Sinful in Scarlet: The Brothers Duke: Book One

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Why? Where are you going all of a sudden?’

  ‘London.’ An idea had struck him. ‘Something has fallen a little out of order. I didn’t want to spoil the morning by telling you.’

  ‘Well, that explains your strangeness.’ Robert paused. ‘A large problem?’

  ‘No. It can be easily solved if I act quickly.’

  ‘Act, then. Act as quickly as you like.’ A slightly malicious smile spread over Robert’s face. ‘I may tell Miss Pembroke you left because you were so infernally bored.’

  ‘Tell her what you like. I’ll be sure to send her a letter informing her that you asked me to leave because you wanted to spend more time with her without distractions.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’ Thomas smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like that?’

  Robert’s face was a picture. Thomas allowed himself the luxury of a small smile as he turned, heading for the long line of carriages that were just visible in the distance.

  A gift. He was going to buy a gift for Dorothea Radcliffe this very day, and would go to London to find it. Not something grand and showy that would cause no end of awkward questions from the people in her life–no doubt Lady Beatrice would be acerbic about any present smaller than a pin. Something that could be easily hidden, something that she could hide in a chest or drawer.

  Something luxurious. Something that contained a tenth, a hundredth, of the longing he had felt with her in his arms. Something to make her forget the new suffering in her daily existence.

  Something… romantic. But with no name given, so Dorothea didn’t have to feel shame from what they’d done or pressure to address it. Not unless she wanted to. Thomas shook himself, pushing away the fantasies that resulted from the idea of Dorothea wanting to pursue what they had already begun.

  What gift? A pair of gloves. A scent. Something silken that she could wear next to her skin, that would take on the heat and contour of her body.

  A gift wouldn’t solve the apparent gulf between them. It wouldn’t bring her back into his arms. But it would prove to her that it hadn’t been a mere excess of passion—that it had been more valuable than that.

  Yes. A gift. After that, he didn’t know.

  It had been easier than imagined to not look for Thomas Duke the next morning. As soon as Dorothea had looked in the mirror and seen what she looked like with no sleep, no good sense and no scarlet gown, any foolish fantasies of being rapturously greeted by the man vanished into the ether. She looked as she always did–invisible, forgettable, and tired.

  But she didn’t feel tired. She didn’t feel tired even though she hadn’t slept. Everything seemed to glitter about her, to shine in the faint morning sunlight as she attended to Lady Beatrice with a distant gaze.

  It was almost impossible to believe that it had truly happened. The collection of coincidences was almost too unlikely. Had she really been in that gown, in those curtains, with… with Thomas? Thomas the tall, serious-eyed youth from the orphanage that the townhouse had overlooked, who had teased and played with Dorothea the rich girl as all the other orphans had before they all began growing, changing, going their separate ways?

  There had been no separation between the two of them yesterday night. They had been one as soon as she had taken hold of his wrists, pulling her into the curtains. Avoiding a small public scandal and creating a very large private one, all at the same time.

  Of course, it didn’t mean anything. She had to cling to that. The excuses that she had stammered out to Thomas as she had left him in the curtains were unfortunately very accurate. The shock of memory, the atmosphere of the evening and the dramatic effect of the gown had led to a result that couldn’t possibly be recreated anywhere else.

  Even though, as she gave Lady Beatrice her breakfast and accompanied her on her brief morning sojourn through the gardens to take the air, she found herself trying to create new, imaginative ways to meet Thomas while dressed in scarlet. The thoughts were so intrusive, so pleasurable in a way entirely unsuited to the morning hours, that it was almost a relief when Lady Beatrice had complained of a headache and insisted upon a return to the city to buy a portion of her chosen herbal remedy. The bright chaos of London would give her mind a chance to settle, and Lady Beatrice’s ill health would give her something to do.

  It was very easy once she and Lady Beatrice were in the carriage in enforced silence, the wheat fields and woods flashing past the window. She didn’t have to censure her thoughts, and didn’t have to force herself to look at her hands rather than looking for Thomas among the guests. It became less easy once they were back in the storm and swirl of a London day, walking in the bright sunshine, on the street where many men of business had their offices.

  Where Thomas had his offices. Even though she knew that Thomas was safely at the Pembroke residence, Dorothea repressed a small shiver of recognition as she walked alongside Lady Beatrice.

  Asking directly about Thomas Duke, or any of the Duke brothers, would cause a frustrating hail of insinuation and outright criticism to fall directly onto her head. Lady Beatrice was clearly in the mood to take no prisoners, given her head—but for goodness’ sake, it was impossible to walk around in the city as if it were a normal day without asking at least one or two questions!

  ‘Pembroke Manor was very crowded.’ She said it slowly and quietly, the tone judged to avoid any accusations of being uncaring about Lady Beatrice’s headache. ‘Very crowded indeed.’

  ‘My head is bursting like a thundercloud, and you seek to break my peace with that idiotic observation?’ Lady Beatrice’s irritated snap in response made Dorothea’s heart sink. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to.’

  Dorothea kept silent, a splinter of pure hatred worming its way into her heart. She jumped when a moment later, apparently forgetting her thundercloud-head, Lady Beatrice began speaking again.

  ‘It was crowded with the very worst sort of people. I don’t know why Miss Pembroke insists on inviting new money–all they do is make appraising comments about one’s furniture and porcelain in the manner of tradesmen. Most unpleasant. And the way they dance–or don’t dance! Any true gentleman knows at least three dances to a commendable level of expertise.’ She sniffed. ‘Thatchall is one of the worst offenders. That man couldn’t remember his place in a quartet to save his life–and he’s risible at piquet. And as for those Duke brothers…’

  The way the sentence trailed away invitingly almost felt like a trap. Dorothea forced herself to hold her tongue, her expression never wavering from a demonstration of polite attention.

  ‘Each of them more ridiculous than the last. Money acquired through trade never elevates a family, only spoils it–and one can see that the Duke brothers are thoroughly spoiled. They show no deference to their betters, or respect for the way things are supposed to be done.’ Lady Beatrice shook her head. ‘The way Miss Pembroke lets Robert Duke speak to her–shocking! And the others don’t even pretend to find one interesting, which is one of the most pleasant qualities a young man can display. The only one of them who shows any hint of promise is the oldest one… goodness me, what is his name…’

  This was a definite hint. How did the old woman always know the weaknesses in Dorothea’s heart, and seek to exploit them? Biting her tongue, hoping she wasn’t blushing, Dorothea refused to take the bait.

  ‘Well. Whatever his name is.’ Lady Beatrice was clearly irritated that Dorothea had refused to fall into her trap. ‘He at least shows a little cunning. One can’t amass such a quantity of money otherwise. But he needs to marry a woman of true quality as soon as possible, to add legitimacy to the wealth. I suppose Miss Pembroke would be an excellent match for him, even if it would be a lowering for her.’

  The idea of Thomas marrying Charlotte made Dorothea bite her tongue even harder. She made sure not to vary her step, gently nodding along to whatever Lady Beatrice said even as her heart rebelled.

  ‘But whenever one speaks of matches, the young never listen to what’s good f
or them. Miss Pembroke could choose from an abundance of gentlemen that are perfectly matched for her, and she would still choose a man deemed unsuitable in every respect. Gentlemen are even worse, of course–when one thinks of Thomas Duke and that actress!’

  This didn’t sound like a hint. Dorothea knew she had to look shocked as she turned fully to Lady Beatrice, the crowded street masking her words. ‘An actress?’

  ‘Ha! The shrewish little woman has a head for gossip, just like every maid.’ Lady Beatrice’s spiteful grin was near unbearable. ‘She wants to hear about actresses when she should be doing her duty.’

  More silence. More biting her tongue until Dorothea was half-sure she could taste blood. Lady Beatrice would break in the end; the woman’s thirst for gossip outweighed any pretence to morality that she attempted to maintain.

  ‘One shouldn’t associate with actresses in any capacity, even gossip.’ Lady Beatrice’s lips were tightly pursed, but her eyes were alive with glee. ‘All I can say is that Claire Neve is no better than she should be, taking the stage when she should be scrubbing shirts for a living. And Thomas Duke is a fool if he loses his heart over her.’

  This had to be a mistake on Lady Beatrice’s part. It–it simply didn’t make sense. Dorothea had never heard of Claire Neve, and couldn’t hold any evil will towards her–but Thomas didn’t seem the sort to lose his heart over actresses.

  Because you want him to have lost his heart over you. Her inner voice, rather like that of Lady Beatrice in tone and tenor, crept into Dorothea’s soul and took hold there.

  No-one was going to lose their heart over her in her current state. Perhaps if she had been given the Season that she had always wanted, well… perhaps Thomas Duke would have noticed her as he had noticed her the day before. Perhaps he would have looked at her with the same delicious, soul-searching stare that tugged at one’s heartstrings as furiously at it flattered every sensibility.

  She had always been a little moonstruck over Thomas Duke as a child. She could see that now. It would take much, much more for Thomas Duke to feel even slightly moonstruck over her.

  What had happened wrapped in the curtains wasn’t true passion. It couldn’t have been. If it was, well–

  No. She couldn’t even think it. The thought was so precious as to be ridiculous.

  A sudden burst of barking distracted her from her increasingly chaotic thoughts. A large dog with a bitten ear and scars on its muzzle stood in the middle of the street, growling with its hair on end at an approaching carriage.

  ‘What is that infernal hound doing?’ Lady Beatrice seemed able to shout quite loudly despite the apparent pain in her head. ‘Who is responsible for this animal?’

  No-one answered her. Dorothea repressed a quiet smile–how Lady Beatrice hated being ignored–before a panicked frenzy of hooves and whinnying sent a jolt of pure fear through her.

  A horse was approaching at high speed, a gig rattling behind it. The dog stood its ground, barking all the more as the horse began to scrabble and attempt to change direction. Dorothea reached out for Lady Beatrice, only to find that the old woman had left her side.

  ‘Lady Beatrice!’ Her cry added to the general air of chaos. Women were already beginning to run; flowers and discarded parcels of shopping were being crushed underfoot. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, you must keep up!’ Lady Beatrice looked at her irritatedly from the other side of the road, apparently unmoved by the panic taking hold of the street. Dorothea reflected distractedly that the woman had grown deafer over the previous months. ‘The habits of ill-mannered dog owners don’t concern me. I’ve seen an umbrella that I like.’

  Of course she had. Dorothea ran into the middle of the street, trying to clutch at Lady Beatrice’s sleeve, but the woman was already moving out of her reach. For a brief, terrifying moment both the dog and the horse seemed angered by Dorothea’s very presence–there were hot snaps at her heels, and whinnies that split the air–but she recovered herself, fleeing to her original position as the dark weight of the horse tumbled into that of the dog.

  For a moment, all was noise. So much noise that the world was blotted out. In the next moment, when Dorothea gathered the courage to open her eyes and move away from the crush, so many people were flooding into the street in an attempt to separate the two creatures that she almost couldn’t see Lady Beatrice.

  Eventually, she found her. The old woman was standing next to an umbrella shop in the covered Parlington Arcade, her expression one of imperious contempt as she shook her head in Dorothea’s direction. As Dorothea tried to make her way across the street, pushing ineffectually at the swelling crowd of people, Lady Beatrice turned and walked into the Arcade.

  She had been abandoned. Dorothea realised her hands were shaking as she fled the crowd, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she pressed herself against the door of an anonymous building of grey stone.

  She had left her. Left her! None of Lady Beatrice’s high-handed insistence on order had been used to bring her from one side of the street to the other. She hadn’t even looked frightened. She really was an object to the old woman, like a hairbrush or a pencil–something that could be easily replaced…

  She stumbled as the door opened behind her. Someone had evidently left his office to find out what on earth the noise was. Dorothea turned, her head already full of apologies and excuses, only for her lips to part in a most unattractive fashion.

  Thomas Duke. Thomas Duke, shadows under his penetrating eyes, staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.

  She had no words. None that could make this meeting seem reasonable, or–or possible. He was in Pembroke Manor, not here—but he was here, his dark hair rumpled and curling at the edge of his cravat, standing so close to her that she could breathe in the scent of him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dorothea bit her lip. The apology didn’t seem formulaic anymore. ‘I–well, as you can–’

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Come in.’ It was as if Thomas hadn’t seen the street. He was looking at her and her alone. ‘Please.’

  Of course she would meet him again when she looked like this. Tired, grey in complexion and dressed in a gown that punished every curve as fiercely as the other gown had flattered them. Dorothea pulled her worn shawl around her neck, unable to meet his eyes as he gently beckoned.

  ‘This way.’ He still sounded as shocked as she was. ‘My office is here.’

  No time to question the wisdom of going to his private offices. If any passing servant saw her here with Thomas Duke, gossip would get back to Lady Beatrice somehow and her employment would vanish into the ether. Nodding in fraught, miserable silence, Dorothea followed Thomas obediently down the corridor as he made his way to an unremarkable black door.

  He opened it, ushering her into a small room with a sloping ceiling and piles of paper in every corner. Dorothea stopped, trying to take in her surroundings rather than worry fruitlessly about her own appearance–but oh, it was no use. Especially when Thomas, framed in the soft grey light that streamed in through the window, looked almost unbearably handsome.

  He had always been handsome. He had been handsome for as long as she had known him. Dorothea blinked as present knowledge overrode past memory, bringing everything together in a soft, strange rush of recognition.

  Thomas shut the door. He turned to her, keeping a careful distance away—but Dorothea saw the quick tremble that ran through his throat as he swallowed. Was it nervousness, or something else?

  ‘You’re here.’ His expression looked just as soft and marvelling as it had in candlelight. Dorothea shook away the fierce, pleasurable shiver that ran through her at the look in his eyes. ‘In London.’

  ‘Yes. No. I–yes, I’m here in London.’ It was difficult to speak when being looked at in such a fashion. All she wanted to do was sink to the ground, her muscles liquid. ‘But not here for… not here for you. Why are you here?’

  ‘Business.�
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  ‘Ah.’ Of course. What a stupid question. ‘That is to say it’s–well, it’s nice to see you, not that I knew you were here, but Lady Beatrice had the most dreadful headache and insisted on returning to the city, and so I followed her for that. Not–not for you, although really, it’s an assumption one could reasonably make seeing as I’m… well, I’m…’

  ‘Here. In my office.’

  ‘I was outside an office–one of many offices on this street. Not your office and yours alone.’ Now she was simply being silly–when would someone arrive and stop her talking? ‘You heard all the commotion in the street. A horse and a dog got into the most dreadful scrap, and Lady Beatrice and I were separated in the crush.’

  ‘The crush? Are you well? Is Lady Beatrice?’

  He had asked after her welfare before that of Lady Beatrice. Dorothea tried not to feel flattered by the fact. ‘I am a little shaken. Lady Beatrice is certainly well.’

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because…’ Dorothea paused, attempting to find a way to tell the truth and preserve whatever goodness Lady Beatrice had left to display. ‘Because she turned into Parlington Arcade and began to look at an umbrella shop, leaving me on the other side of the street.’

  It hadn’t worked. Thomas’s frown deepened, his voice full of anger. ‘She left you in the middle of a dangerous street? Without a word?’

  ‘Well. You know Lady Beatrice.’ Dorothea tried to shrug, but it was as if all her strength had left her. ‘She does tend to… well. Treat her staff like furniture.’

  It was meant to be a joke, but it came out impossibly bleak. She bit her lip as Thomas went to the window, watching the street below.

  After a long time, he spoke. ‘I can see her. I can actually see her.’

  ‘She’s still in the Arcade?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was full of a kind of angry incomprehension. ‘She appears to be purchasing an umbrella. It must be the one you saw her looking at.’

  ‘You could call out to her. Tell her I’m here.’