The Duke in Disguise (14 page)

* * *

But the next afternoon was no better. Meriel was forced to go along in a rowboat across a pond. Again, she was treated to the Impostor Duke coatless, cravatless, and damp from splashing water. Stephen sat in the bow so he could see where they were going, leaving Meriel in the back, an umbrella over her head, facing Mr. O'Neill as he rowed.
He didn't bother to hide his interest. And he wasn't looking at her face. He smiled and let his gaze roam down her body as if she were a piece of art he owned. And everywhere he looked, her skin sizzled. She'd worn the plainest gown with the highest collar, and still it wasn't enough. Would she have to start binding her breasts just to keep them better hidden?
She deliberately dipped the umbrella so that her face was blocked from him. But still his feet were on either side of hers in the tiny rowboat, just under the hemline of her skirt, she realized with dismay. Then he lifted his toes, and her skirt rose a few inches, revealing her black shoes. She gave him a murderous glare from beneath her umbrella, then drove her booted heel onto his foot. He winced silently, grinned, and wobbled his eyebrows.
She had to wipe the smugness off his face somehow, and she recklessly didn't care if she endangered herself to do it. "Your Grace, Stephen tells me he has an uncle. Why did you not have a portrait painted with your brother?"
His smile faded a bit, and he put more effort into his rowing. Now that she had the upper hand, she let herself admire how the damp shirt stretched across his muscled arms.
"The duke and duchess wouldn't allow such a painting," he said, in a voice as smooth as ever.
Was he truly so unruffled? "Why not?"
"Forgive the crudeness, Miss Shelby, but my brother was born on the wrong side of the blanket."
If it still hurt him, he didn't show it. He'd made a success of his life. He had nothing left to prove. So why was he here, pretending to be a duke?
"Father, stop so I can see the school of fish!" Stephen called, pointing into the water.
Mr. O'Neill put up his oars, then casually grabbed hold of the boy's shirt as he leaned over the edge. The perfect father.
Yet he never took his eyes off Meriel.
"Your brother's birthright was surely not his fault," she said.
"No. And he never let it come between us."
If only she could figure out the truth from the lies.
"Stephen tells me that his uncle grew up here with you. He was older, yes?"
"Five years."
"A vast distance when you're young."
"Not so vast."
"Did his mother live here, too?"
He rested one hand on the bench behind him and crossed his feet, his toes tangling in her skirt once more. She didn't look down this time, knowing he wanted to distract her.
"No, my father gave her a house of her own, right here on the estate. That was more generous than most men would have been."
"You admired your father?"
"Of course."
"But how generous could he really have been, when he wouldn't allow her son to live with her?"
She had to admire him, how perfectly normal he kept his expression, polite and amused. She realized she might be hurting him and found herself again sympathetic. It was the woman in her, when she should remain the detective.
"My father was generous enough to house and educate Richard," he said about himself. "Fiona O'Neill knew it was for the best. The duke gave her son what he could, including an inheritance."
She lowered her voice, glad that Stephen was so distracted. "But I heard Sir Charles say that you cheated him of it."
He laughed. "And you believe that envious man?"
"Why would he be envious? He's wealthy, isn't he?"
"But he's not the duke. I am."
You're not
, she thought. Did Mr. O'Neill deliberately taunt her, suspecting she knew the truth?
He leaned toward her, and his eyes drifted down her bodice and back up again. "Are you accusing a duke of a crime, Meriel?"
She stiffened. "I have not given you permission— "
"Are you accusing me of a crime?"
"I heard you tell Sir Charles that it was a misunderstanding."
"My brother would say the same thing."
"Would he?"
Even she did not know which brother they were talking about now.
From the bow, Stephen asked plaintively, "Why are you fighting?"

Chapter 16

R
ichard heard the pain in the little boy's voice. He'd almost forgotten that Stephen was with them in the boat. All that had mattered was Meriel Shelby, and her suspicions and her many temptations.
Stephen was all that
should
matter.
He saw the wide, dismayed look in Meriel's eyes, even as he turned to drag the boy into his lap. It was the first time he'd allowed himself to hold his nephew. Stephen squirmed and giggled.
"Now, young man," Richard said in a deep voice, "you're throwing accusations at us. We weren't fighting, we were having a spirited discussion. Should I toss you overboard?"
He dangled one of Stephen's feet over the edge, and the boy laughed aloud.
"Father! You're teasing me!"
Meriel leaned toward them and looked Stephen in the eye. "My lord, I'm sorry we upset you. We were being too serious and forgot this was supposed to be an afternoon of fun."
"Then keep rowing," Stephen said. "We need to reach the far side!"
Richard obliged his nephew, rowing even harder, so the little boy laughed with glee. Meriel put a hand on the boat to steady herself, but otherwise she kept the umbrella over her head and stared out across the water, away from Richard.
And he looked his fill. His muscles ached, he was sweating, but that only made him think of other ways he wanted to ache. They involved a bed— and Meriel.
He could still feel her delicate waist when he'd lifted her to reach the arrow; he hadn't wanted to let her go, but the process of doing so was a pleasurable torture, with her sliding down against him. Now his feet were beneath her skirts, where the rest of him wanted to be.
He was fast forgetting that this could be only a pretend seduction. Her every response— reluctant, innocent, yet obviously aroused— inflamed him more every hour of each day.
Her room was above his; she slept so close. He imagined using that private staircase to reach her. Who would know?
But although she might desire him, she was taunting him, too. She had very deliberately brought up his own life story to distract him. Was that because Charles's careless comments about the inheritance had intrigued her? Or was she truly suspicious of the "duke"?
He didn't know how much longer he could continue his attempts to seduce her, not without driving her away. And then he'd have to choose another maid. He told himself that they were very willing— it was he who balked at the thought of sex with his female staff, especially when he was lying about his identity.
How much longer would Cecil be away? And was his illness getting worse? Cecil had refused to allow Richard to contact him. Only if there was a true emergency could Richard send a letter to Cecil's solicitor in London, and it would be forwarded. And who knew how long that would take.
But Charles had done nothing overly suspicious at the dinner party, beyond asking about Stephen and trying to ingratiate himself with the governess. Maybe Cecil was imagining plots where there weren't any.

* * *

When Meriel went to bed, she found a tiny box on her pillow. She knew who it was from, and she opened it angrily. A diamond pendant winked at her by candlelight, and she gaped at it.
He wasn't going to stop, she realized. He was going to push and push until he forced her to leave Stephen. She couldn't let that happen. Somehow she had to make him understand that it was cruel to take advantage of servants— or to do so merely to prove one was really the duke.
Beyond thinking rationally, she threw on her dressing gown, clutched the diamond bribe in her fist, and walked down the corridor to the private staircase leading to the master suite below.
She hurried down the stairs and knocked firmly before she could change her mind. When she heard nothing, she knocked again, then leaned her ear against the wooden door. She heard a faint call to come in.
She flung open the door, and it cracked against the wall, making her jump. She didn't see the Impostor Duke anywhere.
"Where are you?" she demanded, walking into the room. It was elegant, with massive old furniture and a carved ceiling. Were naked sculptures of women holding up the mantel?
She stalked past an open door, then came to a halt when candlelight caught her eye. Mr. O'Neill was lying in a sunken tub, water up to his neck. She was too far away to see anything beneath the water. Moisture glistened on his face, and through his slicked-back hair. Surely she must be gaping at the erotic, sensual image he formed.
"Care to join me?" he asked. "There's plenty of room."
She gasped and stepped out of the doorway, putting her back against the wall and struggling to remember what she had even meant to say. Luckily, she still had the box clutched in her hand. "We need to talk. Come out of there at once."
"Very well."
She heard a lot of splashing and closed her eyes. It didn't stop her imagination from racing away with her.
"But I must warn you," he continued. "I have no clothes in here."
"Stop!" she cried. Frantically, she looked around the room. "Where are your clothes— I'll toss them to you."
"I already have a towel. It'll be enough for now."
"No!"
She ran past the washroom, headed for the staircase. This had been a terrible idea. She should have confronted him in the morning. Just as she reached the stairs, she heard him advancing behind her. He grabbed a handful of her dressing gown, stopping her on the first step.
"So why did you come to see me?" he asked.
"Release me!" she said without turning around.
"Not until you tell me what prompted your unexpected but well-timed visit."
She tossed a tiny box over her shoulder. It hit something— his naked chest?— and bounced to the ground. She thought he retrieved it, but he kept his hold on her.
"Ah, you came to tell me how much you appreciated my gift."
"Appreciated— " she began in an appalled voice.
She slapped at his hand. He released her, and she spun to face him, keeping her gaze on his face. Moisture spiked eyelashes that framed black, indecipherable eyes. He looked down her body, and she knew he realized she was wearing her nightclothes. She should be frightened, but she was too angry for that.
"You gave me diamonds!" she cried.
His mouth turned up in a grin. "Lovely, aren't they?"
"You gave your
governess
a diamond necklace! Do you know how that looks?"
"Exactly how I mean it to look."
He fully intended to keep up this seduction!
"You are insufferable!" She pointed a finger at him. "I don't want your diamonds, or your carpets and chairs. I don't want boat rides where I have to fend off your rude advances in front of a child. I want to do my work without any interference from you!"
"That won't happen," he said, his voice low and rough. He picked up a curl of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. "I can't help myself. You are far too lovely to resist."
"Choose a willing woman, for I shall never be one. And while you're at it, stop giving diamonds that aren't yours!"
Momentarily shocked and dismayed by what she'd revealed, she realized that it was too late to take back the words. Squaring her shoulders, she glared at him.
"Not mine?" he said softly. "Why would you say that?"
"They must be for your future wife." She knew she was a terrible liar, and she couldn't meet his skeptical gaze. But that left her staring at his chest, still wet from the bath. Scattered hair could not conceal the lean, well-defined muscles. His abdomen rippled downward, and she followed the path laid out for her with a feeling of fate she didn't bother to fight. The towel was tucked around his waist, and she thought it might reveal more than it hid. His bare feet seemed like the last indecent straw.
How could she think about his nearly naked body, when she'd just clearly told him that she knew the truth! She tried to escape up the stairs again, but he caught her arm and pulled her inside the room, firmly shutting the door. The double doors on the far side of the room might as well have been on the far side of the mansion.
"Don't bother trying to run," he said, "because I can reach them first. Why don't you say what you've been keeping inside?"
"Why don't you?" she countered, pulling away from him and crossing her arms over her chest.
"This is not a game of dare, Meriel."
"You're the one who's treating this like a game! How could you do this to Stephen?"
"You mean my son?" he said quietly.
"He's your nephew!"
The silence between them stretched taut as they stared at each other.
He came toward her, his stride still elegant, still so graceful. How had she not seen from the beginning that he wasn't the duke? That he wasn't that silly, arrogant, childish man? Richard O'Neill was an adult— dangerous and unknown.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
"Oh, please, do you need me to explain everything to you? You are Richard O'Neill. What have you done with your brother?"
There, it was out in the open, and the relief of not trying to couch her words was great. But she'd unmasked him; how desperate was he? And what would he do to keep her silent?
To her surprise, he turned away from her and ran his hands through his wet hair, then rested one hand on the back of his desk chair. In a low, tired voice, he said, "Cecil is fine…I think."
She stilled. "What do you mean, 'you think'?"
"He was in recovery from consumption when he demanded I submit to this insane masquerade."
She was still closer to the door— she could make it into the corridor before he could catch her. But what would that do for her? She'd just have to leave Thanet Court and never return, making Stephen even more vulnerable. And now her curiosity was far too great not to want the whole story.
"The duke asked you to portray him?" She took a step closer so that she could keep her voice soft.
He glanced up at her, his expression resigned, even sad. She had never seen him look like a real person instead of an arrogant duke. She kept telling herself that he was a criminal, but she wanted to hear his reasons.
"Cecil didn't want anyone to know how serious his illness was, how slowly he was recovering. He thought it made him look weak."
"Then he should have just retired to the country where his London friends couldn't see him."
"You don't know my brother," he said heavily. "His vanity is everything to him. And he knew if he didn't get away, he wouldn't be able to resist being out among society."
"It seems a weak reason for a successful man like you to leave his own life behind."
He arched an eyebrow, but that slight amusement was gone. Was it only the duke's?
"So you know about me?" he asked.
"I know a bit, especially after I became suspicious and made some discreet inquiries."
"Discreet? I would not call our conversation about me this afternoon as discreet."
"Well, no, but…you were provoking me."
"And you were trying to distract me."
He looked down her body again, and she wished for the layers of clothing to protect her.
"Did it work?" she asked, feeling a little breathless and hating herself for it.
"A little."
"But
I'm
not distracted, Mr. O'Neill. Why would you go along with such an insane request from your brother? Especially when he was the one who pretended to be you when you were children, not vice versa."
He smiled and shook his head. Even his smile seemed different to her, more guarded.
"You have sisters, Meriel. What wouldn't you do for them?"
She felt a chill of recognition. She and her sisters had made a pact to hide the truth of their father's suicide.
"It's a fine line to cross when your family is asking for help," he continued. "Cecil…Cecil is my brother. He wanted me to remain a part of his family, even when our father kept himself distant, even when our mothers objected. That portrait you looked at?"
There was a note of bitterness in his voice now.
"Cecil wanted the two of us together in it, and his mother refused. He said because we looked alike, it would be ours to share, our secret. I know that he's become a foolish man, who does thoughtless, stupid things, considers no one but himself. But when he was a little boy, he still wanted to include me, and didn't want me to be hurt. When he asked for this favor, I couldn't refuse him."
She didn't want to empathize with him. She had been so blessed to have two sisters she adored, whom she could count on for anything.
But she had no idea if a man who could pretend to be another so easily was capable of spinning an even greater web of lies. He seemed truthful about his relationship to the duke. But…
"Mr. O'Neill, I would find it easier to believe you if it weren't so obvious that you
like
being the duke."
His jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed, but she still wasn't afraid.
"Meriel, you'll never know how hard it was to become something that I despise. My father wasn't a nice man, and I fear that Cecil is becoming more and more like him every day. You aren't as knowledgeable as you think, if you imagine that a man raised as I was could
enjoy
this way of life."
"I think you protest too easily," she said, giving her voice a coolness she didn't necessarily feel. Then she used the lie she'd prepared to protect herself in case this situation ever happened. "I've already spoken to Mrs. Theobald about my suspicions, since I don't trust you. If I don't appear tomorrow, she'll know what happened."
He started to laugh, and even his laughter was deeper, harder, different. He sank into a chair and crossed his legs before her. The edge of the towel slid down one thigh, but she didn't dare look away.
"She already knows everything," he said.
Meriel just stared at him, knowing that he'd given her a way to judge the truth. Or the truth he wanted her to know.
"I couldn't hide from her— Hargraves, either," Mr. O'Neill said. "I'll make sure to tell her she can speak freely with you. But if you risk my position here, risk Cecil's reputation, risk Stephen's heart— "
"You'll what, Mr. O'Neill? Kill me?"
"That is an ugly thing to say to a man doing a favor for his brother."
"You're living your brother's life— I'm supposed to trust that you're doing him a
favor
?"
"Meriel," he said, his voice full of warning.
"And did you just dare to talk to me about risking Stephen's heart? You, who've led him to believe that his father has grown to love him?"
For the first time, he looked away. "Cecil loves him. He just never learned how to show it."
"But you did, and you were raised together."
"But raised very differently, Meriel. If you lived in a peer's household, you'd know that."
"Your excuse is a poor one,
Your Grace
," she said with sarcasm. "That boy's disappointment will be a terrible thing."
He leaned his head back in the chair, looking exhausted again. "That is what I most worry about. But I can't change it now."
"Then be more like his real father! And find the duke, for heaven's sake. End this!"
"I can't, to any of your requests. I owe Cecil. And I need to be with Stephen, the nephew I never was able to know."
"Because the duke kept you apart."
He didn't answer.
"And you claim you're doing all this on that man's whim? I can only hope you hurt fewer people than you think you will."
She walked toward the door to the private staircase.
"Meriel, you can't talk about this with anyone other than Mrs. Theobald and Hargraves. Promise me."
Of all the nerve! She would make her own decision about going to the police, but she wasn't going to discuss that with him. She stalked back and stood over him in anger. "Then you promise me you'll stop this attempt at seduction."
He shook his head. "I can't. I have to be Cecil, and he chooses a mistress every month. He's a fool, but I can't change him now."
"Then pick someone else!" she cried.
He came to his feet, and suddenly there was too much bare skin before her, drawing her gaze.
"Meriel," he murmured, "you're the only one I can trust to resist me."
She tossed her head and scoffed. "You think you're that irresistible?"
He pointed to the double doors. "To those women I am. They expect to be in my bed, and I could never— "
He broke off, and she wondered what emotion he didn't want her to see.
"You're developing scruples now?" she asked bitterly.
"I'll do some things for my brother, but not that. So expect to be pursued, Meriel, and you do your best to resist me."
She was outraged now. "You sound like you think I won't be able to!"
He came closer and she stood her ground, expecting to feel repulsed now that she knew the truth— or some of the truth.
But her anger was threatened with a sinful feeling of desire that licked at her insides like a small flame, threatening to turn into an inferno. She'd felt this since she'd first met him, the Impostor Duke, a man whose very body called to hers. But she wouldn't back down, wouldn't let him know that he had any kind of control over her.
His head was above hers, his chest so very near that if she inhaled too deeply, her breasts would touch him.
"Resist me, Meriel," he said softly.
His breath disturbed the curls near her forehead; his eyes looked deep into hers.
Again, he said, "Resist me, Meriel, because God help me, I don't want to resist what you make me feel."
She put her hand on his chest to push the threat of him away, but her palm felt scalded, and her will was suddenly not her own. Her logic had flown, and she was swamped by reckless emotion, a woman who'd spent her life fighting this loss of control.
His hand cupped her face, and he leaned into her. She remembered the sinfully wonderful touch and taste of his mouth. Every kiss she'd ever experienced seemed like a childish peck on the cheek compared to the hot, overwhelming way he made her feel.