The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1)

by Emily Windsor

  She uncrossed them. And bit her lip, mind as empty as her cleaned plate, but she was saved from producing a lie as daft as Reuben by her sister.

  “Only at The Regency on Tottenham Street,” Artemisia gushed. “A terrible theatre. They’d take anyone.” An apologetic grimace was cast her way before Artemisia swooped upon the roasted leveret.

  Lord Ernest’s blue eyes twinkled, slender fingers curling around the salt pot. “And I hear you are a widow. My sincere condolences. What was your husband’s profession?”

  “Yes, pray tell,” added the duke. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

  He guzzled claret with unblinking eyes and Evelyn pondered whether the newly arrived leg of lamb was really worth this interrogation. She added a slice to her plate and sampled a forkful – delicate without any hint of gristle and with a piquant raspberry sauce.

  So yes.

  “He dug graves.” She ignored the duke’s splutter and turned to his brother. “And what do you like to do, Lord Ernest?” she asked before anyone could enquire of her parentage or upbringing.

  “Gamble and wench,” the duke muttered.

  Lord Ernest glared, all good nature and nimble flirtation quashed by brotherly authority, and Evelyn quickly realised the lay of the land in this family.

  “Horses and reading,” he spat in the duke’s direction. “When I’m permitted.”

  “And what are you reading currently? Poems or–”

  “I’m quite enjoying Charlotte Dacre at the moment, Mrs Swift. The Passions and The Libertine are my favourites. They feel so…” He gazed into the air. “…pertinent.”

  Uncle sniggered, Rothwell glowered, Lady Owlswick tutted about disruptive redheads, and Evelyn felt her stomach clench from all the rich food.

  Silence fell once more.

  The butler refilled glasses, the first footman hovered in case anyone had further need of mustard, another soft white roll came to be on Evelyn’s plate, and Artemisia dug into the salmon with fervour.

  Rothwell shifted in his seat and everyone looked up expectantly. “When are you leaving for the castle, Ernest?”

  Artemisia merely heard the word… “Castle! I love castles. Are you visiting one?”

  The duke smiled, a genuine turn of the lips which made Evelyn’s stomach clench in an entirely different manner.

  “Our principal ducal seat is Wychmere Castle in Lower Rushington, Oxfordshire.”

  Both she and Artemisia gawked, salmon balancing on silver forks as though freshly reeled in.

  “It’s not a ruin, then?” Artemisia ventured.

  “Lower Rushington, was that?” Evelyn queried.

  “No and yes,” he replied. “It was originally an abbey, then a royal garrison, and it was of course rebuilt in the fifteenth century.”

  “Of course it would have been,” Evelyn concurred faintly. “And I suppose it has a moat.” She’d never believed in coincidence and wondered what the fates were attempting to convey?

  “Why, yes,” said Lord Ernest. “Have you journeyed to that part of the country?”

  “No. Er…we once thought to visit but were then obliged to change our plans.”

  Fate intervened with pudding.

  Half-naked nymphs – nakedness acceptable because they were nymphs after all – carved of ice danced around a pyramid of strawberries and biscuits, encircled by ice cream and foaming syllabub.

  “I don’t think I can eat any more,” whispered Artemisia, a moistness to her brow. All courses had been sublime but rich, and now bellies protested at their greed. They’d gobbled like common draught horses upon the finest hay, but it was the harsh rasp in her sister’s voice that placed serviette to table.

  “I thank you all for a most sumptuous and enlightening evening. But if you would please excuse us, Your Grace, my lords, my lady, as my sister is fatigued and must rest.” Evelyn endeavoured to push her chair back but the first footman, not to be seen tarrying in his duties, was even now assisting her.

  Concern creased the gentlemen’s brows, but Lady Owlswick glared and tutted. “It’s the red hair,” she bellowed. “Leads to all kinds of downfall, mark my words.”

  Evelyn stood and held out a hand for Artemisia. The gentlemen leaped to their feet.

  “A proverb in verse, if I may.” Evelyn brushed a bright curl of her sister’s hair. “The red is wise…” She nodded her appreciation as the footman retrieved her fallen shawl. “The brown is trusty.” She let her gaze glide over the golden duke. “The pale is covetous.” Then to Copperhouse. “And the black is lusty.”

  The butler spluttered.

  And together the two sisters swaggered from the dining room with red heads held high.

  Chapter 18

  The Golden Touch.

  “No.”

  “But–”

  “No.”

  “If you just liste–”

  “No. And that is an end to it. Lord Sancroft merely wishes to fleece some misguided fool of his inheritance and that will not be you.” Casper lit another study candle and then poured his scheduled after-dinner port as the clock chimed seven.

  Ernest’s eyes flashed with uncommon ire as he thrust papers concerning stud pedigrees back within his leather-bound folder. “It is you who drives a man to vice, brother. To escape from the languor of idleness.”

  “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Ernest. Those gutter press novels are pilfering your good sense.”

  His brother removed his glasses, eyes narrowed. “How did you know that was from a novel?”

  Damn, and Casper folded his arms in the most disdainful and superior manner possible, leaning against his desk with a practised air. “I know everything.”

  “You’ve been reading Udolfo.”

  “I wouldn’t read that turgid histrionic nonsense if you paid me. Now leave me to sort out these accounts, and once again, no. Your stud venture is doomed to fail. Projects such as this need to be researched, detailed and cogitated, with a reasonable reserve and forecasts for two years…in your case, three.”

  Pent anger shimmered the air until Ernest replaced his glasses, spun on his heal and stormed for the door, on this occasion slamming it with such force that it recoiled to open.

  The miniature of Mother toppled forward once more.

  Heaving a breath, Casper strode over to firmly shut the door, then returned to his seat, opened the uppermost desk drawer, removed a book and flicked through to find his silver mark.

  The adorable, but prone to swooning, Emily had just been threatened by Signor Montoni and he refused to allow any more interruptions.

  Not a moment later, he scowled, distracted by a shadow that paced back and forth across his closed curtain.

  No doubt Ernest venting his frustration on the garden path or Uncle awaiting some tryst.

  Or perhaps…

  Evelyn Swift, come for some fresh air. Without chaperone or sister to shield her.

  He placed the book back in the drawer.

  Mrs Swift had appeared healthier at dinner tonight – fewer black shadows shrouding her eyes and a blush of rose to her cheeks. He’d requested the chef to prepare a magnificent feast but with hindsight it might have been too rich, and maybe the pudding had been somewhat flamboyant.

  Surreptitiously, he strolled to the French doors that led direct to the garden and drew back the curtain a slither.

  The sunset this eve was magnificent, a crimson that lit the sky to fire. And haloed in its glorious burn stomped Mrs Swift.

  What was he to do with her?

  She twisted him in knots with her forest-green gaze, sharp tongue and beguiling lips. He enjoyed her wit and appreciation of art, her compassion and bravado, and yet he knew naught about her. Mrs Swift could be a thief’s daughter or a gambler’s whore, a fallen lady or a destitute widow.

  And none of it mattered.

  How galling that after having many a woman offer liaisons in the past, it should be she who tempted him. A conniving liar with lips of sweet ripeness who’d not off
ered any liaison whatsoever.

  Unlocking the French door, he took a breath. “You’ll catch your death, Mrs Swift, for the night air still holds winter in its grasp.”

  She turned and ye gods, he ached.

  As at dinner, her lilac silk gown enhanced her shape although the bodice was a little too high for current fashion and the hem too low – that knowledge had come from Ernest as she could wear a coal sack and Casper would only notice her generous bosom, nipped waist and fine skin.

  “I’ve never seen a sunset such as this,” she declared. “It’s crimson, flame and vermillion.”

  An artist’s words.

  “Do you long to paint it?”

  A smile flitted. “You bestow me with skill I do not possess. I can paint, ’tis true, but I do not have the muse. I have seen artists at work and they have an inner light, a craving to render emotion upon canvas.”

  With a delicate tread, she drifted towards him, her back to the magnificent sky, and he knew that if he could paint just one picture of one moment, it would be this, here and now, nature’s greenery framing her body – hair and sky melding to scorch the unwary. And how he longed to thrust his fingers through those fiery locks, to drag them free from confine and sift the strands, to clench them around his fist and pull her near.

  To smother her lying lips with his.

  “What age has Lord Ernest?” she enquired, marching through the door, her faded shawl brushing his chest.

  It was immensely irritating to discover that whilst his thoughts had been filled with passion, she’d been speculating on his brother, and he persuaded his fervent pulse to slow.

  “Five and twenty.” It surprised even he. Where had the years gone? Casper recollected a twelve-year-old Ernest crying in his arms at Father’s funeral, himself a mere five years older, expected to comfort and provide.

  “And what properties is he responsible for?”

  Casper snorted, trailing her into the study and closing the French doors, snuffing out that sunset with the curtain – he had all the colour a man could wish for.

  “I wouldn’t gift him a garden folly to look after. He’s an irresponsible rake.”

  “And yet your uncle told me that you assumed the mantle of duke with but seventeen years. You had to learn responsibility at a much younger age, why did you not allow him?”

  “You heard us arguing.”

  “As did the dead of Saint George’s Burying Ground.” She crossed to the fire, but not before righting the fallen miniature. Why did she feel the need to meddle with his desk? It was downright disconcerting. She opened her palms to the burning coals. “If you do not give, how can they learn? The devil makes work for idle hands.”

  Casper glowered. This woman had no business interfering in family matters.

  Yet her censure stung because deep within, he recognised he’d been harsh with Ernest.

  Perhaps he ought to reconsider this stables venture as his brother also possessed a knack with horses, but it would require…entrustment and faith in another’s ability. It had taken years and years to trust in his own men of affairs and land managers, let alone put his rakish brother in charge. Casper had worked too damn hard to let anyone throw Rothwell coin at senseless ventures.

  So instead he turned his irritation on the woman who taunted him, to seek the honesty he himself yearned for.

  “Have you idle hands also, Mrs Swift? Did the devil find work for them?”

  Her unfashionable skirt swished as she spun and stabbed a finger out. “How dare you!” she roared. “All I have sought to do is survive. To use the little I have at my disposal, you…sodding duke.”

  Loving her fervour, he stalked near, needing answers, but… “Did you just use my peerage as an insult?”

  No one had ever done that and he felt thoroughly insulted.

  “Hah, a duke with enough food for half of London, who probably sits tallying his monies each night and by day goes…boating or somesuch.”

  That hurt.

  “I have never been bloody boating in my life,” he bellowed, incensed. “The one pleasure I allow myself is art.”

  “Portraits can be cold companions, Your Grace.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I adore art also but have learned that beneath the emotion, it is an unshifting reflection of a moment in time. Beyond the canvas, people learn and grow with circumstance and experience.” That jabbing concluded but her fingers remained. “You need to immerse yourself, Your Grace, in colour and life and touch. To be open and thoughtful to those of this household who care for you.”

  Evelyn’s scolding inflamed him, flush cheeks and rosy lips spouting words he had no wish to hear.

  He reached a palm to her cheek, cold despite its scarlet hue – fire and ice. “Are you offering?”

  “Offering?”

  “To immerse me in…colour, life and touch.”

  “Is that a proposition?” She tilted her head. “You need to be blunt, Your Grace, as having lived in Covent Garden, such poetry is wasted on me.”

  On second thoughts, Evelyn did not require him to be blunt with his desires as she could hardly misinterpret the manner in which his eyes darkened, the way his hand caressed the pulse of her neck, the smile that lit his lips at the rapid flutter.

  The duke wound a finger within a coil of her hair and gently tugged, seemingly mesmerised by the tone and texture.

  “Poetry could never be wasted upon you, Evelyn Swift,” he rasped.

  And she knew that soon she would tell him the unvarnished truth: there was no other painting; she had forged it; they were her own brush strokes; it was all her work…

  Perhaps she should confess to him now, be honest, but his past assertions on that particular trait gnawed at her innards and stilled her tongue.

  The doctor would arrive on the morrow, and Artemisia had retired abed with cheeks too flushed, a heaving wheeze to her chest that so terrified Evelyn.

  Lady Owlswick had attended with a mustard poultice, honey syrup and slender book, and they were not too proud to turn her kindness away.

  Evelyn gazed at the nobleman whose admiration caressed her face as though he considered her the finest masterpiece.

  What gilded magnificence he presented tonight. With jacket discarded, his chest appeared yet broader, a cream waistcoat shot with blue silk drawing the eye. The formal attire of dinner continued with dark-blue breeches that had no business stretching so tight.

  Whatever words she might have intended to utter dissolved to mere breath as his head dipped to touch lips at her cheek, then earlobe, his evening bristles rasping her skin, fingers stripping her hair of its pins, curls unravelling to trail her back.

  “‘Let it fly as unconfin’d, as its calm ravisher, the wind,’” he whispered low and deep, and indeed the poetry was not wasted.

  Anxiety and despair and fear for the future absconded as he gently kissed her. Rapture and desire scalded her senses as broad palms cupped her cheeks and slanted her face for his delectation.

  “Evelyn,” he growled.

  And she whispered the name he’d allowed her to use. “Casper.”

  He groaned, a deep rumble of pleasure, and then the kiss was no longer tame or tentative but of a man who knew what he wanted, but of a woman who didn’t.

  Casper besieged her with carnality; this cold brusque duke who’d hands of scorching fire, flames licking a path upon her nape, spine and hips. She stumbled back with the sensation, the sharp edge of the desk digging at her thighs.

  Hands grasped her waist and lifted her to perch upon the surface, a bundle of papers fluttering to the floor in disarray. He took no notice, instead placing a hand either side of her and capturing her mouth once more, nipping for entry.

  Oh, sod it.

  What was so wrong in wanting to bathe in the duke’s golden life a little longer? She would never consent to mistress but that did not mean she could not enjoy his Midas touch.

  And opening to him, she thrust hands through his hair, yanking that neckcloth yet l
ooser, to stroke his throat and scratch his nape – a yielding maiden no more but a worthy combatant in this battle of lust.

  His mouth traced her neck, onwards to her bosom, whilst his hands, no longer content to merely entrap, hauled at her skirts. So intense but she cared no longer, refused to skulk in the shadows where life had placed her.

  Casper’s waistcoat was shed, her skirts hiked, and firm hands drove her thighs apart.

  She allowed it, let his hips push, allowed those strong fingers to tug at her bodice and teeth to nip at her skin.

  Mouths clashed once more, and with a deep groan, she was urged back onto the hefty desk and smothered by his solid frame. It was uncomfortable, stretching her spine, legs dangling, papers rustling beneath her hair, and yet heady pleasure coursed as he bucked his hips, his heavy arousal hitting her just so.

  An inkpot tumbled as he shoved and she cried out, and again as his lips found her chemise-covered breast and sucked, his fingers brushing and taunting.

  “Tell me you want me just as I want you, Evelyn,” he growled, lifting. “No lies.”

  She gazed at the man who loomed over her.

  Casper’s short hair jutted at angles, a cherry hue stained his cheeks, eyes intent and lips parted with panted breaths. That solid throat swallowed and she yearned to feel its potency beneath her own nipping kiss. The neckcloth had been abandoned, his shirt laces now loose, and bronzed hair gleamed in the candlelight.

  A duke undone.

  His hips had stilled and yet a profound need filled her being.

  “I want you also,” she whispered. “No lies.”

  Whether it was a good idea was a different question and one that, for now, would remain unanswered, and to hell with worries and debt and the future.

  “My beautiful swift,” he murmured against her skin, hands binding to her breasts, waist, hips…

  Flinging an arm out, Casper heard a crash and didn’t give a damn.

  This woman had demanded he immerse himself in colour and life and touch – all those things he now held beneath him. He relished her words, could not mistake the desire in her eyes as she lay here, hair splayed upon his desk like a fiery nimbus, chest heaving and lips moist.