How the Duke Was Won (22 page)

 

Chapter 25

“T
here's still time to stop the wedding,” Nick said.

James shook his head. No there wasn't. Not when Dorothea could already be carrying his child.

He'd wanted to hold the ceremony in his town house, where Flor and Josefa would be arriving soon, but the countess had insisted on a church, saying something about her cousin being the curate.

Standing in front of a gold-­draped altar, with an elderly clergyman in black robes, white cravat, and white curled wig presiding, all James could think about was the orchid conservatory. The scent of crushed petals and the sound of Dorothea's soft moans.

Sunlight danced across the red carpet. The wedding party entered the church.

James's heart nearly galloped out of his chest. Dorothea was radiant in pale rose silk shot with gold threads that shimmered in the sunbeams filtering through the round stained-­glass window.

So beautiful.

She'll do.

She wore a broad-­brimmed bonnet trimmed with pink tea roses that shaded her face, but he could tell she was nervous and unsmiling. She walked down the aisle with small, tentative steps.

He willed her to hurry, needing her standing next to him, joining with him in name, and then in body. He craved the heat of her smile, the challenging glint in her eyes. He even welcomed her talent for infuriating him, the way she flouted propriety, the mocking way she said his title.

When she finally stood beside him, James took her hand. Her eyes widened, and she snapped her head straight, her bonnet brim hiding her from him.

Something was wrong.

She seemed . . . different. It was probably just wedding-­day nerves.

“Dorothea?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, Your Grace,” she whispered.

He craned his neck to see her face. Why didn't her eyes tilt at the right angle? They were clear blue, with flecks of flinty gray, but they were rounder. Were her cheekbones sharper? Was her lower lip thinner?

Was he hallucinating?

He bent closer. “You
are
Lady Dorothea?” What a question to ask one's bride.

A small muscle pulsed at the crux of her jaw. “Of course I am.” Her voice sounded wrong—­higher, less smoke.

The doddering clergyman began reading from the Book of Common Prayer, oblivious to their conversation.

This had to be Lady Dorothea standing beside him, since her parents were here. But James would be willing to wager his estate that she was not the woman he'd made love to in the orchid conservatory. He couldn't say how he was sure, he just knew.

His stomach heaved.

Lady Dorothea turned to face him. Her large blue eyes searched his face. Her gloved fingers tightened around the bouquet of white roses and sage, nearly snapping the stalks in half.

The clergyman droned on about mystical unions and reverence.

Lady Dorothea took a deep breath. “Stop,” she said.

When the clergyman continued reading, not hearing her, she raised her voice. “Please stop.”

He lifted his head from the prayer book. “My lady? Is anything amiss?”

“Would you give us a moment, Vicar?” she asked, lifting her chin bravely, reminding James for the first time of the woman he'd held in his arms among the flowers.

White eyebrows rose. Watery eyes searched for the countess in the first pew.

James gestured to the clergyman. “We need a moment.” He drew Lady Dorothea to the side of the altar.

Behind them, the countess drew a quavering breath.

“Er, what seems to be the trouble?” Desmond's voice bounced around the vaulted ceiling.

Lady Dorothea glanced back at her parents fearfully. She set her bouquet on a railing and removed her glove. “Here,” she whispered, sliding something from her finger. “Take this.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. Diamond and gold filigree flashed in her palm. His mother's ring.

“I don't understand,” he said.

“You gave this ring to someone else.”

James felt as though his head was going to explode. “It wasn't you at Hatherly's?”

She shook her head, her face paler than the flowers in the bouquet.

“And at Warbury Park? Was that you?” he asked.

Lord Desmond rose from his seat, his hand resting on his dress sword. “I'm warning you, Harland . . .”

The nightmare moment bowed and strained like the mast of a ship about to crack in a storm.

Lady Dorothea's shoulders trembled. James stared at her, feeling nothing but a sick sense of dread. He had a notion of what she was about to say.

She drew a shuddering breath. “It wasn't me, Your Grace, on both occasions. It was my half sister.”

“I see.” He couldn't seem to feel anything. His body was numb, as if he'd been sinking beneath an arctic sea.

“Her name is Charlene Beckett,” Dorothea said. “You'll find her at number fifty, Rose Street, Covent Garden.” She pressed the ring into his palm. “I can't say more.”

Alarm bells built to a clanging chorus that filled his head with pain.

Lies. Trickery and lies.

Dorothea placed a hand on his sleeve. “Please don't be angry with her.”

James brushed her hand away. “I have to go.” He turned his back on her and faced the earl and countess.

Nick gave him a quizzical look.

“I will not be married today,” James announced.

The countess's hands flew to her cheeks.

Lord Desmond raised his dress sword. “The hell you won't,” he roared.

James strode down the aisle.

Nick leapt for the earl, restraining him from following. He should have let the earl follow. James would have welcomed the chance to squash Desmond like the bloated tick he was. James had been holding back the tide of anger and frustration, attempting to be civilized enough for London society, but no longer.

They wanted His Disgrace? He'd give them the scandal they craved, just as soon as he found the woman who had played him for a fool.

He burst through the church doors, startling his grooms.

“Rose Street, Covent Garden,” he yelled, vaulting into the barouche.

With a bone-­jarring lurch, they were off and racing down the street.

 

Chapter 26

K
yuzo dropped his arms. “You're not yourself today.”

I may never be myself again,
Charlene thought.

Not when the duke and Dorothea had to be standing in front of a curate somewhere in London, promising to love and cherish, till death do them part. She shouldn't have cared, but she did. It made her feel helpless, and that made her angry.

She rolled to her feet, ready to defend against the next attack. They were sparring in a basement room at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane, where Kyuzo knew one of the managers. He allowed them to practice here, in a small room that he'd furnished with bamboo floor mats.

The smell of sweat braced her. She adjusted the fabric of the cotton gown she'd tied into a loose approximation of male trousers.

“Again.” She straightened her back, finding her center of balance and hugging her elbows close to her sides.

Kyuzo's bare foot snapped out. Charlene twisted and tried to block the kick, but she lost her balance and crashed to the floor.

“Emotion makes you weak, Charlene,” Kyuzo cautioned. “Breathe. Empty your mind.”

The
duke
made her weak.

Damn him to hell.

Kyuzo threw an uppercut punch. Charlene blocked the blow with her left forearm and stepped in for an arm lock, but she miscalculated Kyuzo's trajectory and ended up strangled, his elbow around her throat.

She tapped on his arm and he released her.

“Are you ready to stop now?” he asked. “Your mind is somewhere else.”

In a church. Where a clergyman was asking the duke and Dorothea to confess any impediment to their lawful union. And Charlene wasn't there to ruin the wedding in any of the outrageous ways she'd imagined in her lonely bed last night.

Drape herself across the altar and perform
seppuku,
the ritual suicide Kyuzo had told her about, where dishonored Japanese warriors took their own lives by slashing a knife into their bellies with one smooth, left-­to-­right slice.

That would surely stop the wedding.

Charlene sank to the floor, crossing her arms over her knees.

“So,” Kyuzo sat beside her. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You won your reward, did you not? You paid back Grant and Louisa will have her apprenticeship.”

“Yes.”

“Is it the duke?” Kyuzo's face grew fierce, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Charlene hugged her knees against her chest. “Not the way you mean.”

“What way then?”

Charlene pressed her forehead to her knees. “Have you ever been in love, Kyuzo?”

“Oh.” Kyuzo smiled. “So it's love, is it? Well you have the right of it there. Love can hurt.”

“Yes.”

“I fancied myself in love when I was your age. Her name was Yuki and she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. I was a humble fisherman's son. I loved her in secret for years.”

“Did she return your affection?”

“It doesn't matter. You know the rest of the story. The boat that captured me. I never saw Yuki again.”

The boat that captured me.

Five small words to describe so much suffering. He'd been a slave on that boat for six years before he'd made his escape into the streets of London. Charlene's heart ached for the young man Kyuzo had been. Penniless and foreign in a strange land.

“I didn't know,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” He stared at the wall. “My bloody fault for getting drunk that night, thinking of my hopeless love. I wasn't watching when they drugged me.”

“You have to go back to Japan. Maybe she still loves you. Maybe she's waiting for you, staring out to sea every day, faithful to your memory.”

Kyuzo snorted. “Too late now. She's forgotten about me. And I have a new life here in England and I've had new loves.” He stared straight into her eyes. “It's not too late for you, Charlene. You are still very young. You will find love again.”

“Never. I'll never let this happen to me again.”

Kyuzo smiled. “Always so dramatic.”

Charlene stared at the painted scenery panels propped against the storeroom walls. Bright blue skies. Fluffy white clouds.

The fantasy of a world without coal smoke.

“I will give Lulu a perfect life,” she vowed. “I'll live only for her.”

“Honorable,” Kyuzo said. “But dramatic.” Still smiling, he rose and offered her his hand, helping her stand. “Go home. You shouldn't practice today.”

Charlene untied her skirts and donned her plain straw bonnet. “Thank you.”

Kyuzo nodded and began his
katas
.

Charlene walked slowly across the piazza. Kyuzo was wrong. There was no chance that she would find love again. She would devote the rest of her life to her sister's happiness.

She was so engrossed in her plans for Lulu's future that she didn't notice the carriage outside their house until it loomed in front of her face.

With a queasy stomach, she registered the rampant lion worked in gold on the side.

Lord Grant. Inside the house. With Lulu.

She ripped off her bonnet and slammed the front door open, immediately recognizing the sound of Grant's voice coming from the front parlor. There was no time to run back for Kyuzo. She had to face this on her own, before Grant hurt Lulu. She raced down the hall and burst into the parlor, counting on the element of surprise.

The baron was seated in a chair by the fireplace. She lunged for him, but strong hands caught her arms from behind and wrestled her into submission. She twisted her neck to see the identity of her captor. It was the scar-­faced guard, Mace. He must have been waiting beside the doorway, with instructions to subdue her upon entry.

So much for the element of surprise.

“Ah, Charlene, at last,” Grant said. “Join us, won't you?”

Diane and Lulu were sitting opposite him on a sofa. There were tears streaking Lulu's cheeks. Charlene's heart clenched.

She relaxed in Mace's arms, feigning docility.

Beside Mace there was another guard, equally muscled and scowling.

Charlene prayed Kyuzo came home early. There was no way she could defeat three men.

She realized with a sinking heart that Grant was idly turning his branding iron in the flames, until the iron glowed orange.

“Charlene, tell him it's not true,” Lulu blurted.

“Yes, tell her, Charlene,” Grant said. “Tell her this is a respectable boardinghouse and Dove here is a virtuous boarder.”

If Charlene's hands had been free, she would have struck the ugly smile from his face.

“Sweetheart, I didn't want you to find out like this,” she said.

“What are you saying?” More tears escaped Lulu's eyes.

“Don't be coy, Charlene.” Grant lifted the brand, evaluating the color. “Tell her the whole truth. This is a brothel. The girls are whores.
You
are a whore.”

Charlene turned to Lulu in anguish. She should have prepared her. This was the worst possible way for her to find out. Charlene had been so concerned with keeping her sister innocent that she hadn't even taught her how to defend herself. She'd been so wrong.

“Diane,” Charlene said briskly, with a confidence she didn't feel, “please take Lulu upstairs. This is not a conversation for her ears.”

Diane glanced fearfully at Lord Grant.

“I'm the one you want, Baron,” Charlene said. “Here I am. At your bidding.”

Grant regarded her with half-­lidded eyes. “I've waited a long time to hear you say those words.”

Charlene schooled her face into an expressionless mask. “If you let Lulu leave, I'll be yours.”

Lulu's hazel eyes swam with tears. “I can't leave you here.”

“Everything will be fine, sweetheart. I'll be up soon.”

Grant nodded, and Diane gathered Lulu and hurried from the room. Charlene heard their footsteps running down the hallway and up the stairs. When she was sure they were safe, she faced Grant. “Our guard will be home any moment,” she lied. “I'm sure you remember him?”

“I do indeed.” Grant smiled. “Only I happen to know he's in the Drury Lane theater right now and won't be back for an hour.”

Damn.

“You shouldn't have humiliated me in front of Lord Hatherly,” Grant said. “I was hoping for his patronage. Instead you made me a laughingstock.” He struck the iron against the stone of the mantel and sparks flew.

“You shouldn't have done that,” he repeated, rising and walking toward her.

Keeping an eye on the glowing iron, Charlene allowed him to grab her collar and march her to the mirror over the mantelpiece.

Grant stood behind her, using his free hand to force her to look into the mirror. “You were fashioned for a man's pleasure, Charlene,” he whispered in her ear. His fingers closed around her throat. “See these plump lips?” He squeezed her cheeks until her lips popped open. “And this glorious hair . . .”

He released her face and tugged at her chignon until her hair tumbled loose. His breathing quickened.

Desperation and anger threatened to boil over. She had to remain calm and search for the best opportunity to strike.

“Come to the point, Grant.” She spoke with as much bravado as she could muster.

“You want the point?” Grant pulled her back against his hard length, holding the branding iron inches from her neck. “I have two points for you.”

The guards guffawed loudly.

“Did you know that your mother was the first female I ever had?” Grant asked. “My father bought her for me when I was only fourteen. Oh, she was a skilled teacher, your mother. I was so grateful for her instruction that when I came of age, I helped her fund this little venture.”

“And we repaid your loan,” Charlene said. “We owe you nothing.”

“You don't know the whole story,” he said calmly, as if he'd been discussing the weather. “I purchased this building, and I never once charged rent.”

That couldn't be true. Charlene always set aside three hundred pounds per year. True, she'd never met the landlord and didn't even know his name . . . oh, God.

“Charlene.” Grant sighed. “I invested so much, and received so little. I was grooming you to be my private songbird. To grace my apartments and make me the envy of every gentleman in London. How disappointing. You could have been such a success.”

He pushed her away from him and she stumbled against Mace, who grabbed her shoulders.

“Now I have to break you, instead,” Grant said softly. “I was going to brand your shoulder, but now I think I'll find someplace more . . . visible.”

Mace stuck a hand down her bodice and ripped the gown off her chest and over her shoulder. Charlene struggled, but he held her in an iron grip.

Grant made a mocking approximation of a bow. “Please excuse my associate. He's only a rough sort with no schooling.”

Despair choked the anger from Charlene's heart. She was outnumbered, outmaneuvered.

Emotion makes you weak,
Kyuzo had said. But how could she remain calm when she was about to be branded?

Grant ran a finger down her neck and over the top of her breast. “Here?” He traced a circle on her breast, just above her nipple.

His finger continued across her shoulder, down her arm, and over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. “Or here?”

Mace brought both of her wrists together in one of his enormous paws. He smiled nastily. “The wrist would hurt something awful.” He used his strength to force Charlene onto her knees.

She assumed the
shikko
posture. Heels together, crouching in preparation to strike. She bowed her head. Mace thrust her arms out to their full extension.

Grant was wearing polished boots. Charlene bowed her head further, until she could see her wavy reflection in his boots.

She knew what she had to do.

When he lowered the branding iron, she would block and deflect it, forcing the iron back toward him. He'd be so worried about marking his handsome face that he'd drop the iron, and she'd use the chaos to run for help.

It was her only chance.

She looked up at Grant. Smiled.

He frowned. “Why are you smiling?”

Because he had no idea what she planned for him.