The Duke Is a Devil

by Karen Lingefelt

  Cecily set the candlestick on the nearby console table with a loud thump.

  “Thunder again?” Frampton wondered aloud. “I do believe I will call it a night. My blushing bride awaits. I’m so glad she’s finally mine.”

  “And I’m glad to have helped in that regard. I think I’ll stay here for the time being, just to see if Cecily finds some reason to come downstairs looking for something she ‘forgot’ to take upstairs with her.”

  Cecily’s jaw dropped. Her eyes popped. And oh, she clearly discerned those little hooks around the word forgot. As if he expected her to pull one of the world’s oldest house party tricks! Well, this wasn’t a house party, and she was determined now not to be as predictable as he claimed.

  “Pray, then why are you in the drawing room and not the library?” Frampton asked with another guffaw. “Evie tells us that such things always happen in the library.”

  “That’s why I locked it after the ladies went upstairs,” Bradbury said. “Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised if that noise you keep hearing isn’t thunder, but Cecily trying to break down the library door.”

  Why—why that—Cecily clenched her fists and shook them both in the dark. She could only hope he hadn’t ventured into the library and found the letter she’d left behind. She’d left it facedown on the desk.

  “Ah, you devil, you!” Frampton brayed with laughter. “No wonder some hoyden wrote that book about you. ’Tis all true, of course. Well, I’m off to bed. I’m taking this candle here. No need to summon a footman to show the way to my blushing bride.”

  Cecily wasn’t about to prove the devil or the duke or even the devil duke right. She fled for cover in the far corner of the cavernous hall—not near the staircase where the marquess was about to ascend and would be certain to see her, but next to the front door. She just had to be careful not to knock over any inconveniently placed urns, busts, or suits of armor, one of which stood guard in a dark corner adjacent to the staircase.

  Lord Frampton stalked out of the drawing room with a candle, heading straight for the staircase without taking so much as a glance in any other direction. Up the stairs he marched, his booted footsteps gradually fading away, followed by the faint click of a distant door opening and then closing.

  She had no choice now but to return to her bedchamber, and try to retrieve her incriminating papers in the morning before they departed. She listened carefully for any noise in the drawing room, the slightest indication that Bradbury was about to get up and move around, maybe even check the library door for her presence. The drawing room door was slightly ajar, the candlelight within offering just enough light for her to see her way back upstairs. Holding her breath for fear he might hear it, she picked up her skirts and gingerly tiptoed across the length of the great hall to the staircase.

  Now she had to hope she didn’t hit any creaky spots on the way up. She didn’t recall any while coming down. She started her ascent on the same side of the staircase she’d used for her descent, and had just reached the third step when a loud creak startled her from above.

  Someone else was coming down the stairs. Someone who would see her if she returned to the corner near the front door. This time she ducked out of sight beside the staircase.

  And this time she nearly collided with that full suit of armor, glimpsing the faint glint of steel just in time to lurch to a halt mere inches away. She pressed her hands flat against the cold breastplate, holding her breath as silent footsteps and soft candleglow wafted by overhead.

  Not a man. Maybe it was a maidservant—only wouldn’t she use a back staircase? Cecily peered through the balusters at the shadowy figure creeping toward the drawing room. It was definitely female, and scantily clad.

  Outrage gripped Cecily. A plump, buxom maidservant was brazenly stealing into the drawing room to seduce the Duke of Bradbury! Probably at his summons, too. What to do?

  What Cecily ought to do was return upstairs to her bedchamber for the night.

  But what Cecily wanted to do was confront duke and maidservant and—then what?

  He’d almost certainly laugh at her. How could he dally with another woman after kissing Cecily this afternoon?

  The title of her book said it all.

  She tiptoed over to the open doorway, wondering why the buxom maidservant didn’t bother to close and lock it. Maybe she was waiting for a command from Bradbury. Maybe she was hoping they’d be caught. Maybe the duke was hoping they’d be caught—but by whom and for what purpose? He’d mentioned to Frampton the possibility—nay, the reality—of Cecily planning to steal into the library. Was he hoping Cecily would catch him? Did he expect that, because he thought she was so predictable?

  Well! If that was the case, then she resolved not to catch him with the maidservant.

  But that didn’t mean she was going to return upstairs just yet.

  “Did you forget something, Cordelia?” he asked.

  Lady Cordelia? Well, she was definitely plump. She was certainly buxom. But she was no maidservant. Cecily was about to sigh in relief when Cordelia unexpectedly replied, “You.”

  Cecily thought her heart would stop, but it continued to beat so loudly, she wondered why one of them didn’t mistake it for more thunder outside.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Bradbury replied. “Were you expecting to find someone else in here? I know I was expecting someone else to show up. Namely, your companion.”

  “I told you, Miss Logan is not my companion. Are you disappointed that you haven’t seen her this evening?”

  “Not at all.” The scoundrel couldn’t have sounded more pleased about that. No, he wasn’t the least bit disappointed that Cecily hadn’t made an appearance this evening. He was glad about it. Glad that he didn’t have to see her again this evening. He had no interest in her, and why would he? If anything, he was probably disappointed that she was following him to London with Lord and Lady Frampton.

  He asked, “Were you hoping to catch me in a compromising position with her, and then use that as an excuse to give her notice?”

  “I don’t need an excuse, any more than I need a companion,” Cordelia said. “But I do have need of something else...someone else.”

  “Then should I ring for the footman? Or a maid?”

  “You, Your Grace.”

  “You want me?” He sounded skeptical.

  “I yearn for a younger man.”

  A long, stunned silence followed, as if he couldn’t believe this. Neither could Cecily.

  “Ah, you do fancy younger men, don’t you?” he finally said. “Yes, I know about you and Lord Howland. He was supposed to marry your daughter, wasn’t he? But then she eloped with someone else. Clever move on her part, all things considered. Didn’t he go on to marry an heiress, one whose father was in trade, something like that?”

  “She jilted him,” Cordelia said. “And he’s since gone abroad to escape his creditors. I’m seeking a new younger man. And I know you’re drawn to older women, Your Grace.”

  “What makes you say such a thing? Because you’ve heard me accused of calling out for my mother in the throes of passion? Good God. Just how many women believe that faradiddle? Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s in that wretched book somewhere—Madfury calling out for his mother while ravishing the fair Catriona. Small wonder they think he’s a devil.”

  Cecily now had both hands clamped over her nose and mouth.

  “You were once betrothed to Lady Frampton, who’s my age,” Cordelia said.

  “For a whole fortnight,” Bradbury retorted. “By the time it made the scandal sheets, I was twice jilted while she and her daughter were already safely married to others.”

  “But I’m not married to anyone now. And neither are you. Look at me, Your Grace.”

  “I don’t need to look at you. I know you’re there, Cordelia. Why do you not close the door and lock it? Are you hoping to be caught in a compromising position with me? And by whom? The Framptons are already abed, and knowing them as well as I do, I wouldn’t e
xpect to see either of them again till morning, if that early, and I’ll wager neither will appear very well rested. That leaves Miss Logan. Are you hoping she’ll catch us, and use that as an excuse to quit her position with you?”

  “I told you, she’s not my companion, and I will thank you not to mention her again. Please look at me, Your Grace. Look at me and tell me you don’t feel the slightest stirring of desire.”

  “Very well, Cordelia. I’m looking. And I don’t feel the slightest stirring of desire.”

  “Don’t you? What if I do this?”

  Cecily dropped her hands. What was Lady Cordelia doing?

  “Alas, I feel nothing,” Bradbury said.

  “Then suppose I do this? What do you feel now, Your Grace?”

  “Numb enough that this might be a good time for me to have a bothersome tooth pulled.”

  Was she touching him? Caressing him? Cecily longed to burst in on them and see for herself what was going on, except—except what?

  Except Bradbury would accuse her of being predictable. Of doing just what he expected her to do. Furiously, she wondered if he’d ever expect her to do whatever on earth Lady Cordelia was doing at this moment—and if he would feel numb if she did so?

  “What if I did...this?” Cordelia’s voice sounded oddly like a purr. “Howland used to go mad anytime I did this. Am I driving you mad now?”

  “You most certainly are!” Alarm jangled through Cecily as she heard Bradbury stand up, his booted feet thumping on the floor.

  “Ohh! Ohhh!” Cordelia sounded as if she were swooning again.

  “Yes, madam, you are driving me right out of this room.” Bradbury’s heavy footsteps approached the doorway, and Cecily spun around to flee back to her previous hiding place. This time she smacked right into that suit of armor, stubbing her toe on one of the steel sabatons.

  Try as she might, there was simply no suppressing a scream of horrible agony.

  Bloody blast! Just when she could finally walk around without a limp from her twisted left ankle, she had to stub her right toe on a piece of steel placed in an out-of-the-way-spot, where no one on earth should have stood a snowball’s chance in the devil’s domain of coming into accidental contact with it.

  No one but Cecily, who all but tripped over a tea tray earlier, even with Bradbury to guide her steps. Only Cecily.

  As she reeled back, she swore one of the gauntlets grabbed her around the waist, as if a live person had been lurking inside the thing all these eons. The knight held fast to her skirt, lunging for her as if he meant to seize her in his phantom embrace. Then someone else—maybe another knight come back from the dead—grabbed her from behind and dragged her back as the entire suit of armor toppled over and crashed to the floor, clanging and clattering into pieces.

  From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a wailing, half-naked Lady Cordelia rushing up the staircase, huge breasts bouncing with each step. Cecily was almost too shocked to feel any pain in her toe, especially now that she realized she was caught in Bradbury’s embrace.

  “I see you finally found your knight in shining armor,” he said cheerfully. “You’re lucky he wasn’t holding a halberd. He might have split your skull right down the middle.”

  “I almost wish he had,” Cecily rasped. It would have been a quick way out of her misery.

  “You can’t mean that. You have everything to live for.”

  “Right now I only seem to be living for my toe.” It was throbbing, the red-hot pain shooting all the way up her leg and into her torso, only to ripple up her spine.

  “Are you unable to walk again? Should I carry you somewhere? Back upstairs to your bedchamber, perhaps? I must say, if this was your plan all along, then I am utterly impressed at the original twist you’ve employed.”

  “I suppose if I ever had a plan for this evening, then that one will do,” Cecily said petulantly, as she tried to hop away from him toward the drawing room, but he held on to her. She couldn’t very well complain about that.

  A footman rushed from the doorway on the other side of the staircase, looking thoroughly alarmed, no doubt from the violent clangor of armor. Bradbury tersely explained and told the footman to wait until tomorrow morning to reassemble the fallen knight, before returning his attention to Cecily.

  “Let’s get you seated and take a look at your toe,” he said, helping her into the drawing room. Cecily broke free of his gentle grasp and lurched toward the sofa, but he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against the hard warmth of his body. “Not here. Take that loveseat over there.”

  “What’s wrong with this sofa? It’s closer.”

  He firmly steered her over to the loveseat. “Trust me. You don’t want to sit on that sofa. Maybe not until next year, if ever. I’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking of what I wish I never saw there only moments ago.”

  Cecily wished that were possible. In her mind’s eye, she could still see Lady Cordelia’s flopping big bosoms. There could be no unseeing them. Ever.

  She plopped down, and Bradbury placed a chair in front of her, then sat himself. She extended her foot and—what to do about that stocking that went all the way past her knee?

  She couldn’t avoid eye contact forever. She forced herself to glance up at him.

  He gazed back at her, his head somewhat lowered so it looked as if he was peering up at her. His lips were pursed, and one eyebrow arched in acknowledgement of the conundrum now pulsating between them.

  He lowered his gaze to her foot. “Perhaps if you propped it on the edge of my chair?”

  Cecily slowly, languidly raised her limb, propping her stocking foot between his knees. An angry spot of red glared on the big toe.

  Alas, if not for that, then this would be the perfect moment for him to pull that glass slipper out of his pocket.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to remove your stocking, Cecily. Should I close my eyes while you do it?” She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was being serious or sarcastic.

  “I don’t think it matters,” she said, as she fumbled under her pink skirt for her garter. “You’ll try to steal a peek anyway.”

  “You’re right. That’s one of my few predictable behaviors. Still, you seem determined not to let me see too much.”

  Cecily almost told him there was really nothing to see, but stopped herself just in time.

  Harry would have told her to prove it. She didn’t know if Bradbury would say the same, but she wasn’t about to find out.

  She felt for the garter and untied it, then clumsily slid the stocking down her leg and peeled it off of her foot, flinging it aside as she readjusted her skirt so everything remained modestly covered—save for her injured foot. She flinched at the sight of it.

  Bradbury stared down at it, lightly tracing his finger around the big toe. “Well, it’s bruised. And it looks as if you tore off a good chunk of nail. That’s where all the blood is coming from. Can you wriggle it? Good. Then I don’t think it’s broken, but we can always send for the doctor in the morning just to be sure. It will be sore for a few days. You may as well remain here for a short while, to gather your wits. That knight seems to have scared them out of you.” He stood up, carefully swinging one leg over hers. “Don’t move your foot. Keep it elevated for a while. How did you ever manage to collide with that suit of armor? Considering its placement, the only way a person could accomplish that feat would be if they contrived to do so.”

  Cecily fumed. “I was looking for a place to hide. I didn’t want you to know I was there.”

  “No? Then why did you come back downstairs in the first place?”

  “Are you absolutely convinced I came back down in hopes of getting into a compromising position with you? Do you honestly believe I purposely ran into that suit of armor and stubbed my toe on that sabaton, just to make you—”

  “Saba—what?” He blinked, as if nonplussed.

  “Sabaton. What you call the knight’s shoe. You didn’t know that?�
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  “Of course I know that.”

  “Oh, then you’re only surprised that a woman would know that word?”

  The rather sheepish look on his face clearly indicated that yes, he was. He picked up a decanter and refilled a snifter. “Perhaps you’d like some brandy to dull the pain?”

  “Why not? After all, it is part of my plan in coming down here after everyone else retired. Smash headlong into that suit of armor that only a bat could see in the dark, taking great care to stub my toe on the sabaton. Scream bloody murder to make you come running and assume I’ve been crippled so you have to carry me in here, then pull up my skirt to remove my stocking so you can admire what’s beneath it under the guise of examining my stubbed toe. Then drink enough brandy to dull the pain, while also getting foxed enough to lose my inhibitions and make it easier for you to take advantage of me. Yes, Your Grace, all of that is exactly what I planned from the moment you arrived here, and it played out flawlessly with the precision of the finest clockwork. Not bad for someone who gets herself stranded in a treehouse and falls into a ha-ha, eh? And for the same purpose, no less—all to seize your attention!”

  He still stood there, decanter in one hand and snifter in the other, gawping at her in utter stupefaction.

  “Well, when you put it that way,” he finally said, “it does appear to be strictly accidental—only why would you come back down here when you did? And without your shoes? Not that I believe you intentionally removed them in hopes of stubbing your toe.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him about the papers she’d left on the desk in the library. “You might recall I was in the library when you arrived this afternoon. I’d been reading a book. I’d just reached my bedchamber this evening and doffed my shoes and—and—” She waved her hands around her head.

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but I have noticed that you seem to have taken down your hair and tied it back into a queue,” he said.

  “Only then did I remember the book and I came back downstairs for it. You were never meant to hear me.”