by Julia London
The wassail, which had been liberally spiced with Scotch whiskey, made the festive mood that much happier, and more than one young lady dressed in expensive velvet and satin was so thoroughly scandalized under the mistletoe that her plumage was all askew. The gentlemen, who had donned their finest white waistcoats and black tails, were eager to scandalize. Most of them were bachelors, and the event was regarded as the best preview of the upcoming crop of debutantes.
But the most eligible of all bachelors, Grayson Christopher, the young and handsome Duke of Darlington, was not beneath the mistletoe. He was famously close-guarded, as protective of his reputation and conduct as any man in London. Furthermore, he was not near any mistletoe, but striding purposefully down a servant’s corridor one floor above the festivities.
When Darlington, still clad in his greatcoat, reached the end of the corridor, he turned sharply right and heard something that sounded like a small gasp. He paused, held his candle up high, and saw Lady Eustis standing in the dim light, propped up against the stone wall.
Ah, Lady Eustis … a handsome woman by any man’s measure. Tonight she was wearing a deep green velvet gown against which her inky black hair shone. She seemed startled by his sudden appearance and quickly pushed away from the wall, clasping her hands nervously at her waist.
“What are you doing here?” Grayson demanded softly.
“I … I needed a moment away from the gathering,” she said, and put a hand to her nape. The small gesture caused her to sway a bit. “It’s close in the ballroom and the gentlemen have drunk too much.”
“I beg your pardon?” Grayson asked, walking closer, peering at her. “Has someone offended you? Tell me, and I shall see that he is removed from the premises at once.”
She dropped her hand and slowly leaned back against the wall. “Yes, Your Grace, someone has offended me.”
He took another step forward and held up the candle. She smiled a little lopsidedly at him. “You do not look yourself, Lady Eustis,” he said as his gaze boldly wandered the length of her.
“Indeed? Perhaps that is because I have drunk a bit too much of your wassail.”
“Ah.” A wolfish smile curved his lips. He shifted closer. “Tell me, which scoundrel has offended you?”
She put her hand up, pushing against his chest. “You, Your Grace. My husband has warned me about men like you.”
“Has he, indeed?” Grayson murmured as his gaze lingered on her lovely décolletage. “And what, precisely, has Lord Eustis told you?”
“That certain gentlemen will attempt to take advantage of my innocence.”
“He is a smart man, your husband,” Grayson said, and brazenly tucked a wisp of a curl behind her ear. Lady Eustis turned her head slightly, away from his hand. “Did Lord Eustis advise what you were to do when such a wretched thing is attempted?” Grayson’s finger grazed her ear and lingered beneath her earring, toying with it.
“That I should absent myself from the scoundrel’s company at once and notify my husband straightaway.”
“I have heard that your husband is in Shropshire.”
“He is, indeed, Your Grace.”
“Then it shall be quite difficult for you to notify him straightaway, particularly if the scoundrel is loath to allow you to escape.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a soft smile on her lips. “Are you loath to allow me to escape?”
“Always,” he murmured, and kissed her neck as he grabbed her up with one arm around her waist. Lady Eustis quickly put her hands between them, but Grayson ignored her and held her tight as he put the candle aside on a small console. “I wonder what Lord Eustis would advise if the scoundrel does not ask, but insists,” he said, nipping at her lips, “that you lift your skirts so that he might ravish you properly?”
“He would certainly disapprove,” she said, bending her neck to give him access to it.
Grayson reached blindly for the door nearby, opening it. “Smart man,” he said again and pulled her into the room, pausing only briefly to grab up the candle. Once inside the room, Grayson kicked the door shut, put the candle down, and put his hands on Lady Eustis’s breasts as he pushed her up against the wall.
“What took you so long?” she asked breathlessly.
“The prince,” he muttered. He didn’t want to think of the prince now. He’d have to tell her in a moment what had transpired, but just this moment, he wanted … he needed—
“The prince! What would he want?” she asked breathlessly as Grayson groped at her skirts.
If there was one thing Diana could not resist, it was gossip. Grayson stilled. In the dim light of that single candle, he looked at the rosy skin of Diana’s cheeks, the smooth column of her neck, the rise of her bosom. How did he tell her what he must? “You are lovely, Diana,” he said huskily, and pulled her tightly to him at the same time he put his lips to hers.
She did not resist him; her hands slid up his chest, her arms went around his neck, and she pulled his head down to her. She wore the scent of roses, and it filled him with a familiar lust. His hand tightened at her waist; he kissed her madly, his tongue in her mouth, his teeth on her lips, his hand drifting to the swell of her bottom, grasping it and holding her against him. His cock grew hard, and he pressed it against her, growling softly when she slid her body against it.
But when he moved to her neck, she grasped his head between her hands and asked again, “What did the prince want?”
“Later, darling—”
“Later! Later I shall be forced to pretend I’ve scarcely made your acquaintance,” she said as he grabbed a fistful of her gown, pulling it up, pushing it up past her waist.
“Do you think of the prince now?” he asked as his hand slipped between her legs, stroking her.
Diana sucked in a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. “No … Grayson!” She gasped as he slid two fingers inside her and moved seductively.
The prince momentarily forgotten, Grayson watched Diana’s lips part and the tip of her tongue slide across her bottom lip as he moved his fingers inside her. Her hands slid down his chest, to his erection.
Grayson fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself, then hiking up the velvet of her gown.
“Make haste,” Diana whispered, and wrapped her leg around his waist. Grayson obliged her, guiding himself into her body with a sigh of longing. He held her up with an arm around her waist, a hand under her leg. Diana bit his ear lobe as Grayson began to move in her, holding her up against the wall. The more Diana moaned with pleasure, the faster he moved. When she clutched his shoulders and began to move against him, meeting his thrusts, he knew she was close to finding fulfillment, and allowed himself a few moments of pure ecstasy after Diana’s body shuddered and her head fell to his shoulder.
He withdrew at the moment of climax.
The two of them clung to each other, panting for breath until she pushed lightly against him. Grayson fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Diana cleaned herself and shook out her skirts. “Oh dear,” she said, looking down. The skirt was crumpled. She worked her hand over it, smoothing it out as Grayson rearranged his clothing.
“I can’t stay long, darling, for I will be missed,” she said, returning the handkerchief to him. “Do tell me why the prince summoned you,” she added, pausing to adjust his waistcoat.
“It was not the best of news,” Grayson admitted.
“What do you mean?”
Grayson ran his fingers through his hair, apparently mussing it, because Diana reached out to smooth it down.
“What has happened?” she asked.
Her lovely face was softened by candlelight. Grayson did love her, he believed, and he would never do anything to hurt her. Unfortunately, George, the Prince of Wales, was embroiled in a very public scandal with his estranged wife, Princess Caroline. His desire to divorce her consumed him. He’d made his allegations of treason and adultery against Caroline, and the allegations had been thoroughly investigated b
y a commission of lords. In the course of the so-called Delicate Investigation, they did indeed find the princess’s behavior to be egregious, but they did not find it to be treasonable.
In retaliation, Princess Caroline fought to keep the king’s favor by threatening to make public all the prince’s transgressions—and there were many. In fact, it was George’s proclivity for adultery that had prompted him to send for Grayson. He’d been smitten by the courtesan Katharine Bergeron, and had recently arranged to make her his mistress. Rumor had it that George had essentially bought her from Mr. Cousineau by threatening to shut down the Frenchman’s business in London if he did not reach some accord with the prince. Mr. Cousineau, being a tradesman first and foremost, had agreed to the prince’s terms and had given her up.
George had set up Miss Bergeron in the house on King Street, but, given his very public troubles, he did not want Miss Bergeron exposed or otherwise pulled into the scandal. Nor did he want her to be used against him in a public trial should the king see his way to granting permission for George to seek a parliamentary divorce.
Therefore, George had made Grayson a proposition: that Grayson publicly put it out into society that Katharine Bergeron was his mistress, and make it seem real. That would give Katharine sufficient protection from gossip linking her to the prince, as well as keep other men of the ton from seeking her favors, while George dealt with the scandal.
“Christie, what is it?” Diana asked lightly, using the sobriquet that only Grayson’s closest friends used.
“The divorce scandal is coming to a head,” he said.
Like everyone in London, Diana was well aware of the details. “I should hope it does,” she said primly. “It has cast a pall over society for far too long.”
“In the meantime, the prince has taken a new mistress—or will, as soon as he is able.”
Diana rolled her eyes.
“She is a courtesan, Diana. And George fears that if he openly takes her as a mistress now, it might damage his case against the princess. Therefore, he has determined he shall keep her hidden until he is able to bring her into society.”
“Well,“ she said, smoothing her gown once more. She did not like to talk of adultery, particularly as she’d been engaged in the torrid, adulterous affair with Grayson for a year now. But Diana reasoned that her behavior was justified because her husband was older and interested only in producing an heir. What was a poor countess to do?
Grayson had never imagined he would be an adulterer. He’d always been conscious of his place in society, of his reputation … not to mention he’d long found the idea of cuckolding another man repugnant. But Diana had pursued him, and he was a man, and somehow, he had reasoned himself into giving in to his physical desires. Now, after a year of stolen hours, he’d developed a plethora of excuses to assist him in justifying his behavior, but mostly, Grayson didn’t allow himself to think of it.
But tonight, he couldn’t avoid thinking of it. “Diana,” he said solemnly, “George has asked me to publicly present the courtesan as my mistress, and in a manner so convincing that no aspersions may be cast on Miss Bergeron, or the prince.”
“What? Pardon?” Diana sputtered.
“He has made this request in a most … unyielding manner.”
“And you refused!” she said adamantly.
“I did not,” he said quietly.
Diana gasped. Grayson caught her hands. “Diana, hear me. I did not refuse because he threatened to expose our affair if I did not agree to it.”
Diana’s jaw went slack. “He knows?” she whispered.
“Quite obviously, he does.”
“But how?”
“I do not know, darling, but he has men who are very loyal to him. And people are lured by gossip.”
“Oh dear God,” she whispered, her eyes going wide with fright.
Oh dear God, indeed. Grayson didn’t want any part of the prince’s deceptions. After all, Grayson was the head of a powerful family. He had his rank, his position to think of. He had younger siblings and cousins, and aunts and uncles who depended upon him and his good name for their livelihood. And he had his reputation, of which he was proud. He’d said all of that and more to George, but George was often driven by his desires, and he made it quite clear to Grayson that if he did not carry out this subterfuge, he would damage Grayson’s reputation by exposing his scandalous affair with Lady Eustis.
“It’s really not so bad,” George had said cavalierly. “Katharine Bergeron is a very comely woman. You will enjoy her company and certainly no man who lays eyes on her will fault you in the least.”
There were plenty of good men who would find fault, Grayson thought, but at least it would be Grayson’s name being bandied about, and not Diana’s.
“You cannot do it. Tell me you won’t,” Diana said plaintively.
“I don’t see that I have a choice. I won’t allow any harm to come to you.”
“But I cannot bear to see you with another woman!”
“I will not be with her—”
“I have seen her, Grayson. She is quite beautiful. She is an Eve and will entice you to fall in love with her.”
Grayson chuckled and extended his hand to her. “I will not fall in love with a merchant’s whore, you may trust me,” he said. “I am the Duke of Darlington—I would never be brought so low. Come, then, my love— you must go down and rejoin the party.”
But Diana looked at him with imploring blue eyes. “I am begging you, Grayson. Please don’t do it.”
This conversation was growing tiresome. “I’ve told you, madam, that I have no choice in the matter. Don’t fret overmuch. It will be over and done in a month’s time.” He opened the door. One quick look in the darkened corridor, and he sent her out, ignoring the way she looked at him as she passed.
He gave her a few minutes to rejoin the celebration downstairs before making his appearance. When he believed enough time had passed that no one would notice, he picked up his candle and went out, taking a different path to the party below, his mind on his duties as host, the merchant’s whore already forgotten.
Chapter Three
The Christmas Eve snow was no more than a dusting, so the streets of London were navigable the next morning. That was welcome news at Charles Street, where the last of the revelers at Darlington House stumbled out into the gray day with the help of their liveried footmen, and were foisted into coaches with emblazoned crests and withered plumes.
Across town at King Street, Reginald Digby called for Kate promptly at ten o’clock in his very plain carriage driven by a hired driver, for Digby was too large to maneuver himself into the driver’s seat. Kate Bergeron, in the company of Aldous Butler—which was not his true surname, but one he now embraced—emerged from the fine little town house in a very plain cloak and gown, her hair covered by the cloak’s hood.
Digby was the first friend Kate had ever had whom she could trust entirely and depend on. She’d known him longer than anyone in her acquaintance, and she could say without equivocation that he was the one man in her life who’d never expected anything from her other than friendship. Digby had introduced himself to her about eight years ago, when she was working in the cloth halls, winding cloth around bolts. He was Benoit Cousineau’s man, and Kate had an instant feeling that Digby was a good soul. She’d not been wrong—their friendship had only deepened through the years.
Digby still worked for Benoit, but as a London agent, for Benoit had returned to France. Digby was always looking for new trade opportunities. He wanted to be a rich merchant one day, a true gentleman of quality, and was slowly but surely working his way toward that dream.
Which was why he disapproved of today’s destination. At every opportunity, he voiced his dislike of St. Katharine’s, a mean, poverty-ridden quarter along the Thames named for a medieval hospital and church. But he was far too fond of Kate to allow her to travel there on her own.
The door swung open and Digby leaned forward to peer out. “Hap
py Christmas, one and all!”
“Happy Christmas, Digby!” Kate returned.
Aldous carried the basket of pastries, but he was not wearing a greatcoat. Wordlessly, he put the pastry basket on the seat next to Digby.
“What? You’re not coming, Aldous?”
“No,” he said, and held out his hand to help Kate into the carriage.
“He’s being very mysterious,” Kate said to Digby, pausing to give him a peck on the cheek before settling onto her bench. “Claims to have an engagement today.”
“Family, do you think?” Digby asked.
“I can’t imagine it! He must be five and thirty if he’s a day, and one would think a family would have presented itself ere now, wouldn’t one?” Kate asked, smiling. Aldous, a man of very little humor, frowned at her as he shut the carriage door. Kate laughed. “He won’t tell me a bloody thing!” she exclaimed. “But I think it must be a bird.”
“A Bird of Paradise, you mean.” Digby snorted.
“Digby,” Kate said. “Poor Aldous is entitled to a bit of happiness. He’s had a wretched life.”
“Haven’t we all?” Digby mused, and glanced at the basket. “Speaking of which, it would be my fondest dream if you would leave your wretched life quite behind. There’s naught for you in St. Katharine’s, and in going there you only put yourself in danger.”
“Danger!” Kate scoffed.
“Kate,” Digby said patiently. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Any number of ne’er-do-wells might do you harm.”
“No one will do me harm, Digby. I am not one of the ladies from the Benefit Society—”
“Beneficent—”
“Beneficent Society. I was born and reared there—for heaven’s sake, I was named for St. Katharine’s church!” That was a bit of family lore that Kate had never told anyone but Digby. Kate’s father, who had never warmed to an honest day’s work, was without employment when her mother carried Kate. He was fortunate enough—or hounded into—finding employment at the St. Katharine quay just before Kate was born, and her mother had named her Katharine in gratitude.
