“Wet Dukes and Drenched Debutantes,” Bridget kept her voice calm, as befitted a lady. “The readers of this newspaper will be familiar with the name William Hartwell, the Duke of Arlington, or as many know him, the Devil Duke, the Beast of Brookhaven, or the Rakehell of London, but none of us knows the young Lady Bridget Wycliff.
The lady is an anomaly which makes us question how she came into contact with the most profligate rake in Town. Witnesses recount seeing the Duke carrying the drenched and disheveled lady— drenched himself, by-the-by— to Lord Hansen’s carriage.
She put no intonation onto the words, “Because of the remote location, so removed from the grand walk, was it an assignation that was interrupted and the only escape was to jump into the pond? Is the lady trapped between two lovers? We do not speculate about what would cause the duke to be carrying the lady, but many ladies have mentioned feeling drenched in the duke’s presence—a frolic in the water is still a strange way to go about it.”
Bridget felt there was an innuendo somewhere in there but had no idea where to identify it and what the innuendo meant.
She folded the newspaper and put it aside before reaching for her cup. That horrible columnist. Her stomach felt upside downand uneasy. This would certainly draw her unwanted attention and—she feared—sour Lord Hansen’s attention.
“I think I will stay away from London for the next few days,” Bridget sighed.
“Actually, I think the opposite might be best,” Ellie replied. “Avoiding the issue makes you look guilty, but if you have nothing to hide, why keep hidden?”
Bridget bit her lips and wondered if her friend was right.
A commotion right outside William’s bedchamber had the groggy duke stirring and Atlas growling from his place at the foot of the bed. The affable dog only had one grouse, which had William huffing.
Good god, couldn’t he have a moment to relive his dream? The feel of the lady’s skin under his, the taste of her lips, and her breathy moans in his ears—it was only when he woke he knew, that lady was Bridget.
“Please, Sir,” Oliver’s dulcet tone came through the door. “Will you please let me wake His Grace—”
“I will wake my ne’er-do-well nephew myself,” came the stiff, clipped tones of his venerable Uncle Ambrose Hartwell, the Earl of Cranshaw.
Sitting up, William sighed, “Just let him in, Lane, and find me some coffee.”
The door pushed in, and the lord walked inside. At two-and-fifty, the Earl still cut a dashing figure. tall, well-built, his hair was rusty red, the clipped waves gleaming around his handsome, chiseled features. In contrast, his sharp copper-hazel eyes were the only feature he and William had in common.
“This place is as dark as Hades,” Ambrose muttered, then succinctly flung the dark drapes apart, making William wince. “How do you live in such murk?”
“Good morning to you too, Uncle,” he muttered, rubbing his face.
“Are you drunk, boy?”
“No,” William grew irate. “And I am the furthest thing from a boy.”
“When you decide to make a man’s decisions, manage your money, stay away from getting soured every night, and stop hopping from one bed to another, it would tell me you have matured,” Ambrose’s tone was flat. “Did you have a woman in here?”
“If I had company in here, do you think I would have allowed you in?” William slid his feet from under the covers and reached forhis robe. “What do you need, Uncle, and could we please talk in the breakfast room?”
Instead of replying, Ambrose pulled a folded newspaper from his inner pocket. “Do you care to explain why you were seen, soaking wet, carrying a lady out of the Serpentine River?”
“God help me,” William mumbled while rubbing his eyes.
“It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Ambrose said dryly as William led them from his bedroom to the quaint breakfast room a story down.
Thankfully, the sidebar was already stocked with a hot kettle and a tin Biggin Pots, filled with coffee. William poured his, then sunk to a seat and unfolded the paper. The headline on the scandal page made him splutter.White Knight or Devil Duke?
It did not take him long to realize all of London was abuzz with the incident between him, Lady Bridget, and that toff Hansen. Dropping the paper, he said, “This was a series of unfortunate events. My dog startled her, she was in the worst possible place she could be and tumbled over into the river. It was only right that I went to fish her out of it.”
“Have you thought about clarifying the story so the masses do not think there was anything unsavory about the incident?” Ambrose asked, eyes narrowing. “The lady deserves her innocence.”
“I never touched her,” William said, his terseness growing. “Why does everyone think I am some profligate ruiner—”
“Youareone.”
“Iwasone,” William stressed. “I am sticking to the terms of our agreement, to stay on the straight and narrow road of redemption.”
“Then do the honorable thing and make sure she is not drawn into your web of shadow and shame,” Ambrose tapped the newspaper. “Get your writing materials—now.”
