Free The Dangerous Duke by Arabella Sheraton Page B

crystal vase smashed against the wood. Devlin, treading down the stairs, looked back and shuddered.
    * * * *
    Lady Penelope’s maid tumbled out of bed and, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, rushed to her assistance.
    “Madam!” she cried, trembling in the face of her employer’s wrath. “Are you all right?” The barrage of cosmetic jars and ornaments shattering against the door soon drove her back to the safety of her own room.
    Penelope stood gazing at herself in the tall cheval mirror. She ripped the fragile gossamer gown from her shoulders and studied her naked perfection. She had seen men’s reactions to her powerful seductive aura and was unaccustomed to rejection. She gritted her teeth in rage. Any man would give his right hand for an hour of lovemaking with her. She seethed in fury.
    Devlin was not going to abandon her, she would see to it. She glared at herself and then, with another anguished howl of fury, threw a silver hairbrush at the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of sparkling pieces. Afterward, her rage spent, she crawled under the bed covers, sobbing. It was only much later when all her tears were gone that she coldly analyzed the situation. It was imperative that Devlin should ask for her hand. If he did not, she would be ruined, used goods—it was too horrible to contemplate. She would be branded a Cyprian, a lowly courtesan.
    She would marry him…or else! She began to plan her next moves.
    * * * *
    Fenella woke with a start. Something had disturbed her—the sound of someone moving below. She lay quite still, listening hard. Someone was downstairs. She slipped out of bed and put on a robe over her nightdress. Grasping a heavy poker in one hand and her lit candle in the other, she stepped barefooted down the long curving staircase. The candle flame flickered as she trod with care down each step, like a ghostly figure from the past. A velvet shroud of darkness enveloped her. She glanced at the hall clock, which showed four o’clock. The faint sounds came again from the direction of the library.
    Fenella pushed the door ajar and stepped over the threshold. With the poker raised in defence, she crept into the library. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could make out the faint shapes of chairs, the sofa, the writing desk, but no sign of anyone. The room seemed to be empty.
    Suddenly a man’s hand grasped her arm from behind. She screamed—a cry cut off before it even really began as another arm encircled her and a firm hand clamped over her mouth. She dropped the candlestick.
    “Well, well, Miss Preston. You are very brave to confront intruders in this intrepid fashion.”
    As he spoke, he released her, also taking the poker from her now limp grip.
    “Your Grace!” she stammered. “I apologise. I heard a noise and I thought …” Her voice petered out. She pulled her robe around herself.
    “Is this how far you take your duties?” he mocked, bending down to rescue the feebly flickering candle.
    “I should think you would be grateful that my concern for your mother’s welfare extends to putting my own life at risk!” she snapped.
    The Duke held the candle above both their heads. He gazed at Fenella.
    “You are quite right, Miss Preston. My sincere and most humble apologies.”
    His expression was enigmatic, inscrutable; his eyes revealed nothing.
    She opened her mouth to retort. “I—”
    Suddenly he put his hand over her mouth and dragged her into an alcove, clasping her tight against his chest. They were half hidden by a long velvet drape. Shuffling noises came from across the hallway. It was Blenkins, in slippers, gown and nightcap. He peered around the library door, lifting his candle to shed light into the dark room.
    “Is—is that you, Your Grace?” His voice was nervous.
    The Duke shielded Fenella’s candle so that Blenkins could not see them huddled so scandalously together.
    “Yes, it is,” he called. “I decided to return without prior notice. Go back