When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  “So I assume we’re looking for our usual fare? Brunettes?” Avendale asked.

  Lovingdon didn’t answer. The question was moot, and well his cousin knew it.

  “I understand you not having an interest in blondes,” Avendale went on, “but gingers? They can be as fiery as their hair.”

  “I’ll leave them to you.” Juliette was the only blonde he would ever want. As for the reds, he wasn’t certain why he didn’t gravitate toward them. He supposed it had something to do with Grace and how she had despised her hair and freckles.

  He was grateful that Avendale was not of a mind to take an interest in Grace. While he had no need of her dowry, Avendale was not one to remain faithful—or at least Lovingdon couldn’t imagine him doing so. As far as he knew, the man had never even bothered to set up a mistress. Sameness bored him. He made a good friend, but as a husband, he would no doubt fail miserably.

  Avendale drifted away when a woman crooked her finger at him. While Lovingdon intended to find company for the night, he found himself studying the gents who were about. Were any of them worthy of Grace?

  She could be stubborn, and yet there was a softness to her, an innocence. She needed a man who wouldn’t break her, who wouldn’t berate her. A man who understood that sometimes she tended to behave in a way that wasn’t quite acceptable. Coming to a man’s residence in the middle of the night, drinking liquor, playing cards, cheating at cards, driving him to madness with her—

  He staggered to a stop as he caught sight of red hair beneath the hood of a cape before the woman turned away. She was tall, slender . . . she couldn’t be Grace.

  “Hello, fancy man. What are you up to tonight?” A golden-haired vixen stroked his shoulder. He hadn’t even realized she was near. He’d been so focused on the hooded woman, anyone could have fleeced his pockets.

  “Pardon me,” he uttered before striding away. Where the deuce was the woman in the cape? It would be just like Grace to decide to come to Cremorne and make her own assessment of the suitability of gentlemen. Ah, there. There she was. He darted around one gentleman, then another. He edged around a large woman, moved aside a smaller one. She was walking toward the trees. Once she disappeared into the darkness, he’d lose her.

  He quickened his pace. Grew nearer. Reached out. Clamped his hand on her shoulder, spun her about—

  It wasn’t Grace at all. Her eyes were the wrong color, her nose the wrong shape. Her chin was square when it should be round. Her cheeks were not high enough. Her hair . . . her hair was not the correct shade. It was a harsher red. It did not call to a man to comb his fingers through it.

  Lovingdon looked into her kohl-lined eyes. No spark, no joy, no laughter resided there. He shook his head. “My apologies. I mistook you for someone else.”

  He backed up a step, and then another. What the devil was he doing thinking of Grace when he was here? She would never be in this part of London at this time of night. His entire evening had been about her, first with Fitz and now this.

  He pivoted and went in search of Avendale. Perhaps he would venture away from brunettes tonight. Someone to take his mind off Grace, a place she should not be at all.

  He spotted Avendale staggering toward him, a blonde on one arm, a dark-haired beauty on the other. He whispered something to her. She separated herself from him and strolled, her hips swaying enticingly, over to Lovingdon. When she reached him, she ran her hand up his chest, over his shoulder, and circled it around his neck. “His lordship tells me that you can remove my corset with one hand tied behind your back.”

  Lovingdon grinned broadly. “I can do it with both hands tied behind my back.”

  “Ah, you’re putting me on now.”

  He leaned toward her. “I have a very talented mouth.”

  She laughed, a deep, full-throated life. “I’d like to see that.”

  “It will be my pleasure to demonstrate.”

  So for tonight, a brunette it would be.

  “I had to speak with you before tonight’s ball,” Lady Sybil said, her arm wound around Grace’s as they strolled through the Mabry House gardens.

  It had been two days since the Westcliffe garden party, and Grace hadn’t seen her friend since, although she had to admit that Sybil appeared more relaxed than she’d been then—but of course her husband wasn’t with her at that moment, which could account for her ease. “Has Lord Fitzsimmons been unkind?”

  “No. That’s the thing of it. He’s been terribly solicitous.”

  “Well, then, I’m glad Lovingdon had words with him at Westcliffe’s.” She had not heard from nor seen him since that afternoon. She’d decided to give up on his helping her. It was so obvious that he didn’t want to be involved in Society any longer.

  “I daresay, he did more than speak with him at the party.” Sybil spun away, wandered to the roses and touched their fragile petals.

  Something was amiss. Grace cautiously joined her friend. “Syb, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s just so terribly difficult. I know you won’t tell anyone, but . . .” She looked at Grace. “Fitz lost my dowry.”

  “How does one go about losing a dow—Wait, you mean he spent it all?”

  “More like, I spent it. A good deal of it anyway. Then he made some bad investments—” She glanced quickly around before leaning in. “We’re poor. At least for a time. Thank goodness I already have all my gowns for the Season, because Lovingdon gave us the most horrid rules for when we can spend money.”

  Startled, Grace stared at her. “Lovingdon gave you the rules? What has he to do with any of this?”

  “I don’t quite understand it all, to be honest, but apparently he’s gone into some sort of partnership with Fitz, who is quite convinced that he shall recoup his losses and then some. That’s the reason he’s been so irritable. He’s been under a great deal of strain, striving to pay our debts, and I wasn’t helping at all.”

  “That’s still not an excuse for how he berated you. I’d have not put up with it, and you shouldn’t have either.”

  Sybil shook her head. “I knew something was amiss. But he wouldn’t talk to me. Pride and all that, I suppose.” She grabbed Grace’s arm and squeezed. “But I wanted you to know that all will be well. You’ll see tonight at the ball. He’s once again the man I fell in love with.”

  Grace hugged her, unable to embrace the optimism but hoping her friend was correct. “I’m happy for you, Syb.”

  When they drew apart, Sybil smiled at her. “Now we simply must find a gent who loves you, so that you can be as happy as I am. It would be so lovely if you were to receive a proposal at the Midsummer Eve’s ball.”

  Every year, for as long as Grace could remember, her family hosted a ball at their ancestral estate to celebrate the summer solstice. Their guests always welcomed a few days away from the city. She’d often slipped out of her bed and secreted herself in a dark corner of the terrace where she could watch the merriment. She thought, then, that the time would never come when she would be old enough to attend. She’d always longed to dance with Lovingdon and never had occasion to do it.

  But Fate seemed to have little regard for the yearnings of her tender heart. She’d been too young to attend balls and parties when he was old enough to make the rounds. When she was finally of an age where she could attend the social affairs, Lovingdon had become a widower and withdrawn from Society. Based on their recent encounters, she doubted he would come to her family’s estate for the midsummer festivities.

  “You seem to be narrowing your choices down,” Sybil said.

  Grace shook her head. “It’s a decision that will affect the remainder of my life. I don’t intend to make it in haste.”

  “Nor should you be overly cautious. You don’t want to lose your chance at the perfect man.”

  “I assure you that I don’t want perfect. Rather, I want someone who can appreciate the allure of imperfection.”

  There was something decidedly sinful in the way Lov
ingdon was sprawled over the bed. His hair was flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. His jaw was heavily shadowed, his face rugged, even in sleep. The hand curled on his pillow flinched, the one resting near his thigh didn’t move. Nor did the rest of him. The sheets were pooled at his waist. He possessed a magnificent chest. While Grace had seen it before, she’d been distracted by other areas and hadn’t given it the attention it deserved. A light sprinkling of hair in the center continued down, narrowed over a flat stomach, and disappeared beneath the covers.

  She knew she should leave, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Surely he would awaken soon. And no doubt be furious to find her here. His fury would be justified. A man had the right not to be intruded upon while he slept, but she hadn’t snuck in here. She’d knocked on the door several times, then marched in not bothering to soften her footfalls, but he’d barely stirred.

  She sighed heavily. She would wait in the parlor, she supposed, as she was determined to speak with him. She spun on her heel and headed for the door.

  “Grace?”

  The word came out raspy and rough. She didn’t want to contemplate that it was the voice with which he greeted his paramours in the morning. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw his eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, and his fingers pressed against his temples. “I thought you might—”

  He held up a hand. “Shh. No need to shout.”

  If he were one of her brothers, she’d shout that she hadn’t been shouting. But he’d done her a favor, so she lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “I prepared something for you.” She walked back over to the bed. “It’s a concoction that Drake puts together on occasion. Tastes ghastly but you’ll feel better once you’ve had it.”

  He pushed at the air as though it were enough to physically remove her from the room. “Just go away.”

  “I can’t leave you suffering like this.”

  “I suffer like this every day. Leave me in peace.”

  But that was the thing of it. He wasn’t in peace and well she knew it. She picked up the glass from where she’d left it earlier on the bedside table. “Humor me, Lovingdon. And then I’ll go.”

  With a low growl, he rose up on an elbow and took the offering.

  “Down it in one swallow.”

  “I know how to manage it,” he grumbled.

  In fascination, she watched his throat muscles working. Why did every physical aspect of him have to be so remarkably pleasing? Perfection, while she required a man of some imperfection. It would be easier to be accepted fully by a man who had not been chiseled by the gods. She wondered if he had any notion how fortunate he was to have been so carefully sculpted by nature’s loving hand.

  She took the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table. “Just lie there for a bit. It won’t be long before you’re up to snuff.”

  He eased back down to the pillow, brought the sheet up and eased his right leg up, bending it at the knee, hiding from her view a rise in the covers that she’d noticed earlier but had fought extremely hard not to contemplate. He squinted at her. “What is it with you coming to gentlemen’s bedchambers at all hours?”

  “You’re not a gentleman. You’re a scoundrel.”

  “All the more reason you shouldn’t be here.”

  “You won’t take advantage.”

  “Maybe I should, just to teach you a lesson.”

  “You won’t.” She clasped her hands in front of her to stop herself from reaching out and brushing the wayward locks from his brow. “I know what you did for Sybil.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you need to leave. On your way out, tell the butler to send up some breakfast.”

  “Breakfast? It’s half past two in the afternoon.”

  “It’s my first meal of the day. Call it what you like. But leave.”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “I’m not presentable,” he barked.

  “Judging by the volume of your voice, your headache is gone.”

  He rubbed his brow. “It seems so, yes, and as I asked for breakfast, my stomach is settled as well. Thank you for your witch’s brew. Now be off.”

  “It’s a warlock’s brew, as it’s Drake’s recipe.” She turned for the door. “I’ll see to getting your breakfast, but make yourself presentable while I’m gone, as I fully intend to discuss some matters with you.”

  “Grace.”

  She spun around, and the sight of him raised up on an elbow, his other arm draped over his raised knee, the sheet gathered at his waist, nearly took her breath. She’d never given any thought to the fact that she might see her husband in this same position, that he would be as comfortable with his body and might expect her to be the same. “Please, Lovingdon, it won’t take long.”

  He sighed heavily. “I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  “No need. The sitting area in here works fine. And you needn’t tidy up completely. Just enough so we’re both comfortable.”

  Before he could respond, she quit the room and went in search of the butler. She encountered a footman first and gave the orders to him. The butler knew she was in the residence, had assisted her by showing her to the kitchen so she could make her brew, but he’d been quite disapproving of her delivering it to the duke herself. She wasn’t particularly anxious to have him scowl at her over her present request. The footman could see that food was delivered.

  She returned to Lovingdon’s bedchamber and knocked.

  “Come!”

  She opened the door to find him standing, shoulders bent as he grasped the edges of the table holding the washbasin. He wore trousers, a white linen shirt. No boots. Why did his present attire seem more intimate than seeing him in bed with naught but a sheet covering him? She approached cautiously. “Lovingdon?”

  He peered over at her with bloodshot eyes. Droplets of water coated his face. His hair was damp. “I don’t think I would have made it to the dining room.”

  “You made quite merry last night, it seems.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember half of it.”

  “I don’t understand the appeal in that.”

  “No, you probably wouldn’t.” He splashed more water on his face, then reached for a towel and rubbed it roughly over his bristled skin. She wondered what it might be like to shave him, to scrape the razor over the defined lines and strong jaw. Perhaps she’d shave her husband. It was a thought she’d never entertained before. After tossing the towel aside, he combed his wet hair back from his face and sauntered over to a sofa, his movements relaxed, loose-jointed. She had an odd sensation of being in his lair. Perhaps she should have accepted his offer to meet her in the dining room.

  A rap sounded. She opened the door. While the maid set the tray of food on the low table in the sitting area, Grace walked over to the windows and drew back the draperies. He had such lovely gardens to look out on, and she suspected that he didn’t even appreciate them. After the servant left, she took a chair near the sofa and began pouring tea.

  “You don’t have to wait on me,” he said as he snatched up a piece of bacon with his fingers, then began to eat like a savage, as though there would be no formality in this room, as though it contained its own set of rules.

  “Don’t be so grumpy,” she insisted.

  “My house, my bedchamber. I can be as I want. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

  “I have no intention of leaving, and your foul mood will not send me scurrying away.”

  Slowly chewing, he studied her. “How did you know the miracle of Drake’s concoction?” he finally asked.

  With a smile, she set the teacup before him. “Because he prepared it for me once.”

  He raised a brow. “Lady Grace Mabry, three sheets to the wind? I would have liked to have seen that.”

  She chuckled softly. “No, I don’t think you would have.” It had been after a visit to Dr. Graves. She’d not been at all pleased by his diagnosis or his recommendation for treatme
nt. And so that evening she’d indulged in a bit more liquor than was wise.

  He nudged a platter of fruit, cheese, and toast toward her. “Eat.”

  She took a strawberry. “Are you always so pleasant upon first awakening?”

  “My morning was disturbed.”

  “Again, it’s afternoon.” She finished off her strawberry. “Truly, Lovingdon, I appreciate what you did for Sybil. She came to see me this morning, explained the situation with Fitzsimmons and how you offered your assistance.”

  He shrugged. “I needed a new investment partner.”

  “Yes, but you’re providing all the investment, from what I understand.”

  “Only until he gets back on his feet.”

  She shifted in her chair. “She said he’s more like himself, treating her as he did when they first married. Do you think it’ll continue?”

  He met and held her gaze, and she could see the conviction in his eyes. “He’s not a bad man, Grace. I’m not making excuses for his behavior. It was deplorable. But sometimes when a man feels as though he’s no longer in control, he can lose sight of himself.”

  She almost asked him if that was what had happened to him. This life he led now was so very different from the one he’d led before. He was so very different.

  “I’ve known Fitz since my school days,” he added. “His comportment in the garden was unlike him. We’ll get his financial situation back in hand, and I’ll teach him how to guard it better, and all should be well for Lady Sybil.”

  “You’d think he’d know how to guard his money.”

  “Unfortunately, Grace, sometimes when the coffers have been empty for a while and are suddenly filled, one can forget what is needed not to squander the coins. And if the coffers have been bare for a while, one may have never learned.”

  “Another reason that I prefer a man who isn’t dependent upon my dowry.”

  “Then you need a man whose fortune is not tied to land.”

  He was lounging back, so very relaxed, like a great big lazy cat at the zoological gardens. Yet she had the sense that he was very much alert, could spring into action with the slightest provocation—or enticement, if the right woman walked into the room. She took another sip of her tea and set down her cup. “May I ask you something else, Lovingdon?”