Duke of Desire

  “I’m so sorry,” Iris said. How horrible it must have been for the other woman—alone in a strange country, bereaved of a beloved sister, not even allowed to mourn properly at her funeral.

  Donna Pieri nodded curtly in acknowledgement. “I was not yet proficient in your language and I did not like my sister’s husband, but I felt it my duty to stay so that my nephew would know of his mother’s family.”

  Iris shivered, thinking how awkward it would be to live with a man one hated. A man one suspected of abusing a beloved sister.

  “That must have been difficult.”

  The older woman shrugged. “Yes and no. Dealing with the old duke was tedious, but Raphael …”

  “What was he like as a little boy?” Iris asked.

  “I first saw him sitting bent over a table, drawing with a pencil. His black hair was clubbed and it fell in curls down his back. When I called to him, he looked up, and I was struck at how much he looked like Maria Anna: big gray eyes, red mouth, his face a perfect oval. He was handsome.” A small smile curved Donna Pieri’s lips. “As I got to know him I discovered that Raphael was a joy, so small and solemn and clever. He could draw faces and horses so well I was astonished. And he clung to me when I first arrived, though he could not have remembered who I was. No doubt I reminded him of his dead mama.” She sighed, her smile dying. “I hoped to help him. To protect him. In that I failed.”

  Iris looked down, feeling her eyes fill with tears so that the ground before her blurred before her eyes. “He told me that you took him to Corsica after he cut himself. Surely that saved him.”

  The older woman was quiet as they strolled along.

  “I did what I could,” Donna Pieri finally said. “It was not enough and it was too late, but it was all I was able to do at the time.”

  Iris inhaled. “I think you were very brave.”

  “Thank you.” Donna Pieri stopped and looked up at her. “He will try to push you away, you realize. This is something he does. You must not allow it.”

  “I understand.” Iris swallowed, suddenly realizing that the other woman’s tale had been much more than a recitation of memories. It had been a handing over of care. “I won’t let him chase me away.”

  They turned the last corner and Iris looked up to see their carriage. There behind it was another carriage.

  And standing beside both was her brother Henry.

  Raphael watched out the window as his carriage rolled slowly along Bond Street. He was to meet Iris here after her shopping trip with Zia Lina, but the road was so crowded he was making little progress.

  The carriage rolled to a stop.

  He pushed open the window to see what the matter was, and saw Zia Lina and Iris standing up the block. Iris appeared to be in conversation with a man, and though Valente and Ivo were hovering nearby, Raphael decided he should find out who the gentleman was.

  He opened the door and jumped down.

  Ubertino, sitting in the driver’s seat, called to him in Corsican, and Raphael waved to him and pointed to the ladies before jogging to the sidewalk.

  He strode swiftly down the street, dodging the other pedestrians until he came close enough to hear the gentleman exclaim, “You what?”

  Zia Lina was looking displeased, while Iris had a pleading expression on her face.

  Raphael felt a protective instinct rise in him and stepped between the ladies, taking Iris’s arm.

  The gentleman, wearing a white wig and nut-brown suit, turned to glare at him. “And who are you?”

  When the man looked at him, Raphael recognized the blue gray of his eyes, even though they were narrowed in anger. This had to be Iris’s brother.

  He bowed. “Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore. And you are?”

  “Henry Radcliffe.” Iris’s brother tilted a pugnacious chin. He looked to be nearly forty, and a head shorter than Raphael, yet he wasn’t backing down.

  Raphael couldn’t help but approve.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, then, but perhaps we should confer in private? I don’t particularly enjoy discussing my affairs in front of an audience.” He tilted his head to the gathering crowd whispering among themselves.

  Radcliffe’s eyes widened when he noticed their watchers. “Very well. Would you and Iris care to join me in my carriage?”

  He waved to the carriage standing behind Zia Lina’s vehicle.

  “Thank you.” Raphael turned to Zia Lina. “Do you mind journeying home alone?”

  “Naturally not.” She sniffed as if the entire episode were beneath her and, after giving Radcliffe one more glare and saying her farewells to Iris, turned and stepped into her carriage with Valente’s help.

  Raphael nodded to the men to accompany his aunt home and then turned to Iris. “Shall we?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, though her voice trembled a bit.

  Raphael’s lips tightened. Had her brother been bullying her?

  He handed Iris into the carriage and sat beside her, his hand still on her arm.

  Radcliffe followed them in and sat on the opposite seat. Although the other man pointedly stared at Raphael’s hand on Iris, he said nothing.

  The carriage ride was made in silence, and Raphael could feel Iris growing more and more tense as the journey went on.

  Five minutes later they rolled up in front of a neat but unassuming town house.

  Raphael stepped out of the carriage and assessed the street and house.

  They were not impressive.

  He helped Iris down from the carriage and waited for Radcliffe to descend. They followed Radcliffe up the front steps, where a young maid opened the door.

  She goggled at his scar.

  “Please stop gawking, Sarah,” Iris said to the maid.

  Radcliffe cleared his throat. “Bring a tray of tea to the study.” He turned to Raphael. “This way.”

  Radcliffe’s study turned out to be on the upper level in a far corner, a rather cramped room stuffed with ledgers, papers, and books. Unlike many an aristocratic study, this one was obviously used for business, and Raphael remembered that Iris had mentioned something about her brother’s remaking their family fortune.

  He looked at Radcliffe with a bit more respect.

  “Please. Have a seat,” Radcliffe said gruffly, motioning to two chairs before his desk.

  Raphael saw Iris settled in her chair before he took one.

  “Is it true?” Radcliffe demanded, staring at his sister. He waved what appeared to be a letter. “I thought this letter was a forgery when I received it last night. Are you bamming me, Iris?”

  “Hardly,” she replied, her chin lifted stubbornly. “As I told you in the letter and again on Bond Street, Raphael and I married only a week ago.”

  “When, precisely, were you going to inform me of that fact?”

  Raphael cleared his throat. “I planned to bring Iris to visit you today so that she could explain the matter to you. That was why I arrived on Bond Street when I did.”

  “Humph.” Radcliffe frowned and looked at his sister again. “What about Hugh? There’s rumors all over town that he married some nobody.”

  “The nobody’s name is Alf,” Iris replied drily. “They had a lovely wedding. And I thought you knew I never intended to marry Hugh when I left London.”

  She might have not intended to marry the Duke of Kyle, but her voice softened each time she said his name. The thought made him want to punch something. Perhaps Kyle.

  “Good Lord,” Radcliffe muttered, rubbing his jaw. “You know I only want to see you happy, Iris.”

  “Oh,” Iris said in a little voice, almost as if she hadn’t known.

  Raphael sighed. “Radcliffe. I’m honored that Iris agreed to marry me.”

  Radcliffe clasped his hands in front of him, his brow wrinkled. “Your Grace … I … Ah, this is unexpected.”

  He looked very grateful when the maid interrupted with the tea.

  Five minutes later a corner of his desk had been cleared
for the tea service and Radcliffe was looking a little more relaxed.

  Iris poured a cup of tea and handed it to her brother. “It’s not very complicated,” she said with amazing aplomb, and proceeded to tell Radcliffe the fairy tale they’d conceived together on the journey from Dyemore Abbey.

  Raphael noticed that she’d made several embellishments since.

  He watched his new brother-in-law’s skeptical expression. Radcliffe knew something was amiss with the story—he appeared to be a smart man. He sipped his tea and listened to his sister and once in a while darted a shrewd glance at Raphael.

  At the end of Iris’s recitation there was a silence.

  Iris had handed Raphael a teacup, but he hadn’t bothered drinking. He met the other man’s eyes, waiting.

  Radcliffe inhaled. “Well, it seems that the marriage is a fait accompli.” He looked at Raphael. “Might I know your sentiments toward my sister, Your Grace?”

  Raphael nodded. “I hold Iris in the highest regard. There is no other reason I would make her my wife.”

  The other man waited, but when Raphael said nothing else he sighed. “Then I hope you have a long and happy marriage, Iris. I’ll inform Harriet. I’ve no doubt she’ll want to have a soiree or musicale or some such to celebrate your nuptials, however abrupt.”

  Iris stood and walked around the desk. She bent and hugged her brother, appearing to surprise him. “Thank you, Henry. You know how much that means to me.”

  “Oh, well,” was all the man seemed able to say as he patted her back awkwardly, a small smile on his face. “Perhaps you’ll want to go on up to your rooms to see about packing. Thought I’d have a word with His Grace.”

  She darted an alarmed glance at Raphael.

  Which amused him. Did she think he could be routed by a middle-aged banker?

  She merely nodded and, with a last look between the two of them, left the room.

  He turned to see what threat Radcliffe would deliver.

  The other man’s smile had left his face. “I didn’t believe a word of that.”

  “As well you shouldn’t,” Raphael drawled.

  “Will I be hearing the true story?”

  “No.”

  Radcliffe pursed his lips. “Did you debauch my sister?”

  Raphael looked him in the eye. “No.”

  The other man seemed a little taken aback by that answer, and now he was puzzled. Obviously he couldn’t work out why else Raphael would marry her on such short notice.

  Well. That was no problem of Raphael’s.

  Radcliffe finally shook his head. “No matter. I may not be titled or rich, but duke or no duke, I will make sure you regret it, sir, if you harm my sister in any way.”

  “So noted.” Raphael inclined his head. “I expected no less.” He rose and offered his hand to Radcliffe. “I intend to spend my life cherishing Iris.”

  Radcliffe looked a trifle startled at his words, and then something seemed to relax in his face and he smiled as he stood to shake Raphael’s hand. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace.”

  * * *

  Iris watched her husband an hour later as they traveled back to Chartres House in the carriage. “What did Henry want to talk to you about?”

  Raphael looked at her for a moment, his eyes fathomless. “Your brother wished to make sure that I would take care of you.”

  She frowned. “That was all?”

  He shrugged. “Yes.”

  She had a sneaking suspicion that there had been more between them, but she also suspected that Raphael wasn’t about to tell her about it.

  In any case Iris was rather pleased—and surprised—by how concerned Henry had been about her abrupt marriage. Henry was seven years older than she, and though they got on, they had never been particularly close—at least not in a demonstrative way. It was lovely to know that he did truly care for her.

  The carriage drew up before Chartres House, and Raphael helped her out before tucking her hand in his elbow and climbing the steps with her to the front door.

  “I have something I want to show you,” Raphael said as the door opened.

  “Your Grace,” Murdock the butler said, bowing to Iris. “You have a guest waiting for you in the Styx sitting room.”

  Raphael’s brows snapped together. “Who is it?”

  Murdock’s eyes widened. “He gave his name as the Duke of Kyle, Your Grace, I—”

  “Oh, it’s Hugh!” Iris lifted her skirts and rushed up the stairs to the upper level.

  “Iris!”

  She heard Raphael’s shout from below but didn’t stop. Hugh must’ve been so worried for her after hearing the news that she’d been kidnapped.

  She threw open the doors to the Styx sitting room.

  Hugh turned.

  He looked as if he’d been pacing in front of the fire. He had shadows under his black eyes and his big frame was held tensely. Two of his men—former soldiers—lurked on opposite sides of the room.

  “Iris,” Hugh said. “Thank God.”

  She went to him, and though he was normally quite circumspect with her—almost ridiculously formal, considering they’d once thought of marrying one another—he opened his arms to her.

  She wrapped her arms about his waist as she felt his arms encircle her in a warm hug.

  “Alf has been half out of her mind with worry for you,” he rumbled above her.

  Iris looked up into his face. “Is she here?”

  He shook his head. “She stayed to guard the boys. When you were kidnapped—”

  “Iris,” came a low, smoky snarl from the doorway. “Come here.”

  She felt Hugh’s arms tighten around her as she glanced over her shoulder.

  Raphael stood on the threshold, Ubertino, Bardo, and Ivo behind him. Her husband’s eyes were so icy a gray that from where she stood they nearly shone.

  Oh.

  His gaze flicked from her to the man holding her. “Unhand. My. Wife.”

  Raphael’s face was set and stern, entirely frozen over, and it occurred to her—strange thought at the moment!—that she’d never heard him really laugh. He’d made only that cawing sound—not joyous laughter at all. Had he ever laughed since he was a boy? Or had his father destroyed all laughter in Raphael that night?

  It was a terrible thought.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw Riley and Jenkins, Hugh’s men, sidle closer to her and Hugh.

  Raphael tracked their movement.

  The potential for violence seemed suddenly very high.

  She looked up at Hugh and patted his chest. “It’s all right.”

  Carefully she extracted herself from his arms and went to Raphael.

  Her husband gripped her arm while never taking his gaze from Hugh. “What do you want, Kyle?”

  Hugh appeared relaxed, but Iris could see the way his shoulders were bunched even beneath the black coat he wore. “To find out how you came to be married to my friend Iris. The letter I received last night told me nothing.”

  Iris cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should have some tea?”

  Raphael glanced down at her for the first time since she’d come to his side and murmured sotto voce, “I feel I should tell you for the future harmony of our marriage that I loathe tea.”

  She smiled up at him sweetly. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

  Ten minutes later she, Raphael, and Hugh sat in uneasy truce around an enormous platter of dainty cakes and tarts. She eyed the offering uncertainly. Iris hadn’t had time to meet Raphael’s cook yet, but if he or she considered this an adequate repast for gentlemen, perhaps she should have a gentle word.

  The Corsicans and Hugh’s men had taken opposite sides of the room in what might be a comical standoff were it not so very serious.

  Iris poured a dish of tea for Hugh and handed it to him, belatedly remembering that he wasn’t fond of tea, either.

  Well, if the men insisted on this sort of ridiculous jostling for power, then they’d both have to drink th
eir tea and like it.

  She handed a cup to a frowning Raphael and sat back with her own dish of tea, hot and milky with just one small lump of sugar. She sipped. Perfect.

  Iris selected what looked like a lemon curd tart.

  “Well?” Hugh demanded, ruining her enjoyment of the tart.

  Raphael’s mouth twisted up rather horribly. “Iris was kidnapped by the Lords of Chaos under the mistaken impression that she’d married you. They were seeking revenge against you. Pity you failed to entirely destroy them.”

  Oh dear.

  “What the hell do you mean?” Hugh started forward, and for a moment Iris was worried that he would stand and attack Raphael in his ire at the Lords’ continued existence.

  “Exactly what I said,” Raphael drawled. Was he trying to make Hugh hit him? “You were careless. The Lords are as strong as ever and they have a new Dionysus.”

  “Christ.” Hugh did rise at that, but it was only to pace across the room and back. “I’ll need to inform His Majesty, send Alf and the boys to the Continent.” He winced. “She won’t like that. But God, I don’t know if I can stand them being threatened.”

  He suddenly looked at Raphael.

  “How do you know so much about the Lords of Chaos?” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find her?”

  “I was at their revelry.” Raphael paused to take a sip of the tea he loathed, which obviously was for effect—and to further rile Hugh. “They planned to rape and kill her.”

  “You’re one of the Lords?”

  Hugh’s incredulous question came at the same time as Raphael said, “I rescued her.”

  The men stared at each other like dogs about to battle.

  Iris cleared her throat, drawing the attention of both men. “And then I shot him.”

  Hugh looked appalled. “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t know he was rescuing me.” She decided it was prudent not to mention the nudity. No need to go into pointless details. “At the time I, too, thought he was a member of the Lords—which he isn’t, by the way. He’s only pretending to be one of them to get closer to them.”

  “It was very brave of her,” Raphael said unexpectedly. “And it was a good shot. It nearly killed me.”