Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)

Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)

Sophie Jordan





She works to live . . . One would think the last place a beauty like Fallon O'Rourke could keep her virtue was in the Mayfair mansion of London's most licentious duke, the notorious Dominic Hale. Yet Fallon — who's endured nothing but lecherous advances since her father's tragic death — is perfectly safe there . . . disguised as a footman! Beneath the notice of the dark-haired devil with his smoldering blue eyes and sinful smile, Fallon never imagines her secret will be discovered. But how long can her deception last when she begins to wish she is one of the many women traipsing in and out of the sinful rogue's bedchamber? He lives to sin . . . Most men envy the duke, never suspecting his pleasure-loving ways are a desperate attempt to escape, however briefly, the pain of a past that's left him with a heart of stone. Only one woman can break down his defenses. Only one woman can win his love . . . if she reveals her secret and succumbs to the sins of the wicked duke.





Prologue


Tears ran cold paths down Fallon O’Rourke’s cheeks, but not a sound passed her chilled lips. Not a sob. Not a whimper. In the past fortnight, she’d bled all noise from her tears. Tucked into bed on the second floor of the Penwich School for Virtuous Girls, she held herself still as death and managed not to shatter into sobs.

Her breath fanned before her in frothy clouds of white, one after another. Shivering, she huddled beneath the threadbare blanket and wondered if she would ever feel warm again. If a night would ever descend when her feet did not ache from chill.Oh ,Da .

“Pssst.”

Fallon lifted her head. Two girls crouched at the foot of her bed, blankets draped over their thin shoulders. She recognized them. Not because they looked so very different from the other whey-faced girls in starched pinafores to march the halls every day, but because they had watched her since her arrival with a curious intensity. Their wide, solemn eyes followed her everywhere, unlike the other girls who minded their affairs, busy about their own misery.

And it was misery. A constant battle against the hunger, the cold…each other.

She sat up, tense and instantly wary. A pair of older girls had jumped a smaller girl only yesterday, stealing her meager ration. Yet she possessed nothing these girls could want. And at thirteen, she was bigger and heavier than most here. The dark-haired one looked as if the wind howling on the moors outside could knock her over. No doubt her rations were stolen with some frequency.

Fallon shifted, rising up on her elbows. Almost in reminder, her back stung from the strap Master Brocklehurst had administered to her only today, punishment for daring to remove her cap from her head. Any more such beatings and she would soon be as pitiable as the forty-odd girls battling for survival at Penwich.

Wetting parched lips, she spoke. “Yes?”

The oldest-looking of the pair—possibly older than Fallon even—blinked bright blue eyes, the only color in her otherwise wan face.



“We mean you no harm.” She rounded the bed. “Come with us.”

Perhaps it was the kindness of her voice…or simply that she spoke at all in a place where none seemed inclined—or permitted—to speak. Whatever the reason, Fallon swung her legs over the side of the bed. Slipping on her well-worn boots, she laced them up and followed the girls past cots of sleeping girls and downstairs.

They crept through the kitchen where Cook slept, snoring loudly near a hearth of dying embers. Fallon focused on the back of the smaller girl, watching the rhythmic sway of her dark plait, thick as a man’s wrist, bouncing against her back.

A blast of frigid wind met Fallon when she stepped outside, slashing her cheeks. The older girl took her companion’s hand and held out another for Fallon. She looked down at that hand, hesitating to take it in her own.

The girl smiled, as though understanding. “My name is Evelyn.” She shrugged. “Evie.” She dipped her head toward the smaller girl. “This is Marguerite.”

Marguerite lifted her gaze, revealing witchlike eyes that glowed gold in the murky night. She gave a shy nod.



“Come along,” Evie directed before plunging into the winter’s very teeth. She and Marguerite moved over the frozen ground with the speed of hares, the frayed hems of their nightgowns flashing beneath their blankets.

Biting her lip, Fallon glanced behind her, almost as though she suspected the specter of Master Brocklehurst to rise up on the night. He had enjoyed her beating. She heard it in the pant of his breath as he brought the strap against her back and saw it in the gleam of his eyes when it had been over. He would relish doing it again. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She did not wish to give him an excuse. Evie and Marguerite grew smaller, their gray blanketed figures dirtlike smudges on the white horizon.

Muttering, she dove into the slicing wind, her legs working fiercely through the drifts to catch up with the other two as they rounded the back of the sprawling school.

Moments later, she arrived at a ramshackle stable crouched in Penwich’s shadow, a stitch pinching her side, cold snow slithering down the inside of her boot. The girls held the door open for her, and Fallon helped them fight the wind to close it. With the thick wood door shut, the wind sounded far away, a dull howl in the distance. Evie and Marguerite clambered up a ladder to the loft. Fallon followed, clearing the top as Evie dragged a bucket from behind a pile of hay and Marguerite crouched in a corner, unraveling a bit of cloth.