin then,” Rafe said. He was leaning against one of the posters at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. Once Tristan had gotten Sebastian home, he’d sent word to Rafe who had come posthaste, physician in tow. William Graves seemed not much older than them, but he knew well the business of healing.

“Or a soldier,” Tristan said, holding the drapery slightly aside and peering into the night. “Otherwise he’d have known where to strike.”

“I turned. I could have thrown him off.”

“Either would have stayed to finish the job,” Tristan said. “You said he ran off.”

“Maybe he heard someone else coming.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered if he were an assassin,” Rafe insisted. “He’d have done what he was paid to do.”

“Know a lot about assassins do you?” Sebastian asked.

To Sebastian’s consternation, Rafe held his gaze somewhat defiantly, then shifted his attention over to Tristan. “You don’t have to keep watch. I have a couple of my men patrolling.”

Tristan released his hold on the draperies. “So he’ll live?”

Graves completed his task and stepped away. “Most certainly.”

“Pity. I rather fancied the notion of becoming duke.”

The physician halted in the closing of his bag to stare at Tristan. Sebastian settled back against the pillows. “My brother has a strange sense of humor.”

Graves gave a brisk nod. “I shall return on the morrow to change your bandages and assess the healing.”

“I’ll escort you out,” Rafe said and proceeded to lead the doctor from Sebastian’s bedchamber.

Tristan ambled over and dropped into a burgundy velvet chair near the bed. “Our little brother seems to have quite the knowledge regarding unsavory matters.”

Sebastian didn’t want to ponder how he had come to have that knowledge. Rafe returned and took up his position at the foot of the bed, leaning against the post, arms once again crossed—as though he had no desire to make himself comfortable here. Or perhaps he simply didn’t
feel
comfortable here.

His reappearance, however, seemed to be a signal to Tristan to continue striving to uncover the events of the night. “So you didn’t see the fellow who attacked you?”

Sebastian shook his head. “He came from my left side.”

“I crossed paths with Fitzwilliam as I was looking for you. Perhaps he scared him off.”

“Fitzwilliam couldn’t scare off a rabbit.”

A corner of Tristan’s mouth hitched up. “You don’t like him. Why is that?”

Shrugging, Sebastian regretted the movement as soon as he did it. His side burned as though someone had built a fire beneath the skin, but he’d endured much worse. The physician had given him laudanum before beginning his work. It left him feeling as though he traveled through a fog, striving to snatch hold of his thoughts, only to find them disappearing on gossamer wisps.

“Does it have anything to do with Mary?” Tristan asked.

Mary. She was with him. She left. His heart picked up tempo. Then he remembered that Tristan had seen her, that she was all right. But his heart refused to slow. If anything had happened to her—

“I know you kissed her,” Tristan said.

His arms falling to his side, Rafe straightened as though the news had come as a blow to his midsection. “Why the devil would you do that?”

“Why does any man kiss a woman, Brother?” Tristan asked, his voice laced with humor.

“But Mary. For God’s sake, we don’t want to ruin her, not after what she did for us.”

“I have no plans to ruin her,” Sebastian ground out. “It was simply a . . . a distraction.”

“Distract yourself with one of my doxies. Not with Mary.”

“I don’t need you telling me how to behave. I’ve apologized to her. It won’t happen again.”

“Why not?” Tristan asked. “If you want her, take her.”

“She wants Fitzwilliam. If she didn’t, she’d have never agreed to marry him.”

“When she accepted his offer of marriage, she thought you were dead. She invites you to dinners and balls. For what purpose?”

“She invites
us
. She does it to aid us in our efforts to reclaim what is ours. It is her nature to help where she can. Now leave it be.” Sebastian pressed a hand to his head in a vain attempt to stop the room from spinning. He couldn’t deny that Mary was a beautiful woman or that she stirred him, but she deserved a man who was not as broken as he—a man who could love her, and he no longer had the capability of loving anyone. Marriage to him would be a miserable existence. “I believe we’ve strayed from our purpose here. I suppose we can assume Uncle was at the root of this situation tonight.”

“He’s a fool if he thinks killing all three of us will go unnoticed,” Tristan said.

“Perhaps he believes it enough to kill one and the other two will run—as we did when we were lads,” Rafe offered.

“Then he failed to notice that we are no longer lads. More’s the pity. We know where he is. I say we confront him,” Tristan said.

“Would be better to first discover what resources are at his disposal. His wife might know,” Rafe replied.

“We could ask Mary to speak with her,” Tristan mused.

“We’re not going to involve Mary,” Sebastian told him.

“She’s already involved.”

“Not in this.” He made to get up, to give more power to his words, but the pain rifled through him and he collapsed back down. Breathing heavily, gritting his teeth, he hated opening his eye to discover Tristan leaning over him. He’d suffered worse. He wasn’t going to be unmanned by so trifling a wound.

“You need to rest,” Tristan said. “Rafe and I will ask around. See what we can discover.”

“Not Mary.”

Tristan studied him a moment before finally nodding. “No, we won’t involve Mary.”

Knowing she would be safe from scandal and danger, Sebastian allowed himself to sink into the oblivion of the laudanum.

B
loody, bloody, bloody fool! How could you be so stupid?

Lord David stared at his reflection in the mirror. The gash on his cheek burned where his brother’s signet ring had sliced deeply into his flesh. He pounded the basin with his tightened fist.

It must look like an accident.

“I know that!”

He hadn’t meant to attack his nephew, but when the opportunity had arose—

Why waste it?
he’d thought. He hadn’t even known his nephews would be at the Weatherlys’. He’d been sneaking through the gardens to see if he could catch a glimpse of Lucretia at the ball. She so enjoyed dancing. He couldn’t envision that she would not attend. And damned how he missed her.

But then his cursed nephew had distracted him from his purpose.

He couldn’t stay here. Knew they had him followed, knew where he was. Cunning lads, but he was more so.

Where will you go? How will you get there? No vendor or shop owner will extend you credit. They saw to that.

He’d tried to buy a bit of jewelry for Lucretia earlier in the week, only to be denied. He sent the basin hurtling through the room and took satisfaction as it crashed against the wall, breaking into a thousand shards. His landlady had warned him that if he broke another she’d not replace it. Who did she think she was to talk to him like that? To make threats.

He was a lord!

One day he would be duke. Then Lucretia would return to him. He would have everything then, everything he should have always had.

He would show his brother the price to be paid for stealing from him the only woman he’d ever loved. Even Lucretia could not compare to her beauty.

You should have killed him last, made him suffer more.

But then, opportunity that could not be ignored had presented itself. And it would again.

Chapter 15

T
he afternoon following the Weatherly ball, as Mary studied her reflection in the mirror, she could hardly believe that the lovely lady standing in the gown of white satin and Honiton lace was truly her. The workmanship on the dress that so very closely resembled the gown that Queen Victoria had worn on her wedding day was truly exquisite. Imitating the Queen’s attire was all the rage of late, but still Mary had never expected to wear something as incredibly heavenly as the gown that now adorned her.

“It’s so beautiful,” Alicia said. “I can’t wait until I have occasion to wear something similar for a wedding.”

“Next Season, my dear,” Aunt Sophie assured her. “This Season is Mary’s, and I could not be happier that it has turned out so well. You are most fortunate to have caught Lord Fitzwilliam.”

“Yes,” Mary said, and bit her lip to stop it from tingling at the memory of Sebastian’s kiss, a kiss for which he had apologized. She wished he hadn’t done that. She wished he had simply walked away with no words spoken . . . after kissing her one more time.

She wasn’t certain how the first had even happened. One moment she was touching his shoulder, and the next his mouth was devouring hers. Passion had slammed into her, causing her to encourage him further. Her moans and sighs had been wanton. She’d been wanton.

They’d kissed once before when she was all of twelve and he was fourteen. But the forbidden touching of their lips then had not hinted at the heat that could erupt between them now. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or fascinated.

He was not the boy she’d loved as a child. He was a dark, brooding man, with fury boiling below the surface. Who knew when it might erupt and what casualties it would leave in its wake? Already it had left her behind. He’d stormed from the garden without even a backward glance. If he’d only looked back . . . she might have followed. She might have clambered into his coach and gone somewhere far away, where they could be alone—to truly talk, to explore their feelings, to stop being so blasted polite around each other.

“Do you think Keswick would have pressed his suit if he’d arrived in London earlier in the Season, before you were spoken for?” Alicia asked.

Mary twisted around. “Why would you—”

“Please stand still, m’lady,” the seamstress said, as she worked to mark the hem.

“Yes, quite, I’m sorry,” Mary muttered before facing forward again and meeting her cousin’s gaze in the mirror. “Why would you think that?”

“I simply noticed that Keswick seems to watch you with what appears to be longing.”

“You’re mistaken. He looks upon me as no more than a friend.”

“Nothing more?”

Why the deuce was her cousin pursuing this? Had she happened upon them in the garden for God’s sake? “I’m quite content with my selection in husbands.”

“Oh, my dear girl, tell me that’s not so,” her aunt said, her voice indicating her distress.

“Would you rather I not be content?”

“Content will hardly bring a fire to your bed.”

Sebastian, however, based on his kiss would bring a fire to the bed that would ignite it and send it into flames. She didn’t want to consider how his kiss had left her burning for more, how she had tossed and turned in her bed all night, tangled in covers until she thought she would suffocate, needing surcease. Whenever she closed her eyes, she imagined him prowling toward her, crawling onto her bed, covering her—

She swallowed hard. “I’m sure Fitzwilliam will do nicely in that regard.”

Her aunt moved to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the mirror. She was a small woman, but could be quite formidable when she set her mind to it. “My dear, are you having second thoughts regarding this marriage?”

Second. Third. Fourth. Ever since Sebastian had kissed her, doubts had plagued her. She no longer knew her own mind. She, who never questioned her actions, was now questioning a good many things. Why had he kissed her? What had he hoped to accomplish? Was it simply for sport? To satisfy curiosity? He wanted to forget. Exactly what did he wish to forget? The long years he was away? The war? Her? Had he taken her in his arms because she was convenient? Would any woman have sufficed for his purposes? That thought brought with it a devastating disappointment. Perhaps she should confront him. Or would it be better to ignore him?

“Mary?” her aunt prodded.

She’d almost forgotten the question. Was she having doubts? “No, of course not.”

Fitzwilliam did not burn with passion. Rather his moods more closely resembled the constant ticking of a clock. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. Just the reassuring constancy that each tick would be followed by another. A month ago, she’d found it reassuring. Now she found it boring. How unfair to him. He’d not changed since he asked for her hand. She knew exactly what she was getting when she accepted his proposal. But she had changed. Somehow, within only a couple of weeks, she’d become someone completely different, wanted something completely different. Too late, too late. Besides perhaps it was only a passing fancy, and in another two weeks she would once again yearn for what she’d longed for a month ago.
You’d damned well better long for it.

“It really doesn’t matter, Mama,” Alicia said. “The betrothal has been announced. It can’t be broken. Lord Fitzwilliam would sue for damages, and Uncle would not be pleased about that at all. It would be scandalous.”

“Better scandal now than to marry a man you doubt and have years of regret,” her aunt announced, her gaze boring into Mary until it made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t doubt Fitzwilliam,” Mary assured her. But she doubted herself. Why had she not stepped away from the kiss instead of into it? She couldn’t deny that for years she’d thought of Sebastian, had dreamed of him, had fantasized about him as a young girl might, but the reality of him as a man was far removed from her imaginings.

Her aunt harrumphed.

“I don’t!” Mary insisted. “And Alicia is right. All has been arranged for the wedding. I’m sure all ladies wonder as the time draws near if they travel the right path.”

“I certainly didn’t,” her aunt said.

“Because you and Papa eloped,” Alicia said. “To Gretna Green. There was hardly time for any misgivings. It was so romantic. I would so dearly love to be swept away.” She sighed dreamily.

Mary wondered when she herself had given up on the notion of being romanced, of being swept away. Was she settling for Fitzwilliam? She didn’t think so. Yes, he was the only one to have asked but that didn’t signify that she’d have not selected him if a hundred gentlemen had asked. He’d captured her attention from the start. She enjoyed his company. He was charming, elegant. Not brash. His temper was even. He did not easily take offense. Marriage to him would be calm and placid. No upheavals, no tempers flaring, no anger.

A bell tinkling above the door caught her attention. Another lady coming in for a fitting no doubt. This seamstress was one of the more sought-after in London.

“There you are!” Lady Hermione announced. “When I saw your carriage in the street, I told Lady Victoria that we must stop and have a look-see for surely you would be here.”

In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Ladies Hermione and Victoria gliding into the room, an excitement in their step as though they both had delicious gossip to share.

“You’re not to spread rumors about the design of Mary’s gown,” Alicia said. “We want it to remain a secret—”

“Oh, dear girl, we couldn’t care less about a gown. We want to know the truth about what
really
happened in the garden last night with Keswick. So many delicious rumors are running rife through London this morning that it’s difficult to sort the wheat from the chaff. So, Lady Mary, what the deuce happened in the garden?” Her gaze honed in on Mary with such force that had it not been for the danger of pins pricking her, she would have sunk into the nearest chair.

Her knees had grown so weak that it was a wonder she was able to remain standing. Who had seen them in the garden? What precisely had they seen? More importantly—

“Does Fitzwilliam know?” she asked, pushing the words through her knotted throat.

“I should think so. No matter where Lady Victoria and I have gone today, it’s been on the tip of everyone’s tongues. Such delicious gossip. I daresay I’m frightfully surprised to find you here having a fitting done, considering all that transpired in the shadows. Now, come, you must give us specifics for surely—”

“We only kissed,” Mary blurted out, in an effort to stop this madness. “Keswick and I.”

Her aunt gasped and pressed a hand to her chest as though she needed to contain her heart beneath her ribs. The three younger ladies stared at her open-mouthed. Even the seamstress seemed unable to move from the shock of her words.

“He apologized afterward,” she hastened to explain. “It didn’t signify. Was only a moment of insanity.” She was babbling. It was important that she speak with Fitzwilliam, explain everything, but that would indicate that she understood what had happened, when she really didn’t.

“Welllll,” Lady Victoria said, dragging the word out as though she were savoring a delicious bit of chocolate. “That was most unexpected.”

Mary jerked her attention to Lady Hermione. “You said everyone knew, everyone was talking about Keswick and what happened in the garden.”

“Yes, well, apparently a good deal more happened than we were led to believe.”

Mary was torn between begging the ladies not to say anything and holding her head high, never straying from her story that it was all in innocence. But the kiss had rocked her to the core. How could she not blush with even the thought of it?

“So come, Lady Mary, now you must give us the juicy details of what transpired between
you
and Keswick,” Lady Hermione said.

“You didn’t know about the kiss?”

“No. How did it come about? Details. We must have the details.”

“I don’t understand. If you weren’t aware of the kiss, what did you think happened? What have people been saying about us?” Could it be anything worse than what she’d already confessed?

“Not you. Only Keswick.”

“What is your gossip?”

“Not nearly as interesting as yours, it seems.”

“For God’s sake, girl,” her aunt snapped. “Stop torturing Mary. What the devil did you
think
happened in the garden?”

“Someone tried to kill Keswick.”

S
ebastian had just slid out of bed and was struggling to straighten to his full height, when the door to his bedchamber was flung open and Mary burst through like an avenging angel, her aunt and cousin in her wake.

Thank God he was wearing trousers. Unfortunately he wore no shirt, and he was still hunched over like some creature that should be skittering about Hugo’s Notre Dame. Fighting the pain, he forced himself to stand tall, then realized the folly in that when Lady Ivers gasped and took a step back, while Lady Alicia paled. The sunlight streaming in through the window washed over his scars,
all
his scars. The damned eyepatch was resting on the table by the bed. He should have been reaching for it instead of striving to stand with some dignity.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he barked, before gritting his teeth and shuffling like an old man to the table to snatch up the patch. It was an awkward thing to strive to put it on when every movement strained his stitches, ignited fire in his side. Where the hell was his valet?

Thomas worked his way between the ladies hovering in the doorway. “Your Grace—”

But then even he came to a stop at the hideous sight before him. Unlike his valet, the butler had never seen the scars that Sebastian’s clothes hid.

“We’d heard you were attacked,” Mary said, before striding across the room with purpose as though shot from a cannon.

Her aunt called after her, but she simply marched on. He was tempted to back away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Something in her determination unsettled him. It was dangerous for her to be here. Dangerous for them both.

She stopped so near, her orchid scent wafted around him. Reaching up, she adjusted the patch before skimming her hand lightly over his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder, bringing it to rest where his heart thudded so hard that it was in danger of cracking a rib.

“They hurt you so badly,” she whispered.

He was close to becoming unmanned. He would if he saw a single tear, but what he saw was far worse. Anger in her lovely green eyes. Perhaps even hatred. She pressed her lips tightly together, lowered her hand to just below his ribs. Her touch contained such tenderness that it made him want to weep, made him want to wrap his arm around her, draw her in against his good side, hold her near. Never let her go.

But he couldn’t risk even a moment of softness, couldn’t risk revealing a hint of weakness. He could not take what he could never keep. She was not his. It was a litany he’d repeated in his laudanum-induced haze when the pain kept him conscious. She was not his.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

Tearing his gaze from her, he looked down and saw the bright red marring the bandage wrapped around his waist.

“He did this to you, didn’t he? Your uncle.”

“I do not think he would be this brazen.”

She lifted her gaze to his, held it, and for a heartbeat he was back at Pembrook, young and innocent, believing that the world would one day be handed to him on a silver platter. Life would be fox hunts and pheasant shooting. Not rifles aimed at men. Life would be riding horses for sport not survival. Pleasures would involve beautiful women who wanted to be with him, instead of women who gasped and feared approaching him, as though his scars were contagious, as though they would somehow find a way to make the ladies ugly as well.

He had kissed Mary in the darkness when all that he was had been hidden from her. Now the harsh sunlight was revealing the marbling of puckered flesh that marred so much of him. Yet she didn’t step back, she didn’t turn away. He wondered if he lowered his mouth to hers now without the kindness of shadows, if she would close her eyes on a sigh or grimace as the creature he was grew too near.