The Duke Is a Devil

by Karen Lingefelt

  “First things first. I’m the duke. You’re the marquess. That means I get to have my questions answered first.”

  “My two sisters were married and gone long before I was, and neither Althea nor Honoria would have anything to do with me or our father unless they needed money. Did Althea’s husband never come to you for extra funds?”

  “Willard? His hand is always out, palm up.”

  “I know Honoria’s husband was always away at sea and caused nothing but trouble every time he returned to land. His father forced him into the Royal Navy mainly to be rid of him and had no use for his wife and daughter. So I suppose it was only natural for her to leave Cecily with Thea instead of me. I was a widower and had only a son. I directed my solicitor to send Cecily an allowance until such time as she married.”

  “Willard takes most of it under the pretense of upkeep, leaving her with only a pittance.”

  “I gather he’s the one who thought to abandon her at Tyndall Abbey?” Frampton huffed. “If only he hadn’t done that, eh? Then you might not have compromised her last night. What were you thinking, Bradbury, eh? Eh?”

  “Stop with the eh-ing,” Dane snapped back. “The truth, Uncle, which you will never believe, is that I never compromised her at all. She imbibed a bit too much brandy last night after you went to bed.”

  “And how did she do that?”

  “I’ll concede that I allowed her to do so, but not so I could take advantage of her. At least not the kind of advantage everyone is thinking. I wanted only to loosen up her tongue.”

  “Ha! Show me a woman whose tongue requires brandy for loosening, and I’ll show you—”

  “You’ve seen her already, and if you insist, I’ll show her to you again once we stop to change horses,” Dane said sharply. “She’s the author of that book being published in London. She drank an entire snifter of brandy after admitting it. I must give her a great deal of credit for not taking any beforehand.”

  “An entire snifter? Just one snifter?”

  “Just one.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I daresay that was her first ever experience with spirits stronger than claret. She confessed, she imbibed, and then she passed out. I had no idea where her bedchamber was, so I carried her to my own—I knew where to find that one. But I give you my word that I left her immediately afterward and spent a rather uncomfortable night on the library sofa.”

  Frampton leaned forward to peer at his nephew. “Hm, your eyes do look unusually bloodshot at that.”

  “I was rather hoping to nap during today’s journey, before all hell broke loose this morning,” Dane said wearily.

  “So she wrote that book? My own niece?” Frampton sounded proud of her accomplishment, and well he should.

  But Dane wasn’t about to let his uncle off the hook that easily. “You needn’t sound so proprietary about her, as if you had a direct hand in making her whatever she is today. Yes, your niece whose existence you were barely aware of until last night wrote that book.”

  “And you approve of that?”

  “I can’t think of any reason not to.”

  “Yet the book is about you?”

  “Well, someone who resembles me. A duke whose name happens to rhyme with mine. I daresay that’s enough to make any fool believe it must be my one and only biography.”

  “Then why do you not stop publication?”

  “What good would that do? That will just create a greater scandal. Everyone will wonder what it is I’m trying to hide. May as well let it be published.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I have, in fact. She doesn’t know.”

  Silence fell over the enclosed carriage. Frampton pondered. Dane cast his gaze out the window at the verdant hills rolling by.

  “Is that why you compromised her?” Frampton suddenly asked.

  “Again, the truth is I did not compromise her, but what makes you say such a thing?”

  “Well, since she was foxed on brandy and had the temerity to write a book about you that may not even be true, you decided to seek retribution.”

  “By actually compromising her?”

  “Come, we both know men who would do it without any hesitation.”

  Ire gripped Dane. “And you should know that I am not one of those men. I hope to God I would never do such a thing.” As it was, he still felt a stab of guilt about the day she came to Bradbury Park, and he implied that he might stop the book’s publication in exchange for the very same thing their odious cousin Harry was always demanding of her.

  That stab of guilt went right into his gut. He actually felt nauseous now. He knew it couldn’t be from the motion of the carriage.

  “I know you’re not,” his uncle finally said. “Then why did you not deny it this morning, when Cordelia accused you?”

  “Because I knew there was no point in denying it. It looked that bad. Cecily was found in what was supposed to be my bed, and at my behest, wearing nothing but her shift, with bloodstains on the mattress from the toe she stubbed on a suit of armor before tipping over the whole damned thing.”

  “Oh, so that was the uproar we heard last night? We were not, shall we say, in any position to investigate. And you don’t believe, especially if she’s an authoress, that she plotted all of this in advance?” Frampton sounded quite serious.

  “I don’t believe it’s humanly possible to have plotted such a thing in advance,” Dane replied. “I might have expected her to go into the library in hopes of catching me there. In her night rail. I found some of her writings on a desk in there. I assumed she left them there intentionally, so she’d have an excuse to come back downstairs to retrieve them—after she’d undressed for bed, of course. Instead...” He shook his head.

  Instead, what ensued had been wildly unpredictable—but still with the very result he—and for that matter, Cecily too—had hoped to avoid.

  “And what about Cecily herself? Did she not try to deny that anything happened?”

  “I don’t think she knows what happened after she passed out,” said Dane. “And that’s another reason I won’t try to deny it.”

  “And there are no witnesses to corroborate your claims that you spent a very uncomfortable night in the library?”

  “Of course there are witnesses. You mean the servants. Alas, they corroborate my account because I am a duke and one never contradicts a duke. Or so I’ve often heard.”

  Frampton huffed out a sigh as he slumped back on the seat. “So you’re going to marry my niece solely for the sake of appearances. You never actually compromised her, but it appears to all that you did, so wed her you must.”

  “So it does appear,” Dane agreed.

  “Not how you ever expected to come by your duchess, I’ll warrant.”

  “No. Far from it.” Over the years, Dane had come very close to being caught in compromising situations with young women—and in all cases, those situations had been contrived by the young women themselves, sometimes with the collusion of their scheming mothers.

  How he found himself having to marry Cecily Logan seemed so farfetched and outrageous.

  And yet, somehow what happened seemed so right. As if they were meant to be.

  Now he had only to convince her of that.

  CECILY STILL FELT QUEASY, and wouldn’t have minded spending another day at Tyndall Abbey to recover from the effects of too much brandy last night. Lady Frampton’s chatter and questions did not help, though she was infinitely preferable to Lady Cordelia.

  “You wrote that book!” Lady Frampton exclaimed.

  “Yes, but I never meant to have it published.”

  “Then pray, why even write it?”

  Cecily summoned every last ounce of strength she possessed—though it was closer to half an ounce—to suppress a sigh of exasperation. There was simply no way to answer the question. People who weren’t writers couldn’t begin to understand.

  “I can’t explain,” which was the only way to explain it. “I was hopin
g His Grace might use his ducal powers”—here she held up her hands and waggled her fingers, just as he did—“to stop its publication, but he refuses to do any such thing.”

  “And you thought you might seduce him into changing his mind?”

  While that wasn’t the case, to Cecily’s astonishment, Lady Frampton didn’t sound at all disapproving of such a thing. If anything, she sounded very understanding of Cecily’s predicament and subsequent desperation.

  “That was never my intent,” Cecily replied. “I tried fortifying myself with brandy last night, and next thing I knew, I woke up in his bed. But I can’t help thinking he didn’t do anything other than undress me and put me to bed.”

  Lady Frampton leaned forward. “You’re saying you still believe yourself to be a virgin?”

  Cecily forced herself to meet the older woman’s gaze. Oh, Lady Frampton did look so very understanding. Cecily was aware that Lord Frampton was only her fourth husband—or maybe fifth—and that she’d even been betrothed to Bradbury for all of a fortnight before she jilted him for the marquess—only for him to be jilted by her own, seemingly more suitable daughter. Lady Frampton was in no position to throw stones at anyone, and unlike most people, she knew it—and it was one of many things Cecily liked about her. She would have liked to have someone as sensible and understanding as the marchioness for an aunt all these years. For too long, Cecily had had no one to whom she could pour out her heart, no one on whose shoulder she could cry. All she had was her writing.

  “As far as I know, I am still a virgin, yes,” she told the marchioness. “The whole thing just looked bad when the dowager countess found us, but the duke didn’t deny any of it. I don’t know what to think. Why would he not deny it, if he didn’t do any of it?”

  Lady Frampton was silent for a moment before saying, “If you ask me, my dear, I do believe Bradbury might be more than a little fond of you.”

  Cecily shook her head, unwilling to believe it.

  Lady Frampton patted her hand. “I’m just glad we came to Tyndall Abbey when we did, and found you there. I can’t believe Lord Willard and his wife left you there the way they did—well, yes, I do believe it. Your mother should have brought you to Frampton Castle before she absconded to London and died, instead of leaving you with her sister and Lord Willard. And that’s one of the reasons Frampton is traveling with Bradbury instead of you and me. I’m quite put out with him for not giving you a better situation once he inherited his title.”

  “I’m not quite certain it’s his fault, my lady,” Cecily said. “Both my mother and aunt were estranged from my maternal grandfather. Perhaps your husband was, too.”

  “You do have a point about that, my dear. The previous marquess despised all of his children. His son and I were much younger than you when we fell in love. But both sets of parents arranged marriages with others. It took more than thirty years before he and I were finally free to marry one another. I do believe he’d all but given up hope until Bradbury proposed that we pretend to be betrothed so as to build a fire under Frampton’s feet. It worked.”

  “That’s why he was betrothed to you?” Cecily asked, incredulous.

  Lady Frampton smiled. “That’s the only reason. That, and he was hoping it might draw out the bride his father arranged for him many years ago.”

  “Cassandra Frey? She scarcely needed drawing out.”

  “Oh no, there were others,” replied Lady Frampton with a flick of her hand. “One died before she came of age, while another eloped with someone else. There may have been yet another. But in the case of Cassandra, she was madly in love with someone else, you see. And Bradbury gallantly insisted on releasing her from the betrothal.”

  Cecily wrinkled her brow. “Then she didn’t really jilt him?”

  “Of course not. Why would she? Just as I didn’t jilt him, either. He knew I loved Frampton, and he was only trying to help me. Nor did my daughter jilt him for his brother. He was only pretending that, too, in hopes of protecting her until his brother could come to claim her. He almost didn’t make it in time. No, no woman has ever jilted Bradbury because he’s never actually been seriously betrothed to anyone—until today.”

  “But he hasn’t even asked—”

  “He doesn’t have to. Quite aside from the fact that he’s a duke, after what happened this morning, he must marry you.”

  Cecily lightly pressed her hand against her roiling middle. Could it really be true what Lady Cordelia told her this morning—that Bradbury was attracted to his own sex but needed a wife to cover it up?

  Cecily just didn’t know.

  After several hours of travel, they arrived at a village inn somewhere between Derby and Northampton. It was still drizzling outside, with heavy gray clouds sagging in the sky, so it was impossible to tell if it was, in fact, noon. Neither of the ladies carried a watch.

  But Cecily welcomed the chance to stretch her legs and breathe some fresh air. Her stomach was still unsettled and the rocking of the carriage hadn’t helped. She hadn’t eaten since last night, but thought she might be able to manage a bite or two of something now.

  “It’s already past noon, ladies,” announced Frampton, as he emerged from the duke’s barouche that had been rolling ahead of them. “Bradbury and I are famished.”

  The ladies availed themselves of the necessary, while Bradbury presumably waggled his fingers to conjure his ducal powers and thus obtain a private dining room for the four of them.

  “I do hope you are feeling better, Cecily,” he said, as they sat down together at the round table. “I must say, you look better.”

  “Your Grace doesn’t,” she replied, taking note of his reddened eyes and the dark circles beneath. She was positive she sported the same features and that he was only being polite.

  “I should think by now you would call me by my first name,” he said. “If you require consent to do so, then consider the consent granted.” At that, he arched his brows at her expectantly.

  He wanted her to say his first name.

  So she replied, “Thank you...Demetrius?”

  He burst into laughter. On cue, heat flared in her cheeks.

  Cecily contemplated the steaming teacup set before her by a serving girl. “I suppose I must not have read correctly the entry in Debrett’s.”

  He leaned toward her, his voice low, as if he didn’t want the Framptons to hear, but in that case, he’d have to whisper in her ear. “No one calls me that, my dear. Not even my parents ever called me that. Why, the only time my full name has ever been used is on occasions such as...” He shot a glance at Lady Frampton, who smiled back.

  “I was about to say when you almost married my daughter,” she said. “But then, thanks to the objections of Mrs. Frey and Lord Kingsley, the two of you never made it to the vows.”

  He sat back, grinning widely at Cecily. “My intimates”—the words came out as a purr that seemed to rumble straight into Cecily’s core—“call me Dane, for the first letter of each one of my baptismal names. Demetrius Aubrey Norbert Elton.”

  He considered her an intimate, now that he’d compromised her and would have to marry her? Would everyone else expect her to jilt him at some point?

  But none of the previous brides were his true love. Was Cecily?

  “Say my name,” he whispered, in such a way that she was almost embarrassed in front of the Framptons. As if he’d just kissed her in front of them. And undressed her in front of them. And caressed her in front of them. And...

  The door swung open, and in stepped the serving girl with a large tureen and the succulent aroma of lamb. Cecily was promptly reminded of that day at Bradbury Park, when the duke—Dane—had insisted she join him for a luncheon of lamb.

  She suddenly felt strangely sacrificial.

  Lord Frampton said, “My dear Cecily, I should like to apologize to you for neglecting you all these years. It was never my intention to see you shut out of our family. My wife died in childbed many years ago, leaving me with just Ned. Then
your mother—my sister Honoria—died, leaving you in the care of my other sister, Thea, while your father—well, it seemed Thea offered a more stable environment, especially since she already had two daughters.”

  “You needn’t apologize, Uncle,” Cecily replied. “At the time, it made sense to leave me with Aunt Thea. As for my father’s family, by that time his brother was the Earl of Ashdown, and he only had the two boys and no daughters.” Who knew? Those two boys, or even Cousin Ned, might have treated her no better than Harry.

  “Had she grown up at Frampton Castle or Ashdown Park, I doubt she would have written that book in the first place,” Dane put in. “There wouldn’t be a Duke of Madfury.”

  Cecily wanted nothing more right now than to slide under the table and die of mortification—or maybe just slide under the table and spend the rest of her life there. They all knew now that she’d written That Book. And if they knew, everyone else in the ton was certain to find out in due course. The scandal would be so great that surely he would never marry her. Or maybe he would marry her, but banish her to one of his more remote estates.

  She wished they would talk about something else. Anything else but her and her book. But they were a duke and marquess and marchioness. She’d never felt more at anyone’s mercy—save for Cousin Harry’s.

  Once more the duke uncannily read her mind. “But I’m sure you’d rather talk about something else right now, wouldn’t you, Cecily?”

  “Just about anything but that, Your Gr—that is, Dane,” she stammered.

  “Soon people will be addressing you as Your Grace, Cecily,” Lady Frampton pointed out.

  “No, they won’t.” Cecily held up both hands, as if that would silence any further talk of her becoming Duchess of Bradbury. “Nothing happened last night. All he did was put me to bed, and then he slept elsewhere.”

  “Might I remind you, Cecily, that even as we sit here eating lamb stew, Lady Cordelia is writing letters to everyone she knows in London,” said Dane.

  “And because of that, I must marry you?”

  He frowned. “You say that as if it were the worst thing that could ever happen to you. And here I thought that was me finding out that you wrote that book.”