by Tessa Bowen
“No, I guess not.”
“They will turn her against me, you know. She loves me now, but it won’t last forever. Lord knows I’ve made a mockery out of every other relationship I’ve ever had with a woman. I won’t flummox this one up. I’ve got to walk the straight and narrow now so that she will be proud of me when she grows up. I’ve got to ‘settle down’ for good this time.”
“Yeah, I get it—you need me to act like your blushing bride so that the public will stop saying you’re a Casanova.”
The Duke observed her as she began squeezing the moisture out of her skirt. Water dripped down her legs onto her feet. Her toes curled into the grass—tiny, little toes with chipped black nail polish. She was a very young woman, but a woman none the less. He did not know why he had thought she looked like a boy before, the cropped hairstyle perhaps. Her figure was not remotely boyish. The perky breasts straining against the asinine red apple gave her away, and his trained eye had detected a shapely rump when she had crawled out of the fountain. Her features were very feminine in fact: the small up-turned nose, the bow-like lips…high full cheekbones…little pointed chin. Glossy brows arched over those dark eyes of hers, black… bottomless… limpid.
She was certainly no beauty but her exotic coloring made her quite appealing. Charlotte was correct in her assessment. This girl was most definitely unearthly. Whether she was a fairy or an elf remained to be discovered. Perhaps she was some sort of rare hybrid.
Gypsy. Punk rocker. Water sprite.
“Do you have to stare at me like I’m a bug in a jar?”
“It’s just that you’re no bigger than a tadpole. You will have to put on some weight, they will think I’m starving you.”
“You mean like in your dungeon of horrors?”
He frowned at her joke and continued to stare.
“Sorry you find me so friggin’…repulsive.”
“I never said you were repulsive. I may have used the word repugnant, but I was only referring to the snorting.”
Izzy gave a little shiver. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the wind picking up or the way his eyes seemed to delve into her very soul. The Duke removed his jacket and flung it around her shoulders, tugging the lapels together. His scent surrounded her and she swayed on her feet.
“The press is coming to the house tomorrow. Naturally, they will want a picture of us together. They will conduct a short interview. Sir Archibald will brief you.”
It was all she could do not to bury her nose in the collar. “Brief me?”
“Prepare you.”
“Archibald is having a stylist put together some clothes for you to choose from.”
She smirked at him. “You don’t want me to wear my fairy wings? Just kidding, I’ll do my best tomorrow, I promise. It’s just hard for me to know what to do.”
“We are selling a fantasy, Cinderella and her Prince. All we have to do is appear happy. The people will see what they want to see.”
His expression grew morose. He raked a hand through his hair. He looked tired and she wondered how old he was, at least thirty-five—maybe older. There was a bit of age around his eyes and mouth which only made him all the more distinguished looking. He didn’t seem much like a devil-may-care tabloid playboy at all. Instead, this man possessed a broody, restless quality.
“You are not what I expected,” she said softly.
“No? I suppose I’ve disappointed you then. I seem to do that a lot—disappoint people. Let’s walk back to the house. You’ll catch cold.”
The Duke handed her the Wellies and watched as she clumsily yanked them on. In all of his travels, he was sure he had never seen a ruffled skirt worn with rubber boots. The girl certainly had her own quirky style.
They walked silently across the parkland until they came to the entrance of the great house.
“Where do your people come from, Miss De Luca?”
“My people..?”
“Your family?”
“Oh, I don’t have a family.” She said casually. “I grew up in foster homes.”
A wrinkle worried his brow. “Yes, Archie mentioned something about that. They will find out about your past—the press I mean. There is nothing I can do to stop them. They will exploit it—they will say I’ve rescued a damsel in distress. There is nothing I can do to stop them from painting it that way.”
“You did rescue me. I mean, now I will be able to pay my rent— but you don’t really have to pay me a million dollars.”
“Of course I do. It’s hardly enough. Your past will be delved into, your privacy ripped asunder.”
“I’m not ashamed of anything. Besides, I read the contract. When I am all done here, I will have to take a different last name and change my appearance a little so people won’t recognize me.”
“We will do our best to see that you reclaim your anonymity.”
“Like witness protection…?”
“Something a bit more comfortable than that.”
“I’ve been a nobody my whole life, it might be nice to be a somebody for a while—or a pretend somebody anyway.”
“A pretend duchess to be exact.”
“Is that sorta like a pretend doofus?” She cracked herself up, covering her snort with her hand. “Oops, sorry—it just slipped out.”
He did not join in her laughter and instead picked a miniscule lint ball off a well turned cuff. “You were born in New York City then?”
“No, Michigan. I came to New York just for the adventure.”
“And now a misunderstanding has brought you all the way across the pond to this dank old house.”
She grinned up at him. “I guess I got my adventure, right? Being a spazz finally paid off.”
Her smile was unguarded and completely guileless. Only someone very young could beam with such openness. The Duke felt a pang of longing deep in his belly—for what, he was not sure exactly.
“You are very young, aren’t you, Miss De Luca?”
“I guess…I’m twenty.”
“Good Lord, twenty you say? I certainly robbed the cradle, didn’t I?”
“You’re not that old, are you?”
He arched a cool brow at her. “Too old to be traipsing around with a twenty-year old.”
“You’re the Devil Duke.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. I’m their sullied, aging rake. They think your youth will revive me. That is why they like you—they find your lack of sophistication charming.”
“But I guess you don’t, right?” An awkward silence fell. Shyly, Izzy shrugged out of his jacket. It smelled so good she would sleep in the thing if he’d let her. “Thanks for the jacket.”
“I appreciate you coming all this way, Miss De Luca. This must all seem very strange to you—the circus that is my life. I am sure it was hard for you to leave your home and friends.”
“I don’t really have any friends—and I’ve never had a real home, so it doesn’t make a difference.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. You are a wandering adventurer. Well, if it is excitement you seek, I’m not sure the English countryside is the right place for you. We are all about counting sheep and sipping tea here. I’m afraid you will find us a boring lot and that’s just what I need to be now—boring. Now, if you will excuse me—” Abruptly, he brushed past her, moving quickly into the house. He stopped up short in the doorway once more. “Please see to it that you are not chewing gum during the interview tomorrow. And you will have to get rid of that shocking splash of violet in your hair.
She listened to the click of his heels as he disappeared into the house. He was rude and moody—cold and brusque, but he had apologized to her and asked her to stay. She wondered how many more shades of blue his eyes could turn. What would her next meeting be like with the Devil Duke? Eager to find out, she scurried after him.
Chapter Four
I look like a friggin’ secretary.
Izzy didn’t like what she was wearing. She didn’t like it one bit.
A woman with a
French accent had come to her room that morning with a rolling rack of clothing.
Pleated trousers and pencil skirts.
Twin sets and blazers.
Pastels.
Barf.
She had never dressed that way in her life. Her tastes had always been eclectic and unconventional. The team of stylists had poked and prodded her for an hour and a half. Izzy stripped off everything as soon as they left. She wiped the pink lipstick off with the back of her hand and ruffled her hair. One guy had actually tried to curl her razor-cut ends with a curling iron.
Double barf.
She ripped through the piles of clothes, searching for something she wouldn’t feel totally awkward in. She didn’t have much time. The Duke was waiting for her as well as the people from the press.
She pulled a striped t-shirt out of her duffle bag and found her “good jeans” quickly slipping them on. She stepped into a pair of ballet flats and grabbed a simple black cashmere cardigan from one of the sweater sets. At least she was wearing a few things from the “collection”.
“Where are they meeting us?” Izzy asked the maid.
“In the drawing room, Miss.”
Holy Crap. It’s on.
Sir Archibald waited in the doorway. “Are you ready, Miss De Luca? They are waiting for us.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she answered breathlessly. “Don’t say crap and don’t spazz out—just smile and try to be polite, right?”
“That’s right. Just be yourself—without all the curse words.”
“Oh Crap, what if I say crap? Crap! I just said it—I’ve never been able to talk right.”
“There is nothing to worry about. His Grace is well seasoned in these matters. He will take the lead.”
Before she could hesitate she was whisked into the drawing room. The Duke stood when she entered. He was dressed impeccably in charcoal wool slacks and a dark blue V-neck sweater. He wore his usual immaculate oxford cloth shirt, the well- turned cuffs ever present. His gaze immediately dropped from her face to the clothes she was wearing. A fleeting wrinkle folded his brow, but he recovered quickly.
“Hello, dearest. Come sit here next to me. Mister Fibbs from The Times is here to take our picture and Miss Reddington wants to ask us a few questions.”
Dearest? Oh, it’s so friggin’ on.
Smiling brightly, Izzy walked toward the small group. She introduced herself and sat down next to the Duke. Immediately, she was basked in his glorious cologne. She sank into a plush cushion beside him, strangely comforted by his body heat.
The woman pulled a pad of paper out of her leather case. “How do you find England, Miss De Luca?”
“Oh, I like it very much, thank you.”
Is that really my voice? I almost sound friggin’ normal.
“Will you be making Devoy your primary home once you are married?”
The Duke responded for her. “Yes, we will keep a flat in London, of course.”
“Is that a conformation that you are indeed to be married, Your Grace.”
“It is.”
Izzy looked on as he leveled the woman with his penetrating stare. Miss Reddington seemed to be melting into a puddle right there on the settee.
“And when will the wedding be, Your Grace?”
“In two weeks’ time.”
The photographer rolled his eyes as the interviewer laid a hand across her heart. “A whirlwind romance, you two must be very much in love.”
Taking his time with his skillful performance, the Duke gathered up Izzy’s hand in his and gave her a warm, loving look. “Quite,” he answered silkily.
The reporter bought it hook, line and sinker. So did Izzy. The heat of his hand spread throughout her body. Weakly, she slumped against the velvet cushion, wearing a dopey smile.
“And will you be married here on the estate?”
“Naturally,” the Duke purred.
“Miss De Luca, I am sure you are aware this is a real Cinderella story—the public is quite taken with you.” Eagerly, Miss Reddington adjusted her glasses. “I mean you two come from completely different worlds. What was it like meeting His Grace in the flesh as it were?”
“It was like lightening striking. I mean, I actually passed out.”
Miss Reddington broke into a fit of hysterics. “I can certainly see why! And what do you think of marrying a man who is known for his voracious appetite for women.”
“Ummmm…lucky me? I mean, who doesn’t want a husband with a voracious appetite for women?”
The flighty reporter giggled and squirmed in her seat. Izzy didn’t suppose it was a very proper response, but neither was the question. She couldn’t help herself and giggled a little too.
Tension rose off the Duke (sort of like steam off of concrete) but he managed to keep his cool. “Do you have enough for your little article, Miss Reddington? My fiancée and I have a wedding to plan.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just one more question. Where do you plan on honeymooning?”
He stroked the top of Izzy’s hand with his thumb. “Venice, Italy.”
“This must be a bit of a shock to you, Miss DeLuca—I mean shop girl to duchess of Devoy and all that. You do realize this is one of the oldest peerages in all of Britain? Are you prepared for your new role as duchess?”
“I’m not sure I’m prepared, but I’ll do my best.”
“Your husband-to-be is one of the most sought-after bachelors in all of Europe. What do you think of the fact that he was voted United Kingdom’s Sexiest Man in British Magazine?”
The Duke stepped in. “What we are both most interested in is a quiet life here in the country. We do not intend on leading a public life. We will concentrate on family and civic duties and believe me when I tell you, it is my most fervent desire to relinquish my title as United Kingdom’s Sexiest Man,” the Duke joked dryly.
“Many of us will be disappointed not to see you out and about, Your Grace.”
“Sorry to disappoint, Miss Reddington, but it’s time I settle down for good this time. I’ve finally met the right girl to do so with.”
“Miss De Luca, your romance with His Grace has taken Britain by storm. A commoner has won the heart of one of the most sought after bachelors in the Western Hemisphere. You are the envy of every girl and woman across the—”
The Duke cleared his throat, cutting the gushing reporter off with a polite nod. “Would you like to take our picture here on the sofa?”
When the photographer started to circle, the Duke’s grip tightened on Izzy’s hand. The feel of his fingers curled around hers put her in a sort of trance. His thumb caressed hers in a sensual rhythm then he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed a soft kiss across her palm.
Oh, crap that feels good.
Now she too was in a puddle (just like the giddy Miss Reddington.) The photographer took a few pictures and it was over before it began. Izzy thought she was smiling, but she couldn’t be sure of anything. Her hand still tingled where his lips had been. The light of the flash blinded her and she was reminded of that fateful day at Bloomingdales. His masculine fragrance was making her woozy, the feel of his body beckoned her closer…
If only this were real and I was truly his darling instead of a total friggin’ spazz with Tourettes.
THE DUKE DROPPED HER HAND as soon as the news people stepped out of the room. “Thank the Lord we are done with those bloody idiots, now we can get on with our day.”
Izzy’s arm fell with a thump on the arm rest. He may as well have thrown a bucket of ice water in her face. She knew it was stupid but she felt a little hurt.
“Wow, you are really good at this, aren’t you?”
“I have been performing in this ridiculous pageant for years, Miss De Luca. I know exactly what they want to hear.” He stalked over to a tray and poured himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. “What an insipid, fawning woman. I mean really, mentioning that bloody magazine cover—I’ll never live that down.”
“I did okay, rig
ht?”
His mouth was fixed in a straight line. His eyes were like frozen stones. “I didn’t much care for your comment about feeling lucky that I was a sex maniac.”
Izzy burst out laughing. “No one called you a sex maniac!” Her laughter quickly faded when he threw her a ferocious glare over the rim of his water glass.
“The two of you were tittering about it like a couple of school girls at a slumber party.”
“I didn’t know what else to say. Should I have said, ‘yeah, he keeps me chained to the bed and makes me have sex with him like fifty times a day?’”
“Don’t be bloody cheeky. I don’t chain my lovers to anything. In fact, I prefer their limbs to be quite mobile, and it’s only thirty times a day, not fifty.”
Isabel’s mouth fell open and she blinked at him in slow motion, sort of like a stunned baby cow.
“At least you had the sense to remove that black varnish from your fingernails.”
Varnish?
He made everything sound fancy.
“Your choice of clothing was quite ill conceived, however. I thought you had a new wardrobe to choose from.”
“I didn’t like any of that stuff.”
“You didn’t like any of that stuff?” he repeated through his teeth. “My word, you really are a bloody chore, aren’t you?”
She wrinkled her tiny nose at him. “Those clothes made me look like a secretary. Ew, gross I’m not wearing them.”
“A secretary?” he spat in an affronted tone. “I assure you, Miss De Luca, those are the finest clothes you have ever had on your back. They are the clothes of an English lady, the country wardrobe of a duchess, in fact.”
“Well, I am not an English lady.”
“No, you are most certainly not.”
“Yeah—that’s right—I’m me and I’m not going to apologize for it. Archie said I should just be myself. Besides, I thought I did pretty well (all things considered). I didn’t friggin’ swear or chew gum and I let them get rid of my purple streak and my black vaaaaaarnish. Who cares what I’m wearing?”