by Devon, Eva
My Duke
Until
Dawn
by
Eva Devon
A Duke's Secret Novel
Book 6
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
My Duke Until Dawn
Copyright © 2019 by Máire Creegan
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
For my darling sons. You three and Mr. D are so marvelous. You are so glorious.
Don’t miss the books that started the Duke’s Secret Series!
For my darling sons. You three and Mr. D are so marvelous. You are so glorious.
Special thanks to:
Patricia, Judy and Monica.
But also thanks to:
Christi Caldwell
Annabelle Anders
Scarlett Scott
Tammy Andresen.
All generous, lovely souls.
Prologue
“Papa, Papa, come with me,” the little boy called.
His father, a man of great height, a height which matched his power, looked down on him with eyes full of uncertainty.
The little boy couldn’t understand as he took in the almost-darting gaze of his papa.
His father was an adult, after all.
What was there to fear of going outside?
The boy peered out again to the beautiful, manicured gardens, kept perfect by an army of gardeners. There were no goblins, or beasts to stop them.
Even so, his papa stood in the wide doorway of their castle, his own eyes searching the horizon as if seeing enemies somewhere out beyond the fountains and hedges.
The little boy struggled to understand how his papa could feel that way. After all, he’d been told for almost as long as he could recall that his father was one of the most powerful men in the land.
What could possibly frighten him?
So he tugged on his father’s big, strong hand again. “Papa, please, I’d like you to come with me and play. We can go run out into the forest.”
His father swallowed, the muscles in his throat working just above his perfectly starched cravat. “Not today, my boy, not today.”
“But, Papa,” the boy protested, feeling the last of the summer breeze on his face. “The weather is beautiful, and soon it will be winter.”
His father nodded even as he drew into the shadows of the castle. “I know, dear boy. I know. You go. And you and I shall play in the library later.”
Tears stung the boy’s eyes at his father’s denial. “But, Papa, I really wish to go—”
“No,” his father cut in, his voice harsh and rich with panic. “Not today. Papa cannot do it today. Papa has far too many things to do today.”
And then the boy saw it.
His father’s hands were shaking. There was a slight tremor to his whole body. A terrified look flashed in his father’s dark eyes, as the once-strong man backed farther away.
The boy’s fingers slipped out of his papa’s hand as the duke slid away.
“I’m sorry, my boy. I’m sorry.” His father sucked in a shuddering breath. “Papa just cannot do it. I adore you, my lad, and I know that you would like to play so very, very much. And Papa would like to play with you too. . . But I can’t. Forgive me, my boy. Forgive me.”
And with that, his father turned and, quite shockingly, ran towards the stairs.
There was no solemn walk, no dignified stride now, which the boy was used to seeing his father take. For usually, wherever his father went, he went with power.
No, the man with such broad, strong shoulders, the man who held him in a comforting embrace when he was afraid in the dark. . . ran.
The duke bolted up the wide stairs and into the dark recesses of the castle.
The little boy stared after him, lost and alone. . . Tears slipping down his face.
***
Twenty-five years later
Rafe had a secret.
He looked around at his friends, all dukes, who were making merry, drinking port happily in the secret Number 79 Club.
The dukes were powerful men, all bantering, all making light of the current political situation, even though they all held Parliament as an almost holy thing.
Yes, each and every one of them had their scandal, their sin, their cause, their secret to contend with. And they contended with their problems together. They had since a day at war when the Duke of Blackstone had united them all. Ever since, they’d been allies, sharing every dark secret with each other.
Except Rafe. . . Rafe had a secret all of his own.
His father.
He didn’t know how to tell his friends.
He was simply too ashamed.
No, ashamed wasn’t the right word. He simply didn’t know how to say it. How could he say that his father was . . .
Broken.
And no matter how hard he tried, how passionately he worked, or how much he had implored, his father’s secret would never be made unnecessary.
It broke Rafe’s heart because he loved his father more than he’d loved anyone in his entire life, and each day that he’d seen the old man decline, had only cracked Rafe’s heart the more.
He stared around at the powerful men in the room.
One day his father had been just like them: strong, tall, the best of society, and now?
There was really nothing Rafe could say.
His friends, the powerful dukes of Drake, Raventon, Blackstone, Ardore, and Harley all sat laughing whilst Drake played the piano that took up the entire corner of the secret upstairs annex.
While he studied them, Rafe sat quietly, feeling darkened and diminished.
As his heart felt more and more like a black, tortured thing, he knew what he must do to keep them from knowing the secret his father had made him swear to keep even past his death.
Rafe would keep laughing and keep smiling and keep making merry. Yes, he would be the merriest rake in all of London, for that was the only way that no one would ever suspect the truth.
That he was the most broken-hearted of all.
Chapter 1
Miss Penelope Finley absolutely adored London.
In fact, her love was so full that she all but frolicked down the townhouse steps, eager to ride out onto Rotten Row.
The revelation was astonishing to her as she soaked in the spring warmth that had overtaken a particularly dreary winter.
Indeed, it never would have occurred to her that she would love Town with such verve. The truth of it was she had spent her entire life rusticating in the country and had relished every moment of it.
At no point had she particularly longed for the supposed pleasures of the city.
Oh, no.
She had adored the rolling green fields, the rapturous, crashing coastline of her home county, and she had enjoyed every instant she spent cuddled by the wood fire, reading books whilst drinking mulled wine, hot tea, or negus.
All year round had been a source of great joy to her out in the country. Such was her zest for country life, she’d always found herself gadding about hills, dales, and streams. Unquestionably, horse rides, l
ong walks, and the observance of nature had heretofore been her passion.
Boredom had never even crossed her mind though her company had been rather limited to her father and her dear cousin, Persephone. They, and her beloved books and news sheets brought down from the city, had been more than enough to make her life one of profound happiness.
But London?
London was a marvel.
She sucked in a breath of air and nearly coughed. There was no getting around the rather dubious smells. That rumor she’d heard was indeed true.
The thick, somewhat noxious air was a bit much sometimes, but it was only thus at present because it had not rained in a few days. Nor had a breeze swept the various poisons from the tanners and coal fires away.
She knew now, from experience, that the moment the rains or a quick, good wind came in, all of the dust and coal of the copious amounts of fires would be cleared away and she would once again be left with beautiful green parks and the magnificent homes lining Hyde, Green, or the newly constructed Regent’s Park.
It had only been a week since she arrived with her dearest friend and cousin, Persephone—Percy to those who loved her—and Penelope had spent it in glorious preoccupation.
Granted, it was undeniable, she had spent a good deal of time looking at gowns and having them made. She’d seen milliners, haberdashers, and shoemakers aplenty so that she might have her first Season. Bond Street had been her second home.
After all, Persephone was about to have a grand wedding. To a duke, of all things.
My goodness, how the world did turn!
And Penelope was to have her first London Season. Something she’d never aspired to before.
So, she had spent her time in what she would have previously considered a frivolous endeavor. Frankly, she’d quite unapologetically enjoyed it even though she had been raised to adore beautifully bound leather books more than cleverly made bonnets.
Still, as she eyed the groom who had her horse waiting so that she might go for a ride this morning, she felt absolute glee. Her life had almost been ruined but a few weeks before. Her father had faced financial disaster, and it was through Persephone’s sheer determination and willingness to save them that all was well.
Sometimes, she felt a hint of guilt that her cousin had sacrificed herself to save them. But she did seem to like the Duke of Drake. . .
Penelope lifted her chin, determined not to feel downcast on such a beautiful day. She was a very lucky young woman, and she wouldn’t forget it.
So was Percy, really. They both were of good fortune enough to never know want. And thus? What was there to complain about? Nothing, that’s what. Sometimes, Penelope did wonder what it might be like to continue living the life of freedom she’d always known, but. . .
She smoothed her hands down the front of her crimson riding habit and approached the beautiful mare waiting for her. The creature was perfect; her slick tail twitched as she shifted from hoof to hoof, clearly ready to run.
The mare, Artemis, gave a whicker, and her dark eyes rolled towards Penelope in happy greeting.
Penelope nodded a good morning to her groom before she stroked Artemis’ withers.
As she caressed the perfect shoulder of her mare, she marveled at her cousin’s circumstance. Who would have thought that marrying a duke would be a possibility for a girl who had been raised in the country with little chance of meeting anyone at all?
But there it was.
Surprises did occur, and wonderful things seemed to take place because, truthfully, Penelope was fairly certain that Persephone was absolutely in love with her husband to be, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Besides, who might not be in love with the Duke of Drake? He was devilishly handsome and terribly intelligent. It mattered not that perhaps he had a dark secret or two. He bore them beautifully. And who didn’t really have a bit of a dark shadow about them, she wanted to know. Even she had the touch of her father’s economic disaster.
Deciding to give no more thought to the matter so she might focus on the joy of the moment, she placed her booted foot into the silver stirrup and allowed the groom to help her hoist herself into the sidesaddle.
In the last weeks, there were a few times she’d wished she could return to her home just so she might ride without a silly sidesaddle. She loved her breaches and riding wild across the moors, but in Town, one had to conform. And she’d had a beautiful riding habit, crimson with gold buttons and an ivory waistcoat, made for just such occasions.
She hooked her knee over the horn, adjusted her skirts, squared her shoulders, and took a moment to coo at her mare. Penelope promised Artemis all would be well with the world and they would have a splendid ride together.
Then without further ado, she lifted her gaze, spotted where she wished to go, and simply thought forward. Most miraculously but accurately, Artemis began an eager but measured walk as if she had indeed heard Penelope’s internal command.
Penelope allowed the reins to drape carefully across the mare’s neck and just enjoyed the feel of the warm spring sun upon her. It was such a pleasure to be away from the cold of winter and to finally be in the delicious time of year when flowers sprung and people were delighted to be out and about.
As she rode happily across Rotten Row, many stared at her, for she was new to Town. Still, she wasn’t remarkable, so they didn’t look at her overlong, or at least, she didn’t think they did. She was simply Miss Penelope Finley, a lady from the country with little fortune and not much to recommend her besides a rather eccentric father and the ability to hold a very good seat and a better conversation. Even if she did say so herself.
Still, she’d had a great deal of fun with Persephone, going about London and not just to haberdashers. No, she had enjoyed the museums, the theater, and the opera. Oh, my goodness, how wonderful it had been!
And the bookshops were simply beyond all possible belief.
Suddenly, Artemis’ ears snapped to attention, and she tensed. The mare bolted forward.
Penelope’s eyes flared, and she leaned onto her mare’s neck even as her stomach jolted.
It was an astonishing thing, for she was quite a good rider and she could usually anticipate if her mount was about to bolt. But then she saw it: the bee, right by Artemis’ ear. And Artemis had not liked that at all.
And to her horror, she realized that Artemis had been stung and was having nothing to do with it. The mare raced down Rotten Row, dashing around other riders and carriages.
A woman squealed with terror, clearly terrified that Penelope had lost control of her horse.
She never would, of course.
She was an excellent rider.
Penelope kept her hands relaxed even as she spoke to Artemis, urging the animal to calm. She gave her mare her head and very carefully wove through all the people. In a moment, all would be well. She was confident of that.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed her rein with excellent, though unnecessary, skill and gently pulled back upon the horse’s bit. And Artemis slowed to a trot.
“My God, woman, what the devil are you at?” the man demanded, his voice a deep, rolling thunder.
It was delicious, that voice.
It sounded like hot honey with warmed brandy, but that didn’t alter the fact that his words were pompous and rankled.
No, she didn’t care for his words at all.
“I am having a ride in the park,” she said clearly, refusing to act with any sort of contrition.
“A ride? That was a wild dash,” he intoned. “You could have bloody well hurt someone.”
“No, I could not,” she retorted, forcing herself to remain somewhat calm, lest Artemis become agitated. She swung her gaze to him, ready to continue in her set down. When she took in his face, she was momentarily stunned. The devil was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
His hair shone strangely gold in the sun, though she had a feeling it was actually a russet hue. His brow was furrowed and spoke of great responsibi
lity. His jaw seemed to beg one to punch it, but the aquiline cut of his nose was undeniable, as were his sharp cheekbones. But his eyes? My goodness. His eyes. . . They were twin dark pools that drew her in, and she wasn’t certain if she’d ever breathe again.
“Indeed, you could,” he countered firmly, his voice a growl that punctured her reverie. “I saw you crashing across Rotten Row, with all those people. What the devil were you thinking? I’m going to have to have a word with your groom.”
“Have a word if you must,” she gritted, no longer awed by his stunning good looks, “but I was never once out of control. Artemis and I are good friends, and I know exactly how to control her.”
“Do you, by God?” he drawled, clearly doubtful as his dark brow arched.
“Indeed, I do.” She squared her shoulders. “I did not need your assistance, sir, though I am very happy that you decided to give it. It was a kindness, I’m sure.”
He gave her a strange look then. One of assessment. He looked her up and down slowly, and it wasn’t until that moment, when her whole body began to burn with something that she’d never truly experienced before, that she found her thoughts skittering away again.
Goodness, he truly was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. . . And he was gazing upon her like she was a potential cake to be devoured.
She didn’t really like the idea of being a cake.
She’d always thought of herself as something with a great deal more substance. Yet. . . She swallowed. For the very idea of his mouth upon her. . . Anywhere? It sent a shiver down her spine. A shiver of a deep hunger she’d never felt in her life.
Those eyes of his, dark and full of deep emotion, traced from the top of the tricorn perched atop her head to the edge of her crimson riding habit. He even skimmed her polished black boots.
“You do sit a horse well,” he said.
Those words slipped over his lips as if he was stating something terribly sinful, something scandalous, and she swallowed slightly.
Still, she would not be intimidated, and she lifted her gaze to his.
“Why, thank you, sir.” She forced a cheeky grin. “I do agree, if I say so myself.”