When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  “No.”

  He might as well have slapped her with the terse word. Something must have shown on her face, because he said, “Tell me who it is and I’ll kill him for taking advantage of you.”

  She laughed lightly. “No one is bedding me. It’s a friend. She thinks he loves her—”

  “He might lust after her, but he doesn’t love her. It would be prudent for her to end this relationship before she finds herself completely ruined.”

  “And you know this because you’ve been with ladies you didn’t love.”

  “Not with a lady who has a reputation to protect. I’ve told you before, Grace, the women I frequent know the rules of the game I play. It sounds to me as though your friend doesn’t—especially if she still expects marriage.”

  “Gentlemen don’t play by the same rules as ladies, do they?”

  “I fear not. We can be beasts when we set our mind to it. Warn her off.” He retreated farther into the shadows, toward a side gate that would lead him into the street. She dearly wanted to go after him. Did he have memories of his mother not being loved? Was that the reason he was here, offering advice, small as it was? She’d known of course that his father, much older than his mother, had married out of duty. It was a common practice among the aristocracy, although now love was more often beginning to hold sway and duty was less a factor.

  Turning, she jerked back and released a tiny squeal at the sight of the man standing there, fairly hovering over her. “Lord Vexley, you took me by surprise.”

  “My apologies, Lady Grace. I saw an opportunity to have a moment alone with you. I could hardly let it pass.” He stepped nearer, his gaze holding hers, his focus intense, almost captivating. “Lovingdon seems to have upset you.”

  “No, not at all. He was simply in the area, I suppose, and we had a little chat.” She shook her head. “He hardly attends social affairs these days. I was hoping this one might do him some good.”

  “I feel sorry for any lady who might try to claim his heart. It is very difficult to live with a ghost.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “My mother was my father’s second wife. She never held his heart. It made her a very sad woman. It is much better to be the first to claim a man’s heart.” He placed his palm flat against his chest and grinned at her. “Mine has yet to be claimed.”

  It was an invitation that she thought she should be delighted to receive, eager to accept, and yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Instead she tried to make light of it without causing hurt feelings, as she couldn’t deny that of all the gents vying for her affections, he was the one she most looked forward to spending time with. “I find it difficult to believe that your heart has not been touched by another when you are so incredibly charming.”

  “But I am not so easily charmed. You, however, my lady . . .” He looked toward the gardens. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to join me for a stroll about the roses.”

  “I should be most delighted.” She placed her hand on the crook of his elbow. His words were not overly poetic, and he knew enough to take her through the roses. Now if he but knew which shade she favored.

  “Red, I should think,” he said, as though he’d read her mind. “Red roses are what I should send you tomorrow.”

  “Better to leave them where they are. They don’t die so quickly that way.”

  “Ah, a lady who doesn’t appreciate a courtship accompanied by flowers. What would you prefer, I wonder?”

  She opened her mouth, and he quickly touched a gloved finger to her lips. “No, don’t tell me. I shall deduce it on my own.”

  He gave her a warm smile, and she found herself wishing that her heart would do a somersault.

  Having sent his carriage on its way, Lovingdon walked. He needed to walk. He needed his muscles tightening and aching, he needed the pounding of his heels on ground. He needed distance, distance from Grace, the dark blue rings that circled her irises, the damn freckle near the corner of her mouth. Why had it remained when all the others had disappeared, why did it taunt him? Why had he noticed?

  The sun had kissed her there. Why had he wanted to as well?

  He’d come because he simply wanted to observe, to make certain that Bentley wasn’t monopolizing Grace’s time. Step in if needed. He certainly hadn’t expected to step into Fitzsimmons. What a scapegrace. If any man berated Grace in that manner, public or privately—

  How the deuce would he know if it was happening privately?

  She would tell him, of course. He’d have her word on it.

  She would no doubt inform him it was no longer any of his concern, the stubborn little witch. If he wouldn’t assist her in finding a man who loved her, he couldn’t very well complain if she ended up with one who didn’t.

  He probably should have hesitated before stepping in to save her from Fitzsimmons. He would like to have seen the man’s face when it met up with Grace’s fist. Yes, she would have struck him. She was not demure, not like Juliette.

  When Grace wanted something, she went after it, even if it meant asking a recent reprobate for assistance. Which he was not so keen on giving. Whatever had possessed him to gaze at her as he had, to draw her into gazing at him?

  He never gazed into women’s eyes anymore. He never noticed freckles tucked in near to the corner of a mouth. He didn’t pay attention to quick breaths or fingers lifting of their own accord to touch him. He wondered if she’d even been aware of her action. If he’d not moved, she would have touched him, as she had the evening before—and it simply wouldn’t do to know the warmth of her again.

  Her skin, her sighs, her heated glances would all belong to someone else, someone with the wherewithal to love her as she deserved.

  “You must tell Lady Chloe,” Grace told Lady Ophelia. After her walk with Vexley, she’d met up with her closest unmarried friends near the rhododendrons. “He doesn’t fancy her. He’s never going to ask for her hand in marriage.”

  “How do you know?” Ophelia asked.

  “My gentleman.”

  “Vexley? Is Vexley your man? I saw you walking with him.”

  “No, he’s someone else.”

  “Is he here?” Minerva asked.

  “No, no. But he was most insistent that if a man takes a woman to bed without asking for her hand in marriage, it’s only lust. And it makes sense. After all this time, why would he ask her? He’s searching for someone with a larger dowry.”

  “Blighter,” Ophelia grumbled.

  “You must do it.”

  “All right. All right. I’ll talk with her.” She opened her eyes wide and smiled brightly. “Ah, there’s Lord Ambrose. Think I shall flirt with him a bit. Makes Lady Cornelia bonkers.”

  “Don’t ruin things for her,” Grace said adamantly. “I worked very hard to get them together.”

  “Did your gentleman tell you that Ambrose fancied her?”

  “We didn’t discuss them.”

  “Maybe you should. Would be interesting to know his opinion regarding all the various couples that are forming as you break one gentleman’s heart after another.”

  “I’m hardly breaking hearts.”

  “We all break hearts; we all have our hearts broken. It’s the way of things.”

  Chapter 6

  Slowly sipping his scotch and rolling a coin over, under, between his fingers, Lovingdon paid little heed to the men with whom he was playing cards—save one.

  Fitzsimmons.

  The man downed liquor as though he believed drinking enough of it would cure all ills, when in truth it was only adding to his troubles. Cards required that a man keep his wits about him if he hoped to have any chance at all of winning. Fitzsimmons’s wits seemed to have deserted him completely.

  He growled when Lovingdon had taken a chair at the table. Not that his behavior was particularly unusual. With the exception of Avendale, the other gentlemen had expressed their displeasure at his arrival by clearing throats, shifting in chairs, and signaling for more drink
. Lovingdon was not known for his charity when it came to cards. He believed a man should never wager what he was unwilling—or could ill afford—to lose.

  It seemed Fitzsimmons was of the opposite opinion. If this hand didn’t go his way, he was going to lose all the chips that remained to him. And Lovingdon already knew Fitzsimmons wasn’t going to win. He’d known three cards ago, and yet the man continued to raise the amount being wagered as though he thought continually upping the stakes would disguise the fact that the cards showing before him revealed an atrocious hand.

  The final card was dealt facedown. Lovingdon set his glass aside, lifted the corner of his card—

  Did not display his pleasure at what he’d been dealt. Fitzsimmons, on the other hand, looked as though he might cast up his accounts. Then in a remarkably stupid move, he shoved his remaining chips into the pile in the center of the table.

  The gentleman to Fitzsimmons’s left cleared his throat and folded. As did the one beside him.

  Lovingdon didn’t consider for one moment being as charitable. He matched the wager. Fitzsimmons was obviously on the verge of having an apoplectic fit, if the amount of white showing in his eyes was any indication.

  To Lovingdon’s left, Avendale folded.

  Lovingdon held Fitzsimmons’s gaze, watched as the man slowly turned over his cards.

  “Ace high,” Fitzsimmons ground out.

  Lovingdon could feel the stares, the held breaths, the anticipation. It wasn’t too late to gather up his cards without revealing them, to simply utter, “I daresay that beats me.” Instead he flipped over his cards to reveal a pair of jacks.

  Fitzsimmons appeared to be a man who had just felt the cold fingers of death circling his neck. “You cheated, damn you.”

  One man gasped, another scooted his chair back as though he expected Lovingdon to leap across the table and throttle the insolent Fitzsimmons.

  “See here,” Avendale proclaimed. “We’re gentlemen. We do not accuse—”

  “I’m not offended,” Lovingdon broke in. “I’m amused. Tell me, my lord, how do I cheat when I keep my hands on the table, one constantly rolling a coin and the other occupied with drink?”

  “I don’t know.” Fitzsimmons’s voice was unsteady. “I don’t bloody well know.”

  “I’m certain your credit is good here. You can get additional chips at the cage, although I would recommend against it. Lady Luck isn’t with you tonight.”

  “Shows what little you know. She hasn’t been with me in a good long while.” Fitzsimmons scraped back his chair, stood, and angled up his chin, gathering as much dignity as possible into that small movement. “Gentlemen.”

  Then he headed toward the lounge, stumbling only twice.

  “One should not mix drink and cards,” Avendale declared. He shifted his gaze to Lovingdon. “As Lady Luck does seem to be with you tonight, and I have no interest in losing more coins, I’m off to Cremorne.”

  “You’ll lose coins there just as easily.”

  “Yes, but to ladies who show their gratitude in more inventive ways. Care to join me?”

  “In a bit, perhaps. I have another matter to which I must attend first.” Lovingdon signaled to a young lad, who rushed over. “Those are my winnings.” With a sweep of his hand over the table, he indicated all that belonged to him. “Disperse them evenly between yourself and the other lads.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The lad eagerly set to the task of scooping the chips into a bowl. Lovingdon bid a good evening to the gentlemen who remained, then strode toward the lounge. He’d barely taken his place in a chair opposite Fitzsimmons before a footman placed a tumbler of scotch on the table beside him. Knowing each lord’s drink preferences was a thirty-year tradition at Dodger’s. Lovingdon lifted his glass and savored the excellent flavor.

  “Come to gloat, have you?” Fitzsimmons asked.

  “If I were going to gloat, I would have done it out there. Gloating with witnesses is so much more enjoyable.” He tapped his finger against his glass. “You couldn’t afford to lose tonight.”

  Averting his gaze, Fitzsimmons gnawed on his lower lip. Finally he murmured, “I’ve not been able to afford it in some time.”

  Placing his forearms on his thighs, Lovingdon leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I knew you at Eton. You weren’t a bully—and God knows there were bullies. But not you. Why would you bully your wife? Lady Grace Mabry told me that Lady Sybil believed you loved her—”

  “I do love her.” Heat ignited his eyes, simmered, then was snuffed out. “I’ve not been myself of late.”

  “I’ve paid little attention to marriages the past few years, but I heard she came with a nice dowry.”

  “She also came with a penchant for spending. And I had not the heart to deny her the pleasure of it. I thought to increase my assets with investments. I chose poorly. I don’t know why the bloody hell I’m telling you all this. Although it’ll come out soon enough. I have nothing left. I squandered her dowry. I doubt she’ll love me once she realizes the dire straits we’re in. My ill temper with her—I think I wanted her to leave me so she would never learn the truth.”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “Would you want your wife to view you as a disappointment?”

  Lovingdon felt as though he’d taken a blow to the chest. He’d disappointed Juliette in the worst way imaginable.

  Fitzsimmons blanched. “Apologies. That was bad form to mention—”

  Lovingdon held up a hand to stem further stammering. He didn’t want Juliette’s name echoing in this place. “Have you any funds left?”

  Fitzsimmons slowly shook his head.

  “Right, then. I shall provide you with capital and advise you on how to invest it wisely. You will return my investment with interest once you see an acceptable profit.”

  “Why would you do this? We’re hardly the best of friends.”

  “Lady Sybil’s happiness matters to Lady Grace, and Lady Grace’s happiness matters to me. But understand that I can just as easily destroy you as assist you. Our goal here is to ensure you no longer feel a need to take out your frustrations on your wife.”

  “I won’t. I do love her.”

  “Then treat her as such.” He stood. “Be at my residence at two tomorrow afternoon and we’ll work out the details.”

  Fitzsimmons shot to his feet. “I could be there at half past eight in the morning.”

  Such eagerness. He did hope he wasn’t misjudging Fitz. He had known him as a good and honorable man, but he also knew what it was to have life’s challenges divert one’s course. “You won’t find me available at that time of the morning. I intend to spend the night carousing. Tomorrow afternoon will be soon enough.”

  “I hardly know how to thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Be kind to your wife.”

  “I will be. You can count on it.”

  “And stay away from the cards, man.”

  “I will.”

  Lovingdon strode from the room. He decided that he’d head to Cremorne, where ladies and drink were in abundance. He was suddenly in want of both.

  He’d known exactly where to find Avendale: at their favorite booth where ale flowed freely. Avendale spotted him, smiled broadly and extended a tankard toward Lovingdon. As soon as he took it, Avendale tapped his against Lovingdon’s.

  “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”

  Not tonight. Tonight he needed . . . he wasn’t certain what he needed. He knew only that he’d not found it at Dodger’s. He emptied his tankard in one long deep swallow and called for another.

  Avendale leaned back against the counter, placing his elbows on it and crossing his feet at the ankles. He looked to be a man entirely too comfortable here, but then his purview was sin. When they’d been younger men, he’d always sought to entice Lovingdon into joining him. It wasn’t until after Juliette died that Lovingdon had finally accepted the invitation. It only took one night for him to wonder why he’d been so resistant in
his youth.

  Proper behavior was no way for a man to live, he reflected as he downed half the second tankard.

  “What were you trying to prove with Fitzsimmons?” Avendale asked.

  Lovingdon looked out over the crowd. Cremorne Gardens served two purposes. In the early evening it was for the respectable crowd. Until the fireworks. When they were naught but smoke on the night air, they signaled the beginning of the witching hour—when good folk left and the less reputable arrived. Swells were strutting about now, and buxom ladies were doing their best to entice them.

  “Yesterday I witnessed him treating his wife rather poorly,” Lovingdon explained. “He wasn’t behaving as himself.”

  “As himself? Or as you remembered him from school?”

  “As himself. It seems he’s in a bit of a financial bind. Poor investments and all that.”

  “I suspect it’s more than poor investments,” Avendale said. “It’s this damned industrialization, taking tenants from the land to the cities and factories. It’ll be the death of the aristocracy. Mark my words.”

  Lovingdon chuckled. “Don’t be such a defeatist. The aristocracy will survive.”

  Avendale straightened and lifted his tankard. “Survival is no fun. We want to flourish, have more coin than we’ll ever need, so we are men of leisure with no troubles to weigh us down.”

  “I’ve never known you to be weighed down with troubles.”

  Something serious, somber, flashed across Avendale’s face before he downed what remained in his tankard and set it on the counter. “What say we find a couple of willing ladies, whisk them off to my residence, and sample them until dawn?”

  Lovingdon tried to recollect if he’d heard any rumors regarding Avendale’s situation, but he couldn’t recall anything. Their relationship was more surface than depth. “Is all well with you?”

  Avendale laughed. “It will be once I find a willing wench.”

  His companion was on the hunt before Lovingdon blinked. After having his tankard refilled, he fell into step beside him.