Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

17

“My lady, another gift has arrived for you.”

Jemma frowned as she looked up from her tea to watch the butler lay a large box on the table next to her. A note accompanied by the Duke of Dunbar's calling card was tied to the top with a red velvet ribbon.

“Oh, do open it Jemma.” Petra clapped her hands in excitement, as if it were she, and not Jemma who was the recipient.

Carefully placing down her cup and saucer, she took the box to her lap. A fortnight had passed since finding out Nick was not Nick, but Petra's cursed duke, the Devil of Dunbar, a man all of London held in respectful fear.

Nick, for she found it difficult to think of him as His Grace, had taken to sending her gifts. Thoughtful gifts. Wonderful gifts. Each gift accompanied by an envelope which when opened revealed the name Jem written across the top in a bold masculine hand.

The first gift brought to Marsh House was a magnificent chestnut stallion, his mane and tail threaded with red silk ribbons. A blood red rose graced the horse's bridle. The stallion was an incredibly inappropriate gift for a woman, especially an unwed girl of good family. A young boy dressed in the livery of the Dunbars’ held out the note.

I would court you.

Jemma ran her fingers through the thick mane of the stallion, reveling in the horse's beauty. She stood for several moments, her heart softening, until she remembered her stallion Ajax, a gift from her father. Her horse was probably languishing in Preston Jones’ stable right now, payment for one of Augie's debts. The thought strengthened her resolve. She sent the young boy and the stallion back with a note of her own.

No.

Two days later, another, even more inappropriate gift arrived. A large wooden box which when opened, revealed a brace of pistols with intricately carved ivory handles bearing Jemma's initials. This time the note read;

I would take you hunting in Scotland. The Highlands are beautiful this time of year.

She ran her fingers over the pistols, marveling at the workmanship. They must have cost Nick a small fortune. She thought of her first meeting with him and the inclination she'd had to shoot him for his arrogance. Jemma hastily scribbled a reply.

I am afraid the temptation to shoot you would be too great, Your Grace.

Now, another gift arrived.

“Do open it.” Aunt Mary took a bite of a berry scone as Jemma untied the ribbon, then choked on her scone as the contents of the box were revealed. “Goodness me.”

Jemma pushed aside a pile of tissue paper and lifted out a beautiful pair of doeskin riding breeches. She marveled at the softness of the leather, knowing instinctively that they would fit perfectly. Nick was ridiculously enamored of her predilection for breeches. He would know that she would only wish to ride astride, not sidesaddle as the ladies of the ton did

The note accompanying the breeches read;

I planned to take you riding in Hyde Park, but alas, you returned the horse.

Petra clapped her hands at the sight of the gift, barely sparing a glance at her mother, who was now fanning herself furiously.

“How very scandalous of your duke.” Petra was not the least upset that the duke's affections now fell on Jemma.

“He is not my duke,” Jemma snapped at her cousin. “I find his gifts to be tiresome and his pursuit of me to be folly.” She set the box in front of Petra. “Have them sent back, please.”

“As you will, cousin, but I do not think His Grace would have plied me with such luxuries.” Petra covered up the breeches with tissue and carefully retied the ribbon about the box.

“Niece,” Aunt Mary lay back against the tufted cushions of the couch, “whatever the cause of your falling out, surely it can be remedied. The duke is determined to win back your affection. Lord Marsh is very much in favor of the match.”

“We do not suit.” Jemma took a sip of her tea and dared Aunt Mary to contradict her. “At all.”

Aunt Mary merely raised a brow at her tone and turned her attention to Petra.

Jemma fumed and sipped her tea. She wished Nick, His Grace, would just leave well enough alone. Hard enough to come to terms with the fact that she was not Jemma Manning, but Jane Emily Grantly, that the Corbetts whom she thought of as her family, cared more for her wealth than herself. She supposed she should not really be surprised that the fortune hunter who took her virtue was really a duke. Why the ruse? Why had Nick been in Bermuda?

She tried to wrap her head around the events of over a year ago, going over every detail carefully in her mind, but ended up only causing herself to either rail at Nick or lie weeping as she thought of her father. The uneasiness and confusion of her father’s false identity mixed with Nick’s own deception left her angry at both men, but only Nick she blamed for the disaster of that night at Sea Cliff.

* * *

“Miss Jane Emily,”Anna, the maid, stuck her head through the door of Jemma's bedchamber. They are waiting for you downstairs. Lady Marsh bids you to hurry or you will make the entire family late.”

Jemma turned and straightened, smoothing down her skirts, wishing she could admire the beauty of the green silk taffeta, but her dread at the upcoming event cancelled out any joy she may have felt at the loveliness of the gown or the upcoming ball.

“A moment,” she instructed the maid, thinking of escape and wistfully glancing at her open window and the trellis beneath it. She’d tried to plead illness to avoid the ball tonight, but Uncle John called her bluff with a visit by his own physician, who pronounced Jemma fit as a fiddle. More sternly than she’d ever seen him, Uncle John told her pointedly that he would not tolerate her further disobedience.

As she made her way down the stairs, her hand lingering against the balustrade, she thought of her father. He had never spoken again after that horrible night, but only lay in his bed, his eyes following Jemma's every movement as she mopped his brow. She sensed he wished to speak to her, but when she gave him pen and paper, he turned his face to the wall.

“No amount of gifts or platitudes can replace my father.” She felt a fresh rush of anger towards Nick and held on to it tightly. “Nick has much to answer for.”

“There you are.” Rowan's cheery tone floated up to her. “I worried that I would need to come up and fetch you.”

Her cousin looked especially dashing tonight in his black tailored evening clothes. His dark brown hair gleamed in the candlelight and his face held a slightly impish look.

“Everyone else is already in the carriage. Mother is a bit put out with you for keeping us waiting. After all, this is an opportune time to launch Petra amongst the ton.” He held out his arm.“Shall we?”

Jemma took his arm with little enthusiasm. “Tell everyone I have twisted my ankle coming down the stairs, won’t you? I've no wish to go.” Uncle John could punish her later.

Rowan clasped her to him. “You must go, Jemma. We have received a personal invitation from the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, a woman who rules the ton with an iron fist. Her invitations are most sought after and not attending would be considered a huge affront. Besides, Mother would never let you get away with it.”

Jemma shot her cousin a scathing look, her anger at Nick getting the best of her. “We are only going because he wishes it.”

“Perhaps.” Rowan winked at her. “One does not deny the Duke of Dunbar.”

“Maybe someone should.” She had no problem defying the Duke of Dunbar, thinking it the least she could do after all that had happened. Whether deserved or not, she placed the blame for all that had befallen her on Nick. Her mind whispered that Nick had a reason, were she only to give him the chance to give it. “I do not care for his high-handed manner.” She had no choice in attending tonight, but Nick may regret forcing her.

“Cousin, I do not think it wise to antagonize the man. What in the world could have happened between you and the Duke of Dunbar to make you behave in such a fashion? I believe you are baiting him intentionally, an unwise course for any man, or woman.”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Jemma said stiffly. “We simply courted for a time but parted badly.”

She knew that Nick and Uncle John had met several times, but she didn't know what exactly had been discussed other than Nick had concocted the story that he arrived on Bermuda to explore investing in her father’s salt business. Every time she tried to corner her uncle to speak to him about Nick, he seemed otherwise engaged.

“So you have said. I can’t believe Uncle William never let any of us of know he was alive.”

“The war.” Jemma paused, sensing Rowan doubted her father's reasoning. Jemma embraced her father’s tale at first, written to her in a letter she read all the way from Bermuda until the pages were torn and tattered. Her parents’ marriage forced Papa’s own father to disown him, so her parents fled to Bermuda. The war kept the family apart and her father was suspected dead. But Rowan’s suspicions were beginning to give rise to her own.

“My mother was Irish as well.” Jemma repeated the words of her father’s letter to her. “Grandfather didn’t approve.” Her father’s story was a little too pat though she was loathe to admit it.

“Yes, our grandfather was quite unforgiving in certain respects. I cannot say I miss the old man.” Rowan looked at her thoughtfully and led her out to the waiting carriage.

* * *

Donata Reynolds,the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, smiled in pleasure at the swirling couples dancing across her grandson's parquet ballroom. It was so lovely to use the ballroom again. Only she and Miranda lived at Cambourne house as her grandson, Sutton, and his wife, Alex, did not care especially for London. Not that she blamed them, mind you, after the incident, but it was nice to have the ballroom used again. The room fairly glittered with candlelight and cheerful conversation.

Donata spied her granddaughter, Miranda, huddled in conversation with Lady Arabella. The two girls stood, their heads nearly touching as they conversed. Miranda looked especially lovely tonight in a pale lavender gown, covered in tiny brilliants. She sparkled like a beautiful fairy princess. The poor child should have dozens of men vying for her hand for she was stunning and possessed of an obscenely large dowry. But Miranda had no decent suitors, the fact of which made Donata quite anxious for her granddaughter’s future. In time, I hope she finds a man worthy of her affections for she deserves great happiness.

Lady Arabella pointed to someone amongst the dancers, her dark head bobbing with agitation and her lips curling with dislike as she showed Miranda the object of her wrath.

I wonder who she's found wanting this evening? Donata loved Nick's sister dearly but Arabella was a bit of a challenge. Bitter with resentment over slights real and imagined, Arabella refused to allow herself an ounce of joy. It had been so since she was a child. She blamed her lack of respectable suitors on her status as the Devil of Dunbar's sister and that horrible scandal concerning her parents, but Donata thought it was far more likely that it was Arabella's austere bearing and scalding tongue kept any likely suitors at bay.

She followed the direction of Arabella’s scorn to where it landed on one of the spinning couples.

A willowy girl, dressed in green silk, shot through with gold thread appeared to be the object of her dislike. Donata observed the girl, noting the careless way she flirted with her partner and the confident strides she took as she danced. The girl spun closer, and Donata spied the spray of freckles across her cheeks and the mulish slant to her chin.

The manner of the girl caused Donata to smile. I pity the man who takes her on for she has a stubborn, reckless look.I should know, for I was once a bit reckless myself.

The girl's dance partner was Lord Berton, a gentleman known more for his seduction of wealthy widows than the dubious military exploits he bragged of. Lord Berton was considered to be a catch, though for the life of her, Donata couldn't imagine why.

Pursing her lips in disapproval, she viewed Lord Berton with distaste. The man was a bit too common and she didn't like the way he combed his hair. His pomade smelled of lavender, a scent she found appealing only on ladies. She doubted he had ever held a sword.

The girl, oblivious to the deficits in Lord Berton's character, swatted him playfully on the shoulder with her fan and laughed. As Lord Berton swung her around, she sent a withering glance at Donata.

Intrigued, since she didn't know the girl and thought it unlikely to have incurred her dislike, Donata turned slightly to see who stood behind her.

The Duke of Dunbar's large form hovered just behind her right shoulder. Dressed all in black, for Donata didn't think he owned clothes in any other color, he fairly emanated a bored arrogance and power, as if he cared nothing for the opinions of those in the ballroom, which she knew was not the case. His Grace was glaring at Lord Berton, but especially at Lord Berton's partner, with undisguised displeasure. And possession. Donata thought His Grace looked…jealous, as if he would storm onto the dance floor at any moment and claim the girl in green. In all the time Donata had known the current Duke of Dunbar, which was a very long time indeed, she had never known him to show an ounce of possessiveness towards a woman.

Donata turned, holding tightly to her cane. “Good evening, Your Grace. Forgive me if I don't curtsy,” she said smartly. “I might snap in half should I attempt to bend in such a manner at my age.”

His Grace said nothing for a moment, as all his attention was focused on that reckless girl whirling about with Lord Berton.

Donata stamped her cane. She didn't give a fig who Nick was, she would not be ignored.

Finally he turned, a half-smile on his handsome features as he regarded her from his great height.

“Good evening, Lady Cambourne.” The Duke of Dunbar bent over her outstretched hand. She saw him looking over her hand to the dance floor, his eyes following the girl in green.

Donata was relieved to see that outside of his annoyance at Lord Berton, Nick looked better than he had in months. The darkness was gone from his mismatched eyes and the sadness that seemed to linger about his shoulders since his return from Bermuda had faded. She turned to study the girl in green more closely.

Donata knew full well why Nick had gone to Bermuda, after all she wrote him his false letters of introduction. She also knew that he came back empty handed, saying only that the man he sought had died and the trip had been for naught.

Donata suspected he lied.

He spoke little of his time on the islands, even to Sutton, his closest friend. Nick began to drink heavily several months after his return, avoiding everyone and everything. Sutton thought that perhaps it was grief over his grandfather’s death or the pressure of assuming the vast responsibilities of Dunbar.

The mantle of grief Nick wore about him was profound and spoke of a great loss. While she knew Nick missed his grandfather, Donata sensed his grieving was not for Henry. Reluctantly, and only after the urging of his aunt, Lady Cupps-Foster, and his sister, Arabella, did he begin to attend events and return to his usual haunts, though he seemed to take no joy in any of it. Sutton told her that Nick had resigned himself to marrying in order to provide Dunbar with an heir.

Donata's gaze flicked from the jealous countenance of the Duke of Dunbar to the reckless girl in green who appeared determined to annoy the most dangerous man in London.

The girl purposefully steered herself and Lord Berton closer to where Donata stood. Shegiggled and batted her eyes at Lord Berton as if he were the most interesting man alive.

He was not. Donata had the misfortune of conversing with Lord Berton once. The man was not especially entertaining.

The girl threw back her head, swatting Lord Berton again with her fan. She shot Nick a smug look of satisfaction.

An odd sound came from His Grace's throat.

Donata thought it sounded like a growl. She rather thought His Grace would leap at Lord Berton. Perhaps strangle the man. Dear Lord, Alex, her granddaughter-in-law would never throw another ball if Nick strangled someone on the parquet dance floor.

Donata stamped her cane again in agitation. When His Grace's attention did not immediately turn her way, she whacked his shin.

His Grace scowled. “That hurt.”

“Balderdash. You are built like a great oak. I have the ruined chairs to prove it. Who is she?” Donata countered.

The duke shot her a look that would have withered a lesser mortal.

Donata was not one to be quelled by an irritated male and certainly not His Grace whom she had known since he was a lad. “Use your scowl on someone who truly believes you to be the Devil, Nicholas.” Addressing him by his given name she beat her cane on the floor in order to make her point. “You will have to do better should you wish to frighten me.”

A whisper of a smile crossed his lips. “Truly, my lady, there are many more of the ton afraid of you than the Devil of Dunbar.” He bowed, the shaggy locks of his hair hiding his face. “I stand down. I know when I am beaten.”

“Well?” Donata was not one to be put off by apology. “Answer my question, scamp.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Nick's eyes flicked back to Lord Berton's dance partner, his gaze hungry on the girl as it followed her about the room.

“Mmph.” Donata gripped her cane, not caring to be thwarted in her curiosity and considered swatting His Grace again. “Don't be obtuse, Nicholas, it doesn't suit you.”

The dance ended and the girl allowed herself to be led off the floor by Lord Berton. She laughed loudly as he said something in her ear and pretended to muffle her outburst with one gloved hand.

Donata rolled her eyes at the girl's theatrics, for clearly she acted purely for Nick's benefit. Lord Berton had the wit of a boiled turnip.

The girl lifted her chin in Nick's direction, the challenge in her eyes clear.

His Grace made another disturbing noise.

Goodness. He is growling, rather like a wild animal.

“I fear for Lord Berton,” Donata said blithely.

“You should.” Nick nodded to her. “My lady, I beg your leave. There is something that requires my attention.”

“Indeed there is.” Donata said more to herself than Nick as he moved away to follow Lord Berton and the girl.

“What in the world is wrong with Nick tonight? He reminds me of an angry bear who hasn't had a bite to eat all winter. Lady Tomlinson is quite put out that he’s left her on her own.”

Donata smiled at the arrival of her grandson, Sutton, bearing two cups of punch. She lifted her cheek for his kiss, inhaling the smell of cinnamon that always clung to him. “I believe his interest in Lady Tomlinson waned some time ago.”

A group of women to Donata's left openly admired Sutton, ogling him as if he were a great plate of sweets. They giggled behind their fans, one of them daring to inch closer.

Lifting one eyebrow in an imperious manner, Donata stamped her cane and glared at the group. Trollops. Her grandson's allure was legendary amongst the ladies of the ton, but he was a married man now, a very happily married man.

The group of women quieted, one or two blushing at having been caught leering at the Marquess of Cambourne by his fearful grandmother.

Sutton, incredibly, was oblivious to being fawned over. Handing a glass of punch to Donata with a beautiful smile, he held his cup aloft in a toast and took a sip. His angelic features contorted immediately as if he'd bitten into a rotten apple. “Do you think Alex gave Cook the recipe for this?” He looked down at the punch in his cup. “It's quite awful.”

“There's no spirits in it.” Donata smiled. “It's for the young ladies.”

“A waste of punch then. Good Lord this is terrible.” He handed off his cup to a passing servant and took a glass of wine from the man in one smooth motion.

“Mmm.” Sutton took a large sip. “Much better.”

“Sutton? Who is she?” Donata lifted a gloved hand to point at the girl towed through the crowd by Lord Berton as Nick trailed the pair at a discreet distance.

“I don’t know her name, though she came with Lord Marsh. She's his niece I believe, grew up in the islands, though I can't seem to recall which one. You and Alex wrote the guest list, surely you recall?”

“Lord and Lady Marsh?” Donata bit her lip. “Ah, now I remember.” Nick had asked specifically that Alex invite the Earl of Marsh and his family, claiming to be involved in a business venture with Lord Marsh. “How interesting.”

“How so?” Sutton watched his friends stalking of Lord Berton over the top of his madeira.

“I believe something happened to Nick in Bermuda,” Donata murmured, nodding towards the girl. “Her.”

* * *

Jemma nodded automaticallyto Lord Berton, not truly listening to his incessant chatter as he led her off the dance floor. The man prattled endlessly since the moment he’d been introduced to her. Puffing out his chest, he regaled her with faintly humorous stories of his family and a vague military career. If Nick hadn’t been watching, she would never have spoken to the man, let alone danced with him. But Nick had been watching, like some dark demon, his jealous gaze lingering on her as Lord Berton swung her about.

“How do you know the Marquess of Cambourne? Perhaps you are acquainted with his sister?" Lord Berton asked as he led her through the crowded ballroom.

Scanning the crowd for the tall form of the Duke of Dunbar, Jemma smiled and nodded, already planning how to excuse herself from Lord Berton. Where was Nick?

“Miss Grantly?” Lord Berton gave her a practiced toothy smile. His dark blond hair was slicked back from his face, artfully curling about his ears. Light blue eyes sneaked a glance down her bodice. “Would you care for a turn about the gardens?”

She finally spied Nick’s dark head a quarter of the way across the room. He frowned at her over Lord Berton’s left shoulder.

Good.

It was high time the Duke of Dunbar learned she was not to be lied to and ordered about. Rationally, she knew it was childish of her to torment Nick, but her long pent up anger overrode her caution. “I would love a turn about the gardens.” Jemma smiled brilliantly at Lord Berton.

Lord Berton gave her a wolfish look as they reached the far edge of the ballroom. “As you wish.” He opened one of the tall French doors overlooking the gardens. “Miss Grantly.” The brush of cool air wafted over her shoulders and she shivered.

“Lord Berton, I—” She could feel the press of Lord Berton’s hand at her back and nearly decided to turn back except she saw Nick make a beeline towards her. Lord Berton and she had only crossed the threshold into the waiting gardens when a dark shadow loomed over them both.

“Ah. There you are.” Nick appeared, his large form dwarfing Lord Berton. The mismatched eyes stood out starkly against taut lines of his face, giving him an air of menace.

Startled, Lord Berton jumped and released Jemma’s arm, dropping the limb abruptly. The color drained from his cheeks. “Your Grace, a pleasure to see you this evening,” he stammered.

Jemma pressed a hand to her chest, not from fear at Nick’s appearance but to still the sudden, unwanted stirring of her heart. The scent of citrus and cheroot reached her nostrils and unconsciously she leaned towards him. Damn him. He has much to answer for. She righted herself immediately.

“I believe, Lord Berton, that you are operating under a misconception.” The husky baritone addressed Lord Berton. “I wish to keep you from making an error of judgment through your own ignorance.”

Heat ran up Jemma’s cheeks at Nick’s words. How dare he?

Lord Berton turned to Jemma, curling his lip at the sight of her cheeks. Clearly distressed to have angered the Devil of Dunbar, he bowed low, “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. Had I known that the lady was spoken for—”

“But you do now,” Nick interrupted Lord Berton’s polite speech and waved him away as if Lord Berton were no more than a fly. “Good evening, Berton.”

Lord Berton’s eyes widened at the sight of the pewter ring on Nick’s thumb. He nodded, bowed politely once more then turned away, not sparing Jemma another look. The french door shut firmly, leaving her alone with Nick.

Hushed whispers met her ears as several couples, their clandestine activities interrupted, emerged from the shadows of the garden. They gave the Devil of Dunbar and Jemma a wide berth as they made their way back inside.

Nick never even bothered to look at them.

“What did you think you were doing, Jem? Coming out to the garden with a man like Berton?” The mismatched eyes flicked over her. “I do not care to be made a fool of.”

"A man such as Berton? I find him fascinating and endlessly amusing. He is also a fine dancer,” she retorted, sounding not the least convincing.

Nick snorted in disbelief. “Jem, I am trying to allow you to wade through your anger at me, endless though it appears to be, but coming out to the gardens with him was unwise.”

“As going out to the gardens with you once was? I am now well versed in the ways of a rake.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed and she thought he would lash out at her, but instead he ran his forefinger gently down her cheek. “I beg you cease this foolishness, for both our sakes. We must talk. You must allow us to talk.”

The very touch of his finger sparked against her skin, followed by a lightning bolt through her body of intense longing. She hated him for this incessant wanting, hated herself for not being able to stop it. “I find Lord Berton and indeed any man here tonight, to be far more to my liking than you. You cannot stop me, should I wish to be courted by another.” She poked him in the chest with her fan, determined to make her point. “There are many here who would vie to be my suitor.”

Nick's hand dropped to his side as his lips compressed into a grim line. “Your charms are not so great,” he said in a cold, flat tone, “that a man will risk his life for them. Indeed, you will not find one man amongst the ton willing to do so.”

“What do you mean?” She gripped her fan. What did he mean?

Nick took her arm roughly. “The same, however is not true in reverse.” His fingers bit into her flesh as he pulled her back into the ballroom.

Jemma attempted to shake him off, but his grip only tightened. “I beg you turn your attentions elsewhere,” she spat as the meaning of his words sunk in. “I wish you to find another woman to torment.”

“Do you? Let us test such a theory.”

The gossips of the ton twittered maliciously as they watched Nick drag Jemma through the ballroom. Women murmured behind their fans. Men turned away and began to speak in loud tones. The orchestra started up again, much louder this time, as if someone had instructed them to do so.

Lord Berton stood to the left with a group of men laughing gaily as they lifted their goblets to toast each other. He caught her eye, held it, then purposefully turned away before Nick noticed.

Nick did not release her until he found Uncle John standing with Aunt Mary and Petra. He pushed Jemma towards her aunt. “Your niece is unwell. A terrible headache brought on by too much excitement.”

Jemma’s mouth opened to refute his claim when she felt the pinch of her aunt’s fingers on her arm.

Aunt Mary was pale but composed as she faced Nick’s fury. She pulled Jemma to her. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Nick spun on his heel, his dark hair floating above his broad shoulders as he moved back into the crowd. A beautiful blonde, dressed in pale blue fell into step beside him, taking his arm. He did not shake her off.

“I believe I am ill, Aunt Mary,” Jemma whispered, her stomach lurching at the sight of the blonde. The blonde had nothing in common with the Sinclair sisters, but the sickening feeling in Jemma’s stomach was the same. “It is best I return home.”