The Wicked Ways of a Duke(4)

“What’s happened here?” Maria asked.

Prudence didn’t answer. Instead, she walked down the alley and put her hand on Sally’s arm. “Are you all right? What can we do to help?”

“Nothing,” Sally said from the depths of the duke’s shirtfront. “I’ll be all right.” She shook off Prudence’s hand, then lifted her head, gazing up at her savior. “If I could just sit down for a bit?”

“Of course.” St. Cyres glanced around, then gently disengaged himself from her embrace and reached for a large wooden crate from a nearby rubbish heap. He removed his jacket and draped it over the crate. “Will this do? Alleys don’t come furnished these days, more’s the pity.”

Sally gave a shaky laugh and sank down onto the crate, grasping his hand in hers. “Thank you, sir,” she said again, holding onto his hand as if it were a lifeline.

The duke looked at Prudence. “It might be best if you and your friend went home,” he advised. “After all Alberta’s abuse,” he added with a smile, “you must be exhausted. And it’s bloody freezing out here. If you linger, you’ll catch a chill.”

Was it cold? Prudence wondered. She couldn’t tell, for this man’s smile warmed her all through. “You’re very kind, but—”

“I will arrange for the girl to be taken safely home,” he assured her, seeming to know just what concern she’d been about to express. “You needn’t worry.”

“Thank you.” She could feel Maria tugging on her cloak, and turned away, following her friend toward the street, knowing there was nothing more they could do. But when she reached the corner, she was unable to resist one last look at the duke. Glancing back down the alley, she saw him hovering over Sally with the solicitous regard of a true gentleman.

He’s splendid, she thought. Brave, considerate, and utterly splendid.



Quite a low pass he’d come to, he supposed, shagging servant girls.

Rhys De Winter slid his palm over one of Sally McDermott’s bare buttocks, and it occurred to him that seducing a serving maid only minutes after rescuing her would inspire a bout of conscience in most men, at least once lust had been sated. Rhys, however, suffered no such inconvenient pangs. When a plum dropped into his lap—or, to be accurate, hurled itself into his arms—he’d be a fool not to take advantage of the moment. Rhys was not a fool, and Sally had turned out to be quite a tasty plum.

Rather a surprise that, since she hadn’t been his first choice. He’d originally had his eye on that delicious little seamstress with the dark hair. She had just the sort of generous curves he favored in a woman, and when he saw Alberta kick over the sewing basket, it provided him the perfect chance for a closer, much more thorough perusal. He’d been quite pleased to discover she had a pretty complexion, fine brown eyes, and hair with the fresh scent of lavender, a fragrance he’d always liked. But after only a few moments, he’d been forced to banish any amorous inclinations about her. Those big, soft eyes had gazed at him as if he were king of the earth just for retrieving a few spools of thread, but she jumped and shied at the mere brush of his hand, making it clear his little seamstress was innocent as a baby. Innocence had never held much charm for him.

It was just as well, he’d told himself at the time. His reason for attending the ball hadn’t been skirt chasing anyway, but heiress hunting. He had returned to the ballroom with Alberta, one of the richest heiresses in Britain, and for the rest of the evening was a very good boy, doing his best to seem virtuous, marriage-minded, and responsible, particularly in front of her father.

Rhys rolled onto his back and stared at the painted cherubs and gilded ceiling moldings overhead. God, Milbray has gaudy taste, he thought. Still, a hideously decorated town house borrowed for the season from an old school friend was better than nothing. At least it was a fashionable address. He might be stone broke, but he was also a duke, and if he was going to find himself an heiress to marry, he had to maintain a residence worthy of his position.

Alberta had a dowry that could rescue him from the mire of his debts, but a few hours in her company had rid him of any notion to marry her. He had no intention of going to hell until he was actually dead.

Though Lady Alberta Denville had proved an untenable solution, he couldn’t complain about how the evening turned out. The ball had ended with the usual crush of people waiting out front for their carriages to be brought around, and Rhys, tired of standing amid the suffocating mass, had ducked out the back, thinking to fetch his carriage from the mews himself. In so doing, he had ended a rather unsatisfactory evening on a very satisfactory note.

Turning his head, he glanced at the naked woman who lay on her stomach beside him with her head pillowed on her folded arms.

Yes, he’d come to a very low pass, indeed, when a maid or seamstress in need of a few bob was all he could afford. But he had no taste for streetwalkers, and keeping a mistress was out of the question. He hadn’t been able to afford that particular luxury for quite some time, an unfortunate circumstance unlikely to change in the near future. Though he’d only returned to Britain five days ago, any courtesan worthy of her trade was already well aware that the newest Duke of St. Cyres couldn’t scrape together the blunt for his own household, much less provide one for her.

Sally stirred and lifted her head to find him watching her. She smiled at him sleepily amid the tumble of her wheat-colored curls, and his desire began to stir. He returned her smile with a wicked one of his own, rolled onto his side and pressed a kiss to her shoulder as he eased his hand between her thighs.

“Wantin’ another toss already, are you?” Her smile widened. “Greedy bloke.”

“Very greedy,” he concurred, and nipped her shoulder. She giggled, and he pushed his hand deeper. Finding the result of that exploration satisfactory, he slid his free arm beneath her stomach.

“All right, all right, I’ll give you second helpings,” she murmured, her body stirring in response to these amorous advances. “But only because you rescued me.”

He lifted her hips and positioned himself behind her, thinking it a damn fortunate thing he was such a chivalrous fellow.





Chapter 2


Indebted Dukes Now Available at a Discount. Heiresses, What Shall You Bid?


—The Social Gazette, 1894





The scrape of the coal scuttle woke him far too soon. Rhys rolled onto his stomach and covered his head with a pillow, cursing the efficiency of English household routine. In Italy, a servant wouldn’t dream of intruding upon a gentleman’s rest until the sun had moved to the western side of the horizon. No such luck in England.

He took a peek from beneath the bedclothes and saw beside the fireplace the unmistakable striped gray dress, white apron, and cap of a chambermaid. Only the most obtuse servant could have failed to notice that there were two people in the bed, and with a pretty wench beside him, he hardly needed the warmth of a fire, but Rhys didn’t point that out. Speaking seemed too much of an effort at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning, especially since he’d fallen asleep less than an hour ago. He closed his eyes again.

The second time he was awakened, it was by his valet, a servant who damned well ought to have known better.

“Fane,” he muttered, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder, “if you don’t remove yourself from my room this instant, I will sack you.”

An empty threat, since he owed the fellow at least six months’ wages and couldn’t afford to find someone new, at least not someone loyal enough to stick with him as Fane had. The valet was clearly aware of this, too, for he didn’t leave. Instead, he gave Rhys another gentle shake.

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry,” he murmured, “but it seems there is a domestic crisis that requires your immediate attention.”

“Domestic crisis? Have Hollister take care of it. He’s Milbray’s butler, isn’t he?” Rolling away from the persistent shaking of the valet, he wrapped one leg and one arm around the slumbering woman beside him and began drifting back to sleep. “I have no intention of leaving this bed until at least two o’clock this afternoon unless it is the end of the world.”

“Your mother is in the drawing room, and footmen are bringing in her trunks. She appears to be moving in.”

“Good God.” Rhys rolled onto his back and sat up, staring at Fane in horror. “It is the end of the world. Don’t just stand there, man. Fetch my dressing gown at once.”

Five minutes later Sally was on her way home in a cab and Rhys was dressed—more or less. In trousers, shirt, and dressing gown, he headed down a flight of stairs to the drawing room, pausing along the way to peer over the rail at the foyer below, confirming that there was indeed a pile of trunks, valises, and hat boxes stacked there. His mouth set in a grim line as he watched a pair of footmen maneuver another trunk through the front door.

He strode to the drawing room, wondering how Letitia could think for one moment he would allow her to stay under the same roof as himself. He’d spent the past twelve years on the Continent for the sole purpose of keeping as far from her and her lecherous brother-in-law as possible. Thankfully, Uncle Evelyn was dead, but Rhys was still as intent on avoiding his mother as ever. He hadn’t been able to stomach more than five minutes in her company since he was twelve. She was equally fond of him.