Surrender to the Devil (9 page)

Considering what he had to offer, he thought it only fair that he not aim too high. On the other hand, this woman would be the mother of his heir and his spare. And he might throw in another son for good measure. He despised the cousin who would inherit if Sterling didn’t provide legitimate issue, so he needed a woman of good stock.

Standing near some fronds and watching the couples circling on the dance floor, he decided that choosing a homely girl would be a mistake. They always looked so damned grateful. He needed someone who was secure in herself, perhaps even a bit in love with herself. It was imperative that she not be the sort who required love or who might fall in love with him. Loving him was a sure path to disaster.

Although he couldn’t see her, Sterling was aware of the lady approaching him because her overwhelmingly tart fragrance arrived long before she did.

“Your Grace?”

Turning toward her voice, he smiled at his hostess. “Lady Chesney.”

She smiled brightly. She was as round as her husband. No surprise there. Her household boasted the best cook in all of London. “I would be honored to introduce you to some ladies who are in need of dance partners.”

“I appreciate the offer, but my feet are a bit rusty. I believe I’ll just watch this evening.”

“Oh, come, Your Grace. I remember how dashing you looked upon the dance floor. You can’t have forgotten what seemed to have come so naturally to you.”

“Lady Chesney, this is my first ball since returning to London. I prefer to ease back into the social life.”

“But it is a ball, Your Grace. Lady Charlotte is quite the accomplished dancer. I’m sure you’d be most comfortable swirling her—”

“I don’t wish to dance,” he ground out through clenched teeth, especially as he was unable to do so with any sort of grace these days.

Lady Chesney jerked her head back and widened her eyes considerably. Damnation. He bowed slightly. “My apologies, but I’m still mourning the loss of my father. It would be inappropriate for me to take pleasure in dancing.”

“Of course, I am sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

“I’m sure some are even questioning my being here at all as it has been a little over a month since his passing, but”—he glanced around as though about to impart a secret and she leaned nearer in anticipation—“I am in want of a wife and I do not wish to wait until next Season to make my selection.”

Her eyes sparkled with merriment. “Oh, you need not worry there. Men are forgiven for not taking mourning as seriously as women.”

“I take it very seriously, but I have a duty to my title that my father would want me to honor.”

“No one would dare question your dedication to duty. I’m certain once word gets around that you’re seriously pursuing matrimony that you will have no trouble at all finding the perfect wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my other guests.”

And begin spreading the rumor that he was looking for a wife, no doubt. Good. Since Catherine was honoring the mourning period, she’d be of little help to him, so he was going to have to rely on others. He needed a wife now.

His father, blast him, had been right. Seeing to his own pleasures and touring the continents had placed him in an awkward spot, but he couldn’t regret one single moment.

He turned his attention back to the dance floor. He decided he would go with beautiful. After all, he would have to bed her. Confident. She would need strength for the future. Self-absorbed. Yes. Someone who would tell him to go to hell once the truth came to light and then get on with her life.

No guilt, then. He’d set her up in London and he’d retire to the country. He and his father had fought about that as well. “Your place will be in the House of Lords.”

His place was in hell.

He caught sight of Lords Canton and Milner ambling toward him. He gave a brusque nod. He liked them both well enough, had gone to school with them, often played cards with them at Dodger’s.

“Greystone, old boy,” Canton drawled. “What’s this I hear that you’re actually looking for a wife?”

That didn’t take Lady Chesney long to accomplish.

“You’ll give the mamas cause to expect the same for the rest of us. You don’t announce it, man,” Milner said.

“The Season is almost over. I don’t have much time. I thought being forthright would speed the process.”

“But good God, Greystone, you’re only eight and twenty. Far too young to be tied down with the same woman every night,” Canton pointed out.

“If I learned anything at all during my travels, gentlemen, it was that life is precarious. I do not intend to let the dukedom fall to my blasted cousin.”

“Hardly blame you there,” Canton muttered. “Wilson Mabry is a cad.”

“You’re too generous by half with that assessment.” Wilson Mabry personified the seven deadly sins.

The two gentlemen who had joined him turned their attention toward the dance area.

“My sister’s not yet spoken for,” Canton said quietly. “I’m sure my father wouldn’t oppose your suit.”

“I like your sister, Canton. Therefore, she’s not on my list of considerations.”

Canton jerked his head around and gave Sterling an odd, questioning look. Sterling shrugged. “I know myself better than any man and I have no doubt that I’m poor husband material. I suspect your sister will want at least affection—if not love—in her marriage. I’m unable to accommodate such whimsy. I’m in search of a wife who is content to see to her duty without complaining and will expect no more of me than I can give.”

“Lady Annabelle Lawrence might suit you then,” Milner offered. “From what I’ve heard she hasn’t an affectionate bone in her body.” He visibly shuddered. “Cold as ice, from what I understand. Wants a husband who won’t interfere with her life.”

“Which one is she?”

“There,” Milner nodded toward the dance floor. “Dancing with Deerfield.”

Sterling spotted the couple right off. Lady Annabelle had an air of entitlement about her. It might work in his favor after he had his heirs, but until then, life could very well be miserable. She was certainly beautiful, with her black hair—

A flash of red passed before his vision, and the attractive Annabelle was forgotten as he desperately searched the crowd…

He gave himself a mental shake. She wouldn’t be here. Frannie Darling didn’t move about in his circles—although on occasion he wandered through hers.

“Want an introduction?” Canton asked.

“Not at the moment, thank you. I’m going to step out for some fresh air.”

As soon as he walked onto the terrace, he realized the foolishness of coming out here. It was always more difficult to make out things clearly in the dark. Carefully, he made his way over to the edge of the terrace. Closing his fingers around the railing, he took a deep breath.

Red hair. It hadn’t even been as vibrant as hers. No one’s was as vibrant as Frannie Darling’s.

He could have any woman in London, yet she was the only one he wanted. She haunted not only his dreams, but every waking moment as well.

He’d come here tonight hoping to distract himself from this fierce need he had to see her, but with just one glimpse of red, she was again taking possession of every thought in his head. Strangely, when he thought of Miss Darling, it wasn’t so much the pleasure he would derive from her but that he might give to her that occupied his thoughts. How he would use his hands and mouth to stir her passions, how he would cause desire to burn through her, how her voice would sound when she cried out his name.

This was insanity. If he could but see her one more time, kiss her once more, then perhaps he could move on with his life.

“’ere! ’e’s over ’ere!”

Frannie quickened her step, striving to keep up with the boy who’d grabbed her hand on the street and pulled her into the alleyway. She’d been almost finished making her nightly rounds at the rookeries, searching for children in need of what she had to offer when the lad had approached her.

“You the red angel what takes boys to a better place?” he’d asked, no doubt referring to the shade of her hair. She wore it loose and wild when she came to this area of London because she knew it distinguished her from others.

She’d been gratified to know that she was developing a reputation for helping the children. Thus far, she’d managed to take in only eight, but word was apparently spreading that she provided a safe haven. “I am. Do you want to come with me?”

“Nah, but Mick…I think ’e’s dyin’.”

As Frannie now knelt beside the child curled on his side, she feared his friend might be correct. He was battered and bruised, fevered and trembling.

“Can ye ’elp ’im?” his friend asked.

“Yes.” Or at least William Graves could. How would the poor and indigent feel to know that the man who treated their ills and never asked for payment also served as a physician to the queen? Twisting around, Frannie grabbed the older boy’s arm. “But I won’t help him unless you come with me as well.”

“Can’t do that. Sykes’ll kill me.”

She wasn’t surprised to discover that Sykes was his kidsman. Both lads fit his requirements: small and wiry. She also recognized his handiwork as exhibited on the hurt boy. “What did your friend do wrong?” she asked.

The lad shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t steal enough naps.”

Handkerchiefs. The boy hadn’t met his daily quota. Sykes had probably charged him with being lazy and had decided that nearly killing him would motivate the others. He placed no value on the lives of children. She suspected he placed no value on anyone’s life save his own.

“I won’t let Sykes harm you. I swear it.”

Shaking his head, the boy wiggled out of her grip and was racing into the darkness before she could stop him. With extreme tenderness, she lifted the hurt boy into her arms. With Bill’s help, she’d save him.

Then she’d return to the rookeries to search for more boys—in particular those who worked for Sykes. If she couldn’t stop his brutality, she’d seek to move beyond his reach as many boys as possible.

During the week following the ball, Sterling had lost an unconscionable amount of money at the gaming tables, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Darling—with absolutely no luck at either spying her or winning back his stakes.

Tonight was no exception. Sterling had purchased his chips on credit. Dodger’s was civilized in that regard. At the end of the month a statement of accounts owed would be sent out. Considering Jack Dodger’s reputation, Sterling doubted anyone ever reneged on settling accounts, but if he did, Sterling wondered if Miss Darling would attempt to collect. As bookkeeper, perhaps she’d come around herself . It would provide him an opportunity to see her which sitting here attempting to make sense of his cards wasn’t. His mind wasn’t focused on playing as his dwindling stack of chips testified.

With his limited vision, he knew that she might well walk right past him and he’d not notice her until it was too late. Numerous times he’d considered attempting to access the offices, but he’d seen Dodger use a key often enough to know the door leading to them was always locked. He knew the apartment she had was accessible through stairs on the outside and had considered waiting for her in the alleyway, but she’d given him her answer. He should respect it and get on with his own matters.

But the fervor with which she’d spoken about her orphans haunted him. Was there anything in life that he cared about so passionately? He cared for his title, to be sure. The estates were a source of pride. But nothing consumed him, not in the manner in which Frannie Darling was consumed with aiding orphans.

Sterling was accustomed to ladies discussing light-hearted matters such as dressmakers and hats. Miss Darling, he suspected, had no time or patience for such frivolity. She was passionate about everything that mattered to her.

He wanted to matter to her.

He’d continued to make his servants available to her each day until they reported that all the furniture had been arranged to her satisfaction. She’d sent him a polite note thanking him for lending her such fine workers.

He’d sent her five hundred pounds. She’d written him promising to put it to good use.

Each letter was precise, unemotional, indicating she’d moved on with her life—as should he.

He became aware of an unsettling sensation that he’d felt on more than one occasion. Glancing at his cards, he asked, “Are there peepholes at this place?”

“Good Lord,” the Earl of Chesney muttered as he gave his cards another glance. “They’re all over the place.”

“Do they overlook this area?”

“Mmm. The curtained balconies above. From what I hear, only accessible from the back rooms, which are only accessible to Dodger.”

And his bookkeeper.

Sterling lifted his gaze to a shadowed balcony in the far corner. How could he have not noticed it before? It was too far away, too shadowy to make out clearly, but somehow, he knew—

Frannie jerked back from the small opening she’d been peering through. Damnation, she was fairly certain he’d spotted her spying on him, because she’d felt his gaze as though he were standing in the balcony with her, trailing his finger along her throat.

Tonight he certainly looked sharp in his dark green jacket, black waistcoat, and soft gray trousers. Had he spent his evening in the company of a lady before coming here? She didn’t like thinking of him being with someone other than her, which was rather silly on her part. He was a duke. Eventually he would marry someone other than her. All he wanted from her was one night. She had little doubt it would be a night filled with charming words and sensual touches and blistering kisses. It would be a night that might leave her longing for more. Was it better to have one night and forever wish for another or to always wonder what that one night might have been like?

She’d known so many of Feagan’s lads, but not one had ever caused desire to curl within her. She’d thought when she gave Greystone her answer that she could walk away and never think about him again. Instead, she found herself wondering if she’d made a mistake.

If she had, would she find the courage to admit it not only to herself, but to him?