Kiss of a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  Features: symmetrical. Jawline: chiseled. Visage: arresting. Light brown hair tumbled over a perfectly shaped head. His cravat was as white as chemists’ talcum, a subtle explosion of sharp points and soft folds designed to add elegance without distracting from the rest of the package.

  And Saint Nick made one tempting package.

  The hard curves of his muscled arms and wide shoulders were shown to advantage in a dashing coat of black superfine that begged to be touched. His waistcoat was the shimmery silver of magnesium, an element oft-combined with iron. She wondered if his will was just as strong.

  Coal-black boots, tight-fitting buckskins, kid gloves… All he’d need to do was jingle a bell and every woman present would clamor to be his.

  Every woman but Penelope.

  Yes, his looks were the very definition of all that was virile and desirable in a gentleman. But his approach to life made him the last man who could hold her interest. He was an accomplished rake. A man who relied on romance to woo silly women.

  The urge to spread one’s seed might be a natural male directive, but Penelope would never fawn over a man with nothing to recommend him beyond symmetrical features and pretty words. She had better things to do. Her mind preferred the comfort and excitement of her laboratory to pointless strolls down moonlit paths with a man who couldn’t hold a meaningful conversation.

  Penelope cared about facts, about science, about logic. A natural philosopher would never select a mating partner based on external beauty alone.

  “Uninterested,” she said abruptly. “Shall we find the dessert buffet?”

  “We should find someone to introduce us,” Gloria breathed. “I had no idea Saint Nick had a younger brother. I’m very, very interested.”

  Penelope frowned. “If you had no idea he existed, how do you know he’s the younger brother?”

  “Because Nicholas Pringle is first in line to a dukedom,” Gloria replied with a cheeky grin. “Scoff at Society papers all you like. Some of us use them for important research.”

  Penelope gave an affectionate roll of her eyes. “I wouldn’t want a husband who must mind a dukedom.”

  “Low probability,” Gloria answered promptly. “He’s heir presumptive to the Duke of Silkridge, whose first banns were announced last Sunday. The Pringle brothers are his cousins. They’ve no other titles, which means they visit London for social reasons, rather than to attend the House of Lords. I presume their country piles are elsewhere.”

  Penelope burst out laughing. “You have done a lot of research.”

  Gloria gave an angelic smile. “What else am I to do? Spinsters like me have to wait around for your new perfume in order to have a chance. Unless opportunity knocks. Let’s go introduce ourselves to the Pringle brothers.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Gloria’s brows arched in surprise. “Because Saint Nick is a rake? Since when do you care about propriety?”

  Penelope shook her head. “Because you’re right. I should be working on the new perfume. I started a female version at the same time as the male version, but Duke was easier. I halted the other project when I learned the Natural Philosophers Guild was seeking applicants to research practical applications of John Dalton’s atomic theory.”

  Gloria’s mouth fell open. “You mean… it’s almost done and you abandoned it? The magical eau de toilette that could have viscounts and earls swooning at my feet?”

  “It’s close,” Penelope hedged. “I’m not yet in a position to declare with empirical certainty that Duchess will outperform Duke, but I intend to lock myself in my laboratory until it’s ready for trials.”

  “All the more reason to introduce ourselves to the Pringle brothers while they’re still here.” Gloria narrowed her eyes. “A month from now, after I bathe myself in reptile excretions—or whatever ungodly concoction you plan to create—when I next meet him in a crowded ballroom, I can say, ‘Why, Mr. Pringle, I haven’t seen you since the Christmas soirée!’ And he’ll say, ‘Mmrrgle blrrrgmmph’ as he falls at my feet in a manly, yet glorious, swoon.”

  Penelope shook her finger in mock reprimand. “If you apply more than the recommended dosage, all the men in the ballroom will say ‘Mmrrgle blrrrgmmph’ in unison as they crumple gracelessly to your feet.”

  “Even better,” Gloria said with delight. “Nothing starts a conversation quite like regaining consciousness among a dizzy heap of equally smitten gentlemen.”

  “Once the new perfume is ready, women needn’t bother talking to prospective gentlemen anymore,” Penelope promised. “Chemistry will take over and the subsequent natural urges will guide them straight into your arms.”

  Gloria pushed her lips into a pout. “What about those of us who enjoy talking to men?”

  “Ninnies, all of you.” Penelope linked her arm with Gloria’s. “I’d rather hold a conversation with a bain marie than some empty-headed rake.”

  “Even one as wicked and handsome as Saint Nick?”

  “Especially not him,” Penelope replied firmly. “Now, where was that dessert buffet?”

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Nicholas Pringle came to an abrupt halt inside the doorway of an enormous ballroom. He had no choice. The extravagant, high-vaulted chamber was packed elbow-to-elbow with what appeared to be every resident—and guest—of the small mountaintop village known as Christmas.

  Ladies in fine frocks and gentlemen in tailored waistcoats. Ordinary men and women who looked as though they’d strolled into the castle straight from their farm, shop, or garden. A fair number of children not yet old enough to be presented at court squeezed through the bustling crowd to pilfer treats from an extensive buffet that an army of cooks would struggle to keep replenished.

  Nicholas turned to his brother in disbelief. “This is your idea of a small, intimate gathering to get to know our temporary neighbors?”

  Chris tossed him an unrepentant grin. “It’s even better than I had hoped.”

  “What did you hope?” Nicholas asked suspiciously.

  “The posted bills invited townsfolk to celebrate the success of a local perfumer,” his brother admitted. “I didn’t mention the details because it sounded…”

  “Boring?” Nicholas put in dryly.

  “As you can see, it is not! We are in luck.” Chris’s brow creased. “That is, if we can edge ourselves inside the ballroom.”

  “Allow me,” Nicholas said magnanimously and rose to his full height in order to cast a practiced smile at the ladies most likely to recognize him.

  His brother reached for his arm. “No! Don’t—”

  It was too late. The curve of Nicholas’s “sensuous mouth” (as reported by the scandal columns) and the glint of wicked promise in his “sapphire irises” (never described as mere cerulean) had already wrought their magic.

  A river of breathless gasps rippled through the female portion of the crowd, in many cases accompanied by the clutch of dainty hands to suddenly heaving breasts or the flurry of a painted fan aimed at an overheated décolletage.

  “Six,” Chris said in disgust. “One half-smile from you and half a dozen perfectly healthy ladies swoon to their feet.”

  “Nonsense. This crush is packed far too dense for anyone to fall down.” Nicholas yanked his brother forward. “You go first. They’re making way.”

  After the briefest of baleful glares, his brother led the way deeper into the crowd.

  Nicholas allowed himself a small grin. He and his brother were both here for the same reason: women. But there the similarity ended.

  Chris sought a gentle young lady of good breeding and pretty manners with whom he could fall in love and marry. Together they would fill a large nursery with spoiled, happy children.

  Nicholas could not imagine a worse fate. His tastes ran to women who preferred a quick tumble over boring talk. Those who measured their liaisons in hours, not lifetimes.

  His recent fame in the caricatures had only deepened his rakish reputation. The women who chased him sought conques
t, not courtship. Nicholas didn’t mind. The last thing he needed was to entangle himself with a marriageable woman. He would gladly hand all of those to his brother.

  “Speech, speech!” came a shout from the other side of the ballroom.

  The crowd roared its agreement.

  “Are you certain this party is about perfume?” Nicholas asked. “What can possibly be said about toilet water that we don’t already know?”

  “This is the birthplace of Duke,” his brother answered with reverence. “The inventor is somewhere in this room.”

  A flood of irritation washed away Nicholas’s buoyant good humor.

  “Where?” He curled his hands into fists. “I’ll throttle the cretin right now.”

  “It’ll ruin your image,” Christopher chided him. “And mine. No throttling.”

  “That horrid perfume is a plague upon London,” Nicholas growled. “It’s ruining my life.”

  “I like how it smells.” Chris shrugged. “So does everyone else.”

  Nicholas scowled at him. “That’s what’s horrid about it.”

  “That it works?”

  “Yes.” Nicholas said with feeling. “It shouldn’t exist. A rake is a noble calling—”

  “What’s noble about it?” his brother cut in skeptically.

  “—in which a man utilizes his mind—”

  “His body, you mean.” Christopher smirked. “The primary criteria for ‘rakedom’ seems to be nothing more than a handsome face and a hard—”

  “—in order to engage a willing female participant in a few hours of mutual satisfaction.” Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “This pox of a perfume has every dandy, greenhorn, and featherwit in London dousing himself in eau de toilette and believing himself a dashing conqueror of women.”

  Chris lifted a shoulder. “The ladies do seem to like it.”

  “It’s cheating,” Nicholas said firmly.

  “So is having a handsome face,” his brother countered. “See how well you do with a flour sack wrapped about your head.”

  Nicholas sent him a flat stare. “My face is real. This accursed perfume is false. It must be stopped.”

  “Don’t wear it,” Chris suggested.

  “I would never,” Nicholas said in outrage. “One shouldn’t need to smell like a duke in order to find a woman.”

  “I wonder if it smells like any dukes we know,” his brother mused.

  “It smells like all the dukes we know,” Nicholas gritted out. “And the earls and the viscounts and the footmen and the furriers and the bakers and the butchers and the—”

  “Everyone’s wearing it. I know,” Chris interrupted with a grin. “That’s the point of this party. Duke works. I’ve heard no less than a dozen gentlemen swear it was their key to securing a bride.”

  “No man should use a parlor trick to attract women,” Nicholas snapped. “Whether it’s to take them to bed or to the altar. Deception is dishonorable.”

  “I concede the point,” his brother said after a moment’s thought. “I would never wed a woman whose interest in me was anything other than genuine. But we have different goals. You are not interested in marriage. Or have things changed?”

  “Never.”

  A chill slid down Nicholas’s spine at the very idea. It wasn’t just the thought of forever that gave him pause. Wives were alarmingly unpredictable. He preferred knowing exactly what each day would bring.

  As a rake, the lines were clearly drawn. One night. One time. Nothing more. Everyone knew what to expect. The women he dallied with sought the same things. They lived in the same world, comported themselves by the same rules. Courtesans, widows, women of independent means who either did not have a reputation to protect or were well-practiced in secrecy.

  Nicholas was here for a holiday. This northern village of eternal Christmastide had already given more gifts than anticipated. His brother was welcome to woo any doe-eyed virgin or proper young lady he might wish. The fallen women were the only ones Nicholas was interested in. They wanted a good time; he could provide it.

  Chris glanced over his shoulder as if hearing his thoughts. “Aren’t you getting a little too old to pursue the life of a rake?”

  “How old is too old for pleasure?” Nicholas countered. A preposterous notion. What else was the point of life?

  “At least admit we are getting too old for debutantes,” his brother insisted.

  “I’ve never wanted one,” Nicholas said with a shiver. Ghastly thought.

  “What do you want?” his brother asked softly. “Do you know?”

  Nicholas considered the question. At six-and-thirty, he much preferred ladies close to his age.

  Over the years, he had been propositioned by every kind. Married, widowed, fallen. They weren’t after romance, but distraction. Nicholas was happy to provide it. None of them were looking for love. It wasn’t a service he provided, or even a concept he believed in.

  His brother, on the other hand… Nicholas arched his brows. “I suppose you believe your future bride is elbowing her way through this crush, guided by Fate itself into your open, willing arms?”

  “I hope so,” Chris said fervently. “Isn’t that what we all want?”

  Nicholas stared at him. “I cannot imagine wanting to wake up to the same woman day after day.”

  Nor would they wish that with him. For ladies seeking husbands, he was a terrible choice. For those seeking one night of pleasure, however… He was exactly the right man.

  His brother leaned forward earnestly. “Haven’t you ever had an evening so perfect that you wished every day going forward would be just like it?”

  “Not once.”

  Nicholas didn’t even have to think it over. He had never even wished to spend a week with the same woman.

  “There she is!” His brother tilted his head excitedly in the approximate direction of three hundred celebrating villagers.

  “There who is?” Nicholas craned his neck. “Your future bride?”

  “The inventor of Duke.” Chris explained, his eyes shining. “The reason everyone’s here.”

  “Wait. The evil perfumer turning every idiot in London into a self-professed rake is a woman?” Nicholas said in disbelief.

  Chris raised his brows. “Are you interested now?”

  “Very interested,” Nicholas replied. But not for the reason his brother expected.

  He wanted a private audience with the lady perfumer for something else entirely.

  Chapter 3

  Nicholas hid the flower he’d purchased from the castle greenhouse behind his back and turned up the snow-dusted walk leading to the perfumer’s front door. No matter how hard he tried, life was full of surprises.

  Instead of visiting comely ladies of ill repute, today’s target was some bluestocking lady chemist whose naïve oversight had spawned chaos in London’s previously stable social order. The only way to stem the explosion of faux rakelings was to halt production of Duke.

  At least the errand should only take a moment. Not because Nicholas expected his reputation to do the work. By all accounts, Miss Mitchell was as awkward and science-obsessed and reclusive as the most fervent of her male counterparts. The lady was unlikely to have heard of him.

  In this case, one could not count on so-called sapphire irises or the curve of his smile to sway her. The rose in his hand was just for insurance. Nicholas intended to appeal to her logic. As a natural philosopher, she was no doubt already immersed in some new project. He would encourage her to give up Duke and focus on that instead.

  His knock upon the door was answered by neither a maid nor a butler, but the lady chemist herself. Miss Mitchell wore thick leather mitts with strange burn marks, a stiff gray smock dusted in white powder, and a beleaguered expression. “What?”

  Nicholas thrust the flower forward out of reflex.

  The prevailing wisdom was that roses could dissolve any disagreement between a lady and a gentleman. Because he had never returned for a second day’s company with the same wo
man, Nicholas had never had to test the theory. He hoped his brother was right.

  It did not appear so.

  Rather than coo or simper or whatever female reaction single red roses were meant to elicit, Miss Mitchell glanced over her shoulder as if she had left something far more interesting in another room before returning her irritated gaze to Nicholas. “Did you want something?”

  What was the best opening gambit?

  Her eyes were neither cobalt nor emerald nor turquoise, but brown: a color rarely waxed poetic upon by romantic fools. Clearly, they had never glimpsed Miss Mitchell’s eyes. Hers were not a dull brown, or a forgettable brown, or even a plain, serviceable brown. Not even the brown of coffee or cinnamon or chocolate.

  Hers were different from all the other brown eyes Nicholas had ever seen. Deeper. Sharper. More dangerous. These were eyes that did not merely look, but saw. He would need to be careful.

  “Forgive me for not waiting for a formal introduction,” he said pleasantly, lifting the perfect rose a little higher so she could not miss it. “My name is—”

  “‘Saint Nick’, the infamous London rake.” She pursed her lips. “I’ve heard.”

  Well. That explained the frosty welcome.

  “My calling card phrases it a bit differently,” he said, and tried again. “I am Mr. Nicholas Pringle of London, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “That makes one of us.” She sent another impatient glance over her shoulder. “I’m not interested in you or your services. Is that all?”

  “I’m not offering myself to you,” Nicholas stammered. There was nothing to purchase. He wasn’t a cicisbeo. Good God. How had he lost control of what was meant to be an easy conversation? “I was merely hoping for a brief tête-à-tête.”

  She arched a brow. “Then why bring a flower?”

  Excellent point, blast it. He’d known her eyes would see too much. He chucked the rose onto a snow bank. “Now may I come inside?”

  A sudden, deafening din rent the air like the chaos of a hundred woodpeckers drilling their beaks in unison against a sea of clattering pots.