Meg laid the gowns on the bed. They’d both worn every gown a hundred times, and she hated all of them. Now Rose would have an entirely new wardrobe, fashionable and lovely, and never have to share her clothes again. A shimmer of jealousy crept up her spine, and Meg tightened her fist on a particularly hated sprigged muslin. She let go so she wouldn’t need to press the wrinkles out of it and forced a smile.
“You’ll wear pretty clothes and go to parties and balls.” She looked critically at a faded green gown with a small tear on the sleeve. “No more turned hems or darned stockings.”
Rose sniffed. “I’d rather wear rags and be a spinster than marry the Devil of Temberlay.” She snatched the gown out of Meg’s hands and tossed it to the floor. “I won’t do it.”
Meg picked up the gown. “You’ve already agreed!”
“Then I shall un-agree! Why should I sacrifice myself just so Mama can have more servants, sell myself like a—”
Meg’s eyes widened as her sister’s mouth formed the word but didn’t dare to say it aloud.
“But it’s not just for Mama. Think of Mignonette and Lily. Think of—”
“Why? No one is thinking of me!” Rose whined.
It would take hours of careful explanation to get her sister to see reason. Meg picked up the gowns and the sewing basket. “I’ll go and work in the library. Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
She shut the door and stood in the quiet of the hall, trying to quell the dark little demons of jealousy and envy. Rose would cry all the way to London, but once there, trying on pretty clothes and attending parties, she would feel differently about becoming a duchess.
And Temberlay? Was he awaiting his bride, anticipating the wedding night? Meg’s stomach quivered. She set the gowns on the stair railing and took the scandal sheet out of her pocket. She looked down at the handsome face with a sigh, and ran the tip of one finger over his grinning mouth, and down his broad chest, the impossible length of his booted legs . . . was he really as wicked as he was drawn? She shut her eyes. She felt wicked just thinking about him, especially now. She picked up the gowns and headed downstairs.
A deal with this devil might be well worth the cost.
Chapter 2
“There’s a rumor afoot you’re getting married.”
Nicholas Hartley, the infamous Devil Duke of Temberlay, opened one sleepy gray eye and fixed his gaze on the naked woman draped over his chest. The rumor was true enough, but he didn’t want to discuss it, especially now.
His latest mistress had hair so blond it was almost white. It made her famous, both on stage and in bed, since every man in London wanted to know if the color was entirely natural.
It was.
Angelique’s expressive green eyes remained fixed on him, her curiosity evident. She was jealous, if the scratch of her nails on his chest was anything to go by. He picked up her hand and put it where it could do some good, and grunted when she squeezed his cock.
“They say she’s the daughter of the late Earl of Wycliffe. Wherever did you meet her, Devil?”
He hated when she called him Devil. The nickname had been earned in war, for braver deeds than the ton used it for now. He also frowned at the other name. Wycliffe. Had he met her? He’d been out of England for nearly three years, and home for mere weeks.
He tried to focus on his very talented mistress, rather than wondering about the bride his grandmother had arranged for him. He was surprised at Granddame’s alacrity. It had been less than a week since she’d insisted he must marry, and since he had no choice, he’d given her carte blanche to make a match. He’d assumed she would confer with him before reaching a final decision. Once again, he had underestimated her.