Page 1 of The Duke Says I Do (Scoundrels of Mayfair #4)

Wapping, East End of London, April 1818

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Alaric Dempster, the fourth Duke of Granville, paused under the overhanging eaves while with utter dismay, he watched the scene unfold before him.

The woman was in trouble. With foolhardy gallantry, she faced down the hulking brute with an even more disreputable-looking mongrel on a rope at his side. It was clear as the lout crowded her toward a side alley that all the courage in the world wasn’t going to save her.

Alaric Dempster was praised as the perfect gentleman. He always did the right thing. From boyhood, proper behavior had been instilled in him. Proper behavior meant coming to the rescue of damsels in distress. He knew that. But by every saint in heaven, he wished that fate had presented him with a different damsel.

Portia Frain wasn’t giving up easily. She did her best to hold her ground. He gave her credit for that, if not for good sense. As he knew to his cost, Frain women weren’t overburdened with good sense.

He didn’t like her. She didn’t like him. She never had, even though he was accounted the most eligible bachelor in Britain. When his engagement to Portia’s sister Juliet ended in humiliation and scandal, he’d sworn that he’d never again have anything to do with that ramshackle family. He had no proof, but he’d lay good money that Portia was at least partially behind last summer’s disaster.

“Give me the dog and I’ll leave you alone,” Portia said with the dismissive self-confidence that always made Granville want to push her into a bush.

The commanding tone set the ruffian chuckling. Granville couldn’t blame the bastard for his contempt. Portia was tall for a woman, but in comparison to the bruiser, she looked minuscule.

“Now, why the dickens would I do that, pretty lady?”

To his regret, Granville couldn’t argue with that description either. Juliet Frain was a diamond of the first water. Portia, with her wheat-gold hair and sparkling blue eyes, might even surpass her older sister. It was a pity that she was such a firebrand. She’d frightened off most of the men who might want to court her.

She stood as straight as a soldier. Her valor only emphasized her fragility. By God, her opponent could crush her with one blow from those beefy hands. “I’ll pay you. I have money.”

Despite his growing fears for her safety, Granville couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Now she really was in hot water.

The villain accosting her saw that, too. Another knowing chuckle. “That’s good to hear. I’ll have that. I’ll have you. And I’ll keep my dog. A fine day’s work, I’d say.”

Even at the distance, Granville saw that she paled. Those ruler-straight shoulders tightened. She might be a fool, but she wasn’t so much of a fool that she missed the threat.

This had gone far enough. Noblesse oblige and all that. Sometimes the oblige part was onerous. This was one of those occasions.

Granville mightn’t like Portia Frain, but he couldn’t stand uninvolved while she was assaulted.

He stepped forward and put on his best ducal drawl. “I say, old fellow, let the lady go on her way. There’s a good chap.”

Two pairs of eyes leveled on him in astonishment. “G-Granville,” Portia stammered. “Where on earth did you come from?”

“Just passing.” Jolly lucky that he had been. These alleys near the docks were a maze where murder could – and often was – committed, the body dumped in the Thames, and no culprit ever found.

A chill rippled down Granville’s spine. Despite everything that rankled about Portia and her family, the idea of her beauty and spirit lost to a muddy grave made every cell in his body protest. She was a pain in the arse, but he didn’t want her dead.

“Right, with Sir Lanca-bloody-lot turning up, you can go on your way, flower,” the thug said, shortening the dog’s leash.

Thank the Lord, the man was willing to retreat, now that Portia had someone to defend her. Where the devil was her maid? Her coachman? Well-bred maidens didn’t wander around alone. Even in Mayfair. And right now, she was a long way from Mayfair. Wapping wasn’t the usual beat for aristocratic females. How in Hades had she managed to stray so far?

Granville took her arm. She was bristling. Outrage rather than fear, he guessed.

“Yes, come away, Lady Portia. This is no place for you.”

“I’m not leaving without the dog.”

“There are plenty of other dogs,” Granville said in the soothing tone that he used on his slow-witted cousin George.

“I want this one.”

Granville eyed the mongrel cowering behind the bruiser. An unpromising specimen of indeterminate breed with black and white patches. “I’ll buy you a dog. I’ll buy you two, in fact.”

He’d buy her a whole bloody kennel, if he could just get her to safety and go back to ignoring everyone named Frain.

“This one’s being taken to a fight that he won’t survive.”

Her crispness surprised Granville. Not quite as much as the heat radiating from where he touched Lady Portia. Perhaps he was coming down with something. The East End was mired in filth and disease.

He had gloves on. She wore a woolen pelisse, and he assumed a long-sleeved dress beneath that. The day was cold. Yet even through all the layers, the contact had an extraordinary effect. His blood rushed, and his heart crashed against his ribs. The reaction was unprecedented. On previous occasions when he’d danced with her, he’d suffered nothing stronger than a vague annoyance. “It’s still none of your business.”

“That’s right, flower.” The man’s smugness was meant to goad, but Granville had no trouble keeping his temper. “Go along, and we’ll all pretend this never happened.”

“It is my business,” Portia retorted. “Dogfighting is an abomination.”

“Harmless fun,” the bruiser said.

“Not harmless for the dogs. How much do you want for him?”

“I’m not interested in a few extra shillings. He’s a good fighting dog.”

“I’ll give you five pounds,” Portia said.

The man eyed her with sudden interest. Granville couldn’t blame him. To most people, five pounds was a fortune.

Granville was desperate to get out of there. Not least because he wanted to stop touching Portia. He should let her go, but his hand didn’t heed his mind’s command. His mind dismissed this woman as a troublesome baggage. His hand enjoyed holding onto her more than it should. “If you’ll give over the dog this minute, I’ll give you ten.”

Greed lit the man’s eyes. “Let’s see the color of your money.”

Granville made himself step back from Portia, astounded at the effort it took. “Pass the dog to the lady and let her go. Then we can deal.”

“How do I know you’ll stick to it?”

Granville was unused to anyone questioning his integrity. He was renowned as a man of unshakable principle. To the point where wilder elements of the ton considered him a dull fellow indeed.

“You have my word,” he said coldly.

“Your word is fine and good, but it won’t buy me the froth on a tankard of beer. Pay the money now and I’ll hand Jupiter over.”

Despite the building tension, Granville couldn’t help casting another glance at the dog. Anything less like the king of the gods was hard to imagine. “You’ve heard my offer. Take it or leave it.”

The man made an unconvincing effort to look thoughtful before placing two fingers in his mouth and blowing a shrill whistle. The noise had the dog tugging at the leash and howling.

Portia lurched forward. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Nothing’s wrong.”

Knowing it was a mistake to touch her again but unable to avoid it, Granville caught her arm. He wasn’t letting her get within the villain’s reach.

This time, the surge of heat didn’t startle him, although it remained a puzzle. He was a man of sober habits – too sober, he sometimes admitted – and he didn’t in general find unsuitable women alluring. But the urge to touch Lady Portia Frain and keep touching her was unmistakable. It was dashed inconvenient, but she wielded a power over him as unexpected as it was powerful.

More reason than ever to eschew her company. But first he had to get her out of this mess. A mess totally of her own making, blast her.

The dog kept howling. Perhaps that was why Portia trembled under Granville’s hold. He glanced at the unappealing animal. “Quiet,” he snapped in the voice that always gained instant obedience.

This occasion proved no exception. The cur stopped making a din and sat, gaze fixed on Granville. The stubby tail moved in a tentative wag.

Unfortunately, that was the only good news. Now the dog was silent, Granville heard the sound of running feet.

“Wotcha, Jim?” a coarse voice shouted from a side alley. “Trouble?”

Hell, now they had two ruffians to deal with. Granville’s grip on Portia’s arm tightened, as he backed toward the wall behind them. Danger had always loomed, but the arrival of Jim’s ally tipped the balance.

“Not for me, Alf. But these two downy birds are where they shouldn’t be and sticking their long noses into stuff that don’t concern ‘em. I’m going to do some plucking. Thought you might like to share the pickings, my lad.”

Granville wasn’t surprised to see that Alf was even bigger than Jim. That was how the day progressed. It had been on a downward spiral since he’d first glimpsed Lady Portia on her ridiculous rescue mission.

Alf stepped up beside Jim. “Good of you, chum.”

“I advise against violence,” Granville snapped. To his annoyance, the voice of authority had less effect on Jim and Alf than on Jupiter.

“Do you indeed, my dandy?” Jim sneered. “Hand over your blunt, and we might let you and the lady go. Might, mind you.”

Granville was wise enough to worry. He wasn’t exactly afraid. The Dempsters had been lauded for their courage since Philippe d’Ans-Terre fought with William the Conqueror. However large Jim and Alf might be, he could handle them. If he was alone. But the rub of the matter was keeping Portia from harm.

Nonetheless, he believed that they could get out of this. Sacrificing a few pounds to these bastards might pique his pride, but hardly mattered. He could tell that any request for Portia to abandon the dog would prove fruitless. The Frains, he knew to his cost, were as stubborn as mules. If they weren’t, he’d have been Portia Frain’s brother-in-law this past year. A thought that filled him with horror.

“Think,” Granville said. “London is full of dogs. I give you ten quid. We take the dog and go on our way. You get a nice pile of blunt to buy a dozen mongrels, if that’s how you choose to spend it. No trouble for anyone.”

“I’ve got a taste for trouble,” Jim said slyly. “Ready, Alf?”

Stifling a sigh, Granville stepped in front of Portia and in one smooth movement, pulled the sword from inside his fashionable walking cane. “Don’t be too hasty.”

Surprise and something that looked like excitement sparked in Jim’s eyes. “I hope you know how to use that, my bullyboy. It’s still two against one.”

“Whether he does or not, I know how to use this.” Portia’s voice was calm. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

Granville chanced a quick glance away from Jim to see that Portia stood a few inches back from him. One gloved hand held a pretty mother-of-pearl pistol aimed square at Jim. Her exquisite highbred face was determined, and her hand was steady.

“Give us the dog and let us go.” Her voice was almost as imperious as Granville at his most ducal.

“I’ve got a knife,” Jim said, although Granville saw that the appearance of weapons had rattled him. He brushed his thick leather coat back to reveal a large blade tucked into his belt.

“Is it worth risking injury?” Granville asked.

“Especially when you can still have your ten quid,” Portia said.

Despite himself, Granville couldn’t help but admire her nerve. She might be a fool, but she was a deuced brave one.

Jupiter whined and strained at the leash. “Stop your fucking wriggling,” Jim snarled at the dog, aiming a kick at his black and white flank.

Portia gasped in protest. Jupiter yelped and broke free. Instead of taking off down the alley, he headed straight for Granville and skulked behind him.

Jim surged forward, only stopping when Portia raised the pistol. “Take your money and go.”

“Grab the blunt, Jim,” Alf said. “This ain’t worth a bullet in your hide. Nor mine.”

For a moment, Granville wondered if Jim, like Portia, would allow obstinacy to outweigh pragmatism. Then the thick shoulders lowered, and he spat at Granville’s feet with a disgust that didn’t disguise his surrender.

“Move left so we’ve got somewhere to run,” Granville muttered to Portia.

Keeping the gun trained on Jim, Portia sidled around until the alley was behind her. For once, saints be praised, she didn’t argue.

“Give me my money,” Jim growled.

Granville withdrew his pocketbook from his coat and pulled out two five-pound notes. He dropped them to the cobbles and placed one glossy boot on them to stop them blowing away. Jim’s attention fixed on the money. Alf’s posture indicated that he’d lost any interest in a fight, thank God. As Jim bent, Jupiter gave a soft growl.

“Shut your trap, you useless cur,” Jim snarled.

Granville jumped back and sheathed his sword. He grabbed Portia’s hand. “Let’s go!”

Jim lurched to catch the money before the wind carried it away. Portia pocketed her pistol and dived down to collect the frayed rope attached to Jupiter’s collar. But the dog soon broke free to run at her heels.

Granville suffered a fleeting worry that Lady Portia mightn’t be up to his speed, until she broke into a fast run. He caught a glimpse of surprisingly stout half boots, as she gathered up her skirts and dashed along the alley beside him. Even through his urgent need to escape, he noticed Lady Portia’s lovely long legs and finely turned ankles.

If he wasn’t running so hard, he’d groan. He’d always had a weakness for a nice pair of legs.

If anyone had asked him a week ago what he thought of Portia Frain, he’d have responded with a derisive snort and said something about chits with more hair than wit. But she’d been cool through the crisis and she kept up with him now without complaint.

As he and Portia skittered around corners and down dark passageways, his ears strained for the sounds of pursuit. But either Jim and Alf had decided that a tenner was a good return on the day’s adventures, or he and Portia had lost them.

The problem was that Granville had managed to lose himself, too. He knew his way around the part of the docks where his shipping company kept its offices. But the twists and turns that they followed now left him bamboozled.

Jupiter released an excited bark and raced ahead. “Pipe down, you brainless beast,” Granville panted. The last thing he wanted was for Jupiter’s excitement to lead Jim and Alf their way.

“He’s not a brainless beast,” Portia said. “He’s a good boy.”

Granville very much doubted that, but this was no time to argue the point.

Eventually he stopped to catch his breath, leaning back against the filthy bricks in a litter-strewn courtyard. He needed to spend more time with his fencing master and less sitting around paper-strewn offices with his political cronies.

God alone knew what was smeared across the wall behind him. God alone knew what his coat would look like after all this rough treatment. Hobbs, his starchy valet, would have a fit when Granville finally made it home.

If he made it home between homicidal cockneys and featherbrained do-gooders.

Beside him, the hen-witted do-gooder’s flushed cheeks and disheveled hair made her look ridiculously beautiful. Somewhere in their mad dash, she’d lost her very becoming bonnet. If Jim or Alf stumbled upon it, that would make a nice bonus on top of what Granville had paid for Jupiter.

As she caught her breath, her full bosom rose and fell in the most intriguing fashion. Granville fought the urge to kiss her. He must be losing his mind. Kiss a Frain? He’d rather have his teeth knocked out with a fence post.

Except…

“You can let go of my hand now,” Portia said in an expressionless voice.