The countess swept into the room without knocking, and Meg pushed the scandal sheet into her pocket.
The countess looked at Rose in annoyance. “Still sulking? I had hoped you would understand what is at stake. Hector says if we do not have money soon, we will lose Wycliffe Park entirely. Would you see us all crammed into a tiny cottage in the village? I’d be a laughingstock, and poor Marguerite would be forced to find paid employment to support us!”
Meg stifled a frisson of annoyance. There was no talk of Rose going to work. Rose was too silly to be anyone’s governess, and too lovely to use her hands for anything but waving to admirers.
“You won’t get a better offer than this,” Flora warned. “If you reject a duke, other gentlemen will think you overly particular, and no one at all will want you.”
Rose burst into fresh tears. “I am to be sacrificed!”
Flora’s complexion reddened. “You are marrying a duke! That’s hardly torture!”
“He’s the devil!” Rose moaned.
To Meg, he seemed more like a hero on a white horse, riding to their rescue in the nick of time. She hated the privations they’d been forced to endure in the year since her father had died. She had taken control while her mother retreated into nervous illness and grief. She was the one who sold the silver and the paintings and dismissed the servants one by one so her mother could afford to live the life she was accustomed to for as long as possible. Mama was the perfect example of Papa’s philosophy. Without Meg’s practicality and Hector’s advice, they would have lost Wycliffe much sooner than this.
“Get up and dry your tears at once,” Flora ordered Rose. “We must leave for London tomorrow at first light to see about having wedding clothes made.” When Rose continued to stare at the wall mutinously, she turned to Meg. “You had better come as well, Marguerite. I’ll need your help. Once Rose is married, and we have funds again, we’ll hire more staff, but until then, I must continue to depend upon you to manage things.”
Meg felt excitement rush through her. Not only was that the closest thing to a compliment her mother had paid her for her hard work since Papa’s death, it meant she would see London, attend the wedding, and meet the Devil of Temberlay in the flesh. “Oh, Mama—”
“Rose, will you wear the blue gown or the yellow?” Flora asked.
“Don’t sacrificial virgins wear white?” Rose asked.
Flora threw up her hands. “Marguerite, you do the packing. Rose is far too overcome by joy to see to it herself.”
“Obviously,” Meg muttered.
Flora moved to the bureau, only to be distracted by the mirror. She smoothed the wrinkles from her forehead. “Rose will make a beautiful bride, and I shall stand out as her radiant mama,” she said, as if trying to convince herself. She swept out of the room, calling for Amy to see to her own packing.
Meg laid the gowns on the bed. They’d both worn every gown a hundred times, and she hated all of them. Now Rose would have an entirely new wardrobe, fashionable and lovely, and never have to share her clothes again. A shimmer of jealousy crept up her spine, and Meg tightened her fist on a particularly hated sprigged muslin. She let go so she wouldn’t need to press the wrinkles out of it and forced a smile.
“You’ll wear pretty clothes and go to parties and balls.” She looked critically at a faded green gown with a small tear on the sleeve. “No more turned hems or darned stockings.”
Rose sniffed. “I’d rather wear rags and be a spinster than marry the Devil of Temberlay.” She snatched the gown out of Meg’s hands and tossed it to the floor. “I won’t do it.”
Meg picked up the gown. “You’ve already agreed!”
“Then I shall un-agree! Why should I sacrifice myself just so Mama can have more servants, sell myself like a—”
Meg’s eyes widened as her sister’s mouth formed the word but didn’t dare to say it aloud.
“But it’s not just for Mama. Think of Mignonette and Lily. Think of—”
“Why? No one is thinking of me!” Rose whined.
It would take hours of careful explanation to get her sister to see reason. Meg picked up the gowns and the sewing basket. “I’ll go and work in the library. Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
She shut the door and stood in the quiet of the hall, trying to quell the dark little demons of jealousy and envy. Rose would cry all the way to London, but once there, trying on pretty clothes and attending parties, she would feel differently about becoming a duchess.
And Temberlay? Was he awaiting his bride, anticipating the wedding night? Meg’s stomach quivered. She set the gowns on the stair railing and took the scandal sheet out of her pocket. She looked down at the handsome face with a sigh, and ran the tip of one finger over his grinning mouth, and down his broad chest, the impossible length of his booted legs . . . was he really as wicked as he was drawn? She shut her eyes. She felt wicked just thinking about him, especially now. She picked up the gowns and headed downstairs.
A deal with this devil might be well worth the cost.
Chapter 2
“There’s a rumor afoot you’re getting married.”
Nicholas Hartley, the infamous Devil Duke of Temberlay, opened one sleepy gray eye and fixed his gaze on the naked woman draped over his chest. The rumor was true enough, but he didn’t want to discuss it, especially now.
His latest mistress had hair so blond it was almost white. It made her famous, both on stage and in bed, since every man in London wanted to know if the color was entirely natural.
It was.
Angelique’s expressive green eyes remained fixed on him, her curiosity evident. She was jealous, if the scratch of her nails on his chest was anything to go by. He picked up her hand and put it where it could do some good, and grunted when she squeezed his cock.
“They say she’s the daughter of the late Earl of Wycliffe. Wherever did you meet her, Devil?”
He hated when she called him Devil. The nickname had been earned in war, for braver deeds than the ton used it for now. He also frowned at the other name. Wycliffe. Had he met her? He’d been out of England for nearly three years, and home for mere weeks.
He tried to focus on his very talented mistress, rather than wondering about the bride his grandmother had arranged for him. He was surprised at Granddame’s alacrity. It had been less than a week since she’d insisted he must marry, and since he had no choice, he’d given her carte blanche to make a match. He’d assumed she would confer with him before reaching a final decision. Once again, he had underestimated her.
“Is she pretty?” Angelique persisted.
He had no idea. Given his grandmother’s hatred of him, he rather doubted she was. But he needed Granddame’s fortune to support the estate his brother had left bankrupt. Marriage was simply a necessary bargain to maintain the dukedom. He shifted on the sheets, shut his eyes, told himself he didn’t care who she was.
“Will she do this for you?” Angelique asked. Her hair brushed his stomach, and he gathered the silk of it in his hand so he could watch her work. She lifted her head again, much to his annoyance.
“Am I invited to the wedding?”
Was he? His grandmother hadn’t so much as left a note to inform him of the arrangements.
He forced away his annoyance at the whole situation, and slid his hand between Angelique’s thighs, and she purred as he stroked her, all other thoughts gone at last from her pretty head. He waited until she cried out, then lifted her to straddle his hips.
She laughed. “You are a devil! I’m due at the theater for rehearsal in less than an hour. There’s no time.”
Nicholas flipped her onto her back and grinned, “There’s always time for this, Miss Encore.” She arched against him with a mewl of need.
“Just once more, then, but hurry—” She rolled her hips, tried to make him move faster, but he held still, teasing her.
“Hurry, Miss Encore?” He tweaked her nipple and she cried out in delight. “Not on your life.�
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With Angelique well sated but very late for rehearsal, Nicholas strolled into White’s Club. Viscount Sebastian St. James was waiting for him, seated in a comfortable leather chair, drinking with several other gentlemen of the ton.
“Not your usual crowd, St. James,” Nicholas murmured.
He was sitting with Charles Wilton and Lord Augustus Howard. The gentlemen were only vague acquaintances. Their smiles faded as Nicholas sat down.
“I’d about given you up,” Sebastian said with a drunken grin. “We were just talking about you.”
Nicholas’s spine prickled. “Oh?”
Wilton smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “We were about to mount a wager as to what was keeping you, but St. James felt there was no point, since Angelique Encore is your new ladybird. It was all too obvious.” There was an edge to his tone that tightened Nicholas’s gut.
Augustus Howard waggled his gray brows. “We decided instead to bet on what time you’d arrive. Unfortunately, you’re some hours earlier than my prediction.”
“Trouble with—” Wilton pointed at Nicholas’s lap.
“No, never, not Nicholas!” Sebastian cried. “My guess is Angelique had a performance this afternoon—” He elbowed Nicholas in the ribs. “Or should I say another performance?” Nicholas refrained from rolling his eyes.
Wilton smirked and sipped his drink, as if he knew a secret joke.
Lord Howard leaned in. “I hear your days of merriment are soon to come to an end.”
Ah, so that was the secret joke. His wedding. Nicholas set his jaw, making ready to endure more questions and ribald jests.
Howard pursed his brandy-sodden lips in an ugly pout. “Since you’re to hang in the parson’s noose before the month is out, will you bequeath the lovely Angelique to me?”
Nicholas sipped his whisky to hide his surprise. Within the month? That soon? He felt the imaginary noose tighten, imagined his grandmother cackling as she tugged on his leg to hasten the drop.
“Doesn’t anyone have anything better to talk about?” he asked. “I hear Napoleon is safely ensconced on Elba, never to terrorize the world again.” But these men were different from the officers he’d known in Spain. His comrades had been sober and keen in battle, but after, once the dead and the living had been accounted for, they wagered and whored and drank as hard as these idle lords. But they did it to remind themselves they were still alive, and to forget that good men died every day. He looked at Wilton, Howard, and even Sebastian. What did these silly fops have to forget?
Boredom, he supposed.
He’d been back in England for five weeks, and he had not met a gentleman of rank with a useful occupation, or one who stayed sober past noon, if they were awake that early. He also remembered being one of the worst of them, the most incorrigible rake, the wildest, the drunkest, the most ridiculous rich, bored lordling of the bunch.
But that was before he went to war.
He was a different man—harder, stronger, and smarter. Yet they expected him to be the same drunken fool.
Charles Wilton raised his brows. “Napoleon? Not interesting enough. Not when the Devil is about to be shackled to the daughter of the virtuous Earl of Wycliffe. What’s she like?”
Nicholas kept his expression bland, as if he knew all about her and didn’t care that she was—what? Ugly? A stranger he must wed and bed within the month? He shifted uncomfortably, realizing he did care after all. Slightly.
He wished himself back in Spain, where the world made sense. If not for his brother’s sudden and mysterious death, he wouldn’t be here at all.
And if his grandmother had not insisted he remain in London, he would have retired to Temberlay weeks ago to calculate the full damage of David’s mismanagement, and to discover just what had happened to his brother. The accident that killed him seemed to be the greatest secret in London, the details as deeply and hastily buried as David’s corpse.
He worried about his grandmother when news of his brother’s death finally reached Spain in a solicitor’s letter, months after it had happened. She’d raised David, doted on him. Even in her terrible grief, she had managed the dukedom as best she could.
Or so he thought.
She had rushed at him the moment he’d arrived home, a virago in black bombazine. She’d slapped his face with the full strength in her arm, blamed him for everything that had befallen her, from David’s death to the ruin of the dukedom. She had squelched the scandal, and hidden the details of how her beloved grandson had died, but she hissed them in Nicholas’s ear.
He sipped his whisky and let it burn.
David had died in her arms after a duel, carried home barely alive, his body riddled with wounds. “It’s all Nicholas’s fault,” were his last words.
Nicholas had no idea what that meant. Unfortunately, he’d found nothing to explain it. No witnesses, no bystanders, no gossip at all . . . but he would. Finding other people’s secrets was what he was best at. Which made the total surprise of his own wedding all the more unbearable.
Sebastian spilled his drink. Nicholas watched the brandy soak into the swirls of the club’s Turkey carpet.
His grandmother had refused to allow anyone to clean David’s blood from the rug in her study. It had been there when she called him into that room and insisted that he must do his duty and marry. Over his brother’s blood, she’d told him the estate was ruined, that only her personal fortune was keeping them. She would continue to pay only if he agreed to marry where she wished.
He respectfully took her money for debts and current expenses, and agreed to the wedding, but refused to let her manage his estates.
“They say Wycliffe raised his girls to be pillars of feminine virtue and modesty!” Sebastian said, and grinned encouragement at Nicholas, as if he truly expected him to add more details. Nicholas sent him a flat look of warning, but Augustus Howard laughed.
“That doesn’t bode well for you. Wycliffe was an ugly little man who used to scream about moral decency and the tender sensibilities of English womanhood in the House of Lords. Didn’t he try to introduce a bill to force the female aristocracy to take vows of chastity, order, and virtue?” He shuddered and grinned at Nicholas.
“Ugly men have ugly wives in my experience, and ugly daughters.” Wilton finished his drink and signaled for another. “Perhaps you’d better keep Angelique after all, if you can afford her.”
Now what would Wilton know about his financial affairs? Perhaps it was merely jealousy. It was well known that Wilton had banished his wife to the country, and spent his evenings in the lowest brothels in London.
Sebastian mistook his silence for an invitation to keep up Nicholas’s end of the conversation. “Not to worry, gentlemen. I know for a fact that Nicholas can bed anything, no matter how ugly. He once won a bet that he couldn’t keep it stiff long enough to—”
“St. James,” Nicholas murmured the warning. He’d come home from Spain to find dozens of such legends about him, none of them any truer than this one. He made it a policy to neither confirm nor deny what was said about him, but silence only seemed to make the rumors more prevalent, and infinitely wilder.
“Bedding an ugly wench once on a bet is one thing, but night after night until an heir is born?” Wilton grinned with delight. “You have my condolences.” He raised his brandy in salute and downed it at a gulp. His eyes narrowed when Nicholas didn’t join the toast. “But perhaps she’s not so bad. What is your bride like, Temberlay?”
Nicholas tightened his grip on his glass, let the cut crystal points dig into his flesh, but the anger remained. He did not want to be a duke, did not want to marry. He wondered if his grandmother had intentionally meant to make a fool of him in front of men like Howard and Wilton. “A woman like any other, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Wilton prompted.
“All cats are black in the dark!” Sebastian chirped, and Nicholas sent him another quelling look, which Sebastian failed to heed. “It’s an arranged marriage, gentlem
en. Nicholas’s grandmother wants a grandchild to dandle on her ancient knee before she turns her toes heavenward. Isn’t that so, Nick?”
Nicholas ignored him.
“Will she be attending Lady Melrose’s ball on Thursday?” Howard asked. “The entire ton will be there. It would be a good time to show her off, prove she isn’t hideous.”
“I won’t be going,” Nicholas replied.
Howard looked shocked. “You did receive an invitation, didn’t you? Surely your reputation is not so tarnished that—”
“It’s probably Miss Encore’s night off,” Sebastian said in a stage whisper that would have done Angelique proud.
Nicholas had had enough. He picked up his hat. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
Sebastian was at his heels before he reached the curb. “You’re like a bear with a sore head! Are you unhappy with the match?”
“You know everyone in London. Who is she?” Nicholas asked.
“Who? Wycliffe’s daughter?” Sebastian frowned. “Never been seen in London as far as I know. They’ve been in mourning since the earl died last year.”
“They?”
Sebastian grinned. “I have two sisters, both notorious gossips. The earl has four daughters . . . or is it five?” He stroked his chin. “What was it Delphine said to Eleanor? They were laughing when they heard you were—” He winced. “Sorry, old man, but no one is talking of anything else.”
“What did Delphine say?” Seb’s twin sister was the worst gossip in the family, which probably accounted for why she remained unmarried well into her second Season.
“Flowers . . . something about flowers. Ah yes. They are all named after flowers! Blossom, Tulip, Cowslip . . .” He dissolved into drunken laughter at his own joke.
Nicholas frowned. “Which one is my bride?” he asked, his heart sinking. He was about to be saddled with a silly country virgin, precisely the kind of female he despised.
Sebastian’s eyes popped. “You mean you don’t know?”
Nicholas was forced to shake his head. “My grandmother is the one who wanted me married, so I told her to arrange it. Apparently, she has.”
How to Deceive a Duke Page 2