The Dark Duke. Margaret Moore

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      Hester regarded him silently as he stood near the mantel, for he was not looking in her direction, but only at his stepmother. His attitude was one of graceful negligence, yet he was not fooling her. She could see the tension in his well-dressed body, the anger in his shoulders and the frustration in his frown.

      “Nonsense!” the duchess exclaimed. “Elliot is only slightly delayed. Perhaps he had to rest awhile on the journey.”

      “No doubt,” the duke remarked, and Hester knew by the tone of his deep, rich voice, that he was still not impressed. “Nevertheless, we do not want Lady Hester to perish from hunger.”

      “I am quite all right,” replied the lady in question, wishing she could retire from the room. She had absolutely no desire to be drawn into a family dispute.

      “But I would be remiss as a host if I did not do my best to see to your needs.”

      There was something in his tone that commanded her attention, and when she looked at him, she wished she had not, for he was once more giving her a slight smile that seemed to promise that he could, and would, fulfill any and every wish she might make of a handsome man.

      How many times had she sat at a ball and overheard this type of remark, and how many times had she silently replied, always mentally responding much more cleverly than the actual participants. But now she seemed to have been rendered incredibly stupid, for she could think of nothing at all to say except, “I assure you, I am in no hurry for tea.”

      The duchess stalked to the window, her body visibly shaking with what seemed a combination of agitation and excitement, setting the several blue silk flounces of her dress to dancing. “I see no harm in waiting a few more minutes.”

      “You must be sure to tell me if there is anything else I can provide, Lady Hester,” the duke said with a decorous bow and twinkle of knowing laughter in his eye.

      “As long as it’s not too expensive,” the duchess said snidely without turning around from her vantage point.

      “I appreciate your generosity, Your Grace, but I am content,” Hester said to the duke.

      “You are a rare human being, then, to be content.”

      “You make contentment sound boring, Your Grace.”

      “Isn’t it?”

      “To one of your temperament, perhaps, but it suits me well enough.”

      The duke raised his black brows. “I think you do not approve of my temperament.”

      “Since I hardly know you, I am not in a position to judge.”

      “Then you are a rare woman, for most people have no compunction about judging me, whether they know me or not.”

      “What are you two prattling on about?” the duchess demanded, glancing at them over her shoulder and reminding Hester that there was another set of ears in the room, and another mind to interpret their banter.

      Which was very unfortunate, for Hester was just beginning to enjoy herself. She felt as if she was being offered a glimpse into the duke’s character, and she wanted to know more.

      “You did send the best horses, did you not, Adrian?” the duchess demanded.

      “My finest pair,” the duke replied. “I fear I am responsible for his tardiness,” he continued sorrowfully, “for I sent my finest carriage, best horses and a large sum of money to cover any expenses he might have incurred at the inn.”

      “There’s the coach! I see it!” the duchess cried suddenly, excitement and relief in her voice as she stared down the long, winding drive leading to Barroughby Hall. “I can see Elliot! Come, Hester, look!”

      Hester did as she was bid, and watched the black barouche with the ducal arms on the door, drawn by equally black horses, sweep up the drive. Inside was a tall young man wearing a hat, more than that, only a mother’s eye could discern.

      The duchess watched until the carriage disappeared behind the stable wall, then turned triumphantly to her companions. “There, Adrian. I told you we should wait tea for him. He is sure to be hungry, the poor boy, after his tiring journey”. The duchess lifted her bounteous silk skirt and hurried from the room, no doubt intending to meet her darling boy at the front door.

      Hester realized she was alone again with the duke, just as she noticed that the duchess had left her shawl. Mindful of the crisp autumn air and her own racing heart, she quickly decided to take it to her. She hurried to the sofa and picked up the soft wool shawl.

      The duke raised one eyebrow inquiringly as he watched her. “You seem in a very great rush to meet the epitome of virtue,” he remarked, drawing a cheroot from the breast pocket of his jacket.

      “I have never met a paragon before,” she retorted.

      “If you do not take care, Lady Hester, I could be jealous.”

      His mocking smile told her that he was merely teasing her, so she met his gaze boldly. “If he is virtuous, so you should be.”

      Adrian’s eyes widened. It seemed there was no end to the surprises Lady Hester could provide.

      She faced him now as one equal to another, again a trait that set her apart from every other woman he had ever known. Some, the vain ones, had believed themselves superior to him; others, the hopeful ones, had an almost pathetically needy manner. “Should you not take that to the duchess?” he said at last. “We wouldn’t want her to catch a chill, would we?”

      “No, Your Grace, we wouldn’t.”

      He watched her go, wondering at the emphasis in her final words to him. We. We, as in you and I together here? We against the others?

      Not alone anymore.

      Tempting thought. Tempting, foolish thought.

      He lit his cheroot and sauntered after her, deciding his stomach could bear witnessing the tender reunion of mother and son, if only to see how the surprising Lady Hester would react to his half brother, the fair and charming Lord Elliot Fitzwalter.

       Chapter Six

      By the time Adrian reached the foyer, a pair of footmen were already carrying in a trunk, maneuvering the bulky piece of baggage up the wide stairs. Outside, three more servants stood ready to receive smaller pieces of luggage at the direction of Elliot’s Italian valet.

      Elliot, all five foot nine of him, looking healthy as a horse, his hair lighter from the sun of southern Italy, his eyes bluer in his tanned face, and sporting the latest in European fashion, met his mother at the door, smiling blandly as she embraced him.

      “Elliot, my dear boy, how are you?” the duchess cried.

      “I am much better, Mama, now that I am here with you.”

      The duchess hugged him again, but his attention had already wandered toward his half brother. “I see СКАЧАТЬ