Jane Lark - The Scandalous Love of a Duke

It was hardly comparable. They would not be interested. These were glamorous women who fitted in here. Katherine did not.

“I always said she was too virtuous. You are a saint, Kate,” Eleanor stated.

Katherine felt her colour rise. “Hardly.” She felt both false and fragile, and tried to hide it.

“Phillip is right,” Margaret smiled. “You should not feel embarrassed to admit good deeds.”

Katherine felt ashamed. She was not what they were portraying her as. “Well, I have good reason to give something back, do I not?” They all, possibly bar Mary, knew of her birth, but perhaps she had raised it a little too bluntly. The conversation dried.

Phillip’s hand rested on Katherine’s waist and the grip gently pulled her closer for a moment, then he let go. Even he did not usually broach the subject.

“I do it because I enjoy it,” she said to clear the air.

“That is true,” Phillip stated. “They adore her, every last one of them.”

The conversation then slipped into questions and answers as they all explored the years of each other’s lives that had been missed.

~

When John entered the state drawing room he felt exhausted. The days since his grandfather’s death had slipped past in a whirl of activity. First there had been the wider family to inform and the state acknowledgements to manage, then the funeral to prepare, and, on top of it, getting to grips with all his grandfather’s business affairs. The mantle of a duke was lying heavy on his shoulders.

He sighed.

Richard had said several times that it would feel normal after a while. John could not imagine it. Even though the house was straining at the seams with people today, he felt as isolated as he had been in Egypt, and incapable of relaxing. That was not due to the responsibility, though. It was just who he was – a buzzard among peacocks.

John doubted any of them had really cared for the old man. He had returned to a world of farce.

A glass of red wine balanced in one hand, the stem dangling between his fingers, he joined another group of guests, fulfilling his duty. He trusted no one here.

God , this was his life now: duty and falsehood. He missed Egypt, he missed adventure and peace and simplicity. He was already bored by people’s endless supplication. Everyone seemed to want something from him. They sought to attach themselves to either his wealth or his power.

His grandfather had warned of this.

John had had enough. He was seeking his family to escape it for a little while, and he was looking for Mary particularly. He knew his vibrant sister would bring him back from the cold darkness crowding in on him.

He’d passed his mother and Edward in the hall, they’d been speaking with Richard and Penny and they’d directed him in here.

His gaze swept about the room then stopped.

There was a young woman standing amidst his family, like a blonde beacon of light amongst his dark-haired black-clad cousins. She was an angel in her pale-mauve dress.

Lust gripped hard and firm in his stomach, an intense physical attraction. He’d never experienced anything so instant before. But it was a long time since he’d bedded a woman – far too long.

Her figure was a sublime balance of curves and narrow waist. Her spine had a beautiful arch as it curved into the point where her dress opened onto a full skirt.

Wheat-blonde hair escaped a dull dove-grey bonnet, caressing her neck and drawing his eyes to a place he’d like to kiss.

She was speaking with animation, her hands moving.

He moved closer, and as if she sensed his gaze, the stranger turned and looked at him. In answer, a lightening need struck his groin; a sharp sudden pain. She was an English rose among orchids, the sort of woman he had seen nothing of abroad. Her skin was pale, with roses blooming in her cheeks, and her eyes were a vivid beautiful blue, like the bluebells which bloomed in spring, in the woods at Pembroke Place.

She was what he had longed for abroad and not even known he’d been lacking.

His attention wholly captured, he felt desire slip into his blood as his groin grew heavy with hunger.

This was what came from abstinence he supposed. He’d never had a fancy for fair, fey women before. He did now.

She did not look the sort for a fling though, certainly not the she-wolf type who stalked the foreign fields. His mind began rattling through his guest list, but no name fit her, and her dull grey bonnet and shawl did not speak of affluence. Who was she?

He smiled as he grew nearer, then realised he was staring and shifted his gaze to the others in the group. It was then he noticed Phillip as they turned to towards him. “My God.”

“Your Grace.”

“Phillip.” Lord, John hoped Phillip had not come here with a motive. John did not wish to hear oily grovelling from an old friend. His heart thumped in cold anger, not gladness. Then he looked at the blonde and his breath caught as recognition whispered in his head. Kate .

Her gaze soaked him up, wide and bright, and then her eyelids fell and red roses coloured her cheeks.

Katherine Spencer, Phillip’s shy little sister, full grown. Good God , she had blossomed. John felt his heartbeat stutter into warm longing again. Wanting Phillip’s little sister was not a good thing.

John gritted his teeth, forced a smile and lifted his hand to shake Phillip’s. He was not looking at Katherine but he was thinking of her, trying to remember how old she would be now. She must be married. Shame .

Or perhaps it was better she was, maybe she had tired of her husband already and she’d be tempted by a little dalliance after all. Better to play with a woman who had no need to be grasping, there would be no ties. “I did not expect to see you here,” John said to Phillip.

“Our condolences, Your Grace.”

John shrugged. Phillip knew the true nature of John’s volatile relationship with his grandfather; there was hardly any point in pretending to be sad. But the word “our” gave John the opportunity to turn to Katherine.

A sharp pain pierced his chest like a stitch when he saw those blue eyes up close. Her turquoise gaze was framed by pale-brown lashes. Her beauty was delicate – subtle. He was unused to that, compared to his family.

He had an urge to touch her face. He did not, but he did take her hand and lift it to his lips as she dropped a low curtsy.

Her kid-leather gloves were warm from the heat of her skin beneath.

He brushed a finger across her wrist accidentally and felt her shiver. She smelt of rosewater.

She was blushing deeply when she straightened.

When had he last known a woman who could blush?

“Your Grace.”

“Katherine.” He’d more often called her Kate when they’d been young but Katherine seemed to suit her so much more now. “You look well.” Her husband, whoever he was, was a lucky man. John doubted she was the sort to stray. A pity .

With a gentle tug, she pulled her fingers free of his.

“H… how are you?” she stuttered, her gaze descending to his cravat pin.

“Well enough.” He could not take his eyes off her and it clearly made her feel uncomfortable. “A little dumbfounded by the speed of things, I suppose. I only returned to England a fortnight ago, my grandfather died that night.”

Her gaze lifted momentarily and compassion burned there before it fell away again. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“Don’t be, he was old, he had to die eventually and I doubt he shall be much missed.”

“Hear, hear,” Eleanor stated. “He was a bully, Mama always says so, and John shall make a far better duke.”

“Tell me what you have been up to then,” John asked, only wishing to know if she was wed, but he threw a look at Phillip, extending the question to hide his interest.