Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke

by Suzanne Enoch

  NINE

  Sophia stood in the morning room, which looked out over the frozen garden and the riding path beyond. A quartet of riders trotted by, kicking up the loose snow and evidently on their way into Hanlith. Miss Rebecca Hart looked especially fetching in her dark green riding habit as she sat upon Copper.

  “You look very nice,” Camille commented, as she strolled into the room. “I can see why you haven’t borrowed any of my clothes.”

  Sophia took a breath and turned away from the window. “Evidently generations of visitors here have left behind articles of clothing. Mrs. Brooks is exceptional at finding ones that fit me, or altering them so that they do.”

  “I’m surprised generations of visitors haven’t gone missing, this house is so big.” Cammy tugged at the sleeve of Sophia’s green and burgundy riding habit. “If you’re going riding, shouldn’t you be outside?”

  “I thought about it, but I changed my mind.”

  Camille favored her with an assessing look, then sat on the low couch and patted the cushion beside her. “Well, Keating’s out shooting at things, so come and chat with me. I want to know everything that’s been happening at the club, and any detail you might have left out about your father’s visit. And please tell me that you aren’t truly sharing a room with Lucille Hampton.”

  Sophia snorted. “I’ve—I had—made it into a game. Every time she said the word ‘handsome’ I put aside a shilling to spend on hats. I have a great many hats, now.” Hats she’d left behind, because she couldn’t imagine that Mr. Loines would see anything but frivolity in their purchase—and where she considered frivolousness to be the point, she didn’t want to hear it called a sin.

  With a laugh, Cammy put her head into her hands. “I remember when Lucille first arrived. She was so certain one of those handsome men who came to the club would sweep her away into a fairy-tale marriage.”

  “Oh, she still is. I can’t decide whether to be amused, annoyed, or full of pity.” She tucked her arm around Camille’s. “And then right before I left, she said she felt sorry for me. That was excessively annoying.”

  “I missed you, you know,” Camille commented, her blue eyes swimming again.

  Sophia grimaced. “This holiday is for me to not have to think about what happens next. Talking about it certainly won’t alter that, and neither will making you weep over it.”

  “It just isn’t like you to surrender, Sophia.”

  Her grimace deepened to a frown. “I used to think that, too. But then I realized that I surrender all the time. I’ve simply learned to make the best of the situation. I’ve never attempted to alter the situation, mind you. I just laugh through it. And I’ll do the same thing again, because I don’t have any choice.”

  “You could flee.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could. After all, Lady Haybury’s survived being poor and abandoned before, hasn’t she? Would it be so bad to force her to face that once more? Surely the Duke of Hennessy and half the House of Lords couldn’t do that much damage to a gentlemen’s club, or the ladies who are employed there. They all have other places to go, anyway.” She sent Camille a sideways glance.

  “It isn’t fair,” her friend grated. “He’s relied on your affection for your friends in order to ruin your life.”

  “My life was always ruined. He’s just taken one last step to make it unbearably so.”

  “Oh, Sophia.”

  She shook herself. “Enough of this,” she said briskly, standing up and shaking out her hands. “I’m not in Cornwall yet. And you will tell me all about Shropshire and Havard’s Glen. It is as lovely as you described?”

  With obvious effort Cammy began chatting about her life as Mrs. Blackwood. Thank goodness at least one of them had managed to alter fate. And thank goodness it had been Cammy. She deserved to be happy.

  They sat talking for a good hour before Sophia felt the tension across her shoulders ease. A minute after that, her stomach began rumbling. “Are you hungry? Mrs. Beasel informed me that she was baking apple tarts to put out for luncheon.”

  Camille stood. “Have I mentioned that I’m becoming fond of Greaves Park?” she asked, pulling Sophia to her feet.

  “Ah, listen to you. Bribed with an apple tart.”

  They were just short of the morning room doorway when Sophia heard Adam’s voice approaching down the hallway. Considering that he’d barely glanced at her in two days, she certainly didn’t want to look as though she was pouncing on him from the shadows. And then she heard another male voice mention her name. Moving quickly, she drew Cammy back against the wall beside the door.

  “—want me to admit, Burroughs?” Adam’s voice came.

  “I want you to admit that you’ve made an arrangement with her. You lost Helena Brennan to wedded bliss. You always have the prettiest chit in London, and now you’re hunting for a proper wife. Ergo, Sophia White is your new mistress.”

  “I have no idea why my pulling a ruined chit out of a river and then keeping a roof over her head for the next fortnight or so means that I’ve made her my mistress.”

  The voices continued on in the direction of the billiards room. Sophia swallowed, her hand tightly gripping Camille’s even though she wasn’t certain what she wanted—or didn’t want—to hear.

  “Fourteen days, Greaves. That’s why. She’s employed at a damned gentlemen’s club, and she’s a duke’s by-blow. She isn’t here to enjoy the weather. I know you’ve been at her. I just want to know if she’s available for me to bed, or if you have an agreement with her. I won’t tread in your garden.”

  For a moment she heard only silence. “I’m admitting to nothing. I’ll only advise you to be careful where you walk.”

  “Ha! I knew it.”

  Once she was certain that the men had gone into the billiards room, Sophia pulled Camille into the hallway and down the front stairs. On the surface, Adam had said precisely nothing. At the same time, he’d very strongly implied that she’d become his mistress. His woman, paid to be available for sex and evidently for holiday parties. Her last days of freedom, and he’d just turned her into a kept woman—at least as far as every one of his guests was concerned.

  “Sophia, you’re crushing my hand.”

  Starting, she released her grip on Camille. “I’m sorry.”

  “No permanent damage done. I understand; he’s playing loose with your reputation. But you won’t have to face these people ever again. What—”

  “What’s the harm?” she finished. “None,” she lied, stomping down to the foyer. “But would it be so far beneath him to acknowledge that I’m here because we’re friends? He and Lord Drymes are friends.”

  “You aren’t friends like he and Drymes are friends,” Cammy returned in a low voice. “For one thing, I doubt he’s ever seen Drymes naked. You’ve seen Greaves naked, and that means pride is involved. And he’s a man, so of course he’ll say whatever protects his sense of self-worth.”

  Camille made sense. But she’d also hesitated—and Sophia knew why. Clearly for her own sanity she needed to put her feet firmly back on the ground before she found herself shackled there permanently. “You said ‘for one thing.’ What’s your other point?”

  Camille frowned. “Sophia.”

  “Don’t try to spare my feelings now, Cammy. Just say it.”

  “Fine. I grew up in the middle of Mayfair. Friendships are based on common backgrounds and experiences. You and Greaves aren’t equals. If he goes about saying you’re friends, he’ll look foolish.” She took a breath. “There. And don’t be mad at me, because you knew what I was going to say, and you made me say it anyway.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for being naïve despite what I grew up with. And I’m mad at Greaves for … humoring me, I suppose, in private, when he knew he would never do so in public.”

  There was more to it than that, but she wasn’t ready to delve into it at the moment. But it did hurt. A great deal. With a glance around, she resumed their trek to the kitchen.
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  “You and I aren’t equals, either, Cammy,” she mused after a moment.

  Camille took her shoulder, turning her around. “You and I lost everything and still managed to survive and even be independent,” she said, her light blue eyes serious. “We’re both terribly scandalous, because we’ve done what was necessary. And we are friends. You are my dearest friend. Don’t you dare ever think otherwise.”

  Well. That certainly helped ease the pain a little. “Thank you, Cammy.” Sophia hugged her friend.

  “What are you going to do?” her friend asked, straightening. “If you wish to leave now, Keating and I will go with you.”

  “You speak for Keating, do you?” she queried, mustering some amusement at Camille’s matter-of-fact statement.

  Cammy’s lips twitched. “He’s my husband. Of course I speak for him.”

  Sophia considered for a long moment. Yes, she could leave, go back to London and wait for her days of relative freedom to end, surrender once more to a circumstance not of her own making, and have to say her good-byes all over again.

  Or with her remaining time at Greaves Park she could make this holiday the one she did want to remember, no matter who looked sideways at her or thought she needed to be more … whatever it was she wasn’t. Adam had invited her because of who she was, and she could be that person. She happened to like that person.

  She sent Cammy a slow smile. “I’m not going to leave. I’m going to stay and enjoy my first country house Christmas. My only country house Christmas.”

  “Oh, dear. You’re going to cause trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Very likely.”

  * * *

  “Oh, I wish it snowed like this in Kent,” Sylvia Hart exclaimed. “I would drive everywhere in a sleigh.”

  Adam, seated between her and her sister on the rear-facing seat of the vehicle, sent Sylvia a sideways glance. The younger Miss Hart was a pretty thing, but once the conversation traveled beyond fashion and the weather, she became somewhat vapid. Aside from that, she and her sister were not only desperate to find a wealthy husband, but they had a lamentable tendency to chase after the same man—and thereby destroy each other’s chances. All he knew was that after one morning in their company, he would rather stab himself in the ears than marry one of them. He ran through his guest list. Perhaps he could put them onto Drymes’s scent. That would at least be interesting to watch.

  “I dearly love the snow, myself,” Rebecca put in with the timing of a clock. “It’s so refreshing.”

  Yes, definitely Lord Drymes. The viscount wouldn’t know what to do with two pretty chits chasing after him. He would have selected Burroughs, but his gambling debts were common knowledge. Or Lassiter, but he only wanted a bit of amusement—not to put the Hart sisters in peril of becoming wives number four and five to a husband who seemed to grind his spouses into dust with alarming regularity.

  “It’s such a shame, Rebecca, that the cold turns your nose that ghastly shade of red. You know, the color it is right now.”

  “My nose is not red, Sylvia!”

  It was, but Adam ignored the argument. Across from him Caroline and Burroughs were chatting about whether a woman could possibly be a good marksman. Considering that Caroline generally carried a small, single-shot pistol in her reticule, Adam wouldn’t have cared to challenge her on that front. He tilted his head, assessing Lady Caroline Emery once more. She was one of the few ladies present whose acquaintance he’d already made, and while her father, the Marquis of Woling, had only a single small property well away from London, the family was well respected. She’d made several poor choices in her companions, but she had her wits about her, putting her several steps in front of the Hart sisters.

  Abruptly Caroline sat forward, her gaze somewhere beyond Adam’s shoulder. “Well, what do you think of that?” she asked, with a slight, quizzical smile.

  Burroughs followed her gaze. “Speaking of being out in the weather.”

  Rebecca turned around. “Is that … that woman? What in heavens does she think she’s about?”

  Sylvia kneeled in her seat to look across the front of the sleigh. “I am scandalized!”

  That was difficult to believe, but Adam had to look now. As the sleigh slowed and turned into the stable yard, he glanced toward the lake. At the near shore a single figure swung a large knotted rope and then threw it. His two dogs, barking and tails wagging, went charging after it.

  Sophia had donned his old coat over her borrowed men’s clothes, the floppy-brimmed groom’s hat jammed over her scarlet hair. He narrowed his eyes, not scandalized, but … annoyed. She could dress as she pleased when he was the only one present, but she wasn’t improving her reputation by doing so in front of everyone else. In fact, she was only making her father’s decision about what to do with her seem more reasonable.

  As he watched, Brutus reared up to plant his gigantic front paws on her shoulders. With a breathless laugh, Sophia went down flat onto her back, disappearing completely into a pile of snow. A moment later she sat up, wrapping her hands around the mastiff’s neck as he licked her face.

  Damnation. He stood, but before he could untangle himself from the clinging women seated on either side of him, Aubrey had stepped over Caroline and jumped to the ground, plowing his way over to Sophia. He held out his hand to her.

  “Are you injured, Miss White?”

  She gripped her hand around his and pulled herself to her feet. “Not in the least,” she said, chuckling as she swiped her sleeve across her face. “Thank you, Mr. Burroughs.”

  “My pleasure. It wouldn’t do to have you trampled.”

  “At least the snow is soft.” For the first time she seemed to notice the sleigh and its passengers. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Caesar and Brutus needed a bit of fresh air.”

  Her pale cheeks positively glowed, and in his opinion her red nose didn’t look so much ghastly as healthy. Snow caked into her hat and the ends of her hair. There was no sense dissembling—Sophia White looked utterly stunning. “Miss White,” he uttered.

  “What in the world do you think you’re wearing?” Rebecca demanded, no doubt noting that she’d lost the attention of both men present.

  Sophia looked down at herself and brushed away more snow from her front. “A footman’s uniform,” she answered succinctly. “And a groom’s hat and boots. Excuse me.”

  Turning her back on the group, she snatched the rope back from Caesar and led a mad scramble onto the ice. The dogs leaped and barked and slid about excitedly as she threw the knot for them again.

  “What a disgraceful display,” Sylvia snapped, stepping down from the sleigh. “I refuse to witness anything further. Do take me inside, Your Grace.”

  “And me,” Rebecca seconded.

  Adam blinked. Splendid. The only thing worse than staring at a chit was being caught at it. Resisting the urge to roll his shoulders, he stepped down from the vehicle and offered an arm to either Hart sister while Aubrey and Caroline fell in behind them. As they walked the short distance to the house they took turns regaling him with their dismay and shock at seeing such an unacceptable female behaving so scandalously. As for himself, his attention was now on Aubrey Burroughs, who kept glancing back in the direction of the lake. He recognized the predatory look on the rake’s face, and he didn’t like it. At all.

  Once he managed to escape the Hart harpies, Adam made his way to the ground-level sitting room at the front of the house. If Sophia didn’t wish to make a stir among his guests, she was certainly going about it the wrong way. On the other hand, she might very well not have considered that, and she was simply being herself. One way or the other, he needed to make certain she realized that she was further damaging her own reputation.

  He stopped in the doorway and stifled a curse. Five men, including Burroughs, stood in front of the sitting room window. All of them had glasses of what smelled like whiskey, all of them were gazing toward the lake, and all of them were chatting about what they saw there.

&n
bsp; “I never considered trousers to be arousing until now.” Lord Lassiter chuckled at his own commentary.

  “I want to be a dog,” Burroughs said.

  “You are a dog.” Lord Patrick Alder elbowed Francis Henning beside him. “You chatted with her. Has she invited you to join her in her bedchamber yet?”

  The fifth man, Peter Blense, the Earl of Aames, shook his head. “I’ll wager she belongs to Greaves. Why else would she be here? Pretty as she is, I’m not about to cross him.”

  “It might be worth it.” Burroughs tapped against the window. “Woof woof.”

  That was good to know. Adam slipped away from the room before anyone there could notice his presence. Anger and frustration edged through him, which made no sense. He’d had some of those same conversations himself, about different women.

  Thus far everyone seemed to think he and Sophia were lovers—which, of course, they were. But everyone also seemed convinced that he’d purchased her favors. He supposed that made sense, considering her status in Society. Although in the past he had invited his mistresses to holiday along with gamblers and rakes of both sexes, they all tended to be blue bloods, members of Society. Even Keating, who likely had the worst reputation of anyone there, was a marquis’s cousin and a marquis’s grandson.

  Sophia was different. He enjoyed that difference, or he had before the rest of his guests arrived and began asking questions he didn’t care to answer. Even so, he couldn’t quite wish that he’d never invited her at all. He did wish that he’d spoken to her before his fellows appeared. And he wished she didn’t attract quite so much attention from everyone else. She couldn’t like what was being said about her, even if she claimed to ignore most of it. And he definitely didn’t like the way most of the males in his house looked at her.

  As he reached the foyer, debating whether it would do more harm than good if he went out and dragged her into the house, Keating and Camille appeared, arm in arm, at the foot of the stairs. Adam blew out his breath. “You need to go speak with Sophia,” he said in a low voice.