Taste of the Devil Page 4

  The Duke cracked his cane across the top of the desk. “Enough, I say! What is it to be, boy? Marriage or debtor’s prison?”

  Tyler could give a fig about his grandfather’s threat to throw him into Newgate. He had a king’s ransom hidden away that would more than cover his debts. Of course, his grandfather didn’t know that.

  Didn’t even suspect that. And as far as giving his son to the old man, well, not even worth thinking about. It would never happen.

  But... marriage?

  There was the crux.

  He couldn’t very well have access to the Duke’s business records in his study if the bastard threw him out on his ear– and he needed that access to destroy him.

  With the lightening swiftness and sound reasoning he was known for in some circles, he made his decision. It was not to his taste, but it would have to do. Adopting Lord Devon’s laissez-faire demeanor, he slumped into the chair, and adjusted a frothy lace cuff.

  His grandfather smirked, triumphant. “I thought so. For all your wickedness, you were never a stupid boy. Now go and put your loins to good use for once in your sorry existence.”

  Tyler leaned forward in his seat, staring his grandfather down. When he spoke his softly pitched voice held deadly warning. “One day you will go too far.”

  The Duke sneered. “But not this day.”

  No, not this day, Tyler agreed, reining back his emotions.

  But, the day would come and soon. He would bring down the beast sitting across from him.

  And enjoy it to the utmost.

  He would have revenge.

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  Blissfully ignorant, I went forward with my plans to make an entrance into society in the guise of a man. The thought of experiencing such a liberation thrilled me to my core...

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  Chapter Five

  Everything went exactly as Ginny had planned.

  In her first actual appearance as Reggie Moore, she arrived at the doorstep of Tareton Court in Lord Henry’s coach. Face powdered and rouged, she doubted her own mother would have recognized her.

  At first, as expected, her uncle was condescending and rude, no doubt thinking this long lost relative was looking for a hand out. That soon changed.

  At the very mention of ‘Reggie’s’ vast new wealth, Jediah had predictably fallen all over her, raining cordiality in a torrent of fawning geniality.

  Ginny had played her part well, having no qualms whatsoever in facing the ton as dear cousin ‘Reggie’.

  She was so convincing that Henley nearly fell half in love with the fop himself. More than once she had to admonish him to stop staring at her with moon eyes.

  After her debut in society, she had submitted another satiric ‘Methinks’ article to Mr. Swift entitled Methinks on the Proper Decorum for Fawning over Well-

  Situated Relations.

  It was a smash with the ton.

  All the salons were abuzz with the bon mots of Sir Reggie Moore, society’s latest wit.

  Sitting down at her escritoire, Ginny decided to pen a short note to her cousin, asking him to meet her in his coach outside the gates of Tareton Court at nine o’clock. Tonight, Reggie would make an appearance at Frock’s, the fashionable gamboling hell frequented by the ton.

  Frock’s was where the rich went to loose their money simply because they knew they would have a jolly good time doing it. If the establishment also catered to other, shall it be said, fringe tastes... Well, it is polite to either look the other way, or join in the festivities, as the situation warrants. Frock’s was certainly not a place any young, unmarried woman would dare venture without being hopelessly scandalized.

  Ginny couldn’t wait to attend.

  She was finishing her letter when Mabel waddled through the bedroom door, wringing her hands. “He wants ta see ye right away in his study.”

  Ginny’s eyes widened. “Why? Do you think he suspects the disguise?”

  “I don’t know. Ohhh, I never should have agreed to it!” The older woman wiped a flabby arm across her sweating brow, flinging herself into a chair. “He’ll have our heads, make no mistake about it!”

  Ginny stood up slowly, her mind racing. “Perhaps it’s something else entirely. Try to compose yourself, Mabel. I’ll go see what it is he wants.“ She handed the note to the older woman. “In the meantime, see that this letter is delivered to Lord Henry personally. Tell him that if I don’t appear by ten o’clock, I’m not coming.”

  Mabel rolled her eyes. “Aye, and maybe we’ll both end up out on the street.”

  * * *

  Ginny knocked once at the door of her uncle’s study. (The study that used to belong to her father, and by all rights should be hers.)

  The annoying nasal voice of her uncle issued from the other side of the door. “Come.”

  Ginny entered the room, taking a seat in front of the large oak desk.

  The Toad refused to meet her eyes.

  Something is afoot. She could feel it in her bones.

  His clammy hands toyed with a letter opener.

  “There is something I wish to discuss with you, my dear.”

  “Yes, what is it, uncle?”

  “Well, um, I have received a marriage offer for you.

  It is a very good offer and... I have decided to accept it.”

  Ginny could not believe her ears! “What?” She jumped out of her chair.

  “Please sit down, Regina. The match is an excellent one, and I cannot in good conscience turn it down. It will eventually make you a Duchess.”

  Ginny sank back into the chair, stunned. She couldn’t believe her skinflint uncle had actually accepted a suit for her! She never would have imagined it.

  Something wasn’t right, and she intended to get to the bottom of it.

  “Who?” She demanded. “Who am I to wed?”

  Again her uncle looked away. “The Duke of Islemoor’s grandson,” he mumbled.

  Ginny said nothing for a moment, just blinked her eyes as the information registered. Lord Devon? The Rake of London? She broke into peals of laughter.

  “You can’t be serious? That no account rogue? He is a gambler of the worst sort and a libertine to boot! All I have heard for years are the stories of his debaucheries.

  You can’t mean to marry me to this... this...“

  A succinct description of the man escaped her.

  “I can and I have. The agreements with the Duke are already signed. It is foregone conclusion, my dear.”

  Her head snapped up. Agreements? “What agreements?”

  “You might as well know now as later. Lord Devon has agreed to allow me to continue administrating your inheritance in exchange for your hand.”

  Over her dead body! Ginny fumed. It was all clear now. “You cur! How dare you attempt to swindle me out of my money!”

  Jediah’s hand flashed through the air, striking her cheek. “You know I won’t abide such disrespect. Now sit there meekly and listen to what I have to say. The banns have been read. You will marry Lord Devon next week. That is the end to it.”

  Ginny’s cheek throbbed where he struck her; she hoped the bounder hadn’t left a mark. Her mind raced. “Why would Lord Devon wish to marry me?

  He’s never even met me. From what I understood, he has shown no interest in marriage these many years.”

  “A man who is to inherit a dukedom needs an heir.

  His grandfather thought it was time he produced one.”

  She shook her head, still trying to comprehend this terrible twist of events. It was too horrible to consider.

  “What kind of eunuch would agree to hand over his wife’s fortune to her uncle?”

  Jediah raised his brow, not liking her tone. “Watch yourself.” He rose to stand before the fireplace, his back offered to her in dismissal.

  Ginny’s heart pounded in her chest as she stormed from the room. So, her uncle thought to sell her as a brood mare and steal her fortune? The old Duke and Jediah had cooked
up a grand one, she’d give them that.

  What’s more, it appeared that the debauched lord was along for the ride. In more ways than one, she winced.

  We’ll just see about that!

  * * *

  “Good lord, he means to shackle me to the most disreputable man in the kingdom!”

  Ginny paced her bedroom in her corset and thin chemise. She had been in the middle of changing into her disguise when the horror of the situation struck her anew.

  “Now, love, I wouldn’t go that far. They do say he’s powerful handsome.” Leave it to Mabel to try to dig the positive out of the situation.

  Ginny slashed her hand through the air. “Pssh!

  What does that mean to me?” She continued pacing.

  “Well, he’s got quite a reputation wit’ the ladies.

  They all seem to adore him. Say he’s got quite a way about him in the kip...” Mabel stopped, realizing she was talking to a young, innocent maid.

  Ginny screeched to a halt, mortified. “As if I would care about such things.”

  Mabel raised an eyebrow. “Well, miss, I knows you don’t know much ‘bout such doings, but it don’t hurt none to have a man what knows his way around the linens, if you get my meaning.”

  “No, I do not! The man is a complete wastrel.

  How any woman could willingly allow herself to be seduced by such a rapscallion is beyond me.”

  Wisely Mabel said nothing.

  “In any case, the marriage will not be taking place.

  I will come up with something. I just have to!” She gazed over at the wing chair where she had placed Reggie’s `costume’. “At least tonight I will be able to enjoy myself for a few hours. Perhaps dear Henley can come up with a way to prevent– Oh my God! Stop him!”

  Charles, patiently waiting his chance, had at last seen opportunity knocking. Dashing into the bedroom, the pudgy feline snatched the furry white wig in his mouth. Flopping onto his side with a heavy thud, he attempted to immobilize the unnamed beast with a series of rapid-fire hind paw kicks.

  It was amazing that those chubby legs could move in such a manner.

  Ginny cried out; Mabel screeched.

  The cat knew what that meant. They were after his prize.

  Before either of them could stop him, Charles jumped onto the ledge of the open window and leaped onto a branch of the maple tree next to the window.

  The wig marked a powdery trail behind him.

  Mabel was in a state of panic. “Milady, wot shall we do? We’ll be found out fer sure!”

  “Not if I can help it.” Without a second thought, Ginny went through the window and into the tree after him. She would kill that cat when she caught him!

  Charles sat in the branch opposite her smugly swishing his tail. Wig drooping teasingly in mouth.

  Inviting her to reach for it.

  Ginny knew that stance well. Charles was up for a bit of sport. She’d have a time catching him now.

  As if he read her thoughts, the cat grinned at her as he gripped the wig tighter between his teeth and jumped down from the tree into the garden below.

  Ginny followed in hot pursuit.

  * * *

  Lord Devon had plenty of time to think over matters as he rode to Tareton Court.

  If his Grandfather thought to trap him in a loveless marriage, the old man had another think coming. Tyler had already decided on a course of action. Oh, he’d marry the chit all right. But he would never consummate the vows.

  Tyler estimated that at his present rate of loss, the Duke could hold out for approximately another year.

  A few more catastrophic losses, a few more ships lost, and the old Duke would be bankrupt.

  When that day came, Tyler expected to take great delight in informing his Grace just who had engineered his downfall.

  Then he would seek an annulment to this odious, forced arrangement.

  And on that day the rake would cease to exist.

  He hated to admit it, but he thought he would actually miss the carefree existence of a libertine.

  ‘Twas in his blood after all. There were many rumors about his father, Grant Devon, some of them– unsavory as they were– had turned out to be true. They said that until he met Tyler’s mother, Grant Devon chased the muslin and not much else. He had been a notorious womanizer.

  Tyler longed for a different release.

  He detested the strict confines of society. The simpering women, the endless routs, the boring engagements– it all went on and on. It could choke a man!

  Feeling as if he were smothering, he pulled at the ribbon that held his hair in the queue at the back of his neck. The wind immediately caressed the long black strands, lifting them free; he breathed more easily.

  Dammed if he knew who he really was anymore.

  His attention strayed back to the reason behind this journey. Lady Thomlinson. He’d given her some thought during the ride, and he supposed the girl was blameless for this whole fiasco; she was merely a pawn to her uncle and his grandfather– much as they attempted to do the same to him.

  He had no illusions, though, as to the chit’s appearance. Apparently, he had been her only offer.

  And with his reputation.

  Add to that fact her uncle keeping her hidden away for many years... Well, the spinster was probably just overjoyed to land a husband. Any husband.

  He hoped he did not have to hurt her feelings when all was said and done and he sought the annulment.

  After all, the girl was innocent of the machinations surrounding them and he had never had a stomach for harming innocents despite his reputation.

  Tyler drew up to Tareton Court, still deeply troubled about how to deal with Lady Thomlinson.

  Giving the reins of his stallion to the groom, he decided to stroll around the property first, to allow time to compose himself for the inevitable meeting with the poor, unfortunate thing.

  * * *

  At that exact moment, the `poor unfortunate thing’

  was negotiating the thick limbs of a maple tree. In just her lacy corset and chemise.

  Lord Devon was rounding the back of the house when he spotted the large maple tree. Thinking he might like to get out of the sun for a few minutes to rest in the shade, he made his way to it. He stopped a few feet short of the trunk just as a small bare foot poked through the dense canopy of leaves.

  It dangled above his head like a strange, ripe fruit.

  Furrowing his brow, he watched as a shapely calf followed. Definitely feminine.

  And he should know, it was a subject he was an expert on.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest and waited to see what would be next. ‘Twas an auspicious beginning, after all.

  The shapely calf soon led to even shapelier thighs and– Lord, love it– sweet round hips, a slender waist, and a compact curved bottom. A thick hank of lustrous mahogany hair fell in a twisted braid to that bottom.

  Aye, this was interesting.

  Tyler grinned as the object of his perusal jumped the rest of the way down and spun quickly around.

  The grin died on his lips.

  He sucked in his breath at the bountiful sight before him. His mouth actually parted in awe. God’s tooth, this was treasure standing before him.

  Truthfully, though, ‘twas not her face he noticed first.

  Confronting him, barely concealed in the lacy corset, were the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen.

  The plump, firm mounds strained against the taut lacings which scarcely held them at bay.

  Lord Devon was transfixed.

  It was as if a hare had decided to jump willingly in front of a tiger.

  Perhaps it was some sound she had made– an indrawn breath– which finally, reluctantly, drew his attention upwards.

  Flesh the color of camellias, cheeks flushed a rosy hue, large round eyes like Spanish chocolate, and those lips...

  The exact color of sweet, ripe raspberries.

  Tyler adored raspberries.
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  He briefly wondered if the crests of those perfect breasts would be the same luscious berry color. Would they taste as sweet? His pale eyes gleamed with anticipation. Dare he hope this was the Lady Thomlinson?

  Sly, albeit engaging, dimples appeared on either side of his sensuous mouth. As a rule, rakes enjoyed surprises.

  And generally took advantage of them.

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  Yes, I was about to meet the infamous Lord Devon. He had arrived upon my doorstep bearing the gift of himself. I was dubious as to its value. Perhaps my feelings were best described in this excerpt from a "Methinks" article that appeared in The Daily Crust shortly after our meeting:

  “Methinks She is Un-wooed”

  It is a curious fact that most ladies who are prone to daydreaming prefer to imagine a rakish sort of chap–

  dashing, fearless, and callously reckless to the extreme.

  This hero’s outward devil-may-care attitude conceals the inward romantic, who–against his will– is swayed by his unspeakable passions for the lady in question.

  Smitten, she is summarily trussed like last Yuletide’s goose; and greets the oven with a gurgle of thanks to the cook.

  Bah! These heroic fantasies are quite false.

  Rare is the rogue whose true treasure is his own heart...

  Alas, the breed usually arrives empty-handed and often empty-pocketed.

  –Sir R. Moore

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  Chapter Six

  This was no eunuch.

  Ginny eyed the powerful man before her with no little trepidation.

  His stunning, deep-set eyes locked on her as if she were a bowl of cream he would soon be lapping up.

  She swallowed. Those extraordinary looks gave him away; she never doubted for an instant that he was the infamous Lord Devon.

  He was far too tempting to be anyone else.

  She could now see why women begged to fall into this man’s bed. He was sensually spellbinding. Unique features–