by Stacy Reid
Taking a deep breath, Pippa wrote every reason she should not trust the duke or allow her foolish heart to be compromised. She must redeem Miranda’s honor. Pippa could not fight a duel on her behalf, nor did she have the power to disrupt his business and investments. But this she could do, warn other unsuspecting debutantes of his vile, wicked, and rakish behavior.
And I must keep my heart and reputation intact while I do it.
With a sigh, she glanced down at the writing in her hand, knowing she would not be able to publish it. For though Miranda was her friend, Pippa hadn’t witnessed his dastardly deed first-hand, so she needed evidence to corroborate Miranda’s painting of his character. Which Pippa had failed to do tonight. All she’d confirmed was the duplicity of the man. She folded the paper neatly and slipped it between her diary. Instead, she drew another sheet and recalled the scandalous drawings she had seen in his book.
A blush heated her cheeks. Pushing down the flutters in her heart and the peculiar heat in her belly, she started to write.
A duke by any other name! This author…
Chapter 7
A duke by any other name! Touted as honorable, and a sterling example all young bucks should emulate. This author has it on the highest authority that a certain duke is nothing but a libertine who believes his lovers should be spanked. Grab your weekly features of the tattle to keep abreast with the Duke of Disgrace.
There were only a handful of dukes within society, and most were old and doddering. Only two other dukes were within his age, but it was he, Carlyle, those other young men were often urged to emulate. But the most heart-pounding fact was he had sensually spanked his lovers in the past. How many other dukes in society had such sexual urges and predilections they kept ruthlessly hidden as he did with his desires?
And how would this author—he glanced down at the signature—Lady W be privy to it? Worse, it was by sheer bloody chance, the headline which screamed Duke of Disgrace caught his attention. He did not live his life by chance or happenstance. His days and evenings were carefully planned and inked into a calendar, so there were no errors, no breaches in expectations, no possibility of scandal. It was the least he could do. For his father and his forefathers before, whose reputation had been the bedrock of their motto.
Duty and honor above all.
Another glaring fact he could not ignore: Miss Pippa Cavanaugh had seen his book of erotic drawings. Might it be that she had informed this Lady W of the explicit and lusty images? Was it that Miss Cavanaugh was prone to gossip and revealed their encounter? Christopher frowned. That assessment felt wrong. She had been so nervous he hadn’t the heart to inform her he knew her identity. He’d allowed her the disguise, charmed by her bravery, and delighted by her skill in playing chess. It was unlikely this woman would dare tell anyone she had been improper and broken into his home and found the scandalous drawings. The only other conclusion he could reasonably draw was that Miss Cavanaugh and Lady W were the same.
A far reach, but so probable. Astonished, he read the article once more. Duke of Disgrace. He couldn’t decide if he should admire her audacity or punish her for it. Society would be in a frenzy to figure out which particular duke this gossip spoke about. Another awareness flowered through him. If she was Lady W, she hadn’t broken into his home for silver, but for dirt and secrets. A cold chill of warning sliced through him. Did the foolish woman want him for an enemy?
The door to the breakfast room opened, and his mother sailed inside.
“Christopher, I see you have forgotten we were to meet today?”
His mother was gravely dignified and implacably garbed in black, her mane of golden hair piled high on her head. And had always been that way as long as he could remember. She sat beside him and lifted an imperious chin to the hovering footman, who hurried over to pour her tea. After taking a sip, she shifted her regard to Christopher and smiled her greeting. Of course, she wouldn't have kissed his cheek or touched his hand briefly. There had never been messy hugs from her or brushing kisses on his cuts when he’d hurt himself from playing. Yet he knew she had loved him with her entire heart. Just in a dignified, duchess like manner.
“I seem to have forgotten. What meeting?”
She arched an elegant brow. “Why to discuss the list of course.”
This arrested his attention wholly, and he folded the pressed paper and rested it beside his cup of coffee. “An investment list?”
“Do not be silly. The list of eligible ladies this season suitable for a union with our family.”
“Mother, I am not familiar with this list,” he murmured mystifyingly, though he’d suspected from her militant carriage.
She shot him a birdlike look of inquiry. “Oh? I thought Selina had informed you we would take a more active approach in the matter of finding you a duchess.”
Bloody hell. “I see.”
His mother smiled brightly, but her hazel eyes were hard and determined. “Yes, the girls and I met yesterday and we made a list of all the eligible young ladies this season. We referenced their dowries, and family connections and found seven girls who are just lovely, Christopher. I am sure you will be well pleased. Selina and I prefer Earl Rumford’s daughter. Lady Elinor’s carriage and comportment are that of a duchess. I daresay you will approve of the match.”
He took a contemplative sip of his coffee. “Why is it so important to you that I marry now?”
His mother inhaled sharply. “You are Carlyle! Your dukedom is one of the most prestigious of this country. Not just anyone can be your duchess. She must be impeccable. It is your duty—”
“I know my duty,” he interrupted gently. “My first memories of father were sitting atop his shoulders as he guided me to understand what it means to be a duke. I know what my responsibilities are to my tenants, the various estates, and my family. I appreciate the interest you take in my life. I love that you and Selina and Amelia care about my happiness. But I will choose my duchess when I am ready.”
He didn’t think there was anything he could have said to shock his mother more. Well, maybe if he admitted a perplexing interest in Pippa Cavanaugh. That interest though had to be paused indefinitely, until he found out exactly why he’d become a target for a scandal sheet. The dreams he’d had last night of kissing her senseless, of stripping her naked and worshipping at the altar of her generous curves, simply had to stop. It had been years since he’d pleasured himself, but lustful fantasies of Miss Cavanagh had urged him to take his cock in his hands last night with thoughts of her driving him to a powerful release.
“What nonsense are you saying, Christopher?”
He ruthlessly pushed Miss Cavanaugh from his mind. “I will choose my own duchess,” he repeated firmly. “And I hope you’ll love her as I do, once I find her.”
She dealt him an arrested stare. “Love?”
Her aghast tone implied his mother thought him an idiot. Christopher smiled without humor. “Love, admiration, respect, friendship. The things I would like to have with the lady I would ask to be my wife.”
His mother closed her eyes briefly as if pained. “Dukes do not marry for love or admiration. Your wife will respect you of course,” she said crisply, her eyes flashing with anger. “But this notion you have is nonsense. The last time you thought you loved someone, it was the most ridiculous and inopportune girl! You cannot be allowed to choose for yourself and disgrace our family!”
“And do you believe me to be that same boy of twenty years old?” he demanded with an arrogant tilt of his head.
Her lips flattened in a thin line. “Of course not. You are an exemplary man and duke as all previous dukes, and I simply want it to stay that way. To select your duchess without any suggestion from me and the girls cannot—”
“And yet that is what will happen. I am aware of my rank and position in this life, and the kind of woman needed to walk by my side. I’ll not hear of it again, mother, nor will I tolerate any more matchmaking antics. My wife will be my choice, and you can rest assured I will not
disrespect my position.”
They stared at each other, and several moments passed before his mother sighed and nodded her agreement. His promise lingered in the room, and a knot formed in his gut. With such a promise, whatever fascination he’d been feeling for Miss Pippa Cavanaugh had to be suppressed. If he pursued her, he would be going against his position and family’s expectations.
A mistress then, the crawling hunger in him suggested.
He cursed silently. She had seemed so proud and beautiful that night in the library, so clever and brave the night she’d broken into his home. She did not deserve to be a mistress because her father had proven himself to be a dishonorable cad. It was either he ignored her or strolled close enough to her flame to find out if she had the character worth fighting for—kindness, loyalty, faithfulness.
Is it you…?
And everything in him said yes, and he wanted to explore that. Because if it was her, he did not want their ships to pass each other. He almost shook his head at his romantic idiocy, a thing he’d never been prone to before. Christopher wasn’t a man who believed in pure chance, but nor did he dismiss its possibilities. Things were either carefully plotted and executed, or they existed beyond his capability of control and simply had to happen. He believed in the tangibility of science and the whimsy of fate.
The fascination he’d been battling since that night at Lady Peregrine’s ball, when Pippa Cavanaugh had stared at him with her large wounded, and yes, ugly splotched face, felt like whimsy…fate.
And he needed to find out the possible role she could play in his life. Lover, enemy, friend…or a duchess.
Several days later Amelia invaded Christopher’s study, slapping a scandal sheet atop his desk. “Is this you!” she cried, pointing at a section with a cartoon.
In it, the man had tied his cravat around a lady’s hand to what appeared to be a bedpost. Scandalous indeed, for the expression of the man implied he was a debaucher, while the young lady’s appearance was one of tears and innocence. Bloody hell. He was almost anxious to read the damn article.
The duke of many knots, the headline screamed.
“Christopher?” his sister asked.
The man in the drawing bore no resemblance to himself, so he did not understand the fuss. Unless…his gaze dropped to the author. Ah, Lady W.
This author has it on the highest authority a certain duke has found another use for his cravats. And it is not to tie around his neck! Shocking and not so saintly one could say. Mothers should be mindful of their precious daughters who could be led to ruin by the duke of C.
The blasted woman had penned at least two more inflammatory pieces over the last ten days, all featuring the duke of C, where only an idiot would not know it spoke of the Duke of Carlyle.
“There are only two dukes of C within society, and I doubt Carrington, a man I declare to be not a day under seventy is using his cravat to tie his lovers,” his sister cried, a blush engulfing her entire tall, slender frame. “This Lady W’s suggestion is outrageous and libelous, and she must be stopped! Mamma’s nerves are shattered at the very suggestion this…this article may refer to you.”
He carefully folded the article and leaned back in his chair. “In case you hadn’t notice, poppet, I have a guest,” he said coolly.
Her hazel eyes, much like their mother’s, widened in alarm at doing anything so improper, and she whirled around as the newly minted Viscount Shaw, Sebastian, rose to his feet. “Lady Blagrove,” the man said with a smile. “A pleasure.”
She nodded regally slightly bobbing the perfect blonde chignon at the nape of her neck and sent Christopher a look of censure passed down from mother to daughter as if to say why did he have the viscount in his home. Christopher silently chuckled when she huffed at the blank stare. The viscount was a genius with investments and a solid character which Christopher genuinely liked. The man had recently married a lady who had courted scandal by jilting the Marquess of Trent at the altar last year. Rumors claimed Fanny, Viscountess Shaw, had caught the marquess in a very salacious embrace with his mistress on the day he was to marry Fanny. Christopher didn’t vilify the lady for running away from the bounder. Society had not been as kind or understanding, mainly since she then chose to marry a man who worked and owned factories.
Christopher liked and admired the couple and counted the viscount a friend. His sister’s ridiculous prejudice would not change that fact, no matter how much he adored her. To society and his family, it was hard to accept that Viscount Shaw had not been born into their privileged life. He was a self-made man of great wealth who owned several iron smelteries. He did not belong, and they did not hesitate to remind him. But the viscount tolerated it all with some amusement, and his lack of ruffled feathers made Christopher admire the man more.
With a pointed look at the newssheet atop his desk, Amelia marched from the library.
Sebastian sent him a look of bald amusement. “I’d wondered if the articles referred to you.”
Christopher arched an arrogant brow. “Do you read the scandal sheets now?”
The viscount chuckled. “My wife swears she is above it all, but she seems quite delighted with this Lady W and reads everything the woman writes. It seems Lady W has targeted you.”
Christopher grunted, rising from behind his desk. “She has. I’d not wanted to rush to that conclusion, so I gave her a little time. Now there is no doubt confidential information gleaned from my home is being used to bring scrutiny to my name.”
“How did this woman get your private information?”
“She broke into my library almost two weeks ago.”
The glass of brandy making its way to the viscount’s mouth froze. “The hell you say!”
“I do say it,” he said on a light chuckle. “I believe it is time for me to ask the lady why she has targeted me.” Dark, heady anticipation curled through his gut at the idea of seeing her again.
“You know her identity?” the viscount demanded after taking a healthy swallow of his drink.
There it went again, that odd need to protect Miss Cavanaugh. “I do, but I will not reveal it.”
“Ah…you are protective of the lady, curious.” Intense speculation glowed in the man eyes.
“Shall we return to the architectural plans Mr. Ashley has drawn for us?” Christopher asked, collecting several rolls of papers from his desk.
The viscount was ambitious enough to want better living conditions for the workers of his factories. Better homes with at least two rooms and a small parlor. Better latrines, and better health care. Many other factory owners resented him for his innovation, hating that many workers flocked to the viscount’s employment, leaving the other owners behind. It had made the viscount many enemies, and he had thought it prudent to ask his powerful friends to weigh in on the housing crisis.
The one-bedroom hovels many of the workers lived in now spread many diseases and misery all around. The duke and the viscount were working together and buying up land across the city, and in several other areas, with the intention of developing numerous housing projects.
Since Christopher had gotten involved, he had taken over a few factories operated by unconscionable men. The conditions women and children worked in had been deplorable, and he hadn’t been able to leave it be. He’d made them offers their greedy hearts could not have refused, and now he worked with the viscount to improve it all before he divested himself of it. Possibly he would sell them to the viscount himself. His mother had fainted when he’d told her of his interest in helping the workers of the factories. He’d obligingly spent the afternoon with her to soothe her nerves, but he would not be deterred from doing what was just and honorable.
He’d already written numerous arguments he would take to the house of Lords at the next sitting, addressing the need to improve workers’ lives and prospects amidst the new wave of industrialism sweeping the country.
Their meeting resumed as if his sister had not interrupted, but it was all a carefully construct
ed façade of business for Christopher. Inside he was being eaten alive with the need to see Miss Cavanaugh once more. Damn her. This time, no matter if she proved an enemy or a friend, he would kiss her…endlessly. If only to verify that the reality of her was nothing like he had been ardently dreaming. Maybe then, he would be able to place Miss Cavanaugh into sharp and logical perspective.
Chapter 8
It had been a terribly long three weeks since the night Pippa broke into the duke’s townhouse. She had not seen him in society since, but the wretched man lived in Pippa’s mind, and nothing she did would remove him.
Lady Rutherford’s midnight ball, an event Pippa had anticipated, was in full swing, and many daring ladies had been sneaking off to the gardens with known rakes, but Pippa had little interest in following for scandalous speculations. With a frustrated groan, she lifted the glass of champagne—her third—vowing to banish any warm, curious thoughts she had about the man.
Why do I think of you so much? He was a bounder, and she’d had her fill with trusting undeserving men and would not be foolish in leading her heart to pain and disappointment again. Still…. He’d given an expensive coat to a stranger. Could a bounder be so kind? He had escorted a thief to a hackney, paid her fare, and wished her a safe night. Most lords would have been so affronted, she would have probably spent the night in jail. Instead, they had played brilliant chess, drank whisky, smoked cigars, and chatted. And she’d wanted to kiss him…still did if she was being honest with her desires.
To what purpose?
Carlyle was in possession of great wealth and power, owning vast amounts of lands, tenants, and other properties. His reputation as it stood was spotless, despite her attacks. Society seemed to be in disbelief their saintly duke could be their current duke of speculation and controversy. If the Duke of Carlyle was interested in kissing a girl like her—as he had desperately claimed—it wasn’t because he would take her to be his wife. Pippa was far too inferior for him to even consider the notion. So the dratted man would only toy with her as he had done Miranda.
