A Devil of a Duke

by Madeline Hunter

  Amanda always accepted the castoffs gratefully and labored for hours remaking the dresses as best she could into something more current by raising waists and cutting yards out of skirts. Some, however, would never be adaptable. Those were the ones now spread on her bed.

  The setting sun illuminated them in all their unfashionable glory. It flowed through the small, southern-facing window set high in the wall of her cellar chamber. This had once been part of the kitchen of a family home before some owner broke the whole building into tiny hovels in which dozens of people crammed themselves.

  She had discovered unexpected benefits to living in this cellar on Girard Street. Down here, the noise of those families eluded her. The former kitchen’s big hearth warmed her when she indulged in fuel, and plastered walls further held off the damp. A chamber abutting hers held the building’s only tub, used by everyone in the house. She could hear someone in there now, slamming the garden door while carrying in water from the old well in back. Living in the cellar meant she could use that tub at her convenience.

  She could afford a bit better, but she saw little point in spending the coin for it. One space with a bed and a hearth suited her well enough, and she could save her wages for other things. One day, she might even fulfill her dream of traveling to America . . . a place where no one would ever learn about her past.

  Of course, that would only happen after she completed the tasks currently required for her mother’s sake, and managed to avoid imprisonment as she did so. She was determined that this would be the last demand. The plan she had concocted for this one could, if it went even slightly wrong, cost her more than the price of a bad conscience and a few supplies. This dangerous game could not continue.

  Nothing would be gained by dwelling on potential mishaps now. Her bold mission required bravado. Tentative thinking or counting the costs would only lead to failure.

  She sang to herself while she placed the most expensive purchase among the garments, a white mask that she had bought at a warehouse. It covered most of her face, even reaching down the cheeks so only her eyes, nose, mouth, and chin showed. Now she must decide which gown it would complement the best.

  She considered a combination that might pass for a member of France’s ancient regime. More embellishments would be required, however, and she did not have time to strip them off other garments and sew them on. She decided that if she removed the overskirt and tacked bits of lace at the end of the sleeves, the pink dress alone might do for a simple shepherdess.

  “Amanda, I hear you singing in there. Can I come in?”

  Katherine’s voice, muffled by the wall between her home and the bath chamber next door, jolted her out of her thoughts.

  “Do you want to warm your bathwater?”

  “If I could.”

  “Bring it in.”

  Katherine lived on the top floor. The air in her chamber might be better, but Amanda did not envy her having to climb all those stairs several times a day.

  Her door opened and Katherine lurched in, carrying two buckets of water. Her red curls bounced to the rhythm of her awkward gait. “It should be against the law to never have enough fuel in a bathhouse. Does he expect us to use cold water from the well?” She set the buckets down on the hearthstone. Amanda went over and threw some fuel on the low fire.

  “What is this here?” Katherine asked. She stood between two chalk marks on the bare wooden floor.

  “I was thinking of buying a trunk that I saw in Mr. Carew’s shop, and wondered if it would fit.” Oh, how easily she lied. That skill had returned fast. She hoped all the others did too.

  “It is huge. You can’t put it here. It will be in the way.”

  “I suppose so. I will have to think of something else.”

  Katherine lost interest in the chalk marks and walked to the bed. She eyed the dresses. “Fine things you own. Who would guess?”

  “They are old-fashioned castoffs from my mistress, but for my purpose they suit me. I have to make some changes, however. I want to remove this overskirt.” She picked up her shears.

  “You can’t just cut that off. It will look horrible with bits of the overskirt sticking out from the seam.”

  “I should take it to a dressmaker but do not have the money. Perhaps I can hide the mess with this cording on this other one.”

  Katherine held the skirt to the window’s light. She turned it inside out and examined it. “It should not be too hard to remove it properly, if you’ve the thread to sew the underskirt back to the bodice.”

  “I’ve the thread, but doubt I possess the skill. That is no common seam.”

  “Didn’t they teach you how to sew in that fine school you went to?”

  “They taught us the needle skills expected of ladies. This is more substantial.”

  “I can do this for you. I apprenticed for a couple of years with a dressmaker.” She shrugged. “Before James lured me to my fall, that is. Now I lay down ale and fight off drunken patrons, but make far more for my time than I ever would stitching rich ladies’ dresses in bad light.”

  Amanda had not known about the apprenticeship, but she knew all about lying seducers like James. She and Katherine had that in common. It had formed a fast bond between them.

  “If you could help, I would kiss your feet. I cannot pay you much—”

  “You always let me warm my water here, don’t you? Of course I will help you. I am hurt you didn’t ask.” Katherine smoothed the dress’s bodice. “You won’t have the right stays for this. Needs a proper corset. What you have probably won’t be long enough, or firm enough in front. You show me what you do have, and I’ll see what can be done.” She continued examining the dress. “Not for me to ask, but why would you want such an old-fashioned thing?”

  “I am going to attend that masked ball everyone is talking about.”

  Katherine’s blue eyes grew wide. “You are a bold one! Not likely you will get in.”

  “I will manage. Anyway, it can’t hurt to try.”

  “How embarrassing if you are turned away, though. Why go to all this trouble for that insult?”

  “I’d rather see it for myself than rely on bits of gossip from those who did not. I’ll also have a night of music and good food if my plan succeeds. Maybe the king will be there. Won’t that be a joke—for Amanda Waverly to be in the presence of royalty?”

  “Maybe some rich lord will ask you to dance. If that happens, you be careful. This dress will show a lot of bosom and we know what that does to men.”

  “I may allow one kiss, just to see if they do it differently. You would never forgive me if I didn’t find out.”

  Katherine laughed. “Oh, I want to know, but I’m thinking it will be the same slobber and thrust.”

  “I will sneak a cake out for you in my reticule.”

  “I suppose some lamb and a good bottle of wine won’t fit, huh?”

  “Perhaps I can hide some in this skirt, it is so big.”

  Katherine began snipping the thread on the seam. “You’ve more courage than sense, but good luck to you. I will expect to hear every detail if I sew this dress.”

  A half hour later, they had taken the dress apart. Katherine hauled her buckets back to her bath but promised to return later and help before going to the tavern. She offered to finish whatever needed doing during the day tomorrow.

  Amanda ticked off the chores to be accomplished before tomorrow night. Of course she would gain entry. She would attach herself to a large group and slip through without trouble. That was the easy part.

  After she gained entry would be when she would need some luck. She was counting on Lord Harold to be in attendance, or this would be all for naught.

  And then she was counting on being clever enough to seduce him—at least up to a point.

  * * *

  Gabriel kept surveying the crush at the ball, but in doing so he never let Harry out of his sight. If given the chance, his brother would bolt.

  At least the mask obscured Harry’s
unhappiness. He even chatted with some guests. He was braving it out as arranged, but Gabriel could tell that thoughts of Emilia distracted his brother. Harry kept sending longing gazes in her direction.

  The two of them had danced early on. It must have taken all the courage Harry could muster to pretend that he did not mind too much that his dear friend would be no more than a friend in the future. He had acquitted himself well enough, to Gabriel’s mind.

  Unfortunately, Harry’s preoccupation with his misery meant he did not take much notice of the woman making every effort to attract his attention.

  Possibly a pretty woman. One could not tell with that mask that covered most of her face. The mask drew one’s gaze to her red lips. Painted, perhaps, but provocative. She had a nice form, too, emphasized by the gown’s long, fitted bodice and deep décolleté.

  “You should stop watching him.” Eric Marshall, Duke of Brentworth, offered the advice after he sidled over and followed the direction of Gabriel’s gaze. “He is not a boy and you should not treat him like one.”

  “With any other sort of brother, I would not care how he comported himself. However, you know how Harry is.”

  “He is not a man about town, to be sure, but he is his own man all the same. He is not sophisticated in matters of the heart either, but that only comes from experience.”

  “It does not appear he is going to learn much from this experience. There is a woman trying her best to offer the only kind of solace that will help and he hardly notices her. She may as well be invisible.”

  Brentworth turned his attention on Harry too. Surely the tallest man in the ballroom, his advantage in height meant he probably saw even more than Gabriel himself.

  Gabriel noted that Brentworth had done him one better in the costume he wore, meaning that he wore none at all. Not even a mask such as Gabriel himself had donned to be polite. Several men refused to dress as knights or Romans or some other fools and only wore masks, but Brentworth had gone a step further.

  “Do you know her, Langford? Did you put her up to this? Taking your brother to a brothel when he was eighteen can be excused, but further interference—”

  “I do not know who she is. Nor is there anything familiar about her.” Normally he knew all the women at balls. At ones like this, however, some people attended who were not invited.

  “She is persistent. Wherever he turns, there she is.”

  Just then, Harry turned to walk toward the musicians and indeed there she was, in his way. This time, she succeeded engaging him in conversation.

  Brentworth shrugged. “I’d say she is a Cyprian.”

  “For all her forwardness, she is not acting like one. Perhaps she is an unhappy wife looking for adventure. Or even a shop girl hoping for a rich lover.”

  Gabriel got a sense of determination behind that white mask, while the young woman leaned in to lure Harry. Dark curls piled high on her head and cascaded in thick ringlets on one side. A frilly white cap perched on her crown, and more frills framed the rounded tops of breasts visible with that décolleté. Give her a staff and she would appear a porcelain shepherdess come to life.

  “I suppose they will find common ground without us.” Brentworth stepped around so he blocked the view. “Impressive speech last week, Langford. I regret that I was called out of town and unable to express my admiration before this. Rarely is a lord’s first speech worth hearing. Who knew you possessed such oratorical skills?”

  “I did win that award at school.”

  “Ah, yes. What high expectations everyone had then, that finally a Duke of Langford would speak well, and hopefully often. What possessed you to fulfill that hope now, after years of indifferent silence?”

  Brentworth, who exercised his power with discretion, good effect, and well-regarded speeches, could be damned superior at times.

  “I had something to say, so I said it. The impulse overcame me.”

  “I am not such a fool as to believe you are that skilled. You can admit to me that the essay by Lady Farnsworth in that ladies’ journal last autumn embarrassed you into taking up your duties more seriously. No one has missed how you have attended sessions this past year far more often than ever in the past.”

  He’d be damned if he admitted to anyone that the damned essay had found its mark. Insulting enough that eccentric Lady Farnsworth had all but named him in her scold. Worse that she’d titled her essay Slothful Decadence Among the Nobility. Hellishly bad luck that the essay appeared in the same issue of the journal that contained all the details about a huge scandal, which meant that the journal had enjoyed an unusually high level of circulation and reading. It had been published almost a year ago, but still men needled him about it, especially when they were drunk.

  “As I have told you before, Lady Farnsworth’s essay has never been of interest to me except that I sometimes wonder to which duke she referred.”

  “Whatever the reason, it is good to have you at sessions even if when you finally speak you sound a bit radical.”

  “Radical? Is that what is being said?”

  “A few say it. The rest merely wait to see.”

  “What asses. Radical, hell.”

  Brentworth shifted just enough for Gabriel to spy his brother, still engaged with that woman. Harry’s face had turned red. The vixen must be getting very bold indeed.

  Harry turned his head and his gaze connected with Gabriel’s across the ballroom. The message sent by Harry could not be mistaken.

  Save me.

  Chapter Three

  Amanda had never imagined that throwing herself at a man could be such hard work. Unfortunately, her quarry, Lord Harold, was of the distinctly shy variety. He barely spoke two words at a time and he avoided looking at her. But she was sure she could turn this to advantage.

  She had used precious little subtlety, but it was time to discard what remnants remained. Perhaps if she appealed to his protective nature . . . Even the shyest of men wanted to be a knight saving the lady fair.

  “Is it quite warm in here, do you think?” She batted her fan beside her face to capture his attention and direct it to her adorably demure smile.

  “Passing warm, I would say.” Lord Harold’s gaze darted left and right, arcing over her head in the transition.

  “I fear I am feeling a bit faint from it.” She held the open fan to her face so her eyes could plead for rescue over its edge.

  His face remained blank.

  She faked a little dizzy stagger in his direction for full effect. “Oh, my,” she said breathlessly, “I fear I am about to fall to the floor in a swoon from the heat.” She used the excuse of a deep breath to put a hand to her throat, bringing his attention to the swells of her breasts above her indecent décolleté.

  That got his attention. He flushed deeply. He showed . . . not surprise—no, that was the wrong word. Shock would not do either, nor would saying he was aghast. Amanda could not escape the sense that Lord Harold revealed nothing less than terror.

  She widened her eyes and feigned helpless vulnerability. “If only I could have some fresh air out on the terrace . . . but it is not proper for a woman to go out there alone.”

  He gazed past her desperately, as if seeking the path for a fast retreat. Suddenly he calmed. “We cannot have you fainting, or assaulted by some fellow too far into his cups.”

  Finally. Amanda turned to the door. Lord Harold fell into step. They paced forward. Amanda prepared herself for the battle to come. She needed to breech this man’s reserve and fascinate him. She wanted him so enthralled that he would do anything she suggested without thinking twice about the request.

  She would have all of about ten minutes to achieve this.

  She smiled over at Lord Harold. He even smiled back. This might just transpire according to her plans. From what she could see, he was a handsome man. That would make it easier when he kissed her. He needed to do that. She could never lure him in deeper if he did not.

  She knew she had looked perfectly ravishing when s
he left home. She had chosen well in being a shepherdess. It added a touch of innocence to what was otherwise a fairly scandalous dress. The décolleté barely skimmed above the nipples of her breasts. She had discarded the fichu that was supposed to provide some modesty.

  A few kisses and caresses, then she would cast the bait. He would take it, of course. He was a man, after all. She walked taller while she savored the exhilaration of a plan well executed. She turned to bestow another warm smile on Lord Harold.

  Only to discover he was gone.

  Another man paced in his place. A man a bit taller with a bearing a bit stronger. She recognized the unruly dark curls and the very blue eyes. The Duke of Langford now walked beside her. The mask that surrounded his eyes hardly disguised him.

  His slow smile did not resemble Lord Harold’s tentative, shy ones, and his eyes carried none of Lord Harold’s dismay. Quite the opposite.

  She halted in her tracks and looked behind for her intended escort. A firm hand took her arm.

  “He is well gone, but have no fear, sweet lady. You are not abandoned.” He sped her across the threshold and onto the terrace.

  “But I . . . that is . . .”

  “You set your sights on my brother and did not expect a substitution. That is understandable. However, Harry must retire from the game. He has a long journey tomorrow and could not dally here with you, alluring though the opportunity might be. I, on the other hand, have nothing else that requires my attention and can devote myself entirely to your pleasure.”

  He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized what could be seen of her face. Then his gaze fell to what her décolleté indecently exposed. The veranda had a few lanterns and they stood within the pool of light from one. She eased into the shadows beyond it. He strolled along.

  “While you and your brother may have much in common, you are hardly identical. You each cannot replace the other as if it makes no difference.”

  “We look much alike, and that is enough for your purposes.”