Duke of Wicked Intentions by Harriet Caves

Chapter One

Whispers followed Evanora Rathbone around the ballroom. The music only added a backdrop for the malicious words to slide through, and though she’d had six years to accustom herself to being the subject of gossip, it still stung.

“Hurry, girl,” Aunt Augusta snapped, rapping Evanora’s fingers with her fan. “Don’t stand there looking gormless. Fetch me a drink.”

Suppressing a sigh, Evanora left the safety of her position beside her aunt and made her way toward the punch. Aunt Augusta, both partially deaf and infuriatingly stubborn, insisted Evanora accompany her to every ball she took a fancy to. If she’d had her way, she’d have resigned her position in society years ago, but Aunt Augusta refused to relent.

“How bleak it must be to be left without prospects,” a fresh-faced debutante whispered from behind white kid gloves. “Did you know Lord Lore left her at the altar?”

Her friend cast a sharp glance at Evanora. “What could she have done for him to do that?”

Evanora, obliged by the dancing couples to remain in place, kept her gaze straight ahead. She’d learned long ago that she couldn’t contradict the rumors; ignoring them was the only option left to her, but time and age hadn’t eased the burn of anger or the sharp pang of mortification.

“I don’t know the specifics, but I believe it was quite improper. Mama told me everyone was very shocked when it happened. He did the right thing by throwing her over, I think.”

Another glance was cast in Evanora’s direction, this one rather less subtle. “I agree.”

Her cheeks burning, Evanora poured a glass of punch and walked back along the edge of the room, where the mamas watched their daughters dancing with fierce and possessive pride. Once, her mama had been there with them, watching Evanora’s meteoric rise, but illness had taken her before Luther Jackson, Viscount Lore, had orchestrated her fall. There were few things in her life Evanora was glad of, but she was glad her mother had never seen her disgrace.

Aunt Augusta was deep in conversation with a capped lady by her side as Evanora approached. She took the glass with rheumy hands. “Go and entertain yourself, Evanora,” she said brusquely. “Don’t bother me with your nonsense.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Evanora murmured, retreating to stand against the wall once again.

Only a few minutes passed, as she bobbed her head to the music and silently wished she too was dancing, before an unwelcome voice said, “Ah, Lady Evanora.”

She turned to see Lord Lore approaching her with a rakish smile. Once, she’d fallen in love with his square jaw and the light of battle that seemed perpetually aglow in his dark eyes, but those days had long passed.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you here,” he said.

“I’m surprised you consider it pleasant.”

“How could I not when you’ve provided me with such… pleasure in the past?”

She pinned her fists under her elbows, both to ground herself and to stop herself from hitting him. “You know as well as I do that is false.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m tempted to call you worse.”

He caught her arm, his fingers gripping hard enough to assure her escape would be futile. “Is that a threat, Lady Evanora? I warn you not to trifle with me unless you want your fingers burned.”

“People are staring,” she hissed. “Unhand me.”

Smiling coldly, he acquiesced. “You’d do well to heed my warning. Informing people I’m a liar is more likely to do you more harm than me.”

Odious, odious man. She whirled, the room blurring before her, as she looked for an escape—or even just a kind face. Even her family had abandoned her tonight; her brother was no doubt gaming in the adjacent room, with no thought to her comfort or the flames of rumor Lord Lore insisted on fanning.

Lord Ripley, as though sensing her distress, skirted a mass of giggling debutantes. “My Lady Evanora,” he said, bowing over her hand. On the cusp of fifty, with a buried wife behind him and no further wish to marry, Lord Ripley was more of a father figure to Evanora than a friend. He was also one of the few men who countenanced her society. “You’re looking quite flushed, My Dear. Do come and get some air.”

“It’s so dreadful in there,” she confided once they reached the balcony. Mindful of her tattered reputation, she lingered by the door in full view of the ballroom. “You would think after six years, people might have moved on from my scandal.”

“There’s nothing so delicious to the ton as scandal, My Dear, as you well know.”

“Has no one else done anything worthy of attention in six years?”

“You forget that you’ve been present every season since your first, and Lord Lore has made it his goal to ensure what passed between you isn’t forgotten.”

“He could have just married and moved on,” she raged. “Why continue to torment me?”

“You’re a symbol of his political success.”

That was true: it had become belatedly apparent that Lord Lore had only proposed marriage to her, he had only charmed her so utterly, in order to ruin her and her father. Because of his actions, their good name was besmirched and her father’s political career had ended. Jackson, Lord Lore, her father’s political opponent, had won.

“It’s base,” she said, pacing. The heat of the ball had brought a flush to her cheeks and, she was quite sure, had tangled her hair. “Everything he did was base. And cruel.”

“You’re absolutely right, My Dear.”

She sighed, pressing the back of one hand to her cheeks. “And now, because of it, my lot is to be a spinster.”

Lord Ripley took his snuffbox from his waistcoat. “Perhaps so, but you can’t be sure that’ll be your lot forever.”

“What man will marry me?”

“You would be surprised.”

“If you’re proposing—”

“Not me, My Dear,” he said, horrified at the thought. “A younger man, perhaps. One not much in society.”

“Well, he’d have to be not much in society to marry me.” She sighed gloomily. “If only I could exchange places with you. You’re both widowed and a man.”

“Both entirely out of my control, I assure you.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “I’ll endeavor to forgive you for it.”

The stars were out tonight, masked by occasional wisps of cloud-like veils. She tipped her head back and let the breeze caress her warm cheeks.

“I suppose I ought to return to the ball and endure another hour or two of gossip,” she said with the thin flicker of a smile.

“Would you care to dance?” Lord Ripley asked gallantly. His love of food and port had given him a rather ungainly paunch, highly decorated by his red waistcoat, and the thought of standing up with him made her smile. Still, it was kind of him to offer, and if at least she had one dance of the evening, it might somewhat lessen the rumors.

It took a further three hours, until dawn’s light stained the early morning sky, for her brother to emerge. Aunt Augusta snoozed on a sofa and rose blearily to be escorted to her carriage.

“You’re looking pale,” he said with cheerful indifference once they’d disposed of their aunt. “Didn’t you have a good time?”

“No. Did you?”

“Could’ve been better.” He handed her into their carriage and took his seat opposite her. “I won’t bore you with that stuff, though. You wouldn’t be interested. And,” he added with a self-conscious look, “it’s not proper for a lady to know about such things.”

Evanora leaned against her seat with a sigh. It was no news to her that her brother, three-and-twenty-year-old Charles Rathbone, was a budding gamester. While the news grieved her, she understood it was customary for young men to explore the world of gambling before marriage and responsibility steadied them.

Or rather, steadied most of them; some were beyond all hope. All she could do was trust her brother wouldn’t become one of them. To her surprise, the light in her father’s study was still burning. When they entered the house, Mortimer Rathbone, the Earl of Cane, strode to meet them. Despite the late hour, his hazel eyes were clear.

“Evanora,” he said triumphantly, saluting her on the cheek. “I have excellent news.”

Evanora cast a glance at her brother, who looked as nonplussed as she felt. “What news, Father?”

“Come, sit down.” Without waiting for a response, he tucked her hand in his arm and led her into his study. The remnants of a fire burned in the grate, and a brandy tumbler sat on his desk.

“Am I required, Father?” Charles asked from the doorway.

“No, no,” Mortimer said absently, waving a hand. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Evanora settled herself into the chair opposite her father and waited.

“My child, you know your happiness is of the greatest import to me,” he said, taking her hand in both of his. “With that in mind, I have an announcement to make that will change your fortune—all our fortunes—forever. You are to be married to the Duke of Norwood.”

Her mouth opened with an audible pop. The Duke of Norwood? It couldn’t be. She’d never so much as laid eyes on His Grace, and the rumors of his past were not kind. “The Duke of Norwood?” she faltered. “Surely there must be some mistake.”

“No mistake. I approached him myself.” Her father beamed with misguided pride. “You see, he’s looking for a wife. Now you’re five-and-twenty, your prospects of finding a husband aren’t high. I offered your hand in marriage, and he accepted.”

“You… offered my hand in marriage. To the Duke of Norwood. And he accepted?” Evanora swallowed. “Does he know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are, Child. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly.

“Think of it,” he urged. “Your own house. The Norwood Estate is extensive, I believe, if a little… well, never mind that now. It’ll be a marriage of convenience, of course, but it’ll give you social standing and independence. Think of it. It’s the best offer you’re going to get, and he’ll be able to provide better for you as your husband than I can as your father.”

With her mother gone, and only her father left to care for her interests, to refuse such an offer, and one he was so pleased with, seemed churlish.

And yet. And yet.

“Are you quite sure, Father?” she asked. “The rumors surrounding the Duke of Norwood are—” Well, they were distasteful. He was known to be a cold, brooding man, with a dislike for public appearances. Still further talked of was his disfigurement. Evanora wasn’t sure what form it took, but he was known to be hideous—that was, in fact, the reason attributed to his reclusiveness.

“He’s not the only one with rumors,” her father said. “If the Duke can overlook them, so can you.”

“But—” I don’t want to marry him. Given her situation, and her lack of choices, the words sounded unbearably selfish. She closed her eyes. “If you wish it, Father.”

“Chin up, Girl. Few marriages are love matches, you know, and you’ll be a Duchess. Whatever the Duke of Norwood’s past,” he said hurriedly, “you know many young ladies would jump at the chance to be in your position.”

Evanora didn’t doubt it. Few things could tarnish a good name, even a bad man. Whatever his faults, he was a Duke. He had status. For ladies on the marriage mart looking for husbands, he would still be a catch. But she wasn’t one of those ladies. She didn’t care about a title. A title, she was certain, wouldn’t bring her happiness, and it seemed unlikely the man would, either.

Her heart heavy, she climbed the stairs and readied herself for bed.