How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  Indeed, it wasn’t a lie. Max’s black evening jacket, midnight-blue satin waistcoat, and gray trousers fit his Corinthian’s physique so well, the garments seemed to be painted on, as though Madame de Beauvoir had spilled her paint pots across his wide shoulders and down his muscular thighs. A sapphire pin winked at Charlie from the depths of his elaborately tied cravat. If she were the least bit poetic, she’d compose odes to Max’s fine figure and far too handsome face.

  Max tilted his head in acknowledgement of her compliment. “Thank you, my lady.” His deep blue gaze raked over her slowly, lingering on her face, her bust, and her hips before returning at a leisurely pace to her eyes. “And I must say that you are looking exceptionally lovely too. I like that color on you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it before. Turquoise, is it?” His mouth twitched. “Or has your modiste given it some other exotic name like Adriatic aquamarine or peacock blue or duckpond teal? I can never keep up with feminine fashions.”

  Max had been paying attention to her attire? For goodness knew how long?

  What a bemusing thought. Charlie felt her cheeks grow warm and her pulse capered about as though she’d begun to dance a lively quadrille. How was she supposed to be circumspect about this faux engagement when he subjected her to such heated looks or remembered such seemingly inconsequential details? It was as though she’d always mattered to him and he’d kept a catalogue in his mind of what she’d worn or hadn’t worn on various occasions. It was rapidly becoming an impossible feat to remain unaffected under the circumstances. “Turquoise will do. And thank you,” she returned, her voice noticeably husky. She raised a hand to her mother’s brooch. “I think the diamonds and pearls help too.”

  “Yes, they’re stunning,” agreed Max. “And to that end…” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a long, slender, velvet-covered box. “I have something for you. Another betrothal gift. I hope it will match your diadem and brooch.”

  “Oh…” Her curiosity piqued, Charlie took it from him and lifted the lid, then gasped with pleasure. Inside lay an exquisite diamond and pearl necklace. The tear-shaped gemstones glimmered in the fire and candlelight. “Oh, Max. It’s utterly beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Of course I should.” Taking the necklace from the box, he raised a brow. “May I help you put it on?”

  “Yes…thank you.” Charlie moved to stand in front of a nearby gilt-edged looking glass and Max followed. After he draped the necklace about her throat and fastened the clasp, he stilled. His gaze locked with hers in the mirror. His hands, large and warm, rested lightly upon her shoulders.

  “Gorgeous,” he murmured. His breath fanned the curls at her temple. The scent of his spicy cologne or whatever soap he used enveloped her.

  For the space of a heartbeat and a quickly drawn breath, Charlie wondered if Max was going to kiss her.

  Dear God, she was beautiful.

  As soon as Max had entered Charlie’s bedroom and laid eyes upon her in her evening finery, he was transfixed. His tongue had been uncharacteristically tied in knots, and not just because her turquoise silk gown was molded to her luscious figure in all the right places, or the fact her chestnut curls were elegantly arranged at the back of her shapely head bar a few thick, glossy spirals that cascaded over one shoulder.

  It was because her warm-as-brandy eyes had shone with admiration and desire too. They’d been riveted to him. He could have sworn she was holding her breath. Waiting for his next move in this strange dance they both found themselves in. One in which she approached and he habitually ducked away, fearing what would happen if they got too close. That they’d go too far and Charlie’s choice to end things would be taken away.

  Yet here he was in her room, unable to do anything but stare at her divine reflection as lust surged, hot and potent, pounding through his veins…

  Up until recently, Max had never really allowed himself to indulge in the glorious sight of Charlie. To let his gaze linger, let alone his hands. But now…now Max’s resolve to keep his promise to Nate to stay away, to keep his distance, was rapidly disintegrating in the face of Charlie’s breathtaking loveliness. Her innate sensuality. His self-serving, covetous streak was in danger of taking over. Of seizing the reins.

  He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. And more. So much more…

  It would be so easy to take what he wanted. He could see Charlie desired him as much as he desired her. The way her breath had quickened as he’d brushed aside her curls to place his gift around her neck. How her pupils had dilated. How she watched him, even now. How her gaze kept straying to his mouth…

  Sweet Jesus. Max had to thrust down the sudden urge to remove his hands from Charlie’s shoulders and span her waist instead. To skate his palms upward, caressing her ribcage before brushing the underside of her full breasts with his thumbs. He’d watch her nipples pebble beneath her bodice, and her breath would catch again. And then maybe she would moan and arch back against him, pressing her derriere against his rapidly hardening groin. She’d turn in his arms, and then he’d make use of that massive tester bed behind them…

  Bloody hell. They had a betrothal ball to attend with upwards of two hundred guests in attendance. It was due to start shortly, and he and Charlie were expected downstairs to stand alongside his mother to receive everyone.

  At least his mother had been behaving herself since their heated discussion at Devereux House nearly a fortnight before. As far as he knew, she hadn’t insulted Charlie about her figure again. And according to Mr. Hunt, the inquiry agent, the dowager duchess had stayed away from Rochfort. Because she appeared to be keeping her word, their relationship had returned to its usual level of “distantly polite” rather than “testy”, which was fortunate during a house party when so many eyes were upon them.

  The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the three-quarter hour, and he dropped his hands. “Are you ready, my lady?” he asked in a voice that was more than a little husky. “It’s time I escorted you to the ball.”

  Charlie blinked as though waking from a dream, then nodded. “Ah yes. Let me get my gloves and my fan. I’ll only be a moment.”

  She disappeared into the dressing room, and when she returned, a sliver of guilt pierced Max’s chest. Since he’d arrived at Heathcote, he’d been deliberately avoiding Charlie. Giving her only crumbs of his attention because it made it easier for him to do the right thing. Of course, he’d reasoned a thousand times over that she wouldn’t be lonely. Aside from her father and his new love interest, Lady Tilbury, she had Nate’s wife, Sophie, to keep her company. She seemed to be getting on well with Diana, and now another one of her close friends, Arabella, was here.

  But this was their betrothal ball and Charlie’s moment to shine. For the upper echelons of the haute ton to accept her as one of their own again. And he, the Duke of Exmoor, really should be by her side as much as possible to demonstrate his belief in her. To show that she belonged and should be treated with due deference. She deserved nothing less.

  Max pulled on his own evening gloves, then offered Charlie his arm. He noticed how forced her smile was as she looked up at him through her lashes.

  “You’re nervous,” he observed quietly as he escorted her into the hall.

  Charlie’s nose wrinkled. “A little. I pray no one openly snubs me tonight. Now, that would be too humiliating for words.”

  The idea that anyone would do that beneath his roof made Max bristle with anger. “I’m certain they won’t. But if they do, they’ll have me to answer to.”

  “Goodness, you sound as fierce as can be,” murmured Charlie. “But I appreciate your support. Truly, I do.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” They reached the stairs and began to descend. The hum of excited voices from the entry hall below reached their ears.

  “Considering the number of guests my mother has invited this evening, it’s sure to be a huge crush, and we’ll inevitably be pulled in different directions on occasion.” Max paused on the landing and turned to fac
e Charlie. “But if anything untoward should happen when I’m not with you, you must seek me out immediately. I won’t have anyone showing you disrespect.” Lord Mowbray’s less-than-gentlemanly perusal of Charlie on Easter Sunday sprang to mind, and his gloved hands curled into fists. In hindsight, he should have paid more attention to the guest list rather than letting his mother have free rein.

  Charlie offered him a smile. “I will. And I know how busy it will get. But I won’t mind if you mingle as long as you promise to dance with me at least once.”

  “I promise to dance with you at least twice, if not three times,” said Max as they resumed their descent. “And any waltz is mine.”

  Charlie laughed then. “I never took you for the possessive type, Max.”

  Possessive? Had he begun to think of Charlie as his? His alone to cherish and protect? Why else would such fierce emotion burn through Max’s chest and twist his gut whenever he imagined someone like Mowbray dancing intimately with Charlie or subjecting her to lascivious glances?

  What a sobering thought. But he didn’t have time to examine his feelings further as they’d reached the entry hall and a throng of assembled guests began to greet both him and Charlie.

  The madness was about to begin.

  Chapter 15

  Were you one of the lucky members of the ton who received an invitation to the betrothal ball of a certain devilish duke and a thoroughly disreputable young lady?

  It’s sure to be the event of the Season with entertainment galore.

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  As Max had predicted, it was a crush. And as he’d promised her, they’d danced three dances, including two waltzes. Charlie was on cloud nine as he effortlessly spun her about the ballroom, his eyes locked with hers as though she were the only woman in the room. For a man who professed he was incapable of love, he certainly knew how to put on a convincing act, and Charlie had to keep reminding herself that’s exactly what it was—just an act.

  As for the guests who weren’t close friends or family, all of them were suitably polite—some were even effusive in their greetings and congratulations—and after two whirlwind hours of chatting and laughing and dancing and drinking champagne, Charlie had decided the betrothal ball could be declared a raging success—in her mind, anyway.

  She was no longer an outcast. She was a disreputable debutante no more.

  But then everything went horribly wrong.

  In hindsight, Charlie couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact moment when things began to unravel and turn into a complete mess. Perhaps it was when Max retreated to the terrace to share a brandy and a quiet chat with Nate and Gabriel; Charlie hadn’t begrudged the fact that he’d left her side because she’d also drifted away from her fiancé on a number of occasions to speak with Sophie and Arabella and even Diana.

  Or maybe it had been when her father and Lady Tilbury had disappeared outside for some “fresh air” in the gardens. Then Arabella had given Charlie her apologies—her dear friend had been looking decidedly green about the gills when Sophie had escorted her from the ballroom to rest upstairs in her room. Arabella had entreated Charlie not to tell Gabriel, though, because she hadn’t wanted to spoil his fun. Sophie soon sent her apologies that she would also be absent for a while—apparently little Thomas was terribly unsettled, so she’d retreated to the nursery to try to help his nurse and the wet nurse sort out the problem. And as for Diana, Charlie was unsure where she’d got to.

  In any event, Charlie suddenly found herself quite alone in a crowded ballroom. And that’s when the mood around her began to shift. It was gradual at first, like a dark mist penetrating the room. Polite smiles and nods were replaced with knowing looks and smirks and whispers behind fans. With growing horror, Charlie realized everything that had been said to her by everyone who wasn’t close to her must have been a complete lie.

  Most of these people didn’t know her, nor she them. Not at all. The only reason they were here paying lip service to Lady Charlotte Hastings was because the Duke of Exmoor’s mother and sister-in-law had invited them. Perhaps they merely wished to satisfy their morbid curiosity about the disreputable Lady C.: Was she really as bad as the Beau Monde Mirror made her out to be?

  Her cheeks stinging with a burning blush of embarrassment, Charlie was about to seek out Max as she’d promised earlier, when out of the corner of her eye, she spied Lady Penelope approaching.

  Wonderful.

  A vision in pale pink satin, the young woman seemed to drift between the knots of chatting guests like a graceful swan. For the past two days, she’d been wearing a mask of careful civility whenever she’d conversed with Charlie. But the woman had clearly decided to discard her disguise now that Charlie was alone; the look of cool disdain in her blue eyes clearly marked her as a combatant, not an ally.

  “What are you doing over here all by yourself, my dear Lady Charlotte?” she said in a silky tone. “Don’t tell me the ‘duke of your dreams’ has deserted you already?”

  Oh, so the gloves really were off.

  Unable to ignore such a barb, Charlie plastered a false smile on her face and prepared to do battle. “Actually, I was about to join him for a turn about the terrace. It’s suddenly become unpleasantly stuffy in here.”

  The duke’s daughter gave a little laugh. “Yes, of course you were.” She leaned closer and murmured by Charlie’s ear. “Don’t think your current elevation in circumstances will last. If you haven’t worked it out by now, Max’s mother is on my side. And see everyone here?” She turned and gestured at the room with her closed fan. “Did you know that we’re all taking bets on how long this ridiculous engagement will actually last? Personally, I think it will end before this farcical house party is over.”

  Horror and humiliation coiled through Charlie, tightening her chest. Surely not… But everyone was staring at her and Penelope. Smirking and snickering. The mood in the room had changed. It had grown ugly, and she was the outsider. The object of everyone’s derision. The butt of all their jokes.

  Oh, dear Lord, how had she not seen it before?

  Before she could think to summon a quelling set-down or stalk away, Lady Penelope turned on her slippered heel and glided across the room to where her parents conversed with Cressida. The Staffords did not spare Charlie a glance, but Cressida did. She arched an eyebrow at her, then turned her attention to Lady Penelope as she approached, smiling warmly at the young woman, holding out a gloved hand to her in greeting.

  The dowager duchess’s message had never been clearer. You are not wanted, Lady Charlotte Hastings, but Lady Penelope Purcell is.

  Tears stung Charlie’s eyes, and for a brief moment she contemplated giving into the overwhelming urge to flee the ballroom. But stubbornness and the knowledge that she had friends here that were on her side made her stay. Max wanted her here, and unless he broke things off with her, she wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

  Burying her mortification and fanning the flames of her indignance, she armed herself with another glass of champagne and retreated to a shadowy corner where the light of the enormous chandeliers didn’t quite reach. She just needed a few minutes to regroup before she sought out Max. She didn’t want him to notice how upset she really was. The last thing she wanted to do was make a fuss or cause a scene. This ball would end, and a good deal of these horrid people would depart—assuming Penelope’s malicious claim was even true—and she would still be Max’s fiancée, even if it was in name only.

  She sipped her champagne and watched the swirling throng before her—a lively country dance had started up. No one seemed to be watching her or smirking anymore, so perhaps she had imagined the whole change in mood. Yes, her mind had simply been playing tricks on her. For so long she’d seen herself as a social pariah, it was only natural that she’d jump to the wrong conclusion.

  She sensed someone by her side—a tall male presence—and when she slid a sideways glance in the man’s direction, she had to bite her tongue to stop her
self from uttering a string of very unladylike curses.

  It was Lord Mowbray.

  Ugh. The odious man made her skin crawl. Ever since last year, when he’d propositioned her at a soiree—he’d cornered her, much like this, and had whispered in her ear, “Rumor has it that everyone has had a piece of you, so why not me?”—she’d been wary of him. She’d never told anyone about that incident or the fact Lord Mowbray had called her a prick-teaser after she’d told him to sod off because she’d been too ashamed. But now… Now she wasn’t going to let him have the last word.

  She raised an eyebrow, determined not to be cowed by him. “What, are you and your sister taking it in turns to harass Lady Charlotte Hastings, hoping that you’ll drive her from the ballroom?” she asked. “Are your parents in on the plan too? Can I expect them to join in on the fun?”

  He grinned and leaned in so close, his claret-laced breath gusted across her face. “Come now, Lady Charlotte. There’s no need to be rude.”

  “Ha! That’s rich coming from you. I’ve sometimes wondered if ‘rude’ is your middle name.”

  “Ah, so you think about me sometimes, do you?” His shoulder brushed hers. “I certainly think about you and what you and I might get up to. You’re not wed yet. What do you say you and I go somewhere a bit quieter to explore the matter further?”

  Charlie rolled her eyes. “You really are that conceited that you think I would even consider betraying my fiancé? And with someone like you? Especially after the way you insulted me in a similar fashion last year.”

  He sneered at her then. Or perhaps it was more of a leer. A leering sneer. “Now, listen here, you stuck-up little slut—”

  Charlie spun to face him, her skirts whipping, then took a step forward so the marquess was forced to take a step back. “Are you hell-bent on getting yourself called out, Lord Mowbray?”