The Duke's Fallen Angel (Devilish Dukes, #1)

by Amy Jarecki

  “’Tis better than your French, if I may speak boldly, Your Grace.”

  Full lips formed an “O” for a moment before he bowed his head. “Why not? And generally speaking, I do not believe I’ve ever met a dancer who was well-versed in Latin.”

  “True. I am an oddity in many ways.” Bria’s stomach squeezed while she studied him—virile, confident, aloof. Commanding. What was he up to? Hadn’t he already left the theater? “Forgive me, but have you come to see Monsieur Travere? I’m afraid he has retired for the evening.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to gain an audience with you, if I may.” The duke took a step forward, his cane tapping the floor.

  “Me?” She gulped, eyeing the weapon before she shifted her gaze back to His Grace. He had the stature to wield the silver ball on his cane like a medieval flail—pillaging his way through England, winning the hearts of damsels who fell victim to his smoldering gaze. She could imagine him as a black knight riding an enormous stallion, leading his army in the crusades—

  “Indeed,” he said, drawing Bria from her musings. He seemed not to notice any trepidation on her part. In fact, his lofty demeanor relaxed a little with a half-smile...well, at least she didn’t feel threatened—a tad muddled was more apt.

  “Whilst I was walking in the rain,” he continued, “it came to me that I needed a meaty tidbit of information about you to dangle before society to include in Tuesday morning’s papers. Something to make them salivate.”

  “I hardly see lords and ladies salivating.”

  “Madam, we are about to open my new theater with ballet billeted to be the London debut of the most famous dancer in the civilized world and, as of tomorrow, all of society will find an understudy has come to perform in her place.” Those vibrant eyes grew dark, his countenance serious again. “The nobility to whom you refer are like dogs to a bone when it comes to gossip. And they will be gnashing their teeth to see me fail. I need something upon which to direct their attentions. What about your parentage? Are you the daughter of a great choreographer perchance?”

  Her mouth dropped open. What should she say? Help! “I am not,” she squeaked.

  “A famed composer, a renowned danseur?”

  Bria shook her head, lead sinking to her toes. She couldn’t lie, but the truth might mean the end of her dreams.

  “What about the offspring of a count or someone of note?” he continued, oblivious to her discomfort. “That must be it. Your English is far better than most Parisians I’ve met on my travels. Come now, you must give me something—something astounding.”

  She backed away, shifting her gaze to her toes while her lowly birth hung on her neck with the weight of an anvil. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but my life to date has been rather dull. I was raised by an Englishwoman and her merchant husband in a provincial French village.”

  “Raised, did you say?” His eyebrows slanted inward. “Who were your parents?”

  Praying His Grace wouldn’t do something rash like cancel the premiere, Bria raised her chin and squared her shoulders. If she didn’t tell him, someone like Florrie would be all too happy to impart the brutal truth. “I never knew them. I thought Monsieur and Madame LeClair were my parents until their deaths, whereupon I discovered I am a foundling.”

  “Foundling?” With a grumble, he chopped his cane through the air “That simply won’t do.”

  Bria’s stomach chose this moment to growl loudly. Feeling a bit lightheaded, she started to slide toward the wings while Ravenscar paced and raked his fingers through his thick black hair. “Dash it, you could have at least been raised by an abbess...or a king from the Orient. That would have been exotic.”

  Watching the silver ball on his makeshift weapon, she stole another step toward the exit. “Is the truth not scandalous enough?”

  “It is not,” he said as if she’d just failed her exams. “I daresay, ‘Come see the new mystery ballerina, progeny of the Duke of Anjou,’ would be far more interesting than, ‘Come see the foundling who was hidden in provincial France by an English woman for fourteen years’.”

  “When you put it that way, I think my past does sound mysterious and scandalous. In truth, I much prefer the latter to your conjuring of Anjou.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “Opinionated are you not?”

  “I’m told ’tis my most annoying trait.”

  “Hmm. But I’d still like something more.” Stroking his chin, his dark gaze spilled all the way from her head to her toes. “Tell me about your education.”

  “Maman, er, Madame LeClair was from a gentle family. She taught me everything from mathematics and languages to history and dance. When I entered the Paris Opera Ballet School, I continued my studies when I wasn’t dancing, of course.”

  Ravenscar resumed his pacing. “Well, that’s about as exciting as reading The Mirror of the Graces.”

  “The Mirror of the...?”

  “Graces. It is a lady’s journal of correct form and, by my oath, the person who wrote it must have been a humorless crone.”

  The man was insufferable. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I hope my dancing will be far more inspiring.” Bria curtsied. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I’m very tired.”

  “Apologies.” He bowed, his action every bit as poised and controlled as a danseur. “I have been thoughtless. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

  For a moment, she tried to think of a witty remark to prove her determination. After all, they both had a great deal riding on Tuesday’s debut. Wishing him well would sound trite. Telling him she would do her best might come across as pallid. What if she let them all down? What if the London crowd detested her?

  “Good evening,” she managed before spinning on her heel. Bria hadn’t intended to swoon. But having expelled a great deal of energy throughout the day after enduring a bout of sea sickness on the paddle-steamer that ferried them from Calais, her fortitude wasn’t what it should have been. The stage spun. Unable to clear her vision, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead.

  The next thing she knew, the Duke of Ravenscar swept her into his arms. Surrounded by warmth, the power in his embrace imparted succor she’d seldom experienced. Kindness, human touch, tenderness—things she’d once taken for granted but hadn’t been blessed with in years. Turning her head toward him, she inhaled, swathed in the scent of fresh linen and exotic spice. Too overcome to push away, her eyes fluttered closed as she took one more blissful sniff of heaven.

  DRAKE RECOGNIZED THE ballerina was slight, but when she fell into his arms, she seemed as if she were made of gossamer and lace, and fragile as a bird. A foundling? How did this delicate creature manage to survive among the snakes who infested the world of ballet? “Good heavens. Are you unwell?”

  “Forgive me.” Miss LeClair’s eyes rolled back as she brushed lithe fingers across her hair. “I suffered sea sickness, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  Two days? Who the hell did Travere think he was, starving his dancers? Not daring to set her on her feet, Drake carried the woman to a chair, practically swooning himself as he breathed in the heady scent of female. Delicate, floral bouquets in a myriad of varieties made him dip his nose and inhale more deeply. “Why didn’t you leave for the boarding house with the others?” he asked while identifying wisteria as the most potent flower in her potpourri.

  “I needed to practice. You said yourself, the theater’s patrons will be angered when they discover Mademoiselle Taglioni will not be performing. I cannot let them down. I must not!”

  Stepping back, he straightened his cuffs. “Well, you won’t receive any ovations if you swoon on stage and are unable to dance.”

  “Please do not think ill of me.” Miss LeClair pressed a dainty hand to her cheek. One he wished to touch to see if it was as silken as it appeared. “I’ve never actually swooned before. When the ship arrived, the thought of food soured my stomach. I’m sure once I’ve eaten, I’ll be fine. I promise I will.”

  He shook his damnable tho
ughts from his head. His dreams might possibly crumble around his feet and there he stood musing about soft cheeks and heady fragrances. For the love of God, if this dancer did not regain her strength, he could kiss his venture goodbye. Dash Travere, where was the theater’s hospitality? “Mr. Perkins hasn’t fed you? What about the others? I must order food to be catered at once.”

  “No, no. Luncheon was served. I was too queasy to eat.”

  “Let it not be said the Duke of Ravenscar ignores his performers’ basic needs. Especially the ballerina responsible for the lion’s share of my investment. I will personally see you suitably fed.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m certain they’ll have a warm meal at the boarding house.” Miss LeClair scooted to the edge of the chair. “In fact, I must make haste before I miss supper.”

  “Absolutely not.” He held up his palm to prevent her from standing. “I forbid it. I will take you where you can find a proper meal.”

  “I beg your pardon? You may be the owner of this theater, but it is not your place to dictate where I choose to dine.” Squaring her shoulders, the imp swayed on the seat. A bit outspoken, but she demonstrated a backbone. Usually people held their tongues when confronting a duke. Miss LeClair seemed quite oblivious to the norm.

  “At the moment, I disagree. You are not the only one who will be ruined if La Sylphide is a failure.” Planting his fists on his hips, Drake leaned toward her for added emphasis. “And I’m not accustomed to failing.”

  “Nor am I.”

  “I am glad we agree. Come now, as your employer, I insist.”

  She met his gaze with an indignant strength he rarely ever saw in any woman—she might be petite, but he guessed she had the heart of a lion. How else did she end up playing the lead in my theater? Drake swallowed, studying the power of her will as it radiated about her. The foundling who should be queen.

  The light on stage was rather dim, but the woman had the most soulful eyes. Were they brown? Unable to ascertain for certain, he offered his elbow. “I’ll hail a coach.”

  She hesitated.

  The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Or I can simply toss you over my shoulder.”

  She didn’t bat an eyelash. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  Drake never asked his groom to hitch a carriage or saddle a horse for a casual jaunt of less than a mile. A man needed fresh air and exercise daily. He had friends who walked little, and they were all growing thick around the middle. But at the moment, he rued not having a town coach in which to make a stealthy exit.

  It couldn’t be helped. The papers already had their story for the morrow, and it certainly would provide society with interesting conversation over Easter dinner. Perhaps in hindsight, it was a boon to have scheduled the premiere of La Sylphide for the day after the holidays. The ton would have less time to gossip.

  Chapter Three

  SHAKING FROM HUNGER, Bria accepted Ravenscar’s hand and alighted from the hackney. Though he wore gloves, the power beneath the leather made gooseflesh rise on her arm. She stole a glance at his profile—a bold nose, chiseled chin, and black hair that brushed his nape.

  If only he were old and crusty, she might be more comfortable sharing a meal with a man of his station. Shabby from her travels, she was in no state of dress to be parading about town, especially with a duke. But Ravenscar had promised a simple meal after which he’d see her to her accommodations. How could she refuse such kindness from the gentleman who owned the theater where she was to perform for the next four months, especially when he’d caught her mid-swoon? I swooned, for heaven’s sake.

  At least her reasoning to accompany him was sound until she realized he hadn’t taken her to a tearoom or even an alehouse. They stood on a residential street lined by rows of elegant town houses. She took a step toward the coach which had already started away from the curb. “Wait!”

  The coachman didn’t bother to turn, blast him.

  Pleasing to the eye or not, she whipped around and faced the duke. “Your Grace, you said you were going to take me to a place where we could eat. Clearly this is a residence.” She flung her hand toward the door. “Is this not your home?”

  “Indeed, it is. One of them, anyway. The Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar occupies my mansion on Pall Mall. This humble abode suits me, however.” Swinging his walking stick, he started up the steps. Did he oft bring unmarried dancers to his home just to feed them? What if he tried to take advantage of her behind closed doors? Duke or not, she mustn’t allow him liberties.

  Bria pressed her palms to her face to stop her lightheadedness. “I cannot go in there.”

  His Grace stretched his arms to his sides. “Whyever not? You’ll eat better here than at your boarding house.”

  Because I’m not about to let you charm me into thinking our association can be anything other than dancer and theater owner. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Pardon?” A pinch formed between his brows. “Earlier you told me you are a foundling from a village in provincial France. Clearly you’re not a debutante being cosseted by a mother hen. Are you worried about your reputation?”

  She raised her chin and straightened, though stretching to her full height was fruitless. “I am very concerned with how I look in the public eye. I do not want people to think me a woman of easy virtue.”

  “Then I suggest you should have opted for another profession. A governess, perchance?” He chuckled while he gestured north and south. “To ease your trepidation, allow me to say this; all of society is embroiled in Easter preparations and festivities. There’s nary a soul about this eve. Besides, not but a quarter-hour ago you collapsed in my arms and admitted to being starved half to death. I’ll not be accused as the duke who turned his back on his theater’s hungry ballerina.”

  Groaning, Bria clamped her fingers around her cloak’s collar, squeezing the neckline taut. “But you didn’t say you were taking me to your home. You said you knew just the place.”

  He grinned—good heavens, he could make the entire cast of La Sylphide swoon when the corners of his mouth turned up—straight white teeth, eyes sparkling like stars. “That is because I do. My cook is one of the finest in London. My table mightn’t be as formal as my mother’s, but I assure you, when my carriage returns you to your boarding house, you will be sublimely satiated.”

  Bria pursed her lips. Obviously, since she was a mere artisan, Ravenscar thought nothing about how it might appear for her to be entertained alone...within his town house. True, she was of the working class, but she still had values. “If anyone in the troupe discovers you have dined with me privately, they will assume the worst, especially Monsieur Travere.”

  “Well then, we’d best hasten inside before someone happens past.”

  She brandished her reticule while she scooted away.

  Tall, bold and entirely insufferable, he stepped very near. “Miss LeClair, presently no Londoners have any idea who you are and, therefore, anyone who may be hiding behind a lamp post will have absolutely nothing to gossip about unless it is that I am keeping company with a housemaid.”

  “A housemaid?” If only she had a weapon as sturdy as His Grace’s cane, she might thump him with it. “Do you think insulting me will aid in your effort to coax me into your home?”

  “Dash it all, that’s not what I meant. I was referring to our master-servant status.” His expression softened while his gaze slipped to her skirts. “Forgive me. My housemaid comment was unfeeling and brash, though I imagine you are not wearing the finest gown in your wardrobe.”

  Bria followed his gaze. She’d been wearing the same traveling dress for nearly a week. Not that she could afford many dresses, but this one looked the worse for wear. Wrinkled, stained, the hem muddied. For days she’d been hankering for a bath and a change of clothes.

  “Now, shall we proceed inside? You have my word that I will ensure you enjoy a substantial meal after which my coachman will take you home. Allow me to also add; on the topic of your esteemed virt
ue, you have nothing to fear from me.” He bowed, gesturing up the steps, looking every bit the composed and cocksure duke. “Shall we, or would you prefer I call for a tray to be brought out to the footpath?”

  Ravenscar’s argument only served to make Bria’s head spin and the last thing she needed was to collapse in front of His Grace once more. What if he decided she was unfit to perform? Then Florrie would dance the part of the Sylph and she was hopeless at toe dancing. Good heavens, if Bria fainted, she might again end up with those brawny arms wrapped around her or, worse, carried upstairs to a bedchamber while the duke called for a physician. Notwithstanding of the circumstances, far more calamitous for her debut, bedrest might be ordered, and she’d never be ready for opening night.

  Florrie will not dance in my place, I swear it!

  Bria took in a reviving breath, grasped her skirts, held them to the right and only high enough to ascend the steps. Thank heavens Maman had taught her something about how to behave amongst polite society, lest she be completely flummoxed. “I thank you for your concern. But please understand I am accepting your hospitality because you put forth a convincing argument and assured me of your honorable intentions.” She would enjoy a simple meal then hasten to the boarding house with no one the wiser.

  “What is it about you?” he asked, opening the door, those vibrant blues growing dark again.

  “I beg your pardon?” Watching him, she stumbled forward. She, a ballerina about to debut in London managed to trip her way into the Duke of Ravenscar’s town house.

  “’Tis naught but a trifle.” He ignored her clumsiness. “Only...” Squinting with one eyebrow arched, he studied her as if she posed an unsolvable puzzle.

  “Yes?”

  “You are nothing like what I expected.”

  She clutched her reticule with both hands. “With all due respect, you cannot say something like that and assume I will brush it under the carpet. What, pray tell, were you expecting?”