When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 2





As the carriage rattled along the cobblestones, Lady Grace Mabry’s thoughts traveled to where they ought not: Lovingdon opening his bedchamber door and standing there proudly in the altogether. She’d caught a glimpse of the woman in his bed, knew she’d not awakened him, yet it seemed prudent to act the innocent.

But doing so left her with questions that a lady shouldn’t entertain, but they were there nonetheless, and she wasn’t certain to whom she could turn for the answers.

The Duke of Lovingdon did not resemble any statuary she had ever gazed upon. She’d seen Michelangelo’s David, among others. Lovingdon put them all to shame. She could have stood there staring at him forever, but she’d forced herself to lift her gaze to his because it wouldn’t do for him to know that she’d wanted to touch.

All of him. His broad shoulders, his flat stomach, his . . . maleness. No, he was not at all like David in that regard. He’d been quite breathtaking. As the memory caused heat to suffuse her, she pressed her cheek to the cool glass.

She’d been fortunate to find his residence not locked up for the night. She supposed that meant the woman wouldn’t be staying. She didn’t know why relief accompanied the thought. What did it matter one way or the other when the woman was there now?

Grace had been all of seven when she first came to love Lovingdon. Although in retrospect she knew it was little more than a young girl’s fancy, but at the time it had seemed so much more to her young heart.

Spring had only just arrived, and her mother had invited the other families—connected by hearts, not blood—to join them at Mabry Manor, her father’s ancestral estate. Some of the young boys had taken to teasing her about her red hair, saying she looked like a carrot. She had been curled in a corner of the stable weeping when Lovingdon found her and crouched beside her. He was sixteen, on the cusp of manhood. With his thumbs, he gently wiped away her tears. No boy had ever touched her so tenderly. Her childish heart had done a little somersault. He could have asked anything of her at that moment and she would have granted it. He could have called her anything—Freckles, Coppery, Hideous—and she would have thought it poetry. Instead he had stolen her heart with his words.

“You’re only a bud right now,” he’d said. “No one appreciates the bud, but before long you will blossom into a beauty as lovely as a red rose that will put all other ladies to shame. Now come on, Little Rose. No more moping about. Someday you shall have your revenge, and it will be incredibly sweet.”

Over the years, he had called her Little Rose. Until he married. Then he had no time for her at all, had given her no attention. While her yearning heart had known that was the way it should be, that her feelings were little more than childish affection, it also felt the sharp sting of rejection.


Tonight had been the first time in years since he referred to her using the endearment. And her heart did that silly little somersault thing in her chest, which had irritated her beyond measure. She didn’t want it dancing about for him. He had proven to be a disappointment. She loved him as a friend, a brother. Her woman’s heart would never love him as more than that.

But he possessed the knowledge she required to achieve happiness. He knew love, and he knew the wicked ways of men. Who better to assist her? Yet he did not care about her enough to take a holiday from all his sinning. She supposed that said it all. His was not a character to be admired.

What a fool she’d been all those years ago to hold him in such high regard. She could not risk misjudging again, for this time she would be attached to a man for the remainder of her life. She wanted a good man, an honest man, a man willing to be her hero even when she wasn’t in need of one.

Sitting at the breakfast table the following morning, Grace could not help but be amused that, just as she’d predicted, an abundance of flowers began arriving before she cracked the top of her soft-boiled egg. She supposed she should have been giddy with excitement, but she was quite simply too practical for such nonsense. It was a result of her upbringing, she speculated, or more to the point—her mother’s.

It was no secret that Frannie Mabry, Duchess of Greystone, had grown up on the streets under the care of a kidsman who taught her to survive by cunning, thievery, and fraud. Grace had listened to her stories with fascination, and as she moved toward womanhood gained an immense measure of respect for her mother. She also gained an unbridled belief in love, having witnessed it firsthand. Against all odds and her sordid beginnings, her mother had won the heart of a duke.

Grace dearly wanted the sort of love they shared: one of adoration, respect, support. For many years her mother continued to manage the books at Dodger’s Drawing Room. She was part owner of the gentlemen’s club, and her husband took great pride in her accomplishments and independence. They worked with common purpose to improve the plight of orphans. They shared goals, triumphs, and failure. But nothing deterred them from reaching for what they sought to obtain. Grace was convinced that in all aspects of their life they had achieved success and happiness because their relationship was built on a foundation of love.

While she might have asked her parents to help her determine if a gentleman truly loved her, neither of them thought any man worthy of her.

“Another morning filled with flowers, I see,” her father mused as he wandered into the breakfast dining room and headed for the sideboard where an assortment of Cook’s best fare awaited him.

Grace only recently learned of his failing eyesight, although it had apparently plagued him for years. He’d hoped to keep it a secret from his children for much longer, but as he had taken to leaning more on their mother, his steps became more cautious and he tended to squint more often, even though that action did nothing to widen a world that was slowly going dark.

Grace wanted to marry before he was completely blind. A silly reason, she knew, but she wanted him to see that she was gloriously happy.

“Do you suppose I should let it be known that I much prefer a gent make a donation to a children’s home?” she said in response to his comment about the flowers. “It doesn’t even necessarily have to be one of ours.”

Her parents had built three homes for orphans and one for unwed mothers. Grace had always been aware that some people were less fortunate, and she was brought up to believe that she had both an obligation and a duty to help where she could. She wanted a husband who also believed in good works, not one who would squander her dowry. She really wasn’t asking for much, was she?

Her father joined her at the table, sitting in his usual place at its head, while she had always taken a chair to his right. “Those who are in the flower trade have bills to pay as well.”

“I suppose that’s true enough. It’s only that flowers wilt; they don’t last.”

“So we must enjoy them while we can.”

Her stomach tightened with the realization that shortly he would be able to only enjoy their fragrance, not their vibrant colors, the shape of their petals.

“Most girls would be delighted to have a man shower them with flowers as a way of giving them attention,” her father said.

“But then I am not most girls.”

He smiled. “As I’m certain the gentlemen are coming to realize. How was the ball? Did anyone strike your fancy?”

Her parents seldom attended soirees any longer, as her father could no longer tolerate crowds. He had too much pride to be caught knocking into someone he couldn’t see.

“A few gentlemen engaged me in interesting conversation. Lord Somerdale is quite fascinated with the pollination capabilities of bees. Tedious process.”

“Equally tedious to hear about, I venture.”

She laughed. “Immeasurably tedious. Lord Amber’s bones creak when the weather grows cold. He lives in the North, which means I would forever be hearing his bones creaking. Not very appealing, really.”

“No.” Her father creased his brow. “You are talking about the fifth Lord Amber.”

“No, unfortunately. The fourth.”

“I thought he’d died some years back.”

“Not quite.” White-haired, he held a horn-shaped instrument up to his ear in order to hear. He didn’t dance. He simply tottered about. “He doesn’t need an heir. I think he’s just lonely.”

“Yes, well, you can mark him off your list. The whole point in giving you an ample dowry was so you would have an abundance of choices and wouldn’t have to settle.”

“I fear it’s given me far too many suitors. I’m finding it a bit difficult to weed out the sincere from the insincere.”

“Trust your heart.”

She began slathering butter on her toast. “Yes, that’s what Lovingdon said.”

Not that his advice had been any help at all.

Her father stilled, his teacup halfway to his mouth. “When did you see him?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Oh, recently our paths crossed.”

“Last night, perhaps?”

Now she was the one who froze, her lungs refusing to draw in air.

Before she could deny it, he said, “Your maid returned to the residence at half past eleven. You didn’t seem to be about.”

She should have known he’d be alert to her not arriving. She was surprised he hadn’t been waiting in the foyer when she did finally get home. But then, her father was accustomed to her spending nights at the foundling homes. “I went to see him, yes, to ask his opinion about some of the gentlemen courting me.”

“Grace, a young lady does not go to a bachelor’s residence at all hours of the night.”

“It wasn’t all hours. It was only one: midnight. He was unhelpful and I promptly took my leave.”

“You are missing my point.”

“You know Lovingdon wouldn’t take advantage. He sees me as a sister.” She hated the disgust that wove through her voice with the final words.

“And you wish he considered you as more.”

It seemed her father saw far more with his limited vision than most did with all their eyesight intact.

“Once, I admit, when I was a young girl I was infatuated with him, but now he just angers me. He no longer moves about in Society, and I’ve heard the rumors regarding what a wastrel he’s become. It’s very disappointing, and sets such a bad example. Still, I must confess that I had rather hoped, when he saw me in my evening attire, that he would cease to think of me as a child.”


Her father placed his hand over hers. “I don’t think anyone would mistake you for a child. You’ve grown into a remarkable woman. You deserve a man who will love and appreciate you. As much as I hate to say it, I don’t think he can love or appreciate anyone anymore.”

“I fear you’re right. He’s breaking his mother’s heart.”

“Olivia can take care of herself. And I won’t have him breaking yours. Now,” he said, returning his attention to his breakfast, “no more of these late night excursions. I don’t want to have to lock you in your room.”

She gave him an impish grin. “As though you ever would.”

“I will do whatever is necessary to see you safe and happy.”

“Well today, happy is a new gown.” She rose from her chair, bent down and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Papa.”

“Someday, when you least expect it, sweetheart, love will arrive and it will not be at all as you imagined.”

“Is that how it was for you?”

“It was so much more.”

She retook her seat, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed. “But at what point do I reveal the truth about my . . . situation?”

She could see the sadness and sorrow woven in the depths of his blue eyes.

“You leave that to me. I’ll take care of it when they ask for your hand.”

“While I appreciate your willingness to stand as my champion, I believe most strongly that the news should come from me. Sometimes I think I should take out an advert. ‘Beware! Lady Grace Mabry may come with an immense dowry, but she is far from perfect.’”

“I was far from perfect. It didn’t stop your mother from loving me.”

“But I think it will take a very special man indeed to accept my imperfection.”

“Not so special as you might think.”

Lovingdon traveled through the London streets with the coach’s shades drawn. He had an ache behind his eyes brought on by too much liquor and the smoke of too many cigars. The disadvantage to playing cards in a room without windows was that one was not able to see night giving way to day.

After Grace had left the evening before, he’d sent the woman in his bed on her merry way with a hefty pouch of coins, while he’d gone in search of liquor and gambling. Those he played with on a regular basis were very skilled, and winning against them required focus, which he had hoped would serve as adequate distraction. But Grace continued to intrude on his musings. She deserved love. He could think of no one who deserved it more. But he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around her dilemma. She was sharp, clever, spirited. Surely she could tell if a man’s affections were true. Something was amiss but he wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Besides, a man would be unwise to play her for a fool. It was no secret that her parents’ friends and their family members would defend her to the death. But she could have gone to anyone for assistance. Truth be told, anyone would have been a better choice, as he no longer frequented Society, avoided the trappings of polite merry-making like the plague.

His coach rolled to a stop. A footman hastily opened the door. Sunlight scalded Lovingdon’s eyes, but he merely squinted against it as he exited. He wanted a bath and then a bed.

He strode up the steps. Another footman opened the large, thick wooden door for him. He marched through and was accosted by the heavy fragrance of flowers. Little wonder as an absurd amount of blossoms filled the entryway. All colors, all varieties, shapes, and sizes. Nauseatingly sweet.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” his butler, Barrow, said, appearing from down a hallway.

“What’s the meaning of all this?”

“They arrived an hour ago, with this missive.” Barrow held out the folded parchment.

In spite of his resounding headache, Lovingdon took the paper, unfolded it, and narrowed his eyes at the words.

This morning’s arrivals. However is a lady to decide?

He scoffed. Grace, not giving up on acquiring his assistance, it appeared. So like the stubborn little minx.

“What shall I do with them, sir?” Barrow asked.

“Send them back to Greystone’s with a message that simply says, ‘No.’” He started up the stairs, paused. “On second thought, send them ’round to a hospital or someplace where people are in need of cheering.” He had already won the battle. No sense in engaging in further combat. He didn’t want Grace bloodied. She would get his message quickly enough when she realized he was ignoring hers.

He had traversed three more steps when he abruptly reversed direction and headed back down. Barrow still stood at attention, as though he’d known Lovingdon was not quite yet finished.

“I’ll be sending a missive ’round to Mabry House.”