Duke of Scandal (Moonlight Square, Book 1)

by Gaelen Foley

  Papa had tanned Peter’s hide for his role in that mishap, but, of course, Jason never got in trouble for anything.

  Sometimes Felicity wondered how different his life might have turned out if his parents had bothered disciplining their son every now and then, or if his army of caretakers had ever risked raising their voices to His Little Lordship. Unfortunately, keeping their posts had been more important to the servants than the boy himself. The Carvel children had gaped at how the duke’s heir told adults around him what to do—and how they usually obeyed!

  The only one who had ever really laid down the law with Jason was her brother. One good punch in the face at the boys’ first meeting and the two had become fast friends. Peter he respected, especially after he had killed a few of the enemy in the war.

  She knew Jason had been bitter when her brother got to go off and fight Napoleon while he’d been forced to stay home, his father lingering at death’s door. He had to be ready to take up the dukedom, and for that, it was his duty to remain unscathed.

  Thinking back on it, it seemed like that had been the start of his descent into the debauchery he had pursued ever since he’d come into his title. As though he had nothing better to do and deeply resented it.

  “Please,” he was saying in a surprisingly serious tone. “Let me be of service to you in this. We’ve known each other for a very long time, and I’m quite familiar with the pitfalls you’re about to face. Believe me, I’m used to being rich and all the bull—” He stopped himself. “Responsibility that goes along with it,” he amended.

  “Ah, yes, you’re quite the expert on responsibility,” she murmured with a smile, trying not to leap at his offer of help and support. “I can see that.”

  “When I make the effort!” he retorted, tweaking her nose.

  She smacked his hand away, laughing. “That will do, Your Grace! I’m not nine years old anymore.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said softly. His subtle glance down the length of her body sent a thrill of pleasure through her every nerve ending.

  Felicity fought off a swoon.

  Jason looked away abruptly, silent for a moment. “Right, then. So I shall call on you later, Miss Carvel, and make sure everything’s in order with your aunt’s affairs.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly impose—”

  “It’s no imposition! Please, your brother would never forgive me if I failed to look after you in this. He’d want me to check in on you in his absence and make sure no blasted lawyers and such are taking advantage of you in your…inexperience.” A shadow flitted across his face, as though the word pained him somehow.

  “Oh, lawyers?” she echoed with a frown. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Ruefully lifting his gaze from the floor, he smiled at her then with such protective, knowing tenderness, she could have fainted on the spot.

  Truly, he was the most confusing man. He had barely said a dozen words to her for the past year, but now that she’d caught him in the privacy of his own home, here he stood, gazing at her like she was still dear to him.

  But although she was bewildered, Felicity could not bring herself to believe he was merely toying with her emotions.

  Not even he would sink that low. Not with her.

  No, this show of kindness was merely down to his loyalty to her brother. She searched his chiseled face uncertainly, but all she could see was how weary he looked down to his very soul.

  At the same time, his striking good looks made her wistful. Self-destructive maniac or no, he was comely.

  His short, sable hair was damp, slicked back from his square, strong face. He had thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, a straight Roman nose, and a lovely chiseled jawline she had often dreamed of tracing with her lips.

  Gazing into his melancholy, chocolate-brown eyes for that brief moment made her long to cup his cheek in her hand and tell him how much she missed him.

  But, of course, such a move would have stopped poor Mrs. Brown’s heart where she stood, and, more importantly, it would have sent Jason running for the hills.

  He had never wanted her love…

  Or surely he’d have taken it by now.

  Just then, a tiny creak from the top of the stairs drew her attention.

  Felicity glanced up and saw a couple of female faces with smeared cosmetics and riotous hair peering out of a white door above.

  Her insides promptly turned to ice, and her throat closed. She dropped her gaze, swallowing an angry laugh of belated realization. So that’s what you got up to last night as soon as you set foot in Town again.

  Typical. She shook her head, well aware she had no business having an opinion on what the rakehell duke chose to do with his life or his time.

  Or his body.

  “We really should be going,” she said in a tone of strangled politeness.

  “Of course. I will call on you later, then,” he said. “How does two o’clock sou—”

  “No! Thank you,” she said, rather more forcefully than intended.

  He stopped, those big brown eyes looking wounded and confused.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she tried again. “But thank you for the offer just the same. I’ll manage fine until my brother returns. Come along, Mrs. Brown. Dorcas. Thank you, Mr. Richardson. Woodcombe,” she added with a taut smile as she pivoted in a cloud of frost. “Let us leave the duke to his guests. Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace. I wasn’t aware you were in the middle of entertaining after so recently returning from your travels. Good day.”

  She strode out and didn’t look back.

  # # #

  Ah, bloody hell.

  Jason stood in the entrance hall, slowly deflating from a momentary whiff of hope blowing in the window like the spring breeze, back to his usual state of deadened cynicism.

  “Miss Carvel certainly left in a hurry, sir,” Woodcombe said in the politest tone of withering reproach as he shut the door behind the ladies. “I wonder why.”

  “Oh, I think I have a notion,” Jason muttered.

  Sure enough, when he turned around and looked up toward the top of the staircase, there were his harlots, smugly preening.

  “Netherford! We’re hungry,” the redhead called down.

  Her friend rested an elbow on her shoulder, giggling. “We worked up an appetite last night.”

  He checked his rage and turned to his butler. “Woodcombe, see them fed and paid, and then kindly remove these creatures from my house.”

  “Gladly, sir. Humph!” Woodcombe marched off, sending Jason a bit of a glare, probably for bringing them here in the first place.

  Laughing, the girls ran back into the drawing room when they saw his butler coming to throw them out.

  Hating himself, Jason turned awkwardly to his secretary. “Sorry about all that. Blaming you.”

  “Not at all, sir.” Richardson hesitated. “But I do fear the young lady was offended.”

  He scoffed. “You think? Ah, well,” he mumbled after a moment. “It’s always safer when she hates me, anyway. I prefer it, in truth.”

  “Safer?”

  “For her. Nevertheless, we do have to help her, Richardson.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace. So, just to be quite clear, do I, er, still have my post?”

  “Of course you do, ol’ boy.” Jason gave him a clap on the shoulder. “I only said that to try to spare her feelings. I wouldn’t know what day it was without you, Richardson. What day is it, by the by?”

  “Thursday, Your Grace.”

  “You see? Mind you, if she sends me anything else, bring it to me at once.”

  “Such as a bomb, sir?”

  Jason chortled. “Couldn’t really blame her if she did. Let me see those letters.”

  Richardson left for a moment and returned with the letters, passing them to Jason. Still barefoot, the duke sat down on the stairs to read. Quickly glancing over both urgent missives, he saw they did not contain any new revelations.

  “Well,” he concluded, folding up the l
etters and handing them back to Richardson as he rose, “it doesn’t matter if she hates me. I still intend to look into this and make sure her best interests are protected. As her brother’s patron—and the reason he’s not here when his sister needs him most—I cannot help but see this as my duty. You realize, Richardson, that barmy old dragon aunt of hers was worth some twenty thousand pounds, if I’m not mistaken. And she had no children of her own.”

  “Egads, sir! That is a fortune,” Richardson replied, glancing at the door through which the unexpected heiress had just marched in high dudgeon. “Truly, I am glad for Miss Carvel. She seems a fine young lady.”

  “The best there is, Richardson. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “I fear she’ll be besieged by fortune hunters,” his man said gravely.

  Jason nodded, narrowing his eyes. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “She is quite pretty, after all.”

  “Pretty? Man, are you blind? That girl is bloody gorgeous! And she has no idea of it. Which is just so charming that I…” His voice trailed off. “Never mind,” he mumbled, his head pounding. “Come on, I want my morning tea. Let’s go see what Hannah’s cooking.”

  Richardson followed him back to the kitchen, where Jason badgered his motherly cook into pouring him a freshly brewed cup of tea. Hannah always fussed at him when he invaded her domain like he was still ten years old. It’s no place for a gentl’man! she liked to say, but Jason didn’t care. He found the lively, bustling atmosphere of Hannah’s kitchen oddly comforting. It was such a relief to escape all the pretense of the ton now and then, and to be with real people.

  “There you are, Mr. Richardson,” Hannah said, her round face a wreath of smiles as she poured a cup for his secretary, as well.

  Richardson thanked her, then turned to Jason, who leaned against the cabinets. “Er, Your Grace, not to be indelicate, but when you go to call on the young lady—”

  “Call on a young lady?” Hannah burst out in spite of herself. “Wot did I miss?”

  Jason attempted to give her a stern look and failed. The cook pursed her lips shut and turned away, bustling off to get the cinnamon pastries out of the oven.

  Jason was well aware his entire household—especially old Woodcombe—wanted him leg-shackled and producing heirs for them to spoil.

  “What I am trying to say,” Richardson resumed, “is that there are certain concerns Society might have, were they to learn of your visiting Miss Carvel…under the circumstances.”

  “Ooh, the Carvel girl!” Hannah breathed, eyes widening.

  “You mean my reputation,” Jason said, pointedly ignoring her and her idle hopes of a match.

  “Well, Your Grace would hardly wish to make the young lady an object of gossip.”

  “No, no, of course not,” he said impatiently. “It’s not like that at all. Crikey, man, she’s Pete’s little sister!”

  Hannah’s round eyes said it all as she listened to every word, but she kept her mouth shut, glancing over continually as she used her spatula to move the freshly baked cinnamon rolls off the baking sheet and onto a plate, where they could finish cooling.

  Jason put his hands out, unwilling to wait; she tossed him one right off the spatula.

  “Attagirl,” he said as he caught it. It burned his hands slightly, but it was worth it as he licked the icing off his finger. “No, Richardson,” he continued, “if you are implying that I would ever misbehave around Miss Carvel, you are grossly in error. That particular maiden is on the highest of pedestals in my eyes and always has been.”

  “Is that so?” Richardson murmured, studying him from behind his rectangular spectacles.

  “Mmm,” Jason said, quickly scarfing down another bite of pastry and washing it down with a swallow of tea. “Oh, that’s good.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hannah quipped.

  “Trust me,” Jason continued, “the fair Felicity is better guarded from me than the bloody Tree of Life from Adam and Eve, complete with killer angels wielding flaming swords. That, old chap, is what we call forbidden fruit.”

  “I see.” Richardson fixed a piercing stare on Jason, then asked discreetly, “You gave her brother your word?”

  “Long ago. Rue the day. He knows me too well. But,” Jason said, “I can most certainly help our little heiress as a friend. Aye, whether she likes it or not,” he decided, glancing at his servants. “I shall not stand by and watch a pack of fortune-hunting hounds tear my wee girl apart like a slab of fresh meat. Hell no!” He suddenly stood up straight, warming to his project. “I may have no purpose whatsoever in my life, but I do know this: her father’s in the grave. Her brother’s on a frigate in the middle of the ocean. Who else is there to keep the little widgeon out of trouble? I’m helping her whether she likes it or not.”

  Hannah stared at him in shock.

  Richardson was slightly more direct. “I never knew you to play the knight in shining armor, sir.”

  “Ha! Yes. Well,” Jason drawled, “first time for everything—God help us all.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Family Matters

  “Actually, the word that comes to mind is odious,” Felicity replied.

  Charles, Viscount Elmont, laughed aloud at her words, but poor Cousin Gerald pouted.

  “Am not! How now, coz! Honestly! That hurt.”

  “Keep your voices down, please,” she chided. “My chaperone is sleeping.”

  Mrs. Brown’s bedchamber was right above the parlor where Felicity had felt obligated to receive her two irksome kinsmen when they came calling.

  The ladies had returned from Moonlight Square a few hours ago, but Felicity was sure that her chaperone would not have gone upstairs for her afternoon nap if she had known their dealings with annoying men were not yet over for the day.

  This time, it was Felicity’s two exceedingly silly cousins.

  Charles Carvel, Lord Elmont, the heir to her uncle’s marquessate, was a high-flying dandy, but the less objectionable of the pair.

  Seated in a wing chair by the unlit fireplace, the lazy viscount took a pinch of snuff off his wrist and then sneezed prettily into his monogrammed handkerchief.

  “You shouldn’t be snorting that stuff into your lungs with your consumption!” Felicity chided.

  “Oh, I know. My physician hounds me to quit, but what can I do? Hopelessly addicted. I like to think it is my only vice.” Crossing his skinny legs in striped pantaloons, Charles looked over in amusement as beefy Cousin Gerald Carvel resumed badgering her as he paced back and forth across the parlor.

  “I know it’s not what either of us wanted, Felicity, but you must admit that keeping all that money in the family is the most practical solution. After all, the Carvels have always been an old and respected clan, but never one of the richest among our set. Till now,” he added with a gleam in his piggish little eyes.

  “Gerald, you’re dreaming!” Felicity exclaimed, standing and folding her arms across her chest. “I am not marrying you. Besides, if the whole family argument were legitimate, it should be Charles whom I wed, anyway, not you. And blech,” she and the viscount said simultaneously. “No offense intended, Charlie.”

  “None taken, dear,” he said, for everyone suspected that his tastes ran otherwise. “Trust me, I’m quite happy with the fortune I possess.”

  “As you bloody well should be!” Gerald fumed.

  Felicity shook her head in amusement. “As for you, coz, I didn’t think practical was a word you even knew, judging by the gaming debts you’ve run up all over Town.”

  Gerald scowled. With a thick body and thin hair, he was not a handsome man, but he walked with a swagger that said he thought he was, and he was very proud of his mustache. His coloring was as light as her own; Gerald, however, had got the ruddy jowls of their grandmother’s side of the family.

  “If you ask me,” he posited with a harrumph, “our marrying was probably what Aunt Kirby had in mind all along.”

  “And what on earth makes you think that?
” Felicity nearly laughed, and could only wonder what stinging quip Aunt Kirby would’ve delivered in response if she could’ve heard this absurd claim.

  The old woman’s portrait hung on the parlor wall, the gleam in her watchful eyes brighter than the jeweled brooch that adorned her silk turban with its peacock feather ornament.

  Do tell, Nephew, her shrewd stare seemed to say.

  “Well, she had no children, except for that thing,” Gerald muttered, pointing at Her Ladyship’s longhaired cat, Daisy, with the jeweled collar. The cat looked on from the windowsill with an air of disdain, twitching her fluffy tail, collar sparkling in the sunlight.

  “It makes perfect sense when you think of it,” Gerald endeavored to explain, pausing in his restless march through the room. “There were only the four grandchildren in our generation for her to have chosen from as her heirs. Charles here is already handsomely well off, as the future marquess. Then there’s Pete, who’s more than able to fend for himself in this world, if he doesn’t blow his own head off first,” he added under his breath.

  Felicity gasped. “How dare you?” she uttered, paling as she took a step toward him.

  “I’m only being honest, coz! You know he came back from the war all wrong in the head. Demmed bloodthirsty, I hear. Even some of his regimental chaps say your precious brother started to enjoy the killin’ just a little too much.”

  Her fists bunched at her sides. “That’s a lie!”

  “Gerald, really,” Charles said with a frown. “Cousin Pete’s a bloody hero. Charging the French lines and all that. We all know you’re just jealous.”

  “He isn’t here to defend himself, either,” Felicity growled, the offended sister.

  Gerald waved it off. “Then there’s you,” he continued, nodding at Felicity. “I, as the only child of our grandfather’s third son, have less than all of you! That’s my point here. It isn’t fair!”

  “You do have damned expensive tastes, though,” the viscount muttered.

  “So?” Gerald retorted. “Am I to live like a peasant? Hardly! I’m from the same lineage as you two.”