He rose and walked to a satinwood writing desk that had belonged to his mother. More than once the duchess had gone to the desk to retrieve something to show Victoria, during her long-ago visits.
The duke brought out a large vellum-covered book from a lower drawer. “My mother's diary.” He quickly turned it three-quarters of the way and then slowly flipped a few more pages, looking for an exact place. “Here's what she wrote on the eighteenth of November, 1862.”
He lifted the diary, turned to face her, and read. “Had tea with Miss Pierce today. Our last time, I suppose. She thanked me for my friendship and informed me of her engagement to a Mr. Rowland, a wealthy man with no antecedents of significance. A pity. Had planned to introduce her to Hubert. They would have made a pleasant match.”
“Hubert?” Was Hubert one of the duke's given names? She'd thought his full name was Langford Alexander Humphrey Fitzwilliam. “Who is Hubert?”
“A cousin of mine. The Honorable Hubert Lancaster, third son of Baron Wesport. Lady Wesport was my mother's eldest sister. Hubert would have been about twenty-six at that time.”
“Her nephew?” Victoria reeled. She covered her mouth with her hand. Merciful heavens. All these years, all these years . . .
“A nice enough man, with a very respectable name and a very minor fortune,” said the duke. “You mustn't forget, I was all of what, fifteen, sixteen at the time? My marriage was far from foremost on my mother's mind. And for all her kindness, she was not unaware of our position. She herself had been the daughter of an earl. She probably expected at least as much pedigree in a daughter-in-law.”
Victoria groaned. This was more mortifying even than having her daughter and son-in-law thinking that she'd engaged in illicit acts to lure the duke to her dining table. “If you will be kind enough to have your footman fetch me a spade, I would like to excavate a ten-foot hole outside for myself.”
“And ruin my thoroughly beautiful gardens? I think not, my dear.” She heard him shut the diary and return it to the drawer. “It's no shame to let your youthful imagination get carried away. Far worldlier women than you have lost their heads over me.”
Oh, that man and his arrogance. Her skin must have thickened nicely with age, for she was already in retorting shape. “If you wish me for a bride, you shouldn't try so hard to have me expire from mortification.”
He came so close that she could smell the lingering scent of his shaving soap. Her middle-aged heart began pounding. This was actually going to happen. This monumentally desirable, marvelous, and interesting man esteemed her enough to want her hand in marriage. Her!
“May I take your silence to signify that you've accepted my suit?”
“I've said no such thing,” she said perversely.
“You should. I've proved, conclusively, that I'm not doing my mother's bidding from beyond the grave. And by your own words, spoken a bare two minutes ago, you have no other objections to marrying me, none at all.” He paused, rather deliberately, his eyes sparkling with gleeful wickedness. “I see. You want me to exert myself further. Well then, seducing a woman should be right up my alley, if only I could remember how. Now, do I kiss you before I lie with you or only afterward?”
She summoned a pinch of mock outrage. “As I said before, what a sheltered life you've led, Your Grace. It is both. I'm shocked—shocked, I say—that you do not know better.”
He grinned widely. “I don't know why I haven't taken up with virtuous women before. I'm delighted to be making up for lost time.”
With that, he kissed her.
It was neither the lofty, delicate kiss she'd envisioned as a nubile girl, nor the sin-drenched osculation that had lately dominated her imagination. He kissed her with gusto and delight, a man at last achieving his heart's desire.
She melted accordingly, in complete contentment.
He pulled away after too short a time. “Now say yes,” he urged, nuzzling at the corner of her lips.
“Hardly,” she huffed. “I am not signing away my independence on the basis of one kiss, as delicious as it may be. Remember, Your Grace, I was a married woman. A happily married one. You, sir, will have to demonstrate ability beyond kissing to persuade me to the altar.”
He laughed, a sound of robust delight. Glancing around the parlor, his gaze settled on a scroll-armed settee upholstered in cream brocade.
“All right.” He kissed her again. “Be careful what you wish for, my dear Mrs. Rowland. Or you might just get it.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
8 September 1893
New York City made Gigi's stomach churn.