The Heart of a Duke Read online

  While it was sweet of Lady Eleanore Barnaby's dear friends to insist she wear the gypsy pendant until she married Andrew Vickers, Duke of Langley, just in case, Elle didn't need it to capture a duke. She had snared her betrothed whilst gumming a teething biscuit in her nursery, or rather her father, the Marquess of St. Aidans, had snared him for her.

  Everyone said what a lovely duke he was. Young, handsome, and wealthy. And while she did not love him, and he did not love her, her mother had assured her love was not necessary to make a good match.

  Perhaps Elle could be content with the knowledge other young ladies coveted her position. After all, she would live in Langley Castle and she liked the idea of cuddling her fat babies and having a collection of hunting dogs underfoot.

  But the gypsy girl hadn’t said the pendant would insure marriage to a duke. She had promised it would secure his heart, and with only a month until her wedding, she wasn’t even sure if Langley recalled her name most days.

  Elle's fingers clenched around the fine gold chain, drawing her dear friend Valera’s attention to the piece.

  She smiled widely. "How does it look?"

  "Lovely." Her closest friend's soft voice was decisive, though Elle had her doubts about the truth of her statement.

  The pendant was old and rubbed smooth in spots from years of wear. Hardly the sort of jewelry Elle would normally wear, but a pact was a pact. It had been years since she and her four friends had sneaked away from their chaperones to have their fortunes told, and came away with a locket and a stronger bond of friendship.

  Pasting on a bright smile, she tucked her arm through Valera's and the pair began to slowly make their way from the conservatory back to the Hastings House ballroom, where the rest of London's elite danced and socialized the night away.

  "Only a months now until you marry Langley. How are the wedding plans progressing?"

  "Oh, smashing." Elle waved her hand, as if dismissing any implication that the wedding was a burden upon her. It was not, in any way. In fact, most of it had been planned down to the minute months ago by the soon-to-be-dowager-duchess and Elle's mother.

  At times she did wish they had bothered to ask her opinion on matters, but she didn't much care whether they chose roses or lilies. Langley’s lack of interest in her was the bigger conundrum, and no one dared to ask her opinion on how she felt about marrying a man who forgot she existed.

  "There is very little to do other than say our vows," she said. "And of course, the final fittings for the gown."

  "Such a beautiful creation." Valera sighed, as they entered the ballroom, slipping back into the noisy crowd of revelers unnoticed. "I cannot believe your father did not lose his temper over what you spent at the milliner's."

  "The idea he will never have to settle my accounts again after next month makes paying for my trousseau a less bitter draught to swallow." Elle's laugh tinkled, a hint of acidity sharpening it, and she lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug to cover the slip.

  Although she loved her friends, and knew they loved her in return, Elle could not confide in them the growing dissatisfaction that had slowly crept up on her over the last few years. Watching her neighbors and friends marrying, one by one, had set her to thinking about having Langley as a husband.

  As a girl, she had thought marrying a duke was everything she could ever ask for, but the idea of an arranged marriage had begun to pall. Perhaps if there were more between them than cool civility—mild interest at least—she could be satisfied with their union. It was as though he still saw her as that pesky little girl who used to follow him and his cousin around, begging to be included in their play.

  It was frustrating, and more than a bit disheartening.

  Strolling through the crush, Elle and Valera paused to allow a trio of young bucks to push their ways past, most likely looking for partners. One of the gentlemen's gazes landed on her, assessing, and he flashed her an approving grin.

  Elle narrowed her eyes at him, and tugged her friend in the opposite direction.

  Valera looked over her shoulder at the young men as Elle towed her along. "Some of us are here to catch husbands, Eleanore. You might allow a girl a moment to attempt such an endeavor."

  "Believe me, dear heart, I have two older brothers and that man did not have courtship on his mind."

  "Perhaps with the right lady—"

  "No."

  "You are most likely correct." Her friend peeked at the young man once more before the crowd swallowed him, her expression wistful. "Truly, I don't think you understand how fortunate you are to have had your future husband well in hand by the time you gained your legs. For the rest of us poor girls, it's catch as catch can."

  Elle caught her frown before it formed. It was too humiliating to admit her relationship with Langley was just the opposite of what all her friends imagined.

  "Don't be silly. The Season has barely begun."

  As the daughter of a wealthy landowner, Valera Bell was in no danger of remaining unmarried. If she could move past her shyness and silly notion of inferiority when compared to her older sister, that was. Personally, Elle thought Valera’s sister was more than a bit vulgar in her constant preening, and it was a shame Val felt overshadowed by her.

  She gave her friend's arm an affectionate swat while searching the room for her betrothed. "There is plenty of time, Val, and I have every confidence that you will find the perfect gentleman."

  Once Elle became the Duchess of Langley, she intended to throw the entire weight of her title behind her friends to ensure they made the matches they desired most. To ensure they found love, at least. She touched the pendant again, then dropped her hand as it met cold metal. Love may not be in her future, but she'd like something more than seeing her husband for an hour over supper each evening for chilled and polite discourse. More than spending weeks apart and not even noticing the other's absence, like her parents, or only noticing each other when there was something to argue about, as her aunt and uncle always did.

  Just more.

  And blast it all, she wanted to dance.

  Langley was her betrothed and yet it had not occurred to him to ask for her dance card even once in the past three hours. It was always thus with him. He wasn't mean-spirited, but merely forgot she was there. Or even existed.

  A small sigh escaped her.

  Val cut her a curious sideways glance, and Elle straightened as her gaze searched the room, not meeting her friend's eyes. “Ah, there is the duke. I imagine he is wondering where I’ve been.” Elle did have a reputation to maintain, even among her friends. Everyone thought she and Langley were the perfect match. She could not bear it if they knew the truth.

  Langley was across the room chatting with Lord Markham, and Elle gently altered her course to steer her friend toward them.

  Regardless of the lackluster state of their relationship, Langley was her betrothed and she really wanted to waltz. Lord knew if she attempted it with any man but her intended, Mama would need the smelling salts.

  Well, it was time to remind the duke that his future bride would require a tad more effort than the affection he showed his hounds. As Elle made her way toward Langley, he glanced up and saw her, his chocolate colored eyes crinkling at the edges. She smiled in return. Maybe she was being too hard on him. With his ducal responsibilities, his lack of attention could be nothing more than the result of his busy schedule.

  She hoped, as always, for her pulse to quicken at his nearness or flutters in her stomach at the sight of his lean, muscular frame. There was a nice warming in the vicinity of her chest, but her second glass of champagne might be responsible.

  "Good evening, Lord Markham. Duke." Elle nodded to the gentlemen, who made room for the pair of ladies to join them with courteous bows. "We have had the most lovely turn about the room, but I find myself restless still. I believe they will play a waltz next. I do so love to waltz."

  Her less than subtle hint had Langley's brows raising, and he turned to his friend with a wr
y smile. "I see that my time for conversation has grow quite short, all of a sudden. Shall we continue our discussion tomorrow at the club?"

  Lord Markham inclined his head, offering his arm to Elle's friend, who accepted with pinkened cheeks. "And I shall see the delightful Miss Bell back to her chaperone, if she will allow me the honor."

  "Of course, my lord," murmured Valera, her cheeks a dark pink. Elle smiled in encouragement as the pair moved off.

  If Val would merely speak to him, Lord Markham might realize he was missing out on a perfectly good opportunity to dance with one of the most charming ladies in attendance.

  The duke cleared his throat, and Elle returned her attention to him as he tipped his head toward the dance floor. She took the arm he held out, and as they assumed their places among the crowd, studied him from under her lashes.

  A dark evening coat that fit snugly over his fit frame, shined Hessians, and an expertly tied cravat created the image of a man well aware of his vaunted position in society. Elle had never seen the duke in anything less than high quality, tailored perfection since he gained his letters from Eton.

  Not that she had seen him all that often. This Season was the first time in years that several months hadn't separated their meetings.

  In one month, they would be married and yet she knew nothing more personal about him than he now preferred cologne with a hint of orange and spice in it. As his betrothed, it was unseemly that she could not say how he preferred his tea, or if he enjoyed fish or meat more. Elle didn't even know his favorite color. It seemed like a woman should know those things about the man she was to marry.

  There were other things a wife should know about her husband too, preferences of a more carnal nature, and Elle was beginning to wonder if she'd ever uncover those as well. Or even if she wanted to, considering. Having two older brothers and several married friends, she was well aware there could be passion between a man and a woman.

  But the way he was held her stiffly at arm's length, it was clear she wouldn't discover if they had passion together before their wedding. How could she know if she desired him, if he never touched her more than was strictly necessary? Why, he hadn't ever even attempted to steal a kiss! It did not bode well for their future as a couple, in her mind.

  Elle's brows drew down as they moved around the ballroom, her skirts belling out as they twirled to the waltz.

  "Are you well, Lady Eleanore?" Langley's deep voice rumbled near her ear, but there was not a drop of sensuality in his words, only polite inquiry.

  Blast it all.

  "Quite." Clearing her throat, Elle softened her tone. Honey was more effective than vinegar in dealings with the opposite sex, Mama always said. "I am well, your Grace. Merely thinking of all there is to do tomorrow before setting out for Brookdale. Thank you for the invitation. Mama and I have been looking forward to it for weeks."

  "Of course. I could never hold a house party and not invite my betrothed."

  Ah, so he did recall their status as a couple. Unfortunately, it sounded less like he wanted her there and more like a duty to be born with a stiff upper lip.

  "Mother was quite insistent that you be there,” Langley continued, blithely unaware that he was insulting her with each careless word. “She insisted people would gossip if you stayed behind in London, though I think it would be preferable in your position. I myself find such parties a waste of my time and resources, but Society expects certain things from a duke, do they not?"

  "They do. Obligations can be such a burden, but one does as one must." Her reply was ground out from between teeth clenched in a wide smile, but the duke didn't seem to notice.

  He was staring over her shoulder, and when she twisted her head around to look, she spied the duke's cousin standing at the edge of the dance floor. Jacob Farrish, Langley's first cousin, closest friend, and bane of her existence, raised one hand in a two-fingered salute to the duke. Langley nodded, swung her around one last time, and then bowed as the final notes of the waltz faded away.

  Elle dipped into a shallow curtsey, attempting to hide her resignation. One short waltz was all she'd get from him this evening. "Thank you, Your Grace, for a lovely dance."

  "Not at all, my dear, not at all." Langley bobbed his head pleasantly, but his absent expression said his mind had already vacated the room ahead of his body. In truth, it was a wonder he had lasted this long. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must be off."

  "Of course." Her murmur was lost in the crowd as the duke nodded a final time and strode toward the front hall before the words had even passed from her lips.

  Stopping next to his cousin, the two men exchanged words, Jacob's expression hardening as he repeatedly shook his head. The duke clapped him on the shoulder with a smile a hundred times more charming than any he had ever directed her way, then strode off.

  Jacob glanced across the room, and their eyes clashed. Elle turned away with a sniff. Once again, the duke had left his watchdog behind, while he hurried off to do... whatever it was he did to avoid being around her.

  Elle straightened her gloves, determined to hide her hurt feelings, and glanced around for her mother or Valera. But neither was to be found in the crush of people crowded into the ballroom to dance and gossip.

  "Lady Eleanore. All alone? How unusual."

  Elle bit back a startled gasp as Jacob materialized beside her, seemingly out of nowhere. She narrowed her eyes at his quip, unmoved by the toothy grin he directed her way.

  "For a moment only, I assure you. My dance card is full, so if you will excuse me..." She turned away, dismissing him with a curtness born of years of strife between them. If the duke had no interest in her, it must be in large part Jacob's fault. His cousin always stood between them, acting as Langley's rear guard whilst the duke slipped away. How could he possibly form any sort of attachment to her with such a loyal barrier in place?

  Even now, Jacob stayed so that the duke was free to go, taking his place as her escort.

  She intended to leave then, but he snagged her wrist before she could take more than a step. Lifting it as if he were to press a kiss to the back of her hand, he thumbed through the dance cards that dangled from a red ribbon. Mashing her lips together, determined not to make a scene, Elle studied the top of his bent head.

  It was truly tragic that lovely copper curls, eyes that couldn't decide if they were spiced ginger or a mossy green, and a long, lean frame hid the heart of a stone gargoyle.

  Jacob straightened, a lazy smile playing about his lips. A smile that did interesting things to her insides, even when she knew better. She snatched her hand free.

  "I'm loathe to tell you that your next dance partner, Lord Delphy, has left the party, having given himself an aching stomach by eating masses of those tiny cakes on the refreshments table." The edges of his eyes crinkled in sly merriment, as though he relished revealing this bit of news. "He's never been one for restraint, our beloved Delphy."

  "It does not sound as though you loathe to tell me, Mr. Farrish," she said, annoyed to have lost her excuse to escape his company. Her evening had been disappointing enough without having to spar with the duke's devilish cousin. "It almost sounds as if you are trying to contain your glee. And failing badly, I might add."

  "Sheath your claws, kitten. After all, I just saved you the embarrassment of wandering the room, looking for your absent dance partner." Placing one hand upon his chest with a flair for drama, Jacob leaned in. "Think of how it would have appeared to everyone. Lady Eleanore, abandoned. How very sad. Legions would weep to hear of it."

  There were times she just wanted to punch him right in the nose. He was lucky she was a lady.

  "I cannot convey my gratitude effectively," she said.

  "I am happy to provide even that small service, my lady. Come now, before the whispers start." He crooked an arm, the dratted smirk still in place, and tipped his head toward the open terrace doors.

  Elle was torn. While she would like to join her friends on the sidelines, she d
idn’t want to answer any curious questions about where the duke had hied off to this time.

  With stiff dignity, she placed her hand on his arm, her fingers barely touching the material of his sleeve. Jacob just laughed, a low rumble of amusement that slid through her leaving tingles in its wake, and pressed his hand over hers, molding her hand to his arm as he drew her out the doors.

  Fool. Reckless, masochistic fool.

  Jacob silently called himself these names, and more, as he led Lady Eleanore onto the terrace. Her fingers were stiff and cold where they were trapped between his own and his forearm, but he could feel each one through his sleeve as if they were branding irons.

  The oil lights encased in glass that marched along the terrace walls set her curls gleaming, shining like the fire that danced in the lamps. He had not thought it possible, but her delicate skin looked even softer in the flickering light, burnished pale gold and smooth all over. He couldn't see her beautiful blue eyes, as she had stubbornly averted her face from him, but he doubted the look in them was pleased.

  It was a sickness, what he did, time and time again.

  Agreeing to his cousin's requests to watch over his betrothed when his inappropriate feelings for the girl should have prompted him to decline. But he didn't; he never did. It was torture, to be so close to her, and yet know that he could never touch her.

  Never taste that plump, sulky mouth. Never run his fingers down the elegant line of her back. Never peel away that mint colored confection she called a dress, to discover if what lay underneath was as delicious as it looked.

  Since he could not truly be satisfied without betraying his closest friend, and the only man he called family, Jacob bedeviled her at every opportunity instead. If he could not inspire love, at least he could rouse her ire, until she was flushed and flustered.

  Stopping as they rounded the edge of the house and the terrace abruptly ended, leaving them in a shadowed stone alcove, he let Elle tug her fingers away. She quickly moved a few steps from him, looking out over the sprawling lawns and garden. Jacob leaned one hip against the balustrade and regarded her gilded profile.