Yet what Evelyn did understand, as she retreated through the belittling doorway with quaking boots and trembling limb, was that she’d dived into the deep-blue ocean of this duke’s gaze and swum far out of her depth.
She had tangled with the Duke of Diamonds and never had a man been less dull, less cold or less dispassionate.
Sodding hell, she was insomuch trouble.
Chapter 4
A gentleman’s desk is his castle.
Fists unclenched and jaw softened as that green velvet derriere swept from Casper’s study.
If – and he very much doubted its veracity – but if, by the slenderest thread of silk, that distracting harlot knew of the existence, the whereabouts of his painting’s twin, then he would pursue it. He would own it – to admire, to touch, to esteem the strength and character shining in his defiant one’s eyes…
Pulse quickened and he drew breath, inhaling leather, ink and…soap.
Mrs Swift, he admitted, may also have contributed to this minor disruption within, as never had he met such a disrespectful jade set within such a frame of allurement.
Perching on the edge of his desk – as he alone was permitted to do – Casper traced the inlay where her fingertips had dallied.
He should request Copperhouse to have a lad follow her; after all, she was most likely part of some intricate trick, a temptress pawn to hoodwink a duke, an actress sent to deliver her lines. A common enough trap for any nobleman with two coins to rub together.
His father, when deep in his cups – so too often – had been a sop to every cheating rook and conniving slattern in London, and when Casper had inherited the title at the tender age of seventeen, he’d soon discovered the absurd sums that had disappeared into fake ventures, the unentailed lands lost in sham schemes. What remained had been bled from his foolish father by Captain Sharps and light-fingered strumpets in dank gaming hells and elegant clubs.
But this current Duke of Rothwell was no dupe for such trickery. Casper personally scrutinised every venture and every questionable request to the last letter, and he could smell treachery like a terrier did a rat.
Honesty remained in short supply amongst those seeking a duke’s acquaintance, patronage or, if he were to be blunt, money, and the merest whiff of duplicity hardened his heart to iron.
So the beguiling Mrs Swift had better beware.
Her lack of restraint in the presence of a duke, provocative teasing, wild hair and loitering fingers appealed to a side of his nature that solely emerged once the day’s business had been vanquished. To the darkened hours, when at last he could cast his mind to pleasure.
And if a velvet-clad gift horse sat on his desk, she deserved to be ridden.
He rose and with soft tread approached his own painting to inspect, as he had done on so many occasions, for any hint of how her face may appear, but Sir Henry had been masterful, revealing naught but a glimpse of fulsome blushing cheek which alluded to her youth and mayhap a countryside upbringing. Yet the rest of her skin was pallid against those dark-brown curls and he yearned for her to reveal all her secrets.
Footsteps heralded an interruption and he twisted.
“I say,” gushed Uncle Virgil, hair dishevelled, “that redhead was a comely morsel. Please tell me you have engaged her services as mistress.”
Uncle wore an exotic night robe and Turkish silk slippers.
At noon.
“She has a painting to sell. ’Tis all.”
“Shame. You haven’t bedded a woman in ten months, two weeks and eight days and that was only because we put rum in your birthday wine. It’s not good for a man, you realise. Mrs Schofield and I manage carnal relations at least twice a we–”
“I’ve more important matters to attend to.”
“Fustian. Everyone has to indulge the…” He waved the tassel on his sleeve. “Well, what do you young fellows call it nowadays?”
“Sugar Stick?” suggested Ernest arriving on cue, wandering into Casper’s study as though it were his bedchamber, flinging himself upon the chaise and shoving his Hessians to the silk. “Or Mutton Dagger? Jack in the Box? Old Hornington? Or my personal favourite, the Lance of Love.”
Casper folded his arms. Prattlers.
Tripping over his Turkish slippers in haste, Uncle crossed to the cabinet and proceeded to pour a glass of claret. “Well, young nephew, we can’t all be infatuated with a painting like His Grace here. I swear blind that if a fire broke out, that pretty filly on the wall is the one item he’d save, leaving the rest of us to burn in our beds.”
Casper glanced to the painting, then to his relations. Hmm.
