by Eva Devon
Once Upon A Duke
A Dukes’ Club Novel
By
Eva Devon
Bard Publishing Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Once Upon A Duke
Copyright © 2014 by Maire Creegan
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For more information: [email protected]
For my son.
The Joy you bring me is beyond words.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Preview of Dreaming of The Duke
Other Books by Eva Devon
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to Lindsey, Carol, Theresa, Delilah, Jenn, Kati, and Erin.
Without you all this adventure wouldn’t be possible.
Chapter 1
London
It is an accepted fact that a young widow, even a decidedly proper one, should not—absolutely not—knock on an infamous bachelor’s door. For such shocking action might result in the permanent eviction of said young widow from the society of all but Yorkshire sheepherders. Even so, Kathryn Darrell had decided that an entire life already spent rusticating in the country was significant reason to cause the largest scandal the Season had ever seen and she was going to do it with more panache than any other lady who’d launched herself into sin. So, without allowing herself to think twice, she lifted her chin and rapped on the door of Number Six Belgrave Square.
Kate drew in a calming breath. She had every right to feel uneasy. Spending months planning her own debauchery was one thing; executing it was quite another. She resisted the urge to glance back at her footman, Gregory, who waited with the coach. Instead, she kept her gaze firmly upon the dark blue door. The particularly brawny servant would only be a shout away if she needed.
While she intended to be bold, she was no fool. She’d more than enough experience with foolishness. And everything was running in perfect accordance to her plans. Plans she’d been forming for months. She’d set an appointment under the anonymous name of one Mr. Braithwait. Fortunately, nothing interfered with her scheduled drive to the appointment. Now, she was about to set sights on the handsome butler who would lead her up to his far more handsome master. She would finally step into a world distant from unkindness and castigation.
Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door. She stared at the beautifully carved double blue doors as if she could see who was on the other side.
A shattering crash echoed somewhere overhead and just as she looked up to the first floor, the door swung open, exposing a tall rectangle of candle glow and the silhouette of a squat man.
Kate jerked her gaze back to the butler in the doorway and blinked. Handsome the man was not. Crusty. It was the only word that came to mind.
He peered at her silently. Tufts of his eyebrows jutted out over his myopic blue eyes. He blinked.
Kate waited, hoping to God he would say something. She doubted the words “I’ve come to bed your master” would gain her admittance into the house and suddenly she found that her lips were rather reluctant to carry out her plan. Kate mustered her most winning grin, the grin she used to coax rectors, stubborn sheepherders, and too tightly laced curmudgeons of both the male and female variety. “I’ve come to see His Grace.”
The butler coughed lightly, bringing his gloved hand to his lips. “No.”
Kate pulled back her chin before she could stick it too far forward, a terrible habit she’d never broken. “No, sir?”
“No, miss.”
“But—” Well, what a dratted nuisance! Couldn’t the fellow just let her in? What possible excuse could she give to gain admittance to the abode of her impending debauchment? “But I have an appointment!”
He eyed her up and down and sniffed. “Do you, indeed?”
Kate nodded emphatically. “Braithwait.”
The butler stared blankly at her. “Mr. Braithwait?”
“Err.” She couldn’t exactly make a private appointment for a woman, now could she? “Why, yes.”
“I guarantee you are not a mister and even if you were—” A thundering crash cut the butler off. The old man sighed and wiped a hand over his wrinkled face.
Kate swung her gaze to the empty hall behind the old man. This was her chance!
Without thinking, Kate sucked in a breath and darted past the rickety man. If she was going to cause a bloody scandal, she might as well get on with the preliminaries and seize fate with both hands. . . or as the case might be, her fleet feet.
“Madam!” the butler shouted after her.
Kate kept running, her slippers sliding over the marble floor. A sense of panic and sheer glee at her cheekiness washed over her. She was breaking rules! More than she could count!
“Madam!”
Something yanked at Kate’s throat, bringing her to a quick halt. Her feet danced to keep her from falling.
She turned and spotted the butler with a fistful of her green cloak. She smiled waveringly at him, tempted to jerk the fabric away and make a mad dash for the sprawling marble stairs. But she was afraid if she did so, the old man would totter and splinter a hip.
The butler stuttered, his lips quivering. “Bugger it! Bl—” His fingers twitched around her cloak as he caught himself before uttering another foul oath. “Beg your pardon,” he wheezed.
After a few harrumphs, the butler narrowed his eyes and dropped the length of her cloak to the floor. “What on earth could warrant such a nice young lady as you to pretend to be a gentleman? And then fly into His Grace’s house like a filly on race day?”
Kate’s cheeks flushed. “I’ve a strong desire to make the duke’s acquaintance.”
“In private?”
Kate nibbled on her lip. Well, she was in for a penny she might as well go in for the pound. “Yes. . . in private.”
He shook his head, his white wig sliding slightly to the right. “Been reading the gossip sheets have you?”
She smiled tightly, hardly believing she was discussing this with the old man. Any of the elders in Shropshire would have keeled over at the very idea. “He is in the paper frequently,” she pointed out.
The butler snorted. “Blasted Snodgrass. Duke of Debauchery, indeed. Codswallop.”
Kate laughed nervously. “If the gossip is true, I’d prefer you didn’t throw me out.”
The butler arch
ed a shaggy brow and looked her up and down with a new degree of annoyance. “I see.” He gazed up at the frescoed ceiling and paused. His stiff shoulders, which were clad in green livery, relaxed. As if he could actually see something through the intricately painted ceiling, he murmured, “Perhaps you’ll do.”
Kate stared up, hoping for some illumination as to what she might do for, but the ceiling remained just that, a ceiling, and a decidedly suspicious feeling twisted up her already knotted stomach.
He strode in the calm manner of butlers to the curved stairs. “Follow me.”
Kate glanced back at the door, giving thought to the safety of her vehicle and her footman. No. She’d come too far to turn tail and run now, but she certainly hadn’t envisioned the evening including such an odd interlude with the butler.
Oh, no. She had envisioned silks, velvets and a splendid entrance through the gateway of pleasure. This felt like an admittance to a house built for the batty.
Regardless, Kate turned on her heel and summoned a resolve which had been drummed into her since before she could tie her own laces. The same resolve which, in the end, landed her in a bad marriage. Still, she wasn’t about to abandon it on the eve of untold rapture.
She followed the shuffling pace of the butler up the luxuriously carpeted staircase. Paintings of grand military exploits, some dating back to William the Conquerer, hung upon the gold-brocaded walls. The duke’s townhome was quiet elegance and its beauty was definitely appealing.
When they reached the first landing, the butler turned down the hall to the right towards the earlier crashing.
The loud noise had diminished, but Kate couldn’t ignore the fact that a rather deep voice was grumbling through the silk-covered walls.
The grumbling turned into shouts as they walked slowly down the hall. She frowned. Had she somehow mistaken the address? The paper had never mentioned the duke kept a lunatic in his abode. Considering all she’d read of the carefree, wild, war hero she’d expected the epitome of decadence.
As they neared the end of the hall, the butler slowed. He eased his way up to the last door, stretched out his hand and hesitated. He glanced back over his shoulder and whispered, “You’re certain?”
If her stomach had been a bit flighty before it turned positively riotous. Although now racked entirely by curiosity, she nodded sharply.
The butler knocked soundly. “Your Grace?”
There was a long pause then a voice straight out of the rumbling depths of Hell growled, “Sod off, Grieves.”
The butler pressed his hand to his cravat.
Kate dug her fingertips into her palms. Had that been him? Truly? A terrifying and confusing thrill ran straight down her spine and lingered right between her thighs. How could a voice be so shocking?
The infamous Duke of Debauchery sounded like he might tear his door down to throttle his own butler for disturbing him. Then again, he did also sport the rather dangerous moniker Duke of Death for his military exploits and victories on the dueling field. From Snodgrass’ tidbits, it seemed the man had a predilection for defying death. Upon reflection, perhaps such information should have deterred her from popping into his abode.
“I have something for you,” the butler said calmly, though his voice was somewhat higher in tone than before.
Something? Kate shifted uncomfortably, still trying to ignore the headiness of the duke’s voice. What the deuce? She was not and never had been a something. For seven and twenty years, she’d plodded along, following her father’s rules and then her husband’s. Upon finally gaining her freedom from both, she’d decided to never follow such strictures again. Though, her Aunt Gemima had warned her about the untimely consequences of impulsive behavior. She’d scoffed then, but standing in the duke’s hallway, she was beginning to think the old girl might have been right.
“What something?” The duke’s voice was more of a rough purr now.
“A human sacrifice.”
A what? Kate jerked back, blinking at the sudden notion of herself tied to a pole for the delectation of the man behind the door.
“Of the female variety,” the butler glibly added.
“Well, then, send her in.” The voice was careless and hypnotic at once.
Kate patted her little bonnet as if the thing might keep her brain from tumbling out of her astonished head. She wasn’t sure how the evening had swerved so far from her imaginings, but on the positive side—if there was a positive side—she was about to meet the man she’d been dreaming about for weeks. Now, one could only hope he didn’t turn out to be an utter nightmare.
The door swung open and the butler stepped aside.
She swallowed and stared at the open space.
“Don’t linger,” the duke barked. “Come in or get out.”
The direct challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet being thrown down between two knights and Kate was never one to back down from a challenge. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded at the butler then stepped right through the doorway and towards her own highly anticipated damnation.
*
Ryder Blake, the eleventh Duke of Darkwell, didn’t even blink as his next morsel walked through the door. Instead, he lifted his cigar to his lips, ignored the books and a few Grecian urns he’d flung to the floor, and took a long pull. He allowed the aromatic smoke to fill his mouth as he glanced over the latest variety in a long line of women who had come to him seeking sexual freedom.
This one was different. He didn’t even need to look at her to know that. Usually, when he gave the order to Grieves he was to remain undisturbed, the butler obeyed to the letter. Even if that meant no one was admitted to the house for days. Ryder blew out the smoke and the bad taste the thought gave him.
He had to admit there was nothing remarkable about her. Where some women were soufflés, she was a muffin. And from the firm line of her chin, perhaps a rather tart one.
Her bonnet, plain gray, perched on top of her blonde hair shadowed her pale skin and blue-gray eyes. Though she had high cheekbones, her face lacked the elegance of nobility and her lower lip was far too full. He dropped his gaze to her well-formed but average breasts and then down to her narrow waist. The curve of her hip was a mystery, hidden beneath the surprisingly small skirt given the fashion of the day.
Yes. She was average and in every way unremarkable except for the sheer determination and unmistakable intelligence glowing in her stormy eyes. A smile, a rarity for him, pulled at his lips. He had no doubt that those plain blue-gray eyes could riot into a tempest that would ignite the coldest of blood.
And she had come to him, the coldest of them all.
“So, my dear, you’ve come to the Duke of Debauchery, have you?” he drawled, giving her a mock bow, the smoke from his cigar swirling about his hand.
She frowned, a spark lighting her eyes. “When you put it like that, it certainly sounds…”
Lifting the cigar to his lips he drew in another long draw of the heady smoke, then tilted his head to the side, curious to see if she would prove to be just like the rest of the silly women who came to him. “Dramatic?” he asked, smoke whispering from his lips.
“Boring, actually.” She shifted on her slippered feet and smiled ruefully. “I must confess I expected a more enticing introduction.”
Ryder stared at her for a moment then laughed. The deep wave of sound started in his stomach and poured from his lips. “Well, good. At least you’re not a soft bit of lace.”
She smiled, even though her brows drew together in confusion. “That I am not.”
“No sherry for you then?” He crossed to the gold and black sideboard table standing near the fire.
“Brandy.”
Ryder glanced back over his shoulder. She smiled at him. He nodded. “Certainly.”
The woman was clearly unlike any of the others who had come to him. Of that, he was now most certain. She had no guile or artifice and he had the terrible feeling that if he asked her a question she would give him an honest, unguarde
d answer. This didn’t bode well for the evening. For the whole truth and honesty game was not for him. He much preferred the veil of lies that men and women wove to keep each other at a distance.
He grasped the cool decanter and poured the amber liquid into two crystal snifters. If she’d been one of the other wool-headed young women or bored wives, he would have sat and ordered her to come to him. She certainly didn’t meet his usual requirements, not having any of the self-obsession he usually preferred in the women he allowed into his bed. Self-obsessed women, he found, never became obsessed. Thus, he could boot them out the door with a bauble and a smile.
But there was something raw and innocent about her that had more fire than the most practiced of women. He lowered his gaze to her left hand. No ring. Nor did there appear to be a line about the finger which might indicate its temporary removal for a romp in his bed.
She was of an age to be married at least a few years over and yet, she was not. Was she a virgin? As he lifted his gaze back to her face, he realized it didn’t matter. Whatever her experiences, though few he was certain, she was unguarded and unaccustomed to the ways of an affair.
Oddly, instead of observing him observing her, she was glancing about, taking in the room, her hands clasped calmly before her as if she hadn’t stepped into one of the most notorious houses in London. As if she hadn’t heard the earlier sounds of his fury or noticed all the books and vases strewn across the floor.
Ryder ground his teeth together as he avoided looking at her simple dress and plainly styled hair. She was so unlike the powdered and belaced tarts who came for a tumble. This one, whether she knew it or not, needed more than a tumble to awaken her body. She needed the one thing he never gave—a meeting of the minds.
Slipping his cigar between his lips, Ryder looked down at the two glasses and, for a moment, considered tossing the contents and sending her off. But tonight, the darkness was pressing on him with renewed vigor and, for the first time in a long time, he actually allowed himself to consider indulging in a bit of company to ease the pain.
