by Lauren Smith
“If that is so, perhaps the fault lies not with the beast but with his master,” Harriet replied, meeting his gaze with courage, despite the fact that deep within she was quivering.
He’s no different than George. You can handle him.
She tried to instill within herself a sense of confidence, but her right arm ached fiercely, and her head was pounding with a headache that made even the light of the fire sear her eyes. She had dealt with men like this, the kind who took pleasure in striking fear into a woman’s heart. But Harriet was not so easily shaken.
Lord Frostmore crossed his arms and leaned lazily against the doorjamb, preventing her from escaping. She felt his eyes rake over her, as if he wanted to rip her clothes clean off her body and ravage her.
But much to her surprise, the power of those eyes was enough to send a whisper of a dark, forbidden thrill through her as well, something she’d never felt before. George had only ever disgusted her when he looked at her like that, but with this man…something was different. The anger and disdain mixed with lust in the duke’s eyes seemed different. And there was something else in his gaze…shadowed not by evil, but rather by pain. Pain was something she recognized all too well.
The man snapped his fingers, and Devil trotted out of the room, leaving his master and Harriet alone.
“Might I ask, Miss…,” he began.
“Russell, Harriet Russell.” She blurted out her real name without thinking, but it was too late. She couldn’t take it back. She could only pray that if this man indeed knew George, then George would never have had a reason to discuss her, let alone call her by her name.
“Miss Russell, what are you doing in my house at this ungodly hour?” His lips curved upward as he said “ungodly,” as though sharing some private joke. So she’d been correct in her assumption. He was the Dark Duke, the infamous Devil of Dover.
“My carriage overturned, and my driver was injured. I sought help from the man who answered the door.” She took a small step back as the duke entered the room and shut the door behind him. She heard the sound of a key turning in the door before he faced her again. Harriet gripped her wounded arm to support it, while also attempting to look relaxed, lest she betray her wounded condition.
“So my man Grindle let you in, did he?” The duke leaned back against the locked door, eyeing her with increasing interest.
“Your Grace, I did not mean to intrude, but my driver is terribly injured, and the storm is worsening.”
Thunder rumbled as if on cosmic cue, shaking the house around them. Harriet tried to remain calm as the duke came closer. He wore buff breeches and a loose white lawn shirt that billowed open at his chest, revealing broad shoulders and a sculpted chest so breathtaking the angels would have wept. His state of relative undress had escaped her attention while she’d been so focused on his face and his dog.
Harriet took another involuntary step back, her body warning her of the danger that emanated from him. She should not be left alone with him. Daring to look around, she tried to find a bell cord to pull that might summon a servant to protect her if her strength failed her.
“Are you all alone this night, Miss Russell?” The duke was only a foot from her now, peering into her eyes.
He cupped her chin, raising her face up as he studied her. She tried to retreat, but the settee was right behind her now, her calves pressed against the base of the cushions. Lord Frostmore reached up with his other hand to undo the clasp of her cloak at her throat. The thick fabric collapsed at her feet in ebony waves of coarse wool. Harriet felt suddenly naked beneath his gaze, despite the pale-pink muslin gown she wore.
“I am alone, save for my driver,” she answered. He would know the truth in her eyes if she tried to lie, and she refused to be cowed by him. The duke’s hand at her throat dropped slowly to her chest and then to the rising flesh of her breasts. His fingertips traced a burning line over her skin before he withdrew his hand.
“You should never travel my roads alone.” Lord Frostmore released her chin and turned to face the fire, no longer looking at her.
“I am not afraid,” Harriet declared boldly.
He chuckled softly. “You will be before this night is through.” He said this to himself, as if his words were not a warning but a dark promise.
“You would not dare touch me.” Harriet’s tone remained steady, despite her rising concern. She wanted to convince herself that he would do her no harm, not with Mr. Grindle and the other servants as witnesses. The duke turned back to face her, a cruel kind of delight shining in his eyes.
“I would do more than dare, my dear. Do you not know in whose house you stand?” He returned his focus to the fire, but she knew his attention was still upon her, as though he waited for her to scream or faint dead away like some ninny of a girl.
“You are Redmond Barrington, the Duke of Frostmore.” She did not think it wise to mention his other names. The duke gave a wide smile as the firelight played with shadows on his face. Had she made a mistake in coming here? But what choice did she have? She couldn’t leave Mr. Johnson injured in the midst of a dangerous storm. She’d face this devil and do whatever she had to survive the night.
3
“Tell me, do they still call me the Dark Duke?” the duke asked her, dark amusement coloring his tone. “Or have they adopted that other name, the Devil of Dover?”
Harriet inhaled sharply as he spun to face her.
“I see that they still do. Well, my dear Miss Russell, you have crossed a dangerous threshold. You have passed through the devil’s gates, as they say.” He gripped her shoulders tightly.
Harriet didn’t have time to react at first as he shoved her down onto the settee. But a moment later she recovered her wits and struck him across the face. He recovered quicker than she expected from the blow, and her shoulder throbbed as punishment for the effort. He caught her wrists and pinned them against the cushions of the seat.
She screamed loudly, more from pain and fear than anger. “Unhand me!” Harriet shouted. She wouldn’t be able to stop him, wouldn’t be able to do a bloody thing if he…
Flashes of memory, of fighting off George and his men, only made her scream louder. This man could easily do what three men had struggled to manage only hours ago. The nightmare, it seemed, wouldn’t end. Exhausted, she gasped for breath as her lungs burned.
“Go ahead, scream. No one will come. This is the house of a devil, and you’ve strayed too far from safety.” He chuckled and released her. She whimpered as pain rolled in waves through her shoulder. The duke stepped back. His eyes narrowed as she clutched her injured arm to her chest. “I couldn’t have hurt you that badly—I barely touched you,” he muttered, half to himself.
She closed her eyes, waiting for him to start on her again, to hurt her further, but when she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with…concern?
“You didn’t… I…” she panted, breathing through the pain. “The coach overturned, as I said…and my shoulder took the brunt of the fall.” Why she felt the need to explain herself she wasn’t sure.
He continued to stare at her. “Why don’t you come upstairs, and I’ll have a look at you.” He spoke so softly that she was tempted for a moment to trust him, this man who until today she’d known only by his terrifying, legendary reputation. His focus was still on her arm, and that need to trust him, to trust someone, started to grow. Until his eyes rose to hers and she saw the desire in his gaze. And then her father’s advice to never let her guard down resurfaced.
She couldn’t trust him to play the gentleman for long. The man was a devil. It was clear in his face what he desired from her.
“If you try to remove me from this room, I demand an attempt to defend myself with honor.” She raised her chin and stared at him defiantly with every bit of her remaining strength.
“So…you will not submit to me if I decide to ravage you?” He seemed strangely amused at the indignation in her tone, and his own voice sounded like he was teasing, but no dec
ent man would tease a lady about such a thing. He leaned down toward her, placing one hand on the settee and the other on her good shoulder, pinning her in place.
“Of course not! You have no right to touch me!” She struggled, trying to loosen his hold on her shoulder, but he kept her still with apparent ease. Rather than giving in to her own fear, she embraced her anger. She was a petite woman, but she was not weak. She’d become an expert on evasion around her stepfather, but there was no evasion possible in this moment. She would have to use her wits as a weapon until she was able to get her hands on something else she could wield.
“No right? My dear Miss Russell, rights have nothing to do with this. You have trespassed into my domain. My rules govern here, no one else’s.” He abruptly bent to press his lips against hers in a harsh kiss. The sudden sensation overwhelmed her for a moment—the heat of his mouth, the taste of his lips, and his warm breath that made her body stir to life. A moment later, reality crashed back in on her as she felt the gentle scrape of his teeth on her lower lip. Seizing the opportunity, Harriet bit his lip, drawing blood. He jerked back with a snarl. She braced for a blow, but it never came. He released her uninjured shoulder and stepped back, glowering at her.
“Damn you, you little minx!” He licked at the blood trickling down his bottom lip. Lord Frostmore then wiped at his mouth with his fingertips. He suddenly chuckled and shook his head, then muttered something that sounded like “Serves me right, I suppose.”
Harriet quivered with rage now. Rage felt so much stronger than fear, and it seemed to clear her head of the dull ringing from the pain from the accident.
Her eyes rose to the wall behind his head. Two fencing foils hung on the wall in a decorative style. If she could but reach them, she might yet fight her way out of the room. Lord Frostmore noticed her staring intently at the foils and smiled, his ill humor replaced with devilish delight. He reached up and took one off the wall, swishing it near his ankles. It seemed a careless move, but she saw the deftness with which he handled the foil. He seemed as intimately familiar with such a weapon as she was. Harriet rose from the settee and darted behind it as the duke approached her at a leisurely pace, teasingly waving the foil in the air. She needed to get to the other if she was to fight him off.
“I do not suppose you would permit me to defend myself as an equal?” she asked, her eyes darting to the second foil. Perhaps he would underestimate her and not realize her skill until it was too late—if only she could convince him to hand her the weapon.
“I will not simply hand it over. I should like to make a wager.”
“A wager? On what?” She had never been the sort to frequent gambling establishments, but she was not remotely surprised that he was.
“I will give you the other foil, and if you can best me, I will accost you no further this night. You can sleep safely, knowing the devil does not linger at your door. If I win, you come up to my bedchamber and I will take a look at your arm, whether you like it or not.”
She did not trust him one inch. His eyes and smile betrayed him, but Harriet could not refuse the opportunity to gain possession of the foil.
“And the terms of this match?” she asked, wondering if there might be some devious catch in his plans.
“The first to draw blood. Just a scratch will do—no doubt as a woman you are familiar with such meager defenses.”
The devil was provoking her. She was tempted to run him through instead, but if she could not make her ship to Calais by dawn, she would be surely caught and executed for murdering the duke, even if he was the devil.
“First blood? That I can agree to.” She had moved around the settee now, her back to the wall with the foil as he pursued her slowly across the carpeted floor. If she’d felt better, she would have smiled. The duke didn’t know she was the daughter of a renowned fencing master. He was going to lose.
Harriet spun quickly, taking advantage of the distance between them to jump up and rip the second foil off the wall with her good arm. Even though she was right-handed, her father had trained her to use both hands equally well in swordplay.
She turned just in time to deflect his first well-placed thrust. With a flick of her wrist, she changed the engagement of his blade’s position and was able to shift her footing, leaving herself able to retreat back a few more steps. Harriet steadied her feet and raised her sword arm. The thrill of the fight dulled the pain in her right shoulder and arm enough to keep her moving quickly. She then took two fast steps and lunged. He parried and she danced back, just out of reach of his responding lunge.
“Someone has taught you some skill with a blade. A lover, perhaps?” He leapt for her again.
Harriet countered with a circular parry and then riposted with perfect technique, but he had anticipated that and evaded her through a classic disengage. He feinted a thrust and dodged back, only to surge forward again. She feinted this time and managed to cut through his loose shirt near his stomach, but he moved back too quickly, and she did not even graze his skin.
“Perhaps you ought to put that foil away, child, before you hurt yourself,” he mocked cruelly.
“Careful, Your Grace, or next time I will slash deeper,” she warned without the slightest bit of fear now. She would injure him if she had to, and damn the consequences.
His tone remained flippant. “Be serious, my dear. You would not dare do more than a scratch. Young ladies such as yourself are always so shocked to see blood.”
Harriet wanted to growl, just as the giant black dog had done, but she couldn’t lose her concentration. The duke seemed ready to abandon the rules as he vaulted over the settee, which she had so carefully put between them again. He stood on her crumpled cloak now, and Harriet smiled. She dove for the ground, grasped the cloak’s edge, and ripped it out from under his feet. He fell onto his back, his foil rolling away from his hand as he looked up at her, astonished. He almost seemed ready to laugh with hearty amusement rather than scorn. Harriet advanced on him, blade tip poised at his throat. She forced him to look up and meet her gaze. Never in her life had she felt the thrill of having a man under her power like this, but now she understood why her father had warned his pupils to be cautious. One could be careless when one anticipated an easy victory.
“To first blood?” she asked with a wicked smile. There was something about this man, as frightening as he was, that drew out her own wickedness. A strange, wild need to prove she wouldn’t stay afraid of him.
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t dare…”
“I would do more than dare.” She flung his own words back at him with far too much enjoyment. She flicked the blade’s tip down, slashing his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin, but the line of blood was faint. A scratch, just as he’d said she would, but not because she feared blood—rather, out of respect for his talent with a blade. Her father had taught her much about fencing, but honoring one’s opponent was one of the most important lessons.
“Your rules may govern here, but so does a sword,” she added with a confident smile. She knew her father’s trade well enough to keep this devil at bay. Lord Frostmore rolled up onto his feet now, brushing his pants before he looked at her again, this time more critically and with far less anger.
“It seems a sword’s tip provides enough persuasion for me to offer you dinner while we await your driver’s rescue and a room is prepared for you tonight. Would you permit me?” He unlocked the door and gestured for her to precede him into the hall. She kept her sword raised, expecting him to change his mind at any moment and pounce on her.
“You may go first, to show me the way.” She was not foolish enough to offer him her exposed back.
The duke led her back down the hall and into a large dining room. He summoned a servant to light candles and bring wine and food. Harriet took the seat farthest from him at the opposite end of the long table, putting her foil on the edge of the table within easy reach. Her shoulder still ached fiercely, but she masked any hint of pain.
“
You said that your name is Russell? You would not be kin to Edward Russell, the fencing master? Does he still teach?”
“I am his daughter. He died six years ago.” She watched his hooded eyes for any reaction.
“The man was a fine tutor to many a lad at Cambridge. I am pleased he taught you his trade as well.” The duke’s lips twitched in a small smile. “What brings you through Dover? Your father had a home in the Cotswolds, if I remember correctly.”
“We lived there before he died. I was on my way to Calais to join his family.” She didn’t mention her mother; even thinking of her brought such fresh pain.
“You have my condolences,” the duke replied. There was a strange sincerity that seemed out of place as he said it, but it was brief, and his eyes soon glinted again with a cavalier attitude that spoke of a man who indulged in dark pleasures and cared not one whit about anyone judging him for it.
A servant entered the dining room, bearing a tray of hastily prepared food and a bottle of wine. The duke ate immediately and without concern, sampling all of the dishes as though to show her he had no intention of poisoning her. Harriet was famished after the long evening, and she ate probably more than was wise, but while tending to her mother for the last few weeks, she’d barely been able to eat, her grief and worry too overpowering.
Lord Frostmore watched her eat with an air of amused satisfaction. “Miss Russell, permit me to ask a question.” Harriet saw no harm in allowing it; she could always refuse to answer if the question was offensive to her.
She took a sip of wine. “What do you wish to ask?”
“You are not married?”
It was an unexpected question, and she gulped uncomfortably. “Married? No.”
“Why not? You are a beautiful woman.” The duke leaned forward in his chair to prop his elbows up on the table. Harriet knew she should be concerned with where this conversation might be going, but she felt oddly at ease with answering his question.