Wooed by a Wicked Duke Read online

  Couldn’t he have one flaw? Crooked teeth? Long nostril hair? Bad breath? A squeaky voice?

  Honestly, she was hard put to find a single fault in his appearance. Neither, evidently, could the dozens of other simpering, ogling women continually surrounding him. To Jessica’s credit, she didn’t blink like a fly had landed in her eye, turn lobster red, or trip over her tongue in his presence. He was, after all, just a flesh-and-blood man.

  Yes, but such a scrumptiously attractive one.

  If she could’ve scolded her subconscious for stating the obvious, she would’ve done so.

  But it was his voice, such a deep, resonant timbre, she found nearly irresistible. Jessica could listen to him speak for hours. Did he sing? She thought he might with that voice—as rich as melted chocolate. She’d never sat close enough to hear him when the hymns were sung the few times he’d attended Sunday services.

  Placing her palms flat on the balustrade, she breathed out an exaggerated sigh. Crispin, Duke of Bainbridge, in all his sleek, male glory, was precisely the stuff of which fairytale heroes were made.

  No. He isn’t!

  She narrowed her gaze at his name, scrawled across her dance card in penmanship as indolent as the scoundrel himself. Bainbridge was exactly the type of wicked libertine and philanderer Papa had always warned his daughters against.

  Handsome. Wealthy. Confident. Privileged. Charming.

  Rakehell. Roué. A man about town. Heartbreaker. Scoundrel.

  Papa’s list of unfavorable characteristics went on considerably longer. Pages longer. And yet, her own father, a clergyman, couldn’t cast stones. Not with the burden of his own sins made so very public. In truth, the duke was the more honest of the men. He didn’t hide his flaws behind piety.

  Bainbridge was an aristocrat who drew women of every station and status to him like plump, fragrant summer blossoms enticed, clumsy nectar-drunk bees. If his allure weren’t so awfully pathetic to witness, she might find female reactions to him amusing.

  Elderly dames batted their stubby eyelashes while thrusting out their saggy bosoms, hoping for a kind word or one of his devastating smiles. Married women and widows curved their painted mouths upward seductively and slid him inviting glances.

  Precisely what those invitations entailed, Jessica refused to ponder, lest her cheeks heat with blistering color. Blushing debutantes and calf-eyed wallflowers observed his every move with something akin to hunger—or huntresses stalking their unsuspecting prey.

  Albeit, he couldn’t precisely be stalked when he knew full well—exploited, even—the enticing effects he had on women.

  Extraordinarily, as much as she could appreciate his attractive outward trappings—she did have perfectly good vision, after all—Jessica had never been physically attracted to him.

  Except for the difficulty in breathing on occasion. And my irregular pulse that one time.

  She pressed her lips tight. Fine. Thrice.

  And then there was the time your tummy went all wobbly, her annoying conscience gleefully reminded her.

  Bah! She’d made it a point never to let her guard down around Bainbridge. To do so was utter idiocy. He was a seducer of innocents. A hedonist. A man with a new mistress or lover every month.

  Or so she’d heard whispered. Not always in shocked disapproval, either. No, often there’d been yearning, possibly even a morsel of admiration, in those covert discussions.

  While Jessica might have a tendency toward shyness and was by no measure a woman of the world, she assuredly was not an empty-minded fool, either.

  She wasn’t worried about standing up with him, however. On the once beautifully chalked dance floor, in full view of all, he’d be required to act the gentleman. Point of fact, she’d never known him to do otherwise with her, despite his reputation as a debauchee.

  A particular friend of her brother-in-law, Bainbridge wasn’t bacon-brained enough to attempt anything untoward and risk Victor’s wrath. In any event, he’d never shown the least interest in her.

  Of course, Jessica had spoken to the duke previously, just the two of them. Several times, in truth. Had, in fact, bested him at a game of Pall Mall a few weeks ago. Why come to think of it, he still owed her an ice from Gunter’s as her prize.

  Oh, he’d better not think to renege, the cad.

  She meant to collect on that ice. Or a sorbet. Mmm. She shut her eyes for a blink, imaging the deliciousness melting on her tongue. Sorbets were even more scrumptious than ices, particularly the lemon-flavored frozen treat.

  She adored almost anything flavored with lemon. Lemon curd, lemon drops, and lemonade amongst her other favorites.

  Upon reflection, she concluded Bainbridge had probably only signed his name to her dance card as a favor to Victor. But of course. That made the most sense. She suspected as much of a few of the other gentlemen who’d also requested dances.

  Not that she minded.

  Far better to be partnered out of obligation than to lurk with the sad-eyed wallflowers gazing wistfully, sometimes sullenly and enviously, at the other misses enjoying themselves. In truth, she’d expected to be amongst the wallflower ranks, but she should’ve known Theadosia and Victor would assure she was not.

  They, and the Duchess of Pennington—the sister of her bosom friend, Ophelia Breckensole—would never permit her to pine away as an onlooker at the ball. Ophelia’s twin, Gabriella, the new Duchess of Pennington, no doubt played a not-so-subtle part in encouraging gentleman to seek a dance with Jessica as well.

  She didn’t mind their interference since affection motivated them. They were dears, one and all. Ophelia would be wondering where she’d disappeared to, though. Jessica shouldn’t linger too much longer.

  As she made her way to a secluded corner and leaned against a balustrade overlooking a quaint, walled garden alit with lanterns, beyond which lay what must be a hothouse, she pressed her mouth into a prim line and permitted her shoulders to slump. Slivers of iridescent moonlight bathed the garden and a figure-eight-shaped pond in a shimmering, silvery glow. The picturesque scene almost appeared fairylike.

  Snorting, she shook her head and rolled her eyes heavenward. There she went again with her fairytales. She was much too old to harbor such nonsensical fancies.

  A toad’s throaty croak echoed from the vicinity of the foliage edging one side of the pond. Its raspy calls reminded her of the humble parsonage in Colechester where she’d spent her girlhood. A wave of homesickness and an intense longing to see her parents engulfed her.

  It would be at least a year, likely two or three, before she saw them again. At times, she felt such a burden to Victor and Theadosia. She’d been foisted upon them as newlyweds. They never complained, but Jessica felt she was an imposition.

  A shiver scuttled up her spine, and she renewed rubbing her arms.

  How very different her life had been less than a year ago.

  Before scandal had sent her disgraced father to an Australian penal colony to minister to criminals. How stupid and naïve she’d been to believe the on dit wouldn’t follow the Brentwoods from Colechester to London.

  A well-respected solicitor, her brother, James, didn’t give a fig what Society thought. Her eldest sister, Althea, had eloped several years ago and was happy as a grig with her husband and children. And, of course, Theadosia had made a love match with Victor, the Duke of Sutcliffe.

  No one looked askance at the Sutcliffe and didn’t reap the consequences.

  Jessica, alone, had the most to lose from the ugly murmurings—namely, a respectable match. But she wasn’t altogether keen on landing a husband, unless she loved him. Her mother’s and sisters’ marriages had given her high expectations. Perhaps, unrealistic expectations. Fairytale expectations.

  But why shouldn’t she desire love? Wait for love?

  Without love, how did one forgive? Find contentment and happiness? Bear the heartaches and difficulties life served up more often than not? With a loving spouse, someone to support and encourage, a man she
could trust her deepest secrets and innermost desires to, she could be more than satisfied.

  Even when Mama had railed at Papa because of the shame he’d brought upon the family, she’d never stopped loving him. She’d willingly accompanied him to Australia, leaving her grown children behind. Leaving Jessica with Theadosia. Because a single woman, even accompanied by her mother and vicar father, had no place amongst hardened convicts.

  With deliberate intent, she inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of chilly air. As she exhaled, she released her concerns. It was too early in the Season to be mooning about such piffle.

  If she didn’t meet a man who looked at her the way Victor regarded Theadosia, or the Duke of Pennington gazed at Gabriella, the world wouldn’t tilt on its axis, nor would the sun fail to rise.

  At almost twenty, she wasn’t quite on the shelf or in her dotage. There was yet time. Not all would agree with her assessment. Breeding years and all that claptwaddle.

  Inhaling the cleansing air again—it was most invigorating—she deliberately tried to turn her thoughts to more pleasant musings. A Come Out and a Season had never crossed her mind, even after Theadosia married Victor. He’d generously dowered her, too.

  Now, here she was. In London. At a posh ball. With a new wardrobe, a sizable settlement, and about to launch into her first Season. Not the merest bit terrified.

  Really?

  Fine, perhaps a trifle nervous.

  The breeze toyed tauntingly with the curls on either side of her face.

  Uh-hum, mocked that perturbing voice that never permitted her to lie to herself.

  Very well. She was entirely out of her element but determined to do her best. For Theadosia’s benefit. And Victor’s. And, yes, even for James’s sake, too.

  Damned, dashed nuisance to have such a rational conscience.

  She had been having an enjoyable time earlier. Much better than she’d anticipated, until she’d overheard that trio of sharp-clawed she-cats gossiping about her and Theadosia. Or, more on point, about Papa’s public dishonor.

  Positive they’d seen her approaching the refreshment tables, in sotto voce voices, they’d tittered and feigned shock about his embezzlement of church funds and the subsequent gambling away of said monies. Of nearly finding himself defrocked. Of Theadosia almost being forced into marriage with a horrid reprobate.

  Fresh humiliation stabbed Jessica, and she swallowed. Or tried to. Her throat truly was dry.

  She’d make sure to drink a glass of lemonade before her waltz with the duke, else she’d not be able to converse without croaking worse than the amorous amphibian in the garden.

  “There you are.”

  Jessica glanced toward the speaker. A pretty, dark-haired, plump young woman approached, carrying two glasses in her fine-boned hands. Lemonade or ratafia?

  Searching behind her for a chaperone and finding none, Jessica offered a genial smile. It seemed she wasn’t the only one to brave a bit of censure by venturing outdoors alone. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  The girl—for she couldn’t be much more than seventeen or eighteen—shook her head, causing her pearl-and-emerald earrings to bob. A mischievous glint in her eyes—were they brown?—she made an exaggerated pretense of inspecting the area. “We haven’t. But I shan’t tell if you don’t.”

  Jessica liked her instantly. “I’m Jessica Brentwood.”

  Blast. Another faux pas. Introducing oneself wasn’t de rigueur. She was supposed to find someone who knew the other woman and ask them to do the honors—a silly waste of time.

  “I’m Lilith Brighton,” the girl said, offering one of the glasses.

  Jessica wasn’t familiar with the name, but that wasn’t a surprise. As this was her first week in London, she knew few people. A quick inspection of the cloudy liquid, and she dubbed it lemonade.

  “I saw you earlier,” Miss Brighton said. Then her forehead puckered, and she turned her mouth down. “And, I fear, I couldn’t help but overhear what those malicious twits said about your father. I suspected you’d intended to relieve your thirst, so after I gave them a piece of my mind, I set out in search of you. Please believe me when I tell you not everyone is as shallow or judgmental as they are.”

  Gratitude suffused Jessica that this stranger would champion her and had even realized she’d been thirsty and come looking for her with lemonade, too.

  She racked her memory.

  Had Miss Brighton been nearby when she’d gone in search of a beverage? Mayhap. After hearing the unkind conversation, Jessica had been quite upset. Miss Brighton might’ve been standing within an arm’s reach, dressed as an Amazonian warrior, and Jessica wouldn’t have noticed.

  Her only thought had been to put as much distance as possible between herself and the vile gossipmongers before she said or did something that would add more fodder to the inferno that was her family’s reputation.

  Despite her determination, otherwise, Jessica had a bit of a quick temper when provoked. But only when provoked. Tonight, she most assuredly had been.

  “Have you seen the darling puppies yet?” Miss Brighton cheerily asked, trailing her attention around the terrace and gardens before bringing that inquisitive gaze back to her.

  Jessica adored animals, as anyone who knew her at all could attest. Particularly baby animals. “Puppies?”

  She took a long, grateful sip of the lemonade. Gracious, it was tart, but also very welcome to her dry mouth and throat. Not everyone liked the citrusy drink as sweet as she preferred. In fact, Mama had claimed plain lemon water a curative, though they seldom had the funds to spend on the fruit.

  Grinning, Miss Brighton nodded eagerly, her attention once more sweeping the area.

  Was she afraid of being caught outdoors?

  Perhaps she wasn’t as bold as Jessica had first thought, which made her efforts to find her all that much more generous. However, as they were in each other’s company now, no one could proclaim them improper.

  “Oh, yes. The Duke of Westfall’s grandmother’s Pomeranian had three precious puppies a fortnight ago. They’re absolutely adorable.” She scrunched her nose and drew out the word. “She so dotes on the dog. Treats her like a pampered child. My parents have said that I might have one if—”

  A shadow passed over her round face but quickly disappeared, replaced by her bubbly countenance once more.

  Two gentlemen tripped down the steps to the garden below, and a moment later, one lit a cheroot. He angled in the terrace’s direction briefly before they wandered away along one of the serpentine pathways, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. At the far end of the porch, three couples made a slow turn, the ladies briskly waving their fans before their faces to create a breeze.

  The ballroom must’ve become more unbearably warm, for more attendees had braved the less-than-hospitable outdoors. Their numbers would likely increase as the evening wore on.

  However, it had grown impossibly cooler in the past five minutes, and Jessica had become quite chilled. She should probably go back inside before she was missed and before she became any colder.

  After draining her glass, she set the etched crystal on the balustrade, her thirst not quite quenched. A drink of water wouldn’t go amiss, but she’d yet to sample water in London as fresh as that in Colechester.

  Miss Brighton placed her half-full cup beside Jessica’s.

  “Come, I’ll show you. They’re in the conservatory.” She sliced Jessica another friendly grin. “Well, it’s too small to be a real conservatory. But there are several lush plants, a fountain in the center, and a pair of settees and few chairs scattered about. It’s quite charming.”

  Jessica hesitated. She’d been absent for several minutes already.

  She spared a glance toward the house. Through the windows and open doors, she made out the shapes of a few dancers and the black-clad shoulder of one violinist. She’d be wise to seek the retiring room, too, to make sure the slight breeze hadn’t loosened any of her hair fr
om its pins.

  Ruffled hair might give the wrong impression.

  Ophelia and Theadosia might very well be looking for her by now. Jessica had been outside for several minutes already.

  But she adored animals, and a chance to see puppies greatly tempted. She missed her chickens—the girls, as she called them. Silly to have pet chickens, but she’d had chickens since she was eight years old.

  The Season would be over soon enough, and then she could return to Colechester and her pets. Well, to Ridgefield Court. That’s where she lived now, in a house grander than this one.

  Though not yet eleven of the clock, she smothered a yawn. Theadosia said the ball might very well last until early morning. Accustomed to country hours, Jessica already felt the initial hindrance of fatigue. In truth, she preferred staying up late at night and sleeping in to mid-morning, but that lifestyle didn’t suit in the country.

  “How long will it take? Jessica asked. “My next dance is promised.”

  “Not more than five or ten minutes, I shouldn’t think.” Miss Brighton pointed to the building beyond the gardens. “It’s just there. I’d love for you to help me pick which puppy I ought to choose. They are all so sweet. It’s impossible to decide.”

  How could she refuse? “All right,” Jessica conceded, with another swift glance to the humming ballroom. “I can spare five minutes, I suppose.”

  Miss Brighton’s effervescent demeanor was a welcome change, and Jessica could use another friend. Especially one who wasn’t afraid to take on vipers in her defense. “I wonder if I might convince my brother-in-law to permit me a puppy, as well?”

  She’d adore a dog of her own. Her hens were sweet, but one couldn’t very well cuddle a chicken in bed, nor have it sleep on her lap. And, dear heavens, she couldn’t imagine trying to housetrain the girls.

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be splendid? We could walk them in Hyde Park or Green Park together.” Miss Brighton fairly simmered with enthusiasm.

  Her enthusiasm seemed a trifle overdone, but perhaps that was her nature. Jessica and Theadosia had never been what one would call high-spirited, and Miss Brighton was the epitome of exuberance and impetuousness.