Page 1 of Starlight and the Duke (Cherish and the Duke #5)

London, England

“B ollocks, not again,” Robert, Duke of Durham, muttered to no one but himself as he stood in the shadows of Lady Forster’s terrace, inhaling the scent of lilac in the crisp night air and staring at Lady Fiona Shoreham while she made a cake of herself.

He would need to step in and rescue her soon, because even though widowed, she did not know the first thing about men.

Ironic that he was fleeing from entanglements while Fiona was hurling herself back in the marriage game, all because of that betting book at White’s that had been started on him .

The wagers were not on her, for she was a respectable widow with no hint of scandal ever attached to her name.

For this reason, no one was particularly interested in her prospects despite the fact that she was charming and beautiful.

“Oh, Lord Dexter,” Fiona said with a tense laugh, “mind your step and try not to stumble into me. We are only out here for a moment of fresh air.”

Dexter, that sot, chortled. “My apologies, my little dove.”

Rob’s stomach churned, for Fiona should not be out in this moonlit garden with anyone but him.

He was the one the ton was wagering on, for the sole reason they needed something to relieve their boredom.

After the downfall of the latest Silver Duke—Jonas, Duke of Ramsdale—they had turned their attention toward the man they considered London’s next most eligible bachelor, and that honor happened to fall on him .

Bets were now being taken on when he would marry, and which fortunate lady he would choose, even though he did not quite meet the qualifications of a Silver Duke.

But he was a duke and unmarried, hence the frenzy.

He also had a dusting of silver at his temples now that he had turned two and thirty, and this added to the unwarranted attention heaped on him. Apparently, mere flecks of silver in one’s hair was enough to qualify one for that elevated status.

The irony of it all was too bitter to swallow, and he did not want to think beyond the need to step in and protect Fiona from a drunken Lord Dexter when he proved to be no gentleman. “Gad, Fiona. Move away from that clot,” he said in a whisper, watching as Dexter began to make a move on her.

Good thing Robert had ensconced himself in this darkened spot to escape the crush of Lady Forster’s ever-popular Midsummer Ball.

What he was really escaping were the hunters, those predatory debutantes one might mistake for charming innocents clad in finest silks and lacy gloves, dripping pearls from their ears and delicate throats.

But they were lethal predators who sought him out bearing coquettish smiles, their eagle eyes trained on him to mark him as their next prey.

The only reason they now hunted him down was because he had inherited one of the most respected and powerful dukedoms in England, becoming the twelfth Duke of Durham as of a month ago.

This was proving to be a bloody nuisance.

Why did he have to be the twelfth in the proud and venerable line?

The title came with a ridiculous amount of wealth along with the power that he could wield as irresponsibly as he wished, short of treasonous actions against the Crown, and no one would stop him.

Which also led him to another reason he stood apart from the overly perfumed, sweating bodies in the ballroom. Being a duke also meant he could no longer put off the inevitable and seek a wife.

This was a problem because Fiona was the only woman he had ever wanted…and the only woman who refused to have him.

Which explained why she was at this moment seated on a bench beside the garden fountain fluttering her fan and eyelashes at that sotted goat, the Earl of Dexter, laughing inanely at his dull conversation.

“Stop, Fiona,” he muttered, recognizing the dangerous leer on Dexter’s face and knowing it meant trouble.

Robert had to save Fiona, of course.

They had been friends all of his life, even before he was old enough to retain memories, which happened for him at around the age of three.

There she was, from his earliest recollections, smiling at him with her sparkling aquamarine eyes, and those dark, springy curls that surrounded her sweet face seeming to take on a life of their own as they bounced around her ears.

To this day, her smile was so radiant, one might believe she had swallowed the sun.

What a bloody fool he was.

He started down the terrace steps toward her the moment he noticed Dexter’s hand begin to slide to her pert, rounded bottom.

Fiona realized it at the same moment and playfully slapped Dexter’s hand away with her fan. “Now, now, my lord,” she said, emitting a nervous trill of laughter. “You mustn’t.”

But, of course, Dexter was going to try again, and a little slap on the wrist was not going to deter him.

Fiona had never understood men and their baser urges.

Robert hurried his pace, for he knew where Dexter’s desires were aimed next, and he would have to kill the man if he set a hand on Fiona’s body. “Is there a problem, Lady Shoreham?”

“Mind your own business,” an obviously foxed Lord Dexter growled, his face distorted by the golden flames of torchlight that surrounded the fountain and cast his features in a menacing glow.

“I suggest you keep your hands to yourself,” Robert growled back, his own curling into fists at his sides.

He saw relief wash over Fiona’s face as she broke away from the drunken lord and fled to his side. “I would like to go back inside now,” she said in a strained whisper that was almost drowned out by the lilting chords of a waltz filtering into the garden from the ballroom.

Robert offered his arm and led her back toward the house, but stopped as they were about to climb the terrace steps that led into the crowded ballroom. “Need I say it?”

She looked up at him, her features easily discerned because not only torchlight filled the garden on this summer evening.

The night sky was almost cloudless, one of those rare skies where one could see the diamond sparkle of starlight against an ink-black emptiness, and silver moonlight under the moon’s crescent glow.

“You are angry with me, aren’t you?” Fiona asked. “I can feel the tension in your muscles.”

He let out a breath of frustration. “What in blazes are you thinking? Do you have no clue what impression you are giving Dexter and every other dolt you flirt with?”

She tipped her chin up. “I made it quite clear to Lord Dexter that we were only to take a turn about the garden and nothing more. Nothing more.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course. And you expect him to believe this is all you want when you flutter and chirp and smile at him?”

“What is wrong with my smile?”

Nothing, other than it was achingly beautiful.

“He’s drunk, and you think he did not take your flirtations and fluttering fan as signals of something more?”

She huffed. “I did not do anything with my fan other than use it as a weapon to swat his hand away. Rest assured, I would have shoved it up one or another of his orifices had he not taken the hint. How dare you reprimand me.”

Robert stared at her incredulously. “How dare I? Fine, I’ll let the next oaf manhandle you and won’t interfere. Fight him off on your own.”

“I shall do so quite capably without your interference.”

“Is that so?” He grunted in exasperation. “Then fight off as many of those old buzzards as you wish, for I will not stop them anymore.”

He turned to walk away, but she held him back. “All right, it was stupid of me. I admit it, Rob. Thank you for coming to my rescue. I sincerely appreciate it.”

He let out a breath. “Why did you do it, Fiona?”

“Because…”

“Oh, that is an excellent explanation,” he said after a prolonged stretch of silence between them. “That clarifies everything for me. Because. That is a completely understandable motive.”

She pinched his forearm. “Do not be insufferable. I did it for you, as you ought to know by now.”

He felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach because he did know, and the reason was inescapable.

I did it for you.

She had done it for his sake because she knew he would never move on from loving her unless she were no longer available.

She had done it to him once—not her fault.

How was an eighteen-year-old girl ever to pay attention to an eleven-year-old boy who was on the cusp of turning twelve?

Nor would he ever have thought to stop the Earl of Shoreham from marrying Fiona when he had no idea of the damage it was about to do to his own heart.

That damnable six-year age difference between them was insurmountable back then.

But now?

His frustration returned, for she still believed it was insurmountable and he was too young for her, even though he was a man full grown and in his early thirties.

A man who knew what love meant and what it felt like, that inability to breathe around this woman who radiated sparkle and sunshine.

He hated the irony of it.

While every other woman in England wanted him, thought he was sinfully handsome, and was desperate to have him, Fiona still saw him as the toddler whose bottom she had powdered when he was the age of two.

And whose bloodied knees and elbows she had tended when he had fallen out of an apple tree when he was seven.

Or whose wounds she had nursed when he returned from the Napoleonic War, shipped home before the final, decisive battles because he was too injured and battered to participate.

She had not hesitated to care for and protect him as she had done all of her life, for he and Fiona had grown up as neighbors and their mothers had been best friends, which constantly threw them in each other’s company.

For this reason, he and Fiona had never lost touch.

And now she was determined to marry some worthless clot because he —the duke that every other woman in England wanted—would never marry while she remained available.