Page 47 of Seven Nights with the Wicked Duke (Regency Beasts #3)

LION KNOCKER

T his time, when Abigail arrived at Blackwell Estate, it felt nothing like the previous time. No torches lighting the way to the absurdly huge manor. No carriages waiting. No footmen bustling at the steps. No music pouring out into the night.

The house was quiet.

But Abigail’s mind was set, her resolve unwavering. She would take the Duke’s money to help her family. She would make sure her siblings had a better future than she did. And no arrogant man would stop her.

She stepped out of the carriage, drawing the hood of her coat to hide most of her face.

As she stood before the gilded door, the great lion knocker looked like it was mocking her. She must be looking much less fierce than she believed.

It didn’t matter. She would feign confidence, and she would demand respect. Or so she hoped.

Abigail knocked on the door. On the way here, she had practiced how to introduce herself without giving away her identity to the butler or any of the staff.

When the door opened and an old, rigid man appeared, she was ready to recite that.

“I am here to see His Grace,” she said in a small voice. “I am?—”

The door swung open to let her in, and the butler stepped aside without a word.

Abigail scoffed. It seemed that having unannounced ladies dropping by the front steps of Blackwell Estate in the middle of the night was nothing out of the ordinary. Just another indulgence, another conquest, another secret.

She followed the butler through the same corridor she had seen filled with people the night before.

It seemed almost innocent in its silence.

Her footsteps echoed through the entrance hall, too loud in the hush of midnight.

The grand staircase curved above them like a spine of bone and gold, its carpet thick and blood-red underfoot.

The last time she was here, she only walked around the ground floor, and even then, she found the sheer size of the place intimidating.

At the top of the stairs, the butler bowed as he gestured to a cracked door.

Abigail frowned. Was she supposed to enter completely unannounced? Was the Duke waiting for someone else, and she was mistaken for that person? Was that—God forbid—a… a bedchamber?

Courage, Abby.

Her fingers curled into the folds of her coat. She mustered all her desperation-induced bravery and pushed the door open. So timid were her movements that the Duke didn’t notice her at first.

Turned out it was—thank the heavens—his study. He was sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, leaning back in a leather chair, reading a report. His focus was sharp, his brow slightly furrowed, his jaw tight in concentration.

Abigail registered nothing else, didn’t check her surroundings, didn’t even pull down her hood. She just stood there, her hand on the door handle for two reasons.

The first was that the Duke wore no cravat. His collar was undone, his white linen shirt gaping open. It revealed a stretch of collarbone, the curve of muscle, and the faint dusting of dark hair across the broad plane of his chest.

The second reason was no better. Both sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows.

That meant both muscular forearms were on full display, in all their infuriating, sinful splendor.

Corded with effortless strength, those forearms began at his long, elegant fingers and disappeared beneath the rolled linen that clung to biceps no gentleman of the ton had any right to possess.

The fabric strained as if even it knew it was clinging to something dangerous.

Abigail tightened her grip on the door handle to steady herself because that sight caught her unaware, unprepared, and she was very close to collapsing in an embarrassing heap on the expensive rug.

You are here for a purpose, Abby!

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she greeted in her most confident voice.

His tempestuous eyes rose to her, and she was glad she was still holding onto the handle. His gaze turned from annoyed to intrigued to amused in seconds. Abigail realized that she still had her hood up and moved to reveal her identity.

“I didn’t know little peacocks were nocturnal birds,” his deep voice said with mirth.

“How…?” she asked, her fingers still around the edge of her hood.

The Duke set his papers aside, stood up, and walked up to her, his eyes piercing through the shadows that covered hers.

“How do I know it’s you, Miss Harston?” he said darkly, stepping closer. “Last night, everyone admired your beautifully painted mask. But I was watching the part you didn’t bother to disguise.”

His gaze dipped, for just a breath, to her mouth.

Good heavens! This was a terrible mistake.

“Of all the women I expected might show up at my doorstep tonight, you were the last one on the list.”

Abigail felt fury bubble up inside her. She didn’t come here to be treated like a fickle plaything and entertain a spoiled duke.

“I do apologize for the disappointment, Your Grace. Shall I send a more suitable substitute next time?” Abigail shot back and pulled down her hood.

“Disappointed? Hardly. I like being proven wrong. Especially when the surprise comes wrapped in such an amusing packaging.”

Again, he was treating her like the King’s jester—a distraction. Her jaw clenched so hard that it almost snapped.

“How fortunate for you that necessity makes excellent wrapping paper, Your Grace.”

“Ah, the sharp talons of the peacock draw blood once more.”

“You seem confused, Your Grace.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am not interested in drawing blood; merely in drawing.”

“See a subject that intrigues you, little peacock?”

The look in his eyes turned voracious in that maddening, composed way of his.

Abigail refused to take the bait. She lifted her chin instead, every inch the vicar-turned-Baron’s daughter and starving artist rolled into one sharp, trembling spine.

“I draw what I must,” she said coolly, “not what I prefer.”

“Duty over desire. How noble. And boring,” the Duke hummed low in his throat.

Abigail would not allow a spoiled rake to drive her away. Her home would have warmth and a full pantry, and she would put up with an army of smug smiles to get that.

“I am here for my sketchbook.”

The Duke smiled and drew closer, one hand slipping into his pocket, his movements smooth.

Abigail’s spine straightened from pure reflex. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she didn’t.

She held her ground as he came dangerously near, his body a shadow just inches from hers. And when he leaned in, his gaze fixed not on her face but somewhere behind her, her breath caught in her throat. Then, he reached past her.

There was a soft click as the door shut behind her, slow and quiet.

“I prefer not to be interrupted during business discussions,” he murmured in her ear, his voice a velvet blade.

He stepped back at once, just enough to reclaim a sliver of polite distance. But the air still hummed between them.

Abigail exhaled quietly, carefully.

I thought peacocks were not edible. Why do I feel like I am about to be eaten?

“I am—” she almost squeaked and hated her unpracticed public voice. “I am glad you see this as a business deal.”

“What else could it be?” The Duke’s smile turned predatory.

“Please, Your Grace, give me my sketchbook.”

“I remember that there were some terms attached to the sketchbook getting back to you.”

“I let my client know that I was no longer interested in his offer,” Abigail said resolutely.

“Your client?” The Duke’s eyes sparked with interest.

“Like I said, Your Grace, I will not put others in a difficult position. I take full responsibility.”

The Duke seemed perplexed by her words. It was obvious that he was burning to know who paid a spy to expose him and his guests. But Abigail dared to think that his eyes held some admiration for her discretion. After all, he was expecting the same treatment, was he not?

“So, these are my terms, little peacock. You?—”

“Miss Harston.”

The Duke blinked. Just once. He looked at her as if she were the first person in his life to ever interrupt him. And from the little she knew of him, she suspected she might be.

His lips parted, an eyebrow rising, more intrigued than insulted.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

The amusement in his voice made it clear that he wasn’t truly offended. He was playing with her. But Abigail wasn’t playing anymore.

“I am sure,” she said evenly, “that you don’t address your business partners with silly nicknames. My name is not ‘little peacock.’ It’s Miss Harston .”

Silence ensued. Then, his mouth curved, slow and sharp. Not a smirk this time, but something deeper. More dangerous.

“Noted,” he relented, “Miss Harston.”

Abigail nodded sharply as if she was giving him royal leave to continue.

The Duke chuckled and shook his head.

She swallowed when she realized the mistake she had made. He wasn’t amused. He was challenged .

“I will be your only client, Miss Harston. You will not go running to your former client or anyone else with your sketches or information.”

“Understood.”

“And it goes without saying that I value my guests’ privacy and that I want my dinner parties to be a safe place where they can freely express themselves.”

“I will be discreet, Your Grace, and I hope that same discretion applies to me. No boasting about employing the services of a vicar’s daughter.”

The Duke looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. He seemed prejudiced against her, but he was clever enough to realize that he had to reevaluate.

A man who looked like him, who had a good brain in that ridiculously handsome head? Perhaps she needed to reevaluate, too. ‘Dangerous’ didn’t even begin to cover what he was.

“Your identity and the nature of our deal are safe with me,” he promised solemnly. “There is one final rule.”

“I am listening.”

“You will never draw me.”

Abigail blinked. She looked at how the firelight danced across the hem of his collar, the hollow at the base of his throat, and felt something that annoyingly bordered on disappointment.

“Disappointed?” the Duke asked.