Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)(17)

Nancy smiled brightly.

Fallon cringed.

Easing the bucket down, the girl sent a reproachful glance up the looming stairs. Her lips pulled into a pretty pout. “It’s all those dreadful steps.” Placing both hands on her hips, she stretched, straining her breasts against the front of her dress.

Fallon stifled a snort. She had known girls like Nancy all her life—those who used their wiles to entice others to do their work. Fallon never dared. Sooner or later payment was expected. Either young Nancy was too na?ve to know that or she was willing to deliver when the time came.

Swallowing down an epithet, Fallon stepped forward and took the bucket, committed to playing her part to the fullest, even if it meant breakingher back. “Allow me.”

Nancy clapped her hands before her considerable bosom. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”

Dipping her head, Fallon rolled her eyes where Nancy could not see. “I insist. It’s much too heavy for you.”

“Oh, what a gentleman,” Nancy gushed. Stepping forward, she squeezed Fallon’s arm, her hand lingering.

“Where shall I take this?”

“The master’s rooms. I’m responsible for supplying fresh coal there twice daily.”

Fallon nodded, hoping that Nancy did not expect her to carry a bucket upstairs for her twice every day.

Tossing a weak smile at the girl, Fallon headed up the steps with the bucket. She walked carefully down the corridor, mindful not to spill any coals on the rich, gold-threaded runner. At the master’s door, she knocked briskly. She had worked in the kitchens, running errands for Cook most of the morning and did not know whether the duke was in residence. Rapping again, she waited several moments more. No response. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped within the shadowed chamber. The hush of the room struck her as almost reverent, almost as though she stepped inside a church’s hallowed interior. Absurd considering the man who occupied the space doubtlessly conducted all manner of vice within its walls.

With the drapes drawn, it might well have been midnight. Only a bare slit of light crept from between the drapes. Red and orange embers glowed from the grate and she hastened in that direction, feeling very much an intruder.

She scanned the dark and musty chamber as she walked—the veritable lion’s den. Only the lion was out, she reassured herself. A massive four-poster with a rumpled white coverlet sat against one wall. She blinked and stopped at the sight of it.White? Virginal and pure as a dove’s breast. Somehow she expected the demon duke to sleep shrouded in scarlet sheets. Or black. She could well envision him there. The wicked handsome beast of a man at love play with one of his many paramours. A tightness grew in the center of her chest at the thought.

Thanks to him, she possessed a fairly good idea of what that entailed. At least at the beginning. In her mind, she saw that broad hand lifting a breast toward his lips, holding it, squeezing. Unfortunately, in her mind that breast resembled hers. Stinging heat crept up her neck. Her belly clenched, twisted. She pressed a hand against her stomach.

She shifted her gaze from the imposing bed…and shoved the image of the demon duke tangled amid those sheets—withher —from her head.

Strange that no one had tidied the bed yet. The chamber’s furnishings, while appropriately opulent for the bedchamber of a duke, seemed at odds with the duke himself. While it was exactly the type of bedchamber she imagined a highborn lord to occupy, it wasn’thim . He did not adorn himself richly as a duke of the realm might, but rather—when he wore clothes at all—attired himself simply. A dark jacket. A vest and cravat of abstemious black. No personal belongings littered the opulent chamber. It struck her as a mere domicile. Simply a place to sleep. Nothing more. Not even a home.

A large mahogany desk loomed like a beast before the French doors leading to the balcony. She somehow suspected he rarely sat behind its mammoth proportions. That would hint at an industrious side to the duke. Smiling ruefully, she crouched before the grate and opened its door. Likely the only thing he worked hard at was waging sin.

Resting a hand on her knee—and relishing the freedom of movement her breeches offered—she dug a shovel into the coals, adding several into the smoldering grate.

“What the devil is that racket?”

She dropped the shovel into the bucket with a clatter, her hand flying to her throat at the sudden rough voice. Whirling around, she watched in horror as the rumpled bed began to shift and move like a great beast emerging from a snowdrift. A dark head appeared, popping up amid the pile of bedding. Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened.No .

With one arm wrapped around a plump pillow, he rose on an elbow, blinking and scratching his head. Tousled dark hair flew in every direction before falling to his shoulders. His scaled serpent tattoo rippled with the movement of his muscled shoulder, almost as though it lived and breathed there on his flesh. Her mouth dried and watered invariably. She fought to swallow past the sudden thickness of her throat. His body more resembled a young laborer of the field than a lily-handed nobleman. And that tattoo…it belonged on a wicked pirate.

He blinked several more times before his gaze found her crouched before the grate. Her fingers grew numb where they clutched the bucket handle.

“What are you doing in here?” The deep throaty sound of his voice puckered her skin to gooseflesh. “I told Diddlesworth I was not to be disturbed.”

She closed her mouth and rose to her feet, the glare from those hooded eyes making her stomach quiver. “Begging your pardon.” She stopped herself just short of curtseying. Sketching a brief bow, she urged the butterflies in her belly to quell. “Forgive me. I was told your chamber requires coal.” She motioned behind her. “And I did knock.”