The Dangerous Duke (4 page)

There was another problem as well. Fenella felt the weight of the family secret pressing on her conscience. The Dowager treated her as a family member, and yet here she was deceiving the woman. Finally, Fenella took her courage in both hands and asked the Dowager if she could discuss a matter of great importance with her. They were sitting outside, sheltered by the spreading branches of a large shady oak, with Piper and Floss lolling at their feet. The Dowager looked at Fenella’s woebegone face.

“What could possibly be the matter?”

Fenella took a deep breath and the whole story tumbled out; the death of her mother, her life with her father on his campaigns, her education, the heartbreak of being sent back to England, the shock and horror of hearing of her father’s suicide, and the reasons for it. At the end of twenty tearful minutes, Fenella sat staring at her benefactress, her face swollen with tears, and her nose quite red from being blown so hard and so often.

The Dowager gazed at the forlorn figure. “You poor, dear child! What a time you have had! There’s nothing of which to be ashamed. It’s clear your father was a very brave man to have fought in so many battles and to have been decorated so often. You should be very proud of him.”

“But ma’am,” Fenella sobbed. “Suicide! Gambling! And I deceived you from the very start!”

The Dowager replaced Fenella’s now soggy handkerchief with one of her own and said firmly, “Well, I’m sure you did not intend to deceive me. I’m inclined to think your Aunt Preston had your best interests at heart when she conceived of your amended life history. And as for your father’s shame as you call it …my poor dear husband would have blown his brains out a dozen times or so, I dare say, if I’d let him.”

Fenella was thunderstruck. “What?”

The Dowager tut-tutted as she mopped up Fenella’s remaining tears. “Men can be weak and silly creatures in spite of all their grand show. And when a man loses a woman he loves so much, as your dear Papa lost your Mama, I’m not surprised that he lost his senses as well and ended up doing such foolish things. Think of your father as a brave and wonderful man who chose to end his existence his own way.”

She leaned toward Fenella. “And there’s no need to tell anyone else. You come from good stock and are certainly not responsible for the actions of your parent.”

Fenella was astonished by the Dowager’s utter disregard for the social obstacles created by her background. The Dowager laughed.

“Dear Fenella, so young, so concerned with what must be! By the time you get to my age you’ll realise what life is all about and that happiness is the greatest achievement.”

She sighed and looked over the lake at the rolling lawns, stroking Scheherazade’s head. “I loved Devlin’s father, with all my heart and soul. The moment we met, we fell in love. Of course, we were both too young. However, he was so determined that, in the end, our feelings persuaded our parents to relent. I shared everything with him and we had both love and passion.” A deliciously wicked smile lurked at the corners of her mouth. “Passion! I was a very satisfied woman.”

The Dowager pinched Fenella’s cheek and said, “So, see that the lucky man you choose knows something about pleasing a woman.”

A deep blush burned on Fenella’s face.

If only she knew how much I want that passion and how dreadful is the man who has awakened this longing within me.

Lady Penelope Vane stood by the window of her fashionable, elegantly furnished Mayfair house, staring into the street below. It was teeming with carriages, curricles, broughams and the cream of London’s chic Society—elegant ladies of quality, the smartest of dandies, aspiring matrons anxious to marry their daughters off and eager young men equally anxious to become entangled in the knots of matrimony. People bowed and waved to each other as London’s
beau monde
rallied for the height of the Season. However, Lady Penelope hardly saw the busy throng below. It was a blur of faces and colourful costumes with no meaning. She waited for only one man—Devlin Deverell, Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham.

Lady Penelope cut a striking figure silhouetted against the mid-morning light. Her stylish morning gown was a deep turquoise that matched the colour of her spectacular eyes. The dress was trimmed with satin ribbons under the bust in a style that enhanced her statuesque, sensual body and drew attention to her firm breasts, half exposed by the low, graceful neckline. She was tall and her blonde curls, dressed in Grecian mode in a smart tumble atop her head, added several inches more. With her oval face and peaches-and-cream complexion, Lady Penelope was easily one of the most beautiful women in London. She was also the acknowledged mistress of the Duke of Wyndlesham, even though no one mentioned it openly.

Nevertheless, that was the problem. Lady Penelope bit her bottom lip hard, reddening its cherry fullness even more. She was seething with agitation. The Season had opened without a sign of Deverell these past two weeks. In her view, being a man’s mistress was only acceptable if he had intentions of marriage. At thirty-two, with handsome looks, a title and an enormous fortune, Devlin Deverell was easily the most eligible man in London. The question on everyone’s lips was whether he actually intended to marry in the near future.

A whole Season had passed without even the flicker of a sign of serious commitment from him. Yes, there had been numerous gifts, but only the kind a man would give a woman he bedded, not the kind he should give to a woman he intended to wed. Brooches, earrings, necklaces…she was the envy of most women as she displayed these elaborate tokens of the Duke’s admiration in the round of
soirées
, balls, dinners, luncheons, routs and galas that dominated the Season.

But when would he ask her the fateful question? When would she be wearing an engagement ring? She could not go on like this! She was beginning to look like a fool.

However, at that precise moment Lady Penelope looked more like a goddess of love, the sunlight casting a flattering glow around her halo of golden curls and enhancing the long, sleek lines of her body beneath the hazy material of her dress. The friendly beams also softened the fine lines beginning to show around the corners of her mouth and eyes. To the casual observer, Lady Penelope appeared to be about twenty-three, a deception she encouraged, but in truth, her actual birth date was twenty-five. She would never own to that fact, but it contributed a great deal to her agitation.

She could not endure another Season in the midst of an ever-swelling tide of new, fresh beauties streaming into London with the same intent: to find an eligible, titled man and marry him. Lady Penelope twisted her tiny embroidered handkerchief into knots, splitting the cambric and tearing the fragile material to shreds.

Damn you, Deverell.
She gritted her teeth with silent anger. She simmered with frustration, her nerves raggedly on edge, her emotions a powder keg of rage, waiting to explode at the slightest provocation.

“Why so pensive, Pen?” Sir Marcus Solesby asked, lolling on a green velvet-covered
chaise lounge
.

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped, whirling round on him like a cornered tigress. Her lips were tight and her fine eyes narrowed to slits. Scarlet patches burned on her cheeks. Sir Marcus blinked and sat up a little. A calculating person himself, her sudden outburst of emotion was out of character for a woman he always reckoned had a stone for a heart.

“Deverell’s put you in a huff?”

His question was cautious. Lady Penelope turned her back on him and stared out the window again, taking slow breaths to regain her shattered composure. She hated losing control of herself, which was how she felt at that precise moment…as if she was losing control of Devlin and of the future she had so meticulously planned.

A year ago, Lady Penelope had designed a careful campaign to keep the bored and rakish Duke intrigued and captivated. Devlin Deverell’s legendary reputation as a breaker of female hearts had forewarned her.

First, she had ensnared him with artful coquetry and flirtatious repartee. Then, with a subtle combination of seduction and rejection, she had managed to achieve what all other females had failed to do thus far—keep the Duke both interested and returning for more. He was never sure of her since she often refused to see him on a whim, and that was the lure. He never felt he entirely knew her or completely possessed her. Other women—and there had been many—had surrendered their all, and far too soon. Lady Penelope kept him guessing whereas other females had bored him after a while.

She had been so sure of herself and now this absence of her lover knocked her self-confidence awry. There was a hollow emptiness in her breast and a feeling of panic she could not still.

What could have kept him in the country, she asked herself for the thousandth time, and for so long? However, she would rather have cut her tongue out than inquire of his friends. Whenever people asked about the Duke’s absence, Lady Penelope smiled in an enigmatic way, as if she alone shared a secret, intimate knowledge with Devlin. No one would guess how she felt a constant cold chill in the pit of her stomach, as if she sensed something was afoot.

Was there someone else?

Impossible!

Lady Penelope thought of the Duke, of their lusty and passionate couplings that left her in no doubt he was besotted with her body and with her imaginative sexual acts. Lady Penelope was not shy between the sheets and this made her both enticing and unattainable. Her prodigious sexual appetite and uninhibited desires were compelling. Devlin had never been able to resist her tempting charms before so where in Heaven’s name was he?

* * * *

Sir Marcus helped himself to a glass of ratafia while he waited for her composure to return. He sipped the golden liquid, flinching a little at its apricot sweetness, but reasoned that any alcohol was better than none. He studied his hostess with his hooded, pale-green cat’s eyes. In his early forties, he was tall and long-limbed with a careless elegance. Born of an excellent family and with substantial money behind him, Sir Marcus had unfortunately indulged himself too often and too deeply. Lines of dissipation and a sallow complexion gave him a bored, sardonic look, which marred an otherwise handsome face. Despite his wealth, an intelligent brain and an acerbic wit, it was his notorious reputation, his rampant appetite for novel carnal entertainments and sexual delights, as well as his low-class chosen associates that labelled him as
de trop
. No self-respecting Mama would allow her innocent young daughter near him. He was excluded from fashionable salons.

Sir Marcus cared not a jot for conventional social gatherings where hawk-like chaperones cast vigilant eyes over the innocent young debutantes. He frequented establishments that catered to his debauched sexual proclivities with no questions asked, providing he could pay for them. He could, and did. He was also a seasoned gambler who had beggared many an eager young stripling in the respectable gentlemen’s clubs. Most nights, he drank himself well into his cups and then staggered back home to be undressed and put to bed by his long-suffering valet.

In short, Sir Marcus was not considered a very nice man, but then, he had never pretended to be.

Penelope turned around at last, her face smiling and relaxed and her demeanour composed. His next words would put her back into that foul dark mood.

“He’ll never marry you m’dear.” Sir Marcus yawned, stretching his legs out in front of him and holding the glass up to the light. He studied the glowing contents and reflected upon the miracle of alcohol.

“What qualifies you to make such an observation, Marcus?” she asked. Scathing contempt dripped in her voice. “You can hardly say
you
are part of his circle of friends!”

“Don’t have to be,” Sir Marcus replied, after a careful sip. “I’m a man, and so’s he. I know how men think. You suppose you have him all sewn up in a bag, don’t you? But you’re mistaken.”

“Really?” Lady Penelope’s smile was a strained grimace. “Then pray enlighten me as to what you believe Devlin will do.”

Sir Marcus helped himself to a pinch of snuff and then lay back against the sofa cushions, casting a pensive gaze at the ceiling. “I’ll warrant that he ain’t going to marry you, because if he were he would have done so by now or else made his intentions clear.”

As she opened her mouth to expostulate in hot denial, he held up a warning hand, raising his eyebrows. “Any man who rusticates in the country, missing the Season, must have a very good reason for doing so. What’s the only thing that can distract a man?”

He glanced at her stricken face. “’Pon my word, Pen. You look quite pale. I’m not saying these are the facts, just the probabilities.”

Sir Marcus was nobody’s fool. A loner by nature, he relished his socially peripheral position and spent most of his time observing others. He had an acute and sometimes piercing insight into people’s behaviour. If he of all people had made this observation, then how many others were drawing similar conclusions?

“Well, Marcus,” Lady Penelope replied with airy nonchalance, strolling to the fireplace and rearranging the flowers on the mantelpiece. “I shall just have to find out exactly what is going on, and you are going to help me.” She swung round and fixed him with a blazing stare. “I want to know who he has met, if he has indeed met anyone. I know you have your revolting creatures who spy for you all over Town. Get them to work on this.”

* * * *

Down below, someone rapped at the front door. Lady Penelope’s heart leaped in her breast. She was not home to any callers but Devlin. It had to be him. Her cheeks flushed pink and her body thrilled with a mixture of relief and joy. She turned to Sir Marcus, triumph etched on her face. “Now get out before Devlin arrives. I don’t know why but the sight of you annoys him.”

Sir Marcus unfolded his long limbs and climbed to his feet. He smiled ruefully to himself, but said nothing more; he merely bowed his adieu.

Lady Penelope flapped her hands as if shooing him away. “Just go! Quickly! But I expect to hear from you soon.” There was a fleeting note of anxiety in her voice.

As Devlin entered the room, Lady Penelope turned from the window and stood, beautifully framed against the background of sunlit curtains. Her action was studied and deliberate. She had chosen her pose well. She was, again, a glowing goddess worthy of male worship and enthralled adoration.

He smiled and his handsome face sparked a tiny quiver of desire in Lady Penelope’s stomach. She was as tensely wound as a spring. Nevertheless, she must not appear desperate for his presence. She knew any tears and tantrums would only drive him away. She gazed coolly back and extended her hand in a gracious gesture for him to kiss.

“Why, Dev, you’ve been absent so long we thought you had been kidnapped by a wagon-load of country yokels.” Her careless, tinkling laughter sounded like bells in the quiet room.

Devlin touched her hand with his firm lips and opened his mouth a little so she would feel his warm breath against her skin. She tingled with pleasure. It was a game they both enjoyed; this artificial politeness and verbal fencing concealing the need for lustful sex play that would come later…much later. She pulled him to the sofa with a gentle tug and sank down next to him. Her fingers danced lightly over his as they spoke. She wanted to re-establish that primal contact, to make him remember the pleasures only she could offer. From his minute physical reactions, she knew he was recalling previous moments of passion with her. He leaned toward her as he spoke; he touched her cheek as he tucked a stray curl back into place with the familiar gesture of a lover. She relaxed, and her trailing fingers brushed against his groin as if by accident. She was pleased to note the almost involuntary stirring of the cloth. Clearly, she was still the undoubted queen of his desires.

Lady Penelope lay back against the cushions, her body outlined beneath the clinging fabric of her dress, as if for his delectation. Her full breasts strained against the confines of her bodice so Devlin could see the creamy globes rising and falling with every breath. A rose-tinted nipple was briefly exposed, and then hidden as she shifted position. He tipped her chin up, placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and smiled.

“Tell me, my dear Penelope, how does the Season find you?”

Lady Penelope seethed at his unwillingness to respond directly to her lure. Perhaps he was playing her at her own game, using her own tactics against her. Devlin gave no reason for his prolonged absence and Lady Penelope would not ask. She affected indifference as to his whereabouts. In the past, Devlin would have revealed his activities to her before long. However, as the playful conversation continued, he offered no details. Lady Penelope felt herself growing impatient but she forced herself to flirt and pretend everything was the same as always. However, it was not. She felt a tiny, imperceptible difference in Devlin.

What was it?

She could not quite put her finger on it. A slight distance? A feeling that his attention was not quite with her …an almost automatic response to her artless remarks?

Devlin rose to his feet. “I must go,” he said abruptly.

Desperation rose like a tide within Lady Penelope but to avoid revealing herself, she simply nodded and stifled a delicate yawn.

“Oh, dear,” she apologised. “Such a late party.”

Devlin did not even enquire as to the details; he merely bowed and kissed her hand again. “Shall I see you tonight at Lady Winterbourne’s?”