When You Give a Duke a Diamond by Shana Galen

ever been so intrigued. She did have a weakness for secrets, but she had not lied when she told Jane she would be discreet. She never told a secret not hers to tell. “Why can’t he help it?” Juliette asked. She could see in Jane’s face that the maid had already gone past what was comfortable for her. Juliette knew she should not push—that was not the way to unearth a secret. But she couldn’t help it. She had to know. If the duke had some vulnerability, some Achilles’ heel that would mean he was actually human, she wanted to know it.
    Jane shook her head. “I’ve said too much, madam. Far too much.”
    “No,” Juliette tried to reassure her. “You haven’t. I promise you—”
    “Is there anything else you require, madam?”
    Juliette sighed, knowing when to admit defeat. “No.”
    “Then I shall see you in the morning, madam.”
    Juliette climbed into the bed with the velvet drapes and grasped one in each hand. “Jane?”
    “Yes, madam?” The maid turned back.
    “It’s already morning.” And she closed the drapes and fell back against the pillows. She expected to be assailed by images from the horrors she’d witnessed this evening. She expected to shiver in fear.
    Instead, Juliette felt safe. The duke’s house seemed an impenetrable fortress against the terrors of the outside world. Even the street noise was muted. London seemed far away here inside the duke’s crimson room, behind his crimson drapes, under his crimson coverlet.
    She closed her eyes and felt the weight of exhaustion press down on her. And for the first time in years, she fell asleep in peace.

Eight
    Pelham paced his long, rectangular dining room and checked his pocket watch again. Where the devil was she? He whirled on his housekeeper, who was standing at attention near the full sideboard, fidgeting with the frilly white apron she usually wore in the morning. “You told her breakfast was at eight sharp?”
    “Yes, Your Grace.”
    “You informed her we have a schedule to keep?”
    “Yes, Your Grace.”
    Pelham looked at his watch again. “It is five past eight, and she is not here. This is unacceptable.”
    “Yes, Your Grace. Shall I fetch her, Your Grace?”
    Pelham let the question hang in the air for a moment while he surveyed his dining table. Everything was as it should be. His plate and teacup were in their usual place. His copy of the Times was folded in half and placed to the right of his plate. The correspondence he had asked to review the night before was stacked neatly to the left of his plate.
    At the other end of the table, another place setting had been laid. He did not often have guests, and the anomaly of the extra plate drew his eye. He had requested a copy of the Morning Chronicle be placed to the right of that plate and a small vase of roses from his garden placed to the left. By God, he had thought of everything a good host ought. So where was his guest?
    “I’ll fetch her,” he informed the line of servants waiting to serve him.
    “Your Grace?” The housekeeper followed him out of the dining room and scurried up the marble stairs after him. The sound of his boots on the marble echoed through the house.
    “You heard me.”
    “I did, Your Grace. Are you certain you wish to do this? She may not be dressed.”
    “Then I’ll close my eyes.” He’d do no such thing. He’d drag her stark naked to the table if need be. He quickened his stride—past busts of kings, portraits of former dukes, and tapestries from keeps long gone—and finally left his housekeeper to catch her breath.
    When he reached the door of the red room, he knocked loudly. He did not need to knock. This was his door and his room, but he reminded himself he was a gentleman.
    Behind the door, all was silent, and Pelham, growing increasingly impatient, knocked again.
    Inside, he thought he heard a voice. He turned his good ear to the door and… nothing.
    He rapped on the door a third time then tried the handle.
    It was