The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  Devlin took a handkerchief from his pocket and, after wetting the corner of it with his mouth, tenderly dabbed at the little spots of blood. He frowned as he examined the wounds. “They will heal,” he said, drawing a corner of the blanket discreetly over her breasts.

  Her hair had begun to dry in a halo of dark burnished curls that framed her face; her lips trembled and her cheeks began to redden as she blushed under his stare. Fenella lowered her eyelids so that he could not read her thoughts; the dark sweep of eyelashes cast faint shadows on her face. Suddenly she was aware that they were only inches apart.

  He moved toward her and she sank back against the cushions. She could see fine droplets of water glistening in his hair. She lifted her hand and caressed the back of his neck, feeling the damp curls against her skin. His strong, handsome face leaned even closer to hers…their lips were almost touching. She longed for the touch of his mouth on hers. Her lips parted, seeking his.

  Fenella felt dizzy from the strong brandy and his nearness. She could smell the masculine scent of his skin, overlaid by the cinnamon-spiced cologne he wore. Fenella had no thoughts about whether her behaviour was right or wrong. For her, in that moment of intensity, there was no tomorrow…there was only here and now and the almost agonizing ecstasy of desire.

  Was this the love the poets always talked about?

  A soft moan escaped her parted lips. Devlin jerked back as if electrified. He tucked the blanket around her shoulders and stood up.

  “My apologies for ruining your dress, Miss Preston. Under the circumstances, it was unfortunate but necessary. I shall call Mrs. Perkins immediately to attend to you.”

  “Please don’t leave me!” To her horror and embarrassment, the words burst from Fenella’s lips before she could stop herself.

  He looked at her and then wrenched himself away. “I must!”

  Devlin stalked out the room. Fenella turned her face against the sofa cushions. She burned with shame at her own brazen desires.

  “I want to die,” she sobbed quietly to herself. “I must have been insane. What must he think of me?”

  The next morning, she awoke with a thick head and muddled thoughts. Fenella was spared the agony of facing the Duke; a chill kept her in bed for a week and when she emerged at last, looking rather wan, she discovered that the Duke had left for London immediately after the storm.

  For the next few days, she was pale and wraith-like, causing the Dowager to send for her own physician, Doctor Barclay. The good doctor examined Fenella, pronounced her to be in good health although a mite too thin, and suggested that if Miss Preston could ride, an early morning gallop would do wonders for increasing her strength and appetite.

  The Dowager was delighted. “You shall have Butterball, my own horse. She is sweet-tempered, loves a good gallop—although I was always too timid to really let her have her head—and she needs the exercise.”

  “But your very own horse, ma’am?”

  “My dear girl, it’s cruel to keep the animal if no one is going to ride her properly. All she does now is eat her head off in the stables and is probably as fat as a barrel. Finch does take her now and again round the park, but the poor dear is probably as desperate as you are to have a good run. I can’t see myself riding again so it will be a pleasure if you take my place.”

  The Dowager instructed Harbottle to hunt for an old riding habit that might fit Fenella.

  A riding habit was found and Fenella began to ride every morning with Finch. Finch later confided to the interested company below stairs that the young miss rode “like she was born in the saddle and knows as much about horses as any man” and Lord knew who had taught her but she handled the reins as sweetly as he had ever seen! He also opined that no matter what anyone said, Miss Preston was a lady, since anyone with half an eyeball could see quality at a glance.

  Butterball, a frisky white palfrey, was beginning to resemble her name through lack of exercise, but within a few days had regained her former svelte shape. Fenella’s cheeks soon took on a rosy bloom and her spirits lifted. Riding through the park, with Finch at a discreet distance behind her, Fenella felt a wild freedom she thought she had forgotten. The blood sang in her ears and her hair streamed in the wind as she galloped blithely over the open spaces, Butterball’s hooves thundering beneath her.

  However, the caressing breezes and the brilliant sunshine did little to exorcise Fenella’s real ghosts—her memories of the fateful encounter with the Duke. Try as she might, Fenella could not banish the feelings she had experienced. She tried not to think of him but it was impossible! Either Cook was begging her to try some tasty dish that was “Master Devlin Sir’s favourite,” or the Dowager would recall some amusing childhood anecdote of her beloved son. Mrs. Perkins was constantly chuckling over things “the Master” had said and done on this or that occasion. Even Finch unbent so far as to tell her all about the “young Master” learning to ride as they trotted home. Every which way she turned, Fenella was constantly reminded of him.

  Her days were filled with activities to serve and please her employer, who utterly doted on her pretty companion. Fenella’s tasks were not onerous and she had plenty of time to herself. She loved to read in the library, or stroll in the park with a surprising companion in the form of Scheherazade, now devoted to her saviour. She wrote to Aunt Preston, describing in minute detail the vast number of rooms and the manner of their decoration, the dinner menus and all that she could remember of the servants’ gossip.

  When she was with the Dowager, they read together for several hours a day; Fenella wrote the Dowager’s letters; they chatted on all kinds of topics; and gradually the old lady regained both her strength and her zest for life. Even Harbottle grudgingly conceded that Miss Preston was a “ray of sunshine’ for the Dowager and all blessed the day she had arrived, except Fenella. She had grown so fond of the old lady that, with each passing moment, she knew she did not want to leave. Nevertheless, there was still the mortifying problem of the Duke. Fenella had no idea of how she would be able to face Devlin when he returned…for return, he must.

  There was another problem as well. Fenella felt the weight of the family secret pressing on her conscience. The Dowager treated her as a family member, and yet here she was deceiving the woman. Finally, Fenella took her courage in both hands and asked the Dowager if she could discuss a matter of great importance with her. They were sitting outside, sheltered by the spreading branches of a large shady oak, with Piper and Floss lolling at their feet. The Dowager looked at Fenella’s woebegone face.

  “What could possibly be the matter?”

  Fenella took a deep breath and the whole story tumbled out; the death of her mother, her life with her father on his campaigns, her education, the heartbreak of being sent back to England, the shock and horror of hearing of her father’s suicide, and the reasons for it. At the end of twenty tearful minutes, Fenella sat staring at her benefactress, her face swollen with tears, and her nose quite red from being blown so hard and so often.

  The Dowager gazed at the forlorn figure. “You poor, dear child! What a time you have had! There’s nothing of which to be ashamed. It’s clear your father was a very brave man to have fought in so many battles and to have been decorated so often. You should be very proud of him.”

  “But ma’am,” Fenella sobbed. “Suicide! Gambling! And I deceived you from the very start!”

  The Dowager replaced Fenella’s now soggy handkerchief with one of her own and said firmly, “Well, I’m sure you did not intend to deceive me. I’m inclined to think your Aunt Preston had your best interests at heart when she conceived of your amended life history. And as for your father’s shame as you call it …my poor dear husband would have blown his brains out a dozen times or so, I dare say, if I’d let him.”

  Fenella was thunderstruck. “What?”

  The Dowager tut-tutted as she mopped up Fenella’s remaining tears. “Men can be weak and silly creatures in spite of all their grand show. And when a man loses a w
oman he loves so much, as your dear Papa lost your Mama, I’m not surprised that he lost his senses as well and ended up doing such foolish things. Think of your father as a brave and wonderful man who chose to end his existence his own way.”

  She leaned toward Fenella. “And there’s no need to tell anyone else. You come from good stock and are certainly not responsible for the actions of your parent.”

  Fenella was astonished by the Dowager’s utter disregard for the social obstacles created by her background. The Dowager laughed.

  “Dear Fenella, so young, so concerned with what must be! By the time you get to my age you’ll realise what life is all about and that happiness is the greatest achievement.”

  She sighed and looked over the lake at the rolling lawns, stroking Scheherazade’s head. “I loved Devlin’s father, with all my heart and soul. The moment we met, we fell in love. Of course, we were both too young. However, he was so determined that, in the end, our feelings persuaded our parents to relent. I shared everything with him and we had both love and passion.” A deliciously wicked smile lurked at the corners of her mouth. “Passion! I was a very satisfied woman.”

  The Dowager pinched Fenella’s cheek and said, “So, see that the lucky man you choose knows something about pleasing a woman.”

  A deep blush burned on Fenella’s face.

  If only she knew how much I want that passion and how dreadful is the man who has awakened this longing within me.

  Chapter Four

  Lady Penelope Vane stood by the window of her fashionable, elegantly furnished Mayfair house, staring into the street below. It was teeming with carriages, curricles, broughams and the cream of London’s chic Society—elegant ladies of quality, the smartest of dandies, aspiring matrons anxious to marry their daughters off and eager young men equally anxious to become entangled in the knots of matrimony. People bowed and waved to each other as London’s beau monde rallied for the height of the Season. However, Lady Penelope hardly saw the busy throng below. It was a blur of faces and colourful costumes with no meaning. She waited for only one man—Devlin Deverell, Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham.

  Lady Penelope cut a striking figure silhouetted against the mid-morning light. Her stylish morning gown was a deep turquoise that matched the colour of her spectacular eyes. The dress was trimmed with satin ribbons under the bust in a style that enhanced her statuesque, sensual body and drew attention to her firm breasts, half exposed by the low, graceful neckline. She was tall and her blonde curls, dressed in Grecian mode in a smart tumble atop her head, added several inches more. With her oval face and peaches-and-cream complexion, Lady Penelope was easily one of the most beautiful women in London. She was also the acknowledged mistress of the Duke of Wyndlesham, even though no one mentioned it openly.

  Nevertheless, that was the problem. Lady Penelope bit her bottom lip hard, reddening its cherry fullness even more. She was seething with agitation. The Season had opened without a sign of Deverell these past two weeks. In her view, being a man’s mistress was only acceptable if he had intentions of marriage. At thirty-two, with handsome looks, a title and an enormous fortune, Devlin Deverell was easily the most eligible man in London. The question on everyone’s lips was whether he actually intended to marry in the near future.

  A whole Season had passed without even the flicker of a sign of serious commitment from him. Yes, there had been numerous gifts, but only the kind a man would give a woman he bedded, not the kind he should give to a woman he intended to wed. Brooches, earrings, necklaces…she was the envy of most women as she displayed these elaborate tokens of the Duke’s admiration in the round of soirées, balls, dinners, luncheons, routs and galas that dominated the Season.

  But when would he ask her the fateful question? When would she be wearing an engagement ring? She could not go on like this! She was beginning to look like a fool.

  However, at that precise moment Lady Penelope looked more like a goddess of love, the sunlight casting a flattering glow around her halo of golden curls and enhancing the long, sleek lines of her body beneath the hazy material of her dress. The friendly beams also softened the fine lines beginning to show around the corners of her mouth and eyes. To the casual observer, Lady Penelope appeared to be about twenty-three, a deception she encouraged, but in truth, her actual birth date was twenty-five. She would never own to that fact, but it contributed a great deal to her agitation.

  She could not endure another Season in the midst of an ever-swelling tide of new, fresh beauties streaming into London with the same intent: to find an eligible, titled man and marry him. Lady Penelope twisted her tiny embroidered handkerchief into knots, splitting the cambric and tearing the fragile material to shreds.

  Damn you, Deverell. She gritted her teeth with silent anger. She simmered with frustration, her nerves raggedly on edge, her emotions a powder keg of rage, waiting to explode at the slightest provocation.

  “Why so pensive, Pen?” Sir Marcus Solesby asked, lolling on a green velvet-covered chaise lounge.

  “Don’t call me that!” she snapped, whirling round on him like a cornered tigress. Her lips were tight and her fine eyes narrowed to slits. Scarlet patches burned on her cheeks. Sir Marcus blinked and sat up a little. A calculating person himself, her sudden outburst of emotion was out of character for a woman he always reckoned had a stone for a heart.

  “Deverell’s put you in a huff?”

  His question was cautious. Lady Penelope turned her back on him and stared out the window again, taking slow breaths to regain her shattered composure. She hated losing control of herself, which was how she felt at that precise moment…as if she was losing control of Devlin and of the future she had so meticulously planned.

  A year ago, Lady Penelope had designed a careful campaign to keep the bored and rakish Duke intrigued and captivated. Devlin Deverell’s legendary reputation as a breaker of female hearts had forewarned her.

  First, she had ensnared him with artful coquetry and flirtatious repartee. Then, with a subtle combination of seduction and rejection, she had managed to achieve what all other females had failed to do thus far—keep the Duke both interested and returning for more. He was never sure of her since she often refused to see him on a whim, and that was the lure. He never felt he entirely knew her or completely possessed her. Other women—and there had been many—had surrendered their all, and far too soon. Lady Penelope kept him guessing whereas other females had bored him after a while.

  She had been so sure of herself and now this absence of her lover knocked her self-confidence awry. There was a hollow emptiness in her breast and a feeling of panic she could not still.

  What could have kept him in the country, she asked herself for the thousandth time, and for so long? However, she would rather have cut her tongue out than inquire of his friends. Whenever people asked about the Duke’s absence, Lady Penelope smiled in an enigmatic way, as if she alone shared a secret, intimate knowledge with Devlin. No one would guess how she felt a constant cold chill in the pit of her stomach, as if she sensed something was afoot.

  Was there someone else?

  Impossible!

  Lady Penelope thought of the Duke, of their lusty and passionate couplings that left her in no doubt he was besotted with her body and with her imaginative sexual acts. Lady Penelope was not shy between the sheets and this made her both enticing and unattainable. Her prodigious sexual appetite and uninhibited desires were compelling. Devlin had never been able to resist her tempting charms before so where in Heaven’s name was he?

  * * * *

  Sir Marcus helped himself to a glass of ratafia while he waited for her composure to return. He sipped the golden liquid, flinching a little at its apricot sweetness, but reasoned that any alcohol was better than none. He studied his hostess with his hooded, pale-green cat’s eyes. In his early forties, he was tall and long-limbed with a careless elegance. Born of an excellent family and with substantial money behind him, Sir Marcus had unfortunately indulged himself too ofte
n and too deeply. Lines of dissipation and a sallow complexion gave him a bored, sardonic look, which marred an otherwise handsome face. Despite his wealth, an intelligent brain and an acerbic wit, it was his notorious reputation, his rampant appetite for novel carnal entertainments and sexual delights, as well as his low-class chosen associates that labelled him as de trop. No self-respecting Mama would allow her innocent young daughter near him. He was excluded from fashionable salons.

  Sir Marcus cared not a jot for conventional social gatherings where hawk-like chaperones cast vigilant eyes over the innocent young debutantes. He frequented establishments that catered to his debauched sexual proclivities with no questions asked, providing he could pay for them. He could, and did. He was also a seasoned gambler who had beggared many an eager young stripling in the respectable gentlemen’s clubs. Most nights, he drank himself well into his cups and then staggered back home to be undressed and put to bed by his long-suffering valet.

  In short, Sir Marcus was not considered a very nice man, but then, he had never pretended to be.

  Penelope turned around at last, her face smiling and relaxed and her demeanour composed. His next words would put her back into that foul dark mood.

  “He’ll never marry you m’dear.” Sir Marcus yawned, stretching his legs out in front of him and holding the glass up to the light. He studied the glowing contents and reflected upon the miracle of alcohol.

  “What qualifies you to make such an observation, Marcus?” she asked. Scathing contempt dripped in her voice. “You can hardly say you are part of his circle of friends!”

  “Don’t have to be,” Sir Marcus replied, after a careful sip. “I’m a man, and so’s he. I know how men think. You suppose you have him all sewn up in a bag, don’t you? But you’re mistaken.”

  “Really?” Lady Penelope’s smile was a strained grimace. “Then pray enlighten me as to what you believe Devlin will do.”