What a Devilish Duke Desires

by Vicky Dreiling

  Bedding two strumpets held a certain appeal. Harry had no doubt he would be up for both occasions. Of course, he’d have to return another night to make the proposition. First, he had to ascertain whether either one of them met his expectations.

  “I’d heard you were tall and handsome,” Mrs. Larkspur said, taking his arm and brushing her breast against him. “You have surpassed all that I imagined.”

  “On a five-minute acquaintance?” he said.

  “Your reputation precedes you,” Mrs. Larkspur amended.

  Mrs. Roseberg clutched his other arm. She regarded him with a coquettish expression and squeezed his biceps. “Your Grace is the embodiment of elegance and athleticism.”

  “No other gentleman here is as handsome as Your Grace,” Mrs. Larkspur added.

  They were pouring the compliments on rather thick. He imagined they would be pleased by any man—for the right price.

  Mrs. Larkspur tittered. “I do hope you’re feeling frisky.”

  The word made him think of Bandit—and not in a complimentary manner. A dull ache started in his temples. He wasn’t altogether enraptured by the two trollops, but he would give them a chance to prove their talents.

  A footman approached and bade them to follow him to the private chamber that featured a red sofa and a large bed with red velvet drapes. A covered table held two bottles of Madeira, lobster patties, pickled eels, and sweetmeats.

  Mrs. Larkspur led him to the sofa while Mrs. Roseberg made up a plate of the delicacies and tried to feed them to him.

  Harry held up his hand. “No thank you. A glass of wine is sufficient, but please partake of the food.”

  The footman poured the wine and handed round glasses. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

  “No, thank you.” He gave the footman a sixpence.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Larkspur and Mrs. Roseberg piled food on the small plates and ate with the gusto of farmhands. Harry was accustomed to ladies eating like birds, so he was rather astonished.

  Mrs. Larkspur swallowed a bite and smiled at him. “Mrs. Fleur encourages our appetites. She says the gentlemen like a bit of flesh on our bones.”

  “I see.” They did appear well fed, but thus far, he’d felt no stirrings of desire for either one of them.

  Mrs. Roseberg rummaged in her reticule, brought out a bottle, and liberally dabbed her neck.

  When Mrs. Larkspur walked over to the bed, she patted it. “Will you join me?”

  “Of course,” he said, wondering what exactly Mrs. Larkspur had in mind. She slid her hand over his thigh. “My, my, I can feel those muscles beneath your trousers.”

  When she reached for a button on his falls, he caught her hand. “I prefer a leisurely seduction—an appetizer, so to speak.”

  “Oh, I think there are a few pickled eels left.”

  He pulled a face. “It was a figure of speech.”

  Mrs. Larkspur looked confused. “You wish to make a speech, Your Grace?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.” Her simplemindedness did not appeal to him at all.

  Mrs. Roseberg sat on the other side of him and walked her fingers up his waistcoat. He managed a smile, but her cheap perfume made his eyes water. Ye gods, had she bathed in it?

  Mrs. Roseberg leaned closer. A cloud of perfume assaulted him. His nose itched like the devil. When she attempted to kiss his mouth, Harry hastily grabbed his handkerchief and sneezed…repeatedly.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said in a nasally voice.

  “I’m sure you will recover quickly,” Mrs. Larkspur said, breathing into his ear.

  Harry sneezed three times. “S-sorry,” he said.

  At that moment, Mrs. Fleur entered. Her determined smile faded quickly. “Your Grace, are you unwell?”

  He wanted nothing to do with this pair and seized the excuse. “I fear so,” he managed, sneezing again. “Perhaps…a-another…achoo!”

  “Girls, you may entertain other gentlemen,” Mrs. Fleur said. “His Grace is unwell.”

  When the two women left, Mrs. Fleur regarded him regretfully. “I am sorry for your sudden affliction.”

  Harry blew his nose. He wasn’t sorry at all.

  Mrs. Fleur sighed. “This is most indelicate, but there is the matter of the bill. You do understand, I hope.”

  He put away his handkerchief. When he examined the bill, his jaw dropped. “A guinea?” he said.

  “I must keep up my high standards. One does not serve substandard refreshments,” Mrs. Fleur said. “You know how difficult it is to find and retain a talented chef.”

  Her talented chef probably did double duty as a groom and escorted gents who got belligerent after one too many bottles. Harry had no intention of arguing over the matter. He rummaged in his purse and produced the guinea.

  “I do hope Your Grace will return when you’re recovered,” Mrs. Fleur said. “I’m sure one of my other girls could take care of your needs. Here is a list of services,” she said.

  Out of curiosity, he perused the offerings and barely managed to keep a straight face. The “services” included Mama’s boy, the Thrashing, and the Bath.

  “We’ve recently added the Vicar,” Mrs. Fleur said.

  His mouth twitched. “The Vicar?”

  “Some gentlemen prefer a sermon…afterward.”

  The devil! “How…interesting.”

  “You are always welcome, Your Grace. If none of these meet your needs, I’m sure we can accommodate your preferences…”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. Good Lord.

  Harry barely made it out of Mrs. Fleur’s salon before guffawing.

  After his carriage rolled into the yard at the Albany, Harry stepped out. The cold breeze lifted the capes on his greatcoat. He climbed the stairs and rummaged in his inner coat pocket for his key since he didn’t wish to wake Barlow, who served as butler, valet, and dog walker.

  Harry unlocked the door, and naturally Bandit started barking. Fortunately, Barlow had left a candle branch burning so he could see to hang his hat and greatcoat. Then he squatted to pet the puppy. “Hush now. The neighbors will complain if you keep up this racket.” Then he carried the candle branch to his desk. Bandit followed, his nails clicking on the floor until he reached the carpet. Harry frowned at the stacks of papers. Someone had straightened the piles, but that wasn’t part of Barlow’s duties. Then Harry remembered that he’d added maid services to his bill, which was probably for the best, considering the amount of dog hair everywhere.

  Bandit followed him to his bedchamber. He set the candle branch aside, took off his coat, and sniffed it. It smelled of cheap perfume and cheroots. Harry wasn’t altogether certain Barlow could get the stench out. No doubt Barlow would take a disgust of Harry’s stinky coat.

  He stripped off his clothes, turned to the bed, and blinked. The book of erotic engravings stood like the letter A in the middle of the turned down bed. Obviously, the maid had put the book exactly where he’d left it. “Good Lord,” he muttered, and laughed at the thought of what the maid must have seen.

  Harry picked it up and saw the engraving of a couple engaged in soixante-neuf. Last night, he’d pleasured himself while looking at the engravings. Tonight, he set the book aside as a different image floated in his mind. He imagined a petite and saucy young woman sweeping her long red locks over his naked body. He definitely did not need the book to pleasure himself tonight.

  The next morning

  Buckley collected a purse from Old Bess on Grub Street after delivering a fresh-faced farm girl named Nelly to the well-known bawd. Bess promised Nelly a job in service.

  Buckley chortled, thinking of her horror when she found out what kind of service she’d be providing—on her back.

  He limped along the pavement, cursing his aching ankle. It still hadn’t healed, and he blamed that backstabbing bitch Lucy Longmore. He hated her more than ever, but he’d yet to catch her off guard. It was just a matter of time before he nabbed her.

  Buckley br
oke out in a cold sweat. He needed laudanum badly. Now that he was in funds again, he could buy a bottle from the apothecary. He scratched his itchy face and licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry, and he was feeling anxious.

  He limped to the apothecary’s shop. The bell rang as he entered, and the apothecary scowled at him. “Your credit’s no good here.”

  Buckley pushed his coins across the counter. “I assume my money is.”

  When the apothecary set the bottle on the counter, Buckley took a swig right away.

  The apothecary rubbed his chin. “What pocket did you pick?”

  “Not a one. I sold a girl to Old Bess.”

  The apothecary licked his fat lips. “Why let the bawd take her cut when you did the work? I’ll put a mattress in the back room,” he said, indicating with his thumb. “Mayhap we can do business.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Buckley said.

  “Two bottles of laudanum each night and a quarter of the takings.”

  “Half,” Buckley said.

  “Deal, but you have to bring the girls,” the apothecary said.

  Buckley departed and limped along the street. His head felt a little light. He got confused and couldn’t remember where he was. Three times he got lost. Finally, he met up with a man selling gin and fortified himself. He felt better now that his mouth wasn’t so dry.

  The gin seller gave him directions to Grosvenor Square. Buckley saw all the carriages on the pavement and pulled out the filthy piece of paper with the address. He limped slowly along. He’d no idea of the time when he finally dragged himself up on the step. Then he mopped his forehead and rang the bell. The butler scowled at him and took his card. “Wait here,” the butler said, and walked upstairs.

  Buckley looked around the foyer for valuables to purloin and put a silver candlesnuffer inside his coat. He reckoned he could pawn it after he finished the dance lesson.

  Mrs. Norcliffe’s drawing room

  There was not a single empty seat in Mrs. Norcliffe’s drawing room, but that was not at all unusual.

  “Dear friends,” Mrs. Norcliffe said, clasping her hands, “I am so happy to see everyone’s interest in the dancing instruction. We will begin shortly. Meanwhile, please make yourselves comfortable.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe had decided to hire a dance master in order to ensure that her niece Mina and Lord Everleigh were as prepared as possible for the dancing competition. She would not trust in fate when it came to the competition at Almack’s. Mrs. Norcliffe had great plans for Mina and Everleigh, as she was determined that they would win the dance competition. What could be more romantic for the happy couple? Surely a wedding would follow.

  Mrs. Norcliffe glanced at the mantel clock and pursed her lips. The dance master Lady Blenborough had recommended should have arrived fifteen minutes ago. She did not appreciate his tardiness and meant to rebuke him after the dancing practice.

  “Aunt, did Harry reply to your missive?” Mina asked.

  Mrs. Norcliffe scowled. “He claimed he had important business in parliament.”

  “Oh, Aunt,” Mina said, smiling. “Let us give Harry the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Humph,” Mrs. Norcliffe said. Her son was not as dutiful as she wished. In truth, Harry had a stubborn streak that she found vastly irritating. Nevertheless, she would deal with him later. For now, she pasted on her society smile and made the rounds of the drawing room.

  When Mrs. Norcliffe noticed Lady Greystoke and Lady Blenborough whispering to each other, she knew it was time to intervene. Those two cats were known for raking others over the coals, and in this case, Mrs. Norcliffe feared she was the one getting burned. “Ladies, I do apologize for the slight delay. I hope you are both well and excited about the opening of Almack’s next week.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Greystoke said, fanning her face. “One hears fantastical rumors. The scandal sheets report all manner of stories.”

  “Oh? I’ve been so busy I didn’t notice,” Mrs. Norcliffe said, which of course was a complete fabrication. In truth, ever since the patronesses had agreed to her plan for a dancing competition at Almack’s, she had sent anonymous messages to the tawdry scandal sheets, hinting at a spectacular event occurring at Almack’s in a sennight.

  Mrs. Norcliffe had her own ambitions. Viscount Everleigh had formed an attachment to dear Mina. Best of all, Mrs. Norcliffe, who knew all the best gossip, had learned that Viscount Everleigh had twenty thousand a year. As far as Mrs. Norcliffe was concerned, that almost sealed the deal. The only event that would make it perfect was if Mina and Everleigh won the Almack’s dancing competition. Mrs. Norcliffe meant to do everything in her power to make it happen. But first she must ensure Mina and Everleigh practiced until they knew every step of all the most popular dances.

  Of course, she wished to see Harry dancing in the competition, but Mrs. Norcliffe had no illusions where her son was concerned. She would likely have to trick him into dancing—that is, if he didn’t take refuge in the gaming rooms before she could present Miss Hortense Osterham to him.

  When the clock chimed the half hour, Lady Blenborough frowned. “Where is Mr. Buckley? It is not like him to be so tardy.”

  “Do you suppose something has happened to him?” Lady Greystoke said.

  “I’ve no idea,” Lady Blenborough said. “Unfortunately, I must beg your leave, Mrs. Norcliffe. I have an appointment with the modiste.”

  “I understand,” Mrs. Norcliffe said, and continued circulating among her guests. She was growing increasingly vexed at the delay. If the dance master did not arrive soon, her guests would leave in droves. Dear heaven, she prided herself on having the most illustrious drawing room in London. Now because of a tardy dance master she stood to lose face among the other patronesses. Quelle horreur!

  At long last, Gibson returned to the drawing room to report Mr. Buckley had arrived.

  “Please show him up,” Mrs. Norcliffe said.

  “Yes, madame.” Gibson hesitated. “Madame, you might wish to keep the guests at some distance from Mr. Buckley.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe frowned. “Why ever for?”

  “To be honest, madame, there is a strong odor about his person.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe released an exasperated sigh. Now she had a dilemma. Either she lied and said the dance master failed to show or she took a chance that Mr. Buckley would remain at a sufficient distance. Since her guests had waited for some time, Mrs. Norcliffe decided to allow Mr. Buckley to teach. “Gibson, do instruct Mr. Buckley to keep his distance from the dancers.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  When Gibson returned, he said, “Madame, Mr. Buckley.”

  Buckley bowed. “Madame, I am at your service.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe was aghast. Dear Lord, the dance master was dressed in a slovenly manner, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was limping. “Sir, you are very late,” Mrs. Norcliffe said.

  Mr. Buckley bowed again and mopped his forehead with a dingy handkerchief. “My apologies, madame. I took a wrong turn,” he said, licking his lips.

  “Sir, it appears you are injured,” Mrs. Norcliffe said. “How can you dance?”

  “Do not concern yourself, madame. It is only the rheumatism. I have a tonic for it.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe was horrorstruck at his appearance, and he smelled strongly of perspiration. Since others were watching, she thought it best to proceed. “I wish for you to instruct the quadrille,” she said to Mr. Buckley.

  “Yes, madame, I will gladly instruct the dancers.”

  “Very well,” she said. The man’s pasty complexion, greasy hair, and copious sweating did not bode well at all.

  “If the gentlemen will lead in the ladies, we will start,” Buckley said, mopping his forehead again. “Everyone bow to your partners.”

  “Mr. Buckley, you must give them time to select partners,” Mrs. Norcliffe said.

  “Yes, of course, how remiss of me. I was just overly eager.”

  While Mina urged her sisters and the few gentlemen present to
participate, Mrs. Norcliffe watched Buckley with narrowed eyes.

  Mina joined Mrs. Norcliffe. “He drank from an apothecary bottle.”

  “He said it was a tonic for his rheumatism,” Mrs. Norcliffe said, “but I cannot fathom how he can instruct dance when he is limping.”

  “Perhaps he will demonstrate the steps slowly,” Mina said.

  Mrs. Norcliffe scoffed. “Perhaps he will grow wings on his feet, too. Go join the dancers, Mina.”

  Castelle, Everleigh, and Justin Davenport agreed to partner with Mina, Helena, and Amelia.

  “Now,” Mr. Buckley said. “Please bow to your partners. We will dance the quadrille.”

  The dancers took their places and watched him with puzzlement as he wiped his forehead again.

  “The first couple should proceed up the middle,” Buckley said.

  Mina frowned. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Buckley. Did you mean down the middle?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” he said, licking his lips.

  Mina and Everleigh led down the middle and turned forward.

  “The first couple will cast off on the sidelines,” Buckley said.

  Everleigh frowned. “Mr. Buckley, my partner and I have already done so.”

  “Oh, how remiss of me. I meant second place. Now the opposite couple will lead up the middle and cast off.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe covered her mouth in horror. The dancers were instructing the dance master. Now she was suspicious that Lady Blenborough had purposely recommended this buffoon to embarrass her. They were old rivals from years ago during their debuts. Mrs. Norcliffe ought to have known better than to trust Lady Blenborough.

  “Next, the gentlemen clasp hands,” Mr. Buckley said, “while the ladies dance on the outer circle.”

  Mrs. Norcliffe was astounded. “Sir, I believe the ladies dance in the inner circle. Perhaps you might demonstrate the steps first.”

  “Oh yes, just a moment,” he said, stumbling sideways. “Forgive me. I just need my tonic—for the rheumatism.”

  By now everyone was whispering. Clearly, the dance master was incompetent. “Mr. Buckley,” Mrs. Norcliffe said, “you are sweating profusely even though you have not exerted yourself. Are you ill, sir?”