Deceiving The Duke (Scandals and Spies Book 2)

by Dobbs, Leighann

  Neat trick. Phil bit the inside of her mouth to keep from spewing the words aloud. If she raised her hand in her own house, would her servants read her mind? More likely Pickle would land on her arm and insult her.

  The patter of footsteps hailed Lucy’s return. She burst into the sitting room with a wide grin on her face. Despite the exertion adding color to her cheeks, not a strand of her hair was out of place. Locks of Phil’s hair tickled her neck. She gritted her teeth, resolutely ignoring the irritation. Some women had all the luck.

  As she dropped into one of the masculine armchairs, a leather-bound pocketbook and a graphite pencil in hand, Lucy beamed. “Has Mother told you the good news?”

  Wary, Phil glanced toward the dowager, who pressed her lips together in restrained mirth, but didn’t comment. “I’m afraid not. What news?”

  “We’re getting a parrot!”

  “That’s…wonderful news?”

  Leaning forward, Lucy gripped Phil’s forearm hard, unable to contain her glee. “Isn’t it just? I’ve been up all night trying to settle on the right name. How did you choose yours?”

  Phil smiled, recalling that chaotic moment. Pearls flying across the tea shop, an old woman screaming profanity, and Pickle flapping out of the reach of the beastly woman’s cane. Phil’s heart had been in her mouth. She’d had a bruise for two weeks on her forearm where she’d taken the blow from that cane in his place.

  Gently, Phil pried the young woman’s death grip off her arm. “I rescued him from certain death after his owner got irritated that he broke her necklace. When I told him he was in a pickle, he made that cooing bird giggle that parrots make. He didn’t stop repeating the word for days.”

  Lucy canted her head to the side, staring into the air as she tapped her lower lip with her pinky. “Maybe I should see what the bird wants to be named. I had hoped that you would be able to help me find a reputable place to buy a bird, though…”

  “I’m afraid I found Pickle by luck alone. I will keep my ear to the ground in case I hear of anything.”

  “Thank you. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help train our parrot when we get one?”

  Phil was saved from having to answer as the young maid returned with a tray full of overturned cups, a tea pot, sugar dish, and milk jug, a scrumptious-looking seed cake, and several plates. As the young woman curtsied, miraculously keeping the tray perfectly level, Phil hopped to her feet.

  “Could I beg the use of your retiring room for a moment?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Certainly. It’s down the hall—”

  The dowager leaned forward with a smile. “Why don’t you use the one on the third floor, Miss St. Gobain? The one down here is in disrepair and that one is much nicer. All the way down the hall at the back of the house.”

  Phil’s heartbeat quickened. Her mouth dried. Did Lady Graylocke suspect that Phil wasn’t here for a social call? She swallowed, trying to call moisture into her mouth, before she replied as evenly as she could manage.

  “Thank you, Lady Graylocke, I will.”

  “Please, call me Evelyn.”

  Phil’s lips parted. It took her a moment to muster words. “Thank you. And you must call me Phil.”

  The dowager waved one hand idly through the air. “If you get lost, call out. Someone will be by to help you in a trice.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Somehow, Phil managed to put one foot in front of the other and vacate the room before her heart clawed its way out from between the bars of her ribcage. In the fresh air of the corridor, her churning thoughts settled. The dowager duchess—Evelyn—had given her the perfect excuse to venture above stairs.

  She took it, quickly mounting to the second floor. A pair of maids hummed as they bustled out of a room at the end with feather dusters in hand. With servants nearby, Phil didn’t dare linger to discover what rooms lay beyond the doorways peppering the corridor. She mounted the stairs to the third floor. At least she had an excuse to be here.

  When she opened the first door on her right to display a feminine bedchamber—likely Lucy’s, given the books and papers piled on every flat surface—she realized that she’d been directed to the family’s personal quarters. Excellent. If she were to find the duke’s room, she could shut the door and search to her heart’s content. This floor was eerily silent compared to the bustle of the last two, with no servants in sight at all.

  In succession, Phil opened the door to reveal: the dowager’s chambers, what appeared to be an unused bedchamber given the lack of personal effects, a room in slight disarray with a trunk of feminine clothing in the center, and a dark room that smelled earthy. Phil didn’t see much of the last, aside from the fronds of a potted plant nestled next to the door. The moment a snore rent the air, she shut the door with haste. Given the plant, it must be Lord Gideon’s room—and he must still be abed. With her heart in her throat, Phil tiptoed away, praying that she hadn’t disturbed him. When he didn’t yank the door open to glare at her, she let out a sigh of relief.

  The next bedchamber down the line must belong to the duke. Squaring her shoulders, Phil ghosted down the hall. She laid her hand on the latch and tentatively opened the door.

  No snoring. The rich azure drapes were partially shut, tickled by the breeze drifting through the open window. Daylight trickled in from the gap to dimly light the room. More thick drapes were pulled across the bed, their silver cords hanging loose. No motion betrayed that the room was occupied. Phil slipped into the room, easing the door shut behind her.

  Thanks to the breeze through the window, the air didn’t smell stale. She crept along the plush Persian carpet, a rich array of blues and greens and purples, as she moved to the window to let in more light. When the gray light sifting through the clouds penetrated the room, she studied the panorama, trying to guess where a duke would hide a prism the size of a shilling. Unfortunately, the possibilities were myriad.

  The duke’s room was neither messy nor devoid of personality, but a curious mix in between. The four-poster bed, the poles carved with the likenesses of dragons, devoured the majority of the space in the room, relegating the massive wardrobe, a chest topped with various books stacked neatly, a blue stuffed armchair, and twin night tables to the perimeter of the room. A spacious marble fireplace, intricately carved in a neoclassical style, faced the bed. The hearth was now cold, though a few logs had been stacked in the grate. Flanking the fireplace were two doorways, one without a door that presumably led into the dressing room, and a second with the door closed. At a guess, Phil imagined it led into unused, adjoining chambers for the future duchess. Over the mantle of the hearth was a breathtaking painting of Grecian shores. The colors popped in contrast to the white-and-blue damask wallpaper.

  Where to begin? Phil stripped off her gloves, tossing them on the armchair as she surveyed the room. The duke didn’t keep a writing desk in his bedchamber, though he might have stuffed the prism in one of the drawers of his wardrobe. It was as good a place as any to start.

  Despite the cool air, by the time she rummaged through the cravats and gloves in the top drawer, Phil’s spencer clung to the back of her neck. She shucked it, tossing it atop the gloves on the chair. She toed off her ankle-high riding boots, for good measure. For some unfathomable reason, she could always find things faster when in her stocking feet.

  She pulled out the second drawer and found herself gifted with neat row upon row of folded smallclothes and socks. She felt along the inside of the drawer for a telltale lump. Empty-handed, she shut the drawer with vigor. It met the frame with a small thump.

  Someone stirred on the bed behind her. Her heart skipped a beat. She whirled, pressing her hand to her chest. A gasp escaped her lips, unbidden.

  A second later, the bed curtains rustled as a man shot out of bed. Daylight glinted off the metal barrel of a pistol aimed at Phil’s chest. But it wasn’t the gun that held her immobile. The Duke of Tenwick was completely, gloriously naked.

  And by Jove, it was a ple
asing sight. His skin was naturally golden, as if sun-kissed. His broad shoulders tapered down to a washboard-flat abdomen and lean hips. His arms, legs, and chest were dusted with hair to match the dark stubble lining his cheeks. The stubble, coupled with the disarray of his black hair and that distinctive white streak, gave him a wild look. And his manhood… Well, suffice it to say that the gun wasn’t the only thing he pointed at her, and his manhood was by far more impressive.

  He cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his snapping gray gaze. Phil’s cheeks flamed. She’d forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t staring at an art exhibit in a book, but was in fact standing before the unclothed tenth Duke of Tenwick at gunpoint.

  She didn’t have any excuse for infiltrating his bedchamber and he looked bent on exacting punishment for her transgression.

  6

  If this was a dream, it was the most bizarre dream Morgan had ever had. For one thing, if he didn’t have a stitch on, he would have thanked his subconscious to ensure that Miss St. Gobain didn’t have anything on, either. She’d already started in that mien, given the spencer and boots in the corner of the room by his armchair. The barest ruffle of lace teased the swell of her breasts, encased in amber-hued muslin. The dress gave her skin a rosy cast—or perhaps that was due to the blush mantling her cheeks and upper chest.

  Zeus, she was lovely, her blue-gray eyes sparkling with life. She was also very real. This couldn’t possibly be a dream.

  His gaze darted to the discarded clothing in the corner. Was she trying to trap him into marriage?

  He waited for the wash of horror to envelop him at the notion. Instead, his body reacted with a swift, undeniable burn. If he was going to be forced into the parson’s noose, it might as well be for a transgression he’d made. He almost took a step forward before he caught himself, the cold metal of the pistol he’d grabbed from beneath his pillow to ward against the unknown intruder cutting into his palm.

  What are you thinking? He wasn’t. The ache in his loins nearly overwhelmed all reason. For him to have that strenuous a reaction to the thought of bedding the alluring, eccentric Miss St. Gobain—

  Yes, yes, yes.

  —he must be starved for female companionship. How long had it been since he’d appeased that particular ache? Too long. He rarely took even a temporary mistress, for fear of the repercussions against his family name. In fact, he might not have spent the night with a woman since before he’d joined the war as a British spy.

  At the moment, the thought of some nameless, faceless woman didn’t draw near the appeal of the woman standing in front of him. Her chest heaved with her breaths. Her tongue darted out, teasing a line across her upper lip. He bit back a groan. Lawks. He’d never wanted a woman more. Her hot gaze was locked on his cock as she ran her tongue back and forth, back and forth. He felt the force of her stare almost like a touch. It was not at all the demure, scandalized expression he expected to find on a gently-bred young virgin.

  He cleared his throat, unable to take the heat of her gaze for a moment longer without acting on it. The pistol in his hand was the one thing that anchored him to the situation, to the fact that she had infiltrated his house, his bedchamber, and reduced him to this.

  As she raised her gaze to his, something akin to trepidation entered her eyes. It reminded him that he stood here with a gentlewoman.

  Damn it all, he shouldn’t be unclothed in front of her! He flung the pistol on the bed in favor of yanking off the sheet and wrapping it haphazardly around his waist. An emotion resembling disappointment flashed across her face for a second before she smoothed it. It did nothing to ease the fierce throb of his desire. The sheet tented over his erection.

  He swallowed hard, counting down his last minutes of freedom. “If you intend to trap me into marriage, you might as well have at it. We’re not getting any younger.” His voice emerged gravelly and aroused, yet more evidence of her puzzling allure. He’d encountered plenty of beautiful women.

  Though none quite like her.

  Her lips parted. At that moment, it would have been altogether too easy to cross to her and kiss her senseless.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Her voice was a little sharp, considering the situation was of her making. She should have considered that he might sleep in the nude.

  He started to cross his arms, only to have to juggle the sheet once more so it didn’t drop to the floor. “Go ahead. Scream. The servants will arrive in seconds to discover that you and I are very much alone, and I am unclothed.”

  She took a step—away from him, not toward him. Bald horror crossed her face, chased by panic. She made a strangled sound and whirled to yank open the drawers to his wardrobe. Several strands of her thick auburn hair escaped her pins to caress her neck or shoulders. With frantic, jerky movements, she grabbed garments from the drawers and flung them blindly behind her.

  He caught a pair of knee breeches as they hit him in the chest. His grip slipped and the sheet nearly pooled around his ankles once more.

  Miss St. Gobain stared at him with a tempest in her wide eyes. “Dress yourself,” she demanded, her voice little more than a hiss.

  She hadn’t thrown any smallclothes at him. Not to mention, how was he supposed to dress himself without dropping the sheet? He sidled closer to the bed, intending to perch on the edge, when he realized that she wasn’t screaming for the servants to pound down his door. In fact, she had snatched her spencer and was now buttoning it to her chin, covering her bare upper chest.

  Shame.

  “You aren’t trying to trap me into marriage?”

  Her mouth dropped open. Her hands balled into fists. Given the appalled look on her face, if he’d been standing closer, she might have slapped him. “No!”

  He dropped to the edge of the bed and fought to bare his ankles from beneath the folds of the sheet. “But…I’m a duke.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And an arrogant one, apparently.”

  I am not. Her words cut him deeper than he let on. Her disgust at the thought of marrying him tempered his arousal, at least. With a surly shrug, he shoved his feet into the breeches. “Aren’t all dukes?”

  “Quite possibly.” Her voice was clipped. She dropped onto the edge of the armchair to fight with the laces on her ankle boots, pulling them farther apart before she squeezed her small foot inside.

  He couldn’t hold both the sheet and his breeches at once as he pulled them up, so in a swift movement he stood, pulling up the breeches and turning his back to tuck in his softening manhood and carefully button the fall. The cloth was scratchy against his bare rump. He turned, bending to retrieve the shirt that had fluttered to the ground between them.

  Her gaze lit on the hollow of his throat and moved down over his bare chest in a slow, agonizing sweep. His cock reacted to her again, a swift ache that turned painful. He shielded his groin with the shirt.

  “If you aren’t here to trap me into marriage, why were you undressing?”

  Her cheeks turned a hot, plum shade as she jumped to her feet. “I was not undressing. And I didn’t know you were in the room.”

  Liar. She avoided his gaze. Instead, her eyes were fixed straight ahead, which, given the difference in their height, wound up somewhere in the middle of his chest, over his pounding heart.

  He fought the urge to roll his eyes. When it came to interrogations, he’d been told the piercing, unwavering shade of his gray eyes often yielded the quickest results. He took advantage, staring her down until she hazarded a glance at him again. She averted her gaze just as quickly.

  “Do you expect me to believe that you entered my bedchamber intending to take a nap?”

  The only reason she could have for entering his bedchamber and starting to remove her clothes would be to trap him into marriage. She must have had second thoughts. Unless…

  Could she be the enemy spy?

  The thought hit him like a chunk of ice sliding down his back. It doused his arousal just as quickly. She couldn�
��t be working for the French…could she? He didn’t know anything about her at all.

  He stepped closer, hoping to intimidate her with his size as well as his gaze. “What’s your Christian name, Miss St. Gobain?”

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth, leaving enticing crescents in the plump flesh. His lips burned in response, aching to kiss her.

  No. She is the enemy.

  He mustered a smile. Leaning his head closer, he said in a conspiratorial voice, “My Christian name is Morgan, as you must know. Tell me yours. You’ve seen me naked. I believe that warrants more familiar terms.”

  Something sparked in her gaze a moment before she turned her face away, an emotion too quick for him to identify. Softly, she murmured, “Philomena.”

  A lovely name that flowed off the tip of the tongue. Uncommon but beautiful, like she was.

  Then she added, “Phil.”

  He fought not to make a face. The masculine nickname didn’t fit someone so obviously female. When she was nearby, his body responded to her in the most primal way a man could a woman.

  “Not Mena?” It would fit her better.

  She raised her chin. “No. Phil.”

  “Philly?” Even as he spoke, the word felt wrong.

  She scrunched her nose. “I’m not a horse. My name is Phil.”

  When he pictured someone named Phil, he did not picture her. “Doesn’t it bother you to answer to a man’s name?” Lucy would kill him if he called her Luc.

  Her hands fisted again. He took a small step back, fearing that he might get slapped, after all. He held the shirt between them like a shield.

  “It isn’t a man’s name. It’s my name.”

  She advanced on him. He retreated from the wild, furious look in her eye.

  “Are you trying to say that I’m somehow less worthy of the name than a man?”

  “What? No—”

  She spoke over top of him, raising her voice as she chased him across the room. “I assure you, I can do anything a man can do.”

  “I—I don’t doubt that you can. I didn’t mean to imply—” Blast, but he felt exposed, dressed only in knee breeches without a stitch of clothing otherwise. Quickly, he pulled the shirt over his head, letting the open collar hang loose. When the white linen no longer obscured his gaze, he found the room vacant.