A Duke's Temptation (10 page)

Chloe looked suspiciously at Lily.

Lily slipped innocently out the door.

“Did I miss something?” Dominic asked again, glancing from Lily to his wife.

Chloe raised one sleek eyebrow. “No, dear one. But it is suddenly clear that I did.”

Lily took the bouquet and cradled the flowers in her arms while Dominic tipped the delivery boy. “They’re gorgeous,” she said, her fatigue suddenly dissipating. “But I don’t see a card. Whom are they from?”

The boy straightened his shoulders. “The sender wishes to remain anonymous, miss.”

She hid a smile. “Can’t you even give me a little hint?”

“Viscount Stratfield will tip you extra for another tidbit,” Chloe offered.

The boy wavered. “No—wait. He did say to offer his congratulations, miss.”

Chloe nodded. “On her engagement?”

“Not that I recall,” the boy said, backing around Dominic. “It was something about a princess taking a prize. I hope you enjoy ’em.”

Chloe studied his retreating figure. “Your admirer obviously hasn’t heard about your engagement.”

“Or doesn’t let a little thing like another man stand in seduction’s way,” Dominic mused.

“I should send them back, shouldn’t I?” Lily asked, inhaling the elusive scent.

Dominic shrugged. “What for? They’ll be no use to him wilted. Just don’t tell Jonathan whom they came from.”

“But we don’t know
who
he is,” Lily mused, brightening. “He didn’t give me a name.”

Samuel blinked. The characters disappeared like actors darting into the wings to await their next scene. Sir Renwick, he thought wryly, must be hiding in the curtains with a very erect wand. Wickbury was probably practicing more than his lines with Juliette.

Samuel wondered what his characters got up to when he wasn’t struggling to capture his glimpses into their lives on paper. What if Juliette actually loved both men? The public would not forgive her. It would seem to be a betrayal of her sex. What if she left them both for a character whom Samuel hadn’t yet invented? Was Wickbury going to rush into that bedroom at the last minute to save her from the wizard’s ravishment?

What if Wickbury burst in and discovered that Juliette . . .

He heard a carriage roll up outside. The wheels splashed over wet cobbles. Rain. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky last night. Had Lily’s parents already discussed his proposal of courtship and sent their response? That was fast. He thought it was a good sign. Presumably one’s daughter did not land a duke every day. He had to hope that they were swayed enough by his title to ignore his scurrilous press.

A soft rap sounded at the door. “Yes. Come in. Come in.”

It was his butler, escorting an erect-shouldered gentleman in a short wool cape into the room. “Coffee and breakfast, Your Grace?”

“Nothing for me,” the solicitor said, removing a paper from his leather portfolio. His eyes evaded Samuel’s. Right away Samuel guessed that something was wrong.

“That’s a gossip sheet,” he said in contempt. “Please don’t tell me Lily’s parents produced
that
when you explained my intentions. And if so, I trust you defended me.”

“I did not meet her family, Your Grace.”

Samuel’s eyes blazed.
“What?”

“I drew up the papers. They required deep thought. I had to research and contemplate—”

“Do you require my signature?”

“No, Your Grace,” the solicitor said heavily. “Before we proceed, I think you ought to read the morning’s edition.”

“I am not interested in what some arsehole has printed about me now. Especially when I’m probably the arsehole who wrote it in the first place.”

“Your Grace, please.”

Samuel snorted, taking the paper to the window to read the rain-smeared print. He skipped over the description of Lord Philbert’s literary masquerade, the list of famous guests, their reaction to the garden tour. He read only a few lines of “Gravenhurst’s Latest Conquests.” As usual it contained an inaccurate mishmash of his association with politicians and prostitutes.

But then a name mentioned in the final paragraph describing the masquerade gripped his attention.

“What a chowderhead I was,” Samuel muttered. “She eclipsed every other lady at the party. Her eyes glowed with magic, like a genie’s lamp. I should have bloody well realized that she was glowing for another master.”

The solicitor looked embarrassed. “A lady is hardly a lamp, Your Grace, though one could argue that they often refuse to light one moment and flare like a comet in the next.”

“True enough,” Samuel murmured, walking back to his desk.

“A masquerade is meant to deceive. We play a game for a few hours. We become who we wish to be or who we hope to hide during our common hours. Take Your Grace, for example. You are not Don Quixote, for all your creative powers. You lean to the whimsical, it is true, but I am thankful I’ve never seen you tilt at windmills.”

Until now
, he meant to say.

Samuel frowned. “I’m all right, sir. I will survive a rejection.”

“Your Grace has his pick of more ladies than any gentleman I know. And Lord Anonymous double that. Together, well, you are a man to be envied.”

“Yes.” He stared down at the page he’d written, slipping on a pair of spectacles that instantly settled against the bump on his aquiline nose.

“What a load of shit,” he said.

“Time will heal the small wound to Your Grace’s heart. You will meet another lady. Indeed, you cannot avoid them.”

“I was talking about the last chapter that is due by noon today, not your heartwarming speech.”

“That’s the spirit,” the solicitor said. “Work will make you forget Miss . . . I can’t even remember her name myself. Needless to say, I did not want to approach her family before consulting you. There would be legalities involved in breaking her engagement. The embarrassment of a breach-of-promise suit. I assume you do not wish to pursue her under these circumstances. Shall I have these contracts destroyed?”

Samuel looked up in astonishment, laughing quietly. “Why lose all that dedicated work? You never know when it might come in useful. I am, as everyone tells me, in need of a wife.”

The solicitor’s eyes widened in horror. “Your Grace is not contemplating stealing a bride, a
Boscastle
bride, from her family chapel? In Mayfair? These are not medieval days, when a duke has the right to—”

Samuel cut him off. “Do I seem like a man capable of abducting a bride?”

“I don’t think I have ever done much study on the subject. But I am afraid to say—”

“Keep the documents with my others. And keep an eye, a close eye, on Miss Boscastle’s affairs while I am away. I wish to be apprised of every detail of her life. If that means hiring an investigator, a Fleet Street informant, or a St. Giles tough, then do so. I will pay.”

“You are returning to Dartmoor?”

“Of course. I need quiet to work.”

“Your Grace really has finished
Wickbury
then?” the solicitor cautiously inquired, clearly eager to change the subject. And to escape. From the corner of his eye Samuel saw him rise and sidle to the door.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with the book?” he asked idly.

“Do not burn it, Your Grace. I beg you. Philbert begs you. Your creditors beg you. Talk to him first.”

Samuel smiled dryly. “I am merely changing the hero into the villain, and vice versa.”

The solicitor stared. “What about Lady Juliette?”

“Her fate is still in my hands.”

He swallowed. “Well, let those hands be kind. She is a controversial but widely admired character. My daughter is very fond of her. We do not want to upset the little princess.”

“Didn’t she turn thirty last month?”

“Twenty-nine, Your Grace. And still looking for her prince.”

“Ah. Well, good day, sir. I shall expect a regular report.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the solicitor muttered, bowing before he made a hurried exit.

Neither could Samuel.

It was just one of the feelings he followed, the intuition that drove him, and he understood it no better than anyone else. Was it possible to plot a path to the altar as carefully as he did a novel? An obstacle in the beginning. Victory in the last chapter. Passion burning up the pages. Wasn’t it always the middle of the story, the overcoming, that gave the author a fit?

No matter.

Samuel was going to finish his book and deliver it to Philbert before another day passed.

 

 

 

Lord Philbert had just settled in bed with a cigar and glass of port, as oblivious to his wife’s complaints as he was to the rain slashing at the windows. A bad-tempered spaniel snuggled between them. He had locked the bedchamber door to ensure that none of his three grandchildren could burst in to ruin a heart-stopping climax.

A fictional one, that was.

Lord Philbert was reading the long-awaited last chapter of the seventh
Wickbury
book. His wife was reading the morning paper, commenting on one indiscretion or another, until he finally put down the manuscript and looked at her. Neither of them had slept since the party.

“Do you mind?” he asked in annoyance.

“Not at all,” she said, peering at the manuscript on his lap. “It’s very good.”

His brow shot up. “How do you know?”

“I read it as soon as it arrived.” She smiled knowingly at him over her paper. “It’s the best ending he’s written, utterly depraved and brilliantly inspired. I never saw it coming. I never dreamt that Sir Renwick would—”

Her voice droned on. He didn’t listen to another word. He put out his cigar and read the final page. In fact, he read it five times over until he realized it wasn’t going to change. Then he closed his eyes and clutched his head in his hands. The manuscript spilled across the bed.

“Dear God. Dear, dear God. We are ruined. What has come over him? I think he’s gone mad.”

“Mad or not,” his wife said with a deep sigh, “he’s a lovely man.”

“The villain is
not
allowed to win in the end. It’s against the rules. Lady Juliette cannot give herself to a wizard just because he waves his wand at her.”

His wife yawned, sent him a disparaging look, and thumped onto her side. “I’d have given myself to him from the start if he had asked. They don’t call him Longwand for nothing.”

“Longwand,” Philbert muttered in contempt. “I should never have allowed that offensive title to slip past my eye in the first place.”

“You let Wickbury’s Broadsword slip in, too,” she reminded him.

“It’s all well and good for him to hide behind anonymity. He could make me the laughingstock of the publishing world.”

“He’s made you rich, Aramis. Do not tell me you are ashamed of his work. I shall not stand for it.”

“I never said anything of the sort.” He blew out a loud breath, then took another. “The series cannot end like this—that is all. He will have to redo the entire chapter.”

Lady Philbert snorted into her pillow. “Says who? I don’t want to read the same story over and over.”