How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  “You give me far too much credit,” Max drawled. “The simple explanation is that I just couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. I really don’t give a tinker’s damn about the Duke or Duchess of Stafford’s opinion of me, or Lady Penelope’s, or Lord Mowbray’s, for that matter. And unlike you, Mother, I don’t spend every waking hour plotting and scheming. I’m all for expediency. I have far better things to do with my time.”

  His mother bristled. “Yes, like drinking and whoring and gambling and Lord knows what else. The number of times your name has appeared in newspapers, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by—”

  Max held up a hand. “Spare me the lecture. Next you’ll be telling me how I should try to be more like my dearly departed brother. Or how disappointed Father would have been.”

  His father. Even now, after all these years, Max still felt his shade. It was as though he was here in the room, hovering at the edges of his vision. Waiting. Judging.

  Sneering.

  His mother lifted her chin. “Well, you should be more like Anthony,” she rejoined. “He took his ducal duties far more seriously than you. Why, by your age, he’d taken Diana to wife. Indeed, I would have at least one grandson by now if he hadn’t—” She broke off and her hands curled into tight fists as she attempted to tamp down what she’d consider an unseemly display of emotion. “All I ask is that you seriously consider marrying someone suitable sooner rather than later. You’re almost nine-and-twenty, Maximilian. And since your father died—God rest his soul—you’ve had years and years playing the role of licentious rake and ‘war hero’, sowing your wild oats far and wide. It’s time for you to settle down with someone like Diana. And I happen to think Lady Penelope Purcell fits the bill.”

  Diana. His brother’s widow. A sliver of guilt pierced Max’s armor-plated heart whenever he thought about the circumstances surrounding his brother’s death nearly four years ago. Diana, who had no immediate family left to speak of, still resided with her mother-in-law here at Devereux House. The two were on amicable terms, and Max suspected that his mother really did wish him to wed someone exactly like the quietly confident and agreeable young widow. Indeed, his mother had hand-selected the well-bred debutante for Anthony six years ago, so when he, Max, had decided to do his duty for King and Country and joined Wellington’s army, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d perished on the battlefield. The dukedom was in safe hands. Anthony would sire an heir and several spares with Diana.

  As if his thoughts had conjured her up, Diana appeared in the drawing room’s doorway. As fair and slender as her mother-in-law, she was attired in a gown of dove-gray gauze and satin with pearls at her throat and in her hair.

  “Good evening, Maximilian. Cressida,” she said softly before advancing into the room with elegant, measured steps. “I hope I’m not interrupting…”

  “No, of course not,” replied the dowager duchess. “I was just telling Max—”

  “Mother was just extolling the virtues of Lady Penelope Purcell in an effort to convince me the chit is worth courting.”

  With studied grace, Diana lowered herself onto a gilt-legged settee. “She does have much to recommend her. I believe she’s very accomplished. And attractive as well as amiable.”

  “Amiable?” Max sipped his brandy. “She wasn’t particularly amiable when she encountered Lady Charlotte Hastings’s friend, Sophie, in Gunter’s Tea Shop last year.”

  His mother’s gaze could have cut glass. “Lady Charlotte Hastings is a shameless hoyden. And from what I hear, the new Viscountess Malverne is little better. By all accounts, she’s a veritable nobody who just happened to possess sufficient guile and a pretty enough face to ensnare Lord Malverne’s interest. But everyone knows how fickle he is. Now that he has his heir, undoubtedly his attention will wander.”

  “Careful,” growled Max. “You will not insult Lord Malverne, his wife, or his sister in my presence. You do not know them like I do.”

  His mother sniffed. “And I do not wish to. Thank goodness you’ve never shown any real interest in Lady Charlotte. If you ask me, Lord Westhampton should have taken her in hand long ago. But then, her low-born mother, Elizabeth, didn’t have much to recommend her either. And by all accounts, her aunt, Lady Chelmsford, has radical views. No wonder the girl has turned out the way she has.”

  Further discussion on the “management” or lack thereof of Lady Charlotte was precluded by the arrival of his mother’s guests.

  Max managed to bury his chagrin and greeted the Duke and Duchess of Stafford, their son Nigel, Lord Mowbray, and Lady Penelope with due deference. Several other well-heeled ton families arrived—again, acquaintances of his mother’s—and when they all trooped through to the dining room, there was not a seat to spare at the mahogany table which had been set with twenty places.

  His mother had clearly decided to dispense with the usual formalities at dinner. Although that didn’t mean she hadn’t put a great degree of thought into the seating arrangements. Indeed, every guest was positioned as strategically as any chess piece upon the board. Lady Penelope took her seat to Max’s right at the very end of the table. Lord Mowbray was to his left. The duke and duchess had pride of place at the far end, where his mother presided.

  Although Max had steadfastly tried to ignore thinking about Charlie all day—especially after he’d almost lost his bloody head and nearly kissed her last night—now, as he attempted to make pleasant yet idle conversation with Lady Penelope, he could think of nothing and no one else. Comparisons kept leaping about in his mind like damned randy jack rabbits, distracting him.

  Even though Lady Penelope was certainly pleasing to the eye—flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, her neat, slender form was attired in a tasteful gown of pale pink silk—it seemed Max couldn’t stop envisioning Charlie in her shocking harlot’s costume. The way her luscious curves had all but spilled from the confines of her tight corset. How his hands still itched to cup her magnificent breasts. Seize her generous hips and drag her onto his lap again. He wanted her lips sliding along his jaw. To feel the humid fan of her breath against his bare finger when he’d pressed it to her ripe-as-a-summer-plum lips. If he’d done the unthinkable and had kissed her last night at Rochfort House, would she have tasted sweet or tart or a mixture of both?

  He kept recalling what she’d told him in Rochfort’s library: that she wanted to be admired. Desired and kissed.

  And yes, he’d wanted to kiss her in that moonlit alcove. He shouldn’t desire her, but he did. Since that night at the Rouge et Noir Club, he seemed to be caught in a fever dream that he couldn’t wake up from.

  Lady Penelope was speaking, and Max reluctantly refocused his attention on the poised young woman who reminded him of one of the fine porcelain figurines sitting upon the marble mantelpiece in his mother’s sitting room. Effortlessly elegant, eye-catching, polished, and utterly devoid of warmth.

  She was talking about her excursion to the theater last night and how much she’d enjoyed the oratorio. It was an entirely appropriate but entirely bland topic, rather like the white soup that had been served earlier and the blancmange that sat untouched upon Max’s gilt-edged plate now. Both were pleasant enough, but he had no appetite for either of them.

  Max nodded, only half-listening to Penelope as she continued to chat about the composer Handel and his blasted hymns. His mother was right, curse her. He had no doubt that Lady Penelope had been carefully trained and would fulfill the role of duchess admirably. She would do her duty. She’d know her place. She’d run her husband’s household smoothly and efficiently. She’d be an impeccable hostess, her conversation always light and easy and superficially entertaining just as it was now.

  He glanced across the wide expanse of snow-white linen, cut crystal, and gleaming silverware to where his mother sat, holding court. She was smiling and nodding regally at something Diana had just said.

  In many ways, Lady Penelope was simply a younger version of his own mother and his sister-in-law. Max couldn’
t suppress a shudder of horror. It seemed his mother was determined for him to marry a woman in her very own image so that he might beget a stable of blond-haired, blue-eyed children to continue the Exmoor line.

  Lady Penelope paused to take a breath, and Max took the opportunity to wave over a footman to replenish the port wine in his glass. As he picked it up to take a sip, the candlelight from a nearby candelabra momentarily illuminated the golden-brown depths, and he couldn’t quite decide if the hue reminded him more of Charlie’s eyes or her wild chestnut curls. Or perhaps the deep amber shade of his favorite brandy would be a better match—

  “Your Grace, I believe you have a first-class stable.” This time it was Lord Mowbray who spoke. He’d obviously given up on trying to charm the stuffy countess to his left. “My sister likes to ride.” He gave a wink, then added, “Don’t you, Penelope?”

  “Yes. I adore it.” Lady Penelope’s pale blue gaze connected directly with Max’s. “Although it might be frowned upon by some, I do like to ride hard and fast. Especially in the mornings. A bout of vigorous exercise first thing is most refreshing. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

  Sweet Jesus. Max nearly choked on his port before he managed to respond with a non-committal answer of, “Quite.”

  Did the chit know what she was saying? He studied her face for any hint of guile, and saw a momentary flash of triumph in her eyes. Her rosebud mouth twitched. Yes, she’d said something deliberately provocative to recapture his wandering attention. And it seemed her brother was in on the plan because he was the one who’d introduced the topic and prompted her to respond.

  The whole idea that the pair had premeditated and then coordinated such an exchange suddenly made Max feel quite ill.

  Penelope’s slippered toe brushed his ankle beneath the table as Lord Mowbray reclaimed his attention with another question about his horses and an upcoming sweepstakes.

  Good God, the girl was determined to test the waters. Max pushed away his port and tucked his own foot farther beneath his chair, out of reach. It seemed she was more brazen and dangerous than he’d hitherto thought. He’d best be on his guard for the rest of the night, because the last thing he wanted was to be “caught” in a compromising position with Lady Penelope Purcell.

  She might be poised and perfect and amenable and amiable, but Max suspected it was all for show, that deep down, Lady Penelope was another kettle of fish entirely—manipulative and calculating. As ambitious and cold-hearted as his mother.

  As cold-blooded and ice-hearted as he’d become. All superficial charm and no care for anyone or anything except his horses, and his former brothers-in-arms, Nate Hastings, Hamish MacQueen, and Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald. And he was determined to keep things that way despite the fact he couldn’t seem to get his best friend’s sister—a hoyden with brandy-hued eyes—out of his damned head.

  Chapter 6

  My List of Secret Wishes and Dreams:

  1) Sneak into a ‘Gentlemen’s Club’ to see what all the fuss is about;

  2) To be kissed, with passion, in the moonlight by a rake;

  3) Or in the rain (either will do);

  4) Ride hell-for-leather down Rotten Row at least once (preferably not in the rain unless there’s any chance said passionate kiss happens straight afterward);

  5) Sea bathe, naked;

  6) Sit for a licentious portrait à la Lady Hamilton;

  7) To be thoroughly ravished in a carriage;

  8) Waltz the night away at Almack’s;

  9) To experience a Grand Passion that I will remember long into my dotage;

  10) The man (or should I say duke?) of my dreams falls in love with me.

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square

  March 29, 1819

  Charlie yawned, stretched, and rolled over in her wide tester bed, dragging the amber silk counterpane with her. Smiling, she hugged a fat fluffy pillow to her chest. All was right with the world, and this morning she was going to be an unashamed slugabed.

  Eventually, she’d ring for Molly to draw back the curtains to let in the spring sunshine, and after the fire was restoked and leaping merrily in the grate, she’d send for a breakfast tray stacked with her favorite things—hot chocolate, buttered and honeyed crumpets, and perhaps a fruit bun sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. She’d peruse the mail and the papers, maybe wallow in a steamy hot bubble bath until she resembled a prune, read a novel from cover to cover while petting Peridot…and she would not have a single thought about that vile blackguard Lord Rochfort or wonder when she’d next see the steadfastly invulnerable Duke of Exmoor.

  An hour later, all was going to plan; she was propped up in bed with her breakfast tray, sipping hot chocolate, and she was smiling because she’d just read several heart-warming letters, one each from her younger brothers Jonathon, Benjamin, and Daniel, who were all due to quit Eton and come home for Easter. She couldn’t wait for the halls of Hastings House to ring with their boisterous laughter, even if it was only for a few short days.

  The Countess of Langdale’s letter was characteristically succinct and no-nonsense: Arabella mentioned that she was still as busy as could be setting up her orphanage in Edinburgh, but that both she and Gabriel hoped to be in London by mid-April at the very latest. Charlie decided that as soon as Arabella returned, she would seek her out and ask if there was some way that she, Charlie, could become more involved in philanthropic endeavors during the Season. After her chat with Sophie yesterday, she realized she was far too indolent and hoped that engaging in charity work—being useful—might help to fill the void in her life.

  Charlie opened the Marchioness of Chelmsford’s letter and began to eagerly peruse the contents for all of her aunt’s latest news…and her heart fell. Charlie had been so looking forward to her aunt’s return, but it seemed she would be staying in Bath for the foreseeable future to help with Lady Kilbride’s convalescence. However—Charlie quickly turned the page—all going well, her aunt was proposing a trip to the Continent in the summer with another set of friends from the Mayfair Bluestocking Society, and she would love it if Charlie joined their traveling party.

  Charlie put down the letter and worried at her bottom lip. She wasn’t sure how she felt about such an invitation. It was so unexpected, and Europe was so very far away. Of course, her father would acquiesce to such a proposal, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

  There really was only one thing to do. Charlie helped herself to another cup of hot chocolate, retrieved her crimson notebook and a pencil from her bedside table, skipped past her “List of Secret Wishes and Dreams”, and began to record a brand new list of all the pros and cons for embarking on such a trip on a fresh new page.

  Cons: if she went, she’d miss her family and friends; she’d miss Peridot; and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d probably miss Max.

  Blast him.

  Pros: she’d have some wonderful adventures, and she might meet another eminently eligible gentleman. A man who didn’t give a fat flying fig about her past and would fall madly in love with her. Sweep her off her feet.

  Someone who really would make her forget all about Max Devereux and his sapphire eyes, his heart-stopping smile, and the way he made her laugh.

  It wasn’t that far-fetched an idea that she could meet and fall head-over-heels in love with someone new. After all, darling Arabella, who’d been steadfastly against the idea of marrying, had met her wicked-as-sin Gabriel on a Grand Tour last year. And look how that had turned out. In the meantime, planning a trip to the Continent would give Charlie something to look forward to.

  Yes, perhaps a jaunt abroad was exactly the tonic she needed to fully restore her joie de vivre.

  Mind made up, Charlie snapped her notebook shut and reached for the newspapers sitting in a neat stack on her bed. The Times didn’t hold her interest for very long. Nor did The Morning Chronicle or The Morning Post. There was the latest issue of Ackermann’s Repository of Arts, and at the very bottom of the pile, the Beau Monde Mirror.


  She really shouldn’t peruse the infamous scandalmongering rag. In fact, she sometimes wondered why her father still bothered to subscribe to the paper as he rarely looked at it, especially now that Nate had settled down and his outrageous antics no longer appeared within its pages. It was likely an oversight, or perhaps he also suspected that Charlie liked to secretly catch up on all of society’s gossip.

  In any event, the newspaper was there, waiting for her. Tempting her like a plate of her favorite cream buns or a box of fondant bonbons.

  She reached for it, flicked it open.

  And then her throat closed over and her heart froze.

  Stopped.

  A strange buzzing sound filled her head.

  Oh, dear God. Oh, sweet heavens above.

  No. Oh no, no, no.

  This couldn’t be true. Couldn’t be real.

  But it was. For there, plastered in big bold letters upon the front page of the Beau Monde Mirror, was her list.

  Her secret, scandalous list. The list contained within her stolen notebook that no one was ever meant to see.

  Her private thoughts. All her hopes and dreams.

  Exposed. For everyone to read and laugh at.

  It didn’t matter that her name wasn’t explicitly printed in the paper. Or Max’s. Everyone knew who “the former disreputable debutante, Lady C.” was. And given the fact Nate and Max were such firm friends, the ton could easily guess the true identity of the unnamed “duke of her dreams”.

  And Max would know too. How could he not?

  Humiliation and horror washed over Charlie in a huge suffocating wave. She was drowning in it. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  How?

  Why?

  She choked in a much-needed breath, then another as she tried to make sense of what had happened. She and Max had rescued her notebook. It was right there beside her, the crimson cover standing out starkly against the deep golden counterpane.