Four Dukes and a Devil

by Cathy Maxwell

  She’d been having a very sincere and frank talk with Lady Theresa and her Gerald.

  Lady Bollinger flipped open her fan. “You needn’t worry. The girls managed to skirt any of His Grace’s advances quite successfully.” She made a rather nasty laugh. “My husband will be furious the duke is here tonight. He has reconsidered their acquaintance after you explained the Order of Precedence and no longer wishes to speak to him.”

  Susan groped for words, horrified at the rudeness. “But he’s a duke.”

  “And he is also, as you very rightly pointed out, Irish. An Irish duke. Lord Bollinger opined to me yesterday evening that considering the Irish dukes have fomented rebellion since time began, the Crown would be better off without them. I answered that was a very astute opinion and urged him to see what he could do in Parliament.”

  “He would talk to Parliament?” Susan raised a hand to her forehead, trying to make sense of all this. “We must remember,” she said, forcing herself to smile, an expression that actually hurt at this moment, “that Killeigh is still a duke. Irish dukes are important.”

  Lady Bollinger dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. “But not important enough for my daughter. She will not be last for anything.”

  “I don’t want to be last either,” Miss Arabella injected.

  Susan could have buried her face in her hands in frustration. Who would have thought that her clever little speech to convince parents that they needed her services and to pay her handsomely for them would be taken so literally?

  Who would have thought there was an Irish duke in London?

  “Of course, there is nothing we can do about his presence now,” Lady Bollinger opined. “However, I wanted to warn you, Miss Rogers, to be on the alert. The Duke of Killeigh is a handsome man—”

  “Very handsome,” Miss Arabella echoed.

  “You need to keep our precious little pigeons away from him,” Lady Bollinger finished, giving Miss Arabella a motherly tap on the arm with her fan. “We can’t have his handsome countenance luring them away.”

  “I shall do my best, my lady,” Susan replied, more than overwhelmed at the moment.

  What a devil of a mess.

  She needed to go somewhere to think. She needed to concoct a new story, one that didn’t brand the Irish Duke an Undesirable.

  Lady Bollinger had spied someone she knew who was more important than Susan and gone floating off, fan and purple plumes waving in the air. Miss Arabella was claimed by her next dance partner, a pockmarked baronet’s son who would never be as good a catch as a duke, Irish or not.

  Seeing that all her charges, including Lady Theresa, were on the dance floor with proper partners, Susan moved toward a corridor. She needed a moment of solitude to consider this new twist with the Irish Duke.

  However, she’d not taken more than a few steps when a strong hand clamped down on her arm. She turned with a start to realize that the dark-haired stranger had come up silently behind her.

  “Don’t speak, don’t even think until we are outside alone,” he said. The lightest trace of Ireland accented his words. He opened the glass door leading out into the garden.

  Susan attempted to dig in her heels. She feared what that accent could mean. “I do not know you, sir. I shall not go off alone with you.”

  “You don’t know me?” the gentleman repeated. “And yet everyone is quoting what you’ve said about me. Let me introduce myself, I’m the Duke of Killeigh.”

  With those words, he whisked her outside to the seclusion of the winter night.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Susan Rogers was not like any spinster of Roan’s acquaintance, especially those with the charge of other people’s children.

  He’d pictured either a robust dumpling of a woman or a thin, spare one, both with gray hair and frown lines.

  Instead, he found himself commandeering a woman with golden blond hair, full curves in all the right places, and brown eyes alive with intelligence. He’d noticed her immediately when he’d entered Bollingers’ ballroom. She’d stood out like a beacon from all other women there—and it made him unreasonably angry.

  He didn’t want to be attracted to her. Not after what she’d done to him.

  Roan Gillray, the fourth Duke of Killeigh, had come looking for a wife. Other men who frequented the round of balls and parties comprising the Season laughed about the Marriage Mart, and many vowed to steer clear of matchmaking mamas—but Roan wanted to be ensnared. He was ready to marry.

  Perhaps it was because he’d been to war. He knew how short and precious life was. There had been times on the battlefield when he’d doubted he would make it out alive…and many lonely nights when he’d longed for the grace of female companionship. He wasn’t thinking about sex. He’d never lacked for bed partners. What he wanted, what he needed was something more…

  And then he’d been blessed to inherit the dukedom from his cousin, an ill-humored, bitter man who had shut out all in the family. No one had been more surprised than Roan when he learned he was his cousin’s heir, and not just to the title but also the old miser’s carefully hoarded fortune.

  Well, Roan had plans for that fortune. He was anxious to throw off the mantle of soldier and take up the hoe as farmer. He wanted peace and a place on this earth that was all his. He liked the idea of knowing where his bed would be at night and having a woman who understood his ways and cared for him sleeping beside him in the middle of it. She didn’t need to love him—Roan had seen too much of the cruelty in men to believe there was such a thing as love—but he wanted a woman who liked him. Now there was a good word. He wanted someone in his life to like him.

  Except now, everyone acted as if he was a pariah, and it was all because of this woman, who had the longest lashes he’d ever seen—

  Miss Rogers jerked her arm away from his hold, and he let her go, half-expecting her to march inside and denounce him. It was anger that had driven him forward, but the cold air had slapped some sense into him.

  However, instead of storming inside, she stood her ground. “You are angry,” she said, “and you have every right to be.” She straightened her back. “I have unintentionally maligned you. Please accept my apology, Your Grace.”

  “Unintentionally, Miss Rogers?” He gave a bitter laugh, his anger welling inside him all over again. “You singled me out, and you don’t know me.”

  “I didn’t single you out. I was talking about Irish dukes in general.”

  “There aren’t that many of us.”

  “Yes, and frankly, I didn’t expect that there would be one in London.”

  “So it would be acceptable to malign my title if I wasn’t in London?” he asked, a bit confused by her reasoning. “Or were we just never supposed to leave the island?”

  Miss Rogers sighed and moved away from the door as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “I only told everyone the truth about the Order of Precedence. The Irish dukes do follow the English and Scottish dukes.”

  “Yes, but we are ahead of all the marquises and viscounts and everyone else of any country.”

  “I know,” Miss Rogers agreed. “But I’ve discovered no parents want their daughter to be last in anything. It really is quite extraordinary, but it has worked to my advantage. You know what I do for my living, do you not, Your Grace?”

  “You see that young women introduced to society are successful in their hunt for husbands.”

  “I would frame it a bit more gently, but yes, that is what I do. And I am very good at it. But this year, because of my pointing out the Order of Precedence, I have had more parents than usual seek out my services. I didn’t mean to blacken your name although it has been an excellent selling scheme.”

  Her honesty was refreshing. It had seemed to Roan that every woman he’d met in London spoke in riddles and hidden meaning. Miss Rogers didn’t flinch at plain speaking.

  So he felt completely within his rights to say, “I’m certain it has been a wonderful scheme, but now you must tell y
our employers the truth.”

  “But I have told the truth,” she informed him.

  “Yes, but they don’t understand that an Irish duke is as good if not better than most the other peers of lower rank,” he answered.

  “Isn’t that matter open to debate?” she suggested.

  “It is not open to debate,” he replied.

  “We are debating it right now.”

  Roan frowned, mentally taking back everything he’d thought about plain speaking.

  “Miss Rogers, you say you mean no disrespect, but you refuse to clear up the misunderstanding you created.”

  She crossed her arms, looking out into the night before countering, “I am sorry for the misunderstanding, Your Grace. You seem to be every inch the gentleman. However, I have not misled anyone about the Order of Precedence. If they chose to take it to the extreme—well, what can I do?”

  “You can tell them they are wrong,” Roan answered, his temper returning.

  “But they are not.”

  “They are.”

  “No, I’ve studied my The New Peerage. I am correct, although I regret no mention was made of your holding the title. My copy is several years old.”

  “Or is it that you do not wish to look the fool, Miss Rogers? You would rather I play that part.”

  Even in the moonlight, he could see her blush. She crossed her arms as if cold. “It is my livelihood after all,” she murmured.

  Roan could give her that. Having been one of the genteel poor, he understood her position, and he came to a decision. “I understand. However, I find it insulting to have young women run from me when I ask them to dance.”

  “It was extremely rude of Lady Elizabeth, and I shall take her to task. If you wish, she will be happy to dance with you this evening.”

  “I’m not interested in taking her to task,” Roan said, an idea coming to him. “However, you could dance with me. I believe that would settle the matter.”

  “Me? Dance with you?”

  Roan nodded.

  “Oh, no, Your Grace, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I did that…” She let her voice trail off.

  “Then it would be the same as admitting you were wrong about the Irish Duke,” he finished for her.

  She took a worried step away from him. “I am to be here for my charges, not for my personal entertainment.”

  “Oh, this wouldn’t be personal, Miss Rogers, and you know it. It would be a matter of settling business between us.”

  “But then everyone would question what I’d said about the Irish duke.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed.

  “And I can’t let that happen. I don’t receive payment for my services until the Season is over.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

  “It is a risk,” she admitted, “but I’m paid more money that way.”

  “And making me the outcast of society is about money.”

  ”No.” Miss Rogers made an impatient sound. “I had an idea and…it didn’t work for you. But I will rectify the situation if you will give me a bit of time.”

  “I don’t want to give you time,” Roan said, enjoying the game. “I want a dance.”

  “I can’t give you a dance. It would ruin me.”

  He moved in closer. “Or it would make us both the talk of London—”

  The door opened, and a young couple all but tumbled out the door they were so anxious to throw themselves into each other’s arms. Unfortunately for them, Miss Rogers was there.

  “Miss Rogers?” the young girl said in surprise.

  “Lady Theresa,” Miss Rogers said in tones of disapproval. “Good evening, Mr. Grover. The two of you come with me.”

  And before Roan registered what was happening, Miss Rogers marched the hapless lovers back inside the door…and escaped him.

  Susan was relieved to be free of the Duke of Killeigh’s overwhelming presence. The man was a menace to her.

  He was also devilishly attractive.

  But she couldn’t dance with him. Not until this Season was over. Her creditability and livelihood depended upon it.

  So, she laid into Mr. Gerald Grover with great enthusiasm. Anything to put distance between herself and the Duke of Killeigh’s disturbing challenge.

  A dance? How ridiculous. How dangerous.

  The hapless Gerald was happy to slink off when she was done. Of course, Lady Theresa was in tears, so it took a good part of an hour to placate her and extract further promises to behave. She really was a good girl but infatuated with her Gerald. Fortunately, Lady Theresa had been so shocked to see Susan, she hadn’t noticed the duke.

  After the reprimand, Susan had to hurry back out to the ballroom to check on her other charges.

  All in all, it was a very hectic hour…but she did notice that the Duke of Killeigh was gone. He’d left. Apparently he hadn’t wanted that dance after all.

  Susan stood alone by a potted palm, away from those enjoying the ball, and was surprised by how disappointed she felt. She knew she shouldn’t. Hadn’t John taught her how men made promises they had no intention of keeping?

  Except, for some irrational reason, she hadn’t expected that from the Duke of Killeigh.

  With a shake of her head, she told herself she was being silly. She couldn’t dance with the duke. It was better he’d given up on her—

  A footman carrying a silver salver approached, interrupting her thoughts. “Miss Rogers?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is for you.” The servant bowed and offered the salver. On it was the Duke of Killeigh’s card.

  Susan picked up the card and caught sight of the bold, slanted handwriting on the back of it. She waited until the footman had withdrawn to read what had been written.

  I will have my dance. Killeigh

  She folded the card and slipped it into her glove. Life had suddenly become very complicated.

  And more than a bit exciting.

  Chapter Four

  If he was to claim his dance with Miss Rogers, Roan needed to be at the balls she attended with her highborn charges. There was the problem.

  Her nonsense about the Irish Duke and the Order of Precedence had effectively cut him off from society, or at least that corner of it.

  He stewed on this matter for a good three days. When not stewing, he made it a point to learn everything he could about Miss Susan Rogers, and what he learned, he liked.

  She was actually from a good family. Her sisters were married to Lord Dodgin and Sir Alec Lawson or Loud son , as Roan liked to think of him. Sir Alec was one of the most annoying people of his acquaintance, and rumor had it that Dodgin wasn’t much better.

  Perhaps that was why Miss Rogers lived in a modest set of rooms off Olivia Street. She might have decided poverty was better than living under either of their roofs. Certainly they would have extracted their pound of flesh for supporting her.

  At last, his stewing hatched a plan so devilishly delightful, he knew every door in London would open to him, especially the ones hosting Miss Rogers.

  The next day, he enlisted the aid of his friend, the Honorable Mr. Rees Trenholm, and they went to White’s. Roan chose a time when he knew the club would be the most crowded.

  “I need Raggett,” Roan informed a staff member. Raggett was White’s proprietor, “And the Betting Book.”

  At the words “Betting Book,” heads turned. The book was the most famous in London. There wasn’t a man in the room who didn’t enjoy a good wager, and Roan planned to make a brilliant one. It helped that Lord Alberth and Lord Bollinger sat not too far away at a table with a group of their cronies who were probably clients of Miss Rogers, too.

  Roan could not have asked for a better opportunity.

  Raggett wasted no time answering Roan’s summons, the Betting Book under his arm. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to see you today,” he said with a bow.

  “We wish to enter a wager,” Roan told him. He and
Trenholm stood in the middle of the room, and he knew many were listening.

  “Very well,” Raggett said, crossing to a secretary, where there was pen and ink. He dipped the nib of the pen, and said, “Your wager, Your Grace?”

  “One hundred pounds,” Roan said, then stopped for dramatic effect, wanting every ear in the room on him. The talking had died down. “No,” he said, “make that one thousand pounds—” Now he had their interest. Of course, the color had drained from Trenholm’s face. “—That I will dance with Miss Susan Rogers before a fortnight has passed.”

  Even Raggett blinked in speculative surprise at him. The stalwart proprietor had certainly heard of Roan’s dilemma. There wasn’t much that was discussed under White’s roof that escaped him. He lowered his head and recorded the bet.

  Trenholm did his best to look brave. He didn’t succeed until Roan leaned close, and, in a side voice, assured him, “Don’t worry, I’ll cover both bets.”

  His friend broke into a smile and immediately nudged Raggett. “And I’ll wager two thousand pounds that the lady will not dance. What do you say, Your Grace?”

  What Roan had to say, he’d save for later, when he and Trenholm were alone. As it was, he had no choice but to match the bet.

  Of course, there was no one within earshot who was not listening now.

  All Roan had to do was say nonchalantly, “Is there anyone else for this wager?” to find out exactly who was listening. A host of men jumped at the opportunity and placed their wagers on both sides of the bet. Alberth and Bollinger were not among their number, but that was fine with Roan. He thanked Raggett for his attention to the matter and, with a nudge to Trenholm to follow, left the club.

  Outside, he wasted no time in saying, “Two thousand?”

  Trenholm grinned. “I thought since you were being expansive…”

  Roan grumbled under his breath, but he wasn’t angry. The size of the wager alone was enough to make it the talk of London.