When Seducing A Duke

Chapter 1

London, May 1877

T
here were few things Greyden Kane, Duke of Ryeton, had been denied in his privileged life. Generally his every whim was indulged with cheerful abandon. Despite such fortune, life was not without its ironies and Grey had often been given things he never once asked for or, for that matter, wanted—such as the six-inch scar that ran down his left cheek. A scar that was hidden for the time being beneath a supple leather mask that obscured most of his face.

And so self-denial became something His Grace sought, but like all things, the taste of it often dulled.

It was that same sense of denial that had driven him to Saint’s Row that evening. Like the society it catered to, the club located on that abbreviated lane gave the appearance of propriety and good manners, but beneath that façade—if one sought them out—there were all manners of scandalous and seductive delights to be found. In one section, proper ladies and gentlemen might attend a special ball or spectacle of some kind. In another section, less decorous patrons could indulge in their fantasies without risk of their carnal delights ever being found out.

In short, it was a place where elegance and debauchery often crossed paths, but were never formally introduced.

The large, cream stucco building sprawled like corpulent King George IV, during whose reign it had been built. Back then it had been intended as a theater and had continued as such for fifty years before the owner, one Mr. Threwsbury, lost it and everything else he owned years ago in a card game. That he would risk his livelihood was scandal enough. That he lost the club to a woman…well, Threwsbury had to leave England—not just to escape his creditors, but to avoid being a laughingstock as well.

Vienne La Rieux was no ordinary woman. That soon became apparent when she assumed ownership of the Saint’s Row theater, and took it from tattered street urchin to diamond of the first water in its first six months. Now it was a high-class club open to any man or woman wealthy enough to afford the price of walking through its doors. Oh, there were balls and parties, and a restaurant open to the public, but balls like this one, where everyone wore a mask and spirits flowed freely…those were open by subscription only. The only way a non-subscriber could attend was as the guest of a member.

Archer was there as his guest. Not because Grey needed his brother’s support, but because he knew how futile it was to attend such an event without his younger brother tagging along.

And tonight, Grey had a need that would no longer be ignored regardless of his brother’s presence. Saint’s Row bustled with energy and gaiety and, beneath that, a frisson of sensual promise. It was this promise that Grey chased as the ball ebbed and swelled beneath the balcony where he sat, watching. Waiting.

Archer, younger by a scant ten months, sat with him. The younger Kane hadn’t Grey’s particular fussiness when it came to women and was ready to dance and subsequently romance with whoever would have him. Arch had the look of a racehorse about to storm the gate.

“Sweet Christ, Arch.” Grey couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. Being watched over by his brother like a governess hovering over a precocious charge was as maddening as it was humiliating, especially since it was obvious Archer would rather be elsewhere. “If your bollocks are that backed up, go find some lady willing to relieve your discomfort and leave me to my own.”

Archer shifted against the padded velvet chair. Like his brother he wore a simple black mask. “My bollocks are just fine, thank you. See anything you like?”

Turning his attention to that brilliant swirl of a crowd beneath him, Grey shrugged. “Not yet.”

“I don’t understand this impossible criterion of yours. Is not a pair of fine eyes, a pretty smile, and a willing nature enough for you?”

“No,” he replied, never lifting his gaze from those damned dancers. “They are not.” Grey’s needs in a partner weren’t quite so disinterested, or so noble. His desires went beyond simple companionship to border on something uncomfortably like obsession.

All he required was thick dark brown hair, cupid’s-bow lips, and a lush figure. That was enough for him to pretend that his partner was the woman he really wanted.

Rose.
The last time he’d laid eyes on her sweet curves and big brown eyes had been several months earlier when he visited his estate in Kent. Bramsley was close enough that he could visit more often if he so chose, but with just enough miles between it and London that he could always find an excuse to play absent. Why torment himself with the agony any more than necessary?

The full pressure of that torment bore down upon him as he observed the merriment below from the darkness of the box. Silent as a shadow, he drained the last of his champagne and set the empty flute on the table beside him. He was a patient hunter, but the hunger inside him frayed the edges of his nerves to raw, jagged strips.

Still, he would wait.

“Ah, there’s a pretty little bird who looks eager to do some nesting.” Archer leaned forward in his chair, anticipation clearly etched on his angular face. They shared the same thick wavy hair, though Archer’s was almost black while Grey’s was more of a reddish sable. Their pale blue eyes were almost identical, though Archer’s often held far more merriment. And Grey was very certain that his own cheekbones weren’t as high, nor his nose quite so sharp. Still, for all their differences, there was no denying their shared heritage. Kane blood always showed. Their younger brother Trystan and sister Bronte were proof as well.

Following his brother’s eager gaze, Grey saw a slender auburn-haired woman of indeterminable age standing on the fringes of the dancers clad in a smoky-green gown. She was obviously looking for companionship given the way she kept passing her gaze lazily over the others in the room.

At one time she would have more than whet Grey’s appetite. At one time practically every woman in this club would have served as a way to scratch his itch, but not anymore.

The lady looked up, her eyes glittering behind a violet mask trimmed with downy feathers. Her gaze fell on Archer and a smile curved her full lips. Grey’s brother smiled back.

“You’ll excuse me, then?” Archer was already on feet.

Grey waved him on his way with an indolent flick of his wrist. As much as he loved his brother and enjoyed his company, he would much rather bide his time alone.

Archer clapped him on the shoulder. “I will see you in the morning, then.” It was an accepted fact that Arch never crawled home before dawn, reluctant to leave the supple embrace of his companion. Grey, on the other hand, didn’t linger long enough for the fantasy to spoil.

Grey acknowledged the farewell with a slight dip of his head. “I’ll have a place set for you.”

He didn’t take his gaze away from the throng below, but Archer’s exit caught the edge of his vision. Once he was alone in the box, Grey let out the breath he’d been holding and slouched in the chair, stretching his legs out before him.

What the hell was he doing? He asked himself this very same question every time he came here. And he never liked the answer.

He was here because he wanted what he couldn’t have—what he had promised to never touch. Would never dream of defiling.

Laughter echoed in his ears—loud and unwelcome. It stirred memories of that night long ago when he’d felt cold steel lay open the steaming warmth of his cheek. It reminded him that he was alone while more than a hundred people gathered beneath him, just out of his reach. He didn’t like people, and that feeling only intensified when they gathered in groups like vultures hovering over a dying stag.

If he didn’t find her soon, he would have to leave. Find relief in more auspicious and unsavory environs.

And then, like the answer to a prayer he’d never uttered, he spied
her.

Grey leaned forward in the box, fingers curling around the smooth, cool brass rail. There, in the glittering meadow of hothouse flowers, was a wild bloom of a woman who quite literally robbed him of all breath.

Time ground to a halt, as did the beating of his heart.

She wore a low-cut gown the same vibrant burgundy of a rose just past first bloom. The tiny sleeves were trimmed with the same bronze lace that flitted around the rest of the gown, and sat low on her creamy round shoulders. From where he stood—when had he left his chair?—he could see the deep valley of her cleavage, the swells of her beautiful breasts flushed under the chandeliers.

The snug bodice of her gown hugged her across the ribs, nipped in sharply at the waist and then flared over hips and a backside that didn’t need the little flouncy bustle to draw his attention.

His gaze lifted, and his heart began to beat once more as he took in the coffee darkness of her hair shimmering with the faintest hint of copper beneath the twinkling light. Her skin was the right shade of ivory, her hair the correct color and thickness, twisted into a high, loose knot. Beneath the bronze lace mask her nose had just the right tilt, and her mouth…her mouth was ripe and plump, just begging to be kissed.

Christ in heaven. If he didn’t know better he’d swear this woman—this dream—was truly Rose.

But it couldn’t be. Rose was a single young woman. She would never come there alone, and no one who knew her would bring such a gently bred young woman to a masked ball meant for seduction. Everyone familiar with Saint’s Row knew what happened at these private functions. And there was no way a lady as sheltered and removed from London as Rose Danvers could ever pass through these doors. No, this wasn’t Rose, but she was as close a twin as he could ever imagine—ever hope to find.

And he’d be damned if he’d stand there any longer, staring like an idiot, and give some other man a chance to have her.

Pivoting on his heel, he swept from the box, pushing the heavy velvet drapes aside to exit into the corridor beyond. Here, the lighting was almost as dim as in the box itself, with only a few sconces to illuminate the way. But Grey knew the interior of this club and his feet were sure as they carried him swiftly and silently along the thickly carpeted hall. He spared the slightest glance at the couple against the wall, the woman with her skirts bunched around her thighs, the man with his hand beneath. Their sounds of pleasure teased his ears, spurred him onward.

Halfway down the stairs he encountered Madame La Rieux herself. She was perhaps his age or a bit younger. Handsome and fair with shimmering copper hair that appeared as natural as the shrewd blue of her eyes. She was tall and slender, clad in an elegant and simple gown of butter yellow silk that could only have been made by a master such as Mr. Worth.

“Monsieur le Duc,”
she greeted huskily in her delicate French accent as she curtsied demurely. “May I be of assistance to you?”

Manners and habit dictated that he bow in return, though what he truly wanted was to brush past her to find his delicious wildflower. He opened his mouth to ask her pardon, but then a thought occurred to him. “A private suite, madam. Have you any available?”

She smiled, carmine-tinted lips curving but not parting. “For you, Your Grace? Of course.” Long, slender fingers dipped into the bodice of her gown and withdrew a small brass key on a delicate chain. She offered the key to Grey. “The last chamber on the right at the end of the hall. You will have complete privacy.”

The filigree key was warm from her skin and Grey held it tight in his fist. “Thank you. You will add it to my account, of course.”

She inclined her head. “Of course. Shall I send a bottle of champagne as well?”

“Yes. Please.” He slipped the key into his pocket. “And now if you will excuse me?”

She smiled again, coy but not debauched. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

Grey nodded and hurried down the stairs. Only once he reached the bottom did he slow his harried pace. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

He entered the ballroom blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brighter environment. He wasn’t used to being out in the open like this. Usually he kept to the shadows, avoiding being seen at almost any cost.

Chandeliers burned overhead, but it was the gaslights camouflaged as antique sconces that gave the most light. Still, the room was bright without being overly so. No lady need worry that her complexion be judged too harshly or scrutinized too closely.

The cavernous room was like an open box of bonbons, decorated in shades of cream, chocolate, and gold. There was just the right amount of decoration as to be elegant rather than gaudy—a feat difficult to achieve these days. The lighting, now that he was accustomed to it, was just bright enough to see clearly, but not enough to abuse the eye, and the music was at the perfect level to titillate the ear, but not so voluminous that it ruined all hopes of conversation.

Not that he was in the mood for talking.

Hardly anyone glanced in his direction as he strode into the room, which was how he preferred it. Masked balls of this sort were known for discretion and anonymity. Of course, there were always those who noticed power and position when they saw it. He ignored them, his gaze scanning the room with one person in mind. And then, he spied her. She was alone, standing on the outskirts of the dancers, looking around the room as though she was waiting for someone.

Her gaze fell upon him, locking with his. The impact shook Grey right down to his toes. For a second, he swore he saw a flash of recognition, but it must have been a trick of the light, because it was gone in a blink.