Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke

by Suzanne Enoch

  She handed the letter back, and he read through it, his lips twitching as he no doubt reached the “albatross” bits. The obvious affection and humor in the letter, toward both Adam and her, touched her deeply. For the past five days she’d been having such a good time that she’d almost managed to forget both her troubles and her friends at the Tantalus, and the two people that she’d traveled all the way to Yorkshire to see. Abrupt guilt made her scowl.

  “Would you wait on the far side of a river for a fortnight to see Camille and Keating?” Adam asked into the silence as he tucked the missive back into his pocket.

  “Of course I would.”

  “Then stop frowning because they chose to do the same. You didn’t make the bridge fall. And the King George is a very nice inn. I’m paying for their stay, along with that of all my other displaced guests.”

  She sighed. “Very well. It’s just touching to know they’re thinking of me.”

  “How could they not?” he returned in an amused drawl. “You’re rather memorable.”

  “I will assume that is a compliment.” She cocked her head at him. “Keating doesn’t know you’re hunting for a wife?”

  “He’s aware of my father’s stipulations, though he’s probably paid it less mind than I have. He’ll undoubtedly figure it out. He’s clever that way.”

  “Perhaps you should write and tell him. While he and Cammy are waiting, they could be reviewing your potential brides.”

  “It’s more likely that Keating would frighten them away with his albatross reputation.”

  Sophia laughed. With renewed enthusiasm she dug into her substantial breakfast. The activities of last night seemed to have left her with quite an appetite. She spared a moment to look up at Adam again, to find steel-gray eyes gazing at her. Her appetite wasn’t just for food.

  * * *

  Adam had several things to attend to this morning, not the least of which was an appointment at noon to meet again with the Jones brothers, who’d sent word this morning that they had put a plan together to repair the bridge. And still he sat, pretending to read as he watched his one houseguest devouring a large slice of hot mutton pie and two soft-boiled eggs.

  Mrs. Orling, the seamstress in Hanlith, was something of a miracle worker, it would seem. And Sophia had believed whatever it was Mrs. Brooks had decided to tell her about the riding habit—though he wouldn’t have selected the pixie-statured Agnes Smith as the gown’s previous owner. Small moments of unexpected magic seemed to abound at Greaves Park this holiday, so hopefully Sophia had simply accepted the dress as yet another improbable bit of luck.

  “Have you ever gone ice fishing?” he asked, as much to distract himself from the increasing pressure in his groin as anything else. There were damned servants in the room. If there hadn’t been, he would likely have been across the table and on her by now.

  “That’s how you caught me, isn’t it?” she commented, offering him a sly smile.

  “Generally a person doesn’t fling himself bodily into the water to fish, but I suppose the basic principle is the same. Would you care to try the proper method?”

  Sophia took a sip of tea. “I think that would be fun.”

  “Good. I’ll make arrangements for this afternoon.”

  “Do you think we should include Lady Wallace?” she queried, her expression becoming serious. “She has been indoors for several days now.”

  He didn’t know when they had become a “we,” but it didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected. The running of five estates and three houses in London had been his responsibility for better than a decade, and he relished it. No one was allowed to interfere with that, to counter his orders, or to attempt to press their own opinions regarding his duties. In order to keep all that, he needed to marry. This, however, wasn’t the same as giving up power or control. This was a very kindhearted young lady feeling empathy for a woman who despised her.

  “Eustace would dislike both the activity and its ultimate goal,” he stated.

  “She doesn’t like fish?”

  “Eating them, yes. Seeing them alive and flopping about on the end of a rod, no.”

  With a final bite of pie, Sophia set down her fork and dabbed delicately at her mouth with a napkin. “I look forward to catching more fish than you do.”

  Adam had no idea how she did that, being proper with one breath and then wagering with him the next. It was uniquely charming. “I accept your challenge.” He glanced at the butler and pair of footmen lurking in the corner. “We’ll decide the stakes later.”

  Soft rose touched her cheeks. “I’m certain they will be interesting.”

  Finally he set aside his own napkin and stood. “Let’s be off, shall we? I have a meeting in a bit with my bridge engineers.”

  “Do you have time for a ride, then?” she asked, furrowing her fine brow.

  “It just so happens that I have precisely enough time for a ride.”

  Her expression eased again. “That’s very lucky, isn’t it?”

  “It is, indeed.”

  By now Adam had had time to send detailed instructions and bribes to his conspirators in Hanlith and to speak with all involved servants at Greaves Park, so he was fairly confident that Sophia could chat with whomever she wished without learning of his clothing deceptions. As they left the breakfast room to ride into Hanlith, he certainly hoped so, anyway.

  “I think Caesar and Brutus were terribly hurt at being left behind,” Sophia said from beside him, her breath briefly visible in the air.

  “I think the villagers would riot at having a pair of wet, massive beasts trundling through their homes and businesses,” he returned. “I have no wish to be stabbed with pitchforks.”

  She snorted. “Coward.”

  “Instigator.”

  As she laughed at that, he crowded Zeus into Copper, took Sophia’s shoulder, and leaned over to kiss her. Before she could react, he straightened and moved away again. The warmth of her mouth seemed to spread through him, heating his insides enough to keep all of winter at bay.

  It seemed a very impulsive and boyish thing to do, and at nine and twenty years of age he was neither of those things. The last thing he cared to do was to give her the impression that he was besotted with a three and twenty-year-old card dealer. Because he wasn’t. He merely enjoyed kissing her. And having sex with her, which he planned to do again that evening.

  “May I ask you something?” she said after a moment, her green eyes assessing.

  “Certainly.”

  “How old were you when you inherited the dukedom?”

  He frowned. While he hadn’t wanted to be asked about kissing or defining a relationship after five days, he had expected to be asked something about the two of them. “Why?”

  “Because my second question is about whether you and Lady Wallace have always been so … adversarial.”

  Now it made more sense. “You’re an only child.”

  Sophia squinted one eye. “I am my mother’s only child.”

  “Ah. That’s right. Hennessy has a son and daughter from his actual marriage.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Adam’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t mean to insult either your mother or the circumstance in which Hennessy has placed you.”

  When he looked over at her, she wasn’t frowning, thank God. “I wasn’t insulted,” she returned. Sophia sighed, then glanced sideways at him. “And you didn’t answer either of my questions.”

  “Seventeen, and yes.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say? I at least provided an entire sentence.”

  “I inherited the dukedom at age seventeen. My sister and I have been at loggerheads for as long as I can remember. And that’s two complete sentences. Talk about something else. You didn’t wish to discuss your family, and I’d prefer to not discuss mine.”

  They rounded the hill, and Hanlith came into view. She’d called it picturesque, and looking at the village through eyes that hadn’t grown up knowing it f
ar too well, he could admit that it was quite pretty.

  “You know, before this holiday I thought of you as a stern, omnipotent duke who seemed to know everything about any given situation and who for some unknown reason had deigned to be kind. Or rather, had deigned to be kind to Keating and Camille, and in so doing was also kind to me.”

  That actually seemed a fairly accurate assessment, except perhaps for the knowing everything bit—though he had enough resources and spies in other households to at least make a decent attempt. “But your opinion has changed, I assume?” he asked aloud.

  “Amended, I think. I didn’t know you were witty, for example. Nor did I have any idea that you were being herded toward a marriage that you’d been avoiding. And I never expected to think of you as a … friend. Which I do, unless you’re merely being kind to a stranded houseguest and I’ve overstepped and offended you.” She kept her gaze on the nearing row of shops. “Have I?”

  That was the word he’d been seeking to explain her to himself. “Friend.” It wasn’t quite encompassing enough, because he didn’t wish to lick any of his other friends’ naked skin, but it had a … a feeling to it of warmth and kindness and humor that fit her—them, together—quite well.

  “I’ve never met a female I would call a friend. Un—”

  “Oh. Well, that’s fine, then. I didn’t—”

  “Shut up, will you? I was about to say ‘until now.’ I like the idea. As long as the kissing and sex is still allowed.”

  “Very much yes.”

  SIX

  “You can maneuver those stones into place from a sled?” Adam asked dubiously, looking up from the large sketch spread across his desk to the trio of men standing across from him. The Jones brothers, stonemasons and—evidently—engineers.

  “We can’t sink supports into the riverbed like we could in summer,” the largest of the three said, his heavy wool cap still clutched in his hands. “The ice would form around it and smash it to pieces.”

  “Don’t ye worry, Your Grace,” another of them, Tobias as he recalled, contributed, jabbing a stained finger at the drawing. “Our da’ made the last repairs just the same way. All we need’s a few days of good weather for the mortar to set. To be safe we’ll reinforce the whole damned thing with timber till spring, when we can cement the bloody stones in place till Doomsday.”

  “That’s quite a guarantee,” Adam returned. “Get on with it, then. Put whatever supplies you need to my account. It’s sixteen days until Christmas, gentlemen. I want that bridge repaired before then.” It was bad enough, having to choose a wife based on a month’s acquaintance. Doing so in less time was unthinkable.

  After they left, Adam returned to the desk to sink into his chair. He’d sent for the Jones brothers an hour after he’d reached the bridge collapse, and they’d spent the subsequent five days coming up with what actually seemed a rather solid plan for repairs.

  Five days ago he’d been furious that his holiday plans had collapsed just as strikingly as the bridge. A month trapped at Greaves Park with only his sister and a duke’s bastard for company while he watched the clock tick toward the moment he lost half his holdings had seemed the worst torture Satan could devise. Even if this hadn’t been the last few moments of his twenty-ninth year, he was a man who required social interaction, anything to … keep him from his own thoughts, he supposed.

  Five days later, his frustration had faded considerably. It wasn’t that he was smitten with his one houseguest or that he’d forgotten the need for the others, but he did enjoy Sophia’s company. Greaves Park had never been a peaceful or a happy place for him, though it was certainly the grandest of the Baswich properties and the ancient family seat. The latter was why he came every year. And the former was why he tended to invite everyone he could convince to leave their own extended families and properties for the holiday and come join him.

  He stirred his finger over the three pence Sophia had paid him for the mare Copper, as per their agreement. A smile touched his mouth. He’d been many things over the years—a rake, a manipulator, a villain, occasionally a friend—but he’d rarely been surprised. Sophia White surprised him. Almost constantly.

  The door clicked open. “I assume those filthy men were here about the bridge,” Eustace said, gliding into the room. “Thank goodness. How long until civilization returns?”

  “A week to ten days, give or take,” he returned, shuffling the coins into his hand and placing them in the top drawer of his desk. “I’m still uncertain why you’re so eager to see my potential brides arrive. I thought you’d be happier having control of half a million pounds’ worth of properties and a viscountcy and an earldom going to your son.”

  “Then you presume incorrectly. I am content to wait until you’ve proven whether you’re able to live up to the one decent thing Father ever asked of any of us. You’re seen as the head of this family, and I’d prefer to avoid any whispers or snickers as to why that might change in February.” She straightened. “Especially if those tales are going to involve that … female. Which they’re likely to, as what proper lady wants to see her prospective husband hanging about a Tantalus girl? Especially that one?”

  “Considering how many of these so-called proper ladies are presently waiting across the river to begin the marital parade, I don’t think Sophia will put any of them off.” He snorted. “In fact, they could likely learn a thing or two from her.” About being interesting, anyway.

  “That creature has already taken over the household, conspired with all the servants, and seduced my brother so thoroughly he doesn’t even realize he’s being made into a fool. By Friday she’ll be setting the dinner menus and changing the curtains. Something tawdry and red, I imagine.”

  Adam sat back in his chair. “Do you know what a breath of fresh air is?” he asked, meeting her angry gaze steadily. “Likely not, as you spend every moment in my company attempting to flatten me. Go away, Eustace, and spit your venom somewhere else.”

  “You’re the one who’s already been poisoned, twice over. And if you know what she’s about, then you’re a hundred times worse than she is. He preferred redheads, too, if you’ll recall. I remember quite clearly the way he banished Mother to her rooms and paraded his women about, encouraging them to put on airs and squawk like the mindless parrots they were, until everyone looked foolish but him. And I know you remember it, too. You’ve even done it yourself.”

  To his surprise a tear ran down her cheek, though she faced away from him so swiftly that it might have been a trick of the light. He drew a breath, pulling back the vicious bite he’d been about to deliver. “Sophia is not a mindless parrot, nor is she after anything but her first pleasant holiday. And I am not our father.”

  “You are. You just don’t see it yet, or you don’t have the insight to admit it.” She faced him again, her gray eyes snapping. “You’re better at pretending propriety than he was, but we both know it’s only a matter of time before you destroy our name and our reputation. If that is your intention, then I do wish you would simply decline to marry. Or better yet, die, so my Jonathan will have the dukedom, as well. At least then I’ll be able to guide him to some semblance of propriety and without the most telling reminder of our father’s … tyranny—you.” With that, she stomped out of the room and slammed the door closed behind her.

  Adam shoved to his feet. Eustace had peppered him with insults and criticisms for years, but for the first time he realized that she wasn’t simply mimicking their mother; she actually meant what she said. She wished him dead. At once, so her twelve-year-old brat could take not just the majority of holdings when he failed to be a so-called proper gentleman, but the title and everything else, leaving her to rule the Baswich empire as she saw fit.

  He was not his father. Every day he stopped in front of that portrait to remind himself of that fact. Yes, he remembered the endless queue of lovers and mistresses the duke had paraded in front of them, in front of his wife. Some of them he’d even had residing in the house wi
th them. And yes, now that he thought about it, a majority of them in his recollection had been redheads.

  But that didn’t mean he’d become Michael Arthur Baswich, and it didn’t mean Sophia bore any blame for anything. Growling, he yanked the bottle of Russian vodka from the liquor tantalus and poured himself a brimming glass. He could feel the black anger beginning to roil in his gut, fury at Eustace combined with the realization that she could very well be correct. About him.

  It was only a coincidence, of course, that his one guest had been Sophia. And he would have found her warm and interesting whatever the color of her hair. Who wouldn’t? And he wasn’t married and intentionally insulting his wife and children with his affairs. Not yet, anyway. But was he insulting Eustace? He’d made an art of keeping mistresses, after all.

  Their entire family had wanted their father gone. His mother had never said so openly, but he and Eustace both knew it. How could they not? And then there were the times, more and more frequent as Adam grew older, that the duchess had turned her anger and humiliation on him. He was male, after all, and the heir. The small-sized reflection of the duke.

  On occasion, Adam had wished his own father dead, and then felt guilty for thinking such a thing. And then it had happened. For a week or two he’d felt relieved. The monster was dead. They could finally have some peace. But then his mother rose up from the cowering wretch that she’d been and had begun taking her years of pent-up bile out on him. And now Eustace said the very same thing to him that he’d always wanted to tell their father. Or better yet, die. And she’d meant it.

  He refilled the glass, though he couldn’t remember emptying it. Or if he’d done so more than once already. Judging from the empty bottle, the nearly drained twin beside it, and the slur of his thoughts, he had. Damnation. He’d let the monster slip past his hold before he’d realized it was even awake. And now it was too late to cage it.