Authors: Anabelle Bryant
Duke of Darkness
London, 1817
The Duke of Wharncliffe, Devlin Ravensdale, is devastated when he receives a missive announcing the death of his only relative, Aunt Min. Consumed with guilt, he regrets not having visited her in years, despite he’s chosen a reclusive lifestyle to hide his secretive past. Saddened by the loss, he dutifully honors his aunt’s last wish, to take responsibility of a young ward, Alex, and arrange a suitable marriage.
Reluctant, yet determined, Devlin sets off to collect his young charge, only to discover the
he
is a
she
, and Alexandra is stunningly beautiful…posing an unexpected temptation.
Tasked with finding an eligible bachelor, Devlin is forced back into society, a world where he has something of a dark reputation. Worse yet, it seems the beguiling beauty has a secret of her own to hide. Still, finding a husband for Alexandra shouldn’t prove difficult as long as he’s able to let her go.
To Love A Wicked Scoundrel
Duke of Darkness
Anabelle Bryant
ANABELLE BRYANT
began reading at the age of three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel; especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?
Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle has earned her Master’s Degree and is pursuing her Doctorate Degree in Education. She proudly owns her addiction to French fries and stationery supplies, as well as her frightening ineptitude with technology.
A firm believer in romance,Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do.
She enjoys talking with her fans. Visit her website at
AnabelleBryant.com
.
For anyone who believes in happily ever after. ~ This one started it all.
Contents
London 1817
“You’ve gained a little weight.” Devlin’s observation broke the silence as he slid from the bed and moved to the sideboard intent on pouring a brandy. He glanced over his shoulder to see the reaction his words had caused, then reached for the decanter and raised a crystal glass.
“Do you think so?”
Amanda’s question revealed concern more than upset, and he watched with half interest as she sat upright in bed, pushing the sheets and velvet coverlet to her waist. She flicked her eyes in his direction, then down to her bare breasts as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle.
“Are you sure?”
Devlin Ravensdale, Duke of Wharncliffe, was always sure but he did not voice the knowledge. Instead he pushed off the far wall, swallowed a healthy amount of brandy, and meandered towards the bed. He moved without a care, because he hadn’t one. Coming into the dukedom at a young age, he’d grown more comfortable with his title than his aristocratic peers, learning to manipulate its use with an innate ease. Entitlement brought many things, including the lovely Widow Penslow, lounged atop the silk bed linens like a pampered, well-kept pet.
He took another mouthful of brandy and leaned in for a kiss. A rush of liquor filled her mouth as she tangled her tongue with his in hungry enthusiasm. Anxious to please. Always anxious to please.
With an abrupt turn, he pulled away and reached for his underclothes and trousers. “Perhaps a tad.”
“Must you leave already?”
Amanda extended her bottom lip in what she believed portrayed an appealing pout, equal parts naïve innocent and sophisticated temptress, but he wanted none of it. His interest slack, visiting her townhouse had become an exercise more in tedium than in enjoyment. If handled correctly, the entire situation could end without issue. The last thing he needed was another knot to untangle.
He buttoned his trousers and reached for his shirt. “I have business to address at Kenley Manor. My solicitor will be left waiting.” He wouldn’t share more.
As the last in the Wharncliffe line, he did what he wanted as desire struck, with no one to call him to task or question his assorted interests, no matter how indulgent. While some would mourn the sole responsibility of propagating an heir, he harboured no pressure to fulfil his obligation. He would write the final chapter of Wharncliffe history. A measure of defiance ignited his temper. Who would venture to marry the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor anyway? It was easier to avoid the undertaking.
Still, there was no way to evade the task at hand. A fast break would be virtually painless. Amanda’s emotions were of no consequence.
“Did you notice the new silk wall coverings, Darling?” She indicated the room with a swift wave of her hand.
She had no idea what was about to happen. Pity that.
“I was just between your thighs. Let’s hope I wasn’t contemplating the wall coverings.” He stifled a chuckle because he
had
noticed. He was unsure exactly when the observation arose, but it occurred during the sex act and that one unimportant fact confirmed his decision to end their liaison. Of course, he’d already paid her exorbitant decorating bills. Amanda amassed them in the same manner females collected hair ribbons, but that remained a small price in the larger scale of things. He could never spend his wealth in this lifetime or another after. What mattered a few hundred pounds on wall coverings?
“But I want you to stay.”
She inflected her voice in a show of desire, a calculated seductive purr, and Devlin released an impatient exhale. He finished tying his cravat and reached below the bed’s counterpane to retrieve his boots. Having the matched pair in front of him, he wasted no time in pulling them on then completed his dress with a superfine black waistcoat. He picked a minuscule speck of lint from his left coat sleeve and steeled his patience in preparation for a tantrum.
“Our time is done.” He stared at her with meaningful intent. Clearly she didn’t understand the magnitude of his statement. Or was she taking it well? Might he be so lucky? Doubtful.
“When shall I expect you next, Darling? There is a new show to premiere at the Drury Theatre this Friday. You will take me to see it, won’t you?” She chose a plump fruit from the tray of sweets and strawberries resting on the bed table and held it out to him. A demure smile offered an additional enticement.
“No, I will not.” Bluntness had its purposes and this was one of them. He’d a meeting in forty-five minutes, and while he prided his excellent horsemanship, there was no accounting for the crowded London streets. “We are done. Finished. I won’t be coming back. It’s been delightful, but this is goodbye.” She’d have to be daft not to understand now. He’d never considered her so.
“Darling, why? Did I not please you? Was there something you wanted? Something else I need do?”
He clenched his teeth at the rising emotion in her voice and the realization their disentanglement would not proceed as he desired. A more severe tactic was necessary.
“No, you misunderstand. It’s not you. Not in the least. I’m sure you’ve heard the whispers. I’ve a proclivity for solitude.” He hated to molest one of the most common rumours bandied about in reference to his personae, but it offered the wisest choice. Perhaps they would be able to part with civility if she blamed it on his madness and eccentric tendencies.
The oddity of his nature
. He would admit to any of the ton’s beliefs to be out of the townhouse and back on his horse. “Naturally I will settle an exorbitant sum upon you, as you’ve been most amenable.” The mention of money mollified her temper and her expression changed the slightest degree. He ventured a step towards the door.
“Damn you, I don’t want you to leave.” Her brow furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and indecision, torn between the mysterious dark man in her bedchamber and the promise of a generous settlement.
He schooled a smile. Widow Penslow would choose the money. He doubted his appeal would trump a handsome sum. She was a woman accustomed to getting her own way. Perhaps that evoked the rub. He almost chuckled, until the rustle of sheets evoked a cursory glance towards the bed.
Her eyes glistened with the threat of tears. Bloody hell, he hated tears. What did he have now, thirty minutes to cross London?
“I’m no good for you. Believe me, you’ll feel better when the settlement arrives.” He pulled the door open and swept through, relieved to be gone before the hysterics began.
Yet there was no mistaking the clatter of the fruit tray striking the wall as he left, or the thud of the champagne bottle as it followed. So much for the new wall coverings.
“Your solicitor awaits you in the green parlour, Your Grace.” Reeston, a man of sixty years and impeccable training, had served as butler at Kenley Manor for Devlin’s entire life. Every servant from head cook to scullery maid was of the finest training and the most congenial nature. It made sense to surround oneself with servants who served a dual purpose due to the long stretches of time Devlin remained in house. The servants constituted his community as well as his employed. If the ton got a hold of that tidbit, without a doubt they’d add it to his ever growing list of idiosyncrasies. It was rather unheard of for any master of the house to play chess with his valet or invite his servants to dine; but the people who cared for Kenley Manor and accepted his superfluous existence were vital to his well being. They protected his privacy as if their own.
And well they should. Any one of the older servants could easily expose the horror of Wharncliffe history in intricate detail, and yet he slept with the utmost confidence that no one under his roof would betray him; at least on the rare occasion sleep beckoned and the tremors did not hold him captive.
With a nod in Reeston’s direction, Devlin took the long hall to the green parlour, swept into the room, behind his desk, and eyed the ormolu clock where it sat on the mantel. He’d made it with two minutes to spare.
“Good afternoon, Derwent. Now, what is so important you needed an appointment with urgency?” Impatience got the better of him and he strode to the far window of the parlour and picked up a small crystal paperweight to toss between his palms.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I realize the insistent nature of my note, but it was imperative I see you with haste.”
The tone in his solicitor’s voice, more than the rush of his words, caused Devlin to pin him with a wary stare. “What is it?” A moment of apprehension stretched his patience thinner. He replaced the paperweight and advanced. “Out with it.”