All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Read online

  Margaret wished she were a pirate and had a large vocabulary of expletives to usher forth.

  “When the duke returns to his room,” Mama said. “He will find you.”

  “And he’ll know he didn’t put me here.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be discovered together. A witness will accompany me. I will be distraught.” Mama clasped her hands together, and her lower lip trembled. She then beamed, as if triumphant at her acting abilities.

  Margaret stared at her. “You’ve thought about this for some time.”

  “Daydreamed about it. And now, through some generous payments, it will be possible.” Mama gave a grateful glance to the maid and clapped her hands. “Oh, think of the wedding we shall have for you. All of society will attend.”

  “Because they would not believe that the duke and I would ever wed.”

  “Your unpopularity will be a distant memory,” Mama said, her voice brimming with confidence.

  Margaret frowned.

  Mama was being impossible. Ever since Papa had made them rich, Mama had wanted to marry Margaret off well. Unfortunately, it seemed easier for Papa to invent something and create a whole company from it than for Mama to snare a titled son-in-law. Obviously, Mama shouldn’t be trying for dukes. Even the most experienced matchmaking mamas must waver at that goal.

  “You’ll lose your position if you do this,” Margaret told the maid. “I’ll tell the duke.”

  “Her future is safe,” Mama said hastily, nodding at the maid. “Our townhouse can always sparkle more.”

  Margaret’s mother opened her velvet brocade reticule and extracted a jar. Mama removed the lid and a pleasant floral scent wafted through the room.

  “That scent will not calm me,” Margaret said.

  “Dearest, it’s not your emotions I am concerned about.”

  Mama flitted through the room, moving from the canopied bed to the chaise-longue.

  Her mother scattered something, humming.

  Margaret widened her eyes. “Are you scattering rose petals?”

  “I would think it would look obvious,” Mama said. “All the better to make it romantic, my dear.”

  This was mad.

  Margaret fought the temptation to scream. In all likelihood that would only lead her to have a gag placed in her mouth. Besides, this floor was empty, and the festivity had practically pulsated with noise.

  Perhaps she could remove these clasps. It was unlikely, but right now, it was her only hope.

  “You want her clothes on?” the maid asked.

  “The answer is yes. Obviously,” Margaret exclaimed.

  “A tear will suffice,” Mama said.

  “Of course.” The maid ripped the bodice of Margaret’s gown efficiently.

  “You don’t have to do this, Mama,” Margaret begged. “The plan won’t work. Not that this is the way to marry me off. And we can just leave. No one will know. And I’ll make more of an effort—I promise.”

  Mama scrunched her lips together, then strode toward Margaret.

  Hope shot through Margaret.

  Perhaps Mama really would free her. Perhaps everything would be fine.

  Instead, Mama removed Margaret’s pins from her hair. She removed a comb from her reticule and smoothed Margaret’s hair.

  Her eyes glimmered, and she pinched Margaret’s cheeks. “Much better. You look most improper, like you’ve just been ravished.

  Then Mama turned and exited the room with the maid.

  Margaret was alone.

  She’d known Mama had been eager to marry her off, but she hadn’t realized she would resort to this. Shouldn’t she have expected it? Hadn’t Mama bribed someone to assist her when the Marquess of Metcalfe had openly searched for a wife?

  Nausea tinged Margaret’s throat.

  If only Margaret had worked harder to find a husband this season. The next time someone even vaguely suitable showed any interest in her, Margaret vowed to marry him.

  Most likely she wouldn’t even have the chance to do that. Margaret would be ruined once she was discovered on the duke’s bed.

  Her heartbeat shook, and she surveyed her new surroundings.

  Dark green fabric lined the walls, as if chosen to match the duke’s hunting attire. Heavy furniture from past centuries dotted the room. Regal busts of Roman emperors perched on the tables. Clearly, the person who’d placed them there had not anticipated that women might be dragged into his room by their matchmaking mamas.

  As beds went, this outranked others in sumptuousness. The pillow possessed a pleasant feather density, and the bed cords did not sag intolerably. The coverlet was suitably soft, and no wind wafted through the window. He had the proper number of pillows, and his bedding was appropriately soft. No doubt clouds could take advice from them.

  But despite the silky texture, Margaret’s heart still hammered, as if she were fleeing a criminal, and not lying on one of the most luxurious beds in Britain.

  Margaret despised dancing, but she hardly desired to spend the duration of the ball here. She thought longingly of the rows of food on the banquet table. Genevieve and Juliet would probably wonder where she was.

  At some point the Duke of Jevington would enter the room, and everything would be horrible.

  Margaret continued to tug on her fastenings.

  Unfortunately, they showed no signs of moving.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JASPER TIERNEY, THE Duke of Jevington, had never considered himself to excel at much of anything. His sporting abilities were tolerable, though he’d never seen the point of risking his neck to dive for a ball when playing rugby. His academic skills were worse. Harrow didn’t include a course that bestowed good grades on a person’s ability to make his classmates laugh, and Jasper lacked equal enthusiasm for declining Latin words and dividing fractions.

  But Jasper had been wrong: he excelled at planning celebrations.

  Jasper’s parties were renowned, and he stood on the mezzanine as his guests danced and jested, drank and jubilated. Footmen carried silver platters in one hand, undaunted by the men and women who swarmed about them. Jovial music floated through the ballroom, and people swayed merrily, forming the familiar complex patterns with glee.

  A year ago, Jasper would have joined them, but now observing sufficed. Party planning was exhausting, and his memory of the event would not be enhanced by a brandy induced headache.

  He tapped his fingers against the banister of the mezzanine. A few women tilted their heads toward him, fluttering their lashes and elbowing their neighbors. Diamonds and rubies gleamed from their throats and their coiffured curls remained immaculate. Jasper shot them his customary wide smile. He didn’t wait long for them to flap their fans. This game had seemed more interesting when he’d been new to London. Normally, he would go and make their acquaintances, or, in most cases now, remake them, but an odd ennui hampered his customary actions.

  Still, he couldn’t linger on the mezzanine the whole night. He descended the stairs and entered the crowd.

  One of his footmen approached him. “I have a note for you, Your Grace.”

  Balls were not the customary place to receive correspondence, but Jasper extended his hand.

  The footman’s shoulders eased, and he hastened away.

  Jasper read the note. He didn’t recognize the handwriting and he strode toward the footman, rejoining him quickly. “I’m to go to my room?”

  “I—er—suppose.” The servant averted his gaze.

  “Who gave you this?”

  “Is it important?” The footman’s voice trembled, and he shrank back with an odd air of guilt.

  Jasper sighed. The footman was new, and even though Jasper strove not to intimidate his staff, his title made the process difficult.

  “Don’t worry,” Jasper assured the man.

  His curiosity was, after all, officially piqued. Had a widow arranged a tête-à-tête? More likely one of his friends wanted to laud the charms of one of the women here and strategize a
bout how to win her heart.

  Jasper strolled through the ballroom, moving through the crush of revelers. Men from his schooldays slapped him on the back, beaming jovially, as if they still couldn’t believe they’d reached an age in which they might drink and dance with delight; a world in which arithmetic and geography lessons no longer existed and where no one would cane them for an incorrect Latin declension. Debutantes tittered when they viewed him, tossing their hair so their carefully curled ringlets caught the light.

  Finally, he left the ballroom, and Jasper shivered.

  Obviously, the temperature had fallen.

  Obviously, he was not shivering because of some premonition, even if he did wonder why he’d been summoned to his bedroom.

  He nodded to the butler, then ascended the staircase. The sound of the music grew faint, but as he entered the dark corridor, the ballroom door slammed below. Evidently, he wasn’t the only person who’d abandoned the festivity, even if the hour remained early. Jasper trod over the familiar oriental carpets, past the familiar gilded-legged sideboards until he reached his room.

  This is foolish.

  He should have ignored the message. Still, he may as well investigate

  Jasper pushed open the door and blinked into the dim light. A scent of roses drifted through the room. Behind him footsteps sounded, and soprano and baritone voices murmured.

  On another occasion he might have chuckled, wondering if the two people were finding a spare room in which they might have a tryst. It wouldn’t be the first time people had engaged in passion at one of his parties. Jasper excelled at creating a pleasant atmosphere that would inspire amorous pursuits.

  “Help!” a woman called.

  Jasper blinked.

  This was hardly Shoreditch.

  Nobody should require assistance in his home.

  “Quickly,” the woman added.

  Jasper turned toward the voice.

  The sound came from his bed.

  “Help!” the voice repeated.

  Jasper might be confused, but he could still act like a gentleman. He approached her with speed.

  Normally if a woman called him to his bed, it was so he might touch her there and there and at once. Despite the woman’s urgent tone, and its resemblance to past bedside escapades, Jasper doubted this woman desired that.

  After all, he didn’t recognize her voice.

  He grabbed a candle and lit a match, casting light toward the bed.

  There was indeed a woman on his bed. She lay in a half-clothed state. Dark locks spilled over her shoulders.

  The sight was not entirely uncommon, even if he’d reduced such instances since his friend Hugh had married.

  But this woman’s hands were tied to his bedposts.

  Strange.

  He blinked.

  The woman resembled Miss Margaret Carberry.

  Very strange.

  Of all the women he might find on his bed, he would not have expected Miss Carberry. He’d met her at a house party, and he remembered her as a rigid wallflower, one who found even the prospect of making conversation daunting, who had yet to master the not-so-very-difficult rules of small talk.

  But then she’d been dressed primly. Unlike her companions she hadn’t shown any eagerness to make conversation with him. She’d never fluttered her lashes. Indeed, if anything she’d seemed eager to drift into the background.

  But Miss Carberry was certainly noticeable now.

  A distinct smell of champagne wafted toward him, and long curly hair framed her face in an appealing manner. She was clothed in a yellow dress, though his attention was drawn to a deep tear in her gown that revealed delicious skin.

  “Miss Carberry?”

  “Please untie me,” she ordered.

  He forced himself to withdraw his gaze from her and banish the image of her rounded chest, no matter how alluring it was.

  Why was she here? Miss Carberry had always seemed practical. If she were attempting to seduce him, she wouldn’t be eager to leave the bed.

  He scrunched his forehead. An atrocious thought entered his mind.

  “Did someone harm you?” He shifted his legs, not wanting to contemplate that one of his guests might have acted so vilely. “Because if you tell me his name, I assure you I will do my utmost to—”

  “No,” she said hastily. “Nothing like that.”

  He blinked again.

  “This is not the time for explanations,” she said.

  Jasper might like to chatter, but he knew when his conversation was undesired. He hurried toward the bed, removed a knife from his bedside drawer, and hastily freed her.

  “Thank you.” She leaped from the four-poster bed into a pile of rose petals. Her hair was messy, and thick curls cascaded from her chignon.

  She didn’t flutter her eyelashes at him. Instead, her eyes darted wildly.

  “What is the meaning of this?” a strange man’s voice demanded.

  Miss Carberry ducked down, and her large bosom bounced. Jasper’s throat dried, and he vowed to not muse on her plump globes.

  “Oh, please come!” a female voice wailed. “Hurry! My daughter is here. Alone with the duke.”

  “Goodness gracious,” the man said. “Are you certain?”

  “Naturally!”

  Jasper jerked his head to the side.

  What were those people talking about? Miss Carberry crawled on the carpet as if she were a French spy. Rose petals stuck in her hair.

  Blast it, there was no reason for rose petals to be on the floor.

  Miss Carberry hadn’t just been tied to the bed—her dress was torn.

  As if I tore it while ravishing her.

  Jasper’s fist tightened.

  Damnation.

  It was happening: the thing all aristocrats feared. He was being framed to appear as if he’d compromised a woman.

  Jasper had met Miss Carberry’s mother. She’d thrusted Miss Carberry toward his friend Hugh, the Marquess of Metcalfe. Now the marquess had married, perhaps Mrs. Carberry had decided to direct her attention to Jasper.

  Double damnation.

  “They can’t find me here,” Miss Carberry whispered and she sprinted toward the window.

  “What are you doing?” Jasper asked.

  A man wasn’t supposed to find it normal to find chits tied to his bed. It was the sort of thing that would make any man—even the worldly, sophisticated sort—have questions.

  Questions Miss Carberry seemed in no mood to answer.

  “They’re coming.” Miss Carberry scurried behind the curtain.

  The door opened, and Jasper turned his head.

  Two people stormed in: a sterner, older looking version of the woman he’d just seen, whom he recognized as Mrs. Carberry, and another man, wearing a white collar.

  Blast.

  The chit’s mother had dragged a man of the cloth with her: a bishop. The word of a man who adhered to morals and ethics, or one who at least advocated for others to adhere to morals and ethics, would be taken seriously. No one liked to contradict bishops, not if one didn’t have a peculiar delight in perpetual flames, distracted only by the screams of unhappy residents and horn-adorned creatures brandishing pitchforks.

  “She’s here!” Mrs. Carberry flourished her hand in the direction of the four-poster bed. Her bracelets jangled, and her voice had an odd triumphant ring. The sound did not resemble the anguish he’d imagined someone might feel who believed their daughter actually had been compromised.

  No, her voice was distinctly smug.

  And now her daughter was subjected to huddling outside his window.

  Jasper hadn’t possessed much of an opinion of Mrs. Carberry when he’d met her before. He instantly revised his opinion and placed her in the negative column, settling her only above charging French soldiers.

  “What are you speaking about?” Jasper asked in an icy tone he preferred not to employ, favoring a more warm-hearted approach to others. This, though, was the moment for aristocratic
aloofness.

  Mrs. Carberry widened her eyes, then her face paled.

  “You are in my chambers,” Jasper said. “And I did not invite you.”

  “Er—yes.” Mrs. Carberry retained her gaze on the bed.

  “This woman said a young lady was here against her will,” the bishop said hesitantly.

  “She was mistaken, my lord,” Jasper said. “I am alone. Perhaps she succumbed to a daydream. Despite its name, one does not require it to be day to experience one.”

  “I did not imagine the calamity,” Mrs. Carberry huffed.

  The bishop looked dubiously at her. He furrowed his ample forehead, unburdened by any hair. “This is most odd. Most odd, indeed.”

  “A commendable observation,” Jasper said. “Most astute. But then again, is not life filled with oddities?”

  A frown descended upon the bishop’s face. “Your Grace, I prefer to see the world as marvelous, filled with the manifestations of the Lord.”

  “Quite, quite,” Jasper said quickly.

  Entering a theological conversation while a perfectly good ball was going on downstairs, not to speak of the woman tucked on the other side of the drapes, did not top Jasper’s immediate desires. Right now, the only thing he wanted was a generously poured drink.

  “These mistakes happen,” Jasper said graciously, even if this particular occurrence had never happened to him before, and it hardly seemed unintentional. He headed toward the door. “Now, let’s go downstairs. I assure you the ball is more interesting.”

  The bishop followed him obediently, but Mrs. Carberry halted.

  Jasper’s heart sank.

  A woman willing to tie her daughter to a duke’s bed was unlikely to be daunted by the temporary absence of said daughter.

  “But she was here!” Mrs. Carberry insisted. “Look. The bed is...rumpled!”

  “I hope you’re not insulting the work of my chamber maid?” Jasper asked.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Carberry said. “I am complimenting them. I doubt they would have left such an indention.”

  “That does sound like a compliment, Your Grace,” the bishop said cheerfully.

  “I think I sat on the bed,” Jasper said.

  “You think?” the bishop asked.

  “I’m quite certain,” Jasper amended. “Absolutely certain.”