Read She Tempts the Duke Online
Authors: Lorraine Heath
She Tempts the Duke (29 page)
H
e waited for the dark of the moon. Call him superstitious, but it seemed important that what he wanted to do should take place on an eve when there was no moon. Just as there had been no moon on that fateful night so many years before.
Mary rode beside him, as she had so long ago. Only he held the lantern. What an unchivalrous cad he was to have not thought to take it from her before.
He had hired architects to design the new manor house. It would be built on top of a rise and look out over all the land where the Dukes of Keswick had once ridden. Where the present duke now rode beside the lady he loved. The one he
had
always loved. The one he
would
always love.
“Are you lost?” she asked.
He laughed. God, but it felt good to laugh. “Not anymore. Not with you at my side.”
With the light from the lantern, he could see her smile. She knew what he was saying. She gave him purpose. She was his lodestar, his compass, his true north.
“Be that as it may, we have been traveling in circles for almost an hour now.”
“I can’t find it,” he admitted, disappointed with the truth. He’d thought he’d never forget a single moment of that night. Perhaps it was a good thing that some of the memories were fading away, to make room for better ones.
“Find what?” she asked.
“Do you remember that night when I asked you to stop, and I gathered up the soil?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. It was a rhetorical question. Of course she remembered. “I was looking for that spot.”
“I think we’ve gone too far south.”
“I was thinking we hadn’t gone far enough.”
“Is it important?”
“I thought it was. But now I realize it’s not. This place will do just as well.” He extended the lantern. “Will you hold the light?”
She took it from him. He dismounted and knelt between their horses.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Returning the soil to the land.”
“Are you sure you should do this? You kept it with you for so long.”
“I’ll keep the ribbon. I intend to thread it through my watch chain.”
“Help me down so I can be there with you.”
He did as she asked. Then crouching, he very gingerly untied the ribbon and unfolded the handkerchief. She knelt beside him and watched as he sprinkled the soil over the grass.
“I’m not certain you should have done that.”
“I am.” He took the lantern from her and set it on the ground. Then he brought her to her feet and splayed his fingers over her stomach, where their child grew, one who would one day gallop his horse over the soil as his ancestors had. “It’s where it always belonged. Just as I am where I belong: with you. I love you so much, Mary.”
Reaching up, she cradled his face. “I love you, Sebastian. With all my heart, with all I am.”
Taking her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply.
The ghosts from the past no longer whispered to him. All he heard was her sweet sigh.
All he knew was that when he was with her, he was as whole as any man had ever been.
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BOURNE
London
Winter 1822
T
he eight of diamonds ruined him.
If it had been the six, he might have saved himself. If it had been the seven, he would have walked away with triple his holdings.
But it was the eight.
The young Marquess of Bourne watched the card fly across the lush green baize and slide into place next to the seven of clubs that lay face up on the table, teasing him. His eyes were already closing, the air was already leaving the room in a single, unbearable rush.
Vingt et deux.
One more than the
vingt et un
on which he had wagered.
On which he had wagered everything.
There was a collective gasp in the room as he stayed the movement of the card with the tip of one finger—as bystanders watched the horror unfold with the keen pleasure of those who had narrowly escaped their own demise.
The chatter started then.
“He wagered it all?”
“Everything that wasn’t entailed.”
“Too young to know better.”
“Old enough now; nothing makes a man faster than this.”
“He’s really lost all of it?”
“Everything.”
His eyes opened, focusing on the man across the table, meeting the cold grey gaze he had known his whole life. Viscount Langford had been a friend and neighbor to his father, handpicked by the former Marquess of Bourne as guardian to his only son and heir. After Bourne’s parents’ death, it had been Langford who had protected the Marquessate of Bourne, who had increased its holdings tenfold, ensured its prosperity.
And then taken it.
Neighbor, perhaps. Never friend.
Betrayal scorched through the young marquess. “You did this on purpose.” For the first time in his twenty-one years, he heard the youth in his voice. Hated it.
There was no emotion on his opponent’s face as he lifted the mark from the center of the table. Bourne resisted the urge to wince at the dark scrawl of his signature across the white page—proof that he’d lost everything.
“It was your choice. Your choice to wager more than you were willing to lose.”
He’d been fleeced. Langford had pressed him again and again, pushing him farther and farther, letting him win until he couldn’t imagine losing. It was an age-old play, and he’d been too young to see it. Bourne lifted his gaze, anger and frustration nearly choking the words. “And your choice to win it.”
“Without me, there would have been nothing to win,” the older man said.
“Father.” Thomas Alles, the viscount’s son and Bourne’s closest friend, stepped forward, his voice shaking in indignation. “Don’t do this.”
Langford took his time folding the mark and rising from the table, ignoring his son. Instead, he leveled Bourne with a cool look. “You should thank me for teaching you such a valuable lesson at such a young age. Unfortunately, now you’ve nothing but the clothes on your back and a manor house empty of its contents.”
The viscount cast a glance at the pile of coins on the table—the remainder of his winnings from the evening. “I shall leave you the money, how’s that? A parting gift, if you will. After all, what would your father say if I left you with nothing?”
Bourne shot up from his chair, knocking it back from the table. “You aren’t fit to speak of my father.”
Langford raised an eyebrow at the uncontrolled display, and he let silence reign for a long moment. “You know, I believe I shall take the money after all. And your membership to this club. It is time for you to leave.”
Bourne’s cheeks flamed as the words washed over him. His club membership. His land, servants, horses, clothes, everything. Everything but a house, a few acres of land, and a title.
A title now in disgrace.
The viscount lifted one side of his mouth in a mocking smile and flipped a guinea through the air toward Bourne who instinctively reached out, catching the gold coin as it glinted in the bright lights of White’s card room. “Spend it wisely, boy. It’s the last you’ll have from me.”
“Father,” Tommy tried again.
Langford turned on him. “Not another word. I won’t have you begging for him.”
Bourne’s oldest friend turned sad eyes on him, lifting his hands in a sign of helplessness. Tommy needed his father. Needed his money. His support.
Things Bourne no longer had himself.
Hatred flared hot and bright for the briefest of moments, before it was gone, extinguished by cold resolve, and Bourne placed the coin in his pocket and turned his back on his peers, his club, his world, and the life he had always known.
Vowing revenge.
Early January 1831
H
e did not move when he heard the door to the private room open and close quietly behind him.
He stood in the darkness, silhouetted by the painted window overlooking the main room of London’s most exclusive gaming hell. From the club floor, the window appeared as nothing but a stunning work of art—a massive piece of stained glass depicting the fall of Lucifer. In brilliant hues, the enormous angel—six times the size of the average man—tumbled toward the pit floor, cast into London’s dark corners by Heaven’s Army.
The Fallen Angel.
A reminder, not simply of the name of the club, but of the risk that those who entered took as they set their marks to the plush baize, as they lifted the ivory dice, as they watched the roulette wheel turn in a blur of color and temptation.
And when The Angel won, as it always did, the glass reminded those who lost of how far they had fallen.
Bourne’s gaze flickered to a piquet table at the far end of the pit. “Croix wants his line increased.”
The pit manager did not move from his place just inside the door to the owners’ suite. “Yes.”
“He owes more than he will ever be able to repay.”
“Yes.”
Bourne turned his head, meeting the shadowed gaze of his most trusted employee. “What is he willing to place against an extended line?”
“Two hundred acres in Wales.”
Bourne watched the lord in question, who was sweating and twitching nervously as he waited for judgment to be passed.
“Extend the line. When he loses, see him out. His membership is revoked.”
His decisions were rarely questioned, and never by the staff of The Angel. The other man headed for the door as quietly as he had entered. Before he could leave, Bourne said, “Justin.”
Silence.
“The land first.”
The soft click of door meeting jamb was the only indication that the pit manager had been there at all.
Moments later, he came into view on the floor below and Bourne watched the signal travel from boss to dealer. He watched as the hand was dealt, as the earl lost. Again.
And again.
And once more.
There were those who did not understand.
Those who had not gambled—who had not felt the thrill of winning—who had not negotiated with themselves for one more round, one more hand, one more shot—
just until he hit one hundred, one thousand, ten thousand
. . .
Those who had not known the luscious, euphoric, unparalleled feeling of knowing that a table was hot, that a night was theirs, that with a single card, everything could change.
They would never understand what kept the Earl of Croix in his chair, betting over and over and over again, fast as lightning, until he’d lost everything. Again. As though nothing he had wagered had ever been his to begin with.
Bourne understood.
Justin approached Croix and spoke discreetly into the ruined man’s ear. The peer shot to his unsteady feet, outrage furrowing his brow as anger and embarrassment propelled him toward the pit managers.
A mistake.
Bourne could not hear what was said. He did not need to. He’d heard it hundreds of times before—watched as a long list of men had lost first their money, then their temper with The Angel. With him.
He watched Justin step forward, hands raised in the universal sign of caution. Watched as the pit manager’s lips moved, attempting—and failing—to settle and calm. Watched as other players took note of the commotion and as Temple, Bourne’s massive partner, took notice as well and headed into the fray, eager for a fight.
Bourne moved then, reaching toward the wall and pulling a switch, activating a complex combination of pulleys and levers, triggering a small bell beneath the piquet table and drawing the attention of the dealer.
Notifying him that Temple would not have his fight that evening.
Bourne would have it instead.
The dealer stayed Temple’s impossible strength with a word and a nod toward the wall where Bourne and Lucifer watched, each willing to face whatever came next.
Temple’s black gaze fell on the glass, and he nodded once before leading Croix through the throngs of people below.
Bourne descended from the owners’ suite to meet them in a small antechamber set apart from the main floor of the club. Croix was cursing like a dockside sailor when Bourne opened the door and stepped inside. He rounded on Bourne, gaze narrowed with hatred.
“You bastard. You can’t do this to me. Can’t take what is mine.”
Bourne leaned back against the thick oak door, crossing his arms. “You dug your grave, Croix. Go home. Be thankful I don’t take more than my due.”
Croix lunged across the small room before he had a chance to reconsider, and Bourne moved with an agility that few ever expected, clasping one of the earl’s arms and twisting them both until Croix’s face was pressed firmly against the door. Bourne shook the lean man once, twice before saying, “Think very carefully about your next action. I find I am not feeling so magnanimous as I was mere moments ago.”
“I want to see Chase.” The words were slurred against the oak.
“Instead, you’ll see us.”
“I’ve been a member of The Angel since the beginning. You owe me.
He
owes me.”
“On the contrary, it is
you
who owes
us
.”
“I’ve given enough money to this place . . .”
“How generous of you. Shall we call for the book and see how much you still owe?” Croix went still. “Ah. I see you are beginning to understand. The land is ours now. You send your solicitor round in the morning with the deed, or I come looking for you myself. Is that clear?” Bourne did not wait for an answer, instead stepping back and releasing the earl. “Get out.”
Croix turned to face them, panic in his gaze. “Keep the land, Bourne. But not the membership . . . don’t take the membership. I’m a half a tick away from marrying. Her dowry will cover all my losses and more. Don’t take the membership.”
Bourne hated the keening plea, the undercurrent of anxiety in the words. He knew that Croix couldn’t resist the urge to wager. The temptation to win.
If Bourne had an ounce of compassion in him, he’d feel sorry for the unsuspecting girl.
But compassion was not a trait Bourne claimed.
Croix turned wide eyes on Temple. “Temple. Please.”
One of Temple’s black brows rose as he crossed his massive arms across his wide chest. “With such a generous dowry, I’m sure one of the lower hells will welcome you.”
Of course they would. The lower hells—filled with murderers and cheats—would welcome this insect of a man and his terrible luck with open arms.
“Bollocks the lower hells,” Croix spat. “What will people think? What will it take? I’ll pay double . . . triple. She’s plenty of money.”
Bourne was nothing if not a businessman. “You marry the girl and pay your debts, with interest, and we shall reinstate your membership.”
“What do I do until then?” The sound of the earl’s whine was unpleasant.
“You might try temperance,” Temple offered, casually.
Relief made Croix stupid. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows what you did.”
Temple stilled, his voice filled with menace. “And what was that?”
Terror removed the minimal intelligence from the earl’s instincts, and he threw a punch at Temple, who caught the blow in one enormous fist and pulled the smaller man toward him with wicked intent.
“What was that?” he repeated.
The earl began to mewl like a babe. “N-nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll leave. Now. I swear. Please . . . d-don’t hurt me.”
Temple sighed. “You’re a not worth my energy.” He released the earl.
“Get out,” Bourne said, “before I decide that you
are
worth mine.”
The earl fled the room.
Bourne watched him go before adjusting the line of his waistcoat and straightening his frock coat. “I thought he might soil himself when you took hold of him.”
“He would not be the first.” Temple sat in a low chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
Bourne brushed a hand across the half-inch linen cuff that peeked out from underneath his coat, making certain the swath of white fabric was even before returning his attention to Temple and pretending not to understand the question. “To do what?”
“To restore your clothing to perfection.” One side of Temple’s mouth curled in a mocking smile. “You’re like a woman.”
Bourne leveled the enormous man with a look. “A woman with an extraordinary right hook.”
The smile became a grin, the expression showing off Temple’s nose, broken and healed in three places. “You aren’t honestly suggesting that you could beat me in battle, are you?”
Bourne was assessing the condition of his cravat in a nearby mirror. “I’m suggesting precisely that.”
“May I invite you into the ring?”
“Anytime.”
“No one is getting into the ring. Certainly not with Temple.” Bourne and Temple turned toward the words, spoken from a hidden door at the far end of the room, where Chase, the third partner in The Fallen Angel, watched them.
Temple laughed at the words and turned to face Bourne. “You see? Chase knows enough to admit that you’re no match for me.”
Chase poured a glass of scotch from a decanter on a nearby sideboard. “It has nothing to do with Bourne. You’re built like a stone fortress. No one is a match for you.” The words turned wry. “No one but me, that is.”
Temple leaned back in his chair. “Anytime you’d like to meet me in the ring, Chase, I shall clear my schedule.”
Chase turned to Bourne. “You’ve paupered Croix.”
He stalked the perimeter of the room. “Like sweets from a babe.”
“Five years in business, and I remain surprised by these men and their weakness.”
“Not weakness. Illness. The desire to win is a fever.”
Chase’s brows rose at the metaphor. “Temple is right. You are a woman.”
Temple barked in laughter and stood, all six and a half feet of him. “I have to get back to the floor.”
Chase watched Temple cross the room, headed for the door. “Haven’t had your brawl tonight?”
He shook his head. “Bourne snatched it out from under me.”
“There’s still time.”
“A man can hope.” Temple left the room, the door closing firmly behind him, and Chase moved to pour another glass of scotch, walking it to where Bourne stood staring intently into the fireplace. He accepted the offering, taking a large swallow of the golden liquor, enjoying the way it burned his throat.
“I have news for you.” Bourne turned his head, waiting. “News of Langford.”
The words washed over him. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this precise moment, for whatever it was that would come spilling from Chase’s mouth next. For nine years, he’d been waiting for news of this man who had stripped him of his past, his birthright.
His history.
Everything.
Langford had taken it all that night, all the lands, the funds, everything but an empty manor house and a handful of acres of land at the center of a larger estate—Falconwell. As he’d watched it all slip away, Bourne hadn’t understood the older man’s motives—hadn’t known the pleasure of turning an estate into a living, thriving thing. Hadn’t understood how much it would smart to turn it over to a mere boy.
Now, a decade later, he did not care.
He wanted his revenge.
The revenge he’d been waiting for.
It had taken nine years, but Bourne had rebuilt his fortune—doubled it. The money from the partnership in The Angel, along with several lucrative investments, had given him the opportunity to build an estate that rivaled the most extravagant in England.
But he’d never been able to reclaim what he’d lost. Langford had kept it all in a tight grip, unwilling to sell it, no matter how much he was offered, no matter how powerful the man who offered. And very powerful men had offered.
Until now.
“Tell me.”
“It is complicated.”
Bourne turned back to the fire. “It always is.” But he hadn’t worked every day to build his fortune for land in Wales and Scotland and Devonshire and London.
He’d done it for Falconwell.
One thousand acres of lush green land that had once been the pride of the Marquessate of Bourne. The land that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had amassed around the manor house, which had been passed down from marquess to marquess.
“What?” He saw the answer in Chase’s eyes before the words came, and he swore once, long and wicked. “What has he done with it?”
Chase hesitated.
“If he’s made it impossible, I’ll kill him.”
As I should have done years ago.
“Bourne . . .”
“No.” He slashed one hand through the air. “I’ve waited for this for
nine years
. He took everything from me.
Everything
. You have no idea.”
Chase’s gaze found his. “I have every idea.”
Bourne stopped at that, at the understanding in the words. At the truth in them. It had been Chase who had pulled him from his lowest moment. Chase who had taken him in, cleaned him up, given him work. Chase who had rescued him.
Or, who had at least tried to rescue him.
“Bourne,” Chase began, the words laced with caution. “He didn’t keep it.”
A cold dread settled deep within. “What do you mean, he didn’t keep it?”
“Langford no longer owns the land in Surrey.”
He shook his head, as though he could force understanding. “Who owns it?”
“The Marquess of Needham and Dolby.”
A decades-old memory flashed at the name—a portly man, rifle in hand, marching across a muddy field in Surrey, trailed by a gaggle of girls sized small to smallest, the leader of whom had the most serious blue gaze Bourne had ever met.
His childhood neighbors, the third family in the holy trinity of the Surrey peerage.
“Needham has my land? How did he get it?”