Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“I was thinking how we could fit the cargo hold of the Orion for passengers to America.”

“Poor brutes, the Irish. What with the famine, they haven’t much reason to stay, have they? And did you solve the problem, Aurora?”

She shook her head, incurably honest. “No, I fear that I was thinking about you.”

“Most appropriate, for you were rarely out of my thoughts last night.”

She realized suddenly that he had not been at all surprised by her announcement. “You know who I am?”

He appeared genuinely amused. “Indeed. Do you not think that I would wish to know all about the lady I am going to marry?”

“Marry.”

“My son, Edward, Lord Dunstable—a dull fellow, but stalwart in his duty—told me that your thankfully dead husband was something of a rotter. Appalling the way your father sold you to the fellow, and you only seventeen.”

Aurora stared at him in astonishment. “Perhaps Morton Van Cleve was a rotter,” she said, remembering the pain. “I do know that if he had any notion that his fortune would fall into my hands, he would have paid the devil himself to blight me with fire. As to my father selling me, well, he was a gambler, you know, his blue baronet’s blood could not save him, only me. My husband made a very generous settlement. Yes, he was a rotter. We never loved each other. He merely wished another possession.” She halted abruptly. Why had she confided any of her bitterness to a stranger?

“Well, it is over now, my love,” his grace assured her, patting her gloved hand. “You will enjoy being married to me.”

“But it has been over for many years, and I have been my own woman. I don’t know what made me prose on about it, really. And marriage to you, your grace—I begin to believe you mad.”

He eyed her with tolerant amusement. “Mad? To love you? Really, Aurora, do not insult yourself, I do not like it.” His incredible silver eyes swept over her, lingering for just a moment at the cream Valenciennes lace at her throat. “I fear we are a bit too old to have children, but Edward, my heir, is hale and hearty, as are his two younger brothers and three sisters.”

“I would like to enjoy the lovely scenery for a while, your grace.” Obligingly he fell silent, content to watch her.

The Iron Horse Inn, situated on a quaint cobblestoned corner in Windsor, boasted a view of the castle from the windows in its private dining room. Aurora was tenderly assisted into her chair, while the waiter, a young man with a pointed beard, hovered over the duke, awaiting his pleasure. She held her tongue until Damien had ordered and the waiter had withdrawn from their private dining room.

“I have been a widow for many years, your gr—”

“Damien, if you please, Aurora. I trust you will like the chicken? Their bechamel sauce is renowned.”

“Damien, I am not some sort of addlepated female. You took me quite by surprise, but I am a very responsible woman, usually. I am quite used to making my own decisions and doing things just as I like. I have not found gentlemen to be overly gratified at my occupation. Gentlemen do not like women with brains.”

“I pray you will not insult me again, Aurora. Never, I repeat, never, compare me to other gentlemen.”

The waiter returned with the wine, which the duke did not bother to taste. He merely waved him away again.

“Now, try the wine, it is a light, dry Bordeaux.”

“I own vineyards in Bordeaux,” she said desperately.

“Then you can advise me on our cellar,” he said serenely. “To us, Aurora, and our future together.”

Aurora sipped her wine. “I own Van Cleve enterprises, Damien, and I . . .”—she took on a militant look—“and I control all my businesses myself, with my daughter’s help.”

“Excellent, my love.”

“I am very wealthy, Damien. I vowed long ago never to wed again and let a man control my fortune.”

“Whatever would I do with another fortune?” he asked her with some surprise. “If you wish it, I will let you manage mine as well. I really have no head for business matters.”

Aurora regarded him helplessly. “A duke does not marry a woman of the merchant class, Damien, even if she is a baronet’s daughter.”

“I trust,” his grace continued serenely, “that you do not dislike men, after your rotter of a husband. I am an excellent lover, so I have been told.”

“This is plain speaking indeed.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, a question in his eyes. “You are a woman of sense, my love—why should I not speak plainly? My first wife, now happily in the hereafter, was a silly woman, vain and demanding, and an earl’s daughter. I abided her because she did, albeit begrudgingly, give me children. I vowed that my second wife, if I ever found a lady to my liking, would be the woman of my heart. I have been looking for some ten years now. I am thankful I did not run you down yesterday.”