Dark Duke

by Sabrina York

  But she was probably being fanciful.

  She was certainly being idiotic. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the Dark Duke. Aye, even in Scotland his exploits were legend. The man would seduce a goat if it so much as fluttered an eyelash.

  Still, the fact that he had tried to seduce her sent a thrill straight through to her womb.

  It really shouldn’t. She knew better, or hoped she did.

  Men like him seduced women for fun. They enjoyed the hunt, the chase, the conquest. The bragging rights. And the women were left with nothing but tatters of a life.

  She would do well to avoid him in future.

  She snorted with exasperation. Damn and blast him for being in that study. And why hadn’t she thought to find a book at a decent hour? When there were people around? Like footmen? And maids?

  And why on earth had she told him of her shame? He’d called her an innocent and she’d opened her mouth and the truth had just fallen out.

  That was probably why he’d tried to kiss her. No other reason. But then, men needed no other reason. Simply the knowledge that a woman was no longer chaste.

  Experience had taught her that.

  Damn Dougal McDonald. Damn him to hell.

  And herself with him.

  As they said, it took two.

  It was astounding how quickly one could ruin a reputation. And how impossible it was to earn back. And how aggravating the consequences—

  She turned the corner and stopped short. Growled under her breath. A profanity, perhaps.

  Malcolm Wyeth lounged against the wall by her door. When he saw her, he straightened. Sent her a libidinous smile. At least, she supposed he was trying forlibidinous.

  He often did.

  At sixteen, Violet’s younger brother was lean and lanky. He was a handsome lad—had much the aspect of his cousin, the Dark Duke, about him—but he was a boy. The disparity between the two was as vast as the difference between the sun and the moon.

  Also, Malcolm was a pest.

  “There you are, Kate.”

  “What are you doing here, Malcolm?”

  He put out a lip. “What do you mean, darling? I came to see you.”

  She quirked a brow. “In the middle of the night?”

  “I was lonely. Where were you?”

  She didn’t answer. It was none of his business. She was none of his business.

  He glanced at the book. “Ah. To the library. I should have checked there first. You always were a bit of a bluestocking.”

  She wasn’t. Not hardly. But she did like to read. That didn’t make her a drudge as his tone implied.

  “Did you want something, Malcolm?” Blast. An unfortunate choice of words. She knew exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t going to get it. Not if she had anything to say about it.

  His expression shifted. He stepped closer. Far too close. “As a matter of fact, I did.” His arm snaked around her waist and he tugged her against him, crushing her arm holding the book against his chest. Thank God for small barriers. He was hard and warm, but not in the way she liked. Bony and clammy was closer to the truth. “Give us a kiss, Kate,” he burbled. Whiskey wafted on his breath.

  Blast. He was foxed.

  Someone had been in the duke’s decanters. Deep in the duke’s decanters.

  She hated to do it. Twice in one night. But his approaching lips, his hot breath and far too avid grip on her hips forced her to. She slipped her free hand into her pocket and pulled out her dirk.

  He blanched as she prodded him with the blade. “Not again, Kate,” he whined. “Do you always carry that damned thing with you?”

  “Always.” She gave him a nudge. “Now back away.”

  “Kate…”

  “Don’t call me that. Go on. Back away.” He did, but slowly. His muscles were tense, as though he would spring at any moment should she lower her defenses. She would not.

  Holding him off with the slender knife, she edged to her door, opened it and slipped inside. Before he could lunge forward, she turned the lock. And just in time.

  Wood shook as he slammed against it. She stepped back, praying it would hold.

  Saints preserve her from drunk lads with horns.

  They seemed to be everywhere.

  As it was, Malcolm banged on her door and warbled at her to let him in until he woke Violet, whose suite was down the hall. Originally, Kaitlin had been housed in the servants’ quarters to keep up their pretense, but the late-night visits from Malcolm—and the occasional footman—began to annoy the staff. So Violet had moved her to this floor.

  The footmen had stopped scratching on her door, but apparently the move had not deterred Malcolm.

  Kaitlin listened through the wood as Violet tore into him, a familiar lecture. Malcolm howled—clearly Violet had grabbed his ear and was leading him back to his own wing. Their voices receded.

  Only then did Kaitlin let herself relax.

  Only then did she realize how nervous she’d been.

  She dropped the book on the bedside table and laid her precious dirk next to it. Tears sprang to her eyes and she swiped them away. Damn and blast. She hated this. Hated it.

  All she wanted was to live in peace, untroubled by the mischief of men.

  Every one of them—every single one of them, from her father to her brother to her best friend’s brother to Dougal the dog McDonald—had caused her no end of misery.

  All right, yes. It was partly her fault. She should never have allowed Dougal to take her into the woods that day. Should never have allowed him to kiss her and fondle her and…so much more.

  But that tiny bit of pleasure—and it had been tiny—hardly made up for the nightmare her life had become. She had hoped coming to London with Violet, playing the role of a prudish companion, would free her from her past.

  She had been wrong.

  There was no escape from oneself. No escape from the past.

  But at the very least, she had escaped from her brother. And the McCloud.

  She should be happy for that.

  She shook with rage whenever she thought of what Callum had done. She wasn’t a piece of property he could barter at will. She couldn’t help wondering, had she been pure, would he still have sold her to the most nefarious brigand in Scotland?

  She sighed. Probably. His desperation was that acute. He owed the McCloud a fortune. And regrettably, in payment, McCloud wanted her.

  Without Violet’s help, spiriting her out of the country under the cover of night, Kaitlin would be in those evil clutches at this very moment.

  Ah Violet. Bless her heart.

  When she scratched on the door a few moments later, Kaitlin had reclaimed her composure, or at least enough of it to mask her despair. She let her friend in and relocked the door. Just in case.

  Violet flopped down on the bed, her sable ringlets bouncing, and pursed her pouty lips. Violet was a beautiful girl, with an alabaster complexion and round eyes a startling shade of blue, so blue they were almost, well, violet. She always made Kaitlin feel like a dowd—with her red hair and spots. Also, Violet was slender. Kaitlin was not.

  “Darling. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Violet. Thank you.”

  “Ooh. That boy. I could shake him. I’ve told him time and again to leave you be, but he just won’t listen. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

  “He’s a man.”

  Violet snorted a laugh. “Oh darling. You are so droll. But really. Something has got to be done. This is the third night in a row. I must have some sleep.”

  Kaitlin smiled. “We could sprinkle saltpeter into the duke’s whiskey.” Nothing less than saltpeter would work.

  “Was he drinking? That scamp. I shall have to tell Ned.”

  “Ned was probably tippling with him.” Violet’s older brother Edward, oft called Ned to avoid confusion with the many other Edwardses swinging in the family tree, was something of a scamp as well. All of Violet’s brothers were, in varying degrees. At least Ned h
ad listened when Kaitlin had told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave her alone.

  “Perhaps I shall tell Edward.”

  Kaitlin’s heart stuttered. “The duke?”

  Violet shot her a dry look. “They are drinking his whiskey.”

  “Yes. Of course. He shouldn’t like that.”

  “I should say not. They are far too young. Oh bother. I shall have to beg an audience on the morrow.” She sighed and stood. “Will you be all right, darling?”

  “Yes, dear. So long as he doesn’t come back.”

  “Oh, he won’t come back. Not tonight at least. Still…” A frown flitted across her exquisite brow. “You’d better lock the door.”

  Mercy. There was no doubt about that.

  “Good night, darling.” Violet kissed her cheek. “Do sleep well.”

  “You too, Violet. Sweet dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Violet took her leave and Kaitlin locked the door in her wake. Exhausted, she crawled between the covers and closed her eyes. But it took a long time for sleep to descend.

  And her dreams were not sweet in the least.

  Chapter Three

  Edward struggled with the turn of a phrase. His writing had once been so easy. Words had flowed from him like honey in the summer heat. Now nothing sounded right.

  If he didn’t finish this manuscript soon, his publisher would have apoplexy.

  Not that he particularly cared if his publisher had apoplexy. He could always find another publisher. But he did like Dithers. They had an understanding.

  A profitable understanding.

  Apoplexy would be…inconvenient.

  Especially right now.

  Dithers was on the hunt for a new illustrator to bring the works of Lord Hedon, Edward’s nom de plume, to life. Finding a talented hand—one who was willing to create the kinds of drawings Edward’s illicit manuscripts demanded—was proving to be a challenge.

  What a pity Richard Mabry had gotten it into his head to race along Rotten Row stinking drunk. In the dark. It was a lucky thing he hadn’t maimed his cattle. As it was, he’d only broken his neck.

  Leaving Edward at a loss for inspiration.

  Dickie had always provided the drawings upon which Edward’s naughty stories were based. Dickie provided the pictures, Edward provided the words. It had been a perfect partnership.

  But now Edward struggled with—

  He winced as a bellow shattered his calm, obliterating the incessant ticktock of the clock on the mantel. A responding warble rattled the window pane, followed by the clash of steel. Or something like it.

  Apparently, there was a battle underway in the garden.

  He set down his useless quill, strode to the window and peered out. Yes. Two of his cousins were dueling with swords—not real swords, thank God. Edward had had Transom hide all the weapons weeks ago after discovering a Chippendale in the Blue Salon shattered to smithereens by a decorative mace. At least, he’d assumed it was a decorative mace. It had been hanging on the wall in the billiard room his entire life.

  Evidently it was a real mace.

  And now Dennis and Sean—or was it Hamish and Taylor? He could never remember who was who—were embroiled in a fierce skirmish with swordlike metal spikes. Where they had come from, he had no clue. They looked vaguely familiar, with a distinctive fleur de lis on the end of each—

  Realization, and horror, washed through him. Good God. Those were spears from the metal fence surrounding the family crypt. Somehow they’d pried them loose and were now bashing each other with them.

  “Transom!” he bellowed as he rushed into the hall. And promptly tripped. He would have fallen flat on his face if Transom hadn’t caught him.

  Together, they glared at a small boy crouched by the doorjamb with a hammer in his hand and a mischievous grin on his face. For he’d just finished nailing a wire across the threshold.

  Edward gaped. He feared his eyes were quite wild. Why on earth would anyone—

  “You called, my lord?”

  “What… Why… Who…” Dukes should not sputter. But again, he struggled for a phrase. He gave up and snarled, “Where the hell is Hortense?” His aunt was supposed to be managing this. She had promised to manage this.

  “Shopping, my lord.”

  “Shopping! Why the hell is she not here, corralling these hellions?” What was the point of having the old bat living beneath his roof if she couldn’t provide some miniscule service? Such as exorcising demons?

  The boy with the hammer took his chances and scampered off into the bowels of the house. Maniacal laughter trailed in his wake.

  Transom cleared his throat. “I believe she went shopping to escape these hellions, my lord.”

  “Christ.” Edward raked his fingers through his hair. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pier glass and winced. His hair stood straight up on end. There were bags beneath his eyes—he hadn’t slept well…there had been clumps of dirt in his sheets—and his face looked as sour as a fishwife sucking on a lemon. “I need some fresh air.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “While I’m gone, see if you can draw up a battle plan, will you?”

  “My lord?”

  “You were in the Horse Guards, weren’t you? You fought in the war.”

  “As you know, my lord.” It was, after all, how they’d met. Edward had been a delusional idiot on a glorious mission and Transom had saved his arse. A number of times.

  “Well, my man.” He clapped his butler on the shoulder. “This is war.”

  And by God, he was going to win.

  Edward skirted the mêlée in the garden and made his way to the far end of the estate, where there was nothing but flowers and trees and a placid little pond. Nothing to attract diminutive fiends bent on mischief. He would sit in the folly until his temperature returned to normal.

  Perhaps until spring.

  Dear God. He’d had no idea having the Wyeths of Perth take over his house would be such a nightmare. If he had suspected as much, he would have turned them away at the start. They would probably have crawled in under the door. Through the cracks in the flue. Vermin had a way of finding entrance.

  But now. Now they were here.

  Entrenched.

  He had to get rid of them.

  Perhaps he could send them back to Scotland.

  Scotland would revile him for it, but he had little use for rocky tors, lochs and sheep.

  Then he thought of Violet and his heart lurched. It would crush her to be trundled back to what she referred to as “the bleak wilderness”. She was looking forward to a glittering season in London. She was seventeen. She needed a husband. A husband of quality. That might be difficult to find in the wilds of Scotland.

  And Ned. Ned was twenty. He was just starting to find his way with the ton. He’d made some friends—decent fellows. He’d even been receiving invitations to game at White’s.

  The two of them—the normal two—deserved better than being lumped in with the rest.

  He whacked at a rosebud as he passed. It exploded into a flutter of petals. He refused to feel any sympathy.

  He couldn’t send them packing.

  Then what?

  Hell. He was a duke of the realm. He had six houses spread throughout the empire. Why hadn’t he thought to purchase a spare in London?

  Aha!

  That was brilliant.

  He would. He’d buy them their own house. Move them all, lock, stock and—well, maybe not the barrels, as the older boys did like to drink. He’d move them all into their own domicile.

  With Aunt Hortense. Let her manage them.

  His life would once again be orderly. He would be the master of his own abode. Free to pursue the life of a wealthy dilettante.

  Perfect.

  He rounded the bend with a satisfied smile on his face. The trickle of the fountain in the pond was a balm to his tormented soul. Birds sang in the trees. The sun—well, it almost shone. It was a beautiful day.
/>   Soon, the world would be right again.

  Soon, they would all be gone.

  He skipped up the steps of the folly with a lightness of heart he hadn’t felt in ages. A book on the bench snagged his attention and his mood dipped, but only a bit. Someone had been here. But they were gone.

  He picked it up and flipped through it and stilled.

  Good God.

  It was a sketch book.

  The first page was an attempt at this scene. The flowers and trees, the pond and the little fountain. Not very good. But the second arrested his attention. It was a simple line drawing of Violet. And it was stunning. The artist had managed to depict her beauty, but also captured that glint in her eye, the particular quirk of her lips. Her soul.

  The next sketch was one of Ned, showing a brash young man, standing insouciantly with his hands shoved into his pockets, whistling a silent tune. The next was of the twins—whatever their names were—dark heads together plotting some manner of mayhem.

  It was so realistic Edward expected them to leap from the page and whack him with a cricket bat.

  But it was the last sketch in the book that stole his breath. It was a portrait, in profile. His own face. But not an Edward he would ever recognize. This man was heroic, tragic, a solitary soldier. It was only a few lines drawn in charcoal, but it revealed so much about him. Things he didn’t want anyone to ever know.

  It was horrifying. And remarkable.

  “Your Grace.”

  He snapped the book shut and spun around.

  Of course. What’s her name. The girl. The owl. From last night.

  “Oh, you found it.” She stepped into the folly and took the book from his hands. He did not know why he let it go.

  “You left it here.” An accusation. Really? He hadn’t intended for it to come out like that.

  She chuckled. “I had to go rescue Hamish. I was coming back.”

  “What…why did you have to rescue Hamish?” This was her work? She saw him like that? And hell, she was a damn fine hand. How he would love to turn such talent to…darker purposes. What a pity she was such a prude. The kind of work he could offer her would make her rich—rich enough to quit serving as Violet’s companion.

  But she would never do it. No decent woman would.