The Third Duke's the Charm (26 page)

Epilo
gue

The third Duke of Sanford refused to leave the room.

The midwife was affronted.

“Your Grace, the duchess does not need the distraction of your presence, and while birthing a babe is a miracle, it is hardly a very tidy process and can be tediously long.”

Had not another wave of pain tightened her abdomen, Vivian might have laughed at the way the woman eyed Lucien’s snowy cravat and tailored jacket.

But he was, after all, the duke. In a mild tone belied by the set of his jaw, he said, “I wish to see my child born and if my wife should need me, I will be here.”

“What is it you propose to do?”

“Whatever she asks of me.”

It ended up he held her hand, kneeling by the side of the bed for hours, and Vivian actually found it helpful to concentrate on the grip of his long fingers during the worst of it, which to her relief was not that tedious after all for a first child, or at least so she was told afterward.

Lucien was endearingly delighted. “A daughter. We have a daughter and she is as beautiful as her mother.”

“I suspect that is true at the moment.” Vivian managed an exhausted laugh. “She is sticky and blotchy and no doubt that describes me as well.”

“I selfishly wish to hold her first. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she said softly. He’d sworn all along that he did not wish for a son more than a daughter and from the rapt look on his face when he was handed their child and carefully cradled her, he had been telling the truth.

It was amusing to see such a tall man with such a tiny human being in his arms, but in the most moving way possible.

Later, when she had rested and Charles came to see his niece, he sat in the chair by the bed, the old familiar expression of mocking laughter on his face. “
Madame de la Duchesse
, you did well. My older brother is besotted.”

Vivian glanced down at the sleeping child in her arms. “He does seem to be.”

“By his daughter, too.”

That brought her gaze back up.

“Did you ever think it would turn out this way, Viv? When we were children terrorizing our nursemaids and inventing adventures that involved pirates or highwaymen that you would one day beguile my older brother, marry him, and have his child?”

“My life has turned out to be a bit more adventurous than I expected,” she admitted. “Even our vivid imaginations could not conjure up a story in which a wallflower spinster is ruined by England’s most eligible marquess and before he can marry her, he is kidnapped by a vengeful spy by mistake, leaving her on the brink of social disaster, and then manages to escape.”

“Let us not forget the part where our daring spinster knocks said spy over the head with a branch to win the day. I rather wish I’d been there to see it.” Charles grinned.

“No, you don’t.”

She hadn’t even realized Lucien had come back into the room. He added dryly, “It was emasculating to all the men in the confrontation to have a woman save the day, especially the nefarious Artemis. Speaking of which, I have a surprise for you, my love.”

This had been a full day already, so she wasn’t sure she was ready for a surprise of any kind, but when Lucien laid a roll of parchment on the bed and picked up Lady Anne Eugenia Caverleigh from her arms, she couldn’t help but unroll it.

“Oh,” she breathed the words, her eyes widening. Charles rose to exit the room and she barely noticed.

“I never gave you a wedding gift,” Lucien said, “and this seems an appropriate time. The new conservatory will be twice as large as the one that was destroyed. They have already started work on it, so I hope you approve. Your father assured me the design was exceptional.”

It was . . . glorious.

“Oh Lucien. Thank you.” She was already imagining the different species that could be raised in such a large space and the duke had specifically left all his notes to her . . .

“I am glad you are happy. I know I am.”

They were no longer talking about the conservatory.

Vivian gazed at her husband and daughter. “Beyond any flight of my imagination.”

***

From the Dowager Duchess of Eddington to her friend, Mrs. Nigella Beecraft

Dear Gella:

I hope all is well in Yorkshire. It is far too cold there for my old bones but you have apparently a stalwart constitution. How is Harold? Perhaps this summer you could manage a visit down south. It has been a long time since we have seen each other and old friends are too valuable to forget or neglect.

In the same vein, the passing of the Duke of Sanford left me rather melancholy. I remember him as a young man, so dashing, much like his oldest son. Did you hear the new duke named his firstborn after me? She is Anne Eugenia. A middle name, but an acknowledgment nonetheless, and it vastly pleased me. If you recall the new duchess was a veritable failure until she caught Lucien Caverleigh’s eye. I cannot assume the credit for the romance itself, but I did take the young lady in hand in an attempt to polish her up. Not meddling really. I am opposed to meddling. I was more just offering the wisdom of the older and wiser. Her sister-in-law also, married to Lord Charles, needed some assistance as coming from a vicarage does not prepare one for the treacherous waters of society. I am happy to say that while still shy, she is coming along nicely.

It is gratifying to have a purpose at my age.

No doubt the new season will provide another challenge. What is the use of having influence if it can’t be put to good works?

Yours in friendship,

Eugenia

***

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Regency romance from Emma Wildes

RUINED BY MOONLIGHT

Available September 2012

The first impression was of jeweled colors: sapphire, brilliant ruby, golden topaz. . . .

Lady Elena Morrow’s eyes fluttered open and she suppressed a small moan. Her head ached, her mouth was dry, and she came to the startling conclusion that she had absolutely no idea where she was.

Stone walls rose all around her and the faint colored illumination came from several stained-glass windows set in an arched niches high above where she lay on what appeared to be a bed, though she was on top of the coverlet not under it, and she shivered slightly because she was clad only in her lacy chemise.

In a surge of panic, she sat up, which proved to be a mistake, because the room spun and nausea caused her eyes to close again as she struggled to remember just how she might have gotten in this strange room. Bracing herself on the softness of the mattress with one hand, she pushed the fall of loose hair away from her face and took a deep breath.

Think. . . .

Her last memory was of the theater. The performance, the music, the glittering crowd . . . She’d worn a new gown of rose silk. . . . Slowly she opened her eyes to survey her unfamiliar surroundings.

It was at that moment that she realized she wasn’t alone.

How she hadn’t noticed before was bewildering, but she was hardly clearheaded, and as she glanced over, she wondered for a moment if she were hallucinating.

The man sprawled carelessly on the bed next to her was half-nude, clad only in a pair of doeskin breeches, and it was so shocking, she blinked, her gaze traveling over the muscled contours of his bare shoulders and the flat plane of his stomach, finally shifting back up to his face. He had glossy dark hair, disheveled against the white linen of the pillow, and in profile, his features were clean and masculine: straight nose, high cheekbones, downy ebony brows, a mouth that was parted just slightly in sleep, his tall body relaxed and taking up a good deal of the bed.

The one they shared.

The situation registered and she scrambled to her knees in scandalized horror, more confused than ever.

A strange place and, worse, an unfamiliar man, and what in the name of heaven was going on?

Or
was
he unfamiliar?

Doing her best to stay calm, Elena tried to think, incredulously recognizing the infamously handsome features of Randolph Raine, Lord Andrews. It wasn’t as if they actually knew each other—he hadn’t even asked to be introduced to her this season, and if he had done so, her mother would have probably fainted dead away—but it was impossible to be part of the beau monde and not have seen him now and then at different events.

At this time, he was the reigning rake of the
ton
, his reputation more wicked than sin itself, his name a byword for seduction and forbidden pleasure.

What is he doing half-naked in the same bed with me
?

The infamous viscount stirred then, as if her horrified gaze had touched his psyche in some way even through his sleep, and he took in a long, sighing breath before moving one arm above his head in a careless arch. Even in repose he looked dangerous, with an almost beautiful cast to his features and all that tousled raven hair. . . .

Yes, that was his nickname, wasn’t it? Not that her mother or aunts would even mention him in front of her, but tidbits had still sifted through to her awareness.
The Raven
. She’d seen it in the society papers. A titillating and amusing nickname, but at the moment, all she could think about was his notoriety.

There was no doubt in her mind that he was about to open his eyes. She hadn’t the slightest notion of what might have prompted her current fantastical circumstances, but Elena was suddenly cognizant that she wore only a thin semitransparent shift, and upon her first swift perusal of the room, there was nothing to use to cover herself. The bed linens might have been an option, had he not been on top of them, but given his height and solidly muscled body, she doubted she could shift him even one inch to utilize them.

What is this place?
she had to wonder with frantic assessment, without even a stray blanket and no other furniture besides the ornate bed, a screen in the corner that she hoped concealed the necessary, and a small table that held a carafe, two glasses, and a lamp.

With a true sense of urgency, she wondered what had happened to her clothes because the viscount was waking up and . . .

Sure enough his eyes opened, the thick fringe of his lashes lifting. He stared at the stained-glass window for a moment and then with a sweeping glance surveyed the entire room, stopping when he saw her kneeling there next to him. He muttered, “What the devil?”

She’d had exactly the same reaction and a part of her was relieved that he seemed as startled as she was, but another part was more puzzled than ever.

In a swift athletic motion he levered up on one elbow and shook the hair out of his eyes, his tone husky. “What is this? Who are you?”

Considering she was the one clad only in a slip of flimsy silk, the warmth of embarrassment flushing her skin, she responded tartly, “I have not the slightest idea as to what
this
is. How did I get here?”

“How did
you
get here? As I’ve never seen you before and
here
is a mystery to me, how would I know?” He sat up fully and ran his long fingers through his thick hair. His eyes were dark, his skin a light bronzed tone that reflected the dappled multi-olored light from the unusual window high above them. Then his eyes narrowed. “Just a moment. I retract that. I do know who you are. . . . Whitbridge’s daughter?”

The evident consternation in his direct stare confused her even more. It was genuine, she would swear, and besides, she didn’t remember anything of arriving at this place—and as bizarre as it was, apparently he didn’t either.

Elena nodded, her lips trembling. Whatever was happening, there was no doubt that her father was frantic. How long had she even been here? “Yes, Lord Whitbridge is my father.”

Her companion swore. It was under his breath, but telling in intonation, and she caught the sentiment if not the exact words. After looking around the room again, he finally said evenly, “I don’t remember anything. I can count on one hand the times in my life I’ve been so foxed that an entire evening got away from me, and those were a decade ago, not to mention I doubt I’d ever forget bedding
you
. I wasn’t drunk, so how in Hades did I get here?”

* * *

The young woman in beguiling dishabille, who at the moment had turned a very becoming shade of pink, looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate, complete with cloven hooves and a forked tongue.

Perhaps he was, come to think of it.

Irrefutably, Ran would never have said anything so blunt in front of a young, unmarried—even if very beautiful—woman under normal circumstances, but then again, virginal misses were not his area of expertise. Were he concerned with fine manners and social graciousness at the moment, he would apologize for being so indelicate, but the truth was, they
were
in bed together and he had no idea how either one of them had gotten into this predicament.

Finesse be damned at this point in time.

The earl’s golden-haired daughter looked at him with enormous blue eyes, the pale upper curves of her full breasts gleaming above the lace of her demure chemise, the soft rose of her lips provocative. He’d seen her only in passing before, but up close, her beauty was as dazzling as all the rumors held it. “You . . . you didn’t,” she stammered, her blush deepening. “We didn’t . . . we couldn’t have—”

Fucked?
Luckily, he didn’t say that out loud. Courtesy was not his first priority at the moment but at least he didn’t vocalize the crudity.

“Exactly my point,” he grimly interrupted, partly because he was still unnaturally groggy and had an appalling headache, and partly to spare her, since it was obvious to him she didn’t know exactly what she was referring to in the first place. “But you have to admit certain conclusions could be drawn over our location and state of mutual undress.”

What he would have liked to say was that while he might be known for his largesse in the bedroom, at least it could be said that he remembered his paramours, but he made it a point never to discuss his private affairs with anyone.

Still, that raised the question: why was he here, in bed with the delectable daughter of an earl, who happened to be a young woman he’d never even met.

As far as he knew, there were no rumors about Whitbridge’s finances being suspect, but then again, Ran was a very rich man and his initial reaction to this unusually compromising situation was suspicion. There was a reason he stayed away from the eligible young ladies angling for wealthy, titled husbands. At not quite thirty, he wasn’t interested in the restrictions of marriage yet. But if he had to do his duty and acquire a wife in order to sire an heir, at least he wanted it to be his choice.

“If this is a ploy, you will wish you hadn’t tried it,” he said through his teeth with less civility than he might otherwise have used due to his aching head. “I can’t be coerced.”

In answer, she just looked at him in evident confusion, as if he’d suddenly lost his mind, which, in light of his current circumstances, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t. “What?”

“I won’t marry you.”

In any other situation, her horrified expression might have been amusing, but at the moment, he wasn’t in a particularly jocular mood. She stammered, “You surely do not think that I . . . I . . . That this . . . Are you insinuating . . . ?”

He lifted a brow.

This time it was anger that tinted her cheeks as she gathered her composure. Scathingly, she informed him, “My lord, your legendary charm seems to be in abeyance. I hope it does not offend your sense of self-worth, but rest assured, you are certainly
not
what I am looking for in a husband.”

If she was acting, she was quite good.

He took a moment, unclenched his jaw as he registered her sincerity, and reminded himself that she was lovely enough, he doubted that shopping for a rich husband in such a drastic way was necessary. “It’s been done before,” he said with less steel in his tone. “A man manipulated into a compromising position and honor-bound then to marry the young lady.”

“My understanding is that
honor
is a rather loose term to you.”

She was wrong. He only played the game with ladies who were as willing and as detached as he was, but Ran was well-aware of his reputation. “You don’t know me,” he said curtly.

“I am starting to wish that was still the case,” she shot back, her cheeks flushed.

If she was innocent, he deserved the set-down, and it sounded like she meant it.

The infidelities of his class had left him somewhat jaded. He’d been first seduced by one of his aunt’s friends—a countess whose much older husband was not that attentive—and after that enlightening experience, he’d seen enough of the value most of his privileged acquaintances put on their wedding vows to have a jaundiced view of the institution of marriage. It was his conclusion that while some species of animals and birds mated for life, human beings were not sophisticated enough for that sort of loyalty. It was usually a mercenary arrangement, and if he were honest with himself, he’d always thought there should be much more to it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood abruptly, wondering where in hell the rest of his clothes might be, not to mention his boots. In his experience—and he had to admit he had quite a bit—the usual scene of any seduction had clothing strewn on the floor or any other convenient surface as the participants disrobed in the heat of passion. Not interested in defending his morals, he asked, “Now that we’ve established neither one of us wants to be here, why
are
we? What do you remember?”

“Attending the theater.” She lifted a trembling hand to smooth back her shining hair, the long pale strands gilded by the colored light, her expression disconcerted, but to her credit, at least she wasn’t in hysterics like most spoiled young ladies might have been. “I was waiting for my father’s carriage. It is unclear to me what happened after that.”

His
last recollection before waking? Ran wasn’t sure. He contemplated it for a moment, rubbing his jaw. “I was leaving my club. I’d met friends there for dinner and a whiskey or two, but as I said, I was hardly inebriated enough for this. My last impression was of stepping out onto the street.”

The floor was cool stone like the walls, and from the circular shape of the room, it appeared to be in a tower. When he strode purposefully to the door, he already knew what he would find.

As he suspected, the door was barred on the outside. He tried it, and then set his shoulder to it, but it was solid and didn’t move even a fraction. When he turned back around, his delectable companion had gathered the blanket from the bed and covered her partial nudity, her eyes pools of inquiry.

Had their circumstances been different, he might have experienced a twinge of regret, but as it stood, it was just as well.

“Locked,” he said unnecessarily.

“Why?”

“My very question.” He saw the glasses on the table and was grateful—at the moment, for later he might want something stronger—that the pitcher was full of water. First he poured a glass for her, guessing that if she’d been given the same vile drug that he’d obviously been dosed with, she might also be thirsty. She accepted with a chilly thank-you, and when he’d taken a long, cool drink for himself, he asked neutrally, “Can you think of any reason someone would wish to kidnap you?”

“My father is wealthy.”

So was he, so it was a possibility, but in Ran’s case, his funds were not available without his presence to sign the proper documents. So that was an oversight on the part of their abductor. However, now that his throbbing headache was easing a little, the whole thing seemed like perhaps there was more behind it than money. To start with, why take their clothes?

“I suppose it could be we are going to be ransomed,” he conceded slowly, wondering what drug they’d been given because he’d drained his glass of water and was still thirsty, and his headache was pronounced enough that he was glad the room was shadowed.