The servants hissed and booed at the remark.
Mrs. Davies’s face burned an unbecoming red. “Your Grace! Surely you did not give leave for this…person to rob you.”
Fallon followed Mrs. Davies’s gaze—and that of everyone else—to the renowned Duke of Damon.
And her breath caught.
Attired in nothing more than buff-colored trousers, he stood at the top of the landing. Broadmuscled chest bare for all to see. A wicked serpent tattoo covered the top half of his chest, winding its way onto his shoulder. Shocking. She had never seen the like. And on a duke, no less.
His dark hair, nearly as long as her own, fell in straight lines around his face, brushing the muscled curve of his shoulders. He more resembled a pirate than gentleman. Her gaze flew back to his body—his chest and that wicked multihued serpent that seemed to dance and writhe above one flat brown nipple.
Her gaze crawled over the rest of him, eying the thin dark line of hair disappearing into his trousers. The sight made her face flame and she had to remind herself that she was supposed to be a man and not someone affected by such a sight. Not like the many blushing maids surrounding her.
“Celeste,” he drawled. “I wondered where you disappeared.” Humor rumbled in his deep voice. He dragged a hand over his chest, the motion slow, indolent and somehow…sexual. “I woke up to a cold bed.”
“Would you please tell this beast of a woman to stop beating me?” she snapped in exasperation, swiping a hand at Mrs. Davies’s ever persistent broom and trying to grab it.
“I caught her stealing the silver, Your Grace.” The housekeeper delved into her apron pocket and waved the evidence before setting each item on a step—a candlestick, creamer, and caster.
“Celeste.” The duke clucked his tongue, gray eyes dancing with devilry. “And I thought my company was reward enough for you.”
“Darling, dearest, I would never steal from you.” Celeste implored with her eyes.
“Lying whore,” one of the maids at Fallon’s side snickered.
A sudden pounding tread filled the air. “Your Grace! Your Grace!”
An aggrieved-looking man joined the duke on the landing, flushed and breathless, his face reddening even further at the duke’s state of undress. His gaze darted around like a wild bird, widening, she presumed, at the sight of so many people gathered to witness the sordid spectacle. With a deep breath, he lifted his chin high above his severely starched cravat and smoothed two hands down his dark plum-colored jacket, as if the single motion composed him.
“Who is that?” Fallon whispered to the maid beside her.
The pretty maid slid her gaze to Fallon, her brown eyes warm with interest as she answered, “That popinjay is the valet, Mr. Diddlesworth.”
“Please, Your Grace.” The valet waved his hand in a small, elegant circle and executed a deep bow. “Let me assist you back to your chamber. I’ve laid out a lovely Pashmina jacket with a silk vest—”
“Good God, man,” the duke broke in with a swift shake of his head, dark hair rippling. “You’re not discussing clothes with me again, are you?”
Diddlesworth motioned to the duke’s bare chest, sputtering, “B—but you are not dressed, Your Grace. I only thought to assist—”
“Don’t be a bore, Diddleswart,” Damon chided, eyes hard. “Nothing interests me less than one of your diatribes on wardrobe.”
The valet’s cheeks glowed red. “Diddlesworth, Your Grace, worth.”
Servants tittered. And Fallon was absolutely convinced she had entered a madhouse. Bedlam. Utter Bedlam.
“Very well.” The valet’s nostrils quivered. “I shall attend to your wardrobe myself, then. And rest easy, Your Grace, the Pashmina is stunning, and that genius of a tailor just sent over some checked trousers that will flatter—”
“Diddleswart!” the duke ground out. “Go.”
“Of course.” The valet hastened away, muttering the proper pronunciation of his name several times beneath his breath.
“Damon, love,” the woman on the stairs whined, making her way up toward him, rocking her hips side-to-side in her rumpled silk gown, full lips pulled into a pout.
“Celeste,” he returned with a cheerful evenness of voice, looping an arm around the newel post. Fallon’s lungs constricted at the appealing flex of bicep looped around that white marble. Even the dark hair beneath his arm looked manly and enticing. Absurd.
The duke watched Celeste’s progress with a remote expression, his gray eyes flat…little resemblance to the pools of glowing pewter from the night in his coach. And still, his smile remained fixed. Frozen on a face of carved stone.
“Give her the silver, Mrs. Davies.” His grin twisted, became a wicked, lopsided smile that would lure any woman to the dark side. “It was well worth the pleasure of last night.”
The servants on each side of Fallon stirred, tittering.
Celeste straightened as if a poker prodded her backside. Color spotted her cheeks. “I’m no whore, Damon.”
“Just a thief,” Mrs. Davies inserted.
The duke held up a hand to silence the housekeeper. His grin remained in place, but it altered…became something tight, stiff and uncomfortable-looking on his face. The tiny hairs at her nape prickled. Something else lurked in the bend of those well-carved lips. Something guarded. Dangerous. In that moment, she realized he was no fool jackanapes to be taken lightly, however much of a libertine he may be.
Her stomach clenched and she wondered, again, if she should not have waited for another position to become available. And what would you have done in the interim? Slept on the streets?
The innocuous calm of his voice vanished, and Fallon was granted insight into just how malicious he could be as he sneered, “If we ever should do this again, let me save you some trouble. Just ask for a sum upfront.”
Celeste gasped as if struck.
“For now, take the silver. You want it so badly.” Shoving off the post, all levity had vanished from him. “Off with you now.”
Cheeks red, Celeste grabbed at the silver in Mrs. Davie’s hands.
The housekeeper clung for a moment. “But—”
“Mrs. Davies,” the duke bit.
“Yes, Your Grace.” With an aggrieved sigh, she released the silver.
Clutching the silver close to her sizeable bosom, Celeste thundered down the steps, tossing several quick glances over her shoulder as if she expected the duke himself to come after her.
The servants grumbled unflattering remarks beneath their breaths, clearly disapproving.
“Harpy,” the little brown-eyed maid beside Fallon muttered.
“Don’t know why his lordship wastes himself on tarts like that,” another chimed.
“He could have himself a good, proper girl.” The maid’s brown eyes landed with interest on Fallon again. She curled a finger around a fat curl that escaped the confines of her cap.
“Off with you all. To your duties,” Mr. Adams commanded from the foyer, clapping his hands.
The servants began to disperse. The petite maid lingered, smiling coyly at Fallon, her fingers now toying with the edge of her crisp cap.
A sudden voice—dark and rich as spiced cider—stoked the air. “And who are you?”
A ripple of shock swam through Fallon at the biting question. He was not supposed to notice her.
Slowly, she turned, holding her breath, praying he did not recognize her. He observed her with a stony expression. Tall as she stood, she dropped her head back to gaze into steel gray eyes, stopping herself just short of dropping into a deferential curtsey. His very scent wafted to her. He smelled of man and warm skin. The pulse at her neck hammered a jittery, uneven tempo.
With an arm across her middle, she bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Mr. Adams called as he worked his way up the steps at a steady clip. “I intended to introduce Francis to you this morning.”
The duke gave Fallon a quick look-over, then glanced to
the blushing maid beside her. “Perhaps you should speak with him instead. Already he does not hasten to command.”
Fallon frowned. “Your Grace?”
“Mr. Adams gave a directive and here you linger, flirting with a housemaid. Did he not command you return to your duties?”
Fallon gaped. Flirting?
The duke turned cool gray eyes on Mr. Adams. “See he understands he is not to harass the maids.”
Harass the maids? Of all the absurd, impossible scenarios…She choked on hot words of denial, but before she could defend herself, he turned on his heels. Fallon watched as the duke disappeared down the corridor, the broad expanse of his bare back rippling as he moved.
Shaking off her stupor, her gaze snapped to Mr. Adams. “I assure you, sir, I was not—”
“The duke is protective of the females in his household.”
The same duke that had so scandalized her in the coach? The same duke who just treated a lover so callously in front of the watchful eyes of his staff? He actually possessed a shred of decency? A laugh bubbled free from inside. Appalled, she pressed her fingers to her lips, and the sound escaped through her nose instead—a muffled snort more horrifying than any laughter.
Mr. Adams arched a gray brow.
Fallon sobered and amended her tone. “Of course he is. Allow me to assure you, I would never harass any of the women on your staff.” That she even needed to assure the butler of such a thing struck her as beyond absurd. And to the butler of a man like the Duke of Damon, a consummate libertine? The demon duke? Was he implying the women beneath this roof were safe? From that wretch? She refused to believe it.
“Very good, then.” Mr. Adams sent a quick glance to the maid. “Off with you, Nancy. You’ve chores waiting and you’ve already stirred things up enough this morning.”
With a coy look beneath her lashes for Fallon, Nancy scurried off.
Mr. Adams turned a contemplative look on Fallon. “Mrs. Davies is in the kitchen. She will start you on your day.”
Fallon nodded. “Very good, sir.”
With a final measuring look, Mr. Adams strode away.
Fallon released a shaky breath and leaned back against the railing. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, but at least the duke had not recognized her. On the contrary. He had thought it necessary to warn her to steer clear of the women on his staff. Ridiculous. But she was safe. Secure in her position. For now.
Chapter 6
D ominic dragged a hand through his hair and dropped back into his bed. After a night with Celeste, he was due a little rest. His mouth twisted. Even if she had turned out to be a thief, her company had been…delectable.
Sighing, he idly rubbed his forehead. Delectable. And yet, he still felt…unsatisfied. The same restlessness that had plagued him while abroad, following him from city to city, country to country, woman to woman, still prowled inside him. Returning home had not changed that.
He had chalked up his urge to return as homesickness. Homesickness for England. Not, by any means, home. Home did not exist for him. He had not stepped foot in Wayfield Park since his majority. And he never would again.
True, Wayfield Park belonged to him. Even if the old bastard resided under its roof. Dominic could eject him, send him back to the village vicarage where he could tend his flock with unflagging zeal. But what did Dominic care if he remained in that hulking pile of bricks and rocks? His grandfather could rot and die under the frescoed ceilings that had stood silent witness to all the days of his wretched youth.
Still, there was no accounting this ennui. After a night with the voracious Celeste, he should be satisfied. Even his canvas and paints in the next room did not beckon, ever ready to block the pain…to fill him with inspiration. Bloody troublesome. His life consisted of two passions: shagging and painting. Nothing else could make him feel, could chase free the numbness he had learned at the knee of his grandfather. Or rather, at the skirts of Mrs. Pearce.
He stretched, his nape tingling as the memory of wild, untamed hair, glorious as a red-tinged sunset, washed over him. Her face was a bit hazy—the carriage had been dim, the streets dimmer yet—but that hair he would never forget. The viper-tongued wench he’d dropped off at the Hotel Daventry lingered in his thoughts still. His fingers itched for a brush, and he knew before the day ended he would paint what he could remember of her—all fire and wild wind. Fallon O’Rourke. Irish, he presumed. He wouldn’t have her beneath him, but he would still snare her for his canvas. At least what he remembered of her.
Dragging a hand over his face, he contemplated locating her. She hadn’t exactly responded to his proposition…but there had been something in her gaze, a spark. With the right amount of persuasion, she could come around. He had been charming women out of their skirts since his fourteenth year. He did it well. His wealth, lofty title, and wicked reputation all conspired to break down the most resistant lady. Sin had become his life’s purpose.
Dominic closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his eyelids, attempting to assuage the dull ache growing there.
“Ah, you’re awake. Shall I bring your clothes to you, Your Grace?”
He dropped his hand from his eyes and peered up at Diddleworth’s ingratiating smile. A flush glowed beneath the light coating of powder on his hollow cheeks.
Dominic grimaced. “Later.”
“Oh.” The valet’s expression fell. His gaze shifted to the salver he held, scattered with correspondence. “Then perhaps we could use this time to run through your social calendar and decide which invitations to accept?”
“You mean I’m still being invited into Society?” He snorted, then grinned, recalling the incident four years ago that marked his decision to depart British Society.
He thought the ton had banned him after his dip in Lady Waverly’s garden pond during a soiree honoring the engagement of her daughter. Especially since he had convinced Lady Waverly’s daughter to join him. Nude. A small chuckle escaped him. The young lady had been none too thrilled about her upcoming nuptials and quite eager for a little diversion.
“Of course.” Diddlesworth sniffed indignantly. “You’re a duke. A coveted guest to any fête. People fall over themselves for you and rightly so.”
Dominic made an inarticulate sound in his throat, even as he supposed there was some truth to what his valet claimed. The season’s hostesses likely deemed his presence an enlivening element to any event.
“Let them fall over themselves then. I have no desire to go out. Not to any ton event, at any rate.” It was no longer necessary to scandalize Society. He’d proven he was irredeemable. Precisely the demon his grandfather charged him to be.
Frustration flashed in Diddlesworth’s eyes. “Your Grace, you cannot hole yourself away—”
“I’ve no intention of holing myself away. I intend to go out this very night.” Though, why he bothered to defend himself to his vexing valet, he hadn’t a clue.
Diddlesworth’s face brightened. “Indeed, Your Grace?”
“To Madame Fleur’s. I understand she is having one of her masques.”
“Madame Fleur?” His features scrunched in a scowl. “Is she not a…courtesan? You’re going to a brothel?”
Dominic crossed his ankles and folded his hands behind his head. “A brothel,” he snorted. “Madame Fleur is legend. She would be most offended to hear you designate her venerable establishment to a scurrilous brothel.”
“I can think to describe it only thusly, Your Grace. You do yourself no service crossing its threshold.” Diddlesworth frowned in a manner too reminiscent of Dominic’s stuffy old grandfather. The realization went down like a bitter pill, and he had to question why he allowed Adams to force a bloody valet on him in the first place. He had gone without one while abroad. He certainly did not require one now. Adams was set in his ways, though, and still believed in running a household like it was 1810, with all the pomp and ceremony of bewigged footmen and fastidious valets.
“See here, Diddlewatts—”
<
br /> “Diddlesworth.”
“You’re not my keeper. I go where I want, when I want. If you don’t care for the way I live, you’re free to seek a position elsewhere. Understand?”
Diddlesworth nodded tightly, although he still wore that infernal frown.
“Good.” Rolling on his side, Dominic presented the valet with his back. “That will be all, Diddle-knot,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I have need of you. Do not disturb me again.”
He heard the man’s exasperated breath, but this time the valet did not correct him on the proper pronunciation of his name. “Very good, sir.”
Dominic smiled at the soft tread fading from the room, wondering how far he would have to go before the fop resigned. Perhaps then Adams would rest on the matter of his needing a valet. The demon duke did not require a watchdog.
“This bucket is so heavy.”
Fallon ignored Nancy’s soft exclamation and fixed her attention on the massive arrangement of flowers she was carrying to the foyer table. Her arms strained from the effort, but she knew the average man could heft the heavy vase full of water and flowers and she best appear the average man.
“Oh!” Nancy grunted.
Fallon darted a quick glance to where the maid dropped the bucket on the marbled floor in a great display of drama, her expression one of pain as she rubbed the small of her back.
Set the vase down and don’t look back. Don’t meet her gaze. Fallon had done her best to avoid the girl—especially with the duke’s warning ringing in her ears—but she had taken to shadowing Fallon.
The maid tried again. Groaning, she lifted the bucket again. “Ugh, this is so heavy.”
Setting the vase upon the center of the marble-topped table, Fallon inwardly sighed. What choice did she have? A red-blooded man would never ignore an attractive woman. Especially one in need of help—however feigned. And Fallon must, foremost, appear as a man. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the maid.
Nancy smiled brightly.