The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1)

by Emily Windsor

  He kissed her again, a measured ensnarement, and Evelyn allowed herself to be languidly lowered to the bed and pressed to the plush coverlet, wits absconded with her stockings.

  Casper smiled, a wicked curve which compelled her body to shudder and eyes to close as he slanted and kissed a chemise-clad nipple, fingers busy with the securing ribbons.

  Progress ceased and a rustle ensued, but she remained motionless until his hand clutched over hers; a coldness met her palm and she twisted, eyes opening to behold…

  Diamonds.

  “All I own is yours,” he whispered, lips laving at unveiled skin and bare breast. “Gems, art and…me.”

  The diamonds bit within her palm as he pressed.

  “I have nothing but myself, Casper.” She arched. “But that I will give to you forever.”

  A sinful grin, and all at once, chill air met her thighs as she found herself wholly nude. Casper stared, eyes glinting bright as any jewel she could wish for.

  Shyness bid she veil herself with the coverlet, those diamonds scattering, but Casper shook his head. “Never hide such beauty,” he whispered. “I adore you.” And he seized a diamond, watched its trace of dulled iced splendour upon her breast, waist and lower.

  “Casper…. Please.”

  All hell let loose.

  He growled, diamonds flung across the cotton sheets, shirt hurled to the air, all patience abandoned in the face of her plea, and he kissed with ragged force, possessive hands palming.

  Evelyn repeated her words, eager for more of this magnificent consequence, and he reared, wrenching at his boots, tossing them aside. Stockings and breeches followed, cursing tailors and bootmakers alike.

  Delighted and terrified in equal measure, she marvelled at his muscled chest, yearned to touch, but evidently Casper’s restraint had splintered as he fell atop her once more, all that potency squashing her to the mattress.

  Evelyn bit that corded throat, dug nails where she could, felt his blunt girth searching, jutting and demanding. She ought to be afraid, a missish virgin shivering in fear, but lovers were created for this, her body made for Casper.

  A plundering thrust and he stole into her core, grunted, grasped her thigh and bucked again. She closed her eyes, cried out at the sharp pain, no worse than a kettle burn, but not knowing if it would continue.

  She shifted her hips…but nothing stirred.

  What that it?

  She ratcheted one eye open.

  Casper’s face twisted with the strain of torment, lips parted and gasping, cheeks ruddy and eyes as burning blue coals. His arms flexed either side of her, chest as bellows, glistening with bronzed hairs. Lower, their bodies merged to golden shadow.

  “I must…” He swallowed deeply.

  Smiling, she halted his mumbled words, knew his desire.

  And she arched, drawing him deeper. “Love me, Casper.”

  A profound groan, then shallow thrusts – testing, sinking, withdrawing and seeking once more. Deeper, then deeper still, till fullness enveloped her – no longer painful but odd and good.

  His lips scraped upon hers, chin bristles raking down neck to breast, hips gently rocking – no longer odd but perfect.

  Then breath-taking.

  Casper’s mouth flitted up. “You teased me so,” he rasped and lunged. “You taunted me.” He rocked. “You seduced me.” He bucked. “You beguiled me.” He drove hard. “Always mine, Evelyn. Always.”

  His hips continued their pounding in the ruthless rush for that sweet agony. Casper reared, forearms upright as his pace became savage and unbridled, the rapture coiling within her, his gaze fixed and feral.

  “Evelyn,” he gasped.

  Her body pulsed, ecstasy sweeping through her, vivid as gold and precious as diamonds, lustrous and blissful. She clamped her thighs around Casper’s hips, nails scrabbling for his skin, her core clenching in torrid endless waves.

  A guttural roar at her ear, and her glazed eyes flickered to witness Casper pitch his head up, throat exposed and taut, teeth gritted, the length of him plunging deep as was possible.

  Another harsh shove and he groaned, head dropping, skin rippling, her name a benediction upon his lips.

  He fell atop and she relished the heat and pressure, their bodies pulsing and entwined.

  Closing her eyes, she brushed his damp spine with feathered stokes, tracing to firm buttocks that still twitched beneath her roving fingers. Velvet kisses peppered her neck as sated pleasure flowed and the candlelight flickered.

  They lay awhile, skin cooling in the night before he rolled to drag the coverlet up and pull her close. Never had she experienced such rapture, and she snuggled against his chest, savouring its warmth, loved feeling his muscles swell, kissed a raw burn and relished him quake.

  “Evelyn… My love.” Lips brushed her forehead and hands meandered her sides but now that the rush of passion had been met, the sensation evoked was comfort and intimacy, affection and adoration.

  Opening her eyes, she observed the exhausted shadows beneath his eyes, heard his breath slow to a peaceful tempo and felt his body become lax with sleep.

  And a hidden facet of Casper was now revealed to her – the fatigued man behind the commanding duke. So she stretched up to kiss his brow, heard a murmur and held that man close until the candle met its final end.

  Tea.

  Strong tea.

  Evelyn had no wish for this particular dream to end.

  Back in Hop Gardens, the beverage had smelled weak and ashy, but in dreamland the heat of its rich perfumed scent tantalised her nostrils.

  Sweet and strong with a hint of…clove?

  That was odd. And she hoisted one eyelid.

  A steaming cup of tea in the daintiest chinaware she had ever come across hovered below her nose.

  Clasping the fragile handle was a substantial masculine hand. Blearily, she followed it to a neat starched cuff, billowing shirt sleeve and then a bared throat.

  All she could do was goggle.

  Casper sat on the side of the bed, hair damp and jaw shaved. Every inch a duke, whilst she’d been drooling on her pillow… One eye still glued shut… Naked.

  “Blugh,” she managed.

  “I shall leave you to wake.” He grinned. “Drink your tea, I’ll return in one quarter of an hour.” After placing the cup by the bed, he sauntered from the chamber.

  Evelyn yawned. Then…

  Threw back the coverlet, moving as though the bed were afire. She ran to the water closet, scrubbed her face with a cloth, swallowed half the tooth powder she found in a cupboard, yanked a brush through her hair, checked the clock, swatted rose water over her skin, sneezed, threw on a spare robe, checked the clock again, straightened the bed, found three diamonds, blushed, threw herself in, breathed deep, smoothed her brow to serene and seized her tea.

  The clock chimed its quarter and the door swung open.

  A girl could never be late with Casper as beau.

  He bore a tray with buttered toast, pots of jam and more tea.

  “I thought,” she said, as he settled upon the bed and she dived upon the toast, “we could discuss matters in the rear parlour.”

  Casper played with an errant curl upon her shoulder. It was most distracting.

  “I wish to talk here. Parlours are for staid conversation and separate chairs. Besides which, it’s smokier than the Gunpowder Plot down there.”

  Oh.

  Appearing far too handsome this morning in her most humble opinion, he filched a piece of toast to spread marmalade upon it, and she knew he was giving her time to gather her thoughts and speak, but those thoughts were still a hubbub of misgivings and reflections.

  “I tried so hard to find a way out.”

  His gaze flicked up. “I know you did.”

  She shifted the tray to one side, took his broad hand within hers. “After Father died, we sold all we owned and moved to cheaper lodgings, then cheaper still. I found work and we about managed… But then Artemisia became so sick, and
the coal never seemed to heat that attic. All my wages went on food and rent. I tried so hard and yet it was never enough, and we sank further and further.”

  “Did your father leave no provision?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “He left only debt. Papa spent well when money flowed and times were good, but he never considered the morrow. He wasn’t selfish, just…”

  “Thoughtless,” Casper murmured. “My father never even spent well, just lost and lost and lost. Until there was nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “The Rothwell coffers weren’t merely empty when I came to the title, but rotten through. The day following his interment in the mausoleum, I had servants demanding wages, tailors with their bills, mistresses wanting severance pay and gambling vowels from every nobleman in town. We were destitute.”

  She stroked that aristocratic chin. Full of admiration that he’d built his empire from naught, strengthened and shored its foundations with gold till it groaned beneath the weight.

  “When Artemisia became ill, I even… I went to beg Mama’s family for help, but they said Mama had made her bed and must lie in it, her daughters to suffer the consequences.”

  Casper swore, hand tightening upon hers.

  “A young gentleman came around all the lodgings one day – a personable tidy chap who offered money at a decent rate.” She covered her face. “I was such a fool. And then Artemisia worsened, I thought she was to…” Casper drew her near and she clung to him. “I stayed by her that day, even though my payment was due. One day late. That was all. And I ran there the next, but Filgrave ripped up the contract, told me it was null, that there was a new rate for debtors.”

  And she cried. Cried for the past three years of bare survival, the terror that her sister may never see the next dawn, the disease and poverty that so many still endured.

  And Casper just held her, brushing his mouth against her hair, murmuring his love and not letting go.

  Finally, she drew back, wiping her eyes on his shirt sleeve. “I’ve never been the blubbering type.” She sniffed. “I don’t like it very much.”

  “Sometimes we do not realise the burden is so heavy until it is lifted.”

  She touched his face. So precious. But… “And so, I decided to use the sketch that Father had drawn so many years ago. To paint it in oils and sell it to the Duke of Diamonds.” That day seemed a lifetime away. “Can you forgive me, Casper, for my deception and lies? Can I rebuild you trust?”

  With a hand to the waist, heated and snug, he kissed her forehead.

  “There is no need to ask, Evelyn. My trust for you lies deep, never to be broken – built upon your loyalty to your sister and your self-sacrifice. I know you would fight for me in the same way, defend me and console me. Those deeds are honest and true.” He caught her chin in a broad palm. “I knew you had secrets from the first, even played along to keep you near and discover the truth. But at some point in our game… I came to love your company, your boldness, our conversations about art, your compassion for others, your determination to survive. Everything about you. I came to know you, and I loved you. Whoever you were.”

  Evelyn’s heart surged with such force. “I came here to cheat you, exploit your affection for my father’s painting.” She brushed his lips with her own. “But instead I fell in love with you.”

  “My defiant beauty.” A deep peace settled within her as Casper kissed her eyelids. “I have found you at last.”

  Chapter 32

  Patience.

  “Thank you, Artemisia, for coming with me.”

  A slender but firm hand clasped her own.

  “We face this together, sister, as we have so many things.”

  Clutching reticules close, Evelyn and Artemisia straightened their shoulders upon the velvet squab of the grand carriage. With a violent jolt, the wheels ceased their rattle over the cobbles, and the two sisters leaned back into the darkness, a sole chink of dulled light stealing through the slither in the drawn curtains, dust dancing in its attention.

  From the world outside came the muffled chatter of passers-by and a dulcet grumble of horses. The slam of front door and the thump of footstep.

  A twist of brass handle and the door swung open, a man’s black-gloved hand grasping the leather strap as he hauled himself up the step.

  “I ain’t got all day, coachman, so Bond Street and drive like the bleedin’ devil.” He thudded into the seat opposite as the carriage lurched into motion, the crack of whip accompanying a wild shout from aloft.

  Their travelling companion removed his gloves and settled back into the comfort of the corner squabs. Then abruptly stilled as though a rodent sensing the watchful eye of the kitchen cat.

  With a grunt, he thrust the small curtain aside.

  Faint sunlight suffused the carriage and the seemingly stylish interior now revealed its true colours – puce cushions, worn wood and the squabs stained with goodness knows what.

  The man’s gaze brandished surprise…then sharpened in interest.

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Miss Pearce in me carriage. Fancied a little tête-à-tête, did yer? And with yer fetchin’ sister too.” The moneylender smacked his lips, gin eyes examining them like a jeweller searching for flaws. “Swell cove tossed yer out, has he, after dipping his wick?”

  The wheels ploughed over an obstacle at such a clipped pace, they all lifted from their seats, their companion issuing a stream of curses as his arm clattered the door.

  Placing a steadying hand to the roof strap, Evelyn stared frostily. “Good day, Filgrave.”

  “That’s Mr Filgrave to you,” he spat, leaning forward. “Debtors should mind their manners or they gets charged double interest. Yer sister might never see daylight again. Jus’ a bare ceiling.” He chortled, removing that toothpick from inside his striped waistcoat to scratch his ear with the ruby finial.

  “We have the money.” And she held out a palm with one flawless polished diamond nestled within it.

  His pouched eyes widened as much as they were able, teeth sucking. “Where’s the rest of ’em?” he sneered. But before he could grab the gem, she fisted her hand, felt the bite of diamond through her woollen glove.

  Evelyn glared into his bloated face. Into the eyes of a man who treated womenfolk no better than rats in the cellar.

  “We offered fair terms for repaying this debt, Filgrave, but all you ever wanted was the two of us in your filthy clutches. How many other desperate women have you threatened in such a way? How many end up working on their backs for you?” She snatched her hand back. “We dislike your terms of business.”

  A red hue saturated his cheeks. “Do yer now? Well, yer ain’t nothing but a sluttish skirt.” He leaned forward, stale perfume and sour juniper. “Debtors get wot they deserve and women ain’t worth tuppence.”

  Rage surged through Evelyn, livid and knotted, and palming the gem, she grabbed the goose quill toothpick from his hand and snapped it in half.

  Artemisia sniggered.

  Filgrave’s fist ripped out and caught Evelyn’s sleeve, dragging her from the seat, the diamond spilling to the carriage floor. “You little whore, I’ll–”

  “Release my sister this instant,” a firm rasp demanded. “Or I will shoot you.”

  His fist stilled, the grip lessened and Evelyn wrenched away to dust her sleeve, smiling at her sister who held a small pistol levelled at the moneylender’s crotch. Evelyn bobbed her head aloft whilst hoisting her brows, and Artemisia winked, raising her aim to something a tad larger.

  Filgrave’s empty fingers curled, eyes wary as he sprawled back, palm rubbing his thigh. “Well, you’ve got some pluck, little girl, ain’t yer? You’d be a delight to break in.” His lip snarled. “What is it yer want?”

  “Two nights ago,” Evelyn began, “a fire was set in the Duke of Rothwell’s kitchens.”

  With a nonchalant shrug, Filgrave scratched his cheek but his eyes flitted between the pistol and the two of them. “Nowt to do with me.”

&
nbsp; Evelyn grabbed the roof strap once more as the carriage veered down a narrow lane, tall houses cheek by jowl, their shadow eclipsing the hazy light within.

  “The duke is of a different opinion.”

  “Opinions are just that, Missy.”

  She arched one brow. “The morning of the fire, a most…wholesome and stalwart young man who happens to be a personal servant to His Grace spied a suspicious figure leaving the premises. Fearing something amiss, the upstanding Mr Horatio Bloggs followed the unknown to an establishment on Tudor Street. You know what goes on there, don’t you?”

  Filgrave scrutinised his nails, the only sign of unease being a twitch in one pouched eye.

  Occupying half that street, The Blue Duck brothel had probably been where he’d intended to stuff herself and Artemisia – a place of illicit deals and little hope.

  “You know because you own it,” continued Evelyn. “You were there, seen paying that villain with five guineas and a girl for the night. A known fire prigger who burns people’s houses and then under the pretence of helping them remove goods, robs them blind.”

  The carriage shuddered, its pace unrelenting as muddied lane gave way to uneven cobble, but Artemisia’s hand neither wavered nor wobbled.

  Filgrave spat on the floor. “Weren’t me.”

  Evelyn shifted her skirts and tutted. “Your fire prigger even threw a plan of the duke’s basement to the cobbles outside, which our enterprising Mr Bloggs retrieved.” Evelyn tugged at her reticule and removed a square of paper. Unfolding it, she perused. “I recognise this scrawl, don’t I, Filgrave?”

  Before she could draw breath, the paper was torn from her fingers, ripped to shreds, the window shoved open and the pieces flung to the wind.

  Filgrave grinned, finger stabbing. “Think yer so bloody clever, eh, Missy? I wish he’d burned the lot of yer to ash. But yer forget one thing. I’ve got yer all alone.” He rapped on the ceiling with a fist and the small trapdoor crashed open.

  An eye as black as the devil stared down. “Yes, Guv?”