More Than a Duke (Heart of a Duke Book 2)

MORE THAN A DUKE

Christi Caldwell

Chapter 1

London, England 

1815 

In a Society that placed such value upon honor, respectability and virtue, Lady Anne Arlette Adamson came to a very interesting revelation. A young lady would discard her self-worth and sense of decency...all for a glass of champagne.

Or more
precisely,
two
glasses of champagne.

The full moon shone through the Marquess of Essex’s conservatory windows and splashed light on the two sparkling crystal flutes. Drawn to them, Anne wet her lips and did a quick survey of her host’s famed gardens, searching for any interlopers. Lured by the forbidden liquor, she wandered over to the table strewn with vibrant pink peonies and blush roses and picked up a flute. She angled her head. Eying the pale, bubbling liquid contained within, a sudden desire filled her, to taste the fine French brew.

Of course, young, unwed ladies did not drink champagne. At least that was what Mother was forever saying. A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Then, she’d never been lauded as the obedient, mild-mannered daughter. Anne raised the glass to her mouth…and froze. An
honorable
young lady however didn’t drink champagne belonging to two other people.

She sighed and set the glass down.

With a frown, she began to pace the stone floor. Where was he?

She’d heard rumors of his notorious assignations, knew he planned to meet…she wrinkled her nose,
some
widow or another, in the marquess’ conservatory.

Perhaps the rumors were just that, mere rumors. Perhaps…

The click of the door opening sounded off the glass walls of her floral haven. Anne jumped. Her heart pounded hard and she raised a hand to her chest to still the sudden increased rhythm.

For the first time since she’d orchestrated this madcap scheme involving Harry Falston, the 6
^th
Earl of Stanhope, she questioned the wisdom of such a plan. Enlisting the aid of one of Society’s most scandalous rogues would hardly be considered one of her better ideas. The ladies adored him, the gentlemen wanted to be him, the leading hostesses frowned at him from one side of their fans and tittered behind the other.

He also happened to be the gentleman who’d tried—and failed—to seduce Anne’s twin sister, Katherine.

For all Anne’s twenty-years, she’d forever been considered the more spirited, imprudent twin sister. Of course, being the more sensible of the twins, Katherine had not fallen prey to his devilish charms. However, in a wholly
insensible
thing to do, her sister had befriended him, a rogue of the worst sort who didn’t even have the decency to respect Katherine’s marriage…or
any
marriage, for that matter.

The door closed. With breath suspended, she slipped behind one of her host’s towering hibiscus trees.

Good, respectable young ladies, marriageable young ladies at that, should have a care to avoid Society’s most notorious rogue.

Her nose twitched and she widened her eyes in attempt to hold in a sneeze. Then, she’d not paid too close attention to the
tons
rigid expectations for a young lady.

The tread of a gentleman’s footsteps echoed off the glass windows. “Hullo, sweet.”

Oh, by Joan of Arc and all her army
. Hullo, sweet?
That was the kind of claptrap this rogue was known for? His husky baritone however, well, that was better suited for the Gothic novels she’d taken pleasure in reading before her mother had gone and stolen her spectacles. But, “hullo, sweet?” She shook her head. It would take a good deal more than an unclever endearment to earn her favor.

The bootsteps paused. She peeked out from behind the tree.

Her breath caught. The moon bathed the lean, towering gentleman in soft light. The earl’s gold locks, loose and unaffected, gave him the carefree look of one who flouted Society’s rules. But then, isn’t that what the Earl of Stanhope had earned a reputation for? Which made him perfect. Perfect for what she intended, anyway.

The sweet fragrance of the hibiscus tickled her nose yet again. She scrubbed a hand over her face hard and drove back a sneeze.

The earl cocked his head, as if he knew she stood there secretly studying him, quietly admiring him. It really was impossible not to. His black-tailed evening coat clung to sculpted arms. Anne continued to scrutinize him with objective eyes. Gentlemen really shouldn’t have sculpted, well-muscled arms. Not like this. Why, they were better suited to a pugilist than a nobleman.

A grin tugged the corner of his lips up in a hopelessly seductive smile. She fanned herself. Well goodness…mayhap it wasn’t the champagne flutes after all but the pirate’s grin that made foolish young ladies toss their good name away.

She stopped mid-fan. Not that she would be swayed by such a smile. No, the gentleman she would wed was serious and respectable and obscenely wealthy and unfailingly polite and just enough handsome. Not too handsome. Not unhandsome. Just handsome enough.

The earl shrugged out of his coat. He flipped it over his shoulder in one smooth, graceful motion. The effortless gesture jerked her from her musings.

Anne swallowed hard. Yes, he was entirely more handsome than any one man had a right to be. She supposed she really should announce herself. Especially considering his…er…arrangements for the evening.

“You do know, sweet, if you’re content to stand and watch me remove my garments, I’d be glad to provide you such a show. I would, however, vastly prefer you allow me to slip the gown from your frame and…”

She pressed herself tight against the tree. Her arm knocked the branch of the hibiscus and wafted the cloying, floral scent about the air. “Achoo!” Blast and bloody blast.

The earl’s grin widened as he yanked a stark white kerchief from his jacket and wandered closer. He extended the cloth. “Here, sweet—”

Anne stepped out from behind the tree. The earl froze, the stark white linen dangled between them. His hazel eyes widened. She plucked the kerchief from his fingers and blew her nose noisily. “Thank you,” she said around the fabric.

“Bloody hell, Lady Anne,” he hissed. “What in hell are you doing here?” He shrugged into his jacket with the speed surely borne of a man who’d clearly had to make too many hasty flights from disapproving husbands.

She frowned. “You really needn’t sound so…so…” Disappointed. “Angry, my lord.”

He took her gently by the forearm. “What are you thinking?”

She tugged her arm free. “I require a favor—”

“No.” He proceeded to pull her toward the front of the conservatory.

She frowned up at him. “You didn’t allow me to ask—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Mad,” he muttered to himself. “You’re completely and utterly mad. And maddening.”

“I am not mad,” she bit out. She really wished she was as clever as her eldest sister, Aldora. Aldora would have a far more clever rebuttal than ‘I am not mad’ for the scoundrel.

His mouth tightened. And she swore he muttered something along the lines of her being the less intelligent of her sisters.

Anne dug her heels in until he either had to drag her or stop. She glowered up at him, this rogue who’d tried to earn a spot in Katherine’s bed. Alas, Katherine loved her husband, the Duke of Bainbridge, with such desperation the earl hadn’t had a hope or prayer.

He folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want then, hellion?”

She gritted her teeth, detesting his familiarity that painted her as the bothersome sister. Still, she required something of him and as Mother used to say, one can catch more bees with honey than…she wrinkled her nose. That didn’t quite make sense. Why would anyone want to catch a bee? Unless—.

The earl took her, this time by the wrist, and began tugging her to the door.

“I need help,” she said and pulled back.

To no avail. He held firm. The man was as powerful as an ox. “No.”

Most gentlemen would have inquired if for no other reason than it was the polite, gentlemanly thing to do.

Anne at last managed to wrest free of his grip. “Please, hear me out, my lord.”

He took a step toward her. “By God, I’ll carry you from the room this time.” The determined glint in his eyes leant credence to his threat.

She danced backward. “Oh, I imagine that would be a good deal worse.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your carrying me,” she clarified. “Imagine the scandal if—”

Lord Stanhope cursed and advanced. “You risk ruin in being here, my lady,” he said, his voice a satiny whisper that sent warmth spiraling through her body.

She shook her head. People might believe her an empty-headed ninnyhammer, but she was not so foolish to be swayed by a crooked grin and a mellifluous whisper. She took another step away from him. Her back thumped against their host’s table. It rattled and one of the champagne flutes tipped over. She gasped as the pale liquid spilled across the wood table and threatened her skirts.

Lord Stanhope yanked her away from the dripping champagne and tugged her close. “Tsk, tsk, my lady.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “However would you explain returning to the ballroom with your skirts drenched in champagne?”

Anne glanced up. And wished she hadn’t.
Really
wished she hadn’t.

The earl’s impossibly long, thick golden lashes were enough to tempt a saint, and after more than twenty years of troublesome scrapes, Anne had earned a reputation amidst her family as anything but a saint.

A lock toppled free from the collection of ringlets artfully arranged by her maid. She brushed the strand back. It fell promptly back over her brow.

The earl collected that single curl between his fingers and studied the strand bemusedly. “A ringlet,” he murmured. His lips twitched as though he found something of the utmost hilarity in her gold ringlet, immediately snapping her from whatever momentary spell he’d cast.

She swatted at his fingers. “What is wrong with my ringlets?” She knew there was a more pressing matter to attend. But really, what was wrong with her ringlets?

He tweaked her nose. “There is
everything
wrong with them.”

Well!
Anne gave a flounce of those ringlets he seemed so condescending of. “I’ve not come to speak to you about my hair.”

The earl narrowed his gaze as he seemed to remember that: one, they were shut away in their host’s conservatory one step from ruin and two, that she was the sister of the twin he’d once tried to seduce. And more specifically, the sister of the twin who’d looked down a pointed nose at him whenever he was near.

With trembling fingers, she righted the upended flute. “I require but a moment of your time.”

“You’ve already had at least five moments.”

Distractedly, she picked up the crystal flute still filled to the brim and eyed the nearly clear contents of the glass. It really did look quite delicious. “Do you mean five minutes?” Because there really wasn’t such a thing as five moments. Or was there? She raised the glass to her lips.

With a growl, he snatched it from her fingers with such ferocity the exquisite liquor splashed her lips.

“What are you doing, Lady Adamson?” he asked, his voice garbled.

She sighed. She really should have tried the bubbly drink before he’d arrived and gone all serious, disapproving-lord on her. “If you must know, I’d intended to sample—”

“You are not
sampling
anything, my lady.” He set the flute down so hard liquid droplets sprayed the table.

Yes, it seemed the roguish earl had gone all stodgy. She released a pent up sigh of regret. What a waste of perfectly forbidden champagne.

Footsteps sounded outside the door and her head snapped up as suddenly, the ramifications of being discovered here with the earl slammed into her. She felt the color drain from her cheeks and frantically searched around.

The earl cursed and taking her by the hand, tugged her to the back of the conservatory. His hasty, yet sure movements bore evidence of a man who’d made many a number of quick escapes. He opened the door and shoved her outside into the marquess’ walled garden.