Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  Yes, that would all be very tidy and proper, wouldn’t it? But Crispin was not proper. Decidedly not tidy. Indeed, he did not give a good damn about anything other than burying himself in pleasure so he could forget the past. Except for his sisters, devil take it.

  He loved the minxes, and his duty to them took precedence over his need to quiet the monsters festering within his soul. Which meant he needed to interview the would-be governess. They had already run off… how many had it been? Three? Four?

  But as much as he loved them, he still had no intention of curtailing his lifestyle. His lifestyle was unconventional, he knew. Shocking to some. Appalling to others. He had long ago ceased to care about small-minded genuflections to societal whims. Facing death each day and witnessing the barbarities he’d seen had a way of changing a man forever.

  “Not the green salon,” he decided, gainsaying his butler. “Bring her here, if you please.”

  Nicholson looked, for the briefest moment, as if he had swallowed a slug. He hastened to school his features back into a semblance of calm, politic imperturbability.

  “Would you care for me to tie back the window dressings, Your Grace?” he asked with just enough pointed suggestion to make Crispin aware the darkness of the room was a thing to be remarked upon.

  A thing which Crispin ought not to do.

  A sign of his weakness.

  A sign that, while he bore no scars from his years at war save the bullet nick on his upper left arm and the sabre slash on his thigh, he was nevertheless wounded on the inside. Less than whole. Scarred, cut up, bitter, and ugly.

  “Leave the curtains as they are,” he ordered curtly, irritated already.

  Why did everyone insist upon gainsaying him? He was the duke, and though it was a hollow title he had never wanted, it was his. It bloody well ought to mean something.

  “Do you require a lamp be lit, Your Grace?” Nicholson asked, his tone solicitous.

  Crispin gritted his teeth. “I require nothing, sir. Fetch the girl. I have needs to attend this evening, and none of them can be satisfied until this interminable interview with Miss Torncrow is concluded.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” His butler bowed, sounding humble. “It is merely that I do believe the prospective governess’s name is Miss Jacinda Turnbow and not, in fact Miss Torncrow. As you wish.”

  Torncrow, Tornbow, Turnbow. Who gave a bloody damn? The chit’s name mattered not. All that did was completing this wretched audience so someone could take his hoyden sisters in hand and leave him more time to go about the business of drowning himself in blue ruin and quim, the order of these twin indulgences pas nécessaire. Some days, he hungered for the comfort of his flesh pounding into another’s. Others, all he required was a bottle and his hand.

  Today was a sousing and fucking sort of day. The nightmares had returned. He’d woken to earsplitting screams he realized were his own. Even now, he could feel the blood on his hands. Smell the foul reek of death. See Morgan’s disembodied hand.

  He took another drink of whisky, wondering what in Hades was taking the woman so bloody long to appear. Patience had never been one of his admittedly limited catalog of virtues.

  “Miss Turnbow, Your Grace,” intoned Nicholson then, splitting the silence.

  His gaze flitted back to the threshold to find a short female form enshrouded in an unremarkable, altogether shapeless dress. He supposed he ought to stand, observe propriety and the polite nuisances society subjected upon its unwilling vassals, etcetera. And so, he rose, not with the grace he would have preferred, but with what he supposed was the proper amount of listing deference one ought to pay a prospective governess whilst in his cups.

  Nicholson disappeared. The door closed, leaving Crispin in the mid-morning murk, the drapes still closed. The governess became hazy and indistinct. A vague shape, her form smothered in dour shades that seemed designed to disguise. Egad, was her dress brown? Even in the darkness, he clearly discerned the white cap atop her head.

  Here was the sort of woman who fashioned herself into an inanimate object, something unworthy of notice. Unless one truly looked.

  And he looked as she drew abreast of his desk. The darkness did not obscure her from him now in such proximity, for he had grown accustomed to the lack of light. He preferred it. Even so, there was something about this small woman that made him wish to illuminate the chamber. To draw back the window coverings and light a hundred tapers and oil lamps each, just the better to see her.

  Ludicrous, that. But he was half sotted, and he had lost control of his baser impulses a long, bloody time ago. This woman woke his body in ways he had not experienced since… hell, since ever. It wasn’t just his cock that stood at attention—which it most assuredly did—but his mind too was engaged. He was intrigued. All signs pointed to the conclusion this woman was lovely, with a ripe body, and yet she had hidden herself beneath a matron’s cap and a travesty of fabric.

  But she was looking upon him in expectation, which reminded him he was the host. And he was meant to be interviewing this luscious bit of skirts to be his sisters’ governess. And if she was to become the governess, he must not consider the tempting notion of stripping her bare and kissing her everywhere until she was desperate for him.

  He cleared his throat, banishing the wicked thought, delicious though it was.

  “Miss…” he paused when he had once more forgotten her name. Devil take it.

  The prospective governess took his forgetfulness in stride, however. Her lips—large, luscious, and with a delightfully delineated upper bow, tightened into a semi-frown. Hers was not the mouth of a governess, and it seemed a damn shame she ought to have found herself in such a plight. A woman with the allure of a courtesan ought to never be forced to conceal her charms and earn her bread schooling brats.

  “Miss Turnbow,” she supplied, her tone polite.

  Distant.

  This was no ordinary female. He could sense as much as he observed her, watched the way that lone beam of light betwixt the curtains found its way to her brilliant red hair, glimmering in the hint of her bound locks visible beneath the dreadful cap. If the sight of her potential employer rumpled and tippling straight from the bottle before midday disturbed her, she gave no indication of it.

  “Miss Turnbow,” he agreed, grateful when she did not seem to balk at his greeting, which meant he had recalled her surname correctly for the first time since hearing of her existence. Although she had just spoken it moments before, the whisky had begun to at last dull his senses so that he had fallen into a delicious state of inebriation, and he could not be entirely sure what he heard, recalled, or said.

  He was here. Existing when he had no right to. Doing his damnedest to forget all the reasons why.

  She dipped into a semblance of a curtsy then, grasping her skirts and lowering herself, keeping her eyes trained to the floor. He wished he could see her properly—could read her gaze. Were her eyes dark and soulful, or were they blue and bright? Perhaps even green and exotic. How he bloody well wished he could know and see all of her.

  “Your Grace,” she returned.

  “Please do seat yourself.” He stroked his jaw, watching, wondering what she would do next. Surely to her, this would seem odd, interviewing for her post in the darkness with an inebriated duke who had a bottle at his right hand? And yet, she seemed unmoved. It sure as hell left one wondering. He brought the bottle to his lips, taking a swig just to see if he could goad her.

  Her brows rose, but she sat as prompted, primly arranging her voluminous skirts as she did so. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He had never seen such a horribly outfitted female. The waist of the colorless sack was not even properly fitted, and the skirts billowed about her like an unfortunate sail on a boat. Her breasts looked like handfuls even beneath the loose lines of the monstrosity. But a massive lace fichu that would have been more at home on a turbaned dowager than on a young, comely lady obstructed him from a proper view.

  Despite her
atrocious gown and unfortunate inability to show her womanly figure to full distraction, her face was arresting. Even garbed in the ugliest dress he’d ever seen, half covered by lace, the sight of her hit him like a fist to the gut.

  “Your Grace?” Her voice, tentative, interrupted the wicked vein of his thoughts.

  “Hmm?” Rudely, he wiped the back of his hand across his wet mouth, removing all traces of liquor before he lowered the bottle to the table and focused upon the governess once more, only to realize he had once again forgotten her bloody name. Turncrow? Tornstow? Devil take it, he didn’t know.

  But her eyes… Lord God, he could see them now at this proximity, and they were extraordinary. Warm, sherry-brown with golden flecks and framed by long, thick lashes. This woman looked more like a mistress than a governess.

  She looked, in a word, beddable.

  Would it be wrong to pin her to the desk, ravage her mouth until she was breathless, and then raise her skirts to her waist? Could he take the prospective governess? Was he that depraved? The longer he stared at her lush mouth—currently flattened into a peevish line that did nothing to distract from his desire to claim it—the more the idea of debauching her consumed him.

  He stole another gulp of whisky from the bottle, watching her. A fierce, burning need flared to life within him. Revealing the delicious curves beneath her hideous costume would be more thrilling than swiving all three of his favorite whores at once.

  Curse it, no. There were boundaries even he could not cross, and ruining an innocent governess in the morning darkness of his study was just such a boundary. Think of Mrs. Nulty, he ordered his mind. Mrs. Reeves. Madame Laurier. The perfect trifecta.

  As though she had heard the bent of his thoughts, she spoke, cutting into the heavy silence he’d allowed to fall between them in his lust. “You wished to determine my ability to act as governess for your sisters, I understand?”

  Erm, yes, that was rather the point of this wasn’t it? He should feel like a beast for plotting her seduction, for not even bothering to recall he was meant to determine her suitability for Con and Nora. But that was rather the trouble, these days. He didn’t feel a damn thing.

  “How long have you been a governess, Miss…” Hell and damnation. He’d forgotten her name again. “And I assume you have letters to recommend you?” he continued, ignoring his pause as if it hadn’t occurred.

  She did not blink. “I have been honored to be a governess for four years, Your Grace. The Earl of Aylesbury vouches for me.”

  “Honored?” He could not stay the brow that winged up his forehead, could not tamp down the disbelief.

  “Honored,” she echoed, her chin tipping up a scant inch, the only sign of defiance. “I take great pride in my charges. When they flourish, I flourish through their successes.”

  Good God. Who would enjoy being relegated to servitude? For that was a governess’s lot in life. She enjoyed a slight distinction above the rest of the domestics, but she was still a paid servant, ever aware of her station. Ever serving at her master’s whim.

  But he said none of those things aloud, for he was a drunkard but he was not a fool. “You find your role a rewarding one, then?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” She folded her hands in her lap, almost as if in prayer.

  He thought about binding her wrists together and tying them to his headboard. “You are fluent in French and Latin? Adept at playing the pianoforte? Can you teach watercolors, proper decorum, and whatever other bloody nonsense is required of females?”

  She flushed. “I am well-versed in the feminine arts, and I am able to speak fluent French and Latin, with a smattering of Spanish. I am a fair hand at all musical instruments, watercolors are a particular joy of mine, and decorum shall be a foremost objective for Lady Constance and Lady Honora.”

  His eyes narrowed on her for a moment. The chit was well-prepared. Quick with her answers. Facile with her tongue. He had no objections to her suitability as governess, and his amenable nature was no doubt aided by both his inebriation and his desire to watch her riding his cock, those full breasts bouncing.

  Lord God, now he found himself wondering about the precise shade of pink her nipples would be. Would she cry out when he suckled them? Would she prefer the nip of his teeth? Beelzebub and hellfire, this had to stop.

  “Why did you leave your position with Aylesbury?” he forced himself to ask, willing his fierce arousal to abate.

  “My charges had outgrown their need of me, and I was no longer required in the household.”

  Fair enough. He studied her for another moment. There was only one manner in which he could proceed. Con and Nora had been running wild in the absence of proper guidance. If the new governess proved too distracting or too much of a temptation, he could always sack her and find another. Or spend more time at The Duke’s Bastard, buried in whisky and lightskirts.

  “You may begin the position immediately,” he decided, hoping it was not a mistake. “In the interest of disclosure, I must warn you I possess a certain reputation.”

  “Idle gossip does not concern me, Your Grace.” Nothing seemed to shake her. She continued to assess him with those brilliant eyes. “I can begin today, should that suit you.”

  Today. Yes. The heavy weight of guilt and obligation lifted from his chest. Con and Nora could become someone else’s headache. What a bloody relief.

  “Today is agreeable, Miss…” Damn it all, he still couldn’t recall her name.

  “Turnbow,” she supplied. “Thank you, Your Grace. I would be honored to accept the position, and I look forward to meeting Lady Constance and Lady Honora.”

  A great, clanging commotion reached his ears then, and Crispin was reminded of precisely why his sisters were in such desperate need of management. “Perhaps you can meet them now. I’m afraid the crashing and clanging you’ve just heard was caused by the both of them.”

  For the first time since she entered his study, the governess’s eyes went wide. “Caused by them?”

  He took another deep swallow of his liquor for good measure and then stood. “Come with me, Miss Governess, and you shall see.”

  Chapter Three

  The Duke of Whitley was a lecherous drunkard, and his sisters were wayward hoydens who were currently delighting in the act of riding silver salvers down the carpeted staircase of Whitley House.

  No.

  Jacinda’s eyes were not mistaken.

  Two girls, awkward and willowy of figure with striking ebony hair like the duke’s, were racing each other down the stairs, each on her own salver, laughing. The butler was huffing and demanding the nonsense cease. A pair of chamber maids hovered about, gawping.

  And the duke simply turned his glittering gaze to Jacinda and smiled that wolfish, predatory smile of his that made her forget who he was and how she had come to be standing in his townhouse this morning. Made her forget what she was meant to do—nay what she must do—in order to help Father.

  For one frantic beat of her heart.

  But then she forced the unwanted blossom of heat in her belly to cool. He is a hedonistic wastrel, she reminded herself. And if what the Earl of Kilross had said was to be believed, he was also a traitor who assuaged any guilt he’d felt at being responsible for his friend’s hideous death by drowning in drink and ladybirds. He could have been Beelzebub himself and she would not have been surprised as he had sat in the darkness of his study, quizzing her in an indolent voice that suggested he had not a care whether she would be a decent governess to his sisters or not.

  She had foolishly thought herself well-prepared for this post, consigned to her fate if it was what she needed to do to help Father. Kilross had given her a great deal of information concerning the duke and her would-be charges. He had arranged for her interview, provided her with the necessary references. Everything thus far had proceeded as planned, despite her sweaty palms and the unease clenching her gut.

  But there was one thing she had not expected, and that was for the Duke
of Whitley to gaze upon her as if she were a sweet he longed to devour. And then, her father’s words echoed in her memory. You are not to allow him to notice you. Though you must undertake this unwanted task, I will not have you defiled by that lecherous coward.

  Too late. He had already noticed, and the knowledge only served to heighten the foreboding rioting in her. She had taken great pains to bury herself in shapeless dresses and lace, to hide her vibrant hair beneath a cap, and to seem as unremarkable as possible.

  He was still fixed upon her, that lazy grin curving his beautiful mouth, those alarming, gray eyes smoldering into hers, when one of his sisters reached the bottom of the stairs on her salver and went hurtling into him.

  “Your Grace, behind you,” Jacinda called out as the girl collided with him, sending him pitching forward. For reasons unknown to her—reasons she instantly regretted—she stepped forward, her arms outstretched, and steadied him against her.

  She staggered a few steps in retreat, grappling with his large, heavy body, and somehow the duke’s face wound up pressed into her bosom. Her face flamed with horror and humiliation as the man did nothing to remove himself. Instead, he rumbled a sigh of appreciation she felt between her thighs.

  His arms traveled around her waist, anchoring her to him when she would have extricated herself. “Your Grace, are you injured?”

  “Crispin,” came the chiding tone of the sister who had nearly sent him sprawling to his knees. “You ought to know better than to stand beneath the stairs whilst Con and I are having our races.”

  Good heavens, she had entered Bedlam. The duke’s face remained buried against her in the most inappropriate fashion, and he took a great inhalation. “Lovely catch, Tottlebrow,” he muttered into her bodice.

  He still could not recall her name, the drunken fool. She hesitated to touch him, but her patience was thinning, and there was something about being in the Duke of Whitley’s embrace that a disturbing and most wholeheartedly unwanted part of her rather enjoyed. Jacinda flattened her palms on his shoulders and shoved, while settling a disapproving glower upon the intrepid young lady who had nearly laid her brother low.