Sins of a Wicked Duke (7 page)

Fallon nodded. “Very good, sir.”

With a final measuring look, Mr. Adams strode away.

Fallon released a shaky breath and leaned back against the railing. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, but at least the duke had not recognized her. On the contrary. He had thought it necessary to warn her to steer clear of the women on his staff. Ridiculous. But she was safe. Secure in her position. For now.

Dominic dragged a hand through his hair and dropped back into his bed. After a night with Celeste, he was due a little rest. His mouth twisted. Even if she had turned out to be a thief, her company had been…delectable.

Sighing, he idly rubbed his forehead. Delectable. And yet, he still felt…unsatisfied. The same restlessness that had plagued him while abroad, following him from city to city, country to country, woman to woman, still prowled inside him. Returning home had not changed that.

He had chalked up his urge to return as homesickness. Homesickness for England. Not, by any means,home . Home did not exist for him. He had not stepped foot in Wayfield Park since his majority. And he never would again.

True, Wayfield Parkbelonged to him. Even if the old bastard resided under its roof. Dominic could eject him, send him back to the village vicarage where he could tend his flock with unflagging zeal. But what did Dominic care if he remained in that hulking pile of bricks and rocks? His grandfather could rot and die under the frescoed ceilings that had stood silent witness to all the days of his wretched youth.

Still, there was no accounting this ennui. After a night with the voracious Celeste, he should be satisfied. Even his canvas and paints in the next room did not beckon, ever ready to block the pain…to fill him with inspiration. Bloody troublesome. His life consisted of two passions: shagging and painting. Nothing else could make him feel, could chase free the numbness he had learned at the knee of his grandfather. Or rather, at the skirts of Mrs. Pearce.

He stretched, his nape tingling as the memory of wild, untamed hair, glorious as a red-tinged sunset, washed over him. Her face was a bit hazy—the carriage had been dim, the streets dimmer yet—but that hair he would never forget. The viper-tongued wench he’d dropped off at the Hotel Daventry lingered in his thoughts still. His fingers itched for a brush, and he knew before the day ended he would paint what he could remember of her—all fire and wild wind. Fallon O’Rourke. Irish, he presumed. He wouldn’t have her beneath him, but he would still snare her for his canvas. At least what he remembered of her.

Dragging a hand over his face, he contemplated locating her. She hadn’t exactly responded to his proposition…but there had been something in her gaze, a spark. With the right amount of persuasion, she could come around. He had been charming women out of their skirts since his fourteenth year. He did it well. His wealth, lofty title, and wicked reputation all conspired to break down the most resistant lady. Sin had become his life’s purpose.

Dominic closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, attempting to assuage the dull ache growing there.

“Ah, you’re awake. Shall I bring your clothes to you, Your Grace?”

He dropped his hand from his eyes and peered up at Diddleworth’s ingratiating smile. A flush glowed beneath the light coating of powder on his hollow cheeks.

Dominic grimaced. “Later.”

“Oh.” The valet’s expression fell. His gaze shifted to the salver he held, scattered with correspondence. “Then perhaps we could use this time to run through your social calendar and decide which invitations to accept?”

“You mean I’m still being invited into Society?” He snorted, then grinned, recalling the incident four years ago that marked his decision to depart British Society.

He thought theton had banned him after his dip in Lady Waverly’s garden pond during a soiree honoring the engagement of her daughter. Especially since he had convinced Lady Waverly’s daughter to join him.Nude . A small chuckle escaped him. The young lady had been none too thrilled about her upcoming nuptials and quite eager for a little diversion.

“Of course.” Diddlesworth sniffed indignantly. “You’re a duke. A coveted guest to any fête. People fall over themselves for you and rightly so.”

Dominic made an inarticulate sound in his throat, even as he supposed there was some truth to what his valet claimed. The season’s hostesses likely deemed his presence an enlivening element to any event.

“Let them fall over themselves then. I have no desire to go out. Not to anyton event, at any rate.” It was no longer necessary to scandalize Society. He’d proven he was irredeemable. Precisely the demon his grandfather charged him to be.

Frustration flashed in Diddlesworth’s eyes. “Your Grace, you cannot hole yourself away—”

“I’ve no intention of holing myself away. I intend to go out this very night.” Though, why he bothered to defend himself to his vexing valet, he hadn’t a clue.

Diddlesworth’s face brightened. “Indeed, Your Grace?”

“To Madame Fleur’s. I understand she is having one of her masques.”

“Madame Fleur?” His features scrunched in a scowl. “Is she not a…courtesan? You’re going to a brothel?”

Dominic crossed his ankles and folded his hands behind his head. “A brothel,” he snorted. “Madame Fleur is legend. She would be most offended to hear you designate her venerable establishment to a scurrilous brothel.”

“I can think to describe it only thusly, Your Grace. You do yourself no service crossing its threshold.” Diddlesworth frowned in a manner too reminiscent of Dominic’s stuffy old grandfather. The realization went down like a bitter pill, and he had to question why he allowed Adams to force a bloody valet on him in the first place. He had gone without one while abroad. He certainly did not require one now. Adams was set in his ways, though, and still believed in running a household like it was 1810, with all the pomp and ceremony of bewigged footmen and fastidious valets.

“See here, Diddlewatts—”

“Diddlesworth.”

“You’re not my keeper. I go where I want, when I want. If you don’t care for the way I live, you’re free to seek a position elsewhere. Understand?”

Diddlesworth nodded tightly, although he still wore that infernal frown.

“Good.” Rolling on his side, Dominic presented the valet with his back. “That will be all, Diddle-knot,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I have need of you. Do not disturb me again.”

He heard the man’s exasperated breath, but this time the valet did not correct him on the proper pronunciation of his name. “Very good, sir.”

Dominic smiled at the soft tread fading from the room, wondering how far he would have to go before the fop resigned. Perhaps then Adams would rest on the matter of his needing a valet. The demon duke did not require a watchdog.

“This bucket isso heavy.”

Fallon ignored Nancy’s soft exclamation and fixed her attention on the massive arrangement of flowers she was carrying to the foyer table. Her arms strained from the effort, but she knew the average man could heft the heavy vase full of water and flowers and she best appear the average man.

“Oh!” Nancy grunted.

Fallon darted a quick glance to where the maid dropped the bucket on the marbled floor in a great display of drama, her expression one of pain as she rubbed the small of her back.

Set the vase down and don’t look back. Don’t meet her gaze.Fallon had done her best to avoid the girl—especially with the duke’s warning ringing in her ears—but she had taken to shadowing Fallon.

The maid tried again. Groaning, she lifted the bucket again. “Ugh, this is soheavy .”

Setting the vase upon the center of the marble-topped table, Fallon inwardly sighed. What choice did she have? A red-blooded man wouldnever ignore an attractive woman. Especially one in need of help—however feigned. And Fallon must, foremost, appear as a man. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the maid.

Nancy smiled brightly.

Fallon cringed.

Easing the bucket down, the girl sent a reproachful glance up the looming stairs. Her lips pulled into a pretty pout. “It’s all those dreadful steps.” Placing both hands on her hips, she stretched, straining her breasts against the front of her dress.

Fallon stifled a snort. She had known girls like Nancy all her life—those who used their wiles to entice others to do their work. Fallon never dared. Sooner or later payment was expected. Either young Nancy was too naïve to know that or she was willing to deliver when the time came.

Swallowing down an epithet, Fallon stepped forward and took the bucket, committed to playing her part to the fullest, even if it meant breakingher back. “Allow me.”

Nancy clapped her hands before her considerable bosom. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”

Dipping her head, Fallon rolled her eyes where Nancy could not see. “I insist. It’s much too heavy for you.”

“Oh, what a gentleman,” Nancy gushed. Stepping forward, she squeezed Fallon’s arm, her hand lingering.

“Where shall I take this?”

“The master’s rooms. I’m responsible for supplying fresh coal there twice daily.”

Fallon nodded, hoping that Nancy did not expect her to carry a bucket upstairs for her twice every day.

Tossing a weak smile at the girl, Fallon headed up the steps with the bucket. She walked carefully down the corridor, mindful not to spill any coals on the rich, gold-threaded runner. At the master’s door, she knocked briskly. She had worked in the kitchens, running errands for Cook most of the morning and did not know whether the duke was in residence. Rapping again, she waited several moments more. No response. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped within the shadowed chamber. The hush of the room struck her as almost reverent, almost as though she stepped inside a church’s hallowed interior. Absurd considering the man who occupied the space doubtlessly conducted all manner of vice within its walls.

With the drapes drawn, it might well have been midnight. Only a bare slit of light crept from between the drapes. Red and orange embers glowed from the grate and she hastened in that direction, feeling very much an intruder.

She scanned the dark and musty chamber as she walked—the veritable lion’s den. Only the lion was out, she reassured herself. A massive four-poster with a rumpled white coverlet sat against one wall. She blinked and stopped at the sight of it.White? Virginal and pure as a dove’s breast. Somehow she expected the demon duke to sleep shrouded in scarlet sheets. Or black. She could well envision him there. The wicked handsome beast of a man at love play with one of his many paramours. A tightness grew in the center of her chest at the thought.

Thanks to him, she possessed a fairly good idea of what that entailed. At least at the beginning. In her mind, she saw that broad hand lifting a breast toward his lips, holding it, squeezing. Unfortunately, in her mind that breast resembled hers. Stinging heat crept up her neck. Her belly clenched, twisted. She pressed a hand against her stomach.

She shifted her gaze from the imposing bed…and shoved the image of the demon duke tangled amid those sheets—withher —from her head.

Strange that no one had tidied the bed yet. The chamber’s furnishings, while appropriately opulent for the bedchamber of a duke, seemed at odds with the duke himself. While it was exactly the type of bedchamber she imagined a highborn lord to occupy, it wasn’thim . He did not adorn himself richly as a duke of the realm might, but rather—when he wore clothes at all—attired himself simply. A dark jacket. A vest and cravat of abstemious black. No personal belongings littered the opulent chamber. It struck her as a mere domicile. Simply a place to sleep. Nothing more. Not even a home.

A large mahogany desk loomed like a beast before the French doors leading to the balcony. She somehow suspected he rarely sat behind its mammoth proportions. That would hint at an industrious side to the duke. Smiling ruefully, she crouched before the grate and opened its door. Likely the only thing he worked hard at was waging sin.

Resting a hand on her knee—and relishing the freedom of movement her breeches offered—she dug a shovel into the coals, adding several into the smoldering grate.

“What the devil is that racket?”

She dropped the shovel into the bucket with a clatter, her hand flying to her throat at the sudden rough voice. Whirling around, she watched in horror as the rumpled bed began to shift and move like a great beast emerging from a snowdrift. A dark head appeared, popping up amid the pile of bedding. Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened.No .

With one arm wrapped around a plump pillow, he rose on an elbow, blinking and scratching his head. Tousled dark hair flew in every direction before falling to his shoulders. His scaled serpent tattoo rippled with the movement of his muscled shoulder, almost as though it lived and breathed there on his flesh. Her mouth dried and watered invariably. She fought to swallow past the sudden thickness of her throat. His body more resembled a young laborer of the field than a lily-handed nobleman. And that tattoo…it belonged on a wicked pirate.

He blinked several more times before his gaze found her crouched before the grate. Her fingers grew numb where they clutched the bucket handle.

“What are you doing in here?” The deep throaty sound of his voice puckered her skin to gooseflesh. “I told Diddlesworth I was not to be disturbed.”