Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)(15)

“Don’t know why his lordship wastes himself on tarts like that,” another chimed.

“He could have himself a good, proper girl.” The maid’s brown eyes landed with interest on Fallon again. She curled a finger around a fat curl that escaped the confines of her cap.

“Off with you all. To your duties,” Mr. Adams commanded from the foyer, clapping his hands.

The servants began to disperse. The petite maid lingered, smiling coyly at Fallon, her fingers now toying with the edge of her crisp cap.

A sudden voice—dark and rich as spiced cider—stoked the air. “And who are you?”

A ripple of shock swam through Fallon at the biting question.He was not supposed to notice her.

Slowly, she turned, holding her breath, praying he did not recognize her. He observed her with a stony expression. Tall as she stood, she dropped her head back to gaze into steel gray eyes, stopping herself just short of dropping into a deferential curtsey. His very scent wafted to her. He smelled of man and warm skin. The pulse at her neck hammered a jittery, uneven tempo.

With an arm across her middle, she bowed from the waist. “Your Grace.”

“Ah, Your Grace,” Mr. Adams called as he worked his way up the steps at a steady clip. “I intended to introduce Francis to you this morning.”

The duke gave Fallon a quick look-over, then glanced to the blushing maid beside her. “Perhaps you should speak with him instead. Already he does not hasten to command.”

Fallon frowned. “Your Grace?”

“Mr. Adams gave a directive and here you linger, flirting with a housemaid. Did he not command you return to your duties?”

Fallon gaped.Flirting?

The duke turned cool gray eyes on Mr. Adams. “See he understands he is not to harass the maids.”

Harassthe maids? Of all the absurd,impossible scenarios…She choked on hot words of denial, but before she could defend herself, he turned on his heels. Fallon watched as the duke disappeared down the corridor, the broad expanse of his bare back rippling as he moved.

Shaking off her stupor, her gaze snapped to Mr. Adams. “I assure you, sir, I was not—”

“The duke is protective of the females in his household.”

The same duke that had so scandalized her in the coach? The same duke who just treated a lover so callously in front of the watchful eyes of his staff? He actually possessed a shred of decency? A laugh bubbled free from inside. Appalled, she pressed her fingers to her lips, and the sound escaped through her nose instead—a muffled snort more horrifying than any laughter.

Mr. Adams arched a gray brow.

Fallon sobered and amended her tone. “Of course he is. Allow me to assure you, I would never harass any of the women on your staff.” That she even needed to assure the butler of such a thing struck her as beyond absurd. And to the butler of a man like the Duke of Damon, a consummate libertine? The demon duke? Was he implying the women beneath this roof were safe? Fromthat wretch? She refused to believe it.

“Very good, then.” Mr. Adams sent a quick glance to the maid. “Off with you, Nancy. You’ve chores waiting and you’ve already stirred things up enough this morning.”

With a coy look beneath her lashes for Fallon, Nancy scurried off.

Mr. Adams turned a contemplative look on Fallon. “Mrs. Davies is in the kitchen. She will start you on your day.”

Fallon nodded. “Very good, sir.”

With a final measuring look, Mr. Adams strode away.

Fallon released a shaky breath and leaned back against the railing. Not the most auspicious of beginnings, but at least the duke had not recognized her. On the contrary. He had thought it necessary to warn her to steer clear of the women on his staff. Ridiculous. But she was safe. Secure in her position. For now.





Chapter 6


Dominic dragged a hand through his hair and dropped back into his bed. After a night with Celeste, he was due a little rest. His mouth twisted. Even if she had turned out to be a thief, her company had been…delectable.

Sighing, he idly rubbed his forehead. Delectable. And yet, he still felt…unsatisfied. The same restlessness that had plagued him while abroad, following him from city to city, country to country, woman to woman, still prowled inside him. Returning home had not changed that.

He had chalked up his urge to return as homesickness. Homesickness for England. Not, by any means,home . Home did not exist for him. He had not stepped foot in Wayfield Park since his majority. And he never would again.

True, Wayfield Parkbelonged to him. Even if the old bastard resided under its roof. Dominic could eject him, send him back to the village vicarage where he could tend his flock with unflagging zeal. But what did Dominic care if he remained in that hulking pile of bricks and rocks? His grandfather could rot and die under the frescoed ceilings that had stood silent witness to all the days of his wretched youth.

Still, there was no accounting this ennui. After a night with the voracious Celeste, he should be satisfied. Even his canvas and paints in the next room did not beckon, ever ready to block the pain…to fill him with inspiration. Bloody troublesome. His life consisted of two passions: shagging and painting. Nothing else could make him feel, could chase free the numbness he had learned at the knee of his grandfather. Or rather, at the skirts of Mrs. Pearce.

He stretched, his nape tingling as the memory of wild, untamed hair, glorious as a red-tinged sunset, washed over him. Her face was a bit hazy—the carriage had been dim, the streets dimmer yet—but that hair he would never forget. The viper-tongued wench he’d dropped off at the Hotel Daventry lingered in his thoughts still. His fingers itched for a brush, and he knew before the day ended he would paint what he could remember of her—all fire and wild wind. Fallon O’Rourke. Irish, he presumed. He wouldn’t have her beneath him, but he would still snare her for his canvas. At least what he remembered of her.