The Notorious Duke Read online

  The rake’s wicked wager!

  Pagan Penhurst finds himself at a loose end in Brighton, until a friend wagers he can find a woman who can’t be swayed by Pagan’s notorious charms.

  The duke accepts—only to find that his quarry is to be Scholastica Hornsby, a young innocent who wants nothing to do with the infamous rake! She’s far too inexperienced for his usual methods of seduction, but Pagan is determined to win his wager…

  A delightful Regency novella by Deborah Simmons, originally published in 2002 as part of The Love Match collection

  The Notorious Duke

  Deborah Simmons

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brighton was a bore. Or so Pagan mused as he watched the usual phalanx of wealthy, pampered visitors promenade along the Steyne. He had followed Prinny here, but even the Prince Regent’s elegant, and sometimes debauched, gatherings at the Pavilion were beginning to pall. What had been amusing during other visits now only seemed elaborate nonsense, as did so much else these days.

  Even though Pagan told himself his growing ennui had absolutely nothing to do with the approach of his birthday, nonetheless he found himself wondering about his options at this juncture in his life. And yet what else would he do? He was no gentleman farmer to bury himself in the country nor was he a politician to waste his time jawing in the House of Lords. So he continued with the usual rounds of gambling and drinking and increasingly tedious social engagements with increasingly tedious companions, such as the one lounging beside him.

  As if Pagan’s thoughts had stirred him to speech, Hazard Maitland leaned forward to display a very white set of teeth in an ingratiating grin that was so predictable, Pagan had to stifle a yawn.

  “Give over, Pagan. You’re having me on. You can’t actually mean to let Ramsey overturn your old-time driving the New Road without a protest. You’ve a reputation to uphold,” Hazard said. He paused, leaning back in a casual pose, before issuing the expected challenge. “I’ll bet you can’t best his record by more than a quarter hour.”

  Hazard hadn’t received his nickname without cause. He was always making outrageous wagers and finding himself in dun territory more often than not. Having lost quite a bit at the E.O. Table last night, the man obviously wanted to recoup his losses, but Pagan didn’t feel inclined to humor him this afternoon. If Hazard wanted money he had only to ask for it, instead of cloaking his need in dares and false bravado. It was just the sort of posturing that Pagan had once found amusing, but that entertained him no longer.

  “Well, if you’re too lazy or hen-hearted...” Hazard ventured.

  Pagan laughed, unmoved by the taunt. “Racing the New Road is for young pups, just like taking the reins of the mail coach or ogling women from the bow window of White’s.”

  “Young pups? Oh, you still have a case of the blue devils over your upcoming birthday!” Hazard accused.

  Pagan didn’t bother to respond to that. He did his best to not think about turning thirty—an age he had once viewed as ancient. Just because he didn’t want to risk his neck making a fool out of himself did not make him old. Or hen-hearted. Or even excessively sensible. “I’ve raced the New Road before, and it has become tiresome,” he drawled with a finality he hoped would put an end to the subject.

  Turning his attention away from his companion, Pagan again surveyed the elegant crowd, his gaze finding and resting on a group of women who appeared to be harassing passersby. Now that was something you didn’t see every day on the Steyne, he mused, his interest caught. They appeared to be passing out leaflets, perhaps of a political nature? No. Ladies—especially ladies of quality such as these—Pagan noted with a quick glance at their clothing, didn’t pass out those kinds of tracts. Religious? Pagan imagined the look on Prinny’s face should he inform the Prince that the Methodists were invading Brighton. The notion amused him, and he had to admit that they looked like Methodists. One was a whey-faced creature and the other a hatchet-jawed matron that appeared most forbidding.

  Then Pagan caught a glimpse of the third member of the party, and he decided he might have to reconsider his church affiliation. Mahogany-colored curls peeked from beneath a beribboned straw bonnet and glinted in the sun, dancing about a heart-shaped face. Creamy skin held a hint of pink on smooth cheeks, a small detail that bespoke a refreshingly careless attitude toward hats. Dark brows arched over thick-lashed eyes whose color escaped him, and Pagan spent a good minute speculating on the shade. Now why couldn’t Hazard have picked something intriguing like that to bet on?

  But a swift check revealed that Hazard wasn’t even watching the women, which proved just how tedious he was, Pagan decided as he returned his attention to the little charmer. At least one other member of the male population had noticed the dark-haired beauty, however, for a florid fellow stopped to take the leaflet from her gloved hands with a flourish. Indeed, he seemed quite smitten—until he read what she had given him.

  “A New and Ambitious School for Young Ladies! Pah!” he said. “Waste of good money to send females to school! What are you trying to do, raise a bunch of bluestockings? Schooling for women!” With a loud snort of disapproval, he unceremoniously dropped the missive onto the street.

  He might have been through with the lovely one, but she definitely was not finished with him. “How dare you, sir?” she cried. Obviously, not as charming as she looked, she rounded on him with a fierce expression that revealed a stubborn chin Pagan had neglected to notice before. “How do you condone such boorish behavior? Perhaps with your own ignorance? Perhaps it is your mind that needs improving with a good dose of Mary Astell or Catherine Macaulay!”

  Ah, a female philosopher, Pagan thought to himself as the older woman stepped forward to rein in the fiery beauty. Too bad she was wasting all that bright young passion on education, he mused with the disappointment of a connoisseur. He continued his surveillance long enough to make sure that the rebuked gentleman went on his way without further incident, then, having lost all interest in the exchange, he turned back to find Hazard eyeing him with new speculation.

  “Pagan, you’re terminally bored, and you know it. Why don’t you take one of my dares and inject a little excitement into your life?” Hazard challenged.

  Pagan sighed. If he was terminally bored, Hazard was contributing to his decline. “Perhaps if they involved something more fascinating than risking my best grays on a bad stretch of road, I might consider it,” Pagan drawled.

  “Just so! Racing’s sadly flat. Old hat. I was thinking of something more along the lines of your particular specialty...”

  “Hallo!” Just then a landau passed in front of them in which two ladies, one of them the wife of a Most Famous Personage, leaned forward to wave dainty handkerchiefs in Pagan’s direction. He gave them a lazy nod of acknowledgment. The wife was his for the asking, should he rouse himself to the effort, while the other lady...well, she had proved to be quite inventive. Pagan smiled in fond memory.

  “They say there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t want you,” Hazard remarked, whistling through his teeth as the carriage continued down the road. Pagan shrugged. Women were one of the few pleasures that had not palled for him, though he had become more discriminating lately. It had nothing to do with his age, but was simply a matter of an acquired taste, Pagan told himself.

  “But I’d wager there must be someone, somewhere, who doesn’t care for the cut of your cloth,” Hazard said, his voice rising suspiciously. “In fact, I’ll put my money on it. What say you?”

  Pagan turned his head to fix his companion with a d
esultory gaze. Had he missed something in Hazard’s babbling?

  Hazard grinned, a little too eagerly. “I’ll make a bet with you that I know one female you can’t charm into your bed, or at least your good graces.”

  Against all sense, Pagan found himself intrigued. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a good pursuit, though few enough women gave him that challenge these days. Besides, he had a reputation to uphold, one far more important to him than taking the New Road at the fastest pace. And if he declined, Hazard was certain to pester him about some sort of gamble until he either succumbed or fled. At least this one roused his interest.

  He straightened and pushed away from the brick building he had been leaning against. “Very well, but she’ll have to be of our own class and of a reasonable age,” Hazard cautioned. He wasn’t going to be tricked into wasting his considerable skills on some turbaned ancient or unsavory shop girl.

  “Of course!” Hazard answered readily. A bit too readily, Pagan realized. What female did he propose to be immune, a devotee of Sappho? A devoted wife? Pagan smiled, a bit smugly, for he could count such women among his conquests. He began to wonder just what Hazard was going to do when he lost yet another wager. Perhaps the experience would be good for him. Humbling.

  “Well, who shall it be?” Pagan asked with a certain arrogance. After all, his standing with the ladies was unassailable and had been since he was barely out of boyhood. Not even the eminent approach of the dreaded birthday could affect his well-known prowess. He lifted his brows, but Hazard seemed rather confident, as well.

  “I name Miss Scholastica Hornsby,” he said with a suspiciously triumphant grin.

  “Who?” Pagan asked, unable to place the name or even countenance it. Scholastica. What kind of a name was that?

  “That young lady right there,” Hazard said, lifting a hand to point to someone nearby, and with a rather ominous sensation of dread, Pagan turned to see the object of his bet was none other than the dark-haired beauty who was still handing out leaflets and now prattling on loudly about A Vindication of the Rights of Women.

  Pagan sank back against the building with a groan. Too late he realized that he had let his vanity run away with him, or perhaps that impending birthday nudge him too easily into proving his virility. Usually awake on all suits, he had walked right into Hazard’s trap, and to be trapped by someone of Hazard’s limited wit...well, that was ignominious indeed.

  He should have set more specific guidelines, especially a minimum age, since this girl looked to be barely out of the schoolroom. Normally, Pagan avoided such types like the plague. He liked women with a certain amount of elegance, experience and confidence. Chits such as this one didn’t have any experience or confidence, unless they were spoiled brats, which was even worse.

  And as far as elegance, there was nothing remotely stylish about standing on the street exhorting the masses to a need for better female schooling. Before accepting this bet, Pagan might have established a minimum of sense, as well! The thought made him lurch forward in horror as he recognized just who this Scholastica might be: one of Cubby Hornsby’s brood.

  Related to the Duke of Carlyle, presumably on the wrong side of the blanket, Cubby vied with Henry Cope, the Green Man, as one of Brighton’s resident eccentrics. Cope dressed, ate, and presumably breathed, only green, while Cubby was a philosopher, his rambling estate on the edge of town filled with so-called geniuses and modern thinkers, including several female “colleagues” and various children of indeterminate parentage. This poor girl, having been reared in that environment, was probably short a sheet, just like Cubby and the rest of his household.

  Angrily, Pagan turned to his companion in protest, but Hazard stopped him with a wicked grin. “You didn’t think it would be easy, did you?” he taunted.

  Pagan’s eyes narrowed as he considered loosing some teeth in that white smile of Hazard’s. Of course, he could call off the wager, pay Hazard his money and laugh off the whole thing, but something was at stake: his pride, his reputation, or simply his ability to meet a challenge. Of course, none of it had a thing to do with the dreaded birthday.

  So, drawing a deep breath, Pagan effected a shrug and turned to assess his prey.

  * * *

  “Don’t look at him!” The admonishment from Miss Rawlings made Scholastica glance up in surprise.

  “Who?” Scholastica asked, though she suspected the older woman referred to one of the two gentlemen who had been lounging against a building nearby for some time. Idlers, no doubt, but so far they had not interfered with Scholastica’s efforts to promote Miss Crossthwaithe’s School for Young Ladies. They did not resembel footpads, nor did she imagine such men would dare accost women here in the heart of Brighton’s fashionable district. So why wasn’t she allowed to view them? Scholastica, who never took well to decrees, quite naturally turned her head toward the forbidden fellows, but before she could get a good look, Miss Rawlings seized her arm in a fierce grip and swung her back around.

  “Don’t stare!” the older woman hissed.

  “Oh, no!” Now it was Matilda who whispered fiercely, bristling in her most forbidding teacher manner. “He’s coming this way!”

  “Who?” Scholastica demanded in more determined accents. Unless this fellow was the devil incarnate, she could not understand why she was not allowed a glimpse of him. And not one to be denied without good cause, as all those who knew were aware, she simply threw off Miss Rawlings’s hold and whirled around to face...the Notorious Duke.

  Scholastica felt her jaw drop open, for in Miss Rawlings’s opinion, he probably was the devil incarnate. How he got his name, Pagan, Scholastica hesitated to speculate, but there was no mistaking that tall, superbly dressed form. She had seen him from a distance before among the elegant throng that surrounded the Prince Regent. The Duke of Penhurst was a rich, powerful and sinfully handsome rake and just the sort of wicked character who wouldn’t have the slightest interest in education for women, unless it was the kind provided in the city’s brothels.

  “Perhaps it’s time we went home, girls,” Miss Rawlings said, but she made no movement to leave, and in fact, seemed rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed upon the oncoming nobleman as though held in some kind of thrall. Scholastica felt no such enchantment. After all, the man was a dissipated character, probably as old as Cubby, and not worthy of their regard. Although she could not imagine what on earth he could possibly want of her, Scholastica held her ground and lifted her chin, clutching the leaflets before her like armor, just in case the snake would strike.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, bowing low, and Scholastica realized something immediately. Namely, he wasn’t that old. Indeed, he looked to be in the prime of life, and she could see all too easily how he charmed his hapless victims. He was as dark and beautiful as an archangel, his voice deep and smooth as some rich confection. Indeed, he was altogether beguiling. And wicked. And dangerous.

  And Scholastica would have none of it.

  “Your Grace,” she said with a dip of a curtsy.

  “Ah, you have the better of me, for I know only that you have been diligently presenting these to the populace of our fair Brighton,” he said. Bowing slightly, he reached for a leaflet, but Scholastica still gripped them before her like a shield. “May I?” he asked, lifting his dark brows. He tugged, and rather than precipitate a struggle, Scholastica finally let one go, albeit reluctantly.

  “Thank you,” he said, his elegant lips curving slightly as though she had amused him.

  “I hardly think you would be interested, Your Grace,” Matilda noted in a rather surly tone, apparently unaffected by the duke’s rather formidable looks. Meanwhile, Miss Rawlings obviously had failed to heed her own warnings, for she seemed struck dumb by his magnificence.

  He heeded neither one, but leaned close to Scholastica, almost indecently so, his attention focused solely upon her in a way she found most unnerving, as, no doubt, was his intention. “And would you be Miss Crossthwaithe?” he ask
ed, glancing down at the paper.

  For a moment Scholastica could not muster an answer, having discovered that his lashes were nearly as long and thick as her own. Then, as he lifted them, she saw the glint in those dark eyes and recovered herself. How appalling that she should suddenly be struck by the most base of feminine weaknesses! But she was not without her fortitude, and she called upon it now to still the ridiculous race of her pulse.

  “No. This is Miss Crossthwaithe,” she said, pulling Matilda forward. “Why? Have you an interest in female schooling?”

  “I doubt that,” Matilda snapped, donning her sourest expression. “I intend to educate my girls for other uses than your own!” she said in a tone that might be suitable when tapping an errant boy upon the knuckles, but was not appropriate for a duke of the realm.

  Indeed, the Notorious Duke cocked his head slightly, a graceful motion that left no doubt of his arrogance, and Scholastica held her breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I heard you,” he said, obviously offering Matilda the benefit of the doubt.

  “He’s getting old, you know,” a dry voice noted, and Scholastica turned to see the other lounging gentleman had joined them, as well. He, too, leaned close. “Birthday coming up. Very sensitive,” he whispered loudly, as if sharing a confidence.

  The duke ignored the man as though he hadn’t spoken, and Scholastica wondered if perhaps he were hard-of-hearing. “Well, I am told the ocean air can do wonders for the problems of aging,” she said with an air of encouragement.

  He cocked his head toward her, with that same arrogant tilt, while his friend laughed uproariously, and she wasn’t sure what to think. He certainly did seem sensitive about his age, though Scholastic wouldn’t have put him past thirty, and of course he was so handsome, who would possibly care how old he was? But he was a rake, and no doubt vain about his looks and everything to do with himself.

  Scholastica reminded herself that here was a man who had devoted his life to dissipation, instead of using his money and position for the improvement of society. In the face of that realization, Scholastica’s good sense deserted her, as it sometimes did, and she had the sudden urge to give him a good set-down.