The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  Your loving niece”

  “Madame Celeste?” Aunt Preston wondered. “Do you hear that, Amber? Nothing less than the best for the dangerous duke. Oh, dear.” She nibbled her bottom lip in mild agitation. “I do hope he hasn’t fallen in love with her, but I fear he has!”

  Fenella’s decision never to wear the dress was overturned when the Dowager insisted she wear it the next day, just to please her.

  Chapter Five

  The acrid air caught at Devlin’s throat. His head ached and his eyes felt scratchy. He looked round the crowded gaming parlour, squinting through the murky atmosphere. Although the room was brightly lit, he could not see very well. A heavy haze of smoke hung like a grey pall over the festivities. Through the low drone of conversation, he heard muted laughter punctuated by an occasional feminine squeal, the clink of glasses, the chink of coins, the riffling of cards. A buxom woman, heavily rouged and flaunting an enormous jewelled, feathered headdress bore down upon his table. She leered at him, her red lips parting in a triumphant grin. The woman was well past forty-five, perhaps nearer fifty, but dressed like a much younger courtesan in scarlet satin. The very low cut neckline of her ostentatious gown almost exposed her nipples as her ample breasts strained to escape the constricting bodice.

  “Ooh, what a catch,” she cackled quietly to herself, “the Duke of Wyndlesham frequenting my establishment. He don’t look too happy to me with such a Friday-face on him. I wonder what’s happened with that cold icicle Penelope Vane.”

  Madame Cybille, who ran the Cygnet Club and acted as manageress and chaperone to the nubile Cygnets, prided herself on her clientele. Most were, like the Duke, exceptionally plump in the pocket and nothing was too much trouble for her guests. The Cygnet Club accommodated all gentlemen’s sexual tastes, however exotic. The Cygnets were, of course, very attractive young ladies, who “assisted” the players by plying them with drink. Sometimes a lucky gamester, for a considerable token of appreciation, could escort a beautiful Cygnet upstairs for further pleasures. Madame Cybille preened herself as she nodded in his direction. With a discreet wave of a plump, beringed hand, she indicated one of her prettier Cygnets who appeared willing to lure the Duke into a warm embrace.

  Devlin nodded briefly back. Damn the woman’s vulgar familiarity. He preferred the more salubrious gentlemen’s establishments such as White’s or Brooke’s, not the seedy, notorious clubs like the Cygnet and the even more disreputable Mount Olympus. Devlin did not want to acquire the reputation of a gambler such as Sir Marcus Solesby whom he had seen out the corner of his eye, lolling in a secluded corner. Sir Marcus was well foxed and did not care who knew it. He was in the company of two nubile Cygnets, sprawled in attitudes of languid abandonment on either side of him. Their breasts were half exposed and Sir Marcus was shamelessly fondling their creamy globes while, from the expression of ecstasy on his face, their busy little hands were giving him equal amounts of pleasure under the table.

  Devlin scowled.

  What the devil was he doing here? Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.

  He must have been mad to think a place such as this would solve the seething turmoil in his mind. It only served to worsen his attitude toward the fairer sex.

  He shook his head, as if the action would straighten out his jumbled thoughts into orderly rows.

  Women. All they want is money. All of them …even Penelope. But not …her? That woman, why does it always come back to her? Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

  He replayed the electrifying moment when he had gazed down at Fenella, lying vulnerable, helpless, but willing on the sofa. The image was burned into his mind. Her eyes glowing with passion, her mouth soft and trembling, inviting his kiss and he could wager she had been damp with womanly dew for him.

  Yes, willing! She would have let me take her. Even she must have her price.

  He threw down his cards in anger. His gaming companions looked up at him, surprised. It was clear, even to their befuddled brains, that the usually imperturbable Duke was not himself.

  He had drunk to excess that evening. By the looks of things, so had many others who frequented the Cygnet Club. Several scantily clad young women scampered past, giggling.

  I suppose those are the Cygnets.

  A few eager men drunkenly pursued them, threading a clumsy path through the tables after their prize. The Cygnets wore very little clothing, which seemed to be comprised mostly of transparent gauze and several discreetly placed clutches of feathers. One golden-haired Cygnet turned back and stared coquettishly at Devlin. She licked her red lips with a small pink tongue and lifted one eyebrow teasingly. She flaunted her sexuality with brazen confidence, showing her willingness to test the sexual mettle of a man such as the Duke. Devlin thought with distaste how easy it would be to enjoy the carnal pleasures so openly on display. However, the ladies of the demi-monde were not to his taste or style. He smiled in gracious acknowledgement of her beauty, but shook his head to indicate refusal. The Cygnet pouted and looked disappointed. A large hand suddenly appeared to fondle her pert, rounded buttocks. With a dainty shriek, she leaped out of his grasp, her admirer in hot pursuit.

  His companions at the card table were looking gloomy, since Devlin had won a considerable amount already. His mind was not even on the game and yet he won almost without effort.

  It was late, very late, and he had promised to meet Lady Penelope. He had seen her, sparkling, brilliant, seductive and alluring at Lady Winterton’s soirée. She was wearing a splendid dress of silvery material. As the fabric shifted with her sinuous, languorous movements, the material moulded itself blatantly to her form, caressing her body like the hands of a lover, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  It was strange how distanced he had felt from her. Her exquisite eyes had glittered with desire as they bowed to each other, chatting nonchalantly as if they were nothing but acquaintances. Curious, when the entire world knew they were lovers. He told himself he should feel excited, eager to consume her desiring and desirable flesh. For the first time, Devlin felt a strange reluctance, a nagging feeling of unwillingness, and yet he had to go to her. It was almost an obligation. After all, he thought, there was no reason not to make his way to the house of his mistress and make passionate love to her.

  Next to him, the Honourable Frederick Perivale, Devlin’s closest friend, looked anguished. He peered at his cards, his myopic brown eyes clouded with anxiety. His luck and skill with cards was as appalling as Devlin’s was legendary. He stifled a groan of despair.

  “I’m in too deep, Dev,” he muttered.

  Devlin flung back the last of his brandy and slammed the glass down on the table. “Then give over, Freddie. You never know when to stop. You’ll end up floating down River Tick if you’re not careful.”

  “You’ve got the luck of the devil,” Freddie grumbled. His face was doleful as he surveyed his cards.

  “Stop trying to win, that’s how it’s done.” The Duke’s voice was hoarse. “And know when to stop.”

  He pushed his chair back and gathered his winnings.

  “Gentlemen!” He saluted his card companions. He was fractionally unsteady on his feet and his eyes were red from the gritty, smoky atmosphere. “Time to meet my Nemesis.”

  “Nemmy what?” Freddie burbled, looking worse for wear. The very high shirt points he affected now hung limp. His once-impeccable blond curls were standing on end from his having run his hands despairingly through the careful confection his valet assured him was called a la Brute. The Duke, on the other hand, remained as elegant and urbane as ever.

  “You look terrible, Freddie!” Devlin muttered in disgust. “Can’t take you anywhere looking like that!”

  “Who’sh Nemmy?” Freddie persisted. “New gal?”

  Freddie negotiated his way to the door with the careful concentration of a man deep in his cups. He leaned his lanky, six-foot frame against the doorjamb, slapping away the porter’s efforts to help him with his cloak. “Leemee ’lone. Can’t you se
e I’m sober as a judge!” Freddie persisted in fighting the folds of fabric until at last he managed to drape the cloak around his neck like an oversized scarf.

  The chill night air rushed through the fog of brandy fumes in Devlin’s brain as he swayed on the doorstep of the club. “No. The same one.”

  “Aaaah!” Freddie exclaimed sagely as realization dawned. “I know! Nemmy Shish! That Greek whatsit that…er…oh, yes…doom. Er…Doom?”

  “Quite right,” Devlin replied wryly, his head now clear from the effects of brandy.

  “But whatcher mean?” Freddie slurred, bewildered by Devlin’s strange words. “Lady Penelope’s a ga-ga-goddess! Aferdite…Venus!” He waved his hands in expansive demonstration. “Diamond of the first water. In-com-prubble.” He gave a solemn hiccup. “You’re the envy of every man I know an’ I know lots ’n lots of people!”

  “I don’t know what I mean,” Devlin said abruptly. “See you tomorrow, Freddie.”

  “Er…yes.” Freddie muttered.

  As the Duke strolled along, he glanced upward. A lemon slice moon hung pale in the black velvet sky, surrounded by myriad diamond-pointed stars. The air was still, punctuated only by the occasional distant bark of a dog or the muffled rattle of carriage wheels transporting an equally late reveller homeward. By the time the Duke reached Lady Penelope’s house, the cool air had sobered him. His thoughts, however, were not composed.

  Devlin stood outside the familiar entrance, his hand raised to grasp the doorknocker. He could still turn back, pleading intoxication and the lateness of the hour. Suddenly the door swung silently open. It was done. Even if he had wanted to retreat, he could not. He had to enter. A sleepy-eyed footman held the door open for him and took his hat and cloak. The hall was dimly lit but he knew his way well enough. He walked with slow and silent tread up the stairs.

  * * * *

  Lady Penelope lay on her bed, naked except for a gown of transparent gauze, trimmed at the neck and wrist with swan’s-down. She had been waiting for hours, her stomach churning with agitation and exasperation, but she had vowed nothing would move her to anger. Devlin stood in the doorway, gazing at his mistress. Penelope wrinkled her nose as the smell of tobacco smoke and brandy wafted into the room but she ignored it. Tonight she had to get him back under her spell. She slipped languidly off the bed and glided to him.

  “Oh, Dev,” she murmured in seductive tones. “How I have longed for you.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes as she peeped up at his face. Her lips curved in a welcoming smile. Golden tresses cascaded down her shoulders. As she moved, her gauzy gown fluttered open to reveal the long, sensuous lines of her body. Her full breasts jutted out, flaunting red nipples. Her waist dipped in and her hips flared out in an exquisite hourglass.

  “Devlin?” Her voice was questioning. She held out her hand to him. Devlin took it and raised her fingers to his mouth. He bit gently on her soft skin. A thrill ran through her body.

  What was the matter with him? Too much drink? That was not a problem. He had come to her drunk before and she had coaxed a most satisfying performance from him. In fact, he looked quite sober. Lady Penelope fumed behind her alluring smile. Her perfume floated around him, heady, intoxicating, and seductive…as was she. To her relief, he slid his arms around her.

  It was nothing; maybe the drink.

  He bent his head and nibbled her lower lip, slipping one hand back to her breast, tweaking and rubbing her already hard nipples. She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She was safe. He was himself again. Lifting her in his arms, Devlin carried his mistress over to the bed and laid her down. Her hair spread out across the pillows like a golden fan. He knelt beside her and slowly parted the flimsy gown. He bent his head and encircled a rosy nipple with his hot tongue. The tiny nub spasmed with desire as his tongue teased it…then the other. Her heady perfume, mixed with the womanly, musky scent of her arousal, rose from her tingling skin.

  Penelope was wanton, wild with desire. She could sense the thrill of animal lust that rippled through Devlin’s body as his manhood rose fierce and demanding. His throbbing erection, still trapped in his breeches, nudged against her thigh and she arched her back in excitement, parting her legs. She longed for his hot tongue to explore her secret place, for his sleek, hard penetration thrusting into her, for the inevitable fiery climax…but that would come soon.

  Devlin shrugged off his clothes and lay down against her. Her flesh was warm, her skin soft and satiny. Penelope was panting hard with desire. Behind her pleasure, her thoughts were churning feverishly. She knew he must make love to her in order to drive away this demon of doubt, this flicker of uncertainty. Whatever or whoever her rival was, Penelope would see her in Hell first.

  * * * *

  Devlin gazed down at her lovely face, sensing her impatience. She was a sensual woman and her lustful demands were a pleasure to him. He bent his head closer to hers to kiss her lips. He could feel his hardness pressing even more urgently against her side. Soon he would love her with his tongue, bringing her to a tumultuous climax before penetrating her in a frenzy of passion. Desire thrilled through him as he imagined the next moments of pleasure. As their lips touched, an image flashed into his mind. Another pair of trembling red lips, huge violet eyes, warm skin, that tingling, electric feeling …

  He sat back.

  “What is it, my love?” Penelope whispered through stiff lips.

  “It…it’s nothing!” Devlin’s tone was rough. All feelings of desire had disappeared. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Confusion whirled in his brain. What was wrong with him? It was as if that blasted woman had bewitched him. He got up and began to dress.

  “What are you doing?” Penelope cried sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  “I must leave!” he muttered, hating himself. He was embarrassed and bewildered.

  “Leave?” she screeched in indignation. Penelope sat up and pulled the gown around her body. Her mouth was a hard line and her face an ugly mask of blazing fury. “You cannot leave!”

  “I am afraid I must,” Devlin said, now in control of his emotions. “It is impossible to explain and I apologise for this unpardonable slight. Your servant, madam.” Now fully clothed, he bowed and turned to exit the room.

  “You will not leave!” she howled as she launched herself at him, fingers outstretched and nails ready to plunge.

  With lightning speed, he grabbed her wrist just inches from his cheek.

  “You forget yourself, my lady,” he spat, holding her in a vise-like grip. She sank to the floor, weeping piteously. As the door closed behind him, Penelope leaped to her feet and shrieked like a wild animal. A crystal vase smashed against the wood. Devlin, treading down the stairs, looked back and shuddered.

  * * * *

  Lady Penelope’s maid tumbled out of bed and, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, rushed to her assistance.

  “Madam!” she cried, trembling in the face of her employer’s wrath. “Are you all right?” The barrage of cosmetic jars and ornaments shattering against the door soon drove her back to the safety of her own room.

  Penelope stood gazing at herself in the tall cheval mirror. She ripped the fragile gossamer gown from her shoulders and studied her naked perfection. She had seen men’s reactions to her powerful seductive aura and was unaccustomed to rejection. She gritted her teeth in rage. Any man would give his right hand for an hour of lovemaking with her. She seethed in fury.

  Devlin was not going to abandon her, she would see to it. She glared at herself and then, with another anguished howl of fury, threw a silver hairbrush at the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of sparkling pieces. Afterward, her rage spent, she crawled under the bed covers, sobbing. It was only much later when all her tears were gone that she coldly analyzed the situation. It was imperative that Devlin should ask for her hand. If he did not, she would be ruined, used goods—it was too horrible to contemplate. She would be branded a Cyprian, a lowly courtesan.

  She would marry him…or e
lse! She began to plan her next moves.

  * * * *

  Fenella woke with a start. Something had disturbed her—the sound of someone moving below. She lay quite still, listening hard. Someone was downstairs. She slipped out of bed and put on a robe over her nightdress. Grasping a heavy poker in one hand and her lit candle in the other, she stepped barefooted down the long curving staircase. The candle flame flickered as she trod with care down each step, like a ghostly figure from the past. A velvet shroud of darkness enveloped her. She glanced at the hall clock, which showed four o’clock. The faint sounds came again from the direction of the library.

  Fenella pushed the door ajar and stepped over the threshold. With the poker raised in defence, she crept into the library. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could make out the faint shapes of chairs, the sofa, the writing desk, but no sign of anyone. The room seemed to be empty.

  Suddenly a man’s hand grasped her arm from behind. She screamed—a cry cut off before it even really began as another arm encircled her and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. She dropped the candlestick.

  “Well, well, Miss Preston. You are very brave to confront intruders in this intrepid fashion.”

  As he spoke, he released her, also taking the poker from her now limp grip.

  “Your Grace!” she stammered. “I apologise. I heard a noise and I thought …” Her voice petered out. She pulled her robe around herself.

  “Is this how far you take your duties?” he mocked, bending down to rescue the feebly flickering candle.

  “I should think you would be grateful that my concern for your mother’s welfare extends to putting my own life at risk!” she snapped.

  The Duke held the candle above both their heads. He gazed at Fenella.

  “You are quite right, Miss Preston. My sincere and most humble apologies.”