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.

Also by Anabelle Bryant

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

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

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.

Chapter Two

“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.”

“Yes, of course. It is your aunt. I have bad news, I am afraid.”

The solicitor paused but a moment; long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“She has passed. It was the end of last week. I understand she did not suffer, although she succumbed to a rather severe illness.”

The solicitor’s words rushed past in a blur of colliding memories.

“Her staff acted on her wishes and she has already been placed in the ground. Naturally, the legal proceedings, the will and her estate ...” Derwent’s voice dropped off as if waiting for some signal to continue.

Devlin digested the news with solemn acceptance. Aunt Min was his only blood relative; feisty dear woman and sister of his late mother. While she lived only two days’ travel from London, he hadn’t seen her as often as he’d liked. He should have made more of an effort. Blast, he’d never even known she’d fallen ill, never mind he’d not visited her estate in over three years. A fleeting pain whipped through his chest. She was one of the few people in his life who accepted him for who he was and did not try to make him bend. He would truly miss her.

Unanswered questions tangled with remorse at the unexpected news of her passing. He walked to the sideboard and poured a short drink.

“Brandy, Derwent?” The solicitor would not remark on the emotion heard in the words, not if the man valued his position.

The solicitor shifted in his chair, indecision evident on his sallow face. “It is highly unusual for me to accept—”

“Do you want it or not?” He wouldn’t waste energy standing on convention.

When the man gave further pause, Devlin strode forward and pushed a snifter into his hand. “It’ll do you good.”

He sat in the leather chair behind his desk and stared at the fire another moment before he returned his attention to the solicitor, his face clear of all feeling.

“Is my signature required somewhere?” Only a simpleton would miss the controlled tone of the question. The meeting would be all business from here out.

“Actually, I only have a partial amount of the paperwork. There seems to be a complication.” Setting the untouched snifter on the desk, Derwent picked up his brown leather case and fumbled through a ridiculous amount of folded paper and well-worn files.

In an exercise of patience, Devlin removed the snifter from the mahogany desktop and returned both glasses to the tray on the sideboard. An undercurrent of anxiety scratched at his skin from the inside out, to grieve, if only a little, for the loss of his aunt. She had lived to eighty-two. A rich, full life.

When he spoke, his voice sliced the air, as he was anxious to dispatch the man and reclaim a little solitude. “What kind of complication?”

Derwent’s Adam’s apple bobbed with unnatural vigour as he suffered an audible swallow. He mustered the courage to reply despite the indecision that sketched worry lines across his face. Indeed, Devlin heard the man’s voice crack.

“There is her estate, The Willows, and all entitlements that follow to you.”

Again the solicitor hesitated and Devlin’s temper steeped. “Continue.”

His stern order reverberated across the quiet room. Why was there need for all this secrecy? His aunt was the kindest person he’d ever known, and that included all memories he held of his mother. Aunt Min proved a loving, generous woman who stalwartly refused to believe an iota of ill feelings of anyone. What could cause Derwent to stall with such trepidation?

“And then there is the matter of your aunt’s ward, Your Grace.”

If Devlin hadn’t been staring at the man, drilling him with the intensity of his obsidian eyes, he might have believed he’d misheard, yet the words had been processed with the utmost clarity. He needed another brandy. “Her ward? You must be mistaken. My aunt never mentioned a ward. Besides, who in their right mind would entrust a child to a woman of advanced age? Granted, Aunt Min was the very picture of gentleness, but still …” His voice trailed off as he considered the absurdity of the situation. It had to be a mistake. A ward? Unlikely.

“No, I have the documents here.” Derwent flustered through his leather bag. “The papers do not explain much, I will admit, and the whole arrangement seems a bit vague, but it is valid nonetheless.” The solicitor paused and pulled a large file full of papers from his satchel. He opened it at an awkward angle on his lap as if in fervent search of something. “Aha.”

Upon hearing Derwent’s triumphant exclamation, Devlin raised his eyes from where he studied the flames in the firebox.

“I knew I would find it. There is a letter to you, left in your aunt’s bedchamber and discovered upon her passing.”

The solicitor offered a long thin envelope in his direction. Devlin peered at the foolscap, debating whether or not to accept it, but then palmed the document and tucked it into the blotter of his desk mat. The action troubled Derwent.

“Aren’t you … aren’t you going to read it?”

Unsure of exactly what the envelope might contain, Devlin was damn well sure he wanted to open it in private. With the goal in mind, he made quick work of dispatching his solicitor, ringing for Reeston, and reclaiming his seat behind his desk with the efficiency of a sword parry.

He stared at the envelope in contemplation then finally broke the seal. He smoothed the vellum out before him. His aunt’s familiar penmanship met his eyes and for a moment, a tiny niggling of emotion welled in his chest. He clamped it down without question and began to read.

Dearest Devlin,

If you are reading this letter, then I must apologize. I am sorry I have left you alone in this world. The Wharncliffe history has not been kind to you. You have weathered the scorn and scandal of many years, none of which you brought upon yourself. I hope over the years our relationship has served as a balm for the harsh realities that have made up your short thirty years.

When you are old, like I am, and you stop to reflect on your life, I hope you have little to regret, little that you’d wish to alter. Time moves so very quickly, it seems only a short time ago that I held you close as a tiny lad. But I no longer have the energy to express the joy you’ve brought to me over the years; instead I ask one final favour.

A few years ago, I was entrusted with a responsibility I’ve kept close to my heart. I now ask you to serve in my absence. Alex has had a troubled past and needs a kind and understanding guardian who offers acceptance and does not beleaguer with questions. I ask that you offer the same kindness I’ve shown you and guide my ward into society, help to arrange a respectable, agreeable marriage match. It is a large responsibility but one I can depend on you to carry through. Thank you, Devlin.

With loving gratitude,

Aunt Min

Devlin stared at the foolscap long after he’d finished reading. He knew without a doubt his aunt had cared deeply for him, as if he were her son, and yet to entrust him with this responsibility jarred his brain. Nothing in the letter indicated the age of the child, the moniker Alex, the only clue.

Still the idea was not completely undesirable. He liked children well enough. That is, as long as they went home after an hour or so. Years ago, a few of his acquaintances succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap and found marital bliss. Their children littered his lawn during summer picnics and romped through the gardens. Their antics could almost be considered charming. Of course, he’d never contemplated having one of the little creatures himself. In fact, he’d taken every measure to ensure it never happened.

How bad could it be? He would teach the lad to play chess and fence; to perfect the ideal golf swing. Reluctance faded and Devlin Ravensdale, only Duke of Wharncliffe, warmed to the idea with a wry smile, and relished the thought of what the ton would say of his newfound responsibility.

Chapter Three

The following morning, Devlin’s booted feet clipped a persistent rhythm on the cobbles as he walked with purpose to the stables, a man on a mission. He’d instructed Reeston to have his most comfortable carriage made ready, his finest team, and a footman to accompany him to Aunt Min’s estate. Two days’ ride was not worthy of his biggest barouche as its cumbersome construction would hamper his travels, but he wished to make the best impression upon his new ward and did not know what baggage the young man might possess. Out of use for a number of years, the barouche appeared worse for the wear. Nevertheless, it would serve his purpose.

London wasn’t known for favourable weather, and the grey haze that filtered sparse rays of sunlight reminding him of the poor sleep he’d suffered the night before. After receiving such distressing news in twofold yesterday afternoon, he should have anticipated he would suffer the tremors. And yet even though he’d taken a late night brandy and retired early, he doubted thirty minutes passed before the episode began.

It was the same every time, although the degree to which the attack gripped him varied on occasion. He inevitably awoke with little remembrance, aside from his sweat-drenched night clothes and knotted bed linens. Reeston interceded when possible, his butler ever alert since Devlin suffered his worst episode a number of years ago.

On that evening he’d awoken the entire household with his nightmarish sounds, his thrashing causing the water pitcher and vase of flowers on the nightstand to crash to the floor. Unfortunately the episode occurred during a house party at the country estate of a friend. The details of his experience whipped through the servants like wildfire to extend to every guest in attendance and perpetuate the rumours of his madness.

And while there was no way to prevent an episode, Devlin surmised the tremors were prone to thrive when his underlying thoughts, more than his most immediate worries, were at unrest. Perhaps whenever he faced an unpleasant situation or butted nose to nose with a problem he could not solve. The few doctors whom he’d bothered to consult offered little advice. Instead, the episodes enabled him to become more comfortable within the life he’d established on his estate and supplied another reason to rarely leave home.

As he neared the stable, the barouche pulled forward, the Wharncliffe crest lacklustre in the mocking morning haze, a shadowy echo of his disposition. Orion, his horse, led the team. He was a prime example of a stallion and not just a fast ride, but a significant investment. When put to stud, the stallion would produce a stable full of excellent horseflesh.

Devlin reached up with his left hand to offer Orion’s nose an affectionate rub, as his right worked to check the bridle. Then he climbed the extended steps and settled inside just as the coachman fastened his case. With a sharp whistle, they lurched forward.

The ride proved uneventful through most of the first day with only his muddied thoughts for consideration. Saddened by the reason necessitating the journey to The Willows, he was curious of the lad he’d meet upon arrival and more than a bit plagued by his neglect.