Sins of a Wicked Duke
Page 8
“I’ve no intention of holing myself away. I intend to go out this very night.” Though, why he bothered to defend himself to his vexing valet, he hadn’t a clue.
Diddlesworth’s face brightened. “Indeed, Your Grace?”
“To Madame Fleur’s. I understand she is having one of her masques.”
“Madame Fleur?” His features scrunched in a scowl. “Is she not a…courtesan? You’re going to a brothel?”
Dominic crossed his ankles and folded his hands behind his head. “A brothel,” he snorted.
“Madame Fleur is legend. She would be most offended to hear you designate her venerable establishment to a scurrilous brothel.”
“I can think to describe it only thusly, Your Grace. You do yourself no service crossing its threshold.” Diddlesworth frowned in a manner too reminiscent of Dominic’s stuffy old grandfather. The realization went down like a bitter pill, and he had to question why he allowed Adams to force a bloody valet on him in the first place. He had gone without one while abroad.
He certainly did not require one now. Adams was set in his ways, though, and still believed in running a household like it was 1810, with all the pomp and ceremony of bewigged footmen and fastidious valets.
“See here, Diddle watts—”
“Diddlesworth.”
“You’re not my keeper. I go where I want, when I want. If you don’t care for the way I live, you’re free to seek a position elsewhere. Understand?”
Diddlesworth nodded tightly, although he still wore that infernal frown.
“Good.” Rolling on his side, Dominic presented the valet with his back. “That will be all, Diddle- knot,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I have need of you. Do not disturb me again.”
He heard the man’s exasperated breath, but this time the valet did not correct him on the proper pronunciation of his name. “Very good, sir.”
Dominic smiled at the soft tread fading from the room, wondering how far he would have to go before the fop resigned. Perhaps then Adams would rest on the matter of his needing a valet. The demon duke did not require a watchdog.
“This bucket is _so _ heavy.”
Fallon ignored Nancy’s soft exclamation and fixed her attention on the massive arrangement of flowers she was carrying to the foyer table. Her arms strained from the effort, but she knew the average man could heft the heavy vase full of water and flowers and she best appear the average man.
“Oh!” Nancy grunted.
Fallon darted a quick glance to where the maid dropped the bucket on the marbled floor in a great display of drama, her expression one of pain as she rubbed the small of her back.
_Set the vase down and don’t look back. Don’t meet her gaze. _ Fallon had done her best to avoid the girl—especially with the duke’s warning ringing in her ears—but she had taken to shadowing Fallon.
The maid tried again. Groaning, she lifted the bucket again. “Ugh, this is so heavy.”
Setting the vase upon the center of the marble-topped table, Fallon inwardly sighed. What choice did she have? A red-blooded man would _never _ ignore an attractive woman. Especially one in need of help—however feigned. And Fallon must, foremost, appear as a man. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the maid.
Nancy smiled brightly.
Fallon cringed.
Easing the bucket down, the girl sent a reproachful glance up the looming stairs. Her lips pulled into a pretty pout. “It’s all those dreadful steps.” Placing both hands on her hips, she stretched, straining her br**sts against the front of her dress.
Fallon stifled a snort. She had known girls like Nancy all her life—those who used their wiles to entice others to do their work. Fallon never dared. Sooner or later payment was expected. Either young Nancy was too naïve to know that or she was willing to deliver when the time came.
Swallowing down an epithet, Fallon stepped forward and took the bucket, committed to playing her part to the fullest, even if it meant breaking _her _ back. “Allow me.”
Nancy clapped her hands before her considerable bosom. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”
Dipping her head, Fallon rolled her eyes where Nancy could not see. “I insist. It’s much too heavy for you.”
“Oh, what a gentleman,” Nancy gushed. Stepping forward, she squeezed Fallon’s arm, her hand lingering.
“Where shall I take this?”
“The master’s rooms. I’m responsible for supplying fresh coal there twice daily.”
Fallon nodded, hoping that Nancy did not expect her to carry a bucket upstairs for her twice every day.
Tossing a weak smile at the girl, Fallon headed up the steps with the bucket. She walked carefully down the corridor, mindful not to spill any coals on the rich, gold-threaded runner. At the master’s door, she knocked briskly. She had worked in the kitchens, running errands for Cook most of the morning and did not know whether the duke was in residence. Rapping again, she waited several moments more. No response. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped within the shadowed chamber. The hush of the room struck her as almost reverent, almost as though she stepped inside a church’s hallowed interior. Absurd considering the man who occupied the space doubtlessly conducted all manner of vice within its walls.
With the drapes drawn, it might well have been midnight. Only a bare slit of light crept from between the drapes. Red and orange embers glowed from the grate and she hastened in that direction, feeling very much an intruder.
She scanned the dark and musty chamber as she walked—the veritable lion’s den. Only the lion was out, she reassured herself. A massive four-poster with a rumpled white coverlet sat against one wall. She blinked and stopped at the sight of it. White? Virginal and pure as a dove’s breast.
Somehow she expected the demon duke to sleep shrouded in scarlet sheets. Or black. She could well envision him there. The wicked handsome beast of a man at love play with one of his many paramours. A tightness grew in the center of her chest at the thought.
Thanks to him, she possessed a fairly good idea of what that entailed. At least at the beginning.
In her mind, she saw that broad hand lifting a breast toward his lips, holding it, squeezing.
Unfortunately, in her mind that breast resembled hers. Stinging heat crept up her neck. Her belly clenched, twisted. She pressed a hand against her stomach.
She shifted her gaze from the imposing bed…and shoved the image of the demon duke tangled amid those sheets—with her —from her head.
Strange that no one had tidied the bed yet. The chamber’s furnishings, while appropriately opulent for the bedchamber of a duke, seemed at odds with the duke himself. While it was exactly the type of bedchamber she imagined a highborn lord to occupy, it wasn’t him. He did not adorn himself richly as a duke of the realm might, but rather—when he wore clothes at all—
attired himself simply. A dark jacket. A vest and cravat of abstemious black. No personal belongings littered the opulent chamber. It struck her as a mere domicile. Simply a place to sleep. Nothing more. Not even a home.
A large mahogany desk loomed like a beast before the French doors leading to the balcony. She somehow suspected he rarely sat behind its mammoth proportions. That would hint at an industrious side to the duke. Smiling ruefully, she crouched before the grate and opened its door.
Likely the only thing he worked hard at was waging sin.
Resting a hand on her knee—and relishing the freedom of movement her breeches offered—she dug a shovel into the coals, adding several into the smoldering grate.
“What the devil is that racket?”
She dropped the shovel into the bucket with a clatter, her hand flying to her throat at the sudden rough voice. Whirling around, she watched in horror as the rumpled bed began to shift and move like a great beast emerging from a snowdrift. A dark head appeared, popping up amid the pile of bedding. Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened. No.
With one arm wrapped around a plump pillow, he rose on an elbow, blinking and scratching his head. Tousled dark hair flew in every direction before falling to his shoulders. His scaled serpent tattoo rippled with the movement of his muscled shoulder, almost as though it lived and breathed there on his flesh. Her mouth dried and watered invariably. She fought to swallow past the sudden thickness of her throat. His body more resembled a young laborer of the field than a lily-handed nobleman. And that tattoo…it belonged on a wicked pirate.
He blinked several more times before his gaze found her crouched before the grate. Her fingers grew numb where they clutched the bucket handle.
“What are you doing in here?” The deep throaty sound of his voice puckered her skin to gooseflesh. “I told Diddlesworth I was not to be disturbed.”
She closed her mouth and rose to her feet, the glare from those hooded eyes making her stomach quiver. “Begging your pardon.” She stopped herself just short of curtseying. Sketching a brief bow, she urged the butterflies in her belly to quell. “Forgive me. I was told your chamber requires coal.” She motioned behind her. “And I did knock.”
“Did you?” Yawning, he sat up, the white counterpane pooling around his waist, revealing his bare torso and skin far too bronzed…far too muscled. At least for her notions of a lazy, self-indulgent lord. The fingers of her free hand twitched in reflex, tempted to touch, to caress despite her dislike of him and all he was. Despite that she was supposed to be immune to men such as he.
“Fred, is it?” he gazed at her through bleary eyes.
Just as she thought. A footman was scarcely noticeable. Hardly memorable, it would seem, even after his earlier chastisement.
“Francis,” she replied after some delay, swallowing and trying to bring moisture to her dry mouth.
“Ah, Frank.”
She parted her lips to correct him and then stopped. Frank. Francis. What did it matter? As she had witnessed with his valet, he appeared fond of distorting names.
He dragged a hand through the thick fall of his hair. The dark locks fell back in place like a silken curtain, framing the strong planes of his cheeks. The ends swayed rhythmically above his shoulders, mesmerizing her. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I rarely rise before noon.”
Of course. Like most idle lords who spent a night carousing. Worthless, the lot of them. Him included. “Yes, Your Grace, it won’t happen again.”
He dropped back down in the mound of white, rolling onto his side and dismissing her. Tearing her gaze from the broad expanse of his back, she hastened toward the door, lugging her bucket and vowing never again to visit his lordship’s room. No matter how Nancy wheedled. Her feet moved quickly over the plush carpet. The sound of his sigh as he settled back into sleep carried from the big bed. It reverberated through her and she shivered, her hand trembling around the bucket’s handle. Never again indeed.
Chapter 7
Fallon rounded the lane, panting for breath and hoping she was not too late, that Marguerite still waited at their designated bench in the park. She patted her bonnet to make certain it was still in place, covering most of her head. She had managed to pin back the short tendrils of hair, even though it took every pin in her possession to tame the shorn waves.
Fortunately, Marguerite waited at their usual bench, poised primly and looking out at the pond.
Her bonnet framed her face becomingly, dark wisps of hair edging her face. Her expression came alive when she spied Fallon.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Marguerite said as Fallon plopped down beside her. She set her bag down near her feet. Inside were the garments she would change back into before entering the duke’s house.
“I had some trouble getting away.” In truth, it took longer than planned to find a water closet outside the duke’s residence for her to change clothing.
“Your note said you found a new position, but nothing more. I’ve been beside myself with worry for days.” Marguerite frowned. “What happened to your post with Mrs. Jamison?”
Diddlesworth’s face brightened. “Indeed, Your Grace?”
“To Madame Fleur’s. I understand she is having one of her masques.”
“Madame Fleur?” His features scrunched in a scowl. “Is she not a…courtesan? You’re going to a brothel?”
Dominic crossed his ankles and folded his hands behind his head. “A brothel,” he snorted.
“Madame Fleur is legend. She would be most offended to hear you designate her venerable establishment to a scurrilous brothel.”
“I can think to describe it only thusly, Your Grace. You do yourself no service crossing its threshold.” Diddlesworth frowned in a manner too reminiscent of Dominic’s stuffy old grandfather. The realization went down like a bitter pill, and he had to question why he allowed Adams to force a bloody valet on him in the first place. He had gone without one while abroad.
He certainly did not require one now. Adams was set in his ways, though, and still believed in running a household like it was 1810, with all the pomp and ceremony of bewigged footmen and fastidious valets.
“See here, Diddle watts—”
“Diddlesworth.”
“You’re not my keeper. I go where I want, when I want. If you don’t care for the way I live, you’re free to seek a position elsewhere. Understand?”
Diddlesworth nodded tightly, although he still wore that infernal frown.
“Good.” Rolling on his side, Dominic presented the valet with his back. “That will be all, Diddle- knot,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I have need of you. Do not disturb me again.”
He heard the man’s exasperated breath, but this time the valet did not correct him on the proper pronunciation of his name. “Very good, sir.”
Dominic smiled at the soft tread fading from the room, wondering how far he would have to go before the fop resigned. Perhaps then Adams would rest on the matter of his needing a valet. The demon duke did not require a watchdog.
“This bucket is _so _ heavy.”
Fallon ignored Nancy’s soft exclamation and fixed her attention on the massive arrangement of flowers she was carrying to the foyer table. Her arms strained from the effort, but she knew the average man could heft the heavy vase full of water and flowers and she best appear the average man.
“Oh!” Nancy grunted.
Fallon darted a quick glance to where the maid dropped the bucket on the marbled floor in a great display of drama, her expression one of pain as she rubbed the small of her back.
_Set the vase down and don’t look back. Don’t meet her gaze. _ Fallon had done her best to avoid the girl—especially with the duke’s warning ringing in her ears—but she had taken to shadowing Fallon.
The maid tried again. Groaning, she lifted the bucket again. “Ugh, this is so heavy.”
Setting the vase upon the center of the marble-topped table, Fallon inwardly sighed. What choice did she have? A red-blooded man would _never _ ignore an attractive woman. Especially one in need of help—however feigned. And Fallon must, foremost, appear as a man. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the maid.
Nancy smiled brightly.
Fallon cringed.
Easing the bucket down, the girl sent a reproachful glance up the looming stairs. Her lips pulled into a pretty pout. “It’s all those dreadful steps.” Placing both hands on her hips, she stretched, straining her br**sts against the front of her dress.
Fallon stifled a snort. She had known girls like Nancy all her life—those who used their wiles to entice others to do their work. Fallon never dared. Sooner or later payment was expected. Either young Nancy was too naïve to know that or she was willing to deliver when the time came.
Swallowing down an epithet, Fallon stepped forward and took the bucket, committed to playing her part to the fullest, even if it meant breaking _her _ back. “Allow me.”
Nancy clapped her hands before her considerable bosom. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”
Dipping her head, Fallon rolled her eyes where Nancy could not see. “I insist. It’s much too heavy for you.”
“Oh, what a gentleman,” Nancy gushed. Stepping forward, she squeezed Fallon’s arm, her hand lingering.
“Where shall I take this?”
“The master’s rooms. I’m responsible for supplying fresh coal there twice daily.”
Fallon nodded, hoping that Nancy did not expect her to carry a bucket upstairs for her twice every day.
Tossing a weak smile at the girl, Fallon headed up the steps with the bucket. She walked carefully down the corridor, mindful not to spill any coals on the rich, gold-threaded runner. At the master’s door, she knocked briskly. She had worked in the kitchens, running errands for Cook most of the morning and did not know whether the duke was in residence. Rapping again, she waited several moments more. No response. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped within the shadowed chamber. The hush of the room struck her as almost reverent, almost as though she stepped inside a church’s hallowed interior. Absurd considering the man who occupied the space doubtlessly conducted all manner of vice within its walls.
With the drapes drawn, it might well have been midnight. Only a bare slit of light crept from between the drapes. Red and orange embers glowed from the grate and she hastened in that direction, feeling very much an intruder.
She scanned the dark and musty chamber as she walked—the veritable lion’s den. Only the lion was out, she reassured herself. A massive four-poster with a rumpled white coverlet sat against one wall. She blinked and stopped at the sight of it. White? Virginal and pure as a dove’s breast.
Somehow she expected the demon duke to sleep shrouded in scarlet sheets. Or black. She could well envision him there. The wicked handsome beast of a man at love play with one of his many paramours. A tightness grew in the center of her chest at the thought.
Thanks to him, she possessed a fairly good idea of what that entailed. At least at the beginning.
In her mind, she saw that broad hand lifting a breast toward his lips, holding it, squeezing.
Unfortunately, in her mind that breast resembled hers. Stinging heat crept up her neck. Her belly clenched, twisted. She pressed a hand against her stomach.
She shifted her gaze from the imposing bed…and shoved the image of the demon duke tangled amid those sheets—with her —from her head.
Strange that no one had tidied the bed yet. The chamber’s furnishings, while appropriately opulent for the bedchamber of a duke, seemed at odds with the duke himself. While it was exactly the type of bedchamber she imagined a highborn lord to occupy, it wasn’t him. He did not adorn himself richly as a duke of the realm might, but rather—when he wore clothes at all—
attired himself simply. A dark jacket. A vest and cravat of abstemious black. No personal belongings littered the opulent chamber. It struck her as a mere domicile. Simply a place to sleep. Nothing more. Not even a home.
A large mahogany desk loomed like a beast before the French doors leading to the balcony. She somehow suspected he rarely sat behind its mammoth proportions. That would hint at an industrious side to the duke. Smiling ruefully, she crouched before the grate and opened its door.
Likely the only thing he worked hard at was waging sin.
Resting a hand on her knee—and relishing the freedom of movement her breeches offered—she dug a shovel into the coals, adding several into the smoldering grate.
“What the devil is that racket?”
She dropped the shovel into the bucket with a clatter, her hand flying to her throat at the sudden rough voice. Whirling around, she watched in horror as the rumpled bed began to shift and move like a great beast emerging from a snowdrift. A dark head appeared, popping up amid the pile of bedding. Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened. No.
With one arm wrapped around a plump pillow, he rose on an elbow, blinking and scratching his head. Tousled dark hair flew in every direction before falling to his shoulders. His scaled serpent tattoo rippled with the movement of his muscled shoulder, almost as though it lived and breathed there on his flesh. Her mouth dried and watered invariably. She fought to swallow past the sudden thickness of her throat. His body more resembled a young laborer of the field than a lily-handed nobleman. And that tattoo…it belonged on a wicked pirate.
He blinked several more times before his gaze found her crouched before the grate. Her fingers grew numb where they clutched the bucket handle.
“What are you doing in here?” The deep throaty sound of his voice puckered her skin to gooseflesh. “I told Diddlesworth I was not to be disturbed.”
She closed her mouth and rose to her feet, the glare from those hooded eyes making her stomach quiver. “Begging your pardon.” She stopped herself just short of curtseying. Sketching a brief bow, she urged the butterflies in her belly to quell. “Forgive me. I was told your chamber requires coal.” She motioned behind her. “And I did knock.”
“Did you?” Yawning, he sat up, the white counterpane pooling around his waist, revealing his bare torso and skin far too bronzed…far too muscled. At least for her notions of a lazy, self-indulgent lord. The fingers of her free hand twitched in reflex, tempted to touch, to caress despite her dislike of him and all he was. Despite that she was supposed to be immune to men such as he.
“Fred, is it?” he gazed at her through bleary eyes.
Just as she thought. A footman was scarcely noticeable. Hardly memorable, it would seem, even after his earlier chastisement.
“Francis,” she replied after some delay, swallowing and trying to bring moisture to her dry mouth.
“Ah, Frank.”
She parted her lips to correct him and then stopped. Frank. Francis. What did it matter? As she had witnessed with his valet, he appeared fond of distorting names.
He dragged a hand through the thick fall of his hair. The dark locks fell back in place like a silken curtain, framing the strong planes of his cheeks. The ends swayed rhythmically above his shoulders, mesmerizing her. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I rarely rise before noon.”
Of course. Like most idle lords who spent a night carousing. Worthless, the lot of them. Him included. “Yes, Your Grace, it won’t happen again.”
He dropped back down in the mound of white, rolling onto his side and dismissing her. Tearing her gaze from the broad expanse of his back, she hastened toward the door, lugging her bucket and vowing never again to visit his lordship’s room. No matter how Nancy wheedled. Her feet moved quickly over the plush carpet. The sound of his sigh as he settled back into sleep carried from the big bed. It reverberated through her and she shivered, her hand trembling around the bucket’s handle. Never again indeed.
Chapter 7
Fallon rounded the lane, panting for breath and hoping she was not too late, that Marguerite still waited at their designated bench in the park. She patted her bonnet to make certain it was still in place, covering most of her head. She had managed to pin back the short tendrils of hair, even though it took every pin in her possession to tame the shorn waves.
Fortunately, Marguerite waited at their usual bench, poised primly and looking out at the pond.
Her bonnet framed her face becomingly, dark wisps of hair edging her face. Her expression came alive when she spied Fallon.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Marguerite said as Fallon plopped down beside her. She set her bag down near her feet. Inside were the garments she would change back into before entering the duke’s house.
“I had some trouble getting away.” In truth, it took longer than planned to find a water closet outside the duke’s residence for her to change clothing.
“Your note said you found a new position, but nothing more. I’ve been beside myself with worry for days.” Marguerite frowned. “What happened to your post with Mrs. Jamison?”
