Sophia.

  Westlin.

  Aldreth. It all came together in a flash that made her wince in pain.

  “This has something to do with Lord Westlin and Miss Grey, does it not?” she demanded of Aldreth, ignoring Westlin.

  “You don’t understand,” Aldreth said.

  “You use people with a careless hand, that I understand most well,” she said. “I can only learn from it and, with fortitude, prosper. Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, and with a stiff smile made to leave his box.

  “As the wager has been met,” Aldreth said swiftly to Westlin, holding out his arm to stop her, “I will expect the French clock to be delivered as we agreed. Good evening,” he said, and he practically pushed Lord Westlin out of the box. Lord Westlin did not go easily, but Aldreth was a man at his most ducal and most rigid. Perhaps they were synonyms.

  “A night of wagers. I suppose I might have made my fortune, had I known,” she said. “Thank you for yet another lesson, Your Grace. I am becoming extremely learned.”

  She was delighted to see Aldreth wince.

  “This had nothing to do with you. At the start,” he added.

  “But of course,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “English dukes, much like French ones, do as they please. Explanations are never necessary, are they?”

  “I didn’t intend—”

  “Yes, you made that very clear. Repeatedly. I suppose I am to blame for overpowering you and forcing you to do that which you most expressly did not want to do. I apologize. There. You are satisfied?”

  She eyed him coldly, her expression stiffly polite, her posture regal. But her heart, her heart wept.

  “I will explain and—”

  “And what will you do with your French clock, Your Grace?” Zoe asked, her arms crossed over her chest. She did not want to hear his ridiculous explanations. Why was he even bothering? She was a French whore. No one ever felt the need to explain anything to a French whore.

  “I will give it to my French mistress, Mademoiselle Auvray,” Aldreth said. “If she will accept it.”

  “If you mean me, I will accept it. I have earned it,” she said. “I bid you good night and farewell, Your Grace. It has been a memorable evening.”

  “Zoe, listen to me,” he said, taking her by the arms and staring down at her.

  Zoe pushed against him, her head down, her eyes filling with tears. Where was her Parisian sophistication now? Like all illusions, it had evaporated at the first hard shake of reality. She was not sophisticated. She was a destitute girl from a long way off and she had just lost her best chance at everything.

  “Listen!” he said sternly.

  She stopped pushing. He was a duke. He was very adept at being stern and getting his own way. He also could likely have her arrested for any reason at all.

  “I will listen, Your Grace. What will you tell me? Some story about Miranda having disgraced you?” she said, walking away from him to stand on the other side of the box. It was not a very big space, but she put every inch of it between them.

  “What I told you about Miranda was true,” he said. “What was not quite as true was my reaction to it. What an actress of very certain reputation says about me is far beneath my concern.”

  “But naturally,” she said. “We are all far, far beneath you, Your Grace.”

  She sniffed.

  “Just listen and try to keep your insults to yourself for the time being,” he said, pacing to the front of the box and staring down at the theater crowd below them. It was fair to say that fully half of the crowd was staring back up at him, Sophia and the Earl of Dalby included. “While I do not care what Miranda says about me, I must have a care what the men with whom I socialize say. It is a matter of honor, of prestige, and I cannot allow my reputation to suffer in their company and by their testimony.”

  “I was not aware,” she said loftily, “that a duke had to care what anyone thought.”

  “I was not aware,” he parroted, “that you knew very much of anything about dukes. Or am I wrong? Who was it who lured you out of your cloister, Zoe?”

  She felt her cheeks pinken and she whirled away from him. She felt his hands on her shoulders, a gentle entreaty.

  “I blame no one but myself,” she said softly. “I was very naïve. I am no longer naïve, as you may have noticed, Your Grace.”

  “You will not tell me. You are very discreet. Very few people are,” he whispered. “It is a trait I place a high value upon.”

  She turned to face him. His face, still so severe, loomed above her. He was a very tall man, very beautiful in the way of a man, very dark and . . . alone. Those icy eyes, how they pierced her. She felt so tender toward him when he turned those eyes upon her.

  The easiest solution to avoid feelings of tenderness was to walk away and never look into his eyes again.

  Zoe did not move. Perhaps she was still a bit naïve, after all.

  “I . . .” he said softly, “I have a wife. She has given me a girl.”

  “My congratulations,” she said, trying very hard to be sophisticated.

  “She is not strong,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “But I must have an heir. She is a good wife to me. She is a fine woman. But I cannot,” he said in a hushed voice, turning away from her to face the theater crowd again. “I cannot go to her as often as I should like.” His voice was stronger. Facing the crowd, his audience, he was stronger. How very like a man. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I must have an heir.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she said. She understood. She didn’t want to, but she did. “And how does this need for an heir connect to Lord Westlin and to Sophia and to me?”

  Because that was the point, was it not? She was not going to be so stupid as to forget the point.

  Aldreth turned to face her, his eyes blazing in mute appeal. “You are discreet. I am trusting in that, Zoe.”

  She nodded, unable to find a single word to say.

  “I avoid my wife as much as I can,” he said. “It is noticed. I do not often sow my seed upon other fields because I . . .” He shrugged and looked down. Zoe knew without his having to say it. Because he did not want to give to other women what he withheld from his wife, just as he had not wanted to give that to her. “And when a man has developed a reputation for not . . .” he said woodenly, “and he attends a house party and does not partake of what is readily available, it is wondered . . . and then gossiped . . .”

  “It was Sophia,” she said in a rush of understanding. “You did not partake of Sophia, and they mocked you and so you had to prove that you could perform and you performed tonight upon me.”

  He nodded stiffly. “Approximately.”

  Approximately. She was learning to hate that word.

  “But you are a duke,” she said in disbelief. “Why does it matter what a few men say about you? You know what is true. That is all that matters.”

  “I have a daughter,” he said, staring down at her. “She must marry one day. My name must be protected or she will have limited prospects among the sons of these very men.”

  Of course. It was no different in France. Perhaps it was no different anywhere.

  “And your reluctance?” she asked. “What part did that play in this wager?”

  “No part at all,” he said, staring hard at her, his gaze as hot as coal fire. “Miranda mocking you was the last straw. I wanted to see her punished for your sake, even in so small a fashion. You wanted it as well. I tried to make certain of that.”

  “I did,” she said quietly. “Your Grace,” she said, dipping her head, “you have your reasons and as long as they are good to you, then they are good enough. You need not explain yourself to me. Now I must go. I have the night before me and I must make my way through it.”

  “No.”

  She looked up at him. He looked fierce and hard and resolute.

  “I must make my way in it?” she said.

  “No,” he said, with the smallest and most fragile of smiles.

  “My English is not perfect, Your Grace, but my meaning must be clear enough.”

  “Is my English not clear enough for you, Zoe? You will not go. You must not go.”

  He looked as determined as a knight facing a dragon and as frightened.

  “I must not, Your Grace? Why not?”

  He walked across the box toward her, reaching out a hand to her. Without thinking, she reached out her own hand to him. They touched and she shivered. He felt it and smiled. Such a rare thing, Aldreth’s smiles. Such a sad and lonely man. He needed someone in his life to tease smiles from him.

  Could she not do that for him? Could she not allow that revenge could be a road to a pleasant destination as well as desperation could be? In fact life being what it was, this night of wagered seductions would be something to laugh about in a few weeks or months. She did so hope for months. She was so very tired and Aldreth was so very compelling.

  “Did you forget about the clock, Zoe? We won it together. It is a French clock.”

  He was almost grinning now, a lopsided grin that had almost no shadow of melancholy in it. How very good it looked on him.

  “It is a very pretty clock?” she asked, cocking her head up at him, pursing her lips in speculation. “As it is French, I suppose it could be little else.”

  He was smiling, an air of relaxation about him that she decided she was wholly responsible for. She smiled and felt a spring in her step as they left his box together, arm in arm, and walked down the stairs to the ground floor.

  “It is a very pretty clock,” he said.

  “A woman would be a fool not to accept a French clock, Your Grace. I am quite of the opinion that French clocks are the best to be had. But where shall I put it?”

  “Upon the mantel, Zoe,” he said lightly. “Wherever do they put mantel clocks in France if not upon a mantel?”

  “And where is my mantel to be?”

  “In a very nice house in a very respectable part of Town. I do not make it a habit to visit disreputable parts of Town, and as I am paying for it, I will be visiting this house regularly.”

  His smile faltered and a scowl crept upon his brow. He scowled too often. She would have to break him of that.

  “If you agree, of course,” he said. “I hope you will.”

  “A woman would be a fool not to accept a duke, Your Grace,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with unwelcome tears. “Particularly dukes who are as lonely and lovely as you.”

  Aldreth’s head came up sharply and he scowled in earnest. “I am not often referred to as either lonely or lovely, Miss Auvray. I am not flattered.”

  “Your Grace,” she said, with a smile, “if you are insistent that you be constantly flattered then we shall run out of conversation very quickly. On the other hand, if you want someone prepared to charm you then you shall be lonely no longer. And if you want to fall into bed with someone who will demonstrate how lovely you are, then you have found her.” Aldreth stopped upon the stair and looked deeply into her eyes. He had such lovely eyes in such a lonely face. It was not at all right for a duke to be so unhappy.

  It was not at all right for a man to be so alone.

  “For you, I think I could even make do without a French clock,” she said, laying her hand upon his cheek. “As I am profoundly French, that is, you will admit, quite a sacrifice.”

  To which the lovely Duke of Aldreth laughed. And then he kissed her.

  SEVEN

  East Sussex, 1792

  He kissed her again, a lingering kiss of considerable warmth and tender familiarity.

  Zoe and Aldreth stood in the middle of the lane to Iden Place and kissed. The wind swept down the sunny lane, charming the moment with the soft scent of summer green, infusing their kiss with more sweetness than heat. It was the right sort of kiss for this exact moment. The lane curved away before them, a curl of sandy white dirt, the borders of the lane tinged with pink and purple and gold. They stood wrapped together, Aldreth’s strength a prop against the gusty wind.

  “I never tire of kissing you,” Aldreth said, moving his mouth so that his lips brushed her cheek.

  “And why should you? Am I not delightful to kiss?” Zoe said, looking up at him. “I always make it a point to be delightful. It is something of a habit with me.”

  “I thought I was your habit,” Aldreth said.

  “I am most certain I am allowed more than one habit. To have only one habit, is that not the essence of a bore? How very limiting. I would be ashamed to be so scant in my habits.”

  “Zoe,” Aldreth said, grinning fully down at her, “you know you don’t need to flirt incessantly with me. I am yours, most devotedly. I am won.”

  Zoe flicked a curl of hair back over her shoulder and stepped back from Aldreth. The wind took her curl and sent it skipping across her shoulders. “I like to flirt, Aldreth, and almost exclusively with you.”

  “Only with me, you French vixen,” he growled good-naturedly.

  “Only because you insist,” she said on a laugh, “but you are denying me one of the chief joys of a French woman. How can I improve my technique upon only one man?”

  “Even if that man be a duke?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling, teasing him. “Being a duke does make up for much of it.”

  “And the rest?”

  “You, my dearest Aldreth, make up for all of it. I have quite lost the heart of coquetry as a form of civilized entertainment. You have stolen every urge I ever had. Save one.”

  “The best one to keep,” he said, grinning, pulling her into his arms to kiss her deeply.

  His kiss swept her away, as it always did, even now ten years after their first kiss on that dark and desperate night in London. She had hoped for this, planned for it, yearned for it. Yet, truly, not quite this, only a place to lay her head and some small measure of safety. What she had found in Aldreth was so very much more.

  She had found love.

  She had not dared dream of finding love. But Aldreth dared what other men only dreamed. He had dared much to love her and in loving her, he had given her a new life.

  “Mama!”

  Most definitely, a new life.

  Aldreth lifted his head and scowled mildly, his look more amused than annoyed. “He has infallible timing. And a wretched nurse. We must hire someone slightly more savage, don’t you think?”

  Zoe smiled and swatted Aldreth on the shoulder before turning to face their son as he ran down through the sunlit lane toward them, his nurse huffing for breath behind him.

  “Ah, your competition arrives. He does have flawless timing, much like his father,” Zoe said. “And he is too old for a nurse, my dear. He requires a man of very long leg and able arm. Who else could possibly keep up with him?”

  Aldreth scowled in earnest now, poor dear, and said, “Long of leg and able of arm? Is that any way to describe a tutor? You torment me, you French witch.”

  “But of course, Your Grace,” she answered silkily. “Who else is there to do it? A man must be tormented with some regularity or he becomes impossible. You have far too much inclination to be impossible as it is. I must do my part to keep you. . . .”

  “To keep me what?” he said, smiling in spite of all his best intentions.

  Zoe leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his very lovely chin. “Just . . . to keep you. That is all.”

  “Mama! Father!” Jamie said, reaching them. He was James Caversham, after his father, but unlike his father, without title. But not without love and that was more than enough for any boy. “We have guests!”

  Ah, yes, for a boy of almost nine years, guests would be a thing of great import. They had guests rarely, which was only to be expected. Zoe was not Aldreth’s wife, Jamie was his natural son, Iden Place was where Aldreth kept them and kept them very well. That Iden Place was only fifteen miles from the south coast was a clear measure of Aldreth’s consideration for Zoe; she could travel to France almost at will, which was far more than she had ever expected when she first left France ten years ago. But as to guests, whom would she entertain? A duke’s mistress had very few reasons to entertain anyone other than her duke. A situation she found entirely restful, likely a holdover from her days in the convent. Iden Place was quite as large as the convent, better furnished, and she didn’t have to perform penances. A lovely situation from any perspective.

  “Hold, boy,” Aldreth said, ruffling his son’s dark hair. Jamie was almost an exact copy of Aldreth from the thick dark gloss of his hair to his light blue eyes to the angle of his jaw. It gave Zoe an immense amount of pleasure for it to be so for even when Aldreth was busy at his affairs in Town, she had Jamie and having Jamie was very near to having Aldreth. “Guests or merely a messenger?”

  “Guests, sir,” Jamie replied, clearly outraged that it should be supposed he not be fully aware of the distinction. Boys of almost nine were quite savage about protecting their reputations. Zoe smiled and readjusted her hair. She was without bonnet because Aldreth preferred it that way. It was not quite the way to receive guests, however.

  “What sort of guests, boy?” Aldreth said, quizzing him.

  “Reputable, sir,” Jamie answered. “A family of distinction, I should say. Husband and wife, two children, and a coach, sir, a coach of immense proportions of red lacquer with yellow leather and drawn by four black horses very nearly matched.”

  “Oh, very nearly matched,” Aldreth said in mock severity. “Not so very reputable then, to have only very nearly matched horses.”

  “Aldreth!” Zoe said on a laugh. He did so love to tease Jamie, and Jamie was not always certain when he was being teased.

  “But, sir,” Jamie insisted, his small body trembling with excitement, “the coach was crested! They must be reputable, musn’t they? To have a crest?”

  Oh, dear. That did not bode well. It might signal some disastrous news of Aldreth’s children by his late wife. Aldreth had two children, a daughter and a son, his heir. Zoe could only feel compassion and concern for those two as they had no mother to ease their way in the world. She knew too well the emptiness of being a child without a mother’s love and care.

  Aldreth lost all desire to tease his son at that news and, without pause, made his way down the lane to their home. Jamie ran lightly just behind his father while Zoe, still organizing her hair, walked perfectly reluctantly at the rear of their family parade.

 

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