The Dangerous Duke

by Arabella Sheraton

  His expression was enigmatic, inscrutable; his eyes revealed nothing.

  She opened her mouth to retort. “I—”

  Suddenly he put his hand over her mouth and dragged her into an alcove, clasping her tight against his chest. They were half hidden by a long velvet drape. Shuffling noises came from across the hallway. It was Blenkins, in slippers, gown and nightcap. He peered around the library door, lifting his candle to shed light into the dark room.

  “Is—is that you, Your Grace?” His voice was nervous.

  The Duke shielded Fenella’s candle so that Blenkins could not see them huddled so scandalously together.

  “Yes, it is,” he called. “I decided to return without prior notice. Go back to bed, Blenkins.”

  “Will you be in need of anything, Sir?” Blenkins asked, relieved to find his master and not a band of housebreakers downstairs.

  “No, thank you. You may go to bed.”

  “Very good, Sir. Good night, Your Grace.” Blenkins shuffled off and soon the house was silent.

  Devlin looked down at Fenella. He could feel the whole length of her warm, pliant body against his own. Her heart beat against his chest like a bird’s wings. He groaned inwardly. That unbelievable hypnotic feeling was stealing over him again. As much as he wanted to, he could not release her. She stirred a little, as if to remind him that what they were doing was not acceptable behaviour for a man and a woman, especially since she was in a state of undress. The subtle fragrance of violets teased his nostrils. She smelled so tantalizing, so delicate. He could see the tops of her breasts through the thin nightdress.

  Where will this end? He placed the candlestick on a ledge and let his arm fall away.

  As he released her, she stepped back and looked up at him. Her beauty riveted him. This was not the sophisticated, hard elegance of a Society lady. Her face was luminous, glowing in the faint light; her eyes were dark-fringed violet pools into which he would willingly plunge. Her hair rippled down past her shoulders in satiny waves. He had never seen such fresh, natural loveliness before. She opened her mouth to speak and without thinking, he bent his head and kissed her soft, inviting lips.

  Her mouth opened in welcome as his warm tongue delved and explored, teasing the inside of her lips, and then stabbing into her mouth in rising passion. Hesitant at first, she shyly explored back.

  He reached under her nightdress and slid his hand slowly up the length of her satin thigh to the delicious curve of her buttocks. Devlin was panting, his breath coming hard in rampant lust. He could not stop now. God help him, but he could not.

  “Now!” Devlin grated through clenched teeth. It had to be now or he would explode. He pushed her against the wall for support as he fumbled with his breeches. Instantly, she froze in terror and jerked away from him, horror and realization etched on her features.

  “I—I cannot, please don’t,” she stammered. She straightened her nightdress and pulled her robe close around her body. “You must be mistaken.” Her breasts heaved, and she looked ravishing with hot, flushed cheeks and her lips swollen from his fervent kisses.

  Devlin came to his senses instantly. A wave of burning embarrassment swept over him. Had he completely lost his mind? He must be insane. Here he was fumbling in the library alcove with a woman who was just about on the level of a servant. How had she bewitched him like this again? How dare she lead him on? He buttoned his breeches and tucked in his shirt.

  “Mistaken?” he drawled, trying to ignore the throbbing in his groin that just would not go away.

  He could not understand how this woman excited him to the point of uncontrollable rampaging passion. Never in his life had he experienced arousal of this magnitude. The few minutes with Fenella easily outstripped the hours of calculated pleasurable lovemaking he had enjoyed with his mistress. With Penelope, it was a game of give and take, as premeditated as a dance, where each knew the rules and none would relinquish self-control. His insides churned with frustration. He wanted to seize this girl and make wild love to her, to abandon his reserve and control and give himself up to the vast sweeping sensations threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to damn the consequences. Yet he knew in that timeless moment, as he stared at her stricken face, that he could not.

  “You are mistaken, Sir,” she said, in a firm and icy voice, “if you think I can be toyed with in this way.”

  His eyes raked up and down the length of her body.

  “No, I think it is you who are mistaken,” he replied curtly. “From your …ahem …ardent behaviour, I was under the impression that physical satisfaction was your goal. However, perhaps one of the footmen would be more to your liking.”

  As he said this, Devlin knew he had gone too far. He could have bitten his tongue out as he saw the expression of utter pain and bewilderment on her face. How could he blame her when it was he, in fact, who had initiated both encounters? It was his fault they had lost control. Nevertheless, it was too late. The words of anger, bitterness and frustration flew at her like poisoned arrows. She flinched and then the unthinkable happened.

  Fenella hit the Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham right across his face.

  As her hand smacked against his cheek with surprising strength, Devlin jerked back, astounded by the severity of the blow. His left cheek stung and his ear buzzed ominously for a few seconds. He tasted blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue from the force of the blow.

  He grinned as he wiped the crimson drops from his mouth. Miss Fenella Preston was exceedingly strong for such a well-bred young woman.

  “I deserved that,” he said softly.

  Horrified to see blood on his face, Fenella placed her hand against his cheek. “I am so sorry. What have I done?”

  “Nothing I wouldn’t have done to any man who behaved like an utter scoundrel and spoke to you in so disgraceful a manner,” Devlin said wryly. “I have betrayed my responsibilities both as a host and employer. Forgive me.”

  He stalked over to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. He held out the glass to her. “Here, drink some of this. I think we both need to calm down.”

  Fenella took a few tiny sips, coughed and then waved it away. Devlin tossed back the remainder of the amber liquid while eyeing Fenella with a wary expression.

  He took a deep breath and bowed. “Miss Preston, your servant. Please accept my most abject apologies for conduct completely unbefitting a gentleman. I beg that you will forget this occurrence. I shall endeavour to keep my distance and maintain my self-control. You need have no fear of this ever happening again.”

  Fenella drew herself up to her full height, gathered up the tattered remnants of her dignity and said loftily, “I can see you have been drinking tonight and may have forgotten your place and breeding. I accept your apologies, Your Grace, and I shall erase the memory of this event from my mind. I bid you good night.”

  With her head held high, Fenella made a grand and haughty exit.

  Devlin lay down on the library sofa, clasping the brandy decanter to his chest and musing in morbid fashion on an impossible situation and the mysteries of female behaviour. He acknowledged with some despair that he was a slave to his desires; he was a man enchained and enchanted by a woman so beneath him. Besides, the horror and disgust he had seen in her eyes when they had broken away from that passionate embrace filled him with remorse and shame. She must think him a cad and a philanderer to take advantage of her.

  Yes, he was all that and worse. He fell asleep as dawn’s first light slid rosy fingers through the cracks between the library curtains, only awakening when he heard Blenkins’ anxious voice saying, “Good Heavens! Your Grace?”

  Chapter Six

  Fenella woke with a start. Glorious sunshine was already streaming through the windows and she could hear the sounds of birds twittering in the trees. She lay for a few moments, her mind quite blank until the full force of what had happened engulfed her like a giant wave. She groaned and placed the pillow over her face.

  It was
impossible to go down to breakfast. She would plead a sick headache.

  The Dowager would be disappointed. Since the old lady’s recovery, one of her greatest pleasures was a leisurely breakfast at nine o’clock, followed by a gentle walk with her companion round the rose garden. The Dowager kept country hours and did not believe in the fashionable Town habit of rising late, around eleven, drifting about en déshabille and only receiving visitors well after noon.

  “Such nonsense, wasting away practically the whole day! I never knew what it was like to be bed-ridden until now,” the Dowager had exclaimed. “So while I have my strength, I’m going to enjoy every moment of active life that’s left to me. We take too much for granted, especially health.”

  Fenella sighed. The Dowager would be expecting her. A discreet tap sounded at the door. Fenella sat up, alarmed.

  “Yes?” she called, pulling the sheet around her shoulders.

  “It’s only me, Miss.” Molly peered around the door. Her frilled cap waggled as she bobbed an anxious curtsey. “’Tis after ten already.”

  Fenella leaped out of bed like a scalded cat. It was so late. The Dowager would be wondering where she was. “Yes, of course, please come in, Molly.”

  “Couldn’t ye sleep, Miss?” Molly asked while she bustled about, arranging Fenella’s toilette items and laying out her clothes.

  “Er…no.” Fenella dashed water over her face so Molly could not see her expression. “There was a…um…owl hooting for ages last night.”

  Molly clucked in sympathy. “Shall I say ye’ll be but a few minutes?”

  “Yes.” Fenella’s voice was muffled as she slid her chemise over her head. “I’ll be down right away.”

  She put on a primrose muslin gown, but her mood was despondent and her fingers clumsy as she wrestled with reluctant fastenings and obstinate buttons. It was no good. She would have to face the Duke and put on a brave face. She stared at herself in the mirror, astonished to see that she had not turned into some kind of vile succubus overnight. The reflection she saw was a lovely apparition of innocence. Hardly the aroused woman she had been several hours earlier.

  But why do I feel so wanton, so utterly wicked when I am near him? She plaited a matching ribbon though her hair. There must be something wrong with me.

  With a last glance at her appearance and a final tweak to her glossy curls, Fenella made her way downstairs to the breakfast parlour. Perhaps the Duke would still be in bed. As she entered the sunny white-and-yellow room, there was no sign of him.

  Hope rose in her heart. Perhaps he had slunk back to London again?

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” the Dowager greeted her warmly. “I thought you were ill or had a bad headache.”

  Before Fenella could reply, the sound of silver salvers clanging startled her. She jumped with fright. It was the Duke, serving himself devilled kidneys and scrambled eggs from the sideboard. He had his back to her. Her heart leaped and she felt herself beginning to blush. Memories crowded into her mind of how close she had been to him just a short while ago. She could not help noticing the breadth of his shoulders and the way his cobalt blue coat fitted him like a glove. His fawn riding breeches outlined the firm muscled line of buttock and thigh, and she could have wept with shame as she recalled the thrill of feeling his body pressed against hers.

  He turned and gazed at her with a sardonic expression. The left side of his face appeared swollen. He raised a mocking eyebrow.

  “Yes, you do look a little heavy-eyed, Miss Preston. Did you have a bad night?”

  Her head spun back into indignant reality. Fenella thought she would choke if she uttered a response to his feigned solicitude. The gall of the man! Pretending nothing had happened. He would not triumph over her with his sarcasm and veiled innuendoes. Two could play at his little game.

  Fenella cast her eyes down in contrived innocence. “I confess I did not sleep too well.” Then she looked up at the Duke with a disarming smile, fluttering her lashes as well as any salon debutante. She put up a discreet hand to stifle a tiny yawn.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” he said grimly. “Were you…disturbed in the night?”

  The double entendre was clear to her. She fought down the wave of redness that threatened to reveal to him her recollection of what had happened.

  “Actually, I was.” Fenella selected a piece of toast after careful study of the toast rack. “An owl, or some creature, woke me and after that I just couldn’t fall asleep again. I’m obviously not used to the customs and wild ways of the country.”

  Her gaze was ingenuous, but a steely glint lurked in the violet depths of her eyes, daring him to draw her out once more.

  To her immense satisfaction, he dropped his gaze and busied himself with the devilled kidneys. Flushed with success, she assumed an expression of deep concern and gave a delicate squeal as if noticing his face for the first time.

  “My goodness! Whatever happened to your face, Your Grace?”

  Fenella’s triumph knew no bounds when he reddened and pressed his lips together in a hard line. He did not answer her; however, his expression was severe. His knife and fork clattered against the plate.

  “What?” the Dowager asked anxiously. “What has happened to you, Devlin, my dear? Are you hurt? Has an insect bitten you? Maybe it is a spider! We should get the doctor. A spider bite can be very dangerous.” She fumbled in her reticule. “Where is my lorgnette? Come closer to me, Devlin, and let me see. Do you wish Blenkins to send for Doctor Barclay?”

  “Mama! I do not need the doctor,” Devlin replied testily, shooting a baleful glance at Fenella, who was engrossed in buttering her piece of toast with enthusiasm. “No insect has bitten me. I …er …stumbled in the library last night and fetched myself a blow on the face when I bumped against a bookcase. There is a slight swelling and I can assure you it will be gone in a day or two.”

  Fenella pursed her lips together to contain her laughter while the Dowager delivered her son a lengthy homily on the virtues of reducing one’s alcohol intake. “For I know you must have been in your cups to do such a silly thing,” she scolded in closing.

  Devlin scowled down at his plate. Blenkins, hovering in silent interest behind his master, gazed with an impassive face at an imaginary spot on the opposite wall.

  “By the way, Blenkins,” the Duke said. “Please tell Mrs. Perkins the wax droplets on the Aubusson carpet are my fault and she is not to scold the parlour maids.” He glowered at his mother. “Yes, Mama, I dropped the candle when I stumbled.” He sent a smouldering glance toward Fenella, who had the grace to blush.

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Blenkins murmured, maintaining his wooden countenance.

  A footman opened the door and bowed to the Dowager.

  “Yes, Roberts?” she asked. What is it?”

  “Mr. Frederick Perivale, Your Grace,” he announced, as a magnificently attired Freddie bounced into the room.

  “Greetings, Deverells all! Devlin, ma’am …” He broke off as he noticed Fenella.

  She gazed up at him, a smile illuminating her lovely countenance.

  “I say,” he stammered. “Ye Gods! By Jove! ’Pon my word! But I’m forgetting my manners.” He bowed to Fenella. “Your very humble servant, Miss…er.”

  Freddie shot an injured glance at Devlin that said very clearly, where have you been hiding her?

  Devlin glared at Freddie and mumbled a greeting, waving his hand at Blenkins to fetch another place setting. Blenkins sailed out while Freddie sidled round to Fenella’s side of the table.

  “You’ll take breakfast with us of course, Freddie?” asked the Dowager, her tone of voice more a command than a request.

  “Oh, yes,” Freddie breathed, sinking down next to Fenella. In fact, he had already enjoyed a hearty breakfast earlier, but for the opportunity of sitting next to Fenella, would have devoured an ox. “May I sit here, ma’am?”

  “Of course you may,” the Dowager laughed. “Miss Preston won’t bite. Fenella, my dear, meet my favo
urite godson and Devlin’s childhood comrade, Mr. Frederick Perivale. Freddie, meet Miss Fenella Preston, my companion and friend.”

  She peered closer at Freddie. “Good Heavens, what on earth are you wearing, dear boy?”

  Freddie blushed. While he certainly did not consider himself one of the dandy set, his shirt points were extraordinarily high, in a style his valet had assured him was the sartorial pinnacle of gentlemen’s fashions. Turning his head, however, was quite difficult.

  “You look as if you have a windmill tied round your neck,” the Dowager opined. “In fact, you look quite silly. You should dress like Devlin. He always looks very elegant. Like that delightful Mr. Brummell.”

  “I say, ma’am, this is the dernier cri in Town; in fact as cris go, it’s about as dernier as you can get!” he protested.

  “I still say it looks like a windmill, with lots of sails. And your hair looks so untidy, Freddie. I don’t think those curls are at all becoming on you. Is that really the latest style?”

  “It’s called la Confusion,” Freddie squirmed, shooting a pained glance at Fenella.

  “I can see why,” the Dowager retorted. “One would have to be completely confused to allow one’s valet to let one out looking like that.”

  Fenella stifled a giggle. Clearly, Freddie was a slave to fashion and a subsequent victim of fashion. An alarmingly gaudy brocade waistcoat and a cravat that cascaded down his chest like a waterfall matched his high shirt points and elaborate confection of curls. His periwinkle coat looked too tight and Fenella was sure that loosening it would enable him to breathe better. He also wore a collection of fobs and seals, and an oversized quizzing glass on a long ribbon.

  Freddie blushed as Fenella came to his rescue.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Perivale, but I am so unaccustomed as to what is in mode that new fashions always appear quite glorious to me. What a splendid cravat. It looks like a waterfall.”

  “By Jove! That’s exactly what the style is called, Miss Preston.” A joyful smile transformed Freddie’s dejected countenance. “Waterfall! You are so clever …not that I mean you’re a bluestocking, but you know …”