How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  Bloody blazing hell. No wonder couples eloped to Gretna Green with such frequency.

  But unless he could tell Charlie that he loved her, she wouldn’t marry him. Whether it was over the anvil or in St. George’s in Hanover Square, it wouldn’t make a difference—her answer to the question, “Will you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” would be a resounding “No.”

  And Max couldn’t say that he blamed her.

  Chapter 23

  Have you secured your tickets to the opening of the Royal Academy of Art’s Annual Exhibition at Somerset House?

  As Sir Francis Bacon proclaimed, “Painting raises the Mind, by accommodating the images of things to our desires…”

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Fine Arts

  The Royal Academy of Art, Somerset House, The Strand

  May 3, 1819

  “Good gracious, it’s quite a crush, isn’t it?” remarked Sophie to Charlie as they waited in the grand hall of Somerset House. Marble arches, colonnades, and several well-rendered sculptures dominated the space. From a niche in a nearby wall, a Callipygian Venus stared over her shoulder at them.

  Charlie couldn’t disagree. “Climbing the stairs will be an interesting exercise.” The magnificent, dizzying spiral staircase led to the Great Room, the Royal Academy’s main exhibition gallery, in the palace’s north wing. “I hope we don’t all end up tumbling back down like in Thomas Rowlandson’s naughty print, The Stare-Case. I came here to see paintings, not tonnish derrieres.”

  Beside her, Max chuckled. “Well, that would certainly be a sight. But don’t worry, my lady. I’ll catch you if you fall.” And then he whispered, “I’d much prefer it if I was the only one permitted to see your delightful derriere.”

  Charlie bit her lip as warmth flooded her face. Thank goodness no one near them—especially Nate—heard that particular remark. As much as she wanted to respond in kind, she thought it best to remain on her best behavior. For the first time in a long time, it seemed no one was looking askance at her as though she didn’t belong. On arrival at Somerset House with Nate and Sophie, several matrons of the ton had even greeted her with genuine smiles.

  In an effort to steer the conversation in a different direction, she said, “I take it your mother is already here?”

  “I believe so,” said Max. “Diana is with her. Knowing my mother, I imagine she arrived early and is upstairs in the Great Room making sure everything is ‘just so’. If she hadn’t contributed such a sizable donation to the Academy, I’m sure the porters and the Academy council members would have ejected her by now.”

  “My father and Lady Tilbury could be somewhere here too, but who would know?” remarked Charlie. She stood on tiptoe and craned her neck but could discern nothing but a sea of anonymous heads. “And Madame de Beauvoir. I cannot wait to get my hands on a catalogue so I can find out where her paintings are being exhibited.”

  Max cocked an eyebrow. “Madame de Beauvoir?”

  “Oh, yes…” Charlie hesitated as the crowd of tonnish members moved forward, and she lifted her blue silk muslin skirts to negotiate the stairs. “Louise de Beauvoir is an accomplished French artist I met at the Mayfair Bluestocking Society some time ago. My aunt Tabitha…” She paused again. Should she tell Max about her own licentious portrait? The whole of London already knew the ‘disreputable Lady C.’ aspired to sit for one à la Lady Hamilton. He was bound to find out sooner rather than later that such a painting actually existed. Drawing a fortifying breath, she completed her thought. “My aunt commissioned Madame de Beauvoir to paint a portrait of me. It’s only just been completed and will be delivered to Hastings House within the next few days.”

  Max leaned close and murmured, “I can’t wait to see it. I’m sure you look beautiful.”

  Heat crept into Charlie’s cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with the exertion of climbing the stairs. “I…I like to think so. But the nature of the painting is such that…” She met Max’s gaze. “It’s a little risqué, so I’ll be hanging it in my bedchamber.”

  Mischief danced in Max’s blue eyes. “Even better. I take it this is the painting you mention in your list?”

  Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. “How did you ever guess?”

  Max cast her an enigmatic smile. “I wonder.”

  By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Charlie was hot and alarmingly breathless, whereas Max didn’t seem flustered at all. “Look up,” he said, pointing to the doorway leading into the high-ceilinged Great Room.

  “Is that ancient Greek?” asked Charlie. She couldn’t read the inscription carved into the marble archway, but she thought she recognized the script.

  “Yes, it is,” said Max. “It reads, ‘Let no stranger to the muses enter’.”

  “Well, that’s quite apt, if I do say so myself.” She gave Max a little nudge in the ribs. “I see that classical education you received at Eton and Oxford is useful for something.”

  Max laughed. “Yes, indeed. It also comes in handy when one needs to count to ten in Latin or recite pi or Newton’s Laws of Motion.”

  “And you’ve had occasion to do any of those things of late?” asked Charlie.

  Max flashed her a wicked grin. “You’d be surprised, my lady.”

  They joined the milling throng gathered inside the Great Room, and somehow Max located the rest of their friends in a far corner—Arabella was resting upon a chair that Gabriel had managed to procure for her, and Hamish and Olivia were examining a Highland landscape featuring the distinctive castle of Dunrobin. Sophie already had a catalogue, which she was perusing with Nate. There was no sign of her own father, Cressida, Diana, or Madame de Beauvoir.

  “It looks as though Madame de Beauvoir’s paintings are in the adjoining gallery to our right,” said Sophie when Charlie drew close. “They’re labeled A Study of Fruit and Flowers and Portrait of a Young Lady.”

  “I’m glad,” said Charlie. “It’s almost impossible to view anything at eye level with so many people about. And the way the paintings are all wedged together, check by jowl, floor to ceiling…” She tipped her head back and squinted up at a portrait of an officious-looking nobleman hanging high above their heads, just below one of the gallery’s distinctive arched windows. “One would need a spyglass to see anything up there.”

  “I agree,” said Max. “I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Cooper’s The Battle of Marston Moor, but I suspect that won’t happen. Nothing less than a cavalry charge could penetrate this crowd.”

  “Let’s repair to the next room to see if we can find Madame de Beauvoir’s work,” suggested Charlie. She caught Arabella’s eye, and she and Gabriel readily agreed to her proposal. Olivia and Hamish did too.

  With Hamish leading the way—the Scotsman was not only tall but as broad-shouldered as a Highland warrior of old—they soon plowed their way into the next gallery, which was far less busy. The artworks had been hung at regular intervals rather than crammed together, and apart from a sizable party gathered in front of a painting at the far end, one didn’t need to fight for elbow room. All in all, it was far more civilized.

  “Charlie!”

  At the sound of her name being called, Charlie turned and came face-to-face with Diana. The young duchess’s smile seemed forced, and her gaze darted nervously to Max, then back to Charlie. “I’m so pleased that I’ve found you both at last. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me into the next exhibition room? There are some wonderful landscapes. One depicts a moonlit bay in Devon, Max, so I’m sure you’d be interested in that.”

  Charlie frowned, confused by Diana’s apparent need to hurry her and Max along. “That sounds lovely. However, I’d really like to see the work of an acquaintance of mine. According to the Exhibition catalogue, her paintings are on display in here.”

  Olivia, who was only a few feet away with Arabella and Sophie, called over her shoulder. “I…I think I’ve found her still life, Charlie. It’s lovely.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” Charlie joined
her friends and agreed with Olivia’s summation. Madame de Beauvoir had depicted an arrangement of pale apricot roses and just-ripe peaches with great skill. There were dewdrops on the velvety, softly tinted petals, and the flesh of one cut peach looked so juicy, Charlie’s mouth began to water.

  Max drew alongside her. “I have a sudden craving for peaches and cream,” he murmured.

  Charlie laughed. “Me too.”

  A sudden burst of tittering laughter on the other side of the room drew Charlie’s attention. Several of the women who were clustered around the farthest painting were looking back at her with something akin to scorn in their gazes.

  Oh, damn, damn, and damn again. Charlie recognized more than a few of them.

  It was Lady Penelope surrounded by a bevy of her equally unpleasant friends. No wonder Diana had been trying to steer Charlie away.

  Max, who’d tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, must have sensed the tension vibrating through her body. “What is it—” he began, then uttered a crude curse under his breath. “My apologies,” he murmured to Charlie. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Charlie couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’m glad you did, because it summed up my thoughts exactly.”

  Sophie tapped a finger on a line in her Exhibition catalogue. “According to this, Madame de Beauvoir’s second piece, the portrait, is just over—” Looking up, her gaze settled on Lady Penelope and her snidely giggling cohorts. “Oh…”

  Arabella looked over the top of her spectacles, then lifted her chin. “Come, girls. We are the Society for Enlightened Young Women. We will not be intimidated by the likes of Lady Penelope. We have just as much right to view that painting as anyone else.” Squaring her shoulders, she tucked her hand into her husband’s arm and sauntered down the room.

  “Shall we?” Olivia took Hamish’s hand.

  The Highlander grinned. “Aye, we shall, my bonnie wife.”

  “Come, Nate,” said Sophie, linking arms with her husband. “Let’s not miss out on all the fun.”

  Max and Charlie followed their friends with a subdued Diana trailing behind.

  “The Society for Enlightened Young Women?” murmured Max as they progressed down the gallery, weaving their way through knots of other art-loving attendees. “Why have I not heard of this group before?”

  Charlie gave him an arch smile. “A girl must have some secrets, Your Grace. It adds to our allure.”

  Max bent toward her ear. “Allure is a quality you are not lacking in whatsoever, Lady Char—”

  He stopped mid-word as he caught sight of the gilt-framed portrait hanging before them.

  And then Charlie’s heart all but stopped and her stomach tumbled to the floor as her gaze fell on it too. Someone nearby gasped. A man—perhaps it was Nate—swore.

  Oh, my God. No.

  A hundred thousand times no.

  Why on earth was her painting—her privately commissioned portrait meant for her eyes only—on show at the Royal Academy of Arts Annual Exhibition? Her scantily clad, curvaceous body on display for complete strangers to gawk at and judge and laugh at? Because there was laughter all around her. Snickers and outright chortles among the sea of scandalized whispers.

  While the face of the nubile Grecian goddess was partially concealed by a curtain of chestnut curls, there was no mistaking the true identity of the woman in the portrait. Because the plaque beneath the painting wasn’t inscribed with the words, Portrait of a Young Lady.

  No, it read, Portrait of a Disreputable Debutante.

  And everyone knew who that was.

  It could only be Lady Charlotte Hastings.

  Fast. Loose. Hoyden. Slut.

  Whore.

  The horrible words echoed in Charlie’s ears, and she wasn’t sure if it was her imagination that had conjured them up or not.

  How could this have happened? How could Madame de Beauvoir have betrayed her like this? And it seemed Diana had known too…

  The surge of pain, the shame, it was too much.

  Hot tears pricked at Charlie’s eyes, and her throat constricted with the effort to contain a sob. Suffocating humiliation squeezed her chest and time seemed to freeze. Stuck in a nightmarish moment, all sound bar her own ragged breathing and the erratic, stumbling beat of her heart faded away.

  All she could see was her complete and utter ruin. Her reputation smashed beyond repair.

  If she could have curled up into a small ball on the floor, she would have.

  “Charlie…” Max was in front of her, blocking her view of her own portrait. “It’s all right. Hamish has taken it down.”

  “And Gabriel has thrown his coat over it.” That was Arabella. “No one can see it anymore.”

  “Good,” Charlie said through stiff, numb lips. She didn’t feel like herself at all. A strange buzzing began in her ears, and the room started spinning. Spots danced in the corners of her vision…

  And then Max, just as he’d promised earlier, caught her as she began to fall.

  Chapter 24

  My List of Secret Wishes and Dreams:

  1) Sneak into a ‘Gentlemen’s Club’ to see what all the fuss is about;

  2) To be kissed, with passion, in the moonlight by a rake;

  3) Or in the rain (either will do);

  4) Ride hell-for-leather down Rotten Row at least once (Preferably not in the rain unless there’s any chance said passionate kiss happens straight afterwards.);

  5) Sea bathe, naked;

  6) Sit for a licentious portrait à la Lady Hamilton;

  7) To be thoroughly ravished in a carriage;

  8) Waltz the night away at Almack’s;

  9) To experience a Grand Passion that I will remember long into my dotage;

  10) The man (or should I say duke?) of my dreams falls in love with me.

  Somewhere in London…

  It wasn’t until they were safely in Max’s carriage that Charlie began to stir. Cradled in Max’s arms, she made a small sound like a whimper and buried her face deeper into his shoulder. Beneath his coat, one of her hands curled around his waist.

  “Charlie?” Max gently brushed a loose curl away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

  “Mmmm…” Her eyelids fluttered, and when she opened her eyes, he saw the moment she recalled what had happened inside the Royal Academy. As horror dawned in her gaze, a shiver passed through her and she snapped her eyes shut again. “Oh God,” she moaned against his chest. “I’m so embarrassed I could die.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” Reaching inside his coat, he located an inner pocket and withdrew a pewter flask. “A sip or two of this might make you feel a little better, though. It’s my very best cognac.”

  “Oh yes, please.” Charlie accepted the offered flask, uncapped it, and took a delicate sip. And then another. Handing it back to him, she caught his eye. “Thank you. For everything. I feel so foolish. I’m not normally one to faint.”

  “I know you’re not. And think nothing of it. You had a large shock, and that room was insufferably hot and stuffy on top of everything else.”

  A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lovely mouth. “You always know what to say to make me feel better,” she said softly. Her fingertips absently traced a whorled pattern in his paisley satin waistcoat. Her forehead had pleated into a frown. “Though, I would understand if you need to reconsider our mutually-beneficial-fixed-term arrangement in light of what’s happened. I’m afraid my reputation is ruined beyond repair at this point. I’m well and truly a social pariah.”

  “Good God, Charlie. Of course, I don’t want to end our arrangement.” He tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She nodded and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  Max gently wiped away an escaped tear with his thumb. “Hey, there. No crying is allowed in my carriage. Not unless you’re crying my name.”

  She laughed at that and accepted a ke
rchief from him. “I like the sound of that.”

  “So do I.” He nodded toward Charlie’s portrait, which was currently leaning against the opposite seat with Gabriel’s coat still draped over it. “I also like your portrait. Very much.” He cupped her jaw and stroked his thumb over her cheek again. “You’re beautiful, Charlie. Don’t let what happened back there ever make you doubt yourself or how I—” He’d been about to say, “how I feel about you,” but he couldn’t say that because he didn’t know how he felt.

  Or did he?

  His chest cramped with an odd combination of regret and acute longing. And a surge of protectiveness so fierce, it chased away the bone-deep fear that he might feel anything remotely tender for the remarkable woman in his arms.

  When he didn’t continue, Charlie ventured, “I just don’t understand how my portrait ended up at the Exhibition. I trusted Madame de Beauvoir implicitly. I can’t fathom why she’d betray me like that. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Max scowled out the window. The light was fading in London’s streets, and the gas lamps were in the process of being lit. “I suspect my mother is behind it. For some time now, it’s been clear that she’s determined to drive a wedge between us. Aside from that, she’s one of the Academy’s trustees, so she had the means and opportunity to engineer the situation. Her absence at the Exhibition is rather telling too.”

  Charlie shook her head. “I don’t know why she hates me so much. I know I’m not perfect—”

  Max growled. “Don’t you dare say anything disparaging about yourself, Charlotte Hastings. I won’t have it. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded, and he softened his tone. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like seeing you so upset. And all because of my witch of a mother.”