When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  So she succumbed to their charms.

  And they were charming. Every last one of them. Which was part of her dilemma. How to separate charm from con.

  She had spent a good deal of the night searching the shadows for Lovingdon, but as far as she could tell, he had not come. The message that he sent a few days earlier—He’ll know your favorite flower—had given her hope that he would be on hand at Claybourne’s ball to assist her in discerning who was a fortune hunter and who was not. She couldn’t assume that just because a man’s coffers were empty he was only after her fortune. On her own she had eliminated some of the men who were. They always had greedy little eyes and spoke of all the things they could accomplish with her dowry in hand.

  A rather poor courtship technique.

  But most of her suitors were not as overt and rarely mentioned her monetary assets. Courtship was an art, and they had perfected it. As she was the lady of the Season with the largest dowry, she drew the most attention—which did not endear her to many of the other ladies. They knew they would be getting the cast-offs.

  With a sigh, she stood. “Thank you, Felicity.” While most in the aristocracy did not usually thank servants for doing their tasks, Grace had grown up hearing her mother constantly thanking servants. A product of the streets, her mother took nothing for granted and treated everyone as though they mattered because to her they did. She’d passed that attribute on to Grace.

  Felicity helped to straighten her hair, to repin what could be contained. Grace’s hair was so curly that the strands were often escaping their constraints. With a last look in the mirror, Grace turned and nearly ran into Lady Cornelia. The woman possessed all the curves that Grace didn’t.

  “Please release Lord Ambrose from your spell,” Lady Cornelia whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  Lady Cornelia glanced around as though she expected demons to be lurking in the corners, but the only other two ladies in the room were busy chattering while their maids repinned their hair.

  “Lord Ambrose—if you were to let him know that he had no chance of gaining your favor—he might look elsewhere for the funds he needs in order to continue raising his horses.”

  “You fancy him?” Grace asked.

  “He is not so hard on the eyes. I will admit to favoring him. And I’m terribly fond of horses. His in particular, as they are the most beautiful thoroughbreds. And he has a lovely estate. I would like very much to be his countess.”

  Although love was woefully absent from the lady’s reasons, Grace studied her card. It wasn’t her place to judge what someone else desired for happiness. “Who do you have for the fifteenth dance?”

  “No one. I’ve had all of three dances claimed. My dowry is nowhere near as large as yours, my father is not as powerful. I have atrocious black hair and am as white as my mother’s tablecloth. My brother says I look like a ghoul.”

  Grace smiled. “Brothers are hideous, aren’t they?”

  “You’re lucky yours aren’t about this Season.”

  “I’m very lucky indeed.” Striving to strengthen the bond between them, Grace wrapped her fingers around Lady Cornelia’s arm. “Just before the fifteenth dance, meet me by the doors leading onto the terrace. I suspect my feet will be aching too badly for me to enjoy the quadrille. Perhaps you would be kind enough to dance with Lord Ambrose in my stead.”

  Lady Cornelia beamed, and Grace didn’t think she looked at all like a ghoul. She thought she more closely resembled an angel. “The other girls are jealous of the attentions you get, you know.”

  “I know. But we always want what someone else has.”

  “What do you want?”

  Grace gently squeezed her arm. “I want you to have Lord Ambrose.”

  Before Lady Cornelia could pepper her further, Grace walked from the room. She wasn’t about to admit to anyone—other than Lovingdon—that she desired love. She didn’t want to be painted as a pathetic creature who doubted her own self-worth, but there were moments when she feared love would be denied her.

  She glided down the stairs that led to the first landing. Lord Vexley was standing there, his elbow resting on the first baluster. He was quite possibly one of the most handsome men she’d ever known. His black hair was styled to perfection. Unlike hers, none of the strands ever rebelled. His deep blue eyes sparkled, his smile was broad and welcoming.

  “I was afraid I was going to have to go up those stairs and drag you out of that private room where ladies secret away to do and say who knows what,” he teased as she neared.

  “You’re waiting for me?”

  “I am. The next dance is mine, and unlike some of the other gents, I’m not willing to give up a waltz with the most beautiful woman here.” He extended his arm as she moved off the last step.

  She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You flatter me, my lord.”

  “I believe we would make a remarkable pair.”

  He escorted her into the ballroom just as the music was drifting into silence. Very well-timed planning. And he was so deuced handsome. She did wish she felt more for him than mild pleasure at being in his company. Unfortunately none of the gentlemen courting her stirred her heart. It beat its same constant, steady rhythm whether she was thinking about them, dancing with them, or conversing. Nothing was terribly wrong with any of them, but neither was anything terribly right.

  “Did my tulips arrive after Ainsley’s ball?” he asked.

  “They did.” Not her favorites, but a close second. “As did the chocolates.” She had not bothered to send those around to Lovingdon. She was willing to go only so far to convince him she was in need of his assistance, and giving up chocolate was one step too far. Although she wondered if they may have made a difference toward securing his cooperation. In his youth, chocolate had been his favorite treat, but then he was not who he had once been. If he was, he would have put her needs above his and been willing to assist her. On the other hand he had responded to the arrival of the flowers, although not to the extent she would have wished, but better than not at all.

  It occurred to her that in order to gain further help from him, she was going to have to take more drastic measures.

  Although it was long past midnight Grace walked with confidence along the dimly lit narrow corridor, her skirts rustling over the thick carpeting. She expected that her arrival would be frowned upon by those she would soon be encountering, but then she’d never cared one whit about obtaining their approval. Neither had they cared about gaining hers. They did as they pleased, when they pleased, with whom they pleased. While they might not want to have anything to do with her, she was not going to give them a choice. Not tonight anyway.

  They were men, after all, and as she’d recently learned, a practiced smile accompanied by a fluttering of the eyelashes could turn the most intelligent of men into mindless dolts, who could be led wherever a lady wished to lead. Her problem, however, was that she didn’t want a man who was so easily controlled, nor did she want one who sought to control her. She wanted a partner in life, one who saw her as an equal, even if the law didn’t.

  She finally reached the door located within the darkest of corners. Against the thick mahogany, she delivered three sharp knuckle raps, a pause, and two more, the last dispensed more quickly than the first set. At eye level a tiny door, a small opening in the much larger door, creaked open. A man peered out. The shadows effectively hid from her the details of his face. She would not have been surprised to find him wearing a mask.

  Much ado was always made about secretive meetings.

  “Only those knowing the special word may pass through here,” he growled, his voice deep and rumbling, as though he were auditioning for the role of ogre in a child’s fairy tale.

  Ah, the dramatics. She was allowed to come and play here on her birthday, and so she knew how to gain entry.

  “Feagan.”

  Homage paid to the kidsman who had once managed the den of child thieves that included her mother.

>   The oaf barring her way grunted. A lock clanked as it was released, then he swung the door open and Grace waltzed past him through the narrow portal. He was a big, hulking brute whom she had never encountered before. She suspected his size alone intimidated quite a few, and his large meaty fists would intimidate anyone else.

  “I’ll take you to the others—” he began.

  “No need.”

  She moved on, parting heavy velvet draperies that appeared black with the absence of light, though she knew they were a deep, rich burgundy. Sitting areas and tables adorned with decanters were in this section, but no one was making use of the lounging area in which to sulk, which meant that in all likelihood the games had not been going on long enough for anyone to have been separated from too many of his coins. Parting another set of draperies, she glided through—

  “No! God, Grace, what are you doing here?” Drake Darling came up out of his chair at a large round table covered in green baize. It appeared he had repeatedly tunneled his fingers through his dark hair, a sign that the evening was not going his way. He managed Dodger’s; she suspected a day would come when he would own it.

  Her eyes momentarily stung in the smoke-hazed room. Tables with more decanters lined the walls. Servants liveried in red stood at the ready. One tall fellow moved toward her. Drake held up a hand to stay him.

  “I’ve come to play,” she stated succinctly.

  Viscount Langdon, son to the Earl of Claybourne, groaned while glaring at her. “I’m not in the mood to lose tonight.”

  “Then give up your chair and be off,” she said. Knowing that Langdon would do neither, she signaled to the nearest footman, whom she recognized from earlier visits. Without hesitation he brought her a chair, apparently well aware which side his bread was buttered on.

  Amidst grumbling, three of the gents at the table scooted their chairs over to make room for her. The fourth moved nary a muscle, merely focused his amber gaze on her as though he could see clear through to her soul. His perusal caused an uncomfortable knot to form behind her breastbone. His dark blond hair curled where neck met broad shoulder. The darker bristle shadowing his jaw made him appear dangerous. She had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly why she was there and the game she was about to play. “Lovingdon.”

  “This particular game is invitation only.”

  His rough voice washed over her, fairly skittered along her flesh. Why was it that no other gentleman’s voice had quite the same impact on her?

  “As my mother is part owner of this establishment, I believe the invitation is implied.”

  Grace settled into the chair, which put them at eye level or nearly so. She was relieved to find him here, though the men within this room were men not so different from him. They played by special rules. Jackets, waistcoats, neck cloths were discarded. Sleeves were rolled up past elbows. She was astonished that they didn’t insist upon playing without shirts. They were all skilled cheaters, their upbringing influenced by at least one person who had survived the streets. They had all grown up fascinated by cons, dodges, sleight of hand, and misdirection. Among the aristocracy, they were uncommon, but among themselves—regardless of title, rank, or heritage—they were equal.

  Well, almost so. Lovingdon, she’d always felt, was a cut above. She could not help but notice now the firm, solid muscle of his forearms that hinted at firm, solid muscle elsewhere. She suspected he could pick her up with very little effort. Not that she wanted him to. All she wanted was for him to guide her toward love.

  “How did you know we were here?” the Duke of Avendale asked.

  She turned her attention to the dark-haired, dark-eyed man sitting beside her. Like Lovingdon, he’d inherited his title at a tender age. His connection to her family came through the man who had married his widowed mother: William Graves, one of London’s finest physicians. “None of you were at Claybourne’s ball. What else was I to think?” A heartbeat of silence before she continued. “You do realize, do you not, that with your absence you are breaking the heart of many a mother—and daughter, for that matter?”

  “There are many lords in need of a wife. I’m certain we’re not missed.”

  “But none come from such powerful and wealthy families as you lot.” Her gaze skipped back over to Lovingdon. Focusing his attention on the center of the table, he rolled a silver coin under and over his fingers, creating an undulating wave of light and dark again and again. She wondered if he was remembering when he had attended balls, when he had fallen in love.

  The joy of it, the magic of it.

  She desperately yearned for that joy, that magic. It had been sorely absent last Season, and this Season so far was little more than a repeat of the last.

  “You’re not here to play matchmaker, are you?” Langdon asked. He had his father’s black hair and silver eyes. Every Earl of Claybourne had looked out at the world through eyes of pewter.

  She laughed lightly. “No, I’m here to win your money. I’m in need of funds for one of the foundling homes.”

  The coin rolling faster over his fingers, Lovingdon grumbled, “I shall gladly make a donation if you’ll but leave us in peace.”

  She gave him a cocky smile. “I’d rather take your money.” And with any luck would take a great deal more than that. “It’s such fun to beat you all, and I’m in need of entertainment this evening. I found the ball rather dull.”

  “My mother will be disappointed to hear that,” Langdon said.

  “It wasn’t her fault I assure you.” She eyed him. “I’m rather surprised she let you get away with not attending.”

  “I feigned illness.”

  “Well, she shan’t hear the truth from me, unless of course I find myself ousted from here.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “You may play as long as I have coin.”

  Considering that his father was also part owner of Dodger’s, she suspected he had a good many coins. She reached into her reticule, withdrew her blunt, housed in a red velvet pouch, and set it before Drake. He had grown up within the bosom of her family, was more brother than friend, but he studied her now as though he didn’t quite trust her. She knew she was rather skilled at appearing innocent when she wasn’t. It was the reason that the blame for little pranks—which she usually initiated—fell to her two older brothers and not her, the reason they suffered through punishments while she went blithely on her way. She was the one who had inherited their mother’s quick mind and nimble fingers. Her brothers had inherited their father’s cunning—and they always found a way to get even with her for causing them trouble. But as she was the youngest, they loved her all the same. And she adored them.

  As they were presently traveling the Continent, they would not be interfering with her plans. Drake, however, was another matter entirely.

  He finally pushed a stack of colorful wooden chips her way. Leaning forward, she scooped her hands around them and—

  “You’re not serious about allowing her to stay,” Lovingdon said.

  “She’s as fine a gambler as you are,” Drake replied, “and her money spends just as easily.”

  “If I wanted a woman’s company I would seek one.”

  “Pretend I’m simply one of the boys, Lovingdon,” Grace put in. “You seemed to have no trouble accomplishing that goal when I was younger.”

  His gaze took a leisurely sojourn over her, and she cursed the tiny pricks of pleasure that erupted along her bared skin. She wanted to be unaffected by his perusal. Instead she found herself shamelessly wishing to reveal more, to bare everything, to see a look of adoration in his eyes, when she feared that what she might very well see was revulsion. His first wife had been perfection. There had not been a handsomer couple in all of Great Britain.

  He reached for his tumbler of amber liquid, his grip so hard that she could see the white of his knuckles. “Fine,” he ground out. “But don’t expect us to cease our smoking, drinking, or swearing because you’re here.”

  She tilted her chin at a haughty ang
le. “Have I ever?” She glanced around the table. “So, gentlemen, what are we playing this evening?”

  And with that, she began rolling her kidskin glove down from above her elbow to her wrist, where her pulse thrummed.

  She was up to something. Lovingdon wasn’t certain what, but he’d bet his last farthing that she had some scheme in mind.

  Very deliberately, very slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she tugged on each fingertip of her glove and leisurely peeled off the kidskin, exposing her wrist, her palm, her fingers. So slender, so pale. It had been years since the sun had kissed her skin. He wondered if any gentlemen had this evening.

  She moved her bared hand over to the other glove, and he cursed her actions and his fascination with the gathering of material, the revealing of skin. Bloody Christ. It was only an arm. Her pale blue ball gown with blue piping and embroidered roses left her shoulders and neck enticingly bare, but the upper swells of her breasts were demurely covered, and yet he found the unrevealed more alluring than everything revealed by any courtesan he’d visited of late.

  His world tilted off its axis.

  Even when she’d come to see him the week before, he’d still gazed upon her as a young girl, not a woman. But it was a woman whose sultry eyes met his, whose pouting mouth was waiting to be kissed.

  With a great deal of effort, he righted his world, setting it back properly on its course, and mentally kicked himself for even being intrigued by that show of flesh. She was a dear friend, no more than that. He shouldn’t find anything about her desirable. His younger version would not have noticed. However, he knew he was no longer who he had once been.