Sins of a Wicked Duke (15 page)

“Quite so, Your Grace.” Frank nodded, his voice very correct, very punctilious very…aggravating.

“I’ll have to ask Hunt about her now,” he muttered, looking from the impertinent valet as he dragged a hand through his hair.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Frank inquired, his voice emitting a heavy dose of virtuousness. He glared at the valet.Bloody hell. It was like having the archbishop for your personal valet.

“None of your concern,” he snapped.

It occurred to him that heshould dismiss him. In his position, other men would. And yet he couldn’t. Perhaps he was letting Adams’s recommendation blind him. Or there was a more obvious reason. Frank had disarmed old Foley, likely saving his life. While Diddlesworth fled the room, the lad had shown surprising mettle. He could hardly sack him.

And yet none of those reasons moved him. He did not know, however, what did. Dominic drew a calming breath into his lungs. “I’m confident we have reached an understanding.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again, Your Grace.”

Was that condescension he heard? And there was thatlook again. His valet looked him up and down in a swift, no less thorough survey. As though he had assessed Dominic and decided him lacking. The look seemed to convey…disappointment. As if Dominic fell short.

Determined to insert the proper distance between them, to reestablish their prospective roles as master and servant, he intoned in his most ducal manner, “See that it does not or you will find yourself seeking a position elsewhere.”

A dull flush crept over Frank’s cheeks. The slightest quaver shook his voice as he asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Your Grace?”

He took his time replying, tearing his shirt free of his trousers as he moved across the room toward his dressing room. “Send for my breakfast. And have my horse readied.” For once, he did not feel like sleeping the morning away. Or struggling to paint the portrait of a woman that eluded him…in reality and on the canvas. Elusive women appeared to be his forte of late.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Frank turned, but not before his eyes flicked to the serpent tattoo on his chest. Color nipped his cheeks. No doubt he condemned Dominic for that, too. His narrow back disappeared into his room. Uncannily, the sight of that unyielding back brought to mind his grandfather. Another judgmental man. He grimaced. He had long quit caring what his grandfather thought of him, but for some reason, the opinion of his valet mattered. Almost from the start it had. Even when he was a mere footman. Damned bothersome. And…strange.

He had managed to live conscience-free for most of his life. He had no desire to grow scruples now. Especially because of a wet-behind-the-ears lad who seemed to know everything about being a man—an honorable one, at any rate. He shrugged, directing his thoughts away from Frank and back to the woman from last night…and how soon he could finish what they started before his interfering valet sent her home.

“Stayin ? What do you mean you wish to stay in? Have you played so hard in my absence that you’ve overtired yourself?” Hunt swung his leg over the arm of the wingback chair in a leisurely manner, twisting his cravat lose as he did so.

“No.” Dominic stared out the window at the darkened square. The fire popped and a log crumbled in the massive hearth.

“What’s wrong with you, then? You should be chomping at the bit for a little diversion.”

“I venture out often enough. Stay occupied. Ride in the park. And last night I played cards at the club.”

“That doesn’t signify. I’m talking about women, Dom. Nearly a week and no women.” Hunt shook his head. “That’s not like you. And it’s certainly not like me. I’ve been a week in the country, staring at ledgers and account books and tolerating my beyond silly mother—hell, I need some female company. Theright sort of female company. I thought for certain you would join me.”

Dominic shrugged, his finger idly tracing the rim of his glass. He brought it to his lips and took the barest sip. The contents held little appeal.

“This is special invitation only,” Hunt’s voice continued. “You don’t want to miss it. I have it from an excellent source that Madame Fleur will be unveiling some new lovelies tonight.”

Dominic shrugged yet again, grunting a noncommittal response. Since the morning he woke to a cold bed and aching head—not to mention the fuzzy recollection of a woman he desperately wished to remember—he had felt strangely disinclined to indulge in his usual pursuits, namely hard drink and harder women.

“What will you do?” Hunt waved a hand. “Stare at the walls?”

For some reason his gaze sought out his valet, moving silently about the room, his movements swift, no doubt eager to be gone from the room and the talk of sampling savory lovelies.

“What about returning to Fatima’s?” he suggested, his request, hopefully, innocuous.

“Again?” Hunt frowned. “I’ve tasted all I want to from that particular garden.”

Dominic suppressed a sigh of impatience. He had returned to Fatima’s twice in the past week—a fact Hunt need not know. He had searched among the rouged faces, trying to recall which woman inspired memories of sweet lips and even sweeter-smelling flesh. All to no avail. Perhaps if Hunt returned, he could identify which woman haunted Dominic’s every thought.

Deciding he needed to be more forthright if he was to learn anything at all, he cleared his throat. “Now that bit of skirt from the other night might be worth revisiting.”

Hunt’s brows pulled together. “Which one?”

“The one from Fatima’s.”

“You mean the other night when your prig of a valet chased us off?”

He sensed Frank’s reaction before he looked. The lad straightened from where he bent before the hearth, stirring the fire. Stiff as a poker, he turned and glared at Hunt. His friend did not even cast him a glance, merely stood and helped himself to more brandy from the tray.

“Yes.” Dominic scratched his jaw, striving for an air of indifference. Hunt could not know how serious his interest ran. How desperate. “What was her name?”

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Frank pausing as he straightened the papers and ledgers on his desk, his gangly frame stilling with the suddenness of sighted prey.

“Jenny, I believe.”

“Jenny,” he murmured, testing the name. And still not liking the sound of it on his tongue. It wasn’t right. The name didn’t fit with what he recalled of her, vague as the memory was.

“You liked her, eh?” Hunt smiled. “She was a nice piece. Had a taste of her myself when you expired so soon that night. She and Dottie both. Couldn’t disappoint them.”

Dominic clenched his teeth and fought to look unaffected, even as the thought of the woman in Hunt’s bed made his hands curl into fists. Made him want to lunge from his seat and tear into his friend.

He shook his head, ridding himself of the impulses. Mad as they were. What was he doing feeling so possessive? And for a woman he scarcely remembered. A woman who made it her business to entertain men.Many ,many men . Hell, no woman was worth coming between him and one of the few friends he could claim.

“I suppose.” Dominic shrugged, trying to appear unmoved.

“Well, if you insist, we can drop in at Fatima’s before we head on to Madame Fleur’s.”

Frank began moving again, his movements stiff, quick, lips pulled into a tight line. The sight of his evident censure pricked deep at the center of Dominic’s chest. The location of his conscience? Impossible. What his valet thought of him did not bear significance. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

Perhaps it was Frank’s hovering judgment. Or perhaps that Hunt had gotten to his fantasy woman first. Whatever the case, his mood soured considerably and he craved nothing more than solitude. “No. You go on without me.”

Hunt set his glass down with a clank on the side table. “Very well. Stay in, old man. But tomorrow, you’re going out if I have to drag you myself.”

Dominic waved a hand in mock salute, watching Hunt as he departed. His gaze then sought out his valet, observing him beneath hooded lids as he gathered Hunt’s glass and set it on a tray.

“Frank,” he murmured.

The lad’s gaze flew to his, and the chilliness in that brown gaze was precisely what Dominic knew he would find. Even expected, it annoyed him to no end. He held his half-full glass in the air, proffering it with a slight shake.

His valet approached, lips a hard, unbending line as he reached for the glass, fingers circling it. For a moment, that hand caught his attention. Far from lily-white. It bore the evidence of hours out of doors. Still, it was an elegant hand. The fingers long. Refined. Dominic’s lips curled in a smirk and he wondered if he soaked them in rosewater like half the fops of theton .

When Dominic failed to release his grip on the glass, Frank looked at him questioningly. “Your Grace?”

Opening his hand, he released the glass. Frank set it on the tray, watching him warily. Deserved, Dominic supposed. He felt particularly volatile tonight.

“Go. I have no need of you tonight.”

The valet marched from the room in a straight line, no mincing steps about him, and Dominic wondered why that sight should displease him only more.

Fallon strode swiftly down the corridor, the contents of Dominic’s glass sloshing wildly on the tray. Her face burned uncomfortably hot. She didn’t know what bothered her more. Enduring the sound of Hunt’s voice and crude remarks…or that Dominic was on a quest for some tart he believed to be her!

The sound of muted laughter stopped her in her tracks. A door to the left stood slightly ajar. Frowning, she approached, peering inside, instantly recognizing Lord Hunt’s blue jacket as he backed a woman against dark drapes. Fallon could not see past the viscount to identify her. She stepped deeper into the room, her steps silent on the plush Persian carpet. Hunt dipped his head then, suckling at the female’s bared breasts. Familiar gray skirts—worn by all the women on the duke’s staff—bunched at her waist, below pale breasts and Hunt’s dark head. Her neck was arched, face buried in the drapery. Fallon inched closer, squinting in the gloom.

The servant moaned, weaving her fingers in Hunt’s rich brown hair. “You shouldn’t—” Her words broke on a sharp cry and her face lowered then, granting Fallon full view.

Naïve, flirty littleNancy ? Fallon shook her head. Clearly her interest inFrancis had not withstood a viscount’s persuasions. The dear, stupid girl. Didn’t she know she played with fire?

“Oh,” she gasped, her head lolling against the velvet drapes. “Lord Hunt! What are you doing to me?”

His low growl floated on the air. “Giving these sweetcakes what they’ve been begging for, my girl.”

“You shouldn’t! I’m a good girl—” Her words were cut off again as he hand delved beneath her gray skirts. She squeaked, but then her cry altered, swung into a low moan.

“Yessss,” she sighed. Apparently his hand was doing something that met with her satisfaction.

“You like that, eh?”

Nancy tugged his head back to her breasts, hardly a sign of protest. Disgust rose high in Fallon’s chest. Eager to leave them to their amusements, she shifted her weight, ready to turn…until the floor creaked under her. Hunt swung around, his annoyed gaze narrowing on Fallon.

“Francis!” Nancy pulled up her dress, cheeks burning brightly.

“Ah, our young sentinel has arrived.” Hunt stepped back from the maid, wiping his lips as if clearing the taste of Nancy from his mouth. “The guardian of all that is Right. Come to break up the little fête?”

“I heard a sound,” she said lamely.

“Yes, well, that happens when you pleasure a woman.” He cocked his head to the side. “Something you probably know nothing about. Is that it? Because you’ve never had a proper frigging, no one else can? Nancy, dear, perhaps you should take pity and entertain the lad here.”

Fallon’s hand curled into a fist. She was right to dislike him. Her abhorrence for his father had nothing to do with it. He was a cad.

If possible, Nancy’s cheeks grew even redder. “My lord!” She darted Fallon an embarrassed glance. “Please!”

Fallon turned, ready to flee.

“Francis, please!” Nancy cried. “Let me explain.”

Fallon did not stop. Clutching the tray, she strode hard ahead, steps brisk, convinced that her deception was the smartest decision she had ever made if it put her beyond the attentions of men like Hunt.

And what of the duke? Would it be so terrible to have his attentions? For him to learn she was a woman?

So I could be another Nancy? Used and discarded like common refuse?

Shaking her head, she vowed she would never find out.

That night Dominic dreamed of Wayfield Park.

The grim visage of Mrs. Pearce rose in the gray of his sleep. She looked on, eyes as bleak as a stormy sky as she forced a scalding poker to his palm. Then he was running, racing down corridors, the faces of his long-dead ancestors watching, judging, condemning.

Suddenly he left them all behind, finding himself planted in a carriage, soft squabs at his back. Fallon O’Rourke sat beside him, her eyes warm and glowing. Inviting. Her face was a hazy blur like in his portrait, features not quite distinct. But there was her hair. That he recalled perfectly. The glorious mane floated around her in a luxurious sun-tinged cloud. Her hand took his, fingertips a feather’s stroke on his scarred palm. Her lips curved, seductive as he slid the sleeves of her gown down, down…