The Duke of Diamonds

by Windsor, Emily

  Yet…

  If she yielded her body, her heart would surely follow as the migrating swift trailed the warmer air.

  Whichever future path she peered down, she saw that heart lying shattered. Pieces gifted to Casper, never to be returned.

  And she would require all her fortitude to shape a future for herself and Artemisia. To withstand Filgrave’s threats and make a new start as companion to Lady Owlswick. To leave Casper.

  Fingers caressed her knee, crept up her thigh, their intent obvious, his rocking hips and blatant arousal.

  And she whispered the word, “Stop.”

  His mouth paused. His breath persisted, grating and avid against her breast. “Evelyn?”

  “I cannot, Casper. M-my reasoning still stands. I should not have responded.”

  Ever the gentleman, his head rose from her skin and she gasped. His eyes had deepened to near onyx, cheekbone flushed and blond hair awry.

  “No, ’tis I that is at fault, but…” A gentle press of lips. “You once said I should immerse myself in colour and life, not art’s depiction of a past moment.” His gaze caressed her face. “Yet you, Evelyn Swift, are both. A unique work of art that also breathes, comforts and entices. And you…affect me so.”

  For this stern, dutiful duke to say such words tore at her protected heart, chipped at the façade to discover the beating force within. And yet guilt for her deception and the disparity of their statuses in life patched that hole, a mend that would forever be fragile.

  She was no unique work but a woman with flaws and failings.

  Tenderly, she brushed fingers through his hair, smoothing the spikes; Casper tilted to her touch, lids closing, frisson shimmering between them an–

  The duke’s eyes snapped open and with a curse, he threw himself to the seat opposite. “We have reached Mayfair,” he rasped, sprawling back in a display of utter masculine hedonism. “I recognise the smoother cobbles.”

  Their sojourn was over.

  Nodding, she took the time to straighten her skewwhiff bodice and uncrease her skirts but putting hand to hair, she groaned – it was a tangle, pins strewn, and Casper had sat on her hat.

  “I would assist you in neatening yourself,” he drawled, with a gaze that could boil tea, “but I don’t believe I can be trusted.”

  Chapter 25

  “What madness has seized you?”

  (Virgil…the poet, not the uncle)

  “I caught him on that desk of his with a hand on her…well…”

  “Venus’s honeypot?” Ernest mused. “Cupid’s arbour? Eve’s custom house? I say, that’s rather ap–”

  “Ahem.”

  Uncle Virgil and Ernest glanced up from their respective post-dinner brandies.

  Casper fixed them both with a ducal glare from the doorway of the second dining room. “If you have quite finished cackling like a pair of old hens, I am for the study to work, should you require me. And if I hear any such tittle-tattle outside of this room regarding our guests, I will order Copperhouse to remove your tongues with the silver butter knife.”

  They both grinned inanely. His authority in this household had eroded to a slither.

  “By the way, Casp, the subject of Lord Humby came up this afternoon whilst our houseguests and I were reading. I’d no idea he was such a blackguard and will give him the cut from now on but…” He fixed a remarkable Rothwell glare himself. “…why the devil didn’t you tell us?”

  “I thought you’d trust me to have good reason.”

  Uncle tutted, yanking at what looked to be galligaskins borrowed from the year 1600 – and ought to be returned post-haste. “Really, my boy. We cannot read minds, especially yours. You must…share your thoughts.”

  “I’ll share this, Uncle: I abhor your breeches but thank you for following my request to obtain the fripperies for our two ladies, especially the gloves.”

  His uncle raised a glass and winked. “There you go. And I’m not so keen on the galligaskins either. I might change as they itch like the devil with fleas.”

  “And Ernest…” His brother glanced up with concerned brow. “Fine work on acquiring that stallion. He’s a solid addition to the Burford stables – his pedigree is superb and I’m sure he’ll breed many a winner.”

  The brow smoothed. “Thank you, Casp. I appreciate that.”

  “Although, I think you overpaid by five pounds.”

  A newspaper was thrown in his direction but he retreated to general merriment and Ernest’s yell to watch out for striped stockings in the post.

  Noting an odd fluffy sensation within, which he assumed was the over-spiced venison pasty from dinner, Casper strolled down the hallway and headed for the study.

  This afternoon after the exhibition, he’d caught up with missed meetings and perused his reports, but all his delegated commands appeared to have been satisfactorily carried out.

  The gentlemen had then dined alone as Cousin Lydia had retired early to read Ernest’s cast-offs, and Evelyn had remained with her sister in their rooms, but as he now closed the door to the study, he felt somewhat…lonely.

  Ernest and Uncle were set to cut a dash at some Cyprian masquerade ball later tonight, hence the galligaskins, but that type of affair had never appealed.

  As a rule, all his paperwork and accounts kept him more than occupied but…

  He missed Evelyn. Her companionship and warmth. The way she’d beheld him at Somerset House – with gratitude and wonder.

  And then the carriage ride… He’d felt so damn alive in her company, ached for her, and although his body had protested her whispered refusal at his advances, his good sense had agreed. There remained too much unsaid, too much unknown.

  He sunk to his chair and stroked The Cat Thing, who’d begun gnawing on his favourite quill as though it were still attached to the goose. Two reports, Ten Ways to Negate Lameness in Sheep and Advantages of Oats in a Wet Climate, competed for his attention.

  Neither particularly appealed.

  Unlocking a drawer to hunt a pristine quill, he discovered Evelyn’s shawl from the Plymtrees’ event, all that time ago; it still held a hint of soap and he placed it upon the desk in order to return it on the morrow.

  Beneath the frippery, a small velvet bag revealed itself, which he’d meant to give to the Prince, so he shoved it to his waistcoat pocket.

  Dismally, he flicked through the Ten Ways report and speculated if Evelyn might be in the library.

  He threw the report aside and steepled his fingers, considered reconnoitring.

  Except he’d spent the entire morning parted from his desk as it was, and if she wished to speak with him, she knew where he could be found. Idly, he perused the Advantages of Oats report until a candle to his left gave a last hiss and spit, casting the document to darkness.

  Perhaps it was an omen to visit the library for the better light, and he rose to amble for the door.

  With a hand to the brass handle, he paused.

  If Evelyn did happen to be in the library, work would cease for the evening as they…discussed the exhibition. Yet Advantages of Oats in a Wet Climate could be the answer to all his woes.

  Brusquely, he turned heel and headed back to his desk, straightened his chair, seated himself, replaced the candle and shuffled papers.

  Although… His hands stilled. Surely he deserved some respite after all these years of endeavour? And he stood again.

  Then sat down.

  What was the matter with him?

  Dukes did not hem and haw. They reached decisions and stuck to them, rather like his buckskin breeches after the rainstorm.

  No. No more faffing about. He’d finish reading both reports, quaff one and a half brandies and then retire abed once the hour of midnight had struck.

  The Thing stood, arched his back, stalked to Evelyn’s scarf, clawed it, circled five times and snuggled down within its warmth.

  Lucky bugger.

  * * *

  Dusk leisurely enveloped London, the bells for eight h
aving sung their last chime.

  No moon escaped the cloud to lighten Evelyn’s harried pacing in front of the cherry laurel. No stars to gaze upon her frowning countenance.

  A dull glow had shone behind the curtained French doors of the study, and as she’d passed, she’d pondered if the duke’s head was bent low over enthralling reports or engrossing ledgers.

  Noise suffused the evening sky – carriages on the cobbles of Grosvenor, horses snickering in the mews, and pots and pans banging from the basement kitchens.

  After a fulsome dinner of pasties and beef in red wine sauce followed by sponge cake, Artemisia had fallen into a deep sleep, her body healing with the care and luxury, the cough lessening, her cheeks filling.

  The future still beckoned unknown and frightening, but now at least Evelyn had employment with Lady Owlswick. Not in the fresh countryside as she’d once hoped, but Artemisia would be warm and safe, and maybe in time, they could save a little for that dreamed-of cottage.

  Hastening to the seclusion of the pear tree for her meeting, she stumbled into something warm and substantial; a broad hand rested on her shoulder and she gazed up.

  “Yer got the diamonds, wench?”

  Filgrave’s thug remained cast in shadow but she could smell the alleyways upon him – sour beer and unwashed clothes, an odour that once smelled was never forgotten.

  Her wrist was clasped in a brutal grip.

  “Or yer got sommit a bit softer fer me?” He chuckled “The gaffer’s all agog to hear how yer gonna repay him.”

  Evelyn dug her nails into fleshy skin and then wrenched away as he flinched.

  “Hoity toity, witch, come ’ere.”

  Stepping out of reach, she steeled her shoulders. “You can tell Mr Filgrave,” she whispered harshly, “that I will not be stealing any diamonds, or be blackmailed into selling my sister or myself.” She held out her last shilling. “I will pay no more than this per week as originally agreed. I have employment and can–”

  His hefty paw seized her waist. “The gaffer’s gonna wanna hear this fer himself.” Fingers tugged at her skirts. “But he did say I could break yer in a little.”

  She opened her mouth to scream, not caring if she roused the entire square, but a gritty palm crashed upon her lips.

  “No yelling,” he growled low. “Mr Filgrave don’t like wenches that hie off and cheat him, but if you bring the nobs down on him too… He might have to silence the lot of yer.”

  Evelyn did indeed keep silent but not for that reason.

  No, it was the blade held to her stomach.

  One slip and she would never see sunrise again.

  “I’ll come with you,” she rasped, but as the knife lowered and he released her mouth, she took her chance, launching a knee to his groin and raking his face with sharp nails.

  The oaf bellowed but neither doubled nor dropped to the ground as Flora had insisted any assailant would. Instead, as she twisted to run, he yanked at her hair and slammed her to the trunk of the pear tree, that knife returning to her breast.

  Rough bark and raw fear scraped her spine as he pressed close.

  “You little bitch. I’ll ’ave first fu–”

  A broad forearm encircled the oaf’s throat; a menacing shadow spread.

  “You were saying?”

  Nothing but a choked gurgle.

  “I thought so. Now release the lady’s hair or I will snap your neck in two.”

  Soaring behind was the duke, his bare forearm rippling and tightening with every burble the man produced. She was unable to see his expression in the creeping dark but she could sense it – ferocious and vengeful.

  All at once, the thug’s grip slackened, knife tumbling to the grass, and she gasped for air, staggering to the side.

  “Copperhouse?” the duke roared into the gloom.

  Within a blink, the butler came dashing from the servants’ quarters, sans neckcloth and waistcoat, lantern in hand. “Your Grace?”

  Candlelight winked on bronzed hairs as with a final undulation of arm muscle, Casper released the thug, who fell to his knees, choking and clawing the cold night air to his lungs.

  “Get rid of this.”

  Copperhouse swiftly grabbed the man to standing by his hair, fist tight. “Will that be all, Your Grace?” he enquired, as though serving tea and crumpets.

  The duke’s expression altered with the sway of lantern. Stern in the light, satanic in the dark, but with eyes that never left her own.

  Evelyn shivered.

  “Warmed brandy in my study.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “And arrange for footmen to patrol the gardens. You have my permission to employ more.” At long last, his gaze switched to his butler. “Carry on, Coppers.”

  A nod, but as the thug was dragged away, he twisted to spit in their direction. “Mr Filgrave’ll have yer all for this,” he sneered. “And I’ll be dancin’ on yer graves.”

  Chapter 26

  Houses of cards.

  “Lay on the chaise.”

  In other circumstances, those words might have produced a ripple of desire, but Rothwell’s manner was of their first meeting – detached and brusque. All ease and lightness from the morning’s outing had been stripped away and a different man stood before her. She lowered herself to the chaise but refused to swoon in distress like some Gothic damsel.

  Two lanterns held the study dark at bay, but they merely highlighted his implacable jaw, cast her own in guilty shadow.

  “Casper, I–”

  “Are you hurt?” He kneeled before her and put hand to cheek, turning her face this way and that. Fingers stroked her arms, noted her flinch.

  “No, you arrived in time.”

  Brusqueness lifted; a breath from the depths released.

  And now she understood.

  Understood that which she had presumed to be detachment was, in fact, fear.

  Fear for her.

  When Casper Brook, the Duke of Rothwell, felt too strong an emotion, he ruthlessly suppressed it until ascertaining all was safe and well. He would have made a fine warrior of old with his brutal adeptness at curbing emotion till the battle was done and the enemy vanquished.

  Only now did his face soften to concern, so handsome and virile without jacket or neckcloth, throat bared.

  Her eyes smarted as he captured her wrist and scowled at the redness.

  “Is this Filgrave your husband?” he asked quietly.

  “Eugh! Why would you think that?”

  Casper quirked a brow at her disgust. “A woman running from a violent spouse is not an unreasonable assumption.”

  She supposed not. “Filgrave is a…a moneylender.”

  A scrunch to his forehead, brow lowering. “How much do you owe?”

  “With interest or without?”

  “With.”

  “I’ve not totted up to this very hour but as of yesterday, fifteen pounds, three shillings and sixpence.”

  Casper growled, reared and put hands to his hips. “Is that all? A paltry sum.”

  Evelyn growled, reared and…punched him in the chest. “I have fretted, scrimped, endured sleepless nights, eaten nothing but potatoes, and bitten my fingernails to the quick for that paltry sum. I’ve felt terrified and helpless as Filgrave threatened my sister and I with depravity and ruin. Furious and fearful when he told me to steal your stupid diamonds. And you say it is a paltry sum,” she screeched in crescendo – rather hideously, it had to be said.

  “Steal my dia…” He breathed deep. “I will not debate the disparity of economics tonight, but why the bloody hell did you not tell me?” With a grunt of discontent, he prowled towards the desk. “I could have paid it in an instant.”

  “I will not take your money,” she declared, stalking after him.

  His hand rose to his waistcoat, yanked out a small pouch, loosened the string and threw the contents across the desk. All Evelyn could do was gawk as five or so dulled stones scattered – stars veiled in cloud.
<
br />   “My stupid diamonds, I believe.” He came to stand before her. “Uncut and flawless. With the smallest one of those I could have paid off your moneylender and still had enough for a five-course meal at Claridge’s…with champagne and change.”

  “You conceited bacon-brained cabbage head!” she yelled, fury rising like a theatre curtain. “And be ever more in debt to the Oh-So-Benevolent Duke of Rothwell. Bowing and scraping. Owing you everything, including the gloves you had sent to me, the food we eat, the fine wine we drink, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul.”

  “I think you’ll find the phrase is robbing–”

  “Don’t be so sodding pedantic,” she bawled.

  “Now, now.” He raised hands. “Your Covent Garden days are showing.”

  She bashed his chest and he took a step back. “It’s bad enough being in debt to a Rookery tyrant…” She bashed again and he took another. “…but to the Duke of Diamonds, a man not exactly known for his compassion.” Another bash, another step back till his legs hit the side of the desk. “How was I supposed to know how wonderful you were, you beef-witted arse!”

  Her attempt at a further bash was thwarted as he grabbed her arm and then the sodding devil brought her wrist to his lips and kissed it.

  How dare he seek to abate her fury!

  Casper cocked his head, eyes thoughtful. “But you were going to tell me everything this morning, were you not?”

  “Yes. I…I could not lie anymore.”

  “And out of selfishness, I prevented you.”

  She recalled her joy at the Academy Exhibition. “No, not at all. I do not regret our day. Truly. With you, I did not wish it to end.”

  “Neither did I. And you owe me nothing, Evelyn. I… Your presence here has…” Fingers rubbed at her wrist, traced the chase of veins. “I had forgotten myself and what I worked for – to see Ernest settled, Uncle and my other dependants secure, to protect my tenants and estate. But look at these diamonds; I have enough, and in striving to make more I had forgotten to take pleasure in life.” His eyes locked with hers. “I had forgotten affection and comfort. The pleasures that cost nothing.” He kissed her wrist once more, lips lingering. “You have reminded me to immerse myself in life – a life I wish you to be part of.”