She Tempts the Duke (3 page)

Sebastian’s always went up higher on the left. Or at least it used to. Presently he was not smiling. Based on the hideous scars marring that side of his face, she wasn’t certain he could smile. A black patch covered his eye. Dear God in heaven, whatever had happened to him?

Mary took a step forward, only to have Fitzwilliam place a restraining hand on her arm. “Easy there, dear girl,” he whispered. “You don’t know what dangers await.”

She suspected a good many. The lords of Pembrook had arisen from the dead.

And she could not help but believe that tonight’s boring ball was about to become the most memorable of the Season.

Chapter 2

“I
do believe we’ve managed to gain their attention,” Tristan said with the confidence of a man who not only commanded men, but the sea.

In spite of all he’d suffered, it was also quite apparent he’d not lost his sense of humor. Sebastian couldn’t say the same for himself. But then he’d lost a good deal more at the battle of Balaclava in the Crimea. His good looks. His eye. And portions of himself that were not so easily identifiable.

The physicians said he should have died from his wounds. But he was a man possessed by the need for retribution. So he’d refused to allow his heart to stop beating. Clutching the threadbare handkerchief that contained the soil he’d scooped up before leaving, filling his nostrils with its rich fragrance, he endured the pain and the agony. He survived, because to do less was unthinkable.

He
was
the Duke of Keswick. The rightful heir to Pembrook and five other estates, as well as three other titles. And by God, he was here to claim what was due him.

His uncle—everyone who had abandoned three lads—was on the verge of discovering that they had each become a man to be reckoned with. Even Sebastian had been astonished to discover the men his brothers had become. They rivaled him in determination and purpose. No spoiled gentlemen were they. In no way were they typical of second and third sons who gladly welcomed an allowance and sought only pleasure. He could not have been prouder or more at ease to have them at his side, watching his back, prepared to battle at his front.

He gave his gaze freedom to roam over the crowd, searching for his vile uncle. Sebastian’s father had introduced him to numerous lords when they hosted country parties, but he’d been more interested in running off to play Waterloo with their sons. Now these sons were grown and certainly a good many of them were here, but identifying them was not an easy task when he’d not seen them in years.

“See here, now,” an older gentleman admonished, stepping forward. “You do not come into a man’s home, disrupting an affair, and waving a pistol about.”

Two more could have been waved about. He and his brothers were all armed, but only Rafe had drawn his pistol when the steward—a man they did not know—had refused to announce Sebastian as he’d asked because they had no invitation. It seemed Rafe had developed a knack for impatience over the years.

“It is
my
home,” Sebastian proclaimed, “and I shall come into it any way I damned well please.”

The gentleman appeared taken aback, and Sebastian regretted the harsh tone, but he couldn’t apologize without coming across as weak, and his most challenging moments still awaited him. Where the deuce was his uncle? The coward had no doubt slipped out through a back door, was at this very moment possibly scurrying away like the vermin he was.

A young woman, short of stature but with determination in the mulish set of her mouth, climbed the steps, halting halfway up. Her gown was a violet satin. A choker of pearls wound about her throat. Diamond and pearl combs adorned her blond hair. Her figure was ample, and he suspected she feasted on far too much chocolate. He saw doubt flicker in her eyes before she jerked up her chin. “I am Lady Lucretia Easton, wife to Lord David, soon to be the Duchess of Keswick—”

“No, madam, I regret to inform you that you are not destined to be a duchess. And if my uncle married you under those pretenses, may he go to the devil.”

Her mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and she blinked repeatedly. He was surprised no one came to her rescue. Perhaps they were equally stunned, or more likely they simply wished to see how things would play out. He suspected he was providing far more entertainment than one might find on Drury Lane, and that was unfortunate, but his success hinged on making his case before witnesses.

She finally pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes as though she thought by doing so that she could cause him to wilt. But wilting had never appealed to him. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but—”

“I am the Duke of Keswick.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I assure you, madam, it is.”

“You speak falsehoods.” She caught the eye of a footman and clapped her hands twice. “Remove this pretender and his rapscallion friends immediately.”

“He speaks true! He is the Duke of Keswick!” a feminine voice rang out, and suddenly a tall slender woman was wending her way through the massive crowd. She reached the stairs and tripped lightly up the steps, her pink satin slippers peering out from beneath her pale pink ball gown. She stopped a short distance from him and grabbed the railing as though she needed to support herself, because she was in danger of swooning now that she was near enough to get a good look at what remained of him.

He knew what she saw. What they all saw. Mutilated flesh, thick scars that trailed down his cheek, over his jaw, along his neck, until they disappeared beneath his collar.

And just as she saw him more clearly, so he saw her.

Her hair was a familiar crimson. A memory washed over him, of riding over the land, chasing after a girl who could never elude him because her hair prevented her from blending in with the countryside. Her presence had given all that surrounded them a vibrancy that matched her spirit, a richness that rivaled the sun.

But this woman standing before him could not be who he thought. Where the deuce were her freckles? The girl he’d known had been covered in a constellation that he mapped out whenever she was still enough for him to study her. He knew them as well as he knew the stars in the night sky. And she’d been as flat as a plank of wood. This woman had curves that invited a man to touch and linger. Her throat and shoulders were bared, and he imagined the silky smoothness of them. He spied one freckle just above the swell of a breast and he wondered how the sun had come to kiss her there. His mouth went dry. She could not possibly be—

“Mary?” he croaked.

She smiled in answer, just a soft tilting up of her lips. Familiarity fed a ridiculous notion to speak with her first, to ask how she was, then go in search of his uncle.

But then he saw the pity in her lovely green eyes, the tears welling. His gut clenched. He had both dreaded and anticipated this moment of seeing her again. And a pain far worse than anything he’d endured on the battlefield pierced his heart.

He knew what he’d become. Had smashed the mirror that had first revealed it to him. He would have spared her the horror of it, but to expose his uncle he had to expose himself. Just this once, and then he would be done with it.

“Don’t,” he commanded, barely moving his lips, the force of the word not carrying beyond her ears.

Blinking back her tears, setting her jaw in a familiar determined manner, she gave a quick nod and squared those distracting bared shoulders. “Your uncle knew only that you disappeared. No one knew where you’d gone, what your fates had been. Speculation abounded that you’d died. Wolves, illness, murder. So many stories. No one knew which was true. But after all this time, the certainty was that you were dead.”

It was Tristan who laughed darkly, without humor. “Well, then it seems that word of our demise was a bit premature, doesn’t it?”

Mary nodded. “For which we’re all grateful.”

Sebastian doubted that his uncle would be as pleased. He slid his gaze over to the party’s hostess. She, too, was gripping the banister now, reminding him of a baby bird that had suddenly found itself shoved out of the nest before it was ready to test its wings. He couldn’t risk taking pity on her, of showing even a hint of weakness. She was the devil’s plaything, and while she might be innocent, she could still prove very dangerous. “Where is he, madam? Where is your husband?”

She appeared dazed, her brow deeply furrowed. “Playing cards most likely.”

“Send someone to fetch him.”

From a well of indignation deep inside her, she regained her equilibrium, drew herself up to her full height, and matched him stare for stare. “See here! I am not to be ordered about in my own house.”

“It is mine,” he ground out, descending two steps. She released an ear-splitting screech and, with hands fluttering, raced down the stairs. “Lord David! Lord David!”

Sebastian went down two more steps, heard the echo of his brothers’ boots hitting the marble after his. “I am the true Duke of Keswick. My brothers and I are reclaiming what was stolen from us.”

“You look like your father,” a gentleman announced.

Sebastian almost laughed. “I no longer do, but Tristan does. Remarkably so. As my twin, he will serve as proof enough that we are who we claim to be. And I wear our father’s signet ring.”

He thought the ballroom had been quiet, but if at all possible a heavier silence descended, with the solemnity of a funeral. He had not expected jubilant rejoicing but he’d hoped for a bit more acceptance. He could feel the stares, sense the speculation. He did not like airing dirty laundry before strangers, had considered confronting his uncle in the privacy of his library, but the man had earned a public flogging. This was as close to one as Sebastian could deliver.

“What the devil is going on here?”

And at long last, there he was: the usurper. Blustering and lumbering his way through the crowd. By Sebastian’s estimation at least three hundred people were in attendance. When his uncle reached the stairs and looked up, he came to a staggering stop. Sebastian knew he shouldn’t have been, but he was surprised by the man’s appearance. He didn’t know why he had expected him to remain the same when no one else had. His uncle had never been particularly tall, but he was stockier than he’d been in his youth. Obviously he enjoyed the fruits he’d stolen. Rings adorned thick well-manicured fingers. His hair was awash in white. His nose was pointing too high in the air, a man who thought he was owed things he was not.

“Greetings, Uncle.”

Lord David shook his head in obvious disbelief before glancing around with wide eyes, perhaps searching for a hole in the floor through which he could conveniently drop. “My nephews are dead.”

Sebastian did laugh then, although it more closely resembled a bark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly laughed, but he knew it had been before his father died. “Believing your own lies?”

“I don’t know who you are—”

Sebastian was down the stairs so quickly that his uncle barely had time to take two steps back before Sebastian’s hand was wrapped firmly around his throat. He heard gasps, a muffled cry, a few clearing throats, and harrumphs, but no one came forward to challenge him. He could only imagine the pending threat that his misshapen face conveyed to anyone who might consider interfering. It would not be tolerated. Not by him, and not by his brothers. He suspected they were silently issuing warnings with their stances. By God, but it seemed each of them had learned to convey menace without bothering with the nuisance of words. A talent that came in handy when confronting one’s enemies—and there could be no doubt that Lord David Easton was enemy to one and all.

When Sebastian was a lad, he’d thought his uncle to be a towering man, fearsome and invincible, but now Sebastian loomed over him. And he’d not lived a life of ease. His muscles were firm, his body hardened by the challenges of war. He could take a man down with a sword, rifle, or pistol. He could destroy a man with his bare hands if need be. The temptation to do so with this bit of excrement was almost overwhelming.

“You know damned well who I am,” Sebastian said evenly, although his voice was seething with a fury that threatened to bubble past the surface. He’d known it would be difficult to hold his emotions in check, to act a gentleman rather than a barbarian, but he was rapidly reaching the end of his tether. He should have had a life of few worries, attending schools, being educated in the ways of a future duke.

Instead he’d had hardship, blood, and horror. His brothers had experienced much of the same. He’d been born to protect them, to care for them, and all he’d managed was to lead them through the gates into hell. He’d let them down. His father would have been sorely disappointed in him, but no more so than he was in himself.

“We can go before the Court of Chancery if you wish, but one way or another I will hold the titles that my father passed down to me. You can skulk away quietly or you can fight me on it. But let me warn you that I was a captain in Her Majesty’s army. When I have an objective, nothing will sway me from reaching it. Tristan has sailed the seas. You’re nothing to him. While Rafe . . . well, let’s just say that he knows a dark side to London that terrifies even me.”

His uncle dug his fingers into Sebastian’s wrist and gagged. His eyes bugged.

“You have one day to pack up your things and leave. We were given much less time to run from Pembrook with our lives. Take one item that does not belong to you, and Tristan will deal with you the way he saw thieves dealt with in the Far East. He’ll slice off your hands.”

“And be glad to do it,” Tristan announced laconically, as though the task would involve little more effort than swatting a fly.

His uncle’s eyes rolled upward. Another gag. A huff. A gurgle.

Sebastian knew he should release his hold, but he seemed incapable of letting go. This man had been responsible for the last twelve years of misery. In their absence he’d lived the life of luxury that they should have. From them, he’d stolen. In all likelihood he’d killed. He didn’t deserve to draw in breath. He didn’t deserve—

On his shoulder, Sebastian felt a touch as light as a butterfly’s passing, but it communicated an urgency, caught his attention as shouts and orders would not have.

“You’re killing him,” Mary said quietly. “After all you’ve endured, surely you don’t want to find yourself led to the gallows now.”

No, but suddenly what he was doing didn’t bring enough satisfaction with it. He’d dreamed of this moment, anticipated it, and yet it was sadly lacking. His uncle was not a worthy adversary. He was little more than pond scum. Sebastian flung back his uncle, watched his arms windmill madly before he landed with a hard thud on the floor, sprawled out like an overturned tortoise. “Sunrise, day after tomorrow, I expect you to be gone, Uncle. Then I never want to set eyes on you again. The same holds true for my brothers. Our compassion has reached the limits of its tether. Challenge us on this and you shall see hell unleashed.”