The Dark Duke. Margaret Moore
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as he would ever understand what it was like to be the ugly duckling in the family.
He moved back to the fireplace and continued to regard her with a scrutiny that grew increasingly unnerving. “I wonder what you really want, Lady Hester” he murmured.
“I told you. Your Grace. A book.”
He smiled, a more genuine smile, she thought, than she had yet seen him bestow upon anyone, including Damaris Sackville-Cooper. “I meant from life.”
“I hardly think, Your Grace—” she began to protest.
“Oh, I suspect you do a great deal of thinking,” he interrupted. “Let me guess at the deepest desires of Lady Hester Pimblett”.
She started to stand. “My lord, I—”
“First, attention.”
She straightened her shoulders and frowned deeply. “Your Grace, I really must protest—”
“Second, excitement.”
“If by that you mean the type of excitement you seem to crave, Your Grace, I assure you I can well do without!” Hester said sternly. “Since you are apparently only interested in making sport of me, I will take my leave of you, whether you excuse me or not!”
“I promise I shall stick to only the most mundane of subjects,” he pleaded unexpectedly, and with a most beguiling smile. “The weather. My injury. The fungus on my horse’s hooves. Whatever you wish, as long as you will stay a little longer.”
Hester suddenly realized there was nothing about this man that was not seductive, whether it was his looks or his voice or the way he could make every word an invitation, every gesture intimate. “I believe I have stayed far too long as it is. Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
She hurried to the door, then turned on the threshold and faced him with a mocking little smile of her own. “I shall tell your stepmother you are feeling better, as you most obviously are, and that you will surely join us for dinner.”
When she was gone, Adrian stared at the fire and tried to tell himself that Hester Pimblett was nothing so very special. They were both unappreciated children—they had that one little thing in common.
Well, that and a kiss. And he would not come down to dinner, even if he was finding the thought of speaking with Lady Hester again very tempting indeed.
“Hester, where on earth have you been?” the duchess demanded when Hester returned to the drawing room.
Hester, having never felt so frazzled before, dearly hoped her absence would not be remarked upon further. Her wish was granted as the older woman rose from the sofa with more alacrity than Hester had ever seen her demonstrate before and waved a letter as if it was a call to battle.
“I have just received the most exciting news!” the duchess declared unnecessarily.
Hester thought she had had quite enough excitement for one day; nevertheless, she put a happy smile on her face as she tried to calm down.
“Elliot is coming home tomorrow!” the older woman cried triumphantly. “My darling boy, here, tomorrow!” She paused in her exclamations, and a small frown creased her alabaster brow. “If Adrian will send the barouche to Barroughby. Oh, but he must. Just think of it, my own dear boy home at last!” The duchess paused in her raptures. “You seem very dull this afternoon.”
Hester was still considering the part of the duchess’s declaration that had seemed rather odd. Why should the duke have to approve the order of a carriage? Was the duchess not in command of the estate? Had it not been left to her upon the fifth duke’s death? She always acted as if it had, and spent money frequently and lavishly.
The present duke had referred to Barroughby Hall as “my house,” but she had assumed he meant his family’s house.
If this were not so, and he was in sole possession of the estate, why did he endure the company of a woman he so obviously disliked, and whom he could send away whenever he chose? That would be the response one would expect of a scoundrel.
“I am so happy for you,” Hester said, attempting to sound delighted, and reflecting that if she wasn’t careful, she would become as hypocritical as Canon Smeech. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help mentally contrasting the reception of the news of this son’s return with the way the duchess had received word that the duke was coming home. Still, one was a step son, the other her own child. The duchess would not be alone in preferring the child of her body over that of a son by marriage.
“He writes from Dover to say he can hardly wait to get here!” the duchess exclaimed. She walked to the windows and gazed out at the drive, as if she expected to see Lord Elliot’s carriage at that very moment. “He was ill, and only now recovered. I shall have to be a little cross with him for not telling his mama.”
“What is all the excitement?” the duke asked nonchalantly as he strolled into the drawing room. “Have we been robbed?”
Hester eyed the door with a view to escaping, but knew she was trapped as surely as any fly in amber. She would just have to forget about his kiss and try to maintain her composure.
“Of course not!” the duchess replied. “Elliot is coming home.”
“Is he, indeed?” the duke said, regarding his stepmother with a steely gaze such as Hester had never seen, at once cold and pleased. Thankfully, no one had ever directed a look like that at her, and she was reminded that the duke was also said to be a violent man. She had forgotten that, thinking of his other reputed qualities, but anyone witnessing him now could well believe the other, too, even if the expression was gone nearly as rapidly as it had appeared.
His initial response seemed to penetrate the duchess’s unbridled happiness. “I hope you won’t make things difficult, Adrian,” she said anxiously.
“Not I,” he said, sauntering toward the sofa and sitting. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing Elliot again.”
The duchess visibly relaxed. “Good. Unlike some people, he tries not to fret his family.”
The duke ignored her pointed remark. “What else does dear Elliot say?”
“He will be here tomorrow, if you will send the barouche to Barroughby.”
The duke smiled. “Heaven forbid I should do anything to delay Elliot even more. Of course he may have the barouche.”
“We must have an especially fine tea tomorrow, too,” the duchess continued, and Hester noted that she did not thank her stepson for his acquiescence.
“Ah. So we should kill the fatted calf?” The duke glanced at Hester, a mocking expression on his face.
It was a peculiar comparison. Was he not the prodigal son, wasting his inheritance in indulgence and indolence?
“We really should have a party or a ball to welcome him back from Europe,” the duchess said.
Hester could not suppress her displeasure at that thought. She had spent too many boring and disturbing hours sitting against the wall, watching other couples dance, to think of balls or other such entertainments with any pleasure.
She realized the duke was looking at her again, and she quickly smiled. “A ball will be quite delightful,” she lied.
“It will be too much work,” the duke said firmly. “And too expensive.”
“I might have known you would begrudge us the pleasure,” the duchess replied peevishly. “You seem to have no trouble finding money to fritter away on your own vile pursuits, but when I suggest a ball—something we should have done long ago, as befits our place in society!—you are suddenly