Duke of Pleasure

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  How had she worked such magic?

  She glanced up over their heads, her brown eyes glowing at him. “Miss me, guv?”

  He had, oh, he had. “Where have you been, Alf?”

  His tone was rougher than he’d intended.

  “Oh, here and there.” Her smile didn’t dim. “I’ve things to see to. Doesn’t interfere with learning to be a lady.”

  “I know that.” He cleared his throat. “What things have you seen to?”

  She looked down at the boys. “I have a friend I visit sometimes. A little girl named Hannah. She lives in the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in St Giles.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “How old is she?”

  “About your age.” Alf brushed back his hair. “She’s got red hair and a friend called Mary who’s only four.”

  Peter’s nose wrinkled. “That’s a baby.”

  Alf laughed. “That’s what Hannah says, too.”

  She had her own life, out there in St Giles. Hugh stared. Someone had taught her to use those swords. He’d never asked who.

  “And did you see anyone else?” he asked abruptly. A friend? A lover?

  “Oh, a fair number of people, guv,” she said, gently mocking. “There’s many who live in St Giles. But mostly I went to see Hannah and to check on my rooms.”

  “Ah.” He realized his headache had eased. Jenkins had commented just yesterday while giving him his draught that he hadn’t had to make the concoction as often when Alf was about. Hugh had near bitten the poor man’s head off. “How are your lessons progressing?”

  She winced. “Fairly well except for dancing. I—”

  Something squeaked from inside the covered basket.

  Both boys were immediately on the alert.

  “What’s that?” Peter crawled over to the basket and peered at it without touching. Kit came to stand watching over his brother’s shoulder.

  “Something I found in St Giles.” Alf glanced at Hugh, her eyes mischievous, and he was immediately suspicious. “You can open it if you’d like.”

  Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “What—?”

  But he was too late. Peter had already unlatched the basket and flipped back the lid.

  “Oh!” Kit said, sounding so young, so sweet—sweeter than he’d sounded since Hugh had returned from the Continent.

  Both boys were crowded close to the basket, so Hugh couldn’t see what was within, and Peter was making high cooing noises.

  This did not sound good.

  Then Kit abruptly sat down on his bottom with a struggling puppy in his arms. The animal was wriggling and licking the boy’s face, and Kit…

  Kit, his always-angry son, was giggling.

  “Let me hold him, Kit, please, please, please!” Peter said impatiently, and Hugh waited for the explosion and the argument.

  Instead the older boy smiled at his brother. “Sit down, then, Petey, so you don’t drop her.”

  “Her?” Peter asked, sounding confused.

  “She’s a girl dog, silly,” Kit replied with elder-brother wisdom, but not unkindly.

  He waited until Peter was sitting next to him and then placed the puppy in his brother’s lap. “Hold her around her tummy, but not too tight. Don’t want to squish her.”

  “I won’t,” Peter promised fervently.

  He grinned down at the puppy now gnawing on his thumb. It was a small thing, most likely some sort of terrier, with soft-looking, medium-length, caramel-colored fur, darker around the muzzle and on the back.

  “What’s her name?” Kit asked Alf.

  “I don’t know.” Alf shrugged. “I thought you could figure that out for yourselves.” She glanced at Hugh, a wicked gleam in her eye. “That is, if your father lets you keep her.”

  Oh, the little imp. What he wouldn’t give for two minutes alone with her right now to show her what he thought of this subversion.

  He cleared his throat and watched as both boys turned pleading gazes toward him. Kit’s face, he noticed, had lost its previous gaiety. Why was he always the presumed wrongdoer? “You may keep the dog.”

  His announcement brought forth exclamations of great joy from both boys, making the dog yip.

  Hugh eyed the excitable trio. “Perhaps we should take her out into the garden.”

  The boys were out the French doors with the puppy before he’d finished the sentence.

  He sighed and levered himself out of the chair, eyeing Alf as he rose. “So you’ve been in St Giles all this time?”

  Her cocky smile had died. “No. Part of the time I was at Iris’s house at lessons. As I told you.”

  “I’ve hardly seen you,” he said moodily.

  “I thought that was what you wanted,” she replied, her small expressive face closed. “You kissed me and then said you didn’t know what to do with me. You avoided me.”

  “That hardly matters.” He flung up a hand irritably. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  She lifted her chin. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be telling you everywhere I go, guv. You never mentioned.”

  “Didn’t I?” he growled, taking that chin in hand.

  He glanced at the windows. The boys were chasing the puppy down the graveled path. He bent and took her mouth, hard and fast and not nearly enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  When he raised his head again it was to breathe words across her parted lips. Words he didn’t stop to think about. Words that came straight from that part of himself he’d thought he’d locked away deep inside: “I’ll say it now, then. You tell me where you are and what you’re doing until such time as I’m done with you, do you understand?”

  “Oh, I think I understand, guv,” she whispered, and though her words were a concession, her tone was not.

  She turned and walked out the French doors.

  Damn it.

  He wished for a wild moment that she’d hit him instead. That she’d yelled and raged so he could yell and rage in return. So he could unloose everything that he held so tightly inside. Everything animal and uncivilized that wanted to simply take her and damn the consequences and all that he knew would be the result.

  Except he wasn’t an animal. He wasn’t uncivilized. He was a man in control of his emotions. A man led by his mind not his cock.

  But as he followed Alf out into the garden, watching the sway of her hips as she descended the steps, he wondered if he was simply fooling himself.

  For he wasn’t sure he’d ever be done with Alf.

  A WEEK LATER Alf lifted her arms as two of Iris’s lady’s maids helped her into the outer robe of her gown.

  They were in a guest room of Kyle House. Iris sat on a gilded chair, her own cream-and-pink skirts pooled around her, having dressed hours before. She was directing Alf’s toilet, and Alf was ever so glad to have her there.

  Tonight she’d either turn a bare fortnight’s lessons in being a lady into success, or make a right ass out of herself.

  Alf stood in the middle of the room, already dressed in silk stockings, garters, heeled shoes, linen chemise, stays, small panniers tied at her waist, and embroidered petticoats. The outer robe was a bloody gorgeous deep violety-purple silk that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. A flat ruffle of the same material was sewn all down the edges of the front and the hem of the skirt of the outer gown.

  The maids placed the V of the embroidered stomacher between the edges of the outer gown and began pinning the two together.

  Alf stared at the painted molding on the ceiling. This was the hardest part—standing still while the maids worked on dressing her as if she were a prize mare at a fair. The first time she’d done it, she’d spent the entire time torn between apologizing to the poor maids for having to work on her and wanting to make a run for it.

  Standing still like this while others plucked and poked at her was like having bedbugs crawling all over her skin, never knowing where they might bite.

  She shivered at the thought and met Iris’s eyes.

>   The older woman gave her an encouraging smile. “Not much longer now.”

  Alf nodded and firmed her lips. The stomacher was almost pinned in place. She held her arms out to the sides so a third lady’s maid could start sewing the lace falls onto her sleeves. The sleeves came just to her elbows, and there were three layers of lace. They were so pretty, they made her feel like a swan. She wished Ned could see her in this grand dress.

  Ned would’ve loved this dress. They used to dream of pretty clothes, huddled together in a shared bed at night in St Giles. They’d dreamed of fine food and heated rooms, too.

  She blinked hard, for her face was already painted and she mustn’t ruin the white rice powder.

  The maid finished the lace falls and stepped back to pinch and fuss with her skirts.

  Iris stood examining her carefully. “I think you’ll—”

  The door to the room burst open, and Peter came running in, followed by the puppy and his older brother. “Alf! Alf!”

  The boy caught sight of her and stopped so suddenly he nearly toppled over.

  Kit stumbled to a halt and frowned, staring at her.

  The puppy was the only one who kept going, sniffing around the floor in interest.

  “Alf?” Peter asked, sounding very unsure. His blue eyes were wide and wondering.

  She smiled down at him. “How are you, my lord?”

  He burst into tears. “You’re not Alf!”

  For a second she could only stare between the boys, Peter sobbing as if his little heart was broken and Kit looking suspicious and almost betrayed.

  She swallowed, feeling shattered. Maybe he was right, something inside her whispered, maybe she wasn’t Alf anymore all painted and primped. Maybe she’d given up everything that was really her.

  Iris stepped forward but Alf said, “No.” She looked at the other woman. “Just… let me talk to them, please?”

  Iris’s blue-gray eyes were gentle and understanding. “Of course.” She turned and motioned for the maids to come with her to the far side of the room.

  That left Alf and the boys a bit of privacy.

  Alf bent—very carefully, because she was all dressed now, ready for the ball tonight. Ready for the important job that Kyle wanted her to do.

  “Peter,” she said. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “You’re all wrong,” the little boy sobbed. “Your face is funny and you’re a lady. Alf isn’t a lady.”

  “I can be,” she said. “It’s just a dress and rice powder. Underneath I’m still Alf.”

  “But you look different,” Kit said. He was still frowning—hard like his father.

  She glanced at him and smiled. “Isn’t that a good thing? Don’t you like my ball gown?”

  “I liked you as you were.” Kit thought about this, his small brows drawn together. “It’s a pretty gown,” he added grudgingly.

  Peter wiped his eyes, snuffling loudly. “Why’re you in a big dress now?”

  “I’m going to a ball,” she said. “With Lady Jordan and your papa.”

  “A ball?” The younger boy scrunched up his face in apparent disgust. “But me and Kit were coming to tell you that we thought of a name for her.”

  Alf immediately knew who her was. She glanced at the little terrier. It had sat down, back legs splayed to the side, and was looking at her with sad eyes. That was what had made her pay a shilling for the puppy in the first place: its funny sad eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked, smiling.

  He leaned close and whispered as if it was a secret, “Pudding.” He straightened. “I thought of it all by myself.”

  Behind him Kit snorted. “Pudding’s a lot better than what your other ideas were.” He rolled his eyes in elder-brother exasperation. “And you cried until I said it was acceptable.”

  Fortunately, Peter didn’t take offense at Kit’s statement.

  “I think it’s a lovely name,” Alf said, stroking the puppy with a forefinger.

  Behind them Iris cleared her throat.

  Alf swallowed. It must be nearly time to go. Time to face Kyle. Time to see if she could fool a room full of London aristocracy into believing she was a lady.

  “I have to leave now,” she told the boys. “But I’ll come see you and Pudding tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” Kit said, sounding like a small gentleman, which she supposed he was. “Good night, Alf.”

  He took his brother’s hand and led him from the room, the puppy following.

  “Are you ready?” Iris asked her.

  Alf glanced at her. “Almost.”

  She walked to a table by the door where three of her daggers lay. She might be dressed like a lady, but she was still on a mission tonight—and that meant going in armed. She shoved a very thin, sheathed dagger down between her breasts, under her corset. The next she placed in her right garter against her outer thigh. And the third, the smallest, she carefully shoved up her left sleeve.

  She made sure her skirt was straight and that the knife up her sleeve wouldn’t fall out by accident, and then she nodded at Iris, who was watching her, wide eyed.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  That night the Black Warlock returned home. He summoned his son to him and said, “I have destroyed the White Sorceress and her family. All that she had is now mine. It is time, therefore, that you begin your training as my heir to the Black Kingdom.”

  The Black Prince calmly inclined his head and said, “Yes, Father.”…

  —From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

  Hugh stood waiting in the entry hall to Kyle House. Iris and Alf should have been down by now—the carriage was already outside.

  He had an uncharacteristic urge to pace.

  Was Iris unable to dress Alf? Perhaps the woman had had a last-minute attack of nerves. That didn’t seem like the Alf he knew, though. Once committed to a course, she was brave to the point of mulishness. In fact he’d hardly seen her in the last day or so. She’d spent almost all her time in the company of Iris, learning how to pass herself off as a lady.

  On his orders.

  Hugh cursed under his breath, making his butler glance at him. It had been the right decision—the only decision. Why, then, did he feel so restless now?

  He needed her as a lady—as a woman—to infiltrate Dowling’s study. He needed her as a woman to do the job. He needed her as a woman to…

  Blast.

  Perhaps he simply needed her as a woman period. As a man needs a woman. And if so, this was a fine time to come to that realization, just before an important and possibly dangerous mission.

  And if he’d pushed her too far too soon?

  He halted and bowed his head. Then he’d just have to comfort his little imp until she was strong enough to make the attempt again.

  He drew a breath and straightened. Damn it, where the hell were they?

  A step on the stairs drew his gaze upward. Iris was gliding down sedately.

  Hugh strode to the bottom of the grand staircase.

  “Where is she?” he asked softly as she made the bottom step. “Is everything all right?”

  Iris lifted her eyebrows in what looked like amusement—which didn’t make his mood any better. “Of course. Alf is right behind me.”

  She turned and looked up.

  He followed her gaze.

  Alf was there on the landing, standing in a purple dress that made her skin look like white rose petals, gleaming and soft. Her dark hair had been pulled away from her face into a knot at the crown of her head, revealing her delicate bone structure, her long, slim swan’s neck, and her huge brown eyes. Her lips were erotically wide in that elfin face, lush and red and sensual, and he wanted to bite them. To take her into another room and smear the pristine powder and rouge.

  He made his gaze sweep down, though it did little to calm his pounding heart. The dress was a ball gown and had a deep, square, and nearly indecent décolletage. Her small breasts were pushed into sweet
mounds that made him wonder just how close her nipples were to the edge of the bodice.

  Jesus.

  He felt as if he’d been knifed in the gut.

  Her eyes were on his as she descended the stairs slowly, her gaze wild and shy and so very brave. He held out his hand as her slippered foot touched the marble of the hallway.

  She placed her hand in his.

  “Well?” Iris whispered next to him. “Will she do? Is she adequate to your needs, my dear Hugh?”

  He kept his gaze on Alf’s as he raised her hand to his lips. He saw her eyes widen as he murmured, “She’s perfect.”

  Beside him Iris chuckled. “Yes, she most certainly is.”

  Hugh cleared his throat and finally glanced at Iris—his friend Iris. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t necessarily do it for you, darling.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a slightly mocking look. “We’d best be away, hadn’t we?”

  “Indeed.” He held out an elbow to each lady and led them out the door. “You have your masks?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Alf’s upper-class accent was nearly perfect now. She shot a small smile at him as he helped her into the carriage. “Iris has them in her bag.”

  He glanced over and saw that Iris did indeed have a small silk drawstring bag on her wrist. He handed Iris into the carriage and then entered himself. He was wearing a black domino, but the ladies would wear only masks for the masquerade.

  He knocked on the roof to let the driver know they were ready before sitting opposite Alf and Iris.

  The carriage had been hired for the evening so that no markings could give his identity away.

  Hugh stared at the women, Alf in her new incarnation, oddly self-possessed, Iris beginning to fidget nervously.

  “It’s a ball like any other,” he told them, though it was Iris he was mainly speaking to. “We’ll be masked. No one will be paying particular heed to us.”

  That was a bit of a lie. Dowling, if he was indeed part of the Lords of Chaos’s inner circle, must at the very least be on the watch for him after the debacle over Crewe. Then, too, the man might be wary for other reasons with both Crewe and Chase recently dead under suspicious circumstances.