A Devil of a Duke

by Madeline Hunter

  Mrs. Galbreath blushed. “You are too generous, and hardly accurate.”

  “Not too generous, but also not accurate,” Lady Farnsworth pronounced. “It was always a collective endeavor, and should be known as such. Women who band together can achieve anything.”

  “And now you will endeavor with us,” Mrs. Galbreath said to Amanda. “I know you will be a great help.”

  Amanda hoped so. She liked these women, although she found it odd that she sat now with a duchess and the widow of a baron and the sister of an earl. Odder yet that they treated her like an equal even though she would really only be an employee once removed.

  She looked around the little group while all of the women, even Mrs. Clark, began discussing the journal’s next issue. Friends, all of them. A sisterhood, the duchess said.

  After fifteen minutes, she excused herself. Mrs. Galbreath escorted her to the door.

  “I was quite serious about your joining us, Miss Waverly,” she said. “This house is a club, and you are welcome as a member. There will be a little vote after you are gone, but it is clear how it will go. You are to think of this as your second home and visit should you choose to when you are in this area of town.”

  “A club? Like men have? I am grateful but must decline. There are fees and—”

  “We have members who do not pay fees. No one ever knows so it is not as if you would be seen as different.”

  “That is very kind of you. I doubt I will have much occasion to avail myself of this wonderful gift, but I appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Galbreath cocked her head. “It is not a gift. Your help with the journal will far surpass what most members contribute. You should definitely be a member. It is only right and fair.”

  Amanda’s amazement passed by the time she descended the steps to the street, and was replaced by the overwhelming sense that she had begun to be two people. One Amanda sat with fine ladies and agreed to help them with a journal.

  The other Amanda intended to allow a man to seduce her in order to have the opportunity to commit a crime that could get her hanged.

  * * *

  That evening when Amanda returned to her home, she ladled soup out of the pot always simmering on its hook in the hearth. She cut some bread and sat down at her small, rustic table to have her supper. Lady Farnsworth always fed her a main meal at midday. That went far toward helping her stretch her money.

  After her meal, she gazed into the fire while she garnered her courage to read the most recent letter. It had been at Peterson’s Print Shop when she’d stopped by this evening. Her mother had used that mail drop for years and, upon learning Amanda was going to London, had written that she should simply make use of the same name so her mother could write to her there.

  She removed the letter from her reticule. Addressed to Mrs. Bootlescamp, it showed her mother’s hand.

  It is not my intention to vex or upset you, but he grows impatient. I have explained to him that this new request is far more complicated than the first, and possibly not even achievable. I have not seen you in almost ten years, and depending on how you grew, the physical demands, should there be any, may well exceed your current abilities.

  I regret to report that he is unmoved by my arguments. Even now, as he reads this over my shoulder, he objects that you dally deliberately.

  Forgive me, Amanda, for expecting so much from you when I allowed you to expect almost nothing from me. Please leave a note once you have it, the same as last time. Use our mail drop, but put Mr. Pettibone on the letter.

  He grew impatient, did he? It set her teeth grinding that an unknown and unseen man could impose on her life like this.

  Not that Mama was blameless. Oh, she did not mind that her mother expected much. She did resent the inescapable conclusion that the only reason her mother could find herself at this man’s mercy was if her mother had tried to steal from him. Also, this man would never have known about her daughter if Mama had not told him in a bid to save herself.

  He was a wealthy adversary. Mama never bothered stealing from anyone else. Wealthy and perhaps powerful. Maybe the kind of man who could see a thief was shown no mercy and hanged.

  She laughed at herself, bitterly. It was what her family did, wasn’t it? Her parents had been cleverer than most thieves, but that was all they were. Highly sophisticated, extremely bold thieves.

  It was also what they had taught her to be.

  She put the letter in a drawer in a small table. Then she set quite different garments from those of last night on her bed. She removed her dress and donned them. She would go out again tonight, but first she needed to practice.

  She did not know if she still had the physical ability to execute her plan. She would not know until she actually tried it. However, she could at least work at making success more likely than not. She had not forgotten her training, although she no longer thought it a game the way she had when a child.

  She positioned herself on one of the chalk marks on her wooden floor. She bent into a half crouch and set one foot behind the other for leverage. She summoned all her strength, then jumped high and long.

  * * *

  “Who are you looking for?”

  Brentworth posed the question while Gabriel and he rode through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.

  “I am not looking for anyone.”

  “Are you not? You pressed me to enter this crush when I know you normally avoid it. Ever since we arrived, you have been peering furtively left and right. I must conclude that you intend to meet someone here. Accidentally, of course.”

  Gabriel steadied his gaze straight ahead. Peering furtively, hell.

  “It wouldn’t be the shepherdess, would it?”

  Damnation. He had found himself scrutinizing feminine chins and mouths the last two days, to see if any looked familiar. If he saw berry-red lips, he peered even harder, to see if they appeared painted. That was not the reason for this ride, however. Rather, he sought to distract himself from the delicious anticipation of tonight. The mere thought of it had had him half-cocked the whole day.

  His fascination with this mystery woman was unusual enough to make him reflect on it. He supposed her lack of experience to be part of the appeal. His lovers were normally far past any need for initiations. To play the role of guide and teacher in the many ways of pleasure—the notion tantalized him.

  He forced a laugh. “The shepherdess? What makes you even suggest such a ridiculous thing?”

  “You disappeared with her for a goodly amount of time at that ball.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I did. So did others. I daresay the entire northwest quarter of the garden was avoided, lest you be discovered with your bare bum aglow in the moonlight and your trousers down at your ankles.”

  “Since I am not looking for anyone, you can be assured it is not a shepherdess. Nor would I know her if I stumbled right onto her, so I can hardly be looking for her.”

  Brentworth just smiled.

  “Although,” Gabriel added in his best not that I give a damn voice. “Normally I recognize who is at a ball, even in a mask. I did not recognize her. Did you?”

  “I tried to place her, but could not. As I said, she is probably a Cyprian, perhaps one recently arrived in London.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it more likely she was a married woman hoping to find some adventure and relief from her brute of a husband.”

  Brentworth turned a long gaze in his direction. “You have written quite a story for her based on a brief, chance encounter. But then, I would never dare to question your expertise on the subject.”

  “Perhaps not a husband. A strict father or overbearing brother might explain it. She was afraid, you see. Terrified of discovery. If she were a prostitute, that would not matter much at all.”

  “It seems your absence in the garden was mostly for conversation. How good of you.”

  Gabriel knew that sardonic tone. “I believe I possess a special intuition regarding ladies and the
ir essential characters.”

  “You concluded she was a lady, did you?”

  The question took Gabriel aback. “I suppose I did conclude that without ever really contemplating the question. Rather I did not conclude anything else.” He thought on the matter now. “Her language, her manner—she seemed a lady, or a woman schooled to be one.”

  “Damned good thing you will never see her again, if that is the case. She sounds dangerous. When a lady has a husband, father, or brother who rules with a fist, her lover often finds himself in a duel.”

  Brentworth did not offer it as advice, but Gabriel heard the undertone of warning. Not that he would heed it. Dangerous or not, he fully intended to provide as much adventure as the shepherdess would allow.

  * * *

  That night, Gabriel entered his brother’s house with his valet, Miles, in tow. The servant carried the epicurean delights with which he planned to entice his mystery woman.

  A lone groundskeeper slept near the door, ostensibly guarding the house. Gabriel woke him, slipped him some money, and told him to leave the premises until morning.

  He led the way into the library and had the footman lay out the tarts and strawberries and cream, picturing the last painted on a naked feminine body. He had the three bottles of champagne placed on a table that he moved near a divan that faced the fireplace.

  After a low fire had been built, he sent his man away too. “Have the carriage sent at dawn.”

  Finally alone, he went down to the kitchen and unbarred and unlocked the garden door. Then he returned to the library and took inventory with a quick examination of the details. Aside from the many books and some peculiar objets d’arts, he spied two decorative pillows that he moved to the divan, and some odd Turkish textile that he placed near it too. Content that he had prepared the chamber as best he could for seduction, he opened one of the bottles of champagne, poured himself a glass, and waited.

  He idly wondered if Harry would mind if he made use of one of the bedchambers. He eyed the divan and the carpet, considering all possibilities. None of his speculations did much to dull the pitch of sensual provocation he experienced, much more piquant than normal. He admitted that the mystery and novelty of this assignation awoke his jaded imagination. So had the lady’s arch wit during their first conversation. She had thrown a glove to the ground. He looked forward to making her moan with submissive pleasure.

  He checked his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. He listened, only to hear silence. The notion began to snake into his mind that she might not come.

  Ten more minutes passed. Then ten more. He drank his fourth glass of champagne and began to accommodate his disappointment. What had he said to Harry? There was a river of women out there.

  He opened another bottle of champagne. It occupied him for a few minutes. When he had it ready and waiting on the side table, he settled back in and admired how the low light from the hearth gave the wine a pleasant glow full of dancing bubbles.

  As he did so, he realized that he was no longer alone.

  She stood in the corner near the door, barely visible. Only by concentration did the shadows come alive with her form. He had heard nothing. She’d simply materialized there.

  He peered hard at the few details the flickering light picked out. No mask. Dark hair bound tightly. She wore a long, dark shawl that hung like a cloak and obscured her a shape. A bit of dark cloth at her neck suggested she wore a dress that was far different from her shepherdess gown.

  “So you have come.”

  “At great risk to myself.”

  “Why?”

  “You promised champagne. I have never had any.”

  He lifted his glass. “Some might say it is worth any risk.”

  She did not move or speak. His eyes adjusted to the dark more. That ugly dark shawl festooned with dark red rose blooms hid her dress, her body—everything.

  “Why don’t you sit here, and I will pour you some.” He gestured to the divan beside him. Sit here, my dear, and I will soon relieve you of that hideous shawl and whatever it covers.

  Again, she neither moved nor spoke. He looked harder, this time at her face. Large pools looked back. He noticed the way she kept her back to the wall. His intentions receded from his mind, and he saw a woman, not a conquest.

  A frightened woman. Of what or whom? Him, or just being here?

  You jaded, stupid ass. She had said she risked much. He had known she was not very experienced. Of course she was afraid. Of him, of being here, of many things.

  His decency emerged from the lake of champagne he had drunk. He readjusted his plans. “Perhaps you would prefer to sit in that chair in front of you.”

  She hesitated, but moved to sit on the high-backed chair. Her shoes poked out. Black slippers. No wonder she had not made a sound.

  Then he noticed what showed above them, encasing her legs from knee to ankle. What in hell?

  He poured her a glass of champagne and brought it to her, not getting too close. She held it up and watched the bubbles.

  “It is pretty.”

  “Try it.” He retook his seat.

  She moved it partway to her mouth. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

  He had already had plenty, but he poured himself another glass.

  “Tell me, shepherdess. Is there any particular reason why you are wearing trousers beneath that shawl?”

  “They are pantaloons. You find that repulsive, I expect.”

  “If that was your intention, you have failed. I have known two women in my life who preferred men’s garments to dresses. I know their reasons, and am curious about yours.”

  “I walked here.”

  “Through town at night? Had you told me, I would have sent a carriage.”

  “I would have had to refuse the offer. Besides, I often walk at night if I need to go somewhere. There is always the chance that I will have to run fast, however.”

  “From assault?”

  “Or a constable. They do not like finding women on the streets after dark. They think the worst. The pantaloons mean I can run if need be without my skirt hiked up around my hips.”

  “What a tantalizing image. Your reasons are practical, then. Why no coat to complete the ensemble?”

  She picked at the front of the shawl. “I do not have one. Also, when I have this on, no one notices what is on my legs. They are so far down as to be almost invisible in the night. The shawl makes me a woman. If I need to be seen as a man, I can easily drop it.”

  “Why don’t you drop it now? You are definitely a woman to me, with or without it, and you are safe here.”

  She smiled. Her red lips parted just enough to reveal glimpses of white teeth. Erotic images regarding that mouth settled in his head then and there. It would probably be weeks before they left.

  “We both know I am not safe here.”

  “You are safe from the dangers you mentioned. As for any other danger, a shawl is poor armor.”

  “You won’t be scandalized to see me in men’s garments? You don’t find it unnatural?”

  “The notion of sharing champagne with a woman in pantaloons is provocative.”

  She shrugged off the shawl. Above the black pantaloons, she wore a dark brown man’s shirt. It billowed above where she had tucked it into the pantaloons’ waistband. No stays underneath, unless he was mistaken. How convenient.

  She sipped her champagne, then laughed softly. “My nose feels funny. What a peculiar sort of wine. It bubbles all the way down too.” She sipped again. “I think I like it.”

  One more sip and she lowered the glass. She gazed around the library. “There are a lot of books here.”

  “Harry is a scholar. Some of these are his, and some he has taken from the family library.”

  “It was good of you to allow him to deplete your library so he could enhance his own.”

  If Harry had taken ten times the number, it would not deplete his own. Her comment made him wonder about something. “Do you know who I am?”
r />   “A gentleman of some standing, I would say.”

  He hesitated, possibly because he almost never had to identify himself. Everyone just knew. “I am Langford. The Duke of Langford.”

  She did not appear impressed. “So you say.”

  “Do you think I am lying?”

  “I think you have dishonorable intentions and a man with that way of thinking will say anything to a woman.”

  “I truly am Langford.”

  “And you are also a man with special talents with women. If I raised an eyebrow at that, I must raise two at your claims to be a duke.”

  The minx was determined to challenge him on all counts. She begged for him to be ruthless.

  “As you learned in the garden, my claims regarding women were not idle boasts. As for being Langford . . .” He held up his hand. “Here is my signet ring. If you come over here, you can see the insignia on it.”

  “I think I will stay here. If you are a duke, that is most peculiar.”

  “How so?”

  “Being a woman of normal intelligence, I am bound to ask myself what a duke wants with a woman like me. You are attractive enough to be able to get most any woman to drink wine with you if you have a calling card like that. Or have all the fashionable women decided you are too conceited?”

  He wanted to laugh. Instead, he drank. “Attractive enough, am I?”

  “More than passable to most. Which I, in turn, am not. Hence the question I ask myself.”

  “Do you want me to object and say you do yourself a disservice, that you are far more than passable?”

  “I would not mind. However—a woman knows the truth of that. We love the flattery, but we know.”

  “I will answer your question honestly. This duke finds you refreshing and far more than passable. Also different. A mystery.” And a challenge, but no need to tip his hand on that. “I have now told you who I am. Will you return the favor?”

  She looked at her wine, then at him. She shook her head.

  * * *

  Drink, damn it. Less talking and more swallowing.

  She had seen the empty bottle when she’d entered and realized that fortune had smiled on her again. He had to be well into his cups already. A bit more and he hopefully would fall asleep before she had to succumb to his seduction.