Duke with a Deception (Wicked Dukes Society #6)

Prologue

The Duke of Kingham—King to those fortunate enough to be a part of his exclusive coterie—had never considered himself the type of chap who would run into a burning building to save anyone or anything.

Unless, of course, the burning building in question had been his town house and that which needed saving was his favorite waistcoat.

And yet, incredibly, and in blatant contrast to his proud lifelong history of coldhearted selfishness, he had ventured into a flame-ridden orphanage of his own accord to save his friend’s sister.

He had indeed carried Lady Verity Saunders in his arms through the hellish blaze and smoke one week ago.

It was nothing short of a miracle she was sitting before him, dressed in pale-purple silk, her mahogany hair unbound around her shoulders in deference to the blow she’d received to the head and the tresses that had been singed by flames.

She was ethereally lovely, possessed of a singular pale-blue gaze she shared with her brother, the Duke of Riverdale, and she was staring at King just now as if he were a god descended to walk among mere mortals.

A man could grow accustomed to being looked upon thus.

Admittedly, he liked it far too much. Because Lady Verity was decidedly forbidden to him.

Not only was she the unmarried and innocent sister of his good chum Riverdale, but she was also madly in love with her betrothed, a man who had died some ten years before.

And yet, Lady Verity remained ever true to her Lord Leopold, the gold locket at her throat a perennial testament to her love for him.

She never took the necklace off, and she’d garbed herself in mourning weeds ever since his death.

Which made the purple day gown she wore today rather odd.

It was the first time King recalled seeing her in a dress that wasn’t black.

Perhaps her fortune in remaining among the living inspired her new wardrobe.

One of which he heartily approved. A woman as lovely as Lady Verity should never drape herself in mournful bombazine. It was a bloody crime.

“I have already told everyone our happy news,” she announced suddenly, smiling.

His heart gave a peculiar thump. Happy news?

They were taking tea together at Lady Verity’s request. King had reckoned she wished to thank him for pulling her from the burning wreckage of the Children’s Foundling Hospital.

But something had been distinctly different about her demeanor from the moment he’d walked through the door at Riverdale’s town house.

King and Verity were familiar enough, given his old standing friendship with her brother.

Recently, he and Verity had grown a bit closer.

King could even admit he was somewhat fond of her.

She was almost too angelic in her devotion to her dead betrothed and the orphans to be mortal.

For a jaded sybarite such as himself, her radiating goodness was not just unfathomable, it was as alluring as Roman statuary unearthed by an antiquarian.

A new, promising find to add to his collection.

“Happy news?” he repeated her odd choice of phrasing, thoroughly confused.

“That we are engaged to be married,” she said brightly.

King’s teacup slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor. Tea soaked into the Axminster. Porcelain chipped and flew in various directions.

“That we are to be married?” he echoed in bafflement, thinking he must have misheard her.

There was no understanding between them.

He liked Lady Verity, it was true, but as a friend.

As the innocent sister of his chum. As a lady with a sparkling disposition and a kind heart, who looked after urchins and sang them silly songs and had nearly killed herself in a burning building trying to save them.

Her countenance was serene. “Yes, of course. Shall I ring for a maid to sweep up that teacup?”

“I…er…no.” King raked his fingers through his hair, an old habit he thought he had overcome for the way it left his locks in disarray.

He disliked nothing so much as a slovenly appearance. But apparently, being informed of his heretofore unknown impending nuptials had that effect upon him. King stood, bemused to discover the tea had splashed his trousers, and bent to retrieve the fragments of his former cup.

“Allow me to help you, then,” she suggested.

“That won’t be nece—”

She was already at his side, her lavender silk pooling on the Axminster, before he could complete his protest. She smelled like roses and bergamot, and she was near enough that he could detect flecks of gray in her eyes.

Eyes he shouldn’t notice. A scent he shouldn’t inhale as if it were the rarest and most dear of perfumes.

“—ssary,” he finished lamely.

“Two pairs of hands are better than one,” Lady Verity chirped.

She was unfailingly cheerful, a quality that repelled and intrigued King in equal measure.

Like the sunshine in early spring, she was unfettered, full of promise.

Despite the cruel turn fortune’s fickle wheel had dealt her in the loss of her love, she maintained a sanguine belief in the innate good of the world, the promise of warmth and rebirth after winter’s death.

What must it be like to feel so effusively?

Hell, what must it be like to feel at all?

He had been delightfully numb for as long as he could recall.

It was only in the rare presence of such a beatific creature that he began to wonder.

Gads. He clearly needed to indulge in some manner of debauchery immediately after this interlude to make amends for his weakness.

They made short work of the broken teacup, whilst he used a serviette to sop up the worst of the tea stain. Fortunately, the Axminster was forgiving; no outward sign of his lack of decorum remained.

His mind whirled as they completed the task, and he waited until they were once again seated to question her as delicately as possible.

He had no wish to cause Lady Verity distress.

Riverdale had warned King that the physician believed the blow to her head was severe and that she must be kept from any agitation as she recovered.

“What do you recall of the fire, Lady Verity?” he asked gently.

“Not much, I’m afraid. I suppose that is a mercy. I understand it was quite awful. I do know you came to my rescue, of course. I shall never be able to thank you enough.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, for he disliked playing the hero.

He wasn’t one.

Nor would he ever be.

If anything, King was a villain. A heartless, conscienceless rogue. A man whose past could blot out the good that had been done by Lady Verity with startling ease. A rot from within, like the proverbial apple that ruined the bushel.

“I can think of scarcely anything other than you,” she said. “This last week without you felt like an eternity. Do you think we might hasten our wedding day? After everything that’s happened, I don’t want to wait to be together.”

King stared at her, looking for any hint of teasing, some merriment in her expressive pale eyes, a twitch of her lips.

But there was none. There was only her rapt, adoring regard, her countenance utterly guileless.

No doubt about it, Lady Verity had meant every word she had just spoken. This was no sally, no elaborate ruse.

This was astonishingly real.

That was when it hit him, the truth of the astounding situation in which he suddenly found himself.

The blow she had taken to the head had somehow addled Lady Verity’s mind.

She had confused him with her dead betrothed, the man to whom she had been so devoted that she had never carried on with her own life after his death.

Everything made sense, from the way she looked at King to the tenderness in her voice.

And King was suddenly faced with an impossible choice.

Did he dare to explain the truth to Lady Verity and risk harming her slowly recovering mind?

Or did he proceed with the lie? Did he take this beautiful do-gooder who was so innocent and kind and make her his? Did he bask in her virtuousness and greedily claim all the love she had for another as his own?

The wickedness within him was tempted. Something shifted, like the mechanisms of a lock falling into place. What would be the harm in playing along with her, at least until her memory was fully restored? Or, if she never remembered at all…

She could be his. He could have her. Mold her. Do whatever he wished with her. Seduce her, show her the pleasure of passion. What a potent aphrodisiac. So much temptation, laid before him in lavender silk.

Some part of him he’d thought long inured to any form of eagerness stirred.

He’d never had an innocent before. No one as unsullied and good as Lady Verity had ever so much as cast a longing glance in his direction in years, lest her matchmaking mama sternly issue a crushing rebuke when they were alone.

It was wrong, and he knew it. But the devil had perched upon his shoulder, and King didn’t want the bastard to leave a stain on his immaculate coat. There was only one way to shake the fellow off, it seemed.

Do it, whispered a voice within.

Take her.

Make Lady Verity Saunders yours.

King held her gaze. “How soon do you wish to wed, my dear?”

She beamed, her lush lips curving upward, causing him to notice they rivaled the pink blush of freshly bloomed cabbage roses. “As soon as my brother will allow.”

Riverdale was going to be a problem. King knew it at once.

But he rather enjoyed challenges. Perversely, the more someone was determined that he shouldn’t have something, the more King wanted it.

He wouldn’t surrender until he had her. She was like a bounty waved before a pirate. Too tempting. Irresistible, in fact.

No, it was a foregone conclusion. Perhaps even preordained.

Lady Verity Saunders belonged to him.

“Shall I speak with him on your behalf, then?” he asked her smoothly, wondering how these sorts of matters went.