Lady Saves the Duke Read online

  “It is infinitely more pleasurable when one can see what one is doing,” the duke agreed. Instead of enjoying the coolness of being outdoors, Abigail was unexpectedly quite, quite aware of the heat emanating from the man walking beside her. She tried to focus on the cool grass beneath her feet, and the gentle breeze stirring her dress, but her thoughts defied her and instead directed themselves upon the hardness of the arm beneath her hand and a spicy, male scent that invited her to lean closer.

  They continued their casual stroll across the lawn while Abigail gathered her thoughts enough to direct the conversation toward another subject. “I disagree completely with the mark that the ton has chosen to put upon you.”

  “The Duke of Ice?” His laughter rang false.

  “Yes,” she responded firmly, warming to her subject. “I think it is childish and cruel, but most of all, untrue. I have come to believe that society is made up of a group of people who collectively possess the maturity of an adolescent girl. Such nonsense, declaring that merely because a person chooses to be reticent he lacks emotions. Everybody has emotions—worries, sadness, wants…needs.”

  “I will admit, I do have those.” This time, a husky tone sounded in his voice.

  “Yes. You may be assured that I do not believe a word of it. You have shown me honor, and…and compassion…and kindness. I am going to remind myself, the next time I listen to a piece of gossip, of how untrue hearsay can be. I think that, in fact, Your Grace, you are a kind person indeed.”

  “Being kind has never been something I have aspired to, Miss Wright.” His tone stirred something inside of her. She trembled and lost her train of thought once again. They had reached the edge of the lawn near a path that led around the lake and the duke came to a halt.

  When he turned to face her, she moved backward until her back pressed against the solid trunk of a tree.

  They should go back. She should edge away and march across the lawn on her own.

  But she did not. Instead, she stood as though mesmerized, caught in the intensity of his silver gaze.

  He stepped forward and put one hand on the tree, inches from her face. He continued to hold his drink in his other hand. “Now being friendly is something else entirely.” He then tipped his head down and pressed his open mouth against her neck.

  He touched her with nothing but his lips and tongue. So very different than the last time. And yet, the horror of the situation she’d allowed herself to fall into, once again, paralyzed her. She could not cry out for help. She could not scream.

  There was something different, though.

  As he trailed his lips along the line of her nape, he left a tingling awareness as thrilling as it was disturbing. It was almost even enjoyable.

  Until his hand moved down and grasped her breast. This was not different. This was the same! And the smell of whiskey suddenly overwhelmed her as well.

  “Stop! Please stop!” was all she managed. She struggled for air as the world closed in on her. It could not happen again. Oh, it could not.

  She was too far gone to realize that the duke had removed his hand from her breast and his lips from her neck. He had, in fact, stepped back to watch her through narrowed eyes.

  And then she fainted.

  Alex’s reflexes were just barely quick enough to keep Miss Wright from falling to the ground. This was a first for him. One moment he was caught up in the lazy sexual haze of desire for this lush little package of femininity, and the next he was holding that same little package in a manner different from what he had imagined. And after he’d caught her, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with her.

  And damn, when he’d prevented her from landing on the grass, he’d failed to do the same for his drink. The earth, rather than his gut, absorbed the last sips of Ravensdale’s fine scotch.

  Hell.

  He couldn’t leave her out here on the lawn, alone.

  Damn his eyes, but she’d fainted dead away. The moonlight shining on her face revealed the delicate and translucent skin around her eyes and on her cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted and dark lashes fanned downward, hiding her exceedingly expressive eyes.

  He supposed he ought to take her back into the house.

  Sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, he lifted her easily. When he stumbled, though, he realized he’d perhaps absorbed plenty of Ravensdale’s scotch after all. Perhaps he didn’t really need the few drops he’d lost due to her faint.

  Perhaps.

  The lawn tilted to one side, and just when he’d righted himself, it tilted the other way. He had no idea how long it took to reach the library doors, but it seemed far longer than it ought.

  Once inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust. The room appeared much darker than it had when he’d been sitting quietly, minding his own business, just a short while ago. He nearly knocked over a lamp, and then a vase, before dropping Miss Wright into an inelegant heap on the leather couch.

  Again, what to do with her. He ran a hand through his hair and considered his options.

  He could leave her here alone.

  No. He immediately dismissed this notion. The worst case scenario would be that somebody would find her and take advantage; the best case would have her discovered upon awakening and open to censure and scorn. She’d be mired in yet another scandal.

  Kneeling on the floor beside her, he gently patted her cheek. “Miss Wright? Miss Wright?” She was breathing softly but did not awaken. Had she, too, been imbibing? He leaned forward to see if he could smell anything on her breath.

  Hovering close to her mouth, he inhaled softly through his nostrils.

  She smelled slightly of mint and another unidentifiable fragrance that was clean and feminine. One of his hands rested on the couch near her ear and the other near her waist. Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

  Most unfortunately, Abigail had always been a fainter. Upon those distressing situations which were either frightening or extremely overwhelming, she became short of breath, experienced that sensation of standing at the end of a long and dark tunnel, and then fainted dead away. This disagreeable tendency annoyed herself more than anyone else. It annoyed her because, whenever she had seen other women faint, they did it so prettily and would be revived after only a few moments. Abigail was quite certain that her faints were never graceful, nor were they feminine. Her dear cousin, in Penelope-like honesty, had adamantly confirmed this for her. Furthermore, when Abigail fainted, it took several minutes for her to be revived. A frightening notion in and of itself. She did not like thinking of her person—her human body—lying defenseless and vulnerable.

  When she revived, on this particular occasion, the first thing she saw was a slightly recognizable but utterly handsome face. Far too close for comfort, in fact. And far too handsome. But familiar. Oh, Lord, it was the duke!

  Abigail scrambled quickly to sit up and pushed the duke away from her. “Your Grace, I am so sorry. What must you think of me?” She gradually realized that she was in the library at Raven’s Park and it must be very late at night. There were no candles lit, and she and the duke were quite alone.

  And then she remembered why she had fainted, and she pushed even harder at the duke. “What are you doing?” she demanded accusingly. Her push caused him to fall back away from her. He caught himself with the arm of the sofa and simply stared at her, kneeling on the floor.

  For just a moment, his face looked like that of a small boy who’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Only for a moment though.

  Relaxing on his haunches, he quickly transformed back into the marble-faced, arrogant, and emotionless duke once again. “My apologies for startling you, Miss Wright.” His voice sounded level and controlled. “I was only making certain that you were breathing…which you apparently are, might I add.”

  Abigail swung her feet off the couch and felt slightly less at a disadvantage, except that her feet didn’t quite reach the floor. “How did I
get back in here?” she asked suspiciously.

  The duke studied the carpet. “I’m afraid that I perhaps frightened you. My advances, it seems, were not as welcome as I had led myself to believe.”

  And then he met her eyes again. His own were bloodshot, but he appeared lucid and stoic. “After you fainted, I carried you inside. You have been unconscious for several minutes now.” And then, “Will you accept my apology, Miss Wright?”

  Abigail smoothed her dress. She was nervous that he had perhaps not been honorable while she had been unconscious. But upon finding her gown intact, and squirming with no unusual sensations, surmised that he must have behaved himself. She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

  “You thought I would welcome…You thought that I would…” She couldn’t continue. Looking away, she did her best to bring her emotions under control. Her reputation obviously would be with her forever. She wiped at one eye quickly, not wanting him to see how upset she was.

  A handkerchief was pressed into her other hand. “Please accept my apologies.” His voice didn’t sound quite as cold and clipped. “You must allow me to escort you back to your room now. It would not do for you to be seen.”

  Abigail nodded but did not meet his eyes. “Yes,” she managed.

  Looking at the pathetic little thing, the duke couldn’t help feeling like a heel. And a fool. And a cad. The combination of those three descriptors drew from him an abundance of self-loathing. For he had been careless and reckless. He would have liked to have blamed the drink, or Riverton, the fact that he’d gone too long without sex, or the fact that he’d been imagining the chit’s breasts all afternoon, but he wasn’t one to make excuses for himself. He’d simply acted foolishly. And his actions had frightened Miss Wright into a dead-away faint.

  Walking to the door into the corridor, he peeked out to ascertain they would not be observed. She rose from the couch and followed him. He offered her his arm, and she took hold of it uncertainly. Not another word was spoken as he walked with her all the way to the third floor, for God’s sake, and she slipped inside her chamber.

  Knowing for certain that he would be departing at first light, Alex returned to his room and awoke his valet. Excuse or no, he would return to Brooke’s Abbey post haste.

  Chapter 4

  Brooke’s Abbey

  The duke had hoped that when he returned to his estate he’d be able to put the entire debacle of Miss Abigail Wright firmly out of his mind. He wasn’t upset by the lady, herself, per se. His own actions concerned him.

  He’d overimbibed while a guest in the Earl of Ravensdale’s home and then virtually accosted an innocent young woman. His actions had been out of character and unforgivable. Without the demands of his estate and his horses, he’d dwell on this self-loathing and disgust to no end. He needed to wear himself out physically and mentally, and he could only do so at Brooke’s Abbey. Then, perhaps, he would find a bit of peace and quiet, late at night.

  And so he returned to Brooke’s Abbey.

  But even then his thoughts haunted him.

  Words she’d spoken that horrible night had penetrated his mind and then continued to plague him. I disagree completely with the mark that the ton has chosen to label you with…such nonsense: declaring that merely because a person chooses to be reticent he lacks emotions. Everybody has emotions; worries, sadness, wants…needs…And it is unkind as well. She had trusted him. She had chosen to ignore his reputation and think the best of him.

  You have shown me honor, and…and compassion…and kindness. I think that, in fact, Your Grace, you are a kind person indeed.

  She had thought him to be honorable and kind. But what bothered him most was her statement she had made about gossip. I must remind myself, the next time I listen to a piece of gossip, of how untrue hearsay can be.

  She had been innocently telling him all of this while he had acted on malicious gossip he’d heard about her. And her actions had proven it to be completely untrue. She had not been a woman of easy virtue. No, in fact, she had acted more like a frightened virgin. She’d fainted, for God’s sake! How else could one interpret such a response?

  Miss Abigail Wright invoked a plaguing guilt in him. And the foreign sensation of humility.

  This woman of whom he would normally take no notice whatsoever had managed to wedge herself into his conscience, and it irritated him. The cumulative effect of these emotions, added to his normal feelings of inadequacy since the accident, further fueled his discontent. He was a worthless excuse of a man, and yet, he was also a bloody damn duke. Even he could almost laugh at the combination of fortune and tragedy in his life.

  But he’d accepted his lot in life. His blessings, his fate…his duty.

  The best way he knew to handle the warring conflict within himself was to fulfill responsibilities ingrained into him for as long as he could remember. He must be diligent as a landlord, he must find honorable ways to keep all of his estates prosperous, and he must provide the dukedom with a strong, intelligent, and healthy heir. The first two came naturally for him. The last, he admitted to himself, meant he was going to have to take measures next spring. As much as he had wished to avoid it, he must find another wife. A mistress would not suffice, for a bastard did not become an heir. He would present himself upon the marriage mart next spring.

  Just a few days after his return and making such a life-altering decision, his Aunt Cecily, who normally spent the off seasons on the Continent or at various house parties, returned to spend the remainder of the summer at her home, which she made in the dower house at Brooke’s Abbey. And since she was to be at home, she had requested Margaret, Alex’s only sibling, to spend a fortnight at Brooke’s Abbey as well. Of course, Margaret would bring the children.

  Not an unusual occurrence. With her home less than a day’s ride away, she often visited while her husband, the Earl of Clive, traveled to oversee some of his distant estates. And she always determined that she and the children had a duty to “cheer uncle up,” as she put it.

  “Margaret and I can visit with some of the tenants while she is here. Ever since the accident you’ve neglected them.” His Aunt Cecily chastised him over dinner the evening before Margaret’s arrival. “Not to worry, dear,” she told him, placing one gnarled but manicured and be-ringed hand atop Alex’s own. “That’s why you have Margaret and me. Hopefully, you’ll participate in the season next year?”

  Alex nodded, noncommittally, despite his decision. Once he expressed his plans to find a wife, he was afraid he would not be given a moment’s rest until the deed was done. His female relatives would pursue brides for him in a relentless manner. He’d not escape the matchmaking until some unlucky woman managed to drag him to the altar.

  Not that he resented her…interference.

  Aunt Cecily meant well. Not maternal by any means, she’d watched out for Alex’s wellbeing, nonetheless, after his mother’s passing. Like Brooke’s Abbey, she remained a touchstone for him. Not many things had been a constant in his life, but he always had Aunt Cecily, Margaret, and his homes.

  The next morning, Margaret, along with her twin two-year-old sons, two nannies, a maid, and several outriders entered the long drive that led to the ducal manor. His sister’s husband, the Earl of Clive, was inspecting his northernmost estates, and in his stead, he’d sent a veritable army of liveried outriders along to protect his family. Margaret and the earl’s marriage was a love match. The two had married three weeks before Hyacinth and the children drowned. Their wedding anniversary would forever be a bittersweet one amongst them all.

  Margaret and the children waved gaily as the coaches pulled to a stop. Now a mother, her face looked even lovelier than she had as a debutante. She looked mellower, maternal—happy.

  Assisting Aunt Cecily down the marble front steps, Alex couldn’t help but think the older woman leaned more heavily upon him than usual. She was definitely getting on in age. The two waited patiently as the footman pulled out the step, opened the carriage door, and assisted M
argaret, the nannies, and the children out.

  “Monfort, you look as cheerful as ever.” Margaret’s words sounded sarcastic, but her smile carried sisterly affection. After embracing their aunt, she took both of his hands in hers and squeezed them warmly.

  “You are lucky I am at home,” he told her, “I have only recently returned from a blasted house party. Had I been inclined to stay for the duration, I would not have been here to greet you.” In the past, he had spent the summers almost exclusively at Brooke’s Abbey. Neither Margaret nor Cecily would have considered the possibility that he would be away.

  “A house party? Alex?” she said with raised brows. “Whoever was persuasive enough to engage you as a guest?” Despite having given birth to twin boys and embracing motherhood fully, Margaret would always be the only daughter of a duke. As a countess, she remained as regal as ever, with her dark hair elegantly styled and her gown of the latest fashion.

  One of the nannies stepped forward with a small boy on each hand while the other nanny gathered baby paraphernalia from inside of the carriage. Bending down to be on level with her children, Margaret addressed her two boys lovingly. “Come give Uncle Alex a kiss, boys.” She picked up one, and Alex effortlessly lifted the other. They both had blondish hair, like their father. One was named Michael and the other Christopher, but Alex could not tell the two apart.

  “And who have we here?” he asked, looking into the small boy’s wary eyes. He saw them often but had not spent much time in their company. He must still seem like a stranger to them. As he considered this, he realized he’d never before held one of them without being forced to do so.

  Miss Abigail Wright would have chastised him for this. What was it she had accused him of doing? Your Grace, you appear to have chosen to ignore the pleasures that are present in the here and now. She had accused him of dwelling in the tragedies of the past, impertinent wench.