The Duke Is a Devil

by Karen Lingefelt

  “Yes,” she said, closing her eyes.

  Without another word, he covered her lips with his and slid his arms around her, holding her close against the warmth and amazing hardness of his body. Every bone in her body seemed to dissolve as his lips caressed hers, and then the tip of his tongue teased them apart, opening her to him. Cecily thought she might wish to open herself to him in another way, but for the time being, she reveled in the taste of him, the roughness of his tongue as it flirted with hers. Liquid heat thrummed through all of her veins and she felt herself melting in his embrace. If he let go of her now, she’d splatter to the floor in a giant puddle of fire.

  Oh yes, she wanted more than just a kiss from him. And she didn’t doubt he wanted more than a kiss, too. But then what?

  She couldn’t think of that now as she grasped his broad, rock-hard shoulders, if only to keep herself grounded, for she felt as if she could float. As if she could fly. But clinging to his shoulders wasn’t enough. She felt a wanton urge to lift both of her legs and wrap them around his.

  She never wanted this to end. Yet he finally broke the kiss, and she whimpered in protest as he murmured something. Something that sounded like...mama?

  “Mmm,” she said. Maybe that’s what he said. It seemed the perfect thing to say after that kiss. Yes, that was it. He said, mmm.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” he asked, smiling.

  Didn’t she already say yes, and that was why he kissed her? “I daresay it’s too late to ask that now,” she said teasingly.

  “Why is it too late?”

  Was he foxed? She wrinkled her brow. “What did you say before that? Did you say something before asking, ‘Is that a yes or a no?’”

  “I did.”

  She nodded. “I thought you did, but I wasn’t certain I heard you correctly.”

  He gifted her with another smile. “Pray, what do you think I said?”

  Still flummoxed, still incredulous, and still giddy from that kiss, she said, “I thought you might have said, ‘Mama.’”

  “Mama?” he burst out, and his voice even cracked.

  Cecily lurched back as if pushed by the force of his outburst.

  “Mind you, I’ve heard of men who call out for their mothers in the throes of passion,” he rapped out, “but I most certainly do not.” To her dismay, he spun away from her and under his breath he grumbled, “Mama!”

  In the throes of passion? Was that what he felt while kissing her? It was certainly close to what she felt. And after this maybe she never would again. She threw up her hands in despair. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I thought at first—but only for the blink of an eye. Then I went mmm after you stopped kissing me and I thought you must have said the same thing.”

  “Mama!” he huffed under his breath, still facing away from her.

  “Only for the blink of an eye. The single tick of a clock. Not even long enough for it to tock. I wasn’t thinking straight, and surely you know why. But if that isn’t what you said—”

  “And it isn’t! Why would I say that to you at such a moment?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I thought you were one of those men who call out for their mothers ‘in the throes of passion’?”

  He finally turned to face her agape, ready to roar like the enraged lion she feared.

  Chapter Eight

  It took all of Dane’s strength and patience and forbearance and every other word synonymous to those three not to roar in frustration. Instead he stood there with his mouth hanging open, only looking as if he were roaring in frustration.

  Marry me were the words he’d murmured to her—and somehow she thought he was calling out for his mother? In—though in all fairness to her, these were his words, not hers—the throes of passion?

  He couldn’t restrain himself a moment longer. He finally roared...with laughter.

  “Thank heavens you’re not roaring with rage,” remarked Cecily. “Perhaps now you might tell me what you were really saying?”

  Dane held up his hands, palms facing her, as he fought to control his mirth. “Something that should have been phrased differently, but it will keep for now. I notice your ankle seems to have healed since I last saw you.”

  Her eyes lit up, wonderfully blue in the gloom of the gallery. “Oh yes, it doesn’t trouble me a bit now. Did you also notice the ink smudges have faded from my face?”

  “I did, though I thought it best not to point that out as I assumed you were quite aware of it already.” He also noticed the blue of her eyes, like a pair of bluebells, and the deep chestnut brown of her hair, wondering if it felt as silky as it looked. He enjoyed kissing her—even the awkward way it ended—and he longed to kiss her again.

  He yearned to do more than that with her—yet that wasn’t why he’d tendered that clumsy proposal. And it wasn’t even the first time he’d proposed to a prospective bride! On the other hand, it was the first time he’d tried to propose—and actually meant it.

  Contrary to gossip of the ton, he’d intended for first Lady Milner and then her daughter, Evangeline Benedict, to jilt him. He’d only pretended to be betrothed to the former to make an old beau of hers jealous, and proposed to the latter to protect her from accusations of treason until such time as those accusations were duly disproved and debunked. Which they were, and very swiftly. The former Evie Benedict was now happily married to Dane’s only surviving brother, Gareth.

  He jolted out of his reverie, and Cecily flinched as a deep thud banged somewhere. “Well! There’s the thunder, finally, but I didn’t see any lightning, did you?” Maybe it struck while he was kissing her.

  “Actually, Your Grace, I believe it was the door knocker. It made that same awful sound when you arrived.”

  “Like a harbinger of doom, eh? Shall we see who it is?” He held out his hand to her.

  Cecily studied it for a moment, as if checking for warts.

  “Come, you can take my hand quite safely,” he said. “My heart should be wounded if you’ve already forgotten that I just had my lips against yours and my tongue in your mouth.”

  Her eyes widened again. He loved it when her eyes did that. “Sometimes, you really are a devil.”

  He chuckled. “That’s one of the things I—” What word did he want? Not the one teetering on the tip of his tongue, ready to be carelessly blurted out. His mind scrambled for something a little less emotional, at least for the time being. “That I admire about you, Cecily.”

  She smiled. “My, such emphasis on the word, ‘admire.’”

  “That’s so you won’t think I’m calling for the admiral in the throes of something or other.”

  She emitted a sniff of amusement. “Precisely what do you admire about me?”

  “You speak plainly to me. Usually I must all but beat people half to death to make them do so. I know it’s because I’m a duke, but it’s wretchedly tiresome. I speak as plainly as I want.”

  “So I’ve noticed, Your Grace. ’Tis one of your many ducal privileges.” She finally allowed him to take her hand, and he guided her back to the front hall, where he stopped short at the sight of the latest arrivals.

  They were none other than the Marquess and Marchioness of Frampton. The marquess was Dane’s uncle from his previous marriage to the late sister of Dane’s father, while his newest marchioness was the mother of the current Lord Tyndall.

  She was also the one who’d been engaged to Dane for about a fortnight or so, until Frampton, her childhood sweetheart, finally came up to scratch and whisked her away to Gretna Green as he should have done more than thirty years ago.

  But then there never would have been the current Lord Tyndall or his sister Evangeline.

  The marquess was also related to Cecily. He was the brother of both her late mother and Aunt Thea. As such, Dane felt Frampton should have done a better job of providing for Cecily, instead of leaving her in the hands of her other, more indifferent uncle. Or if not Frampton, then the family of Cecily’s father. The late Mr. Logan had b
een the younger brother of the previous Earl of Ashdown, whose ancestral seat was in Northamptonshire and on the road to London. Ashdown Park was, in fact, Dane’s next planned stop on his journey.

  “Thank heavens we arrived here just in time!” Lady Frampton proclaimed to the servants bustling all around the marquess and marchioness, removing coats and taking charge of his valise and her portmanteau. Cordelia was nowhere in sight, unless she was still playing dead in the drawing room. “It’s coming down in torrents now! We only mean to stay the night on our way to London. I can’t wait to see my newest grandchild and—” Finally her eyes lit on Dane and Cecily, who at some point had let go of his hand and was now hovering behind him. “Why, Dane! Fancy finding you here!”

  “Bradbury! So what brings you back to Tyndall Abbey?” Frampton asked gruffly. “Surely you’re not feigning a betrothal to the dowager countess as a means of bringing young Howland up to scratch?”

  Lady Frampton lightly slapped her husband on the arm. “Oh, you’re dreadful, dear.”

  “Not as dreadful as—”

  “Excuse me,” Cecily muttered, keeping her head down as she scurried past him and into the drawing room.

  “Dash it,” said Frampton. “I’d no idea there were still tender ears about in this mausoleum.”

  “Oh, so Cordelia finally broke down and acquired herself a proper lady’s companion?” asked his wife. “Good for her.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m glad the two of you are here,” said Dane. “I’m also spending the night en route to London, where I hope to see my new nephew who is also your latest grandchild, Lady Mil—oh, excuse me, I mean Lady Frampton. You’d think I wouldn’t still make that mistake two years on.”

  “You may call me Blanche, you know. After all, we were—well, you know—”

  “And that’s precisely why I’d rather he didn’t call you that, my dear,” said Frampton. “You’re now mine, and no one else’s. Allow me to remind him of that fact.” He wrapped his arms around his wife and kissed her passionately—something Dane had never done with her during the brief time they were pretending to be betrothed.

  “You needn’t remind me,” Dane assured his uncle. “As I was saying before, I’m glad the two of you are here, not only because you’re still family, but because that young lady you just saw is your niece and will need a proper chaperone to go to London.”

  Lady Frampton chortled. “You should know by now that no one considers me proper, Dane—not even my beloved husband here.”

  Her beloved husband smacked her playfully on the backside. “Ah, but that’s what I’ve always loved about you, my dear. Niece, you say? Mine or Blanche’s?”

  “Yours, uncle. Miss Cecily Logan?”

  “Oh! My sister Honoria’s daughter. Now come, shall we pay our respects to Cordelia and ask why she means to send her to London? Never say she’s been dismissed because you were caught giving her a slap and tickle, Bradbury?” Whereupon he tickled his wife just beneath her breasts, and she gave a delighted little shriek as she twirled into the drawing room.

  Dane followed, and saw at once that while he’d been dallying with Cecily in the gallery, the dowager countess had ordered tea for herself, and was already berating Cecily to call for some extra cups and saucers for the newest arrivals. “May as well make yourself useful while you’re here,” snapped Cordelia, now sitting on the sofa where he’d last seen her in a feigned faint.

  A freshly kindled fire blazed in the grate, while those torrents of rain attacked the windows in a steady barrage, blurring all view of the garden beyond.

  Lord and Lady Frampton squeezed themselves into the loveseat opposite the sofa, while Dane took the armchair nearest the fireplace. From here he enjoyed a fine view of Cecily, who stood in the far corner looking very much as if she wished to flee, even if meant getting drenched in the downpour. Dane thought of asking her to sit down and join them. Why not? She wasn’t really Cordelia’s companion and the latest arrivals were her other uncle and aunt. He opened his mouth to ask her and—

  “Did you know someone has written a book about you, Dane?” Lady Frampton asked.

  Cecily remained standing silent in the corner, but those bluebell eyes of hers widened again.

  “A book?” he inquired, as if this were the first he’d heard of it.

  “Evie wrote me a letter about it right before we left to come down here. Apparently it’s all the talk of the ton.” Lady Frampton fished in her reticule, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “It’s not yet published. But Evie enclosed with her letter this broadside that serves as a sort of advertisement for the book so as to whet the appetites of potential readers.” She handed it to Dane, who stole another glance at Cecily. She looked a little grayish-green or greenish-gray, as if she couldn’t decide whether this turn of events made her squeamish or faint.

  He unfolded the broadside. Across the head of it were the words THE DUKE IS A D— and below that, a caricature of the Duke of Bradbury with hair like a lion’s mane, but with horns on his head, cloven-toed boots on his feet, and a pitchfork in place of a walking stick. Maybe Dane did have a devilish mind, but he swore the pointed tail emerging from beneath the coattails of his likeness resembled a long, curving penis, ready to jab the female behind him as he leered over his shoulder at her. She had both hands over her face but otherwise no distinctive features, so she could be anyone. A balloon came out of her mouth, circling the words, “Save me from the Duke for he is a D—!”

  This was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever seen, and he burst into raucous laughter.

  Cecily, alas, looked ready to burst into tears. The sight tugged at Dane’s heart, and he wanted more than anything to get up, go over to her, and take her into his arms.

  The footman came in at that moment with another fully loaded tea tray.

  “You’ll pour, Miss—Miss—” Cordelia flicked her hand in Cecily’s direction.

  “Miss Logan,” Dane helpfully supplied, as he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.

  “Miss Logan? Well, why do you just stand there, girl?”

  “It doesn’t look to me as if she’s standing,” said Dane. “She appears to be swaying.”

  “Dear me,” said Lady Frampton. “She looks faint.”

  “Not to me,” Lord Frampton put in. “If you ask me, she looks ready to cast up her accounts. Maybe the footman should pour. Read the rest of that thing, Bradbury.”

  “You mean you haven’t?” Dane read the smaller text beneath the cartoon. “‘A new book chronicling the diabolical depravities and dissolute debaucheries’—I say, what’s with all the D words?—‘of the Duke of Madfury, a monstrous, malevolent miscreant’—now what’s with all the M words?” He shot another glance across the room at Cecily, who was still swaying in the corner, only now she had both hands over her face.

  Just like the girl in that outlandish cartoon. The resemblance was uncanny. He only hoped she wasn’t covering her face because she was weeping.

  “Evie writes that there is a great deal of speculation as to the author’s true identity,” said Lady Frampton.

  “So what’s the false identity?” Dane glanced back down at the broadside. “‘By The Lady He Ruined, now forced to sell her story of shame and scandal to survive in sempiternal seclusion in Somethingshire.’ It’s a blank there. One must assume it’s someplace other than Somerset, Shropshire, or Staffordshire, or they would’ve leaped to say so. And what the devil does ‘sempiternal’ mean? Are they just making words up here because they couldn’t find one that starts with S and describes seclusion? How else would one describe it? Seclusion is seclusion. How sibilant can one get?” He cast his gaze toward Lady Frampton, but he was really looking over her shoulder at Cecily in the far corner. To his increasing alarm, she still had both hands over her face...but now she was heaving and trembling, as if sobbing her heart out, albeit silently. He felt his own heart going out to her. Something had to be done.

  “Some believe the author is Cassandra Frey,
your first former fiancée,” Lady Frampton said. “Heaven knows her story is deemed one of shame and scandal by the ton, but she’s never troubled to live in whatever sort of seclusion that is. Or any kind of seclusion. She’s a widow, and has been abroad for the past two years, ever since she feigned objection to your equally feigned wedding to my daughter. But the author is not me, nor is it Evie. She and I were both ruined long before you came along, my dear duke.”

  “Someone who, ever since I allegedly ruined her, has been forced to rusticate in sempiternal seclusion.” He refolded the broadside and slipped it into his pocket. “I shall keep this, if you don’t mind.” He needed to come up with a way to rescue Cecily before she disintegrated.

  “By all means. I imagine you would know better than anyone, based on the description, who the author might be.”

  Lord Frampton shook his head. “But just because ‘Madfury’ rhymes with ‘Bradbury’, can it really mean that Bradbury here is indeed the title character?”

  “Everyone in London thinks so, especially when one also considers that caricature,” his wife replied. “Not only that, but the on-dit is that the name of the book’s ‘heroine’—for lack of a more apt term—is Catriona, which does sound a bit like Cassandra.”

  “But only a bit. By that dubious logic, do you know who else has a name that sounds like Catriona?” Dane shot a glance at Cordelia, who in his opinion was even more scandalous than Cassandra Frey. Cordelia, the dowager Lady Tyndall, had entertained as a lover her own daughter’s fiancé, the young Viscount Howland whose betrothal had been arranged by their fathers many years ago.

  “Miss—Miss—oh, what is your name again?” Cordelia called out to Cecily, with another useless wringing of her hand. “And what is the matter with you? You can’t pour tea in your condition. I daresay you’re distraught from hearing the contents of that broadside. It’s not fit for your ears.”