The Notorious Duke Read online

  “They’re promoting a school for women,” the other gentleman said a bit too loudly, as though continuing his jest. “Not something of interest to the Duke of Penhurst, I’d say.”

  Unwittingly, he gave Scholastica her opportunity. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she noted, giving the duke a bright smile. “Perhaps Your Grace can recommend the school for your children or grandchildren!”

  This time there was no mistaking the nobleman’s expression. Beneath the veneer of politesse, there was a flicker of something dangerous, as if Scholastica had roused a sleeping beast, casually lethal in its intent.

  Even the dazed Miss Rawlings must have seen it, for she suddenly moved, insinuating herself between the two younger ladies and the two gentlemen. “We really should be going along home now, girls,” she said, reaching out to take Scholastica’s arm and pluck her from the wolf’s clutches. However, Scholastica had to admit that the man hardly looked like a rake right now, his handsome face having been stripped of its languid pose.

  Indeed, the last glimpse she had of the Notorious Duke, he was eyeing her with no little enmity.

  CHAPTER TWO

  All the way back to her home, Scholastica was rewarded with the glowing praise of her companions for her handling of the “intrusion,” as Miss Rawlings so tactfully put it. Perversely enough, it was Matilda who spoke most vehemently against the duke, while Miss Rawlings appeared to have undergone a conversion, or at least a swaying of her usually firm opinions.

  But even as she accepted their kudos, Scholastica had to admit to a bit of disappointment. After all, it wasn’t every day that she met such an infamous personage, and yet their encounter had been very brief indeed. Too brief, it struck her now. If she had not felt so compelled to jeer at him, Scholastica realized, she might have continued their encounter a little longer. Just for her own edification, of course, and not because she was beguiled by a pair of broad shoulders and a voice like warm chocolate.

  Parting with her two companions at the gate to the estate, Scholastica proceeded to make her way into the house and upstairs with no little chagrin. Although she could not claim to have been unaffected by the duke’s looks and manner, far more interesting to her had been the stimulating nature of their exchange. Against all reasoning, she had enjoyed sparring with him.

  And it was that pleasure that made her regret her sharp tongue as she prepared to change for supper. If truth be told, she was becoming a little bored with the same old acquaintances, though she would never admit as much out loud. Cubby was so proud of his eclectic household, of what he called the potpourri of ideas that ebbed and flowed around him, but the fact of the matter was that very few new and original thoughts were exchanged at his gatherings.

  His guests all held the same “radical” notions, although after the trouble in France, people had turned away from seeking seminal societal change toward more cerebral philosophies. But it was Cubby who led the group, Cubby’s generosity that financed any publishing, Cubby who invited the attendees or the long-term guests. And they all tried to please him or they weren’t asked to return, an especial consideration for those often-impoverished writers and thinkers who were glad of a good meal. It was a cynical view, perhaps, but as she grew older, Scholastica began to believe the salons were less an exchange than a parroting of Cubby’s latest version of enlightenment.

  The Notorious Duke, Scholastica suspected, wouldn’t parrot anyone. He was a law unto himself, if rumor was to be believed, indifferent to anyone’s influence or opinion, except for the Prince Regent himself perhaps. He was certainly different than anyone else she had ever met. And, as one taught to appreciate individualism, Scholastica now wished she had had the opportunity to explore his character a little more, although from his reputation that might not be a good idea. All too easily, she recalled just how that deep voice had spread over her like melting wax and how those dark eyes had caught and held her own.

  Scholastica shivered. It was probably just as well that she would never see him again, for she counted herself well above the sort of feckless females who swooned over a handsome face. Never in her life had she stooped so low as to curry a man’s favor, and she would not do so now. Let the other, lesser, ladies of Brighton flock to the Notorious Duke, witlessly begging for his attention, but not Scholastica. She had more important things to occupy her.

  At least, that’s what she told herself as she hurried down the steps to supper, late again, seemingly because she had lapsed into an overlong reminiscence of her afternoon’s encounter. Well, no more! She was going to put Pagan Penhurst from her mind, once and for all, she decided, only to pause, her hand on the heavy carved rail as she gaped like a hayseed. In this instance, she could be excused for staring, she decided, for at the bottom of the stair stood none other than the very object of her thoughts, the Notorious Duke himself.

  Scholastica blinked, certain for a moment that she had conjured him from her ruminations, yet surely no memory could do justice to the actual man: tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a masculine power that brooding poets like Byron would never have and fops like Brummel could only aspire to.

  He was talking to Cubby, but seeming to have sensed her regard, he turned his head slightly, and his gaze met hers. Too directly. And far too intimately. Indeed, it was as though no one and nothing stood between them, as if they two were the only residents of the house, the town, and, indeed, the world. And then, just as though he could read her thoughts, his lips tipped slightly, sensually, in a kind of knowing curve that set her back up. For that smug smile told her quite clearly that he thought her one of those witless females who melted at his feet and leaped into his bed. Stiffening her spine and lifting her chin, Scholastic stepped down, determined to show him that she was different.

  “Ah, Scholastica, dear!” Cubby greeted her with his usual jovial excess, though Scholastica could only manage a stiff nod.

  He turned back toward the Notorious Duke with a good-natured grin. “Your Grace, my daughter Scholastica. A gem, isn’t she?”

  Without waiting for verification, Cubby continued with the introductions. “Scholastica, this is the Duke of Penhurst, a frequent visitor to Brighton, are you not, Your Grace?” Cubby asked.

  “Quite so, though I’ve never had the pleasure of attending one of your lively gatherings,” the duke answered.

  “An error I am most happy to rectify,” Cubby said with a hearty chuckle.

  “Miss Scholastica, a pleasure indeed,” the duke purred as he nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. Steeling herself against the allure of those dark eyes, Scholastica was tempted to stick out her tongue, but since Cubby was looking on genially, she restrained herself.

  “May I take you in to supper?” the duke asked, presenting his arm as though her assent was a forgone conclusion. The arrogant man needed to be brought down a peg, Scholastica thought, and she was just the one to do it! Unfortunately, she could hardly refuse, much to her disappointment, but when she thought of what dining with the Hornsbys was like, her spirits rose. In a quarter hour, the elegant nobleman would probably be running screaming from the room. Smiling a bit devilishly, Scholastica nodded in seeming agreement.

  In actuality, she couldn’t wait to see the Notorious Duke lose a bit of that confident composure. It shouldn’t take long. Neither cook nor housekeeper ever knew how many would be sitting down to eat and since Cubby could never keep very good help, the menu was usually questionable, as well. Quite a few of Scholastica’s ten half siblings were in attendance, as were several other current residents of the household, including a poetess of middling talent and a fiery orator. In addition, some young men who frequented the gatherings, arguing laboriously among themselves, were availing themselves of open invitations.

  Surely the duke had never seen the like before, Scholastica thought with glee. Perhaps he would be so discomposed as to never return! However, when she slanted a glance at his handsome face, he seemed completely at ease even as he led her to table against the strict
order of etiquette. Undoubtedly, the man could do whatever he pleased and presumably did, even as to choosing whom to escort.

  He took a seat beside her with supreme grace, and Scholastica had the grim suspicion that he would be just as confident and in command anywhere. And although she waited for the noise, the odd variety of food, the erratic service and the long, tangled arguments about literature and philosophy to drive him mad, he did not even fidget, assuming a relaxed yet elegant pose, as though he were slightly bored.

  Scholastica couldn’t tell if the posture was real or simply part of his persona as a nobleman and rake, but despite his seeming languor, she could feel him watching her intently, rather like a hawk eyeing a squeaking morsel. Whether those dark eyes held genuine admiration or the pique of a man spurned, she didn’t know. Either way, she was determined to ignore him.

  However, as the evening wore on, and the man beside her made no move to speak with her, Scholastica found herself becoming the one piqued. As usual, most of the other young men at the table vied for her attention, and she gave it willingly, perhaps showing more partiality than was her wont, but the Notorious Duke was not one of those seeking her favor. Indeed, he said nothing, only occasionally adding a word to the general conversation or whispering something she couldn’t quite catch to the lady on his left, the middling poetess, who was hardly the sort to catch his interest.

  Why had he come? Scholastica wondered as she became more and more vexed at his behavior. And just what was he doing here? As the last of the fruit and biscuits was set out, she was tempted to ask him outright—or to pinch him to see if he were real. She was beginning to think him only a figment of an imagination desperate for stimulation.

  “Plum?” The sound of his deep voice after his long inattention so startled her that Scholastica swung ’round in surprise. And the sight of him, so very handsome and relaxed, while she had worked herself into quite a state—most unusual, mind you!—set her to bedevil him.

  “Oh, Your Grace, are you still here? I thought you expired during the first course, or at the very least, fell asleep. That sometimes happens to the aged, you know,” she confided, determined to prick his enormous vanity right where she knew it was most sensitive. He eyed her with some surprise, and although she had hoped to disturb his excessive composure a bit, Scholastica was totally unprepared for his laughter. Like all else about him, it was smooth and sensual and so compelling that she was hard-pressed not to swoon.

  “Oh, I’m still here, and alive, and awake on all suits,” he said, leaning far too close. “Care to test me, darling?”

  The intimacy of his stance, his voice, and his words made her flush, and for once in her life, Scholastica wished fervently for the useless fans that other ladies found indispensable. Now, she could certainly use one, for the air around her seemed to heat to an alarming degree quite suddenly. Indeed, she might have used her hand or her napkin to create a welcome breeze, but, thankfully, Pagan Penhurst leaned back just then, resuming his place with easy grace, as though nothing had happened.

  The change was accomplished so quickly that Scholastica blinked in amazement, wondering if she had imagined his transformation from bored lounger to predator ready to pounce upon her. And yet, she had the eerie sensation that he was only barely leashed, and could, at any moment, strike, inducing heat and confusion and witless longing in his prey. But, surely, she was not his prey.

  Flattering as it might be to assume his presence here had to do with her, Scholastica could not really believe it. Although rumors abounded whenever the Notorious Duke visited Brighton, they usually involved some married noblewoman or, less often, an infamous member of the demimonde. Pagan Penhurst would hardly spend his time pursuing green girls of Scholastica’s ilk. Would he?

  “I wonder that you were so eager to attend one of Cubby’s evenings when you contribute so little, Your Grace,” Scholastica commented in an effort to discover his intentions.

  His lips curved in that all-too-knowing smile. “Oh, I assure you that I have found something of interest here,” he said.

  Scholastica frowned at that supreme arrogance. “One wonders, too, Your Grace, just what you did to deserve a sobriquet like Pagan,” she said pointedly. Several noblemen had nicknames, especially those of ill repute, such as Hellgate and Cripplegate, and Pagan certainly suggested a life of depravity.

  “I was born,” he said. At Scholastica’s startled look, he smiled, a most beguiling and intimate curve of his mouth. “That’s my name.”

  “Oh,” Scholastica whispered. Since aristocratic gentlemen were usually known by their titles, the use of his given name was unusual. “No doubt you have managed to live up to it,” she noted, but the Notorious Duke only laughed, robbing her of any verbal victory.

  Becoming aware, once more, of the conversation ebbing and flowing around them, Scholastica decided it was time that she made her own views extremely clear, lest this man actually think her fair game in whatever sport he was engaging in.

  “So, I assume by your presence here, after our encounter this afternoon, that you have an interest in the education of women that you wish to pursue further?” she asked.

  He shrugged, a movement of masculine elegance no doubt intended to make her forget the course of their dialogue, and very nearly successful. Scholastica blinked at those wide shoulders, covered in such a tight midnight-blue coat as to be indecent, and nearly lost her train of thought. She drew a deep breath. “But don’t you think women would better serve as wives, if they could hold a discourse with their husbands, engaging their wits, not only their eyes?”

  “You needn’t work so hard to convince me, darling,” he said, leaning close once more. “I can’t abide stupid people of either gender.” He answered her smoothly, with a flash of white teeth, and Scholastica was so taken with his manner that she was a moment digesting his words. But when she did, she stared at him in surprise. He was telling the truth, she knew, and yet it was so simply put that all the declamation of the room’s philosophers seemed silly in comparison.

  Still, Scholastica wasn’t about to concede just yet. “And how do you reconcile that attitude with your reputation as the Notorious Duke?” she asked, daring to voice the question that was uppermost in her own mind.

  He surveyed her from under those thick lashes, but Scholastica had the fortitude to withstand that liquid gaze. For a while anyway. He smiled. “Notorious? I hardly think so. Notorious for what?” he asked, though Scholastica suspected he knew full well.

  But if he wanted plain speaking, she was more than ready to oblige. “From what I understand, you are most known, not for any accomplishments in politics or science or letters,” Scholastica said, her reprimand implicit. “But as a ruthless seducer of women.”

  He lifted one dark brow. “Ruthless? Hardly. Only those few who call themselves my enemies would deem me ruthless. As for the other...” He paused to shrug negligently once more, and Scholastica struggled to maintain her composure. “I like women, and, by my own good fortune, they like me, so I would protest that we enjoy each other. Shouldn’t the seeking out of pleasure be the privilege of both genders?”

  Of course, such a philosophy was often part of the arguments for equality for women, including those voiced by Cubby himself, but neither he nor any of those men could be called a ruthless seducer. “Yes, but doesn’t a rake prey on women simply for his own satisfaction?” Scholastica asked.

  The duke smiled once more, his full lips curving into the kind of grin that could only be described as wicked, and again she felt the heat in the room rise as he leaned close. “My darling Scholastica, if you imagine that any of my women were left unsatisfied, you are laboring under a misapprehension,” he whispered, his voice full of promise, and Scholastica felt her cheeks color, for his reputation claimed no less.

  When he took her hand, she nearly jumped as half-formed fears of him leading her off to some private spot to prove his point made her wary, for her own prickly fortitude seemed to be deserting her in the face
of his relentless charm. But he only lifted one dark brow, as if in amusement, then escorted her to the withdrawing room. Scholastica let loose a long breath of relief. Or at least that’s what she told herself.

  Around her, the same old arguments raged, and Scholastica expected the duke to lounge back and assume his pose of boredom. But, as usual, he surprised her. He actually joined in, fending off the speeches of most of her father’s luminaries with razor-sharp wit and reasoning, and making several of them appear doltish in their thinking. Cubby roared with laughter at his murmured comments, while the poetess hung on to his every word, apparently struck dumb by his magnificence, just as Miss Rawlings had been.

  And in the face of his supreme confidence and grace and eloquence, Scholastica’s retinue, as she privately called them, looked like callow boys in comparison. Most of them were callow boys, she realized. They were too earnest and puling and posturing. They came to the house, claiming interest in the discussions and arguing for the vindication of the rights of all people, but it hadn’t taken Scholastica long to become cynical about their behavior. Although they professed to treat everyone equally, she had quickly deduced that Matilda and Miss Rawlings and other women of a certain age or appearance received far less attention than she did. It was to be expected, she supposed, even of the most freethinking male, but it was their pretense that so annoyed her.

  With Pagan there was no such pretense. Indeed, Scholastica couldn’t imagine him doing or saying anything that he did not believe. Right or wrong, he was true to himself. And she couldn’t help admiring him for that. His confidence, which so annoyed her when he leaned close, now seemed nothing more than justified. There was something shockingly appealing about a man of such experience and elegance and wit, and with a kind of sad irony, Scholastica realized that he had spoiled her now, for how could she ever look the same upon any of her father’s so-called geniuses? Pagan Penhurst, rake and rogue and duke of the realm, was far more intelligent and insightful than any of them.