The Duke's Temptation Page 3

  Remarry, beget a son, rejoin the ton. Spend more time in town. Make a convenient marriage where the lady understood the score. He had tried that once and look where that had left him.

  Snap out of it. It is the way of our world.

  No, no and no.

  Tonight, though, he had what he wanted. Solitude. Gibb rang no bell and made his way into his study, where a fire still gave out enough of a glow for him to see to light a lamp. A carafe and a covered plate waited on the desk. He ignored the food, poured a whisky from his own estates in Scotland and slumped in a large leather chair to ponder the events of the evening.

  Gibb sipped the amber liquid and savored its smoky taste as for the first time in ages he considered his surroundings. They held none of his stamp or personality. The furniture had been chosen for function, not aesthetic appeal. Boring and bland, one friend had called it, like Gibb’s life. Just as Gibb wanted.

  The same friend had warned him that although Gibb might think his life would put women off trying to catch his attention, it did the very opposite. ‘Now they all want to be the one to bring you and the house back to life,’ Beck had told him with a laugh. Gibb shuddered. Personally, he did not think it a laughing matter.

  Never again.

  So why did a picture of a whirling knife, a vivacious woman and long limbs spring to mind?

  Gibb undid the three ivory buttons on his waistcoat and stretched out his long legs in front of the embers. Damn Denby Crowe. Damn his host for inviting either of them.

  And if he was to continue on those lines, damn himself for attending the spectacular.

  La Belle Evangeline had seemed well equipped to look after herself. So, why oh why did he now discover he had a conscience over more than his late wife’s death? It did not sit comfortably on him. Gibb was aware that others thought him a tortured figure, one with agony and tragedy in his life, and gossiped about him as such. The number of women who offered to ‘help’ him showed that. Why couldn’t they understand he had no intention of remarrying or getting involved with anyone who wanted anything from him, especially emotion?

  He had no emotion to give.

  It didn’t bother him. Gibb lived his life as he wished, unencumbered by sentiment, happy not to have to pretend something he didn’t feel. He had never prescribed to that state of mind and had no intention of starting now. Any sexual encounter was purely to relieve the ache in his body, and understood on both sides to be just that and nothing more. The moment a woman he was involved with thought otherwise, their liaison was over. He had long vowed that never again would he be liable for the happiness of another person.

  Even if he didn’t care, it was too much of a responsibility.

  Now, out of the blue, this young Frenchwoman had pushed her way to the forefront of his mind and his body responded as it had never done before. Oh, he’d felt desire, but not this emotional tug. This unwilling—and unwanted—need to discover more about someone, and to be glad, almost eager, to spend time with them.

  None of that was needed, was it? Gibb closed his mind to carnal thoughts and concentrated on the other things about Evangeline. Or tried to. For once his traitorous body didn’t respond to his demand and instead remained tense and alert.

  She lived above Eloise. Curious. He had of course heard of the famous modiste. Who had not? But why was this woman living there? There must be twenty or more years between them. If she hadn’t said her mother was dead he could have thought perhaps… But no, the intonations in her voice when she spoke of her parent with one sort of love and Eloise with another told him that they were not the same person.

  However, his curiosity was piqued. For he had thought each building in Bruton Street a self-contained house with no subdivisions. Did it mean she and Eloise were friends or even relations? What did it matter? Gibb had the uncomfortable feeling he was becoming much too interested in the woman. Was his own life so tedious that he now had to ponder about someone else’s?

  Probably.

  He sank his chin into his cravat, heedless of the extra creases he created in his perfectly tied neckpiece, and steepled his hands together, the half-empty whisky glass cradled between them. The cravat would go to be washed now anyway, and he didn’t expect visitors at that time of the night—or morning. Deep in thought, Gibb remembered something Beck—the one friend who could speak to him so—had told him in no uncertain terms on more than one occasion. ‘One day you’ll come out of your self-imposed isolation. Pray God it won’t be too late.’

  He’d scoffed at Beck, who, along with Veronique, was in Gibb’s opinion much too optimistic about the world and its occupants. Now, though, he wondered.

  A log shifted in the grate and a few sparks danced above it to fall back and dim the room once more. Gibb ignored it. He had no inclination to add more fuel or to brighten his surroundings. He perused one gleaming Hessian and thought of pretty sandals and glittery chains.

  Evangeline. La Belle Evangeline.

  Was this the time Beck had warned him about? It couldn’t be. But Gibb had to admit to himself that his interest had been stirred. Woken up and was demanding to be assuaged. Would he allow that?

  No, he thought defiant and definite. He was fine. He didn’t need any complication in his life. With that question sorted and discarded, Gibb tossed back the rest of his whisky with scant regard for taste or scent, doused the lamp and made his way upstairs to his lonely bed.

  * * * *

  “Gibb, I need you.” The voice was petulant and demanding. The mouth downturned, the expression sharp and unpleasant. “You should be here, now. Why are you not? It is not fair. I will do it. I will.”

  “Hester, it is not reasonable, or sensible.” Why couldn’t she understand? Why did she always ask for more than he could give? “You know that. Enough now.”

  She stamped her foot. “It is not. I want more.” Her voice rose with a wildness he dreaded. “Why don’t you stay here more often? You know how I am. Why is it all about you? Why do you never pay attention to my wants and needs? Why?”

  Why, always why. She knew. She insisted it was her desire. She agreed… “Hester, you know what I said,” he replied, weary of her questions and demands. Why did she keep bringing the subject up? “We talked about it, discussed everything. You said you understood and accepted it.”

  “I changed my mind,” she said tempestuously. “You are cruel to suggest it. Listen to me, Gibb. You are cruel. It is not enough. You never listen, you ignore all—”

  “Enough,” he said in what he hoped was a firm voice. “You agreed to my requests, you said you understood, that it was what you wanted.” He slapped his hand down hard and there was a rattle and the sound of broken glass. “You cannot and will not chance that.”

  “I can… I will show you. I’m going to do it. Watch me, you know I can. I…”

  The scream echoed around his mind like a banshee. The jolt went from his fingertips to his jaw. Gibb opened his eyes, remnants of the dream still hitting him as he rolled onto his back and groaned out loud. The bedside cabinet was on its side as was the pretty glass that had stood on it. Not far away, the crystal lamp that had been placed beside it was a myriad of tiny shards that stood out in the half-light that filtered into the room around the shutters.

  The water carafe had fared better and lay on its rim on the bright, thick carpet, which sparkled with diamond droplets of the liquid that had been in the glass. That receptacle now nestled up against the wall like a lover. Gibb stared at his hand, where one tiny drop of red gleamed.

  Blood. Blood on his hands again.

  ‘All your fault, all your…’ He put his hand over his face as if it would blot Hester out. Why now after all this time? It had been an age since he had experienced the dream, and he didn’t want it to start again. Gibb despaired of how many times he had woken up, his heart pounding, his skin clammy, her screams bombarding him as he shouted “Noooo” at the top of his voice.

  No more, please God, not again. As he’d supposed, the shee
ts were damp from his perspiration, one pillow was on the floor and the other halfway down the bed. Gibb licked the droplet of blood absently, noted it came from an almost invisible nick, and stretched his arms high above his head. Tired, he looked at the clock on the mantel, just able to see the dial and discern the time. Five-thirty. Had he had such a few hours’ sleep? He felt as if he had been in bed for days, and although his body was weary, sadly, his mind was not.

  He flung back the covers, knowing there was not a chance of him resting further. Once he was awake, he never went back to sleep. A brisk and probably unacceptable gallop along the Row was needed. Later he’d go to Parliament and make his speech, and hope his vote would make life better for the poor of the country. Until then his time was his own.

  Gibb swung his legs over the edge of the bed and looked around him with narrowed eyes. His room.

  His bed. Plain brown cover over ordinary linen sheets. Wardrobe, no carvings or furbelows. Bedside table similar. One chair, one side table, plain brown velvet curtains.

  As he’d suspected. Boring. Nothing of his personality here either. Even the dish in which he placed his pin every night was plain, basic porcelain. The bland room, where no woman had ventured, almost as sparse as a monk’s cell, now seemed to mock him. All of a sudden the thought of sleeping here year after year was horrific. Lord, his life was tedious, not just boring and bland. And he had no one to blame except…

  Myself, no one else.

  He did his best to look at his abode through critical eyes. Should he decorate? Who for? He was alone by choice and intended to keep it that way. The room was serviceable and there was nothing wrong with boring and bland. Why change it for no reason except on a whim? He did not ‘do’ whims.

  Whatever Beck and Veronique thought, he did have a purpose in life. His role as a peer, and his estates. No more was needed. He had an heir in his second cousin, so the peerage was secure. Donald was a sound man who would treat the estates in the best possible way, and do all that was required.

  Even so, something indefinable niggled Gibb. There had to be more to life than this?

  He had no answer to that.

  And what was he going to do about his unwanted attraction to Evangeline? Nothing, he told himself fiercely. Just…nothing. Ignore it and it will go away. So why did he have the uncomfortable suspicion he was deluding himself?

  If the boot boy and the scullery maid were surprised to see him up so early, impeccably dressed for riding, cravat tied in a deceptive and simple style, polished boots, shaved and with immaculate hair, they did their best not to show it. Gibb munched a wedge of bread and cheese and washed it down with a mug of ale while he leaned on the edge of the kitchen table, before he swallowed and grinned as they entered the room, blinked, stopped dead in their tracks and tried to act as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to see him thus.

  The scullery maid bumped into the boot boy and gulped as she essayed a hasty curtsey. “My lord, can us do anything?” she squeaked, her face red.

  “Don’t tell the chef I rummaged,” Gibb said, dry as dust. “I’m off for a ride, and before you ask, I do not need a groom to saddle up for me. I’ve been doing it long enough to perform the act with my eyes closed.”

  The scullery maid, young, nervous and new to the household, gaped at him. The boots, who had been in Gibb’s employ for several years both in town and in the country, laughed. “I knows that, m’lord, when Mr. Grimond lets you.”

  Gibb smiled. “There you have it, Timms, and I will freely admit I miss my time with the cattle when I’m here. If I’m not careful I’ll become slothful and get out of shape.”

  Timms shook his head. “Nah. That’s as likely as me becoming king, m’lord. You’ve got too much self-discipline to go down that route.” He spoke with the familiarity of an old retainer.

  “Thank you for that. I’ll be back in an hour or so and will breakfast then.” Gibb tore another piece of bread from the loaf he’d positioned on the table and waved it in the air. “Pass my apologies for the mess I’ve left of the kitchen and chef’s loaf, please. Oh and tell him it was, as ever, delicious.”

  He left the room and smothered a chuckle at the scullery maid’s awed, “Cor, blimey.”

  * * * *

  Evangeline whistled through her teeth happily but as soft as possible as she walked her horse along the quiet and deserted streets toward the park. Riding was the one pleasure she allowed herself, albeit before most of the capital was up and awake. Once she had shown she was proficient, could saddle and bridle her horse without help and mount alone, the stable she dealt with was happy to let her ride before anyone was about to aid her. No doubt she paid through the teeth for it, but it was worth it. Her chosen mount had enough spirit to enable Evangeline to enjoy her ride, and not so much that horse and rider felt constrained by the limitations of riding in the capital.

  To Evangeline these few hours were precious and she didn’t begrudge the time away from her self-imposed task. That, she knew, could take months if not years, and she was prepared for it to be a long and arduous venture. At least she had her extravaganza bookings to help her discover more about the ton and its members. For after all, the number of French émigrés in Britain numbered thousands and most were not willing to divulge their past.

  Who could blame them? Even Eloise, respected by all in the ton, kept a lot of her past to herself. Napoleon might be behind bars, but he had escaped before and his supporters would, she thought, need very little encouragement to go back to those dangerous days of the Terror. It had been a dark time for many. She had, as a child, in the main been safe. Everyone knew her maman’s late husband had been a miller.

  But her father?

  The words ‘late husband’ still jolted Evangeline. For even though she had never known the man who died when she was a babe in arms, she had thought he was her father. Until she had been told something different.

  Deathbed confessions, Evangeline mused as she reached the park gates and turned through them. They always had a sting in the tail. This one had been directed at her, and once her maman had been correctly buried, she’d begun to follow her request.

  ‘To save him, I had to let him go.’ Poor maman. No wonder that on several occasions Evangeline had spied her weeping softly as she held a tiny, leather-bound book of sonnets. The book she had begged to take to her grave with her. ‘It is all I have of him. My unfortunate Anton.’

  Anton who? Evangeline had no idea, or even if he was an aristo who lost his life, or a commoner like her. Until recently, the one clue to his identity had been buried with her maman. Then, as she had wondered what to do next, she’d discovered a tiny scrap of paper with her name inscribed in her mother’s elegant script.

  Evangeline. England. Eloise. My Anton.

  And the address in Bruton Street. No more.

  Hence Evangeline now lived in London, safe and happy under Eloise’s aegis, and was about to ride some of her fidgets away. It was that or go mad, wondering what she was supposed to do next. Eloise was unable to help. She knew even less than Evangeline.

  Therefore the sole ‘next’ Evangeline was sure about was that on the tenth of the month she was to appear at a party, and that she needed to practice a new trick. She rather liked the idea of juggling five knives before she threw them at a revolving target. She had almost perfected it.

  A large gray horse with a tall male figure mounted on it appeared from the direction of the riding track. Evangeline squinted, but as the sun was now high enough to make him appear a mere silhouette, she had no idea if it was an aristocrat or a commoner like herself. Nevertheless she felt cheated. In general, at this time of the morning she had the track to herself. Evangeline fumbled up her sleeve and made sure she had the comforting feel of her stiletto in place.

  Damn the obnoxious man of the night before. What was he called, Crooke, Crowe or Crawe or some such thing? Until then she hadn’t experienced the necessity to look over her shoulder and second-guess everything or every person she
met. She should have taken heed of the itch that had told her he was perhaps not the man to use. But his whole attitude had made her desire to curb him a little. As it appeared obvious he was a member of the ton and therefore it was possible, if not probable he would attend another of her performances, perhaps she should remember that vitriol, and use him as a revolving target? And cut him? Just a little? By accident of course.

  Perhaps not, for how would that end? Best to ignore him and everything about him and hope he had been intimidated enough to do the same with regards to her.

  The gray horse and rider hadn’t moved. Were they waiting for her?

  Why?

  For goodness’ sake, it’s someone else riding, no more, no less. Evangeline chided herself as she moved steadily forward. Maybe she didn’t have to wonder about quite everyone, she mused as she debated whether to keep to her chosen route and ride down Rotten Row or to give up, angle down a side path and go back to the stables. After all, the Duke of Menteith wasn’t one she needed to worry about, was he? He’d been a true gentleman who appeared interested in her safety, but not in her otherwise. Not all the ton was like Crewe, Crowe, Crawe, whatever he was called. In fact it would do her good to remember he was in the minority.

  Perfect. She had no time or energy to spare for relationships. So why did she wish, just a little, the duke had appeared somewhat more interested in her?

  Contrariness, thy name is Evangeline.

  Ahead of her, the gray horse and its rider moved, thence to halt at the end of the trotting track, and now she could recognize who sat so still.

  It was him. The Duke of Menteith. Waiting for her?

  A thrill of something indefinable spread through her. Why was he here? How would he know she was out at this time? There was just one thing to do. Evangeline urged her mount toward him, aware that her heart beat faster and her pulse was somewhat erratic.