The Duke’s Desire (9 page)

“Is it difficult?”

Verity stifled a smile while she got out the tea and the pot and the other accoutrements for their refreshment.

“Not at all! Mama, can we do an egg for the duke?”

“Yes, certainly,” Verity replied. “Fetch one from the pantry and I shall get a pot.”

Jocelyn hurried from the room while Verity headed for the row of newly tinned pots to find one suitable for a single boiled egg. She glanced over her shoulder at Galen, who was studying the range and adjoining oven. “These look very modern,” he remarked.

“Daniel wanted the best.”

“I would say he got it.”

Verity lifted down a suitable pot and faced him. “Nevertheless, we must seem rather rustic to you.”

“On the contrary, I envy you.”

“You envy me?”

He nodded slowly. “I envy you your charming house, and your simple life. I envy you your friends, for even Eloise stands up for you, and there are not many for whom she would do that.” He came around the table toward her. “Most of all, I envy you all the time you’ve had with Jocelyn.”

She flushed hotly and her grip on the pan tightened. She could almost feel his lips upon hers again, and the strength of his powerful arms embracing her. “Galen, I—”

“I’ve brought the biggest one I could find!” Jocelyn crowed from the doorway.

“What do we do now?” Galen asked, going to Jocelyn and deftly sidestepping a large basket of potatoes near the leg of the table.

“Well, first we get the pot.”

“I get the pot,” Galen said. He took the one Verity proffered without looking at her and she was, naturally, grateful for being spared another awkward moment.

“Then you fill it with enough water from the bucket near the range to cover the egg.”

“Enough water to cover the egg,” Galen repeated as seriously as if these were the instructions for a medical procedure. He took the pot to Jocelyn, who still held the egg.

“Now I put in the egg, and we put it on the range. We let the water come to a boil, and then when it has done that a little while, we
plunge
it into the cold water in the bucket,” she finished triumphantly.

“I see,” Galen said, doing as he had been told with regards to putting the pot on to heat. “So now we must wait for all this water to boil.”

“And while we do that, Jocelyn and I will set out the tarts and tea things on a tray to take to the parlor.”

“Oh, surely we can have our tea here,” Galen asked with a hint of wistfulness. “I’m tired of formality.”

“But you’re a duke!” Jocelyn protested.

“That may be, but I have never had the pleasure of having tea in the kitchen.”

“But I don’t think—”

“Jocelyn, the duke is our guest, and what did I tell you about when we have guests?”

“Oh.”

Galen had no idea what precise instructions Verity had given Jocelyn about the treatment of guests, but he suspected it was along the lines of accommodating oneself to their wishes—and for that, he was glad. He meant what he said: he had never had the pleasure of tea in a kitchen.

He very much liked this kitchen, too, with its air of comfort and domesticity. He liked the range
and the oven; he liked the dresser with its knicks and scratches that told of daily use; he liked the smells of the smoked ham and onions hanging from the rafters. He liked the potted flowers on the sill.

Most of all, however, he enjoyed the company, even if he was also more disconcerted than he had been for years.

He had told himself he could return to England because, surely by now, his reputation would be nearly forgotten, replaced in popular gossip by the fresher scandals of the past ten years. Instead, he had discovered that the moment he appeared, everything he had ever done seemed to leap, rejuvenated, into people’s minds.

That he might have learned to live with.

He had also convinced himself that
he
had forgotten things over the passage of ten years. He had believed he had forgotten how he had felt when Verity had come to his bedroom, that he no longer remembered the texture of her skin, the softness of her lips, or the way her breast felt in his palm. He told himself he could not recall the low murmur of need she had made in the back of her throat when he had first kissed her, or the heated passion that had coursed through his body when she removed her nightdress.

Surely he had forgotten how her blue eyes could flash with desire, or how her shy smile seemed to
reach deep inside of his soul to something long buried, and bring it to shattering, vibrant life.

What a fool!

And he wished he had never seen the portrait of Daniel Davis-Jones. He had envisioned the older man as either frail and elderly, or old and fat.

It was very disturbing to see that Daniel Davis-Jones had been what women would call a “fine figure of a man,” with friendly dark eyes beneath iron-gray brows. The fellow had had broad shoulders, no extraneous plumpness and masculine hands.

Hands that had also touched Verity. Intimately.

G
alen rose abruptly.

“I thought I should check on the water,” he said by way of explanation to his startled companions. “I don’t want to be remiss my first time boiling an egg.”

Jocelyn and Verity exchanged smiles, and another shaft of painful regret lodged in his heart. What would he not give for this to be his home? he thought as he went to the range. His wife. His child, who knew he was her father.

His eyes clouded as he peered into the pot.
Get a hold of yourself, Galen,
he silently commanded.

Gentlemen don’t cry.

“Is it boiling?” Jocelyn asked as she left the plate of tarts, surreptitiously licking a bit of jam from her finger.

“Not yet, but the kettle is about to, I think. Do
you mind if I open the window?” he asked Verity. “I’m finding it rather warm.”

“So am I,” she murmured, not meeting his gaze.

“The kettle’s boiling, Mama!” Jocelyn cried, and Verity moved as if glad of the distraction.

“So is the water for the egg,” she observed.

“Ah!” Galen hurried toward the range. “I am to take it off—”

“Wait!” Verity cried as Galen went to grab the pot handle with his bare hand. “You’ll burn yourself.”

“Good God, how stupid of me,” Galen muttered as Verity, holding a cloth, went to take the pot herself.

“No, please just give me the cloth,” he said to her. “I would like to do this all myself, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, I shall feel utterly incompetent and as if all that remains for me is the life of a totally useless aristocrat.”

Verity handed him the cloth. “I don’t think it would be possible for you to be useless.”

“Why not?” he asked as he wrapped the cloth tightly around his hand. “I have not been terribly useful thus far in my life.”

“But you’re a duke!” Jocelyn exclaimed from the vicinity of the tarts.

“And you’re a little girl who’s going to be in
trouble if you’ve been sticking your fingers in that tart again,” Verity observed pointedly.

“I haven’t!”

“Little Jack Horner…” Galen murmured as he glanced at Verity with a twinkle in his eye.

“I haven’t!” Jocelyn protested.

“We believe you, don’t we, Your Grace?”

“Of course we do,” he replied, unable to resist the compulsion to add a slight emphasis on the delightful “we” even if he was not at all pleased to be addressed by his formal title.

“However, Jocelyn, I must point out that I have done nothing to earn the title except be my father’s eldest son,” he continued as he carefully lifted the pot from the range and set it on the hob. “Two of my half brothers have already accomplished more than I, and they are quite a bit younger. Now what do I do?”

“Take that big wooden spoon and lift out the egg, then put it in the bucket very carefully,” Jocelyn ordered.

Galen nodded, then bit his lip as he gingerly followed her orders. When the egg was successfully deposited in the bucket, he looked at his young teacher. “Is that all?”

“That’s all! Well, except for taking it out and removing the shell, of course.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Galen said as he lifted
out the egg and put it on a waiting plate before sitting down on the bench beside it.

Verity and Jocelyn had set the table with delicate porcelain plates, cups and saucers, white napkins and silver teaspoons.

“The tea is ready now,” Verity said, sitting opposite him and beside Jocelyn, who was directly behind the plate of tarts, one of which showed definite signs of tampering.

Verity picked up a cup and saucer. “Tea, Your Grace?” she inquired in as formal a tone as if they were in Buckingham Palace, or as if she were a duchess.

A duchess.

“Indeed,” he replied just as gravely.

“Do you take sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Milk?”

“No. I prefer my beverages unembellished.” He glanced at Jocelyn. “Plain,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth, which made her giggle.

As Verity handed him his tea, she gave Jocelyn a pointed look, then the plate of tarts. “Would you care for a tart, Your Grace?” the little girl asked.

“I should be delighted. They look lovely,” he said sincerely, reaching toward the plate and selecting the tart beside the one that looked as if a little finger had been conducting exploratory surgery.

“Nancy helped me, but I did most of the work,” Jocelyn said proudly as Galen took a bite.

The Duke of Deighton had eaten many a tooth-some morsel in England and abroad, but he thought he had never tasted anything as good as little Jocelyn’s tart, and he told her so in no uncertain terms.

As she flushed with pleasure, he realized Verity was looking a little put out. He regarded her quizzically, while Jocelyn bit into her tart with great appetite.

“Jocelyn, when you have finished your tart, you may fetch more milk from the pantry and I’ll let you have a little tea,” Verity said.

Jocelyn’s rather jammy mouth widened, then she fixed Galen with a curious stare. “You have brothers?” she demanded.

“Not with your mouth full,” her mother said softly, quite unlike the sort of correction Galen’s father had often visited upon him.

“I have three half brothers,” he said, reaching out for another tart. “Buckingham, Warwick and Huntington. Buckingham is in the navy, Warwick is in the army and Huntington is still at school.”

“Those are funny names,” Jocelyn said as she wiped her mouth on a napkin.

“Unusual,” Verity corrected softly, and again Galen was struck by her gentle method of correcting their daughter’s mistakes.

“Yes, they are,” he answered. “My stepmother chose them because we are related to the families.”

“I would like to have a brother or a sister,” Jocelyn said wistfully.

“Perhaps someday you will.”

“How can I, when my Papa is dead—unless Mama gets married again.”

“Get the milk, please, Jocelyn,” Verity said as a very becoming blush spread over her cheeks.

Verity continued to blush as Jocelyn left the room.

“I didn’t mean to remind her of her loss,” Galen said, all the while wondering what Jocelyn would think if he offered to marry her mother.

She didn’t seem to find the idea of her mother’s remarriage unconscionable, and he felt distinct pleasure at that realization.

Then he noticed Verity wasn’t blushing anymore. She was regarding him with a censorious expression. “You shouldn’t patronize her.”

“When have I been patronizing?”

“When you told her her tarts were the best pastry you had ever tasted.”

“It’s quite true,” he protested.

She gave him a skeptical look.

It had been a long time since anyone had looked at the Duke of Deighton like that, without deference or awe—and he liked it. They might be any
husband and wife sharing a simple domestic disagreement.

He thought of Guido and Angela, and had a sudden urge to burst into song.

“I like simply made foods better than fancy ones,” he said instead, “and I’m sure Jocelyn took as much care with them as the baker who made the Prince Regent’s wedding cake. Besides, I think those tarts had a special ingredient sadly lacking in the things I am served.”

“What might that be?”

“Love.”

“Oh.” Verity couldn’t meet his steadfast gaze; fortunately, before the silence could get even more awkward, Jocelyn came back bearing a pitcher of milk.

Verity poured a copious amount of milk into a cup, then added a little bit of tea.

Jocelyn settled herself back on her chair, looking quite pleased with the state of things. “Is your brother the captain of a ship?”

“No. My half brother is a lieutenant. The last I heard, Buck had taken ill and was recuperating at Gibraltar.”

“I trust it is nothing serious,” Verity said.

A coldness crept into the duke’s voice. “I assume he’s doing well. I have not heard otherwise. I would have been informed if he was dead.”

“Oh,” Jocelyn gasped, obviously taken aback by the unfeeling nature of the duke’s last words.

So was Verity.

He immediately appeared contrite; nevertheless, there was a look in his eyes that confirmed his relationship with his half brothers was not a close one.

“Is your other brother an officer, too?” Jocelyn asked warily before she took another sip of her beverage.

“He is an adjutant to the Duke of Wellington.”

“Really?” Jocelyn breathed, obviously impressed. “Was he at Waterloo?”

“Yes. So you see I am in earnest when I say they have all done more than I.

“Well, not Huntington, perhaps,” he corrected with a smile, “but he is well on his way to distinguishing himself at Harrow for the quality of his pranks.”

He fixed his gaze onto Verity. “I understand your mother also had a reputation for that sort of thing.”

“You did?” Jocelyn asked, staring at her mother with awe.

“I suppose Lady Bodenham told you some of my…activities?” Verity asked warily.

“She did, indeed. I particularly liked the one with the molasses.”

At that reminder, Verity couldn’t help smiling.
She had been punished by having to stay in her room every evening for a month, but it had been worth it to see Miss Mintley’s face when she stepped in the sweet, sticky substance.

“What about molasses?” Jocelyn asked with avid curiosity.

“Oh, no,” Verity demurred, shaking her head and smothering her smile. “I’m not confessing to anything or giving certain little girls any ideas, especially ones who have no trouble coming up with mischief on their own.”

“Then what Sir Myron Thorpe told me is true?” Galen asked with astonishment in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes. “Can it be true that this young lady who has such a promising future as a pastry chef did indeed cause a cattle stampede down the main street of Jefford?”

Jocelyn giggled. “No,” she managed to say as she set her cup down with a rattle.

“The gate was unlocked and the cattle got out on their own,” Verity explained.

Then, to Galen’s delight, that mischievous gleam again lit her blue eyes. She looked at her daughter as if they were fellow conspirators. “Unfortunately, she also decided to practice her Indian war cry.”

“Her Indian what?”

“My Indian war cry. Like this.”

Suddenly Jocelyn threw back her head and emit
ted the most bloodcurdling yell Galen had ever heard.

“No wonder the cattle stampeded,” he said when she stopped and looked at him proudly. “I nearly ran out of here myself.”

He gave Verity a wry smile. “I daresay it’s a good thing you live so out of the way, or your neighbors would all have apoplexy.” He looked back at Jocelyn. “Wherever did you learn to do that?”

“My friend’s uncle is a sea captain who’s been to America. He taught her, and she taught me.”

“Sometimes it sounds as if we’ve got a war in our garden,” Verity said.

“We
have
to scream like that when we play Indians.”

“As long as you don’t try burning anybody at the stake again,” Verity cautioned.

Galen’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was only one time,” Jocelyn assured him. “And we didn’t really set the wood on fire. But we pretend that’s what we’re doing on Guy Fawkes Day, and we do our war cries then. It’s great fun.”

“Since I was never allowed to make much noise as a child, I shall have to take your word for it.”

“You couldn’t make any noise?” Jocelyn asked, dumbfounded. “However did you do it?”

“I don’t think I played the same sort of games.”

“Would you care for more tea?” Verity inquired, thinking it best to leave the subject of Galen’s childhood.

“Indeed, I would enjoy it, and another tart, if I may.”

“Of course,” she replied.

He smiled again, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly while his eyes…

“Your face is all red, Mama.”

“Is it?” she asked, putting her palms over her cheeks. “It must be the heat of the range.”

“I do think it’s exceptionally…warm…in this room,” Galen noted in a low, somewhat husky voice.

Did he feel as she did at that moment, as if there were some kind of cord of desire stretched between them that was constantly tightening whenever they were together?

The kitchen door suddenly flew open as if a great gust of wind had hit it.

But it was another force of nature: Nancy, who spoke without looking in the vicinity of table as she shut the door.

“Sweet simmering stew, what is this world coming to?” she exclaimed, more flushed and flustered than normal, even given her usual unrelenting brisk pace. “Here I was thinking how glad I was we’ve seen the last of them Blackstones for a while, when
who do I meet but that Achilles’ Heel Rhodes, or whatever the dumpling of a man calls himself!”

Verity quickly got to her feet, fighting the urge to order Galen from her house or Jocelyn to her room, so that Nancy wouldn’t see the resemblance and guess the truth.

It was not that she didn’t trust Nancy. She did. But she also knew better than to trust to Nancy’s ability to keep a secret. Nancy often spoke before thinking. She might let the truth slip out.

“I believe you mean Claudius Caesar,” the duke said calmly as he, too, got to his feet.

Nancy whirled around and stared. “Who the devil are you?”

“Nancy!” Verity cried, aghast at her language, while Jocelyn clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“This is the Duke of Deighton,” Verity continued, accepting what she couldn’t change and doing her best to act as if nothing at all were unusual about this situation.

“The master of—what was it you called him?” Galen inquired evenly, “a dumpling?”

Nancy went so red Verity was afraid she was having an attack. “Your Grace, this is Nancy Knickernell, my servant—and my friend.”

Nancy’s considerable self-esteem reasserted itself. “Forgive me for speaking out o’ turn, Your Grace,” she said without a particle of contrition in
her tone, “but he spoke most impertinently to me.”

“I am sorry to hear it and I apologize for him,” the duke said in his most conciliatory tones.

Galen’s deep voice and hazel eyes could be most conciliatory.

Indeed, Verity watched in amazement as Nancy’s expression actually softened before her very eyes. Under normal circumstances, Nancy could stay angry for days. She was always out of sorts for the whole duration of one of Clive and Fanny’s visits.