In Need of a Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 1) (2 page)

Next, Alison handed over her shilling, bringing the total to seven.

Lady Eleanor smiled at her friends. “I will purchase the necklace, but it will belong to all of us. When I no longer need it, I’ll pass it along.”

Valera nodded. “Yes, everyone should have a chance to wear it.”

They made a pact, swearing their loyalty to each other. Eleanor passed the pendant around to each friend.

When Valera placed the golden bauble in Aldora’s hand, she froze. She turned it over and studied this trinket that promised each of them the heart of a duke.

Aldora didn’t necessarily need the heart of a duke. She just needed
any
duke.

And a wealthy one at that.

Chapter One

1810

S
he wasn’t exactly sneaking. No, the rather brisk pace she’d set for herself would hardly be conducive to a clandestine meeting.

Nor for that matter did well-bred daughters of late earls sneak. Why, she was merely…

Lady Aldora Adamson frowned and drew to a stop, glancing down the long row of hedges.

She was sneaking. There was no way around it.

Her heel sunk into a particularly moist patch of soil, and she wrenched her foot free. If she weren’t so out of breath from chasing after her quarry, she would have groaned aloud at the reward for her efforts. With the precarious financial state she and her sisters found themselves in, it didn’t do to go about ruining anything—especially a costly pair of slippers. Aldora studied her muddied soles and bit back a curse. The ivory silk would be ruined beyond repair.

The sound of morning birds chirping replaced the normal cacophony in Hyde Park, the sweet song the soothing balm she needed.

Aldora swiped the back of her hand across her brow and giggled as she imagined the horror in her mother, the Countess of Wakefield’s, eyes if she saw her eldest daughter. She could all but hear the high-pitched squawk in her mind.

Aldora, ladies do not run…

And they most certainly did not dash around until moisture marred their skin. For the better part of her life, the rules of proper decorum had been drilled into Aldora’s ladylike head, but then in the span of a moment, her life had changed and other things had begun to matter more.

Survival.

Aldora had run out of time.

Or rather,
they
had run out of time…her entire family: one mother, two younger sisters, and one brother whose security rested on her rather diminutive shoulders.
 
She’d learned at the age of fifteen Father’s weakness at the gaming tables and learned he’d wagered away most of his wealth. However, it hadn’t been until he died two years ago that she’d learned the extent of the damage he’d wrought upon the family.

For nearly two years she and Mother had done an admirable job of holding off the unknown man who possessed Father’s vowels while also keeping at bay the many creditors her wastrel father had left them indebted to. Thankfully, the truth of their circumstances was not known by the
ton
.

Not yet. It was only a matter of time before their carefully constructed world fell down around them.

Aldora pulled out the slip of paper and strained to read it. Fortunately, she’d committed the words to memory.

The Marquess of St. James. Black hair, dark eyes, two inches past six feet. You can find him riding in Hyde Park at dawn.

She sighed and slipped the note into her cloak pocket. It was hard to say which was more humiliating; pursuing one’s future husband or receiving information about said future husband from his chambermaids.

She’d risen at an ungodly hour, dressed in her finest gown, and then sought to run into the mighty lord. Where her dearest friends had their hearts and minds set on a duke, Aldora had altogether different, more realistic goals in her quest for a husband; goals that included the Marquess of St. James. She had done extensive research, the level of which would have impressed her scientific friend, Lady Alison.

Fact: St. James was obscenely wealthy.

Fact: The bulk of eligible ladies had set their gazes on the bachelor dukes still on the market.

Fact: St. James served on the board of several hospitals and orphanages, which spoke to his commitment for the less fortunate.

Fact: Lady Aldora and her siblings were very close to being amongst those less fortunate.

Fact: The Marquess of St. James’s family had skeletons of their own.

Which made him the perfect match.

All of Society knew the tale of St. James’s scapegrace brother who’d killed young Lord Everworth in a duel and then been banished to some far-flung region of England. If the rumors were true, and they oftentimes were, the marquess’s brother had then immersed himself in trade.

Aldora pushed her thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand. It had all been so cleverly orchestrated. She’d waited patiently for one hour before she spied his magnificent black mare. Except she’d gone and lost him.

And her maid, Isabella. She’d lost poor Isabella, too. It hardly seemed right, considering all the effort Isabella had put into finding out information from staff members in the Marquess of St. James’s household. With the exception of the butler Ollie and Cook, Isabella had been in their employ longer than any other servant and thus retained her position. Advanced in years, the poor graying woman was hardly of a state to be racing through Hyde Park while Aldora tried to secure a husband. If it hadn’t been for Isabella, there would have been no clandestine meeting.

She looked around. Then again, it would appear there would be no ‘meeting’ after all.

Aldora fought an overwhelming urge to stamp her foot.

This wasn’t for her. She was no coquette or flirting miss who could gracefully stumble upon a gentleman, swoon in his arms, and gain his notice and attention. At twenty she was the eldest of her siblings but even with Katherine and Anne, the lovely twin girls, being five years younger, they could still do a far more convincing job of landing one of the
ton’s
most eligible bachelors.

Alas, Aldora was in the market for a husband.

If the scandal sheets were to be believed, the elusive Marquess of St. James, who’d gone out of his way to avoid every marriage-minded miss, had finally entered the market for a wife—and Aldora was determined to secure that spot.

So what if she’d never set sights on the marquess?

The rumble of a horse’s hooves thundered in the distance, and drew her attention. Like a practiced hunter, which she was not nor ever would be, her ears perked up. The steadily increasing rumble indicated a rider’s swift approach. “Oh, please let it be him,” she whispered.

With a determined huff, she picked up her pace, a pace that would have appalled any lord or lady out for an unfashionably early morning stroll.

Aldora stepped in the middle of the riding path and squinted. Black hair. Black horse. Tall man. That’s about all she could make out, but it was enough. After all, the majority of peers could still be found in their beds sleeping off their prior evening’s festivities. Her heart kicked up an extra beat in a kind of dreaded anticipation as the somewhat vague form of the Marquess of St. James materialized. She rather suspected there was nothing more humbling than pursuing one’s husband but desperate times, and all that.

A dark blur pulled into focus. Blast her mother for insisting ladies did not wear spectacles, and most especially not in public. Except, if she were to be wholly honest with herself, Aldora acknowledged that it was her own ego that had her heeding Mother’s advice, this time. Aldora had learned from the scandal sheets that the marquess’s one weakness was his high fashion sense and, well she imagined that a bespectacled wife didn’t fit with his imaginings for a prospective bride.

Except if she had them on then mayhap she’d not be in this very predicament of trying to find her future husband. Literally find him.

The shape continued to descend upon her, far more quickly than Aldora anticipated. Until the dark eyes of a wild, black beast leveled on her.

Her eyes widened.

She was going to die here on an empty riding trail, trampled by the thundering hooves of her future husband’s massive black mare.

The creature reared, and Aldora threw herself out of the path, landing hard amidst a small boxwood. The air left her on a whoosh; the sharp branches scraped her skin.

“Whoa!” A deep baritone slashed through the otherwise quiet morn as the marquess brought his stallion under control. The giant beast pawed agitatedly at the earth, sending pebbles and rocks spraying before eventually settling into place.

Aldora dusted back the layer of dirt that hit her cheeks and lay there, staring up at the traces of orange splashing across the sky and tried to calm her racing heart.

St. James swung a broad-muscled leg over his horse and leapt down with the kind of graceful elegance more befitting the demi-god, Perseus. Aldora squinted. Two inches past six feet. It was him.

Her breath caught as she prayed the marquess would beg forgiveness, help her to her feet, and swear undying devotion and save her any further humiliation. Aldora nearly snorted at the horrific drivel swirling around her brain, and she shoved the hopeful thoughts aside. The unenviable task she’d laid out for herself, earning this very eligible bachelor’s attention and subsequent hand, was foolhardy. Desperate.

And yet, she couldn’t have crafted a more romantic introduction. Hope breathed to life inside her breast.

“Are you mad?”

His growl brought her firmly back to reality. She bristled at his insolent tone.

“You could have been killed. What are you doing walking in the middle of a riding path? Are you blind, woman?”

She craned her head back and stared up inch after inch of his sinewy, muscled length. Aldora blinked, trying to bring him into focus.

A startled squeak escaped her as he plucked her out of the bushes. His long, powerful fingers proceeded to do a methodical search of her upper arms.

A jolt of awareness raced down her spine, heating her from the inside out. His high-handed touch was at the same time possessive and gentle. It made her go all warm and wish for him to continue his search. She gave her head a shake.
What am I thinking?

He fell to a knee, and lifted up the edge of her skirts to inspect an ankle.

Well, that was quite enough! Future husband or not, it would not do to be discovered with the Marquess of St. James lifting her skirts in the middle of Hyde Park. “Unhand me, my lord!” She swatted at him.

He continued his search.

The unmitigated gall. She reached up and placing her hands upon his shoulders and gave him a mighty shove.

He toppled backwards.

She flinched at the colorful curse that slipped past his lips.

“What the devil was that for?” he thundered.

Aldora peeked around, expecting a bevy of passersby to descend and witness her ruination. A nervous giggle bubbled up from her throat. Perhaps that would be best. If the marquess compromised her, then that would settle all manner of difficulties, but would then create all kinds of other strife—namely her sisters’ good names would be tarnished.

“My lord, surely you know it isn’t proper to touch a lady who is not your wife.”

A harsh laugh escaped him. “I assure you that is not entirely true.”

It took a moment for his words to register. Her eyes widened. “You sir, are no gentleman!” And she didn’t care to call the accusation back, even if she did need to wed the titled young lord.

He leapt to his feet and took a step toward her. “I’m fairly certain that is the first thing you’ve gotten right all morning, love.”

Aldora retreated a step; her hand covered her chest, where her heart thumped wildly. Goodness, she’d read about the Marquess of St. James in the papers. But they’d failed to mention anything about his tall, commanding presence. His raw masculine vitality. She held up a hand up. “Stop, my lord.”

Surprisingly, he did.

Aldora drew in a breath. She supposed she could have handled this vastly better than she had. She might have feigned a sprained ankle, or maidenly gratitude that he’d rescued her from her own foolishness.

Then again, she’d never polished the ladylike awe perfected by most of the other young ladies.

“Thank you,” she finally blurted.

He folded his arms across a broad expanse of chest. Aldora frowned. Funny, she’d never imagined he’d be so muscular, with biceps and thighs that strained the expertly tailored black riding attire. Noblemen were not tall, imposing figures. They were often short, mostly bald, and nearly always round in the waist.

Suddenly, she longed for her spectacles for altogether different reasons.

She cleared her throat. “You are supposed to say you’re welcome.” It hardly helped her cause, chastising her future husband, but she couldn’t help it.

“Am I now?” A thread of humor underlay his question.

Aldora gave a brief nod. “Absolutely.” Surely the man had received countless lessons on appropriate behavior expected of a gentleman.

“What else am I supposed to do?”