To Ruin the Duke

by Debra Mullins

  Seducing him into sin.

  Her voice rose with the last note, hovering, lingering, vibrating throughout the room like a poignant climax. Then she opened her eyes and smiled with sweet innocence, as if she did not realize she had just aroused every man within hearing distance.

  Silence greeted her. Then thunderous applause erupted as the spell broke. The crowd rushed forward, surrounding the pianoforte, blocking her from view.

  Wylde sat frozen for long moments, the breath hesitating in his lungs. His body shook with the echoing power of her song. The only time he had experienced a response of this magnitude had been while composing his own work. How was it that a slip of a woman could appear from nowhere and shake the foundation of his soul with merely her voice?

  And how was it that after feeling dead inside for so long, he found himself so strongly attracted to two women in the same day? Perhaps the malaise that had plagued him for so long was finally lifting.

  “Your Grace.” Mrs. Weatherby appeared before him. “Were you pleased with the performance?”

  He nodded, still unable to speak.

  “If you would like to meet her, I shall be happy to perform the introductions.”

  He nodded again, climbing to his feet. Mrs. Weatherby beckoned.

  The dark-haired beauty stepped away from a conversation with a nearby dowager and came to stand beside Mrs. Weatherby. “Yes, Mrs. Weatherby?”

  “Contessa, this is the Duke of Wyldehaven. His Grace is a great admirer of the arts.”

  “Your Grace.” As she dipped into a curtsy, she glanced up and met Wylde’s gaze for a split second. Her eyes were green, slightly tilted at the ends…and familiar.

  He had looked into them only this afternoon in his very own home. His fascination shattered as the truth became apparent.

  A hint of panic entered her gaze. And well she should be worried. What game was Miranda Fontaine playing? If she was an Italian contessa, he was a three-legged pony.

  Tempted to keep her guessing, he nodded an acknowledgment as she rose from her curtsy. “Contessa. You are a very talented woman.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “How is it you are from Italy, yet you have no accent?”

  “I am English. My husband was Italian.”

  “Was?”

  She glanced down. “He died.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence weighed on the conversation. Even knowing she was not who she said he was, he could not take his eyes from her. The initial simmer of attraction he had felt for her at their first meeting had burst into an inferno after hearing her sing. It was all he could do not to drag her to some dark corner and taste those lips that so tempted him. But perhaps there was another way. He turned a persuasive smile on his hostess. “Mrs. Weatherby, I must admit that I am inspired to play this evening after all…but only if the contessa consents to accompany me with her beautiful voice.”

  “Oh, how splendid!” The portly lady flicked open her fan and waved it rapidly near her flushed face. “Contessa, you simply must agree. His Grace is a most gifted pianist.”

  The little songbird looked a bit green, but she managed a smile and nodded. “Of course. I would be honored to perform with His Grace.”

  He offered her his arm, unable to suppress the mischievous grin that curved his lips. “Come, Contessa. Let us make music together.”

  Miranda hesitated, uncertain if he was mocking her. He did not appear to recognize her. And why should he? The worldly contessa was so different from plain, ordinary Miranda Fontaine. But that wicked smile curving his lips as he offered his arm made her wonder. And was there an implication beneath his words? Maybe he did recognize her and was playing with her…or was she reading too much into the situation because she feared being denounced as a fraud?

  “Come, Contessa,” he coaxed again, arm still extended. “Your audience awaits.”

  She paused one second more, caught like a mouse in the presence of a cat. He was too big, too confident, too handsome. Those dark eyes of his hid much, but watched her with an intensity that made her insides bubble like simmering porridge. She reminded herself that she disliked him intensely, both for his treatment of Lettie and his dismissal of his child. She had no desire to attract his attention or to do anything that would stimulate his memory. But the Contessa della Pietra would never refuse the invitation of a man as wealthy and powerful as Wyldehaven. Reluctantly, she took his arm.

  His flesh was warm even beneath her gloved hand, his arm appealingly firm and well-muscled. Somehow she had thought an aristocrat would be soft, sickly. Not this man. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was as tall as any prince in any fairy tale, his back straight, his waist trim, his face pleasing to look upon. Dark hair, dark eyes—even she, who had never been taken in by a man’s looks, was affected by his countenance. But she would not allow herself more than that, a female’s admiration of a striking male physique. Men expected a woman to surrender everything to their whims, but she was a woman who could—and would—stand on her own.

  He led them toward the pianoforte at the front of the room.

  Murmurs followed them, and furtive glances as well. A hum of excitement rippled throughout the throng, making her uncomfortable. While performing, she’d enjoyed such attention. Now that she was not, she wanted to be just one more person amongst many. Apparently, walking on the arm of a duke was not the best way to remain unnoticed.

  She tried to calm herself, to ignore the unusual attention of the crowd. She would sing and he would play. There was no dishonor in that. No scandal involved. Why, then, did it feel as though they were about to do something sinful? Even the smooth wood of the pianoforte inspired wicked fantasies as she reached it.

  Wyldehaven—how easy to think of him as Wylde—sat down at the pianoforte with a grace that made her mouth water. She quickly took a position on the other side of the instrument, as if keeping the pianoforte between them would somehow negate the crackle of attraction in the air. He watched her take her place, and his mouth twitched with amusement.

  Her pride shriveled, but she resolved not to show it. Regally, she nodded for him to begin. He leaned forward, fingers hovering over the keys, then his hands coaxed the opening bars of “Think Not My Love” from the instrument.

  Sweet heaven, if she had thought him appealing before…

  Arrested by his skill, she nearly missed her mark, but caught herself just in time and started singing at the appropriate juncture. She refused to look at him, to see if his mouth had quirked up in devilment at her near faux pas, and instead looked at the audience and surrendered to the song.

  Music was a place where no one could reach her. No one could touch her or hurt her or scorn her. Always before she had accompanied herself, knowing where the notes would go, confident they would be there like planks on a bridge over a vast chasm. She could walk that bridge with confidence and poise, not needing to look down.

  She was surprised—and delighted—to discover that his musical prowess formed a strong barrier, like a stone wall on either side of her as she walked that bridge. With joy she lost herself in the melody, the two of them making the journey together, hand in hand.

  She could not stop herself from glancing at him. His dark eyes reflected the same unspeakable joy she felt, his fingers stroking the keys, wringing from them the best they could offer. Would those hands do the same to a woman?

  Her cheeks heated and she wanted to look away. But she could not, dared not, reveal such vulnerability to him. Perhaps he would think she was warm from the temperature of the room. Or that she was excited by the music. Both were true; she was warm and she was excited. But only because of him.

  There was a knowledge in his eyes that unnerved her. She might as well be standing naked before him, completely defenseless. The notion struck a dissonant chord within her. It was not fair that one of them was so affected and the other was not. Between man and woman there must always be equal g
round, otherwise someone got hurt—usually the woman.

  So she forgot the audience, forgot her disguise. She dropped her mask and sang directly to him, woman to man. Showed him her feminine strength. I will match you, note for note.

  A flare of awareness chased through his eyes. His jaw clenched, but he maintained perfect control over the instrument, his touch sure and loving on the keyboard. Were his fingers trembling? Hers certainly were.

  A door closed somewhere nearby, reminding her of her surroundings. She managed to glance away from him, to smile at the audience. But she could feel his presence, like a bonfire running wild.

  When she sang the final note, she could not help but look back at him. His dark eyes seared her with heat as he lifted his hands from the keys. For one mad instant she wanted to lean across the pianoforte and sink into his arms.

  Then thunderous applause jerked her back to reality. Well-wishers surged forward. She stood frozen, then felt a strong hand close over her arm.

  “Come with me,” Wyldehaven said, and dragged her away from the crowd.

  She was a liar, he thought. An imposter. Almost certainly an opportunist. But a witch as well, for there was no other explanation for his reaction to her. No other logical reason for him to want her so badly right now that he would have willingly taken her right there in the music room in front of everyone. Not when he knew she had almost certainly maneuvered him there.

  Wylde pulled her through the crowd, glaring the well-wishers into submission with the mere force of his consequence, until they reached the door to the salon and escaped into the cool solitude of the hallway.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, breathless.

  To my bed, he wanted to say. “To find a private corner to converse.”

  “I cannot imagine what you might wish to discuss, Your Grace.”

  “Can you not?” He flashed her a sharp glance, impatient with the pretense, hungry from the seduction. “Perhaps you should consider the matter…Miss Fontaine.”

  Dear God, he knew.

  Her heart nearly stopped, panic shimmering along her nerve endings. Like a docile hound, she allowed him to lead her down the hallway, amazed that she did not stumble. He moved with surety toward a room at the end of the hall, then opened the door and swept an arm in a gallant gesture for her to precede him.

  She stepped into the tiny chamber, which was lit by a single candle and a low fire burning in the grate. The decor was decidedly feminine, hardly the setting for a confrontation with an angry duke.

  He must have seen her puzzlement, for he said, “This is Mrs. Weatherby’s private sitting room.” Then he closed the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. “Now tell me, Miss Fontaine, the reason for this pretense.”

  “Your Grace?” The solitude concerned her. What was his plan? Why did he watch her like a tiger scenting fresh venison? Had their performance affected him as strongly as it had her? Would he pounce?

  Did she want him to?

  Uncertain, she ran her hand along the back of a lovely armchair upholstered in pale blue.

  “Do not be coy, young woman. You are no more an Italian contessa than I am.”

  She raised a haughty brow at him as if she really were displaced Italian nobility. “You know nothing about me, Your Grace, and as you so arrogantly conveyed only this morning, you have no desire to know anything about me or my affairs.”

  “Arrogant?” He chuckled, but it was hardly a pleasant sound. “You know nothing about my desires, my dear.” He slid his gaze over, a visual caress, masculine appreciation tightening his features. “Had you worn this lovely attire to my home this morning, we might have had a more pleasant conversation.”

  She stiffened her spine. “This image is an illusion, a theatrical costume.”

  “So you are pretending.”

  “You know I am pretending!” She scowled at him. “Really, Your Grace, you are hardly the one to cast stones at me. If not for your high-handed dismissal of me and your son—”

  He rolled his eyes. “Back to that, are we? Tell me, Miss Fontaine, how did you know I would be here tonight? Did you bribe one of my servants?”

  Her mouth fell open. “I had no idea you would be in attendance tonight.”

  “Of course not.” His lips twisted around the sarcasm, and he pushed away from the door, approaching her with an intent that both alarmed her and made her quiver. What was wrong with her, reacting like a goose girl to a handsome prince?

  She backed away. “I have done nothing wrong, Your Grace.”

  “So that performance…that musical seduction. That was not aimed at me?”

  “I do not even like you!”

  “Your recital said otherwise.” He narrowed his eyes. “Mrs. Weatherby is a particular friend of mine. I will not see her humiliated or her gatherings used for your conniving ends.”

  “But you have no compunction about humiliating me?” She slipped behind the safety of the armchairs, keeping the furniture between them. If he touched her, she was sure she would melt in his arms, and that she could not allow. “I have done nothing to you. You asked me to sing; I did not request you accompany me. Do not assign such devious motives to innocent actions.”

  “You, my dear, are far from innocent. You made that perfectly clear.”

  She stiffened, uncomfortable with the emphasis he put on the word “innocent.”

  “Do you condemn me for being here?” she asked. “When you refused responsibility for your child, I had no recourse but to seek respectable employment.”

  He barked out a laugh, then reached across the chairs to seize her arm and haul her back from behind their shelter. “You call this respectable? Passing yourself off as a foreign siren, luring unsuspecting men with your voice? If you are looking for a protector, my dear, you could have simply told me so.”

  She tugged at her arm, but his greater strength won the battle. He dragged her against him. His body was big and warm and smelled of something spicy and alluring. The contact only threw fuel on the fire she tried to control. She could feel her will weakening, her knees trembling, her flesh aching to soften against him.

  Stop him before he realizes the power he has over you.

  “I am not looking for a protector,” she snapped. “Are you in the habit of forcing unwilling women, Your Grace?”

  Her sharp tone did not dissuade him. “How can you claim to be unwilling, dressed like that, singing like that? You are an invitation to sin, my dear. I can only surmise that when your ploy to foist your brat off on me failed, you must have learned I would be here tonight and sought to capture my attention.” He lowered his head, inhaled the scent of her hair. “You have caught it.”

  “You are quick to judge.” She jerked her head back, hungry for his touch yet knowing his warm breath tantalizing the skin of her neck could destroy her. He already had little regard for her. “Release me at once or I will call out.”

  “Should you call out, I will simply tell whomever responds the truth about ‘la contessa.’” He nuzzled her throat.

  Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head when his warm lips found her flesh. For one blissful instant she reveled in the explosion of sensation. Her body warmed, softened, liquefied inside. Her knees melted like hot wax, and it was all she could do not to dissolve into his embrace and beg him to take her.

  He scraped his teeth against her skin. She could not suppress a quiver of reaction.

  He chuckled.

  She would not surrender. Jerking her head away, she shoved at his chest. “How gratifying it must be,” she spat, “to be a duke, to have the entire world toadying to your every wish. To ruin lives on a whim. Lettie’s. Mine.”

  His lips parted in surprise, his eyes creasing in annoyance. “What the devil are you going on about? ’Tis people like you who ruin lives—charlatans, opportunists.”

  “You got Lettie with child, then abandoned her. I came to you to make certain your son is taken care of, and you turned your back on him. Now
you would force yourself on me based on misguided judgments, even though I have refused you. You are a disgrace.”

  “I have never forced a woman in my life.”

  “Probably because no one has dared refuse you!”

  He released her abruptly, and she grabbed the back of the armchair to steady herself. “I do not know what game you are playing, Miss Fontaine—”

  “What game I am playing? You are the one who acted dishonorably here, not I.”

  She expected him to be shamed by her declaration, but he only looked irritated. “Young woman, you came to my house dressed like a Quaker and prattled on about a child I have not fathered on a woman I never met. The very same day, I meet you here, where you are dressed like a temptress, pretending to be someone you are not. One of us is playing a game, and it is not me.”

  “It is not me, either. This”—she indicated her dress—“is a result of your callous disregard for your son. Someone has to put food in his belly. And a mysterious foreign contessa has more chance of being offered lucrative performance opportunities than plain Miranda Fontaine.”

  “A clever argument. I doubt this child even exists.”

  She straightened with pure indignation. “I resent being called a liar, Your Grace.”

  “As do I. One of us is mistaken, Miss Fontaine, and I do not believe it is me.”

  “Of course you do not. Heaven forbid His Grace the Duke of Wyldehaven be caught in his own duplicity.”

  “You have a sharp tongue.” His lips parted in a wicked smile. “How unfortunate that you claim you are not looking for a protector. We could redirect all that passion into a more amenable direction.”

  A blush swept into her cheeks. “You are no gentleman.”

  “So the gossips are saying.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Should you decide to be honest about what you want, do contact me. I believe we would do well together.”

  She swiped his hand away, denying that tantalizing touch. “I do not know why I expected a man like you to do the right thing. Your kind never does.”

  “This is your one chance, Miss Fontaine. Leave this place now and I will tell no one of your deception.”