When the Duke Was Wicked

Chapter 7





Lovingdon wanted to bury himself in a woman, drown himself in drink, and show Lady Luck that no matter how atrocious the cards were, he didn’t need her. He could make do very well on his own.

So other than cursing Grace, what the devil was he doing here? He’d expected the first time that he attended a ball after Juliette’s passing would very much resemble taking a hard kick between the legs. He couldn’t deny that when he first entered the ballroom, he’d glanced around, out of habit, searching for her.

But then his gaze was arrested by coppery hair held in place with pearl combs, and a smile that had threatened to steal his breath—even if it wasn’t directed at him. With whom the deuce was she dancing? He didn’t recognize the young upstart, but then he was obviously closer to Grace’s age than his own. He’d have to ask around, he thought, then decided it was pointless to do so. Grace needed someone more established with a bit more maturity. That he’d fallen in love at nineteen had no bearing on the situation. Besides, he didn’t like the way the lad looked, too moony-eyed.

He’d managed to slip in through the back gardens, through the open doors that led onto the terrace. To his immense satisfaction, he succeeded in observing the festivities unbothered. That had not been the case at the first ball he’d attended. There, the moment he’d walked through the door, he was pounced on by every mother with an eligible daughter. But he’d been a different man then. While he still had a respected title and a generous yearly income, his behavior of late made him less than desirable as a suitor. An eligible bachelor he might be, but husband material he was not.

Grace had spotted Lovingdon three dances earlier, while she was waltzing with Lord Edmund Manning, a second son who was looking to better his position in life through marriage. She did not consider him a serious suitor, but based on Lovingdon’s scowling, she couldn’t help but brighten her smile. He lurked in the shadows like some misbegotten miscreant. She couldn’t deny the pleasure that swept through her at the sight of him, halfway hidden behind the fronds. He wasn’t the shy sort, so she knew he was imitating a wallflower because he didn’t want to deal with desperate mothers who might take delight in his presence. She could almost feel his gaze upon her, following her.


When the present dance ended, her latest partner escorted her from the dance floor.

“Thank you, Lord Ekroth,” Grace said once she reached the sitting area where her maid waited for her.

“I hope at the next ball, you will be kind enough to reserve two dances for me.” He lifted her hand to his lips, raised his gaze to hers. “And that I might call on you tomorrow.”

“I can’t promise you two dances, but I would, however, be delighted to have you pay a call.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”

He walked off and exited up the stairs, no doubt to join the gents in the gaming room. He had made it clear where his interest resided and that she was the only one with whom he would dance. He was tall with dark hair and swarthy skin. His mother came from Italy and had brought with her a small fortune. If rumors were to be believed, however, his father had not tended it well.

“I hope you’re not considering him.”

She swung her gaze around and smiled at Lovingdon. “Lord Ekroth?”

He nodded. “He doesn’t fancy you overmuch.”

She released a laugh of incredulity. “I daresay you’re quick to judge. I have it on good authority that the opposite is true.”

“Well, then, if you have such good authority, you have no need of my observations.” He turned to go. She grabbed his arm.

“Wait. I . . .” What could she say to hold him near? “I do value your opinion.”

He gave her a dark smile. “As well you should.”

She wanted to roll her eyes at his arrogance. Instead, she said with sincerity, “I didn’t expect you to show.”

“I decided that I can’t avoid balls for the rest of my life.”

“Actually, I suppose you could, but I’m glad you didn’t. Has it been difficult?”

“Not as difficult as I thought. I’ve been concentrating on who is here rather than who isn’t. Who was that child you were dancing with earlier? I daresay he’s not taken a razor to his face yet.”

Discreetly, she gave his arm a light punch. “Lord Edmund Manning. A second son who was honest enough to tell me that he is determined to better himself through marriage.”

“I hope you informed him it would not be through marriage to you.”

“I was not that blunt, but I doubt he’ll send me flowers in the morning. So upon what do you base your opinion regarding Lord Ekroth?”

“Watching him dance with you.”

“He was the perfect gentleman.”

“Exactly.”

She furrowed her brow. “All your cryptic comments will have to be discussed later. The next dance will be upon us soon and my card is full.” A pity, she thought, wishing one spot remained for him.

“Let me see it.” He held out his gloved hand.

“I’ve told you before that looking at the names—”

“I’ve observed several gentlemen dancing with you.” He snapped his fingers. “Your card and your pencil.”

He could be so irritating, and yet what she valued in him was his tendency to speak his mind. With a sigh, she handed over the requested items and watched in dawning horror as he struck through one name after another before handing the card back to her. The names of all the gentlemen with whom she’d danced had been obliterated. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

She laughed caustically. “And Lord Vexley? You struck through his name, and I haven’t even danced with him yet.” At least not at this ball, not where Lovingdon could observe him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him approaching to claim his dance. The music was starting up.

“He vexes me,” Lovingdon said.

“He vexes you? He doesn’t vex me.”

“He should, if you have any sense about you. Besides, you’ll be dancing with me.”

Her heart tripped over itself. “I didn’t think you were interested in marriage, and based upon your reputation of late, you could very well ruin mine. You were only to observe.”

He gave her a caustic look, as though she was perhaps vexing him. “Observation is not sufficient. You need a lesson. I intend to show you how a gentleman who fancies you would dance with you.”

“But I promised Lord Vex—”

“I’ll handle it.” He took her arm and fairly propelled her toward the dance floor, passing Vexley on the way. “Sorry, old chap, but I’m claiming this dance.”

Without a pause in his stride, he had her in the midst of the dancers before she could object further. And while she knew she should protest heartily, should leave him where he stood, she couldn’t deny that she wanted to dance with him, wanted this moment. She might never have another opportunity. She placed one hand on his shoulder, while he held the other and pressed his free hand to the small of her back. Even with his glove and her clothing providing a barrier between their flesh, she could feel the warmth from his hand seeping into her.

“That was quite rude,” she said.

“Unfortunately, the only way you would ever realize how much in my debt you should be would be if you were to marry the poor sod.”

“I don’t think he’s as bad as all that. We’ve danced before and I find his conversation quite delightful.”

“He talks while you’re dancing?”

“Of course.”

“Then he’s not fond of you.”

“Because we converse?”

“While dancing. The purpose of dancing is to provide an excuse for a gentleman to get very close to a woman, and if he has an interest in her, he is going to take advantage of that. The gents I crossed off your list spent their time looking about.”

“So that we didn’t run into someone.”

“I’ve not taken my eyes from yours since we began waltzing, and yet neither have we stumbled into anyone.”

As much as she wanted, she couldn’t deny the truth of his words. “Loving—”

“Shh.”

She almost blurted for him not to shush her, but the words that followed caused her heart to still.

“Pay attention to what we’re doing.”

She knew exactly what they were doing. She’d been doing it most of the night. Dancing. Waltzing, at this particular moment. But his hand holding hers tightened around her fingers and his eyes bore into hers. She became aware of his closeness, his bergamot scent. His legs brushed against her skirts.

“We’re improperly close,” she whispered.

“Exactly.”

“We’ll create scandal.”

“If a man fancies you, truly fancies you, what will he care?”

“If he loves me, he’ll want to preserve my reputation, ensure that his actions don’t embarrass me.”

“If he cares for you, he won’t be glancing around, searching out his next dance partner—or striving to catch the eye of the woman with whom he wishes to have a tryst in the garden.”

Her eyes widened. “Lord Ekroth . . . a tryst in the garden? With whom?”

“We’re conversing far too much.”

The change was subtle but there all the same. His fingers pressing more firmly against her back, tightening their hold on her hand, his gaze delving more deeply into hers, his legs in danger of becoming entangled with hers. The lights from the chandeliers reflected over his dark golden hair. He didn’t smile, and yet those lips were soft, relaxed, as though waiting patiently for a kiss. Lovingdon captured her, drew her in, until she forgot that anyone else surrounded them. They moved with a harmony that required no thought. Her toes were safe with him, everything was safe with him.


Even as she had the thought, she knew it was a lie. He had no interest in marriage or love or her, for that matter, except as a friend. Which made him very dangerous to her heart, because it was not nearly as practical as her mind.

The final strains of the music lingered on the air. He ceased his movements but did not release her. She had the odd sensation that he was truly seeing her for the first time.

“He certainly wouldn’t rush you off the dance floor,” he said.

The words burst her bubble of captivity. “Pardon?”

“A gent who fancied you would be in no hurry to turn you over to another man.” He tucked her hand within the crook of his elbow and began leading her from the dance area. Slowly, so very slowly, as though he could scarcely fathom the notion of leaving her. “Ekroth was fairly loping to get you to the chairs so he could make his rendezvous.”

He had seemed rather anxious, now that she thought about it. She indicated a couple standing near the doors that led onto the terrace. “Lady Beatrix is certain Lord Winthrop is going to ask for her hand at Season’s end.”

“He’s not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Watch. See how his gaze keeps darting to those three ladies near that potted palm? He fancies Lady Marianne.”

“Maybe he fancies one of the other two.”

“Observe him through the remainder of the evening. I think you’ll eventually agree I’m correct in my assessment.”

Finally they reached the area where her maid awaited her, and Lord Canton was impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet. The next dance was starting up, and Lovingdon had not struck the earl’s name from her dance card.

“My lord,” she said in greeting.

“Lady Grace.” He tipped his head. “Your Grace. Odd seeing you here. I didn’t think you were one to attend functions such as this.”

“How else is a gentleman to have the honor of dancing with Lady Grace?”

Canton stilled in mid-bounce, which almost put the top of his head level with Lovingdon’s shoulder. “You came here specifically for her?”

“Everything I do is specifically for her.”

Had he not already demonstrated in the coach the other evening that his words were meant to toy and teach, were not spoken with true intention, she might have experienced a fluttering beneath her ribs. Instead, she unobtrusively slipped her hand free of his arm and extended it toward Canton. “I believe this dance is yours.”

Offering his arm, he gave Lovingdon a final glare before escorting Grace back into the throng of dancers.

“You need to be careful of him,” Canton said, his voice low, practically seething.

“I have known Lovingdon since childhood. There is little he could do that would take me by surprise.”

Although he had surprised her tonight by coming here.

What the devil had he been thinking to dance with her?

Lovingdon stood in the shadowed corner of the terrace, staring out on the gardens, rolling a coin over and under his fingers. Calming, bringing back a sense of balance. Jack had taught him how to use the coin to keep his fingers nimble. He doubted there was a gent in all of London who could get a lady out of her corset with the same swiftness that he could.

But dancing with Grace, he hadn’t thought about doing anything with her quickly. Instead, he’d imagined going very slowly, painfully slowly, unwrapping her like a treasured gift, the joy in the unraveling as great as the pleasure of gazing on what was previously hidden.

“Have you an interest in Lady Grace Mabry?” Lord Vexley asked from behind him.

He didn’t bother to turn around. “My interests are no concern of yours.”

“She deserves better than you.”

“The same could be said of you.”

“At least I would be faithful to her. Can you claim the same?”

He no longer stayed with a woman long. They bored him after a time. A short time. He enjoyed sampling but not lingering. “I’ve already warned her away from you.”

“If I understand anything at all about Lady Grace, it is that she is a woman who knows her own mind.”

“And if I know anything at all about you, it is that you are in desperate need of funds.” He did turn around then. Vexley was only a partial silhouette, most of him lost to the shadows. “She deserves better than a man who sees only a fortune when he gazes on her.”

Until that moment he hadn’t realized the truth of those words. She did deserve the love she so desperately sought. He’d come here tonight in an effort to rid himself of her, but he feared now that one night might not be enough.

“My coffers may be empty, but my heart is not.”

Lovingdon nearly cast up his accounts at the atrocious sentiment. He had little doubt that Vexley would seek to woo her with such ridiculously scripted prose.

Before he even knew what he was about, Lovingdon grabbed Vexley’s lapels and jerked him forward. The man’s eyes grew so wide that the whites were clearly visible, even in the dimly lit gardens. “Seek your wife elsewhere. Grace is not for you.”

“That is for the lady to decide. I was merely attempting to discern your interest in her. I like to know my competition.”

“You overstate your worth if you think you could compete with me on any level, for anything.”

“Ah, have you not heard, Your Grace, that pride goeth before the fall? Now if you’ll be kind enough to unhand me . . .”

Lovingdon flung the man back as he released his hold. “Stay clear of her.”

Without another word, Vexley walked off. Only then did Lovingdon become aware of the ache in his hand. He didn’t know when he’d stopped rolling his coin about, but based on his tightly closed fist, knew that if not for his glove he’d have broken skin. Very slowly he unfurled his fingers.

He couldn’t say exactly what it was about Vexley that vexed him. He’d never placed much stock in the rumors that Vexley had mistreated some girls, but when he thought of the man touching Grace—

Dammit all! When he thought of any man touching Grace, his blood fairly began to boil. He didn’t want to assist her in her quest for a husband, but how could he live with himself if she ended up unhappily wed?

Later that night the woman sitting on Lovingdon’s lap was all curves, not a sharp angle to be found. She was the sort in whom a man could become lost. She was scantily clad, a nymph who would dance through gardens. She’d loosened his cravat, unfastened the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, and was presently nuzzling his neck with warm lips coated in wine. He should be focused on her, but instead men dancing with Grace paraded through his mind. More specifically, Grace was the center of his focus: her smile, her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled brighter than any chandelier.

He’d come to Avendale’s in hopes of purging all thoughts of Grace from his mind, at least for an hour or so. Avendale was the most debauched of any man he knew. When he wasn’t at Cremorne, his residence was populated with women of all sorts and sizes. Liquor flowed constantly, food was in abundance, bedchambers were open to one and all. The man believed in living life to the fullest without regret. Lovingdon had embraced his example.

At this moment he should be embracing Aphrodite. He doubted that was her true name. The women here called themselves whatever they thought a man wanted to hear. It was all pretense, nothing real about it.

“Perhaps you should give Persephone a go,” Avendale said laconically.


Aphrodite halted her ministrations. Lovingdon lifted his gaze to Avendale, who stood before him holding a silver goblet no doubt filled to the brim.

“You look as though you’re striving to solve a complicated mathematical formula,” Avendale continued. “Or perhaps a physics problem.”

Lovingdon patted Aphrodite’s hip. “Sweetheart, fetch us some more wine.”

Without a word or care, she scrambled off his lap and went to do his bidding. That was the thing of it. The women he’d had of late were so eager to please, which he supposed he should find appealing. Instead, he found himself thinking of Grace, too innocent one moment, too worldly the next. She had no qualms about castigating him, challenging him, revealing her disappointments in him. It would take a special man to love her as she deserved, to accept her forthrightness, to not strive to dampen her spirit in order to control her.

Avendale dropped into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs. “I hear you attended a ball tonight.”

“Who told you that?”

Avendale shrugged. “I hear all sorts of things from all sorts of people. Are you going back on the marriage market?”

“No, God no. Assisting Grace. I told you that.”

“I thought you’d decided to decline that responsibility.”

“It’s not a responsibility. It’s . . .” Blast it. It was a responsibility, one he didn’t want, but one he was feeling increasingly obligated to take on. He glanced around. “Do you ever get bored with all this?”

Tapping his goblet, Avendale shook his head. “Without all this to serve as a distraction, I’d go mad.”

Lovingdon furrowed his brow and studied the cousin he’d only come to know well during the past two years. At least, he thought he’d come to know him. “A distraction from what?”

“Boredom, of course.”

“I think you meant something else.”

Avendale lifted his mug. “I’m not far enough into my cups to discuss it. I think I shall seek out some female companionship. You’re not jolly enough tonight.”

“What do you know of Vexley?”

“Hasn’t two ha’pennies to rub together, from what I hear. But he’s handsome, titled, has three estates. What more could a woman with a dowry want?”

She could want a great deal more. Deserved it, even.