Between the Duke and the Devil

by Devon, Eva

  She arched a brow at him. “What the devil were you doing, sir, riding at breakneck speed, on strange land? In the dark? In the fog?”

  He made a noise that sounded remarkably like a wolf’s low warning. “Never mind that now.” His dark gaze narrowed. “Are ye lost?”

  She shook her head.

  There was a long silence as he stared down at her. His gaze darted over her face with a frightening intensity. For a moment, something flickered in his dark eyes. Pain.

  Then they hardened to granite. No emotion showed in their depths. His whole face seemed to become carved stone like one of the busts in her uncle’s library. It only made him more beautiful. More godlike.

  In all her life, she’d never met a man like this one. So distant, so powerful, so. . . strange.

  “Ye live at the castle?” he asked.

  “I do,” she confirmed.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw. “A servant?”

  “No. Sir, we must get you of this cold. Surely, you need—”

  “I doona need a damned thing from ye.”

  With that, he lifted his gloved hand from her shoulder and began to limp forward unaided with surprising speed.

  “Sir!” she called, racing after him. “Let me help you.”

  He turned on her so fast she stumbled.

  A cold, ruthless angel stared down at her. “Doona touch me. Doona help me. I doona need assistance.” He hesitated. “Not even the assistance of one who appears so beautiful, as if ye were no’ of this world.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and the cold air tousled his hair over his brow. “As if ye came from a fairy glen no’ that pile of rocks that ye live in. For anyone who resides in that place deserves to rot in hell.”

  With that, he turned his back on her, leaving her with her wild thoughts.

  Her muscles began to shake. In one breath, he’d seemed to give her the compliment that every woman yearned to hear.

  She was beautiful?

  It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she knew her face had the sort of innocence that made men call her Madonna. Her heart was black. And somehow, this man had known with one look into her eyes.

  Annabelle felt pain stab her lungs. She wasn’t breathing. My God, he’d so stunned her. She sucked in an icy breath and tore her gaze from his retreating form. She stared up at the sky and there they were.

  The stars.

  Chapter 2

  Tristan Trent, the Duke of Ardore, gripped the silver-headed cane provided for him by the butler and stared across the crowded room. He bit back an unholy curse.

  There she stood. His wild woman.

  It was the only way he could think of her. He’d never seen anything like that one. Not in all his years, and he’d not been a protected youth. He’d seen women in all their guises. In all their frames of seduction. In all their forms of ruin. All women presented a mask to men. Even when they were broken. They always hid themselves. What other choice did they have? It was, after all, what men demanded of them.

  Even his sister. . . she had hid from him though she had never needed to. He winced, refusing to let that darkness grip him. Not when he needed his wits about him.

  The years had opened his eyes to the illusions that most women tried to weave. Having seen the way it truly was in this world, she was a surprise.

  In that brief exchange, he’d felt like he’d seen her. Not whoever she wanted him to see.

  Even so, she hadn’t touched his heart. Indeed, she had not.

  His heart had been broken and would never recover. He was glad of the shards that had become like razors that cut any who neared it. Those shards made it possible for him to stay the course of revenge when others would have given up.

  When he’d pushed himself up from the earth and taken in her beautiful face, the words of recrimination had frozen in his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had rendered him so amazed. Even now. . . he couldn’t understand her.

  Across the room, she stood in a stunning gown of black silk. It should have seemed austere. It didn’t. Instead, it hugged her every curve until the skirt spilled out, in simple black sweeps of fabric, promising to bare perfect white limbs if lifted. After all, the vast majority of her body had never seen hide nor hair of sunlight.

  In fact, even her face, pale as porcelain, floated like an ethereal dream over the black collar caressing her neck. A Renaissance painting come to life. Pink cheeked and eyes so blue they cut one to the core, she seemed to render all the men about her senseless.

  Perhaps it was her long, dark hair, coiled tightly at the base of her neck.

  The fashion of the day was fussy with curls at the forehead. Instead, she had no such mess. It only made her more evocative. Like she needed nothing, not a damned thing, to improve her natural beauty.

  Or her innocence.

  Good God. She looked like evil had never touched her, that she had no idea there could even be evil in this world.

  But that had to be part of her carefully created female illusion. A woman lacing her way through this particular group of men, bestowing smiles, hadn’t exactly been raised in a convent. For her to hold her own, she had to be quite the complicated miss.

  For God’s sake, Lord Beaton was evil personified. And she dwelt in his house. There was no way she was untouched by that man’s insidiousness.

  Tristan was no saint. He’d given up any goodly path the night he’d nearly killed deBeresford. But very few could compete with Lord Beaton’s foul soul.

  If she lived here, surely her soul was as dark and twisted.

  And from her perfect ease as she moved from group of men to group of men, her shoulders back, her head high, a slight mysterious smile turning her beautiful, soft mouth, he had no doubt that her soul was a suspicious shade.

  My God, her mouth.

  It was a mouth that every man in this room no doubt longed to have beneath theirs. Which, of course, was her purpose here.

  She was a distraction. Any man of intelligence would know it. And yet, none of them seemed to be able to resist her charm. He couldn’t even deny that he was waiting for her to finally greet him. His entire body was tense with anticipation, after their strange meeting in the night.

  A brief commotion echoed in the hall and then all the men in the room came to their feet.

  The Prince of Wales strode through the arched doorway, cigar in hand.

  They all bowed their heads and she, the only woman in the room, sank into a beautifully done curtsy.

  Her skirts billowed out about her legs. Her perfect white hands rested on the black, shining fabric.

  The prince spotted her immediately. A look darkened his eyes.

  Tristan knew that look. Anyone who knew the prince had seen it. It was the moment when the prince saw something he wanted and he would have it come hell or come high water. Will or no, the woman really had no choice.

  Because ultimately, the prince didn’t see women as people. Not truly. They were objects to be won. Objects to obtain. Objects to manipulate.

  So many thought he was just a perfumed fool. But there was a darker stream beneath his usually pleasant, spoiled surface.

  Tristan hated him for it. He hated any man that saw women as things. Things to be taken.

  But the prince was not why he was here tonight.

  Even so, he couldn’t stop the shot of cold fury that coursed through his veins as the Prince of Wales sauntered over to his wild woman like she was a piece of meat in Spitalfields Market.

  The Prince of Wales dragged his eyes over the young woman, his slightly too-large lips pursing in approval. He fingered a massive emerald upon his finger as if he were imagining touching her.

  She didn’t look up. She followed protocol perfectly as he left her in that curtsy.

  There was no telltale shake as she was forced to remain with legs bent and back perfectly straight. With her head tilted down, she exposed the perfect skin and soft tendrils of dark hair at the nape of her neck.

  �
��You are a beauty, my dear,” the prince at last said. And then he held his slightly pudgy hand to her.

  The entire room watched. All the men seemed transfixed as if they all wished that they could have her in their command.

  Ultimately, wasn’t that what all these men wanted? To have a woman as beautiful as she completely in their control?

  Tristan tightened his grip on the cane while forcing himself to remain without expression.

  The woman was a distraction from his purpose. Distractions weren’t permissible. Not while vengeance had yet to be achieved. It didn’t matter that his pursuit had lasted years. He would spend his whole life seeking justice if need be.

  As soon as she slipped her slender fingers into the prince’s grasp, he lifted her from her curtsy. The room, as if they all hadn’t been ardent voyeurs, burst into conversation, back slapping each other and immersing themselves into mindless speech.

  The clink of crystal added to the general din as everyone returned to a semblance of normalcy.

  As normal as could be claimed for one of the most secret and illegal gambling clubs in England.

  There was a tangible excitement to the men in black evening dress as they milled about, drinking as they waited for the time at the various tables in the next room to begin.

  This place was where one came to walk a knife’s edge. Granted, most of the men here were richer than Croesus, but even such men were known to gamble so dearly they’d compromise their estates.

  Rumor had it that Lord Grey had shot himself here two weeks ago after losing a particularly vast sum of money. Over forty thousand.

  Many had tittered over Lord Grey’s foolishness and how terrible it was for the family that the casket had to be closed.

  Such people disgusted Ardore. For some men were simply unable to control themselves. He’d seen it happen again and again as they bet thousands of pounds repeatedly on games of chance when logic would have better suited them.

  They’d sit in corners of the room, holding their heads. Shocked by their sudden condition and too terrified to go home to tell their families.

  And his wild woman was here. No doubt, the silk on her back had been paid for by the likes of Grey’s death.

  It should have made him hate her knowing that she so gracefully encouraged these men to throw their fortunes away.

  He did hate her.

  He hated anyone who victimized the weak and people like Lord Grey.

  Then again. . . he couldn’t stop staring at her serene face as she stood beside the prince, positively diminutive beside his ever-growing frame. It was impossible to know what brought her to these gatherings. A woman had few choices in this world. She might be as much of a victim as Lord Grey.

  She snuck a glance over her shoulder. Even as her fingers still lingered on the prince’s hand, their eyes met.

  Those piercing blue eyes. They were two flat, hard pieces of sapphire that stared back at him. But she wasn’t cold. Oh, no. What he saw in those perfect orbs was terror. Sheer terror.

  A long moment stretched between them. Everyone and everything seemed to disappear into a deafening silence. For a breath of a moment, they were the only people in this room. Only their minds and souls speaking quietly to each other.

  It was perfect symbiosis where he felt the pain and fear of her whole life lead her to this moment.

  Abruptly, she blinked and looked away.

  The pull of her gaze had nearly been physical, so physical he found himself maneuvering his way across the room.

  The damned limp from his fall off Socrates made his gait a bit slower, but the cane gave him an extra edge in the present company. Everyone here knew he had a penchant for violence and as he strode, the men seemed to part like the Red Sea before Moses.

  A cane was a marvelous weapon, after all.

  Just as he was about to reach the small, exclusive circle about the prince, a hand darted out.

  He started to shake the person off but he stopped himself. He wasn’t here for her. Terror or no. Symbiosis or no. He needed to leave her be.

  “I’m so glad you could grace us with you presence this evening, Your Grace.”

  Tristan stilled. This was what he had been waiting for. This is why he had spent years cultivating a vicious image.

  Lord Beaton, third Viscount Huntsly, looked him straight in the eyes.

  The old man’s silver hair shone in the candlelight. The soft glow of candlelight, which he had no doubt carefully orchestrated for his guests, illuminated the shadows under his sharp cheekbones.

  The man had to be over sixty but his body was that of a younger man.

  This was the master of this house. This was the man who facilitated the darkness to corrupt the light.

  “I thank ye for yer invitation,” Tristan said.

  His own voice was tense. He forced himself to sound that way. At least, he saw Huntsly sensed it, his eyes narrowing slightly, bringing the wrinkles on his surprisingly smooth face to bear. “I’m sorry to hear you were thrown from your horse on your way.”

  “Yes.” Tristan scowled for effect. “Bloody roads.”

  Huntsly hesitated. “You came through the back of the house?”

  “I did.”

  Huntsly’s head angled ever so slightly towards the woman standing with the prince. “You made it into the house alone?”

  Had she told Huntsly of their encounter?

  From the way her back had stiffened ever so slightly, it was clear, she knew they were speaking. . . and instinctively, he knew. No, she hadn’t told Huntsly of their exchange.

  “Yes. I made it into the house, barely.” He gestured with his cane, threatening punishment. “My damned horse charged off into the night.”

  He’d never hurt Socrates. But that wasn’t something Huntsly needed to know. Unlike most of the men of his sphere, he had no desire to break beautiful things to his will.

  “Hopefully, the stable lads will find him.”

  “Och, he’ll find his way to the house. Socrates always somehow kens where I am.”

  “How fascinating. I trust you will enjoy your evening despite your injury.”

  “My injury is nothing,” he assured. “I’m honored that ye would invite me. I’m looking forward to promised revels.”

  “Well, word was beginning to get about that you’d grown rather bored with the usual entertainments.” Huntsly’s silver brows rose in question. “In fact, I’ve heard that you involve yourself in some other betting.”

  Tristan nodded. Over the last years, he had descended into pits that he’d not even known existed to find the men on his list. To destroy them at any cost.

  Huntsly shifted topics swiftly with a gracious smile. “Have you met my niece?”

  Tristan nearly choked, but then cocked his head to the side. “Yer niece?”

  Beaton gestured ever so slightly towards the prince and the circle about him. “Lady Annabelle.”

  His niece?

  The two words hit him like successive blows. He’d had no idea what he’d expected. A mistress? A professional entertainer? This certainly was not it. What kind of man put his own family into such a position?

  The grasping kind.

  Ten years ago, Huntsly had been on the verge of total ruin himself. Times changed.

  Tristan forced himself to smile appreciatively. “She’s an ornament to the evening.”

  “You’re not the only one who thinks so, Your Grace.”

  “Clearly no’.” Tristan gripped the cane again, tightening his fist, glad to have it. Even after all this time, it was a challenge to hide his disgust for men like Huntsly. “The prince seems quite taken.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?”

  A sick feeling lodged in his gut. There was only one reason to put such a beautiful young woman so firmly in the prince’s gaze in such a questionable place.

  “Ah!” called out Huntsly. “Lord Caxton, do let me introduce you.”

  If Tristan hadn’t known better, he would have feared that H
untsly had deduced his real motives for attending his gathering because Caxton was the very reason he had agreed to attend this glittering cesspit.

  Caxton sauntered over, a glass of brandy in his firm hand.

  The man was tall, trim, and good-looking with dark brown hair and chestnut eyes. Charm personified as he gave a slight bow. “Good evening, dear host. It looks as if this will be a most. . . pleasurable evening.”

  Huntsly laughed softly. “Indeed, Caxton. Do you know the Duke of Ardore?”

  Caxton’s smile only deepened. “Why, no. I don’t believe I do.”

  God. . . it was so tempting. So tempting to reply, but I believe you’ve met my sister.

  Chapter 3

  Annabelle slipped through the company, slowly, softly, her head tilted at a seductive angle. Weaving her way through the finely-dressed men, she felt that ever-present fear which drove her every action.

  A mask of a smile, a smile which suggested some hidden promise, hid her true disgust for the men about her. It was no easy thing to be the only woman in a room full of wealthy, powerful men.

  Men who often felt as if they could do whatever they pleased with anyone they felt inferior to them. And well, women were certainly not their equals.

  So, as she waved her black ivory fan ever so slightly, and made her way towards the table at the back of the long salon, she girded her nerves knowing that she was naught but a pawn at the control of a king.

  Still, there were worse things. She mightn’t be a player at all. She might still be locked away from the stars and wind and earth, kept in filth and degradation.

  Still, the presence of the prince and the way he had looked at her meant only one thing. She was no fool. She knew what her uncle would wish from such a meeting.

  Power. Untold power and funds. Which she would supply by being in the bed of such a man.

  Though her stomach twisted, she smiled. Smiled as if her life depended on it. Because it did.