Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
24
Rowan walked up the steps of the Dunbar town house, pausing only to rap at the door with his walking stick. As he waited for the door to open, a carriage bearing the Cambourne coat of arms pulled up. A footman opened a shiny black door to help the stunningly beautiful occupant, Lady Miranda, sister of the Marquess of Cambourne, exit the carriage.
Rowan bowed politely to her as the Cambourne footman escorted her up the steps. The smell of lavender and honey preceded Lady Miranda, a light feminine scent that instantly caused Rowan to smile in appreciation. Rowan had met Lady Miranda several times and even led her into dinner once at the Marquess of Cambourne’s. Not only was she beautiful, but pleasant and clever to boot, being knowledgeable on a variety of subjects. He could not countenance that the sweet woman who stood next to him waiting for entrance was the closest friend of the ill-tempered Lady Arabella.
“Good day, Lord Malden.” She addressed him by his courtesy title, her dark green eyes were friendly as she waited for her footman to rap sharply on the door. “I assume you have been invited so that my brother and his friends can best you at cards?”
“Undoubtedly.” Rowan gave a shrug. “But they will have a tough time doing so as I am a terrible card player and aware of my failing, thus I do not gamble much. I fear they will be sorely disappointed as they will win only enough from me to purchase a tart from a street vendor.”
Lady Miranda laughed, a light airy sound that reminded Rowan of tinkling bells. Why this woman remained unwed mystified him. He’d heard the gossip of course but refused to believe Lady Miranda capable of such a thing.
An elderly butler opened the door, his lips twisting in annoyance as he spied Rowan, then he turned to Lady Miranda and his face softened.
“Lady Miranda, welcome. Lady Arabella will be down in a moment. Please come in.”
The butler turned to Rowan pursing his lips. “Lord Malden, His Grace awaits you in the study.”
Handing her cloak to a waiting servant, Miranda raised a carefully plucked brow at Rowan. “Ignore Peabody. He has an aversion to new people.”
A rustle of skirts caught Rowan’s attention. He turned to see Lady Arabella coming down the grand staircase. Her face was soft and light with no trace of her usual stern manner, allowing Rowan and anyone else who saw her to see how lovely she really was. Beautiful in fact. His heart skipped a beat. And good God, she was actually smiling
But not at him.
“Hello Miranda. I’ve tea waiting in the drawing room. I thought we’d indulge in one of Cook’s scones before we—” Arabella’s forehead wrinkled in consternation as she noticed Rowan standing just inside the door. Grimacing in annoyance at his appearance, her entire demeanor changed. “What are you doing here?" The irritated words echoed in the foyer. Shaking out her somber, pewter colored skirts, Lady Arabella flounced down the remaining steps. “Don’t tell me my brother has invited you?” She rolled her eyes, sounding as if His Grace were half mad at inviting Rowan to the house.
“Bella.” Lady Miranda smoothed down her skirts and shot Rowan a look under her lashes. “Of course he was invited, else he would not be here.” Her tone was soothing and even. “Don’t be foolish.”
“Lady Arabella.” Rowan bowed. Rude, waspish woman. He tried to keep his tone polite and failed. “How lovely to see you.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. It was incredibly poor manners to speak so to the sister of a duke, but Lady Arabella exasperated Rowan to no end. Why couldn’t the woman at least be courteous, like Lady Miranda?
Lady Arabella immediately stiffened at Rowan’s tone, her eyes narrowing. Turning her back to him as if he were beneath her notice, she headed into the drawing room. “Come, Miranda.”
Lady Miranda walked past Rowan and said quietly under her breath, “Very good, Lord Malden. Arabella does not suffer fools. Do not give up.”
Lady Arabella turned as she entered the drawing room, glaring at Rowan over her friend’s shoulder.
“Enjoy your tea.” He winked at Lady Arabella and was satisfied to see her flinch at his forwardness. Good. He hoped she was annoyed beyond words.
“This way, my lord,” Peabody intoned, motioning Rowan to follow him down a long hallway lit by a perfect line of wall sconces. The hall was decorated with small Roman busts and several large portraits of men and women in a variety of fashions. The Devils of Dunbar, he surmised, noting that several of the people in the portraits bore mismatched eyes, much like the duke.
Rowan stopped, his attention riveted on a particularly large portrait, a painting so tall it took up nearly the entire wall. A big man, dressed as if he meant to go to battle, leaned against an apple tree. The man’s hands lay on the hilt of a large broadsword and a battle-axe lay near his feet. The man’s hair shown a dark auburn as did his goatee. An L-shaped white house sat in the distance, and Rowan could just make out a woman and several children who seemed to be walking across the expanse of lawn towards the man. Something about the commanding, fierce way in which the man stood reminded Rowan of the current duke.
“The first Duke of Dunbar, Robyn Tremaine,” Peabody informed him. “His Grace favors him.”
“Indeed.” Rowan walked past the painting and deeper into the house, marveling at the number of doors and the size of the Dunbar town home.
Peabody paused before a dark paneled door. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, and not waiting for instruction, threw open the door. “Lord Malden.”
The three men in the room all looked up at Rowan at the same time. A bottle of whisky sat on the table before them along with a pair of dice.
“Peabody,” the Marquess of Cambourne welcomed the butler. “I’m starving. Can you see about a tray of—” he looked at the duke who shrugged carelessly. “Something? Cakes? Some roast left over from last night?”
“We had pheasant,” the deep baritone of the duke informed him.
“Very well, pheasant.” Cambourne shook his head. “Really Nick, one would expect a much more robust repast than pheasant at a duke’s home. Perhaps a meat pie?” He looked at Peabody hopefully.
Rowan smiled, feeling instantly at ease. He liked the scandalous marquess, having met Cambourne at White's for the first time while in the company of the duke. At the time, he’d been curious about Cambourne's reputed dragon tattoo, which the ton twittered about endlessly, especially the ladies. Rowan had yet to meet a female who was immune to Cambourne’s charms, but the man was notoriously faithful to his wife.
Another man sat between Cambourne and an empty seat, which Rowan took to be his. The man’s coloring was fair, his dark blond hair standing out clearly between the darker heads of Cambourne and the duke. He gestured to the space beside him. A scar, starkly white and puckered ran the length of the left side of the man’s face.
There was no mistaking this man’s identity as the ton gossiped about him as well. Rowan often heard him referred to as cursed. If the rumors were true, his mother had given him that awful scar. The Earl of Kilmaire.
“Malden.” The duke welcomed him with a broad smile. “Sit man.” A crystal glass full of whisky immediately appeared in his hand. “I believe you know Cambourne.”
Rowan nodded in greeting to the marquess. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
“Cam.” Cambourne lifted his glass to Rowan in toast. “My friends call me Cam.”
Kilmaire gave a short laugh. “Or Satan Reynolds. I’m rather disappointed I don’t have such a frightening nickname. I find it quite unfair. After all, I look much more dangerous,” he ran a fingertip down the scar, “than you. I had to tolerate the incessant chatter at Lord Swit’s dinner last night. His wife and her friends lamenting over your angelic good looks nearly made me ill before dessert was served.”
Cambourne glared at his friend. “Do shut up, Colin.”
“I am Kilmaire.” He completely disregarded Cambourne’s annoyance. “Do you possess a scandalous past or perhaps a terrifying nickname? One must if you are to sit at this table.” The dark eyes twinkled. “All the ones referring to Old Scratch are taken, so we’ll need to come up with something else.”
“He does not. Malden is my betrothed’s cousin.” The duke rolled the dice. “You have been so kind, Malden, in your attention to your father’s garden, particularly the trellis, I thought we would start with dice tonight.”
Rowan tried not to look too surprised that the duke had found him out.
His Grace lifted his glass in a silent toast to Rowan, nodding as he did so.
“It is a shame that you lack a shocking distinction, but there is still time,” Kilmaire continued, speaking to Rowan as he took up the dice. “There are plenty of wicked things in London.” The scar gleamed a stark white against his lightly tanned skin as he quirked his lips. “So perhaps you will cause a scandal and thus receive a nickname. You are in the right company, after all, for such to happen.”
“So, I am given to understand.” Rowan chuckled, taking his seat. His mother, of course, knew all the gossip. Horrified to the core that her son would spend the evening carousing with a trio that the ton referred to as The Wickeds sent her to her bed early. “I was an ill-mannered child so perhaps I just need a bit more time to do something dreadful.”
Kilmaire burst into laughter, handing Rowan the dice. “I believe it's your turn, Malden.”
