Chapter 2
Peter slapped his gloves against his trousers for what must have been the fifth time that morning. He was absolutely furious — and felt hopelessly stupid.
His valet had already laid out three different waistcoats before Peter had snapped at him to just choose one. And now here he was, in his carriage, headed to Curzon Street to propose marriage to a woman whose name sounded like a bad joke.
He couldn’t even bring his quizzing glass for moral support. The traitorous thing remained on his dresser where he’d flung it last night. Miss Ninepence had shoved it into his hand afore running off — as if he wanted it returned! His quizzing glass was ruined!
That little northern chit and her chaperone had done what so many before had tried and failed to do: they’d trapped Peter Sidwin into marriage.
Peter knew he could simply refuse. It would be a scandal, to be sure, yet dukes had the power to sustain such a blow.
But he had been raised by a woman who had prayed for a child for decades and who had finally conceived at an age when most women were grandmothers.
She taught him that his privilege afforded him an immense responsibility.
That a gentleman’s honor was worth more than any title.
He, a duke, might survive refusing the marriage, but the young lady could not.
At breakfast this morning, he’d tried three times to apprise his mother of the situation, but she’d only complained louder about the state of her lumbago.
And if Mama had given him a chance to explain, what could he have said?
I’ve been steered and sheared more effectively than any of the sheep on cousin Timothy’s cursed estates.
She would likely droop in her chair and require a doctor, which would have delayed this dreaded but necessary trip to Curzon Street to ask — resentfully — for his supposed paramour’s hand in marriage.
Peter knew nothing about this Lucy Ninepence other than her unfortunate name. The carriage slowed before a fashionable townhouse. The Ninepence residence was newer than the surrounding homes. Even the knocker looked recently purchased.
“Are you sure this is it?” muttered Peter, eyeing the gleaming brass fixtures on the door dubiously.
The door to the carriage swung open, and Peter’s footman lowered the steps for him. When the butler — a stately man who had likely seen service in fine households across the capital — trembled while announcing his title, Peter realized he was not without options.
Miss Lucy Ninepence could end this farce. He’d simply need to convince her that marriage to him would be a fate worse than social ruin.
There weren’t many dukes in Britain. Most were old and mouldering on country estates.
The few younger, eligible His Graces ended up swarmed at ton gatherings — hence the quizzing glass to enforce proper distance.
(Never mind that Peter used the thing well before ascending to the title. One must allow for style.)
Society loved to talk of dukes, and stories abounded. Not all painted those of his status in a favorable light. Princes were the stuff of fairy tales; dukes could range from handsome and noble to rapacious, cruel lords who inflicted misery on all who crossed their paths.
And that was how Peter realized he might escape the noose of forced matrimony: by playing the dastardly duke and allowing the lady to flee from this sham of an engagement — that hadn’t even happened yet.
The young lady and her companion perched on twin chairs, uncomfortable and clearly awaiting his call.
Peter noted that Miss Ninepence was prettier than he’d remembered.
Her yellow hair caught the light. Her eyes, when she met his gaze, held intelligence and something else.
Defiance? Perhaps. It was not entirely unpleasant to look at her.
The morning room was fashionable but overly new. The upholstery still had a stiff, unused quality. Everything shouted money recently spent. Peter felt a surge of resentment. His own drawing room chair had a loose spring that always poked his arse.
Peter noted the ladies read instead of engaging in fiber arts. How typical. They rose to greet him.
“Your Grace, how kind of you to pay a call this morning,” said the chaperone, a woman of middle age who should have been deployed by His Majesty to spy on England’s enemies rather than launching debutantes — right at Peter, in this case.
“Yes,” he said, taking in the fine room and feeling deeply ill-at-ease without his quizzing glass.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I think I’ll see that a tea tray is prepared,” said the chaperone, sweeping from the room and closing the door.
Never mind the legion of staff Peter had passed on the way in, who could have seen to it.
They both knew the reason for this call and what was required of all parties.
But would it be so bad for that little nobody Lucy Ninepence to race back to whatever northern pit from which she’d crawled to terrorize him?
This Miss Ninepence would likely fare better back in the north, rather than attempting to scale the London social ladder at perilous speed. Really, he’d be doing her a kindness.
She would just require some convincing. And Peter knew exactly how to drive ladies away.
“How many children has your mother produced?” he asked, coming close to the chair on which Miss Ninepence perched. Alarmingly close, indecorously close. The falls of his pantaloons were just at the level of her eyes. A gentleman would do no such thing.
But Peter was most decidedly not acting the gentleman today.
“I…I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Babies,” he said, his voice altogether too loud.
“Oh, my mother…well, she had me and then…she died. Nine days later.”
“Hmm,” said Peter, staring down at her, pointedly leering at her bosom. It was rather a fine bosom, he had to admit, and he caught himself trying to look away based on habit. He fixed his eyes on the gel’s neckline and left them there. “And your parts, do they all work?”
“My parts?”
“Your…nether parts.”
Miss Ninepence jumped, shocked by his question. Excellent.
“I believe everything is as it should be,” she said, her voice cautious.
If Peter was correct, five more such rude questions would have the girl running from the room in tears and threatening to join a foreign convent rather than ever marry him.
But the chaperone could return at any moment and declare their engagement fait accompli. He didn’t have time for five more boorish questions. Miss Ninepence wasn’t fleeing. If anything, she looked thoughtful. As if she were considering him seriously instead of being scandalized by him.
Peter felt his plan slipping away. He’d have to escalate.
Touch her. Make this so uncomfortable she’d have no choice but to refuse him.
Yes, that seemed the best way to get back to what he enjoyed (drizzling, companionable meals with his mother, and maybe some third thing he hadn’t quite yet determined).
“Well, with that settled, I suppose I should test the goods,” said Peter, putting his hand on the buttons of his falls with what he hoped was rakish confidence.
In truth, he did not know what he was doing.
Was this how rakes behaved? His visit to that brothel had only lasted fifteen minutes, and he spent most of the time apologizing to a very patient courtesan for wasting her time.
Peter would never expose himself to this debutante, but he’d allow the tales of dastardly dukes to suggest that he had some villainous purpose for his visit. He was willing to do almost anything to expedite the return to his comfortable existence.
Miss Ninepence glanced at his pantaloons and then slowly brought her gaze up. Her eyes were wide when they finally met his, and her mouth parted slightly.
“Your Grace?”
Peter hoped the gel didn’t see that his cock twitched in his smalls. He also hoped that this farce would conclude quickly, because maintaining a dominant facade was most trying indeed.
When Miss Ninepence didn’t scream, Peter felt a confusing mixture of frustration and.
.. something else. Relief? Surely not. He needed her to flee, to end this travesty.
But a small, traitorous part of him was oddly pleased that she hadn’t looked at him with disgust. That she seemed curious.
No, he had to stay focused on the goal and see his plan through, for his happiness and the well-being of his mother.
An embarrassing and ill-matched engagement — and God forbid, marriage! — might do her in.
“Miss Ninepence,” he rasped, attempting to growl but sounding mostly as if he were recovering from a bout of influenza. “I have need of you.”
He placed one gloved hand on the side of her surprisingly lovely face. Her skin was warm. Her eyes widened — not with fear, but with something that looked like surprise. Or interest. Peter forgot entirely what he was doing. Then he remembered: frighten her. Yes. He needed to frighten her.
He whipped the glove from his hand and cradled her cheek with his bare palm.
For a moment, Peter thought his plan had worked. She’d flee, cry off, and he’d be free. But then her expression shifted to something he couldn’t quite read. Curiosity? Challenge? She leaned back in her chair, regarding him coolly.
“Do you, Your Grace?” she said, her voice steady. “And what exactly do you need?”
That wasn’t fear. That was...Peter’s throat went dry. He’d have to push harder.
Slowly, heart hammering, he slid his thumb across her cheek to her lips, then pressed gently until she opened them.
He’d seen a seasoned rake do this very thing to a courtesan on his one disastrous visit to a bawdy house and wondered what it might feel like.
The warm wetness of her mouth around his digit sent a bolt of sensation straight to his cock. Oh dear.
“I have need of your person,” he said. He tried to lower his voice to a rasp, but instead set off a bout of coughing. His words came out rough and strained, more wheeze than growl.
“Oh dear, a catarrh, Your Grace?” she asked, fumbling about for a handkerchief. As if he didn’t have his own!
“It is no matter,” he said, resuming his normal voice. “We must attend to the issue at hand.”
Peter stepped closer until his legs nearly touched her knees.
Miss Ninepence didn’t bolt for the door, so Peter cocked his hips forward as if to signal that she should do something about his pantaloons.
That would no doubt produce the required effect of sending the chit running and screaming from their rapidly approaching marriage.
“Oh!” cried the girl, finally catching on. “Oh, I thought you…” She huffed, clearly amused. “I thought you were having some sort of fit. This makes much more sense. You’re propositioning me?”
For the first time since entering the room, Peter’s confidence wavered.
And then she set a hand to the front of his falls. Peter felt every point of contact — her fingertips just above where his cock was rapidly hardening, her touch tentative yet deliberate.
“Miss Ninepence,” he yelped, his dominant persona shattering like cheap pottery. “Whatever are you doing?”
This was not part of the plan. The plan had been to scare her. Her hand was warm. Why was her hand so warm? Why was his body responding like this? It was a disaster.
She looked up with a questioning expression on her face.
“Oh, did you not want me to…?” She lowered her hand from where it had been, and Peter felt the barest brush against his cock. Even with layers of fabric between them, he had to clench his arse to avoid spilling his sac immediately. What a devious minx!
Peter had to think. Perhaps Miss Ninepence wasn’t the brightest of young ladies and needed a more direct push. He certainly couldn’t leave the room tied to her.
But how to convince her to flee?
Peter was running out of ideas. And then, as if gifted to him by divine intervention, he recalled a gothic novel making the rounds.
The Duke of Dampstone Hall or some such nonsense.
In its pages was a duke, a domineering — nay, dominant — aristocrat who terrorized the new maid merely hoping to sweep the floors, polish the silver plate, and learn the truth of what had happened to her mother in his mouldering castle some years before.
That dastardly duke would never endure an unwanted engagement, not when the terrifying force of his personality could send a young lady fleeing in terror.
As if playing a role on the stage, Peter drew himself taller and delivered the line that had reportedly sent two matrons into a swoon just last week.
“Polish my silver!”