Page 10 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

Octavius straightened in his seat when Miss Fields entered the drawing room with Sophie and Margaret trailing behind her.

He suppressed the urge to stand, as was customary when a lady of equal or higher social standing entered.

For some unknown reason, he’d always had the sense she was equal to him, even though she was merely a governess.

His pulse quickened despite his best efforts to remain unbothered.

“There you are!” Modesty exclaimed, standing with a squirming baby Augustus in her arms.

The Duchess of Pryde, Constantine’s new wife, looked radiant holding the infant. The Duke of Pryde was one of his dearest friends, and Octavius’s guest watched his wife with the babe, his expression tender.

“Are all the children here?” she asked. “Oh, where’s James?”

The drawing room became filled with happy greetings as Sophie dropped to her knees in front of three-year-old Stella, who clung with a shy smile to her natural father, Lucien, the Duke of Luhst. Octavius, however, couldn’t stop staring at the shy and hesitant way Miss Fields walked through the room, the way her brown woolen gown moved around her legs, the way her thin shoulders were raised, her long, graceful neck seeming to fold in as though for protection.

Lavender mixed with her own scent lingered in the room behind her, stirring unwelcome heat in his loins.

He shifted in his seat, adjusting his position.

Why did Miss Fields seem to be on guard? What was running through her mind? Was she intimidated to be in the company of seven dukes and three duchesses, or was she just naturally shy? Octavius wished he could ask her, understand her, soothe her.

Show her his own way of dealing with unpleasant emotions.

For eight nights he’d lain awake thinking of her sleeping just two floors above, wondering if she wore a nightgown or chemise, and how long her hair was when it fell loose around her shoulders, freed from its severe chignon.

He’d imagined drawing her into his bedchamber after the children were asleep, unpinning that raven-colored hair until it spilled over his hands like silk, and showing her exactly how he could chase away the stress of the day.

Why in the world was he so fascinated with her? Was it not he a few months ago who had proclaimed for his six friends to hear that he wouldn’t pursue or seduce a good governess? He’d certainly never been interested in any of the six that preceded her.

And yet watching her take a seat quietly in the farthest corner of the room and retrieve a book about natural philosophy raised his pulse.

When her stormy gray gaze connected with his across the room, a jolt of pleasure ran through his body.

Octavius licked his lips, as though he’d just tasted trifle.

Damn the woman . One week in his household and already her presence affected him more than the bottle of brandy he’d denied himself since the letter that said he was in the running for president of the Board of Trade arrived.

Just until Christmas , he reminded himself.

He needed to remember why he was going through all this trouble.

The presidency meant legitimate access to French luxuries again.

No more relying on smugglers for decent wine, no more paying extortionate prices at the modiste for the children, no more hoping that currency exchanges wouldn’t fluctuate before a big investment.

Octavius tried to convince himself it would be for the children; with the family reputation improved after he so thoroughly ruined it, it would mean a bright political future and connections for James as his heir, as well as better marriage prospects for the girls.

But deep down, he knew the truth. The presidency wasn’t about the children’s futures or French luxuries.

It was about proving to Papa and to the cowering, shame-filled boy inside himself that he could be more than the disappointment who’d driven Mama away.

When she had fled with his baby sister and left him behind, her implication was very clear: he wasn’t worth staying for.

But being president of the Board of Trade would prove them all wrong. He’d show the sneering Papa in his memories that the begging, whimpering boy cowering against the wall had become a man. Unlike Papa, he’d earn respect through merit, not just birthright.

He could finally be enough.

“Where is James, indeed?” Octavius grumbled, looking around.

St. Nicholas Day without drinking required significant distraction, so he was happy he’d gathered the six dukes—his best friends—as well as the wives of Rath, Luhst, and Pryde, along with their children in his favorite drawing room.

He felt calm in the warm colors of early autumn: muted green walls, floor-to-ceiling drapes in a rusty orange color, brightly colored still life paintings with shiny apples, grapes so lush they practically ached to be bitten, rosy peaches, oranges so vibrant he could almost smell them…

Christmas food was strictly forbidden in his house, as even the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves gave him sickly nausea, sent his heart racing and his head swimming. He could still smell the scent of mulled wine upon his father’s breath as he’d cursed him for a lazy brat.

Octavius swallowed down the memory. Instead, he made sure the table overflowed with some of the best dishes his kitchen staff had to offer.

Three towering cake stands overflowed with buttery seed cakes that brimmed full of flavor, almond macarons dusted with sugar, delicate ratafia biscuits, and gossamer-thin wafer biscuits that melted upon the tongue like morning frost touched by sunlight.

Plates groaned with sugared almonds from Italy that cost more per pound than most servants earned in a month, crystallized ginger that burned sweetly upon the tongue, dates stuffed with marzipan, and dried apricots from the Mediterranean, glistening and shining like jewels.

The children would gorge themselves sick, and part of Octavius envied them.

Even his attempt at moderation revealed the glutton within: enough food laid out for thirty people when only twelve were expected, because the thought of running short sent him into near panic.

Better to waste than want, his papa had always said, and that was what he’d learned.

Neither of them had ever learned the meaning of “enough.”

“James just stepped out of the schoolroom but will be along shortly,” said Miss Fields. “Mrs. Davies is looking for him.”

So his housekeeper would bring James. Good.

Just looking at Miss Fields sent a thrill through Octavius’s chest. Her plain gown couldn’t disguise the gentle curve of her waist or the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath.

He’d spent the past week thinking of the graceful line of her neck when she bent over the children’s lessons, the way her lips parted slightly when she concentrated.

More than once Octavius had found himself lingering outside the schoolroom just to hear her melodic voice, imagining how it might sound whispering his name in the darkness of his bedchamber.

It was also the way she challenged him during that interview, treating him like a man rather than a title.

For eight days, he’d been acutely aware of her presence in his house: the soft creak of wood above his bedchamber as she moved through the schoolroom, her sweet voice drifting down the corridor as she read to the children, the tantalizing glimpse of brown woolen day gowns disappearing around corners whenever their paths nearly crossed.

Whatever sorcery Miss Fields possessed, her mere presence soothed the constant gnawing hunger in his gut, that relentless need for distraction while he couldn’t have the best French cognac.

He’d been forced to abandon it all for this damned political position.

The gambling he could sacrifice. Cards had lost their appeal when every wager reminded him of the thousands he’d lost in a single evening, coin that could have fed half of Whitechapel.

The whoring he’d ceased entirely after that disastrous night one week before Stir-up Sunday when he’d woken in some Covent Garden courtesan’s bed with no memory of how he’d arrived there, his ruby ring missing, and rumors of his “activities” somehow reaching the prime minister’s ears within days.

But the drinking… Christ, the absence of drink was torture.

For this past week since beginning his sobriety, Octavius had been balancing upon a knife’s edge, nerves raw as scraped bone.

The man who’d charmed drawing rooms across London had vanished, leaving behind a snarling, hollow-eyed stranger who couldn’t manage wit without wine to loosen his tongue.

Gone was the humorous, charming, light-hearted rake who could make the Queen giggle and ministers approve his latest scheme.

Now he had to face his ghosts sober, as Miss Fields so correctly put it, and the bastards were winning.

The only refuge left was food, and his kitchen staff worked relentlessly to satisfy his unbridled gluttony.

“Now then, children!” Modesty said with a tinkling laugh. “Not all at once!”

It was a marvelous change to hear laughter instead of the shrieking that had filled his home for months.

In the past week since Miss Fields had come to stay with them, Octavius noticed how much quieter it became, which was much more than any of the previous governesses had managed.

There were fewer mice running around scaring the maids, no ink stains to scrub off the walls or his face, and no apologizing for French profanities in front of his visitors.

His valet had scrubbed his face raw for days to remove the children’s artwork before it was finally gone, and nothing new had replaced it.

Octavius swallowed. Coincidence, surely. It could not all be due to Miss Fields.