Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

18

Jemma threw down the book in her hands—a dull romantic bit of fluff Petra lent her earlier that morning, in frustration. Since the altercation with Nick at the Marquess of Cambourne's ball, she had dreamt of the scathing setdown she would give him for his treatment of her once he arrived at her uncle’s door.

His Grace did not cooperate.

“Perhaps he is busy with his companion of the other night." Jemma stood and picked up the discarded book and flounced back to the chair she'd been sitting in. Against her better judgment, she’d asked Rowan who the woman was. Rowan, his embarrassment clear, confessed Lady Tomlinson had once been the duke’s mistress, though, Rowan assured her, he did not think that the case any longer.

Jemma looked at a silver tray lying atop the side table. Earlier the tray had held a small display of chocolate tarts but was now empty.

Not even a crumb left. Aunt Mary will be horrified.

“Hello niece.” Lord Marsh quietly entered the drawing room.

“Uncle.” Jemma sat up and picked up the discarded tome. She wished she could magically wave the empty tart tray away as well.

“I see you’ve enjoyed Mrs. Livingstone’s chocolate tarts.” He nodded at the tray.

“I’ve had a bit of a sweet tooth lately, Uncle.”

“Indeed.” Uncle John moved to the window as if to admire the lovely view of the Marsh House gardens. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat.

“His Grace has offered for you.”

* * *

John,Lord Marsh, had been dreading this confrontation with Jane Emily for weeks. He wished she could be more even tempered, as his daughter was, but he supposed that given all she had gone through, her anger was warranted. Her anger was simply directed at the wrong man.

William’s letter to John, and the contents of the packet brought with Jane Emily from Bermuda, told the story of a life filled with lies and regret. And treason. John felt the shame of his brother’s sins deep in his bones. The wrath of the Dunbar family had filled William with fear until his last breath.

As it did John.

But the Devil of Dunbar did not come to Marsh house immediately upon Jane Emily's arrival as John supposed he might, which meant one thing. The duke did not know the identity of William’s family—yet. The logical solution to avoid future destruction, in John's mind, was to marry Petra to the duke. The man would not destroy his wife's family. John thought it a most prudent and intelligent decision.

Until, the Duke of Dunbar saw Jane Emily.

The last piece of the puzzle that was his brother William’s life came together for John the moment he saw the way His Grace looked at her. Bravely, he did not try to hide anything from the duke, instead, depending on the affection the man clearly felt for Jane Emily. His Grace did not seem surprised by John's identity, nor did he condemn John for trying to protect his family. He simply made it clear that Jane Emily, or Jem as the duke referred to her, would be his wife. He wished to give her time to come to terms with her anger and come to him willingly.

But Jane Emily, obstinate and still angry, refused to be courted by the duke.

“How kind of him,” his niece said in a brittle tone, her voice raising an octave. “But I'm afraid the duke and I don't suit. At all. I shall have to refuse his generous offer for me.”

John wanted to tell her just how generous His Grace was in forgiving the Marsh family of so much, but the duke made John swear to never tell Jane Emily the truth about her father. No one must ever know.

“You misunderstand, niece.” Her uncle's hands clenched and unclenched behind his back, not wishing to battle her. “His Grace has offered for you and as your guardian, I have accepted.”

John heard the sharp intake of her breath. Why must she be so difficult? It was clear she and the duke did suit.

“You would force me?”

“I doubt you would be miserable as a duchess, Jane Emily, nor do I doubt you would be unhappy with His Grace. He's enlightened me, you see, on your previous relationship.” John felt the blush rise up on his cheeks just thinking about his most recent conversation with the duke. Horrified, John listened while His Grace made it clear that Jane Emily had been ruined, and quite thoroughly, by His Grace.

“Our previous relationship?” Jane Emily's voice shook.

Uncle John ignored her question. She would marry the duke. Even if he didn’t guess that Jane Emily was in love with the man, he would still have her marry him. She was no longer a maid. Her father committed treason and the duke knew about it. He did not turn to look at her as he spoke. Instead, he tried to focus on his rose bushes in the garden as he looked out the window. “You will marry His Grace.”

“I will not marry him.” She sounded as if she were choking on a meat pie. “He cannot force this upon me. I will not do it.”

“Yes.” John unclasped his hands to place his palms on the window sill, feeling a bit of peeling paint and wishing William were here so he could shake him senseless for all the mess he’d laid at John’s door. “His Grace told me you would refuse. He is waiting for you in the conservatory.”

* * *

Jemma flew down the hall,her heels clicking on the gleaming wooden floors, insides churning, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

I will never be able to face my uncle over a meal again.

She flung open the thick oak doors of the conservatory to find Nick calmly sitting at the family piano. His fingers picked at the keys, and Jemma caught the bit of a melody she couldn't name. The sunlight streaming through the large paneled windows caused the red in his hair to shine like copper.

He didn't turn as she entered.

“You bastard.” Jemma stood, her entire body shaking, her fists clenched so tightly she feared her nails would make her palms bleed. “You told my uncle. Did you also tell him you killed my father?”

“There you are.” Nick cut off the rest of her heated speech neatly. “I wondered whether you would walk or race down the hall to confront me. A pity you returned the pistols, I imagine you could make good use of them today.” He spun about on the piano bench, his hair swinging about his massive shoulders. Shadows hung beneath the mismatched eyes, and stubble shown across his cheeks.

“I learned to play as a child. Hours upon hours with Monsieur Dubois, who slapped my fingers with a ruler when I hit a sour note. My grandmother thought learning the piano would soften me. Care to play a duet?” The joking note in his voice did not match the hard set of his lips.

“Bastard.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps, later.” Nick stood, peering down at her from his great height. His glance lingered on the line of her bodice.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped though she felt the familiar tingle of her skin at his nearness.

“Like what?” He lifted a brow. “As if you were a chocolate tart?”

The words brought back a wealth of memories of the first time he touched her, so long ago on Governor Lord Corbett's terrace. A shudder of longing ran through her. “Stop staring down my bodice. It's unseemly.”

“I don’t think so. I've missed those delicious little goodies. Your nipples are the most delightful shade of pink.” The whiskey of his voice seemed to seep into her skin, curling her toes inside her slippers.

The nipples in question stood up immediately at being recognized.

“I see they've missed me as well.” He gave her a sensual, smug look. A wave of hair fell down over his cheek and he shook it back.

A languid feeling came over Jemma, though she tried mightily to maintain her outrage. Her nipples were hard and tight, aching where they stretched under the cotton of her chemise. A honeyed heaviness slid down her stomach to pool between her thighs. “My uncle tells me you offered for me. I have refused.”

“Have you? Another man has a hold on your affections? I find that unlikely.” He placed his palm against her stomach.

“Yes,” Jemma retorted, moving away. Her skin felt as if it were on fire beneath her gown. “I find your surprise odd, given that you have warned every man in London away from me.”

A dark brow rose in question. “I have?”

“My dinner companions won't converse with me. I stand alone during every dance. Please do not pretend you are not the cause. Perhaps I will go abroad.”

Nick moved forward swiftly to grip her upper arms. Pushing her roughly against the wall, he pressed her against him. “No. You won’t.”

Even through the layers of her gown, Jemma could feel Nick’s arousal, hard and thick against her. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent that was all Nick, citrus and cheroot mixed with a purely primal smell that was him. She wished to rub herself against him like a cat, put her skin next to his. Touch the planes of his stomach. “I will.”

“Clearly,” Nick bent and nipped at her bottom lip, “you are not convinced of the desirability of our match.” A hand fumbled under her skirt, to run leisurely up her leg and pause briefly at her garter before reaching further.

Her body relaxed into his, what little fight she had left in her fading away in the face of Nick’s onslaught. She grabbed at his hair.

“Yes.” The husky whisper urged her as a ripping sound reached her ears.

“Useless.” He impatiently tore through the layers of petticoats.

Jemma moaned softly, giving no resistance. What would be the point? She wanted this. She wanted him. “Oh God Nick,” she panted as his fingers pushed inside her.

“So wet, for me.” He rubbed his thumb against the most sensitive part of her, eliciting a cry of want from her lips. “Only me,” Nick said roughly into the nape of her neck. “No one else.” He toyed with her, his fingers gliding against her, the ring he wore on his thumb, cool against her flesh.

Jemma clutched at his shoulders, pushing against the pressure of his moving fingers. “No,” she gasped, knowing it was a question, finding that when the moment came, she could not lie to him about that. “No one else. There is no one else.”

A feral sound came from Nick. His fingers moved against her tender flesh as she pushed herself against his hand. Just as her body tightened, he stopped and pulled away, leaving her shaken and unsatisfied.

“Damn you.” She slapped at him, and then gasped as he entered her in one hard thrust, rocking her body back against the wall. “Oh.” Jemma's body slid deliciously down the length of him. “Nick.”

He kissed her fiercely, his mouth capturing hers even as one arm reached underneath her bottom. A low growl escaped his lips. “Wrap your legs around me.”

She did as he bade her, sliding her legs up against his hips, pulling him into her with each thrust.

His mouth trailed up her neck. “Yes, Jem.” He groaned. “Like that.” He thrust deeper inside her, the force knocking a picture from its peg to shatter on the floor.

Jemma clung to him, a wild thing with no thought other than the pleasure of their joining. How she missed him, longed for him, how lonely she had been without Nick.

“As you can see,” his breath came in a gasp, “you are wrong. We are completely suited to each other.” He put one palm against the wall to steady his body as he ravaged her.

Her fingers grabbed at his shoulder, urging him on. “Harder.” She moaned, feeling half crazed at being with Nick, and her impending release. How many nights had she lain in bed, wanting him? Hating him?

“Yes.” He pulled back and forced himself further inside, swiveling his hips in the most delicious manner.

“Oh God, please.” How could she have forgotten what this felt like?

The ache, the agonizing, delicious ache, seemed to go on and on until Jemma thought it would never burst, and then suddenly it did, making her cry out.

“Shush, love.” He pressed his mouth over hers as he slowed, moving in time with the trembling that rocked her body. “Again.” He twisted his hips.

Jemma tried to catch her breath. “Stop,” she panted. “It's too much.” She felt her body clench and tighten around him once more.

“You love me,” the dark voice murmured in her ear. “Say it.”

A tear ran down her cheek, even as she mouthed the words, and her body shattered, yet again, into a million pieces.

Nick buried his head in her neck, saying her name over and over as he climaxed, spilling himself into her as her body throbbed around him.

The room grew quiet except for the sound of she and Nick panting, trying to catch their breath. Their joining, so primal and violent, left them both shaken. Her legs dangled wantonly on either side of him and she closed her eyes, unable to look at him.

“Is it that unbearable to love me?” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Yes.” The sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her. Loving Nick betrayed her father. “I wish I did not care for you.” She thought of Bermuda, of Sea Cliff, forever lost to her. Her father dead because of Nick, and she still didn’t know why.

“Again? Still you wish to deny us both.”

“I want you to go away, leave me and my family in peace. My father is dead, my life gone because of you.”

“Shut up,” Nick said quietly. “Shut up. Were your life in Bermuda the idyll you profess it to be, you would not be here, but on that cursed island.”

Jemma's temper flared at the truth of his words. The illusion of her life in Bermuda hung over her until she felt she would collapse with the weight of it. He was right, and well she knew it, but her damnable pride made her speak before thinking.

“You wish to marry me, then so be it. I understand that most marriages of the ton are simply conveniences. I shall flirt and dance and flit about. I will cuckold you at the first opportunity. Thanks to you,” she sneered, anger making her reckless. “I enjoy thoroughly the pleasures of the bedroom. You've taught me to be a most competent whore.”

Nick released her so abruptly she toppled to the floor. He righted his clothing, his fingers flying angrily over the buttons, nearly tearing them loose.

“If you wish to continue to lament your life in Bermuda and blame me, so be it. I am an expert in holding on to the past and have paid a dear price for it. You wish to hear the truth? Your father committed treason, he was a traitor, to his family and the Crown. That’s why I was in Bermuda, to find the man who allowed the suspicion of his deceitful act,” he spat out the words, “to fall on my family. Your precious Sea Cliff was bought with blood money. Because of the,” his voice caught, “affection I hold you in, I did not take him to hang.”

Jemma slid her back against the wall, shaking her head. She clutched at her skirt, pulling the cotton up against her as if the gown would protect her from Nick's words. “Liar. My father would never do such a thing.” Her throat went dry as she tried to swallow.

“Yes, your father would never be duplicitous in any way, would he? Why else would an honest man change his name and allow his family to think him dead? Are you really so naïve, Jem?” Nick smiled unpleasantly. "Why else be in league with a man like Corbett?”

“You are one to talk about duplicity, aren't you?” Jemma snarled back at him, her mind refusing to believe his words even though she sensed the truth in them. “Though given your true identity, I would wish to pretend to be someone else as well.”

Nick’s entire body moved as if she'd slapped him. He staggered back at her words.

Jemma pressed her advantage. “I’m told the Countess of Durry made the sign of the cross as she met you.” She took deep gulps of air, no longer mindful of her words or the damage they would inflict. “That grown men flee your company at White's. Petra lived in terror that she would have to marry you, comparing herself to a sacrificial lamb. I think it must have been your eyes. After all, what woman wants to be reminded every morning,” she pointed to his face, her hand shaking, “that she's married to the Devil?” She said the last bit triumphantly.

Nick shuddered once then went very still. Wincing as if in pain, he closed his eyes against her for several moments. When at last his eyes opened it was to regard her blandly, without a flicker of emotion.

The brief spurt of satisfaction she felt shriveled into nothingness.

“I am the Duke of Dunbar,” he said in an icy, clipped tone, “and my cursed line stretches back to Henry Tudor. I am more wealthy and powerful than you can possibly imagine. No one in London, or in all of England would dare cross me. That your miserable father did and stayed hidden for so long is a testament to your family's true nature. Rats do tend to go to ground when being hunted.”

Jemma clasped her knees tightly. She opened her mouth to speak, perhaps defend herself, but closed her mouth at seeing the cold fury on Nick's face. For the first time, Jemma saw the man others feared.

“You will marry me and bear my children. You will not behave as a whore unless it is in our bedroom. Should you defy me or seek to play me false, I will destroy you and your family. The entire nest of rats.”

She glanced up, barely recognizing Nick or the words he spoke. What had she been thinking to say such awful things to him? She wished to wound him and she had, brutally, so much so that he would likely never forgive her.

“If any other man is stupid enough to try to claim you, I will snap his neck with my own hands. Do you understand, Jane Emily?”

Jane Emily. The use of her given name proved to her the depth of the pain she caused him.

“You think me unkind? Damned? You have no idea.” Nick's lips curled into a sneer. “Get up, you look like a bawdy house slut.”

Jemma clutched her hands to her stomach. “Nick, please, I didn't mean—”

“But you did. I saw it in your face.” He looked towards the door. “I hear someone coming, likely your uncle.”

Jemma tried to scramble to her feet and failed. She could do nothing but sit against the wall stupidly, her chest heaving with emotion and shock.

The door to the conservatory flew open.

“Jane Emily? The maid heard something shatter and I—” Her uncle's confused glance took in her disheveled clothing as she sat on the floor and the flush on her cheeks. A large chunk of her hair had fallen from its pins and now lay between her breasts.

“If you did not believe I ruined her before, believe it now.” Nick spoke calmly in a snide, patrician tone. “My solicitor will call on you, Lord Marsh, tomorrow morning. Due to the circumstances of my,” Nick paused, “discussion with your niece, we should post the banns without delay.”

Mortified, Jemma turned away from her uncle. Her eyes welled with tears. Did I really think hurting Nick would make me feel better? Because it hasn’t. This is far worse than anything I could have imagined. Worse than Uncle John seeing me here like this.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” The whiskey voice remained calm. “I will send a seamstress tomorrow to fit Jane Emily for her trousseau.”

“Your Grace, perhaps—” Uncle John started to say, barely glancing at her.

Nick raised his hand, the ring on his thumb winking in a stream of sunlight from the large conservatory windows. “I insist, Lord Marsh.” Nick brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his forearm. “On the marriage and the trousseau.” He turned back to her uncle all civility gone from his tone as he said, “The Devils of Dunbar keep what they claim."

Nick's words had the desired effect. Her uncle did not contradict him again nor offer any other resistance. “All shall be as you wish, Your Grace.”

Jemma looked down in her lap, horrified at the mess she’s wrought.

“Good day, Lord Marsh.” Nick nodded to her uncle. He never looked at her again.

Wishing she could take back every awful word she had thrown at him, Jemma watched Nick's tall form leave the conservatory. As soon as she thought him gone, she promptly burst into a fit of weeping, burying her head in her lap.

“Come, stop your crying.” Uncle John patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “I shall turn my back while you—” he waved his hand at her and turned around. “Be quick about it, we don't want a servant to hear. It would be disastrous were your aunt to get wind of this. The scandal would send her to bed for weeks. Thank goodness she took Petra shopping. I would never be able to explain this.”

Jemma struggled to her feet. Hands shaking, she adjusted her bodice and her skirts and attempted to tuck her stray hair back into the bun at the base of her neck. Perching cautiously on the edge of the couch, Jemma cleared her throat to signal her uncle she was presentable.

Uncle John briefly glanced at her before striding to the sidebar. Pouring a scotch for himself and a sherry for her he walked back over to where she sat on the sofa. “Here.” He thrust the glass of sherry at her. “Not many have survived the wrath of the duke and lived to tell the tale." Uncle John gave a slight, sad smile. “I assume your discussion with the duke was,” Uncle John's ears pinked considerably, “mutual?”

“Yes,” Jemma whispered, wiping her eyes with the edge of her skirt, humiliated to the very core of her being. Uncle John, however, seemed to be handling the situation much better than she.

“We will speak of this once and never again. I should have told you sooner, but I hoped I would have no need, and His Grace begged me not to. How I wish you had just simply forgiven the duke and been happy. I should have known that was impossible, you are not the kind of girl who would blindly follow my instructions and ask for no explanation. Have you realized yet that your anger is misdirected?” Uncle John took a sip of his drink and sat down beside her.

“You know?” She looked her uncle in the eye, not believing that he could have kept such a secret from her.

Uncle John didn’t flinch. “I knew before His Grace did. I knew after I read that damn packet of letters you came to me with. William gave up all of his secrets in the end.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Jemma choked. “My father did those things, didn’t he?”

“Drink.” He helped lift the glass to her lips. “Your aunt says that sherry is good for a sudden shock.”

“You’re,” Jemma took a large swallow of the sherry and immediately coughed, “taking this all rather well, Uncle John.”

“I’ve had time to grow used to the truth, as awful as it is. William stole the letters from the Duke of Dunbar, the current duke’s grandfather,” he explained, “and sold them for a small fortune, though I suspect that Corbett put him up to it. William confessed everything to me in a letter he wrote as he fell ill.” Her uncle looked at her. “He was ill for months before the Devil of Dunbar found him and suspected he was dying. I loved my brother but William was a weak man. He committed treason. Men died.” Uncle John shook his head sadly. “He wished to marry your mother and father disowned him for it. But what did William expect?” Uncle John shook his head sadly. “Maureen was a servant at this very house.”

Her surprise must have shown, for her uncle reached out and patted her hand. “Do not worry, no one need ever know. That secret is safe as well.”

Another lie unveiled. Jemma's stomach twisted into knots. Her mother was a servant? She’d been told her whole life that Mama was from a good Irish family, that the marriage was objected to on the grounds her mother was Catholic. “I fear, Uncle John, that I may not be able to handle much more honesty.”

“But, you will.” Her uncle wrinkled his brow and drained his glass. “You and I know the truth, and no one else, except the Duke of Dunbar. Your marriage, though you fight against it, ensures that the Tremaine family will never seek to make the truth public. Never harm us.”

“I am to be a sacrifice to save our family?” She sucked at her sherry, hoping the liquid would chase away the sudden sense of bitterness she tasted on her tongue.

“Really Jemma? Petra was to be the sacrifice,” Uncle John stated with a bit of irony, his voice calm. “But then you fainted at his feet. Your poor aunt was horrified and worried that we had offended him beyond repair.” Uncle John took another sip. “Had he wished to, His Grace could have brought your father back to London in chains. I doubt seriously that the Crown would have stopped him even if he wished to hang William. But something changed in his plans for revenge.”

Sliding the sherry around her mouth with her tongue, she still felt the press of Nick’s lips against her own. “Me. How convenient then, that he’s ruined me, for all our sakes.”

“Niece.” Uncle John took her hand in his. “His Grace has told me of his time in Bermuda. I was given to believe that you have feelings for him as I know he does for you. He did not leave you willingly.”

“What—”

“It is his story to tell, and not mine. Suffice it to say niece that if you will just put aside your anger and pride, you will find yourself to be that rarest of things amongst the ton. A love match.”

Remembering the pain in Nick’s face as she lashed out at him, tears welled up in her eyes. “What have I done?” She put her head in her hands as a sob caught in her throat.

“Angered a very dangerous, very powerful man. He loves you though, so that is something.”