Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Read online

  "She is unwell, poor dear," Charlotte fibbed, feigning a note of concern for the Swedish woman, who in actuality was so robustly healthy, it was almost offensive. "I would rather take Ethel than drag dear Helga out into the cold."

  "You're not planning on doing anything untoward, are you?" Bianca glanced at her sister suspiciously, unconvinced by Charlotte's apparent concern for the lady's maid whom she usually despised.

  "When have you ever known me to misbehave?" Charlotte affected an air of one who had been grievously insulted. Her theatrics, however, only seemed to confirm her sister's suspicions.

  "Cat, you made a bargain with Papa," Bianca cried, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest.

  "Yes, but we did not set a date for when the deal would begin," Charlotte argued, equally as capable of stubbornness as her younger sister. "So, I have decided that I shall start tomorrow. Just one last adventure, Bee, before I submit myself to a life of smiling politely whilst biting my tongue."

  It looked for a moment as though Bianca might argue, but the appearance of the butler, Doyle, to announce that Mr Dubarry had arrived for his lesson, set Bianca into a tizz.

  "Oh," she cried, running a nervous hand over her hair, to check that it was still perfectly in place—which, of course, it was. "He's early—I had wanted to wear my blue ribbon today."

  "I did not realise that blue ribbons were so integral to the learning of music," Charlotte teased, earning herself a scowl from Bianca.

  "There's nothing wrong with wanting to look one's best," Bianca huffed, "Not that you would understand. You may borrow Ethel if you wish, but have her brush your hair out before you leave. You seem to have brought some shrubbery back with you from your morning walk."

  Bianca turned on the heel of her satin slipper and flounced from the room with an irritable sniff. Her sister might portray herself as fashionably meek and placid, but she was anything but, Charlotte thought. Bianca's tongue was just as sharp as Charlotte's own, though her sister was far more discerning of whom she decided to unleash it upon. Perhaps that was the difference between a real lady and one just playing the part, Charlotte thought mournfully, an innate sense of discernment...

  Resignedly, Charlotte tripped across the oriental rug to the mirror, which hung above the fireplace. Just as her sister had noted, several twigs had entangled themselves into her wiry mane during her morning perambulation around the garden square. She yanked them free with an impatient hand, pulling out clumps of hair in the process.

  Lud, she thought, as she analysed her reflection; Bianca was quite right in saying that Charlotte did not care enough for her appearance. Her hairstyle would not have looked out of place in Bedlam, whilst her nose bore ugly smudges of ink from her earlier letter writing. If she was to attract the attention of any man, she would need to put more effort in, she thought. And, if she was to attract the attention of a duke, she would need a miracle.

  Still, she reasoned, as the bargain she had struck with her father was not to begin until the next day, there was little point fretting over finding a local saint to perform an act of the divine just now.

  Feeling cheered, Charlotte set out in search of Ethel.

  "Are you certain that this is a lecture on crocheting, Miss Drew?"

  Ethel, Charlotte's sweet, but rather dim, lady's maid, wrinkled her nose in confusion as she glanced around the dark and gloomy meeting room of St Bartholomew's Church, near Hyde Park Corner. She and Charlotte, the only females present, were seated at the back of the room, and before them were rows upon rows of men.

  Shouting, pushing, ribald jokes and laughter abounded, whilst a distinct musky odour—a mixture of ale, smoke and sweat—hung in the air.

  As Ethel had noted, it did not look—or smell—like a gathering of crochet enthusiasts.

  "Perhaps I got the time wrong," Charlotte fibbed, keeping her voice to a low whisper, so as not to draw attention. "I am certain that the letter said three...We shall hang on a few moments, Ethel, just to see what all the fuss is about."

  It was a weak excuse to linger, but thankfully Ethel was not the type of girl who ever thought to question anything. The lady's maid nodded her head in agreement, pulled a piece of crochet work from her basket and began working quietly on it, whilst around them men bellowed and roared.

  Charlotte winced at the sound of them; really, the world would be a much quieter place if men were forced—like she had been—to read countless books on manners and deportment.

  It was clear that not one of the fellows present had ever been told to never raise their voice above a whisper, Charlotte surmised, as a rotund man at the front of the room recanted a lewd tale in a voice like a trombone. Gales of laughter filled the hall, as he reached the crude climax of his story, and Charlotte winced again.

  They were a strange breed, men.

  Luckily, the fellow was prevented from continuing with another tale, by the arrival of the meeting's speaker, and Charlotte sat up to attention. Applause and cheers rose from the crowd, as a young man, in a threadbare coat took to the stage.

  As the audience rose to their feet, cheering and chanting, a man in dark attire slipped discreetly into the room and placed himself at the end of the bench upon which Charlotte and Ethel were seated.

  Charlotte gave him a quick glance before turning her attention back to the stage. The young man in the threadbare coat was not the speaker she had been expecting; she had thought that the legendary Sir Francis Burdett would be the one to address the crowd.

  Burdett was an outspoken critic of government oppression and corruption, a champion of universal suffrage, and one of Charlotte's personal heroes. He had given a voice to the masses who were impoverished by the introduction of the Corn Laws; laws which benefited only landowners. Landowners who, coincidentally, happened to make up the majority of the government.

  Burdett had been instrumental in the formation of Hampden Clubs, like this one, which sought to promote parliamentary reform. For months, Charlotte had longed to join in one of the debates, and having overheard a young man in Hatchard's Bookstore discuss today's meeting, she had decided to take the plunge.

  Except, something seemed wrong.

  Sir Francis was nowhere in sight, Charlotte noted nervously, and the young man on the stage had begun speaking not of parliamentary reform, but of taking up arms against the Crown.

  Gemini, she thought with a glance to Ethel, who was still absorbed in her crochet work, had she accidentally stumbled across a meeting of the United English Men, or some other radical organisation?

  The audience became restless and agitated, as the man upon the stage began to proselytise about the excesses of the Prince Regent. Though Charlotte was inclined to agree with the man's views on the spendthrift prince, she did not condone violence against him.

  "Down with the monarchy!"

  A shout went up from near the stage, and before Charlotte knew it, the whole of the room was at a stand, stomping their feet and chanting in unison.

  "I really don't think this the right meeting, Miss Drew," Ethel piped up nervously beside her, having finally been drawn away from her crochet work by the shouts.

  "Nor I," Charlotte whispered back.

  She glanced toward the doorway, which was some way away. Would they be able to leave unseen? She doubted that the crowd would take kindly to interlopers, though surely they would not harm two innocent women?

  As she turned her head, Charlotte caught the eye of the gentleman who had slipped in late, and her stomach gave a funny squeeze. His blue eyes, so vivid when set against his tanned skin and black hair, were mesmerising, until she saw that they were narrowed in annoyance as he looked at her.

  Goodness, she thought, as she registered his fierce glare; was he going to denounce them as spies?

  This alarming thought, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of a scuffle at the front of the room. Two gentlemen—for want of a better word—appeared to have come to blows, and within seconds the rows of benches were pushed back, a
s the crowd gathered around cheering encouragement to the wrestling men.

  She had only wished to go to a political meeting, Charlotte thought with despair, yet somehow she had ended up at a brawl.

  Worse still, as more of the crowd began to argue and fight, she realised that it might soon turn into a riot.

  "I think it's best we leave, Miss." The stern voice in Charlotte's ear was accompanied by a firm hand gripping her elbow.

  Before Charlotte knew it, she was being frogmarched outside by the blue-eyed gentleman who had been watching her moments before.

  "Unhand me, sir!" she demanded, as the gentleman hauled her through the door of the church and out into the London streets.

  "I will, once I am certain you are safe," her assailant replied, in an accent that was most definitely Etonian in its origin.

  The man continued to march Charlotte away from the church, trailed by a slightly startled Ethel, only stopping once they reached a secluded courtyard, some distance away.

  "I demand to know the meaning of this," Charlotte demanded, with more bluster than conviction, once they had come to a halt.

  Her assailant, if one could call him that, cast her a quelling glare, his blue eyes like ice.

  "And I demand to know what you were doing at a meeting of known radicals," he countered, his hand still gripping her arm, "You are aware that sedition is a hangable offence?"

  "Sedition?"

  Ethel, poor dear, swooned at the very word, and Charlotte's captor relinquished his hold on her, in order to catch the lady's maid before she fainted to the floor. Charlotte's stomach lurched as she noted the man's arms, which bulged under the fine wool of his jacket as he clutched Ethel close. For a moment, as her stomach filled with butterflies, Charlotte wished that she had brought Helga along instead, for the formidable Swede would never dream of fainting. Nor would she allow a gentleman to clutch her in his strong arms in such a blatant display of masculinity. It was unseemly, Charlotte thought prudishly, as she felt her mouth dry, to be so well endowed.

  "I did not think we were attending a meeting of radicals," Charlotte bristled, as the man helped Ethel—who was blushing furiously—back to a stand. "I had thought that we were attending—"

  "A discussion on crocheting," Ethel interrupted, stooping to take the doily she had been working on from her basket. She waved the article—which, Charlotte had to admit was quite beautiful—in the air, as evidence that their only motive for being there was the pursuit of craft and not the pursuit of rebellion.

  "Crocheting?"

  The raising of an eyebrow did not take much effort, but Charlotte found herself thoroughly distracted by the minuscule movement. That it was accompanied by a slight, amused quirk of sensual lips, did nothing to help her from her state of confusion. Which, in turn, left her feeling more than a little bit irritable.

  "We are quite the enthusiasts," Charlotte sniffed, brushing down the sleeve of her jacket, as though it had been sullied by his earlier clutching of her arm. "It is unfortunate that we were so mistaken with the time and venue of our meeting, but luckily no harm came of it. Those poor gentlemen; perhaps if they were to take up a restful pastime like crocheting, they would not be quite so rabid."

  Charlotte flushed as the man's sensual lips quirked again at her sarcastic quip, though this time they were unable to resist being pulled into an amused smile, a smile which could only be described as wolfish.

  "I shall petition the government at once," he replied dryly, "To set up a committee to investigate the benefits of needlework on dulling rebellious ideals."

  "Think of the money that would be saved on military wages," Charlotte snipped, not liking his attitude, which had now become laconic and almost flirtatious in nature.

  "And who is it that I should credit these governmental savings to? I am sure Prinny would wish to know the name of the woman who saved him a fortune."

  In Charlotte's world, introductions were made in ballrooms, not back-alleys, and they were usually made to insipid sons of the aristocracy, not strange men with devilishly handsome faces.

  Her captor—or rescuer, it was all so confusing—waited expectantly for Charlotte's reply. He wore the impatient look of a man who was unaccustomed to being kept waiting, and Charlotte was forced to trod heavily on Ethel's toes as she saw that the lady's maid was about to answer for her.

  "I have no wish to be honoured by the Regent," Charlotte demurred, "Serving one's country is honour enough."

  "So modest," a thick eyebrow quirked again, this time less amused than before.

  "One tries," Charlotte smiled piously in return, refusing to be browbeaten by an overactive eyebrow. "Now, if you will excuse us, we must dash."

  "So much needlework, so little time," came the drawled reply.

  "Indeed," Charlotte smiled tightly, as she nudged Ethel to attention. The sooner they escaped this man and his unnerving gaze, the better.

  She gave her captor a nod of acknowledgement and made to turn on her heel, but before she could do so, he reached out and took her firmly by the arm.

  "Don't let me catch you at any more of these meetings," he growled softly, holding her gaze with fierce eyes.

  "Oh, I think my interest in needlework has waned considerably in these past few minutes," Charlotte retorted, amazed that she had the breath to reply, for it felt as though his touch had knocked all the air from her chest.

  With what strength she had left, Charlotte wrenched her arm free, grabbed Ethel by the hand, and dragged her away, without so much as a backward glance at the rude, high-handed gentleman who had so unnerved her.

  "What a strange man," Ethel observed, as the two women beat a hasty path back to where their carriage awaited.

  "Mmm..."

  "Ever so handsome, though," Ethel continued, putting a voice to Charlotte's thoughts, which had been thinking the very same thing.

  "There is nothing in this world more dangerous than a handsome man," Charlotte replied darkly, directly quoting Helga, who held a deep distrust for the male of the species, but especially the handsome ones.

  "I know, Miss Drew," Ethel nodded furiously in agreement, before her face glazed over into a dazed smile, "But that doesn't mean one can't appreciate them, as long as one keeps one's distance."

  "How right you are, Ethel," Charlotte replied; distance was the key to dealing with a man like that. As long as Charlotte never laid eyes on the sinfully handsome stranger again, she would be protected from the queer, thrilling feeling which bubbled within her belly.

  Thank goodness their paths were unlikely ever to cross, Charlotte decided, wilfully ignoring the distant sense of disappointment which accompanied her realisation.

  Chapter Two

  Hugh Landon Charles Abermale, Sixth Duke of Penrith, was late to his appointment at White's. His tardiness could be blamed on many things—London's congested roads, business in Whitehall, a meeting of radicals that had near turned into a riot—but he preferred to place the blame squarely at the door of the flame-haired vixen who had earlier bedazzled him.

  Not, of course, that he would admit to having been bedazzled. Hugh preferred to think that he had been vexed, irritated, and annoyed by the red-haired miss who had waltzed away after he had rescued her, without so much as a word of thanks. While the abruptness of her departure, and the lack of manners, had galled him, Hugh had rather enjoyed the vision created by the departure of his damsel in distress, for the back of young lady had been every bit as enticing as the front...

  Hugh was a man of refined, expensive taste, but even he had to admit that there was nothing quite so beguiling as the sight of a bottom one could perch a pint upon. Especially when said bottom belonged to a woman with the temerity and sass to back answer him. Hugh had assumed his ducal title at a young age, and it had been quite some time since anyone had dared to speak to him in such a dismissive manner.

  If it hadn't been so irritating, he was almost certain he would have found it refreshing—almost.

  "What time do you c
all this?"

  Jack Pennelegion, or the Duke of Orsino as he was also styled, raised an eyebrow in question, as Hugh finally arrived at their usual spot, the coveted seat by the bow window of White's, a half-hour later than expected. Robert William Montague, the current holder of the title of Marquess of Thornbrook and heir to the Ducal Seat of Staffordshire, rolled his eyes at Orsino's words.

  "You're not on military time now, old chum," Rob said, waving down a passing footman to fetch more brandy for the late arrival, "Don't get your petticoats in a twist over a lost half-hour; what you lost in time, you gained in brandy. Here, Penrith, you have fallen behind. Get this one down you quickly so you might catch us up."

  Rob pushed the glass of brandy, which the speedy footman had just delivered, toward Hugh, who picked it up and took a grateful sip. The fiery liquid burned its way down to his belly, and he allowed himself a moment to savour the warmth that spread through him.

  There was nothing finer than good brandy for ragged nerves.

  "Lud," Hugh said, as he placed the now empty glass back down upon the table, "I needed that."

  "I heard there was a skirmish in St Bart's," Orsino commented, eyeing him knowingly, "Did you happen to get mixed up in it?"

  "La!" Hugh gave a chuckle, "I would hardly call it a skirmish; it was mere boys playacting at being men. Montague's valet deals with more danger every morning when he pulls back the drapes on his lordship."

  "To think I defended you against Orsino," Montague grumbled, though he was good-natured in his complaint. The young marquess was a notorious hellion, who was oft out until the small hours of the morning. Hugh was right in saying that his long-suffering valet had often borne witness to some frightening sights in the marquess' bedchamber the morning after the night before. The most notorious story, which Montague still told with pride, was when the poor valet had pulled back the drapes to reveal Prinny himself, slumbering off a cask of wine, whilst Montague had lain cold upon the floor beside him.