My Dark Duke by Kitty St. Claire

CHAPTER TWO

YOUR REPUTATION DOES not do you service...

Sebastian Frederick Waldo Beaufort, Sixth Duke of Thorncastle, frowned as he recalled—not for the first time—the parting words of Miss Mary Smith.

He had oft been accused of a lack of conscience, but today his heretofore missing morals had made themselves known to him.

He had been a cad to flirt so outrageously with the prim Miss Smith. And worse, he had thoroughly enjoyed flustering her.

Sebastian had known many women during his three and thirty years—his reputation as a rake could attest to that—but he had never stooped from his self-set limits and dallied with an innocent.

Which, he knew instinctively, Miss Smith was.

Now, his mind wandered down dangerous paths, as he imagined all of the things he would like to do with the strait-laced vicar's housekeeper. Primitive desire stirred in his belly, as he thought on how—should he pursue his urges—he might be the first man to lay claim to Miss Smith's delectable curves. How pleasurable it would be, to introduce the young lady to the world of lovemaking. To instruct her. To command her. To take her completely.

Get it together, man, Sebastian scolded himself, as he attempted to focus on sorting through the pages of correspondence on his desk. Just forget her. His conscience now prodded him most sharply and Sebastian was not at all taken by the feeling of guilt it produced.

What need is there for guilt, a wicked voice whispered in Sebastian's ear. You do not want her for a quick tumble in the hay, you want her for your mistress.

Sebastian lay the quill he held in his hand down upon the table as he considered it. Miss Smith had applied for a position in his household, one which paid well enough, but not outlandishly by any stretch of the imagination. If he wished to offer her another position, one which might gift her wealth and status, was that such a bad thing?

I would rather be bored than a whore...

Again, Miss Smith's dulcet tones echoed through Sebastian's memory. As did the defiant way she had tilted her chin and the flash of anger in her emerald eyes.

Spirit is something one looks for in a horse, Sebastian reminded himself sternly, not in a mistress. He had a stable full of hot-blood Arabs, whom he could attempt to tame into submission if that was what he desired. He had never had to battle for submission in the bedroom, for most women came to him quite willingly.

Perhaps this was the problem, Sebastian mused, giving up all pretense at getting any work done and resting back in his chair. All of his previous mistresses, though beautiful and accomplished lovers, had been too compliant. Too eager to shower him with affection and pleasure.

What he needed, he decided, was a challenge. And the sweet but steely Miss Smith, might be just the thing.

Though his conscience roared in protest, Sebastian found his hand—almost of its own volition—had reached for the bell.

"Higgins," Sebastian drawled, as the young footman entered the library. "I have a task for you."

"Yes, your Grace," the lad nodded. "Of course, your Grace."

"I will need you to discover the whereabouts of Miss Smith, who visited here this morning."

Higgins blinked, as his cheeks slowly flushed. No doubt the lad had witnessed Miss Smith storm out like a tempest, and now his young mind was adding two and two together. Given Sebastian's reputation, there was no doubt the lad suspected his master's interests in the beautiful Miss Smith were far from noble—and he was correct.

"She mentioned that she was sent by an employment agency, run by a fellow called Fortesque," Sebastian continued, opening a drawer in his mahogany desk and taking out a coin purse. "Be a good lad and run along and see if this Mr Fortesque might be kind enough to furnish you with Miss Smith's address."

Sebastian took a handful of coins from the purse and proffered them at the footman, who rushed forth and pocketed the coin.

"Money might help to lubricate Mr Fortesque's memory if you find it rusting," Sebastian added with a wink. "Though keep some for yourself, my lad; whatever amount you deem is a suitable price for your silence on this matter."

"Yes, your Grace," the footman beamed, before hastily rearranging his expression into passivity, as was befitting of his station.

"Off you go." Sebastian dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I want you straight back here once you are done. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, your Grace," the lad parroted again, before turning on his heel and dashing for the door.

The young man would, no doubt, take his time, Sebastian thought with a grin. It was rare that a servant had coin in his pocket and time which did not need to be accounted for, and Sebastian guessed he might take a detour or two before setting out to find Mr Fortesque.

Perhaps he would take an ice at Gunter's before sauntering along Bond Street, for a glance at the plates in the window of Ackermann's. Or, Sebastian grinned, perhaps he might take his coin and gift it to a lightskirt in Covent Garden for a quick tumble.

The latter was what Sebastian would have done at his age. And if the lad was anything like Sebastian had been in his youth, that particular detour would not take too long.

Sebastian turned his attention back to his correspondence, impatient but aware that the best things came to those who waited.

While it was far from the most prestigious of neighbourhoods, Cheapside was, Sebastian thought, at least somewhat respectable. When Higgins had returned, late in the afternoon, with a page bearing the address of a boarding house on Gracechurch Street, Sebastian had been rather surprised to find himself relieved to learn his country-mouse was not staying in the dangerous Seven Dials.

That he had—unconsciously at least—been worried about Miss Smith's safety, leaving him feeling rather irritated, and thus, he had put off calling on her until later that evening.

In fact, after supper, as he was smoking a cheroot and stubbornly telling himself his interest in Miss Smith was purely carnal, Sebastian decided he would leave off calling on her until the next day.

However, once he had finished his cigar—an excellent Turkish tobacco from Fribourg and Treyer's in Haymarket—his supposed apathy disappeared, and he found himself summoning the footman to prepare a carriage and four.

"I wish to take the Landeau this evening" he instructed, and the footman gave a knowing nod.

The Landeau was one of Sebastian's plainer vehicles, one which he used when he wanted anonymity. Or namely, when he was off to do something scandalous and did not wish to be noted.

Not that he considered offering Miss Smith a chance to reconsider his proposed carte blanche as scandalous, for it wasn't really, by his standards at least.

Still, the chit might take umbrage if he caused a scene by arriving in a vehicle which bore the ducal arms, and so Sebastian set forth for Cheapside in his plain Landeau with anticipation bubbling in his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had felt this aroused by a woman, he thought, as the carriage wound its way through London's evening traffic. He had come into his title at the mere age of twenty, and at that young age he had been determined to sample every delight London had to offer a man of title and fortune. But a decade of having his every desire sated had left him feeling rather empty and, though the papers reported the opposite, Sebastian had, for the past few years, been far less inclined toward rakery.

Of course, he had kept a beautiful mistress or two, for the sake of keeping up appearances, but his desire for partaking in the pleasure of the flesh had ebbed and waned to almost nothing.

He had resignedly decided that the vanishing of his libido was age finally catching up with him, until Miss Smith had wandered into his home with her tempting curves and beautiful but impertinent mouth.

Desire had made a reappearance, coursing through his veins, and causing him—and other parts of him—to stand to attention.

Now he just needed to persuade Miss Smith that attending to his desire would be an advantageous adventure for them both.

The carriage soon drew to a halt outside a house which could only be described as unremarkable. It was a three-story dwelling with a short flight of steps leading to a black front door, flanked on either side by homes of identical banality. The only thing that distinguished the home from its neighbours, was a polished wooden sign on the railings outside, which read; Mrs Harrod's Boarding House for Christian Women.

It was, Sebastian thought with a wry smile, the least provocative name one could think of for an establishment. Still, he felt rather pleased to learn Miss Smith was not sharing a dinner table with any gentlemen, and that her virtue was being guarded by Mrs Harrod, who Sebastian pictured as being rather formidable.

The carriage had been drawn up outside but a minute, when from one of the windows above, Sebastian spotted an fierce-looking older woman frowning down at the vehicle suspiciously.

Mrs Harrod, Sebastian guessed, and when her face disappeared from the window, he had the sneaking suspicion she was headed his way.

"Drive on," he called, rapping on the roof of the carriage.

He had no wish whatsoever to have to interact with this Mrs Harrod, or explain to her his reasons for being there. He was quite certain that were he to divulge to Mrs Harrod that he wished to spirit one of her charges away to live as his mistress, she would scream blue-murder.

As the carriage neared the end of Gracechurch Street, Sebastian rapped on the roof again to indicate for the driver to stop.

He had not prepared any kind of plan, he realised, as he peered out of the carriage window at the dark, empty street. Desire—and a dash of arrogance—had made him assume he could simply stroll up and knock on Miss Smith's door and be gratefully received. This, he realised irritably, was not to be the case.

Not only would Mrs Harrod refuse him entry, but he might inadvertently damage Miss Smith's standing in her eyes, if Sebastian were to call so late in the evening. If Sebastian were a cad, he might think this point in his favour. If by calling he accidentally made Miss Smith homeless, she might be far more amenable to his proposal of a carte blanche.

But Sebastian, for all his faults, was no cad. Nor would his pride allow him to force Miss Smith into his bed. He wanted her, he was willing to pursue her—but when he bedded her, he wanted her to come willingly to him.

Sebastian sighed as the minutes passed and no inspiration as to what he should do next struck; pursuing an innocent was far harder work than chasing after one of the demi-monde.

Outside, the lamplighter arrived to light the single gas-lamp which stood on the corner of Gracechurch Street and Lombard Street. He was late, Sebastian noted, for darkness had long fallen, though perhaps that did not matter so much in an area like Cheapside, where the streetlamps were so few that they made little difference to the darkness.

The lamplighter clambered atop his ladder, and as he brought the gaslight aflame, its yellow light illuminated the footpath beneath, bathing a passing figure in its glow.

Miss Smith.

Sebastian sat to attention, though he hesitated as he resisted against his urge to spring forth from the carriage and pounce on her. It did not take a genius to realise that surprising a woman walking alone on a darkened road was the opposite of romantic. Not only would he earn Miss Smith's ire, but he might also earn himself a black eye.

As Sebastian pondered what his next move might be, a second figure was briefly illuminated as it stole under the gaslamp's glare. A young lad, shabbily dressed, and judging by his expression, his intentions were equally as ghastly as his clothes.

A startled cry from outside soon proved Sebastian's suspicions right, and in a second he had sprung forth from the carriage, and sprinted toward Miss Smith.

"No!" he heard her cry. "My basket! You're not taking it—argh!"

Sebastian raced faster, though the way was so dark, he almost tripped over Miss Smith when he reached her. She picked herself up off the footpath, having evidently been pushed to the ground by the fiend.

Behind him, Sebastian heard the sound of footsteps running toward them, and Higgins materialised out of the gloom.

"See if you can catch whoever took Miss Smith's basket," Sebastian ordered, jerking his head in the direction the thief had run. Higgins disappeared, and Sebastian turned to Miss Smith, who had returned to a standing position without his assistance.

So much for being her knight in shining armour.

"Miss Smith..." He stepped forward, allowing concern to lace his tone. "Are you hurt? The fiend. I saw him steal upon you from my carriage, but I was too late to stop him."

"What on earth were you doing spying on me from your carriage?"

Gratitude. Awe. Perhaps a feminine whimper of thanks. Sebastian had expected at least some sort of acknowledgment from Miss Smith for his heroic endeavours to save her, but he had not anticipated this cool outrage.

"I was not spying on you," he countered, trying to temper his irritation. "I was merely parked upon the corner when I happened to see you pass by."

"Does His Grace often park on the corner of Gracechurch Street?" Miss Smith inquired, as she furiously brushed the dust from her skirts.

"Never." Sebastian could not suppress his shudder of distaste at the very idea that he often lingered in Cheapside.

"Then what," Miss Smith looked up from her skirts and cast him a withering glare, "are you doing here, if not spying upon me?"

"I was waiting for you," Sebastian retorted, hotly. "It's entirely different to spying."

"Different, but no less sinister," Miss Smith hooted, and to Sebastian's surprise, she took a step toward him, her green eyes alight with anger. "Do you think me a green-girl, Your Grace? One silly enough to think it is a coincidence that the man who offered me a position as his mistress just happened to be present to save me when a thief makes off with my basket, and my purse, and all that I own that is valuable?"

"When you put it like that, it does sound rather suspicious," Sebastian conceded. "Though I assure you that it is simply bad timing on my part."

"A likely story," Miss Smith laughed, though it was a hollow sound, empty of anything but derision.

"Now, hold on one minute," Sebastian bristled. He would not have her slander him so unjustly. There were plenty of other accusations she could level at him which would be quite true, but thief was not one of them.

"I did not organise this charade," he growled, meeting her stormy gaze with one of his own. "It was merely a coincidence—an unfortunate one, I'll grant you that. Yes, I came to see if you would reconsider my proposal, but I had no wish to place you in such sorry circumstances that you would be forced to accept it. I am dashedly sorry I did not apprehend that footpad, but I will compensate you for the loss of your purse, Miss Smith."

Sebastian had not realised it, but with each word he had spoken, he had moved closer and closer to Miss Smith, so that he was now inches from her. He felt the warmth radiating from her body, and he longed to pull her against him. The night was cold, bitterly so, and he saw each breath she took as they rose like a cloud from her lips. She was not unaffected by him, he was gratified to see; her bosom heaved beneath her too-thin shawl, and her lips were parted, as though in longing.

Sebastian was tempted to lower his head and steal a kiss from her rosebud mouth, but as well as being beautiful, Miss Smith also appeared to be clairvoyant, and she leveled him a frown.

"I don't need anything from you," she whispered, sounding much like she was trying to convince herself more than Sebastian.

"I fear," Sebastian drawled, stepping closer again, "we are both about to become stuck on a point of pride, Miss Smith. Pride will not allow you to accept my offer, whilst it will also not allow me to permit you to leave without accepting the compensation I offer. It comes with no caveat; I am merely a man who wishes to prevent a young woman from falling into destitution."

"I am not yet destitute, your Grace," Miss Smith argued, her cheeks staining prettily with indignation. "The thief might have made off with what little money I have, but I have just secured a position and shall be able to support myself quite adequately. I have no need for your charity. I will earn my keep with honest labour."

Sebastian glowered at her pious tone; Miss Smith did not believe that his offer of compensation was in any way magnanimous. Even he struggled to comprehend the strange urge filling him. He wanted to know Miss Smith was safe for his own peace of mind—and not for the sake of the bulge in his breeches.

It was something of a revelation that he, The Devil Duke, could be in any way altruistic. And, annoyingly, the first pure urge he had ever had toward another was being misinterpreted.

Sebastian was struck by the memory of an old fable, as he quashed down his irritation. Though he was not so much the boy who cried wolf, as he was the duke who cried chivalry. Perhaps he could not blame Miss Smith for her mistrust, when he had offered her a position as his mistress, just that very morning.

"Now, see here," Sebastian growled, desperate to explain himself. Though what it was she was supposed to see was never to be revealed, for another voice cut across him before he could finish.

"Is that you, Mary?"

The voice was thusly accompanied by the body of another young woman, wrapped tight against the cold night in a thick coat. The interloper cast Miss Smith a worried glance as she assessed the situation, before landing her hostile gaze upon Sebastian.

"Is everything all right?" she queried, in a voice hinting that should everything not be all right, that it was Sebastian who would pay the price.

"No." Sebastian adopted his most charming manner—a chore, for as a rule, he was never charming. "Miss Smith has had her basket stolen by a footpad. I came to her assistance but I was unable to apprehend the ruffian. She is now refusing, rather stupidly, my offer to reimburse her the moneys which were stolen."

The interloper, who at first had been rather taken aback by Sebastian's smooth, Etonian accent, now looked him up and down from top to toe. Her eyes, Sebastian noted, were shrewdly calculating the cost of his coat of superfine, his Hessian boots, and the beaver hat upon his head.

"You should let the man help you, Mary," she advised, having evidently decided that Sebastian could well afford to act as Miss Smith's saviour.

"I have no wish to be helped by His Grace," Miss Smith shrugged, moving away from Sebastian to link her arm through that of her friend. "Come, Sally, I wish to warm myself by the fire. Good evening, Your Grace."

Miss Smith tugged her friend away, in the direction of the boarding house, leaving Sebastian with a sense of loss, which he quickly quashed with a feeling of irritation.

Silly chit, he thought, as he turned on his heel; to refuse a magnanimous offer of assistance.

Sebastian gave an irritable sigh, as he stalked back to his carriage to await the return of Higgins. After a few long minutes, the footman returned, his nose red from the cold.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," the young man said, apologetically, "but I could not find the lad. Reckon he's back in St Giles by now."

"Thank you, Higgins." Sebastian waved a lazy hand. "That is much what I expected. There is no magic that could trump a footpad's ability to disappear into thin air. Now, back to your post, and tell the driver I wish to visit one of my clubs. White's should suffice."

Higgins nodded and closed the carriage door, leaving Sebastian alone to stew in its dark recesses. He was vexed. He was irritated. He was thoroughly put out by Miss Smith's refusal of his assistance.

And, he realised with a wry smile, he was also extremely aroused.

His blood coursed through his veins, he felt an ache of desire within his belly, and—he snorted with laughter, once he realised it—his breeches bulged with longing for the vexatious Miss Smith.

Perhaps the chit was right not to trust my intentions, Sebastian thought, as the carriage wound its way through the night. True, he wanted her safe, but what safer place was there for the young woman than under his protection—and between his bedsheets?