Page 1 of Wedded to the Duke of Seduction (Dukes of Passion #3)

CHAPTER 1

“ W atch yourself, miss! These streets aren’t safe for a lady after dark.”

Marina Tate drew her hood low over her face as she hurried past the concerned shopkeeper. The man couldn’t know she was no mere shop girl but the Dowager Countess of Asquith, and she preferred to keep it that way.

Her monthly visits to this less respectable part of London would raise far too many eyebrows and set the gossiping tongues of the ton wagging if it was discovered.

The wind caught her cloak, threatening to expose her face to the fading daylight. She clutched the manuscripts closer to her chest and slipped through the narrow doorway into the gloomy interior of the publishing house. Her boot heels clicked against the wooden stairs as she climbed to Mr. Lupton’s office.

“Ah, Lady Asquith.” Lupton’s oily voice greeted her before she’d fully entered his office. He didn’t rise from behind his desk, but he tried to button his coat over his bulging stomach. “Another tale of passion to enthrall our readers?”

“As promised.” Marina placed the manuscript on his desk, careful to keep her gloved hands steady.

She’d learned early on that any sign of weakness only encouraged the man’s tendency to reduce her already meager payments.

Lupton licked his thumb before turning the first page, leaving a greasy smudge on her carefully penned words.

Marina suppressed a wince. Each mark felt like a personal affront, not only to her penmanship but to the hours she’d spent crafting those sentences by candlelight.

“You’ve been quite prolific lately, Lady Asquith.” Lupton’s voice held a note of suspicion. “One might wonder how a woman of your standing finds time for such endeavors.”

“Widowhood affords certain freedoms, Mr. Lupton.” Marina kept her tone neutral though her spine stiffened. “Including time to pursue one’s interests.”

“Interests.” He snorted. “Is that what we’re calling it now? The ton would be fascinated to learn how their mysterious author spends her evenings.”

The threat hung in the air between them. Marina had learned to navigate these waters carefully. Lupton needed her stories as much as she needed his payments, but he would never acknowledge the balance of their arrangement.

“The ton finds many things fascinating, sir. Including how certain publishers stay in business despite their modest offerings.” She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “Fortunately for us both, my stories seem to sell rather well.”

Lupton’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. It was their usual dance—one that left her feeling soiled but with coins in her purse.

“Oh, they sell well enough.” He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked under his weight. “But I’ve recently come across some information that could help them sell even better. Something about a certain Duke of Blackmere.”

“I don’t write about real people, Mr. Lupton.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended.

“Come now, Lady Asquith. Surely, you’ve heard the whispers about him? The mysterious duke whom the ton still whispers murdered his own brother and lover. The man vanished for years, presumably to escape the scandal?” Lupton’s smile widened, showing a blackened tooth. “One of his former companions was quite forthcoming about his more… interesting proclivities.”

Heat crept up Marina’s neck. “I won’t?—”

“You’ll write what sells, My Lady, or you won’t write for me at all.” All pretense of civility disappeared from his voice, and his beady eyes turned cold. “Think carefully before you answer me. How long can you maintain your household without this income? How long before you are forced to seek shelter with your late husband’s heir? The same heir who believes you drove his uncle to his death.”

Marina opened her mouth to protest, but Lupton waggled his finger.

“The Duke of Blackmere isn’t the only person the ton gossips about, My Lady. He need not be named directly,” Lupton continued, his tone softening to something almost wheedling. “Just draw inspiration from him. A few carefully written details to make the connection clear to the readers. I took the liberty of noting down some particularly interesting details about His Grace’s preferences.”

Marina took the papers that Lupton pulled from a drawer in his desk. Her stomach churned at the thought of using someone’s private moments for public entertainment.

But what choice did she have?

The ton had already judged her guilty of her husband’s death. Would adding this sin to her conscience make any difference?

“I expect the first installment in two weeks,” Lupton said, already returning to his ledger. “Don’t disappoint me, Lady Asquith.” He paused, his quill hovering over the page. “Ah yes, your payment for today’s manuscript.”

Marina forced herself to remain still as he reached for his strongbox though her fingers itched to drum against her skirts. The last of her coal was running low, and her housekeeper had hinted that the butcher was becoming less patient about their outstanding bill.

Lupton counted out several coins with deliberate slowness. “Three pounds, seven shillings,” he announced, sliding them across the desk.

“Three pounds?” Marina’s voice sharpened before she could stop herself. “The last installment earned you fifteen at least. We agreed on a third.”

“Did we?” Lupton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The market is fickle, My Lady. Perhaps your next story will prove more profitable.”

Marina picked up the coins and tucked them into her reticule along with the folded paper.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and walked out of the office.

Outside, Marina pulled her hood lower and hurried toward home.

She tried to ignore the voice that drummed in her head that if she wrote what Lupton asked, she was no better than the gossips who had shredded her own reputation.

The wind bit through her cloak, reminding her that she needed to purchase coal before the week’s end. Three pounds and seven shillings wouldn’t stretch far. Once she paid the butcher his overdue six shillings, settled Mrs. Higgins’ wages of eight shillings, and put aside the ten shillings for next month’s coal, she would have barely enough left for candles and paper—the tools of her clandestine trade.

Marina’s gloved fingers curled tightly around her reticule. Her late husband’s heir, the new Earl of Asquith, had seen to it that her jointure was the minimum required by law.

“For a woman who drove my uncle to his death,” he had sneered, “you should consider yourself fortunate to receive anything at all.”

She had not bothered to explain that Henry’s gambling debts had far exceeded even his considerable income. That his drinking had begun long before their marriage. That she had tried, desperately, to manage the household accounts as they spiraled ever downward into a pit of red ink and promissory notes.

As she turned onto Mount Street, the modest townhouse came into view.

It was smaller than the Asquith residence on Grosvenor Square, but the rent was manageable—barely. If she missed even one payment from Lupton, she would have to dismiss Betty, her lady’s maid.

The thought of letting go of the only person who knew her secret, who helped her maintain the facade of respectable widowhood, made her chest tighten.

Marina paused at her doorstep, straightening her shoulders.

She would write Lupton’s scandalous tale about the Duke of Blackmere. She would collect her payment. And she would survive another month, her dignity intact, even if her conscience was a little more tarnished.

“I swear, Lady Asquith, you grow lovelier each time I see you,” Lord Clarkshire said as he offered Marina his arm as they entered the Hartington’s ballroom.

His wife, Caroline, smiled beside him, her golden curls glittering beneath the chandeliers.

“My Lord, you’ll make me blush,” Marina replied.

The Clarkshires had stood by her when most of society had turned their backs, and she was grateful for their support.

They made their way through the crowd toward their hosts, the Earl and Countess of Hartington. The Countess’ smile grew notably cooler when her eyes fell on Marina.

“Lady Clarkshire, how delightful.” Lady Hartington’s warmth was effusive as she greeted Caroline. “And Lord Clarkshire, you must tell my husband about that brilliant investment you mentioned at White’s.”

Only then did she turn and acknowledge Marina with the faintest of nods. “Lady Asquith.”

“A pleasure, Lady Hartington,” Marina murmured, maintaining her dignity even as the Countess turned away with a sniff to greet the next arrival.

As they moved deeper into the ballroom, the whispers followed her.

“The nerve of her showing her face in society…”

“After what she drove her poor husband to do…”

“They found him in the Thames, you know. Dead drunk…”

Marina kept her chin high even though each whisper felt like a needle pricking against her skin.

Suddenly, Lady Belford swooped down upon them, her daughter Georgiana in tow. The older woman’s eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.

“Lady Clarkshire! And Lady Asquith, how… unexpected to see you here.” Lady Belford’s tone suggested Marina’s presence was about as welcome as a sudden rainstorm during a garden party. “I was just telling Georgiana about the most scandalous publication that’s been making the rounds.”

Caroline squeezed Marina’s hand in silent warning. “Indeed? I wasn’t aware you read such things, Lady Belford.”

“Oh, I don’t!” Lady Belford’s cheeks flushed. “Lady Ponsworth mentioned it to warn young women against certain books.”

“Lady Ponsworth’s vigilance is remarkable,” Marina said, carefully schooling her features.

“It is, isn’t it? Though I must say,” Lady Belford lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “for something so inappropriate, the writing is quite captivating. The scene with the Duke and the widow in the garden—” She broke off, suddenly remembering her daughter’s presence. “Well, it was most educational.”

“Mother!” Georgiana protested, but her pink cheeks hinted she was well aware of the scene in question.

“Educational?” Caroline’s eyebrows rose. “In what regard, precisely?”

Lady Belford fluttered her fan. “The emotional dynamics of course. Nothing more.” Her eyes darted to Marina. “They say the Duke in the story bears a striking resemblance to Blackmere. I saw him earlier this evening—such a commanding presence. One can easily imagine him…” She trailed off again, her fan working double-time. “Well, one can imagine.”

“I’m sure one can,” Marina replied evenly although her pulse raced at the thought of the real duke’s reaction to his fictional counterpart’s latest exploits.

“Lady Belford!” A voice called from across the room. “You simply must join our discussion about the newest installment!”

“Do excuse me,” Lady Belford said, already drifting away. “Apparently, they’ve discovered who inspired the scene in the opera box. Most scandalous!”

As the matron departed with her mortified daughter, Caroline turned to Marina with a barely suppressed smile. “Well, it seems those stories have captivated even the most proper dowagers of the ton.”

“So it would seem.” Marina’s answering smile held a hint of satisfaction. For all their public disapproval, the ladies of society were clearly devouring her words in private. “Though I do wonder who they believe inspired the opera box scene.”

“Whoever she is, I doubt she’ll show her face in society for at least a fortnight,” Harold observed as he rejoined them, offering each lady a glass of champagne. “Though the same cannot be said for Blackmere. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

Marina turned to see the Duke of Blackmere entering the ballroom, his tall figure drawing every eye in the room—and more than a few speculative glances from the ladies who had just been discussing his fictional exploits.

“I think I need some air,” Marina murmured to Caroline. “Just for a moment.

The balcony doors offered a blessed escape from the heated ballroom and the whispers that swirled around her.

Marina had just drawn her first deep breath when voices drifted up from the garden below.

“It’s the most delicious story,” came a breathless voice Marina immediately recognized as belonging to Lady Thornley, the young viscountess whose husband was forever away at his country estate. “The scene in the conservatory—I nearly swooned!”

“Hush, My Lady!” Her companion’s voice was sharp with worry. “Someone might hear you. If anyone were to discover that it was I who… that the Duke of Blackmere and I…”

Marina pressed deeper into the shadows of the balcony alcove, her heart racing. The companion—her voice identified her as Miss Ashworth, a baron’s daughter who had made her debut three seasons ago, now engaged to a wealthy baron—sounded genuinely frightened.

“Really, Jane, you worry too much.” Lady Thornley’s laugh tinkled like fine crystal. “What does it matter if people know? The Duke certainly isn’t discreet about his conquests.”

“It matters to my father, and my fiancé! To my prospects!” Miss Ashworth’s voice dropped further. “Papa would lock me away in the country if he knew I’d been… that the Duke and I had…”

“Had enjoyed each other’s company in the most delightful way?” Lady Thornley finished wickedly. “Though I must say, that scene in the conservatory—the one with the silk ribbons—I was quite shocked to read such a detailed account. One might think the author had been present.”

Marina’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t been present, of course, but Mr. Lupton’s carefully cultivated network of informants had served him well.

According to his notes, Miss Ashworth had been particularly forthcoming after a few glasses of sherry at a literary salon last month. The young woman had confided in someone she thought was a sympathetic widow, unaware that her whispered confessions would eventually find their way to Marina through Mr. Lupton’s meticulous intelligence gathering.

“Do you think…?” Miss Ashworth’s voice trembled. “Do you think he knows? That the Duke realizes the stories are about him?”

“If he does, he hasn’t said anything publicly.” Lady Thornley sounded thoughtful. “Though I heard he’s recently returned to London after years abroad. Perhaps that’s why.”

“Oh, God.” The rustle of skirts suggested Miss Ashworth had buried her face in her hands. “If he discovers it was me who shared such intimate details about our encounter three years ago, he’ll ruin me.”

“Nonsense. From what I understand, the Duke is most generous to his former lovers. Provided they remain discreet of course.”

“But I wasn’t discreet, was I?” Miss Ashworth sounded close to tears. “I spoke to someone. I must have. And now all of London is reading about… about things that should have remained private.”

Guilt shot through Marina. She hadn’t considered that her stories might cause such distress to the women who had unwittingly provided her with material. In her mind, they had been willing participants in the Duke’s scandalous lifestyle—women who, unlike herself, had experienced passion.

“Come now,” Lady Thornley soothed. “No one can prove anything. And the stories themselves are quite inspiring, don’t you think? My husband has been most attentive since I started leaving them on my bedside table.”

Their laughter faded as they moved away, leaving Marina alone with her conscience. The cool night air did nothing to ease the flush on her cheeks. She had justified her writing as harmless fiction, but Miss Ashworth’s fear had made it suddenly, uncomfortably real.

Still, what choice did she have? Without Lupton’s payments, she would lose everything—her home, her independence, perhaps even her place in society.

And there was a part of her—a part she scarcely acknowledged even to herself—that envied these women and their experiences. At least they had been with a man who had ignited their passion.

The sound of approaching footsteps sent her scurrying back to the ballroom. She didn’t want to be discovered eavesdropping.

Caroline caught her eye as she returned, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. Marina shook her head, not quite trusting herself to speak. How could she explain to her friend that she was now dancing at the same ball as one of her story’s unwitting participants?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced smiles and careful conversations. Marina kept to the edges of the ballroom, safely surrounded by her friends. She couldn’t help noticing that Miss Ashworth’s face flushed whenever the topic of the Duke of Blackmere arose in conversation.

Eventually, her carriage delivered her home to Mount Street, the modest townhouse which was more of a sanctuary to her than her previous residence on Grosvenor Square.

Here, at least, she didn’t need to maintain the facade of a proper widow eternally mourning a husband who had never loved her.

Marina waited until the household settled into silence before retrieving her latest manuscript from its hiding place behind a loose panel in her writing desk.

The Duke of Blackmere’s proclivities, filtered through Lupton’s crude notes and her own imagination, had already fueled one tale that, based on the giggles and hushed conversation she’d heard in the garden, had already found readers. This new story in her hand would set the ton aflame with scandal.

The clock in the hall struck midnight as she donned her darkest cloak.

“I’ll return shortly, Betty,” she whispered to her maid, who waited loyally by the servants’ entrance.

The girl was the only one who knew of her mistress’ nocturnal adventures, and Marina paid her extra to keep that knowledge safe.

“Please be careful, My Lady,” Betty whispered back, her round face creased with worry. “The streets aren’t safe at this hour.”

“They are safer than poverty,” Marina murmured.

She drew her hood low and slipped in the darkness, the manuscript clutched to her chest.

The streets of London transformed at night, taking on a dangerous beauty that Marina knew well after the last year.

She clung to the shadows to avoid the occasional drunkard stumbling home from the gaming hells or the ladies of the evening practicing their own profession. In some ways, she mused, she was not much different from them—selling what she could to survive.

Marina approached the side door of Lupton’s printing house. A lamp burned in the window where his clerk worked late into the night to receive manuscripts from those like herself who preferred not to be seen during the day.

As her hand grasped the knob of the door, something made her pause.

She turned slowly, scanning the darkness behind her, but only saw a mouse scurrying along the edge of the building.

Still, as she entered the building and handed the clerk her manuscript, Marina had the strangest sense that something had changed, and she was setting in motion events that could alter her life forever.