The Dangerous Duke
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
“Put this writer’s name on your list of authors to watch.”*
PRAISE FOR Scandal’s Daughter
“A spirited heroine, a scandalous past, a bewildered rake: Christine Wells gives us a charming story, rich with historical delights.” —Anne Gracie
“A touching love story . . . An impressive debut book. I thoroughly enjoyed it.” —Mary Balogh
“Romance with the sparkle of vintage champagne. A stellar debut from a major new talent!” —Anna Campbell
“A charming romance brimming with emotion and humor. The sensual intimacy between Sebastian and Gemma mellows like a fine wine within the friendship forged long before their first kiss. Christine Wells makes the Regency as fresh and real as her characters, and I expect it won’t be long before she’s a favorite on every romance reader’s bookshelf.” —Kathryn Smith
“Witty, emotionally intense, and romantic—Ms. Wells beguiles us in this stellar debut.” —*Sophia Nash
“A brilliantly seductive love story that belongs on every keeper shelf . . . Sizzling with sensuality.”
—Kathryn Caskie
“A lovely story of best friends discovering there could be more, Scandal’s Daughter charms and delights with humor, wit, and intelligence. An enchanting debut, Scandal’s Daughter engages all the senses and leaves a smile on your face and warmth in your heart.”
—The Courier-Mail (Brisbane)
“Fresh and brisk.” —Midwest Book Review
Books by Christine Wells
SCANDAL’S DAUGHTER
THE DANGEROUS DUKE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE DANGEROUS DUKE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Christine Diehm.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-0-425-22326-0
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For Cheryl,
my beloved mother, my rock.
And for Ian,
my father, with love and admiration.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Leis Pederson, for her understanding and her eagle eye; to all at Berkley who have worked so hard on The Dangerous Duke; and to my agent, Jessica Faust, whose level head and guiding hand have been invaluable.
To Denise Rossetti, cheerleader and dear friend; Anna Campbell, who sailed in to save the day when I needed her; and Anne Gracie, for never failing me when I ask for her wisdom— my everlasting gratitude. For research assistance (though any mistakes are mine) a Regency “much obliged” to K. A. Taylor, Nancy Mayer, Pam Rosenthal, and all at the Beau Monde.
This year has been a difficult one and I owe an exceptionally large debt to many people, not least my long-suffering family and friends—Jamie, Allister and Adrian, Cheryl and Ian, Robin and George, Vikki, Ben and Yasmin—thank you for your patience, love, and support.
And to a funny, bright, talented bunch of women—the Romance Bandits, my sisters-in-crime. Thank you for being you.
One
He will come for me, I know it. And when he does, there’ll be no resistance. Only pleasure, as deep and dark and sinful as this mad desire that plagues me.
Will I regret the ruin that awaits? No, it will taste too sweet, I think . . .
London, 1817
DANGLING a man upside down by the ankles outside a London ballroom was not how Maxwell Brooke had anticipated spending his first Thursday night as the Duke of Lyle.
In fact, since he’d never expected to inherit the illustrious title in the first place, he hadn’t developed expectations about the matter at all.
But if he had ever considered it, he might have anticipated a damned sight less trouble and a damned sight more comfort than he’d been granted thus far.
He’d spent four nights in a dank, draughty cavern of a house where the fireplaces belched smoke and the kitchens were so far from the dining room every meal was served cold. From there, two days’ sodden journey by an antiquated and equally draughty coach had brought him to town.
And now, when finally he could look forward to a pleasurable evening seducing his fair hostess—
“Lemme up, guv! I don’t mean no harm, honest.” The hoarse plea barely reached Max’s ears against the freshening wind, but it caught his wandering attention.
Exasperated, he frowned down at his captive. What a sorry sight! A thin, twisted body, spindly legs with wiry tufts of hair sprouting through the sparse weave of his stockings, ankles that felt like bundles of twigs in Max’s big hands. The pathetic, featherweight of the man. He couldn’t see the fellow’s face from this angle, but he’d wager it was purple by now.
Max was tired of holding him, that was certain. He’d expected his victim to crack long before this. Someone must have paid him handsomely for his silence. Perhaps Max should beat the truth out of the fellow, but he rather thought a s
olid blow might kill the little ferret and he didn’t want to get blood on his evening clothes.
Conscious of the ball in progress behind him, Max spoke just loudly enough for his voice to carry to his victim’s ears. “My friend, do you know the penalty for treason?”
Spindleshanks kicked out in a panic, nearly freeing one leg from Max’s grasp.
“Don’t struggle”—Max tightened his grip until his fingers bit into the man’s flesh—“or I’ll drop you through no fault of mine.”
The man yelped. His squirming halted abruptly. Max grunted, bracing his hips against the balustrade for extra support.
“We’ll try again, shall we? Tell me who you are and what you were doing lurking in Lady Kate’s gardens.”
“I told you, guv. I didn’t mean no harm. I’ve . . . I’ve a message for her ladyship.”
Satisfaction flooded Max’s chest for the first time since this business began. Instinct had told him this evening might bring him a fresh lead, and instinct had been right.
So, his hostess’s saintly brother had tried to get a message to her, had he? Very clever to choose the night of a ball, when servants and guests came and went at all hours.
Did Lady Kate suspect she was being watched? Did she know that her brother, the Reverend Stephen Holt, was in prison? Clapped up in irons, allowed no visitors, no legal representation. Not even a fair hearing.
And Max had put him there.
He gave Spindleshanks a rough shake. “Tell me your message and I’ll make sure her ladyship gets it.”
Gasping and wheezing, the man renewed his pleas. “Aw, have an ’eart, guv! I’m to give my message to her ladyship and no one else. My business wiv the lady being what you might call personal, like.”
Better and better. Max smiled grimly, scarcely aware of the burn in his shoulders and arms. There could be little doubt why such a disreputable-looking specimen should have private business with a society hostess.
Lady Kate Fairchild. Max knew her by sight, but since the fire and Holt’s incarceration, Max had made it his business to investigate Holt’s sister thoroughly. He hadn’t discovered anything to her discredit. The childless widow of a former member of Parliament, Lady Kate possessed a curiously spotless reputation for a woman in her sophisticated circle of acquaintance. At seven-and-twenty years of age, she was a wealthy woman and showing little inclination to remarry, according to his aunts.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of his great-aunts, Grace and Millicent, so fragile and shaken in the aftermath of the fire. The devastation the blaze had caused at Lyle Castle was almost incomprehensible, even to him. Max had taken charge of the household, which was in dire need of a master. He’d investigated and swiftly concluded that the fire had been deliberately set.
By the time he’d left, he’d gained control of practical matters, but he wasn’t equipped to deal with outpourings of grief. And the weeping. God, the tears. Oceans of them had been sobbed down his coat in the past few days. He shifted uncomfortably, the memory of his inept attempts at consolation fresh in his mind.
Well, he wasn’t good at offering sympathy—he’d rather stick needles in his eyes than wade through that emotional soup again—but he could do one thing for the bereft and grieving.
He would make those murderers pay.
At the Home Office, they called Max “the Fixer,” the man they called when a job was too sensitive or too dirty to handle through official channels. He dealt with the gutter scum, the villainous, and the corrupt. He anticipated little difficulty apprehending the disorganized band of rebels who’d set fire to Lyle Castle. All he needed was for the Reverend Holt to spill his guts.
“Oh! Who’s there?”
A feminine voice behind him made his head snap around. He cursed his lapse in vigilance. How had she managed to surprise him? His hearing was preternaturally acute.
The woman hesitated, as if she might draw back into the ballroom.
Yes, go, he thought. He couldn’t release his prey, and he’d rather not explain what he was doing.
But the musical voice persisted. “Is that you, Your Grace?”
The figure shifted, and the light from the flambeaux on either side of the doorway flared over her face.
Lady Kate Fairchild.
For one frozen, unsettling moment, Max forgot why he was there. She moved forward, and the soft light behind her silhouetted intriguing curves beneath her white silk gown. Her hair was piled high, with one thick chestnut ringlet curled invitingly on her breast, and wispy tendrils escaped here and there to tickle her temples and nape. Though modestly cut, her gown showed enough of her creamy bosom to make his hands itch to explore.
Max watched her walk towards him, struck by the way she moved. Her Grecian robe stirred and rippled, caressing her slender, almost fragile body. Its skirts flared on a sudden gust of wind, allowing him a glimpse of slender ankles, crisscrossed by the straps of her gold Roman sandals.
Desire bunched inside him and rose in a powerful surge— hot and needy. Despite the circumstances, he had a compelling urge to drop what he was doing—literally—and pursue the opportunity this sudden encounter presented.
Damnation! He didn’t need this. He couldn’t allow a woman to distract him, even for a moment. Seduction might well play a part in his plans—certainly, seducing Lady Kate would be no hardship—but first, he must find out how much she knew and what she planned to do about it. Then he’d find a way to use her to wring information out of Stephen Holt.
Max inclined his head, the closest he could get to a bow in the circumstances. “My lady.”
He continued to shield his victim from her with his body, but he didn’t hold out much hope that she’d go away and leave him to finish his business with the fellow. Best to brazen it out, he supposed.
Lady Kate carried herself with unruffled grace, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Somehow, he doubted she was so sanguine. It couldn’t be chance that brought her onto the terrace, where someone waited for her with a message. She must have arranged this meeting tonight.
He narrowed his eyes and focused on her face. “I thought you’d have joined your guests at the supper table by now.”
“Yes, everyone is in the dining room, but I was obliged to slip out here first and repair a tear to the hem of my gown. So provoking!” She rolled her eyes and extracted a pin from her reticule. “Mr. Bellingham might be a political lightweight, but light on his feet he is not!”
Apparently oblivious to the faint grunts and groans of his companion, she joined Max, talking all the while. “Would you mind holding my reticule? I just need to . . . Oh! I do apologize.” Her gaze fixed on his hands, which were still wrapped around his victim’s ankles. She peered over the balustrade. “It rather seems you have your hands full already.”
He looked down, feigning surprise. “Now, how did that get there?”
She gave him a quick, oblique glance, then leaned over to see his victim better, giving Max a magnificent view of her breasts. High and round, they were, despite her fairylike figure. Not as big as his usual—
“He looks dreadfully uncomfortable,” she said. “I suppose this is one of those juvenile pranks my brothers used to delight in. But the poor fellow! All the blood must be rushing to his head.” She raised her voice. “Are you all right down there?”
“Help! Help me, my lady. Please!” Spindleshanks managed a feeble struggle, as if to emphasize his weakness.
She drew back, delicate fingers fluttering over her lips. “Oh, dear. I do hope you won’t drop him. With the prime minister here, I mean. How would I look with a dead body in my garden and half the government in my dining room?”
Max could almost have smiled. He had to hand it to her. Cool as Gunter’s ices, when she must be dying for news of her brother. “It would certainly make your party memorable.”
“My parties are always memorable. I don’t need a corpse in my rose beds for that.” She bit her lip. “Oh, do let him up. You are making me nervo
us. Indeed, I shall very likely fall into hysterics.”
Anyone less likely to fall into hysterics would be difficult to find. Unwillingly amused, he complied, releasing one ankle to reach down and grab the seat of the man’s breeches. Max hauled him back over the balustrade and set him on his feet.
“This poor excuse for a human being says he has a message for you, my lady.” He bunched the man’s collar in his fist and shoved him forward. “Perhaps he will give it to you now. What’s your name, fellow?”
Spindleshanks bent forward, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He mumbled something unintelligible.
Max shook him. “Stand up straight when you address a lady.”
“Ives,” said the fellow between gasps. “Harry Ives.”
Her ladyship observed the man dubiously. What an actress! Siddons was nothing to her.
“A message for me?” she repeated, the picture of bewilderment. “But why were you skulking out here? Why not deliver it the usual way?”
Before Ives could answer, she said, “Oh, never mind. Go and await me in the servants’ hall. Tell the butler I sent you. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Ives threw Lady Kate a hostile glance, but he muttered something Max didn’t quite catch and shuffled away.
Max didn’t detain him. He was far more intrigued by the lady before him. After all, he’d attended this party for the express purpose of deepening their acquaintance. He’d expected Lady Kate to be another Society bore, but the mettle she’d shown so far in their encounter made him anticipate his task with pleasure.
They both watched Ives’s retreating form. After a long, taut pause, Lady Kate met Max’s gaze fully for the first time.
Eyes the color of French cognac, framed by an exotic wedge of black lashes, stared into his, then widened a little, as if in surprise.