The Duke's Untamed Desire (Devilish Dukes Book 2)

by Amy Jarecki

  “At the time,” said Eleanor as she poured, “war was rife and, as it turns out, I happened upon a small import business.”

  Before she sipped, Georgiana blew on her tea. “Truly? How do you mean happened upon?”

  “A cousin of sorts—left no will, and my father was his only living relation.”

  “But your father—”

  “Cannot manage a coop of chickens.” Eleanor laughed. “But he is endearing.”

  “Truly, how is he?”

  “Much the same since the war. Still in an invalid chair and refuses to entertain visitors.”

  “I’m so sorry. It must be a terrible strain on you.”

  Sighing, Eleanor looked to a portrait of her father—the viscount in an admiral’s uniform. “I’ve grown accustomed to this life. And to be honest, after so much time I can no longer see myself constrained by marriage and all that goes with it.”

  “So, let me guess, you forwent your opportunity to marry Baron Strange and took on this import venture.”

  “I did.”

  “And may I also say it has kept you quite busy as well as provided for your comfort.”

  “It is lovely to have one’s independence, though few in society would agree.”

  “Well, you have my admiration, truly.”

  “I always did like you, Georgiana.”

  “And I you, especially because you were the only one who didn’t balk when I accepted Daniel’s hand.”

  Clasping her hands, Eleanor scooted to the edge of her chair. “So, when shall we schedule our first dancing lesson?”

  “The sooner the better.” Georgiana collected her reticule and stood. “Mother’s taking me to Lady Maxwell’s ball on Friday after next.”

  Chapter Six

  His fists high and tight, Fletcher circled, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  Opposite, Brumley Jackson did the same, throwing a jab now and again. But the boxing champion was merely testing the waters. For the past four years, they’d met on Monday mornings in the ring at Fives Court. A large man of Romany descent on his mother’s side, Fletcher rarely came across anyone able to match him. But Brum not only had the muscle to beat him into a stupor, the champion had taught him a great deal about controlling his anger, knowing when to fight and when to walk away. And now the student had become a master in his own right, the two men sparring like stags.

  Brum threw a left.

  Bobbing beneath the gloved fist, Fletcher found a hole and thrust a jab to the chin, then another and another. But Brum didn’t expose himself for long.

  “Oof,” Fletcher grunted, receiving a cuff to the solar plexus, almost grateful for the pain. Damnation, he had been too forward with Lady Georgiana once again.

  Was the woman fickle? Hang it all, she had told him she wasn’t ready to entertain a courtship. Why could he not let it pass? How on earth had she attracted him in the first place? She was a bluestocking—a wallflower. Hell, she attended a ball and spent her time in the women’s withdrawing room reading of all things.

  In no way could Fletcher imagine spending eternity with such a woman.

  “Oof!”

  And she was too bloody perceptive. What man needed a wife who was observant to a fault? And why the devil was he so confoundedly preoccupied with Her Ladyship? When and if he was ready to take a bride, he’d just do it. The pox on courting. The only decent thing his father had ever done for him was make him a bloody duke. Now women from all walks of life clamored for his attention. He only needed to take a stroll through any ballroom in the kingdom, point his finger and the young lady’s parents would be groveling at his feet, begging to make their daughter a duchess.

  He attacked with a left then a right. Lunging forward, Fletcher threw his fists harder and faster. A jab to the nose, a hook to the temple, and uppercut to the jaw—all bloody blocked by the champ.

  He would stop thinking of Lady Georgiana this instant. He would avoid balls and soirees. And if he happened to see her in passing, he’d bloody well pretend he hadn’t.

  Left, right, left.

  Thank God he had that settled.

  Nothing like a raucous spar to sort out a man’s priorities.

  “Oof!” he grunted, his eyes crossing with the vicious jab to his nose…and then an upper cut to his jaw. Fletcher tired to raise his guard as fists pummeled his temples while he staggered backward against the ropes, sliding down, down, down.

  Flat on his back, Fletcher blinked to clear his vision.

  “God’s stones, Evesham, you’re fighting like a maniac.” Brumley offered his hand. “Is something amiss?”

  Fletcher wiped the blood from his nose on the back of his arm and allowed the man to help him up. “Nothing a good pummeling will not cure.”

  “Problems with women, aye?”

  “Bloody oath, and one in particular will be the death of me.”

  “You? Since when could a filly find a way under that thick hide of yours?”

  Fletcher unlaced his gloves, loosening them with his teeth. “She cannot, and I refuse to allow her to do so.”

  “Good to hear it.” Brumley clapped him on the back—one of the few men bold enough to do so. “Women have a way of festering under a fellow’s skin like a splinter of wood. Madam Bouvier is bringing a number of new ladies for entertainment in the upstairs suite of the saloon tonight. Why not call in?” The big champion grinned. “Gentlemen by invitation only.”

  Now why didn’t Fletcher’s blood stir at the offer? He’d have his choice of the tastiest morsels London had to offer yet he wanted to throw another jab. “That sounds like a summons I cannot ignore,” he replied, ignoring the confounding voice in the back of his head.

  Brum unfastened the hasp on the ropes and gestured for Fletcher to step through. “How are things at the home for unwed mothers?”

  “Hold thy tongue.” Fletcher made a show of checking over his shoulder. “Do you want to ruin my reputation? I am a silent benefactor.”

  “Very well, allow me to rephrase. How are things at the establishment where you are an anonymous patron?”

  “As far as I know, well.” Reaching for a cloth, Fletcher wiped the sweat and blood from his face. “They request funds for food and supplies. I comply as long as there are no extravagances.”

  “When was the last time you visited the…ah…facility?”

  “Visit? No self-respecting duke would be caught dead there in the light of day.”

  “Right, and you just blindly write notes, paying countless pounds. I’ll believe that when hell freezes.”

  “Last time my carriage happened to be in the neighborhood, the upkeep was adequate.” Together, they headed for the bathhouse. “I never should have told you about that venture.”

  Brum gave him a sidewise smirk. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll think less of you?”

  “’Tis not your opinion that concerns me. The tenants do not need any more attention than they already have. Imagine if someone discovered I am their financier? Those poor, set-upon women would be the subject of polite society’s scrutiny.”

  “Poor? Set-upon?”

  Fletcher thrust the towel into the champion’s chest. “Please. Not all young ladies who end up in the family way are evil debauchers.”

  “Forgive me if I insinuated they were.” Brum bowed. “But you, Your Grace, you will never cease to bemuse me. The scandal sheets tout you as the ton’s most notorious rake, yet they have no idea as to your true nature.”

  “Good. That is my objective. Never let it be said I am predictable or too kindhearted. I loathe being pigeonholed by either moniker.”

  ***

  “When is this ball, did you say?” asked Mr. Walpole.

  Even with Eleanor beside her, standing in the vestibule of Covent Garden with the actor made Georgiana lose her nerve. She took a step toward the door. “Friday after next. Perhaps there’s not enough time. After all, I’ve never been very good at dancing. I doubt anyone could help me.”

  “Nonsense.” Eleano
r grasped Georgiana’s elbow, not allowing her to take another step. “We have ten days. And with your keen mind, you won’t even need that.”

  Georgiana gestured to her feet—both of them left, she was quite certain. “If only I were able to dance on my head.”

  “Lady Eleanor speaks true,” Mr. Walpole said, ushering them toward the door. “Just a bit of practice combined with the will to learn, and I can have anyone ready to waltz in ten days—even gentlemen who have no sense of rhythm.”

  Georgiana looked back as they stepped onto the footpath. “What about women with no sense of rhythm?”

  “Not to worry, Lady Georgiana. You have my word, either you will be dancing by Friday after next or I am not Palmer Walpole.”

  “That’s what I’d like to hear.” Eleanor offered her hand. “We’ll see you at my town house on Mayfair Place at half past ten tomorrow morning.”

  The actor made a flourishing bow and kissed the lady’s hand. “I shall be there with a fiddler in tow.”

  When he reached for Georgiana’s fingers she curtsied. “Thank you for your kind generosity, sir.”

  As soon as he started off, she pulled Eleanor aside. “Every day for ten days? That will be quite expensive.”

  “You needn’t worry, it was my idea and I will ensure the man is paid.”

  “But you cannot—”

  Pursing her lips, Eleanor tilted her head with a flare of her nostrils. “I can and I will. And I’ll entertain not another word on the topic.”

  The sound of a team coming to a stop accompanied by a deep “ho” and the screech of brakes drew Georgiana’s attention to the street.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. Are you in need of a lift?” asked none other than the Duke of Evesham. He gazed upon them with a halfcocked grin, commanding a phaeton with a perfectly matched pair.

  Immediately shaking her head as well as her hands, Georgiana refused. “Thank you, but we are quite—”

  Eleanor gave her a rather sharp poke in the spine. “Of course, we would be grateful for your assistance, Your Grace.”

  “Splendid.”

  As the duke secured his reins, Georgiana turned away from the carriage and glared at her friend. “We cannot accept a ride from him,” she whispered. “We ought to take a hackney.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Eleanor sidled toward the carriage. “One of the wealthiest men in the kingdom just offered to give you a lift and you deign to tell him to go hang?”

  “Your inference is…”

  “All set, ladies?”

  “Yes, thank you. It is quite fortuitous that you happened along at this very moment.” Eleanor stepped aside and allowed His Grace to help Georgiana aboard first so she’d have no choice but to sit in the middle—blast her.

  This whole debacle wasn’t fortuitous in the slightest. In fact, it was so unlucky, if she didn’t know Eleanor better, Georgiana might have thought the pair had colluded to trap her into another altercation with the duke.

  “Who was that chap?” asked Evesham, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m certain I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I cannot place the man.”

  As her heart flew to her throat, Georgiana’s gaze darted toward the theater. Thank heavens Mr. Walpole had moved out of sight. “He’s just a passing—”

  “He’s an actor we hired to give Georgiana a few dancing lessons.” Eleanor smiled as she took the duke’s hand and climbed aboard the phaeton. “A lady needs a refresher now and again, especially since it has been ever so long since she attended a ball.”

  “She attended a ball not long ago,” said His Grace before he headed around his team.

  “But I didn’t dance,” Georgiana said, raising her voice loudly enough to be heard before Eleanor managed to bury her any further.

  The duke climbed up beside Georgiana and grinned—amber eyes, made iridescent by the light. Good Lord, when he smiled, it looked as if the sun were made only to shine upon him. What was his ancestry? It was unusual enough to see a man with darker skin in England and even rarer to see a member of the gentry who appeared to be of Romany descent. He looked like no one she’d ever seen before—so very exotic.

  Once Evesham climbed beside her and took up the ribbons, she continued, “I’ve arranged to take a few lessons so I don’t embarrass myself.”

  “So, you’ve decided to embrace your mother’s wishes and play along for the Season?”

  “Yes.” Georgiana shot Eleanor a stern look, pursing her lips and tapping a gloved finger to them.

  But Her Ladyship didn’t catch on. Pointing behind her hand, she mouthed, “Tell him about your machine!”

  “No!” she silently replied, slashing her hand through the air to demonstrate the strength of her conviction. Holy everlasting Father, if she told the duke that she was responsible for deluging him at the Southwark Fair, he’d stop his team and shove her to the cobblestones.

  “How are your dogs?” she asked, her voice far too high-pitched. “Gordon Setters, aren’t they?”

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Last I heard they were enjoying their freedom at Colworth. They’re hunting dogs—not suited for Town.”

  “Ah yes. I have first-hand familiarity with recalcitrant dogs confined in London town houses.”

  The duke chuckled, looking far too amused. “And how is Rasputin?”

  “Still knocking over everything in his tail’s path.”

  “And his fondness for the pond?”

  “Papa says he’s grown quite the affinity for chasing ducks in the past week.”

  “Have you told him about your impromptu swim?” Evesham asked.

  Georgiana drew a hand to her forehead, sure she had turned scarlet. “I think that tidbit of humiliating information might have escaped me.”

  Eleanor leaned forward. “This sounds interesting. Is this dog responsible for the pair of you being acquainted?”

  “No,” Georgiana said while Evesham replied with a yes.

  They looked at each other and laughed. No matter how much she wanted to push the duke away and never see him again, he was diverting. And the memory of him pulling her dripping wet out of the lake while Rasputin wildly chased after the ducks was too comical to ignore. What would she have done if Evesham hadn’t rescued her from the web of lake weed?

  She glanced down at his gloved hands holding the ribbons securely. Big hands that looked as if they might be more at home in a smithy shop than in a duke’s salon—or wherever the man spent his time. “What brought you out this way?” she asked, before she thought. And after all, why was he driving through the theater district in the middle of the day?

  “I’ve been sparring with Mr. Jackson.”

  “Brumley Jackson?” Eleanor asked, sounding impressed.

  “The one and only.”

  Georgiana glanced between them. “Who is Mr. Jackson?”

  Eleanor patted her arm. “My, you have been shut away for a very long time, have you not, dearest?”

  Evesham pulled the ribbons left for the turn, his arms flexing beneath his coat. “He’s a boxing champion.”

  Watching the man’s display of strength, Georgiana’s tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “A large man, then?”

  Her Ladyship fanned her face. “Quite.”

  Evesham’s muscles strained against his coat while Georgiana stared, unable to manage to shift her gaze aside. Goodness, judging by the way he’d carried her from the pond as if she weighed no more than a bushel of oats, he was far stronger than the average laborer. “Is this Jackson even stronger than you, Your Grace?”

  His eyebrow arched along with the uptick of the corner of his mouth. “Brum is one of the few who can outmaneuver me in the boxing ring.”

  “Though I doubt he can manage a team as well,” she blurted.

  At the sound of Eleanor’s snigger, Georgiana’s face again burned. She quickly cast her gaze to the folded hands in her lap. The man beside her was the same rogue who had cornered her in the theater and kissed her—w
ildly, passionately, daringly…and oh so inappropriately.

  This man was dangerous. And regardless of his fortune, he would never, ever, not under any condition, become a partner for her steam pumper venture. Moreover, keeping company with the Duke of Evesham was unwise and frivolous, and complimenting him in such a way would only serve to encourage his ungentlemanly behavior.

  Fortunately, Evesham was preoccupied with maneuvering around a wagon filled with barrels, proving his prowess with the reins and, hopefully, missing Georgiana’s comment. And after taking one more corner, they safely arrived in front of her parents’ town house on Mayfair Place.

  The duke helped Eleanor alight, then offered his hand to Georgiana. And though they both wore gloves, it was as if the warmth and power in his fingers seared her. Unable to withhold a gasp, she managed a pleasant smile. “Goodness, it seems I must once again thank you for coming to my aid.”

  “It was my pleasure.” Once both of her feet were securely on the footpath, he kept ahold of her hand, though he did not kiss it. “I say, if it is a dancing partner you need, I would be happy to stand in.”

  Eleanor clapped. “Oh, that would be—”

  “A disaster,” Georgiana finished. “After six years, I’m afraid my dear friend has forgotten how poorly my dancing is and, furthermore, I could never impose upon you to endure a single afternoon of such clumsiness.”

  His face fell. “Very well, though I daresay I can hardly picture you blundering your way through a waltz, my lady.”

  “Indeed? And that coming from a man who dragged me from certain death from strangulation by a lily pad.”

  Chuckling, his eyes grew dark as he bowed and gave the back of her hand a gentle peck. “Well then, I bid you good day, ladies. And I look forward to signing my name to your dance card when we meet again.”

  “At Lady Maxwell’s ball,” said Eleanor all to eagerly. “Friday after next.”

  Georgiana waited until Evesham drove away before she faced her friend. “You mustn’t encourage him.”

  “Are you serious? He’s not only a duke, he’s one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom. If anyone qualifies as your steam pumper’s financier, it is he.”