The Duke's Captive Read online

  The Duke’s Captive

  Adele Ashworth

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  Teaser Chapter

  About the Author

  By Adelle Ashworth

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Ian Wentworth stared out the window of his study into the dull, gray morning, the rolling hills of Stamford hidden by what remained of a nighttime fog. It wasn’t yet eight and already he’d been awake for hours, poring over his financial books in an attempt to dull the daggers in his mind. As usual, he lacked the concentration to get much done, but it was enough just to be sober and living. Time healed all wounds, or so it had been said.

  A knock at his study door made him jump, and his teacup rattled on the saucer in his hand. He doubted he’d ever get past being startled by a simple noise, even in his own home.

  “Come,” he grumbled over his shoulder.

  Braetham, his butler, stepped inside the room. “Pardon, your grace, but a note has come for you by messenger.”

  Ian frowned and turned. “This early?”

  “It’s marked urgent,” Braetham replied, the lines on his aging face flat and noncommittal. “Courier rode all night.”

  Ian’s first thought was that an emergency had struck his family, since his sister, Ivy, was expecting her second child within the month. Nerves on end, he placed his cup and saucer on his desktop.

  “I’ll take it,” he said, his hand outstretched as he crossed the floor, meeting his butler midroom in three strides.

  Braetham offered a letter-sized envelope, then bowed once. “Shall I stoke the fire, your grace? It’s rather cold in here.”

  Ian hadn’t even noticed. “Yes,” he said absentmindedly.

  He turned and strode back to the window for better light, tearing open the envelope and removing the small piece of paper inside in one swift action.

  Unfolding it, he discovered it wasn’t at all what he’d dreaded. It was worse. A single line of information, completely unexpected: She’s out of mourning.

  It took him all of five seconds to react. In a matter of moments, his future had changed.

  Standing tall, he stared once more out the window. “Braetham, send in another pot of tea and a hearty breakfast. I think eggs and sausage. Then tell Cummings to alert the staff at Tarrington Square that we’ll be arriving within a fortnight.”

  The iron poker clattered as it fell against the grate. “Sir?”

  Ian’s lips twitched at one end. It took quite a lot to surprise his longtime butler. “We’re going to London for the season,” he said, his voice but a whisper.

  A staggering silence lingered. Then Braetham cleared his throat. “Of course, your grace. Tea and breakfast straightaway. Is there anything else for the moment?”

  Ian shook his head vaguely. Seconds later his butler quit the room.

  A mist curled up over the pasture to the east as the morning sun kissed the moisture away.

  He crushed the note in his fist.

  She’s out of mourning. . . .

  And now so was he.

  Yes. It was time.

  Chapter One

  It’s so dark inside, so cold, and in his sleep he weeps. Although I wish I could, I cannot help him. . . .

  London, 1856

  Her mother had always accused her of being too whimsical, not pragmatic as a lady of quality should be, but for the former Viola Bennington-Jones, those days were long behind her. Widowed only eleven months after her marriage to Lord Henry Cresswald, Baron Cheshire, she had managed to escape the horrors of her past by the birth of their son, John Henry. Widowhood had allowed her a time to fall in love with her child, but now, at twenty-three, her official mourning was over and tonight she would begin to experience the world as a lady of quality should. Her closest friend, Isabella Summerland, only daughter of the Earl of Tenby, hosted excellent parties, and she could now attend them in spectacular fashion. For Viola, this season would become the debut she never had.

  Of course there was more at stake than her own urge for company, or her desire for an occasional dance or tea with a dash of gossip. She needed the ease of moving in circles that would, over time, advance her son’s placement in society as she mingled with those in elite circles. True, John Henry was only four years old, but as the son of a baron, he deserved the best. Though her life as his mother might be dwelling in secret scandals well kept, she’d promised herself at his birth that his good future would remain free of them. Always would she be careful, doing whatever necessary to protect his reputation above all else. Even Isabella, the closest of her friends, knew very little of the memories that continued to haunt her, and that’s the way she would keep it, for the sake of her child, who would one day inherit everything due him through his good title and the connections she made for him.

  Smiling with a genuine excitement she hadn’t felt in years, Viola lifted a glass of champagne from a footman’s silver tray as he passed, then walked with flawless grace across the sun-drenched promenade. Spring thus far had been rather warm, and she relished the chance to be outside in it, with the scent of flowers in the air and a string quartet playing softly at the side of the balcony. This, she vowed, would be the best time of her life.

  Through a gathering crowd of London’s elite, she caught sight of her hostess, who now stood in the midst of a cluster of colorfully dressed ladies, all eager to catch even the most minute bit of recent society news. Isabella spied her immediately and her eyes lit up with delight. “Darling, you look lovely,” she said, scanning Viola up and down as she left the group and walked forward to meet her halfway. “And dressed in ruby red! Good Lord, the stuffy crones will talk.”

  Viola leaned forward and kissed the air next to each of Isabella’s cheeks. “Thank you, dearest, but I don’t care.” She stood upright and took a sip of champagne. “I was so tired of wearing nasty shades of gray, I thought I’d brighten my wardrobe. Be conspicuous and all that.”

  Isabella grinned and glanced around. “Well, you’re certainly conspicuous. And if Miles Whitman sees you like this, he’ll be down on one knee proposing.”

  “Heaven help me.” Viola scrunched her face. “Is he here?”

  Isabella almost snorted. “Of course he is. You know he never misses a party where he might woo a society wife. And everybody knows you’re out of mourning now.”

  Viola had no intention of becoming the next Mrs. Anyone. Especially since her own late husband had left her with a perfectly satisfactory estate and a child to inherit it. She needed nothing else in life but her son, her friends, and her painting—the private side of her life that lifted her spirits when she needed it most
.

  “Where’s Daphne?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder and scanning the crowd for their friend, daughter of the late Viscount Durham, granddaughter of the aging but extremely wealthy Duke of Westchester, and who, if she wasn’t at her or Isabella’s side, could usually be found in the company of an eligible gentleman. Or two. With her pedigree, she could have her choice of anyone, and she relished that knowledge. And the attention.

  Isabella smirked. “Where do you think? She’s intent on charming Lady Hollister into an introduction to her nephew.”

  “Ahhh . . .” Viola smiled in understanding. “This week she thinks to marry Lord Neville?”

  “I suppose,” Isabella replied with a lift of one bare shoulder. “He should be here tonight, as well.”

  “So . . . what happened to her fascination with Lord Percy?” Viola asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Isabella leaned in and enunciated, “Lord Percy, it seems, is intent on courting Anna Tildare this season since Daphne now seems rather bored with him.”

  Viola gaped, then lifted a gloved palm to stifle a giggle. “Poor Percy.”

  “Exactly what I thought.” Isabella lifted her champagne flute in mock toast. “But here’s to all the other available gentlemen who have yet to be swayed by the Lady of Horror’s large fortune and tiny teats—”

  “Isabella!”

  They both laughed this time as Viola grasped her friend’s arm and pulled it down, glancing around to be sure they weren’t overheard discussing something so indelicate. They frequently called Lady Anna, daughter of the incredibly wealthy Earl of Brooksfield, Lady of Horror due to her obnoxious manner and overly imperious sense of entitlement. That she was pretty simply made it worse and particularly unfair, though it was quite true the lady had no bosom. Still, for all her conceited ways and lack of feminine curves, Anna Tildare usually managed to engage every gentleman in the room. For that reason alone, she would undoubtedly be here tonight.

  “I heard the most intriguing bit of gossip, from Mother, if you can believe it,” Isabella said, growing a bit cagey as she changed the subject.

  “Your mother?” Viola gasped. Lady Tenby never gossiped and told her daughter frequently how much she abhorred the trait in others.

  Isabella laced their arms together and pulled Viola closer as they began to walk slowly across the patio. “Well, perhaps it’s not gossip, but more of . . . an interesting piece of news having to do with you.”

  Intrigued, Viola urged, “Go on.”

  Isabella leaned in, dropping her voice to a near whisper. “I heard Mother speaking to Greeley earlier today—”

  “Your butler.”

  “—and she ordered a quick change of the menu to accommodate Fairbourne.”

  “Fairbourne’s coming,” she said blandly, pausing in her stride. “Does Daphne know?”

  Isabella shook her head. “Not yet. And don’t you tell her, either. I don’t want her leaving before the dancing starts.”

  Lucas Wolffe, Duke of Fairbourne, was well known in London circles and had, through the years, attended several of Lady Tenby’s events. Viola had met him once just after her marriage, and she remembered him as a handsome bachelor with a shadowed past and untold riches that made unmarried ladies swoon with the standard blend of shyness and calculation. Every mama in the land wanted him for a son-in-law, so it came as no surprise that he’d be invited this night, which Daphne would probably suspect anyway. But although Viola didn’t know the man well, they were all perfectly aware that, despite the lack of details, a feud between Daphne’s brother, Justin Marley, Viscount Durham, and the Duke of Fairbourne still remained strong and bitter. If they both had to be at the same party, Daphne would certainly want to avoid him.

  “So, what has Lord Fairbourne’s taste in food have to do with me?” she asked after a moment, returning to the original topic.

  “It’s not about the food, Vi.” The corners of Isabella’s mouth tipped up a fraction. “He’s bringing a friend this evening. An art collector of considerable wealth. Or so Mother said.”

  A slice of apprehension coursed through her, though Viola had trained herself these last few years to hide such fear well inside an elegant demeanor. Instead of reacting, she sighed through a gentle smile. “That’s it? That’s the gossip?”

  Isabella bit her lower lip, gazing at her askance. “He must be an important person, don’t you think, to be escorted by Fairbourne? It’s possible he’s even heard of you and is, in fact, coming here to meet you, though of course I couldn’t ask Mother his name. I’d be chided for eavesdropping.”

  Viola took another sip of champagne, her eyes once again grazing over the growing party before her. She noticed several people she knew, others she didn’t, and almost nobody paid any particular attention to her arrival beyond the expected formality. But she’d learned to be cautious nonetheless.

  Even now she carried a fear that she would be discovered as the legendary erotic artist Victor Bartlett-James, a fear well founded, though usually without warrant, since that short element of her past had long since been retired. Nobody on earth knew she and Victor Bartlett-James were one and the same, save her highly paid solicitor, who’d been the man to place her work at auction. When her husband died, so did Victor, and that’s when she began to develop a far more acceptable avenue for her talent, and an exemplary name for herself as Lady Viola, Baroness Cheshire, one of England’s finest painters of still life and formal portraits for the nobility. Still, she couldn’t brush aside the notion that she’d eventually be discovered, exposed as a fraud, and, worse, ruined socially for being the infamous artist of nude men and women posed in various positions of ecstacy. And she would never, ever forget that such ruination was a danger to her son. Always would she be careful, doing whatever necessary to protect his reputation above all else.

  “Don’t look at everybody so suspiciously,” Isabella murmured, demanding her attention once more. “He’s not here yet.”

  Viola glanced back at her friend. “How do you know, if you don’t know who he is?”

  “Because,” Isabella stressed with wide eyes, “if he’s with Fairbourne, you can be certain Mother will let us know the moment they arrive so we can begin the appropriate flirtations.”

  Viola grinned at that truth and, in a sweeping motion, interlocked her arm with Isabella’s once more, turning them back toward the party. “Then let’s bask in the evening before we’re forced to flirt with arrogant dandies who make our teeth hurt.”

  For the next several hours, she tried very hard to ignore a certain lingering uneasiness and enjoy herself. The mood of the celebration delighted her, and because she was finally able to be free of the rigidity of mourning, she relished each bit of gossip, each person introduced to her, the food and champagne, and at last, by early evening, the dancing as the gathering moved inside Lord Tenby’s luxuriously decorated ballroom.

  Viola hadn’t danced in years. Since the night of the masquerade ball in Winter Garden five years ago—the night her life had changed forever—she’d danced only once, at her small wedding. Soon thereafter she’d gone into confinement, and not long after her son had been born, her husband had caught pneumonia and died suddenly. It had been a most shocking year in so many ways, but keeping their estate running and raising her child had been exhausting, the restrictions of mourning depressing. Now she could dance, and even her two waltzes with Miles Whitman were enjoyable. She truly wished he’d keep his eyes on her face rather than her bosom when he spoke to her, but she supposed all men had such a natural propensity. Tonight she vowed not to care.

  And then at five minutes to nine, her comfortable life shattered.

  Viola stood near the buffet table, sipping her third glass of champagne and feeling marvelously light-headed. Daphne and Isabella were beside her, and the three of them scrutinized the crowd f
or morsels more delectable than those on their plates.

  “I see Lady Anna is flirting as usual,” Daphne said with disgust, licking a dollop of sweet cream off a teaspoon.

  “And with Seton, no less.” Isabella blew out a quick puff of air, lifting a thick slice of chocolate cake from the sideboard. “I don’t know where she gets the idea every gentleman wants her hand.”

  Viola snorted. “Knowing Lord Seton’s reputation, I don’t think it’s her hand he’s after.”

  Isabella and Daphne giggled—then stopped abruptly when Lady Tenby came into view, striding quickly toward them, her carriage erect, her flustered face nearly as pink as her wide, flounced gown.

  “For heaven’s sake, stand up straight, Isabella,” she scolded in a low voice as she approached her daughter’s side. “There are numerous titled gentlemen in attendance, and no gentleman of such high quality wants to dance with a lady who slouches.”

  Isabella leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “We were wondering where you were, Mother. Viola and Daphne were only just commenting on your salmon pastries. They enjoyed them, but I think there’s a bit too much dill in the cream tonight.”

  Viola lifted her champagne glass to her lips to choke down a laugh, noticing Daphne do the same. Nobody had more ability to invent stories, to lie for her own amusement, than Isabella. Had she not been well born, she would have been an actress.

  Lady Tenby sighed in affectionate annoyance. “We all know there are no salmon and dill pastries on the menu, Isabella.”

  Isabella’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Well then, I’m thoroughly confused.” She glanced at Daphne, then down to her plate. “What have we been eating?”