What I Did For a Duke Read online

  Jacob Eversea and the duke looked up then when they heard footsteps on the marble stairs.

  “Where the devil did this come from?” Ian’s voice preceded him down the stairs. He was holding the boot.

  He halted so quickly on the bottom stair when he saw the duke he nearly toppled off.

  “I believe you’re acquainted with my son Ian?” Jacob turned to the duke.

  Ian thrust the boot behind his back and froze, motionless as any pointing hunting spaniel. He stared.

  At last he came down from the step and walked across the cold marble as gingerly as if it were hot coals. And then he bowed low. The instinct was a reflex in Everseas, anyway, and doubtless bought him time to think. When he was upright his complexion was nearly indistinguishable in color from the marble.

  Whatever he’d thought on the way down hadn’t comforted him in the least.

  “Our paths have crossed.” The duke addressed this to Jacob and bowed low, too, but his bow was a parody. “How is your horse, Ian?”

  “Present,” Ian said faintly after a moment. His horse had found its way home, from Lady Abigail’s house, in other words.

  “Clever horse,” the duke acknowledged.

  Unlike his master, were the unspoken words.

  “What brings you to Eversea House, Moncrieffe?”

  Very polite the question, but strain pitched it nearly an octave higher than Ian’s usual voice. His nostrils had flared; white lines made dents on either side of them.

  “Opportunity,” Moncrieffe said simply.

  And smiled the sort of smile that wolves do, when they have their prey neatly cornered.

  While the duke was upstairs brushing off the dust and planting a boot at the foot of Ian’s bed, Genevieve had made a futile dash for her bedroom. Colin had slipped away to his home, Ian had made it up the stairs, Olivia had slipped away . . .

  But her mother was lying in wait, and Genevieve had been captured in the foyer just before the duke arrived.

  What did the Everseas know about the Duke of Falconbridge? If you asked Jacob, he would say the man had a knack for brilliantly choosing investments and had not yet thrown in his lot with Isaiah Redmond’s Mercury Club, which meant he might very well make an excellent partner in business endeavors for Jacob. He approved of his cattle—six matched bays—and of his new barouche, and even of his reputation, as the Eversea family closet rattled with skeletons and rumors swirled smokelike around how they’d acquired their undeniably immense fortune. He approved of the duke’s gambling skills and was looking forward to plying his own against him.

  If one would have asked Genevieve about the duke, she would have said she knew that he was very tall. Fair-skinned. Dark haired. Exuded an impatience and importance so thoroughly intimidating it preceded him into rooms like a gust of strong wind. Even when he was motionless for long periods of time—she’d seen him standing at balls, hands folded behind his back, like Wellington surveying a battlefield, the crowds eddying around him at a polite and careful distance as surely as if he were surrounded by a moat, he somehow always looked poised to dash. He had overlooked her, both literally (she was petite) and figuratively, at the two balls at which they’d been mutually present, and she had known only relief. She didn’t know whether he was handsome, though certainly women thought his aura of danger had its appeal and no one shielded their eyes in horror in his presence. She simply never intended to look at him long enough to decide for herself.

  She knew, of course, it was said that he’d poisoned his wife when she mysteriously died and he’d inherited all of her money, that he’d allegedly dueled with swords, that he’d once shot a man for pleasure, that he’d ruined more than one man who’d dared deal dishonestly with him, sometimes years later, which meant he’d undertaken it with cold-blooded thoroughness and planning. He’d been engaged for a time to Lady Abigail Beasley and now he wasn’t.

  And he was standing in the foyer.

  He was talking to her father and . . . well, he appeared to be smiling. Her father did make people smile; her brothers didn’t come by their roguish charm accidentally. Likely they were discussing barouches or horses or the other sorts of things that bonded men the world over.

  And she could see, leaning over on the second landing of the stairs, a cluster of housemaids avidly staring and whispering, like mice watching a cat. As though safety could be had in numbers.

  When they heard Isolde Eversea’s slippers clacking over the marble they scattered.

  Her pretty mother bore down upon Genevieve, looking bright and purposeful, which could not bode well.

  “A word, Genevieve, love, if you will.”

  She was steered into the green sitting room, called as such because it was . . . primarily green. Shades of it were everywhere in the delicate curving furniture, a hearty plump settee, long velvet curtains roped in silver tasseled cord. A soothing room. Apart from the explosion of color provided by a bouquet of exotic blooms in the corner.

  “Good grief. It looks like a blessed jungle in here. But the young men will continue to send flowers,” her mother said, and gingerly touched a spiky leaf on the bouquet.

  Olivia’s admirers were legion and persistent, primarily because Olivia was beautiful and indifferent.

  It wasn’t as though Genevieve never received flowers. They were generally of the sentimental sort, however, or of the pale and delicate sort, rather than the . . . magnificent sort. Her suitors assumed Genevieve Eversea would prefer flowers pulled up out of the ground in meadows. Seasonal. Infinitely more practical and sweet and quiet.

  And then Isolde peered at Genevieve. “What’s wrong?” she demanded sharply.

  “Naught, Mama.”

  “You look ill. White as a sheet and green ’round the gills. We’ll have Harriet make you a simple.”

  So she was to be savagely heartbroken and then poisoned by one of their cook’s noxious herbal brews in the space of a few hours? Dante would find inspiration in this day.

  “Then I truly will be ill, Mama,” she pointed out with quiet desperation.

  There was no hope for it; her mother had decided upon her course and that was that.

  “It’s a wonderful day for a walk, don’t you think, Genevieve?” she said with suspicious brightness.

  “No,” she said quickly.

  As far as Genevieve was concerned, horrible things happened on walks. She would consent to take a walk only if it ended at the Cliffs of Dover. Far, far away from here.

  “I know you’ve been out, but another dose of fresh air would do you a world of good.” Her mother was deaf only to her own objective. “I think it would be lovely if you young people take the duke”—meaning the duke of course wasn’t, strictly speaking, young—“out to see the folly and perhaps the ruins. Before the rains arrive and turn that hill just before it into mud.”

  Genevieve was aghast. Oh. Please, please, please no. She was fit only for shutting the door of her room, lying sideways on her bed, and holding herself tightly to muffle the pain of loss. She didn’t think she would cry. Not yet. Perhaps later she would.

  Now every sound, every sight, every sensation, landed on her and stung. She was raw. Speaking to the Duke of Falconbridge seemed inconceivable.

  Honestly, she should visit her cousin Adam, the vicar, to review with him her sins—surely if she’d committed any they were modest?—to see which of them might have resulted in her sudden plunge into purgatory. Perhaps it was a cumulative sort of thing. Perhaps if the little sins went too long un-repented the punishment could only be dramatic and sudden.

  “Mama, the duke can hardly wish to see the folly and the ruins. Doubtless a dozen follies and ruins feature on his properties, and all of them are greater follies and more ruinous than ours. I’m certain he’d rather spend time with Papa.”

  And do things men nearer to that age do. Smoke cigars. Complain of gout.

  This last thought was mere indulgence in petulance. Papa was actually quite fit unless one quibbled over a slight th
ickening at the middle. He hadn’t any gout. His sons were tall and lanky, and every last one of them was taller than he, and Colin was the tallest by an inch.

  And the duke was hardly Papa’s age. Yet.

  But they’d taken the duke’s hat, the footmen. She could see from where she stood a frost of gray at each temple. He wore his hair a little longer than was strictly fashionable, though he had plenty of it, and most of it was black. Perhaps when one reached his age one simply stopped caring about fashion. Though his clothes were impeccably tailored, emphasizing his lean grace.

  And she knew he did have a folly. At least one, given how much of England he was alleged to own. Genevieve was familiar with one of the duke’s properties—Rosemont—as she’d gone to tour it once when he was away at one of his other vast tracts of lands. It was surprisingly modest by duke terms, a redbrick manor in West Sussex presiding over a collection of softly swelling hills, which surrounded a lake populated by enormous, irritable swans and overhung with willows. The garden had been brilliant with its namesake blooms and the fountain in the courtyard featured a lasciviously grinning stone satyr performing an arabesque and spitting water high into the air.

  She’d found it delightful. It’s pocket-sized, whimsical beauty hardly seemed to suit him, but then he normally spent his time in London and likely had all but forgotten he owned it.

  Her mother lowered her voice. “He is lately . . . disengaged, as you know.”

  And then Genevieve fully understood what her mother was contemplating.

  And it was much, much worse than a stroll.

  “Mama . . . I feel terrible,” she modified rapidly. “I feel . . .” What would convince her mother? “. . . I feel faint.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, so it wasn’t another sin. How did one feign a swoon? She placed the back of her hand on her forehead. Swoons seemed to begin that way. She fumbled for the arm of the settee with her other hand, and sank slowly into it.

  She was petite, but she had the constitution of a plow horse. She’d never fainted in her life.

  Her mother narrowed her eyes, eyes so very similar to her own. She missed almost nothing, Mama, but she was immovable.

  “I’ll own you are not yourself, Genevieve, but I’m inclined to blame whatever it is you did or didn’t eat for breakfast. You are fit enough to walk with a duke, and you are always lovely, even when pale.”

  “But Mama—I do have a terrible—” What part of her ought to ache cripplingly enough to excuse her from the walk but not require a frantic messenger sent to fetch the doctor? She could hardly say soul. “—headache.”

  “Unless you can demonstrate to me that you’re missing a limb necessary for performing a stroll, you will go, Genevieve. You will be kind to the man, as he may have suffered a loss and perhaps be . . . consolable. Inclined to remedy his loss.”

  “But Mama, he’s . . . I can’t . . . but he . . .”

  “. . . is a man who can keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed and do honor to this family. I know you are a bit. . . . well, a bit shy . . . my dear . . . but this will do you good.”

  Her mother gave her back an implacable I-know-what’s-good-for-you-better-than-you-do gaze.

  It was disorienting. How was it that she hadn’t noticed this before? Nobody knew. Nobody knew what was best for her and what she wanted. And why did anyone believe she was shy? She wasn’t the least shy. Quiet was not synonymous with shy.

  She must have looked stricken, for her mother sighed.

  “For heaven’s sake, my love, we aren’t speaking of indenturing you to the man. It’s one walk. It needn’t dictate the course of forever and I’m not one of those mamas who orchestrate their children’s lives, though I’m of a mind to change. After all, every woman needs an avocation,” she added darkly.

  “Where is Olivia?” Genevieve tried mulishly.

  Olivia was slippery, that’s what Olivia was. She might very well be hiding behind a flower arrangement and snickering at Genevieve.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see yet another one being brought through the door. Mrs. Mullin, the housekeeper, stood scratching her head in the foyer, clearly wondering where to direct the footmen.

  Her father and Ian and the duke had vanished from the foyer. To look at horses or some such, no doubt.

  Isolde sighed. “My dear, please just . . .”

  And then Genevieve watched in horror as her mother actually . . .

  . . . wrung her hands.

  This was a dirty trick, indeed. Not for the first time, or even the thousandth, Genevieve wished that she had her sister’s fortitude. For despite her battered emotional condition she of course took pity on her mother, who worried so over all of them, had stalwartly and with humor survived sending sons off to war and to the gallows, and had truly despaired that Olivia would ever be married.

  For her mother’s sake, she would go on the walk.

  She hadn’t any conversation or charm or any of herself to spare. But she would go and walk alongside the duke.

  When her mother saw her softening she placed a hand on her knee and offered a concession.

  “My dear, you’re certain to enjoy yourself. After all, Harry and Millicent will go along, too.”

  Chapter 4

  Moncrieffe’s first look at the girl he meant to seduce and abandon was hardly promising, though this in itself suggested his task might be easier than he’d dreamed. She was petite and colorless and lightless. Her complexion was fair and unblemished, but it was difficult to know her age, for the bloom was most certainly off of her. Her walking dress was white muslin striped in gray, and she’d thrown a shawl around it, and was clutching it defensively in one pale fist. Her presence was in fact so subdued he would not have been surprised to hear she was mute.

  Her friend, on the other hand—introduced as Lady Millicent Blenkenship—was a place a man could comfortably rest his eyes. A lush round girl. Lord Harry Osborne and an almost comically wary Ian Eversea were to come along on this walk, too, and Jacob Eversea, as host, was to lead the way.

  Moncrieffe was not one for walks that led nowhere in particular to places of minimal interest. He could have demurred. He possessed rank; the Everseas were polite. In all likelihood they would do anything he suggested, perhaps even launch into a rousing version of that everlasting pub song about Colin Eversea’s ignominious rescue from the gallows, though they might be a trifle sensitive about that for all he knew.

  But he had an objective, and so he assented, and they all mounted an expedition to see the Everseas’ folly.

  “Breathe that in, eh, Moncrieffe! Nothing like a hint of sea in the Sussex autumn air.” This was Jacob Eversea, heartily striding forward.

  Despite the fact that he . . . owned so much of the fresh air and open spaces of England, Moncrieffe spent most of his time in the coal-smut-thickened skies of London.

  Which could be why he was promptly wracked by a fit of coughing the moment he dutifully inhaled.

  He stopped. His concerned hosts ringed him. Through watering eyes he gained an impression of sympathetic watching eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ian Eversea trying not to look hopeful about his impending demise.

  He put up one finger: Momentarily.

  “That’ll clear a man’s lungs, by God, won’t it, Moncrieffe.” Jacob Eversea was waiting patiently. “We’re not going to lose you, are we?”

  “By God,” Moncrieffe croaked, when he could speak again. “I’m well. Naught to be concerned about. ’Tis nothing a good snort of dirty London air wouldn’t cure.”

  Jacob Eversea snorted at that. “I’ve some cigars that come a close substitute. I’ll share them later as a cure once we’ve endured this trip. Five-card loo tonight, eh, Your Grace? And come Saturday . . . spread the word, lads!” he directed to Ian and Harry.

  Who smiled politely.

  “I would tolerate no other diversion at night,” the duke said somberly, and the elder Eversea laughed.

  For five-card loo was the gam
e the duke was known for winning the most. And it was hardly considered a reputable game.

  “Do you need a walking staff?”

  What a quiet voice.

  The duke turned slowly, incredulously toward it, then looked down. This was Miss Genevieve Eversea asking. So very politely and solicitously. As though she expected him to tip over should his boot encounter a rut and they would have to rush to fetch a plow horse to tow him up out of it.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Genevieve. The duke is in excellent health,” Eversea called back to her irritably as they trundled up the lane.

  Genevieve didn’t seem at all nonplussed by her father’s tone. She was doubtless used to him.

  He may as well begin charming her now.

  “He’s correct, Miss Eversea. But your concern is kind, indeed,” the duke said softly.

  “Harry! Do look at that funny squirrel! He’s so fat!”

  Lady Millicent was all but skipping up the lane, but she’d paused to point at a small round beast that glowered and made those gulping squirrel noises at them from on high. It flicked its tale irritably. “I should like to draw it!”

  “Plenty more squirrels where that one came from, Millicent,” Jacob said with infinitely dry patience.

  And so with Jacob’s pace, and Ian’s eagerness to keep his distance from Moncrieffe, and Millicent pointing out squirrels to Harry, Genevieve and the duke were in due time left behind. He wondered if she was doing it out of solicitousness, the way one might humor an invalid.

  She seemed to be comfortable saying absolutely nothing.

  They walked for a few moments down that lane lined with stripped trees. Leaves crunched underfoot.

  “I love this part of England. I’ve an estate but a few hours from here.”

  That he hadn’t seen in several months because . . . well, why would he? He’d a larger one even closer; he preferred his St. James Square town house. Rosemont held memories that gave him no comfort.

  “Rosemont,” she said softly.