Mad About the Duke, page 3
“Yes, humbly,” Jack emphasized. “Because you, my inexperienced and presumptuous brother, are in a very precarious situation.”
The duke perked up. After all, Jack would know.
“You are going to wear my coat, so no one recognizes you, and walk over there—”
“Walk?”
“Yes, walk. I doubt that Mr. St. Maur, despite all your illustrious fabrications, owns a gig.”
“Walk?” James repeated, feeling the humiliation of all this right down to his boots, which would be ruined by the time he got to Brook Street.
“I think it is best if Mr. St. Maur calls on Lady Standon tomorrow and advises her that he is unable to help her and then departs, before it is noised about every drawing room in London that the Duke of Parkerton was seen calling on one of the Standon widows.”
James shuddered. Because while being hired to be a matchmaker was scandal enough, being thought to be in the market for a new wife—now that would be disastrous.
Chapter 2
Elinor woke with a start the next morning. It wasn’t the rare February sunlight streaming through the windows but the dream she’d been having that had caused her to sit bolt upright.
About him.
Mr. St. Maur.
Never in her life had she had such a dream, and even now, despite the chill in the room and the draft that seemed to come through the window frames as easily as the sunlight did the panes, her cheeks flamed with heat.
Her entire body burned.
She tried taking a deep, calming breath, but not even that worked, for when she closed her eyes, she saw it all again.
The dark, shadowy room. The brocade-covered settee. A candle on the mantel, casting just enough light so she could see him as he tugged her into his arms.
She shouldn’t be there. Not with him.
Not with him holding her thusly, his hands roaming over her as if he already knew every inch of her…knew just how to bring her body alive…so she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Then he drove her closer to madness by kissing her, his lips coming down atop hers…
Elinor’s eyes sprang open again.
Goodness, she shouldn’t even be recounting this scandalous dream, but she couldn’t help herself.
Her fingers went to her lips, as if they were truly swollen from his kisses. Her breasts were heavy and even her nipples sat erect, as if he’d actually teased them into these taut points.
She shivered and wondered at her own sanity. Never in her life had she felt this way. Felt such desire.
And worse yet, she thought as she glanced toward the window, she couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. St. Maur was truly as reckless and dangerous as he looked.
Oh, yes, Elinor, that is exactly what you need, she chided herself. An improper man bent on seducing you.
Yet when Lucy Sterling had confessed the other night that the right man in one’s bed could be a delicious, passionate adventure, Elinor hadn’t been shocked.
She’d been completely and utterly jealous.
A lover. She drew another deep breath. For the life of her, she hadn’t been able to get the notion out of her head.
Tugging the sheets up to her chin, she glanced around her small, barely furnished bedroom, with its draughts and thin carpet.
A lover, indeed! She needed to find a husband. A solid, lofty, powerful husband who could protect her and Tia. A man forbidding enough that her stepfather would never again gain Tia’s guardianship, be able to force the young girl into a convenient and profitable (profitable for Lord Lewis, that is) marriage, as he had all those years ago to Elinor.
No, that was exactly why she had impulsively hired Mr. St. Maur. He looked like the sort of fellow who could ferret out every scandal and possible weakness of any prospective husband and ensure that not only was she getting everything she needed in a spouse but also that there wouldn’t be any nasty surprises, as there had been with her first marriage.
To Edward Sterling.
Elinor shuddered. Whatever warmth had filled her veins before now ran to ice.
“Never again,” she muttered, repeating the words that had buoyed her in the years since Edward’s death in a gaming hell.
No man was worth such pain and trial.
Yet once again, she had no choice. She needed a husband.
You need a man, that mischievous little voice whispered. A dangerous devil like St. Maur.
“I most certainly do not,” she declared as she got out of bed, knowing only too well that she was lying through her teeth.
“Do you think it is wise to employ such a person? Why, you know nothing of him,” Minerva, Lady Standon said over the breakfast table. “I doubt Aunt Bedelia will approve of such methods for finding a husband.”
Elinor shifted in her seat. Oh good heavens, she hadn’t considered what Aunt Bedelia would say about all this. Ever since the Duchess of Hollindrake had ordered the Standon widows to live together at the house on Brook Street, Minerva’s Aunt Bedelia had considered it her personal mission to see all three of them married off.
No doubt the lady was already crowing about Town that Lucy’s runaway marriage to the Earl of Clifton had been all her doing.
“I hardly think Mr. St. Maur’s assistance will be all that shocking to your aunt,” Elinor said quietly, first glancing down the table to where her sister sat, eating her breakfast and apparently engrossed in a book—probably a French novel left in the house by the duchess’s sister Thalia or their cousin, Lady Philippa. Satisfied that Tia’s attentions and unflagging curiosity were engaged elsewhere, she pulled a slim volume from the pocket of her gown and set it down on the table. “Wasn’t she the one who said we must use all available resources?”
Minerva’s eyes widened at the sight of the infamous book—the Duchess of Hollindrake’s Bachelor Chronicles, a veritable encyclopedia of details on every eligible and noble bachelor in the realm, one the duchess had spent years compiling. One the former Felicity Langley had used herself to gain her own lofty marriage. “Oh, Elinor! You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t search that horrible book for a husband.”
Elinor leaned in. “I did. I won’t deny it. And I’ve made a list.” She nodded at the slip of paper poking out from between the pages.
For that was what she’d done last night, read the book from cover to cover looking for every eligible duke, and even a few marquesses. And after using the social pages from the recent issues of the Morning Post to determine who was in Town, she’d been able to compile a list, slim as it was.
Who knew dukes were such a rare commodity?
“May I?” Minerva asked.
Nodding, Elinor pulled the list out from between the pages and handed it over. Then held her breath. She was as afraid of what Minerva would say to her choices as she was of what Mr. St. Maur might discover about her picks.
“I fear I can’t add much about them, other than what you’ve gleaned from the Chronicles,” Minerva said. “I’ve no desire for another husband, so quite frankly I haven’t looked.” She glanced at the list again, then shook her head. “Perhaps this Mr. St. Maur could be of assistance,” she conceded, though in a guarded tone. “It depends on how respectable he is, and if his connections are as he claims—top notch.”
“That is the problem,” Elinor confessed. “I am not sure he is entirely respectable.” She paused and dropped her voice even lower. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked him to help me. But I won’t find myself married to another Edward.”
“I know what you were thinking,” said the third party at the table. Tia glanced up from the book she’d been reading, though apparently not as intently as she had appeared.
“Pardon?” Elinor asked.
“I know why you hired Mr. St. Maur.” Tia said this as if it were as plain as the sausages on the platter.
A tremor of foreboding ran down Elinor’s spine, as if she’d been caught stealing tarts, or worse, kissing some dashing knave.
Like Mr. St. Maur.
“Tia, darling, why did your sister hire the man?” Minerva asked. Oh, her voice might be congenial and sweet, but there was no hiding the dancing delight in the lady’s eyes.
Tia preened to be part of the conversation, setting down her book and announcing before Elinor could stop her, “Because Mr. St. Maur is ever so handsome.”
Elinor’s cheeks flamed, while Minerva held her napkin to her twitching lips.
Then Tia glanced over at her sister. “That is why you are wearing your silk day gown, isn’t it? And why you spent so much time doing up your hair. For your meeting with him this morning, isn’t it?”
“Tia!” Elinor exclaimed. “Don’t you have studies to continue? Upstairs?”
Her sister sniffed, then rose, gathering up her book and stalking from the room, but not before lobbing one last sally. “Well, it is.”
Minerva waited until she heard the girl’s footsteps going up to the next floor. “Is he?”
“Is he what?” Elinor asked, feigning ignorance.
“Mr. St. Maur,” Minerva prompted, reaching for the teapot and refilling both their cups. “Is he as handsome as Tia says?”
Elinor closed her eyes. “I fear so.”
Minerva leaned in even closer and whispered, “Then will you take him as your lover?”
“Minerva!” Elinor exclaimed, her lashes springing wide open and her cheeks once again flaming.
The other Lady Standon shrugged as if the question hadn’t been so shocking. But she did lower her voice when she said, “Well…I must confess that ever since Lucy told us about…about…” Now it was Minerva’s turn to blush. “Oh, bother, that it wasn’t a burden after all.”
For Minerva’s husband, Philip Sterling, had been as boorish and wretched as his brother Edward.
“Yes, yes. I know,” Elinor said, leaning over her teacup. “I’ve been wondering just the same thing. Indeed, I had the most shocking dream about Mr. St. Maur last night.”
There, she’d said it aloud. And even as she spoke the words, revealed her secret, she shivered, for in her thoughts she saw him coming toward her from the shadows, recalled how it felt to be held by him, kissed by him.
Could that really be how it was?
For certainly Elinor had little experience in the matter. She’d been married to Edward Sterling, after all. And his legendary prowess in bed had never been wasted on his wife.
Or any other woman, for that matter. His preferences had lain elsewhere.
Minerva sat back in her seat. “He must be very handsome, indeed.”
Elinor shook her head. “Not like you might think. Actually, he’s quite knavish. He was wearing the most ill-cut jacket and sporting a black eye.”
“Truly?” Minerva said, smoothing out her napkin. “How could such a man then be so…so…worthy?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that he’s unlike any man I’ve ever met.” She laughed. “He helped deliver the pups. In the closet, no less!”
“In the closet? How extraordinary! I doubt you would find the Duke of Longford tucked into a closet.”
“No, most decidedly not,” Elinor agreed, recalling St. Maur’s devilish smile as the last pup arrived, his blue eyes sparkling like a pirate with a hold full of treasure.
“Too bad you must marry someone lofty,” Minerva said. She finished off the last of her tea and sat back. “Any word from Lord Lewis?”
Elinor shook her head. “Not since the last note.”
The ugly demand from her stepfather ordering Elinor to hand Tia over.
Most likely so he could marry her off to some aging roué, as he had done with Elinor long ago. Well, he wouldn’t do the same thing to Tia. Not while Elinor was breathing. Yet as long as Lord Lewis held Tia’s guardianship, the girl was in terrible danger.
It hadn’t always been so. When Elinor had been married, the guardianship had been in her husband’s control, but when Lord Standon had died, it had reverted back to Lord Lewis. And he hadn’t paid any heed to Tia over the last five years until now. Now that she was within weeks of turning fifteen.
So when the bell rang just then, Elinor bolted to her feet.
“I doubt it is him,” Minerva told her. “Much too early for the likes of Lord Lewis.”
Elinor paused to still her hammering heart. Yes, Minerva was right. Lord Lewis never rose before two. But still…damn the man! He had her at sixes and sevens every time the bell clattered.
“Perhaps it is your Mr. St. Maur. And being prompt as well.” Minerva nodded toward the mantel clock, which showed the hand about to strike the hour.
Yet the notion of St. Maur being so close at hand had her heart hammering in another way…and must have shown on her face as well.
“You look perfect,” Minerva whispered across the table. “He’ll be enchanted.”
“That is not the point,” Elinor said as the bell rattled again. From outside the door, they could hear the housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchinson, grumbling about the state of things that had her “running back and forth like some posting lad.”
Elinor turned back to Minerva. “I didn’t hire Mr. St. Maur to gain a lover or even an admirer. I hired him to investigate which of these dukes is the most respectable. I haven’t the time for a lover.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Minerva said after her. “According to Lucy you only need one night.”
For his part, James had done exactly as Jack had advised him to do: he’d donned that wretched jacket again, asked a shocked Richards not to polish his boots, and then walked—yes, walked—to Brook Street.
Taking advice from his madcap brother! What was his world coming to? Nothing good whatsoever, he decided, realizing that coming to London had been his first mistake.
James paused on a corner to get his bearings, in more ways than one.
The world of London was quite a different place on the crowded sidewalks than it was from the comfortable and luxurious confines of his ducal carriage.
It wasn’t like he was opposed to walking. Why, in the country he did it all the time—wandering about his properties and enjoying the sights and sounds, a pack of hounds racing about him. But in the city…well, it would shock Society to no end if someone spied the Duke of Parkerton wading along like a merchant.
But there was a decided advantage to walking, he realized. It gave him the time to compose his speech.
Yes, well, Lady Standon, I fear I agreed in haste yesterday to your proposal. After having reviewed my current obligations, I fear I cannot be of assistance to you…
Oh, good heavens, now he even sounded like some pompous cit! He blamed Jack’s jacket—why, this ill-cut piece of wool was turning him quite common.
And then, lost in his reverie, James bumped into an elderly man.
“I say!” the man blustered, straightening his hat and brandishing his walking stick as if he needed to make his point.
“No need to apologize,” James said without thinking, for he quite deplored it when people fawned at him. “I am quite well.”
Which is what the Duke of Parkerton would have said, but not the very ordinary Mr. St. Maur.
Nor was his victim all that impressed. “I don’t think I remember asking over your welfare, you presumptuous pup!” Then the fellow pushed past him and sent James staggering off the curb and into the street.
It was on the tip of his tongue to give the man a very pointed set down for such manners, until he remembered several very relevant points: he wasn’t the Duke of Parkerton this morning. And the man who’d just sent him packing was Lord Penwortham.
The earl wasn’t only a haughty sort of fellow but a terrible gossip to boot. So it was a boon he hadn’t recognized James. Oh, yes, it would have been all over White’s before teatime.
Saw him with my very eyes. Dressed in some wretched coat, and his boots looked to be in shreds! Gone mad, I tell you. But not entirely unexpected, you know. He’s a Tremont after all. They all go that way eventually.
James dipped his head down lower, but there was no need, for Penwortham had already huffed his way down the block.
“Get out of the way,” a rough fellow driving a wagon called out, and James leapt back up onto the curb just in time to keep from being run over by a large team of draft horses. “Hobnail!” the man spat down from his perch.
Hobnail? James had never suffered such an insult. As if he were some country rustic!
But he was in so many ways. For the first time in his life, James Tremont was completely and utterly out of his element.
Noble bloodlines aside, apparently walking required a fair amount of diligence. Not that he needed to be woolgathering. He had his plan of action in hand.
He’d arrive promptly on the hour. Make his excuses and leave. Quickly. For good.
Never to look into her cornflower eyes again…
Ah, there was the problem. Those eyes of hers. And that fair hair…
Into his thoughts rushed the image of her coming through the door, her cheeks flushed with the chill of winter and her hair fluttering out from beneath her bonnet.
It was a vision he couldn’t easily forget. One he’d found himself conjuring up during supper, over cards and first thing this morning, as if he had been, as Jack had suggested, stricken.
Stricken, indeed! He was not intrigued by Lady Standon.
Not in the least.
He glanced up and realized he was standing before her door, and suddenly his heart gave a pounding leap. Ridiculous! It was merely the strains of walking across Mayfair. And nearly being run down by Lord Penworthan. And a cart, he added, as if his pounding chest needed another reason for its errant hammering other than the obvious one.
Not because the lady had the most beguiling locks of hair and the most delightful, come-hither smile.
When she smiled, that was.
Hopefully during his prepared speech, the lady wouldn’t do any such thing. Then again, perhaps she wasn’t the paragon he’d come to imagine. Perhaps his vision of her was just the result of his rattled senses.
Yes, that was it. Lady Standon could hardly be the vision he saw in his mind’s eye. Thus resolved, he went up the steps and rang the bell.
