One Fine Duke

by Lenora Bell

  The straightforward way she talked. She didn’t mince around a subject, coating it with layers of niceties to make it more palatable. She just came right out and said what was on her mind, as if she’d never been taught the art of prevarication, as if she wasn’t accustomed to flattering powerful men, and wasn’t about to start now.

  “What did you mean when you said you could help restore Rafe to your uncle’s favor?” he asked.

  “As the president of the Society of Antiquaries, my uncle takes certain gentlemen under his wing and grooms them to take on leadership roles in the . . . society. He has no sons, you see, and he likes to think his influence helps these men realize their potential.”

  “I didn’t know my brother had an interest in antiquities.”

  “Oh yes, Lord Rafe visits my uncle frequently to converse on the topic.”

  “I hope you noticed that my brother’s not so charming anymore,” he said roughly. “He’s gone to seed. He called you a strumpet.”

  “Five different ways. Yes, I noticed.”

  Something she’d said while they were in the shed made him want to know more about her past. “You said that he was kind to you at a time when you felt very alone?”

  “I was orphaned at the age of ten. My parents died while they were traveling abroad. I was sent to live with my guardian, Sir Malcolm. He had lost his wife, Emily, and his daughter, Rebecca, very recently. He wanted me to be a replacement for Rebecca. He gave me her room, her possessions. I even used her hairbrush, with strands of her hair still caught between the bristles. But I could never be her, and he could never be my father.”

  “It must have been lonely.”

  “You have no idea. He was trying to protect me but he locked me away, restricted my movements; he wouldn’t allow me to have any friends. It was a prison. A benevolent one, but a prison nonetheless. You can’t know how it feels to be helpless. You’re a man, free to roam. A duke. The world rolls out the red carpet.”

  He did know what it was like to be locked away, to be helpless.

  Her words brought back the dark hold of the ship. The metal manacles biting into his wrists. The gnawing hunger in his belly that intensified every day until he was more beast than boy.

  “I’m not unacquainted with loneliness, Miss Penny. I’ve lived in seclusion in Cornwall for the last five years.”

  “Yes, but my solitude was forced upon me, whereas your seclusion is by choice. Why do you choose to stay in Cornwall?”

  Cornwall was the perfect place for him. There he could be numb and frozen with no one to judge him. There he was useful. “I prefer my own company.”

  “I saw that.” Her gaze dropped below his belt and a saucy spark flared in her eyes. She was referring to what she’d seen in the window, and nimbly changing the subject.

  Miss Penny didn’t want to be interrogated and neither did he.

  “I didn’t know I had an audience,” he said.

  “You didn’t seem overly concerned about passersby.”

  “The window looks out over private gardens which you were trespassing upon.”

  “I wanted to explore. My guardian and great-aunt haven’t allowed me to do much of anything since I arrived in London several months ago. The ball tonight was my first social event of the Season.”

  “So you thought you’d venture forth on a solo midnight perambulation. In my rosebushes.”

  “If you had spent two months receiving deathly tedious lessons in deportment and decorum, you’d want to roam as well. And sample some brandy. And maybe even kiss a duke.”

  “I doubt I’d want to kiss a duke. Infuriating creatures. They should all be damned to a specially created duke hell.”

  She grinned at his repetition of her words from the shed. “Ha,” she said. “Precisely.”

  His lips threatened to turn up at the edges. He sent them back down with a stern admonition. Thinking about kissing Miss Penny—however sweet her lips, however disarming her conversation—was absolutely off-limits.

  She wasn’t a girl, she was a powder keg waiting to explode and take him down with her. He wanted to regain his control and equilibrium, not slip further into chaos. None of what had happened tonight was supposed to happen in his carefully regulated life.

  When he was with her he felt the ground begin to shift beneath his feet—she threw him off-balance with her unpredictability and her passionate kisses.

  She wasn’t part of his plans.

  He wasn’t to kiss her, think about kissing her, dream about her, pleasure himself after dreaming about her or . . . damn it to Hell.

  As soon as his head cleared, he’d escort her home. “I gather the decorum lessons didn’t take.”

  “Not when she kept me imprisoned with only her grim self and a host of stuffed hedgehogs dressed as nobility for company.”

  “Er . . . hedgehogs?” It could be the throbbing ache in his head, but he was having a difficult time following the conversational path.

  “Stuffed hedgehogs. She says they expired of natural causes, but it’s still gruesome. Their little faces look almost alive, except that she’s replaced their eyes with gleaming bits of glass that are so very lifeless.”

  “An interesting hobby.”

  “She calls it taxidermy. You’d have to see them to believe it. If they were alive it would at least be more diverting. We could frolic about and knock things off shelves. As it is, I’m kept as immobile and trapped as they are, posed this way and that, garbed to her tastes. The only places in London I’ve seen have been her town house, one ballroom, one garden shed, a study, and a . . . bedchamber.”

  “Some might consider a bedchamber with me inside it to be the most exciting sight in town.”

  “Ha.” She chuckled softly. “The funny thing is that my uncle might agree.”

  “He would approve of you being in my bedchamber?” he asked skeptically.

  “Maybe not the bedchamber part. But he would be happy I was with you. He’s practically besotted with you.”

  “With me.” Now she was making even less sense.

  “He thinks you’re the, let’s see, what were his words? ‘The pinnacle of British manhood—dignified, statesmanlike, admirable, and, above all else, honorable.’ ”

  The scornful curl of her lush lips gave him a burning desire to disabuse her of the notion that he was anything so boring and staid as statesmanlike. “I used to be wicked, you know.”

  “So Crankshaw informed me.”

  He shouldn’t want to impress her but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. His life might be slightly dull and predictable now, but it wasn’t always that way. In his early twenties, he’d been a hedonistic rake, indulging in every way known to man to obliterate thought, to dull the pain.

  If she’d known him then, he would have been everything her thrill-seeking heart desired.

  “No, really. I was bad. Thoroughly disreputable.” He moved away from the heat of the fire and closer to the laughing glow in her eyes. She didn’t look all that impressed. “I was dangerous to a lady’s reputation. Ask anyone who knew me then.”

  Still not impressed. He summoned the smoldering, half-lidded gaze that used to send ladies’ hearts audibly pitter-pattering. “I owned this town. When I walked into a room, you could hear hearts shattering like glass struck by a bullet.”

  Her oval face tilted to one side and her sparkling silver eyes assessed him. “I, for one, can’t quite picture it, Your Grace.”

  And there was a challenge if he’d ever heard one.

  And a clever, blazingly pretty woman in his bedchamber issuing the challenge.

  But he couldn’t be goaded into losing control. He’d only kissed her earlier because he’d still been half asleep and she’d launched a surprise attack. And then he’d decided to scare her into leaving. He’d thought that if he kissed her thoroughly enough, he might find the cracks in her bold and brazen façade.

  He was the cracked one. Fatally flawed. His mind scrabbling for higher ground.

 
Something about this woman wrecked his hard-won control.

  When she’d stared at his bare chest earlier it had slayed him, absolutely devastated him. He’d had the forbidden desire to lift her in his arms, show her how strong he was, use his strength in the service of her pleasure.

  The forbidden desire was back, and more powerful than ever.

  “It’s all in the past, Miss Penny. I’m not the man I used to be.”

  “And I’m only interested in present amusements. I want to see what I’ve been missing since I left London when I was a girl. The city’s growing in fits and bursts. New people arriving every day, ships disgorging goods from across the globe.”

  “London has a squalid side,” he cautioned. “People live in abject poverty. They only have thin gruel to eat. Made from oats boiled in brackish water. Lumpy and nearly tasteless.”

  Miss Penny stared at him with a puzzled expression. “It almost sounds as though you speak from experience.”

  “It’s time I escorted you home.” He mustn’t indulge forbidden desires or wallow in nightmarish memories. And he certainly shouldn’t be attempting to impress her.

  She crossed her arms. “I’m not going anywhere until we talk about this.” Her fingers dipped into her bodice.

  He swallowed. Miss Penny’s breasts, delectable as they were, equaled one giant headache, not an earthly paradise he’d do anything to explore.

  She handed him the rolled-up letter.

  “How did you find this?” he asked. “I hid it away.”

  “In the hidden compartment beneath the desk in the study. I assumed you had seen it, because it must be the reason that you’re here in London, otherwise you would have stayed in Cornwall forever. Am I correct?”

  “I was planning to come to London at some point to see my family and find a bride, but yes, you’re right. The note forced my hand.”

  “You don’t know who wrote it, as I heard you question your brother on the subject. I may be able to offer you some assistance in the matter. I have an interest in the discernible relationships between handwriting and writers. I’ve already formed some opinion about the person who wrote the note.”

  The smile she flashed him was warm and guileless. She truly wanted to help him.

  “I don’t want to involve you in my family troubles, Miss Penny.”

  “I’m already involved, Your Grace.”

  Drew got the feeling that Miss Penny never backed down. And if she did have some manner of expertise in handwriting, she could possibly shed some light on the letter. “Very well, Miss Penny. What have you surmised?”

  She carried the note to a small table and laid it down next to a lamp. “The strokes of the letters are close set, heavy, and slashing. There is nothing open or soft.”

  He bent over her shoulder as she illustrated her points with a slender fingertip.

  Her hair smelled faintly of chamomile and roses, soothing and sweet. When she concentrated, a deep little line appeared between her brows.

  He wanted to smooth it away with his lips.

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  “This note is about taking control and displaying power,” she continued. “And attempting to project power is about feeling powerless. I would conjecture that this person is not evil, but he feels wronged—by the world and possibly by you personally. I think that you should start making a list of people who could be holding a grudge against you or against Lord Rafe.”

  “Impressive.” More than impressive. Nearly uncanny. He’d used the very same words with Rafe in the carriage. “I came to the same conclusion myself. The author of the letter could know secrets about our family.”

  The secret details of his kidnapping that only Drew knew—that he’d never told anyone.

  His mind briefly touched the idea that it could have been written by his own kidnapper, and then recoiled. No. The man had been sent to a penal colony in Australia.

  Drew’s nightmares were in the past.

  “Secrets such as . . . ?” she prompted.

  “The nature of a secret, Miss Penny, is that it’s something one doesn’t speak of.”

  “But we’re in this together now, Your Grace. We’ve formed a temporary alliance. You can trust me.”

  He could trust no one.

  “There is no we, Miss Penny. This is a family matter and a potentially perilous one. I won’t involve you.”

  Her jaw clenched. “Then I’ll conduct my own investigation into Lord Rafe’s affairs. Maybe I’ll sneak back in while you’re out and conduct a thorough search of these apartments. These rooms are potentially riddled with clues, and if we—”

  “Mother of God . . .” He clasped his temple with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re not going to relent.”

  “I found something else while I was searching Lord Rafe’s desk. Love letters signed by a woman with the initial “F.” Her handwriting is completely different from the other author’s, however.”

  “It’s a starting place at least,” said Drew.

  “Until we solve the mystery and determine where Lord Rafe has gone, and whom he is setting a trap for, I won’t stop seeking answers.”

  Drew wouldn’t mind some answers. “Explain to me again why you proposed matrimony to my disreputable brother?”

  “It was going to be a marriage of convenience, based on our mutual interest in . . . antiquities. My uncle never allowed me to help him with the more exciting aspects of his hobby.”

  He noted that she used the past tense. For some reason this filled his mind with elation. “I assume that you are referring to hunting for antiquities, as the Duke and Duchess of Ravenwood do?”

  “Something like.”

  “Rafe isn’t interested in matrimony. He’s far too—”

  “Dissolute, irredeemable, unworthy. So you’ve said. At the moment, all I care about is discovering his plans. He could be making a very bad, very dangerous decision. We have a mutual interest in finding him, Your Grace. We’ll want to interview all of your servants, but since they’re probably terrified of losing their positions, as Crankshaw was, I may have better luck convincing them to talk.”

  “Speaking of which, why aren’t you terrified of me?” Had he lost his fierce and forbidding edge, along with his devilish charm?

  Her eyes sparked. “You’re all bark and no bite. Anyone can see that, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, I bite, Miss Penny,” he growled.

  “If you say so, Your Grace,” she said with a flippant look. “I’ll call on your sister tomorrow during visiting hours and find a way to interrogate the servants. I left my bonnet in the study. I’ll retrieve it and be off.”

  “You’re not climbing back out the window. You could break your neck. I’m escorting you home.”

  “I only live around the corner.”

  “If you think I’m going to allow you to walk the street by yourself, you’re addled. I’m not so much a rogue.”

  “I’m an expert in slipping through shadows. I was as silent as a shade on my way here. I can’t just stroll down the street on your arm, what if someone sees us? I’d be compromised.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’d say you’re already compromised.”

  “Yes, but no one knows about it except us. I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then it’s all settled. I allow you to escort me home, from a distance, and in return, you allow me to interview your servants and help search for clues.”

  That smile. Warmer than a jug of heated brandy and even more potent.

  He wanted to keep touching her. Fit her body against his. Show her that he still had all of the skills of a wicked rake . . .

  Blow to the skull.

  That was the only possible explanation for why he was agreeing to let her search his house and interview his servants.

  That, and she’d talked circles around him. Strong-armed him with those slender arms of hers, twisted him around her tiny finger.


  He was all in knots.

  He’d agreed because they had a shared goal—they both wanted to find Rafe—and Miss Penny was liable to do something reckless in her pursuit of the truth.

  Or perhaps he’d agreed to her demands because he wanted to see her again.

  Closer to the truth.

  She was standing right across from him and he already missed her smile, her spark, that wicked wit.

  “It’s time I found more clothing, and escorted you home, Miss Penny,” he said gruffly.

  Chapter 12

  Drew walked the street, whistling softly. Just a duke on a stroll in the wee hours of a London morn, admiring the faintest pearl sheen of dawn over the rooftops.

  Pretending there wasn’t a meddling debutante creeping through the hedges and shadows at his flank.

  This area of Mayfair wasn’t exactly dangerous, being patrolled by night watchmen and populated with stately mansions locked up tight behind tall iron gates, but he hadn’t felt easy about letting her leave alone.

  For all her bravado, breaking and entering, and analyzing of handwriting, she was still a respectable young lady. And despite his long-past amatory exploits, he was still a gentleman.

  A stream of curses was unleashed not too far from him.

  He chuckled. So much for slipping through the shadows undetected. Miss Penny had a foul mouth on her. Where had she learned those expletives?

  Going to investigate, he found her attempting to rip her cloak from the jaws of an emaciated, mangy street dog. “Let go of me you flea-bitten bull’s pizzle.”

  Drew searched the bushes and came up with a large stick. “Here boy.” He waved the stick at the snarling dog.

  The cur let go of Mina’s cloak and sniffed the stick. Drew threw the stick as far as he could down the street behind them and the dog ran off after it.

  Miss Penny shook out her cloak, examining a large tear in the fabric.

  “That dog didn’t like you sneaking through its shrubbery.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing. It looked hungry.”