Her heart fluttered at the heroic implication, much better than the slight he’d given with a request for a tryst. “Indeed, and you’ve yet to explain why you’re naked to begin with.” Then she gasped. Her eyes widened. “You didn’t flee from a lady’s bed, did you?” Perhaps the woman, or even an angered husband, had tossed him and his clothing from a window. She bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Was there a draw for noblemen to seek out liaisons in sleepy English villages?
“I did not.” A trace of humor lingered in his voice.
“That is good to know.” With haste, she removed her shawl and held it out to him. “Cover yourself, my lord. You’re in no danger of my seeing you in the altogether, but others might.” Though she’d touched the most shocking part him, and that was scandalous enough.
Oh, dear. Does this mean I’ve been compromised? Not that it mattered. She had no one in her life to impress or woo with a sterling reputation.
“You’re too kind,” he murmured, but when he took the garment, their fingers brushed. Pleasant tingles flowed up her arm from the point of contact. He retreated, presumably to wrap the shawl about his waist, but then he scooped up her hand and brought it to his lips. A certain thrill moved down her spine when he kissed the back. “Thank you for the loan. How should I return it? I don’t know your name, let alone your address.”
And neither shall you.
“It’s best that I remain a stranger.” Gently, she slipped her hand from his. Never had she been left at sixes and sevens in the presence of a man. It was odd, and every moment she spent in his company left her heartbeat tripping out an excited rhythm.
He snorted. “I’d rather know the identity of the woman I rescued, the woman who makes certain I don’t embarrass myself any further than I already have.”
Did that mean he felt sorry he’d asked for a tryst or that he’d appeared in the village sans clothes? Confliction bounced through her brain. It was unlikely they’d ever meet again, so what did withholding her name matter? “Miss Alice Morrowe. I’m nobody, and by tomorrow, you’ll have forgotten all about me. People always do.” The muscles of her stomach clenched. What a sad commentary of her life, that she couldn’t make a singular impression on anyone. “I’ve become used to it, so you needn’t do the pretty or lie to me.” Heat infused her cheeks at the admission. That she’d say such a thing to a relative stranger horrified her.
“That’s where you are wrong.” Once more he availed himself of her hand. “Today, you are someone, for I don’t concern myself with people who don’t matter.”
So says the ego of a duke. Before Alice could form a response, he applied the veriest pressure and tugged her to him. His face came vaguely into view. He had the dearest dimple in his left cheek, and then he brushed his lips against hers in an oh too brief kiss—her first kiss. Finally, she—Alice Minerva Morrowe, firmly on the shelf at the age of thirty—experienced the pleasing press of a man’s lips to hers.
The duke pulled away. He released her hand and left the area so quickly she barely noticed he’d departed. Perhaps that was due to standing so still with shock. She cocked her head and listened, but there was no hiss of grass blades bending beneath the soles of his feet, no crunch of dirt or gravel when he gained the road. There was nothing left of him except the lingering warmth on her lips.
Well, this is no longer an ordinary day.
Bemused and somewhat mystified, Alice made her way out of the embankment, skirted around the hedgerow, and then gained the main road. Dawn had broken while she’d tarried with the duke. The growing brightness prickled at her eyes; the heightened sensitivity caused them to narrow and water. Another side effect of her particular form of blindness, and one reason she tried to walk to the shop where she apprenticed before the sun came fully up.
Did her affliction matter to one such as the duke?
She snorted as she hurried along the road. Stop being a ninny, Alice. He is not for you. You had a chance meeting. That man will never return to Shalford, and you’ll not see him again. Be grateful you had an adventure.
The tiny shop, with its wooden sign hanging from two iron hooks proclaiming, “Shalford Millinery” glimmered, for the rising sun reflected off its plate glass window. The owner, John Sparkes—who also owned the water mill—agree to let her reside in a cozy, cramped room at the back of his mill if she’d assist his wife, Mary, in her hat shop. No coin was exchanged, for she received room and board, and after all he’d said on more than one occasion, what else could one such as herself wish for in life? No doubt the man assumed he was doing a charitable work in giving her a kindness, but every once in a while, Alice resented being treated by everyone she knew as either a poor relation, an obligation, or a servant. Though she detested on relying on charity, her options were limited, for her only family had tossed her out.
I am none of those things yet I cannot make people see me differently.
Her thoughts caused her to laugh. Funny, that. They refused to see her and she literally couldn’t see them. At least I’ve kept my sense of humor through life’s pitfalls.
“Alice, there you are!” A brown-colored blob separated itself from the door to the shop. Her only friend in the village grabbed her hand. “I’d wondered what happened to you. You’re never late.”
“Hello, Fanny.” Alice smiled and squeezed the other woman’s fingers. “I was run off the road by a fast-moving carriage and only gathered myself enough to come here.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.
Fanny Smith was two years younger than she, and the eldest of twelve children. Forced to help provide for an ever-growing family, she’d begun working in the village at the age of fourteen. Now she was one of the most trusted members of Shalford. The only difference between them: Fanny was engaged to be married to the son of the butcher, who had a shop in the street behind this one. Alice couldn’t begrudge her the happiness; she deserved everything life held.
“I’d wondered why you look different today,” her friend continued.
“Don’t be silly. I’m not different, except for a few grass stains and perhaps bruises,” Alice said, brushing off the comment with a shrug. Did one have a certain look who’d just been kissed?
“What a bammer you’re telling.” Fanny squeezed her hand. “Why are you blushing then? What else happened other than a runaway carriage?” When Alice remained silent, hoping the ground would open up and swallow her whole, her friend pressed onward. “Did you indulge in a midnight tryst with the blacksmith?”
Alice recoiled. “Joe?” She screwed up her face. For the better part of a year, that bear of a man had bothered her, badgered her about taking a walk with him, coming to dinner, or horror of horrors, meeting with him at the back of his smithy for a little slap and tickle. “Absolutely not. I’d rather die than let that man touch me in any way.” It was troubling he wouldn’t understand that her polite declines of his offers would never change. At this point in her life, her next refusal would be forceful and she didn’t care if he was humiliated in a public setting. She was blind, not beholden.
“You could do worse.” Fanny huffed, and the brief breeze ruffled a tendril of escaped hair at Alice’s temple.
“True, but I could also do better. There is no need to settle for crude.” At the last second she stopped herself from pressing the fingers of her free hand to her lips where the fleeting brush of the duke’s kiss lingered. For one insane second, she allowed herself a silly fancy. What if the duke was so taken with her that he returned to the village merely to see her? Yes, a duke was infinitely better than a sweaty, hulking blacksmith, but it was such an impossibility, she laughed. “Dearest Fanny. You know I’ll forever remain an old maid. You also know that I’ve resigned myself to that fate.” Yet her heart constricted. Why couldn’t she have her dreams even though her reality was so much different?
“I suppose someone has to be. We all can’t marry,” was Fanny’s practical reply. “But once I do, I shall share with you every detail of what oc
curs in the marriage bed.”
Heat shot through Alice’s cheeks. “I…”
Her friend laughed. “You must learn of it some time.” Another trill of laughter erupted in the quiet morning. “After work, we shall call upon Mrs. Kelley. You know she’s rumored to be.”
The heat furiously clung to her cheeks. “A lady of the night.” That woman’s reputation was legendary through rumors and whispers in the village. It didn’t help that she lived above a tavern at the end of the village.
“Yes, and you can ask her all the questions you’d like. I can too. I’m sure I can use that information in a few days.” When she was married. She squeezed Alice’s hand again. “Don’t worry. You will forever be my children’s favorite aunt. My little brothers and sisters already love you as such.”
Alice rolled her eyes. It was better than nothing. Gratitude filled her that she had a friend in Fanny. “I would be honored.”
“Good.” Fanny pushed open the shop’s door. No doubt Mrs. Sparkes had already arrived before them. “We’d best start our day before the missus grouses.”
“Agreed.” But she didn’t know how she’d be able to concentrate on checking the handiwork on countless hats when all she wanted to do was woolgather about the duke. There were so many questions about him she’d never see answered. Clipping loose threads or gluing down errant bits of lace wasn’t as exciting as it once was now that she’d been offered a glimpse of life beyond what she’d previously known.
CHAPTER THREE
September 14
London
Donovan ordered a bottle of brandy at his club—the exclusive place he and the other Accursed Lords had created as a safe haven of sorts. Bête Noire was what they’d christened the place nigh twenty years ago—rather fitting for the beasts they were—and if a gentleman wished it, he could obtain any sort of scandal, for no one in London knew who the founding members were let alone the owners.
And they worked hard to keep it that way. The club offered sanctuary from the slings and arrows of ton society; it was also a way for the Lords of the Night to partake of that same society without needing to immerse themselves in it.
Barely had he settled at his customary table at the rear of the main room, his back to the wall so that he could monitor the comings and goings of guests, when two of his friends and fellow Lords of the Night entered. Upon seeing him, they made their way toward him.
“Fancy seeing you two here tonight,” Donovan drawled as the two men took seats at the table.
Rafe Astley, twelfth Earl of Devon, rolled his eyes that flashed briefly red in the low candlelight. He was cursed as a vampire, a true denizen of the night, and if anyone questioned why he was rarely seen abroad in the daylight, they had the good sense not to ask it boldly of him in person. “I could say the same of you, Manchester.” His blond hair, waved in a popular style, gleamed. He had the look of a Greek Adonis… except for the fangs that lengthened when the need to feed came upon him and the tendency for his skin to burn if left in the sun too long. “I’d wager you were out running through the countryside, terrorizing all manner of innocents.”
“I’m not of a mind for all of that at the moment.” As if to enhance the statement, his wolf whined into his mind.
We haven’t run for days.
Donovan ignored his canine companion in favor of taking a deep swallow of the smuggled-in brandy.
“I know that look. Have seen it too many times.” The other man at the table, Valentine Butler, the Viscount Mountgarret, pointed an elegant finger at him. “You’re bedeviled by a woman.” The man’s red hair tended toward curling despite the cut or the pomade he used to bind it, though when he returned to the sea, he let it grow long. He also maintained a lean, muscular build that had ladies angling after him, but his beastly half didn’t walk the land. Instead, he was a slave to the waters as a merman, and a fierce fighter at that. As such, his properties always needed to support a body of water, and his country estate wasn’t far from the sea. When he lingered in London, he haunted the docks.
“Do shut up, Mountgarret. Is not Coventry with you?” He glanced past them but the fourth of their set didn’t appear.
“The earl is currently playing puppet to his sister. He has taken her to Bath for a week’s holiday.” Rogue shrugged. “He spoils her.”
“So he should. Sisters are interesting creatures and have a tendency toward overprotectiveness.” Lord knew his own was, and she was quite protective of him as well. And they lived with the uncursed. A novelty, to be certain. “In any event, I’m hardly bedeviled.” Donovan glared at his friends. “Is there anything else you’d say to me? You’re both fairly bursting.”
The earl exchanged a speaking glance with the viscount. Then a teasing grin curved his lips as he lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, but you are thinking about a woman.”
“This shouldn’t come as a surprise to the two of you,” Donovan groused. He didn’t wish to talk about Miss Alice Morrowe with his friends, for they’d only make matters worse and she was different enough that he didn’t want for her name bandied about a gentleman’s club.
“No, but your usual meetings are with the usual sort of women, and you brag about the conquests every chance you have,” Mountgarret was quick to remind him. “Now, your very reticence is telling.” His brilliant blue eyes, bordering on turquoise, twinkled with mirth. “Have you gone two sheets to the wind over her then?”
“Bastard.” Donovan glared. “No. But if you must know—”
“—we must,” the Earl of Devon interrupted with a grin of his own.
“—then I’ll tell you that I did, in fact, have a run in with a woman. Literally. I was forced to plow into her while in wolf form and save her from being trampled by an out-of-control curricle. That was three days ago.”
“Here in Town?” the viscount asked with a healthy dose of skepticism in his voice.
“I was in Surrey at the time. Village of Shalford, actually.” Donovan shrugged. “My wolf prefers to exercise in the country. There’s more excitement there—for him.”
Nowhere to run in the city, his wolf chimed in.
Again, his friends exchanged a glance. The earl frowned. He poured a measure of brandy into his own glass. “Why is this news? Unless she isn’t your usual type of skirt.”
He refused to tug at his cravat that he swore grew tighter as the conversation went on. “She is, in fact, not. Besides, I assumed the two of you would find the tale interesting. Perhaps I was wrong and you’ve become too jaded.”
Mountgarret snorted. He nodded when the earl offered him a portion of the smuggled spirits. Crystal clinked against crystal to blend with the soft rise and fall of conversation throughout the room. “The question remains: did you bed her?”
Heat rose up the back of Donovan’s neck. “No… but I kissed her.”
His friends hooted with laughter.
The earl stared, his tumbler paused midway to his mouth. “And?” He made a gesture that meant get on with it.
“And… nothing.” Being certain to keep the tale brief, Donovan related more events of the encounter.
“Interesting.” Mountgarret stared into the contents of his glass before pinning Donovan with his intense gaze. “Another full moon arrives on the second of next month. It might be the one spoken of in the curse. Perhaps you could make her fall in love with you and thereby break the curse.”
“Not this again.” Donovan rolled his eyes. All his life—and theirs—breaking the ancient curse had been a topic of conversation. Especially since this year put them in the five-year window where one full moon a quarter could conceivably usher in the events to break or reverse the curse.
And the year was growing short.
“Yes, of course this.” The earl, Rafe—or as he preferred contemporaries to call him, Rogue—chuckled. “Isn’t it what we’re all hoping for?”
“Perhaps.” Donovan conceded the point. “What makes you think this woman will be any different than the others I’ve had into my
bed?”
Inside his head, his wolf snorted in annoyance. She’s different.
Mountgarret grinned. “None of them were in love with you.”
“Neither is this particular woman,” he returned, his voice taking on a particularly grouchy tone. He shook his head, not convinced breaking the curse was even possible. “She isn’t in my usual style, as you both have said.”
“Yet, you’ve set the stage,” Rogue pressed as he leaned forward. Faint red rimmed his pupils. “I mean, how often can a story of courtship say it started with a collision and a man sans clothing?”
“And from your own admission, you let her put her hands on you,” Mountgarret inserted. “She felt various portions of your anatomy, old boy, and she didn’t run away screaming or rave about a wolf. That must count for something.” He pinned Donovan with a knowing look. “Did she set your prick to dancing?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t indulge in a bit of slap and tickle,” the earl said with a laugh. “It’s taken far more drink and less effort for you in the past.”
“This meeting didn’t have that end in mind.” Donovan shook his head. “And—”
“And nothing,” Rogue interrupted with a grin that matched the viscount’s in cunning. “What’s the harm of pursuing her to see if there’s a spark?”
“Oh, any number of things, actually.” He slammed his empty brandy tumbler onto the polished wooden table top with more force than necessary. Lingering amber droplets sprayed onto his hand and the piece of furniture. “Take your pick.”
His wolf snorted. These men are foolish romantics. Love doesn’t happen on the spur of the moment.
And it certainly doesn’t happen to any of us who suffer the curse.
The earl sobered. He dropped his voice. “Fear that you’ll fall for her without her returning the sentiment?”
Devil Take the Duke (Lords of the Night Book 1) Page 3