Page 8 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

O n his second night at home, Jon slept badly. The house was too quiet after all those years in Bitche, and despite his exhaustion, he kept thinking of more tasks he’d need to handle. Pursue the official naming of him as duke. Make courtesy visits to his late brother’s employees to assess their circumstances. Go over the books with the accountants, Father’s banker, and the land steward to determine the financial situation. Tour the dukedom’s properties and consult with the estate managers to see what needed doing. And on and on.

He groaned. No one had ever prepared him for any of it, because no one had ever expected him to become duke.

Nor had he wanted to. Father’s purpose in sending him on a grand tour was to knock the recklessness out of him, to make him a gentleman. But once Jon had ended up at Verdun, he’d chosen to learn skills that would make him useful to his father once they were released. He’d hoped to become an expert in legal issues or architecture or tenant management. He had read every book he could get his hands on in France. He’d learned a great deal.

Except what it would be like to run everything. It would be daunting—that much he was quickly discovering.

Somewhere near dawn, he fell asleep, only to be awakened a few hours later by one of his usual nightmares about Bitche. He lay there looking about his room, reminding himself he was home. By then, it was seven. Might as well begin his day. He rang for a servant, hoping for coffee. A short while later, Gibbons hurried in with a tray containing The Times and a coffee service.

“Forgive me for my lateness, Your Grace,” the older man said, a hint of worry in his tone, “but yesterday you said to wake you at—”

“I know. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. If you wish, I could make you a libation at bedtime that might help.”

“It’s worth a try,” he said, though he doubted it would make a difference unless it could take over running the dukedom for him.

Sometime later, Jon entered the breakfast room, half-expecting to see Miss Morris there. But only Chloe was at the table, eating a slice of toast liberally spread with raspberry jam as she read one of the many gossip rags that had apparently bloomed in the city in his absence.

“I see you still have a fondness for sickeningly sweet preserves,” he said as he filled his plate at the sideboard before taking a seat across from her.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I prefer butter myself.” He poured himself some tea, just to see if he liked it better now that he was home. “Where is Miss Morris?”

Chloe set her paper down to eye him closely. “Why do you ask?”

Because I have a lesson with her soon that I will have to cut short. “Merely curious.”

“She’s probably in the art room.” Chloe shrugged as she returned to her paper.

“So we actually have an art room.”

“Of course.” With her eyes still fixed on her reading, she pointed vaguely up at the ceiling. “It’s what used to be the schoolroom.”

He ate quickly in silence, then rose to leave.

“She’ll like you better if you bring her a piece of that plum cake,” Chloe said.

“Who?” he asked, playing dumb. “Mother?”

Chloe rolled her eyes at him. “Tory.”

“What makes you think I’m going to see her and not Mother?”

His sister chuckled. “I noticed how thunderstruck you were when you first saw my governess.”

Damn. “You’re imagining things.”

“If you say so.” Chloe continued to smile. “But if it helps, she has that effect on most men who meet her.”

It didn’t help one whit. He hated the idea of men leering at her. She deserved better. He would make sure she found someone better to marry, too, even if he had to go to every blasted Society event Mother drummed up between now and the end of the Season.

God, how the thought of that tired him.

“Any other words of wisdom for me?” he drawled.

Chloe suddenly grew serious. “Be careful with Tory. She’s lost so much. If you don’t intend to stay around, don’t get close to her.”

“Why would I not stay around?” he asked, taken aback.

“I don’t know.” She stared up at him. “I get the feeling you have plans you’re not telling us about.”

Chloe had grown perceptive in the years since he’d seen her. Now she waited as if to see if he’d share. Little did she know, he was not the sharing kind. He’d learned not to be in Verdun. When he merely stared back, she sighed. “I don’t wish to see her hurt.”

“Miss Morris is the last person in the world I would hurt,” he clipped out. “I owe her father more than you can imagine, and I’m not about to repay his kindness by injuring his daughter.”

“Good. She’s going with us to the theater tomorrow night, you know.”

“Is she?” He’d rather hoped she would be.

“Do try not to curse and say vulgar things.” Chloe eyed him over the top of her newspaper. “I’d like you to make a good impression. On the duke and duchess, I mean.”

“I’ll do my best. Tell me, is it Miss Morris that has had this apparently sudden effect on your manners or are you up to something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’d like you to impress the Grenwoods. You could use some friends.”

“I have friends.”

“Who are probably just as ill-mannered as you.” She returned to her gossip rag.

With a shake of his head, he started to leave, then paused at the sideboard. He placed a slice of plum cake on a plate and poured a cup of tea, adding sugar to it in the off chance that Miss Morris liked her tea sweet, as his mother did. He might need to bribe the young woman with breakfast just to soften her temper when he told her he couldn’t stay long.

He turned to find Chloe watching him with raised eyebrows. “For Mother,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” His sister’s musical laugh followed him down the hall.

It took him some time to reach the art room while juggling dishes, but he was pleased he’d taken the trouble when he looked inside to find Miss Morris standing in the center of the room, still dressed in mourning black. The light pouring from a large window at the other end of the room showed her in profile, and he was struck once again by her elegant but shapely figure.

Then he groaned, remembering his sister’s words about Miss Morris’s effect on men. And the woman was worried about finding a husband? They’d find her , and probably in droves.

Miss Morris frowned as her teeth worried her lower lip, and he had the perverse urge to go soothe the poor abraded flesh with his mouth, then kiss away her displeasure.

He shook off that unsettling thought. Remember, you’re trying to help her, not upset her life . . . or your own. The last thing she needed was a physical wreck of a man for a husband. And the last thing he needed was to court a woman when the weight of a dukedom had just been dropped onto his shoulders. He had enough to do right now.

At that moment, she looked over and spotted him. “There you are!” Her frown vanished. “I thought for sure you’d forgotten. Or overslept. Which would be perfectly understandable under the circumstances but . . .”

“I brought you breakfast in case you hadn’t had any,” he put in, not wanting her to speculate further on what might be understandable under the circumstances.

“Oh! How kind.” She took the cup and saucer and the plate he offered and set them down on a little table. “I . . . um . . . had breakfast earlier.”

“Ah.” Now he felt foolish. A pox on Chloe for her ill-considered matchmaking.

Then he caught Miss Morris’s furtive look at the plate. “Although I do love plum cake.” Removing one black glove, she broke off a piece of the cake and ate it, bliss spreading over her features. “And your cook makes a very good one.”

“I agree. The tea isn’t bad, either.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Coming from someone who doesn’t like tea, that’s high praise.” Dutifully, she took a sip. “But I’m afraid we can’t linger.” Picking up a nearby leather satchel, she looped the strap over her shoulder. “The British Museum opens soon, and we’ll need every bit of our available time to tour it.”

Uh-oh. “Why are we touring a museum?”

“Because this particular museum contains a wealth of sculpture, which enables me to point out techniques and you to gain inspiration for your own piece.”

He stifled a groan. “I saw plenty of sculptures in France before we were taken prisoner.”

“I doubt Father knew enough about technique to speak of it intelligently.” When he hesitated, she added, “See here, I’m doing my part by going to the theater with the duke and duchess tomorrow night, so you must do yours.”

“Ah, but that won’t expose you to eligible men.”

“Of course it will. Chloe always draws eligible men to her, wherever she goes. Your mother makes sure of it.” After pausing to eat another bite of cake, she pulled on her glove. “So, we’re off to the museum.”

Damn. The woman had clearly seized the bit between her teeth.

She headed for the door. “And we should probably go down the servants’ stairs and through the garden to the mews. It wouldn’t do for anyone, like our neighbors, to see us leave the house together unchaperoned.”

“Or my mother, for that matter, who doesn’t know of this arrangement.” He eyed her closely. “Unless you happened to tell her? Or Chloe?”

Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “Did you ?”

He opted for the truth. “And give the scheming little matchmakers grist for the mill? I think not.”

“Because you know what they’d make of it,” she said, looking a bit too relieved for his pride. “Us having such a bargain, I mean.”

“I do know.” He shrugged. “If they happen to find out, so be it, but best not to encourage them.”

She brightened. “Exactly. Or anyone else.”

“Right.” As they walked toward the back stairs, he asked, “What’s in the satchel?”

“Sketchbooks.”

That explained why the blasted thing was nearly half her size. “At least let me carry the bag.”

“Certainly.” She handed it to him. “Thank you.”

“Good God,” he said as he hoisted it over his shoulder. How could such a petite woman haul around anything so heavy? “How many sketchbooks do you have in here, anyway?”

“Only two, although they’re rather large. But I also have pencils and a book on drawing figures, and a few other things. It’s always good to be prepared.”

“For what?”

She flashed him a knowing look. “You’ll see.”

Damn. What had he let himself in for?

Tory rarely encountered anyone she knew in the museum, especially this early when most people in good society were still abed. So she was fervently hoping no one would be here to wonder who her companion was.

Nonetheless, she’d chosen her attire carefully. Combined with the mourning ring on her left ring finger, her black gown gave the impression she was lamenting a late husband. Which meant that her accompanying a man without a chaperone wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

For all people knew, Falconridge could be her brother. He hadn’t appeared in Society yet since his return, and she sincerely doubted that anyone who’d known him eleven years ago would recognize him. Besides, most art lovers were probably at the Royal Academy of Arts exhibition, since it had recently opened for the summer.

Sure enough, the halls were bereft of people. She and the duke made their way with ease to the place where the Greek and Roman marbles were exhibited. But when they entered the sculpture gallery, he muttered a curse and pivoted to step in front of her and block her way.

“What on earth are you doing?” she snapped, attempting to get past him.

He grabbed her arm to halt her. “I’m trying to protect your innocent eyes. The statue behind me is of a man with no clothes.”

The outrage in his voice made her laugh. “I know. It’s the Discobolus. I’ve viewed the discus thrower at least fifty times and sketched it more than once. How else am I to learn male anatomy?” Pulling free of him, she rounded him to approach the six-foot-high sculpture.

“Good God,” the duke muttered as he whirled to follow her. “Does my mother know of your interest in such salacious subjects?”

“Probably not.” She smirked at him. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t bring Chloe to this part of the museum when we come here.”

“I should hope not.” He viewed the statue closely. “Although I’m not sure you should use this as an example of male anatomy. Few gentlemen have muscles as pronounced as this fellow. Besides, he’s missing a . . . er . . . key portion of his anatomy. It appears to have been lopped off.”

“I realize that.”

Now he looked shocked. “You’ve seen that portion of a man’s anatomy?”

She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. “Not in real life, of course. But this isn’t the only naked male statue in the British Museum. The Greeks and Romans were quite fond of those. If you’d like to see the others to compare their private parts to this one . . .” She gave him a cheeky grin.

“Very funny,” he said in that dry tone of his.

“But I wasn’t coming in here to show you the Discobolus, anyway. I had another sculpture in mind.” She continued on until she came to one of the collection’s most famous pieces—the Bust of Clytie.

Before she could launch into her description of its merits, the duke said, “I know this sculpture.” He glanced at her, frowning. “I saw it at Charles Townley’s house once. Did he donate it to the museum?”

“Actually, his family sold his entire collection of sculptures to the museum for twenty thousand pounds after he died.”

“Charles Townley is dead?” He stared at the sculpture. “When? How?”

“I don’t know the how, but it happened a few years after you left for France.”

A ragged breath escaped him. “I wonder how many people of my acquaintance died while I was gone.”

His wistful tone broke her heart. “I imagine there were quite a few. You were away for many years.”

He nodded absently, but she noticed he still looked pensive.

She wished she dared take his hand to comfort him, but settled for saying, “To be fair, Charles Townley was nearly seventy when he passed away, so he did live long enough to travel some of the world and collect many antiquities.”

For some reason, that made him smile at her. “You probably consider that the epitome of a life well-lived.”

She avoided his too-perceptive gaze. “It’s the epitome of one life well-lived. For me, a well-lived life would include being known for carving a highly regarded bust or inspiring women artists or teaching the next great Anne Seymour Damer. She has a bronze portrait bust of Sir Joseph Banks here in the museum, you know.”

“I did not know.”

The wry amusement in his voice stung. “Please do not laugh at me.”

“Forgive me. I’m not laughing, I swear.” When he sounded genuinely apologetic, she looked over to find him regarding her with a serious gaze. “I’m merely marveling at how sculpting can mean so much to you. I walked through Townley’s house of sculptures years ago without paying them any mind.”

“Stab me through the heart, why don’t you?” she said lightly. “How could you not notice them? Sculpture is... is . . .” She turned to the Bust of Clytie, realizing it was probably better to illustrate her feelings than try to describe them. “Do you know the story of Clytie?”

He eyed her askance. “Your father taught me classical literature for years. What do you think?” When she just kept staring at him, he drew himself up to recite in the pedantic tone of a lecturer, “Clytie was a water nymph who fell in love with the sun god Helios. He didn’t love her, and when she couldn’t gain his affections by ridding him of the woman he did love, Clytie just stared at him from the ground every day until she turned into a heliotrope.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but that description will do. Now, what do you see when you look at this bust of her?”

“A woman’s head and scantily clad bosom emerging from a bunch of petals.”

Scantily clad bosom? Good Lord, he was such a man. But if he was expecting to make her blush again, he didn’t know her at all. “Her head, neck, shoulders, and draped bosom, yes. Rising from a flower.”

“A heliotrope.”

“Some experts question whether the flower is actually a heliotrope.”

“Huh,” he said, glancing at the petals. “Aren’t heliotropes those purple blooms with all the tiny petals? Because if so, this doesn’t look like one.”

“No, it does not. And Townley variously called it a lotus blossom and a sunflower. Which is odd, since they didn’t have sunflowers in ancient Greece. But that’s neither here nor there. How would you describe Clytie’s expression?”

This time he examined the sculpture more closely. “Doleful?”

“I would call it ‘yearning’ but that’s fine. How does the artist, whoever he was, demonstrate her dolefulness?”

“No idea.”

She sighed. The duke was going to make her pull this out of him, wasn’t he? “Fine. How would you describe her chin?”

That brought him up short. “Her chin? I don’t know. Pugnacious?”

“What makes you say so?”

The duke thrust out his own chin. “It looks like Chloe’s as a girl when she was preparing to dig in her heels.”

“Good.” Time to put him out of his misery, since he clearly disliked the Socratic method of teaching. “Clytie won’t give Helios up, even though she knows he has no interest in her, yet her downturned lips show she despairs of him. Her head is tilted, as she follows his path through the sky each day and—”

“—her eyes have the vacant look of someone doing the same thing over and over even though the act no longer has any real meaning,” he said thoughtfully. “She truly has become the flower, whichever one it is.”

“Yes!” She beamed at him. “Very good.”

He gave an elaborate bow. “Happy to please, madam. Does this mean I shall earn high marks in your class?”

She met his sarcasm with sarcasm. “Only if you bring an apple for the teacher tomorrow.”

“I brought you plum cake. That should count.”

“I suppose it’ll do . . . for now.”

“It’ll have to do,” he said, clearly fighting a smile. “It’s not apple season.”

“You’re a duke,” she said dryly. “Surely you can find an apple out of season.” Then she groaned. “Not that I’m suggesting you should. I can wait until apple season. That is . . . I didn’t mean you ever have to give me—”

“Don’t worry. I understood you were making a joke.” He stared at the bust, and mused aloud, “I wonder why Townley used to call the sculpture his ‘wife.’ She’s missing over half a body. Or was he just wanting a woman who would do no more than bask in his shining glory?”

The remark startled her. “Townley really called her his wife?”

“He did. Or so I was told by the scores of art students who visited his house. I never heard him do so myself, but I only went there once, to see his Venus.”

“That’s here in the museum, too.”

“Is it?” Suddenly alert, he looked around. “Where?”

She frowned. “You just want to view it because she’s half-naked.”

“What?” he said in mock outrage. “I am deeply interested in the art of sculpture. Can’t you tell?”

“Oh, yes, it’s been quite apparent.”

“You got to see a naked man,” he pointed out, “so I should get to view a half-naked woman, at the very least.”

“You’re already viewing a partially naked woman,” she said, reproaching him. “And you’re missing the point I’m making about sculpture. It presents more than just people who are pretty to look at. It captures the nuances of how people feel —what makes them yearn, what turns them petty, who inspires them. It illuminates the human condition.”

“Ah,” he said, although she could see he still didn’t quite understand why that mattered.

That made sense. He might not have become duke until now, but he’d always had the cushion of his father’s dukedom to break his fall.

Well, except in France. But surely the memories of that would fade as he became comfortable with the privileges of being duke. Before that happened, she should try her best to instill in him the importance of allowing for people’s feelings, especially those of the people beneath him.

If he would even listen. He was doing this only to fulfill the obligation of getting her a husband.

She sighed. “Let’s move on.”

They continued around the gallery as she pointed out various sculptures that provoked thought. They were about to leave the room when a certain booming voice assaulted her ears.

She froze. Of all the people to show up here . . . Mr. Dixon. Why, she barely saw him in her neighborhood, much less out in town. “This way,” she hissed, and tried to tug the duke through some curtains covering a doorway that led to an upcoming exhibit.

He resisted. “What are you doing?” he asked, at least having the good sense to whisper.

“I can’t encounter that fellow entering the gallery. Please . . .”

Letting her pull him through the curtains, he slipped with her into a small, unlit room where sculptures lay under drop cloths.

They could hear Mr. Dixon’s voice even in there. “This is the famous Bust of Clytie,” Mr. Dixon announced in his pompous voice. “Note her petulant expression, typical of a woman who couldn’t get her way and chose to pout about it.”

While his companions laughed, Tory bristled at the man’s flippant characterization, even though there was some truth to it.

Falconridge bent to whisper in her ear, “Who is this arse?”

“A neighbor who once taught me about sculpture,” she breathed, drawing him deeper into the little room. Did she imagine that he stiffened a bit?

“A friend?” he asked.

“Until he forced a kiss on me,” she muttered.

Even in the dimness, she could see his outraged expression. “Forced a—”

She covered his mouth with her hand. “ He must not discover us in here. ”

When he nodded, she removed her hand, but not before the warmth of his breath on her palm sent a strange excitement down her spine. Heavens.

Meanwhile, Mr. Dixon droned on. “I used to know a sculptress in my neighborhood who fancied me in much the same fashion as Clytie did Helios.”

What? The audacity of the man!

She lunged forward, ready to throttle him for lying, but Falconridge drew her back against him and held her still.

To her mortification, Mr. Dixon went on. “I had to be firm with her, explain that my wife needed me.”

The duke’s arm tightened about her waist. “He was married, for God’s sake?” he hissed in her ear.

“Shh!” she said, a bit too loudly.

Mr. Dixon quieted. “Did you hear something?”

The chorus of voices that answered him in the negative made her groan inwardly. He was telling this fairy tale to all of them!

Fortunately, the group moved on down the gallery as Mr. Dixon continued spouting his ridiculous opinions about art and sculpture and women. She and Falconridge stood motionless until the voices faded enough to convince her that they’d passed into the next gallery.

She slipped from the duke’s arms. “How I loathe that man,” she grumbled.

“I couldn’t tell.”

Her gaze flew to him. “You didn’t believe him, did you? About me having a fancy for him?”

“I expect you have better taste in gentlemen. Besides, the men who brag the most about their conquests are generally the ones with the least to brag about.” He eyed her closely. “But I must ask—is he the reason you don’t wish to marry?”

“Of course not!”

He arched an eyebrow.

“All right. Partly.”

“Because he ‘forced’ a kiss on you,” the duke said.

“He didn’t do it right off, mind you. To be honest, when I met him initially, I was a bit starstruck. After all, he has exhibited at the Royal Academy more than once. So, I thought him very kind because he deigned to explain aspects of sculpting to me.”

“Did you know then that he was married?”

“Certainly. As I said, he—and his wife—lived in the neighborhood. I had already met her—she was expecting, I should point out. My previous encounters with him had been perfectly innocent. So when he . . . er . . . insisted on kissing me in his workroom, he utterly shocked me.”

Falconridge’s intent gaze was fixed on her face. “What did you do?”

“I resisted, of course, but he was very strong. Fortunately, nearby sat a bucket of soapy water he was using to wash the marble dust from his latest work.” She tipped up her chin. “I . . . um . . . grabbed it and poured it over his head, then shoved him off me.”

The duke laughed. “Of course, you did.”

His laughter provoked her own. At the time, she hadn’t been amused one whit, especially since the soapy water splashed on her, too, but now that she remembered it without her haze of anger, Mr. Dixon had looked rather comical with marble dust all over him.

After a moment, the duke asked, “Was it his lack of fidelity to his wife that put you off of marriage or was it the kiss itself?”

Strangely enough, in this dim and secretive little room full of covered sculptures, it seemed somehow natural to be honest. “Both, I suppose. Still, I’ve been kissed a few times since, and I don’t understand the appeal.”

He looked astounded. “You’re basing your opinion on a handful of kisses? Perhaps you haven’t been kissed by the right man. Or at least not by one who knew what he was doing. You might be swearing off marriage for no good reason.”

Since her lack of enthusiasm for kissing wasn’t her main reason for not marrying—which she also couldn’t tell him—she could hardly argue his point. “What do you suggest, Your Grace?” she snapped. “That I kiss every man I meet until I have sufficient experience to confirm my opinion?”

“Why not? I’d be happy to offer my services.” Then he grimaced. “God, I can’t believe I said that aloud.”

She chuckled. “I can. It’s the sort of thing you seem to say. Fortunately for you, I know you didn’t mean it, and—”

His sudden kiss took her by surprise. But not the way Mr. Dixon’s had. The duke’s felt non-threatening, as if he were giving her a chance to protest at any moment.

Yet he kissed her unlike any man had done before. His kiss was soft but direct, gentle but surprisingly thrilling, too. None of the other men’s kisses had been thrilling. Then again, she hadn’t liked the men very well, either. She rather liked Falconridge. When he wasn’t being officious and overbearing, that is.

Once he drew back, far too quickly, she touched her fingers to her lips where they tingled. Like other places in her body just now. That made no sense. Why him? Why did it have to be him— a man so far beyond her station—who did this to her?

“Well?” he asked in a rumbling voice that resonated throughout her body. She instantly forgot he could be officious and overbearing.

“That was hardly long enough for me to form an opinion,” she said truthfully.

He narrowed his gaze on her. “I can remedy that, if you wish.”

Without thinking, she said, “Can you, indeed?”

Apparently, he took that for a sort of challenge, because to her surprise—and secret delight—he caught her to him with one hand, while his other cupped her chin so he could kiss her again.

This kiss wasn’t quick. Or direct. It was more . . . sensual. He was tender and rough by turns, his lips playing with hers, then seizing hers, then doing both all over again.

She couldn’t breathe, yet the scent of his spicy cologne engulfed her. Couldn’t catch her bearings, yet his arm around her made her feel safe.

What a heady sensation. She slipped her arms about his waist and leaned up against his solid chest. Apparently taking that as encouragement, he angled his mouth over hers and delved between her lips lightly with his tongue.

Oh, dear Lord, how that made her blood roar in her ears. No one had ever kissed her that way. It both shocked and emboldened her. She touched her tongue with his, and with a groan, he caught her head between his large hands and began to kiss her in the most erotic fashion she’d ever encountered.

So, with her heart doing flips in her chest, she gave herself up to it.