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

by Emily Windsor

  “Thank you both for all your aid, Your Grace, and for this beautiful dress.” Evelyn swished her green silk skirts.

  “Pah, ’tis no trouble,” she declared as the whist came to a raucous end. “With my mother-in-law still on honeymoon in Egypt searching for the lost emerald mines of antiquity, I’ve quite missed the company. Besides…” A sly glance was pitched Evelyn’s way. “…we may be neighbours soon enough.”

  Evelyn gazed to her silk slippers and then upwards to the ornate plasterwork, a little unsure, aware her mood was…odd, emotions a simmering cauldron that refused to quell. Her heart felt so full and yet…not.

  Weariness perhaps?

  After the hullabaloo of the fire, the gentlemen had arrived at the Rakecombes’ with soot-covered faces and clammy bodies, only to be mobbed by their valets with tuts of dismay. Yet after a wash and brush up, they’d disappeared for the rest of the day, Rothwell yet to return.

  Her unease deepened and she placed a palm to her chest. “I-I might check on my sister, Your Grace, and retire if I may.”

  “But of course,” the duchess agreed, twirling a midnight-black curl betwixt her fingers. “You must be exhausted.” And both rising, they exchanged a tight hug.

  The whist began anew, but Evelyn departed the laughter with a faint smile and wave of hand. She meandered through the hall, lingered to appreciate a Canaletto, and then climbed the grand staircase, limbs sluggish.

  Pausing outside her sister’s bedchamber door, a hum of voices seeped from within, raising her spirits, and she gave thanks once more that all were safe tonight.

  She turned the doorknob to discover Artemisia sat up in bed with playing cards held close, healthy blushes in her cheeks and robust laughter in her eyes. Flora, who squinted at her dealt hand, sat cross-legged, apron abandoned and cherry-red garters peeking out from beneath her white petticoats.

  “Who’s winning?” queried Evelyn, crossing the room to flump on the end of the plush bed where Cleopatra, no worse for wear from either the smoke or subsequent bath, also rested, licking her paws.

  Flora scrunched her nose. “Yer sister. I think she’s cheating. Been reading too many books. Yer’ll go blind, yer know.”

  “Vingt-et-un,” Artemisia said huskily, lips wobbling in mirth as she plonked down her winning hand.

  “That’s the fifth time,” Flora grumbled, winking at Evelyn. “I’m off. Can’t afford to lose any more buttons or I won’t be able to fasten me uniform up, although…” She fiddled with her cuff. “I might not be needing it soon as… I hope you don’t mind, Evie…but I can’t get used to this maid lark. I likes to be a bit of a slugabed in the mornings and, well, it just don’t suit me creative talents.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, Flora. I know you never wanted to be stuck here as a Rothwell maid,” she said ruefully. “What will you do?”

  “Well, Mr F has offered me the position of…” She thrust her chest out and twirled a hand aloft. “…Model Director.”

  Artemisia was first to recover. “What does one of those do?”

  “He’s got a commission to paint some swell’s ceiling with a load of frolicking gods, and he wants me to sort out the models. Half of them can’t pose properly…or they tipple on the job…and the men can be a bit coy about disrobing.” She gave a militant stare. “There’ll be no hiding anything from me.”

  “Gosh,” breathed Artemisia.

  “There’s more…”

  The two sisters leaned forward all agog. “Hmm?”

  “You’ll never guess…”

  “What?”

  “Not in a hundred years.”

  “Spill the beans, Flora.”

  “Well…yer see, Jeremy…”

  Evelyn creased her brow until, with a nudge, her sister mouthed “Copperhouse” in her direction.

  “Well…” Flora breathed deep and then in a sudden gush, “…Jeremy has asked to court me! Proper like. With… I dunno. Flowers and stuff, I suppose. Says he’s never met anyone like me.”

  A squeal from Artemisia and they all landed in a heap on top of their friend, Cleopatra scarpering for the chaise.

  “Will he take you for walks in Hyde Park and such?” questioned Artemisia, cheeks aglow.

  Flora’s lashes fluttered. “He can take me anywhere he pleases. He’s so handsome and caring and…masterful.” She rose from the bed, bodice gaping from all those wagered buttons. “I might go and hunt him out now fer me bunch of flowers, but I’ll pop a hot spiced milk in yer room beforehand, Evie.”

  And after a buss for the both of them, she skipped from the room.

  Artemisia smiled. “I pity that poor Copperhouse.”

  “That butler can take care of himself, don’t you worry,” Evelyn declared, crossing to the wardrobe to fetch a coverlet for the bed.

  “And what about you and the duke?”

  Evelyn stilled, that unease to her chest returning. “Well, yes, although I don’t really know… I’m sure he still needs time to… He must have lots of questions. Important ones.” Artemisia tutted in that same Lady Owlswick manner whilst Evelyn fluffed the coverlet and yanked it tight to her sister’s neck. “Now, you rest.”

  “I’m not tired in the least, Evie,” stated her sister with a mutinous press of her lips whilst shoving the coverlet back down. “So believe I’ll read awhile. ’Tis only just past nine.”

  Evelyn hid her grin and did not dispute. To hear Artemisia argue like any other girl of sixteen years cheered her soul. The memories of those desperate months, when her sister had been so ill and food had been so scarce, would begin to fade – not to be forgotten but like stones in a river they would sink to the bottom, yielding a foundation of strength as time flowed over them.

  “As you wish. You do have eight books by your bed to get through.”

  Evelyn bent to lay a tender kiss upon her sister’s forehead, but a delicate hand caught hers and squeezed. “Thank you, Evie.”

  “For what, dearest?”

  Green eyes shone clear. “For being my sister. For all the years you worked to bring food to our table. The sacrifices you have made to tend to me. I aspire to be just like you because you are so brave and fearless.”

  Evelyn bit her lip, eyes smarting. “But I could not stay brave without you, sister. We survive together – our parents’ deaths, Hop Gardens – and I aspire to be like you. Your courage through illness, your constant cheer in our times of sorrow…your inventiveness with potatoes and hodgepodge stew.”

  They giggled, and after a final embrace – tight and comforting – Evelyn whispered her good night. She left the lit lantern by the bed but blew out the dressing table candle and softly departed to the rustle of pages.

  Much like the rest of the house, the corridor mingled grandeur and intimacy: her feet soundless on luxuriant rugs, a wonky side table displaying figurines and the burgundy flock wallpaper closing in about her like a warm winter cloak.

  Yet…

  It was ridiculous, but alone once more, that sense of unease settled anew…

  Perhaps she should return to the Rothwell house? Be bold and find the duke. But no doubt after the tumultuous day, he’d be working late with the housekeeper to plan for all their needs in the coming days.

  The delicate porcelain of her bedchamber doorknob twisted without creak or effort, and Evelyn gazed in at the beautiful room she’d been assigned. It belonged to the absent Dowager Duchess, its ornateness and lavish finery only serving to heighten her unease.

  Blue drapery of premium silk adorned the four poster, antique volumes on Egypt filled the shelves and expert paintings of Welsh castles graced the walls, all lit by marble sconces and silver candlesticks.

  Refined, graceful, ladylike… A duchess’s bedchamber.

  But when all was said and done, standing here in this room, Miss Evelyn Pearce was a mere nobody dressed in borrowed finery.

  Heavy velvet curtains held the night at bay, and she crossed to haul them aside, a modern sash window overlooking the square. Peeking in
to the black, she noticed one lone light shining within the second floor of No. 6.

  Casper toiling still? Or a servant, making their last checks for the night?

  The twin flambeaux on the bottom step gusted in the wind, sending sour yellow streaks skittering upon the columns and shifting the shadows. Pressing her nose to the glass, she spied the Rothwell door swing open to a yawning blackness, before a figure cloaked in scarlet slipped down the steps like blood upon a wall.

  The Prince of Clubs.

  Why would he be visiting the duke this night?

  She dropped her forehead to the chill pane, breath misting the surface. Artemisia had called her brave but tonight that bravery had fled with nary a backward glance. Sorrow at her deceit still played upon her conscience, a pang which refused to quell.

  With the darkened hours, that scene enacted in the square had blurred, her agitated thoughts adding fictional glances and false conclusions.

  The spiced milk sat in a china cup by the armchair, a comforting sight, so she closed the curtain and crossed to settle back within the plush velvet.

  Tilting her head to the fire, Evelyn sipped. Cinnamon, nutmeg and…clove teased her senses, thoughts drifting.

  Casper had proclaimed his feelings for her to all and sundry, a spur-of-the-moment anomaly within his scheduled life, she reasoned. In the ferment of chaos, many a man must have blurted out words of devotion that were later regretted – a result of impassioned emotions and stark relief.

  But she would never regret the words she herself had uttered. For they had been spoken with truth, hope and love.

  Chapter 31

  Possession.

  Peace, Casper now appreciated, came in many guises.

  He’d thought it could only be attained once the estate was tripling its profit or when thousands of pounds lay in the Rothwell vaults.

  But peace lay in Ernest, Uncle Virgil and Cousin Lydia laughing and in good health.

  Peace lay in his content household, the exhausted servants quaffing a well-deserved bottle or two of brandy from his personal stocks.

  And above all, peace stood tonight in this bedchamber doorway, gaze flitting – hesitant but bold, shy but determined and so damn beautiful.

  “Evelyn,” he whispered, voice still roughened.

  “I thought to wait till the morrow to see you,” she confessed, stepping forward, hands clutched in her skirts, “but found I could not.”

  Casper rose and circled his makeshift desk to stand before her.

  Eyes downcast, she worried her lip. That would not do at all and so he feathered her chin to lift it upwards. “Every damn hour of this day, I have yearned to be with you. Yet each time I stepped in your direction, an obstacle fell in my path, wrenching me from you.”

  “A duke’s time is not his own; I can understand that.”

  He shook his head. “’Tis somewhat true, but much is of my own making. Henceforth, I vow to make time for…for the people I wish to have in my life.”

  How perfect tonight now felt…

  Just a man and a woman. Alone.

  But with such thoughts came wicked images so long denied – melding bodies and jagged sighs. Aching unrequited lust in the dark.

  “I suppose you have lots of questions,” she stated, straightening her shoulders in a borrowed gown so seductive it dried his mouth to Saharan sand. “I am ready to answer them.”

  In fact, she looked ready for the gallows and he grinned. “I have only one question of significance, Evelyn.”

  Her eyes, as green and intense as summer leaves, swept upwards, creases upon her brow. “I will answer honestly. I promise you.”

  Good…

  “Will you marry me, Miss Evelyn Pearce? Be my duchess, my lover, my closest confidante. To stand with me throughout life’s journey.”

  “I…” She gaped.

  He pressed a kiss. Light and lingering. “Allow me to share your burdens. Feel your joy. Heal your woes.”

  “I…” She swallowed.

  “Let me warm you each night,” he murmured close, lips brushing her earlobe. “Hour upon hour. Unceasing and heady till we bind as one. Till we no longer recall our names and can only gasp our pleasure.”

  “I…” She gulped.

  “From the day we first met, you have stirred both my passion and heart. I love you. And whatever tangled path we walked upon in order to stand here in this moment, tonight we begin anew.”

  Casper had supposed this speech to be awkward, but it flowed. No stutter or hesitation gripped him – just feelings in words. He couldn’t spout romantic verse like some, but he could now understand the emotion. And it staggered him.

  So he kissed her parted lips, relished the moment her surprise lifted, as her sweet touch turned ravenous, deep and sensual, tongues lashing and breaths entwining. He wrested pins and drew her head to the side, devouring her throat with nips of his teeth.

  “Be my duchess, Evelyn.”

  “Casper… I do want to… I love you so much. But…”

  Doubt assailed him, set to tear him asunder, and he hauled her close, stared deep into her eyes. “But?”

  “I’m a penniless baronet’s daughter and you are a duke.”

  Doubt fled in an instant. “Perfect,” he rasped, spreading open-mouthed kisses upon her shoulder.

  “I’m a penniless baronet’s daughter who’s worked for a living…in a theatre.”

  “Remarkable,” he growled, tugging at the gown’s edge with his teeth.

  “I bring no dowry or thousands of acres.”

  “Splendid,” he breathed. “I’ll bring those.” And he seized her bodice to uncover the swell of breast.

  He heard her gasp, stutter, then…

  “Oh, sod it,” she murmured, throwing herself against his body. “Yes, yes I will. I will marry you. I love you so very much, Casper.”

  As luck would have it, the edge of the desk halted his backwards fall, and he perched against it for support, hands grasping her luscious backside as he swept her into his arms, ravishing her mouth – soft and gentle, then rough and wild, every way he could and all the ways he’d yearned to. She responded, keen and fierce, knotting fingers within his hair and pressing that magnificent bosom to his chest.

  How could he have ever considered Evelyn as merely mistress? A travesty of his love and respect. Now she would be his duchess and savage possession coursed – unruly and entirely spontaneous.

  Images besieged him: her trailing fingers upon the leather inlay of that desk, her taunting impudent lips, and her tangled, glorious hair in the carriage.

  Parting his legs, he dragged her between, felt her writhe as he frantically thrust hand to fiery locks, hips clashing with the need for more.

  But this damn bedchamber desk wasn’t hewn for such roughness and it shifted backwards on the floor. No matter, and he swung her towards the shadowed four poster.

  Growling, he snatched at the gown’s buttons, heard them spill upon the floor. Could wait no more. For too long had he been teased and enticed by Miss Evelyn Pearce but now they would begin to satisfy this torment which burned like wildfire upon a heath.

  The taut ivy-hued bodice sagged, revealing translucent skin and a rise of breast this man would walk a desert for.

  Thirsting for more, he tugged, and the silk slunk to her waist to expose a deep-green corset with black laces, and he vowed to have the name of whichever modiste had created this borrowed finery by tomorrow’s end.

  It brought him to his knees.

  And once there, he yanked the skirts and petticoats till they cascaded to the floor in an emerald pool.

  She rose like a shy Venus soaring from its depths, eyes lowered, a blush spiralling across her décolletage. Rising from his supplication, he trailed a hand from waist to bosom, watched the soft slopes above her corset surge with the rapid breaths.

  “Turn,” he commanded.

  But his defiant Evelyn instead swished to the four poster, placed her hands to the mahogany, and peered over one shoul
der. “You may unlace me.”

  The brazen malapert.

  He strode towards her, relishing the picture she portrayed: red hair tumbling upon her back and shoulders, that sinful corset beckoning him to heaven.

  Evelyn’s glittering gaze seared him, hazy with desire as she licked her lips, and all he craved to do was sever those snarled laces, rip the chemise, and take her – fierce and relentless.

  Yet…

  He hauled a slow breath.

  This was Miss Evelyn Pearce. Not the widowed Mrs Swift.

  And a Rothwell did not sever, tear or rip…on this occasion. If he continued with such haste, he would last somewhat less than the quarter hour she’d once accused.

  A Rothwell had patience. And this Rothwell endeavoured to carry out all deeds to the utmost of his ability.

  So he slowed, sprinkling kisses upon her nape, savouring her moan, and with unique leisure untangled laces and unfastened hooks one by one, appreciating each tug and relishing each slip of knot, until her corset tumbled to the floor.

  And with as much forbearance as he could muster, he pressed himself against her until Evelyn’s lush backside cradled his arousal through the thin chemise, until his hands could encircle and caress her breasts, until he heard her moan, her forehead tipping to the bed post, hips surging back.

  With one hand, he delved lower, shoving the chemise aside to discover her heat – caressing and ravishing.

  “I would take you like this.” He bucked his hips, nipped her nape. “But tonight…” He spun her. “…I never want to look away from your eyes.”

  Evelyn knew not what had transpired. Only that Casper had metamorphosed from a voracious lion into one that teased its prey with tamed nips and whispered growls.

  Not that she was complaining, her skin afire at his salacious words and flawless touch.

  Notwithstanding a few kisses as a girl, Evelyn’s only other experience came from catching sight of transactions in Covent Garden alleyways, a fast three-penny upright accompanied by grunts and a squeal.

  Of course, she’d known there was immense pleasure to be had, and Flora had…intimated. But never had she imagined this slow torment of both flesh and mind.