Page 2 of Kiss the Duke Goodbye (The Troublesome Trio #3)

CHAPTER 2

WHERE A VEXED MAN ACTS OUT

“ T he duke’s in a stew,” Cort murmured from his sprawl across his brother’s brocade settee. He and his wife, Alex, had a newborn, and sleep was hard to find at home. “Careful what topic you bring up. I’ve had nothing but unkindness from his direction all morning. If it weren’t as cold as a witch’s teat out there and about to storm, I’d return to my loving home this very minute.”

From the doorway, Damien, the youngest and most circumspect of the Troublesome Trio, narrowed his eyes as he gazed about the room, reading the situation in one astute glance. The genius in their family missed little. “Not a surprise, as I read the latest in the society column this morning. The sight of Herschel in formal blacks at the earl’s ball sent Lady Dowling into a dizzy spin.” Damien dusted snowflakes from his lapels and strolled into the space. “You had no choice but to grab her before she hit the marble floor.”

“Nice figure, that one,” Cort said from beneath the arm he’d draped across his face. “Could be worse problems than finding that sweet miss in your arms.”

“Her beauty only surpassed by her immense dowry,” Knox murmured, a bit queasy to realize that Lady Dowling and her bogus fainting spells might be just what his duchy’s empty coffers needed. Yet, he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life catching her as she tumbled.

“ No .” Damien yanked off his greatcoat and hung it on the peg, the word coming out in a hardened tone he rarely used with his family. An Oxford professor, he’d returned to London yesterday for winter break. “That isn’t going to happen, Knox. You marry for love or you don’t marry. Spend the rest of your life with mistresses you actually like instead. Our parents’ unbearable union isn’t an example we’re carrying into the next generation. Cort and I wed for love , true and lasting, as you will.” He nudged his spectacles high, ever the earnest idealist. “Our steam engine investments are paying off. It’s only a matter of time before we’re flush with funds. A year, maybe two at the most, and we’ll be golden. I’ve run the numbers a thousand times.”

Knox tossed his quill to the massive desk that had once been his father’s, sending ink across the scrambled rows of calculations gracing his ledger. “Dreamers, the lot of you. I don’t have those freedoms. The staff in Hampstead, for instance, wish to be paid this year. The manor in Yorkshire requires a new roof or it will become nothing more than a handsome, medieval barn. Let’s not discuss the roads in the village in Kent. The Duke of Herschel has maintained them for going on three hundred years, and I’m loathe to break the tradition.”

Cort sat up, his concerned gaze meeting Knox’s. Twins separated by a scant three minutes, Cort’s life had been liberated by his coming in second. A veteran of Waterloo, he had scars from war but not from inherited obligation or the verbal—and occasionally physical—lashings of a man intent on preparing his son to be a duke. Knox wasn’t quite sure which was worse, war or an abusive father. “We’ll find a way, Knox. I’ve spoken to my solicitor about the investments. Money will be coming in soon.”

Knox sighed and opened the top drawer of the desk. The scent of his father’s tobacco drifted free, another jolt to his belly. He needed to get rid of this damned piece of jetsam. Perhaps a raging fire on the back lawn in the middle of winter wouldn’t attract too much notice from the neighbors. “I’ve complied up a list of possibilities. Maybe it’s time we discussed them.”

Damien squinted, giving his spectacles a wiggle. “Possibilities?”

Cort swore and climbed to his feet. “Potential countesses, you coxcomb,” he whispered and snatched the sheet of foolscap from his twin’s knotted grasp.

While Cort paced the length of the chamber muttering to himself, Knox palmed the pulse thumping in his belly, willing himself to breathe through his momentary jolt of panic. He had to wed at some point. Men attached themselves to women they didn’t love for economic purposes every day. Birthrights were routinely salvaged by juicy settlements. Marrying for love was uncommon, even considered odd. That two of the three DeWitts had found wives they cherished was a miracle.

With his responsibilities, Knox couldn’t hold out hope for miracles.

However…that kiss in a dimly lit millinery had taken hold and wasn’t letting go. He’d lain in bed the past three nights bandying it about in his head like a cricket ball. Certainly, he’d desired Clarissa Marlowe since the first day he’d seen her. No one would argue this. One look across her scarred counter, and he’d been knocked from his feet. But those had been a smitten man’s dreams, far from reach. Now, after he’d gone and touched her…

If only she hadn’t mentioned he had competition .

Exhaling softly, Knox tilted his head to glance at the dripping sconce on the wall that needed repair. Like much of this ducal manor, it craved attention. Attention requiring funds. What he felt for his gorgeous milliner was lust, not a practical circumstance for a man with five ailing estates to manage. Not to mention the villages, tenants, and staff attached. Knox had hundreds of souls dependent upon him. He couldn’t let his aching cock make a decision about such a weighty matter.

Even if he did feel the utmost serenity of his life every time he stepped into her shop. The way he imagined he’d feel upon returning from the House of Lords to his waiting duchess.

He knew, without doubt, that Clarissa Marlowe would slam the door in his face should he ask her to be his mistress. A brief affair, she might agree to. Being owned, she would not.

Anyway, a man who loved his mistress but not his wife was asking for the worst kind of strife.

“This list is bollocks,” Cort said as he stopped by the sideboard. Pouring himself a drink, he slammed the whisky back, then wiped his lips with his wrist. He waved the sheet in the air like a flag. “There isn’t one chit here I’d agree to. Not one.”

Knox picked up his quill and drew lazy circles on his ledger to keep his temper in check. He should have known better than to ask a man so besotted with his wife that he wouldn’t leave her for even one night to confer on this mess. “Thankfully, you don’t have to agree, brother of mine. What about Helena Parker-Mantling? She’s quite nice and has spent three seasons dodging suitors from the looks of it. She whipped me in an archery match last year, strongest arm on the girl of any I’ve seen in England. Her father has given me clear signals about her availability.”

Damien chimed in from his spot by the bookcase. “Rumor is she’s besotted with the lead in the latest Drury Lane production,” he said, flipping pages. “I saw her backstage when I was visiting with Mercy last week. I’d go in another direction if I were you.”

This was credible information as Damien’s wife was the theatre’s artist in residence.

“Female or male lead?” Cort asked, the beginnings of a grin curving his lips.

Damien coughed politely into his pages. “I’d rather not say.”

Slamming his glass to the sideboard, Cort marched to Knox’s desk, slipped the quill from his hand, and struck a line through Lady Parker-Mantling’s name.

Knox scowled. His brother often acted like he was still on a battlefield, ordering everyone about like a colonel.

Damien strolled over, his shadow falling across them. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten taller than both his brothers. “Who else do you have there? The leading candidate, that is.”

Knox closed his ledger before his brothers got close enough to read the dismal figures and slipped it into a drawer. “Baroness Barclay, I suppose.”

Cort shook his head, striking through her name as well.

Knox came out of his chair, grabbing for the list. Cort backed up, holding it out of reach. “Why reject her? She comes from a respected family. Her husband has been gone long enough for a wedding to create absolutely no scandal. A bit sour in the face, but she’s lively and—”

“I had, um, a brief association with her before I found Alex again.” Cort glanced around the study, avoiding his brother’s gazes. “Let’s leave it at that. And please never mention this to my wife, will you? She doesn’t take kindly to my indiscretions, even if she was married then, and I was heartsick about it.”

“Can’t have that kind of tension at family gatherings and such, I agree,” Damien murmured, snatching the list free of Cort’s hand. “Alexandra DeWitt can be frightening when she’s vexed. We’ve all seen it. The last time I irritated her, she raced one of those demon horses of hers right at me. I had to dive into the hedges to escape.”

Knox swore and tumbled back into his chair. “Couldn’t keep your trousers buttoned, could you?”

Cort snorted and headed back to the sideboard. “You’re not one to talk, Your Grace.”

“Anyone you’ve sampled on the list, Dame?” Knox highly doubted there was, but he might as well ask. Several years ago, after an evening of carousing, his youngest brother had told him that although he’d done many things with many women, he’d never bedded one. Shocked wasn’t a strong enough word for his response at hearing this news. Evidently, the Troublesome Trio weren’t as troublesome as presumed.

Damien reviewed the list, grimaced, then wrestled the quill from Cort’s hand and crossed out two names.

“The academic blokes get all the chits.” Cort saluted Damien with his glass. “It’s the spectacles, I say. Add a bit of mystery, don’t they? Bookish on the outside, raging rivers on the inside.”

“How many are bloody left?” Knox said through gritted teeth.

Damien ticked his finger to the sheet. “Two. Lady Dowling, your fainting goddess, and Lady Kimber-Dell.”

Knox tunneled his hand through his hair, wishing he was anyone but a duke. He would love to be enthusiastic about the prospect of marrying, he truly would. If only he were allowed to ask the right girl. As it was, he was no better than a fortune hunter thanks to his father’s baseless financial sense. The man was still terrorizing him, years after his death. “Lady Kimber-Dell has shown interest. I danced with her at the earl’s ball, and she was quite light on her feet. Good conversationalist. Charming. It’s her first season, so her mother isn’t desperate yet. Her father is known for his sensible temperament and fifty thousand pounds a year.”

“What color are her eyes?” Damien asked from the bookcase he’d returned to, a tome of some sort always, always , in his hand.

Gray , Knox started to say. One moment the shimmering hue of a fiery sky, the next a pale, misty pewter. Of course, this was the wrong woman. Lady Kimber-Dell’s eyes were completely lost to him. He guessed he hadn’t even noticed.

Knox gave a letter opener on his desk a spin. “What does that matter? I never remember such trivial things.”

“You will about the one you love,” Cort whispered. Serious words from a guarded man. More impactful than anything Damien could say—because Damien was the romantic in the family.

Knox palmed the desk, preparing to rise. And argue. Maybe they’d end up brawling, not the first time that had happened in this room. A solid brotherly scrap might be just what he needed.

A gentle knock had them turning to the door. Fitzwilliam, the DeWitt family’s majordomo for decades, leaned around the frame, his hair, as white as the snow beginning to fall outside, slicked neatly to his head. Knox had never once seen him out of breath or order. “Your Grace, there’s a note from your milliner. About a gift to be delivered.”

Knox exited the chair so abruptly that it skidded into the wall.

Fitzwilliam blinked at the show of excitement, but otherwise, held himself steady. Knox didn’t know how he managed to accomplish this feat with the escapades he’d witnessed over the years. “Thank you,” he said and took the missive from his butler’s stiff grasp. “That will be all.”

He tore into the envelope like a madman before the door closed behind Fitzwilliam.

The message was simple, as was the scent drifting from the sheet. Lilies. And an address in Clerkenwell. The initials CM capped off the summons.

Knox would have traveled to a rookery hell to see Clarissa Marlowe, he recognized from the velocity of his thumping heart. When titled gents weren’t welcome in those locales. Clerkenwell was three miles from Mayfair, maybe four. Notwithstanding the questionable weather, he had a speedy carriage, an able coachman, and a sure-footed team. He could be there within the hour.

He laughed, delighted to the toes of his Hoby boots. He’d defeated that nitwit Clarence with that exhilarating kiss.

“Another bonnet?” Damien asked, puzzled. “We’ve got too many already. Mercy said I can’t bring another, not one, into the house. You’ll have to go to the streets to find a recipient.”

“ Christ ,” Cort said, “you are the most green lad in this city, Damien DeWitt.”

Knox turned to his brothers, his grin beatific. Happiness was a bright light at the end of a dark, ducal tunnel. “Oh, no, this is the most magnificent bonnet yet. And it’s all for me .”

Clarissa was nervous, an uncommon occurrence.

Her strained childhood had been the best training in the world for overcoming unease about one’s circumstances. She’d learned to display a calm facade while her guts were churning. She’d cast up her accounts more times than she could remember after those dreaded trips to her father’s manse. In the carriage, outside the carriage, on the marble steps of his home. So much so, that her mother had taken to carrying a basket with them on each visit.

Lost in the past, Clarissa dawdled with the knight on her chess board. If she moved it to g5, she could potentially attack both the queen and the bishop. She brought the piece close to her face and turned it over, reading the artist’s initials carved into the base. Her father had given her the set on her twelfth birthday. It was at least two hundred years old and worth a small fortune.

And held the honor of being one of the few things she’d refused to allow her mother to sell when the shop was close to going under.

Clarissa adored chess, even if she loathed the man who’d inspired her to play the game.

She glanced to the window, as she had every minute since sending her impromptu note to a duke. It was snowing steadily, a lovely layer of pearl lining the sill. He likely wouldn’t consider accepting a decree under such circumstances. Carriages overturned all the time on days like these. Important men didn’t travel in squalls. She’d sent her staff of two home earlier, citing the storm when a potential guest was the true reason. She couldn’t afford live-in domestics, only day help, so this wasn’t truly a bother.

Besides, he had women who would come to him . Why, Lady Dowling had fainted in his arms last week, according to the gossip rags.

Aggrieved, she plunked the knight to the board with a thump. She’d made the Duke of Herschel work too hard for her appreciation. Teased him for too long that evening in her shop. Peers of the realm didn’t take to playfulness. They preferred domination over every female they encountered, the brutes.

However…

Clarissa picked up the queen and rotated the gorgeous ivory piece in her hand. Knoxville DeWitt had a gentle side. He loved his brothers to distraction. Part of the reason she’d let him purchase bonnets when she knew he didn’t need another bonnet was the sweetness of the Troublesome Trio’s visits.

He stood close to his siblings, vigilant, almost looming. Especially the younger brother, Damien. If they weren’t with him, he talked about them. And their wives. And their children. Incessantly. It was clear to her that the man loved his family—and desired his own.

She decided she would go to Bath for a respite when he selected his duchess. The broadsheets would be filled with the exploits of a duke and his lady love.

Clarissa wasn’t a woman who embraced heartache.

The knock on the front door echoed down her hallway. She stood and gave her home a last, lingering review, wondering what her personal effects said about her. Her residence in Clerkenwell was modest but pleasant. And it was hers , paid for with revenue from her profession. She’d considered looking at more prosperous districts when she’d bought this cottage outright two years ago, but she loved it. So, here she stayed.

Thankfully, aside from the chess board, there wasn’t a hint of her father about.

Or her mother, for that matter.

Clarissa took a deep breath and smoothed her hand over her chignon and down her bodice. Her legs were unsteady but hidden by rose silk the color of a vibrant sunrise. Her modiste was the best in Clerkenwell, and she didn’t wear these gowns while working.

They were for her.

And maybe, just maybe, for the man she would invite to know more.

She expected a liveried footman to be looming on her portico when she opened the door, announcing her titled guest. And from the bewildered look on his handsome face, the duke expected to see a housekeeper. Snow fluttered past and into the entryway as they stared, but the chill was extinguished by the simmer bubbling beneath her skin. His gaze lowered to her feet, then slowly rose to her face. He held one of his elegant beaver hats in his gloved hand. (She knew the maker, the finest in London.) His dark gray greatcoat was open as if he’d thrown it on and raced from his Mayfair terrace. His waistcoat was a buttery hue somewhere close to the color of the cream the local grocer delivered each morning. His cravat was a simple coil, per his style. She appreciated the elegant simplicity of his dress.

Still, his jaw was stubbled, his cheeks flushed, his magnificent lips pursed, the bottom caught between his straight, white teeth. Teeth she’d grazed with her tongue three short days ago. And those eyes of his struck deep, stark sea green against the winter mist surrounding him.

My , she thought and clenched her hand in her skirt.

Whether she approved of this or not, she was smitten.

Attracted. In want…yearning… need .

And he was here. Apparently, he felt the same.

This understanding gave Clarissa the courage to step back and usher the Duke of Herschel into her private life.

Into her inner sanctum.

If he realized what a feat this was, he would have been astonished.

Wordless, he followed her down the narrow corridor to the parlor. The only one in the house. It was cozy, the hearthfire roaring, souchong tea in a pot on the table scented the air. Trying to disregard the sense of him standing so close, she procured his coat and hat, watching in suppressed awe as he removed his gloves with his teeth. With a hard swallow, she hung up the garments while he gazed about her home, cataloging, his expression bemused, curious. There was a mix of scoundrel and nobleman about him that intrigued her beyond measure.

Knoxville DeWitt had rough edges she wished to explore.

She’d never found anyone without them interesting in the least.

Also, she liked, loved , that he gave her time. He was patient. He didn’t push. He teased, unequivocally, but never pushed. In her experience, men often pressured a woman until she had her back to the wall. Clarissa only wanted her back to the wall if a duke’s lips were covering hers while he did the pressing.

“What’s that sly smile about?” he asked, settling himself on the only article in the room that would hold him, a Gillows armchair she’d purchased from a baron who’d gambled his fortune away. She’d obtained several of his pieces after his wife had come into her shop asking to resell her bonnets to pay their monthly coal bill.

Clarissa dashed her hand over her cheek while her back was turned, willing away the heat. It wouldn’t do to let him see too much. Radical honesty wasn’t a part of this bargain.

“Maybe I’m surprised you showed up in this weather.” She crossed to the sofa, the table acting as a chaperone between them. Sitting, she poured from the tea pot with an elegance that possibly surprised him. Although she wasn’t a lady, for a time, she’d been educated like one. “I sent my staff home, so I’m alone. There are only two during the day, in any case, nothing like the legions you employ.”

With a shiver, he accepted the cup, wrapping his slim fingers around the bone china. “A damned blizzard couldn’t have kept me away, Miss Marlowe. Furthermore, I’m delighted to find that we’re alone.”

She glanced to the window, discomfited by his candor. He tended to do that. Speak his mind without worry. It must be nice , she thought. Women were never allowed such liberties. “I think a blizzard is what you’re getting.”

He lifted the teacup above his head to peer at the markings beneath. His brow lifted in surprise. “Spode. I have a set myself at the family manse.” He tipped his chin toward her chess set. “And a collection very similar to yours given to me by my grandfather upon his deathbed. It’s said to be almost incalculable in value. Ivory, you know. Smuggled out of some poor country at the end of a pistol.”

Ah . She almost smiled, even though his observations stung. The Duke of Herschel was smarter than he let on. Maybe not the genius of his family—that was reserved for Professor Damien DeWitt—but he was an incredibly clever man.

She wished she didn’t appreciate this about him—because it only made things more complicated.

She sipped her tea while longing for a shot of brandy. “Let’s say I’m a collector of beautiful things, Your Grace.”

Meaning him, perhaps, as he was beautiful, the most fascinating object in the room by far.

He shrugged a broad shoulder and nestled into the armchair, his keen gaze drilling into her. This produced the same heady feeling she experienced when she played someone in chess who was very, very good. “Hmm…” was all he said in reply. He didn’t believe her for a moment, but again, to his credit, he didn’t ask how a milliner could afford fine china and rare antiquities.

“I have rules,” she said, figuring one of them had to break free of this discourse that wasn’t far from the obliged restraint surrounding his visits to her shop. “If you’d care to hear them.”

His eyes flared, darkening. “I care a great deal, Clarissa.”

She circled her teacup on the saucer before meeting his gaze. Oh , his eyes were a glory. She longed to lose herself in their emerald depths. “We meet here on an agreed-upon future date. You spend a night, perhaps two, then we part, never to discuss this again. In essence, I kiss a duke goodbye. I have a business that could be negatively affected should your duchess become irritated by our association should she ever hear of it. The ton is part and parcel of my clientele. Also, after the fact, you cease calling upon my shop.”

“Kiss a duke goodbye,” he repeated softly. Glancing away, he blew a fast breath through his teeth, displaying a hint of irritation. “What if I want a longer association?”

“I think that’s dangerous,” she whispered before she could stop herself. Blasted hell.

This answer pleased him, and he turned to her with a grin, the delight on his face stealing her breath. “What if I like shopping for bonnets?”

Clarissa slapped her saucer to the table. “ Oh , you conceited cur! I knew you were going to argue. There will be no way we can agree on a single point of this affair. You’re too used to getting your ducal way. Remember the time you went home with the straw poke creation I’d not even finished? Dangling ribbons and loose thread? I couldn’t get a rational word in that day, either.”

He laughed, his long body bending with it. “Cur? By God, I’ve waited an entire lifetime to be called that. It sounds a hell of a lot better than Your Grace. I may have cards printed, Sixth Duke of Herschel, titled cur .”

Clarissa shoved to her feet, but before she made it two vexed steps, he’d rounded the table, circling his arm around the waist, and drawing her back against his chest. “I’m teasing,” he murmured into the gentle slope beneath her ear. His breath was warm, his lips hot, his body hard. “I’ll agree to your demands.” Pausing, he gently bit her neck, then laved the stinging spot with his tongue. For the first time in her life, she almost swooned. “If you’ll consider my suggestions, Miss Marlowe.”

She shook her head, but instead of pulling away— damn him —she nestled closer. She held as still as possible as it was impossible to ignore the effect she was having on him. His shaft was a rigid, tempting presence against her bottom. “I’m listening,” she finally whispered.

With a nudge of his cheek against hers, he directed her gaze to the window. The bottom panes were almost completely covered in white. “I suggest we begin our association today , not in the near future. I don’t have anywhere to be until Thursday afternoon, which gives us a full twenty hours for play.”

“ Play ,” she breathed, having no idea what this meant.

“ Pleasure .” He kissed her earlobe, sucking the sliver of skin between his lips. Her heart dropped as a shiver raced through her. “Consider this an introduction. We’ll enjoy each other without going the full measure. Then, I’ll leave for my appointment and you to manage your shop, with plans to return here as soon as I can manage it. If you decide you’d like to continue. The decision will be entirely yours.” He kissed his way down her neck, halting at the filigree border of her gown. “I only ask that you please, please , call me Knox. Or arrogant cur, if it suits. ‘Your Grace’ is absent in this place. I’m a man in Clerkenwell, not a bloody duke.”

Her mind churned with possibilities. His fortitude apparently encompassed his lovemaking as well. It’s no wonder the Duke of Herschel is sought after , she thought, dazed. She shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know how to play.”

Knox turned her in his arms, walking her back until she bumped the escritoire in the corner of her parlor. His mouth covered hers as he placed her atop its thankfully empty surface. “I’ll teach you. Lessons in love for lessons in chess,” he murmured against her lips before he took her under.