How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  His lip curled. “What? Are you going to go running to your fiancé?”

  “Actually, I’m quite a good shot myself. I can shoot the cork out of a champagne bottle at forty paces, did you know? And I can fence. But I’m beginning to think that you’re just not worth the effort, my lord. In fact, the most appropriate response to your entirely unwelcome, thoroughly despicable proposition, is this.” With a flick of her wrist, Charlie tossed the contents of her champagne glass onto Lord Mowbray’s crotch. “Oops.”

  “You bitch,” he hissed.

  “Yes,” she said with an arch smile. “I am. And you’d best remember that, Lord Mowbray. I don’t ever wish to have a discussion like this again.”

  After depositing her empty glass on the tray of a nearby footman who was gawping in open-mouthed shock, Charlie tossed her head, spun around, and tried very hard to elegantly saunter out of the ballroom, even though she was shaking from head to toe.

  She’d had enough of this charade, and she was so angry, she didn’t trust herself to speak with Max. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a great hullabaloo that resulted in another duel and more bloodshed.

  Yes, she needed time to calm down. To let her temper cool to at least the point of simmering rather than boiling over.

  Most of all, she needed another drink, and the only thing that would do was brandy. Good brandy. Or even better, cognac.

  And she knew exactly where to find it.

  When Max returned to the ballroom to join Charlie—he rather thought he might like to hold her in his arms and dance with her one last time before the evening was through—he quickly discovered she was nowhere to be found.

  Sophie and Arabella, Lady Langdale, had gone too, but a footman approached both Nate and Gabriel with messages from their respective spouses. Both ladies had repaired to their apartments—Arabella was apparently feeling unwell, and Nate’s son was unsettled—so perhaps Charlie had accompanied one or both of them upstairs.

  His friends had just quit the ballroom to check on their wives when Diana pulled Max aside. The shadow of concern in her eyes set off a frisson of alarm inside his chest.

  “I expect you’re looking for Charlie,” she murmured.

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “It could be nothing,” she began, “but about half an hour ago, I saw her leave the room. She’d been talking with Lord Mowbray. He also departed shortly after their exchange but has since returned.” She gestured with her chin. “He’s presently over there, conversing with his parents and your mother.”

  Max stiffened. Bloody hell. If that dirty dog had done something to upset Charlie…

  But he was jumping to conclusions. She simply could have gone upstairs with her friends to make sure they had everything they needed. It was the sort of thing she would do.

  Deciding he must find her to see for himself that she was indeed all right, he quit the ballroom and headed for the hall where the ladies’ retiring room was located. But the maid on duty claimed she had not seen Lady Charlotte.

  Racing up the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached the second floor. Charlie was not in her suite of rooms, and curiously enough, neither was Charlie’s lady’s maid, Molly, so Max couldn’t question her. But perhaps Charlie had given the girl the night off.

  Re-entering the corridor, he pushed his hands into his hair and tugged as though the action would pull loose the answer to Charlie’s whereabouts.

  Where the hell could she be?

  Idiot. He hadn’t checked with the Langdales if Charlie was with Arabella. Or with Nate and Sophie in the nursery upstairs.

  When Max knocked on the door to Gabriel and Arabella’s suite, Gabriel answered. “No, Charlie’s not here,” he said. “Can I do anything? You seem worried.”

  “No, but thank you. I suspect she’s upstairs lending Nate’s wife moral support. How is Arabella?”

  Gabriel ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Sleeping.” He glanced back into the shadowed bedroom before addressing Max again. “If you don’t mind, old chap, I think I’ll call it a night too. It’s been a hectic few days, and if Arabella needs anything…”

  Max clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, my friend. I understand. It goes without saying that your wife’s well-being takes priority.”

  “Although if you need any assistance, don’t hesitate to rouse me,” added Gabriel. “You know I’m always here for you, just as you’ve always been there for me.”

  Max was tempted to quip, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” considering Gabriel had always seemed the least likely of any of their friendship group to wed, let alone fall deeply in love, but he didn’t. Instead, he thanked his friend and bid him goodnight.

  Charlie wasn’t with Nate or Sophie either. As Max stood in the hall outside the makeshift nursery, the sound of a grizzling baby reached his ears. “How is Thomas?” he asked.

  Nate scratched his jaw. “The poor lad is having a bad night, I’m afraid. The nurse thinks it’s wind. The wet nurse thinks he’s cutting a tooth. And Sophie is beside herself with worry. I hate to bail on you and Charlie, but I’m about to pack them all up and take them back to Westhampton House, then call a physician, even if it’s just to ease Sophie’s mind.”

  “You do what you need to,” said Max. “And I’m sure Charlie is fine. I’ll find her. She’s probably sick of the hubbub in the ballroom and is curled up with a book somewhere.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she is too,” said Nate. “You know what she’s like. She knows her own mind, and she’s more than capable of looking after herself.”

  But Charlie wasn’t in the library either. Or the terrace. Or the conservatory.

  His frustration and anxiety mounting, Max returned to Charlie’s rooms again. With all his to-ing and fro-ing, it was quite likely that he’d missed her along the way.

  Her dressing room, bedroom, and sitting room were all shadowed and silent save for the ticking of the mantel clocks and his own rough breathing.

  And then an altogether terrifying thought ran through Max’s mind. What if Rochfort had something to do with Charlie’s sudden disappearance? He seemed like the sort of man who held grudges. Kept score. Waged personal vendettas against those who crossed him. The house party and betrothal ball were by no means a secret. According to Mr. Hunt, the inquiry agent, the baron had been recently spotted out and about Town with his partially paralyzed arm in a sling. What if Rochfort had decided to punish Max for causing such a grievous injury by hurting Charlie? And what better time to strike than during a ball when everyone was making merry and distracted…

  Max drew a deep breath and attempted to control his riotous, panicked thoughts. There was no evidence Charlie was in trouble. He needed to stop letting his imagination run down all sorts of dark, illogical corridors. She was seen exiting the ballroom less than an hour before. Mowbray had been accounted for. There was an entire army of dependable footmen stationed at all the doors. Charlie was fine. She was here somewhere. He just had to calm down and think.

  And then he heard it, the faint melodious sound of singing. A woman singing.

  Charlie?

  Relief surged inside Max’s chest as he followed the voice. At first he thought it was coming from his room, then he realized it was actually emanating from his private study, a little farther along the corridor.

  “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And never brought to mind.

  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And days of auld lang syne?”

  Good God. Was Charlie really singing Auld Lang Syne?

  Max pushed through the study door and blinked in confusion. The room was virtually shrouded in velvet darkness and appeared empty at first glance. The only light emanated from the glowing coals in the fire and a silvery shaft of moonlight that penetrated a gap in the heavy damask curtains and illuminated a path across his desk.

  “Charlie?” he called.

  She clearly hadn’t heard him as her disembodied voice cont
inued to float about the room.

  “For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne.

  We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

  For auld lang syne.”

  Max’s gaze searched the darkened room, but he could see neither hide nor hair of his fiancée. Where the blazing hell was she?

  But she was here. And he was beginning to suspect she was inebriated, given the slight slurring of her words and the discordant quality of the tune. Was she hiding in the stationery cupboard or behind the settee?

  Or beneath his desk? The heavy Jacobean chair that he used had been pushed back toward the window and sat at an odd angle.

  He swiftly lit a candle and rounded the carved mahogany monstrosity that used to be his father’s desk. And there she was, sequestered in the alcove where his legs would go. Her silk skirts and petticoats were bunched up around her bended knees. She’d kicked off her slippers, and her diamond diadem sat at a crooked angle.

  When Charlie saw him, her mouth lifted in a bright smile and she raised a bottle—it looked to be his favorite cognac—in the air as though she were about to toast him. “Oh, hullo, Max,” she crowed. “You’ve come to join me.” She frowned. “Oh, but there’s two of you…”

  Before Max could respond, a giggle burst forth and she waggled her eyebrows. “Two Maxes. Now, that might be fun…” She took a swig from the bottle, then pouted. “Well, I hope at least one of you will try to ravish me. We’re engaged, after all.”

  Even though concern clamored around inside Max’s gut—Charlie was clearly soused—he couldn’t help but smile. After he placed the candle upon the desk, he lowered himself to the floor. “Charlie, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said gently. “Is everything all right?”

  Another frown creased her brow. “Lady Penelope is a cow. And Lord Mowbray is a right royal ass,” she said crossly. “As if I’d ever want to have a…have a tryst with someone as beastly as him.” A snort of laughter escaped her. “You should have seen his face when I tossed my champagne onto the fall of his evening breeches. But he deserved it. Oh, no.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes widened in horror. “I wasn’t supposed to say that,” she said through her fingers, then she reached for his arm. “Please don’t tell Max,” she entreated. “I couldn’t bear it if he called out that conceited coxcomb.”

  Anger thundered through Max at the thought that Mowbray had made a lewd proposal to Charlie. Nevertheless, he tamped down his roiling fury and said, “It sounds like you handled the situation admirably.”

  “I did,” she said with a decided nod, then poked him in the chest. “Mark my words, no one gets away with being rude to Lady Charlotte Hastings.”

  Another sip and another sigh, then she dragged the diadem off her head, scattering hairpins before casting it onto the rug near his feet. A few dislodged curls tumbled around her cheeks, and she huffed out a breath to blow one away from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell Max that I drank nearly all of his cognac,” she said in a loud whisper, then gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you know I’m a bad, bad girl? A dish…” She emitted a hiccup. “A dish…” Another hiccup. “I mean, a dishreputable debutante?”

  And Max was a bad, bad boy. He really should have taken the bottle of cognac off her by now. It was clear she’d had far too much. He clasped it around the neck and gently prized it from her fingers. “Do you mind if I have some too, before it’s all gone?”

  She waved a clumsy hand in the air. “Help yourself. Max won’t mind. He’s very sweet although he’ll tell you differently. Oh, dear”—she giggled again, then slumped back against the desk—“I might be a teensy bit foxed…or bosky…or tipsy.” She gave another snort of laughter. “Only, I can’t really be drunk because young ladies like me don’t get drunk…” She hiccuped again. “And I can say Epish…Epis…Episcopalian. See?” She grinned. “I can’t be drunk. When you’re drunk, you can’t say that.”

  Max couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think that I can say that word even when I’m sober,” he said. “All right, Lady Charlotte. The party is ov—”

  “Wait.” She reached out and grasped his arm again. Her remarkable brown eyes locked with his. “We can’t go yet. Because I have to tell you a secret.”

  Interest stirred, then Max inwardly admonished himself. He really should curtail this conversation because he might hear something he wasn’t supposed to. “The thing about secrets,” he said, “is that they are supposed to stay just that. Secret.”

  But Charlie wasn’t listening. “Actually, I have three secrets,” she said with a sly wink. “But you must promise not to tell Max a single one.”

  “Charlie—”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. You must not tell him about the painting. The naughty one on my list. Or what I did when I was seventeen. Or the fact that I’m in—” Her breath hitched, and she rose to her knees. “Oops. I nearly said it. Silly me.” She bit her lip and leaned closer, framing his face with her hands. “Oh, I’m in deep trouble, Max. So, so deep…” Her mouth tilted into a wistful smile. “Just look at you, my impossibly handsome fiancé. If only…”

  Max was going to go to straight to hell for this. “If only what?” he prompted.

  Sadness clouded Charlie’s gaze. “If only all of the things on my list would come true. Not just one or two…” A frown creased her brow and she swayed. “Oh, look. Now there’s three of you.” As she toppled over, Max only just caught her before her head hit the floor.

  Chapter 16

  “Oh, sleep! It is a gentle thing beloved from pole to pole…”

  Mr. Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s epic poem,

  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, has been serialized just for our readers.

  Part the Fifth is featured today...

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Literary Arts

  When Max gently lay an-all-but-unconscious Charlie upon the tester bed in her bedroom, he was relieved to see she was beginning to stir. On his return from her dressing room with a few items he thought she might need, a few mumbled words tumbled forth from her lips and her eyelids fluttered open.

  “Oh, Max,” she moaned, reaching for him. “I think I had far too much cognac. The room is spinning around and around. Please make it stop.”

  “I wish I could.” He sat carefully upon the edge of the bed and smoothed a few tangled curls away from her flushed face. “Do you know where your maid, Molly, is?”

  She frowned, then smiled sleepily up at him. “No. I gave her the evening off. I expect she’s snuck off somewhere with Edwards the footman. They’ve been making eyes at each other for weeks and weeks.”

  All of a sudden, her expression changed. Her smile turned into a scowl, and she plucked at the bodice of her gown. “I’m hot and uncomfortable. The lace itches, and my corset is far too tight. I want to take it all off.”

  Devil take him. Max ran a hand down his face.

  He supposed he could summon another maid, but that might spur a lot of inconvenient questions and potential belowstairs gossip about how Lady Charlotte Hastings had ended up so intoxicated. Arabella, Lady Langdale, was indisposed, and Sophie was probably on her way back to Mayfair by now. Of course, there was Diana, however he wasn’t sure where her allegiance lay. She seemed to like Charlie, although she also might disclose something of Charlie’s inebriated condition to his mother, and that was the last thing Charlie needed.

  So, it looked like Charlie might be stuck with him to help her out.

  Bloody hell.

  Max blew out a sigh and silently vowed he wouldn’t look as he helped her to disrobe. He’d undressed countless women. He could do it with his eyes closed, blindfolded, in the darkest corner of a pitch-black coalpit on a moonless night.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll help. Although the process might be easier if you sit up.”

  At that, Charlie shot bolt upright. “Oh, no…I think—” One of her hands flew to her mouth, and Max could see the panic flaring in
her eyes. The beads of perspiration upon her brow and the pallor of her cheeks.

  In the blink of an eye, he grabbed the washbasin off the bedside table where he’d deposited it a short time before and thrust it in front of Charlie.

  As she cast up her accounts in the china bowl, he held her tumbling hair out of the way. When the bout of vomiting appeared to be over, he removed the bowl, then returned with a tumbler of fresh water and a damp washcloth.

  “Thank you,” she murmured weakly and offered him a tremulous smile. “I’m so sorry…”

  “There’s no need to apologize.” Max sat on the side of the bed again. He was pleased Charlie seemed more like herself. “It’s not as though I haven’t done anything like this. Too many times to count, actually.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better before I drown beneath a wave of hideous embarrassment,” said Charlie. “But I appreciate your efforts all the same.” She sipped the water and wiped her face. “Good Lord, what a mess I am. I think I might like to repair to the dressing room. I need to get these blasted pins out of my hair.” She tugged at the collapsing, Grecian-style coiffure. “I feel like a hedgehog has taken up residence on my head, and heaven knows I could use some tooth powder and a comfit or two.”

  “If you feel up to it. And if you still need a hand with your gown and necklace etcetera, I promise to be the perfect gentleman and loosen or remove anything you want. Without looking, of course.”

  “Of course. Not that I’d mind if you sneaked a peek. But I know what a stickler you are for the proprieties, Max. At least around me.” She sighed. “It’s really just the pearl buttons at the back of my bodice that are a darned nuisance. There are far too many, and they’re all annoyingly tiny. And perhaps you could loosen the knot at the top of my corset. Molly always ties it far too tightly.”

  “Your wish is my command, my lady,” Max said. “I’m here to help.”

  And help he did, although by the time he’d undone the row of damnably small pearl buttons, he was a lather of frustrated lust, despite his best efforts not to be. The more he tried to focus on the task at hand and ignore the fact he was revealing inch by delicious inch of Charlie’s bare shoulders and her undergarments, the worse things got. It also didn’t help matters when he was working at the ruthlessly knotted ties of her pretty silk corset—one that was strikingly similar to the one she’d been wearing at the Rouge et Noir Club—that he suddenly recalled that Charlie had mentioned something to him about a naughty painting. Because if she had posed for a risqué portrait… No, he would not think about his friend’s sister in an even greater state of undress than she was right at this very moment.