Devil's Honor: The Heiresses, #3

Chapter One

London, 1816

I cannot promise His Grace will see you this morning, Miss Darracott. Last night was… The butler lifted one bushy white brow. Last night was a particularly exhausting evening for His Grace. But I will do my best to impart the urgency of your request.

Isabel Darracott gave the elderly retainer the same smile that had won her admittance past two footmen and into the Duke of Marlow’s London town house. Thank you. I trust you shall not fail me.

I will do my best, Miss Darracott.

Isabel sagged against the back of a leather chair after the butler closed the library door. She could only imagine how the Duke would take the news of her uninvited appearance in London, especially after he had experienced an exhausting evening. He probably suffered from gout, as many men on the shady side of fifty did. He would probably be furious with her. Somehow the idea to confront the Duke had seemed a great deal less threatening when she planned this at home.

Silently she chided herself. She was four and twenty, far too old to act missish. She forced starch into her back and drew in a deep breath, catching the soft scent of leather from the morocco-covered chairs and sofas. I have every right to be here, she whispered, trying to prop up her sagging courage.

Indeed, the Duke ought to be ashamed of his actions. Still, she could not stop feeling a country mouse about to do battle with a lion. She smoothed her hand over the wrinkles in her apple green wool pelisse. Nine hours riding in a crowded mail coach did not do much for a woman’s appearance.

She hurried toward a pier glass on the mahogany-paneled wall above the fireplace, hoping to improve her appearance before her first encounter with the elusive Duke. If she could only convince him to—

Dear heaven! Isabel froze, her breath halting in her throat at the sight that greeted her near the hearth. A man lay sprawled on his side on the carpet near one of the sofas. His left hand was flung out toward the fireplace, resting against the burgundy and ivory carpet, palm up, long elegantly tapered fingers curled inward.

She stepped closer, approaching him as warily as she would a wild animal that might bite. He was tall, his long legs encased in close-fitting black wool trousers. He certainly was not one of the servants. She might not be acquainted with London fashion, but she recognized expensive cloth and expert tailoring when she saw it. The Duke had two sons. She suspected the man lying on the floor might be one of them. Still, why was he sleeping on the floor of the library?

He shifted, rolling onto his back with a lazy growl. His white shirt spilled open all the way to the stitching half way down his chest, drawing her attention to the black curls shading his skin. It certainly was not proper to notice a man’s physique. Yet this man demanded her attention. Since there was no one to notice her impolite stare, she indulged herself.

He was so starkly masculine, so splendidly proportioned—broad across the shoulders and chest, with a lean waist and narrow hips. How any man could manage to look commanding while sleeping on the floor, she didn’t know. But this man definitely managed. Even in repose he radiated a barely restrained aura of power.

Are you all right? she asked softly.

He twitched his nose, his only response. She knelt beside him, with every intention of making certain he wasn’t injured in some way. He certainly did not appear injured. He seemed to be sleeping as peacefully as a babe in a cradle.

Odd, simmering warmth rippled through her as she absorbed every detail of his features. Black waves of hair, overly long, framed a face sculpted with bold lines and curves—a fine, straight nose, sharply chiseled cheekbones, and full lips that lent a moody expression to his countenance. Thick black lashes rested against his cheeks; the color of his eyes was a mystery. The night had painted his lean cheeks with an enticing shadow of beard. Surrendering to a wayward nudge from her curiosity, she touched his cheek, just a graze, a soft brush of her fingertips against that fascinating rasp of black stubble.

He stirred, a low growl emanating from deep in his chest. She snatched back her hand as he opened eyes the color of an ocean at sunrise, grey and green blending with a startling beauty. The heat of her rising blush shimmered across her skin. I hope I did not disturb you.

He blinked, as though trying to bring her face into focus. A lazy smile curved those sensual lips, transforming a handsome face into a devastating weapon.

All the moisture evaporated from her mouth. She was suddenly aware of how awkward the situation truly was. No doubt he would think her rather bold. You must be curious to find a stranger at your side. You see, I am here to… Oh my goodness, it was terribly difficult to think while looking into those eyes. Ah, I was waiting for…

Her words dissolved in a squeak as he wrapped his powerful arms around her and pulled her down against his hard chest. Before she could utter more than a startled gasp, he captured her lips with his.

He moved his lips against hers, firm, demanding, as though he could not get enough of her. She gasped against his lips. He plunged his tongue into her mouth. Through the shock ripping through her she recognized a faint taste of brandy in his kiss. He moved his head, his beard rasping against her soft cheeks. At the country assemblies and house parties she had attended, never once had she met a man who had aroused her interest. Desire had been nothing more than a word read in books, a concept contemplated on dreamy afternoons, a curiosity she wondered if she would ever understand—until this moment.

Even in her innocence she recognized the swift tide sweeping over her as that most intriguing of emotions. Although she considered herself practical in most aspects of her life—since practicality had become a necessity after her mother’s death—she had never completely abandoned her girlish dreams of romance and passion, a love so powerful it would set her world on end. A love that sparked legends. She had read about such things in books. She had dreamed about such wonders at night. She had feared she would live her entire life and never taste desire. Yet this was desire, raw hunger, unrestrained passion. Dear heaven, she could not breathe.

He rolled with her in his arms, pinning her against the thick wool carpet. The weight of his big body pressed against her. Powerful muscles shifted against her breasts, her belly, her legs, each touch a confirmation of potent masculinity. His scent—sandalwood soap and an intriguing musk that defied identification—flooded her senses. The heat of his body soaked through the layers of their clothes.

Through the heated rush of blood through her veins she recognized all the reasons she could not allow this liberty. She struggled beneath him, pushing against his broad shoulders. Yet he didn’t seem to notice or care. Instead of releasing her, he slipped one hand between their bodies and caressed her breast. She stiffened at the bold touch. Through wool and muslin her skin tingled at the warmth of his hand on her. He squeezed the sensitive tip between his fingers, sending sensation shooting through her. She gasped against his mouth. In desperation, she swung her reticule, smacking the side of his head. That caught his attention.

What the bloody hell! He pulled away from her.

Isabel scrambled away from him, tripping over her skirt as she came to her feet. She caught the back of a chair and steadied herself.

He sat on his heels, rubbing the side of his head, glaring at her. Why the devil did you do that?

She drew a shaky breath. Her body was trembling so badly her voice quavered when she spoke. It seemed the only way to convince you to stop attacking me.

He rose, his movements filled with the powerful grace of a born athlete. Attacking you?

She touched her lips, feeling the soft tingling there. She could not quell the trembling of her limbs. She felt as though he had pushed her from a rather high height and she had just managed to survive the fall. Are you going to deny you attacked me?

What the hell do you expect? Bothering a man while he is sleeping.

She bristled at his continued vulgarity. Are you in the habit of sleeping in the library?

I sleep where I bloody well choose. He frowned, his grey-green gaze raking her from the top of her green velvet bonnet to the tips of her black half boots. Who the devil are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?

She met his brusque demand with a direct look she hoped would disguise the trembling in her limbs. She pulled together as much dignity as she could manage. I am Miss Darracott and I am waiting to see my guardian, the Duke of Marlow.

Your guardian? He looked surprised, and then a glint of humor lit his stunning eyes. Clay put you up to this, didn’t he? His idea of revenge for that tart I sent him last week.

I have no idea what you are talking about. My visit has nothing at all to do with baked goods.

He lifted his brows. Baked goods?

I realize I must appear a bit disheveled, but I have not come from a shop. And I have nothing at all to do with the tart you sent your brother. I can only assume it was gooseberry, since they tend to be a bit sour.

He nodded. I have never cared for gooseberry tarts.

Isabel folded her hands at her waist, her reticule dangling from her wrist. I am Miss Darracott, the daughter of Edward, the late Baron Bramsleigh. And if I did not need to speak with my guardian, I would not stay another moment in your company.

He studied her a moment, his lips curving into a lazy smile. "So you are here to speak with your guardian, the Duke of Marlow."

She really didn’t like the glint in his eyes. The butler has gone to announce my arrival to the Duke. I expect he will return directly.

He moved toward her in slow strides she suspected were designed to make her wonder what would happen when he reached her. It worked. She took a step back, and bumped into the back of a chair. Unless she wanted to run past him like a frightened schoolgirl, she was trapped. He drew near. She held her shaky ground.

In spite of her every attempt to quell her attraction to the rogue, her skin tingled with the same excitement she had experienced earlier when she lay pinned beneath him. He stepped so close his legs pressed against her pelisse. Far too close. Certainly no gentleman, even in London, would stand so close to a lady. Yet this man evidently followed his own rules.

She lifted her chin. You are being quite impertinent.

He lifted one thick black brow. Am I?

Yes, she said, her voice escaping in a thread of breath.

He leaned forward. She leaned back. Yet she couldn’t put enough space between them to satisfy propriety or her sense of survival. A warm scent of sandalwood soap drifted from his skin and swirled through her senses. The warmth of his body radiated through the layers of their clothing, tempting her to lean into that warmth. She stared up at his handsome face, her heart pounding against her ribs while a voice in her head screamed Run!

Where did my brother find you? he asked, his breath warming her cheek with a moist heat colored with a trace of brandy. At Covent Garden?

I have never met your brother. And if he is as disagreeable as you, I hope I never have the occasion to meet him. I have come here to speak with my guardian. I doubt the Duke will appreciate the way you have behaved toward me.

He slid his hand around her neck, his long fingers pressing against her nape. Come now, my sweet. We both know I am Marlow. And I am certainly not your guardian.

What? Shock speared through her at his words. You cannot possibly be Marlow.

You are not the only one with those sentiments. Unfortunately there is no hope for the situation.

Isabel stared up at him, searching for some sign of deceit in his eyes, finding nothing but a blunt truthfulness. You are the Duke’s eldest son?

He laughed softly, a dark sound filled with an odd note of self-mockery. Justin Hayward Peyton Trevelyan at your service.

The blood drained from her limbs. And you mean to say something has happened to your father?

Even he could not command the hands of fate, or the course of his disease.

Isabel closed her eyes, blocking out the compelling image of his face, snatching desperately for a slender thread of hope. You are hoaxing me. Are you not?

Hoaxing you?

She looked up at him. Please tell me you really are not the Duke of Marlow.

That would be a lie. And I do not tolerate lies of any kind. I am the Duke of Marlow, Marquess of Angelstone, Earl of Basingstoke, Baron of Campden, Trowbridge, and Arden. Now may we end this little farce?

Isabel swallowed hard. No matter how much she wanted to deny the truth, it stared at her from a pair of exquisite grey-green eyes. You really are Marlow.

I have been since my worthy sire died nine months ago.

What a complete disaster.

I am certain he thought it was. He pressed his fingers against the back of her neck, urging her upward toward his lips. Now, where were we before you interrupted me? Ah, yes, I believe I was about to make love to you.

His dark voice coiled around her like a magnetic current, coaxing her near. She pressed back against the tall wing-back chair. He leaned closer. The warmth of his body beckoned her, promising more of the tingling excitement she had found in his wicked embrace. Desire slithered through her like a fiery serpent, leaving a trail of steam in its wake, threatening to melt her brain. Take your hands off of me, she said, appalled at the breathless sound of her voice.

He brushed his lips against the tip of her nose. I must come to see you onstage sometime. You play the wounded innocent to perfection.

She pushed against his chest. It was like trying to move a granite statue. Oh let me go, you big brute.

He smiled, his full lips tipping into a crooked grin. How long do you plan to play this little game?

Stand aside. She kept her voice low, speaking to him the way a lady would address a peasant.

"As you wish, milady." He stepped aside and executed an exaggerated bow.

She put several feet between them before she turned to face him. I realize it is too much to hope any logic will pierce that thick skull of yours, but circumstances demand I try.

Marlow leaned back against the chair, folded his arms over his chest and grinned at her. I can think of better things to do.

You obviously believe I am here for some nefarious purpose. I assure you, I am not a lady of easy virtue sent as a diversion by anyone, including your brother. I am Miss Darracott. My father, Lord Edward Darracott, Baron Bramsleigh, died nine months ago, leaving your father as my guardian, as well as the guardian of my two younger sisters.

I shall have to come up with a truly inventive way of showing Clay how much I appreciate this little play of his.

You are being quite infuriating. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, clutching for her composure. I am not an actress. And I have never met your brother.

Is there a second act to this play? Because I am becoming rather bored with this one.

Do you not see the implication? You could very well be— She broke off, unable to voice the unspeakable thought. Oh this is a disaster. A complete disaster.

Marlow frowned, his expression growing uneasy. You are not going to start weeping, are you? I haven’t much patience for women who turn into watering pots. You can end the performance on this note and be on your way.

Isabel forced her back to stiffen. Obviously I cannot make you see reason. I intend to see your attorney, Mr. Yardley. Perhaps, under the circumstances, the situation can be rectified. And I need never see you again. We can only hope that is the case.

Chapter Two

Justin leaned back against the chair, watching the woman march across the room, while he tried to ignore the heat simmering low in his belly. He wanted nothing more than to toss the tart on her lovely backside and finish what they had started. Still, he had never chased a woman in his life. He was not about to start now. Even if the creature in question was one of the most intriguing females he had ever encountered—a tart who looked and sounded like a starchy governess. The type of handsome young governess who inspired all manner of wicked thoughts in the heads of young boys. He had never had that type of governess. He wished to God he had. No, his father had chosen a tutor for his sons, a man straight out of the fiery pits of hell.

A thick lock of hair had fallen free of her anchoring pins. The glossy, golden brown coil swayed with each step she took, brushing her green pelisse right where the small of her back was hidden from his sight. Images rose in his mind—soft brown hair sliding over the sleek curves of this woman’s bare back, smooth white sheets beneath the slide of creamy skin, slim bare arms sliding around his neck, drawing him down into her warmth. Lust jabbed low in his belly, a sharp stab he tried to ignore.

She turned at the door, her chin lifted at a defiant angle. Good day, Duke.

Odd, she had not addressed him as Your Grace. Only a person of rank would address him in this manner. Innocent indignation shone in eyes as blue as his childhood dreams of heaven. A maiden’s blush painted her smooth cheeks a dusky rose. If he didn’t know better he would have believed she was every bit as innocent as she appeared. He had to admit, she was an excellent actress.

Come back again, sweetheart. When you are in the mood for some real entertainment.

One day you will regret those words. She closed the door behind her with a soft click. A very lady-like exit for a woman at the height of her anger. Not at all what he had expected. Nothing about this woman was anything he expected.

Justin had to compliment his brother. Clayton had devised an ingenious means of revenge on his wicked brother for the tart Justin had sent him the other day.

He sat on the arm of the chair and contemplated the woman’s performance. She had never broken from character, not once. And her kiss held such innocence. Her lips had fluttered beneath his, as though she had never before felt the slow slide of a man’s lips over hers. She had trembled beneath him, as though she found him exciting and frightening all at the same moment. All in all it had been a masterful performance.

If it was a performance.

An icy sensation brushed the nape of his neck. It had to be a performance. It was absurd to think her story was true. He certainly could not have inherited the guardianship of anyone, especially not three innocent females. His father never would have sanctioned Justin’s guardianship of a mongrel. He certainly would not have turned over the lives of three innocent females into the keeping of his profligate son. Unless he was trying to teach Justin a lesson.

A suspicion took hold of Justin, a dreadful thought that gripped his heart like a cold, ghostly hand. His father had always been keen on trying to force his eldest son into a mold of his own fashioning. Justin had never read his father’s will. He had been in Italy when his father died, and he had stayed out of the country through the proper period of mourning. Donning black for George William Justin Emory Trevelyan was not something he had cared to do. It spat in the eye of honesty, something Justin abhorred.

These past few weeks, since returning to England, Justin had avoided every attempt Sophia, Clay, or Yardley had made to discuss the terms of his father’s will. Justin didn’t give a damn what his father had bequeathed his eldest son. He suspected the entailments were the only reason his father had not disinherited him completely. Everyone knew Clay would be the more worthy successor to the title. Justin had not taken anything from his father except the titles, and he had done so only to appease his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess.

Could part of his inheritance include a blue-eyed temptress and her two sisters? It would be a cruel blow, something his father just might do to teach his final lesson from beyond the grave.

Justin stood, his heart pounding against the wall of his chest. Perhaps it was time to see just exactly what was in his father’s will.

*

The fragrance of rose potpourri mingled with the sharp scent of burning coal in the green drawing room of Marlow House in Park Lane. After his father’s death, Justin had seen no reason to use his father’s London residence. Instead, he had insisted the elegant mansion fall under his grandmother’s control. Sophia had moved from her home in Berkeley Square to the huge house to make certain it was maintained properly. He stood beside the carved grey marble mantel, facing his grandmother, tense with the realization of the disaster that had befallen him. Did you know about this?

Of course I knew about this.

Sophia, the Dowager Duchess of Marlow, sat near the hearth on a gilt trimmed sofa. She was one of those rare women who made a mockery of the passage of time. Tall and slender, she had golden blond hair that revealed only a glimmer of brass from the artful hand of her hairdresser. With classically carved features and brilliant blue eyes, her handsome face still captured the attention of many gentlemen, including the Marquess of Hempstead, a man of nine and fifty who was her current lover.

Lord Edward Darracott, Baron Bramsleigh, and your father were friends since their days at Harrow. In fact, dear Edward was here to visit your father a few days before George died. Sophia stroked the sleek ocelot lying on the sofa beside her, his regal head resting on her lap. She slid her elegant fingers through Perceval’s long, spotted fur, earning a deep throated purr in response. As if matters were not bleak enough during those terrible last days, that night, after they left here, Edward and his son Stephen were murdered, attacked near their hotel by common footpads.

Justin clenched his teeth at the reminder of Miss Darracott’s tragedy. Yardley had provided all the details of the deaths of Miss Darracott’s father and brother. One of those details bothered him. Something wasn’t quite right. Still, he had other issues to deal with at the moment. The odd suspicion he had about the murders would have to wait. I suppose you did not think it was important to tell me I had inherited the guardianship of three females.

Sophia lifted one finely arched brow. If you had allowed Mr. Yardley to impart to you the terms of your father’s will, you would have known.

Damnation, Sophia. It would…

Sophia lifted her hand, cutting of his words, her ruby and diamond ring catching the fire of candlelight from the chandeliers hanging from the cove ceiling. I shall have none of your vulgarity, my boy. Speak civilly, or do not speak at all.

Justin inclined his head in a silent apology. Father must have taken leave of his senses. This is beyond everything. Me, bloody Devil Trevelyan, a guardian for three infants.

Try to keep a civil tongue. I do wish you would not banter that horrible epitaph around. Really there are times when I think you actually revel in being thought the most dangerous man in London.

A poor reputation has its advantages. I cannot remember the last time some matchmaking mama shoved an ambitious chit into my path.

No, dear. Now they hide their daughters when you are near. She gave him her sweetest, most sarcastic smile. Considering your title, your looks, and your wealth I find it quite an accomplishment on your part.

Justin ignored her barb. After all, she spoke the truth. He need only examine his behavior with the prim and beguilingly innocent Miss Darracott to confirm the fact he was an unprincipled, disgusting, debauchee. If he were a decent man she would not have found him sleeping on the library floor. If he had a shred of civility he would have stayed at the birthday party Sophia had given in honor of his and Clay’s birthday last night.

The party had been filled with all the appropriate people doing all the appropriate things. In a word: boring. Around midnight he had decided to celebrate in a less genteel fashion, in one of his favorite dens of iniquity—Madame Vachel’s. In deference to their grandmother, Clay had remained at the party, enduring the boring company of three hundred and twenty of London’s most fashionable members of the ton. Unlike Justin, Clay could always be depended upon to do the right thing.

As Justin recalled, he had left Vachel’s establishment near dawn, after having his fill of three plump tarts, two bottles of champagne, and a bottle of Irish whiskey. He remembered arriving home and sitting in the library with a decanter of brandy. From there his memory became a bit unreliable.

Apparently he had never made it to bed. It was not the first time he had awakened away from his bedchamber. It would not be the last. Only this time he had been awakened by an innocent female who had come to London to see her guardian. No doubt he had made a lasting impression on Miss Darracott. It should not matter, but for some unfathomable reason it did. Once again he had his father to thank for shining a light on his sterling character.

Father should have considered my black nature before trying to foster three chits into my care.

Sophia absently scratched the silvery grey fur beneath Perceval’s chin. You were your father’s heir, Justin. I am certain he felt the Darracott ladies would be in good hands.

Justin laughed, the sound bitter in his own ears. He is still trying to manage me, is he not? Even from the grave. What did he think? Did he truly imagine the guardianship of three innocent females would rehabilitate my black soul? Well, I will be damned before I am saddled with a pack of brats.

Sophia tilted her head, holding him in a direct gaze. Pity George did not name Clayton as guardian. Your brother would readily have accepted the responsibility.

The barb stabbed the intended target. He felt a sharp jab near his heart, in that small unprotected part of him that still craved acceptance. Yet he managed to keep his expression composed. He had learned how to maintain his composure through far worse than a few barbs shot by his grandmother.

Do not try to twist me around your finger, Sophia. I am well aware Clay is everything I am not.

Justin, my dear boy, your father would not have entrusted you with Edward’s daughters if he thought you incapable of handling the task.

His muscles tensed as they always did when he thought of his father. His father had often told him the only thing Justin was truly good at was overindulgence. Father did not think me capable of handling anything, except fast horses and equally fast women.

Nonsense. Your father thought you were capable of conquering the world, if you had determined it was something you wanted. He admired your dash and daring. He simply wanted to direct it to a higher purpose. I know for certain he was very proud of the way you managed after he cut off your funds. He mentioned it to me more than once during those last days.

Seven years ago, much to his father’s chagrin, after the Duke had cut off all of Justin’s funds in an attempt to bring his heir under rein, Justin had discovered another talent aside from his ability to get drunk and carouse the town with his friends. With a small loan from Sophia, Justin had managed to accumulate a considerable fortune by playing the Exchange.

At the age of one and twenty Justin had become a wealthy, independent man, with no need for anything from his father. Insult to injury as far as the Duke was concerned. Yet Justin had long ago stopped trying to please his father. It had been a brutal lesson, learned at an early age, but Justin had discovered he could never please the man who had sired him. No matter how hard he tried. In the end he had found it much more enjoyable to live down to his father’s expectations.

There is no need to paint a pretty picture, Sophia. I am well aware of how Father viewed me.

You do not. Not really. Unfortunately, I am afraid you did not always see the best of your father. Sophia lowered her eyes, staring at the cat, stroking his silky fur a long moment before she spoke. My son was not always a harsh man, Justin. If you tried, you could remember a time when he was warm, affectionate—everything he shunned after your mother’s passing.

Justin curled his hand against the smooth mantel. He stared into the coals burning on the polished andirons, fighting the tremors that had commenced deep inside of him, in a place where a small, wounded boy still dwelled. That boy had known affection—a mother who had preferred life in the country with her family to the glitter of London, a father who had adored his wife and two sons. But it had all changed when Justin was nine, on a terrible day in December when his mother had died. All the warmth in his young life had died that day. The home where he had always felt safe and protected had altered, devolved into a place of fear and shame.

Near the end George spoke of a great many things he regretted in his life. Sophia’s voice, soft with emotion brushed against Justin’s back. Including his relationship with you and Clayton. He realized he had made dreadful errors in judgment when you were boys, mistakes that cost all of you dearly.

Justin drew the bitter scent of burning coal into his lungs. Inside memories threatened the carefully constructed cage where he had forced them into years ago. I am certain father went to his maker with a clear conscience. I doubt he regretted anything.

Sophia was quiet a long while. You are mistaken, Justin. Your father truly regretted what happened to you at the hands of that vile man. He spoke of it many times near the end. It is time to forgive your father, Justin.

Justin squeezed his fist against the mantel until his knuckles blanched white, while inside he clamped down hard on the lid of the coffin containing vicious childhood memories. He still had a few visible scars on his back and legs. Yet the scars that didn’t show were far more brutal.

No one living truly knew what had happened to him those months after his father had deserted his sons. No one except Clay and Sophia knew the entire truth, the extent of the brutality he had suffered. He intended to keep it that way.

The only thing Father regretted was the fact he failed to mold me into his own image.

If you could only understand how he felt after your mother died.

Felt? Images from the night his mother had died rose in his memory. Justin had gone to his father, needing him as only a child can need a father’s love. His entire world was crumbling around him. He had needed reassurance, a hand on his shoulder. Instead, he had received a cold reprimand for his boyish tears. Affection is for the weak, remember that. The nobility do not show their sorrow. Emotions must be controlled, or we will be lost. His father would repeat that lecture over and over again in the passing years, pounding the words into both of his sons, as though he could erase all of the emotion in them.

"In case