The Duke's Untamed Desire

by Amy Jarecki

  “Why?”

  She gulped against the strangling sensation in her throat. “It is too mortifying to put into words.”

  “A moment.” Eleanor gestured toward the street with a swing of her reticule. “Since I have agreed to help you with this endeavor, the least you can do is share with me the reason why the most qualified man in London is not acceptable to you because of some utter mortification? Of what trifle do you speak? Did you step on his toes at Almacks?”

  “If it had been mere toe stepping, I would have agreed to his offer and sent a missive to Mr. Walpole cancelling his services.”

  “Well, then what is it? Something to do with the dog and the pond? The pair of you seemed quite amicable on that point.”

  As Georgiana closed her eyes, a clear picture of the fury on Evesham’s face after the dousing crushed her. “The incident with Rasputin did cause a great deal of embarrassment, but I assure you it pales in comparison to my reason.”

  Eleanor looked to the sky. “It may start raining at any moment, but I assure you, if a cloudburst suddenly deluges us, we still will not go inside until you tell me this dark secret of yours.”

  She cringed, wringing her hands. “He was at the Southwark Fair for my first steam pumper demonstration.”

  “The one where you discovered Mr. Walpole couldn’t read?”

  “Yes. And though Evesham did show initial interest, he became irritated when he deduced that I was whispering the actor’s lines—and then once the duke started asking questions which Mr. Walpole wasn’t equipped to answer, I stepped forward to explain—and then when Evesham started to leave, I gave the lad the signal to start the demonstration but we were short one person and the hose came to life as if it were a serpent from the depths of the sea and...” Georgiana took a breath for the first time since she started the abominable explanation. “And all two hundred gallons of water deluged the duke.”

  Eleanor drew a hand to her chest. “Oh my.”

  “Oh yes, and, in no uncertain terms, he commanded me to throw my monstrosity into the Thames.”

  “But surely he has forgiven you for the blunder. He seemed taken with you, and I’ll even venture that he was flirting.”

  Georgiana’s shoulders fell. “That’s because he doesn’t know I was the woman on the dais at the Southwark Fair.”

  Snorting, Eleanor gaped. “That’s preposterous. I would recognize you from fifty paces or more.”

  “I was dressed in mourning black with a poke bonnet pulled low over my brow and a pair of spectacles on my nose—thanks to Father being adamant I needed some sort of disguise, else the duke would have let me drown in Green Park’s pond.”

  “Good Lord, and I thought my life was complicated.”

  Georgiana grasped Eleanor’s hands and squeezed. “You must promise me you will not breathe a word about this to anyone. To make matters worse, the day after I doused the duke, it was the premier story in The Scarlet Petticoat.”

  Her friend’s expression softened as Eleanor gave Georgiana’s arm a consoling pat. “Your secret is safe with me, and do not worry about that silly gossip sheet. ’Tis only good for a laugh—and everyone knows it.”

  “Yes, a laugh at a poor widow who is only trying to make something out of her late husband’s invention.”

  “Not to worry, my dearest. There are plenty of other men in London who will find your machine quite interesting, indeed. I have no doubt you will happen upon your financier or have a parcel of orders before the Season comes to an end. Mark me.”

  Georgiana grasped her friend’s shoulders and embraced her. “Oh, by the stars, I hope you are right!”

  Chapter Seven

  “EVESHAM,” SAID BRUM, grinning and offering his hand. “Welcome. Though I’m surprised to see you took my advice.”

  Stepping inside Jackson’s Saloon, Fletcher shook the man’s hand, then gave his hat, gloves, and cloak to a footman. “I’ve had quite enough of the Season. Why not endure an evening in your den of ill repute?”

  In truth, though the boxer’s establishment was on the west end, it catered only to the elite. With a façade of respectability, it resembled Whites somewhat with richly upholstered wingback chairs arranged for reading and gentlemanly conversation and, on the mezzanine, card tables for gaming.

  Brumley gestured to the door behind the maître d’s podium—the one leading above stairs where only the most trusted, influential, and wealthiest patrons were allowed. “Madam Bouvier is entertaining a small gathering this evening. I’m sure you will find one or two of the new ladies to your liking.”

  “Excellent.” After a bow of his head, Fletcher headed off. “I’ll show myself up.”

  The stairwell was stark and poorly lit, but he’d ascended these steps many times in the past. Usually he was light of step, but this evening it was a chore to lumber upward. As he neared the third floor landing, deep chuckles and soft giggles came from beyond.

  No other brothel in London matched the quality of this establishment. A gentleman didn’t march in, point to a wench, and haul her to a dingy room with nothing but a soiled bed. There was an evening of parlor games first where guests were able to gain a flavor for the young courtesans. If someone caught a man’s interest, he then would pass Madam Bouvier a note with a price and the name of the object of his desire. If the woman was satisfied with the man’s offer, the courtesan would excuse herself after which the gentleman was given the room number where he would find his delight in a well-appointed chamber complete with a lavish bed, a settee, and a warm bath.

  This evening, Fletcher almost preferred a house of ill repute with no speaking, no games, a fast release, and a faster escape. But Brumley had offered, and this was one of the few clubs a duke could attend without his name being in the headlines of the morning papers. Not that he cared about what the damned news reported about him.

  He just didn’t care to have Lady Georgiana read anything unsavory about his outings. She’d already accused him of an illicit affair with Signora Morella. Fletcher’s hand paused on the latch. Why in God’s name am I thinking about Her Ladyship when paying a visit to the most exclusive brothel in London?

  “Your Grace!” Instantly rising to her feet, Madam Bouvier glided across the floor and took both of his hands between her petal-soft fingers. An unreal smile was fixed on her face like a painted marionette. “What a delightful surprise to have you join us this evening.”

  The back of his neck bristled. Why? His reaction most certainly wasn’t caused by the lady’s over-powdered translucent skin or the ample use of of rouge or her heady perfume. In fact, the woman smelled like a field of lavender. Perhaps it was the earl, the baron, and the two wealthy bankers who looked on, their eyebrows raised. Regardless, Fletcher suddenly wished he hadn’t come.

  Madam Bouvier pulled his hand. “Come and sit between Agnes and Delilah. We were just starting a game of love leaf.”

  “Splendid,” he mumbled as the two women who couldn’t be more than eighteen years of age scooted apart, their smiles too eager. An even younger-looking maid promptly served him a glass of brandy. Fletcher took it and drank, eyeing the girl and wondering how such a frail child had landed at Jackson’s.

  If only he were able to save them all. And Smith had laughed at his harem idea. It wasn’t all that preposterous. At least Fletcher might be able to save a number of foundlings from the gutter—feed and clothe them.

  His stomach soured. What the blazes am I on about now? Not even the Duke of Evesham could take advantage of a young lady’s unfortunate circumstances. His harem would turn into yet another benevolent society with a parcel of chatty girls taking over the privacy of his home.

  He turned his attention to the present company. Fletcher endured the game where everyone receives four cards posing questions as to what is said on the “love leaf” with certain answers requiring a kiss.

  He managed to avoid being coaxed into kissing the girls by lying about his cards. Most players lied in order to receive a kiss—he’d don
e so countless times in the past. But being deceptive so to abstain was an absolute novel experience. Perhaps I am fevered.

  When finally all of the gentlemen had given penciled notes to Madam Bouvier and disappeared down the corridor, Fletcher scribbled a name along with a ghastly sum on a slip of parchment and passed it across the small table.

  As she read, the woman’s eyebrows arched slightly, she folded the note and looked to the two remaining courtesans. “Leave us.”

  Fletcher stood politely and waited until the ladies departed.

  The madam affected a guarded expression. “You know I’m no longer in service, so to speak.”

  “I am aware.” Not quite certain where he was going with his proposition, the last thing Fletcher wanted was to bed Madam Bouvier. But there was something wise about the woman—experienced, shrewd and, most importantly, feminine. And come to think on it, Fletcher didn’t have any female acquaintances with whom he could engage in conversation, nor did he have any female relatives. In truth, he relied on his instincts when in the company of the fairer sex, something which, up until now, had suited him quite well.

  He’d never found himself in a situation where he might consider what women think, or what they liked, or dreamed, or desired—aside from the usual: being showered with gifts after a night of sweaty passion...especially if the passion was rather enjoyable.

  The madam waved his note. “Though with this sum...I might—”

  “Before you utter another word, please allow me to explain.” He stepped around the table and took her hand between his palms. “I was wondering if we might enjoy an evening of conversation.”

  Her expression blanked. “Conversation?”

  “Yes. That would be talking. Perhaps savoring a brandy or two.”

  Releasing his hands, she opened her arms, looking from wall to wall. “Here?”

  “Considering only the pair of us are present, here will be fine.” He resumed his seat. “Agreed?”

  The woman nodded while Fletcher sipped his brandy and cleared his throat. “You are aware I was not raised a gentleman?”

  “I am. Word is you were legitimized as your father was dying.”

  “That might be the only correct tidbit of information the papers have reported.” He drummed his fingers on his glass. “I’ve never given it much thought, but now I’m rather perplexed.”

  “About what, Your Grace?”

  Where should he begin? The whole debacle with Lady Georgiana had him completely flummoxed, though he’d admit the extent of his quandary to no one. “You see, generally, I state my wishes...ah...where a woman is involved and there are no questions, my desires are fulfilled, the woman is compensated in some way and we both part on congenial terms.”

  “Are you referring to women of easy virtue?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Bless it, he was making quite a shamble of this. And most of the time, the answer to the question would be affirmative. “It has come to mind that I am, perhaps, not the most gentlemanly behaved when amongst highborn women.”

  “Most of polite society may agree with you.” Madam Bouvier collected a paper from a side table and handed it to him. “Though I’m not one to judge, The Scarlet Petticoat repeatedly refers to you as a scoundrel and a rake.”

  He read the headline in black and white above a rather poor rendering of him driving a phaeton. To his dismay the words below were troublesome. “The Duke of Evesham was seen driving with the widow, Lady Georgiana Whiteside who, six years past, married far beneath her station. It seems Her Ladyship is determined not to make the same mistake again. However, we are skeptical in her choice of suitor. Can this consummate bluestocking tame Evesham’s lascivious ways?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Right-o. I suppose I have earned such a reputation.”

  “I don’t know about that. You are always courteous and congenial whenever you visit my rooms.”

  “That’s not exactly how I would see it. We enjoy a few games, after which I have my way with a saucy lass and leave a happy man.”

  The lady examined her expertly manicured fingernails. “Isn’t that what men desire?”

  “Not always.”

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “How, would you say, does a man like me go about courting a woman without coming across as a merciless rake?” To Madam Bouvier’s snort, Fletcher took another drink—a gulp this time. “You see, there is a gentlewoman with whom I might like to become better acquainted, but it seems my methods are a bit too forward.”

  The woman gestured to the scandal sheet. “Lady Georgiana?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Hmm.” Madam Bouvier adjusted a velvet pillow at her side. “She is a widow, as the article states?”

  “She is.”

  “But a bit of a recluse, I imagine.”

  “Most definitely. In my observation, she is very private.”

  The woman heaved a sigh. “A bluestocking is as foreign to me as one is to you, Your Grace. I wonder how passionate her marriage was?”

  Not very, I’ll wager. Fletcher preferred not to think about Georgiana’s deceased spouse or anything to do with Her Ladyship’s enjoyment of another man’s attentions.

  “Well, I’m not one to give advice about how to court a widowed gentlewoman, but I might suggest you allow Her Ladyship to set the pace. What activities does she enjoy? Can you enjoy such things with her?” The madam reached for a tiny bottle of perfumed salts and waved it beneath her nose. “Is she attracted to you?”

  He had no answer to a single one of the woman’s questions. Was Lady Georgiana attracted to him? Possibly. After all, she had turned molten when he’d kissed her. At least until she’d realized the impropriety of his advances...and he wasn’t about to utter a word to the madam about stalking and kissing the woman in the window embrasure at the theater. “I believe so.”

  “Then, I say think with your mind instead of the part of male anatomy that always manages to take men astray.” Fanning herself, Madam Bouvier looked him in the eye. “Though I cannot tell you how much I dislike giving such advice. It is a detriment to my profession.”

  “From your clientele this evening, it seems you are not soon to be out on the streets.” Fletcher reached inside his coat and pulled out fifty pounds in notes—a fortune to pay for a mere conversation. “I trust this tête-à-tête will go no further.”

  She slipped the notes into the hidden folds of her skirts. “I have kept the confidences of kings, Your Grace.”

  “I thought no less.” He stood and bowed. “I bid you good evening.”

  Chapter Eight

  “THE...R-RED APPLE WAS...um...” Sitting in the kitchen, Roddy looked up from his book.

  “Sound it out,” said Georgiana, looking over his shoulder. “g-oo-d.”

  “The red apple was good?”

  “Precisely!” She thumped the table. “I am impressed at how quickly you have taken to reading.”

  His mouth twisted as he reached for a biscuit. “I’d rather be working with the steam pumper. When is the next fair?”

  “I have had some difficulty finding an appropriate venue, but there’s a fete in Richmond Park in three weeks and I’m told it is quite well attended.”

  “All the way to Richmond?” Roddy closed the book. “It’ll take half a day to drag the old engine that far.”

  “’Tis nine miles. We will need to leave by dawn for certain but, given good weather conditions, it oughtn’t take us more than two or three hours. And if we arrive by mid-morning, we’ll have the pumper ready to go by early afternoon.”

  “Very well, but if you want more people to see it, you ought to put it out in front of the town house or something. Mayhap set up your own demonstration in Hyde Park. You could use the water from the Serpentine.”

  Shuddering, Georgiana pictured all manner of members of the ton being doused by an unsecured hose. And now that Evesham had made himself rather familiar, wheeling the pumper into the middle of the busiest park in
London and holding forth with a demonstration would most likely see her dragged off to Newgate Prison.

  She gave the boy a pat. “I do appreciate your concern but allow me to worry about finding the right financier.”

  Roddy popped the remainder of the biscuit into his mouth. “What will you do if you cannot?”

  “Let us refrain from predicting doom and gloom so early in the Season.” The standing clock in the corridor chimed twice. “Besides, I may meet the right associate in a ballroom.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Georgiana pushed to her feet. “I must away to my dancing lesson. A dear friend of mine suggested I might fare better with the steam pumper if I tried to be more sociable.”

  Roddy scratched his head. “That makes no sense at all.”

  “You may be right.” She pulled on her bonnet and tied the ribbons. “But my friend’s opinion is opportunities for a woman to engage a wealthy gentleman in conversation are more likely to arise during a waltz than at a fair.”

  After collecting her wrap, Rasputin excitedly bounded alongside her while Georgiana dashed through the town house to the front door. With her hand on the latch, she focused on the Pointer. “You must stay. The last thing I need is an excitable dog underfoot.”

  At the earsplitting sound of the brass knocker, the dog launched into a barrage of raucous barking while Georgiana clutched at her heart not knowing what had startled her more, the dog or the door. “Silence, you beast!”

  “Would you like me to do the honors?” asked Dobbs, the butler.

  Since her hand was already grasping the latch, she opened the silly door, which only served to make her heart fly out of her chest. At least it felt as though her heart were flying. Unable to think with Rasputin carrying on like a rabid hound, she swung the door shut.

  In the Duke of Evesham’s face.

  Dobbs cleared his throat. “If you would allow me, my lady.”

  Georgiana grasped the Pointer by the collar and stepped back, managing to breathe. “Very well.”