The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Now, to answer your question, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said, lowering his hand and taking her arm to turn her back onto the path.

  The duke tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, lessening the distance between their bodies as they walked. “It’s no secret that every eldest male Clairemont throughout history has been expected to marry and continue the ducal line.”

  He looked out over the well-groomed park, his profile turned to her as he took in the shrubs that lined the walkways, the expanses of clipped grass, the strolling couples and nursemaids with their charges.

  “And I like you, Lady Lucinda,” he continued after a long moment. “You have a mind and you use it. You make me laugh, which I enjoy immensely. And though I feel sure that you’ve heard it a thousand times before, you are beautiful.”

  He turned his head to look down at her, pinning her with an intense glance. Lucinda couldn’t look away. Tension spun between them, heightening with each moment. The unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability surfaced up yet again.

  “I’ve no intent to court you for sport,” he resumed, pulling her from her thoughts. “I may be voracious and varied in my many appetites, Lady Lucinda, but in this I am single-minded and focused. You have my word.”

  She knew to the core of her being that she trusted him. After all, his line of reasoning did make perfect sense; a duke must marry, must have a son to carry on the family line. But beyond that, she sensed that William Randall, the Duke of Clairemont, meant what he said.

  And though her intent was to walk away with only King Solomon’s Mine after their time together, somehow knowing that he liked her—truly liked her, despite her candor and intelligence—made all the difference.

  Lucinda relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the fine spring day. It was early yet, too early, really, for the more sophisticated set to be out and about, which made their walk even more enjoyable. In truth, when in residence at her country estate, Lucinda often walked for miles in the morning, the stillness of a world that had yet to completely awaken providing a stark contrast to her usual routine of social events and obligations.

  Though she’d never admitted it to anyone but Amelia, at times Lucinda chafed from all that went with her place in society. She was far too practical a person to suppose that she would be happy as a squire’s wife, but the lure of somehow being free of all of society’s expectations that accompanied being titled, rich, and well-bred could be oh so intoxicating.

  Perhaps this, in part, was what she liked so well in the duke. His utter disdain for the ton’s stricture and society in general was—well, to be quite honest, most refreshing. It was something Lucinda secretly admired.

  Regardless, she knew that if even a modicum of proper behavior was to be maintained, it clearly would be her place to set the standards.

  If she could.

  She eased away from His Grace, putting several more inches of space between them—and instantly missed his warmth.

  “Now I’ve offended you,” he said in a low tone before tipping his hat and rumbling a greeting to Lady Foxbury as her carriage rolled by in the street. The matron’s eyes widened with shock as she returned the polite gesture.

  Lucinda nodded to Lady Foxbury, quickening her pace when her polite greeting was returned. “Not precisely, no,” she answered. “You’ve surprised me, certainly. But this way of speaking one’s mind plainly is something I’m beginning to enjoy.”

  And something I could easily become accustomed to, she thought.

  “In that case,” the duke returned, pulling her closer yet again, “let me be perfectly frank and tell you that I much prefer you by my side than several steps distant.”

  Lucinda laughed, knowing her rebellious body also enjoyed the nearness of his much taller, broader frame. “Your Grace, though I understand you’ve been out of polite society for some time, I suspect you recall what is considered appropriate behavior while courting a lady. This,” she said, motioning to the distance she was currently putting between them, “is acceptable. I will not have my reputation sullied for the sake of a horse.”

  His disgruntled growl should have frightened Lucinda, but she found herself amused and charmed, even when he frowned at her.

  “So it’s the horse alone that convinced you to allow me to court you?” he asked.

  Lucinda chided herself for the delight she seemed to be finding in every tiny detail about this very large man. Why on earth was she amused when he voiced his displeasure? Why did she not feel threatened by his obvious irritation instead of noticing that his eyes appeared more green than hazel when he wore a green waistcoat?

  She shrugged mentally. Surely what she was feeling was a normal reaction to a very handsome man.

  “It is King Solomon’s Mine that holds my heart, Your Grace,” she answered, then added, “his is, after all, quite a horse.”

  “Quite a horse indeed,” Will muttered, landing a punishing blow on his sparring partner’s jaw and sending him to the mat.

  “My apologies, Dinsford.” He pulled the man to his feet and propped him up in the corner.

  The young man massaged his jaw and grinned at Will. “It’s me own fault. Shouldn’t’a taught ya the right hook.”

  Will smiled, taking a towel hanging on a peg in the wall. He wiped the sweat from his arms and bare chest, the pounding exchange of the last hour beginning to make itself felt.

  “Something on your mind?”

  Will turned slowly and saw Carmichael seated in the shadows against the wall. “I was just about to ask you the same question, old man.” He bent to shake his wet hair before rubbing his head with the damp towel. “You’ve been sitting there for nearly an hour without a word. That’s quite an accomplishment for you,” he finished, grinning.

  Carmichael merely wiped at a bead of moisture that had somehow made its way to his immaculate breeches and stood. “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”

  “I hope the ale is to your liking.” Will motioned for his superior to follow him.

  Carmichael sidestepped a burly man lifting what looked to be two sacks full of grain tied to a long pole, before answering, “I suppose it will have to.”

  The two men moved toward the edge of the shadowy room, where a table was simply laid with pitchers of ale and tin tankards.

  “I see the aristocracy has invaded your pugilistic paradise,” Carmichael began, filling a tankard for himself.

  Will let out a growl of disgust. “Every ham-fisted idiot with all his teeth wants to lose a few of them here. What was wrong with a bucket and ladle, I’ll never know.”

  He filled his tankardand took a swig, swishing it about in his mouth then spitting into the empty pitcher, the ale tinged with his blood.

  “You might want to hold on to some of that.”

  Will set the container back on the table and joined Carmichael on the raised plank seating built to afford an unobstructed view of where the men boxed. “Didn’t you kow? I’ve an endless supply of blood.”

  Carmichael quirked a brow then unobtrusively took in their surroundings, his gaze sharp. Apparently satisfied that they wouldn’t be overheard, he looked at Will. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “Does anything happen in London that you are not instantly aware of?” Will asked sarcastically.

  “No. That’s the whole point. Now brief me on Lady Lucinda.”

  Will waited until the pugilists in the ring resumed their match. The cheers of the men seated on the benches farther down the room, combined with the thuds from fists hitting muscle and grunts of pain provided cover for his answer. “Against her better judgment, she’s agreed to let me court her.”

  “I told you she’d fall for your brawny charm.”

  Will gave Carmichael a piercing look before taking a drink. “Think again, old man. I had to offer King Solomon’s Mine.”

  Will could swear he heard Carmichael chortle, though not a hint of a smile spoiled his solemn demeanor.

  “I am sorry for t
hat.”

  “No more sorry than I.” It was true that Will prized the stallion, but he’d been a Corinthian long enough to know that no horse was worth the life of a lady. He’d done his job to the fullest, securing a legitimate reason to spend time with Lady Lucinda so he could protect her. But he’d done vastly more than was necessary. He’d shamelessly flirted with the woman. He’d gone out of his way to impress her.

  And the aunts. He’d held his tongue and smiled and did the pretty when he’d wanted to run from the room and break as many items in his wake as possible.

  “Bloody hell,” Will growled. “I don’t know that I’m the right man for this.”

  Carmichael watched the fighters resume their match, their rough dance gaining speed. “Clairemont, you know as well as I that there is no going back now. If it’s the horse—”

  “It’s not the horse, it’s the woman. I want to—”

  Carmichael applauded a particularly skillful blow. “Bed her? That’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Of course I want to bed her,” Will said impatiently. “A man would have to be dead and buried not to. No,” he said, his frustration growing, “I want to talk to her. I like talking to her. Dammit, the bedding part is natural. Wanting to spend time with her outside the bedchamber is not.”

  Carmichael turned to look at Will, understanding written across his face. “I see.”

  “Then you’ll find someone else—”

  “Just because I understand the situation does not mean that I’ve any more options than before. You’re the man for this assignment.” Carmichael turned back to the sparring match. “You’ve already made the initial contact. To send in another agent at this point would cause suspicion.”

  Will suppressed the desire to slam his fist through the planked seating and instead unleashed his anger on the tankard, nearly denting the tin. “You don’t understand; I fear that my preoccupation may put the mission at risk.”

  “I trained you myself. I know what you’re capable of,” Carmichael answered, his tone slightly altered, the earlier understanding replaced with steel. “Are we in agreement?”

  Will carefully set the tankard on the wooden bench. He knew better than to press Carmichael further. The man had the temperament of a bulldog, no matter how elegantly he dressed. Once his mind was made up, he was unswerving in his determination. Besides, Will knew that Carmichael was right; to bring in another agent at this stage of the game would be dangerous. In truth, his feelings for Lady Lucinda would only strengthen his resolve to keep her safe from Garenne.

  Perhaps that was the answer, then: focus on his hatred for Garenne and let all other emotions go.

  “Yes, we’re in agreement,” he finally responded, settling his elbows on his knees and massaging his temples.

  “Good. Now, about Lady Lucinda. It seems she enjoys early morning rides—alone.”

  Will dropped his hands and turned to Carmichael. “You mean accompanied only by servants, yes?”

  “No, by ‘alone’ I mean just that. She’s adamantly opposed to having an escort, despite the best efforts of the Furies.”

  “Good God, man, you must have been misinformed. Those women control all they survey. Not even Lady Lucinda would dare cross them.”

  Carmichael rose. “As you’ve said, she’s a most remarkable woman.”

  * * *

  Lucinda wanted to scream with joy. The wind had pulled the pins from her hair and the thick braid blew free, whipping like a banner as she raced Tristan, her dapple gray gelding, through Hyde Park. The sun had only just come up, setting the birds to singing on what promised to be a fine day.

  She slowed the gelding with a gentle tug on the reins and crossed to follow her favorite path. Lucinda lived for her morning rides, free of everyone, even the servants, and the expectations that normally followed her wherever she went.

  It hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed to convince her aunts of the need for such a thing. Actually, in truth she’d blackmailed each of them into submission. And while reading to Charlotte each evening from the Bible, writing Bessie’s frightfully colorful dictation to her many admirers, and sneaking Victoria’s favorite brandy past the entire household on a monthly basis was not how Lucinda would ideally spend her time, it was worth it all the same.

  She suspected that somewhere, amongst the groves of oak trees, near the eastern gate by which Lucinda arrived and left, a groom lingered for what must have been, at times, a miserably cold and dreary two hours.

  Halting the gelding next to a large rock she’d used to dismount many times in the past, she gathered the skirt of her green riding habit and slid from the saddle. Tristan turned his head, ears pricking forward with interest at the sight of the lugh, green grass. Lucinda drew the reins over the gray’s head then allowed him to graze.

  She gratefully sat down near him, dropping the reins to rest in the spring grass. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, nervous energy coursing through her veins and keeping her from soundly sleeping. Even with a pillow over her head. “Even with two,” she solemnly told Tristan, who simply paused for a moment, then continued to chew the flavorful grass.

  The conversation with the duke plagued her conscience. “He is, after all, quite a horse,” she scoffed, wondering at the boldness with which she’d so easily responded. Really, the entire conversation had been altogether too bold, as Amelia would undoubtedly point out had she known of it.

  But she didn’t. Not yet anyway. A twinge of guilt flickered. She’d not sought out her dearest friend’s company since the ball—or, if she were completely honest, since meeting the duke.

  Lucinda pulled a daisy free and began to tear the white petals from the flower, one by one. She knew what Amelia would say of the scheme—even worse, what she would think of Lucinda’s obvious attraction to him.

  And worst of all? Amelia would be right. Lucinda was treading on dangerous ground, which only made it all the more exciting. Actually, it rather shook the earth, if the current vibration of the ground beneath her had anything to do with it.

  Puzzled, Lucinda looked up. A massive, coal black horse and its equally large rider were quickly approaching.

  She jumped to her feet, holding tight to Tristan’s reins. For his part, the gray thought little of their impending guests, affording them only a slow glance before setting his sights on a patch of succulent overgrown blades.

  The black horse was eating up the earth with his powerful strides, the rider sitting easily in the saddle despite the speed. Lucinda didn’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified by the sight and wondered for a moment at the curious relationship between the two emotions.

  She couldn’t identify the horse and rider, for the morning sun hazed their figures. Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to make out the man.

  With nary a second to spare, the rider reined in the big black and the horse immediately responded, slowing to a canter, then a trot, and finally a walk.

  Lucinda gathered her wits about her and prepared to unleash a particularly pungent verbal set-down. She shaded her eyes from the sun in order to see the pair more closely.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Despite having met him only mere days before, Lucinda would have known that voice anywhere. The husky tone sent a shiver down her spine and all the way to the tips of her riding boots. She relished the sensation for a moment then remembered what she had been about to do. “Your Grace, how nice of you to join me. Oh, and I do thank you for refraining from running your overgrown mount over the top of—”

  Her reference to the horse had been smartly punctuated with a sweeping gesture and sarcastic look in the horse’s direction. That was the moment Lucinda realized the identity of the horse.

  “King Solomon’s Mine,” she breathed, dropping Tristan’s reins to rush to his side.

  She stroked his head, pressing her own cheek to his before kissing his velvety nose. “It’s been so long since I last saw him,” she said, tears misting her eyes.

&nbs
p; The duke dismounted and joined her. “Has Sol grown that much, then?” he asked playfully.

  Lucinda rolled her eyes at him before turning back to the horse. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s the forelock,” she began, reaching for the long, glossy length of hair that fell just between King Solomon’s ears. “He used to wear it to the side much like the other young bucks about town. This is far superior, though, I must say,” she finished, giving him one more loving pat on the neck before stepping back to reclaim Tristan.

  The duke led the stallion past Lucinda to where Tristan was happily grazing. He gestured toward a bench neatly tucked into a copse of trees nearby. “May I join you, or would sharing a seat be too scandalous an act for the proper Lady Lucinda?”

  Lucinda knew from the amused half smile accompanying his question that the duke was simply quizzing her, but she desperately wanted to prove the blasted man wrong. “By all means,” she replied, failing to add that they were, in fact, not alone, if her suspicion was correct that a groom followed close behind.

  She strode to the bench and primly sat down, taking care to arrange her riding havit and reaching to adjust her black beaver hat. She felt the loose braid at her neck and nearly yelped. What must he think? She was unaccompanied, in the middle of Hyde Park, and with her hair nearly falling in her face.

  She looked up just in time to catch the duke tossing his crop, hat, and gloves on the ground before pulling at his somewhat wrinkled neckcloth. His hair had been tousled by the wind, the long dark locks escaping what looked to have at some point been a neatly combed style. The once severely pressed wool of his dark blue waistcoat was now creased across the shoulders, whether from the ride itself or simply from accommodating his massive muscles Lucinda could not say. His leather riding breeches were in fairly good condition, though they did mold to his legs in such a way that Lucinda found it troubling.

  He looks good enough to eat, Lucinda thought to herself, realizing that His Grace most likely would not give a fig whether her hair was finely coiffed or not.