The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “His Grace, The Duke of Clairemont is in the foyer and wishes to join you, my lady,” Stanford interrupted in a flat voice.

  The aunts immediately ceased their laughter, but not Lucinda. She couldn’t stop giggling, no matter how long she looked at Stanford’s morose visage.

  “Lucinda, dear, are you quite all right?” Charlotte asked.

  She nodded at her aunt and smoothed the skirt of her manila brown morning dress. In truth, she’d been asking herself that same question since waking. A night spent tossing and turning was never a good thing, but when the restlessness was caused by dreams the likes of Lucinda’s, well, it was a wonder she’d managed to appear for breakfast. The dreams had started out respectably enough, with Lucinda and the duke hammering out the details of their courtship. But it had ended with his mouth seeking hers in a breathtaking kiss, then an embrace and the loss of clothing and … Lucinda would not think on what came next.

  Knowing she would see him today had done little to calm her nerves over breakfast. If the man had invaded her dreams and sent her into such a state, what would happen once he was within arm’s reach?

  “Enough!” Lucinda ground out, belatedly realizing that all three of her aunts and Stanford were staring at her, confusion clearly written upon each of their faces.

  These women were the reason she’d agreed to the courtship, she reminded herself. Her aunts meant the world to her. All three had happily stepped in to care for her upon her parents’ death—to teach her, love her, nurture her in a way that only family could. So really, allowing His Grace to court her was nothing in comparison. Easy. Beyond easy.

  Or at least it should be.

  Lucinda steeled herself with newfound resolution. “Enough,” she repeated firmly, anxious to show all that she was perfectly in control. “Aunts, do choose a seat. And Stanford, please show the duke in.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed.

  Lucinda tucked an errant curl into place, pinched her cheeks for color, and sat in a patterned armchair.

  “A chair? Really, Lucinda, after your years of experience in society and dealing with men, surely you know better!” Bessie exclaimed in a hushed tone, rising from the window seat. She pattered quickly across the room and tugged Lucinda to her feet.

  “The settee, at once,” she demanded, pointing to the cream silk sofa that, in theory, fit two full-grown individuals.

  In reality, Lucinda had always thought it was best suited to duos of considerably smaller stature than the average couple.

  “Aunt Bessie, the man is a giant,” she protested. “I’m not sure that he alone would fit on that particular piece of furniture, and certainly not the two of us.”

  Victoria plied her fan in a most vigorous manner. “What, exactly, is wrong with the chair?”

  “This is a courtship, not a trial. I’m sure even you remember the purpose of such meetings—to converse, to flirt, to establish a connection of a physical—”

  Victoria’s fan moved faster, her grip threatening to snap the delicate, hand-painted sticks. “This is not at all about conversing or flirting or … or …”

  “I believe her words were ‘establishing a physical—’ ” Charlotte offered with the merest hint of a smile quirking her lips.

  “Stop!” Victoria hissed vehemently, clearly not enjoying the joke at her expense. “A horse,” she reminded them sternly. “We are here to gain a horse. Now, do sit down before Stanford returns.”

  Bessie pulled a chair nearer and quickly sat, adjusting her skirts.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway just outside the room. Lucinda could not allow the duke to see her ill of ease. The courtship must begin on her terms, and must remain entirely within her control.

  In a decidedly unladylike but necessary move, Lucinda gained a few precious moments by nimbly hopping over the footstool in her path and throwing herself onto the nearest seat—the slight settee.

  “Brava,” Bessie whispered loudly.

  “Hush, he’ll hear you,” Charlotte warned from her corner of the room, giving Lucinda a small smile of reassurance before schooling her features into a proper expression of serenity.

  Lucinda smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath just as the door opened.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

  Will had lied, cheated, stolen, maimed, and killed in the line of duty. In turn, he’d been shot at, pummeled within an inch of his life, stabbed repeatedly, and nearly drowned—all for King and Country.

  One look at the women ensconced within the beautifully appointed sitting room and Will knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it had all been child’s play up to this point.

  By the time the introductions were made, he had shrewdly assessed and identified which sister would most willingly be finessed (the brazen one), which one would prefer to see him run down by wild horses rather than extend him one ounce of graciousness (the dower one), and finally, which one was clearly undecided, her quiet demeanor showing nothing of her leanings (the reasonable).

  “Do sit down, over there,” the brazen one had urged, pointing to the ridiculously tiny settee where Lady Lucinda was seated.

  He’d complied, having to practically fold himself in half to fit. Being so near Lady Lucinda was hardly in keeping with his plan to remain cool and detached, but Will knew better than to argue with a determined aunt.

  “I hope the morning finds you well,” Will said to Lady Lucinda, aware her aunts were listening to each word. He had to twist his neck in a wholly unnatural way to look at her, due to the damned doll-sized seat.

  “Where are the flowers?”

  Will turned to the dower one. Her pinched mouth looked as if the effort of speaking to him was leaving a sour taste on her tongue.

  “Flowers?”

  She rolled her eyes, obviously finding him lacking, and pressed on. “Yes, the flowers. Perhaps you’re unaware of the workings of a respectable courtship, Your Grace. It is customary to bring a bouquet when calling upon a young woman.”

  “Aunt Victoria,” Lady Lucinda protested, clearly uncomfortable with the woman’s bluntness.

  Will had never cared a farthing for what people thought of his actions and he wasn’t about to start now. Nevertheless, the woman was Lady Lucinda’s aunt. “My apologies. I had forgotten.”

  “If I find myself in need of flowers all I’ve to do is walk into the back garden,” Lady Lucinda answered with calm practicality. “And there I’ll find more than twenty varieties—”

  Will pried himself from the settee and strode toward the door. “A moment,” he said, then exited the room, finding his way quickly to the rear of the town house. He walked the length of it, peering into each room before finding a set of doors that led to the small garden.

  He let himself out onto the neat flagstone terrace, the surrounding flower beds fragrant in the sunshine.

  And he began to pick one of each flower he could find, until there were an even twenty blooms with long stems neatly tucked into the crook of his arm.

  He returned to the drawing room, and the ladies gasped in unison.

  “With my sincere apologies, Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering the flowers to her with a deep bow.

  Her smile nearly had Will searching for a seat on the far side of the room. Her blue eyes glowed with delight. She was clearly surprised, which was charming enough, but also pleased, which made Will’s chest tighten with … with what? Pride? Joy? He couldn’t quite name it, but whatever the emotion was, it wasn’t good.

  The sour aunt who had brought up his lack of flowers apparently thought he’d acted to mock her. Her fan beat an annoyed tattoo on the arm of the Windsor chair where she sat.

  In truth, he’d forgotten the custom. His last visit to a woman that could have in any way been considered proper had been too long ago. The women he associated with wanted neither flowers nor ridiculous little gifts. They wanted an occasional very expensive gift—but mostly, they wanted him.

  This would take
some getting used to, this gentleman business, he realized. The problem was, he didn’t have time to relearn his manners. Garenne was somewhere out there, close at hand, and he wasn’t a patient man.

  Will made a mental note to question Smithers regarding the requirements of a gentleman before turning to sit.

  He’d only just settled himself on the settee when the sour one barked at him yet again.

  “And the horse, Your Grace. Just where is King Solomon’s Mine?”

  Will was inclined to answer “In my pocket, my dear, along with a suit of armor and the crown jewels, of course,” but thought better of it. “He should be taking a mid-morning rest in preparation for our afternoon ride.”

  “A mid-morning rest? Really, Your Grace, what sort of training regimen do you have for this horse that allows a mid-morning—”

  “I assure you that he is—”

  “An afternoon ride, how delightful!” the brazen one said with a gleam in her eye, successfully cutting off both her sister and Will.

  “Yes, I prefer an afternoon ride, though—”

  “I believe it’s time for tea,” the reasonable one interrupted Will, crossing to tug the bellpull.

  Will didn’t bother to address her concerning the tea. He felt a headache coming on. He hated tea. And he’d yet to get a word in edgewise, so best to sit back and plan at this point. He’d be damned if he’d let three unruly women get the best of him, even ones referred to as “the Furies”—though now that he’d spent some time in their company, the title made much more sense.

  Lady Lucinda leaned toward him. “I suppose I should have warned you to gird your loins prior to dancing attendance on me,” she whispered, a wry smile accompanying her comment.

  Will suppressed a laugh but returned the smile, her dimple wreaking havoc on his concentration. “I’m not a regular at Gentleman John Jackson’s boxing academy for the masculine company alone. Your aunts may think they have the upper hand, but just you wait.”

  Lady Lucinda arched an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Now this I must see,” she said conspiratorially.

  A footman appeared with the tea, placing it on the table then disappearing.

  “Milk, Your Grace?” the reasonable one asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you. The blacker, the better,” Will answered.

  He stretched to take cup and saucer from her and his thigh brushed Lady Lucinda’s. He murmured a polite thank you for the tea and tried to remember what they’d been discussing before he’d been distracted. Ah, yes—King Solomon’s Mine.

  “Despite his prowess, Sol is a sensitive soul, which is why he’s allowed the luxury of a mid-morning rest,” he said before downing his tea.

  The dower one’s lips pursed as if she’d just bit into something tart. “Really, Your Grace, a horse of his lineage, sensitive?”

  “How kind of you, Your Grace,” the reasonable one interrupted, “your attentiveness is truly inspiring.”

  “Oh, now really, Bessie. ‘Inspiring’? Do you take the man—”

  “I was just pondering a walk in the park,” the brazen one began in a completely different direction. “Though walking by oneself is lonely, wouldn’t you agree?” she finished, batting her eyelashes at Will.

  “Why yes, as a matter of fact I’m in complete agreement,” Will answered, still not quite sure of what the aging coquette was playing at.

  “Excellent. Lucinda, do don your pelisse, my dear.”

  “But—” the dower one began.

  The brazen one rose from her chair and walked toward the pair. “Oh, did I fail to mention that I’d been thinking on a walk not for myself, but for Lucinda? Silly me.”

  “But—” the dower one said more loudly.

  “A bit of fresh air would be most welcome,” Lady Lucinda swiftly responded, taking Will’s hand and standing.

  “Well, I … that is to say …” the dower one protested, her fan at the ready.

  “Dearest Victoria, we’ll send Mary along with her cape and gloves to chaperone,” the brazen one said soothingly.

  Will didn’t dare look in “dearest” Victoria’s direction. Instead, he stood aside to let Lady Lucinda walk ahead of him, then bowing to the remaining ladies, hastily gave his thanks, and followed her out of the room.

  He attempted to shut the door but encountered resistance.

  The brazen one stuck her head out and eyed Will with a hawklike stare. “I believe I see in you what others do not, Your Grace. Please, do not prove me wrong.”

  And with that, she disappeared behind the door and firmly shut it.

  Lucinda was rather proud of herself. She’d made it nearly across the street before letting out the laugh that had been bubbling in her throat for the last five minutes.

  The duke had no more handled her aunts than had anyone else in the history of the world.

  His smug smile of success all but melted away at the sound of Lucinda’s laughter. “Lady Lucinda, I can’t imagine what you find so amusing,” he said with mock affront, the flash of amusement in his eyes belying his tone.

  Lucinda couldn’t help but find him charming. He was so large, yet so like an adorable little boy at times. She very nearly reached out to caress his cheek, but thought better of it.

  “Come now, Your Grace. It really wasn’t that bad.” Despite her best efforts to remain solemn, she couldn’t prevent a smile from curving her lips. “It was your first meeting with them, after all, and there were three of them and only one of you. Perhaps a few more sessions at Gentleman John Jackson’s and you’ll be ready for another round?”

  “Impertinent chit,” the duke said under his breath, taking care to escort Lucinda into the central garden area of Grosvenor Square.

  Lucinda glanced over her shoulder. Mary had settled into a leisurely pace behind them, slow enough to allow a comfortable conversation, yet fast enough to insure that the duke would not pull Lucinda into the bushes and have his way with her. Or dash behind a tree with her in tow and steal a kiss. Or anything of the kind. Which Lucinda most certainly did not want to happen. Ever. At least not today.

  Well, she was fairly certain anyway.

  Why had she not refused when Bessie had suggested a stroll? Because she’d been caught up in his charm, in his smile, in his eyes, which changed from cool hazel to heated green depending upon what he was thinking. What he was feeling.

  And just what was he feeling, Lucinda found herself wondering, not for the first time.

  Drat! This was not like her at all. If this were any other man—Lord Cuthbert, for example—she would not be strolling with him. Nor would she have spent one moment wondering whether he’d enjoyed his tea, never mind suffering curiosity as to his thoughts about her.

  This was ludicrous. This was madness.

  “Lady Lucinda,” the duke said for what was clearly the second or perhaps even third time.

  “Hmmm,” Lucinda said belatedly, still struggling to marshal her thoughts.

  “I’ve commented on the weather,” he said. “Twice.”

  Lucinda abruptly stopped and stepped to one side of the path. She beckoned him closer. “Your Grace.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve something to ask you.”

  He leaned in a bit, his broad shoulders blocking her. “In relation to the weather?”

  Lucinda huffed out a breath. “No, not exactly. That is to say, not at all.”

  “I see. Well, let me gather my wits first,” he responded, squeezing his eyes shut, visibly bracing himself before opening his eyes. “All right, I believe I am ready.”

  Annoyed, Lucinda frowned at him. “This is a serious matter.”

  “I can see that,” he said. “I apologize. Now, the question,” he finished, the twinkle in his eyes nearly stopping Lucinda from speaking.

  “What are your intentions?” she asked plainly.

  She could see that she’d taken him by surprise, all of the humor disappearing from his face. />
  “With regards to?”

  “Me. That is to say,” Lucinda began, somewhat nervously, “us. You and me, and this, this …”

  The duke looked amused. “ ‘Courtship,’ I believe is the word you’re searching for.”

  “Yes, precisely,” she said, somewhat relieved that he appeared to be blunt as well. “I understand that you’ve nothing to lose—”

  “What of King Solomon’s Mine?” he interrupted.

  “Oh, well, of course. But I mean of a more personal nature, such as your reputation or, well, your heart, if I may be so bold,” she answered, vaguely shocked by her honesty. Though at this point, she thought, really—what was the point in speaking in circles when she’d broached such a forbidden topic?

  He didn’t respond, only stared, his eyes deepening in hue as they searched hers.

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” she asked, feeling oddly shy. She looked at the ground, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze as he appeared to consider her question.

  “No, not in the least,” he said at last, his deep voice strangely soft. His hand was warm when he cupped her chin, tipping her face up so that she was looking at him once more. “I prefer honesty, but I’ve found it to be a rare quality in a woman.”

  She exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath, awaiting his reply.

  That his opinion should matter so much made her uncomfortable. It was also unsettling that his disregard for society’s rules governing male behavior seemed to coax her into behaving in ways she could only term improper.

  Before this, only Amelia had been aware of Lucinda’s “occasionally unruly nature”. Even as a child, Lucinda had instinctively hidden that part of herself from the world. And though she enjoyed much of her life as Lady Lucinda Grey, she was always aware that beneath the silks, satins, and jewels she wore, there smoldered a hidden desire to be more than the proper lady the world expected.

  Amelia would turn pale and quite possibly faint if she were privy to the conversation taking place between Lucinda and Iron Will.

  The proper gentlemen of her acquaintance expected her to be above reproach, the perfect lady. What was she to do with a man who expected her to be only herself?