The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  “Nothing that I did not ask for,” Lucinda responded, slowly sitting up and urging him to do the same. “I needed something in a way I’d never experienced …” she began, hesitating in an attempt to find the right words. “I needed you, and I will not, cannot, apologize for it. Neither should you, unless you—”

  Lucinda stopped, doubt suddenly filling her. Had he only taken pity on her? Obliged her out of lust and some twisted sense of duty rather than any real feeling for her?

  “Do not, for a moment, think I do not want you, Lady Lucinda.”

  Lucinda couldn’t think beyond this moment, the ramifications of what had just transpired too numerous and earthshaking to entertain. When at last his lips left hers, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “In that case, I do believe it’s time you called me Lucinda.”

  Nearly eighteen hours had passed, but Will could still smell her on his skin, taste the salt of her sweat in his mouth, hear her panting in his ear.

  She’d caught him off guard, the need so achingly apparent in her eyes that even Iron Will could not say no. He could take some relief in the fact that he’d left her maidenhead intact. “Cold comfort,” he growled, rolling the cue ball with such force that it crashed into the remaining balls, sending them careening across the baize surface to bounce off the sides of the billiard table.

  Will stalked to the sideboard near the fireplace in Clairemont Hall. He hastily poured two fingers of brandy into a cut-crystal glass and tossed half of it down, returning the decanter to the silver tray before dropping into the leather chair angled next to the hearth.

  “Christ,” he whispered, nearly unable to believe his reaction to her. He’d wanted to bury himself so deeply inside of her that their mingled cries could be heard in heaven itself.

  But more than that, his own need for connection matched hers, his heart and soul echoing what he saw in her eyes.

  He stood abruptly and savagely threw the crystal glass into the fireplace. A thousand tiny shards rained down over the flickering flames, pinging against brick and stone.

  “This cannot be.” He turned toward the door, halting abruptly to drop to his knees. This cannot be!

  Desperate for something, anything, to release his anger upon, he roughly took up a nearby billiard cue and snapped it in half, flinging both pieces to crash against the wall. He sat back on his haunches and covered his face with his hands, the dawning recognition of such unfamiliar emotions washing over him anew.

  What was happening to him?

  Love, you giant damned fool. Love, he thought, unable to even speak the words out loud.

  He raked his hands through his hair before standing. “And danger.” Dangerous for him for so many reasons. But worse, dangerous for Lucinda.

  Will could not be the man she wanted, that was certain. His faults could fill a thousand books. His father had been right about one thing: Will could never be what a duke should be.

  But more than that, he could not be the agent he must be with such feelings hammering away at his heart.

  Or could he? Will propped himself against the billiard table and looked deep into the fire. Perhaps it was those very feelings that made him the perfect man for the job. After all, what other man would have a more vital reason for keeping her safe than he?

  He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the effort. This was madness. Lunacy. He’d steeled himself from such involvement countless times before, flirtations and physical encounters serving to fill the void that years of emptiness had created.

  And when it hadn’t been enough? Will had found comfort in the Young Corinthians, the endless hours of intelligence work numbing him beyond the ability to feel.

  And yet, somehow, some way, he could not let Lucinda go. With every single detail he discovered, he only yearned to know more of her.

  To give in to the madness could be his salvation, a new life, where love filled his soul rather than loathing and rage. But what of his old life? His debt to the Young Corinthians could not be repaid from behind a desk.

  He unclenched his grip, leaving the table to walk across the deep red and taupe patterned carpet, stopping in front of the window that looked out on St. James’s Square. He caught his reflection in the glass. Hair mussed, his neckcloth missing, his jaw in desperate need of a shave. And those eyes. “Nearly as dark as the hell from which you came,” his father would say.

  “She couldn’t love you, you fool,” he gruffly whispered, looking past his image to the square below. Streetlights were just being lit, the dusk silently settling into the deepening expanse of night.

  He’d tortured himself for naught, he realized. A woman such as Lucinda would not, could not, love a man such as he.

  A carriage rolled to a slow stop in front of the house, The Clairemont crest barely visible in the waning light. “Bloody hell,” he growled, watching the footman jump down from his perch to open the door. “As if I am in need of further distraction.” His brother, Michael, emerged first, fingering his neckcloth and smoothing back his meticulously groomed hair before offering his hand to the remaining occupant.

  A dainty gloved hand appeared, then one slim arm draped in a scarlet wool shawl. Finally the remainder of Will’s mother came into view as she stepped down onto the pavement bricks. Her hair was just as it had always been, though silver locks now glimmered among the ebony tresses visible beneath her bonnet. She’d aged somewhat since he’d last seen her, and yet one could not deny that the duchess was still a striking woman, even at the advanced age of five-and-fifty.

  She paused to smooth her skirts, looking up at the house with a mixture of emotions playing across her face.

  Will turned away from the window and moved across the room slowly, reluctant to meet his unexpected guests. He knew how difficult it was for his mother to be here; the memories of life with his father were extremely painful ones. But the strain of entertaining his family was more than he cared to take on at the moment.

  He met Smithers in the hallway, the man’s dismay punctuated by the grim set of his mouth.

  “Your Grace,” Smithers began, stepping in time with Will, “your family—”

  Will chuckled, despite Smithers’s obvious discomfort. At least he could always count on him to behave exactly the same, every day. It was oddly comforting to Will and he clapped the man on the back. “My family, yes, I know. Thank you, Smithers—though this can all be left to Peterson, you know.”

  “If I may be so bold, the duchess and Lord Michael require special consideration, which is not Peterson’s forte, Your Grace,” he replied, a slight hint of irritation apparent in his tone.

  Will laughed out loud this time. “No, Smithers, I suppose it is not.”

  The natural order of things put right, Smithers cleared his throat and picked up the pace. “Might I suggest the rose room for your mother and the—”

  “Do as you see fit, Smithers,” Will interrupted.

  “Excellent, sir,” the valet responded, then nearly ran down the hall to the stairs.

  If only Smithers could manage the whole of my life, Will thought to himself, hesitating in the hall for a moment before making his way to the foyer.

  * * *

  When Will’s father was alive, dinner demanded military precision. The candles were lit to cast a warm glow over the entire room. The food was prepared to entice and delight, every course agonized over by the staff until no fault could be found in their offerings. The crystal and china shone like jewels, the silver sparkled, and the table linens were pressed to hard-edged perfection.

  Or else.

  Will had detested every meal in the ornate room, the painted pastoral scene circling the four corners only serving to irritate him further.

  One of the first dictates he had given upon assuming the title had been to never eat another meal in the formal dining room. He’d seen to the packing up of the room himself, taking great delight in swathing his father’s chair in Holland cloth and distrib
uting the ornate silver to a collection of street urchins he found down near the docks. They’d given him looks of disbelief when he’d approached with the rough sack of treasure, but quickly changed their minds when he began to dole out what would surely be a year’s worth of meals for each of them.

  It would have killed his father to see such a thing, which was exactly why he did it.

  Though he had to admit, observing his brother and mother’s attempt at normal behavior as they sat around the table in the morning room, he’d not considered the effect on the rest of his family.

  “If I had known you were coming, Smithers would have seen to the airing of the dining room,” he said, cutting a large bite of mutton in half before forking it into his mouth.

  The duchess took a demure sip of her wine and gave him a small smile. “What is good enough for you is good enough for us, William,” she answered quietly.

  “And that is precisely the problem,” Will countered, dropping his knife and fork to the table with an audible thwack.

  “It truly is tiresome to have the exact argument over and over again, wouldn’t you agree?” Lord Michael Randall pointed out, his face—the spitting image of Will’s—a tight mask of frustration.

  Will glared at his younger brother, the urge to throttle him tempered only by his love for the young man. They’d been inseparable as children, their boyish pranks proving too much for nearly every nursemaid south of Hadrian’s Wall. And then their father’s hatred for everything familial intensified, causing Will to distance himself from Michael in an attempt to spare the boy from the ugliness.

  It had worked, though Michael had not understood his older brother’s behavior, taking his cold treatment for dislike and betrayal rather than what it truly was.

  Will had saved his brother’s life, and sacrificed his love in the process.

  The loss of his brother’s respect had hit hard, but the realization that his mother would do nothing on his behalf hurt the most. No matter how cold his father’s treatment, the magnitude of his insults, or the viciousness of his behavior, she sat idly by, absorbing the damage in quiet pain.

  He’d often wondered as a child about his parents’ relationship. His mother, so capable and assured with him and his brother, would be reduced to tears by his overbearing father. It was a transformation he could not understand—and one he came to detest.

  “How long will you be in town?” Will asked abruptly, ignoring his brother’s statement.

  The crease between the duchess’s eyebrows softened, the change in topic settling her. “Well, I suppose that depends entirely on you.”

  Will drained his glass of wine and motioned for a servant to take his plate. “You know me, Mother, ever the amiable host. Stay as long as you like. The old pile of bricks is as much yours as it is—”

  “No,” Her Grace smoothly interrupted. “You’ve misunderstood me. We received news of your courtship of Lady Lucinda Grey and had hoped our presence would be required in the not-so-distant future.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “William—manners, please,” his mother chided, falling into the parental role much too easily for Will’s taste.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Michael muttered, spearing an artichoke from his nearly empty plate.

  Will propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You mean to tell me that the gossipmongers took the time to spread such drivel all the way to Derbyshire?”

  “I don’t know why you’re upset, William. It is wonderful news, is it not?” his mother answered. “Besides, Derbyshire is not as far from London as you make it out to be. And those gossipmongers you refer to are some of my closest friends, so I would thank you to be a bit more respectful when speaking of them. If it were not for them, we may not have heard for some time, which would have been more embarrassment than I could have withstood.”

  The look on his mother’s face spoke clearly of the pain he’d caused in allowing her to find out such personal family news from anyone but him. The knowledge needled at Will’s heart.

  He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Michael, who simply stared back at him, his face now expressionless. “A fat lot of good you are, then?” he said dryly.

  “Oh, I’ve talked myself blue in the face, but the woman will hear nothing of it,” his brother said. “For some reason Mother is inclined to believe persons whose comments suggest you may be less than concerned over familial ties, though I can’t imagine why. And Lord knows I’m mmore than happy to continue performing the ducal duties—without the title, of course—so you’re able to … I’m sorry, Will, what is it that you do?”

  “Michael, please,” the duchess said, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “We are here, together, as a family. That is what is important.”

  Will could not take any more, especially in light of the day he’d endured. “I apologize. Can we be done with it?”

  “Of course,” his mother answered quietly.

  Michael nodded, the movement abrupt.

  The duchess paused to let a servant clear her plate, then leaned slightly forward, a twinkle visible in her hazel eyes. “Now, when might we meet Lady Lucinda?”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Lucinda, even King Solomon’s Mine could win against you today,” Victoria chided.

  Lucinda pulled herself from her thoughts in time to see Charlotte stifling a small laugh.

  She winked at Charlotte before turning her attention to the cards in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been woolgathering, Aunt Victoria.” She played the four of hearts, wincing slightly at the headache pounding behind her eyes.

  Victoria let out a “harrumph” of displeasure before adding her card to the table. “Woolgathering indeed. And over that Iron Will, I suppose. Tell me, is it absolutely necessary for you to meet his family?”

  “Surely there is no need to be quite so cold, Victoria,” Charlotte protested, an audible “tsk, tsk” punctuating her words. “The dowager and I came out the same year, you know. She was something, quite out of the ordinary, until …”

  Charlotte looked down at the book in her hand, fingering the pages slowly.

  “Until …?” Lucinda asked, suddenly desperate to learn all that she could of Will, though equally anxious to keep such feelings from her aunts.

  Charlotte reached for a length of moss green ribbon and placed it in her book before closing it. “Until she married the duke.”

  “And then?”

  “And then that man drained her of everything that made her who she was,” Victoria said bluntly, eyeing the cards on the table before looking up at her sisters and niece, all three frozen with looks of horror on their faces. “Well, he did, did he not? I didn’t know her personally but according to the endless supply of gossip, the woman was the most vibrant of beings before marrying Clairemont and a miserable captive after.”

  Lucinda turned to Charlotte. “Is this true?”

  “I’m afraid so. Despite having the attention of every eligible bachelor that year, she fell in love with Clairemont.” Charlotte set the book on the small side table and adjusted the soft woolen throw. “No one could blame her. He was a duke, after all, and terribly handsome.”

  “And charming,” Bessie added, her head tilted and eyes hazed over ever so slightly as she thought back to her younger days. “Oh, so charming.”

  “Yes, well, he was all of these things and more. Unfortunately, beneath the smiles and handsome façade, there beat a heart as black as the moors on a December night. No one believed his dalliances with other women would stop once he was married.”

  “No one except the duchess,” Victoria interrupted, her voice softening. “She fell for the roué despite all the rumors of debauchery, and lived to pay the price. Poor woman.”

  Lucinda set a card on the table without looking at it. “He did not stop, then?”

  “Oh, the exact opposite, I’m afraid. If the gossipmongers were to be believed, the duke tortured his wife not only with his affairs but with
verbal thrashings, and, on occasion, physical violence, too.”

  “She could do nothing,” Charlotte said. “His Grace threatened to take everything from her, even the children, if she dared to disobey him.”

  Lucinda fanned her cards out on the table, her brows knitting together. “She was trapped. And he knew it.”

  “Exactly so. I think it’s fair to say that the day the duke dropped dead in his mistress’s bed was, perhaps, the happiest day of Her Grace’s life.”

  “And the boys?” Lucinda wondered aloud.

  The three aunts looked at one another for a time, Charlotte finally speaking. “Dear, we would not want you … that is to say—”

  “Regardless of their father’s treatment, they are grown men, fully capable of making their own decisions, good or bad,” Victoria interrupted, leaning across the card table to take Lucinda’s hand. “We would not want to sway your regard for the duke based on the sins of his father.”

  “The boys?” Lucinda pressed, knowing the answer but needing to hear it regardless.

  “There were rumors; servants and staff who shared stories with other servants and staff, who passed the information on to their employers. Your Iron Will took the brunt of it—out of choice, if memory serves. He adored his younger brother, by all accounts, and purposefully set himself between the father and the boy.”

  Could this be why he’s strayed so far outside society? Lucinda wondered to herself, pieces beginning to fall into place before her eyes.

  Victoria squeezed Lucinda’s hand with her own, then leaned back against the mahogany parlor chair. “This revelation should not be calculated into your dealings with the duke,” she said her firm tone in place once more. “No matter his history, he is who he is, and that, my dear, does not change.”

  Despite the lack of candlelight, Lucinda’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness of her room. Moonlight filtered in around the curtains, throwing shadows here and there. She’d long since abandoned her games, naming this shadow a minotaur, and that one a lamb, all in an attempt to hasten sleep.