My Fair Temptress Read online

  Embracing her, Jude kissed her cheek, and said bracingly, “You’re looking well.”

  She pulled a long face. “Pale and boring, as always.” Holding his hands, she looked him over, and with a dimple of a smile, she asked, “My, isn’t that a fetching costume? Is that the style in France?”

  “In the better parts of France.”

  Laughing, she led him to the couch. “Someday, you’ll have to tell me what parts of France those might be, because I don’t remember seeing anything like this.” She touched the large silver anchor-shaped pin that decorated his scarf.

  “Father escorted you fifteen years ago. Things have changed.” Deftly, Jude changed the subject. “And speaking of that trip, how is Adrian? How’s his school this year?”

  Mum blushed. She had come back from France increasing, and nine months later produced another son to carry on the proud name of Durant. As Michael had privately told Jude, it was good to know the old man still had it in him to make a woman happy.

  “Adrian is fine. He’s studying hard and looks forward to coming home for the holidays. I look forward to having him here. Since you and…” She faltered, then rallied. “Since you and Michael went off to tour the Continent, it has been very quiet in this house.”

  Very quiet? Yes, indeed. No carriages dropped gaily dressed guests on the stone steps. No music played in the majestic ballroom. The closed curtains allowed no light to escape the tall windows.

  Jude’s mouth tightened. This is what he had done. Thrown his family into mourning for their eldest son, their endearing son, the son who had been the light of his father’s eyes and the joy of his stepmother’s life.

  Now Jude prepared to make amends. In a rallying tone, he said, “Adrian’s not much of a hellion. If it’s noise you want, I shall have to come and rile him up.”

  “You’re not much of a hellion, either.” This time she didn’t falter. “That was Michael.”

  “He always chased adventure until it turned around and chased him.” Until it killed him. But Mum didn’t need to know that. In a jolly tone, Jude asked, “Do you remember the time when he was thirteen and decided to put the fear of God into Cook’s husband so the ruffian would stop beating her?”

  “And Michael dressed up like a ghost and convinced you to do it, too!”

  “—And it wasn’t until we slipped into Cook’s bedroom that we discovered they were both terrified of spirits.” Remembering the scene and his own panic, Jude chortled.

  “Cook pulled her knife, and that man chased you all the way down from the attic while he screamed the place was haunted.” Mum clasped her hands at her chest. “I thought the house was on fire, but your father said it was probably Michael getting into trouble. And he was right.” She was laughing…while tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Mum.” Heart aching, Jude hugged her shoulders.

  She dug a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “No, I like to talk about him. It hurts your father to mention Michael’s name, but it keeps him alive for me, and I shall conquer this ridiculous tendency to turn into a watering can every time he’s mentioned. I swear I will.” She mopped up, then asked with forced cheer, “Now, tell me why you’re really here. Did your father send for you?”

  “I could have come to see you,” Jude protested.

  “But you didn’t. You’re having much too much fun cutting a swathe through society. Don’t you think I hear about it? Every fascinating thing you say, every wonderful thing you wear, every single young lady to whom you speak?”

  “Of course. All the old biddies in London keep you apprised.” That could cause trouble if he weren’t careful.

  With a hint of a dimple, she protested, “I’m one of those biddies.”

  “No. Not even when you wear that silly matron’s cap.” Insistently, she tugged at his sleeve, and Jude surrendered. “But you’re right. I’m here on Father’s summons. What have I done to cause him enough displeasure that he should summon me?” There was no way the old man could know the truth…was there? The duke of Nevett had his sources, but lately he hadn’t gone into society.

  “I don’t know.” Her lips trembled. “He’s been fuming ever since the word came about…ever since you returned.”

  “Without Michael.”

  “Yes, without Michael.” She wasn’t being cruel. Jude had wanted to rush home from Moricadia, to be the one who gave his parents the evil news. Alas, he had been wounded, almost killed, in the berserker fury that had possessed him after Michael’s murder, and had spent two months near death hidden in the cellar of a tavern. By the time he made his slow, secret journey back to England, it had been too late. The Home Office had already visited the duke and duchess, and Jude returned to a house draped in black crepe and filled with sorrow.

  Jude touched the signet ring that, for time eternal, had decorated the hand of Nevett’s heir. Michael had worn it with pride from the day of his eighteenth birthday. Now the worn inscription had been melted by intense fire, and if not for the glorious ruby at its heart, it would be unrecognizable. “Is Father angry at me?” Jude asked.

  “No! No, dear, not at all. He loved Michael, but he knew his propensity to rush into danger. Nevett doesn’t blame you for what happened.” She tapped his cheek. “You must believe me.”

  “I do.” Yet Jude knew the facts, and he blamed himself.

  “It seems that lately, your father’s been aware of the passage of time, and his own mortality. He had spoken again and again how he failed in his duty to Michael.”

  “He failed. How so?”

  “Instead of allowing Michael to cut a swathe through the ladies of London society, he should have arranged a marriage for him.”

  “I would have liked to see him try.” Michael and Father had always butted heads, and on this matter Michael would have had plenty to say.

  “Your father can be autocratic when he chooses,” she warned. “He comprehends the frailty of life now, and while he has always shown the utmost of care for all of us, he now worries about Adrian, and you, and me.”

  “Then I shall assure him I live a clean life.”

  She eyed him doubtfully. “Not too clean, I’ve heard. Something about actresses…?”

  “Good heavens, what is it the old biddies discuss when they get together with you?” he asked, appalled.

  Her smile blossomed into real amusement. “Not much. Only everything men would like to think we don’t know.”

  In the doorway, Phillips cleared his throat. “My lord, His Grace grows impatient.”

  “You’d better go, dear.” Mum returned to her desk. “Will you stay for dinner?”

  “I wish I could, but I have an appointment.”

  “Ah.” She nodded wisely.

  Jude wanted to tell her this had nothing to do with an actress, but really, her suspicions were better roused that direction. With a bow, he left her and strode ahead of Phillips toward his meeting with his father.

  “Your Grace, the earl of Huntington has arrived,” Phillips announced with a pompousness honed by years of practice.

  Paxton Durant, the duke of Nevett, sat ensconced in his favorite chair in his favorite drawing room, and kept his gaze fixed to his newspaper. “Send my son in, Phillips.”

  The old butler tottered off to do his duty by roasting another inexperienced footman over the coals of propriety until the fellow was servile enough to serve in His Grace’s household. Because, as Jude knew very well, everything that surrounded His Grace must be perfect, as it had been for fourteen generations before them and no doubt would be for fourteen generations to come.

  Jude walked toward the older man, his high-heeled boots ringing on the hardwood floors. It was obvious by Nevett’s flinching that the sound aggravated him, and that was enjoyable. Then the Aubusson rug muffled Jude’s steps, and Nevett’s color subsided.

  Jude didn’t know why Nevett allowed anything to irritate him. He was wealthy, he was powerful, he was, at sixty, as healthy as a stallion, and he had all the comforts those t
hree enviable traits allowed. The drawing chamber had been designed to Nevett’s own specifications, built to convey a sense of hushed importance and decorated in shades of maroon and gold. A branch of candles lit the gloom of the rainy day. A coal stove in one corner radiated heat, and a crackling fire lent the room atmosphere. His leather armchair was the largest, the deepest, and the most comfortable. Placed at the center of a grouping of seats, it clearly displayed Nevett’s importance for any visitor who might be in doubt. A carved teak Oriental screen hid the alcove that housed his father’s desk—a new addition, and one that surprised Jude since his father had forcefully expressed his scorn for the fad for Asian furniture.

  Stopping a short distance away from his father, Jude bowed. “You sent for me, sir?”

  His father visibly braced himself for the first, horrific vision of his oldest son. Lifting his gaze, he considered Jude for only a moment before closing his eyes in pain.

  Jude couldn’t lie; he enjoyed sticking needles into the old man, so in an affected tone, he said, “Don’t you adore it? It’s the newest color from France. It’s called sunrise, and I’m the first to use it on a waistcoat. You can imagine the attention I attracted on my way over here!”

  “I can indeed.” With a weary rustle, Nevett lowered his paper into his lap. “It is very yellow.”

  “With a mere tinge of orange.” Jude kissed his fingertips and tossed the kiss into the air. “So stylish I know I shall single-handedly lead London society away from this dull obsession with black and white.”

  Nevett looked down at his own staid black-and-white garments. “I wouldn’t count on that.” He indicated the seat opposite. “Sit. I want to talk to you.”

  Jude minced to the burgundy velvet straight-backed chair and drifted down until the base of his spine struck the seat. He crossed his legs, placed both hands on the knob of his walking stick, swung one foot.

  The room smelled of cigars, leather, and wool, exactly as it had during the twenty-nine years of Jude’s life. The scent itself recalled stern lectures, given to Michael and Jude, on how a Durant should at all times behave. With proper civility had been the correct reply, and indeed Jude had never seen his father behave in any other manner.

  Of course, neither had he indulged in obvious displays of affection for anyone, although since Michael’s death and Jude’s return from Europe, Jude had begun to suspect his father hid feelings deep within his portentous breast. But that was not a suspicion he could express to his father, and in return, his father been restrained in expressing his thoughts about Jude’s lifestyle or his manner of dressing…although the provocation had been extreme.

  Jude hid a grin as Nevett said abruptly, “It was a mistake to send you on the Grand Tour. I acknowledge that now.”

  Jude bowed his head.

  “Not because of Michael. Not because of that. That…happened. It was regrettable.” Nevett turned his face toward the miniature of Michael, painted when he was sixteen, which sat on the table by his elbow. The portrait-maker hadn’t captured the twinkle in Michael’s eyes or the laugh with which he greeted life, but the paints represented his fiery red hair and green eyes all too realistically for those still mourning his memory. “I’m concerned with you now. Only with you.”

  “Then why the regrets, sir?” Jude had left three years ago, at the age of twenty-six, and returned three months ago, a new man. Before, he had been studious, industrious, the second son who took his responsibilities seriously. Now he was a bon vivant—and a man with a purpose. “Italy, the Alps, Russia, the Rhone, France, the Pyrenees—they broadened my horizons, which was your expressed reason for our going.”

  “And you’re living proof that there is such a thing as horizons that are too broad and, er, colorful.” Nevett cut off Jude’s protest with a slash of his broad hand. “You were the perfect son when you left. Restrained. Strong. Silent. And now you are…are…” Words failed Nevett, but he gestured feebly at Jude’s slouched figure.

  “More perfect?” Jude suggested.

  “Not quite that.” Nevett’s mouth settled into a grim line. “You are Frenchified.”

  Jude sat up straight. “Do you really think so? That is the finest compliment you’ve ever given me, sir! When I visited France, it was as if I found my cultural home. The food! The art! The fashion! So superior! So grand! On the grounds of Versailles, I swore I would live the civilization as it was meant to be lived.” Drawing his fan from inside his coat, Jude snapped it open and fanned his face in simulated excitement, hiding a smile.

  The duke of Nevett was a man who had been taught from his cradle the traditional English contempt for the French. The English and French were now allies, of course, united in their struggle to keep Russia from taking the lucrative continent of Asia under its control, but Nevett remembered Napoleon and the trouble he caused across Europe. Nevett eschewed the rage for French chefs and served good English beef at every occasion. Only English tailors dressed Nevett. Now his son, his adult son, raved like a madman about French culture and its superiority, and only Nevett’s vaunted English reserve kept him from shouting his hostile opinion.

  Jude wondered if this would prove the breaking point, if His Grace would give his honest opinion at last.

  He did not. He ground his white teeth like a frustrated bear and fixed Jude with a hostile gaze. Folding his newspaper, he dropped it beside his chair. “You know why I called you here.”

  “No, sir,” Jude said in all truthfulness.

  “I want a grandson.”

  Jude blinked. “Sir, I’m unwed.”

  “That is painfully clear. And how you’ll manage to attract a bride in your current condition is beyond me.”

  “In my current condition?” Standing, Jude strolled languidly across to the mirror and considered his own reflection. Dark brown hair, swept into a careless, dashing style. Black tailcoat. Plaid trousers. White ankle boots, polished to a blinding shine. The yellow waistcoat, so bright even he blinked. And in his blue eyes, an amusement that he quickly veiled.

  After all, his father was not stupid.

  As Jude adjusted the orange silk scarf tied about his neck and draped over the expanse of his chest, he said, “Any woman would be proud to call herself the countess of Huntington.”

  “Of course she would!” the duke said with unfeigned impatience. “After I die, your wife will be a duchess, and that’s not a position to be taken with a pinch of snuff and a hearty sneeze.”

  His father did not, Jude noted, consider Jude himself a good catch, only the title.

  His Grace rumbled on, “But until you apply yourself to the process of obtaining a wife, I fear you shall remain single and I grandchildless. So I have taken steps to remedy the situation.”

  Little surprised Jude, but he was surprised now. Swinging around on his father, he surveyed the man whom he resembled so greatly. With an unconscious return to his own crisp intonation, he said, “You don’t imagine I’ll marry a girl of your choosing.”

  Nevett raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t imagined that, no. A man should choose his own wife from among the panoply of young ladies presented to him. But you’ve proved woefully inadequate in your ability to woo these young ladies.”

  Jude had been busy in quite another manner, but he did not admit that to his father. He already knew what Nevett would say about a Durant lowering himself to deception for the sake of God and country—and it wouldn’t be flattering. It wouldn’t be flattering at all. “Find me a young lady worth wooing, and I will do so at once.”

  “There are at least ten maidens of unexceptional birth and fortune on the market right now.”

  “I said find me one worth wooing. One with conversation and intelligence and—” He caught himself. “Not a pockmarked, unfashionable lady, but one whose sense of style matches my own.”

  “Lady Amelia Carradine dresses well.”

  “Too short. Clothes do not drape well on her.”

  “Miss Richardson is tall.”

  “Her complexion!
She should refrain from sweets until the blemishes have diminished.”

  “Lady Anne Whitfield is young and trainable.”

  “Too young.”

  “Lady Claudia Leonard.”

  “Too old.”

  “Miss Naomi Landau-Berry.”

  “Please! Can you imagine being married to a woman named Naomi?”

  “Then you wouldn’t want to wed Lady Winnomena Bigglesworth.”

  “Actually, Winnomena falls upon the ear like a tune well played.” Jude frowned. “It is her deplorable habit of eating shellfish when it is presented to her that must be the deciding factor.”

  Nevett sputtered, “Eating…shellfish? Why shouldn’t she eat shellfish?”

  “I saw her eat scallops. Scallops are round.”

  “Round? Well, of course they’re round. Square scallops would be ridiculous.” Nevett realized he was being ridiculous, too, and he hissed in fury. “Who in hell would you wed?”

  “A lady of France would be most acceptable.”

  “You’re taxing my patience.”

  And Nevett was taxing Jude’s. Reining in his own annoyance, he seated himself once again and said in a softly apologetic voice, “Sir, I would never wish to do that.”

  Nevett dragged in a deep breath and choked, “Of course not. Not you.” He was freezingly polite, when actually he loved nothing more than a good fight, especially with his sharp-witted son.

  But His Grace wasn’t helpless. He had his ways of calling Jude to heel. “I’ve hired you a tutor.”

  “A tutor.” What was the old man talking about?

  “To teach you how to woo a woman.”

  “How to woo a woman.”

  Nevett struck the arm of his chair. “You sound like a prating parrot.”

  Jude felt like a fool. “You’ve hired me a tutor to teach me how to woo a woman?” For the first time since he’d started carrying his fan, he actually needed it. With a flip of the wrist, he fanned his hot face. “What will he use? Diagrams on a slate?”