Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke (4 page)

“Damnation.”

“Shall I take that as a signal that I shouldn’t disturb you?”

Adam looked up again from his desk. And choked back a completely inappropriate grin. “Sophia. I see you found something other than onion sacks to wear.”

She brushed a hand down a very yellow, very oversized muslin gown. It appeared to be held up by hair ribbons knotted around the waist and shoulder straps sewn into the existing sleeves. “I’m afraid Mrs. Brooks is a fraction larger than I am.”

“I would agree with that assessment.” Eustace was much nearer to Sophia’s height and weight, but he wouldn’t trust his sister not to poison any gown she was forced to lend his sole houseguest. “I have several other females on staff. Surely one of them owns attire that doesn’t make it look as though you’re wearing a Bedouin’s tent.”

Sophia snorted. “Mrs. Brooks has promised to inquire. I won’t take anything that someone needs, however. At church on Christmas they will wish to wear their Sunday best, and I doubt they’ll appreciate me wearing it beforehand.”

He shook himself free of the abrupt thought that her Sunday best would be wearing nothing at all. “Have you had a tour of the house?”

“I have not.”

“Well, I happen to be momentarily available.” Rising, he walked around the desk. “At the risk of repeating myself, I could purchase you a gown or two,” he added, deciding her mother must have been Irish. Hennessy certainly wasn’t, and he couldn’t conjure another reason for her deep red, curling hair. “I believe there’s at least one seamstress in Hanlith.”

“Thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but you know I cannot accept. If you purchased me a single gown, by the time I returned to London everyone would know it. While that might make me the envy of some of the other girls at the Tantalus, the … penalty would be more than I am willing to pay.”

“A penalty? For being seen as my mistress.”

She nodded. “Precisely.”

“And you don’t wish to be my mistress? You did accept my invitation, after all.”

Color touched her fair cheeks. “I thought you invited me here so I could spend Christmas with Cammy. Was I in error?”

Adam stifled a frown. He hadn’t expected a gentlemen’s club employee with standards. Several things he’d taken for granted about Sophia White had evidently been wrong. She certainly wasn’t dull-witted or grasping, for one thing. And while he wouldn’t say that she embraced her scandalous birth, she didn’t seem overly troubled by it, either. And then there was the fact that she was employed at quite possibly the most scandalous establishment in Town with the exception of an actual bawdy house. And yet she hadn’t considered becoming some wealthy gentleman’s mistress. “I doubt my failure to provide you with clothing will prevent any rumors.”

“True enough,” she conceded, “but I’m accustomed to rumors. A gown from you would be proof.”

“You are an unusual woman.”

Amusement touched her meadow-colored eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Sophia lowered her gaze briefly. “Well, then.” With a breath she visibly shook herself. “Camille told me that you always have a large house party at Christmas. Is it a family tradition?”

He left his office and gestured for her to join him. “It was a tradition of my father’s. After his death, my mother stopped it. When she died eight years ago, I began it again.”

“She didn’t like the gatherings, then?”

“No, she didn’t.” Generally hearing of his mother’s death, no matter how long ago it occurred, the listener expressed his or her unfelt condolences. Not so Sophia White, though her own mother had expired at approximately the same time, he knew. Curious, that. Perhaps they each held the same level of affection for their maternal figurehead.

“So
did
you invite me here simply to create a stir? I’ve noticed that you seem to … enjoy being surrounded by scandal.”

“Do I? How so?”

“You allowed Keating Blackwood to reside at your house in London,” she returned promptly. “Bloody Blackwood, himself. And then you went to his cousin’s wedding when you knew Keating would never allow the ceremony to take place.”

“You have me deciphered, then.”

“Not even a little.” She grinned briefly, her green eyes dancing. “But I do think you enjoy a ruckus.”

Adam wondered if Sophia had any idea how few people jested with him. As long as she was his only distraction from winter and from solitude and from his sister, he hoped she wouldn’t realize it. “I’m a duke,” he said aloud. “It would be very easy for my life to become unbearably dull and dusty. So yes, I suppose I do have a certain appreciation for people who thumb their noses at Society.”

“That’s good for me, since I was born with my proverbial thumb attached to my proverbial nose.”

“I’m glad it’s proverbial, or you would look rather odd,” he returned, reflecting that he’d been lucky. If Francis Henning had been the only guest to make it across the bridge, for example, Adam would have locked himself—or Henning—in a storage room by now.

His circumstances could definitely have been even worse than that. One of the marriageable chits he’d invited for inspection might just as easily have been tossed into the river, and he would have been forced either to court her or to dance about in avoidance to prevent becoming leg-shackled before he managed a look at the rest of the dress-wearing herd.

Together they descended a side staircase, and he pushed open the door to the orangerie. Three dozen fruit-bearing plants in large pots had been arranged in a quaint indoor garden complete with benches and caged songbirds. He stood back as Sophia swirled in a circle at the center of the room.

“This is lovely,” she exclaimed, her overlong skirts billowing out around her ankles.

The sight was unexpectedly … charming, and for a moment he lost the track of the conversation. “It’s the only way to keep the weather from killing the orange and peach trees. I’ve been told this is a pleasant place to sit and read, if you’ve a mind to do so.”

“How many guests were you expecting?”

“I still am expecting,” he amended, “somewhere between thirty and forty.” He pushed back at the urge to straighten the sliding sleeve of her oversized gown. “Do you ride?”

Sophia blinked. “I’ve sat on a pony a few times, at boarding school. I don’t believe that makes me a horsewoman. Why?”

“I ride nearly every day.” He gestured her back through the door and down the rear hallway. “I have several ponies. We’ll go out once the weather clears.”

“You don’t need to keep me entertained, Your Grace,” she said, stopping. “Simply being here is a gift.”

“You need more gifts, then. I saved your life. You owe me an outing.”

“But—”

“And you may trust that I generally do as I please,” he interrupted. “Now. Through here is the Baswich family portrait gall…” He trailed off as he realized that she hadn’t followed him. “Is something amiss?”

For a long moment she stood in silence, meeting his gaze. That in itself surprised him; most chits gazed demurely at his feet while conversing with him. Then she sighed. “I have noticed that you didn’t answer my question earlier. Are you going to attempt to make me your mistress?”

A laugh pushed its way out of his chest. Attempting to ignore the fact that firstly, more than a few women would have given a great deal to become his mistress, and secondly, that he rarely attempted something without succeeding, and thirdly, that this holiday had him looking for a wife, whatever he might prefer, he lifted an eyebrow. “Well, if I meant to attempt a subtle seduction you’ve certainly foiled me.”

She frowned. “I believe I mentioned that I’m not as foolish as many people think, Your Grace.”

“I recall. Why?”

“I have several requirements for my life, some of them very recent and … unexpected. My best interests are not served by being any man’s mistress. And however close your friendship with Keating might be, I have to ask myself—and you—why I’m here.”

Adam dropped into one of the gilded chairs set in the hallway just outside the portrait gallery. “I rarely explain myself, Sophia. That said, while I might appreciate the stir your presence would cause, you are not here for anything more nefarious than that. For God’s sake, at the moment it’s either you or my sister with whom I’ll be spending time, and Eustace is remarkably unlikable.”

Sophia decided that if the Duke of Greaves
had
meant to offer her the position of mistress, or even force her into it, he wasn’t the sort to dissemble about it. As he’d commented before, he generally got what he wanted. He did have a reputation for enjoying the company of ladies, but the majority of them—at least the ones she knew of—were wealthy, independent, and either highborn or so popular that their birth didn’t matter. While she was independent for the moment, she was only highborn on her father’s side, and she certainly wasn’t wealthy. Or popular.

She shook out her thoughts. Why she felt the need to tally her qualifications for being a mistress, she had no idea. Until two weeks ago she’d thought that the rules of Society didn’t apply to her at all. Then she’d discovered that she’d been very, very wrong. And now, while a night or two of pleasurable scandal was one thing, becoming even a duke’s pampered mistress would make matters even worse.

“You’re being quiet,” he observed. “Do you require more assurances of your safety?”

Sophia forced a chuckle as she hiked up her sleeve and approached his chair. “I’ve survived ice and turkeys. Do your worst, Your Grace.”

“For God’s sake, call me Adam. Or Greaves, at least. As you said, we’ve faced fair and fowl—both spellings, mind you—together.”

Adam.
It was an honest, forthright name for a man with a reputation for subterfuge and subtle skill, but it suited him, nonetheless. But now those gray eyes were gazing at her again, as if he could hear her thoughts. She cleared her throat, hoping he couldn’t hear all of them. “Adam, then. I expected to see Lady Helena Brennan here already,” she ventured, as he led her into the portrait gallery.

She felt his gaze on her. “Did you, then?” They strolled in silence for a moment. “Evidently you aren’t aware that Helena recently wed Lord Crandell and moved to Surrey.”

“Oh.” No, she hadn’t known that. Once the Season ended, most of the good gossip left London along with the regular members of The Tantalus Club. “Am I happy for her?”

If she was being too bold or speaking out of turn, she had little doubt that Greaves would tell her to mind her own damned business. Best to know now, however, precisely where she stood. Or if she needed to make her way to Hanlith before nightfall, after all.

A muscle in his lean cheek jumped. “
I
am marginally put out, but somewhat admiring of a devious intelligence I hadn’t thought she possessed. Crandell is a lump, but he’ll provide for her.”

She nodded, secretly wondering why anyone would choose to marry a lump if given any chance at all to do otherwise. She certainly wouldn’t—but then, sometimes a person didn’t have the chance to choose. “Then I am happy for her.”

The glance he sent her this time was even sharper. “Yes, thank heavens she’s escaped the clutches of a fine town house and pin money some kingdoms would envy.”

So now he’d decided to be offended.
Splendid
. “I didn’t mean it that way. Lady Helena—Lady Crandell—sought a certain thing and she was able to find it.” Sophia sighed. “I admit to a weakness for happy endings.”

“You don’t like working at The Tantalus Club?”

“Oh, I love being there,” she returned, meaning it with every fiber of her being and pushing back at the tears which threatened when she thought of leaving the club. “Diane—Lady Haybury—saved a great many of us from disaster. That may not have been her aim in opening that club, but she’s inconvenienced herself enough now on occasion that she does realize how vital the Tantalus is to her employees.” Realizing she sounded overly vehement, she paused, looking up at the wall of portraits. Then she stopped close to the center of the long hallway and stared.

The portrait there, though not the largest or the most elaborately framed, was quite simply the most … compelling piece in the room. An unsmiling man in his early twenties stood in what looked like a drawing room. He leaned one elbow along a mantel of dark mahogany with a roaring fire behind him, and at his feet coiled a pair of sleek, dark brown hunting dogs. Eyes of a gray so light they seemed almost colorless gazed straight at her, deep inside them not amusement, but a clever intelligence leaving her feeling mesmerized and uncomfortable all at the same time.

“Michael Arthur Baswich, the ninth Duke of Greaves,” the tenth duke’s low voice whispered into her right ear, from close enough to touch. “My late father.”

“Who painted him?” she asked, noting that her own voice had become hushed.

“Some say otherwise, but I say Gainsborough.”

“It’s disputed?”

“There are those who say only the devil could paint something that disconcerting. But they’ve missed the point. The devil is the subject. Not the artist.” He blew out his breath. “Dead for eleven years, and he still manages to plague me.”

That last part didn’t seem to be particularly for her benefit. Sophia blinked, tearing herself free from that gaze. Beside her, the duke wasn’t looking at the portrait, but rather at her. “It’s finely crafted,” she admitted, facing him directly and pushing back against the unhelpful curiosity that wanted to know why he seemed to feel about his father the same way she felt about her own. “Where’s
your
portrait?” she asked instead.

“As I’m not dead, it’s in the main drawing room.”

“So you won’t forget you’re the duke?” Sophia returned, hoping he would appreciate hearing sarcasm as much as he seemed to enjoy speaking it.

“So no one else does.” He sent a swift glance past her shoulder, toward the wall and the portrait. “My private rooms are at the southeast corner, and Eustace’s are at the southwest corner. Other than avoiding her, feel free to go wherever you wish. There’s no one else here to frown or look askance at you, so there’s no need for you to confine yourself to your bedchamber. Not that I imagine anyone else’s opinion would trouble you overmuch, anyway.”