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Synopsis
Set against the Bridgerton-era backdrop of Regency London, Anna Bradley's witty and sexy new trilogy sets fiercely alpha dukes against the duchesses who are determined to transform their delinquent husbands by any means necessary. A delight for fans of Mary Jo Putney, Sabrina Jeffries, Ella Quinn, Diana Quincy, and Julia Quinn.
One should never judge a duke by his cover. As far as London society knows, Giles Drew, the Duke of Basingstoke, is everything a proper aristocrat ought to be. But when a notorious scandal sheet publishes details of Giles's questionable bedroom antics, only one bride can salvage his reputation.
Prim and penniless, Francesca Stanhope has resigned herself to a season full of the ton's snickering—until the Duke of Basingstoke's dizzying courtship transforms her fate. Yet wedded bliss quickly turns into a clash of wills as Franny realizes her handsome duke is a devil in disguise.
But beneath the newlywed's skirmishes lies scorching heat. And while each attempts to tame the other, the truth is that this unconventional union may be all either could ever desire . . .
Contains mature themes.
Release date: July 25, 2023
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 320
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Give the Devil His Duke
Anna Bradley
Once, when Franny was a child, her father had shown her a drawing in one of his history tomes of the gruesome fate that befell traitors to the English Crown. The rebels’ severed heads had been boiled in water, doused with pitch, and displayed on wooden pikes along the south bank of London Bridge.
As a lesson in obedience, it had fallen short of the mark.
As a lesson in self-preservation, it had failed spectacularly, otherwise she wouldn’t be crouched behind a shrub on a dark, deserted street, spying on her uncle Edward’s townhouse.
She wasn’t a rebel by nature, so much as by opportunity.
It was unfortunate, then, that all the stars had aligned to tempt her into tonight’s bit of recklessness. It was a dark evening, for one, the pale starlight muted by a heavy layer of clouds. Then, the streets of Berkeley Square were deserted, the two short blocks between her and her uncle’s house on Bruton Street beckoning like waggling fingers, luring her forward.
Or was it backward? Yes, backward, into the past.
If all that hadn’t been temptation enough, Lady Crump had retired early to her bed, leaving Franny alone with a kiss on her cheek, and a suggestion that she amuse herself for the rest of the evening.
Fate herself may as well have shoved Franny out the door.
The townhouse looked much as it had when she’d left it behind a decade ago, aside from the fence—a tall, iron affair, with a row of spikes running along the top edge. There were no severed heads, thank goodness, but it was still a bit forbidding for Mayfair. It might have been deterrent enough, if it hadn’t been for the lamplight flickering in the dining room window.
That ruinous glow drew her from her hiding place to the edge of the street, and once she was there, well . . . it wasn’t as if she’d get another chance like this one, was it?
Only a coward would forgo such an opportunity.
She darted across the street, the hem of her cloak flapping around her ankles, and ducked underneath a neatly pruned plane tree in a back corner of her uncle’s garden. She rested her hand against the cool, rough bark of the trunk, and looked up through the spreading branches above.
It looked sturdy enough.
The leaves rustled as she grasped one of the lower branches and swung her foot up. It was just a bit of a shimmy to grab the next branch, an easy enough reach for a lady who’d climbed as many trees as she had after she’d been banished from London and found herself in the wilds of Herefordshire.
Hand over hand over foot, higher and higher she climbed, until she drew level with the window, her heart thudding with anticipation against her ribs, only to sink with disappointment when she peeked inside.
Susannah wasn’t there.
A man was seated alone at the dining room table, an empty bottle of port in front of him, his heavy chin resting on his chest. His back was to the window, and there was rather less hair on his head than there had been ten years ago, but she’d know her uncle Edward anywhere.
He was asleep at his port, the drone of his snores so familiar she could picture the vibration of his thick lips in her mind’s eye, the spittle clinging to the corners of his mouth.
She didn’t linger, but left her uncle to his slumber, shimmying back down the same way she’d gone up, but in reverse—foot under foot under hand—her legs dangling as she searched out the thickest branches, testing her weight against each one.
Of all the things she’d longed for in the years after they’d left London—all the dreams she’d had during the long nights spent shivering in her bed in their drafty cottage in Herefordshire, her eleven-year-old heart breaking—of all the people she’d missed with the deep, aching misery of a wounded child . . .
Her uncle Edward hadn’t been one of them.
Giles had had a perfectly respectable reason for calling on Lord Stanhope this evening. A proper, honorable, gentlemanly reason, as befit a proper, honorable, gentlemanly, er . . . gentleman.
He’d come here to . . . to . . .
Damn it, why had he come here tonight? It had something to do with a woman. Or a lady. One or the other. He couldn’t recall now, because somehow the evening had taken a disastrous turn.
A disastrous, drunken turn. That wasn’t supposed to happen, though perhaps he should have anticipated it, as Stanhope did serve an excellent port.
That was the best that could be said of Stanhope. The worst that could be said of him was that he’d blathered on about one thing and another at such tiresome length Giles had been obliged to keep drinking, his brain growing murkier with every word out of his host’s mouth.
She’s a great beauty, Basingstoke. Looks just like her mother, but with the Stanhope blue eyes.
Blue eyes, blue eyes . . . yes, that sounded familiar. He’d come to see Stanhope because of . . . something to do with blue eyes. But no sooner had he seized on the blue eyes than Stanhope began going on about horses, of all things.
It’s rather like that pretty pair of matched bays of yours, eh, Basingstoke? Stanhope had leaned closer, his hot, sour breath wafting over Giles’s face. Nothing but the finest breeding stock will do for a duke.
Wait. Giles paused on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps.
Blue eyes, breeding stock, and . . .
Damn it, he almost had it, but it was hovering just out of reach—
. . . My Susannah is the finest filly in London.
Susannah! By God, that was it!
He’d come here tonight to ask permission to court Lady Susannah Stanhope. Not quite the thing, really, dipping so deeply into his cups while courting.
He was meant to be besotted, not just sotted.
Still, he’d gotten the thing done. He’d professed his admiration and undying devotion and all that nonsense, then declared his intentions toward Lady Susannah, and Stanhope had said . . . something.
He couldn’t recall what, exactly, his head being all muddled with port, but Stanhope was hardly going to refuse him, was he? Every nobleman in London was angling after Lady Susannah Stanhope, but he was the only duke, and Stanhope wanted to see his daughter made a duchess.
Why, he could have cast up his accounts all over the dining room table, and Stanhope still would have handed his daughter over with a smile.
So, he’d won his bride, and was the happiest of men in London tonight!
Wasn’t he?
Yes, yes, of course, he was. He’d made up his mind to wed this year, and Lady Susannah was certain to be declared this season’s belle. It went without saying that nothing less than society’s most perfect diamond would do for the Duke of Basingstoke.
He was the happiest—and drunkest—of men, and utterly besotted with his future bride.
Or he would be, once they’d met.
As it was, he’d only ever laid eyes on the chit one time before, and that from a distance. He hadn’t been able to see much of her, just that she was petite, with dark hair. According to every addlepated fool in London she had remarkably beautiful blue eyes, but he’d withhold judgment on that until he’d seen them for himself—
Thud.
He paused, squinting into the darkness. Were those footsteps, coming from Stanhope’s garden, at this time of night? How curious. All manner of strange things tended to happen the week before the London season began, but he’d never heard of a Peeping Thomas skulking about Mayfair before.
Alas, he was far too deep in his cups to do anything about it—
“Dash it, you blasted thing.”
What the devil? He stilled, listening. There was another thump, a ripping sound like cloth tearing, then, “Let go, damn you.”
God in heaven. It wasn’t a Peeping Thomas at all, but a Peeping Thomasina!
Well, that was another matter entirely, wasn’t it?
He crept closer, peering into the darkness. Yes, just there, on the other side of the fence, a shadowy figure was skulking about near the fence, but she was hidden by the thick branches of the tree. “Come out of his lordship’s garden this instant, madam, and present yourself.”
Yes, that was very good—he’d hardly slurred at all—but the culprit didn’t appear, and aside from a rustling of the branches, there was no reply.
Well, that wouldn’t do. “There can’t be any innocent reason for you to be prowling about his lordship’s garden. Either you’re a thief, or worse. Come out on your own, or I’ll come in and fetch you myself.”
There was a long pause, then a voice said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come in and fetch me, then, because I can’t come out. I’m stuck.”
He blinked. She didn’t sound like a thief, with that soft, clear voice. Aside from that curse she’d uttered, she sounded like a lady. “Stuck? How can you be stuck?”
“Quite easily, I assure you, sir. The back of my cloak is caught on one of the spikes at the top of the fence.”
How had she managed that? “Well, take off your cloak, then.”
“Yes, I did think of that, but it’s rather tight around my arms, and there’s not much room to move, as the fence is directly at my back.”
Well, she had made a mess of it, hadn’t she? “Forgive me, madam, but you don’t sound like a particularly skilled thief.”
An indignant sniff floated out from under the tree. “I’m not a thief at all.”
She had a rather pleasant voice, for a thief. “Of course, you are. Why else would you be prowling about a dark garden?”
It seemed an entirely reasonable question to him, but she let out a derisive snort. “As much as I’m enjoying our delightful chat, sir, I’m rather preoccupied at the moment, so if you don’t intend to help me, perhaps it would be just as well for you to go on about your business.”
Did she just shoo him away? You couldn’t shoo away a duke, for God’s sake. It wasn’t done. “The devil I will. I’m coming in to fetch you, then I’m turning you over to the watchman.”
Alas, it was easier said than accomplished, given the height of the fence, the spikes, and his inebriated state. Why the devil did Stanhope need such a forbidding fence, for God’s sake? He was an earl, not King George IV.
Finally, after a good deal of flailing about and a near castration with the sharp tip of a particularly aggressive spike, he managed to make it over the fence without maiming any vital body parts. He scanned the garden, lingering on every shadow, but she’d hidden herself well, like a proper thief would. “Some assistance, madam, if you would?”
There was a faint huff, then, “Just here.”
She didn’t sound as if she wanted to be rescued, but she’d pricked his curiosity now, and the ducal whims must be satisfied. He scanned the garden again, and this time he spied a dark, vaguely female shape flattened against the fence, her arms akimbo, the hood of the cloak pulled low over her head. “That doesn’t look at all comfortable.”
“It isn’t. Would you be so good as to stop gaping, and help me down?”
Gaping? Impertinent. “You’re a bit high in the instep for a thief, madam.”
“I told you, I’m not a thief. I . . . ouch!” She let out a hiss and began wriggling against the fence like a worm on a hook. “Dash it, I’ve got a spasm in my neck.”
“Well, twisting about like that isn’t going to help it. Stop squirming.” He strode across the garden, wrapped his hands around a pair of slender shoulders to still her, then reached behind her to inspect the state of her cloak. “Good Lord, a little to the left and this would have been a beheading.”
The spike had her right at the tender place where the back of her head gave way to her neck, and it had caught a large fold of the fabric of her cloak. She might have squirmed and kicked all night, but she never would have gotten free. “Cease wriggling, if you please, madam.”
“I’m wriggling because you’re strangling me, sir!”
“So I am. I beg your pardon.” He leaned closer, squinting in the darkness. He couldn’t see a cursed thing, but after a bit of prodding with his fingers, he drew back. “Right, I’m going to have to lift you off the spike.”
“Lift me? Surely, there must be another way?”
“There isn’t. You’re hopelessly tangled, and the knot is as tight as my fist.”
“But—”
“I can either lift you off the spike, madam, or I can leave you here. The choice is entirely yours.” He stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.
She huffed and tsked and sighed, then finally gave herself up to the inevitable. “Yes, all right. Lift me off, please.”
“Wise choice, madam.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, then paused as an unexpected sensation crept over him, and an exceedingly improper one. She had a trim little waist, and it gave way to a most tempting swell of hips, and the most intoxicating scent wafted from her hair, something flowery, and not at all like he’d imagined a thief would smell—
“Please, sir, won’t you hurry?”
“Er, yes. Of course. I beg your pardon. Put your hands on my shoulders. Yes, like that. Very good. Now hold on.” He bent his knees, braced his thighs, and with one graceful heave, lifted her into the air—high, then higher still, until the curves of the luscious bosom she was hiding under that shapeless cloak was a breath away from his mouth, and her hood slid off the end of the spike.
Well, perhaps “graceful” wasn’t quite the right word.
It might have been graceful if he hadn’t been so sotted, but as it was, he toppled backward, and landed on his arse with an “Oof,” his hands still wrapped around her waist.
“Oh, dear.” She lay sprawled on top of him for a moment, panting, then struggled onto her knees and leaned over him, her brow creased. “Are you hurt?”
Giles didn’t answer, but gazed up at her, speechless. Dark hair tumbled around a heart-shaped face with full pink lips, a pointed chin, and the most beautiful dark blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Stanhope blue.
Her presence behind the fence, her ladylike accent, those blue eyes . . . of course.
By God, she’d been telling the truth. She really wasn’t a thief. There was only one explanation for her presence in the garden, only one person she could be.
He’d just peeled his future duchess off the tip of a spike.
He struggled up onto his elbows. “Lady Susannah?”
She stilled, her blue eyes going wide, then wider still, then quickly, before he could think to grab her, she scrambled to her feet and, in a whirl of torn muslin, fled to the edge of the garden, was over the fence in a trice, and gone without a backward glance.
Lady Francesca Stanhope had reached the dubious age of twenty-one years without ever dancing a quadrille in a London ballroom, and she wouldn’t dance one tonight.
Wearisome things, quadrilles. Country dances were tolerable, but she hadn’t come to London for the season to dance, or flirt her fan, flutter her eyelashes, or bask in the admiring glances of the dozens of eligible gentlemen prowling about the ballroom, eying the young ladies as if they were sweetmeats on a serving tray.
She hadn’t come to giggle or gossip, or to sip ratafia from small silver cups.
Her one hope for the evening—her lone requirement, her single, fixed ambition for her first and only London season—was to remain entirely invisible.
Alas, that hope was fading with every turn she took in front of the looking glass. There were shades of pink that were acceptable for young ladies. The sweet, new pink of a peony about to burst into bloom, for instance, or the wholesome pale pink of a maiden’s blush. The tender pink of a newborn baby’s lips, and the translucent, silver pink of seashells.
And then . . . then there were the other shades of pink.
She turned this way and that in front of the looking glass, studying her reflection, but it was no use. No matter how much she squinted, it was the same from every angle.
It was, God help her, one of the other shades of pink.
Magenta. Raspberry. Persimmon. Azalea.
“It is a bit bright.” Jenny, who was to act as Franny’s lady’s maid during her stay with Lady Crump, did her best to subdue the puffed lace sleeves of the gown. “But with your dark hair and fair skin, every color flatters you, my lady.”
“It’s not really the thing for a young lady in her first season to appear in such a bright color, is it? Perhaps another one of Lady Dorothea’s gowns might be more flattering? Something a bit less vivid?”
Jenny shook her head. “They’re all the same color as this one, my lady.”
“What, all of them?” There were at least two dozen ball gowns in that wardrobe, and all of them were this shade of pink? Why, whatever modiste had willed so many infamous pink gowns into existence deserved to be driven out of London on the end of a pitchfork.
“I’m afraid so. Lady Dorothea is fond of pink.”
This gown and all the others crowded into the wardrobe had been made for Lady Crump’s niece, Lady Dorothea, but there’d been some sort of scandal, and poor Lady Dorothea had been hastily married off to the son of a country squire several weeks before the season began.
Lady Crump, kind soul that she was, had invited Franny to come to London for a season in Dorothea’s place, but it had all been rather rushed. Even if Franny’s mother had had the money for new gowns—which she didn’t—there hadn’t been enough time to have any made up.
So, it was to be pink, then, and not an acceptable shade of pink, but a violent, shocking, blinding pink. It might not have been quite such a disaster if it had been only the color, but the gown was smothered in layers of ribbon and heavy blond lace, as well.
Indeed, it was difficult to say whether the color, the fit, or the extravagant trimmings were the worst of it. She blinked at her reflection in the looking glass, then jerked her gaze away again, appalled, but the offensive pink glare persisted even after she’d averted her eyes, as if it had seared her retinas.
The color was the worst of it. Definitely, the color.
She braved another peek into the looking glass, but no, all she could see was her neighbor’s garden back in Herefordshire.
Mrs. Cornelius was fond of fuchsias.
Well, there was no sense making a fuss over it. What did it matter if she did look like Mrs. Cornelius’s fuchsias? It wasn’t as if she’d come to London to impress the ton, or catch a husband—
“Francesca?” There was a brief knock on the door, and a moment later Lady Crump sailed over the threshold. “Are you ready, my dear? I’ve just sent Thomas to fetch the carriage, and . . .” Lady Crump gasped when she caught sight of Franny and clapped her hand over her mouth.
Franny turned away from the glass with a smile and held out her skirts for Lady Crump’s inspection. “Will this do?”
“My dearest girl, you look positively ravishing!” Lady Crump pressed a hand to her breast. “Why, you look like a fairy princess!”
Franny bit her lip to hide her grin. She’d never admired princesses, fairy or otherwise, but she wouldn’t dream of hurting Lady Crump’s feelings by saying so. “You approve of it, then?”
“Approve of it? That shade of pink is perfection on you! Why, I said to Dorothea when we chose her color for the season that not one in two dozen ladies could wear such a shade of pink, but you do it credit, my dear.”
“Yes, but I do wonder, my lady, if the gown quite fits me? It’s a trifle too loose in this part of the bodice, isn’t it?” She pinched a fold of fabric at her waist between her fingers. “And perhaps it’s a bit short for me, and too tight in the bust?”
“The tighter the bust, the better!” Lady Crump cackled. “Especially when a young lady has no money to entice a suitor. You may trust me, Francesca, when I say curves have worked miracles guineas could only dream of!”
That might be, but bright colors in nature were a warning of extreme toxicity, weren’t they? A pink such as this was more likely to frighten the gentlemen off than to entice them. But then, she hadn’t any use for London’s fine gentlemen, so perhaps it was just as well.
“Come along, Francesca. The carriage is waiting. We’re off for the first night of what is sure to be a most triumphant debut!” Lady Crump took her arm and marched her to the bedchamber door. “Leave it to me, and we’ll have you wed well before the end of the season.”
Triumph was, of course, a relative term, one young lady’s failure being another’s resounding success.
Another young lady, for instance, might court the attention of the ton, but as soon as they entered Lord Hasting’s ballroom, Franny tucked herself into as inconspicuous a corner as she could find, as far removed from the dancing as she could get.
A wallflower among wallflowers.
It was a strategy that should have guaranteed invisibility, but the bright pink gown drew every eye toward her, until she felt like one of those poor caged animals in the Tower of London’s menagerie.
If she could have made herself disappear with a snap of her fingers, she would have done so in an instant, but as she wasn’t a magician, there was nothing for it but to keep her head high and ignore the pointed stares and snickers, even as she was ready to sink beneath the weight of all the unfriendly eyes upon her.
Lady Crump remained close, of course, and often reached over to pat Franny’s hand in a consoling manner, but after an hour passed without a single gentleman approaching them for either an introduction or a dance, her ladyship fell into conversation with one of the other disappointed matrons nearby, the two of them chattering about the tediousness of balls, and wondering at the lack of discernment among London’s gentlemen.
Still, there was one bright spot. Aside from her gown, that is.
No introductions meant no one in the ballroom knew her name.
That was something, anyway. It was a mere shred of the anonymity she’d hoped for, and it would be ripped away soon enough, but until then she might observe the company in peace.
Quite a spectacle it was, too.
So many elegant people gathered in one place! The silks and jewels alone were enough to make her gasp. Most of the young ladies present were a few years younger than she was, and they seemed different creatures from her altogether, in their pastel gowns, with dainty pearls or diamonds at their ears and throats, and fashionable clusters of curls framing their faces.
Yet the one face she was searching for, the one face she longed to see, eluded her. It was a face very like her own, with the same pointed chin and clear blue eyes.
Stanhope blue.
Or dragonfly blue, as her mother had always called it, because to her fond maternal eyes it was the same crystalline blue of a dragonfly’s wings.
Would she even recognize her cousin, when she did appear in the ballroom? A decade seemed a lifetime ago, and Susannah had been just a girl then. She was a young lady now, embarking on her first season, but surely, she wouldn’t have changed so much Franny would no longer know her?
She’d written to Susannah countless times since the . . . well, since they’d been torn apart. She’d never received a letter in return, but there could be any number of reasons for her cousin’s lack of response. Susannah had only been eight years old when it happened, and firmly under her father’s thumb, even then. Either he’d forbidden her to answer the letters, or Susannah, poisoned against Franny by her father’s lies, had made that decision herself.
She’d chosen to believe it was the former, but after ten long years of wondering, she’d find out for certain, soon enough.
They would come to Lord Hasting’s ball, wouldn’t they? It was the first ball of the season, and a very grand one. She perched on the edge of her gilt chair, her gaze lingering on every young lady with dark hair, but another half hour passed without a sign of them.
Was it possible they’d come and gone already, and she’d missed them? She’d hardly taken her eyes off the entrance, but more people crowded inside with every passing moment, until the ballroom had become a sea of indistinguishable shoulders and heads.
Perhaps she’d just move over a seat or two. Yes, that was better. From here she had an unobstructed view of . . . “Oh! Well, my goodness.”
There were dozens of beautiful young ladies crowding the ballroom tonight, but none so striking as the one who’d just crossed the threshold.
“She looks like an angel, doesn’t she?” A young lady with glossy, golden-brown hair seated a few chairs away from Franny’s had followed her gaze to the opposite side of the ballroom. “It’s rather startling, really.”
“It is, indeed.” Franny rose halfway from her seat to get a better look at the young lady who’d caught her eye. She was standing in a shallow alcove to one side of the entrance, her golden hair gleaming under the candlelight from the chandeliers above. “Is she this season’s belle?”
“By all rights she should be, but she’s not one to put herself forward. Forgive me. I do beg your pardon.” The young lady offered her a friendly smile. “It’s dreadfully rude of me to speak to you without an introduction, but we’ve been sitting two chairs apart for nearly three hours now, and it seems silly not to speak to each other.”
“Unforgivably so, yes, particularly since it appears no one else intends to speak to either one of us.” Franny returned the young lady’s smile. “Wallflowers must rely on each other for entertainment.”
It was too blunt a comment to be strictly polite, but the young lady only laughed. “Indeed. Now, Lady Diana, our fair-haired goddess there, is said to be rather shy, and perhaps just a touch awkward. If you’re looking for the season’s belle, she’s just arrived.”
Franny followed her gaze, and her heart gave a frantic thump.
There, standing just behind the fair-haired goddess was a man who, for a single instant, a brief, suspended moment in time, so resembled her own beloved father that her heart gave a frantic, foolish leap in her chest. But then he turned his head, and just like that, he was her uncle Edward again, as unlike her kind, loving father as a man could be, for all that they were—had been—brothers.
But the young lady beside him, dressed in pale blue silk, her dark hair gathered into a shining mass of curls at the back of her neck . . . a raw, familiar ache bloomed in Franny’s chest as she stared at Susannah.
She didn’t know her cousin anymore, but oh, how she’d loved her once! She loved her still, but it was love based on a memory of who Susannah had once been, faded now, and worn thin at the edges.
“That young lady is Lady Susannah Stanhope. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
“So lovely, yes.” Susannah had grown from an adorable little girl with tangled dark curls into a stunning beauty. She was more petite than Franny was, and boasted a trim, tidy figure far more fashionable than Franny’s generous curves, but otherwise they were as alike as sisters.
“Lady Susannah’s father, Lord Edward Stanhope is just there,” the young lady beside her added. “He’s the tall man, with dark hair, and her mother, Lady Edith Stanhope, is on his arm.”
Yes, there was no missing Aunt Edith, who was draped in a Pompeian red silk gown so luxurious, the cost of a single fold of it likely would have kept Franny and her mother in coal for three winters running.
But then nothing but the best would do for Aunt Edith.
“Lady Susannah favors her mother, aside from the color of her eyes. You can’t tell from this distance, of course, but her blue eyes are the toast of London.”
“Dragonfly blue,” Franny murmured.
“Lady Edith was a renowned beauty in her day. She’s handsome still, don’t you think?” The young lady leaned closer, and lowered her voice. “Or she would be, if she didn’t have such a disagreeable, pinched look about her.”
Franny stifled a snort. . .
As a lesson in obedience, it had fallen short of the mark.
As a lesson in self-preservation, it had failed spectacularly, otherwise she wouldn’t be crouched behind a shrub on a dark, deserted street, spying on her uncle Edward’s townhouse.
She wasn’t a rebel by nature, so much as by opportunity.
It was unfortunate, then, that all the stars had aligned to tempt her into tonight’s bit of recklessness. It was a dark evening, for one, the pale starlight muted by a heavy layer of clouds. Then, the streets of Berkeley Square were deserted, the two short blocks between her and her uncle’s house on Bruton Street beckoning like waggling fingers, luring her forward.
Or was it backward? Yes, backward, into the past.
If all that hadn’t been temptation enough, Lady Crump had retired early to her bed, leaving Franny alone with a kiss on her cheek, and a suggestion that she amuse herself for the rest of the evening.
Fate herself may as well have shoved Franny out the door.
The townhouse looked much as it had when she’d left it behind a decade ago, aside from the fence—a tall, iron affair, with a row of spikes running along the top edge. There were no severed heads, thank goodness, but it was still a bit forbidding for Mayfair. It might have been deterrent enough, if it hadn’t been for the lamplight flickering in the dining room window.
That ruinous glow drew her from her hiding place to the edge of the street, and once she was there, well . . . it wasn’t as if she’d get another chance like this one, was it?
Only a coward would forgo such an opportunity.
She darted across the street, the hem of her cloak flapping around her ankles, and ducked underneath a neatly pruned plane tree in a back corner of her uncle’s garden. She rested her hand against the cool, rough bark of the trunk, and looked up through the spreading branches above.
It looked sturdy enough.
The leaves rustled as she grasped one of the lower branches and swung her foot up. It was just a bit of a shimmy to grab the next branch, an easy enough reach for a lady who’d climbed as many trees as she had after she’d been banished from London and found herself in the wilds of Herefordshire.
Hand over hand over foot, higher and higher she climbed, until she drew level with the window, her heart thudding with anticipation against her ribs, only to sink with disappointment when she peeked inside.
Susannah wasn’t there.
A man was seated alone at the dining room table, an empty bottle of port in front of him, his heavy chin resting on his chest. His back was to the window, and there was rather less hair on his head than there had been ten years ago, but she’d know her uncle Edward anywhere.
He was asleep at his port, the drone of his snores so familiar she could picture the vibration of his thick lips in her mind’s eye, the spittle clinging to the corners of his mouth.
She didn’t linger, but left her uncle to his slumber, shimmying back down the same way she’d gone up, but in reverse—foot under foot under hand—her legs dangling as she searched out the thickest branches, testing her weight against each one.
Of all the things she’d longed for in the years after they’d left London—all the dreams she’d had during the long nights spent shivering in her bed in their drafty cottage in Herefordshire, her eleven-year-old heart breaking—of all the people she’d missed with the deep, aching misery of a wounded child . . .
Her uncle Edward hadn’t been one of them.
Giles had had a perfectly respectable reason for calling on Lord Stanhope this evening. A proper, honorable, gentlemanly reason, as befit a proper, honorable, gentlemanly, er . . . gentleman.
He’d come here to . . . to . . .
Damn it, why had he come here tonight? It had something to do with a woman. Or a lady. One or the other. He couldn’t recall now, because somehow the evening had taken a disastrous turn.
A disastrous, drunken turn. That wasn’t supposed to happen, though perhaps he should have anticipated it, as Stanhope did serve an excellent port.
That was the best that could be said of Stanhope. The worst that could be said of him was that he’d blathered on about one thing and another at such tiresome length Giles had been obliged to keep drinking, his brain growing murkier with every word out of his host’s mouth.
She’s a great beauty, Basingstoke. Looks just like her mother, but with the Stanhope blue eyes.
Blue eyes, blue eyes . . . yes, that sounded familiar. He’d come to see Stanhope because of . . . something to do with blue eyes. But no sooner had he seized on the blue eyes than Stanhope began going on about horses, of all things.
It’s rather like that pretty pair of matched bays of yours, eh, Basingstoke? Stanhope had leaned closer, his hot, sour breath wafting over Giles’s face. Nothing but the finest breeding stock will do for a duke.
Wait. Giles paused on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps.
Blue eyes, breeding stock, and . . .
Damn it, he almost had it, but it was hovering just out of reach—
. . . My Susannah is the finest filly in London.
Susannah! By God, that was it!
He’d come here tonight to ask permission to court Lady Susannah Stanhope. Not quite the thing, really, dipping so deeply into his cups while courting.
He was meant to be besotted, not just sotted.
Still, he’d gotten the thing done. He’d professed his admiration and undying devotion and all that nonsense, then declared his intentions toward Lady Susannah, and Stanhope had said . . . something.
He couldn’t recall what, exactly, his head being all muddled with port, but Stanhope was hardly going to refuse him, was he? Every nobleman in London was angling after Lady Susannah Stanhope, but he was the only duke, and Stanhope wanted to see his daughter made a duchess.
Why, he could have cast up his accounts all over the dining room table, and Stanhope still would have handed his daughter over with a smile.
So, he’d won his bride, and was the happiest of men in London tonight!
Wasn’t he?
Yes, yes, of course, he was. He’d made up his mind to wed this year, and Lady Susannah was certain to be declared this season’s belle. It went without saying that nothing less than society’s most perfect diamond would do for the Duke of Basingstoke.
He was the happiest—and drunkest—of men, and utterly besotted with his future bride.
Or he would be, once they’d met.
As it was, he’d only ever laid eyes on the chit one time before, and that from a distance. He hadn’t been able to see much of her, just that she was petite, with dark hair. According to every addlepated fool in London she had remarkably beautiful blue eyes, but he’d withhold judgment on that until he’d seen them for himself—
Thud.
He paused, squinting into the darkness. Were those footsteps, coming from Stanhope’s garden, at this time of night? How curious. All manner of strange things tended to happen the week before the London season began, but he’d never heard of a Peeping Thomas skulking about Mayfair before.
Alas, he was far too deep in his cups to do anything about it—
“Dash it, you blasted thing.”
What the devil? He stilled, listening. There was another thump, a ripping sound like cloth tearing, then, “Let go, damn you.”
God in heaven. It wasn’t a Peeping Thomas at all, but a Peeping Thomasina!
Well, that was another matter entirely, wasn’t it?
He crept closer, peering into the darkness. Yes, just there, on the other side of the fence, a shadowy figure was skulking about near the fence, but she was hidden by the thick branches of the tree. “Come out of his lordship’s garden this instant, madam, and present yourself.”
Yes, that was very good—he’d hardly slurred at all—but the culprit didn’t appear, and aside from a rustling of the branches, there was no reply.
Well, that wouldn’t do. “There can’t be any innocent reason for you to be prowling about his lordship’s garden. Either you’re a thief, or worse. Come out on your own, or I’ll come in and fetch you myself.”
There was a long pause, then a voice said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come in and fetch me, then, because I can’t come out. I’m stuck.”
He blinked. She didn’t sound like a thief, with that soft, clear voice. Aside from that curse she’d uttered, she sounded like a lady. “Stuck? How can you be stuck?”
“Quite easily, I assure you, sir. The back of my cloak is caught on one of the spikes at the top of the fence.”
How had she managed that? “Well, take off your cloak, then.”
“Yes, I did think of that, but it’s rather tight around my arms, and there’s not much room to move, as the fence is directly at my back.”
Well, she had made a mess of it, hadn’t she? “Forgive me, madam, but you don’t sound like a particularly skilled thief.”
An indignant sniff floated out from under the tree. “I’m not a thief at all.”
She had a rather pleasant voice, for a thief. “Of course, you are. Why else would you be prowling about a dark garden?”
It seemed an entirely reasonable question to him, but she let out a derisive snort. “As much as I’m enjoying our delightful chat, sir, I’m rather preoccupied at the moment, so if you don’t intend to help me, perhaps it would be just as well for you to go on about your business.”
Did she just shoo him away? You couldn’t shoo away a duke, for God’s sake. It wasn’t done. “The devil I will. I’m coming in to fetch you, then I’m turning you over to the watchman.”
Alas, it was easier said than accomplished, given the height of the fence, the spikes, and his inebriated state. Why the devil did Stanhope need such a forbidding fence, for God’s sake? He was an earl, not King George IV.
Finally, after a good deal of flailing about and a near castration with the sharp tip of a particularly aggressive spike, he managed to make it over the fence without maiming any vital body parts. He scanned the garden, lingering on every shadow, but she’d hidden herself well, like a proper thief would. “Some assistance, madam, if you would?”
There was a faint huff, then, “Just here.”
She didn’t sound as if she wanted to be rescued, but she’d pricked his curiosity now, and the ducal whims must be satisfied. He scanned the garden again, and this time he spied a dark, vaguely female shape flattened against the fence, her arms akimbo, the hood of the cloak pulled low over her head. “That doesn’t look at all comfortable.”
“It isn’t. Would you be so good as to stop gaping, and help me down?”
Gaping? Impertinent. “You’re a bit high in the instep for a thief, madam.”
“I told you, I’m not a thief. I . . . ouch!” She let out a hiss and began wriggling against the fence like a worm on a hook. “Dash it, I’ve got a spasm in my neck.”
“Well, twisting about like that isn’t going to help it. Stop squirming.” He strode across the garden, wrapped his hands around a pair of slender shoulders to still her, then reached behind her to inspect the state of her cloak. “Good Lord, a little to the left and this would have been a beheading.”
The spike had her right at the tender place where the back of her head gave way to her neck, and it had caught a large fold of the fabric of her cloak. She might have squirmed and kicked all night, but she never would have gotten free. “Cease wriggling, if you please, madam.”
“I’m wriggling because you’re strangling me, sir!”
“So I am. I beg your pardon.” He leaned closer, squinting in the darkness. He couldn’t see a cursed thing, but after a bit of prodding with his fingers, he drew back. “Right, I’m going to have to lift you off the spike.”
“Lift me? Surely, there must be another way?”
“There isn’t. You’re hopelessly tangled, and the knot is as tight as my fist.”
“But—”
“I can either lift you off the spike, madam, or I can leave you here. The choice is entirely yours.” He stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.
She huffed and tsked and sighed, then finally gave herself up to the inevitable. “Yes, all right. Lift me off, please.”
“Wise choice, madam.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, then paused as an unexpected sensation crept over him, and an exceedingly improper one. She had a trim little waist, and it gave way to a most tempting swell of hips, and the most intoxicating scent wafted from her hair, something flowery, and not at all like he’d imagined a thief would smell—
“Please, sir, won’t you hurry?”
“Er, yes. Of course. I beg your pardon. Put your hands on my shoulders. Yes, like that. Very good. Now hold on.” He bent his knees, braced his thighs, and with one graceful heave, lifted her into the air—high, then higher still, until the curves of the luscious bosom she was hiding under that shapeless cloak was a breath away from his mouth, and her hood slid off the end of the spike.
Well, perhaps “graceful” wasn’t quite the right word.
It might have been graceful if he hadn’t been so sotted, but as it was, he toppled backward, and landed on his arse with an “Oof,” his hands still wrapped around her waist.
“Oh, dear.” She lay sprawled on top of him for a moment, panting, then struggled onto her knees and leaned over him, her brow creased. “Are you hurt?”
Giles didn’t answer, but gazed up at her, speechless. Dark hair tumbled around a heart-shaped face with full pink lips, a pointed chin, and the most beautiful dark blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Stanhope blue.
Her presence behind the fence, her ladylike accent, those blue eyes . . . of course.
By God, she’d been telling the truth. She really wasn’t a thief. There was only one explanation for her presence in the garden, only one person she could be.
He’d just peeled his future duchess off the tip of a spike.
He struggled up onto his elbows. “Lady Susannah?”
She stilled, her blue eyes going wide, then wider still, then quickly, before he could think to grab her, she scrambled to her feet and, in a whirl of torn muslin, fled to the edge of the garden, was over the fence in a trice, and gone without a backward glance.
Lady Francesca Stanhope had reached the dubious age of twenty-one years without ever dancing a quadrille in a London ballroom, and she wouldn’t dance one tonight.
Wearisome things, quadrilles. Country dances were tolerable, but she hadn’t come to London for the season to dance, or flirt her fan, flutter her eyelashes, or bask in the admiring glances of the dozens of eligible gentlemen prowling about the ballroom, eying the young ladies as if they were sweetmeats on a serving tray.
She hadn’t come to giggle or gossip, or to sip ratafia from small silver cups.
Her one hope for the evening—her lone requirement, her single, fixed ambition for her first and only London season—was to remain entirely invisible.
Alas, that hope was fading with every turn she took in front of the looking glass. There were shades of pink that were acceptable for young ladies. The sweet, new pink of a peony about to burst into bloom, for instance, or the wholesome pale pink of a maiden’s blush. The tender pink of a newborn baby’s lips, and the translucent, silver pink of seashells.
And then . . . then there were the other shades of pink.
She turned this way and that in front of the looking glass, studying her reflection, but it was no use. No matter how much she squinted, it was the same from every angle.
It was, God help her, one of the other shades of pink.
Magenta. Raspberry. Persimmon. Azalea.
“It is a bit bright.” Jenny, who was to act as Franny’s lady’s maid during her stay with Lady Crump, did her best to subdue the puffed lace sleeves of the gown. “But with your dark hair and fair skin, every color flatters you, my lady.”
“It’s not really the thing for a young lady in her first season to appear in such a bright color, is it? Perhaps another one of Lady Dorothea’s gowns might be more flattering? Something a bit less vivid?”
Jenny shook her head. “They’re all the same color as this one, my lady.”
“What, all of them?” There were at least two dozen ball gowns in that wardrobe, and all of them were this shade of pink? Why, whatever modiste had willed so many infamous pink gowns into existence deserved to be driven out of London on the end of a pitchfork.
“I’m afraid so. Lady Dorothea is fond of pink.”
This gown and all the others crowded into the wardrobe had been made for Lady Crump’s niece, Lady Dorothea, but there’d been some sort of scandal, and poor Lady Dorothea had been hastily married off to the son of a country squire several weeks before the season began.
Lady Crump, kind soul that she was, had invited Franny to come to London for a season in Dorothea’s place, but it had all been rather rushed. Even if Franny’s mother had had the money for new gowns—which she didn’t—there hadn’t been enough time to have any made up.
So, it was to be pink, then, and not an acceptable shade of pink, but a violent, shocking, blinding pink. It might not have been quite such a disaster if it had been only the color, but the gown was smothered in layers of ribbon and heavy blond lace, as well.
Indeed, it was difficult to say whether the color, the fit, or the extravagant trimmings were the worst of it. She blinked at her reflection in the looking glass, then jerked her gaze away again, appalled, but the offensive pink glare persisted even after she’d averted her eyes, as if it had seared her retinas.
The color was the worst of it. Definitely, the color.
She braved another peek into the looking glass, but no, all she could see was her neighbor’s garden back in Herefordshire.
Mrs. Cornelius was fond of fuchsias.
Well, there was no sense making a fuss over it. What did it matter if she did look like Mrs. Cornelius’s fuchsias? It wasn’t as if she’d come to London to impress the ton, or catch a husband—
“Francesca?” There was a brief knock on the door, and a moment later Lady Crump sailed over the threshold. “Are you ready, my dear? I’ve just sent Thomas to fetch the carriage, and . . .” Lady Crump gasped when she caught sight of Franny and clapped her hand over her mouth.
Franny turned away from the glass with a smile and held out her skirts for Lady Crump’s inspection. “Will this do?”
“My dearest girl, you look positively ravishing!” Lady Crump pressed a hand to her breast. “Why, you look like a fairy princess!”
Franny bit her lip to hide her grin. She’d never admired princesses, fairy or otherwise, but she wouldn’t dream of hurting Lady Crump’s feelings by saying so. “You approve of it, then?”
“Approve of it? That shade of pink is perfection on you! Why, I said to Dorothea when we chose her color for the season that not one in two dozen ladies could wear such a shade of pink, but you do it credit, my dear.”
“Yes, but I do wonder, my lady, if the gown quite fits me? It’s a trifle too loose in this part of the bodice, isn’t it?” She pinched a fold of fabric at her waist between her fingers. “And perhaps it’s a bit short for me, and too tight in the bust?”
“The tighter the bust, the better!” Lady Crump cackled. “Especially when a young lady has no money to entice a suitor. You may trust me, Francesca, when I say curves have worked miracles guineas could only dream of!”
That might be, but bright colors in nature were a warning of extreme toxicity, weren’t they? A pink such as this was more likely to frighten the gentlemen off than to entice them. But then, she hadn’t any use for London’s fine gentlemen, so perhaps it was just as well.
“Come along, Francesca. The carriage is waiting. We’re off for the first night of what is sure to be a most triumphant debut!” Lady Crump took her arm and marched her to the bedchamber door. “Leave it to me, and we’ll have you wed well before the end of the season.”
Triumph was, of course, a relative term, one young lady’s failure being another’s resounding success.
Another young lady, for instance, might court the attention of the ton, but as soon as they entered Lord Hasting’s ballroom, Franny tucked herself into as inconspicuous a corner as she could find, as far removed from the dancing as she could get.
A wallflower among wallflowers.
It was a strategy that should have guaranteed invisibility, but the bright pink gown drew every eye toward her, until she felt like one of those poor caged animals in the Tower of London’s menagerie.
If she could have made herself disappear with a snap of her fingers, she would have done so in an instant, but as she wasn’t a magician, there was nothing for it but to keep her head high and ignore the pointed stares and snickers, even as she was ready to sink beneath the weight of all the unfriendly eyes upon her.
Lady Crump remained close, of course, and often reached over to pat Franny’s hand in a consoling manner, but after an hour passed without a single gentleman approaching them for either an introduction or a dance, her ladyship fell into conversation with one of the other disappointed matrons nearby, the two of them chattering about the tediousness of balls, and wondering at the lack of discernment among London’s gentlemen.
Still, there was one bright spot. Aside from her gown, that is.
No introductions meant no one in the ballroom knew her name.
That was something, anyway. It was a mere shred of the anonymity she’d hoped for, and it would be ripped away soon enough, but until then she might observe the company in peace.
Quite a spectacle it was, too.
So many elegant people gathered in one place! The silks and jewels alone were enough to make her gasp. Most of the young ladies present were a few years younger than she was, and they seemed different creatures from her altogether, in their pastel gowns, with dainty pearls or diamonds at their ears and throats, and fashionable clusters of curls framing their faces.
Yet the one face she was searching for, the one face she longed to see, eluded her. It was a face very like her own, with the same pointed chin and clear blue eyes.
Stanhope blue.
Or dragonfly blue, as her mother had always called it, because to her fond maternal eyes it was the same crystalline blue of a dragonfly’s wings.
Would she even recognize her cousin, when she did appear in the ballroom? A decade seemed a lifetime ago, and Susannah had been just a girl then. She was a young lady now, embarking on her first season, but surely, she wouldn’t have changed so much Franny would no longer know her?
She’d written to Susannah countless times since the . . . well, since they’d been torn apart. She’d never received a letter in return, but there could be any number of reasons for her cousin’s lack of response. Susannah had only been eight years old when it happened, and firmly under her father’s thumb, even then. Either he’d forbidden her to answer the letters, or Susannah, poisoned against Franny by her father’s lies, had made that decision herself.
She’d chosen to believe it was the former, but after ten long years of wondering, she’d find out for certain, soon enough.
They would come to Lord Hasting’s ball, wouldn’t they? It was the first ball of the season, and a very grand one. She perched on the edge of her gilt chair, her gaze lingering on every young lady with dark hair, but another half hour passed without a sign of them.
Was it possible they’d come and gone already, and she’d missed them? She’d hardly taken her eyes off the entrance, but more people crowded inside with every passing moment, until the ballroom had become a sea of indistinguishable shoulders and heads.
Perhaps she’d just move over a seat or two. Yes, that was better. From here she had an unobstructed view of . . . “Oh! Well, my goodness.”
There were dozens of beautiful young ladies crowding the ballroom tonight, but none so striking as the one who’d just crossed the threshold.
“She looks like an angel, doesn’t she?” A young lady with glossy, golden-brown hair seated a few chairs away from Franny’s had followed her gaze to the opposite side of the ballroom. “It’s rather startling, really.”
“It is, indeed.” Franny rose halfway from her seat to get a better look at the young lady who’d caught her eye. She was standing in a shallow alcove to one side of the entrance, her golden hair gleaming under the candlelight from the chandeliers above. “Is she this season’s belle?”
“By all rights she should be, but she’s not one to put herself forward. Forgive me. I do beg your pardon.” The young lady offered her a friendly smile. “It’s dreadfully rude of me to speak to you without an introduction, but we’ve been sitting two chairs apart for nearly three hours now, and it seems silly not to speak to each other.”
“Unforgivably so, yes, particularly since it appears no one else intends to speak to either one of us.” Franny returned the young lady’s smile. “Wallflowers must rely on each other for entertainment.”
It was too blunt a comment to be strictly polite, but the young lady only laughed. “Indeed. Now, Lady Diana, our fair-haired goddess there, is said to be rather shy, and perhaps just a touch awkward. If you’re looking for the season’s belle, she’s just arrived.”
Franny followed her gaze, and her heart gave a frantic thump.
There, standing just behind the fair-haired goddess was a man who, for a single instant, a brief, suspended moment in time, so resembled her own beloved father that her heart gave a frantic, foolish leap in her chest. But then he turned his head, and just like that, he was her uncle Edward again, as unlike her kind, loving father as a man could be, for all that they were—had been—brothers.
But the young lady beside him, dressed in pale blue silk, her dark hair gathered into a shining mass of curls at the back of her neck . . . a raw, familiar ache bloomed in Franny’s chest as she stared at Susannah.
She didn’t know her cousin anymore, but oh, how she’d loved her once! She loved her still, but it was love based on a memory of who Susannah had once been, faded now, and worn thin at the edges.
“That young lady is Lady Susannah Stanhope. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”
“So lovely, yes.” Susannah had grown from an adorable little girl with tangled dark curls into a stunning beauty. She was more petite than Franny was, and boasted a trim, tidy figure far more fashionable than Franny’s generous curves, but otherwise they were as alike as sisters.
“Lady Susannah’s father, Lord Edward Stanhope is just there,” the young lady beside her added. “He’s the tall man, with dark hair, and her mother, Lady Edith Stanhope, is on his arm.”
Yes, there was no missing Aunt Edith, who was draped in a Pompeian red silk gown so luxurious, the cost of a single fold of it likely would have kept Franny and her mother in coal for three winters running.
But then nothing but the best would do for Aunt Edith.
“Lady Susannah favors her mother, aside from the color of her eyes. You can’t tell from this distance, of course, but her blue eyes are the toast of London.”
“Dragonfly blue,” Franny murmured.
“Lady Edith was a renowned beauty in her day. She’s handsome still, don’t you think?” The young lady leaned closer, and lowered her voice. “Or she would be, if she didn’t have such a disagreeable, pinched look about her.”
Franny stifled a snort. . .
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Give the Devil His Duke
Anna Bradley
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