Regent’s Park, London
Spring, 1816
“If your intention in following me is to try to seduce me before fucking me, then I must inform you that you will not be successful in that endeavor. Your Grace.” The young woman added the last as an afterthought, and in a tone that implied dry humor rather than respect for the title.
Or perhaps, Alaric Montrose, the Duke of Melborne, pondered, that lack of respect was for the man rather than the title?
If he were being honest, then this woman’s comment, spoken in such a smoothly polite tone that reflected only the slightest trace of the attractive burr of her Devonshire home, had surprised him on several levels.
Primarily because he could never remember any woman refusing to be seduced by him in the whole of his thirty-three years, let alone before the two of them had been introduced or exchanged so much as a single word prior to that rebuff.
That this one did so in such a challenging manner, as if, unlike so many others, she held no fear of him personally nor of the ducal power he might invoke with a single lift of an eyebrow, was doubly intriguing.
The fact she had used such vulgar language in which to make her feelings known was deserving, in Alaric’s opinion, of a severe spanking to her perfectly rounded bottom. A punishment which he would dearly enjoy administering.
For now, he settled for raising that haughty ducal eyebrow and looking down his aristocratic nose at her. He coolly pointed out the obvious social gaffe. “You speak to me rather bluntly, madam, when we have never, to my knowledge, been introduced.”
Her smile was sardonic. “And yet you know exactly who I am.”
“Do I?”
“We both know that you do.” Her pale green gaze dared him to deny it.
Alaric realized the futility of attempting to do so, instead giving an acknowledging inclination of his head. “You are Miss Grace Sunderland, aged only one and twenty, and—”
“And you are the illustrious Alaric Montrose, the Duke of Melborne.” Her tone implied she did not find anything about him in the least illustrious.
“I was going to say,” Alaric continued firmly, “that you should not be out and about without your lady’s maid.” A lady’s maid Alaric knew she didn’t have.
Grace Sunderland employed only a middle-aged woman who acted as both cook and housekeeper in her modest home. This woman arrived daily to Miss Sunderland’s house at seven o’clock each morning and left again at six o’clock every evening.
“I am accompanied by my dog.” She glanced down at the black-and-white terrier beside her.
The dog had been let off his lead for a run several minutes ago, but Alaric knew he never ventured far from his mistress’s side. No doubt such a small dog was cowed by the large horses and their riders passing on the bridle path close by.
The piebald animal was currently amusing himself by sniffing Alaric’s highly polished boots.
Contemplating lifting his legs and pissing against one of them, if Alaric was any judge of dogs. Which, owning two Irish wolfhounds of his own, he was. If Alaric showed the same disdain for a person as Grace Sunderland was currently showing him, then Zeus and Cerberus wouldn’t hesitate in demonstrating their own feelings in the matter.
“A dog whose small stature renders him as being ineligible to act as a suitable chaperone,” Alaric stated.
She smiled. “Obviously, you are unfamiliar with this breed of terrier. I assure you, Finn is more than capable of chasing you down and ripping out the seat of your pantaloons in defense of me, if necessary.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience?”
“As it happens, I do.” Her smile widened. “Finn once took exception to the manner in which the local baker demanded payment of his monthly bill. The result was the ripped pantaloons I have described. Strangely, the baker always sent one of his underlings to my father’s vicarage following that incident.” She looked down fondly at the animal as she reattached the lead to his collar.
Alaric’s lids narrowed. “In what way did the baker demand payment of his bill?”
Her challenging gaze did not flinch to meet his. “In the usual manner men like to prey on a woman they believe to be their inferior and therefore vulnerable.”
A challenge Alaric took exception to, especially when every word she spoke confirmed she was not in the least vulnerable, despite what the baker might have thought. Nor did Alaric consider her his inferior.
“Contrary to your earlier accusation, I do not recall at any time voicing an interest in wishing to seduce or fuck you. To have spoken any words to you at all previous to this, in fact,” he added with a frown.
“You did not need to voice it when your actions speak for themselves.” The curl of her top lip showed her distaste for those actions.
He scowled. “How so?”
“For the past seven days, you have appeared at not one, or two, not even three of the same places as myself, but have appeared within my vicinity on every single day of that week. Either when I was out shopping, walking, or enjoying a night at the opera, as I did yesterday evening with several of my female friends. You were seated alone in one of the boxes above us, your opera glasses directed at me more often than they were to the performance on the stage.” Her long-lashed gaze narrowed. “A strange coincidence, don’t you think, when, to my knowledge, the two of us have never before frequented a single venue at the same time? As such, I have only been able to draw one conclusion regarding your behavior.”
Alaric gave an inward wince. Until now, he had believed he was being discreet in the interest he showed Grace Sunderland.
He had been an officer in Wellington’s army for five years until resigning his commission after the Battle of Waterloo. During those years of fighting, he had also carried out several delicate missions for the Crown, which had required both stealth and cunning. Not once during any of those clandestine endeavors had he ever come close to being discovered or captured by a member of Napoleon’s army.
Yet this beautiful woman standing before him, her appearance as young and fresh as the colorful spring flowers surrounding them, had somehow managed to notice and mark his close proximity to her for the whole of the time he had thought himself to be observing her unseen. Nor was she in the least reluctant to voice that knowledge or challenge him as to the reason for it.
Proving that Miss Grace Sunderland was not only beautiful, but also in possession of a sharp intelligence and a strong will.
Under any other circumstances, Alaric knew he would have allowed himself to be drawn to both those attributes as well as her beauty.
Grace was small in stature, at least a foot shorter than his own height of two inches over six feet.
Her fashionably styled hair beneath her straw bonnet was the same color of the ripe chestnuts Alaric and the boys from the nearest village used to collect and play with when they were young.
Her skin was not the insipid pallor the ladies of Society preferred, but was instead a warm gold.
Her eyes, surrounded by those long dark lashes, were a very pale green. So light in color, in fact, they were almost translucent, with only a rim of slighter darker green at the edge of the iris. Her nose was small, her cheeks slightly flushed—whether from anger toward him or the unseasonable warmth of the day, Alaric was unsure. Her lips were naturally a deep rose color above a pointed and determined chin.
Hers was a delicate beauty which appeared natural rather than the result of the application of paint or other artifice. The only jewelry she wore, on all the occasions Alaric had seen her, was a gold heart-shaped locket about her throat.
The slenderness of her figure was clearly visible today in a fashionable gown of pale green with a darker green velvet pelisse worn above it, both garments a perfect match to her unusually colored eyes. The pelisse also emphasized the fullness of her breasts above a waist so tiny, Alaric believed he could easily span it with both hands. Her walking boots were made of polished green leather.
Her clothing was not only fashionable, but expensively so. Which, considering Alaric knew her to be the only daughter of a penniless and widowed country vicar, confirmed his assessment of her position in life as being the correct one, and was also the reason Alaric could not allow himself to become attracted to her.
To become any more attracted to her, Alaric mentally chastised himself.
Because Grace Sunderland was the mistress of a wealthy gentleman.
A wealthy married gentleman.
A wealthy married gentleman who was almost two decades older than her own age of one and twenty.
A gentleman Alaric knew to have visited her at her home twice a week for the year Grace had resided in London.
The same wealthy and married gentleman who had been an officer in Wellington’s army and whom Alaric and his friends knew to be one of several possible suspects in the murder of their friend, Spencer Granger, the Duke of Plymouth, during the Battle of Waterloo.
It had always been the six of them, first at school, then out and about in Society, followed by their years in the army together. During the latter of those years, having all inherited the title of duke, they had become known in Society as the Ruthless Dukes. Mainly because they all refused to be seduced or trapped into marriage with any of the young debutants who appeared year after year, hopeful of an advantageous union, either through wealth or a title.
The six dukes were blessed with both, rendering their elusiveness doubly vexatious to the doting mamas eager to see their daughters settled.
Alaric had heard them all described as being handsome too, but cynically believed some of that admiration might be attributed to the size of their fortune rather than their looks.
Whatever the reason for that female interest, by the time the Battle of Waterloo was being fought, not a single one of them was betrothed or married. Perhaps just as well when one of their number, Plymouth, had been killed during that last bloody battle. A devastating occurrence to all his friends.
Until quite recently, they had all believed Plymouth to have been struck down by a French sword. Evidence had now been presented to them by someone they all trusted implicitly that indicated it had been an English officer who had run Plymouth through with his sword.
The remaining five Ruthless Dukes now knew the murderer could be only one of the other five English officers in the vicinity when Plymouth was cut down. The number of dukes and officers being the same, they had decided that each of them would investigate one of those officers.
So far, only Grayson Vaughn, the Duke of Flint, had eliminated Lord Nicholas Hall as being the gentleman responsible for Plymouth’s demise. Flint had succeeded so well in that regard, in fact, that he was about to marry Miss Chastity Hall, the daughter of Lord Nicholas Hall, and that gentleman was shortly to marry Flint’s widowed sister.
Alaric’s own quarry was Lord George Harper, the Earl of Redding.
The same married gentleman Alaric believed to be keeping Miss Grace Sunderland as his mistress.
The mistress whom Alaric had decided was a weakness of Redding’s that he could exploit to his advantage.