Scoundrels of Mayfair Book 4
She’s impossible – and everything he wants!
In a world that doesn’t care, Lady Portia Frain dedicates herself to rescuing mistreated animals. When the bully who runs a dogfighting ring threatens her, the Duke of Granville is her only hope – and the last man she wants to turn to. Not only is he the suitor her sister jilted under scandalous circumstances, he’s also, in her words, “the most boring man in Britain.”
Except it turns out, now she’s forced into his company, the duke isn’t nearly as boring as she thought. Especially in close quarters. Very close quarters…
Alaric Dempster, Duke of Granville never wants to encounter another Frain again as long as he lives. They’re nothing but trouble, including his former fiancée Juliet and her featherbrained sister Portia.
But when London’s perfect gentleman stumbles upon Portia in a dangerous confrontation, honor requires him to step in, whatever his opinion of the lady in question. Things should end there, but instead Granville’s orderly existence disintegrates into a shambles of secrets and kisses and far, far too much Portia Frain. Although, to his irritation, he’s forgetting how much she annoys him and remembering how beautiful she is. It’s a devil of a dilemma for a duke determined to keep his distance – and his sanity.
Portia and the duke are the worst possible match – which means they might just be perfect for each other!
Buy ebook from: Amazon US; Amazon Australia; Amazon UK; Amazon Canada; Smashwords; Kobo Australia; Kobo US; Apple US; Apple Australia; Barnes and Noble
Wapping, East End of London, April 1818
Across the maroon leather interior of the coach, Portia watched the Duke of Granville stare out the window with a pensive expression. Like a perfect gentleman, he sat with his back to the horses. He was a perfect gentleman. He’d even taken Juliet’s rejection with notable gallantry.
She wished to heaven that she knew why his refined manners irked her so much.
They still drove through the East End. They’d stumbled on the duke’s carriage soon after she’d obtained his reluctant agreement to take Jupiter in. From there, they traveled to the rendezvous point that Portia had set with Rankin, her coachman, so he knew she was safe.
Portia had a lot of respect for a good coachman. She couldn’t manage her rescues without Rankin, and he took charge of her menagerie if she was absent. The duke’s coachman was clearly another paragon. Phipps hadn’t raised an eyebrow when his passengers included a disheveled lady and a dog of doubtful breed.
The dog of doubtful breed now perched on the seat beside Granville. The duke had tried to put him on the floor, but Jupiter was having none of that.
Portia, after a lifetime of dealing with animals, had observed the silent battle between dog and nobleman. So far, she’d put her money on Jupiter emerging triumphant. Just as she’d lay good money on Jupiter now having a home. She should be ashamed of herself for that blatant manipulation of the duke’s finer feelings, but the cause was good and he’d benefit from having a dog. He just didn’t know it yet.
Granville hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the carriage. Nor had he looked at her. That should suit her down to the ground. It wasn’t as if she liked him. She was probably the only person who cheered when Juliet jilted that plaster saint, the Duke of Granville.
Nor did Granville like her. Although she had to admit that he’d proven a useful accomplice through today’s adventures. Or at least he had when he wasn’t staring down that imperial nose at her, as if she was something nasty stuck to his shoe.
She tried to ignore him as successfully as he ignored her. But in such close confines, that was more difficult than it should be.
If only he wasn’t a pleasure to behold. Even when she’d dismissed him as a self-important bore, she’d acknowledged his good looks. One of the reasons that people treated him with such deference – aside from the ancient title and impressive fortune – was that he looked like the Angel Gabriel in an old painting. Nature had gilded him with golden hair and golden skin. Chiseled features. A lean, athletic body. Commanding height.
Today’s events left him more disordered than usual. His once-pristine green coat bore stains from brushing too close to clammy brick walls, and his gray kidskin gloves were grubby. Scuff marks dulled his usually gleaming boots.
He’d removed his stylish beaver hat. His thick blond waves of hair were untidy. One lock even had the temerity to tumble across that noble brow.
Portia had observed the Duke of Granville across a plethora of ballrooms. He always dressed comme il faut, not a hair out of place. He’d probably shoot his valet, if the man failed to do up every button and straighten every hem.
Granville was famous for setting feminine hearts aflutter. Debutantes had been known to swoon if His Grace requested a dance. When Juliet attracted his notice, society applauded her on a major coup.
Until now, the sight of the Duke of Granville had never roused a moment’s discomfort in Portia. Which, given he intended to marry her sister, was a good thing.
She didn’t like self-satisfied men. She didn’t like men who set themselves up as arbiter of all decisions. She didn’t like men who treated the world like a toy created for their private pleasure.
Unfortunately, that description fitted most males in the beau monde. Her dislike for dominant men partly explained why she’d refused the numerous proposals she’d received.
So it seemed absurd that studying Granville now, she should feel an unaccustomed shortness of breath and a warmth on her skin.
She tried to blame both on running away from Jim and Alf. But she’d been sitting in this coach for a good half hour and her heartbeat hadn’t regained its normal rate.
Perfectly presented Granville left her cold. Granville the worse for wear appealed to a part of her that she didn’t like to acknowledge. Today, for the first time, he looked almost human, not like a visitor from heavenly realms, unaffected by mucky emotion.
This man looked like flesh and blood. He looked touchable.
Curse her, she wanted to touch him. She very much feared that if she wasn’t careful, she’d start staring at His Grace the way Jupiter did. All starry-eyed devotion. Ugh!
Wouldn’t that make Granville laugh? Even worse, it might make him feel sorry for her.
Jupiter smelled like a dog who had been on the streets too long. Despite the open windows, the reek of unwashed canine was overpowering. How was it possible that across the several feet separating her from His Grace, Portia was aware of another scent? Something clean and fresh and spicy.
She’d often danced with Granville – they’d both put a good face on their animosity for Juliet’s sake. Never before had she noticed anything particular about his scent. Yet right now, if there were ten men in a room and she closed her eyes, she could pick Granville out within seconds.
It was jolly irritating.
Without warning, he turned his head and met her eyes.
Awareness jolted her, made her sit up straight. Good heavens. She needed to be careful. She prayed that he didn’t detect her unwilling interest.
“May I close the blinds? We’ll soon be back into the part of Town where we may be recognized.”
“Yes,” she said, then continued in a tart voice that didn’t sound like her. “It would be a disaster if anybody saw us together.”
A proposal grounded in scandal would be the end of enough, even if in the family tradition. Both Juliet and Viola had been caught in improper circumstances with the men they later married.
But Juliet and Viola had been in love with the gentlemen in question. Portia might suffer temporary insanity in finding the Duke of Granville appealing. That didn’t mean signing up to a lifetime with the pompous idiot.
Her tone made his elegant golden eyebrows arch. “If you agree to take Jupiter, I’ll arrange for your discreet return home, with nobody the wiser about our encounter.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’ve been through this. If you think that dog intends to leave you this side of doomsday, you’re cracked in the head.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “You know, nobody else talks to me like you do. In fact, even you didn’t talk to me like this until today.”
She hadn’t spoken to him since those fraught days last year at Afton Court, the family estate, where Juliet had rejected him. “I don’t feel like I’ve got anything to lose with you anymore. I’m sorry if you don’t like it.”
Which was a lie. She wasn’t sorry at all.
A frown, more puzzlement than annoyance, creased his brow. Portia wanted to grind her teeth in frustration. Could he look any more picturesque? The Archangel Gabriel sorrowing over humanity’s foibles. The awful truth was that his beauty made her stupid stomach tie itself up in knots of longing.
“I wouldn’t say I don’t like it,” he said thoughtfully. “Compared to all the fawning toadies, it’s refreshing to know where I stand with you.”
What a relief. That sounded like she’d managed to hide her sudden and inconvenient penchant for him. “I appreciated your help today,” she said on a less belligerent note.
He laughed again, a grunt of wry amusement that she would have assumed was outside his repertoire. On the strength of earlier encounters, she’d judged him to be totally humorless, too wrapped up in his own grandeur to laugh at anything. She couldn’t remember them sharing so much as a wry smile. Then, as he pointed out, she’d been punctiliously polite to him in return. Not at all her outspoken self.
“I’m sure it hurt to say that.” Like her, he must recall their chilly interactions.
He, too, was franker than he’d been in their previous acquaintance. Perhaps they might have found common ground, if they’d ever moved beyond banalities. “I’ll survive,” she said with a hint of grimness.
“Pleased to hear it.” He pulled down the blinds. “I’ve got enough problems with this hound of humble parentage. I don’t need an expiring noblewoman on my plate as well.”