When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 11





“If a man is keen on us, he will look us in the eye when we speak, and if we speak low, he will lean in to hear what we say. If he doesn’t lean in, he doesn’t fancy us.” Grace was standing in a distant corner of Uncle Jack’s parlor, speaking with Minerva and Ophelia. A small gathering of family and friends had arrived for dinner to celebrate Minerva’s birthday.


She had hoped to see Lovingdon here, but he had yet to show. He’d not attended a family gathering in two years. She was disappointed tonight would be no exception. She knew Minerva was equally disappointed. It was not every day that a girl turned nineteen. Her oldest brother should be on hand.

“You know, my grandmother always insisted that a lady speak extremely softly. I wonder now if this was her reasoning,” Ophelia said.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Grace said.

“Did your gentleman tell you this?” Minerva asked.

Grace nodded perfunctorily.

“I suppose it should go on our list, but it seems that there should be more to it.”

“How often have you spoken to a man, only to have him murmur ‘Yes, yes’ when you hadn’t even posed a question?”

“Yes, but—”

“I say we test it tonight,” Lady Ophelia announced with authority. “We have the perfect opportunity. The gathering is small, intimate. Several gentlemen are in attendance. We should be able to get results very quickly. We shall hold a meeting afterward in the garden.”

“Yes, all right,” Minerva agreed. “Although Lovingdon would be a perfect test sample. He cares not one whit anymore about love or women.”

Grace felt her face heat up as visions of him caring about bringing her pleasure swamped her. She could readily recall every sensation he elicited with seeming ease. “A more accurate statement might be love or marriage. I’m sure he’s not being celibate.”

“Why would you think that?”

Experience. A recent ill-advised late-night visit that left her lying in bed each night since wondering if she should pay another visit, but she thought it unlikely that she would find him at home, or if he were, alone. That time had been an aberration. He was very much in want of the company of women. “Celibacy does not a scoundrel make, or so I’ve heard.”

From your brother himself.

“You’re quite right,” Ophelia confirmed. “Wine, women, and gambling, according to my brother.”

“Lovingdon!” Minerva’s mother called out.

Grace turned to see her embrace her firstborn child in the doorway, two footmen behind him holding a rather large box. More glass?

“He came,” Minerva breathed, the delight in her voice palpable as she rushed across the room.

Grace hurried along behind her, not wanting to miss the welcoming. She knew he had distanced himself from his family after Juliette passed. Unfortunate timing, as she thought those who loved him could have helped him the most with his grief, could have ensured that his foundation didn’t crumble.

Minerva stopped just shy of him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Lovingdon said. “I’ve brought you something. It’s rather heavy. Lads, set it on the floor.”

The footmen did as instructed. Minerva, in spite of wearing a dinner gown, knelt down and lifted the lid. “Oh, my word! What is it?”

Lovingdon signaled to the footmen, who worked to release it from the box and set it on the floor with a clunk. It looked to be some sort of machine with four rows containing oval disks, a letter marked on each one—

“It’s a typing machine,” he said. “You want to be a writer, don’t you? You punch the letter you want and it prints it on paper that you put in the machine. I can show you later.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Well as I can barely decipher your handwriting, I thought it might prove useful. Don’t want publishers attributing incorrect words to you.”

“You’re the best big brother a girl could have.” Tears welled in her eyes as she flung her arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry, Minnie,” he whispered. “Sorry, I haven’t been here . . . for a while.”

His gaze caught Grace’s, and she saw the regret there, but more than that, she saw the gratitude, and her heart did three little somersaults, when it shouldn’t be jumping about at all. Not for him. She couldn’t help but believe that slowly, irrevocably, his heart was healing and that he might one day fall in love again. Not with her, of course. She was far too stubborn and bold for his tastes. She remembered Juliette as being extremely genteel and reserved. They could not have been more opposite in that regard.

When Minnie finally released her hold on him, he stepped over and shook Uncle Jack’s hand. While Jack Dodger was not related to Grace by blood, he was dear friends with her mother, and to her he had always been Uncle Jack.

Then Lovingdon was standing in front of her, a devilish twinkle in his eyes that caused her heart to skip a beat. How long had it been since he appeared less burdened? “Are they serving rum this evening?”

She gave him an impish smile, doing all in her power not to let her cheeks turn red. “Not to the ladies.”

He gave her a secretive grin. “More’s the pity.”

To get his mind and hers away from things they shouldn’t ponder, she nodded toward the typing machine. “Interesting contraption. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“They’re a relatively recent invention. However, I don’t know that they have much of a future. They seem rather clunky and slow-going to me.”

“You remembered her dream, though, and that’s what matters.”

“Strangest thing,” Avendale said. “All the ladies are speaking so softly I can barely hear them without leaning in.”

During dinner Lovingdon had noticed the odd behavior as well. They were presently in the gentlemen’s parlor, drinking port and smoking cigars, while the ladies were off sipping tea. He could well imagine Grace fuming over that little ritual. He knew she’d much rather be in here.

He, Avendale, and Langdon had separated themselves from the other gents. He was ridiculously glad that the bachelors on hand were few in number. The men who were here had not given an unusual amount of attention to Grace. He didn’t know if it was because of the occasion or that they had given up hope of securing her hand. He hoped for the latter, then wondered at the reasoning behind his hope.

If she were narrowing down her selections, then soon she would make a decision and no longer need his advice. He could avoid exhibits, balls, and other social niceties. So why wasn’t he overjoyed at the prospect of his life returning to what it had been before she knocked on his bedchamber door?

“Well, I could do with some cards,” Avendale said. “Think I’ll head to Dodger’s after this. At least there I can hear what’s being said.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “All that leaning in has given me a cramp in my neck.”

They began talking about stopping by Cremorne on the way to Dodger’s. But for some reason it didn’t appeal to Lovingdon that night, and he wondered why it ever had. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going out for a bit of fresh air.”

He used the side door that led onto the terrace. Gaslights lit the garden path. He had grown up in this house and was familiar with every aspect of it. He could walk the paths in the dark without tripping over anything. He heard the chirping of the insects and the rustling of the foliage brushing over the brick wall. He knew all the normal night sounds. They did not include whisperings.

As quietly as possible he walked off the terrace and around to the side, where he peered around a hedgerow and spotted three ladies. Were they? No, they couldn’t be. Yes, they were—passing a cheroot among them.


“. . . a failure,” Lady Ophelia said. “Every gentleman leaned in. They can’t all fancy us.”

“We simply need another sampling,” Minerva said. “The gathering was too small and it was comprised of people who love us, so naturally they’re going to try to hear what we have to say.”

“I suppose, but could it be, Grace, that your gentleman had it wrong?”

Lovingdon was dumbstruck. She was telling them what he was telling her? Had she gone mad? He thought he had her trust, that what he revealed would go no further.

“He’s extremely knowledgeable about such matters,” Grace said, “so I doubt it.”

“Ask your gentleman what it means if a man spends dinner sneaking glances at a lady near whom he is not sitting,” Minerva ordered. “As I noticed one gentleman in particular seemed quite taken with you.”

Was Minnie talking about him? He had been sneaking glances at Grace, but every man would have. She’d been radiant, her smiles in abundance, her laughter becoming.

“Who was sneaking glances?” he heard Grace ask.

Before his half sister could reply, he stepped around the hedge. “Ladies.”

Jumping back, they released tiny squeaks, rather like dormice caught by the cat, and at that moment he felt feral in a way he suspected most felines didn’t. He wasn’t tamed, but was ready to pounce.

“Lovingdon!” Minnie chided. “You shouldn’t sneak up on us like that.”

“And you shouldn’t be sneaking off with your father’s cigars.”

“Only one. And they’re for guests. He prefers a pipe so he never notices how many are about.”

He held out his hand to Grace, as she was the one holding the pilfered cheroot. She tilted up her chin and took a long inhalation before passing it off to Lady Ophelia, who at least had the wherewithal to hesitate a moment before inhaling deeply. Minnie then took a turn. As none of them were coughing—

“How long have you ladies been engaging in this vile habit?” he asked.

“Oh, I’d say about five minutes now,” Grace mused with a righteousness in her voice that implied she’d not be intimidated. Not that he’d ever had any success in that regard where she was concerned.

“I meant: how old were you when you first started smoking?”

“Last year,” Minnie responded as she took another drag, before handing it to him. “It’s not fair that men get port and cigars while ladies get needlepoint and tea. And my needlepoint is more atrocious than my handwriting.”

“Fair or not, ladies are not to engage in such behavior.”

“Why is it vile if we do it and not if you do it?” Grace had the audacity to ask.

While it was a rather good point, he had no intention of addressing it. “You know what you’re doing is wrong, or you wouldn’t be out here sneaking about,” he said, using his big brother voice.

“The wrong of it,” Grace said, “is what makes it so enjoyable.”

He couldn’t argue with her there, but it also made him wonder how many other wrong things she might have done. “The gentlemen are finishing up. You should probably go inside.”

“Are you going to tell Papa?” Minnie asked.

“It’s your birthday, so no.” Although Lovingdon suspected Jack would applaud her actions. He’d never been much of a rule follower, and while Jack had encouraged him to stray from time to time, he’d always walked the straight path until he became a widower. Then he’d seen some merit in Jack’s advice. “Just promise that you won’t do it again.”

“I promise not to pilfer Father’s cigars.”

That promise came too fast, and he was quite certain the words allowed her to do as she pleased without breaking her word, but he wasn’t in the mood to examine her statement too closely. She was a young lady now, and he had something else he wished to examine. “Inside with you.”

“You’re a wonderful older brother,” Minerva said, before she began leading her merry crew toward the back terrace doors.

“Lady Grace,” he murmured, “might I have a word?”

All the ladies stopped, and he almost told them to recall their names and the fact that he wasn’t talking to them, but Grace shooed them on before coming over to join him.

“Yes, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice more challenge than inquiry.

“You’ve been sharing my observations with them?”

“They have as much right as anyone to marry a man who loves them.”

The thought of Minnie, dear Minnie, marrying a man who didn’t love her sent chills through him. He hadn’t even attended her coming out. While her father had a reputation that would scare any lord into behaving, it didn’t mean the man would love her. He needed to be paying more attention to what was going on in the world, among Society. His world had narrowed down, and for the first time in two years it was beginning to feel too tight.

He dropped the smoldering cheroot onto the ground and smashed it with his boot. He would smash anyone who made Minnie unhappy.

“They don’t know who’s been giving me the advice,” Grace said softly.

And now he knew why all the women were speaking so quietly tonight. God, but he wanted to laugh. But he wanted something else more.

He advanced on her. She backed up until she hit the brick wall.

“Don’t be angry,” she said.

“I’m not angry, but I just realized that I’ve never kissed a woman who tastes of tobacco.”

“Oh.”

Hers was a short, breathless sound that pierced his gut and lower. Dangerous, so dangerous. Yet he seemed unable to walk away. Cradling her face, he layered his mouth over hers. The smoky taste he’d imagined was elusive, but there was Grace, the sweet temptation of Grace.

He must have kissed her a thousand times in his mind since the night she’d come to his library to thank him for the glass stemware. He’d forgone evenings’ entertainments to stare at the blasted vase and to think of heat and red and copper. He’d sipped on rum, striving to bring back the flavor of her.

For the past two years women had floated in and out of his life. He couldn’t remember the flavor of a single one.

He’ll remember your flavor.

He’ll remember your scent.

But he refused to put himself into the category of a man who might fall in love with her. He didn’t want to love again, but he had learned that a man didn’t always get what he wanted.

Just as at this precise moment he wanted more from her, a kiss that went on until dawn, an unbuttoned bodice that revealed her breasts, a hiking of her skirts that exposed the sweet center of her. But the other ladies would be waiting for her, and he knew Minnie’s impatience well enough to expect her to intrude at any moment, so he fought down his desires until he thought he would choke on them and pulled back.

“I prefer the rum,” he said.

A corner of her mouth hitched up mischievously and her eyes twinkled. “I prefer the whiskey to the port.”

“I shall have to see about accommodating you next time.”

Turning on his heel, he started to walk away, wondering why he thought there would be a next time, knowing all the while that if he had any say in the matter, there would be.

“Lovingdon?”

He stopped, glanced back.

“What does it mean if a man sneaks glances at a lady during dinner?”


“I suspect it means she’s the most beautiful woman there.”

Grace had been the most beautiful woman there. Lovingdon meant no insult to the others in attendance, especially the ones to whom he was related by blood, but Grace embodied her name with her poise and elegance. While her features were pleasing, her beauty went beyond the physical, to include an inner loveliness that radiated through to the surface.

Now, playing cards in the private room at Dodger’s, Lovingdon glanced up when he heard the door open. Waited, waited, not breathing . . . anticipating—

Cursing inwardly when Avendale parted the heavy draperies and stepped into the room. “Sorry I’m late, gents. Hope Lovingdon hasn’t relieved you of all your coins yet.”

Good-natured laughter and ribbing followed that pronouncement. He didn’t know why he’d wanted to see Grace barging in. She would only serve to upset the others, distract them, change the tenor of the game.

He downed his whiskey and waited impatiently while his glass was refilled by one of the footmen. He’d always enjoyed these games, but tonight he was antsy, and no matter how many times he turned the coin he could not find the calm within the storm.

“Any of you planning to go to Greystone’s for the Midsummer’s Eve ball?” Avendale asked as he drew up a chair.

“I shall be there,” Langdon said. “I’m looking forward to leaving the city for a bit. Seems ghastly hot for some reason.”

Lovingdon had noticed the heat, but only when Grace was around. She had a way of raising his temperature, if not his temper. He’d thought the two reactions were related. Perhaps it was the weather. Easier to attribute it to the climate than to her nearness.

“The duchess will be disappointed if I don’t make an appearance,” Drake murmured as he shuffled the cards. “So I shall be there for the ball although I doubt that I’ll stay beyond that. What of you, Lovingdon?”

The annual event at Greystone’s estate tended to extend into several days, with balls, plays, concerts, hunting, riding. It was a nice break from the London Season. Lovingdon had always anticipated it, never missed going until Juliette died. “I haven’t decided.”

“Anyone who is anyone will be there,” Drake told him. “It’ll be deuced boring here. You might as well join us.”

Joining them meant joining Grace. He wondered if she were sneaking into his library at that very moment. He supposed he should have left word with his butler to alert him if he had any visitors, although there was only one for whom he would put aside whatever activity he was engaged in and rush to his residence. Any activity, he suddenly realized. Even if it involved a woman.

It had been a mere three hours since he’d seen her. Why the devil was he thinking about her? Why did he want to know what she’d been doing since his sister’s party ended? Any proper woman would have done little more than gone to bed.

And that thought, blast it, had him wondering if she slept on her back, her stomach, her side. She’d watched him sleep. It was hardly fair that he didn’t have a clue regarding her sleeping habits.

“. . . in or out.”

He knew how to pick a lock, thanks to Drake’s tutelage. Perhaps he would head on over to Mabry House—

“Lovingdon, where the deuce are you?” Drake asked.

He snapped to attention and realized that cards had been dealt, wagers were being made. If he didn’t focus, he was in danger of losing badly tonight. The problem was, he didn’t care about proving his prowess with cards. He didn’t care if he lost a fortune, didn’t care if he won. Not the best attitude when the stakes were as high as they were at this table.

“I’m out.” He stood. “As a matter of fact, I’ve decided I’m not in the mood for cards. I’m off to find some other sport.”

Lovingdon stood in the doorway of an exclusive drawing room that catered to the needs of the elite. The girls were clean and the clientele wealthy. Business was handled most discretely. Wine flowed into goblets as smoothly as women floated around the dimly lit room. Candles provided a soft glow, the flickering flames causing light to dance with the shadows, swirling them around bodies. Intriguing. Revealing, hiding.

A Titan of a woman approached him. Plenty of her to hold on to. She wasn’t his usual fare. She wasn’t dark-haired or dark-eyed. Her hair was a fiery red that he suspected was not the result of Nature. But he didn’t care.

When she neared, he grabbed her hand. “You’ll do nicely.” And in the back of his mind he wondered when he had become content with someone who would “do.”

Unlike Grace, who wanted sweet words and love, this woman required nothing more than knowing she was the one chosen for the moment. He would make it well worth her time, not only with the pleasure but also with the coins that would follow. Theirs would be a brief but honest relationship.

He escorted her out of the room and up the stairs that led to the bedchambers. At the landing, he continued on down the hallways to the room she indicated.

After opening the door, he stepped back to allow the woman to precede him. Her silky covering outlined her broad hips and floated around her legs as she swayed provocatively with her movements. Everything about her was designed to entice. She knew what she was and was comfortable with it.

Shutting the door, he needed only two strides to have her in his arms, his lips nibbling her throat. She smelled of vanilla, tasted of oranges.

“I know about you, Your Grace,” she said in a raspy voice, arching her head back so he had easier access to the long length of her throat. “You don’t bother with kissing.”

“No.”

“I could make you change your mind.”

“I doubt it.”

Beneath his hands, her skin was soft and warm, but it didn’t tremble or quake. She didn’t sigh with longing. She skimmed her hands over him, but they didn’t dig into him as though if she could she would press him into her until they could no longer tell where one of them began and the other ended.

He inhaled her fragrance again, and it struck him that it was wrong. It wasn’t rose and lavender. He could trail his mouth over her but she would not taste of rum, she wouldn’t taste of desire.

She would taste of boredom.

Briskly, he moved away from her, marched to the window and gazed out on the night, on a street that would lead to his residence, that would eventually lead to Grace’s.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“No.” But neither had she done anything right. She wasn’t what he wanted. Not tonight. And what he wanted he could not have.

Grace deserved love, and he didn’t love her. He wasn’t sure exactly why she plagued him or what he was feeling, but he knew what it was to love. The torment he was experiencing now was nothing more than lust and frustration.

“Shall I send up a different girl?” she asked.

He was struck by how easily interchangeable they all were. Perhaps it was time he took on a mistress, a woman who would know and meet his expectations. He looked back at the woman standing uncertainly near him, knowing he would be sending her an extremely expensive bauble on the morrow to make amends for his disinterest tonight.

He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t want another girl.”

“But you don’t appear to want me either.”

“It’s not a question of want. I just shouldn’t have come here.”


A slow knowing smile crept over her face. “Another is always a poor substitute for the one we truly want.”

He was not at all pleased that somehow he had failed at keeping his thoughts to himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the wall. “And who do you want?”

“Who every woman wants. A man who will appreciate me.”

Curled on her side on her bed, Grace stroked Lancelot, but thought of Lovingdon. She felt beautiful with him. She forgot about her scars and imperfections. She became lost in the sensations he elicited with such ease. The moment his lips touched hers, the rest of the world ceased to exist. It was only the two of them, him giving so much, her receiving. She hoped in the receiving that she was giving as well.

She considered slipping out of the residence, going to his, and doing what she might to bring him pleasure, without receiving it herself. But she knew danger rested on that path. She might give her heart to him completely, but he could no longer give his heart at all.

She thought of all his pronouncements.

He’ll know your favorite flower.

He’ll gaze into your eyes.

He’ll care about what you’re saying.

Lovingdon did those things, but then he also did the blackguard things—kissing her at every opportunity, bringing her pleasure . . .

Why would only blackguards do those things? It seemed like a man in love would as well.

Was it possible that he cared for her more than she realized, more than he realized?