A Duke For All Seasons (7 page)

    
“Contact our most reliable Bow Street Runner and ask for a complete dossier on one Fernand de Lisle, also known as Viscount Gimois, currently attached to the French embassy,” Sebastian said crisply. “I want known associates, current whereabouts and as well as the usual curriculum vitae, military training, weapon of choice, etc.”

    
Arabella bit her lip to keep from interrupting. What good would that do? If Fernand learned someone had taken an interest in his doings, it would only enrage him. And innocent people got hurt when Fernand was angry.

    
“Very good, Your Grace. It will take a couple days.” Mr. Cobb made notes on a small pad of paper.

    
“Tell him I need his best speed, but not to sacrifice thoroughness,” Sebastian added. “Oh, and be sure he understands discretion is paramount. The subject is not to know he is being investigated.

    
“Of course, Your Grace, will there be anything else?” 

    
“Yes, I want de Lisle watched, surreptitiously. If he puts so much as a toe out of line, I wish to know of it.”

    
Mr. Cobb nodded. “Immediately, sir.”

    
“In addition, there is another matter of some delicacy and importance. There is a certain family I wish to safeguard, but they are not to know they have been brought under my protection,” Sebastian said. “Miss St. George, the name of your brother-in-law and the location of his residence, if you please.”

    
Arabella's breath caught in her throat. Sebastian was going to protect her Lisette. If he trotted out that ridiculous contract again, she'd sign it without a second thought. Anything to repay this bounty. She gave Mr. Cobb the information he needed.

    
“Special attention is to be given to the child,” the duke said. “We have reason to believe she might be in danger. I want regular reports on her well-being. Is there anything else you require, Miss St. George?”

    
She shook her head. So that was the full power and majesty of a dukedom. All he need do was give the word and her problems faded away. But he didn't know Fernand, and she did. “However, you should be aware that the Vicomte is formidable. It would be a mistake for you to underestimate him.”

    
“And it is a mistake for
you
to underestimate me.” Sebastian's dark eyes flashed a warning.

    
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said, using his title for Mr. Cobb’s benefit. “I ask your pardon and thank you for your assistance.”

    
He waved her thanks away as if the fact that he’d just assured her daughter’s safety was a small matter. “Now I think we have delayed your ride long enough. Cobb, please escort Miss St. George to the stable and see that Fletcher saddles the mount of her choice. Then return with all speed. Another matter which requires our attention has just occurred to me.”

    
Then Sebastian pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and buried his nose in them, clearly dismissing her.

    
“Aren't you riding, too?” she asked.

    
“If I find I can spare the time. In the meanwhile, take Fletcher with you. My head groom is quite knowledgeable and will show you around the estate.”

    
She followed Mr. Cobb out, her chest aching strangely at Sebastian's cold dismissal. She’d heard he was called
The Ice Duke
.

    
Now she knew why.

*
   
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*

    
As soon as Bella left, Sebastian paced his study, trying to make his body settle.

    
Fool
,
he cursed himself. The woman disordered his entire life and he rewarded her by helping her. If Neville named him cork-brained, he wouldn't be far wrong. At least Sebastian wasn't making her privy to all his plans. By the time Cobb returned, Sebastian was back behind his desk.

    
“I have a commission for an expert forger and will need someone whose utmost discretion can be counted upon. Summon that artist we used last time. Cavalli, I believe,” Sebastian said. “And make sure Mr. Harris has a gang of dependable men available on short notice.”

    
“Very good, sir. Where would you like them positioned?”

    
“London, I should think,” Sebastian said. “That'll be all.”

    
But as the butler turned to go, Sebastian stopped him. “Oh, and Cobb, tell the runner I need a full dossier on someone else as well.”

    
“Who, Your Grace?”

    
“Arabella St. George,” he said. “And send a case of that Spanish port to Lord Granger.”

    
“Very good, sir. Would you like to include a note?”

    
“No. It's to settle a wager,” Sebastian said. “Neville will know which one.”

“If a man entertains the least doubt about his choice of mistress, he should cut off the association instantly. A wife, one must keep regardless of second thoughts. Only a self-flagellating fool keeps a mistress who fails to meet his expectations.”

~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress

    
Sebastian mounted his favorite steed in one smooth motion and clattered out of the stable yard, kicking up a swirl of straw and clods of dirt in his wake. He leaned over the horse's neck, urging him to stretch out for more speed as they barreled down the tree-lined drive. 

    
“Come on, you big bastard,” he crooned to the gelding as he turned his horse’s head off the lane and across the grassy meadow. “Show me what you're made of.” 

    
The horse laid back its ears and flew over the ground. Sebastian raised himself out of the saddle, knees flexed, leaning forward toward the flying mane. The world whipped past him in a greenish-gray blur. Blood pounded in his ears in tandem with the hooves pounding the turf.

    
For a moment, Arabella and her treasonous associations faded into the back of his mind and all he felt was the lightness of near flight and the freedom of simply being. His breath fell into rhythm. His thighs flexed in time with the muscles of the powerful animal beneath him. He squeezed the horse with his knees, giving a bit more pressure to the right and zigged around a walnut tree without a tug on the reins.

    
The horse responded as if it were an extension of his own body. He threaded through the copse of trees, ducking under low branches and splashing through a stream in full spate, droplets of water flying around him.

    
When a stone fence row rose before him, he and the gelding sailed over it as one.  

    
No thoughts plagued him. No aching burn in his chest over Arabella St. George's damnable complications. No need to do anything, but ride.

*
   
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Bella's breath caught in her throat as she and the groom, Fletcher, waited on the crest of a rise. The mare Sebastian had lent her was quick and willing. She'd enjoyed a mad dash over the same meadow Sebastian now careening across like a man possessed. When he took the fence in a glorious bound and landed safely without the gelding breaking its stride, she sighed with relief.

    
“Don't ye be fretting for His Grace, miss,” Mr. Fletcher said. “He's a proper terror on horseback and no mistake.”

    
The way her chest constricted, Arabella suspected he was also a proper terror to her heart. She'd known countless men. She'd never known one like Sebastian. One who governed himself as rigidly as he controlled his mount, yet was capable of such reckless abandon in the exercise of his power. Her body was still achy with denied need after their blazing kisses in his library. Desire rose afresh as she watched him pound up the hill straight toward her.

    
When he reached her, he reined the gelding to such a sudden stop, it nearly sat on its haunches. Sebastian's chest heaved with as much exertion as his mount's. A light drizzle began to fall and his hair clung damply around his ears. 

    
“That'll be all, Fletcher,” Sebastian ordered his groom.

    
With a respectful tug of his forelock, the man wheeled his mount away and loped back toward the stables.

    
The rain droplets fell in fat splats now, but Sebastian just continued to look at her, his dark eyes gleaming with a feral light.

    
“The rain seems determined,” he finally said. “Do you wish to return to the house?”

    
“I'm in no danger of melting,” she said. “You know I'm not that sweet.”

    
“Then follow me.” He turned the gelding's head and led her down the hill away from the manor at a slightly less than breakneck pace.

    
Once they reached the valley floor, the sky opened and rain fell in slanting torrents. Sebastian didn't slow and didn't turn back toward the main house. Instead they galloped through the heath in the opposite direction. Arabella squinted against the onslaught, but managed to keep Sebastian's flying coattails in sight. When he turned down a trail cutting through the dense woods, she reined her mare to follow.

    
Her riding habit was plastered to her form and her hat was a lost cause, but the joy of the chase was infectious. She urged her mare as close as she dared to his horse's hooves. She caught a glimpse of a thatched roofline embedded in the canopy of green ahead. When the cottage came into view it seemed a bit shabby, but when lightning flashed and her mare shied and tossed her head, the shelter was a welcome sight.

    
Sebastian stopped ahead of her, dismounted and lifted her from the sidesaddle. “Get inside,” he ordered, “and I'll see to the horses.”

    
She lifted her soggy skirt and dashed for the door while Sebastian led their mounts to a small shed.

    
Arabella expected to be assaulted by dust and mold, but the inside of the cottage was surprisingly clean. Especially since no one answered when she called out to announce her presence. A fire had been banked in the stone fireplace to ward off mustiness and drive the chilly damp from the air. She stirred it with a poker and it flared to life, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

    
A brace of hunting rifles hung above the mantle. Based on the bearskin on the floor and the general masculinity of the heavy furniture, she surmised this was Sebastian's hunting lodge.

    
When he entered the structure behind her, his expression left no doubt of his quarry now.

    
He crossed the slate floor in long strides and swept her into his arms. He kissed her. Hard. Giving no quarter.

    
She responded in kind, devouring him when he lent her brief control in the kiss. His mouth burned across her jaw and down her neck. His hands worked at the gold frogs at the front of her bodice, exposing her stays and the top of her lacy chemisette. He tugged down one side to cup her bare breast. She moaned when he kneaded her flesh and then tormented her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. When he bent to suckle her, a trill of need sang through her whole body and her knees nearly buckled.

    
Arabella had always thought she'd never feel more alive than when she offered up her voice to the god of music. The delights of the flesh were all well and good, but even they had paled in comparison to the rewards of her art.