Dukes Do It Better, page 2
But damn, it had been a spectacular kiss. No wonder she’d thrown caution to the wind and spent the night with him.
Even now, months later, knowing she’d never see him again, Emma couldn’t fully regret that brief flight into merry widowhood. It was one time, and only one time. At least now, when she lay in bed and it was just her hands and the darkness, her mind had clear pictures to fantasize about. Those memories were more than enough to keep her warm through the winter.
People would say a mere sailor wasn’t a suitable match for the daughter of a marquess—even the notorious Marquess of Eastly, famous for his countless affairs and scandals. A twisted version of a smile tilted her lips. There was quite a bit of her father in her, in addition to her faithless, long-dead mother. Not many would miss him.
She rolled the quill pen between her fingers, then returned to her journal.
C— is the marquess. How odd to think of him with Father’s title. And P— shall have to adjust to being a marchioness, instead of a countess. Lord knows how much she twitched and moaned about being a countess to begin with. If nothing else, hearing her complain about changing titles will be grand entertainment. I can hear her voice cursing in my head already, and it makes me smile.
“Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama…” Alton’s voice carried down the hall.
“In the kitchen, little love,” she called back. He repeated her name until he found her, and by the tenth mama her nerves had frayed.
Alton’s curls peeked over the back of the wooden chair beside her. Goodness, he was getting tall. The chair scraped against the plank floor as he pulled it away from the table, then clambered up onto the seat. “Is there pie?”
Emma moved the inkpot out of reach before his little hands could make their inevitable grab for it. “Pie is in the oven.” His pout made her chuckle. “Baking takes time. These things don’t happen by magic, you know.” At his age, she’d thought the kitchens produced delights like a djinn from a lamp.
Wish. Poof. Pie.
She’d had no concept of the labor and time each pastry and loaf represented, and hadn’t wrapped her mind around the reality until nearly six years earlier. Even in the womb, Alton had craved pie, and thus Emma’s love of baking had been born a few months before her son.
Alton sagged in the chair like his bones were turning to jelly. He lolled his head in her direction with beseeching eyes. “Can’t it go faster? It smells so good, and I’m hungry.” As if on cue, a gurgle sounded from his tummy.
“Some things are worth waiting for. Have a glass of milk and some bread with cheese to tide you over.”
He blinked his big, dark eyes at her. Dark eyes, gold hair. No one could deny Alton was her son. When she met his impression of a starving orphan waif with an unblinking stare, he sighed and climbed off the chair.
“Fine,” Alton grumbled, then moved toward the cupboard for a glass.
The milk jug was too heavy for him, so Emma rose to slice the cheese and bread, then pour his milk. The plate trembled slightly and tipped at a precarious angle as he carried it back toward the table. Her fists clenched with the need to step in, but instead of taking the plate away, she hovered, ready to make a grab for the stoneware before it hit the floor and they lost another place setting. Alton’s independent streak had been making an appearance during the last few months, which meant more chips, cracks, and crashes than were good for their dishes.
He was growing up right before her eyes. So many changes since the weather turned cold.
Maybe she had been too busy and distracted to grieve Father. When she was back in London, wrapped in the easy life of her brother’s house with its army of servants ready to see to her comfort, the reality of Father’s death might crash into her.
Or she might find that London changed nothing, and the part of her that should mourn her last parent remained cold. Exactly like Father had been when Mother died. After a lifetime of drama and heightened passion over every damn thing in their relationship, Father’s reaction to his wife’s death had been unexpected. As if she’d taken all the emotions with her when she died. Father hadn’t cried, and he hadn’t mourned in any discernable way. The next week he’d found a new mistress and was back to his old habits.
Alton scurried over to the open window and yelled, “Leonard! Don’t eat that!”
A muted bleat from the goat was probably Leonard’s way of telling the tiny tyrant to go to hell, and the sound made Emma smile.
She’d miss their home, but the need to see Calvin and Phee was stronger. Alton would love seeing his cousin again, and the merriment of celebrating Freddie’s day of birth as a family would be worth the travel. It was only a few weeks, after all. It wasn’t as if she planned to stay for the Season.
She knew her place now, and it wasn’t in glittering ballrooms. Although this life, as sweet as it was, could feel solitary. Especially late at night, when loneliness settled over Emma heavier than blankets, the memory of a pair of hazel eyes and a wicked smile reminded her that no matter how hard she tried to suppress it, her desire was alive and well.
Maybe she needed to take a lover. To enter into the relationship thoughtfully and methodically, and not on impulse. Choose someone decent and kind who would be around for longer than one night, but wouldn’t expect marriage or access to her secrets.
Yes, perhaps a lover was worth considering. If Leonard the goat could manage it, surely she could too.
Chapter Two
I sometimes wonder what life would be like if I’d received everything I thought I wanted. I’d have missed so much. Not a bit of my day-to-day existence would resemble my current reality, beyond the presence of A—. No cottage. No crashing sea. No midnight baking sessions, or overly familiar household servants. Worst of all, I would have married HIM.
—Journal entry, May 12, 1824
London, England
Early April 1825
For the love of everything holy, if Roxbury didn’t release her arm, she was going to do the man some serious harm. Here, in Hyde Park, where anyone might happen by, Lady Emma Hardwick would raise a fuss the likes of which London hadn’t seen since King George barred his queen from attending his coronation.
“You shall unhand me at once, and never touch me again. Do I make myself clear, Lord Roxbury?” The words had to work past her clenched jaw. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma spotted her sister-in-law, Phee, chattering animatedly with Alton while leading him farther away. Bless her. Phee knew Emma’s top priority would be keeping Alton away from the scene her unwanted companion seemed determined to create.
Roxbury released her arm with clear reluctance. “I’ve called twice this week and your prick of a butler says you’re not at home.”
It took every ounce of her self-control to not roll her eyes. “I have no interest in renewing an acquaintance with you, Lord Roxbury.” She made a note to thank Higgins when she returned to the house. The aging butler had had his hands full these past few weeks. Not only dealing with houseguests and the young master’s birthday celebration, but keeping unwanted callers like Roxbury at bay.
He grinned, and for a second, she glimpsed what had caught her eye so many years before. Devon had a great smile. Charming, persuasive, and distracting. Many women besides her had been taken in by his smile while he lied through his teeth.
“So formal, my love,” he said.
Emma couldn’t help grimacing in disgust. A week prior he’d been dancing attendance on a well-dowered wallflower. The girl was young and sweet and didn’t deserve to be stuck with this reprobate for the rest of her life. After an anonymous note to the girl’s father, the match everyone had been expecting fizzled abruptly. The resulting speculation in the gossip pages had made her smile into her coffee cup.
Sending that note had been Emma’s good deed for the week. Unfortunately, the interference had unexpected consequences. Namely, Roxbury’s full attention was now focused on her, instead of divided between two women with money and empty ring fingers.
Emma tucked a lock of hair back under her bonnet as she wished her former lover to the devil. “I’m not your love. I’m not your anything. If you call on me, I won’t be at home. You and I have no relationship, no ties.”
Roxbury’s smile turned flinty, with an edge that threatened to slice her world apart as he tilted his head to study her, then glanced toward where Alton stood near the river. “I’d say we have quite a few ties, Emma. Pity the boy is so small. The men in my family are usually strapping lads from a young age.”
She swallowed a wave of acid back down her throat, forcing her expression into something neutral. “Adam wasn’t a large man, but he was a good man. I’d be thrilled if his son grows to look like him.” She’d lived the lie for so many years, it no longer tasted wrong on her tongue, but throwing it so blatantly in Roxbury’s face sent a spike of anxiety straight through her.
His smile disappeared, and he wrapped a hand around her arm, dragging her close enough that his hot breath hit her face, ripe with stale liquor. “You stole my fiancée—I know it was you. And you stole my heir. Next time I call, you’ll receive me, or everyone in London will see who his father really is.”
The pressure of his fingers sent panic tightening her chest as doubt crept in. Devon Roxbury, biological father to her child and all-around rotter, sounded earnest in his threat. Unlike her, he’d been in London all this time and had a full roster of friends, allies, and dupes. If he spoke against her and her son, people would believe him. He could ruin Alton’s future with his twisted version of the truth.
Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone and let him marry his wallflower? She winced under the pressure of his fingers and forced a breath into her lungs. Memories of how Roxbury had sneered at, shamed, and then abandoned her when she’d told him she was pregnant, rose to the forefront of her mind. The wallflower deserved happiness, and Roxbury hadn’t changed. That’s why.
The truth stiffened her spine until Emma jerked free of his hold. “She deserves better than a man like you.”
She braced as he opened his mouth for a no-doubt scathing retort.
“There you are, darling. So sorry I left you to the wilds of the park. I didn’t realize there were so many dangers about.” The deep voice from behind her sent a wave of gooseflesh rippling down her back. The last time she’d heard that voice, it had rumbled in her ear with aroused disappointment as she’d crept from his bed at the inn in Olread Cove. The sun had been peeking over the windowsill, and knowing Alton would be awake soon drove her from his arms and back to real life.
Captain Malachi Harlow, in the flesh.
And what mighty appealing flesh it was. His rough palm, warmer and more solid than her memories, seared her lower back as he slipped into place beside her. The hard chest she’d explored with her hands, and those wide shoulders she’d clung to, blocked the sun and cast a shadow over Roxbury’s wide eyes. Harlow did make quite an impact on the senses. Rather like a blunt force blow to the side of the head—enough to scramble your wits and steal a breath or two.
Emma loosed her sweetest smile on the captain. “Lord Roxbury was just saying goodbye. You returned at the perfect moment.” She turned to Devon. “You were preparing to take your leave, weren’t you, milord? I’m certain a gentleman such as yourself wouldn’t want to intrude on our private outing.” For emphasis, she stepped closer to Captain Harlow’s firm heat. Bay rum, made more potent by the man’s body and the sun’s warmth, hit her nose, flooding her with a feeling of safety. Even if for one moment, it was a relief to not face Roxbury alone.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Malachi slipped one hand around her waist and offered the other to Devon.
The men shook hands in a parody of civility. “Lord Devon Roxbury. Former friend of Lady Emma.” The man’s chest puffed like a peacock, as if he could somehow claim her by proclamation alone.
“Captain Harlow of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and the Duke of Trenton. Current friend of Emma,” the man beside her said.
Duke? Emma shot him a glance, but saw only a distractingly hard jaw and heavy brows bisected by a scar.
The two men stared at one another long enough that no one could mistake their exchange as friendly before Roxbury stepped away and cut a shallow bow in her direction. “Good day, Lady Emma,” he said, then turned on his heel and made a hasty retreat.
She and Malachi held their cozy pose until Roxbury and his mount rounded the curve and disappeared.
“Duke of Trenton?” She whirled around in his loose embrace.
“Lady Emma?” he countered, arching his scarred brow.
At the base of her spine, his fingers flexed, urging her to sway closer. “I don’t use the honorific in Olread Cove. It would have made a fuss.”
His pale hazel gaze flicked toward the path Roxbury had taken. “And he’s part of the reason you didn’t want a fuss, I take it.”
A shrug would be the only answer he’d get from her. Emma wrestled her wits back from the pull of emotion he’d created by standing so close. They were in a public park, and their physical relationship had been months ago—even if their night did show up in her dreams on a regular basis. She blew out a breath and backed away. He let her go, but a frown twitched at the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you for stepping in. Roxbury overstayed his welcome.” Moving from the solid heat of his body hit her as a loss the instant she shifted. The day was clear, with blue skies and fluffy white clouds, showcasing brilliant spring weather. She shouldn’t be cold. And yet. Wrapping her arms around herself did little to retain his warmth.
The big man in front of her seemed to suffer the same momentary awkwardness, if the way he shifted his weight and twitched his hands was any indication.
His fidgeting made her smile, as if his discomfort soothed hers. Of course there would be a few moments of not knowing what to do or say. After all, the last time they’d seen each other, they’d been naked and dewy from a final bout of enthusiastic sex. Now here they were, in Hyde Park, facing one another in the light of day under rather strange circumstances.
“Mama, who’s this?” Alton’s voice came from behind them. Emma turned to see Phee chasing Alton and mouthing “Sorry.” Little legs must have outrun his aunt.
Emma glanced at Malachi, assessing. How a man interacted with a child said so much about him. Did he squat down to their level or raise his voice into a higher octave? Did he ignore the child entirely or frown at the interruption?
Malachi did none of those things. He held his hand down for Alton to shake and looked him in the eye. “I’m Lord Trenton, but you can call me Captain.”
Alton shook hands with a serious expression. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain. I’m Alton Hardwick and I’m five.” Still holding Malachi’s hand, her son looked to Emma. “Did I do it right, Mama?”
Emma couldn’t contain the smile. “Yes, little love. Very well done.”
“This is Aunt Phee, but you have to call her something different,” Alton said, pointing to the redhead behind him.
Phee sent Malachi a nod, but the blatant speculation in the look she shot Emma made it plain there would be a conversation happening at the first opportunity. While Emma had written about her torrid night with the captain, now that the man was present, Phee clearly had thoughts on the matter.
“Your Grace, this is Lady Eastly, my sister-in-law. Phee, may I introduce the Duke of Trenton,” Emma said, her finishing school training coming to the rescue.
“Your assistance was well-timed, Your Grace. Thank you for helping with Roxbury,” Phee said.
The captain glanced down the path Roxbury had taken. “Happy to be of assistance. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Eastly.” He turned to Emma. “May I call on you soon, Lady Emma?”
Almost against her will, Emma’s lips quirked into a smile. Playing at manners seemed a little ridiculous given their history, but she dipped a shallow curtsy. “I’m staying with my brother on Hill Street, off Berkeley Square. You may call on me there.”
When he bowed over her hand, his pale gaze flicked up to hers at the last minute. Malachi placed a light kiss on the sliver of skin above the cuff of her glove. A shiver, followed by gooseflesh, raced up her arm.
Emma smiled in response to the kiss. The manners were purely superficial, but her response to him was far from it.
* * *
The next day, Malachi was at his wit’s end. His first lieutenant had written this morning, briefing him on the status of the Athena’s dry dock repairs and news of the crew. Not that the officer had to, but the man had become a friend, and knew Malachi’s desire to resume his place on board ship.
When they’d returned to England, luck had been on his side in one way—the Athena, while technically no longer his responsibility, would remain for a while in England for repairs and maintenance. If Malachi could convince the unexpected luck to remain long enough to see him back to command and his men, it would be a miracle. But he had to try.
After the encounter in the park the day before, he’d tried yet again to meet with the Admiralty.
When he’d reported in upon his return to London, the Admiralty hadn’t outright denied the request to reinstate his command of the Athena. But there’d been clear reluctance on Admiral Sorkin’s part to consider the matter further. The disheartening meeting left Malachi with endless piles of paperwork and an appointment two weeks hence.
Today, he’d gone to what was no doubt the real source of the order to relinquish his command.
Which turned out to be a mistake. Because only one person could so thoroughly ignore a question while evoking this unique blend of frustration and emotional impotence. His mother—who had somehow managed to shove the Admiralty of the British Royal Navy into her pocket, but damned if he knew how.
“Your brother was prepared to do his duty to the title by marrying and siring an heir. It’s not unreasonable to expect the same of you.” Marjorie Harlow, Dowager Duchess of Trenton’s tone signaled both her conviction of her position on the side of moral right, as well as her refusal to be swayed by things like common sense or another person’s free will.
