Page 1 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

HUGH ALEXANDER DE Wolfe, Sixth Duke of Falconbridge, was a great believer in the power of fate. As he drank in the vision of the lovely young woman before him, whose eyes stared unseeingly out into the dark garden, he thanked his fortunes that destiny had sent him her way.

Well, fate and an urge to smoke a cheroot, if he was to be honest…

The young woman was dressed simply, when compared to the other fillies dancing inside in the Morland’s ballroom. The white gown which clung to her gentle curves was unadorned by lace, flounces, or any other busy trimmings. Its simplicity highlighted the sheer beauty of her face; heart-shaped, high cheekbones, a rosebud mouth which was set in a pout, and large, almond shaped eyes. Her hair was piled high upon her head; a golden crown for an angel fallen to earth.

Hugh was overcome by a strong urge to thread his fingers through those tresses, to see if they felt as silky as they looked.

“It is not wise for young ladies to wander alone at night,” he offered, as he stepped forward - hoping that by speaking he might silence the wicked thoughts in his mind.

The young woman started and turned her eyes in his direction. For a moment, Hugh felt as though he had been punched in the stomach, as a pair of cornflower eyes met his.

“You risk your reputation,” he continued, when she made no reply.

Too late, he realised that his words might be construed as a threat, rather than helpful advice.

“If you mean to take a punt at sullying my reputation, your Grace,” his companion replied archly, aware exactly with whom she was speaking, “Then I feel obliged to warn you that I am no shrinking violet; if I am required to use violence to protect my person, I shall not hesitate to do so.”

Hugh bit back a smile; his angel was definitely of the fallen variety.

“I was not threatening you,” he assured her, in what he hoped was a gallant manner, “I was merely offering you advice.”

To his annoyance, Hugh found his attempt at chivalry was met with a slow, sardonic smile.

“How very like a gentleman, to think that he should police the actions of a lady,” she answered, with an impatient sigh, “Your time might be better spent elsewhere, your Grace. My slipping outside to take some air can hardly compare to the sins currently being committed by young bloods in bawdy houses and gaming hells across the city.”

Hugh raised a surprised brow; it was not often one heard a young lady reference bawdy houses. Who was this creature? Whoever she was, Hugh had obviously made a poor first impression. Despite his irritation that she had not yet succumbed to his charm - which was unusual, for most ladies found him charming - Hugh felt compelled to try to redeem himself.

“I quite agree,” he said, truthfully, “Society places too much emphasis on its daughters’ behaviour, whilst ignoring the sins of its sons. My advice was offered in good faith; I wished to protect you from hypocritical whispers, rather than point out a perceived transgression. I am not so conceited to think that I, of all people, am in any position to offer anyone lessons on morality.”

His companion’s frosty expression thawed a little at his words and she eyed him thoughtfully. Hugh was glad that he had outed himself as a sinner, for it allowed him to match her stare with a pointed one of his own. To his satisfaction, he noted a faint blush stain her cheeks.

“A man loses his family fortune at the tables and no one raises more than a whisper,” she said, suddenly - as though trying to distract herself, “Whilst a lady might be spotted walking alone in Green Park, and the scandal might taint her for years.”

“It’s unfair,” he agreed, as he took a casual step forward, “Though, at this very moment, my mind is fixated on another unfairness.”

His angel glanced at him with confusion.

“You are aware of who I am,” he said, rather pointedly, for she had addressed him by his title, “Yet I have no idea of your name.”

There was a pause, as his angel eyed him warily.

“I imagine that a man of your status is introduced to so many young ladies, that after a while our names become inconsequential,” she eventually replied, with a shrug, “We must all blend into one, your Grace; just a blur of white dresses and indistinguishable features.”

Though her observation was unnervingly astute, Hugh still bristled in annoyance. True, he did not care to remember the names of other young ladies, but he had a burning desire to know the name of this young lady.

“If I didn’t know any better, I might think you were being deliberately obtuse,” he said, and his observation was met with a pleased smile.

“You are correct, your Grace,” his angel answered, as she straightened her gloves and smoothed down the skirts of her dress - preparing, perhaps, to return indoors, “I do not think it proper for us to be introduced so informally, alone as we are.”

Hugh frowned; he was unaccustomed to having someone refuse his wishes.

“Well,” he answered belligerently, “I shall just have to arrange a formal introduction.”

His vow was met with a wry laugh and his companion began to move toward the French doors from which he had recently emerged.

“I shan’t hold my breath, your Grace,” she answered lightly, her tone amused, “Your reputation is not that of a man who seeks formal introductions to ladies on the marriage mart -”

Her words came to an abrupt halt, as Hugh moved to block her way.

She stilled, though she did not look frightened. Hugh was so close to her now, that he could admire the swell of her bosom as she held her breath.

She gazed up at him, with eyes which were now dark with a desire which mirrored his own. Her full lips were parted, begging for his kiss, but Hugh resisted - his pride would not allow him prove her right about his rakish reputation. What’s more, he did not dally with innocents - at least, not usually. His fallen angel was upsetting not only his sojourn in the garden, but his moral equilibrium too.

“You are correct about my reputation,” he conceded, “I do not usually seek formal introductions to young ladies out for their season, but for you, I’m certain I can make an exception.”

He took care to lace his words with all the intent and desire which stirred within him. For a moment, he was rewarded, as her eyes grew hazy with longing.

Hugh stepped forward, desiring to be even closer to her; to feel the heat which radiated from her body, to better smell her teasing scent of jasmine and vanilla.

He soon regretted his sudden move, for his companion’s eyes narrowed and she took a step back.

“Am I supposed to feel flattered, your Grace?” she queried, archly, “I am no fool; I am well aware that men of your ilk will whisper any pleasing words that spring to mind, if they think it might gain them a kiss.”

Hugh was torn between two feelings at her words; annoyance that she had thought he was trying to steal a favour, and rage at the very idea of any other man doing just that. The possession he felt toward her was not rational, though few men could be accused of being rational when confronted by a beautiful face.

And he was, after all, just a man.

“You place great weight on reputation,” he observed, his calm voice belying the roar of passion within.

“I do,” she answered, primly, “And I’ll wager, your Grace, that when you learn of mine, you’ll make no attempt to make the formal introduction you say you wish for. Now, please stand aside, I should like to return inside.”

He frowned at her words, unsure of how a creature like she could think that anything might deter him for his pursuit. Still, he duly stepped aside to allow her pass; her tone of resignation had dampened the simmering tension between them.

The angel disappeared into the shadows, without so much as a backward glance. Once she was out of sight, Hugh exhaled a sigh of frustration.

He tapped the cheroot in his hand with his index finger, but made no move to light it. His desire for tobacco was now subsumed by a burning desire to know the name of the vixen with whom he had traded barbs..

Not wishing to seem too eager - he was a duke, after all, he had to show some modicum of pride - Hugh paced the garden, for a few minutes. Once a suitable amount of time had passed, he slipped through the French doors, across the dimly-lit library, and back to the ballroom where Lord and Lady Morland were hosting at least a hundred guests.

Once there, he found the room alive with energy. A string quartet in the corner played a jaunty tune, as guests swirled around the dancefloor in a lively country set. Included amongst the dancers was the object of his desire. She was partnered with a young buck of about twenty years, and each time the dance returned her to the young buck’s arms, Hugh felt an overwhelming urge to commit murder.

He remained on the periphery of the crowd, his face set in an unhappy scowl. It was not just the sight of the woman he coveted dancing with another which irked him, but the fact that he was unhappy at all.

In his two and thirty years, the ladies of the demimonde had soothed the worst of Hugh’s masculine urges. Actresses, opera singers, the occasional dashing widow - Hugh’s love affairs had all been brief, neat dalliances, free from the restraints of social strictures and scrutiny.

Occasionally, he had been tempted by forbidden fruit, but he had never wished so much to take a bite as he did now.

An impatient sigh escaped him and he turned his eyes to the other guests, in the hope that someone might distract him from his thoughts. He scanned the faces present, until his eyes alighted on a very familiar one.

“Beaufort,” he called, as he approached Lord Bartie Beaufort - an acquaintance of sorts, from White’s. Lord Beaufort was the type of fellow who knew everyone and everything; if anyone present knew the name of Hugh’s angel, it was he.

“Falconbridge,” Bartie replied, his round face breaking into a smile of genuine pleasure, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I shan’t stay much longer,” Hugh assured him, his tone droll, “Lady Morland is a close friend of the family’s and my mother demanded I show my face.”

“A face showing’s worth about an hour, by my watch,” Bartie replied, with a knowing grin.

“Then I have but a few more minutes to endure, before I can safely flee,” Hugh stated, turning his gaze back toward the ballroom floor.

The pair exchanged pleasantries for a while, until Hugh decided it was time to strike.

“I assume she’s been declared the season’s diamond?” Hugh said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. He nodded his head in the direction of his mysterious blonde, who was now dancing with another chap - much to Hugh’s chagrin.

“Who?” Bartie queried, turning his eyes in the direction in which Hugh had nodded. His gaze fell upon Hugh’s angel and lit up with excitement. Hugh stifled a grin; it was obvious that Bartie had gossip to impart.

“That is Miss Anna Mosley,” Bartie stated, in a staged whisper, “A girl with her looks would usually be batting off suitors, but alas she suffers from a terrible affliction.”

“What’s that?” Hugh bit out, his heart momentarily frozen with fear.

“A father with a love for the card tables that does not match his skill,” Bartie answered sadly, before elaborating further. “Lord Mosley won a considerable sum in York, just after New Year, and set it aside to launch his only daughter into society. Unfortunately, since his arrival to town, the baron has lost all his winnings and then some, in various gaming hells around the city. He is being refused credit left, right, and centre; the only thing saving Miss Mosley from being ostracised by society completely, is a lingering fondness amongst some of the ton for her late mother.”

Hugh frowned, surprised by the rush of concern he felt for the girl whose name he had only just learned. His own knowledge of the heartbreak that a loved one’s addiction to the card table could bring, stirred sadness and anger deep in his soul.

Fate was cruel, to bestow such a reckless father upon a girl as beautiful as she. Lord Mosley’s gambling left his daughter at risk of suffering insult to both her pride, and her body. The was no doubt that her beauty had not gone unnoticed by the nefarious gentlemen who lurked amongst the shadowed gaming-dens of London’s underbelly.

“Is Lord Mosley present?” Hugh wondered aloud, thinking that he might offer the baron a word of caution - or his fist.

“Lud, no,” Bartie chuckled, “Miss Mosley is here as a guest of Lady Limehouse; the countess is making it her personal mission to see that her late friend’s daughter is seen in all the right places. Not that it will do much good, in the end.”

The defeated tone on which Bartie finished speaking, ignited a spark of rage within Hugh’s belly. How cruel fate was to bestow Miss Mosley with a father so incompetent that her future was written off before it had even begun.

Hugh paused and took a deep breath as his train of thought shifted in another direction. Perhaps fate was not so cruel; she had delivered Miss Mosley his way, had she not?