Page 7 of The Ruined Duchess (The Scandal Sisters #1)

Six

My Lord Duke,

As you requested in your last correspondence, Miss Blair’s appointment with the modiste, Madame Vionnet, has been postponed until a more eligible class of suitors has come of age for her hand in marriage. If circumstances change, Madame Vionnet has assured me of her availability to travel to Caerlaverock at a moment’s notice.

Respectfully yours,

Mr. Joshua Forrester, Esquire

—A letter from Mr. Joshua Forrester, Barrister to Edward Charles Hancock, Duke of Nithesdale, February 1807, the month Iseabail Blair turned eighteen

“H e’s perfect.”

“He’s a rat.” Doubt crowded her thoughts. Over the past several days she had observed Ross interact with the house servants and the stable hands. He acknowledged them in a manner even her husband wouldn’t. As if … they served him, but they weren’t beneath him. The few members of the peerage she’d met over the years at Caerlaverock had reinforced her thoughts of the Ton believing they were above the rest of society. Yet with Ross, she couldn’t say the same.

Which was utterly absurd. He evicted six girls from their home.

Lady Drake shrugged. “All the better.”

Iseabail’s hand shook as she reached for the decanter. “All the better for what?”

Lady Drake leaned in, her décolletage revealing entirely too much flesh as she took the decanter from Iseabail. “All the better for you to seduce.”

“I won’t.”

“You must.”

“I can’t.” The Duke of Ross and Lady Drake had been at Caerlaverock for almost a week, and Iseabail found dinner to be the worst part of her day. His presence tied her in knots.

“Why not?”

“We have history,” she hissed.

Lady Drake looked at her as if seeing her in an entirely new light. “Then as I said, he’s perfect.”

“Not that kind of history.”

“History is history my dear. It matters not what kind.”

She took the glass Lady Drake offered as her maid added the finishing touches to her hair and left the room. Iseabail needed fortification to get through this disaster without throttling one or both Lady Drake and Ross. Lady Drake arched a brow without a word.

“I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t stolen my family home when my father died.” She downed the contents of her glass. Thank goodness Lady Drake hadn’t filled it. The amber liquid burned all the way down, and Iseabail had to cover her mouth with the back of her hand in order not to sputter the vile drink.

Lady Drake rested her hand on Iseabail’s arm. “As I said, he’s perfect. There’s no better way to exact revenge on a member of the Ton who did you such a disservice than to have their bastard be raised as one of the highest members of society. Even Nithesdale approves.”

Nithesdale approved? What mad world was this?

“Accept what fate has determined,” Lady Drake continued. “No one else will visit Caerlaverock while the Duke is in his sickbed. It isn’t done. Nor will they come pay respects after his death … they’ll send their regards through the post. Ross is the only man who will step into this house, other than a servant. This is your one chance to get with child, and Ross is the perfect man for the job.”

If Lady Drake said ‘perfect’ one more time, Iseabail might hit her. Her father had taught her how to throw a punch—how hard could it be to use that skill on the porcelain features of a lady?

She shook her head and desperately suggested an alternative. “Mr. Forrester.”

Lady Drake’s wane smile invited attack. “No, my dear. Mr. Forrester has too much honour. He will not bed you while your estate pays his salary.”

“I don’t even—I wouldn’t know how to begin?”

“Take him for a stroll in the garden. Given the opportunity, any man will take the reins and do the rest.”

This could not be happening. She was plotting her ruination with her husband’s mistress to have a bastard child with the one man she despised with every part of her soul.

“When?” Surely that wasn’t her voice asking that scandalous question.

Lady Drake grinned triumphantly. Iseabail’s fist clenched. “After he finishes his brandy. I’ve found two glasses are enough to loosen a man’s starch without affecting the stiffness of his shaft.”

Good Lord. Iseabail was certain she couldn’t repeat that in polite company—if polite company actually existed in the world of peers. She suspected it did not. She understood why men disappeared into their studies to drink brandy. It had taken one-and-a-half glasses of the vile liquor to gain the courage to do what she must to save her sisters. Brandy made one brave, because without it, she would crumple into a heap on the floor.

Anything to save Caillen, Máira, Ailsa, Edeen, and Robina.

She repeated the mantra over and over as she looked out the window. Dressed in another gown by the famous modiste, Madame Vionnet, it was part of the daring ensemble Nithesdale and Lady Drake had insisted she obtain after her wedding. Iseabail glanced down at her décolletage. It was plumped and exposed in the manner Madame Vionnet demanded of her creations.

Iseabail moved to the full-length mirror and gazed at the woman she no longer recognized. The fine-spun muslin clung in ways it shouldn’t, due to wearing it without the layer of petticoats beneath. A layer Madame Vionnet had insisted Iseabail omit from her wardrobe when she wore one of her creations. Iseabail cringed as Lady Drake began to dampen her gown to ensure Iseabail’s nipples were desperately hard and flaunting her femininity. It was like standing naked in the middle of a stage. It was humiliating.

“Chin up, Your Grace. You are a seductress. You must carry yourself as though every man in the house is unworthy of your affection—all except one.”

She couldn’t agree more, although she imagined the gentleman in question to be a mister, and not a duke. Sadly, Mr. Forrester was off limits. It seemed she was doomed to choose between two dukes—one on his deathbed, and the other—a rake of the worst sort.

Perhaps she could seduce a stable hand …

No, of course she couldn’t.

There was that one footman, Louis … who still stared at her with lechery in his eyes, but she couldn’t possibly approach him, the man scared her half to death. She was truly stuck with the Duke of Ross, because despite having spent part of every night since her wedding in her husband’s bedchamber, there was no child in her womb, of that she was certain.

“We do what we must for our families,” Lady Drake whispered.

Iseabail took a fortifying breath. “Yes, anything and everything is worth giving my sisters a true chance at love.”

Her lack of hope for that kind of relationship for herself went unspoken. Her future was stacked in the somber stones of the great hall. Lonely, cold, silent. In reality, the hall, like her heart, was a complete waste of space. Only the thought of all her sisters laughing and dancing around the grand space made a smile form on her lips. They would have adored a ball at Caerlaverock. Granted, the nude statue in the center of the space would have to be draped with a gown, but she could imagine what a treasure it would be to raise her own children at Caerlaverock. The laughter and joy would echo through the castle, just as it had at Urquhart.

Instead, she would have to settle for one child and pray her sisters would bring their children to visit them. It was the only hope she had to fill the gloomy castle with the joyous sounds of children at play.

She and Lady Drake descended the stairs, and as luck would have it, Louis was the footman standing at the entrance to the drawing room. Despite not meeting his gaze, she knew his eyes roved where they shouldn’t, and for once she accepted his insolence as a blessing. He was the perfect person to practice giving a haughty glare. It was time to take command of her own future.

She turned, tilted her chin upward and delivered a scathing look, with as much distain as the most seasoned dowager. The bobble of his pronounced Adam’s apple as he gulped down his discomfort was the victory she needed to fortify her courage. Louis swung open the door and she entered with Lady Drake on her heels.

Her gaze traveled across the room to where the Duke of Ross stood with one arm leaning against the fireplace mantel as he stared down at the tawny liquor in his crystal tumbler. The firelight glistened off his ebony hair, and she had to remind herself to breathe. He lifted his glass to his mouth and froze when he caught sight of her. Something flickered in the depths of his eyes that she couldn’t quite identify until his scrutiny traveled the length of her. It was the same perusal the footman Louis had given her, but with the Duke’s lusty examination, heat traveled through her body as if it were his touch, not his gaze, to caress her.

His mere presence had always made her nerves jump. His attention at that moment, however, made her body tingle in places she never thought possible from a mere look. Especially when his admiration snagged on her nipples making them ache almost painfully. She wasn’t sure what he’d aroused in her, but she didn’t like it, and she refused to display such a weakness to this man who had stolen her future out from underneath her. She lifted her chin a notch higher.

“Remember, you have to seduce him, not give him the cut direct,” Lady Drake whispered in her ear. “Walk over and take his drink from his hand and take a sip while gazing at him over the rim of the glass … and don’t forget to sway your hips.”

Iseabail nearly tripped over her own feet with the reminder of just how corrupted she had become. She recovered in time to do her duty and put one foot directly in front of the other, the way Madame Vionnet had shown her, to display her figure and gown in the most advantageous fashion. She was rewarded when his regard roamed every curve and jointure of her body. He slowly took in her form like a hungry beast.

He bowed deeply as she approached and she returned the polite gesture with a curtsey. A curtsey which gave him an even more daring view of her décolletage.

“You look ravishing, Duchess.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Duke began to look past her toward Lady Drake and she took the opportunity to relieve him of his glass. Her bold action had the desired effect of bringing his attention back to her, and she reveled in her small victory. The intensity that smoldered in his eyes ignited the heat coursing through her body, as she ran her finger around the rim before dipping it into the glass. The amber liquor was colder than she expected, the exact opposite of the liquid fire heating her core.

Bolstered by the way his gaze followed her index finger, she brought it to her mouth and slowly, luxuriously wrapped her lips around it. Taking it all the way into her mouth, she let her tongue caress the length of it. His eyes darkened like a gale-force storm crashing into the shores as she pulled it back out and let her lips pop over the tip.

He froze. His body tight and tense as if he would pounce on her any moment.

She sipped the rich, bold Scotch, suffering none of the earlier effects from her first two drinks. Licking her lips, she was once again rewarded by the way her actions seemed to mesmerize her prey, because he was her prey whether he realized it or not. Were all men this easy to lure into an illicit affair?

“Your Grace, dinner won’t be served for another hour, would you care for a tour of our gardens?” Her voice sounded full and raspy to her ears, as if she were hearing someone else offer the invitation.

“I would be honoured, Duchess.”

Iseabail rang for Paddington who immediately brought their cloaks, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been aware of the plan to lure the Duke into the garden.

“I hope you don’t mind if I stay behind and wait for Mr. Forrester. I find the chilly winter air more than I can bear in my advanced years,” Lady Drake smiled the grin of a demure lady of the Ton well past her prime.

Her advanced years? Surely, Phoebe could make up a better excuse than that. She couldn’t be more than thirty. “Of course, Lady Drake.”

The Duke bowed his head in deference to Lady Drake and held out his arm for Iseabail. A moment later, she found herself walking on the arm of her biggest foe in a winter wonderland, as snowflakes swirled around them and her heart galloped across an icy landscape.

Although, in all honesty, she wasn’t sure if her heart was frozen, or it was her dampened breasts radiating the cold. Why hadn’t she asked him to take her for a turn around the great hall, where her dress could do the seduction for her? At the moment, all Madame Vionnet’s wet handy work was doing was causing a chill to course through her body.

He turned her direction when she shivered. “Is it too cold, Duchess?”

“No.” Despite her clipped response, the whole-body shudder that traveled through her form caused him to stop at the entrance of her favorite place in the garden, a maze trimmed and sculpted to challenge the beauty of any of the royal gardens with its lush shrubbery. The copse of trees on the opposite side of the moat served as a contrast in its unadulterated wild abandon.

“Do you see the forest on the other side of the moat?” she asked, to keep him from turning back toward the castle.

“Yes, it’s quite thick. I used to play there as a boy.”

She glanced up and was caught off guard by her attraction to the darkly handsome man at her side. He was taller and much broader than most men of the Ton. He reminded her of the tales her father told of the fierce Gallowglass warriors from western Scotland. She supposed the comparison came to mind because she knew of his ruthlessness better than most. “I find it hard to picture you as a boy running carefree through these woods. I think suited in armor would be more appropriate, with your dark hair curled around the edge of a helmet that protected your Romanesque nose from your enemies.” She felt the muscles of his forearm tighten under her fingers. “I have no doubt you could swing a heavy sword, a battle ax, or claymore with ease to dominate any field of battle …” She turned to see him studying her lips as she spoke before he laughed in mocking self-deprecation.

“I wasn’t big enough to storm a room, let alone a castle the size of Caerlaverock.”

“I have no doubt you’ve learned to conquer much more as a man.” The coy smile on her lips almost felt genuine as she thought of him overthrowing the castle and subjugating a woman’s body with his steel form. The thought shouldn’t enthrall her—except it did. She blinked up at him, as he studied her face before choosing to laugh at her flirtation.

He escaped her flirtation by looking up at the snowflakes beginning to fall. “A boy fantasizes about playing the hero on a daily basis.”

“Let me guess—you fancied yourself as quite the huntsman,” she teased, and batted her eyelashes.

“The innocent creatures of the forests were safe from me.”

“What about the innocent creatures in the garden?” she asked. He searched her face looking for the true meaning behind her question, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out, Yes, the young debutantes who have no idea what kind of devil lies beneath your armor of civility .

“I do not see an innocent creature in the vicinity.” His tone was hard and brash.

Blast it. She had provoked his ire, not his desire, and her own temper stirred at the rebuke she was forced to ignore. She had to do something to entice the rumble back into his voice, the masculine growl that had the ability to make her quiver. It was either that, or their mutual disdain would burn the garden to the ground.

“No, you don’t.” You tossed all six of them to the wind . “Yet there is still game to hunt, and according to the scandal sheets, you like the pursuit.”

The rags had reported story after story of different widows Ross had chosen as his latest lover. He was a paragon of the type of rakes society adored. He didn’t ruin the virginal—he quenched his thirst for women in the beds of lonely widows. A veritable man among men who provided services to needy women.

And she was a needy woman. Save Caillen, Máira, Ailsa, Edeen, and Robina.

She donned her own armor and smiled coquettishly up into his deep blue eyes. On any other man those eyes would be intoxicating, and the fact that she thought that sent fear skittering through her veins. They entered the maze and she paused, her back to shrubbery taller than the Duke by at least a head.

“Are my affaires of particular interest to you, Duchess?” There was a tick in his jaw and she suddenly realized he didn’t like calling her Duchess. Perhaps he viewed her as a climber like her father, and if that were the case, she was more determined than ever to get what she came for.

Oh, but she would enjoy bringing this man to his knees. “As I’m sure you are aware, I have not had the pleasure of knowing a man like you—so young, strong, and virile.” She forced her hand to his chest and despite her gloves and his coat, she could feel the heat radiating off him. She stepped forward, unable to stop her gaze from dropping to his lips. They were plump but strong, commanding. The type of lips a woman would like on her body.

That, however, was neither here nor there. She had need of this man, and as much as the idea of bedding him made her skin tingle in a manner she was unaccustomed to, she needed to regain what he had taken. The act between them would merely be her exacting revenge: An eye for an eye.

* * *

She was every bit the hellfire he knew she’d grow into, and more. The melancholy he’d seen in the depths of her eyes over the past several days was absent when she’d appeared wearing a gown that could have been worn by the best Parisian courtesans. It was as if the young woman full of misery and despair never existed. The lace across her breasts allowed the hint of her dusty pink areolas to show, while her nipples pebbled delectably underneath. It’d taken every bit of his control not to get a cockstand, yet still he wasn’t sure a swim in one of the two moats surrounding the castle would calm his desire—perhaps a break to take himself in hand would work.

As if his struggle hadn’t been hard enough by the vision of her in that gown, witnessing the sway of her hips, and the way her lips wrapped around her finger had sent his imagination to a scene that would scandalize most ladies of the Ton. Her lips were made to be wrapped around a man’s cock—his cock.

This seductress was no innocent—any man with a pulse would end up ensnared in the promise of pleasure her jade green eyes delivered. Gone was the anger, the fuel to her fire, only to be replaced by passion that simmered to a boil. It was there in her manner, her dress, the fluid movements of her body. How Nithesdale had seen this in the girl she had been, he did not know, and just thinking of the way Nithesdale had corrupted his young ward made his own temper churn?—

Until they’d strolled in the garden and her hand touched his chest. At that moment all his resolve to ignore the attraction he’d felt towards Nithesdale’s duchess disappeared. He was powerless to resist her allure. All thought disappeared as he looked down at her now with her mantle gaping open to expose the delectable flesh of her body. But it was when her lithe form pressed into his and he felt the tremor of her desire run flush against him that all decorum was lost. It was almost as if she stumbled, or perhaps threw herself at him and he raised his hands to her waist to steady her.

It was the opposite of what he should have done. He should have push her away. Even now he should step back, but he found himself as trapped as a fox surrounded by hounds—unable to climb the shrubbery at his back, incapable of disappearing into its midst, and thoroughly frozen in place. It wasn’t fear of the hunter, but something else just as unacceptable blocking his escape—lust. He was stuck in time—waiting, anticipating. Wanting it to be over, yet frantic for it to begin.

When her lips touched his. It wasn’t the practiced kiss of a whore, but rather the fresh, vibrant, new dawning of a yearning he’d never experienced … and God help him, but he succumbed to the allure. Her body molded to his and when his tongue slipped through her lips, it was pure ecstasy. She tasted of whisky and mint and feminine temptation that made him crave her even more. Never had he tasted anything like her as their tongues entwined erotically like that of the dancers he’d seen in India—rhythmic and free, with her hips perfectly molding into his. The control he’d held in check since the moment he’d first seen her at Caerlaverock disappeared on the wind.

He pulled her tighter, loving the way his cock reached for her belly. Never had he felt so instantly aroused, so alive as he was with this woman in his arms. Every part of him wanted to claim her, own her. Something feral came alive inside him the moment they touched, and he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. His hands slid down her backside and his fingers sank into the round, soft globes.

Iseabail gasped as he lifted her against him, forcing her gown up her legs and onto her thighs. “Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, the need in him too great as his lips crashed down upon hers once more.

Yet still, it wasn’t enough. He pulled her closer, grinding his cock into her soft womanly center while extracting a deep moan from her throat. It was a sexual call to arms no man could ignore. He moved his lips down her jaw to her neck and nuzzled her cloak to the side in search of those breasts she’d displayed so enticingly. The soft silk of her skin tasted like pure sin. He was thoroughly lost in the moment—until he reached her décolletage and felt the chill of the crisp winter air saturating her body. The wet lace of her gown, dampened as a temptation no man could ignore, was like a slap in the face, and he nearly dropped her right there.

He pulled back and looked at the sensual creature in his arms. Her head thrown back exposing the evidence of his whiskers on her neck and delicate collarbone. Her neatly coifed mahogany curls falling from their carefully placed pins, her swollen lips parted in rapture. His fingers clasped her legs above her stockings and his thumb found a ridged imperfection of a scar across the backside of her bare thigh. A scar he had no right to explore, no right to know existed.

What had he done? He was in the gardens of the man who had shown him more fatherly guidance than the man who’d been responsible for his upbringing. Iseabail was a married woman, and since the day his own father had told him he was his mother’s bastard, he had vowed to never put his seed in a married woman. He would not sire a child to be raised by any man, and he certainly would not place his own son in the ducal seat of another.

Her body stiffened in his arms and her eyes opened to reveal just how lost she had been in the moment. He lowered her to the ground as she watched him carefully, a shroud dousing out the flame of desire in her eyes. He pulled her mantle closed and stepped away.

“You are better than this,” he said, and bowed before her. “I know I am.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving behind the fiery ice queen who would now haunt his dreams more than ever before, but in a very different manner.