The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  Sir Marcus helped himself to a pinch of snuff and then lay back against the sofa cushions, casting a pensive gaze at the ceiling. “I’ll warrant that he ain’t going to marry you, because if he were he would have done so by now or else made his intentions clear.”

  As she opened her mouth to expostulate in hot denial, he held up a warning hand, raising his eyebrows. “Any man who rusticates in the country, missing the Season, must have a very good reason for doing so. What’s the only thing that can distract a man?”

  He glanced at her stricken face. “’Pon my word, Pen. You look quite pale. I’m not saying these are the facts, just the probabilities.”

  Sir Marcus was nobody’s fool. A loner by nature, he relished his socially peripheral position and spent most of his time observing others. He had an acute and sometimes piercing insight into people’s behaviour. If he of all people had made this observation, then how many others were drawing similar conclusions?

  “Well, Marcus,” Lady Penelope replied with airy nonchalance, strolling to the fireplace and rearranging the flowers on the mantelpiece. “I shall just have to find out exactly what is going on, and you are going to help me.” She swung round and fixed him with a blazing stare. “I want to know who he has met, if he has indeed met anyone. I know you have your revolting creatures who spy for you all over Town. Get them to work on this.”

  * * * *

  Down below, someone rapped at the front door. Lady Penelope’s heart leaped in her breast. She was not home to any callers but Devlin. It had to be him. Her cheeks flushed pink and her body thrilled with a mixture of relief and joy. She turned to Sir Marcus, triumph etched on her face. “Now get out before Devlin arrives. I don’t know why but the sight of you annoys him.”

  Sir Marcus unfolded his long limbs and climbed to his feet. He smiled ruefully to himself, but said nothing more; he merely bowed his adieu.

  Lady Penelope flapped her hands as if shooing him away. “Just go! Quickly! But I expect to hear from you soon.” There was a fleeting note of anxiety in her voice.

  As Devlin entered the room, Lady Penelope turned from the window and stood, beautifully framed against the background of sunlit curtains. Her action was studied and deliberate. She had chosen her pose well. She was, again, a glowing goddess worthy of male worship and enthralled adoration.

  He smiled and his handsome face sparked a tiny quiver of desire in Lady Penelope’s stomach. She was as tensely wound as a spring. Nevertheless, she must not appear desperate for his presence. She knew any tears and tantrums would only drive him away. She gazed coolly back and extended her hand in a gracious gesture for him to kiss.

  “Why, Dev, you’ve been absent so long we thought you had been kidnapped by a wagon-load of country yokels.” Her careless, tinkling laughter sounded like bells in the quiet room.

  Devlin touched her hand with his firm lips and opened his mouth a little so she would feel his warm breath against her skin. She tingled with pleasure. It was a game they both enjoyed; this artificial politeness and verbal fencing concealing the need for lustful sex play that would come later…much later. She pulled him to the sofa with a gentle tug and sank down next to him. Her fingers danced lightly over his as they spoke. She wanted to re-establish that primal contact, to make him remember the pleasures only she could offer. From his minute physical reactions, she knew he was recalling previous moments of passion with her. He leaned toward her as he spoke; he touched her cheek as he tucked a stray curl back into place with the familiar gesture of a lover. She relaxed, and her trailing fingers brushed against his groin as if by accident. She was pleased to note the almost involuntary stirring of the cloth. Clearly, she was still the undoubted queen of his desires.

  Lady Penelope lay back against the cushions, her body outlined beneath the clinging fabric of her dress, as if for his delectation. Her full breasts strained against the confines of her bodice so Devlin could see the creamy globes rising and falling with every breath. A rose-tinted nipple was briefly exposed, and then hidden as she shifted position. He tipped her chin up, placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and smiled.

  “Tell me, my dear Penelope, how does the Season find you?”

  Lady Penelope seethed at his unwillingness to respond directly to her lure. Perhaps he was playing her at her own game, using her own tactics against her. Devlin gave no reason for his prolonged absence and Lady Penelope would not ask. She affected indifference as to his whereabouts. In the past, Devlin would have revealed his activities to her before long. However, as the playful conversation continued, he offered no details. Lady Penelope felt herself growing impatient but she forced herself to flirt and pretend everything was the same as always. However, it was not. She felt a tiny, imperceptible difference in Devlin.

  What was it?

  She could not quite put her finger on it. A slight distance? A feeling that his attention was not quite with her …an almost automatic response to her artless remarks?

  Devlin rose to his feet. “I must go,” he said abruptly.

  Desperation rose like a tide within Lady Penelope but to avoid revealing herself, she simply nodded and stifled a delicate yawn.

  “Oh, dear,” she apologised. “Such a late party.”

  Devlin did not even enquire as to the details; he merely bowed and kissed her hand again. “Shall I see you tonight at Lady Winterbourne’s?”

  Lady Penelope wrinkled her nose and shrugged, affecting disinterest. “Possibly.”

  “Perhaps I shall see you later…afterward?” The remark was casual but the invitation was clear.

  A flame of relief leaped inside her. He still desired her! She shot a sly glance at him from under her slanting lashes, her eyes reflecting her intense longing for him. Her smile was exultant.

  “Until later then.” He turned to leave. “Was that Solesby I saw on the stairs?”

  “Yes, don’t be angry, Dev.” Lady Penelope looked quite smug.

  “He’s your friend; you are free to associate with whomever you wish,” was Devlin’s unconcerned reply as he strode out the room.

  Lady Penelope ground her teeth in frustration. He was supposed to care; he was supposed to be jealous. Why was he so indifferent? She would find out if it killed her.

  * * * *

  However, had Lady Penelope seen the Duke’s next place of appointment, it would have been him she would have wanted to kill. The bell of the fashionable Bond Street shop tinkled as Devlin stepped into the cream and pink-tinted establishment of Madame Celeste, modiste extraordinaire to the wealthiest of Society’s women. Madame Celeste was a small, dark, plain Frenchwoman who also something of a magician. She could transform the ugliest of debutante ducklings into a beautiful swan simply by correctly matching fabric colour to customer. Sallow skins and dull complexions appeared as strawberry or peaches-and-cream under Madame’s expert guidance. Amazingly, her skills with a needle enabled her to rectify the deficiencies of Mother Nature in many an under-endowed bosom; she could also reduce overly abundant waistlines and hips with an exquisite combination of deft pleats, tucks and other sleight-of-hand tricks. She was greatly in demand and charged accordingly.

  Madame Celeste rustled forward and raised her eyebrows when she recognised her visitor. She sent all her bills—and there were many—to him for Lady Penelope’s extensive wardrobe. It was very unusual for a man to appear in her hallowed portals himself, unless he had a special request. Usually her special requests came from elderly gentlemen with a need for female garments to fit themselves. However, the young and very handsome Duke of Wyndlesham was no such man. She bowed to him and waited.

  Now that he was here, suddenly the task seemed far more formidable than he had anticipated. Devlin stared at Madame Celeste, feeling helpless; she gazed back with an impassive expression.

  “Perhaps M’sieur is looking for some charming accessory of fashion for his…mother?” she hazarded, by way of breaking the ice.

  “Er…no!” He was abrupt. “This is for a younger lady…much younger.�
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  “Ah,” she smiled. Madame Celeste’s discretion was legendary and many clients, knowing their secrets were as safe as if locked in the vaults of the Bank of England, freely spilled the sensational details. The Duke coughed and reddened. Madame Celeste came to the rescue.

  “A young relative, perhaps?” she asked diplomatically.

  “Yes, exactly so,” Devlin replied, relieved at the woman’s perspicacity. “A young lady, a…er…distant cousin, who is residing with my mother in the country.” He wondered why he was telling the woman all this, but somehow Madame Celeste had that effect on people. “There was an accident…a storm…and her dress was ruined.”

  “Ah, pauvre, jolie femme.” Madame nodded as if she understood the whole situation. “And the clothes they are so expensive. One cannot afford to have an outfit ruined. Perhaps it was even a favourite outfit?”

  “I don’t know, perhaps?” Devlin said. “She looked very…er …charming in it.”

  “La couleur?” Madame Celeste asked. “Maybe we can find something near to make her feel better.” She bustled behind the counter, pulling out rolls of cloth, spreading a rainbow of colours before his eyes. “You shall tell me her colouring and size, M’sieur. The rest you can leave to me.”

  A vision of Fenella’s beauty floated in front of him as Devlin began to describe her. Any of his friends and associates would have been utterly amazed to peer into the window and observe the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham, nicknamed “Devil,” the reigning champion of the Four-in-Hand Club, poring over fabrics, looking at pattern sheets and earnestly discussing the merits of pearl buttons over covered buttons.

  * * * *

  The package arrived at Deverell House a week later. Fenella and the Dowager were sitting under their favourite tree, when Blenkins brought it to her. It was a very large white box, tied up with a gold ribbon, and with a distinctive motif on the lid.

  “For me?” Fenella stammered, as Blenkins placed it in her lap with a solemn bow. “But there must be some mistake!”

  “No mistake, Miss,” he assured her. “Your name is written upon the box.”

  The Dowager hid a smile. “Well, hurry up and open it, dear. Perhaps it is a surprise?”

  Fenella untied the ribbon, lifted the lid of the box and gave an astonished gasp. The Dowager nodded in approval as she peered over Fenella’s shoulder. Inside the box lay the most beautiful dress Fenella had ever seen. The underskirt was apple green satin, covered by an overdress of the sheerest pale green fabric, so transparent it was as if mist was floating before her eyes. Tiny seed pearls adorned the bodice and pretty puffed sleeves, and a trim of apple green satin ribbons under the bust and around the neckline completed the outfit. But there was more. Beneath the garment lay a dainty pair of cream satin slippers, a pair of delicate gloves and a cream-coloured shawl so fine it might have been woven from cobwebs.

  “But who could have sent me this?” Fenella stuttered.

  “Devlin, of course!” the Dowager exclaimed. “I think Madame Celeste has surpassed herself. An ideal dress for a young woman; not too flamboyant, just perfect, exquisite styling.” She examined the bodice. “Look at the detail, my dear. Simply lovely!”

  “But why?” Fenella whispered, a flood of pink rushing into her cheeks as the memories surfaced in her mind.

  The Dowager mistook Fenella’s flush for modest confusion and protest.

  “Now, it is perfectly acceptable,” she said. “Although under normal circumstances, a gift such as this to a young lady would not be considered proper conduct. Devlin told me how your dress was soaked and filthy after that dreadful storm. And how he had to tear it to get you warm again.” Fenella’s face flamed. “Don’t blush my dear. He has explained it all to me, and when he suggested replacing your dress, I could only agree. After all, you saved my darling Scheherazade and Devlin knows how much she means to me.”

  The old lady patted Fenella’s hand. “So run upstairs and put it on. I want to see you in that magnificent shade. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such fabric. That woman is a marvel!”

  Fenella’s mind was a maelstrom as she fled to the house, clutching the box. The Dowager’s words lingered in her head. He had discussed it with his mother…a perfect dress. In her bedroom, she hastily disrobed, all the while gazing at the wonderful dress lying on the bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the long cheval mirror. Her figure was tiny but perfect, her swelling breasts peeping over the top of her chemise. She was proud of her small waist; a man could span it in both hands. Fenella imagined standing in front of Devlin and feeling his hands, with their long sensitive fingers, encircling her waist.

  What was she doing?

  Fenella shook her head in anger.

  Why do I keep thinking of him? Why do thoughts of him haunt my every waking moment?

  Vowing to put him out of her mind, she adjusted the dress and gazed at her reflection. It fitted perfectly. How did he know her size?

  Fenella was not at all vain, but she caught her breath in admiration at the sight of her reflection. A vision of loveliness stared back at her. She looked incredible—elegant, sophisticated, a lady of fashion and quality. The green hue enhanced her beautiful colouring. Her cheeks were flushed pink with pleasure, her lips seemed an impossible rose-red, and her glossy dark curls danced as she swung back and forth, admiring the stylish figure in the glass. She caught sight of a letter in the box, almost hidden by the shawl.

  A letter from Devlin? With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and read:

  My dear Miss Preston,

  Once again, my apologies for ruining your dress. Madame Celeste assures me this style is the latest mode and the fabric the newest in her selection. I hope this will compensate you for your loss and eliminate all memories of that unpleasant event.

  Your servant, etc.

  Deverell

  Fenella crumpled the letter in her hand. Compensate? Eliminate all memories of that unpleasant event? What was he trying to say to her…that the memories of that night, those signals of passion and her ardent response to him, were all disgusting and should be forgotten because they revolted him? He was buying her off!

  Shame flooded through her body in a burning wave. A red flush mounted in her cheeks as tears of rage and mortification sprang to her eyes. How dare he make her feel like a common whore, to be silenced with an expensive gift? How dare he humiliate her?

  She wanted none of his gifts; she wanted nothing from him. She wanted to shred the dress into worthless scraps. Fenella reached behind her to tear the pearl buttons from the fabric and rip the dress from her shoulders. A hesitant knock sounded at the bedroom door.

  “Miss?” It was Molly.

  Fenella dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes?”

  The maid’s cheery face peeped round the door in excited expectation. Molly gave a wide, admiring grin as she surveyed Fenella’s finery.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but ’er Grace wants to see ye in the new gown.” She scuttled behind Fenella and quickly fastened the remaining pearl buttons. “Ooh, but ye do look so fine, Miss. Shall I tell ’er Grace ye’ll be coming down now?”

  “I shall be there directly.”

  Molly scampered out the room. Fenella gulped down the sobs that rose once more. Her composure regained, she straightened the folds of the skirt, put on the slippers and gloves, and clasped the shawl around her shoulders. As she walked down the staircase, nothing remained of her distress but the heightened colour in her cheeks.

  “My dear, you look splendid!” the Dowager exclaimed when she saw Fenella’s changed appearance. “How delightful. And how very clever of Devlin to arrange all this by himself, don’t you think?”

  Fenella bit her lower lip and nodded, not daring to speak in case the tears poured forth again.

  “Turn this way…yes…now back again…oh, beautiful!”

  The Dowager clapped in delight and then rang the bell on the tea table. Blenkins appeared and the Dowager instructed
him to summon Mrs. Perkins. In a few minutes, Mrs. Perkins rustled onto the lawn and dropped a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am?”

  When the housekeeper saw Fenella, she said, “Begging your pardon, Miss Fenella, but you look like a picture.”

  In spite of her intense anger and hatred toward Devlin, Fenella was just like any other young woman wearing a beautiful gown—she blushed prettily and her spirits rose.

  “Now, Mrs. Perkins, you remember when Miss Amelia stayed here, just before her wedding to that Farleigh fellow?”

  The housekeeper nodded.

  “Well,” the Dowager continued, “I know she left several very pretty dresses here since I outfitted her with a complete new wardrobe for her trousseau. See if you can find them.”

  “But, ma’am,” Fenella protested. “I cannot accept such generosity.”

  “No buts!” the Dowager admonished her. “Indulge an old woman’s fancies, my dear. Amelia had umpteen dresses she wore but once. I am sure that like most young girls you would enjoy a few new dresses.”

  Fenella subsided into silence. Every day the Dowager’s increasing affection and generosity made it more difficult to consider going, but depart she must at the end of three months. Fenella would simply leave any gifts behind.

  * * * *

  “And so dear Aunt,” Fenella wrote, “you will not believe how many dresses I have now! Miss Amelia Salton is the Dowager’s niece or grandniece, I forget which, and she is terribly spoiled. She married the Honourable Peregrine Farleigh, who stands to inherit a great deal of money. His parents are well placed in Society so it is an excellent match. Miss Amelia left behind the day dresses she no longer wanted. Oh, Aunt, such beautiful fabrics, as I have never seen before. The Dowager insists they are to be mine. The young lady is about my size so there are just a few tiny alterations. I felt quite uncomfortable about accepting the gift, but the Dowager looked so pleased when I tried them all on that I felt it would be churlish to refuse. By the way, you will never believe what that horrible man did. He ordered a dress for me from some London modiste called Madame Celeste. He offers it to ‘compensate’ me for the ruin of one of mine when I had to climb the tree to rescue Scheherazade. Do you remember the incident? Of course, I shan’t wear it. Do write soon, dearest Aunt. I hope Amber’s paw is healed now.