How to Tempt a Duke. Кейси Майклс

each time they’d been deposited on the duke’s doorstep, bag and baggage. He’d swallow hard and accept help for his sisters, but not another bent penny for himself. He’d made that vow long ago.

      Perhaps playing nursemaid to Bonaparte for these next six or nine months would give him time to formulate a plan for the rest of his life. For so many years, he hadn’t considered much beyond the next day, the next battle, the next search for food and dry lodgings for his men. By silent agreement, neither he nor Fitz had dared to speak of a future beyond that next day, that next battle, or else they might jinx themselves.

      Now that the war was won, however, and he had surprisingly found himself still in one piece, he could no longer avoid thinking about that future.

      His rambling thoughts made his head hurt. Something was making his head hurt like the very devil…making all of him hurt.

      “Here now, friend,” Fitz said grumpily. “This poor girl is working herself to the bone, trying to get a bit of a rise out of you, if you take my meaning, and you’re just sitting there like some lump, arms hanging at your sides, staring into the fire. Pass her to me, why don’t you. I know what to do with a willing female.”

      Rafe snapped himself out of his maudlin musings to realize that the barmaid was now looking at him in some disgust. “Many apologies, ma chérie,” he told her in French as he eased her off his lap. “You are very lovely, but I am very weary.” He hooked a thumb in Fitz’s direction. “And that hairy one over there has many coins.”

      The barmaid’s fickle affections switched immediately as she smiled at Fitz and climbed onto his lap. “Ah, that’s more the thing. That’s it, sweetheart, wiggle that plump bottom about on me some more. The blazes with their pretty statues and showy gardens—this is all the Paris I want to see,” he said as the buxom young woman shoved her ample assets close to his face. “Sorry, my friend, but you know how it is. The better man, and all of that.”

      “That you are, Fitz,” Rafe said quietly. “But before you go upstairs, you might want to slip me your purse for safekeeping. Damn,” he said then, blinking rapidly as he shook his head. “What’s in that ale, anyway? The room seems to be spinning.”

      “You haven’t drunk enough for rooms to spin,” Fitz said, looking at his friend. “You know, Rafe, you don’t look too good. Here, let me play at nursemaid and feel your forehead.” With one arm securing the provocatively jiggling barmaid in position, he leaned toward Rafe and did so, and then pulled back his hand, dramatically shaking it. “Blast it, man, you’re burning up, do you know that?”

      “I can’t be, Fitz. I’m bloody freezing. It’s this wet uniform, that’s what it is.” Rafe clenched his jaw, for his teeth had begun to chatter as he shivered again, missing the warmth of the barmaid’s lush body if not the barmaid herself.

      “I don’t think so. I think it’s that fever you picked up at Albuera, isn’t it? It’s back again, damn me if it isn’t. Come on, let’s make our way back to our quarters before you go passing out on me and I have to carry you the way I did in Vitoria.”

      Rafe waved off Fitz’s offer. “Go have your fun. If it’s the fever again I’m already as sick as I’m going to get. Take her upstairs and ruin her for all other, lesser men with your Irish expertise. I’ll…I’ll just wait for you here by the fire.” He laid his head on his bent arms. “Too tired to go back out in that rain and damp anyway.”

      “Your Grace? Excuse me, sir, for disturbing you, but if I might have a word? Your Grace?”

      “Rafe,” Fitz whispered in a suddenly strained voice, nudging him in the ribs. “There’s a funny-looking little man standing on the other side of the table, and he’s talking to you. I mean, I think he’s talking to you, because he most certainly couldn’t be talking to me. He said Your Grace. Better sit up, friend. Something’s strange here.”

      Rafe forced his eyes open and squinted at the bemused expression on Fitz’s face as his friend continued to look across the table. “Bloody hell,” he said, pushing himself erect to see a rather rumpled little Englishman standing there, just as Fitz had said. Except there were several of him…perhaps a half-dozen rumpled little Englishmen weaving and waving in front of him. He tried to single out one from the herd. “Sorry? May we help you?”

      “You are Rafael Daughtry, are you not?” the man said. “Please say you are,Your Grace, as I’ve been hunting you now for nearly a month, ever since the cessation of hostilities allowed safe travel across the Channel. Perhaps none of your hopeful aunt’s letters reached you?”

      “You hear that, Rafe? Your Grace. He said it again,” Fitz pointed out, pushing the barmaid from his lap, at which time the woman launched into a torrent of gutter French that would have made even Rafe blush, if he’d been listening to her.

      “Indeed, I did say just that,” the man said, sighing. “If I might be allowed to sit, sir?”

      Rafe and Fitz exchanged puzzled glances. “Yes, of course.” Rafe indicated the empty chair in front of the man. He fought to keep his eyes open. “But I’m afraid I don’t—”

      “No, I can see clearly that you do not. My name is Phineas Coates, Your Grace, and it is my sad duty to inform you that your uncle, Charlton Daughtry, the thirteenth Duke of Ashurst, as well as his sons, the Earl of Storrington and the honorable Lord Harold Daughtry, all perished tragically when their yacht sank off the coast of Shoreham-By-Sea approximately six weeks ago. By the rules of inheritance, you, sir, as your father’s son and the last remaining Daughtry, are now Rafael Daughtry, fourteenth Duke of Ashurst, as well as holding the lesser titles of Earl of Storrington and…and the Viscount of Something Else that sadly escapes me at the moment. Sir? I say, sir. Did you hear me?”

      Rafe had slowly lowered his head onto his crossed arms once more, hearing the man’s voice only through the ringing in his ears. Funny, he thought, grinning. Last time the fever came back to torment him, he’d thought he’d seen angels. Never odd little men in ill-fitting hacking jackets and filthy red waistcoats. He liked the angels better…

      “Rafe, answer the man,” Fitz said, shaking him. “Did you hear what he said?”

      “Yes, yes. Go ’way. Something in the sea…”

      “Shoreham-by-Sea, Your Grace, yes. The late duke’s sister, the Lady Emmaline Daughtry, commissioned me to also deliver personally to you her letter requesting your return toAshurst at your earliest convenience. My condolences, er, and my felicitations,Your Grace.Your Grace?”

      Fitz pushed lank strands of damp hair away from Rafe’s face. “I don’t think His Grace heard you, Phineas. But why don’t you tell me more about this dukedom thing, all right? There happen to be any money to go along with all those fancy titles?”

      “I’d say the man has fallen into about the deepest gravy boat in all of England—er, that is, His Grace is quite the wealthy man.”

      Fitz slapped Rafe on the back. “Did you hear that, Rafe? You’re a rich man, you lucky devil! Wake up and we’ll toast your good fortune. On your coin, of course, since you now have so many of them.”

      Rafe didn’t move, even when Fitz took hold of his shoulder and shook him.

      “Ah, now would you look at that, Phineas? Poor bastard. All his problems solved, his worries blown to the four winds, and he doesn’t even know it. His Grace is going to be asleep for a while. But he’ll be fine by morning, he always is.”

      Phineas nodded knowingly. “Ah. Drunk, sir.”

      “No, unfortunately for him.” Fitz winked. “But I’d like to be.”

      “Yes, sir, Captain, I quite understand,” Phineas said, hungrily eyeing Rafe’s nearly full bowl. “In that case, as I was told not to leave His Grace’s side for any reason once I found him, would it be an imposition if I were to join you for dinner, Captain? I must say, that stew smells delicious.”

      PART