Sins of a Wicked Duke
Page 11

Remembered the fateful words that had so dramatically altered her life with a single declaration.
 Your father is dead, girl. Buried somewhere in the Seychelles. Take heart, though—he died righteously, performing his duties. Fret not. I’ll see to your welfare.
Bitterness twisted her heart. For once her gaze skipped over the handsome visage of the duke, instead crawling over the carpet, skimming its elaborate swirl pattern until stopping at the booted feet of Lord Hunt. Her gaze traveled up, sliding over dark trousers, to the waiting man.
Holding open the cigar box, she inhaled, readying for her first glimpse of the man responsible for her father’s death. The man who sent him to the far corners of the world to retrieve… flowers, of all things. The very man who sentenced her to life at Penwich. Her gaze locked on his face, and her breath froze in her lungs.
It wasn’t him.
And yet she saw him. Recognized the high brow, the deeply set eyes. The cleft in his square chin. Oh, she knew him. Saw the boy where the man now sat. As big a bastard as his father. Lord Ethan, the Viscount’s son. The old man must have died if Ethan now bore the title. Strange that the thought did not gratify her. He likely died in his own bed, surrounded by family and friends.
Not struck dead of disease in a faraway land with only strangers for comfort.
Her attention settled on him with unwavering intensity. The little lordling’s boyish handsomeness had matured into hard-edged virility. Not so unlike the duke. They both wore a look of dissolution. From the too-long hair to the sinful curve of their lips. A perfect pair. No wonder they were friends. She should have guessed Lord Hunt’s spoiled son would gravitate to someone like Damon.
And perhaps not such a coincidence, after all. She vaguely recalled that a duke lived in the vicinity of Lord Hunt’s estate. On the other side of Little Saums. She had thought the name Damon familiar the first time she read it on his card. Until now it did not click.
Lord Hunt’s hazel eyes, set deeply beneath thick dark brows, peered out at the world with an air of derision. As if he alone was privy to some grand jest on all of mankind.
Her stillness drew their notice. Both men fixed her with questioning stares.
“Well, are you going to gawk all day, man? I haven’t been ogled so much since I was forced into Almack’s for my sister’s debut.” Lord Hunt shuddered.
“Perhaps it’s that ugly mug of yours he can’t take his eyes off,” Damon suggested.
Hunt shrugged, as if the notion wouldn’t bother him even if it were true.
Fallon’s cheeks burned. She forced herself to approach the duke. Holding the box open for him, he made his selection. Closing the box, she moved to the door.
“Have we met?”
She stopped at Hunt’s question. Good heavens. Did he recognize her? After all these years…
“You’ve a familiar face.”
He couldn’t remember her. Couldn’t recognize her. Deepening her voice, she replied, “No, my lord.”
“Hmm.” He rolled his cigar between two fingers, but his expression remained fixed on her, dubious and far too intent for comfort.
She risked a quick glance at the duke, only to find him staring at her with similar intensity, all the more unnerving coming from him. The bruise around his eye was fading, yellow beginning to edge out the darker blues.
“Been with Damon long, then, have you, lad?”
She flicked her gaze back to Hunt. “Not long, my lord.”
“Must you interrogate my footman?” the duke snapped. “Come. Tell me of this new thoroughbred. How does he ride?”
Hunt dragged his gaze from her face. “Not nearly as sweet as my last mistress…but then I had to break her in, too.”
The crass reply made her face flame.
“Splendid, Hunt,” Damon commented dryly. “You’ve made the boy blush.”
The viscount swung his gaze to her again, his look speculative. “A bit green, isn’t he? If he works for you, nothing I say or do should make him blush so prettily.”
“That will be all, Frank,” Damon intoned.
Not needing further prompting, she escaped the room…but not before pausing in the threshold to cast a lingering look over her shoulder. Surprisingly, her gaze did not seek out Hunt, the son of the man she had spent years loathing, blaming for her father’s death, blaming for the cold, awful years she spent at Penwich’s.
Her gaze sought the duke.
Her heart beat a bit faster to find him watching her, too, his look deep and assessing. Almost rueful. Apologetic. It gave her a start. Why should he look at her as though he was sorry for his friend’s crass behavior? He’d practically invited her to an orgy within five minutes of meeting her. He was every bit as incorrigible as Hunt.
Lips thinning, she turned and fled, doing her best to walk in a dignified fashion, and not the mad dash she craved.
Rounding the corridor, well free of the room, she leaned against the wall. Closing her eyes in one long blink, she sought to rid her mind of the image of the son of the man who had killed her father. More or less. Altogether not that difficult when another man crowded in, larger than life, his image pushing Hunt out.
Hunt faded, evaporating like smoke to the shadows of her mind. The handsome visage of the duke rose to take his place. Rot the scoundrel for invading her thoughts. Rother for being so weak that her fascination for him grew, overriding the aversion she should feel.
Snapping her eyes open, she resumed her hasty pace down the corridor, her heart still beating a hard tempo in her chest as she fought to reclaim herself.
She stopped hard in the kitchen at the sight of two grimy-faced urchins wolfing down steaming bowls of stew. Each one of them likely bore more dirt than the soot-filled hearth. One of the lads eyed her belligerently as he stuffed a large hunk of bread into his mouth.
“Who are they?” she murmured to a passing footman.
He flicked the pair a glance. “Two street rats the duke brought home.” He shook his head as if the notion bewildered him. “He does that.”
“Brings home urchins?”
“Aye. Feeds them and then finds them a school. Or suitable work. All depends on their age and abilities.”
 The demon duke?
The footman moved on. She remained where she was, staring at the boys’ wild, hunted eyes and thought she heard the sound of her heart crack.
Chapter 10
“Got you!” Fallon dangled the stubborn weed before her, glaring in satisfaction at the thick, gnarled root. Dropping it in the basket, she crouched back in the dirt and attacked another weed.
When Mr. Adams had requested a volunteer to help in the garden, she tried not to appear delighted over the gardener’s recent fall off a ladder. Having spent most of her childhood playing beside her father whilst he worked in Lord Hunt’s garden, she relished digging her fingers in moist soil. Even the slow creep of dirt beneath her nails was a missed sensation. So much so she deliberately eschewed the use of gloves. Besides, dirt beneath the nails likely advanced her image as a man.
Despite the cool afternoon, the wig felt hot and itchy atop her head. Sunlight beat down on her and a trickle of sweat ran into her brow. She wiped it free with the back of her hand and squeezed her fingertips beneath the edge of the wig and scratched furiously, inching her way higher into her sticky hairline.
“Bloody wig,” she muttered.
“Take it off,” a deep voice suggested from behind her.
Fallon whirled around, moving so quickly she nearly toppled into the grass and weeds.
“Your Grace,” she said dumbly, hands sliding along her trouser-clad thighs, fingers burying tightly into the fabric of her trousers.
Arms crossed, he leaned in the conservatory’s threshold. Garbed only in dark trousers and shirt, he was the idyllic image of an indolent lord. Only in her mind, indolent lords never looked so virile, so handsome. Their chests did not fill quite so much of their shirt. Nor did they mark their bodies with provocative tattoos. The pulse at her neck skittered wildly. Nerves. Nothing more.
She inhaled thinly through her nose. _He _ did not affect her. It was merely the consequence of living a deception.
“If you don’t like the wig, take it off.”
Her hand flew to the wig, brushing it, relieved to feel it still secure and not askew from her scratching.
“Take it off?” she echoed, heart hammering. “Mr. Adams said—”
He waved a broad hand. “You’re gardening. I’ve never seen the gardener wear a wig while working.”
“But Mr. Adams—”
“Permit me to share a secret.” He leaned forward slightly, darting a quick glance over his shoulder. “Mr. Adams answers to me.”
She smiled shakily, feeling foolish. “Of course.”
His gray eyes glinted almost silver in the afternoon light. Silver eyes? Who ever heard of such a thing? Perhaps he was part demon in truth. “If you wish to take the bloody thing off, thenI say you may do so.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her fingers played along the edges of the wig, skimming over the coarse hair, panicked at the thought of removing it before him. It served as a barrier of sorts. A shield she was reluctant to relinquish. He did not recall seeing her before, but if he saw her without the wig, he might.
“Thank you,” she repeated, “but I feel more comfortable wearing it.”
He arched a dark brow, clearly dubious. “You do?”
“I do.”
He shrugged as if to say it mattered naught to him. “Very well.”
After a long moment, she bent back over her patch of grass and pulled up several more weeds, her mind racing. Clearly he appeared content to stand in the threshold and watch her. She felt his stare as she worked, tugging a stubborn weed from the earth, her pulse a skippy jump at her neck. Dear Heavens, did he know? Knowing, did he toy with her now? Sweat trickled down her spine.
Why was he here? Watching her? She resisted sneaking another look at him, unwilling to let him know how much his presence flustered her.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
She froze, fingers locked around a rough, grimy weed. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, never releasing the weed, clinging to it as though it were a desperately needed handhold.
The duke still stood in the threshold, one booted foot crossed over the other. Unsmiling. His face carved granite.
She could scarcely form a reply, scarcely move her lips. “Your Grace?” she breathed.
“Don’t feign ignorance.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come, Frank. I can see it in your face. In the rigid way you hold yourself when I am near.”
She tensed. He noticed her body? Her heart quivered, then squeezed. The very notion made her grow more rigid, more unyielding, no matter how she commanded herself to relax. Her palms began to perspire, and she released the weed to rub them firmly and quickly against her thighs.
“You’re not in trouble,” he continued, lips still unbending. “I’m simply curious. I don’t think I’ve recalled anyone to take such an instant dislike to me.”
The incredible claim caught her off guard. He was the bloody demon duke. “No one?”
He smiled a sudden grin that made her heart flip, made her want to smile back. “That shocks you, does it? By all means, speak freely.”
Heat fired her cheeks. She moistened her lips. “Forgive me if I’ve given offense. Why should you think I don’t like you, Your Grace.” And why would it matter? She did not _believe _ herself any less important than he. Merely, she knew the way the world functioned. And where she ranked within it happened to be several rungs lower than the Duke of Damon. Demon duke or not.
“I saw your face when you entered the study yesterday.”
“During Lord Hunt’s call?”
He nodded in confirmation, his gaze intense, and she wondered how she would fool this man if he continued to look at her in such a manner. If he deciphered her antipathy for him, how long before he uncovered her secret?