The Duke's Fallen Angel (Devilish Dukes, #1)

by Amy Jarecki

  He dipped his chin, his lips nearing. And the moment he kissed her mouth, the invisible thread binding them tightened. As his lips opened against hers, insatiable longing coursed through her blood. Heat spread low in her belly. Need claimed her. Greedy for more, Bria shoved her fingers into his thick hair and drew him closer.

  They clung to each other, their tongues entwined in an intimate dance meant only to be shared in the confines of the tiny carriage. Bria sighed as his lips trailed to the arc of her neck.

  Throwing back her head, she arched, her body screaming for more. “Every day I grow more powerless to resist you.”

  “Then do not.”

  “But—”

  “Hush,” he whispered, his lips moving lower as his fingers swept over the sensitive skin at the scooped neckline of her bodice.

  She tried to focus her mind—grasped at sanity. “We have no future.”

  “We have this moment.” His voice rumbled against her skin, filling her with ravening desire. “I swear I will not try more with you than you are prepared to receive.”

  “Then kiss me over and over. I long to stay in your arms and savor the taste of your lips.”

  His tongue trialed along her jaw. “I’ll kiss you all the way to Brighton if that is your wish.”

  For the first time in her life, Bria couldn’t think about tomorrow. She was melting in Drake’s arms and that’s the only place she wanted to be. “Yes. Oh God, yes!”

  Ravenscar’s strong fingers stroked and kneaded while she floated upon a cloud of pure bliss. His languid kisses beguiled her with hot, deep glides of his tongue. Ever so slowly, he slid his hand from her hip, over her thigh and down to her exposed ankle, covered only by her stocking.

  Bria gasped, stilling his hand. “You mustn’t.”

  His fingers squeezed as vivid eyes arrested her. “On stage you enchant me with your shapely ankles. Surely you will not deny me the pleasure of a mere caress of this one.”

  She slid her hand to his beguiling fingers, her tongue slipping to the corner of her mouth. “On stage I am not myself.”

  The pads of his fingers swirled around her ankle. “No? Then who are you?”

  “In La Sylphide I am the Sylph. I am a mythical creature not of this world.”

  “I disagree. You are the only woman who can breathe life into the character who happens to be the Sylph.”

  “But you wanted Marie Taglioni.”

  His lips traced the tops of her breasts, sending shivers of joy across her skin. Everywhere he touched her brought a new swarm of mind-boggling sensations. “That’s because I hadn’t yet seen you dance,” he growled. “No one can touch your grace, your passion. I am in awe of you.”

  She took in a gasp. “I am still learning, still growing.”

  “Never stop.” Drake’s hand moved up her calf sending her insides into a slick torrent of want. “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  LATE AFTERNOON, THE butler ushered them into the drawing room of Ravenscar’s Brighton town house. Standing stiff as a board, Drake clenched his fist. Bloody hell, Her Grace was keeping company with Edwin Peters.

  Scandalous!

  The man was a rotten gunsmith, not a gentleman. He held no peerage. He wasn’t the son of a nobleman. Hell, the bastard hadn’t even been knighted.

  I will put an end to the man’s gold digging as soon as I have Mother alone.

  Her Grace looked at him with a cool arch to her brow. “Son, I did not expect to see you here. Is something wrong? Is your sister well?” Mother’s gaze shifted to Britannia as if it were perfectly acceptable for the dowager duchess to engage in indiscretions. “Has Chadwick Theater burned to the ground?”

  “Nothing quite so drastic.” Drake nailed Peters with a hard stare and scowled. “And last I heard, Ada was in good health.”

  “Indeed. Nonetheless, it is lovely to see you Miss LeClair. I hope you are well?” Mother asked, her lips turning white—a sure sign she was furious.

  Britannia curtsied, hiding any hint of shock she might have felt. “I am, thank you.”

  “Please, join us.” After making the introductions, Her Grace rang the bell. “I’m curious to hear what brought you to Brighton without sending advance notice.”

  The butler stepped inside and bowed. “You rang, Your Grace?”

  “Please have the housemaid bring us some cordial and cucumber sandwiches.”

  “Straightaway, madam.”

  Mother leveled her gaze upon Drake. “And do sit down. Looking up at you is making my neck sore.”

  Taking a seat beside Britannia on the settee, Drake reassumed his glare at Peters. The man pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open.

  “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” asked Drake.

  Peters didn’t make eye contact, the coward. “Perhaps I’ll take a stroll to the shore.”

  “It is a splendid day for it.” Drake pulled the cushion from behind his back and squeezed it while he watched the gunsmith leave. Once the man disappeared, he tossed the pillow aside and turned his attention to the dowager duchess. “We shall talk later.”

  “If we must.” She fluffed her skirts as if she hadn’t a care. “Now tell me, why are you here?”

  Before he produced the miniature, he summarized all that had transpired leading up to the fact that he believed his star performer was being targeted by a madman. He explained about Britannia’s keepsakes and only then did he pull the tiny portrait from his waistcoat pocket.

  “Yes.” Her Grace looked to Britannia. “You should have approached me about this sooner. I daresay it might have saved everyone a lot of todo.”

  “Who is it?” asked Drake.

  “You know her, Son. I cannot believe she has changed so much you didn’t recognize Lady Charlotte Somerset, now Lady Calthorpe.”

  “Calthorpe?” Britannia scooted to the edge of the settee. “She is the last person I would suspect.”

  “But she did spill wine down your dress,” said Drake.

  “The incident was an accident after which she apologized profusely.” Standing, Britannia began to pace. “She even established a credit in my name at Harding, Howell and Company.”

  “Possibly to displace blame?” suggested Her Grace.

  “I do not believe it.” The ballerina stopped in front of the hearth and threw out her hands. “Not long ago, she invited us to her home for a recital and paid us handsomely.”

  The housemaid brought in a tray, distributed glasses of cordial and hastened away. Obviously, the servants were as abhorred by Her Grace’s indiscretion as Drake.

  Mother reached for her drink. “Did anything untoward happen while you were at Her Ladyship’s town house?”

  Dropping her arms, Bria returned to the settee. “Nothing.”

  Drake swiped a miniature sandwich from the plate. “Miss LeClair was born in February of 1814. Did Her Ladyship have an affair with George during the season of 1813?”

  “That was quite a long time ago. Who remembers who was tupping whom? I had two young children at the time.” After filling three teacups, she picked up the dainty china pitcher. “Milk?”

  “Please, for us both, no sugar,” Drake replied before continuing, “But you were still involved with the Season at that time.”

  “True. Lady Charlotte, hmm...” Mother placed one of the finger-sized sandwiches on a plate while her lips disappeared into a thin line. “I vaguely remember her first Season. She was lovely and terrified, just as we all were our first time out.”

  The dowager duchess grew silent for a time while she nibbled. “Come to think on it, I do not recall hearing anything about Charlotte again until Beaufort announced her betrothal to Calthorpe.”

  “What year was that?” asked Drake.

  “Now you’re stretching my memory.” She pushed her plate away.

  Britannia stilled her glass halfway to her lips. “Do you think her generosity might be because she knows something about my parentage?”

  Giving Drake a
nudge, Britannia looked flummoxed. “Could be. The only way to know for certain is to ask her.”

  “But why wouldn’t she say something to me?”

  “Chances are there would be a mortiferous scandal. Even after twenty years.” Mother flicked a bit of lint from her red velvet sleeve. “Why else would someone be sending you threatening messages?”

  Drake stood and offered his hand to Britannia. “Miss LeClair, would you mind leaving me alone with my mother for a moment? You’ll find a library the next floor up.”

  She hesitantly placed her hand in his palm, her gaze shifting between them. “Very well. But you’ll tell me if you uncover anything else, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Needing something more powerful than cordial, Drake poured himself a tot of brandy while he listened to Britannia climb the stairs.

  Mother whipped open her fan and briskly cooled her face as if hit by a sudden blast of heat. “Please tell me you are not thinking of confronting Lady Calthorpe. If she is that ballerina’s mother, the poor woman’s life could be ruined by exposing such a scandal...and after twenty years. My word!”

  Drake rested his elbow on the sideboard. “I’ll speak to Her Ladyship in confidence. No one else needs to know. Britannia doesn’t want anyone to suffer because of her inquiries. She merely desires to uncover the truth.”

  Mother nearly coughed out a laugh. “So you think.”

  “So I know.” To drown his irritation, he tossed back his drink, consuming it with one swallow. “With that decided, I cannot tell you how shocked I was to find you keeping company with Mr. Peters.”

  “Shocked? He’s attends my every event at Ravenscar Hall. Surely you suspected.”

  “Good God, Mother. He’s a bloody gunsmith. He has no title, no lineage.”

  “He has money.”

  Drake batted his hand through the air. “New money.”

  “Yes, well, after you put my house up as collateral for your risky theater venture, I needed some assurances, did I not?”

  What the devil? His stomach squeezed. “You knew about that?”

  “Please.” Mother wielded her fan as if it were a saber. “I have more social connections than anyone in London. I knew what you were up to before the ink dried on your contract.”

  “Forgive me.” He sauntered over and dropped onto the settee. “I never intended for Ravenscar Hall to be on the chopping block. At the time of signing, I was convinced I couldn’t lose.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “But you were worried.”

  “I was.”

  Mother tucked the damned fan up her sleeve as if she’d won the battle. “If your theater venture had failed, Mr. Peters was my insurance.”

  But Drake wasn’t surrendering that easily. “Explain.”

  “I had a wager of my own. Had you lost my beloved home, I would have married Mr. Peters.”

  “Married his money, or the man?”

  She patted her perfectly styled coiffure. “Both.”

  “Do you care for him?”

  “I do.”

  “But not enough to marry him?”

  “Well, as you said, he has no title. Such a union would be egregiously frowned upon.”

  “So is taking a lover.”

  Mother huffed. “I am a widow and have been for ten years. Would you have me live as a nun? Besides, rules are not as strict for widows as long as they are discrete.” With an indignant air, Her Grace poured another glass of cordial. “I am entitled to live a bit before you dig my grave.”

  She held out the pitcher with a questioning glance and Drake refused with a wave of his hand. “Live, yes,” he bit out. “But entertaining a gunsmith with such intimacy is...well, in poor taste.”

  “Oh, you believe so?” She flicked her hand in the direction of the library. “And what about the strumpet you brought to Brighton? Are you bedding Miss LeClair?”

  “No, I am not, and how dare you ask.”

  Mother sipped daintily, though the gesture minimized his outrage. “Surprising—though people are talking, regardless. Thank heavens the ballet is coming to an end and, soon, Miss LeClair will be returning to Paris. You will never settle down as long as that woman holds your attentions.”

  Drake provided no reply. Yes, Britannia commanded his attention. Since she’d pirouetted into his life he hadn’t given a second look to any other women.

  “I cannot believe you look fondly upon that chit.”

  “You’re dancing a precariously thin line, Mother.”

  “At least Mr. Peters has made a name for himself and he’s nearly as wealthy as we are.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, Miss LeClair has made quite a name for herself as well.”

  “A foundling? A ballet dancer? That girl was ruined from the day she was born.” Mother shook her head. “The best you can hope for is to keep her as your mistress as much as I hate the idea.”

  “Why?” Drake asked through clenched teeth. She dared criticize him when she was out carousing with Mr. Peters? Wasn’t there a widowed nobleman out there who could take her fancy? And how dare she say a single judgmental word against Britannia?

  “Because you will be a husband and have a family soon. ’Tis not easy on a family when the father’s eyes stray, no matter how nobly born. Thank heavens your father never wandered far from the path.”

  “You were fortunate, then.”

  “I was and will always consider myself blessed.”

  Before he lost his temper, Drake stood.

  Mother seemed not to notice. “I suppose it would be no surprise to you that Lady Blanche is engaged to be married.”

  “Is she?” he asked in a monotone.

  “I knew she would be.”

  “Then I wish her and her suitor well.” Drake bowed and stepped out of the drawing room in time to see Britannia sprinting for the front door.

  Chapter Twenty

  “BRITANNIA, WAIT!”

  Bria paid Ravenscar no mind as she fled out the door. She mightn’t have heard it all, but she’d heard enough. His Grace’s own mother thought her a trollop.

  “Where are you off to?” the duke demanded, gaining as he followed, blast him.

  “Leave me alone!” Spotting a park, she changed course, picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could. How could she have been so dimwitted? She’d told herself a hundred times not to lose her heart to the duke. He could never be hers. The man was dallying with her in the carriage and every other time he’d ever offered a kiss.

  Well, no more! Bria refused to stay where she wasn’t respected for one more minute.

  “Britannia,” Ravenscar called again.

  As she dashed under a canopy of trees, she glanced behind. “Go away,” she yelled just as her toe caught the root of a tree. Throwing her arms forward, she tumbled to the ground. Searing pain shot up her wrist. She clutched her arm to her midriff as she rolled to her derriere.

  Curses! The blasted duke stood over her like a court judge.

  “Why the bloody hell didn’t you stop?” He dropped to one knee and reached for her wrist. “Are you injured?”

  She jerked away, the movement making her arm hurt all the more. “No.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. “Please. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that.” He sat beside her. He, a duke, sat on the ground, not only in public, but in broad daylight.

  “By the way you’re holding your wrist, I suspect you may have answered my question a tad hastily.”

  “I did not. And what do you care if I am injured? Are you afraid to see your greatest commodity bourrée onto the stage wearing a sling?”

  “Greatest commodity? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The only reason you’re nice to me is because I saved your theater. If I’d come to London and had been an embarrassment, you would have sent the entire troupe back to France. And do not deny it. I heard what you said to Monsieur Travere.”

  Ravenscar
leaned his elbows on his knees, looking even less like a duke. He didn’t respond right away, and Bria didn’t expect him to. He didn’t care for her, not in the same way she cared for him, and it was time she stopped fooling herself.

  “Initially, yes,” he said slowly, contemplatively. “If you hadn’t proved you were capable of dancing the Sylph I would not have allowed the ballet to premiere. But that was before I came to know you.”

  “Know me or not, we can never be more than master and servant.”

  “Until the Season is over, no.”

  “Oh, please. Spare me the inkling of hope. Your mother was right. I was ruined on the day I was born. I can never be more to you than an amusement.”

  “You’re wrong. You already mean far more to me than any woman I have ever met.”

  Her heart melted. “Then I pity you because you can never have me. Not because I’m unwilling, but because your class will not allow it.”

  “Sometimes I would give away my fortune not to be a duke.”

  “But you are and there’s no changing the fact.” Bria groaned, picked up a pinecone and threw it. “And why are we discussing that which cannot be when we ought to be talking about how to approach Lady Calthorpe?”

  “Because this, us, we...needs to be discussed.”

  “I think not.”

  “Perhaps not in the open. But, mark me, I am by no means giving you a pass.”

  A couple strolled by, arm in arm. Bria’s insides twisted in a hundred knots. Why couldn’t Drake be a normal man? Someone with whom she could start a family? Why couldn’t she fall in love with a stage hand or a dance master or the blasted orchestra conductor?