by Amy Jarecki
THE DUKE’S UNTAMED DESIRE
A Devilish Dukes Novel
by
Amy Jarecki
Rapture Books
Copyright © 2019, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
The Duke’s Untamed Desire
ISBN: 9781942442318
First Release: April, 2019
Book Cover Design by: Dar Albert
Edited by: Scott Moreland
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
To Bob.
Table of Contents
THE DUKE’S UNTAMED DESIRE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Excerpt from The Duke’s Fallen Angel
Other Books by Amy Jarecki
About the Author
Chapter One
16th May 1818
Georgiana gaped at the actor while her dreams crumbled about her feet like an overdone pound cake. “You cannot read?”
Mr. Walpole winced, tugging on his neckcloth. “Ah…no, my lady.”
Could things grow worse? Left with few options but to hire Palmer Walpole, Georgiana had already made too many mistakes. Yesterday during his audition, his soliloquy had been flawless; he’d also seemed quite sober. Though this morning the actor had shown up smelling as if he’d slept on the floor of a tavern.
Now it was too late to find a replacement. Moreover, if she, a mere woman, summoned the courage to stand on a platform at the Southwark Fair and hold forth about her late husband’s steam pumper, she’d be laughed off the stage and carted to an asylum.
At least Mr. Walpole looked the part—a bit of gray at his temples, a contemplative expression fixed on his face, which might be due to the effect of stupefaction brought on by imbibing in too much gin. Nonetheless, all the man need do was recite from the script she had prepared listing the attributes of the new steam-powered fire engine. Except he couldn’t read.
Dash it, she should have thought of such a conundrum.
The actor held the parchment within an inch of his nose and examined it upside down. “You didn’t say you needed me to study lines.”
“No?” she asked, doing her best to contain her frustration. “How else would you know what to say?”
Mr. Walpole rubbed the back of his neck—not a good sign. Goodness, he’d performed at Covent Garden. Yet, of all the questions she’d asked him yesterday, the ability to read hadn’t been one of them.
Georgiana drew the list from his fingertips. “How do you usually manage to learn your part?”
“Someone reads me my lines and I memorize.”
She glanced to the machine. Everything was ready. This was her chance to find a financier. The moment she’d been waiting for. Biting her bottom lip, she gave him a once-over. “If I succinctly relay each important point, can you commit my list to memory in ten minutes?”
Though his mouth was agape, he uttered no sound for at least five seconds. “All that in ten minutes?”
“This has the workings of a disaster.” She threw out her hands. “But you’ve done demonstrations at fairs before.”
“Oh, absolutely. All manner of acting and dancing—fairs, the Garden, Vauxhall. I sing as well as play the violin.”
“I’m sure a delightful waltz will help draw investors,” she said dryly, looking to the skies. This was her due for hiring an unknown. Well, she couldn’t back down now. “Here’s how we’ll proceed: I’ll stand behind you and whisper your lines whilst you act as if you are the most renowned inventor in the world. Can you manage that?”
Mr. Walpole smoothed his fingers down his lapels like a distinguished gentleman. “I most certainly can, my lady.” At least his ability to perform was never in question.
“Very well.” With a bit of improvisation, the demonstration might be a success after all. “The most important thing to remember is the steam pumper is far superior to any fire engine in use today. Every town and estate ought to have one. It pumps two hundred gallons per minute—far more than a hand-operated pump, and—”
“A moment, please.” The actor cleared his throat. “That enormous contraption is a steam pumper did you say?”
Good glory, I am doomed. “Yes.” She gestured to the iron engine on wheels—the culmination of six years of tireless work, the last of which she’d accomplished alone without Daniel—the true inventor and scholar. “The most important fact to remember is this new invention is a fire engine powered by steam.”
“Does it work?”
“As long as there is a water supply nearby—” At Walpole’s blank expression, Georgiana’s explanation abruptly halted. For this man to understand the significance of her husband’s design, she must make things clearer. “The current manual-stroke pumps tire the strongest of men in five to ten minutes. Correct?”
“Ah…yes, yes you are correct, madam.”
“Excellent. Now picture this: The steam pumper does not require manual labor at all and shoots more water farther than its hand-stroked counterparts. Is that clear?”
Mr. Walpole smiled—not precisely a smile, but more of a grimace. “Perfectly.”
Why wasn’t she convinced?
“Are you ready, my lady?” asked Roddy, the errand boy she’d brought along to light the fire and keep it burning. With an intelligent glint in his eye, Georgiana was convinced the lad of fourteen would be a far better spokesperson than Palmer Walpole, who had already insisted on half his wages up front.
She looked to the fire engine and back to the young man. “We’ll need to make a slight adjustment for the demonstration. Remember when I showed you how to throw the lever?”
“I sure do.”
“Well, it turns out I’m required on stage, so you must do it.” She grasped the boy by the shoulders. “Once you engage the engine, you’ll need to be quick. It is imperative that you assume control of the hose immediately and douse the flame. Can you manage that for me?”
“You’re allowing me to throw the lever?” Roddy threw up his fists like a champion. “Yes, my lady. I can do it. You can depend on Roderick Toombs for certain.”
“That’s exactly what I like to hear.” If only Mr. Walpole exhibited half as much confidence, the roiling in the pit of Georgiana’s stomach might ease. “How long has the coal been burning?”
Roddy held up the pocket watch she’d given him. “A good twenty minutes.”
“And the holding tank is full?”
“Yes, my lady. Double
checked it myself.”
“And there’s more coal at the ready?”
“Aye.”
“Very well. Remember to keep the fire hot while Mr. Walpole is talking.”
“I will. And I’ve piled the wood for the demonstration. It is ready to set alight when you give the word.”
“Excellent.” With his vigor, the boy certainly had all the qualifications to succeed when he reached his majority. “Tell me, Roddy, can you read?”
He puzzled. “Read?”
“We shall discuss such a virtuous and important skill after we return to the town house.”
She smoothed her hands down her black mourning gown. Daniel had been gone for over a year now, but she still wore black from head to toe. She tugged her poke bonnet lower on her brow to ensure her hair was secured beneath. After adjusting the spectacles she’d purchased to provide a modicum of disguise at the request of her father, Georgiana gave the actor a nod. “A good opening might be, ‘ladies and gentlemen, gather round—’”
“Not to worry, Your Ladyship. That’s the easy part.”
To Georgiana’s surprise, Palmer Walpole became a different man onstage. To the tune of the engine’s gentle pops and rumbles, he introduced the steam pumper as if he were an expert on the subject of fire engines and, as she whispered key attributes, he held forth with gusto. By the time a good-sized crowd had amassed, she gave Roddy the cue to start the wood fire for the demonstration.
“We are looking for venture capital. Someone to partner with us in the manufacture of the Whiteside steam-powered fire pumps,” the actor repeated as she whispered the most critical information. “Fires will be snuffed before a building can be badly burned, saving lives, livestock and cherished family heirlooms. No town or estate should be without—”
“That’s all well and good, but where does the water come from?” asked a man from the crowd. Wearing a beaver hat and an exquisitely cut tailcoat, the gentleman pushed through to the front of the dais and stood with his fists on his hips.
Though the expression on his dark features was quite arresting, butterflies en masse swarmed through Georgiana’s stomach. The man had asked a very reasonable question and, by his commanding presence, he was completely engaged. Further, he looked like he was exactly the financier she needed. A real magnate—a man of money.
Bless the stars. At long last, she stood on the precipice of realizing her dreams.
Walpole’s jaw dropped. “Ah…there’s a reservoir?” he asked as if hadn’t a clue.
“Yes, but the reservoir is only the beginning,” she shouted in a whisper while smiling at her potential partner. “The engine draws the water from a source, like a well or a pond.”
The man stroked his fingers along his square jaw, turning a critical eye. “Is the woman speaking for you?”
“Ah…er…noooo.”
Georgiana’s pulse raced. Good heavens, an obviously wealthy gentleman was showing interest in her machine and the accursed actor decided now was a brilliant time to grow tongue-tied? She gave Roddy a nod to start the wood fire then, adjusting her spectacles, she moved forward and held forth about the various options for the water source.
As she spoke, the magnate looked her from head to toe as if she’d descended from the moon. When she stopped to take a breath, he addressed Mr. Walpole. “What about the hose? Will it not burst under such pressure?”
“Not at all.” Squaring her shoulders, Georgiana nudged the dumbstruck actor aside and continued, “Whiteside hoses are reinforced with copper-riveted seams. Moreover, they are coupled every fifty feet. With estimated pressures of one hundred pounds per square inch, pumping a distance of, say, seventy-five feet is entirely possible.”
“Seventy-five feet? Now I know you’re telling tall tales.” With a snort, the man batted his silver-tipped cane through the air and turned on his heel.
Georgiana tugged Mr. Walpole forward while the crowd began to dissipate. “We’re losing them,” she growled through clenched teeth.
“Do you know who that is?” the actor asked as if the performance had come to an end.
“This is no time to stand about discussing who is who,” she snapped, thrusting her finger at the steam pumper. “Now, Roddy!”
The boy threw the lever and ran around the front to man the hose.
Except he wasn’t fast enough.
Under extreme pressure, the line came to life, whipping through the air like a serpent and sousing everyone within fifty feet. Men and women shrieked and ran while Roddy grappled with the hose, taking a whack to the face in the process.
When the lad at last managed to wrap his fingers around the nozzle, he leveled the spray straight ahead.
Lord, no.
Within the blink of an eye, Georgiana’s potential investor was completely doused. Saturated. Deluged. Extinguished. The gentleman’s hat flew off as the blast of water struck him directly in the center of his well-cut, beautifully tailored tailcoat. How he managed to remain standing was only a testament to his robust stature.
When all two hundred gallons finally emptied from the tank, the man whipped around with fury in his eyes. A bit of steam rose from his shoulders while he homed his gaze on Georgiana and shook his walking stick as if he might be about to strike her with it. “Women have no business tinkering with machines, especially something as powerful as a steam engine. Take this monstrosity and throw it in the Thames!”
Could a person wilt? Perhaps not, but she might crawl under the dais and hide for the rest of her days. Georgiana didn’t have the resources to travel about the country in hopes of finding financial backing. She’d only come to London because her parents were in residence for the Season and, though the Baron and Baroness of Derby hadn’t approved of her marriage to a poor inventor, they had agreed to allow her to store the steam pumper behind their mews while she organized demonstrations in London—and that arrangement had taken all but an act of God. Papa wanted nothing to do with steam power—or anything that had interested Daniel Whiteside.
Having managed to remain completely dry, Mr. Walpole stared at her as if in shock. “Do you know who you just drowned with two hundred gallons of water at one hundred pounds per square inch?”
She splayed her fingers. How would the man’s throat look with her hands wrapped around it? “Now you choose to commit such an important tidbit of information to memory?”
“That…” He pulled out a snuff box. “Was the bloody Duke of Evesham.”
A duke?
Perhaps wilting wasn’t enough. Perhaps Georgiana ought to throw herself in the Thames along with her monstrosity. Of course, the well-dressed, very handsome dandy was a duke. Prickly heat spread across her skin. Why couldn’t he be a visitor from the Continent or a sea captain scheduled to set sail for the next decade?
“Aye.” Mr. Walpole sneezed. “And he’s the wealthiest, most notorious rake in London. I reckon every woman within fifteen miles of Town would recognize him. He’s in the papers often enough. I’m surprised you didn’t.”
“Perhaps that’s because I’ve been living in a workshop in Thetford for the past six years. I wouldn’t recognize the Prince Regent if he kissed my hand.”
Georgiana wandered down the steps while tears stung the back of her eyes.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Roddy said, a bruise rising on his forehead. “I had no notion the hose would come alive like that.”
“Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “You have a knot on your head. Are you in pain?”
“It doesn’t hurt. I just feel as if I’ve let you down.”
She mussed his sandy hair. “’Tis no one’s fault but my own. We needed more people—one to run the engine and one to man the hose…and next time, Mr. Walpole had best have his lines memorized.”
That was if the Duke of Evesham didn’t take measures to ban her from giving demonstrations within a hundred miles of London.
***
Soaking wet and furious, Fletcher Markham hired a sedan chair to take him home. Normally, he�
�d enjoy a stroll across the old London Bridge on a fine afternoon such as this, but not today. Aside from being a tad under the weather from a late night at Whites’ back-room card table, the incident with the damned steam pumper had all but burst his spleen.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen complete nincompoops try to bring something untried and utterly useless to market. Did they not know how important developing a functional steam-powered fire engine was? Dammit all, with the force of the water blasting from the hose, those idiots could have seriously injured someone. What if a child had been in the line of fire?
And that puritan woman stepping in front of the inventor and speaking as if she’d built the damned thing herself was bloody absurd. Obviously, she’d spent hours memorizing facts and figures provided by her stage-frightened accomplice.
He groaned. Fletcher was most likely as interested in fire engines as anyone in England. He had cause to be. At the tender age of sixteen, he’d been away at Eton when he’d lost his mother in a fire. God rest the soul of the only person on earth who’d ever given a damn about him.
After paying the two footmen for the lift, the door to his town house swung open. “Your Grace, I didn’t expect to see you return this early,” said Smith, holding out his palm to take Fletcher’s hat and gloves. “My word, are you wet?”
“Soaked to the bloody bone,” he growled, marching through the entry. “Some henpecked steam engine inventor with no clue about dousing fires gave an abysmally amateur demonstration at the Southwark Fair.”
“’Tis a shame,” said the butler. “It would ease your mind a great deal to have such equipment at Colworth.”
Fletcher shuddered. Though he might convince himself the involuntary action was due to being wet and cold, even after four years of dukedom, the name of the immense Tudor mansion still sounded like the foreboding castle where his father resided—the sprawling thirty-five thousand acre country estate upon which Fletcher had only gazed from a distance until the former duke was on his deathbed. Realizing his only son was still a bastard, the man who had ignored Fletcher for six and twenty years called for his solicitors at the last minute and had claimed his son as his rightful heir.
