Duke Of Darkness

She stated the five words as if they weren’t laughable and, devil take him, he laughed. He transformed the misplaced reaction with a gruff cough and regained his composure in a swift act of better judgement. “I don’t believe you have a choice. Not only was it my aunt’s dying wish, but it is legally binding. You are now my responsibility.”

Her answer clipped the final syllables of his response. “I’ll wager you for my freedom.”

“What?” He almost missed her meaning, ensconced in determining how she would fit within his unusual existence. “Oh, I never wager. Sorry, Lexi. It is what it is.”

“Don’t call me that, Your Grace. You claim I am your charge now. I would prefer Lady Alexandra.”

An aborted snort of amusement escaped before he could think better of it.

“That was uncalled for.”

Wounded eyes glanced in his direction and an apology bloomed on his tongue. Ridiculous. The Duke of Wharncliffe never apologized.

Yet she persisted.

“One game of chess. Or the best out of three. Winner decides my future.”

With due understanding, she would not let the matter drop, but her challenge immediately gained his attention. “You play chess?” Now that intrigued him. “How did you come by the skill?” He strode to the chess table near the far window and palmed the black king. He always played black. He always won. Hadn’t found an opponent yet daring enough to take the risks he did with his pieces. And so the game grew stale. Even he didn’t like to win every time. Where lay the challenge in that?

“Your aunt taught me, of course. We played often.”

His brow climbed in question. Aunt Min despised chess. Or at least she led him to believe it so. True, one’s interests could change over time. Temptation whispered in his ear. He hadn’t had a good opponent in ages. How well could she play? He surveyed her stance near the fireplace. She met his assessment with an inborn confidence and a challenging gleam in her eye.

So she would stake her future on the game. If nothing else, it would prove entertainment for the evening and deflect unwanted feelings linked to Aunt Min’s passing; although the notion paled when he considered the redundancy of forging the bargain when one already knew the outcome.

He picked up the white queen and tossed it across the salon. She captured it in a smooth arc of her hand.

“Let’s play.”

Chapter Seven (#ulink_7e32e5f5-5698-54d1-ab2d-9d7a33e1ddc9)

Alexandra’s body swayed with the steady jarring of the coach, yet her glare never wavered as she eyed Devlin under lowered lids. The barouche, newly repaired, had arrived on cue that morning as if summoned by the devil himself. That devil, Wharncliffe, sat across from her now. Neither of them had spoken a word since last evening when he’d made quick work of winning their chess matches.

He’d extended her another opportunity, a tournament of three out of five games and gone so far as to claim he enjoyed their wager, ready to offer new stakes, but she was no fool to fall further into his debt.

He proved a masterful chess player. She watched his adept fingers move the pieces about the board through intricate plays exceeding anything she’d read in a book or practised on her own. How foolish she’d been to bargain with him. And she had lost.

When he did not appear at breakfast, Grimley informed her of Devlin’s desire to leave and she’d walked to the foyer alone with her single valise and small travelling bag. Henry followed, yipping at her heels. She’d picked him up with a wry smile, confident and pleased the combination of the confinement of a barouche, two days’ travel and a rambunctious terrier would annoy the duke tremendously.

And yet for all her misery, there was no denying Devlin Ravensdale composed a breathtaking sample of a man. He rested now, his head against the velvet cushion of the back bench, his eyes closed. Did he sleep? She could not be sure.

She’d heard Grimley enquire of his night’s rest in a manner overly concerned, but then too, she’d been distracted by her own situation to give the comment due attention. He did look weary when they’d first entered the barouche.

She continued her perspicacious perusal of his person. His body, long and lean, was proportioned to the perfect cut of his clothing. Impeccable clothing, made by a very precise tailor, no doubt. For all the biscuits he seemed to enjoy, his physique showed no trace of fat. She blinked away the thought of all his strong, hard muscle. Nothing at all like Henry Addington.

Odd, that sudden and obtuse comparison. Henry seemed a boy compared to this man, a simple respectable gentleman. His Grace likely sent a string of ladies into a swoon on a regular basis. When she first met him in the stable, the dim light and newborn colt saved her from embarrassment as her breath came up short and her hands trembled. The visceral reaction proved difficult to ignore and unsettled her usual levelheaded demeanour. And when he’d lifted her atop his horse, as if she was nothing more than a bag of feathers, and rode with her back to the manor house, the muscles of his legs pressed against the horse, pressed against her—

She shook her head to stop her wayward thoughts.

Her gaze travelled to his hands placed atop his waistcoat, his fingers folded in repose. He wore a gold signet ring on his right hand and his fingernails were well trimmed and polished. She’d watched them reach into his waistcoat pocket in search of a little metal tin, of which she hoped was not tobacco or snuff. She hadn’t seen evidence of such use, but could not fathom what else he’d keep captive there. His watch fob and chain were golden, linked from one end of his pocket to the other and not visible where his coat hung open.

Abandoning all propriety and convinced he must surely be asleep, she raised her eyes to his face, enthralled in examination of his person. His hair could not be blacker if he bathed it in soot. Its glossy richness reflected sunlight in blue, and no doubt felt silkier than satin to the touch. It wasn’t overly long and definitely not stylish. A sudden jolt of the barouche sent a lock rakishly over his brow and her fingertips itched to tuck it into place.

How unfair for a man to possess such ruggedly entrancing good looks. His dark brows slashed straight to give the appearance of seriousness, although at the hearty rumble of his laughter when she proposed her challenge last evening, she surmised he enjoyed humour well enough. His nose was chiselled in proportion to his sharp chin, wrapped with the thinnest beard she’d ever seen. How might it feel to kiss a man with whiskers? She shifted on the bench and reached for Henry, offering a rub to the sleeping pup’s belly in a familiar habit. Devlin’s whiskers could not possibly feel the same.

She raised her eyes to his face. Devlin stared back with such clarity he likely never slept at all. A shiver passed through her with the realization, still she couldn’t look away. His eyes, framed with lashes black as midnight and twice as thick, held her with hypnotic strength as if striving with unsettling intensity to peer inside her soul. Mortification crept up her neck and further to her ears in the form of a deep blush.

He cleared his throat with an audacious chuckle.

Luckily Henry interceded with a sharp bark, a clear signal the dog needed to make use of a nearby field.

Devlin tapped the carriage roof and signalled to stop. Once outside, he spoke to the footman and Alexandra hurried down the steps and into a grassy area with Henry, although she swore she heard Wharncliffe’s laughter chase after her.

He waited by the stairs to hand her up when she returned.

“Just Henry can ride atop with John. Your dog will be in good hands and it will allow the pup fresh air.”

He handed Henry atop the seat before she objected, although it did make sense and would serve Henry well. Having begun the trip so early, they’d travelled more than halfway to London, and it was as if Devlin read her thoughts when he mentioned his intentions.

“I’ve advised the driver to travel straight through if that is agreeable with you. Given your lack of maid or chaperone, and the haste we make in an effort to return to London, I thought it best to complete our travels as soon as possible.”

He handed her into the barouche and settled on the other side. Again good sense prevailed. The sooner she reposed in the privacy of her own bedchamber, the sooner she could plan the next step in her life. No matter Aunt Min’s well-intended gesture, Alexandra knew with assurance she would salvage the situation yet.

Devlin reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced the same tin she’d puzzled over earlier.

“Cinnamon candy?” He enquired in an amused tone. Could he read her mind? Divine her thoughts? There was something persistent and unsettling about how neatly his questions aligned with her own.

The next afternoon, Alexandra’s restless anticipation escalated as the carriage approached Kenley Manor. She would give her little finger to exit the confinement of the coach and breathe open air. They’d travelled at a breakneck speed through the night, with only necessary stops. After much effort, she’d found an awkward form of sleep, and settled into a fitful slumber, but now the remnants of their haphazard travel wore her temperament to the bone.

His Grace appeared no better. He’d deliberately dozed during the day with the intention of staying awake throughout the night. She could only assume he did so for a measure of safety, but she hesitated on drawing any obvious conclusions. She’d never mixed much in society, yet prided her ability to decipher the male mind, her father and Addington simplistic in their thinking. Yet Devlin proved something altogether different; the man’s reasoning as mysterious as his appearance. She would need to work harder to decipher his manner of consciousness.

At least Henry proved no bother and found a comfortable blanket and a new friend on the top bench with the footman.

The barouche made a turn onto the long drive leading to Devlin’s estate and Alexandra could no longer contain her impatience. How she yearned for a hot bath and a comfortable bed. With restless anticipation she peered out the window, the drive lined with walnut trees, their leaves a mottled green. There was not another house for as far as the eye could see, the property so expansive. Right at the center stood Kenley Manor, if one could label the large building as a single household. Her breath caught and she dismissed it as need for fresh air, yet with each revolution of the carriage wheels, her mind spun faster.

Brick upon brick, the home rose to the sky, each level marked by varying sized windows, the tallest at the top to accommodate the high ceilings indicative of the most opulent rooms. Concrete balconies complimented the upper sash windows, a few overlooking a cobblestone walkway, and pilasters outlined the massive front doors. The grounds were impeccably manicured and instead of appearing over-run by the verdant green ivy that crept up the north wall, the blanket of green appeared perfectly placed.

She exited the coach and a line of servants assembled to angle up the manor steps in a makeshift processional that echoed a formality she’d never have paired with Wharncliffe. Again, she amended her thoughts. He was a member of the aristocracy, after all.

Much to her surprise, Devlin had sent a messenger ahead and she was introduced to each member of the household. Considering the series of events that led her to Kenley Manor in the course of two short days, her heart softened at the unexpected gesture.

Perhaps her stay would not prove so terrible. She glanced over her shoulder to see her new guardian in discussion with Reeston, the butler. He held Henry captive at his side in an attempt to prevent the pup from tearing through the long hall on an adventure to explore the new surroundings. Henry’s tail wagged with furious enthusiasm. Such a striking contrast, the angry little white pup in the arms of the dark duke. His butler said something and a smile graced Devlin’s lips. For an odd moment, he appeared vulnerable and her breath caught. He must have sensed her attention as he turned in her direction. His eyes caught hers and held for longer than was proper, her heart hammering in her chest triple time. Surely everyone on the steps could hear it. With a little gasp of surprise at her sudden rush of emotion, she averted her attention and followed the housemaid upstairs.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_02128b33-ab44-52f7-8e82-3c2bb8b568a9)

Tillie was the most talkative individual Alexandra had ever met. The petite maid, whose dark brown curls bobbed with as much energy as her conversation, spoke non-stop all the way to the west wing, quite a distance from their point of origin. Oh, it was refreshing to hear everything the young girl shared, but to have it rattled at such speed and quantity after the long confinement of her travels was enough to send Alexandra to bed for the night. But of course, that would be unacceptable. Tillie had already informed her of the menu, the guests in attendance, and of the expectations for the evening. The young maid was a force to be reckoned with, of that Alexandra was sure, yet she meant well and possessed the smile of an angel.

“Well, here we are. It is a wonder His Grace ordered this wing opened for your arrival. No one stays in this part of the estate. Well, not since his parents.” Tillie paused and took a much needed breath, although the silence lasted only that long. “In you go, then.” The maid pushed open the door and stepped aside as Alexandra entered a large guest bedroom decorated in varied shades of pink. Floral tapestries decorated the walls and evoked an instant smile.