The Dangerous Duke (5 page)

Lady Penelope wrinkled her nose and shrugged, affecting disinterest. “Possibly.”

“Perhaps I shall see you later…afterward?” The remark was casual but the invitation was clear.

A flame of relief leaped inside her. He still desired her! She shot a sly glance at him from under her slanting lashes, her eyes reflecting her intense longing for him. Her smile was exultant.

“Until later then.” He turned to leave. “Was that Solesby I saw on the stairs?”

“Yes, don’t be angry, Dev.” Lady Penelope looked quite smug.

“He’s your friend; you are free to associate with whomever you wish,” was Devlin’s unconcerned reply as he strode out the room.

Lady Penelope ground her teeth in frustration. He was supposed to care; he was supposed to be jealous. Why was he so indifferent? She would find out if it killed her.

* * * *

However, had Lady Penelope seen the Duke’s next place of appointment, it would have been him she would have wanted to kill. The bell of the fashionable Bond Street shop tinkled as Devlin stepped into the cream and pink-tinted establishment of Madame Celeste,
modiste extraordinaire
to the wealthiest of Society’s women. Madame Celeste was a small, dark, plain Frenchwoman who also something of a magician. She could transform the ugliest of debutante ducklings into a beautiful swan simply by correctly matching fabric colour to customer. Sallow skins and dull complexions appeared as strawberry or peaches-and-cream under Madame’s expert guidance. Amazingly, her skills with a needle enabled her to rectify the deficiencies of Mother Nature in many an under-endowed bosom; she could also reduce overly abundant waistlines and hips with an exquisite combination of deft pleats, tucks and other sleight-of-hand tricks. She was greatly in demand and charged accordingly.

Madame Celeste rustled forward and raised her eyebrows when she recognised her visitor. She sent all her bills—and there were many—to him for Lady Penelope’s extensive wardrobe. It was very unusual for a man to appear in her hallowed portals himself, unless he had a special request. Usually her special requests came from elderly gentlemen with a need for female garments to fit themselves. However, the young and very handsome Duke of Wyndlesham was no such man. She bowed to him and waited.

Now that he was here, suddenly the task seemed far more formidable than he had anticipated. Devlin stared at Madame Celeste, feeling helpless; she gazed back with an impassive expression.

“Perhaps
M’sieur
is looking for some charming accessory of fashion for his…mother?” she hazarded, by way of breaking the ice.

“Er…no!” He was abrupt. “This is for a younger lady…much younger.”

“Ah,” she smiled. Madame Celeste’s discretion was legendary and many clients, knowing their secrets were as safe as if locked in the vaults of the Bank of England, freely spilled the sensational details. The Duke coughed and reddened. Madame Celeste came to the rescue.

“A young relative, perhaps?” she asked diplomatically.

“Yes, exactly so,” Devlin replied, relieved at the woman’s perspicacity. “A young lady, a…er…distant cousin, who is residing with my mother in the country.” He wondered why he was telling the woman all this, but somehow Madame Celeste had that effect on people. “There was an accident…a storm…and her dress was ruined.”

“Ah,
pauvre, jolie femme
.” Madame nodded as if she understood the whole situation. “And the clothes they are so expensive. One cannot afford to have an outfit ruined. Perhaps it was even a favourite outfit?”

“I don’t know, perhaps?” Devlin said. “She looked very…er …charming in it.”

“La couleur
?” Madame Celeste asked. “Maybe we can find something near to make her feel better.” She bustled behind the counter, pulling out rolls of cloth, spreading a rainbow of colours before his eyes. “You shall tell me her colouring and size,
M’sieur
. The rest you can leave to me.”

A vision of Fenella’s beauty floated in front of him as Devlin began to describe her. Any of his friends and associates would have been utterly amazed to peer into the window and observe the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham, nicknamed “Devil,” the reigning champion of the Four-in-Hand Club, poring over fabrics, looking at pattern sheets and earnestly discussing the merits of pearl buttons over covered buttons.

* * * *

The package arrived at Deverell House a week later. Fenella and the Dowager were sitting under their favourite tree, when Blenkins brought it to her. It was a very large white box, tied up with a gold ribbon, and with a distinctive motif on the lid.

“For me?” Fenella stammered, as Blenkins placed it in her lap with a solemn bow. “But there must be some mistake!”

“No mistake, Miss,” he assured her. “Your name is written upon the box.”

The Dowager hid a smile. “Well, hurry up and open it, dear. Perhaps it is a surprise?”

Fenella untied the ribbon, lifted the lid of the box and gave an astonished gasp. The Dowager nodded in approval as she peered over Fenella’s shoulder. Inside the box lay the most beautiful dress Fenella had ever seen. The underskirt was apple green satin, covered by an overdress of the sheerest pale green fabric, so transparent it was as if mist was floating before her eyes. Tiny seed pearls adorned the bodice and pretty puffed sleeves, and a trim of apple green satin ribbons under the bust and around the neckline completed the outfit. But there was more. Beneath the garment lay a dainty pair of cream satin slippers, a pair of delicate gloves and a cream-coloured shawl so fine it might have been woven from cobwebs.

“But who could have sent me this?” Fenella stuttered.

“Devlin, of course!” the Dowager exclaimed. “I think Madame Celeste has surpassed herself. An ideal dress for a young woman; not too flamboyant, just perfect, exquisite styling.” She examined the bodice. “Look at the detail, my dear. Simply lovely!”

“But why?” Fenella whispered, a flood of pink rushing into her cheeks as the memories surfaced in her mind.

The Dowager mistook Fenella’s flush for modest confusion and protest.

“Now, it is perfectly acceptable,” she said. “Although under normal circumstances, a gift such as this to a young lady would not be considered proper conduct. Devlin told me how your dress was soaked and filthy after that dreadful storm. And how he had to tear it to get you warm again.” Fenella’s face flamed. “Don’t blush my dear. He has explained it all to me, and when he suggested replacing your dress, I could only agree. After all, you saved my darling Scheherazade and Devlin knows how much she means to me.”

The old lady patted Fenella’s hand. “So run upstairs and put it on. I want to see you in that magnificent shade. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such fabric. That woman is a marvel!”

Fenella’s mind was a maelstrom as she fled to the house, clutching the box. The Dowager’s words lingered in her head. He had discussed it with his mother…a perfect dress. In her bedroom, she hastily disrobed, all the while gazing at the wonderful dress lying on the bed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the long cheval mirror. Her figure was tiny but perfect, her swelling breasts peeping over the top of her chemise. She was proud of her small waist; a man could span it in both hands. Fenella imagined standing in front of Devlin and feeling his hands, with their long sensitive fingers, encircling her waist.

What was she doing?

Fenella shook her head in anger.

Why do I keep thinking of him
?
Why do thoughts of him haunt my every waking moment?

Vowing to put him out of her mind, she adjusted the dress and gazed at her reflection. It fitted perfectly. How did he know her size?

Fenella was not at all vain, but she caught her breath in admiration at the sight of her reflection. A vision of loveliness stared back at her. She looked incredible—elegant, sophisticated, a lady of fashion and quality. The green hue enhanced her beautiful colouring. Her cheeks were flushed pink with pleasure, her lips seemed an impossible rose-red, and her glossy dark curls danced as she swung back and forth, admiring the stylish figure in the glass. She caught sight of a letter in the box, almost hidden by the shawl.

A letter from Devlin? With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and read:

My dear Miss Preston,

Once again, my apologies for ruining your dress. Madame Celeste assures me this style is the latest mode and the fabric the newest in her selection. I hope this will compensate you for your loss and eliminate all memories of that unpleasant event.

Your servant, etc.

Deverell

Fenella crumpled the letter in her hand. Compensate? Eliminate all memories of that unpleasant event? What was he trying to say to her…that the memories of that night, those signals of passion and her ardent response to him, were all disgusting and should be forgotten because they revolted him? He was buying her off!

Shame flooded through her body in a burning wave. A red flush mounted in her cheeks as tears of rage and mortification sprang to her eyes. How dare he make her feel like a common whore, to be silenced with an expensive gift? How dare he humiliate her?

She wanted none of his gifts; she wanted nothing from him. She wanted to shred the dress into worthless scraps. Fenella reached behind her to tear the pearl buttons from the fabric and rip the dress from her shoulders. A hesitant knock sounded at the bedroom door.

“Miss?” It was Molly.

Fenella dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes?”

The maid’s cheery face peeped round the door in excited expectation. Molly gave a wide, admiring grin as she surveyed Fenella’s finery.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but ’er Grace wants to see ye in the new gown.” She scuttled behind Fenella and quickly fastened the remaining pearl buttons. “Ooh, but ye do look so fine, Miss. Shall I tell ’er Grace ye’ll be coming down now?”

“I shall be there directly.”

Molly scampered out the room. Fenella gulped down the sobs that rose once more. Her composure regained, she straightened the folds of the skirt, put on the slippers and gloves, and clasped the shawl around her shoulders. As she walked down the staircase, nothing remained of her distress but the heightened colour in her cheeks.

“My dear, you look splendid!” the Dowager exclaimed when she saw Fenella’s changed appearance. “How delightful. And how very clever of Devlin to arrange all this by himself, don’t you think?”

Fenella bit her lower lip and nodded, not daring to speak in case the tears poured forth again.

“Turn this way…yes…now back again…oh, beautiful!”

The Dowager clapped in delight and then rang the bell on the tea table. Blenkins appeared and the Dowager instructed him to summon Mrs. Perkins. In a few minutes, Mrs. Perkins rustled onto the lawn and dropped a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am?”

When the housekeeper saw Fenella, she said, “Begging your pardon, Miss Fenella, but you look like a picture.”

In spite of her intense anger and hatred toward Devlin, Fenella was just like any other young woman wearing a beautiful gown—she blushed prettily and her spirits rose.

“Now, Mrs. Perkins, you remember when Miss Amelia stayed here, just before her wedding to that Farleigh fellow?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“Well,” the Dowager continued, “I know she left several very pretty dresses here since I outfitted her with a complete new wardrobe for her trousseau. See if you can find them.”

“But, ma’am,” Fenella protested. “I cannot accept such generosity.”

“No buts!” the Dowager admonished her. “Indulge an old woman’s fancies, my dear. Amelia had umpteen dresses she wore but once. I am sure that like most young girls you would enjoy a few new dresses.”

Fenella subsided into silence. Every day the Dowager’s increasing affection and generosity made it more difficult to consider going, but depart she must at the end of three months. Fenella would simply leave any gifts behind.

* * * *

“And so dear Aunt,”
Fenella wrote
, “you will not believe how many dresses I have now! Miss Amelia Salton is the Dowager’s niece or grandniece, I forget which, and she is terribly spoiled. She married the Honourable Peregrine Farleigh, who stands to inherit a great deal of money. His parents are well placed in Society so it is an excellent match. Miss Amelia left behind the day dresses she no longer wanted. Oh, Aunt, such beautiful fabrics, as I have never seen before. The Dowager insists they are to be mine. The young lady is about my size so there are just a few tiny alterations. I felt quite uncomfortable about accepting the gift, but the Dowager looked so pleased when I tried them all on that I felt it would be churlish to refuse. By the way, you will never believe what that horrible man did. He ordered a dress for me from some London modiste called Madame Celeste. He offers it to ‘compensate’ me for the ruin of one of mine when I had to climb the tree to rescue Scheherazade. Do you remember the incident? Of course, I shan’t wear it. Do write soon, dearest Aunt. I hope Amber’s paw is healed now.

Your loving niece”

“Madame Celeste?” Aunt Preston wondered. “Do you hear that, Amber? Nothing less than the best for the dangerous duke. Oh, dear.” She nibbled her bottom lip in mild agitation. “I do hope he hasn’t fallen in love with her, but I fear he has!”

Fenella’s decision never to wear the dress was overturned when the Dowager insisted she wear it the next day, just to please her.

The acrid air caught at Devlin’s throat. His head ached and his eyes felt scratchy. He looked round the crowded gaming parlour, squinting through the murky atmosphere. Although the room was brightly lit, he could not see very well. A heavy haze of smoke hung like a grey pall over the festivities. Through the low drone of conversation, he heard muted laughter punctuated by an occasional feminine squeal, the clink of glasses, the chink of coins, the riffling of cards. A buxom woman, heavily rouged and flaunting an enormous jewelled, feathered headdress bore down upon his table. She leered at him, her red lips parting in a triumphant grin. The woman was well past forty-five, perhaps nearer fifty, but dressed like a much younger courtesan in scarlet satin. The very low cut neckline of her ostentatious gown almost exposed her nipples as her ample breasts strained to escape the constricting bodice.

“Ooh, what a catch,” she cackled quietly to herself, “the Duke of Wyndlesham frequenting my establishment. He don’t look too happy to me with such a Friday-face on him. I wonder what’s happened with that cold icicle Penelope Vane.”

Madame Cybille, who ran the Cygnet Club and acted as manageress and chaperone to the nubile Cygnets, prided herself on her clientele. Most were, like the Duke, exceptionally plump in the pocket and nothing was too much trouble for her guests. The Cygnet Club accommodated all gentlemen’s sexual tastes, however exotic. The Cygnets were, of course, very attractive young ladies, who “assisted” the players by plying them with drink. Sometimes a lucky gamester, for a considerable token of appreciation, could escort a beautiful Cygnet upstairs for further pleasures. Madame Cybille preened herself as she nodded in his direction. With a discreet wave of a plump, beringed hand, she indicated one of her prettier Cygnets who appeared willing to lure the Duke into a warm embrace.

Devlin nodded briefly back.
Damn the woman’s vulgar familiarity
. He preferred the more salubrious gentlemen’s establishments such as White’s or Brooke’s, not the seedy, notorious clubs like the Cygnet and the even more disreputable Mount Olympus. Devlin did not want to acquire the reputation of a gambler such as Sir Marcus Solesby whom he had seen out the corner of his eye, lolling in a secluded corner. Sir Marcus was well foxed and did not care who knew it. He was in the company of two nubile Cygnets, sprawled in attitudes of languid abandonment on either side of him. Their breasts were half exposed and Sir Marcus was shamelessly fondling their creamy globes while, from the expression of ecstasy on his face, their busy little hands were giving him equal amounts of pleasure under the table.

Devlin scowled.

What the devil was he doing here
?
Lie down with dogs,
get up with fleas
.

He must have been mad to think a place such as this would solve the seething turmoil in his mind. It only served to worsen his attitude toward the fairer sex.

He shook his head, as if the action would straighten out his jumbled thoughts into orderly rows.

Women
.
All they want is money. All of them …even Penelope. But not …
her
?
That woman, why does it always come back to her? Why can’t I stop thinking about her
?

He replayed the electrifying moment when he had gazed down at Fenella, lying vulnerable, helpless, but willing on the sofa. The image was burned into his mind. Her eyes glowing with passion, her mouth soft and trembling, inviting his kiss and he could wager she had been damp with womanly dew for him.

Yes
,
willing!
She would have let me take her. Even she must have her price.

He threw down his cards in anger. His gaming companions looked up at him, surprised. It was clear, even to their befuddled brains, that the usually imperturbable Duke was not himself.

He had drunk to excess that evening. By the looks of things, so had many others who frequented the Cygnet Club. Several scantily clad young women scampered past, giggling.

I suppose those are the Cygnets
.

A few eager men drunkenly pursued them, threading a clumsy path through the tables after their prize. The Cygnets wore very little clothing, which seemed to be comprised mostly of transparent gauze and several discreetly placed clutches of feathers. One golden-haired Cygnet turned back and stared coquettishly at Devlin. She licked her red lips with a small pink tongue and lifted one eyebrow teasingly. She flaunted her sexuality with brazen confidence, showing her willingness to test the sexual mettle of a man such as the Duke. Devlin thought with distaste how easy it would be to enjoy the carnal pleasures so openly on display. However, the ladies of the
demi-monde
were not to his taste or style. He smiled in gracious acknowledgement of her beauty, but shook his head to indicate refusal. The Cygnet pouted and looked disappointed. A large hand suddenly appeared to fondle her pert, rounded buttocks. With a dainty shriek, she leaped out of his grasp, her admirer in hot pursuit.

His companions at the card table were looking gloomy, since Devlin had won a considerable amount already. His mind was not even on the game and yet he won almost without effort.

It was late, very late, and he had promised to meet Lady Penelope. He had seen her, sparkling, brilliant, seductive and alluring at Lady Winterton’s
soirée.
She was wearing a splendid dress of silvery material. As the fabric shifted with her sinuous, languorous movements, the material moulded itself blatantly to her form, caressing her body like the hands of a lover, leaving nothing to the imagination.

It was strange how distanced he had felt from her. Her exquisite eyes had glittered with desire as they bowed to each other, chatting nonchalantly as if they were nothing but acquaintances. Curious, when the entire world knew they were lovers. He told himself he should feel excited, eager to consume her desiring and desirable flesh. For the first time, Devlin felt a strange reluctance, a nagging feeling of unwillingness, and yet he had to go to her. It was almost an obligation. After all, he thought, there was no reason
not
to make his way to the house of his mistress and make passionate love to her.

Next to him, the Honourable Frederick Perivale, Devlin’s closest friend, looked anguished. He peered at his cards, his myopic brown eyes clouded with anxiety. His luck and skill with cards was as appalling as Devlin’s was legendary. He stifled a groan of despair.

“I’m in too deep, Dev,” he muttered.

Devlin flung back the last of his brandy and slammed the glass down on the table. “Then give over, Freddie. You never know when to stop. You’ll end up floating down River Tick if you’re not careful.”

“You’ve got the luck of the devil,” Freddie grumbled. His face was doleful as he surveyed his cards.

“Stop trying to win, that’s how it’s done.” The Duke’s voice was hoarse. “And know when to stop.”

He pushed his chair back and gathered his winnings.

“Gentlemen!” He saluted his card companions. He was fractionally unsteady on his feet and his eyes were red from the gritty, smoky atmosphere. “Time to meet my Nemesis.”

“Nemmy what?” Freddie burbled, looking worse for wear. The very high shirt points he affected now hung limp. His once-impeccable blond curls were standing on end from his having run his hands despairingly through the careful confection his valet assured him was called
a la Brute
. The Duke, on the other hand, remained as elegant and urbane as ever.

“You look terrible, Freddie!” Devlin muttered in disgust. “Can’t take you anywhere looking like that!”

“Who’sh Nemmy?” Freddie persisted. “New gal?”

Freddie negotiated his way to the door with the careful concentration of a man deep in his cups. He leaned his lanky, six-foot frame against the doorjamb, slapping away the porter’s efforts to help him with his cloak. “Leemee ’lone. Can’t you see I’m sober as a judge!” Freddie persisted in fighting the folds of fabric until at last he managed to drape the cloak around his neck like an oversized scarf.

The chill night air rushed through the fog of brandy fumes in Devlin’s brain as he swayed on the doorstep of the club. “No. The same one.”

“Aaaah!” Freddie exclaimed sagely as realization dawned. “I know! Nemmy Shish! That Greek whatsit that…er…oh, yes…doom. Er…Doom?”

“Quite right,” Devlin replied wryly, his head now clear from the effects of brandy.

“But whatcher mean?” Freddie slurred, bewildered by Devlin’s strange words. “Lady Penelope’s a ga-ga-goddess! Aferdite…Venus!” He waved his hands in expansive demonstration. “Diamond of the first water. In-com-prubble.” He gave a solemn hiccup. “You’re the envy of every man I know an’ I know lots ’n lots of people!”

“I don’t know what I mean,” Devlin said abruptly. “See you tomorrow, Freddie.”

“Er…yes.” Freddie muttered.

As the Duke strolled along, he glanced upward. A lemon slice moon hung pale in the black velvet sky, surrounded by myriad diamond-pointed stars. The air was still, punctuated only by the occasional distant bark of a dog or the muffled rattle of carriage wheels transporting an equally late reveller homeward. By the time the Duke reached Lady Penelope’s house, the cool air had sobered him. His thoughts, however, were not composed.

Devlin stood outside the familiar entrance, his hand raised to grasp the doorknocker. He could still turn back, pleading intoxication and the lateness of the hour. Suddenly the door swung silently open. It was done. Even if he had wanted to retreat, he could not. He had to enter. A sleepy-eyed footman held the door open for him and took his hat and cloak. The hall was dimly lit but he knew his way well enough. He walked with slow and silent tread up the stairs.

* * * *

Lady Penelope lay on her bed, naked except for a gown of transparent gauze, trimmed at the neck and wrist with swan’s-down. She had been waiting for hours, her stomach churning with agitation and exasperation, but she had vowed nothing would move her to anger. Devlin stood in the doorway, gazing at his mistress. Penelope wrinkled her nose as the smell of tobacco smoke and brandy wafted into the room but she ignored it. Tonight she had to get him back under her spell. She slipped languidly off the bed and glided to him.

“Oh, Dev,” she murmured in seductive tones. “How I have longed for you.”

She fluttered her eyelashes as she peeped up at his face. Her lips curved in a welcoming smile. Golden tresses cascaded down her shoulders. As she moved, her gauzy gown fluttered open to reveal the long, sensuous lines of her body. Her full breasts jutted out, flaunting red nipples. Her waist dipped in and her hips flared out in an exquisite hourglass.

“Devlin?” Her voice was questioning. She held out her hand to him. Devlin took it and raised her fingers to his mouth. He bit gently on her soft skin. A thrill ran through her body.

What was the matter with him? Too much drink? That was not a problem. He had come to her drunk before and she had coaxed a most satisfying performance from him. In fact, he looked quite sober. Lady Penelope fumed behind her alluring smile. Her perfume floated around him, heady, intoxicating, and seductive…as was she. To her relief, he slid his arms around her.

It was nothing
;
maybe the drink
.

He bent his head and nibbled her lower lip, slipping one hand back to her breast, tweaking and rubbing her already hard nipples. She sighed and relaxed into his arms. She was safe. He was himself again. Lifting her in his arms, Devlin carried his mistress over to the bed and laid her down. Her hair spread out across the pillows like a golden fan. He knelt beside her and slowly parted the flimsy gown. He bent his head and encircled a rosy nipple with his hot tongue. The tiny nub spasmed with desire as his tongue teased it…then the other. Her heady perfume, mixed with the womanly, musky scent of her arousal, rose from her tingling skin.

Penelope was wanton, wild with desire. She could sense the thrill of animal lust that rippled through Devlin’s body as his manhood rose fierce and demanding. His throbbing erection, still trapped in his breeches, nudged against her thigh and she arched her back in excitement, parting her legs. She longed for his hot tongue to explore her secret place, for his sleek, hard penetration thrusting into her, for the inevitable fiery climax…but that would come soon.

Devlin shrugged off his clothes and lay down against her. Her flesh was warm, her skin soft and satiny. Penelope was panting hard with desire. Behind her pleasure, her thoughts were churning feverishly. She knew he must make love to her in order to drive away this demon of doubt, this flicker of uncertainty. Whatever or whoever her rival was, Penelope would see her in Hell first.

* * * *

Devlin gazed down at her lovely face, sensing her impatience. She was a sensual woman and her lustful demands were a pleasure to him. He bent his head closer to hers to kiss her lips. He could feel his hardness pressing even more urgently against her side. Soon he would love her with his tongue, bringing her to a tumultuous climax before penetrating her in a frenzy of passion. Desire thrilled through him as he imagined the next moments of pleasure. As their lips touched, an image flashed into his mind. Another pair of trembling red lips, huge violet eyes, warm skin, that tingling, electric feeling …

He sat back.

“What is it, my love?” Penelope whispered through stiff lips.

“It…it’s nothing!” Devlin’s tone was rough. All feelings of desire had disappeared. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Confusion whirled in his brain. What was wrong with him? It was as if that blasted woman had bewitched him. He got up and began to dress.

“What are you doing?” Penelope cried sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“I must leave!” he muttered, hating himself. He was embarrassed and bewildered.

“Leave?” she screeched in indignation. Penelope sat up and pulled the gown around her body. Her mouth was a hard line and her face an ugly mask of blazing fury. “You cannot leave!”

“I am afraid I must,” Devlin said, now in control of his emotions. “It is impossible to explain and I apologise for this unpardonable slight. Your servant, madam.” Now fully clothed, he bowed and turned to exit the room.