How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes

by Bennett, Amy Rose

  No, not yet…

  She smiled to herself and let her gaze wander out of her sitting-room window to the light rain falling on the plane trees in Berkeley Square. Her Grand Passion with Max was still very much ongoing. In the week since he’d first “ravished” her in his carriage, he’d also ravished her just as thoroughly on the way home from the theater a few nights later. And following an intimate dinner party hosted by Olivia and Hamish at Sleat House in Grosvenor Square the night before, she and Max had managed to slip away to share a passionate kiss in the back garden.

  A knock at the door roused Charlie from her musings, and she closed her notebook just as Molly admitted Sophie. Charlie had been expecting her, and a tea service along with a plate of cakes, sandwiches, and savory pastries were already set out on the low table by the fire.

  Once they were armed with cups of tea and settled upon one of the settees—Peridot had claimed the other chair—Sophie began to unabashedly quiz Charlie. “So, what happened?” she asked, her blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Did your moonlit tryst go according to plan after Nate and I left?”

  Even though Charlie felt herself blushing, she didn’t mind her sister-in-law’s good-natured interrogation. “It did,” she said. “And I’m grateful you convinced Nate to go home a little early, otherwise I wouldn’t have been game enough to suggest taking a turn about the terrace with Max. I’m sure Arabella and Olivia noticed how flushed and disheveled I was when we returned to the drawing room. If their husbands had any inkling, I trust they didn’t go tattling to Nate about what we got up to.”

  “As far as I know, they haven’t,” said Sophie, helping herself to a cucumber sandwich. “Indeed, I’m absolutely certain that Hamish and Gabriel wouldn’t want to see Max and Nate come to blows. Or worse. No, I’m sure Hamish and Gabriel will bury their heads in the sand to keep the peace.”

  Charlie winced and crumbled a discarded edge of her pastry onto her plate. “I feel dreadful going behind Nate’s back. But now Max and I are getting closer—at least in a physical sense—I need to be a little mercenary and make use of every opportunity I can to be intimate with him. Before I know it, the end of the Season will be upon us, and if Max isn’t able to acknowledge that he’s in love with me…” She shook her head. “I won’t settle for anything less than a love match, Sophie. I want all of him or nothing at all.”

  “And nor should you settle,” said her friend. “I’m sure Max is heading in the right direction. Last night, he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at you when Nate wasn’t looking. And don’t think I didn’t notice how he held your hand below the card table when you were playing piquet with Gabriel and Arabella.”

  A jolt of panic shot through Charlie. “Do you think Nate noticed as well?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” said Sophie. “He was playing billiards with Hamish in the next room at that point. No”—she grinned—“it was only Olivia and I who observed what was really going on.”

  Charlie’s smile returned. “Max has been very attentive of late. And I’m thrilled he’s willing to take chances. He kissed me in the shadows of his private box at the Theatre Royal the other night. And when he took me out in his high-perch phaeton in Hyde Park two days ago, he found a secluded grove that we made good use of for several minutes. I must say, while this skulking about adds an element of excitement to our romantic trysts, I would give anything to be able to spend a whole uninterrupted night with Max.”

  Sophie patted her arm. “It will happen. In time.”

  Charlie sighed and offered a corner of her Welsh rarebit to Peridot, who’d woken up and was batting at her mistress’s knee with her paw. “If only Max would throw another house party at Hampstead Heath. The greatest challenge for me right now is watching my tongue during the heat of the moment, so to speak. When Max and I are alone, I’m terrified I’m going to blurt out how I really feel about him and scare him away.” She slipped Peridot another morsel. “I swear he’s as skittish as a horse.”

  “He is. But it seems to be the case with our men, doesn’t it? When they’re in the process of falling in love, they’re liable to bolt at the slightest provocation. I hope you take heart, though. Even though your engagement is supposed to be one of convenience only, you and Max have been firm friends for years, and now you’re well on the way to becoming fully-fledged lovers. You still have time on your side. I’m sure that Max will come to his senses and realize he’s actually head-over-heels in love with you before the end of the Season.”

  “Oh, I hope so, Sophie. And I suppose, as they say, slow and steady wins the race. Max and I have come so far. I won’t give up on him just yet.”

  Sophie smiled. “Good. Speaking of races, when will Max return to London?”

  “The day after tomorrow.” Max had quit London at first light to attend a race meeting in Suffolk the following day—the 1000 Guineas over the Ditch Mile in Newmarket. “He promised his mother that he’d be back in time for the opening of the Royal Academy Art Exhibition at Somerset House, so I trust he’ll keep his word. Cressida is a trustee and expects both of us to attend.” Charlie grimaced into her tea. “Lord knows why she wants me to go.”

  “Perhaps it’s her way of making amends for leaking stories about you to the Beau Monde Mirror,” suggested Sophie. “You mentioned Max had confronted her about that and she’d all but admitted that was the case.”

  “Perhaps…” Charlie wasn’t convinced. She had an uneasy feeling that Cressida would still retaliate in some way, shape, or form. Donning a smile to hide her misgivings, she added, “In any case, I’m happy that Max was able to organize tickets for you, Nate, my father, and indeed, all of our friends to attend as well. It could prove to be quite an enjoyable event.”

  Sophie put down her cup of tea. “I, for one, am looking forward to it. I might not be able to paint to save myself, but I do appreciate a good work of art.”

  “That reminds me”—Charlie glanced up at the mantel clock—“we must be on our way, otherwise we’ll be late for my appointment with Madame de Beauvoir.”

  “Oh, yes.” Sophie dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin, then rose to her feet. “I can’t wait to see your finished portrait. I’m sure you look divine.”

  When the French artist unveiled Charlie’s painting in her Half Moon Street studio a short time later, Charlie was genuinely pleased with the result. “You’ve made me look quite lovely, Madame de Beauvoir. As we agreed, it’s tastefully licentious, yet there’s still an element of mystery about it; the subject could be me, or it might be someone else entirely. It’s perfect.”

  A bright smile broke across Madame de Beauvoir’s face. “Oh, my lady. I am so happy to hear you approve. An unveiling is always so nerve-wracking.”

  “Lovely?” exclaimed Sophie. “It’s more than lovely, Charlie. Your portrait is breathtaking. You could be Aphrodite.”

  “Exactement. The goddess of beauty, love, and passion. That is you, Lady Charlotte, with all of your exquisite curves and chestnut locks. All of the gentlemen of the ton should be falling at your feet, mais non?”

  Charlie laughed. “Well, if I go out and about in a barely-there gown just like that, there’s no doubt I’d be noticed.”

  Sophie nudged her and murmured, “Perhaps you should model a gown like that for Max.”

  “Hmm, now that’s an idea,” said Charlie.

  Madame de Beauvoir clapped her paint-speckled hands together. “Maintenant, my lady, once the paint has finished drying—it will be ready in a few days—and after you’ve chosen a frame, I will have your completed portrait delivered to Hastings House, oui? Will that suit?”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful,” said Charlie. She had the perfect place to hang it in her bedchamber. No one but her closest confidantes would know that the “goddess” lifting the hem of her gown to dip her toes into the water was Lady Charlotte Hastings.

  And as soon as her aunt Tabitha returned to Town, Charlie would give her the biggest hug for making her feel beau
tiful again. Although, truth to tell, it wasn’t only the portrait that had helped to restore her flagging self-confidence.

  Mostly, it was Max and the way he looked at her with desire in his eyes.

  Hopefully, before too long, his gaze would also be filled with love.

  After Charlie had chosen a delicately carved wooden frame covered in gold leaf, Madame de Beauvoir asked her and Sophie if they would be attending the Royal Academy’s Art Exhibition.

  “Why yes, we are,” said Charlie. “And are you, Madame de Beauvoir?”

  A delicate pink blush stained the French woman’s cheeks. “Mais oui, I am, my lady. In fact, I submitted two paintings—a portrait of a young lady and a still life—and the Academy’s council accepted both. It is the first time my work has ever been featured in such a prestigious exhibition, and I consider it a great honor.”

  “Oh, that’s simply marvelous,” declared Charlie. “I shall look out for them as soon as I arrive, then shamelessly boast to everyone within hearing distance that I know the extremely talented artist. And at the end of the event, we shall toast you with fine champagne.”

  Madame de Beauvoir’s blush deepened. “You are too kind, my lady.”

  When Charlie and Sophie emerged onto Half Moon Street a short time later and began wending their way back to Berkeley Square, it began to rain. Edwards, who was trailing them, furnished them with umbrellas.

  “Perhaps we should have taken my carriage,” said Sophie as she side-stepped a puddle. The shower was growing heavier by the moment.

  They’d just turned into Curzon Street. “If we pick up our pace, we’ll be back at Hastings House within a few minutes,” said Charlie. They paused on the pavement to wait for a hackney coach to splash by, and that’s when Charlie felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the cold rain. A few feet away, also pausing at the curb, was a man dressed all in black. His face was shielded by his beaver hat and his umbrella, but there was something about his manner that struck her as odd. Was he watching them? Or even worse, following them?

  Another shiver slid down her spine. She was grateful she’d brought Edwards along. He might be young, but his height and the breadth of his shoulders were impressive. If the stranger did have a nefarious agenda, he’d keep his distance if he had any sense.

  But then again, perhaps she was just being fanciful. Any man dressed all in black tended to remind her of Lord Rochfort. This man was definitely the wrong build—he was too short and narrow-shouldered to be the baron. And from what she’d glimpsed of his profile, he had a weak chin, so not like Rochfort at all, who was almost as square-jawed as Max. Yes, this fellow was probably just a stranger going about his business, and there was nothing sinister going on at all.

  Telling herself to stop being such a nervous ninny, Charlie crossed the street with Sophie, and in next to no time, they were back in Berkeley Square. As she gained the shelter of the portico of Hastings House, Charlie couldn’t resist looking back over her shoulder.

  There were several gentlemen in dark clothes with black umbrellas in the square, but through the veil of falling rain, it was impossible to tell if any of them might be the stranger that had made her feel uneasy. Curse Lord Rochfort—and yes, Cressida too—for making her as jumpy as a hunted hare. How horrible that she was so distrustful these days.

  With a sigh, she entered Hastings House. One thing was certain, she wouldn’t be going anywhere on her own for the foreseeable future. And the sooner Max returned to Town, the better. Whenever she was with him, she felt completely safe and at peace. In his arms, she’d found the home she never wished to leave.

  Would that Max felt the same way about her.

  White’s, St James’s Street, London

  May 1, 1819

  The longcase clock in the corner of White’s chimed the hour, ten o-clock, and Max had to stifle a yawn. Good God, he was tired. He’d only just arrived back in Town a few short hours ago, but when Hamish, who also lived in Grosvenor Square, had come knocking on his door, he’d decided to take the Scot up on his invitation to share a late evening supper with him and the rest of their friends at their favorite gentlemen’s haunt.

  “So, how did your horse go at Newmarket, Max?” Nate, lounging in a leather wingback chair in a quiet corner of the club, eyed him with interest over the rim of his coffee cup. “I haven’t seen any of the results in the newspapers yet.”

  Max grimaced. “She came in fourth. The Duke of Grafton’s filly, Catgut, came in first.”

  “Better luck next time,” offered Gabriel as he plucked an oyster patty off the silver platter on the low oak table between them. “Actually, whenever you next head off to the races, whether it’s Epsom Downs or Ascot—I can never recall what’s next on the racing calendar—we should all make an occasion of it.”

  “That sounds like a braw idea. Count me in,” agreed Hamish as he picked up his coffee.

  “Excellent,” said Max. It was only after he’d taken a sip of his brandy that he realized he was the only one who was imbibing alcohol. Good Lord, how times had changed. “I’ll let you know my plans once I’ve consulted my head trainer,” he added. “To be honest, I’ve been a bit distracted of late…”

  Damn, why did he have to say that? Now Nate was pinning him with a gimlet-eyed stare. Guilt pinched inside Max’s chest, and he took another sip of brandy. While he hated the fact that he’d broken his promise to Nate and hadn’t stayed away from Charlie, he also didn’t regret any of the things he and Charlie had done together over the last little while. A man would have to be a bloody monk or pushing up daisies to not act on his desire for a woman like her. Lady Charlotte Hastings was, in a word, stupendous. And if he wasn’t so damaged inside, they’d probably be married already.

  To cover his verbal blunder—Nate’s glower was growing darker by the second—he ventured, “Before I came here, I had a meeting with Hunt, my inquiry agent. As you know, he’s been looking into Juno Press—the publisher that prints the Beau Monde Mirror—and its parent company, Fortuna Trading. And he discovered something that really shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me…” He caught the gazes of each of his friends. “It appears that one of Rochfort’s close business associates has shares in the company.”

  “What? Rotten Rochfort’s friend owns the Beau Monde Mirror?” said Gabriel.

  “Well, technically he’s only a part-owner. But yes, it would seem so.”

  “That explains a lot, then,” said Nate. “Part of me wishes you’d put down the dog on Hampstead Heath when you had the chance. If the case had been tried in the House of Lords, your peers would’ve let you off.”

  “No doubt,” said Hamish. The light in his one good eye was as hard as flint. “If I’d been in Town when you’d challenged the cur to a duel, I would have gladly gone in your stead. Rochfort still hasn’t paid enough for all of the pain he put Euphemia Harrington through. The way he extorted her jewels and townhouse from her and forced her into penury…” He shook his head, his expression grim. No doubt he was imagining how he would end the baron by cleaving him in two with a broadsword, or better yet, gutting him with a blunt dirk.

  “That reminds me,” said Max. “My man of affairs has been working behind the scenes too. Using a third party, he’s managed to purchase Euphemia’s townhouse on my behalf. I have the deed and intend on returning it to her. I’m not sure if she’ll want to come back to London while Rochfort is still about, but at least her property is hers again to do with as she pleases.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” said Hamish. “She was my mistress, and her wee daughter, Tilda, was my ward for a while, so I’d be happy to share the cost.”

  Max waved a hand. “Think nothing of it, my friend. I’m happy to right an egregious wrong. We’ll consider it a case of noblesse oblige. Mia Harrington is a housekeeper at one of my Devonshire properties, after all.”

  Talk turned to parliamentary and business matters, and while Max enjoyed his friends’ company, his gaze kep
t straying to the longcase clock across the room every now and again. While he was genuinely exhausted from the events of the last few days—the traveling to and from Surrey and the race meeting itself—he couldn’t deny he was chafing at the bit to see Charlie. But he couldn’t very well turn up at Hastings House at half past ten in the evening, demanding to see his fiancée. Not without creating a stir.

  When Nate, Hamish, and Gabriel all decided to call an end to the evening a short time later, Max was green with envy. They were all returning home to their beds, which were no doubt being kept warm by their respective wives, whereas he was going home alone. Before he and Charlie had entered into their faux engagement, it was likely that he would have ended up visiting another gentlemen’s establishment like the Pandora Club or the Rouge et Noir Club, or some other back-alley gaming hell. But now, such places held little appeal.

  After farewelling Gabriel—he lived close by in St James’s Square—Hamish hailed a hackney coach, and Max, still unaccountably disgruntled, climbed inside with Nate and the Scotsman.

  He wanted… Damn it, he wanted to be with Charlie. Although he’d only been absent from London a few days, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he’d missed her. Her smile, her conversation, her lovely face. Her kisses…

  But he had no right to call upon her at this hour. Lord Westhampton would no doubt send him away with a flea in his ear, and if Nate found out that he’d paid a late-night visit to Berkeley Square, he’d be a dead man—so he’d best go home and get a good night’s sleep.

  Perhaps tomorrow he’d take Charlie for a jaunt about Hyde Park. But snatched kisses behind hedges wouldn’t be satisfying for either of them, and he couldn’t very well throw another house party in the middle of the Season.

  At least he’d be spending an inordinate amount of time in Charlie’s company the following day, when he was due to escort her to the opening of the Royal Academy’s Annual Art Exhibition. But they wouldn’t be alone. Half of the ton would be there.