Page 1 of Dukes for Dessert

A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady

Jennifer Ashley

1

February, 1893

When the pistol flashed down Regent’s Park’s green, David Fleming realized his life truly needed to change.

He danced aside as the bullet whined past him, but his unsteady body took him down to the earth, coating his pristine black cashmere suit in mud and grass. David tasted dirt as gravel cut his cheek.

“What the devil are you doing?” Pickering, his second, shouted down at him. “Get up, man. Return the shot.”

David groaned as he rolled over, his finger well away from the trigger of his revolver. He felt little pain, because the whisky he’d drunk all night, neat, erased almost all sensation.

“Anyone hit?” he slurred.

Pickering glanced around at the small crowd of gentlemen gathered in the dawn light, his fair hair twitching in the breeze. “Don’t think so.”

David tried to get his legs under him, couldn’t, and stuck up his arm to Pickering. “Help me.”

It took Pickering a few moments to realize David was talking to him. Idiot. Finally Pickering hauled David to his feet. Their cronies, young and old, waited without much concern.

“You forfeit,” said an older gentleman with side-whiskers, who should have known better than to be in Regent’s Park at the crack of dawn, encouraging duels. “Griffin wins.”

David scrubbed at the mud on his silk waistcoat. “What the hell are we doing, gentlemen? A duel? In this day and age? You were expecting to watch us kill each other.”

“An honorable way to settle differences,” the older gentleman said calmly.

He was interrupted by a roar as David’s opponent, a hothead called Oliver Griffin, rushed at him.

“Coward!” Griffin bellowed. “Cheat! Stand still and let me shoot you.”

He waved his pistol in a shaky hand, which Pickering, in alarm, yanked from his grasp. Griffin swayed mightily, as drunk as the rest of them, but he managed to lock his hands around David’s neck.

“Settle it like gentlemen, you said,” he seethed, his spittle showering David. “I’ll settle you—”

Griffin held on like a leech. David scrabbled at Griffin’s impossibly tight grip then decided it was time to forget about being a gentleman.

He brought up his fist in a perfect pugilist move to crack Griffin’s chin. If David jerked that chin to the side he could snap Griffin’s neck, but he had no intention of being hauled in for murder this morning. He pushed Griffin off balance then followed up with a smart punch to the man’s eye.

Griffin howled. David slid from him and steadied himself on his feet, using Pickering’s shoulder for support.

“It is done,” he proclaimed to Griffin in a voice men had learned to obey. “We met, you shot. Honor is satisfied. Rules of the game.”

Griffin turned, his face bloody. “You have no honor, Fleming. I’ll kill you! How do I know my sons are even mine? Cuckoos in my nest …”

David slid his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the cuts on his cheek. Futile, because the handkerchief was just as grimy as his face.

“I never touched your wife, Griff. She’s an honorable lady and loyal to you, Lord knows why. Be kind to her.”

Griffin only snarled. He’d been so convinced that his wife was having an affaire de coeur with the notorious David Fleming that he hadn’t stopped to ascertain whether it was true. Griffin’s wife was the friend of the Duchess of Kilmorgan, and when the duchess had instructed David to look after Mrs. Griffin at a ball a week ago, David leapt to obey.

If he flirted with the woman, he wasn’t to be blamed. She was lonely, unhappy, and married to the boorish Griffin. She’d enjoyed being the center of attention for a few hours, but neither of them had had any intention of taking it further.

Griffin closed his mouth but a look of cunning came over his face. “I don’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve had my revenge. Ask your darling countess where she’s been this past week.” Instead of leaving it cryptic, Griffin jabbed at his own chest. “With me. I’ve had her, Fleming. In every way possible.” He thrust out his pelvis and his friends laughed.

“Poor woman,” David said feelingly. He carefully folded his muddy handkerchief and tucked it into his breast pocket. If Griffin wanted his vengeance using David’s current mistress, a countess from Bavaria, he was welcome to it. She was an amorous lady, not bothered by which bed she slept in of nights. “No wonder she’s been looking peaky. Do give her my best when you see her again.”