My Forbidden Duchess Read online

  Russell stormed into the drawing room and began to pace furiously, wondering what the woman he’d long desired for his wife might think of this swift turn of events.

  Walker had chosen another bride over Lady Belinda Cavendish—by God, would she even believe it?

  After Andrew Scott’s death, Russell had made his intentions known to her, but when she’d heard of the inquiry into Walker Burke’s true parentage, she had spurned him. And after word had spread like wildfire of Prince George’s pardon, Lady Belinda had made it quite clear that she intended to wed Alexander Scott. What would she say now? What would she do?

  That thought made Russell slow his pacing, a familiar idiom coming to mind that made him smile in spite of his fury.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  Suddenly he knew he had to see her. Not tonight, but as soon as a carriage could carry him to her door. That is, after he spoke to Jack about seeking out that pair of cutthroats Russell had hired and sending them on swift horseback after Walker and Miss Marguerite Easton.

  A pity, really, that the chit had been drawn into what Russell had planned for Walker, but there was nothing to be done about it. She must be slain, too. If those men didn’t reach them until after the marriage was consummated, then there would be the possibility of an heir who could still thwart his intent to become the next Duke of Summerlin.

  “Never!” His roar enraged, Russell’s next fierce outcry was for Jack as he strode from the drawing room.

  ***

  “Are you hungry, Marguerite? It’s been several hours already since we left London.”

  Several hours? Sitting in the well-appointed carriage across from Walker, who faced the rear of the rumbling conveyance, Marguerite shook her head and fought to steady her breathing.

  Lindsay had been so kind to fill a hamper for them with bread, cheese, and other savories, and several bottles of cider and wine, but Marguerite had no appetite at all. How could she?

  The time had flown in a blur, even with the one stop they’d just made for a change of horses. At this swift pace, Walker had said they would arrive in Gretna Green by the morning after next!

  He’d told her the glossy black carriage, a gift to him by his father, was one of the sleekest and lightest ever built. The four lathered matched bays, also a gift, had been stabled at the coaching house to rest up for their return and exchanged for the best team the proprietor had to offer—and so Walker intended to do at every twenty-mile mark.

  No footmen had accompanied them to add to the load, and Walker planned to replace the liveried driver, who would be well compensated for his silence, with hired ones when the time warranted. Everything seemed to be falling so seamlessly into place—even the new carriage bore no Summerlin family crest to identify them!—that to Marguerite it now felt as if heaven above had ordained she’d soon be Walker’s bride.

  Oh, Lord. Her cheeks burning, Marguerite occupied herself once more with looking out the window at the passing countryside.

  A useless exercise, really, for she could scarcely focus on anything she saw. She felt so flustered, so overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, which hadn’t abated since she and Walker had left a teary-eyed Lindsay waving after them. Marguerite was almost grateful for the constant clatter of the carriage wheels and pounding horses’ hooves as a cover for her whirling emotions. Walker’s several attempts to draw her into conversation had been drowned out by the ruckus, even with him sitting just across from her.

  And of course he should be sitting across from her, as was only proper considering they weren’t yet married. Walker had made no move to do otherwise, instead bracing his muscled leg against the opposite seat and spending much of his time staring out the window, too.

  At first Marguerite had been startled that Lindsay hadn’t sent along a maid as a chaperone, which would have also been proper…but then again, she and Walker would soon be husband and wife. That thought made her swallow hard and hazard a glance at Walker, only to find him studying her with a curious look upon his face.

  Could it be that he couldn’t quite believe, either, that they were on their way to Gretna Green when she had only just agreed to marry him?

  He smiled at her, which made her breath seem to stop.

  He was so darkly handsome, unbelievably so, this man whom she’d secretly thought of for three years and prayed that one day she might see again. Now he was seated no more than three feet from her, the toe of his boot touching her knee every time the carriage swayed!

  In fact, the road had become so rough that she clutched the leather strap at the window to steady herself even as the carriage wheels hit a jarring rut that made her cry out. She had no more than blinked and Walker now sat beside her, his arm going round the back of her waist to keep her from jouncing off the upholstered seat.

  “Oh…oh my!” She felt her teeth almost rattling at another bump, and he pulled her closer against him, bracing his leg now where he’d sat only a moment before. Though the jolting continued for what seemed an eternity, Marguerite felt herself held so tightly, so protectively, that she didn’t bounce at all. His hard thigh pressed against hers steadied her, too.

  Then, just as suddenly, the road grew smooth again and the carriage resumed its normal swaying…though Walker made no move to release her or to return to his own seat. Instead he bent his head close to her ear so she would have no trouble hearing him over the clamor of wheels and horses.

  “Would you mind if I remain beside you, Marguerite? Just in case, of course…”

  His warm breath tickled the shell of her ear, his lips brushing her there with the swaying of the carriage. She didn’t attempt to speak for the rampant pounding of her heart, but nestled closer against him.

  She had never before felt so safe and secure as she did at that moment within his embrace.

  Her future husband, Walker Burke.

  Truly, the man of her dreams…

  ***

  “That wretched bastard.”

  Russell smiled in triumph at Belinda’s bitter words, though she didn’t see his reaction from where she stood at the parlor window with her back to him.

  Her slender white hand clutched the gold velvet drapery so tightly that he thought she might pull it down from its rod.

  Ah, God, the woman possessed fire and fury beneath that cool blond demeanor that he couldn’t wait to savor on their wedding night! If Russell had ever sensed a moment where he could taste the victory of all his dreams and desires, it was this one.

  The priceless look on Belinda’s face when he’d told her that Walker had run off with Miss Marguerite Easton to Gretna Green would remain etched forever in his mind.

  Her disbelief in those crystalline blue eyes.

  Her outrage as two spots of color burned her alabaster cheeks.

  And then the hard set of her red lips as she gritted her teeth in rage.

  Oh yes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  “So you said they left only a few hours ago,” Belinda said tersely.

  “Yes.”

  “And there is little chance of catching up with them before they reach Gretna Green.”

  “It’s unlikely. They have a good start over anyone that might follow them…and my uncle’s gift to my cousin of so light and swift a carriage won’t help matters. Or his deep pockets, thanks as well to my uncle, that will buy him the fastest horses and most able drivers. Now that Walker has made his choice of a bride, I can only imagine that he’ll wish to have wedded and bedded her as quickly as his funds will achieve it.”

  At Belinda’s sharp intake of breath, Russell knew his words had struck home. Her grip on the drapery had grown even tighter, her knuckles stark white.

  But why not punish her for spurning his attentions time and again? Why not revel in her rage and distress? Why not toy with her for a few moments longer that he might have come here to offer some assistance in preventing this marriage? That Walker—still Alexander Scott to her—might yet make her the duchess she l
onged to be? That her spendthrift family so needed for her to be?

  Russell couldn’t help smiling again, but stiffly…for he felt rage, too. Rage that this incredibly beautiful woman could see no further than Walker when Russell was standing right there, the very answer to her prayers.

  Yet, to his surprise, Belinda turned slowly from the window to face him, an emotionless look in her eyes and upon her face that made his blood run cold.

  “Of course they must die. Will you do this for me, Russell?”

  He didn’t readily answer, stunned that it could have all been so easy, so simple.

  No persuading her that eliminating Walker and his bride was the only way for her aspirations to come true. No reasoning with her or cajoling. No need, certainly, to reveal to her that his hired men were already riding north in hot pursuit of their quarry.

  A rush of exultation swept over him and he nodded, knowing in that incredible unexpected moment that the dukedom—and Lady Belinda Cavendish!—were finally going to be his.

  She came toward him then in a rustle of violet silk and took his hand, her fingers as cold as ice. “Good. Once it is done—”

  “You will marry me,” he finished for her, noting the flicker in her eyes of an emotion he could not name. The vivid blue had grown dark and stormy, and he knew then that this was a woman he’d be wise never to cross.

  His bride-to-be. His duchess. He bent over her hand to kiss her ice-cold fingers, her voice sounding brittle with still barely controlled rage.

  “Yes, my lord, I will marry you.”

  ***

  With the mantel clock chiming midnight, Belinda lay in bed staring blindly at the brocade canopy above her.

  What a wretched difference a mere twenty-four hours could make in one’s life. Her life!

  Last night she had felt certain after dancing the rest of the evening with Alexander and focusing all of her considerable feminine charm upon him, that she was destined to become his bride. And yet…he had chosen another. A parson’s daughter over her, the daughter of the Earl of Stratham! Could such an insult even be borne?

  “Thankfully, not for long,” Belinda grated to herself, her rekindled rage leaving no doubt that sleep, tonight, would be impossible.

  She doubted she would sleep much at all until Russell brought her the news that the deed was done. Slain by ruthless highwaymen, or so he’d said that’s how it would appear. Her future and that of her family would at last be assured once Walker Burke—how disagreeable and common a name!—and his ill-bred country mouse of a wife were dead.

  She should have known a coarse American such as he would have done no better, a former pirate no less with his high-placed friends and royal pardon from Prince George. None of that would help him now, the bastard. Bastard!

  To her dismay, tears bit her eyes but she furiously swiped them away.

  She hated him, just as she’d hated Andrew for leaving her to go to war and then dying so needlessly in battle. He had been the son of a duke! Why couldn’t he have remained in England and enjoyed the wealth and privilege of his birth rather than hold to some misplaced sense of honor and duty?

  Belinda closed her eyes tightly against the memory of his handsome face and Walker’s, too, twisting the silken sheet so viciously that her fingers hurt.

  Men! Such pathetic but necessary vehicles for getting what one wanted and needed out of life.

  She should be grateful that Sir Russell Scott still wished to wed her though she had scorned him when news had flown that Andrew’s twin brother had been found. What did it matter who came to the marriage bed as long as one day soon, she would bear the title of Her Grace, the Duchess of Summerlin?

  She, too, had been born for such wealth and privilege and she would have it, by God, she would have it!

  Chapter 9

  Walker shifted in the seat to wrap Marguerite’s cloak more snugly around her.

  Though the glass side windows were shut tight, the air inside the carriage was cool. Then he drew her closer against him, amazed that she could sleep so soundly in spite of the swaying and constant rumbling. So she had done both nights, the long journey clearly exhausting her.

  Thankfully they were only one stop more to Gretna Green and would reach the village before dawn, well ahead of the mid-morning arrival he had anticipated. That boon would give them time to change clothes and sit down for a decent breakfast at an inn before they wed…and maybe even a few hours to be alone before they must set out again for London.

  Walker glanced down at her face, illuminated in the lantern light, her lashes sooty against her cheeks so fair.

  Like an innocent babe she slept.

  Like an angel in his arms.

  Their pace had been so fierce, they’d had little time to talk or much of anything else at each stop to change horses. He’d paid double at the coaching houses for the task to be done within ten minutes, Lindsay’s parting words to him forefront in his mind every time he’d helped Marguerite into the carriage.

  “You must return as soon as you can, Walker. I won’t tell a falsehood to my husband if he arrives home to find you still gone. There will be time enough…well, for you and Marguerite to be together when everything is sorted out. Please promise me you won’t delay!”

  Lindsay had blushed so prettily with embarrassment at what she’d implied, and Walker had squeezed her hand to reassure her. Yet now, with Marguerite’s lush body molded against his, he cursed under his breath that there wouldn’t be more time to become intimately acquainted as husband and wife.

  “So be it,” he said with resignation, the crack of the whip drawing his gaze outside into the moonlit night.

  That had been another blessing to speed their way, a brilliant full moon to light the road for the driver that had taken over from the last one. The pair of brass lanterns flanking the driver’s box might have sufficed, but Walker felt grateful all the same for any help the Lord might grant them.

  He wasn’t a church-going man, but he sent a prayer heavenward that the second half of their journey go as smoothly as this one…fresh horses at every stop, capable drivers, cloudless skies, and bright moonlight. Certainly not any sort of night for highwaymen to be lurking by the roadside to cause mayhem or worse, but he nonetheless had a pair of pistols at the ready and thrust into his belt. Another set of loaded pistols lay hidden in a compartment beneath the opposite seat.

  Marguerite had seen that he was armed but she’d not questioned him about the weapons, his bride-to-be as perceptive as she was beautiful. He shifted again so the silver-embossed butt of the one wasn’t pressing too much against her. Still she slept peacefully, but perhaps it was the very rocking of the carriage that kept her so lost in slumber.

  Walker’s gaze fell to her lips, parted slightly and so sweetly curved.

  He longed to give her a kiss as he had indulged himself only briefly at every stop, but he feared he might wake her. She needed to rest after so many hours spent in the carriage without a single complaint.

  Instead, at those rare times when the horses had been slowed to a trot for a brief respite, and he and Marguerite hadn’t been forced to raise their voices to be heard, she had spoken of her home in Porthleven. Her sisters. The simplicity of life there. Her love of drawing. He had told her a bit about Boston, the wharves bustling again now that the war with England was past, the textile mill he’d built with his partners, and the school he’d attended as a boy…but not much else.

  A good part of his life had been so bitter, so painful, that the harsh memories seemed to drown out what had come before or after, and Marguerite had accepted his reticence and not pressed him. She had seemed content simply to nestle in his embrace, which had soothed his dark thoughts more than he could ever say.

  Walker drew in a deep breath and leaned back against the tufted silk wall, his attention once more focused out the side window.

  He’d managed to doze during the day, but even with so clear an evening he didn’t dare to doze off now, his wariness reminding him o
f long nights aboard the Vengeance keeping watch for any English frigates that might be hunting for them. Or for those hapless merchantmen they had hunted, he and Jared and other members of the crew taking turns each evening at searching the roiling sea for their next quarry.

  Thinking suddenly of his father, Walker propped his elbow upon the padded windowsill and rubbed his temple.

  How could he have known that some of those ships the Vengeance had attacked and burned belonged to the Duke of Summerlin, his own flesh and blood? A decent man, a generous man, and a man who believed he was looking out for Walker’s own good…even to forbidding him to wed a woman that wasn’t nobly born.

  That thought made Walker tighten his arm possessively around Marguerite. She stirred against him, sighing softly, though she did not wake.

  It grated upon him that he must keep their marriage from his father, but what else was to be done? He did not want to disappoint or grieve the man given he had so little time left. Walker didn’t want to subject Marguerite to any distress that his father, however well-intentioned, might inflict upon her, either. She’d suffered enough already at the hands of the ton.

  And then there was Jared’s infuriating disapproval of him. Damn it all, other than how well this journey had gone thus far, the situation he and Marguerite found themselves in was nothing but unpleasant and fraught with difficulty—

  “Milord, riders behind us!”

  The driver’s shouted warning made Walker’s breath jam in his throat. At once, he pulled a pistol from his belt, the sharp movement awaking Marguerite. She blinked up at him blearily, still half lost in sleep.

  “Walker?”

  He didn’t speak but disengaged himself from her quickly and as gently as possible, and peered out the rectangular back window.