Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  “And?”

  “And the innkeeper said he and his wife would be willing to give you the only habitable room—their own—for a pretty penny. Mr. Crandall is having a look.”

  “Of course there is no second room.” There was not a hint of a question in his voice, only barely restrained annoyance.

  “Correct, Your Grace. Although there is plenty of room in the excellent stables.”

  “Have Crandall pay the man for the room if it is suitable and get everyone settled.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Shall I have Your Grace’s affairs brought to the innkeeper’s room—or is the lady to occupy—”

  “Bring my portmanteau inside. And order whatever dinner can be served for everyone as soon as humanly possible.”

  His outrider darted a glance beyond him and dipped his head.

  John turned to find Miss Givan standing there, silent.

  “I thought you were to remain in the carriage, madam. Do you ever do what you are told?”

  “Rarely. I’m more used to doing the managing. Of the children, of course.” She looked pensive and slightly unnerved. “Look, I want to thank you for taking us this far. The boys and I will continue on our way from here. I’m certain it’s not that much farther.”

  “Miss Givan, if you think I will allow you to go trotting off down this obscure country lane, into the darkness, you can discard that idea straightaway.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “You have never ever been out of London, have you? Do you not know how many bears, mad dogs, boars, and wicked men are lurking about at night?” He hoped she was as ignorant as he thought she might be of the benign nature of the countryside. Why, there hadn’t been a wild bear lumbering in England’s woods the last century or more.

  There was a symphony of skittish doubt in her expression. “We shall sleep in the stable, then.”

  “Glad to hear it. Can’t abide straw ticking myself,” he drawled. “Come along now, Peter. Madam, I shall leave it to you to gather the rest of your charges. Dinner awaits.” He captured Peter’s smaller hand in his own and took a chance by walking away from her.

  An hour later, John stared in wonder at the adolescent boys seated around the hastily arranged table in the only chamber untouched by the calamity aside from the kitchen. “Impressive. Who knew dwarfs were capable of consuming an entire side of beef at one sitting?”

  “They’re of a growing age and not used to such abundance,” Miss Givan said defensively, as the boys giggled.

  It had not escaped his notice that she’d eaten very little. “Come now, Miss Givan,” he said, nodding almost imperceptibly to the manservant. “You can do better than that crust of bread. We must keep up your strength if you’re to have a prayer of keeping this next generation in line.” The servant transferred a juicy slice of meat to her plate at the same moment Crandall entered. His loyal driver produced a bottle of the finest brandy one could buy from seasoned French smugglers. John never went any great distance in his carriage without a case of it well-cushioned in fine English wool. A crystal glass appeared.

  Silence reigned as Crandall carefully poured the nectar of the gods. It was the only thing John had looked forward to this entire problematic day. If he couldn’t have a taste of the auburn-haired siren, and his conscience and good sense suggested he couldn’t, then he would at least let the amber waves of balm claim a portion of his monumental concerns.

  He suddenly realized everyone’s eyes were upon him for some odd reason.

  “Boys, Mr. Crandall, would you please give me a moment with Mr. Varick?” Miss Givan rose and urged the boys from their chairs.

  “Varick?” his driver said, righteously. “Why, he’s the—”

  “That will be all, Crandall,” John cut him off curtly. As the servants and boys exited the room, John lifted the ambrosia to his lips and savored the intoxicating scent.

  “Sir,” the spitfire said with hauteur, “I would ask you to refrain from consuming spirits in front of the boys. They’re of an awkward age, and easily impressed by gentlemen they might admire.”

  “So they’re of a growing age and an awkward age?” he asked dryly. “How inconvenient.”

  “It would not do to give them the idea that they should spend any monies they might one day find in their pockets—on…on gin or any form of the devil’s brew.”

  “Gin? Why, this is the farthest thing from that vile poison.”

  She stared at him silently, mutinously.

  “Miss Givan, are you truly asking the gentleman who has taken you up in his carriage to forgo the one and only bit of heaven to be found in this godforsaken excuse of an inn?”

  “Well, I’d thought—”

  “And here I was considering taking you and the boys miles out of my way tomorrow to deliver you safely to Wallace Abbey.” He lowered his voice. “And I was also considering how best to share the one and only room available here.” He said the last to provoke her. Her eyes were flashing again. It was definitely how he liked them best.

  “Why, I wouldn’t share this room if it were the only one in all of England. And furthermore, Mr. Varick, I want you to understand that I intend to repay every last farthing for this meal, the carriage ride, and for all the trouble you have so generously taken on today.”

  “Really?” He enjoyed the animated play of her delicate brows and relaxed in his chair to savor another long taste of his excellent brandy. He wondered if she had truly deduced who he was. “And how do you plan to accomplish that, Miss Givan?”

  “I shall write to my benefactor, who will forward any and all monies due you straightaway.” She pushed back her shoulders. “With or without your further aid.”

  “You have a benefactor, do you?” He glanced at her elegantly tooled footwear.

  “Of course,” she said, the tiniest blush finally cresting her cheeks. “And you shall be happy to learn that I have already asked the innkeeper, who I have found to be considerably more civilized than most men I’ve encountered since leaving town, to provide a pallet for me in the kitchen, which he has graciously consented to do. I would never dream of asking for the use of this room. I shall be perfectly comfortable with the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.”

  “And the boys?”

  “Will be in the stable.”

  He looked at her shrewdly for a long moment.

  “It’s very rude to stare,” she muttered.

  “I’m debating the wisdom of informing you that there will be ten times as much drinking going on in that stable than in this room—what with the number of ostlers, drivers, and servants occupying the outer building.”

  She strode over to the table and retrieved the brandy bottle by pinching the neck with two fingers as if it were three parts distilled poison to one part pure evil. “Well, Mr. Varick, I must thank you for setting a better example.”

  “Miss Givan, has anyone ever told you ‘no’?”

  She hid the bottle of brandy he had spent a small fortune on, along with the nearly empty glass, in a rude armoire in the corner. “I’ve never put myself in a position to have to hear it.”

  “Who gave you those boots you’re wearing?”

  Miss Givan whipped around. The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “A good friend.”

  A very good friend, indeed, John thought as he ground his molars together.

  John stared down at the sleeping form of Miss Victoria Givan on a pallet far from the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen. She had obviously been placed in his path to bewitch him.

  The frayed hem of her simple shift had risen above her knees; the thin blanket discarded completely in the balmy night air. He could not drag his gaze from the moonlit sight of her slender thighs and calves, and her pretty, feminine feet. No wonder her lover had given her those damned boots. The better to ogle her elegant ankles.

  Christ, he had always prided himself on his ability to keep his baser instincts in check. He obviously needed to engage a mistress, just as Crandall
was hinting. Of course, his driver probably suggested it to keep him in a better frame of mind. John had taken for granted the convenient arrangement he had had for so many years with Colleen, the beautiful Duchess of Trenton, possessor of three yapping dogs, two indolent children, and one husband old enough to be her grandfather. But she had become melodramatic of late, insisting they should marry when poor Trenton cocked his toes. He had had to end it.

  Miss Victoria Givan rolled onto her back in sleep, and his mouth became dry as chaff. The scrap of her shift eased off her shoulder, exposing one creamy breast to taunt him.

  He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Surely he deserved a place beside the saints for not acting on the impulse. Heaven wasn’t worth it, the devil on his shoulder shouted.

  Damn it all to hell. He leaned down and gathered the woman in his arms to carry her to the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well give her the bed. Without the brandy to fortify him, his manners had become far too accommodating, and he had invited the three boys to sleep in makeshift beds the innkeeper had placed in the tiny sitting room beyond. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known boys made such a ruckus in slumber.

  She was so soft in his arms. So different from the harsh angles she seemed to possess when she was wide-awake. She slept like a bear in hibernation. Must be a result of sleeping near a gaggle of snoring infants for decades in the foundling home.

  His own life had been spent in the reverse manner. All alone for the most part. No brothers or sisters, no mother. Merely a father, who, while very kind, had not been much in evidence in their country home due to the demands on his time in London. But John had learned to enjoy the peace of solitude.

  She muttered something when he placed her in the middle of the innkeeper’s soft bed. He leaned close as he tucked the bed linens around her form, only to hear two blasted words. Well, only one was a true word…a name.

  “Oh, John…” she whispered on a sigh as she settled.

  He straightened awkwardly, resolutely. No. He would not be gulled like some rich, wet-behind-the-ears buck first come to town. He knew better than to put himself in such a situation with an unmarried miss in an almost public place. He’d had enough brushes with the altar of late.

  Why, in the last three months alone, an impoverished marquis had tried to sneak his daughter into John’s sleeping quarters, and he had been forced to ferret out the truth behind a very determined widowed countess, who had deliberately planted scandalous rumors linking herself to him. She had made the mistake of thinking he would leg shackle himself to a pretty lady he had never even met—all in the name of honor. The last event had caused a new fever pitch in the gossip columns.

  John studied the luscious morsel bathed in moonlight before him. She was all soft curves, rosy flesh, and tangled locks of shadowy plum hair. He couldn’t resist touching those dark loose curls of a shade he’d never seen. Surely they would be silken. His palm stroked the glossy locks, bringing him closer to those irresistible lips of hers.

  He closed his eyes against the sight, but his mind refused to be denied the remembrance of that full bottom lip below the lovely bow of her lush upper lip. And suddenly he noticed her scent of warm crushed roses. He couldn’t have stopped himself from dipping lower to follow the trail of sweetness if his life had depended on it.

  And then, he didn’t want to be blind from the potency of the moment. He opened his eyes, only to encounter her sleepy, half-closed expression. She said not a word to stop him, and he inched forward at her silent encouragement. It would really be just a promise…of a hint…of a taste…of a kiss. Very innocent, of course. There were boys snoring in the closet-sized room beyond after all. And the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.

  He swept his lips across hers, side to side, feather soft. And then he molded his upper lip in the crevice where her lips met and teased the softness he found there. A soft moan came from her, and it was all he could do not to gather her again into his arms. Every part of him—well, the key parts of him—of any man, really—came awake at the sensuous sound.

  And then she whispered it again…“Oh, John—”

  “Darling,” he returned quietly as he trailed kisses to the sensitive spot near her temple.

  And then without another sound and with the swiftness of a pickpocket in London, she grabbed his ear and sent him to his knees. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Let…go…of…my—” he rasped out.

  “I should have known better than to trust you,” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “All men are perfect scoundrels. My good friend always warned me, and I should have listened.”

  He wrenched away from her and stood stiffly, his body trying and failing to take in the reversal of intentions. “And all women are incomprehensible.”

  “Well, that’s not very nice of you to say given that I just woke up to find myself in your bed. You were trying to press your attentions on me.”

  “No. I was offering what you seemed to request,” he gritted out. “When ladies whisper my name in the middle of the night, certain assumptions are made.”

  “I did not do any such thing. I was sound asleep.”

  He looked at her shrewdly. “I suppose you are now going to suggest I do the honorable thing?”

  “Why, yes I am.” She shook that magnificent mane of hair back. “Get out of here. Or perhaps it would serve better for you to wait here while I cut a switch and tan your—shush…are you laughing?”

  “So you’re not going to ring a peal and demand a proposal of marriage before the innkeeper and his wife?”

  “Why on earth would I want to marry you, Mr. Varick?” she hissed. “And I would ask you to lower your voice if you don’t care to awaken anyone.”

  “So, you’re not attracted to me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Really? And what sort do you favor? Poor sods who grovel at your pretty feet?”

  “No. Agreeable sods with better manners.”

  He rubbed his sore ear. “I beg your pardon. I’ve been told I’m actually something of a catch, so to speak.”

  “Is that what silly females say to get the coins in your pockets?”

  “No,” he said with a low wolfish growl. “That’s what they say to get beyond my pockets.”

  She did not miss a beat. “Vanity is not an attractive trait in a man.”

  He choked on his pent-up laughter. She was impossible. Impossibly alluring—in an outrageous, spirited manner. No woman had ever dared to speak to him in such a fashion. He’d always managed to endear himself to the females of his childhood—the housekeeper, the cooks, the house-maids; and he’d been equally up to the task of erecting a polite distance—the size of the Roman Empire—toward the marriage-minded females of his adulthood.

  In all his five-and-thirty years, he’d never found a woman who refused to be charmed if he chose it, or at the very least behaved with extraordinary politesse and god-awful fawning. Of course, he was fated to meet the first truly intriguing woman of his life only to find she would have none of him.

  That hair of hers was a dark halo in the moonlight, framing her pale, beautiful shoulders. And he knew precisely what lay beyond that ridiculously flimsy shift.

  Perfection.

  “Madam,” he said quietly, “pardon me. I think I’ll retire for the evening. I find that considerable rest is required in one’s dotage.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.

  As he rounded the corner, he could have sworn he heard her utter something about the benefits of warm milk and honey…for gout. This was followed by the barest ripple of low, throaty laughter.

  He decamped as fast as possible. To sleep in the stable. In the damned straw.

  John Varick, the ninth Duke of Beaufort and well-documented Catch of the Century, withdrew a square of linen and sneezed. Across from him within the confines of his luxurious ducal carriage, Victoria noted it was about the twentieth time he had done so that day.

  And she was perversely glad. Humor was the
only thing that kept her from succumbing to an advanced state of anxiety as young Peter Linley, seated beside her, turned another page in her beloved book of Canterbury Tales.

  Not as lost in thought as Victoria had surmised, the duke glanced up at her from the intimidating pile of documents and letters on his lap. His impossibly blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt in danger of drowning in their depths. He was so very handsome. He studied her until she felt heat crest her cheeks. Before he returned his attention to his papers, he formed just the smallest hint of a knowing smile. She nearly burst with frustration.

  He had kissed her.

  It had been her first kiss, and she was fairly certain she had missed at least half of it. Of course, it would happen that way. She had decided recently that she would end up kissing the cheeks of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates before she would ever kiss a living, breathing man. Her station in life forbade it. And she had never really believed the romantic courtly rags-to-riches stories between the covers of the book Peter was reading. And so for many years she had had to be satisfied with her imagination.

  His lips had been gentle, so very unlike what she had imagined. Warm and knowing…and lazy almost. She swallowed.

  In the blink of an eye, she had woken from dreams of him and immediately deduced what he was about. In the haze of that poignant lime and bay scent of his, she had dragged herself away from the tide of his overwhelming magnetism.

  Those same lips, which appeared to have been formed to drive all females to distraction, now tempted her less than three feet away. And with each uneven passage in the road, his long, muscled legs molded in biscuit-colored pantaloons, brushed against hers. She determinedly turned her attention out the window, where rain tapped a steady tattoo.

  He had been reading the entire day. Not one word had left his lips, even when they had stopped for a midday meal. She had worried he would leave them behind when he strode into the private dining quarters. She had surely infuriated him to the extreme boundaries last evening. But no. Mr. Crandall had reemerged from His Grace’s private room and said dinner had been arranged for her and the boys in another chamber.