Between the Duke and the Devil

by Devon, Eva

  “I willna deny that I want ye,” he confessed. “But I have other passions driving me. Other purposes.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment before she asked, “And you have given no thought as to what will become of me now that you have saved me?”

  “I havena,” he agreed, suddenly sick at the realization with how he had acted so rashly.

  “Of course. And it is why I do not wish you to save me.”

  “Will ye or nil, ye, I have,” he said. And despite the rashness of his actions, he would find a way for all to be well with her.

  “Once again, you must prove that to my uncle,” she protested.

  “It will be my greatest joy after I kill Caxton.”

  She blanched. “Please do not. Please go. Leave now.”

  “I canna.”

  She shook her head, clearly desperate to reach him. “These men do not play by normal rules.”

  “Oh, my dearest Annabelle, and ye think I do?”

  She gasped for air then rushed, “I do not know what to think. But there is nothing now that I can say. I’ve warned you. Now, I must go back.”

  “To yer uncle?” he asked.

  “To the prince,” she corrected. “After all, he is my purpose tonight and I daren’t neglect it if you’re to survive.”

  “I promise—”

  “I loathe promises,” she cut in. “Words broken with more ease than they are uttered.”

  “I willna fail ye,” he vowed.

  “We shall see, my lord.” She pulled away from him, the heat of her as elusive as the fog swirling through the night. “We shall see.”

  She turned then and, with her feline grace, headed back to the house.

  He fought the anger raging in him, a fury he thought he’d long ago contained at the cruelty of this world towards women.

  His sister had had an important family. It had not stopped her ruination.

  But, at least, he was avenging her.

  Who had avenged Annabelle?

  No one.

  Chapter 8

  Once, years ago, when she’d been little, she’d dreamed of being saved. She’d dreamed that someone one would come and take her away from the rotten food, the ripped and worn clothes, the screaming and shouting, the inescapable mud and soot.

  Once.

  She knew better than to trust a savior now.

  It mattered not, if he came in the guise of a beautiful angel. A fiery angel bearing a sword with the power to smite her enemies.

  But. . . did she dare to stay? If she did, her future was just as uncertain as if she left. For Caxton was a devil she did not know. Not yet. And she had no wish to. She’d managed to survive her uncle. But Caxton? She shuddered.

  Was she willing to throw herself into the abyss?

  She had already asked herself this question and, already, she knew the answer.

  The moment she had decided to help the duke, she’d known.

  She was leaving her uncle and all that he represented. No matter what it meant.

  For if he would sell her body for his profit, then her comfortable cage had become a degrading prison where she received little more than the scraps for her labors. It was no longer worth the risk.

  If it had been her choice, as so many women she’d known had done, then perhaps she might have been able to forgive it. But she would not allow her uncle to be her pimp. Nor Caxton. She had no question in her mind the pleasure Caxton would take in her pain. She’d seen it in his gaze. Unlike her uncle, she doubted he’d restrain himself.

  Yet, that left her in a terrible dilemma.

  What to do now?

  Immediately, she had to continue to act as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  So, once again, she entered the gambling room where most of the men were still at play. Most would continue until it was time for the duel.

  Perhaps, it would gain an audience.

  She shuddered again, hoping anyone who saw her would assume she was chilled.

  The prince lifted his head and spotted her.

  He smiled, then lifted his cigar to his lips and puffed upon it.

  She smiled in turn and went straight to him. The time for her overt coyness was over. This time, she had a plan and it was all she could do to breathe. She was taking her future into her own hands, now.

  “Your Royal Highness,” she said as she dipped her signature low curtsy.

  He smiled, then beckoned for her to stand beside him as he played.

  He had a winning hand.

  The prince was a good player.

  And if he enjoyed the night, his entourage would become regular players at her uncle’s home as would their prestige and wealth.

  She took a glass of champagne as the tray passed and sipped.

  The prince was drinking brandy. “Would you refresh my glass, my dear?”

  My dear.

  It had begun. If she did not run now, she would be his. . . for as long as he desired her. And she would play into her uncle’s hands. And Caxton’s. Though apparently, if Ardore won the duel, in the realm of men, she no longer belonged to Caxton.

  The thought should have been abhorrent. But how could it be when one understood that women were essentially chattel, shunted from one place to the next by their male masters?

  “Of course,” she purred softly, hating the game she played. The art she manufactured.

  Slowly she made her way to the brandy, and brought the crystal decanter back, clasping the neck gracefully.

  She stroked the crystal lightly as she poured, an innocent but clear suggestion of intimacy.

  “What was that noise over there?” the prince asked.

  She wasn’t fooled. The prince almost certainly already knew.

  But she leaned over, her breasts plumping ever so slightly and she whispered, “I do believe Caxton lost rather terribly.”

  “Bad temper that one.”

  She wondered if Caxton knew the prince’s opinion of him? Or her uncle? They couldn’t. Not if they thought marriage to Caxton would be a positive move towards her affair with the prince.

  “You don’t care for Caxton, Sire?”

  The prince shrugged. “A decent shot, handsome, a good conversationalist, but there’s something off about him. Why, my dear?”

  “I do believe my uncle thought to marry me to him,” she said purposefully, shocked at how easy it was to abandon her uncle in the end, despite the danger.

  “Caxton, eh? Do you fancy him? He’s handsome. And you could do with a husband.”

  The last words were imbued with meaning. Clear meaning.

  If she were married, they could be friends.

  “Oh, all ladies need husbands, Your Highness,” she agreed pleasantly.

  “Quite right.” The prince pursed his lips and eyed her appreciatively. “But Caxton for you?”

  She smiled tightly.

  “He may well be dead in the morning,” she said. “The duel, after all. I’m sure you heard of it.”

  And clearly, the prince had merely been trying to draw her out. He’d succeeded. “Indeed. Caxton will be dead before the sun has fully risen.”

  “Is Ardore so exceptional?” she asked, her breath fast.

  “Ardore?” The prince queried before he laughed. “A bounder. But excellent with pistol and sword. Most men shouldn’t wish to face him on a field.”

  Here it was. The moment she’d been waiting for, only it wasn’t until this exact moment that she’d known what needed to be asked. “Would he make a good husband?”

  The prince’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “A husband?”

  “Ladies always wonder such things,” she replied, leaning towards him.

  “Of course.” The prince shuffled his cards. “Ardore has no inclination to marry as I understand. But he’d do very well in all respects.”

  “No?”

  The prince leaned back in his chair then he turned to his confidante, Lord Brunel, and whispered something.

  Brunel blinked but then nodde
d.

  “Sir?” she asked. “Is all well?”

  “Yes, my dear. Very.” The prince patted her with his heavy hand. “Never you mind about Caxton. He’d make you a terrible husband. I’ll have a word with your uncle.”

  She felt sick. Suddenly terribly ill.

  She’d set something into motion. On purpose. And she had a feeling that Ardore might be furious. Oh, he’d insisted he wished to save her. But if the prince was about to do what she thought he might, Ardore might never forgive her.

  It was too late to turn back now. Much to her shock, she did not feel fear. She felt relief. At long last, she was making decisions of her own.

  Chapter 9

  Tristan stared out the window into the black night, anticipation pumping through his veins. Soon, dawn would creep to the horizon. Soon, the faint gray-blue light would come and he would finally have vengeance.

  Oh, he hadn’t ignored Annabelle’s warning.

  He was ready for any mischief Caxton and her uncle might attempt.

  He’d chosen one of the prince’s men as his second. There’d be no chance one of those select few would assist in his murder.

  He’d bring his own pistol and insist on using it.

  Caxton would be dead very soon.

  The mere thought of it was heaven.

  A soft knock at the door stole through his reverie and he whipped out his pistol. Hiding it behind his back, he called, “Enter.”

  The door swung open to reveal the older but jaunty Lord Brunel.

  “Ardore,” he said, as he strode in, his elaborately embroidered coattails swinging behind him.

  Tristan’s heartbeat thudded slowly. Abruptly, he felt a weight drop on him.

  If Brunel was here, the prince was somehow involved. There was no other reason why he would pay visit.

  Brunel surveyed the room. He was a man as close to the throne as a man could get. His swagger was refined, but unmissable. He walked as a man of power walks, knowing that everyone and everything about him was at his command. There were few that were more powerful than dukes. Brunel was one.

  “How can I help ye?” Ardore asked.

  Brunel smiled. “Oh, it’s the other way around.”

  “Is it?” Ardore tested carefully.

  “Perhaps you noticed Miss Winters this evening?”

  The words which might sound casual were dangerous. He knew it. Anyone who’d seen the prince notice her knew it.

  “Och, all men must notice her,” Ardore replied simply. “She’s a beauty.”

  “Yes,” Brunel agreed smoothly before adding, “and unmarried.”

  Something, some sense of warning, tightened Tristan’s gut. “Yes.”

  Brunel peered out the window for a moment. “Her uncle is looking to make her a match.”

  “Is he?” Tristan suddenly had the deeply unpleasant sensation of feeling as if he’d been shoved off a cliff. This was no idle line of questioning. But what was the purpose?

  “Mmmm. The prince agrees that the young lady should be married.”

  “Best thing for a young lady. Especially a beautiful one,” he forced himself to say.

  “We are of like mind,” Brunel enthused. “Her uncle seems to think Caxton would be a good choice.”

  Tristan tensed. He couldn’t help himself. “Does he?”

  “Mmmm.” Brunel folded his hands behind his back and turned to face him fully. “You’ve interest to marry, have you?”

  Tristan remained still. “No.”

  Tsking, Brunel said, “Pity.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the prince thinks marriage would suit you.”

  Dread coiled in his stomach. “Oh?”

  “In fact, a good marriage might do you a world of good.” Brunel cocked his head to the side. “More good than you could ever imagine.”

  He couldn’t bear it any longer. The veiled hints. Not when he was so near his revenge. “What, exactly, are ye trying to say?”

  “The prince admires Miss Winters and wouldn’t see her married to a snake like Caxton. Everyone knows what sort of man he is. You’d be a much better choice.”

  “I’m no’ a milksop,” pointed out Tristan. He wasn’t the most likely candidate for cuckold.

  “No,” Brunel said quickly. “But you’re not a vicious fool, either. And you’d understand that when the time came, you’d be rewarded handsomely and you’d step aside.”

  “The prince wishes me to marry her.” The world seemed to spin about him. He could scarcely countenance what he was hearing. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” Brunel all but bounced on his polished boots. “How would you like a few more titles and all the estates and lands associated with it? A guarantee for your people in Scotland that things will be right as rain for generations?”

  A sick taste coated his tongue, knowing that one couldn’t refuse a prince no matter the reward. Somehow, he managed to reply, “Who would no’ like such a thing?”

  “Good.”

  Tristan forced himself to hold Brunel’s gaze as one thing became absolutely clear. She was never going to be free. Not while the prince wanted her.

  He’d saved her from Caxton, but if he didn’t marry her, she’d be married to someone else. Quickly. Because it was what the prince desired. And the prince always got what he desired.

  Though it galled him, he inclined his head. “Whatever pleases His Royal Highness pleases me.”

  “Wonderful.” Brunel released his hands from behind his back, all but beaming for a man so usually implacable. “It will be arranged then.”

  Brunel headed for the door. “Oh. One more thing. There will be no duel.”

  “What?” Tristan queried, shock rushing through him.

  “The prince doesn’t approve of such things, and he won’t have you involved in something so potentially scandalous,” Brunel informed seriously. “It would be all over the news sheets if you killed Caxton. So, he’ll apologize and that will be the end of it.”

  Swallowing back a dose of rage, Tristan nodded. There was naught else he could do.

  “Splendid,” Brunel clipped as he clasped the door handle. Just before he crossed into the hall, he turned and smiled, “Oh. . . congratulations, Your Grace, on your very advantageous marriage.”

  As he was left alone in his room, the fire crackling and the first touch of blue light coming through the window, Tristan cursed.

  Annabelle Winters had ruined everything. She had ruined his revenge and, now, she’d taken his freedom just as he’d hoped to give her hers.

  The slap cracked through the room and her cheek burst with pain.

  It was the first time her uncle had ever hit her across the face.

  The force of it had whipped her around and she was staring at the Persian rug beneath their feet.

  It amazed her, in this strange moment, how she had never noticed the intricate roses woven, red and white, into the blue background. She’d never noticed the thorns before. Thorns that appeared to drip with blood.

  Blood.

  It pooled in her mouth, tasting of iron.

  Slowly, she lifted her hand and cupped her cheek.

  The inside of her mouth burned. Liquid slid over her tongue and around her teeth.

  The blow had lacerated her inner cheek.

  The pulse of her blood hummed through the pain and in the wrenching ache of her neck, strained by the quick movement.

  Ever so purposefully, she lifted a cold gaze to her uncle whose hand had now curled into a fist.

  “What have you done?” he seethed. “I had it all planned.”

  “Think before you act,” she bit out. Something deep inside her urged her to stillness. Urged her to a strange calm.

  “Oh, I have thought, Annabelle. Very carefully.”

  He hauled back his arm.

  Without flinching, she spat. Blood and spittle flew from her lips and spattered onto his face.

  His arm halted and revulsion wrinkled his features.

  “How dare—”r />
  “How dare I?” she cut in, her voice cutting through the dark room. “Because a prince wants me. That’s how I dare. Your own ambition has done this. You have given me the ear of a prince, Uncle. And if you touch me again, I swear to God, I will ensure your castle is taken apart stone by stone and you are left with nothing.”

  The anger in her uncle’s eyes flared but his arm faltered.

  She was correct and he knew it. There was no arguing with the prince’s desire and protection. One word from her and he’d be ostracized. After all, the prince liked to think of himself as a lover of women.

  With Caxton as her husband, at least then her uncle could still manipulate her. Now? He’d lost the game.

  She squared her shoulders. “I don’t have to marry Caxton.”

  Her uncle barked with laughter. “No. No, you don’t.”

  “Good. Then—”

  “You’re marrying the Duke of Ardore.”

  The Duke of Ardore?

  Her breath grew shallow and she forced herself to have no other reaction. He would take no pleasure in his plans being changed. She’d known. She’d known that this was the path she’d set herself on when she’d mentioned his name to the prince.

  She didn’t even have to think twice to realize it.

  In a few short words to His Royal Highness, she had stolen Ardore’s freedom.

  Would he ever forgive her?

  At least now, she’d be away from her uncle and this house and the deaths that they so quietly hid away. The suicides, and brains that had been blown out onto the carpets on more than one dark, cold night.

  There was no turning back now and she was glad.

  The thought of his mouth on hers suddenly came to mind.

  She was his. She would be his. There was no debating on it and the thought did not fill her with horror but rather with a shocking sense of anticipation.

  “Annabelle,” her uncle snapped.

  She blinked, her attention focusing back on the hard man who had, in turn, only hardened her further. “Yes?”

  His eyes flared with anger. “I should have left you in that place. I should have left you to whore and die.”

  She sucked in a slow breath. “I will never forget that you took me away from there, but I will never forget that you made me into stone here. That you taught me to do whatever was necessary to keep out of that place. Even in leading young men to their ruin and self-slaughter. We are murderers.”