Duke of Sin Read online

  He is called the …

  “DUKE OF SIN…

  … a notorious rogue and recluse whose reputation is as black as the Cornish night. They speak of his conquests, his past, and his mysteries in breathless whispers. And now lovely and desperate Vivian Rael-Lamont has no choice but to enter William Raleigh’s lair.

  Vivian prayed that the scandal that drove her from London would never be revealed—but now she will be exposed to the world … unless William can protect her. She has heard the rumors about the infamous Duke of Sin, yet she is unprepared for the man’s raw, sensuous power … or for the traitorous response of her own body. Surrender, however, could prove most dangerous indeed—for both of them. For while the duke is intrigued by the guarded, intoxicating lady who has invaded his solitude—and fully intends to discern her every secret through sweet, unhurried seduction— it is his own heart that will be imperiled when passion takes them further than he ever intended.

  Avon Romantic Treasures by

  Adele Ashworth

  Duke of Sin

  When It’s Perfect

  Someone Irresistible

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

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  New York, New York 10022-5299

  Copyright © 2004 by Adele Budnick

  ISBN: 0-06-052840-0

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank many good friends, for with out their encouragement and support I fear I never would have finished this book.

  In St. Louis: Jill Abinante, Julie Beard, Carol Carson, Eileen Dryer, Elizabeth Grayson, and Slur! Henke.

  In Flower Mound: Cara Arnould, Angela and Lucien Carignan, Brianna Gherardi, Ed Gherardi, Sharon and Kevin Goldman, Tori Major, and Ward Smith.

  And my greatest writer friends: Anna Adams, Michele Albert, Elizabeth Boyle, Wendy Etherington, Susan Grant, Leann Harris, Lisa Kleypas, Julia Quinn, Theresa Ragan, Kathryn Smith, and especially the marvelous Avon Ladies.

  Much love and thanks to you all.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Southern Cornwall

  July 1856

  Vivian stared at the handwritten note: His grace desires…

  Smiling wryly, she decided she rather wished he did. But then she’d only seen him from a distance and entertaining such a thought was beyond scandalous.

  She folded the note without further ridiculous considerations and shoved it into the large pocket of her work smock. The orchids—her prize among the flowers she maintained—would be ready for him day after tomorrow, as his butler requested. This would be work for hire, or rather expertise for hire, nothing more than it was each year at this time.

  Again, she would fill the standard and formal order for fresh flowers from the reclusive Duke of Trent, displayed to beautify the rooms of his coastal estate that stretched for miles on the western slope overlooking the Lizard Peninsula. And again this year, she would do her best to get a peek of the enigmatic man who’d managed to escape the noose for the murder of his wife.

  “Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  Vivian started at the interruption and turned swiftly toward the doorway between her house and garden, where her housekeeper stood with a totally unreadable look on her aging, sun-weathered face, seemingly not at all concerned that her mistress had been daydreaming instead of potting.

  “Yes, Harriet, what is it?” she replied forthrightly.

  The older woman hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. “There’s a… person here to see you. A man. The … um … stage actor from the Shakespearean Company that’s been playing at Cosgroves for the summer.”

  Vivian caught herself from gaping. “An actor is here?”

  Harriet lowered her voice. “Gilbert Montague, he said his name is. He didn’t have a card, and of course I didn’t admit him, but he’s choosing to wait just the same. Said his business with you is urgent.”

  Mildly intrigued, Vivian moved toward her housekeeper, stepping into the shade created by vines that wove through the trellis-covered porch, and reached for a hand towel on the garden bench. “Did he say what he wanted?” She couldn’t begin to imagine what business an actor might have with her, personally or professionally.

  Harriet stepped out onto the cobblestone, her plump figure erect and her expression firmly set in a line of disapproval. “He didn’t offer a reason for his visit, no,” she replied succinctly. “He only said he wanted a few minutes of your time, and would you oblige him. I told him I’d see if you were at home.”

  Vivian smiled inwardly. She was obviously at home, but adhering to social protocol, Harriet had to check. And of course one would never allow someone so common into one’s private residence.

  She smoothed her hair away from her face; the midday heat never failed to add an annoying bounce to loose curls that framed her cheeks and forehead, preventing her from keeping it tidy. She no doubt looked a fright, spe
nding the last two hours working with soil in the sun and humid air, but then it hardly mattered, she decided. Mr. Montague, being a person of the stage, had certainly seen far worse in his line of work or on the street.

  “Very well, I’ll receive him,” she informed her housekeeper, reaching behind her to untie her dirt-stained work smock. As Harriet’s eyes opened a fraction in surprise, she added, “But don’t bring him through the house; inform him that he’ll find me ‘round back and through the gate.”

  Harriet nodded once, her disapproving expression giving way to one of solid relief at such wisdom. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll send him on momentarily.”

  Once again standing alone in the afternoon shade in her secluded patio, Vivian tossed her smock on the bench and shook out her brown muslin skirt. As one of her three work gowns, she’d chosen this one in particular this hot morning because of its looseness through the bustline and waist, but it didn’t do a thing to flatter her figure. As much as she adored the theater, she’d never in her life greeted an actor— or anyone of so lowly a station—in her home, so how she looked to this one probably didn’t matter in the slightest.

  Stepping back into the sunlight, she poured herself half a glass of lukewarm water from a pitcher on the nearby potting table. As she drank thirstily, she heard the creak of the thick wooden gate as it gave way to intrusion on the westernmost side of the house.

  Quickly, she patted her mouth with the bottom of her smock and turned to face the approaching sound of heavy footsteps on the cobblestone walkway. Standing with as much formal bearing as the circumstances allowed, her hands clasped behind her back, she faced the small, tufted palm tree that jutted out from the corner of the property until she saw his legs appear, then his body in full form.

  Vivian backed up a step as the man approached her. She’d expected him to be large, as she’d twice seen him perform rather magnificently on stage. Still, she wasn’t prepared for the wide-shouldered, long-limbed person of supercilious elegance now standing directly in front of her, between two rare species of prized orchids, blocking the sun with his head as he gazed down at her face.

  His appearance, however surprisingly fashion-able, couldn’t hide the coarseness of his stoic features as he focused on her quite intently, perhaps expecting her to glance away with uncertainty or discomfiture. She couldn’t, however, allow herself to cower. Instant uneasiness deep inside quickly alerted her, sharpening her senses, warning her to keep her mind focused and her stance one of indifference, even arrogance. She refused to be intimidated by his sheer size. Surprisingly, though, she wasn’t afraid.

  “Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, his tone a deep drawl, his diction perfect.

  She tipped her head toward him once in reply. “Mr. Montague, I presume. What may I help you with today?”

  He almost smiled as he studied her, though he didn’t move any closer.

  “Lovely garden you’ve grown here, madam.”

  He hadn’t really looked at the flowers at all, she noted, but she didn’t argue that point. He seemed to be highly interested in her—or perhaps just her reaction to him. “It is lovely,” she replied good-naturedly, “though in fact this is not a garden but a nursery.”

  A half corner of his mouth twitched up. “I stand corrected.”

  Vivian didn’t know whether he wanted her to like him or not, although he did seem pleasant enough.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Montague?” she asked once more, directly. The midday heat was beginning to make her head pound.

  After seconds of eyeing her levelly, he took two steps closer. “I’ve noticed you once or twice at the theater.” He scratched his dark and rugged side whiskers very slowly with long fingers, as if considering a very serious question. “I think you attended last Saturday’s production of Twelfth Night.”

  That surprised her greatly. She’d seen the production, and perhaps one or two others earlier in the summer, but she certainly hadn’t been obtrusive as part of the large, local audience. A very strange circumstance, and Vivian tried hard not to show how uncomfortable she suddenly felt. “I did, indeed,” she returned without elucidation. Crossing her arms in front of her defensively, she pressed, “But that’s hardly why you’re here. What may I help you with today, Mr. Montague? I’m very busy.”

  “Ah. But help is the word, is it not, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  Her brows shot up. “Help, Mr. Montague?”

  He stepped closer, looking down to his side and fingering the leaf of a bright pink orchid. She reigned in her annoyance at that. Her abruptness clearly hadn’t intimidated him.

  Slowly, he asked, “What has become of Mr. Rael-Lamont?”

  For a slim moment of unreality, flashes of another life, a whirlwind of indescribable emotions she’d fought hard to suppress rushed to the surface, shooting through her veins to scorch her memory like wildfire. Vivian felt her throat constrict, the blood rush to her face as her entire body began to burn hot beyond what was normal for the midday, southern coastal sun.

  “I beg your pardon?” she whispered after a period, her voice suddenly husky and raw.

  Smiling, he placed one large hand on his shirt-front, over his heart. “I see I’ve startled you.”

  The trepidation within overpowered her good manners. “Please leave, Mr. Montague,” she ordered, lowering her arms to her sides, her mouth set grimly.

  He nodded politely in her direction, his wide, odious mouth upturned in a widening grin of satisfaction. “Of course, dear lady.”

  He made no move to depart.

  “However,” he added, “before I take my leave, there is a… situation I believe we should discuss.”

  Standing in her backyard nursery, Vivian still, oddly enough, didn’t feel afraid of the man. Not physically, anyway. Harriet remained inside and would alert the neighbors should she cry out. But the actor clearly knew that. No, his reason for calling on her took on a far more sinister meaning. She believed that instinctively.

  Bracing herself for the shock she knew would follow, she asked, “What do you want, Mr. Montague? Get to your point.”

  “Indeed.”

  He fingered the orchid petals openly, infuriating her intentionally.

  “I wonder,” he continued thoughtfully, “how you’d respond to the knowledge that I have proof you’re not who you say you are.”

  Her anger at his purposeful assault on her expensive, fragile flower evaporated. She blinked quickly twice, fighting the urge to take a step away from him. “I would say you are mistaken,” she returned defensively.

  He tipped his head to the side and glanced shrewdly at her face again. “Am I?”

  Trie standoff between them after that broad, vague question left her clammy and chilled in spite of the midday heat. And the fact that he hinted at her deepest secret, made her nearly bubble over with fear.

  He apparently expected her silence. With a sudden ruthlessness coloring his deep voice, he added in a whisper, “Perhaps you’ll be interested to know I’m fully aware that you’re not a widow.” He paused. “Are you, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”

  Her mouth went dry; she began to shake from an inner, overwhelming cold. She refused to let him see her consternation.

  In a calm, icy voice, she replied, “Get off my property or I shall have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Of course,” was his quick response. And yet instead of turning and leaving as ordered, he stepped closer to her, his shoes making crunching sounds on the patio stone.

  “I think perhaps you should hear me out first,” he added, his full lips curled up in a tight smirk, his eyes roving over her figure from bosom to hips.

  Vivian cringed from the look he gave her, one of menace coupled with blatant lust. Outwardly, she stood stiffly straight, a warning fear of being exposed preventing her from screaming for help. Her greatest concern was knowing the man in front of her understood this and used her anxiety against her.

  “This is the problem as I see it, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.” Su
ddenly he picked the orchid by the stem and lifted it to his nose.

  That enraged her. “How dare you—”

  “I know about your husband,” he whispered, his tone dripping with malice he no longer contained. “I know many of the truths of your so-called marriage, where your living husband is now, and of course why you’re hiding in Cornwall.”

  Hiding.

  He chuckled, then crushed the orchid in his palm, dropping it to the ground where he stepped on it. “For a price,” he added pleasantly, “I’ll keep your secret.”

  Seconds—or perhaps minutes—ticked by in slow motion, in a nightmare of unqualified depth.

  Vivian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move or respond.

  He stepped so close to her now she was sure she could smell him: a smell of utter foulness that seeped from the core of him to raid her senses, revolting her.

  “What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely at last, lips trembling.

  “Ah. We get to the reason of my visit. I need your kind help.”

  He was mad, a figure of pure insanity. And no one believed a madman, she tried to reassure herself.

  “Call it a bit of blackmail,” he clarified congenially.

  “You’re insane,” she spat in return.

  He laughed again, this time genuinely as he tossed his head back. “Hardly that, madam. I assure you I am very sane, and prepared. I’m simply in need of monetary substance. Acting doesn’t pay all that well.”

  She glared at him, her eyes focusing on his finely tailored morning suit of dove gray, his silk shirt and expertly trimmed hair. For an actor of limited means, he didn’t want for luxury. That thought worried her as much as anything else. He’d likely done this before to some other unsuspecting soul and had succeeded.

  For the first time since he’d arrived in her garden alcove, Vivian felt not only fear and loathing, but betrayal and a terrible sadness settle deep inside her. But it didn’t matter. Her good senses returning, she refused to be a victim. He certainly couldn’t know everything.