Sins of a Wicked Duke (6 page)

She would have to face her new world sooner or late. Sucking in a deep breath, Fallon pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor, immediately discovering that she was not the only one roused from bed.

A horde of servants scurried down the corridor. She was scarcely spared a glance as she filed into step with them, clambering up the servants’ stairs. Excited murmurs filled the air, the steady drone of voices a backdrop to the loud shouts carrying from the second floor.

“What’s he done now?” a maid giggled behind her hand, bright eyes dancing.

“Might have something to do with the tart he brought home last night.” Another maid cheerfully volunteered, blushing when she caught Fallon’s stare.

At that blush Fallon recalled herself—she was not Fallon anymore but Francis.Francis . The name tripped through her head in a silent mantra. She squared her shoulders and joined the rest of the servants hanging their heads over the railing to watch the spectacle below.

Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper Mr. Adams had introduced her to yesterday, waved a broom overhead and chased a woman attired in a scarlet evening gown down the stairs. Large melonlike breasts jiggled, nearly spilling free of the indecently low-cut bodice.

“Out! Out with you, you thieving trollop!”

Several of the servants tossed down encouragement to the housekeeper, and jeered insults to the disheveled female.

Fallon turned her head slowly, eyeing the stretch of servants on each side of her before looking back down. Despite their neat and tidy appearances in starched livery, she felt as though she rubbed elbows with a bloodthirsty mob that stood witness to an unsavory execution.

Cheers went up when the housekeeper bounced the broom off the woman’s head. The hapless creature shrieked and grasped her head, fingers desperately trying to disentangle the broom’s straw from the snarled mess of her hair.

“Teach you to steal his lordship’s silver!”

“Mrs. Davies! What are you doing?” Mr. Adams’s voice boomed from the marble-floored foyer far below. Hands on his narrow hips, he watched the display with less humor than the rest of the staff.

“Call the watch, Mr. Adams! We have a thief in our midst.”

“Mrs. Davies. That is His Grace’s…guest.” Even as he spoke, his single eye traveled over the woman with disfavor.

“Guest, umph! He didn’t invite her to rob him blind, did he?”

Suddenly, a deep chuckle rolled over the air.

Fallon froze, a tremble skating through her as she and the dozen other servants turned and strained to gain a better view of the man bearing that sherry-warm voice.

Caught in the web of that masculine laugh, she brushed a hand over her wig, satisfied at the feel of it atop her head. He certainly would not know her. She hardly knew herself when she looked in the mirror. Still, she felt her shoulders sink in an attempt to melt into the throng of servants.

“I’m scarcely blind, Mrs. Davies,” the familiar voice said, the velvet sound knotting Fallon’s insides.

The brassy-haired female on the stairs looked up. With one hand pressed to her heaving bosom and the other still clutched to her head, she pleaded, “Damon, darling! Help me! Tell this witch to cease beating me.” She cut a vicious stare to the housekeeper. “Surely she has a cauldron to stir.”

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.”

Harassthe 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? Fromthat 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.”