“The Blue Duck,” he yelled, and the trapdoor slammed shut, carriage pitching as it sheared a kerbstone. “My boys will greet us there nice like.” He levelled his gaze at Artemisia and licked his top lip. “And you ain’t got the guts to shoot me, pretty wench.”
Lamentably, Evelyn knew he was right, yet the pistol had served its purpose.
The wheels at last slowed, then came to an abrupt halt, hefting them from their seats once more, and as the door was swung wide, light flooded to present a neat brick-fronted house upon a swept pavement.
The moneylender’s brow rucked. “Yer brains are in yer ballocks, coachman, this ain’t–”
Broad shoulders stepped across the rectangle of light.
“Mr Filgrave, I presume.” The Duke of Rothwell beckoned with gloved hand, eyes scorching in pitiless dislike. “Welcome to No. 4 Bow Street.”
Artemisia motioned the pistol barrel towards the door, and spluttering, the moneylender stumbled to the pavement. Evelyn followed, but as the coachman swung down from his lofty perch, Filgrave swung a fist. “Yer basta–”
That fist was caught within scarred knuckles and flung away as though spoiled milk.
Black cloak and muffler eddied to the pavement, revealing scarlet, a black feather and a sheathed swordstick. Grim as the reaper himself upon battle’s commence, the Prince’s lips curved.
Filgrave spun, only to be wrenched back, fist twining in his neckcloth as he was hauled near. “Georgette,” the Prince snarled. “Remember her?” His black eyes dripped with malice as he slammed the moneylender to the Bow Street officer and his thief takers.
Cursing them all to perdition, Filgrave was dragged up the steps of No. 4, the tall windows of the courthouse reflecting a rivulet of sunlight between the grey cloud.
A firm arm stole around Evelyn’s waist, a whisper of clove at her ear, and she slanted to the warmth. “You are never leaving my side again,” Casper murmured. “I was scared witless for you.”
She swivelled within his grasp in preparation for her punishment, when Artemisia poked her head from the carriage, waving a piece of paper. “Oh, look! I had the plan, not you, Evie. That must have been your shopping list he ripped up.”
The remaining constable grinned, eyed the Prince cagily, and then turned to the duke. “With the threat of a noose around his neck, Your Grace, that fire prigger is singing like a lark. Doubt we’ll need much more to put this Filgrave away for quite a while.”
“My thanks, Mr Hamilton.” Their gentlemanly shake of hands was interrupted by a protracted sigh from Artemisia as she descended the coach, fluffing her skirts.
“He was right though. I’m a pea-goose who hasn’t the aim or heart to shoot a rabid bear. Here is your pistol, Mr…er…Your Highness.” And she waggled the weapon loosely by the trigger guard.
The Prince’s face blanched before he chose his moment to seize the pistol from her sister’s hand and shove it to the band of his breeches. Almost as soon, his expression darkened to disgruntled. “Is that diamond on the floor one of mine?”
At Casper’s nod of assent, he bent to seize it, the polished gem glinting against his rugged hand. He flicked his gaze at Filgrave’s carriage. “Anyone want a ride home?”
“No!” both sisters cried in unison.
He shrugged and lifted one foot to the carriage plate, then paused, rolling the gem between his fingers.
Returning to Artemisia, he grabbed her hand and plonked the diamond within her palm. “It took more than a pea-goose to confront Filgrave. This is yours.” And after a low bow worthy of a prince, he hauled himself to the coachman’s perch.
The horses gently trotted forth…then with a crack of whip, all hell broke loose, the carriage lurching, the street’s costermongers, flower girls and merchants darting for the safety of the pavement.
Artemisia gawked at the gleaming diamond. “Sodding hell,” she murmured. “I can buy a castle.”
Later that night…
“Close your eyes.”
Casper closed one.
Evelyn cocked a hip, tilted her head and cast a reproving glance.
If she knew what that look did to his nether regions, she’d no doubt…do it again.
Yet he was loath to lose the vision of that silver-hued evening gown caressing her shape, those curls draping her shoulders and lips twitching with merriment.
Nevertheless, her foot began to tap so he shuttered his gaze as instructed.
“Now come with me.”
A door handle clicked, and he recognised the scent of books and ink. Smokiness lingered but that slender hand drew him on, the rustle of skirts and crackle of fire a soothing balm.
A hand to his chest halted his step.
“Open.”
Pinned to the library wall was a charcoal sketch, some fifty inches by thirty. His heart thudded with anticipation, a tingling awareness to his nape.
He compelled his eyes to the lower corners as was his custom – one then the other.
No signature but then sketches rarely did.
Upwards.
A skirt roughly outlined in black, fluid and graceful, shadows smudged to perfection with a meticulous thumb.
Such skill. A privilege to view the unadulterated work of an artist.
Upwards.
Waist and bosom met his eyes, lush and warm despite the lack of colour. A feat so few artists could achieve. His hands clenched in profound anticipation.
Up.
The fingers of her right hand were not detailed, just curved strokes of charcoal, yet those mere strokes dallied in awkward innocence at her neck, the ribbon that encircled it a stark slash of black.
Up.
No background had been added, just the figure and a few shaded areas to show where the light should hit.
It was real. Natural and raw.
And smiling, Casper dared to confront his defiant beauty at last.
Evelyn.
Those eyes stared straight at him, both bold and unworldly – pointed chin, fulsome cheeks and wild curls.
This was her.
Perfection.
And yet what he hadn’t expected in all those months of imagining, was the slight upward curve of impertinent lip, a frankness to her tilted jaw, and demure slant to her eyes, all melding to signify a fiery, forthright yet innocent whole.
“Do you like it?”
Casting his gaze left, he watched Evelyn peruse the sketch with pensive eyes. He saw the girl within her, but the years since had created a woman – compassionate, resourceful and loyal.
He glimpsed their life together – a duchess who would work tirelessly for the forgotten, a wife who would bring joy, a lover to embrace.
Casper cupped a hand to Evelyn’s cheek, to vibrant colour and sensation, to life and love. “Beautiful…” he murmured. “Thank you.”
“When your study is repaired, you can replace The Fall of Innocence Unveiled with this.”
Casper shook his head. “All three shall take pride of place. For they are our story and each one is precious. And in return for your gift…”
Ignoring Evelyn’s protest that she wanted for nothing, he reached within his pocket to withdraw a folded piece of paper with an attached seal dangling from a cotton.
“This is a special licence for our marriage in St George’s five days hence.” A gasp, and he placed his lips to her throat, traced soft kisses to her ear, lightly bit her lobe and whispered, “I will wait no longer.” He drew back and cocked a brow. “Is one free, perhaps?”
“Well, ’tis awfully soon,” she demurred, tapping finger to chin, “but I believe that within my schedule I could allot you…one hour.”
Casper grinned and hauled her near, kissed that brazen mouth, fierce and wanting. “I so yearn for you to be my duchess.”
Upon a canvas of porcelain, and framed by tumbling titian, green eyes gleamed with unbridled delight. “As I so yearn for you to be my duke…” She trailed those impudent fingers upon his chest. “…so swift of wing, my dearest
love.”
Epilogue
Freedom.
Delicate yet spirited. Undeterred by life.
She embodied all he yearned for.
Casper trailed a solitary finger along the thin black ribbon caught in a tight bow at her nape and longed to lean close, to loosen it with a single nip of his teeth.
Tendrils of flame hair caressed her earlobe and he traced the curls, ached to feel such resplendence upon his bared skin.
The defiant beauty, however, refused to turn at his impudent touch, denying Casper her silken face. Instead, she merely presented him with a blushing cheekbone and glimpse of stubborn chin.
Some labelled Casper cold and obsessive, tedious and brusque… Yet with this woman he felt anything but.
He willed that cheek to turn, to have her gaze upon him and whisper words of temptation. So reaching out once more, he grazed a thumb across the lace edge of that brazen frock as it rode low upon her–
“Casper!” Evelyn chastised, laughing. “I’m trying to sketch the castle.”
Indeed, this grassy hillock afforded them the perfect view as they lounged upon a blanket, so instead, he clasped her about the waist, to rest his chin upon her shoulder and gaze at the sketchpad.
Wychmere Castle.
Home to the Rothwells for four centuries, it stood indomitable and eternal, square stone turrets reaching to the sky whilst impenetrable walls forbade entry. A moat encircled in protection, fed by the river, and with a depth that no one knew or had thought to test.
Yet within those sketched outer ramparts, he knew lay lawns of green, diagonals of herbs and a beguiling maze in which to lose oneself. A home where two kings and one queen had once rested their royal heads.
For the years that fate allowed, Casper was merely guardian of this sanctuary, but he appreciated every scarred stone – a testament to battle, weather and hardship – knew every creaking stair tread, and at what hour the sunset would catch the west mullioned windows, turning them to gold.
All this he would share with his new duchess.
Distant shouts rolled over the low hills, and he glanced up – tenants grazing their cattle whilst the weather held fine, and beyond the moat, in the east paddock, an elegant and spirited blond mare ignored the posturing of his brother’s brash stallion for the sweet grass of early summer.
“I love you, my duchess,” he rasped against Evelyn’s nape as she shaded in the menacing clouds that gathered on the south horizon. No matter, for together they would bear any storms that blew their way, share in the sunrise that followed.
Evelyn twisted within his arms.
“Let’s go home,” she whispered, a palm to his cheek, smile upon her lips and love within her gaze.
Contentment. Peace. Evelyn.
Casper Brook, the eighth Duke of Rothwell, murmured his adoration and kissed his exquisite duchess. “With you, I am home.”
The End
Thank You
Thank you for reading The Duke of Diamonds. I truly hope you enjoyed Casper and Evelyn’s tale.
Pictures that inspired this story, including castles, art and diamond-studed cravats, can be found on my Pinterest.
uk.pinterest.com/EmilyWindsorBks
To get in touch or to receive news of future releases, become a Lady of Windsor and sign up for my newsletter - gentlemen also welcome!
The Ladies of Windsor
Or follow me on:
facebook.com/AuthorEmilyWindsor
goodreads.com/EmilyWindsor
bookbub.com/authors/emily-windsor
This book is written using British English spelling.
Also by Emily Windsor
RULES OF THE ROGUE SERIES
An Earl in Wolf’s Clothing (Book 1)
From the hallowed halls of London’s Almack’s to the unkempt taverns of Drury Lane, from whispered words in glittering theatres to seductive encounters at Vauxhall Gardens – an earl must pursue his love.
A determined lady. An even more determined gentleman.
Let the pursuit begin…
Merry Christmas, my Viscount (Book 2 - Novella)
Seduce a rogue? By Christmas Eve? What a troubling resolution for the most proper widow Mrs Lily Mereworth to be left with… How? And more importantly, who?
Ghost stories on a windy night, swordplay down the Great Portrait Gallery, a lady and a spymaster with no thought to love… Merry Christmas.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie (Book 3)
“Strait-laced. Ruthless. Arrogant.” – The Duke of Rakecombe has forever spurned love…and with good reason.
“Forthright. Impudent. Capricious saucebox.” – The fiery Miss Aideen Quinlan refuses to be spurned, unable to erase the memory of the duke’s vehement kiss…
An unlikely couple, an unquenchable passion.
Resistance is futile.
Marquess to a Flame (Book 4)
The Marquess of Winterbourne has long been guided by his Rules of the Rogue, but as spy for the Crown, his next mission will break every single one. Sent to the wilds of Cornwall to beguile secrets from a lady, the last thing this rogue expects is to unearth his own buried heart.
CAPTIVATING DEBUTANTES SERIES
Captivated by the Viscount
My Captive Earl
Her Noble Captive
About the Author
Emily grew up in the north of England on a diet of historical romance and classical mythology.
Unfortunately, you couldn’t study Georgian slang or the Regency London Season, so she did the next best thing and gained a degree in Classics and History instead. This ‘led’ to an eight-year stint in engineering.
Having left city life, she now lives in a dilapidated farmhouse in the country where her days are spent writing, fixing the leaky roof, battling the endless vegetation and finding pictures of well-tied cravats.
Happy Reading,
Love,
Emily
x
The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1) Page 24