The Dangerous Duke (6 page)

“You will not leave!” she howled as she launched herself at him, fingers outstretched and nails ready to plunge.

With lightning speed, he grabbed her wrist just inches from his cheek.

“You forget yourself, my lady,” he spat, holding her in a vise-like grip. She sank to the floor, weeping piteously. As the door closed behind him, Penelope leaped to her feet and shrieked like a wild animal. A crystal vase smashed against the wood. Devlin, treading down the stairs, looked back and shuddered.

* * * *

Lady Penelope’s maid tumbled out of bed and, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, rushed to her assistance.

“Madam!” she cried, trembling in the face of her employer’s wrath. “Are you all right?” The barrage of cosmetic jars and ornaments shattering against the door soon drove her back to the safety of her own room.

Penelope stood gazing at herself in the tall cheval mirror. She ripped the fragile gossamer gown from her shoulders and studied her naked perfection. She had seen men’s reactions to her powerful seductive aura and was unaccustomed to rejection. She gritted her teeth in rage. Any man would give his right hand for an hour of lovemaking with her. She seethed in fury.

Devlin was not going to abandon her, she would see to it. She glared at herself and then, with another anguished howl of fury, threw a silver hairbrush at the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of sparkling pieces. Afterward, her rage spent, she crawled under the bed covers, sobbing. It was only much later when all her tears were gone that she coldly analyzed the situation. It was imperative that Devlin should ask for her hand. If he did not, she would be ruined, used goods—it was too horrible to contemplate. She would be branded a Cyprian, a lowly courtesan.

She would marry him…or else! She began to plan her next moves.

* * * *

Fenella woke with a start. Something had disturbed her—the sound of someone moving below. She lay quite still, listening hard. Someone was downstairs. She slipped out of bed and put on a robe over her nightdress. Grasping a heavy poker in one hand and her lit candle in the other, she stepped barefooted down the long curving staircase. The candle flame flickered as she trod with care down each step, like a ghostly figure from the past. A velvet shroud of darkness enveloped her. She glanced at the hall clock, which showed four o’clock. The faint sounds came again from the direction of the library.

Fenella pushed the door ajar and stepped over the threshold. With the poker raised in defence, she crept into the library. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could make out the faint shapes of chairs, the sofa, the writing desk, but no sign of anyone. The room seemed to be empty.

Suddenly a man’s hand grasped her arm from behind. She screamed—a cry cut off before it even really began as another arm encircled her and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. She dropped the candlestick.

“Well, well, Miss Preston. You are very brave to confront intruders in this intrepid fashion.”

As he spoke, he released her, also taking the poker from her now limp grip.

“Your Grace!” she stammered. “I apologise. I heard a noise and I thought …” Her voice petered out. She pulled her robe around herself.

“Is this how far you take your duties?” he mocked, bending down to rescue the feebly flickering candle.

“I should think you would be grateful that my concern for your mother’s welfare extends to putting my own life at risk!” she snapped.

The Duke held the candle above both their heads. He gazed at Fenella.

“You are quite right, Miss Preston. My sincere and most humble apologies.”

His expression was enigmatic, inscrutable; his eyes revealed nothing.

She opened her mouth to retort. “I—”

Suddenly he put his hand over her mouth and dragged her into an alcove, clasping her tight against his chest. They were half hidden by a long velvet drape. Shuffling noises came from across the hallway. It was Blenkins, in slippers, gown and nightcap. He peered around the library door, lifting his candle to shed light into the dark room.

“Is—is that you, Your Grace?” His voice was nervous.

The Duke shielded Fenella’s candle so that Blenkins could not see them huddled so scandalously together.

“Yes, it is,” he called. “I decided to return without prior notice. Go back to bed, Blenkins.”

“Will you be in need of anything, Sir?” Blenkins asked, relieved to find his master and not a band of housebreakers downstairs.

“No, thank you. You may go to bed.”

“Very good, Sir. Good night, Your Grace.” Blenkins shuffled off and soon the house was silent.

Devlin looked down at Fenella. He could feel the whole length of her warm, pliant body against his own. Her heart beat against his chest like a bird’s wings. He groaned inwardly. That unbelievable hypnotic feeling was stealing over him again. As much as he wanted to, he could not release her. She stirred a little, as if to remind him that what they were doing was not acceptable behaviour for a man and a woman, especially since she was in a state of undress. The subtle fragrance of violets teased his nostrils. She smelled so tantalizing, so delicate. He could see the tops of her breasts through the thin nightdress.

Where will this end
? He placed the candlestick on a ledge and let his arm fall away.

As he released her, she stepped back and looked up at him. Her beauty riveted him. This was not the sophisticated, hard elegance of a Society lady. Her face was luminous, glowing in the faint light; her eyes were dark-fringed violet pools into which he would willingly plunge. Her hair rippled down past her shoulders in satiny waves. He had never seen such fresh, natural loveliness before. She opened her mouth to speak and without thinking, he bent his head and kissed her soft, inviting lips.

Her mouth opened in welcome as his warm tongue delved and explored, teasing the inside of her lips, and then stabbing into her mouth in rising passion. Hesitant at first, she shyly explored back.

He reached under her nightdress and slid his hand slowly up the length of her satin thigh to the delicious curve of her buttocks. Devlin was panting, his breath coming hard in rampant lust. He could not stop now. God help him, but he could not.

“Now!” Devlin grated through clenched teeth. It had to be now or he would explode. He pushed her against the wall for support as he fumbled with his breeches. Instantly, she froze in terror and jerked away from him, horror and realization etched on her features.

“I—I cannot, please don’t,” she stammered. She straightened her nightdress and pulled her robe close around her body. “You must be mistaken.” Her breasts heaved, and she looked ravishing with hot, flushed cheeks and her lips swollen from his fervent kisses.

Devlin came to his senses instantly. A wave of burning embarrassment swept over him. Had he completely lost his mind? He must be insane. Here he was fumbling in the library alcove with a woman who was just about on the level of a servant. How had she bewitched him like this again? How dare she lead him on? He buttoned his breeches and tucked in his shirt.

“Mistaken?” he drawled, trying to ignore the throbbing in his groin that just would not go away.

He could not understand how this woman excited him to the point of uncontrollable rampaging passion. Never in his life had he experienced arousal of this magnitude. The few minutes with Fenella easily outstripped the hours of calculated pleasurable lovemaking he had enjoyed with his mistress. With Penelope, it was a game of give and take, as premeditated as a dance, where each knew the rules and none would relinquish self-control. His insides churned with frustration. He wanted to seize this girl and make wild love to her, to abandon his reserve and control and give himself up to the vast sweeping sensations threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to damn the consequences. Yet he knew in that timeless moment, as he stared at her stricken face, that he could not.

“You are mistaken, Sir,” she said, in a firm and icy voice, “if you think I can be toyed with in this way.”

His eyes raked up and down the length of her body.

“No, I think it is you who are mistaken,” he replied curtly. “From your …ahem …
ardent
behaviour, I was under the impression that physical satisfaction was your goal. However, perhaps one of the footmen would be more to your liking.”

As he said this, Devlin knew he had gone too far. He could have bitten his tongue out as he saw the expression of utter pain and bewilderment on her face. How could he blame her when it was he, in fact, who had initiated both encounters? It was his fault they had lost control. Nevertheless, it was too late. The words of anger, bitterness and frustration flew at her like poisoned arrows. She flinched and then the unthinkable happened.

Fenella hit the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham right across his face.

As her hand smacked against his cheek with surprising strength, Devlin jerked back, astounded by the severity of the blow. His left cheek stung and his ear buzzed ominously for a few seconds. He tasted blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue from the force of the blow.

He grinned as he wiped the crimson drops from his mouth. Miss Fenella Preston was exceedingly strong for such a well-bred young woman.

“I deserved that,” he said softly.

Horrified to see blood on his face, Fenella placed her hand against his cheek. “I am so sorry. What have I done?”

“Nothing I wouldn’t have done to any man who behaved like an utter scoundrel and spoke to you in so disgraceful a manner,” Devlin said wryly. “I have betrayed my responsibilities both as a host and employer. Forgive me.”

He stalked over to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. He held out the glass to her. “Here, drink some of this. I think we both need to calm down.”

Fenella took a few tiny sips, coughed and then waved it away. Devlin tossed back the remainder of the amber liquid while eyeing Fenella with a wary expression.

He took a deep breath and bowed. “Miss Preston, your servant. Please accept my most abject apologies for conduct completely unbefitting a gentleman. I beg that you will forget this occurrence. I shall endeavour to keep my distance and maintain my self-control. You need have no fear of this ever happening again.”

Fenella drew herself up to her full height, gathered up the tattered remnants of her dignity and said loftily, “I can see you have been drinking tonight and may have forgotten your place and breeding. I accept your apologies, Your Grace, and I shall erase the memory of this event from my mind. I bid you good night.”

With her head held high, Fenella made a grand and haughty exit.

Devlin lay down on the library sofa, clasping the brandy decanter to his chest and musing in morbid fashion on an impossible situation and the mysteries of female behaviour. He acknowledged with some despair that he was a slave to his desires; he was a man enchained and enchanted by a woman so beneath him. Besides, the horror and disgust he had seen in her eyes when they had broken away from that passionate embrace filled him with remorse and shame. She must think him a cad and a philanderer to take advantage of her.

Yes, he was all that and worse. He fell asleep as dawn’s first light slid rosy fingers through the cracks between the library curtains, only awakening when he heard Blenkins’ anxious voice saying, “Good Heavens! Your Grace?”

Fenella woke with a start. Glorious sunshine was already streaming through the windows and she could hear the sounds of birds twittering in the trees. She lay for a few moments, her mind quite blank until the full force of what had happened engulfed her like a giant wave. She groaned and placed the pillow over her face.

It was impossible to go down to breakfast. She would plead a sick headache.

The Dowager would be disappointed. Since the old lady’s recovery, one of her greatest pleasures was a leisurely breakfast at nine o’clock, followed by a gentle walk with her companion round the rose garden. The Dowager kept country hours and did not believe in the fashionable Town habit of rising late, around eleven, drifting about
en d
é
shabille
and only receiving visitors well after noon.

“Such nonsense, wasting away practically the whole day! I never knew what it was like to be bed-ridden until now,” the Dowager had exclaimed. “So while I have my strength, I’m going to enjoy every moment of active life that’s left to me. We take too much for granted, especially health.”

Fenella sighed. The Dowager would be expecting her. A discreet tap sounded at the door. Fenella sat up, alarmed.

“Yes?” she called, pulling the sheet around her shoulders.

“It’s only me, Miss.” Molly peered around the door. Her frilled cap waggled as she bobbed an anxious curtsey. “’Tis after ten already.”

Fenella leaped out of bed like a scalded cat. It was so late. The Dowager would be wondering where she was. “Yes, of course, please come in, Molly.”

“Couldn’t ye sleep, Miss?” Molly asked while she bustled about, arranging Fenella’s toilette items and laying out her clothes.

“Er…no.” Fenella dashed water over her face so Molly could not see her expression. “There was a…um…owl hooting for ages last night.”

Molly clucked in sympathy. “Shall I say ye’ll be but a few minutes?”

“Yes.” Fenella’s voice was muffled as she slid her chemise over her head. “I’ll be down right away.”

She put on a primrose muslin gown, but her mood was despondent and her fingers clumsy as she wrestled with reluctant fastenings and obstinate buttons. It was no good. She would have to face the Duke and put on a brave face. She stared at herself in the mirror, astonished to see that she had not turned into some kind of vile succubus overnight. The reflection she saw was a lovely apparition of innocence. Hardly the aroused woman she had been several hours earlier.

But why do I feel so wanton, so utterly wicked when I am near him
? She plaited a matching ribbon though her hair.
There must be something wrong with me
.

With a last glance at her appearance and a final tweak to her glossy curls, Fenella made her way downstairs to the breakfast parlour. Perhaps the Duke would still be in bed. As she entered the sunny white-and-yellow room, there was no sign of him.

Hope rose in her heart. Perhaps he had slunk back to London again?

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” the Dowager greeted her warmly. “I thought you were ill or had a bad headache.”

Before Fenella could reply, the sound of silver salvers clanging startled her. She jumped with fright. It was the Duke, serving himself devilled kidneys and scrambled eggs from the sideboard. He had his back to her. Her heart leaped and she felt herself beginning to blush. Memories crowded into her mind of how close she had been to him just a short while ago. She could not help noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the way his cobalt blue coat fitted him like a glove. His fawn riding breeches outlined the firm muscled line of buttock and thigh, and she could have wept with shame as she recalled the thrill of feeling his body pressed against hers.

He turned and gazed at her with a sardonic expression. The left side of his face appeared swollen. He raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Yes, you do look a little heavy-eyed, Miss Preston. Did you have a bad night?”

Her head spun back into indignant reality. Fenella thought she would choke if she uttered a response to his feigned solicitude. The gall of the man! Pretending nothing had happened. He would not triumph over her with his sarcasm and veiled innuendoes. Two could play at his little game.

Fenella cast her eyes down in contrived innocence. “I confess I did not sleep too well.” Then she looked up at the Duke with a disarming smile, fluttering her lashes as well as any salon debutante. She put up a discreet hand to stifle a tiny yawn.

“I am sorry to hear it,” he said grimly. “Were you…disturbed in the night?”

The
double entendre
was clear to her. She fought down the wave of redness that threatened to reveal to him her recollection of what had happened.

“Actually, I was.” Fenella selected a piece of toast after careful study of the toast rack. “An owl, or some creature, woke me and after that I just couldn’t fall asleep again. I’m obviously not used to the customs and wild ways of the country.”

Her gaze was ingenuous, but a steely glint lurked in the violet depths of her eyes, daring him to draw her out once more.

To her immense satisfaction, he dropped his gaze and busied himself with the devilled kidneys. Flushed with success, she assumed an expression of deep concern and gave a delicate squeal as if noticing his face for the first time.

“My goodness! Whatever happened to your face, Your Grace?”

Fenella’s triumph knew no bounds when he reddened and pressed his lips together in a hard line. He did not answer her; however, his expression was severe. His knife and fork clattered against the plate.

“What?” the Dowager asked anxiously. “What has happened to you, Devlin, my dear? Are you hurt? Has an insect bitten you? Maybe it is a spider! We should get the doctor. A spider bite can be very dangerous.” She fumbled in her reticule. “Where is my lorgnette? Come closer to me, Devlin, and let me see. Do you wish Blenkins to send for Doctor Barclay?”

“Mama! I do not need the doctor,” Devlin replied testily, shooting a baleful glance at Fenella, who was engrossed in buttering her piece of toast with enthusiasm. “No insect has bitten me. I …er …stumbled in the library last night and fetched myself a blow on the face when I bumped against a bookcase. There is a slight swelling and I can assure you it will be gone in a day or two.”

Fenella pursed her lips together to contain her laughter while the Dowager delivered her son a lengthy homily on the virtues of reducing one’s alcohol intake. “For I know you must have been in your cups to do such a silly thing,” she scolded in closing.

Devlin scowled down at his plate. Blenkins, hovering in silent interest behind his master, gazed with an impassive face at an imaginary spot on the opposite wall.

“By the way, Blenkins,” the Duke said. “Please tell Mrs. Perkins the wax droplets on the Aubusson carpet are my fault and she is not to scold the parlour maids.” He glowered at his mother. “Yes, Mama, I dropped the candle when I stumbled.” He sent a smouldering glance toward Fenella, who had the grace to blush.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Blenkins murmured, maintaining his wooden countenance.

A footman opened the door and bowed to the Dowager.

“Yes, Roberts?” she asked. What is it?”

“Mr. Frederick Perivale, Your Grace,” he announced, as a magnificently attired Freddie bounced into the room.

“Greetings, Deverells all! Devlin, ma’am …” He broke off as he noticed Fenella.

She gazed up at him, a smile illuminating her lovely countenance.

“I say,” he stammered. “Ye Gods! By Jove! ’Pon my word! But I’m forgetting my manners.” He bowed to Fenella. “Your very humble servant, Miss…er.”

Freddie shot an injured glance at Devlin that said very clearly,
where have you been hiding her
?

Devlin glared at Freddie and mumbled a greeting, waving his hand at Blenkins to fetch another place setting. Blenkins sailed out while Freddie sidled round to Fenella’s side of the table.

“You’ll take breakfast with us of course, Freddie?” asked the Dowager, her tone of voice more a command than a request.

“Oh, yes,” Freddie breathed, sinking down next to Fenella. In fact, he had already enjoyed a hearty breakfast earlier, but for the opportunity of sitting next to Fenella, would have devoured an ox. “May I sit here, ma’am?”

“Of course you may,” the Dowager laughed. “Miss Preston won’t bite. Fenella, my dear, meet my favourite godson and Devlin’s childhood comrade, Mr. Frederick Perivale. Freddie, meet Miss Fenella Preston, my companion and friend.”

She peered closer at Freddie. “Good Heavens, what on earth are you wearing, dear boy?”

Freddie blushed. While he certainly did not consider himself one of the dandy set, his shirt points were extraordinarily high, in a style his valet had assured him was the sartorial pinnacle of gentlemen’s fashions. Turning his head, however, was quite difficult.

“You look as if you have a windmill tied round your neck,” the Dowager opined. “In fact, you look quite silly. You should dress like Devlin. He always looks very elegant. Like that delightful Mr. Brummell.”

“I say, ma’am, this is the
dernier cri
in Town; in fact as
cris
go, it’s about as
dernier
as you can get!” he protested.

“I still say it looks like a windmill, with lots of sails. And your hair looks so untidy, Freddie. I don’t think those curls are at all becoming on you. Is that really the latest style?”

“It’s called
la Confusion
,” Freddie squirmed, shooting a pained glance at Fenella.

“I can see why,” the Dowager retorted. “One would have to be completely confused to allow one’s valet to let one out looking like that.”

Fenella stifled a giggle. Clearly, Freddie was a slave to fashion and a subsequent victim of fashion. An alarmingly gaudy brocade waistcoat and a cravat that cascaded down his chest like a waterfall matched his high shirt points and elaborate confection of curls. His periwinkle coat looked too tight and Fenella was sure that loosening it would enable him to breathe better. He also wore a collection of fobs and seals, and an oversized quizzing glass on a long ribbon.

Freddie blushed as Fenella came to his rescue.

“Forgive me, Mr. Perivale, but I am so unaccustomed as to what is in mode that new fashions always appear quite glorious to me. What a splendid cravat. It looks like a waterfall.”

“By Jove! That’s exactly what the style is called, Miss Preston.” A joyful smile transformed Freddie’s dejected countenance. “Waterfall! You are so clever …not that I mean you’re a bluestocking, but you know …”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Fenella glanced at Devlin and was shocked to see the Duke staring with what appeared to be pure malevolence at his best friend.

“What are you doing here, Freddie?” Devlin asked in a glacial tone.

Entranced by the vision of loveliness at his side and managing mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and gulps of tea at the same time, Freddie was too distracted to notice the Duke’s intense displeasure. “What? Oh, yes! Was worried about you, after the club. In your cu—”

He stammered to a halt and blushed, casting a guilty glance in the Duke’s direction.

The Dowager shook her head in mock despair.

“So, when I went round to your lodgings this morning and found you weren’t there, I decided to dash down to Deverell House and pay a visit.”

“Are you going to dash back this evening?” The Duke ground his words through gritted teeth.

“Oh, no!” Freddie said, attacking his eggs with gusto. “Thought I would come down for a day…or two.” He gazed in adoration at Fenella. “A few days?”

He shot an anxious glance at the Dowager. “If that’s not inconvenient to you, ma’am?” he beseeched his hostess with melting brown eyes. “I took the trouble of packing a…er…small bag.”

The Dowager laughed, clapped her hands and said, “What a capital idea. My dear Freddie, please stay and entertain us. How splendid. Miss Preston must be so bored with just Devlin and me for company.” She turned to the Duke. “Isn’t it a wonderful idea, Devlin?”

“Yes, wonderful,” Devlin replied through tight lips.

Freddie grinned at Devlin and noticed the Duke’s swollen face. “By Jove! What happened to you? Someone plant you a facer?” He turned apologetically to the two women. “Sorry, ladies.”

“Oh, no!” Fenella trilled with mock anxiety. “The Duke had an awful accident last night.” The light of revenge gleamed in her eyes as she carefully decorated another piece of toast with a few blobs of strawberry jam.

“An accident? Er …last night, you say?” Freddie looked mystified. “’Pon my word! What happened?”

“He fell against the bookcase and goodness me, what a huge nasty swelling has come up.” Fenella gazed at the Duke with wide-eyed concern. “How dreadful, don’t you think?”

Freddie stared at Devlin with his eyebrows knitted together in a bewildered frown.

“I have some estate business to attend to this morning.” Devlin rose from the table. “Care to come along with me, Freddie?”

“Of course not,” his mother said. “Freddie will keep us company while you attend to things.” She smiled at Freddie. “Won’t you, dear boy?”

Freddie looked as if he were about to burst with joy. “Of course, ma’am! At your service.”

“So, run along now, Devlin.” The Dowager gave an imperious wave of her hand. “Miss Preston and I will see you later.”

The Duke stalked from the room.

“Well, dear Freddie,” the Dowager said. “If you will attend upon us, we shall take a turn in the rose garden. It is particularly beautiful at this time of the year.”

“Enchant
é
, Madame
.” Freddie beamed, bowing over the Dowager’s hand.

“What flummery.” She flapped him away, but the delighted smile on her face showed she had a soft spot for the incorrigible Frederick Perivale.

Molly bustled about, fetching shawls and parasols, and soon they crossed the lawn in search of the rose garden. The trio strolled arm in arm to the garden seat.

“So, do you really speak French?” Fenella asked.

“Yes, I do.” Freddie reddened. “But don’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Why ever not?” Fenella laughed, amused by his sudden embarrassment and polite distress.