Devilish Games 0f A Virtuous Lady (Steamy Historical Romance)

by Scarlett Osborne

Melissa grunted resentfully. “Can she curb her impulse to make my life difficult for one day? It’s my birthday.”

  “Perhaps you should ask her.” Brynn shrugged, manhandling Melissa out of her nightgown. She wrestled a corset tight around Melissa’s torso before dropping a simple blue muslin gown over her head, paying no heed to her mumbled complaints.

  “There. Let me just add some color to your face and sweep your hair into a knot, and you will be ready to face your mother.”

  Melissa snorted. “When am I ever ready to face her? Mother is such a nightmare.”

  “Well, today is your day, so try and enjoy it, hmm?” Brynn squeezed her shoulder before picking up Melissa’s discarded nightgown and riding clothes and exiting the room.

  * * *

  She would wash the clothes personally, so as to ensure that if there were any traces of Convent Garden mud along the hem of Lady Melissa’s habit, nobody else would be any the wiser.

  This was a dangerous game Brynn was playing with The Duke’s daughter but the lady’s maid saw how unhappy Lady Melissa was, trying to live up to her mother’s impossible expectations. If a simple ride to the market at the crack of dawn gave her some relief, who was Brynn to refuse her that?

  She had grown up with Lady Melissa, her mother being the Greyfield Housekeeper. When she had turned twelve, her mother had started her off as a scullery maid but she soon got promoted to maid of all work and then to her current position as lady’s maid to The Duke and Duchess’ youngest daughter.

  The Greyfields only had the two daughters which was just one more unusual thing about them. They did not seem eager to try for a son and heir, despite the vast lands and property that The Duke owned. He was one of the most powerful people in the land; why Brynn had heard it said that he had the ear of the Prince!

  But his wife was a miserable old hag for all that, seeming to enjoy inflicting pain and misery on everyone around her, most especially Lady Melissa. Only her older daughter, Lady Rose, was immune.

  Brynn found it passing strange but it wasn’t her place to comment.

  * * *

  Patrick Dutton, Marquess Bergon was up at the crack of dawn and ready to leave before the majority of his household had yawned their way to full alertness. He had promised to be present at the docks when the new shipment of furniture his father had ordered from China arrived.

  Herbert Dutton, Duke of Cheshmill had recently remarried. His wife, Alexandra, much younger than he, could be described as a diamond of the first water with very particular tastes. She had decided to redecorate the Cheshmill Town House in a manner befitting her tastes. Said tastes demanded an entire set of furniture from the Far East and His Grace was in a mood to indulge her.

  He was not, however, in a mood to do any of the actual heavy lifting. For that, he had Patrick, his firstborn, always eager to please and perpetually at The Duke’s beck and call. He could rely on Patrick to not only make sure the shipment was intact and accurate but also arrange for it to be installed under his new wife’s exacting instructions.

  Meanwhile, The Duke would hole up at White’s until it was done.

  * * *

  Patrick found his stepmother’s new furniture to be garish in the extreme. Just because something was exotic did not mean it was good. His mother had decorated the Town House in earth tones; blending greens and browns together to produce a peaceful whole that invited one to sit back and relax. They were to be replaced with Lady Cheshmill’s furniture upholstered in blood-red silk and wall hangings with stark gold embellishments not to mention a gold-plated dragon sculpture and dozens of red and gold silk pillows.

  It rather reminded Patrick of the high-end brothel his uncle Milford had taken him to on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday, two years ago. Pausing, his eyes on the middle distance and a slight smile on his face, he called to mind the spirited redhead that had dived down and swallowed him whole…

  A sigh escaped him and he shook his head slightly to clear it of the memories so that he could focus on dealing with the customs agent at hand.

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, good sir, I am here for the Cheshmill shipment.”

  The man looked up, frowning at Patrick, the agent could not believe that the Marquess had the nerve to disturb his day in such a manner.

  “Cheshmill? Which shipment is that?”

  “The furniture, from China. I believe it was to come in with your ship on the 18th, according to the notice sent to my father.”

  “Your father?”

  Patrick lifted an elegant blonde eyebrow as he looked down at the agent from his six-foot height. He caressed his chin as he waited for the agent to show any sign that he knew how to do his job.

  The man sighed, looking up at Patrick like his presence was a huge inconvenience. He got slowly to his feet as if he was fighting arthritic knees before shuffling off to check on the Cheshmill shipment. Rolling his eyes, Patrick turned to watch the ships as they made their way into London Harbor. Even at this early hour, the River Thames was teeming with marine life, the harbor bustling with life. The mud larks were busy already, collecting debris.

  The customs agent was back, clutching at a piece of paper as if it was trying to escape.

  “Yes, Mr. uh?” he lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “I am the Marquess of Bergon, son of The Duke of Cheshmill.”

  The customs agent visibly stiffened his spine. “Oh, well, uh, your shipment has er, arrived. You can collect it from Warehouse three. I just need your signature or seal on this document,” he held out the document in question, hand shaking slightly.

  With an inward sigh, Patrick took the paper, extracted wax and his father’s signet ring which he used to stamp the paper. He handed it back to the customs agent still in silence. The customs agent led him to the right warehouse, Patrick towering over him as he cut a tall, strong, elegant figure with his pristine white pantaloons tucked neatly into his knee-high boots. His black tail coat provided a suitable contrast while highlighting his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped silhouette. He wore a tall hat, his blond curls peeking through on the sides.

  Patrick was accompanied by several footmen who helped unload the furniture from the warehouse, loading it onto the wagons from whence they would be transported to Mayfair.

  He was bleakly hopeful that he would not be pulled into any consultations related to arranging the furniture as his only advice would have been to throw it all out and begin again.

  Heaving a sigh of relief that he did not have to live there–and sparing a sympathetic thought for his poor sister–he climbed into his carriage, which lead the team of wagons on their short journey to transport the new furniture to its home. He made sure–as instructed–to take the scenic route so that as many of The Duke’s neighbors as had servants walking about could see that The Duchess was making the Cheshmill townhouse her own.

  He could well understand her need to make an impression. The late Duchess, Patrick’s mother, had been a force to reckon with in the ton. She had been loved and respected. As a consequence, the new Duchess was treated as something of a usurper. Patrick knew this was unfair, and tried his best to demonstrate his good wishes toward her. But Lady Cheshmill did herself no favors by her loud and gaudy disregard of anything and everything his mother had held dear.

  They arrived at the Cheshmill townhouse on the dot of ten-o’clock, just in time for Her Grace to receive them in her drawing room, instructing the footmen on where exactly everything went. Patrick excused himself as soon as possible, his duty done.

  The air was crisp and a slight drizzle salted his cheeks with cold droplets. Patrick elected to walk, for even though he was a little late, he thought he might pass by Convent Garden and see if the mystery girl was there again today.

  He attributed his fascination with her to the mystery she presented. He had noticed her one morning as he took the air on horseback. Although she was dressed similarly to the lady’s maid she rode with, and her shawl covered her head completely, she someti
mes forgot to change out of her bedroom slippers. They were very impractical for riding, made of silk lined with gold lame as they were.

  The first time Patrick had noticed them, he had been eager to see if he could guess who the young lady was and what exactly she was about. He had no doubt that whoever her unfortunate guardian was, he had no idea of her early morning adventures in produce shopping.

  It worried him sometimes when he thought of her out there, unprotected apart from her lady’s maid. There was little he could do about it as he did not know who she was. Still, he liked to watch over her as she haggled inelegantly over potatoes or fresh fish, her voice deliberately roughened to sound similar to that of her maid.

  It was ridiculous.

  It was amusing.

  It was dangerous.

  Any day now, her guardian would find out what she was doing and the mystery girl would disappear. Patrick might run into her at a ball or attend her wedding and he would never know that it was her.

  What a sad ending that would be to this adventure.

  He walked around Convent Garden for a while, keeping an eye out for her or her companion. After an hour, he conceded that it was too late in the morning for her to still be gallivanting about unsupervised and went home to his house on Grosvenor Street.

  He intended to ride immediately for the country, in part because he much preferred it to London but also because he wanted to be as far away as possible lest Lady Cheshmill decides she wanted his input in her household design. He put himself out to be civil to the woman because his father had chosen her and surely, he must have seen something worth having. Still, he could not deny that he found her draining to his spirit.

  He had an excellent excuse for his flight from Town. He was to hold a grouse-hunting party a week hence and he needed the time to prepare. He had extended an invitation to The Duke and hoped that he would find time to attend. He had a deep respect for his father and cherished the few talks they had on any topic from the health of his horses to that of his finances. Any advice his father could give him was deeply appreciated.

  He stepped into his house; coat held out for his butler to take before walking to the morning room in search of breakfast. Stirring some lemon into his tea, he stared out of the window before turning back to the table as his butler walked in with the mail on a tray. He caught sight of his father’s seal on a note and his heart rate sped up.

  He had seen his father just the day before when he had sent Patrick on his errand. He could not imagine why The Duke would feel the need to write him a note today unless something untoward had occurred. He snatched the note, tearing the seal so he could read it.

  My dear Patrick,

  You may hear some rumors about me as you go about your business today. I pray that you take no notice of it. I shall speak with you more on this later.

  Regards,

  Your Father

  Chapter 2

  A Bit of Intrigue

  Patrick’s brow furrowed as he read the note again, wondering what his father could possibly mean by it. He felt his heart rate speed up with anxiety as he worried for The Duke’s wellbeing. He was aware that his father had many enemies who might like to see him destroyed. He knew this because his father had told him so.

  He got to his feet, breakfast forgotten and strode toward the door, his butler scurrying behind him with anxious questions.

  “I need my coat. Have a coach brought around,” he declared brusquely, not bothering to turn around.

  “Yes, m’ lord,” his butler overtook him in his haste to get to the coat rack, while simultaneously gesturing for the footman to go around to the mews for the coach and six. He held out Patrick’s coat to him, his face twisted with anxiety. He clearly wanted to ask what had gotten his lordship so riled up but was too well trained to impose on his master in such a manner.

  Patrick grabbed his coat, striding out the door without waiting for Andrews to drape it over his shoulders. The day was windy but he hardly noticed. The coach came around from the alley between his house and the next. He hurried forward, not waiting for the tiger to open the carriage door, but doing it himself.

  “Take me to White’s Gentleman’s Club,” he called to his coachman as the tiger leaped onto his platform. They took off in a rush, understanding that Patrick did not want to waste any time. It did not take long to get to the club and he, again, bounded out of the carriage without waiting for assistance. He blew into the club like a gale, his eyes seeking hither and thither for his father.

  The man in question was sitting with a group of noblemen as they played a game of cards, seeming quite unperturbed by any rumor that might be making the rounds.

  “Father,” Patrick murmured softly, coming up behind The Duke. His Grace turned his head, rolling his eyes comically in order to see Patrick.

  “Bergon? What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  “I...” Patrick was at a loss. The tone of his father’s note did not match his current devil-may-care attitude. He frowned; his eyes narrowed as he tried to figure his father out.

  “Well?” he Duke prompted.

  “I received your note. I thought we might discuss it further as it was rather short on details.”

  His father’s eyes first widened, and then narrowed. “Well, this is hardly the place for that discussion. Perhaps we can meet later in your home. I am rather busy at the moment.”

  Patrick bowed his head. “Of course, father.” He turned on his heel and walked out, feeling quite wrong footed.

  * * *

  As much as her mother had ambivalent feelings toward her, Thalia Alford, Duchess of Greyfield was determined that nothing would ruin Melissa’s birthday ball.

  Like a whirlwind, she swept Melissa up in her preparations. First stop, Mrs. Thomas’ where she was made to stand still while the dressmaker poked, prodded and stuck pins in her one more time, just to make sure her dress was a perfect fit. Next, they had to pick up their hats from Mrs. Bell, before stopping by Wood for their footwear.

  Once the clothes were sorted out, there was still accessories. Melissa was to wear an emerald necklace from Rundell and Bridge, exclusively designed for the occasion. It would complement her burnished-gold gown and bring out her tan skin as well as cause her hazel eyes to shine. It was the linchpin that pulled her look together and an excellent talking point for her guests.

  Melissa would have preferred to have a nice tea with her best friend, who was also her lady’s maid, Brynn, and call it a celebration, but that was never going to happen. Her family had an image to maintain in spite of anyone’s–her mother’s–personal feelings for her.

  She and Brynn were as close as sisters but sometimes Melissa would look at her own sister with regret. The relationship she shared with her lady’s maid should have been one she shared with her real sister. Instead, their mother had them at loggerheads, forever in competition for their mother’s approval. Rose always won that race, and Melissa had reached the point where she was resigned to that outcome. It still hurt her, however, that she could not have a warm, loving relationship with either of them.

  Why does she hate me? Melissa often pondered this, for as far back as she could remember, her mother treated her with cold resentment and impatient irritation. What did I do to deserve this?

  Her heart twisted with pain even as she thought it. There was a brisk knock on her door and then Brynn was bustling into the room, talking a mile a minute.

  “It’s time Melissa, for us to get you ready for your big day. The footmen are bringing the large tub so that you can soak in hot water and rose petals while I lay out your clothes.”

  “Are you trying to say I smell, Brynn?” Melissa grinned at her lady’s maid.

  “You certainly do not smell like roses, but you will after your bath.”

  Melissa sighed. “It’s all so tedious.”

  Brynn gave her a sympathetic glance. “Oh, Lady Melissa, you should be excited. It's like you’re a princess. Everyone’s attention will be on you, th
ey will pamper you and toast you and give you presents. How can you not like that?”

  Melissa tried to smile, unsuccessfully. “I suppose I sound very ungrateful to you.”

  Brynn hurried forward to rub at Melissa’s arm. “No! Of course, you don’t. I know why you don’t like all this. You’re a simple girl at heart who would rather have something real than something ostentatious. But that should not stop you from enjoying the prezzies!”

  Melissa rolled her eyes. “I wish we could change places. You would enjoy this much more than me. And where did you learn a word like ostentatious?”

  Brynn snorted. “Please. Do you think I don’t read all the same books you do? You taught me to read so why are you surprised that I know words?”

  Melissa grinned, squeezing her arm. “I’m not surprised that you know them. I’m taken aback that you use them.”

  Brynn shrugged. “When it’s just you and me, I can use any words I want. Other people might think I was bein’ uppity.”

  Melissa shook her head. “It’s a lonely life isn’t it.”

  Brynn smiled wide at her. “Not really. I have you, don’t I?”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the maids of all work, carrying pails of hot water. It was time to get ready for the ball.

  When the maids had left, Melissa stripped down to her birthday suit and lowered herself into the heated water. The tub was next to the fire and she lay back, luxuriating in the warmth, appreciating the lap of water against her flesh. Her hand brushed against the butterfly birthmark against her waist and she traced it languidly as Brynn spread rose petals in the water.

  She sighed, closing her eyes. “I don’t ever want to leave this tub.”

  Brynn laughed. “Eventually, the fire will die down and the water will get cold, you’ll change your mind.”

  Melissa smiled, her eyes still closed, her head resting on the edge of the tub while dark hair hung in cascades, outside the tub. “That sounds like an analogy for something.”