The Dangerous Duke (17 page)

Sir Marcus took several steps back and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Let it not be said I erred in social conduct …for once,” he said in his lazy manner.

As Devlin fumed, Sir Marcus lowered his hands and said quietly, “It’s no business of mine, to be sure, but hear me out on this score. If you are just about to tie the knot with the lovely Lady Penelope, why should you care with whom your mother’s companion chooses to associate?”

Devlin’s face whitened. He had almost been trapped by the man’s words and his own foolish anger into indiscretion. If he denied his pending engagement to Lady Penelope, there would be Hell to pay from her, and he would compromise Fenella. If he expressed any sentiments toward Fenella, she would be compromised anyway. The man was clever, but in fact all he had done was voice Devlin’s own confusion at the state of affairs.

Gathering his wits, Devlin thought coldly for a few moments. He suppressed his emotions and fiery words with iron self-control. He looked Sir Marcus in the eye and said, “Solesby, without being insulting, you know your reputation with the ladies.”

Sir Marcus inclined his head and let a self-deprecating smile play across his mouth. “I know my reputation, and it is with a particular class of ladies. We are not talking about the same thing here.”

“No,” said Devlin, “I’ll give you that. However, many people here know you for what you appear to be under certain circumstances, and if your friendship continues with Miss Preston, who possibly is unaware of this”—he raised an eyebrow—”I fear her reputation will come under scrutiny by a free association with you. Will you leave her alone?”

The two men glared at each other, bitter green eyes meeting chips of blue ice in a battle of wills. The air was thick with tension.

“No.” Sir Marcus’ tone was rough and his voice hoarse with suppressed anger. “I will not leave her alone as you say. I will not compromise her, as you fear so much, but if she chooses to talk to me and dance with me, you cannot stop me …or her.”

He turned on his heel and walked away.

Devlin called after him, “I’ll see you in Hell, Solesby.”

“Then I’ll be in good company.” Sir Marcus tossed the words over his shoulder. “By the way, she does know about my reputation and thinks that given the vice and degradation of a teeming metropolis such as London, it is not surprising. She is also of the opinion that it is far worse on the Continent.”

He stopped and turned to face Devlin, their gazes locking across the expanse of polished floor. “You must surely understand now why I am so fascinated. She is a woman in a million.” He disappeared into the Long Drawing Room.

* * * *

Later that evening, when the last guests had disappeared into their rooms and the sleepy footmen had extinguished the candles, Devlin lay on his bed, half-undressed, lost in thought and unable to sleep. He had just dismissed Jackson for the night. The candle guttered low, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows on the wall. These gyrating shapes occupied his line of vision although he stared unseeingly at them. Confused thoughts played through his mind. He wished he could somehow make time stand still, turn back the clock, unsay the words, undo the actions—but it was too late. He would be forced into offering for Lady Penelope at the ball.

Suddenly he heard a faint tapping outside his room. He rose, padded over to the door and opened it. A hooded, cloaked figure stood before him. He fell back a step and then moved forward, grabbing the figure. A muffled squeak and the unmistakable feel of a woman’s curves told him this was no intruder. He pulled the figure into the room and ripped away the cloak. A radiant Lady Penelope stood in front of him. Under the cloak, she was naked, but for a transparent black robe which left nothing to the imagination. She still wore her glittering jewels from dinner and she struck a dramatic and sensual figure.

“Good God, woman!” he said, in utter shock. “What are you doing here?”

She pouted and moved into his arms. “Oh, Dev, I couldn’t bear another night without you, not another night without your body, your strength, your manliness to comfort me. You know what I need.”

As she spoke, her deft hand snaked into his breeches. At the same time, she fastened her lips on his and slid her tongue into his mouth. Instantly he jerked back, thrusting her away.

“Are you insane?” he snapped in a low voice. “The place is full of guests; it’s the eve of just about the most important event for my mother and all you want is to make love?”

Lady Penelope flounced away, her face hard with anger at this direct slight.

“I see,” she seethed. “Then it’s clear your interests lie elsewhere. We’ll see what the rest of the world has to say about this.”

Devlin grasped her arm and drew her to the bed.

“Here, sit down,” he said in a gentler tone. “Try to understand; tomorrow night is so important for Mama and I cannot be distracted in any way.”

While he stroked her face and tidied her dishevelled curls, his mind was racing. The last thing he needed was Lady Penelope’s vituperative tongue spreading and embellishing lies around Town. He cared nothing for his reputation, since many would attribute her spite to the scorn of yet another female who had failed to capture the elusive bachelor. No, it was for Fenella he feared, though he could not understand why he cared about her good name when the woman was nothing but an exasperating, wayward brat. He patted the bed and shifted Penelope closer to him.

“So please, my dearest, will you be patient just a while longer?”

She turned her sullen face away. “I think you are leading me on, keeping me on a string, and if there’s someone else perhaps you should tell me.”

“There is no one else,” he lied in desperation. Then he mentally corrected himself; it was no lie. Fenella did not want him.

“Then what has come between us?” Her turquoise gaze was inexorable.

“It’s nothing, just the events of the past few days.”

“I hope Sir Marcus being here has not upset you too much,” she probed.

Devlin clenched his jaw. “As long as Sir Marcus behaves himself, then I have no objection to his presence here.”

Lady Penelope rose and gave a few twirls to show off the sheer garment and to make sure Devlin noticed what he was missing.

“I am certain he’ll behave. He’s trying to impress that insipid creature your mother has in tow,” she jeered.

The next minute she felt a grip like a vise close around her wrist and Devlin swung her to face him. His gaze was relentless, his voice almost savage as he ground the words between his teeth.

“Ah, now I see your plan, my lady. You want to discredit this woman to spite me?”

He glared at her with eyes that seemed to bore right into her mind and read her thoughts.

Lady Penelope wriggled a little, affecting annoyance and feminine pique.

“Let me go,” she complained. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Why should I go to such lengths to discredit that nobody? And why should I worry about her unless you are truly infatuated with her and seek to protect her for your own personal reasons?”

Her bolt struck home. Once again, Devlin knew he had to tread with care and make the reason for his interests in Fenella’s welfare seem reputable. Devlin looked at her; his eyes narrowed, seeking the truth. Lady Penelope gazed back with her eyes wide open, seemingly guileless.

Devlin let out a long breath and relaxed his grip on her arm. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression; perhaps all this was none of her doing and the blame lay fully at Sir Marcus’ door? Devlin pulled her up so that their faces almost met.

Ignoring her mewling protest, he continued, “Let me warn you now, so listen and listen well. Let your friend touch one hair on her head; let him make one wrong move; let him sully or discredit her in any way, I can assure you it will be over. There will be no marriage, no fine match with the Duke of Wyndlesham and Society shall hear of how you stooped so low as to poison another person’s existence through your own insane jealousy. I have not forgotten how you endangered her life.”

He flung her away from him and she sank, shuddering, into a crumpled heap on the floor. She lay there, weeping quietly but Devlin remained unmoved by her muffled sobs. He turned his head away from her.

“By God, but you have served me well. Get out!” His voice was sarcastic and cold.

Lady Penelope pulled her cloak around herself and slipped away.

Devlin threw on a robe and strode from one end of his bedroom to the other. His mind was made up; he could not marry that viper. Devlin was sure that, despite her denials, somehow she had a hand in this whole fiasco. Lady Penelope must have put Sir Marcus up to it. It was impossible to believe otherwise. If his suspicions were correct, he was shocked at the level of deception she was prepared to entertain in order to get what she wanted.

The only solution was to let Penelope think she had won. If she thought she was going to get her own way, she would call off Sir Marcus and behave herself. He decided to play for time, get the ball over with, remove himself and Penelope back to London and there, after a decent interval, break with her. He would spend more time in the country, make Fenella see he was not the ogre she thought and perhaps he could mend the rift between them. The problem of her social standing still worried him but he could not dwell upon that. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around the room.

He needed a drink.

He slipped quietly into the corridor and made his way toward the stairs leading down to the library. To get there, Devlin had to pass Fenella’s bedroom.

As he turned the corner to make his way along the corridor, where he knew her room to be, he noticed a man standing at the door, fumbling with the door handle. He strode quickly down the passage and was astounded to see Sir Marcus standing outside Fenella’s door. He was dressed in a velvet robe and slippers and was ineffectually trying to conceal a brandy decanter under his arm.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Devlin demanded in a low whisper.

“Good evening, Deverell,” Sir Marcus slurred. “Pardon me for the liberty.” He gestured at the decanter. “I’ll return it in the morning. Just needed a little nightcap.”

“You can drink the whole damn cellar if you like!” Devlin snapped. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

Sir Marcus gave Devlin a long, albeit owlish look. “I’m …er …going to bed.”

“I can see that,” Devlin retorted. “What you are doing
here
?”

“I’m trying to get into the bedroom. The door seems to be a trifle stiff in the jamb.”

“I suppose you think you have the right to be in this bedroom?” Devlin growled.

Sir Marcus looked puzzled. “Yes. It’s my bedroom.”

Devlin took in a deep breath. “Oh,
your
bedroom, is it?”

Mystified, Sir Marcus replied, “Yes, and I think I have the right to spend the night here.”

Devlin bristled with rage. “So you have the
right
, do you?”

Sir Marcus replied with infinite patience, “Yes.”

“Then spend it there, damn you,” Devlin swore and strode back to his own bedroom.

A bewildered Sir Marcus finally managed to manoeuvre the door open. He got into bed, confiding to the decanter his view that perhaps the Sixteenth Duke was manifesting a hitherto unknown strain of madness in the family.

Devlin tossed and turned the remainder of the night in a state of confusion. Regardless of who had set the affair in motion, it now appeared that Fenella was not averse to Sir Marcus’ further attentions. Maybe there was something more to this than just an experienced older man charming a young woman barely out the schoolroom. He was making a fool of himself trying to protect a woman who evidently welcomed such libertine attentions. The die was cast. If Fenella was prepared to accept such a scoundrel as her lover, Devlin resolved to marry Lady Penelope. He would announce the engagement at the ball the following night. First, he would get the proof he needed. It wanted only an hour or two until the dawn before Devlin finally fell into an exhausted and fretful slumber.

Lady Penelope woke the next day seething with agitation. She had spent a restless night, undecided as to whether her mood should be one of fury against Devlin’s high-handed and autocratic manner or one of delight at having finally got her way. Her decision to choose the latter was marred only by the knowledge that to succeed she had to end Sir Marcus’ pursuit of Fenella.

“Damn that girl,” she muttered while dressing. Maria’s efforts to assist irritated Lady Penelope so much that it was only after she had administered a sharp slap on her face, which reduced Maria to tears, that her mistress perked up. It was as if she had released her frustration on the hapless maid and felt much better for it afterward.

Muttering dire imprecations, Maria sullenly picked up the discarded clothing while her mistress, radiant in a white muslin day dress, tripped down the stairs in search of her accomplice. Blenkins advised her that Sir Marcus had already breakfasted and was now in the rose garden. With as much dignity as she could muster, Lady Penelope hastened to the garden. Sir Marcus was sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarillo. He looked up as she approached.

“Whither away, fair maiden?” he asked, with an unaccustomed smile.

“Oh, do stop being so smug and cheerful,” she snapped as she sat down next to him, for once uncaring that some curls had fallen from their place and she was out of breath. She waved her hands at the tendrils of smoke, uttering a genteel cough. Sir Marcus obligingly ground out the offending object under his heel.

He raised his eyebrows at her stormy expression. “My apologies for being so joyful on this glorious day. What’s the problem now?”

“The problem now is that you have to leave the stupid girl alone—completely alone or else Devlin won’t propose. You must totally ignore her.”

“What do you mean?” he asked in surprise. “First you
admonish
me for not wanting to seduce her, saying I have to pay her attention so that Devlin will be jealous and inspired to propose marriage. Now you tell me on no account must I pay her any attention because that will cause Devlin to withdraw the proposal he hasn’t even made yet. I thought you were happy we’re getting along so well. Wasn’t this your master plan for matrimony?”

“Well, things have changed.” Lady Penelope thrust out her lower lip and allowed herself the smallest of frowns. “Everything has changed.”

“Changed? In what way?”

“Devlin is no fool. He has realised what game you’re playing and he wants an end to it.” She unfurled her parasol and shaded her face from the sun.

“You mean he has realised what game
you’re
playing and has threatened you unless
you
put an end to it.”

Her tight lips and worried expression revealed the truth. Sir Marcus crossed one leg and leaned back against the bench, savouring the sunshine.

“Yes, all right, so that is the case,” she snarled. “But can you leave well alone for now and save your courtship until later …much later? Wait until after the ball and the ring is safe on my finger.”

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what he said?” His voice was patient.

“I went to Devlin’s room last night.” She caught sight of his surprised expression and reddened. “Just don’t lecture me now. I know it was not the best course of action.”

“Hardly,” he murmured, “with a house—a very big house—full of guests, but pray do continue.”

“I mentioned you, and said I hoped he didn’t mind your presence and he said as long as you behaved then you were accepted as a guest. Then I said you were behaving very well because you were trying to impress that silly little thing and he erupted.”

“Interesting.” Sir Marcus looked thoughtful.

“Anyway, the long and the short of it is that he said I had won, but if you in any way besmirched her name, tried to seduce her and all sorts of other things, there would be no wedding and—” she stopped.

“And?” he prompted.

“The unfeeling scoundrel threatened to tell everyone that your proposed seduction of the simpering chit was my idea out of jealousy. He said he would ruin me.”

Sir Marcus raised his expressive brows. “He said what?”

Lady Penelope sniffed. “Well, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant.”

“So?”

“So you have to leave the girl alone, at least until Devlin has made a formal announcement and I have the ring on my finger. He will never break the engagement—the scandal would be too horrid—and I will never let him go, so I’ll have what I want.” She sat back, a triumphant smile curling her lips.

“And what about me?” asked Sir Marcus. “Will I have what I want?”

“But you don’t want
her
!” Lady Penelope cried out. “You don’t even like that kind of woman. You prefer those low-class courtesans and lots of them.”

“Perhaps I have changed my tastes,” he murmured, inspecting a boot not polished to perfection. “Look at this thumb-print! Shocking. I must have a stern word with my valet.”

She stared at him in disbelief and her mouth fell open in utter amazement.

“What are you saying? That you have reformed?” She gave a small shriek of derisive laughter and slapped his wrist in a playful manner. “A reformed rake, that’s rich! Oh, Marcus, don’t play the fool with me. I know you too well.”

Sir Marcus stood up and stretched. “No, I don’t think you do, m’dear. You don’t know me at all.” He made as if to walk away.

Lady Penelope sprang to her feet and grasped his sleeve. Her face was ashen. “What do you mean? Are you going to continue with this courtship? But you don’t have to. Can’t you see there’s no need any longer? You have to stop. I demand that you stop instantly.”

He turned to face her and his lazy smile had gone. His face was grim. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“You must!” she whispered, haggard with shock. “I demand that you stop! If you don’t, I won’t get what I want.”

“That’s all I ever hear about …what
you
want!” he said. “Now I want something that I may never have again in my life.”

“What?” she sneered. “A chance to reform?”

“No,” he said quietly. “A chance to find my self-worth again and to be loved.”

“No one will love you.” Hatred contorted her face. “No one could love you.”

“If you’re not careful, m’dear,” he said coldly, “no one will love
you
. And since I am a man, I think I’ll have a better chance than you at finding a companion.” He grinned. “Not so much competition and in my case age does not matter,” he said with a cruel twist to his lips as he strolled off.

“By the by,” he tossed the words carelessly over his shoulder, “Deverell’s right. It
was
your idea out of jealousy.”

Lady Penelope stamped her foot in rage. Damn all men. She would have to manage alone. Whatever happened, it was imperative Devlin believe she had nothing to do with it. Sir Marcus must take the blame.

* * * *

Hustle and bustle filled the day as the last preparations were made, the flowers were finally cut and arranged, the menus checked, and a nervous Cook reassured that she and her army of under cooks and scullery maids would doubtless do a sterling job. Fenella flew about, glad to be of use. It seemed as if there was still so much to complete. Someone had to confer with Blenkins as to the placing of the musicians. In addition, Mrs. Perkins wanted to discuss the room arrangements for several late guests. The setting up of card tables in the Italian Saloon could not be left to the last minute; and Roberts respectfully enquired if there were enough chairs in the ball room for those persons who desired to watch rather than dance, or rest between sets. Fenella felt as if she had wings on her feet as she sped from task to task. The servants were quite capable of following their orders efficiently, but the excitement of the ball made them all feel as if they needed confirmation that they were doing everything right. Fenella briefly saw Devlin as he strode toward the stables with orders for Finch regarding the stabling of horses. However, she was so busy that it came as a shock to her when the clock showed four and she realised she had not thought of him once the whole day.

Before she slipped upstairs where an anxious Molly was waiting to help her dress, Fenella stole into the ballroom. The glittering chandeliers, hung with heavy crystals, seemed so regal and sumptuous. The Holland covers were removed from the furniture and everything stood in readiness for the evening’s entertainment. Masses of fragrant flowers scented the air with a rich, heady perfume. The room had an expectant air, as if in anticipation of a magnificent event. Fenella sighed and twirled round and round, holding out her arms to an imaginary prince.

“Practising for tonight?” His voice always shattered her composure.

She spun round, aghast at being discovered. Her arms fell to her sides. She was speechless.

“Will you dance tonight, Miss Preston?” Devlin’s face was stern and there was a faint tinge of sadness in his voice.

“Perhaps,” she stammered. “I’m not sure…I think the Dowager will guide me in that regard.”

He frowned. “Yes, I am sure she will.” He gave her a small bow. “Excuse me. I have matters to see to before tonight.”

“Of course,” she said, but he had already gone.

Berating herself for being such a gauche idiot, Fenella made her way to her room where an anxious Molly was hopping from one foot to the other with impatience. As Fenella opened the door, Molly pounced on her, almost dragging her clothes from her body and gabbling that if she did not bathe now it would be too late. Fenella realised that, apart from the brief conversation with the Dowager regarding her attire for the evening, there had been no further talk on the subject. As she opened her mouth, Molly interjected with a sly grin.

“Now don’t worry about the gown, Miss. Look on the bed.”

Fenella saw the familiar white box and her spirits rose. It must be even more beautiful than the apple green dress.

“And,” said Molly with a smug expression, “’er Grace says ye’re to go along to ’er room before goin’ downstairs, so she can see ye first. I told her of course ye would.”

Fenella looked at Molly, her eyes shining with anticipation. “Shall we look now or later, Molly?”

“Let’s get ready, then we’ll open the box.”

With Molly’s nimble fingers to assist, Fenella was clad in her shift in no time at all. Her heart pounded with excitement as Molly reverently slid the lid off the box and drew out the garment. Her piercing shriek of astonishment was followed seconds later by Fenella’s indrawn breath. The dress was pure white satin with an over dress of spangled gauze. The entire garment was embroidered with tiny pearls and crystals so that as Molly held it up for Fenella to admire, the dress shimmered with myriad twinkling points of light. A demi-train gave an air of sophistication and drew attention to a heavy hem of embroidery. Long white satin gloves and a delicate scarf for draping over her arms completed the picture. Fenella picked up the embroidered white satin slippers and held them to her breast.

“She is so kind,” she whispered.

“She is too,” murmured the prosaic Molly, “but ye’ve been ever so kind to ’er as well, Miss, so ye deserves it, I think.”

Fenella allowed Molly to help her into the dress and turned to the mirror.

“Not yet, Miss,” Molly said sternly. “We’ve got lots o’ work to do on them curls!”

Muttering under her breath, Molly painstakingly created a sophisticated arrangement, which did justice to Fenella’s hair and revealed her long, swan-like neck. Fenella put on her jewels and then glanced at her coiffure.

“Molly,” she lamented, “do you think you could get me something pretty from the garden for my hair.”

Molly vehemently shook her head. “There’s no need, Miss. It’s a secret but that’s why ’er Grace needs ye to go to ’er room first.” Her country face reddened even more as she allowed herself to spill some part of the mystery. “I think she ’as sumpin’ fer yer ’air.”

Fenella smiled. It was possibly a clip or some small trinket. She was wrong. When Fenella presented herself at the Dowager’s door, Harbottle admitted her. Even Harbottle’s usually sallow features were flushed with excitement as she murmured a compliment.

“Come in, my dear,” called the Dowager. “Let’s have a look at you.”

Fenella obligingly pirouetted for the old lady to admire the exquisite dress.

“Enchanting!” she exclaimed.

“I think it is a little too low-cut.” Fenella frowned as she tried to tug the bodice higher.

“What nonsense. You are not in a nunnery. You have a beautiful figure and this is the occasion to show it off.”

“Oh, ma’am,” Fenella cried. “See the fine detail. The embroidery must have taken hours.”

“But well worth the effort,” the Dowager smiled in response. “Now something for your hair, I think.”

She waved to Harbottle who sped forward with a blue velvet box. Fenella opened it. Inside lay a small diamond and pearl tiara, dainty enough for a young woman’s first ball and as exquisite as if it were made of dewdrops.

“It’s beautiful,” Fenella breathed. “I cannot wear this.”

“I insist,” the Dowager replied. “It will be far too hot to wear fresh flowers, and it is only for this evening so you need not feel consumed with guilt as you usually are whenever I make you a gift.”

She and Fenella gazed at each other. “Please, just to satisfy the whims of an old woman?”

Fenella nodded. “It’s perfect and see how near it is to my mother’s jewels.”

The old lady nodded approvingly. “It was Devlin’s great grand-mama’s, hence the older style, but since it seems to match your own jewels, I thought it might suit the occasion, and I was right.”

Harbottle placed the tiara in Fenella’s hair and she and the Dowager walked slowly down the stairs to meet the rush of guests arriving all at once.

Devlin approached his mother. “There you are, Mama. Are you ready? You look wonderful.”

The Dowager, regal in purple satin and wearing the Deverell diamonds, smiled and blew him a kiss. “Thank you, my dear. Doesn’t Fenella look very charming tonight?”

The mellow candle light struck the crystal and pearl embroidery and points of brightness scintillated off the tiny beads. The dress shimmered in the evening glow.