When the Duke Was Wicked

by Lorraine Heath

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll create scandal.”

  “If a man fancies you, truly fancies you, what will he care?”

  “If he loves me, he’ll want to preserve my reputation, ensure that his actions don’t embarrass me.”

  “If he cares for you, he won’t be glancing around, searching out his next dance partner—or striving to catch the eye of the woman with whom he wishes to have a tryst in the garden.”

  Her eyes widened. “Lord Ekroth . . . a tryst in the garden? With whom?”

  “We’re conversing far too much.”

  The change was subtle but there all the same. His fingers pressing more firmly against her back, tightening their hold on her hand, his gaze delving more deeply into hers, his legs in danger of becoming entangled with hers. The lights from the chandeliers reflected over his dark golden hair. He didn’t smile, and yet those lips were soft, relaxed, as though waiting patiently for a kiss. Lovingdon captured her, drew her in, until she forgot that anyone else surrounded them. They moved with a harmony that required no thought. Her toes were safe with him, everything was safe with him.

  Even as she had the thought, she knew it was a lie. He had no interest in marriage or love or her, for that matter, except as a friend. Which made him very dangerous to her heart, because it was not nearly as practical as her mind.

  The final strains of the music lingered on the air. He ceased his movements but did not release her. She had the odd sensation that he was truly seeing her for the first time.

  “He certainly wouldn’t rush you off the dance floor,” he said.

  The words burst her bubble of captivity. “Pardon?”

  “A gent who fancied you would be in no hurry to turn you over to another man.” He tucked her hand within the crook of his elbow and began leading her from the dance area. Slowly, so very slowly, as though he could scarcely fathom the notion of leaving her. “Ekroth was fairly loping to get you to the chairs so he could make his rendezvous.”

  He had seemed rather anxious, now that she thought about it. She indicated a couple standing near the doors that led onto the terrace. “Lady Beatrix is certain Lord Winthrop is going to ask for her hand at Season’s end.”

  “He’s not.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Watch. See how his gaze keeps darting to those three ladies near that potted palm? He fancies Lady Marianne.”

  “Maybe he fancies one of the other two.”

  “Observe him through the remainder of the evening. I think you’ll eventually agree I’m correct in my assessment.”

  Finally they reached the area where her maid awaited her, and Lord Canton was impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet. The next dance was starting up, and Lovingdon had not struck the earl’s name from her dance card.

  “My lord,” she said in greeting.

  “Lady Grace.” He tipped his head. “Your Grace. Odd seeing you here. I didn’t think you were one to attend functions such as this.”

  “How else is a gentleman to have the honor of dancing with Lady Grace?”

  Canton stilled in mid-bounce, which almost put the top of his head level with Lovingdon’s shoulder. “You came here specifically for her?”

  “Everything I do is specifically for her.”

  Had he not already demonstrated in the coach the other evening that his words were meant to toy and teach, were not spoken with true intention, she might have experienced a fluttering beneath her ribs. Instead, she unobtrusively slipped her hand free of his arm and extended it toward Canton. “I believe this dance is yours.”

  Offering his arm, he gave Lovingdon a final glare before escorting Grace back into the throng of dancers.

  “You need to be careful of him,” Canton said, his voice low, practically seething.

  “I have known Lovingdon since childhood. There is little he could do that would take me by surprise.”

  Although he had surprised her tonight by coming here.

  What the devil had he been thinking to dance with her?

  Lovingdon stood in the shadowed corner of the terrace, staring out on the gardens, rolling a coin over and under his fingers. Calming, bringing back a sense of balance. Jack had taught him how to use the coin to keep his fingers nimble. He doubted there was a gent in all of London who could get a lady out of her corset with the same swiftness that he could.

  But dancing with Grace, he hadn’t thought about doing anything with her quickly. Instead, he’d imagined going very slowly, painfully slowly, unwrapping her like a treasured gift, the joy in the unraveling as great as the pleasure of gazing on what was previously hidden.

  “Have you an interest in Lady Grace Mabry?” Lord Vexley asked from behind him.

  He didn’t bother to turn around. “My interests are no concern of yours.”

  “She deserves better than you.”

  “The same could be said of you.”

  “At least I would be faithful to her. Can you claim the same?”

  He no longer stayed with a woman long. They bored him after a time. A short time. He enjoyed sampling but not lingering. “I’ve already warned her away from you.”

  “If I understand anything at all about Lady Grace, it is that she is a woman who knows her own mind.”

  “And if I know anything at all about you, it is that you are in desperate need of funds.” He did turn around then. Vexley was only a partial silhouette, most of him lost to the shadows. “She deserves better than a man who sees only a fortune when he gazes on her.”

  Until that moment he hadn’t realized the truth of those words. She did deserve the love she so desperately sought. He’d come here tonight in an effort to rid himself of her, but he feared now that one night might not be enough.

  “My coffers may be empty, but my heart is not.”

  Lovingdon nearly cast up his accounts at the atrocious sentiment. He had little doubt that Vexley would seek to woo her with such ridiculously scripted prose.

  Before he even knew what he was about, Lovingdon grabbed Vexley’s lapels and jerked him forward. The man’s eyes grew so wide that the whites were clearly visible, even in the dimly lit gardens. “Seek your wife elsewhere. Grace is not for you.”

  “That is for the lady to decide. I was merely attempting to discern your interest in her. I like to know my competition.”

  “You overstate your worth if you think you could compete with me on any level, for anything.”

  “Ah, have you not heard, Your Grace, that pride goeth before the fall? Now if you’ll be kind enough to unhand me . . .”

  Lovingdon flung the man back as he released his hold. “Stay clear of her.”

  Without another word, Vexley walked off. Only then did Lovingdon become aware of the ache in his hand. He didn’t know when he’d stopped rolling his coin about, but based on his tightly closed fist, knew that if not for his glove he’d have broken skin. Very slowly he unfurled his fingers.

  He couldn’t say exactly what it was about Vexley that vexed him. He’d never placed much stock in the rumors that Vexley had mistreated some girls, but when he thought of the man touching Grace—

  Dammit all! When he thought of any man touching Grace, his blood fairly began to boil. He didn’t want to assist her in her quest for a husband, but how could he live with himself if she ended up unhappily wed?

  Later that night the woman sitting on Lovingdon’s lap was all curves, not a sharp angle to be found. She was the sort in whom a man could become lost. She was scantily clad, a nymph who would dance through gardens. She’d loosened his cravat, unfastened the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, and was presently nuzzling his neck with warm lips coated in wine. He should be focused on her, but instead men dancing with Grace paraded through his mind. More specifically, Grace was the center of his focus: her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled brighter than any chandelier.

  He’d come to Avendale’s in hopes of purging all thoughts of Grace from his mind, at least for an hour or
so. Avendale was the most debauched of any man he knew. When he wasn’t at Cremorne, his residence was populated with women of all sorts and sizes. Liquor flowed constantly, food was in abundance, bedchambers were open to one and all. The man believed in living life to the fullest without regret. Lovingdon had embraced his example.

  At this moment he should be embracing Aphrodite. He doubted that was her true name. The women here called themselves whatever they thought a man wanted to hear. It was all pretense, nothing real about it.

  “Perhaps you should give Persephone a go,” Avendale said laconically.

  Aphrodite halted her ministrations. Lovingdon lifted his gaze to Avendale, who stood before him holding a silver goblet no doubt filled to the brim.

  “You look as though you’re striving to solve a complicated mathematical formula,” Avendale continued. “Or perhaps a physics problem.”

  Lovingdon patted Aphrodite’s hip. “Sweetheart, fetch us some more wine.”

  Without a word or care, she scrambled off his lap and went to do his bidding. That was the thing of it. The women he’d had of late were so eager to please, which he supposed he should find appealing. Instead, he found himself thinking of Grace, too innocent one moment, too worldly the next. She had no qualms about castigating him, challenging him, revealing her disappointments in him. It would take a special man to love her as she deserved, to accept her forthrightness, to not strive to dampen her spirit in order to control her.

  Avendale dropped into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs. “I hear you attended a ball tonight.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Avendale shrugged. “I hear all sorts of things from all sorts of people. Are you going back on the marriage market?”

  “No, God no. Assisting Grace. I told you that.”

  “I thought you’d decided to decline that responsibility.”

  “It’s not a responsibility. It’s . . .” Blast it. It was a responsibility, one he didn’t want, but one he was feeling increasingly obligated to take on. He glanced around. “Do you ever get bored with all this?”

  Tapping his goblet, Avendale shook his head. “Without all this to serve as a distraction, I’d go mad.”

  Lovingdon furrowed his brow and studied the cousin he’d only come to know well during the past two years. At least, he thought he’d come to know him. “A distraction from what?”

  “Boredom, of course.”

  “I think you meant something else.”

  Avendale lifted his mug. “I’m not far enough into my cups to discuss it. I think I shall seek out some female companionship. You’re not jolly enough tonight.”

  “What do you know of Vexley?”

  “Hasn’t two ha’pennies to rub together, from what I hear. But he’s handsome, titled, has three estates. What more could a woman with a dowry want?”

  She could want a great deal more. Deserved it, even.

  Chapter 8

  “There were fewer flowers this morning,” Grace said, sitting astride her bay mare as it plodded along Rotten Row, keeping pace with Lovingdon’s chestnut gelding.

  “That should please you,” he said. He’d arrived one hour before the respectable hour for a morning visit and suggested a ride through Hyde Park. As it was not the fashionable hour, few were about. “It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To separate the chaff from the wheat?”

  “Yes, but I’m not exactly sure how it came about.”

  “Those who sent flowers yesterday but not today care more for your reputation than they do you.”

  “That’s the reason you danced with me. You knew that some men would be put off by my being in the company of a rakehell.”

  “Don’t sound surprised. You’re the one who pointed out that dancing with me might sully your reputation.”

  “But one dance? Not beyond repair, surely. Besides, you’re a friend of the family. If you’re in the midst of reforming, where better to begin than by waltzing with me?”

  He laughed darkly. “I’m not reforming, Grace.” Straightening, he took his gaze over her in a slow sojourn. “Is that what this little request of yours is about? Trying to put me back on the straight and narrow?”

  “Absolutely not.” Well, maybe a little. Not that she would confess that to him. “I care only about not making a ghastly mistake when it comes to love. Your appearance at the ball did me a great service. If I’m understanding correctly, a man who truly held affections for me wouldn’t give a care who danced with me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re absolutely certain that you’re responsible for my diminished number of suitors?”

  “Without question.”

  “Thank God.” She released a tight laugh. “I was fearful someone had seen Lord Somerdale kiss me in the garden and that—”

  Reaching out, he grabbed the reins and jerked her horse to a stop. Beneath his hat, his eyes were narrowed slits. “Somerdale kissed you?”

  She wasn’t certain why she experienced such triumph. He didn’t seem to have a problem when his behavior was questionable. Why should she not be afforded the same consideration? “During the eleventh dance. He had claimed it, but suggested we cool off by taking a turn about the garden. Then he”—she felt her cheeks warming with a blush—“drew me into the shadows and kissed me. I’d never been kissed before.”

  She pulled the reins from his fingers and urged her horse forward. She was irritated by her reaction. He hadn’t the courtesy to blush when he’d opened his door without a stitch of clothing. Why were men so much more comfortable with their bodies than women? He quickly caught up.

  “Are you mad?” he asked. “If you want to marry for love, the very last thing you need to be doing is going into the garden with a gent alone at night. If you’d been caught in that compromising position, you would have found yourself at the altar with him.”

  Beneath her riding hat, she peered over at him. “Yes, I don’t quite understand that. What in the world did I compromise? A kiss is pleasant enough I suppose, but hardly worth casting aspersions on a lady’s reputation.”

  “Then Somerdale doesn’t fancy you as much as you seem to think.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If he fancied you, he would have given you a kiss that would have had you understanding how one could damn well ruin your reputation.”

  She shifted her gaze to his lips, plump lower, thin upper. They appeared soft. Somerdale’s had been chapped, rough, cold. Lovingdon’s looked anything but. She swallowed hard. “But you don’t love every woman you kiss.”

  “I’ve only ever loved one. As for the others . . .” He shrugged.

  “So we’re talking lust, not love.”

  A corner of that luscious mouth of his eased up. “What do you know of lust?”

  That based upon the way she wanted to squirm in her saddle, she might be experiencing it at that very moment. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, caress her hands over his shoulders, unfasten his shirt buttons and catch another glimpse of his chest. “I’m not so innocent as you might think. I have two older brothers. I’ve listened to some of their conversations.”

  “Unknown to them, I take it.”

  She despised hearing the censure in his voice. He was the blackguard here, not her. “As though you are without sin.”

  His smile faded, his face hardened. “We won’t talk of my sins.”

  She would have taken back the words if she could, but more than that she wondered what had caused his reaction. She suspected whatever he was referring to was darker, deeper than his current follies.

  “Lady Grace!”

  Glancing over, she saw Lord Somerdale sitting astride a bay horse and trotting toward her. This could prove awkward. “Please don’t mention the kiss.”

  “Not to worry. I won’t allow rumors to propel you to the altar.”

  She drew some comfort from knowing he was still her champion, but she wondered why she didn’t feel content with the knowledge.

  As So
merdale urged his horse around to the other side of Grace, with little more than a curt nod as acknowledgment to him, Lovingdon wondered how the earl would manage without his teeth. He was contemplating knocking every one of them out of his mouth. How dare the man kiss Grace?

  When Grace had confessed about her encounter with Somerdale in the garden, the fury that shot through Lovingdon had nearly toppled him from his horse. It was one thing to watch men flirt and dance with her, but to take it further? To woo her into a darkened garden and kiss her—

  That she would allow such liberties, that she didn’t realize the risk not only to her reputation but to herself should a man take advantage was beyond the pale. Some man would push her farther than he ought. Vexley for example.

  He crossed their path shortly after Somerdale’s arrival. He didn’t acknowledge Lovingdon, but damned if his cold glare when Grace wasn’t looking didn’t count as a challenge. He, too, had wisely sidled his horse on the other side of Grace, keeping a safe distance from Lovingdon, who wondered how Vexley would manage with a broken jaw. It was unlike him to have a penchant toward violence, and he certainly wasn’t jealous of the attention they were giving her. It was quite simply that they were not the proper marriage material for a lady of her caliber. They were wasting their time, hers, and his.

  Two other gentlemen came over on horseback, giving him a curt greeting before turning their full attention onto Grace. Their little entourage had come to a stop, and he was anxious to get them going again. It seemed Grace was not of a like mind.

  “I’m going to sit beneath the tree for a while. You needn’t stay, Lovingdon.”

  Was she dismissing him?

  “I know my parents appreciate your serving as my escort.” She glanced around and smiled. “Lest it not be clear, he is not a suitor.”

  A few nervous chuckles echoed around them while a couple of the gents eyed him warily. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for wanting to lay out his position in her life so there would be no doubts, not that he thought anyone would see him as a serious suitor. He’d made it quite plain that he had no intention of marrying again.

  “I’ve nothing else to do,” he said. “I’ll escort you home before I take my leave.”