Never Desire a Duke

or no, she wouldn’t change a thing. Given the urgency of the situation, taking Kate’s place had seemed the only alternative. A true friend would never balk at doing the same.

She simply had to be home by the time Clarissa and her mother returned from the Heseldons’, else her intricate tangle of not-necessarily-untruths would fall to pieces.

“Pirouette.”

Mr. Bynum’s command jerked Daphne into the present. She mimicked the movements of the young woman on the stage beside her and twirled like a ballerina. More like a drunken ballerina. She had been the only one of the four who had declined to imbibe from the fortifying bottle of gin that had been passed from girl to girl in the moments before the curtain was drawn. While spirits would no doubt take the edge off her present humiliation, she believed it best to keep her wits about her. To her good fortune, no one seemed concerned about talent or proper form, only that they prance around under the pretense of being actresses, wearing unseemly costumes for the illicit pleasure of the men salivating at their feet. Coming to a stop, she sashayed to the next corner and took the place of the girl who had just vacated the spot.

According to the foul-mouthed bully of a stage master, Mr. Bynum, who was also the very same sot who had threatened Kate, they would perform the same salacious rotation ten times before taking their leave of the stage. Only then would Kate’s debt be satisfied, at least for the evening. Given a day or two, Daphne was certain she could come up with some other solution for satisfying the remainder.

Mr. Bynum shouted a French command. “Parader!”

Truly, he displayed the most appalling accent. Daphne executed a different “classical” pose.

He blathered on, this time about Helen and Paris. In that moment, she desperately tried to forget where she was and imagined herself as Helen, the face that had launched a thousand ships. Why, she had always had a flair for the dramatic. She and her sisters had always put on productions for the family, and in secret she had dreamed of a life onstage. In some ways, tonight’s daring venture was exceedingly diverting, and she might actually enjoy herself if not—

If not for the fact that she, Daphne Bevington, the Earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter and quite possibly this season’s declared incomparable, was at this moment standing on a stage in London’s most notorious bawdy house, half-naked and making a naughty spectacle of her jiggly bits for the entertainment of strangers.

Daphne bit down a gasp. Not all strangers, for there, having just come through the doorway, was Lord Rackmorton, a hopeful suitor who had sent her flowers just yesterday, two dozen perfect white roses. He’d seemed like such a nice gentleman. Obviously, she’d been fooled, and she would rebuff him at the earliest opportunity now that she had seen him here in this palace of iniquity.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of terror that had chilled her blood from the moment she’d stepped through the door of the Blue Swan. What if, even though her face was half-concealed by the mask, Lord Rackmorton saw and recognized her? What if her mother and grandfather learned of her not-very-smart, but well-intended adventure?

Yet in a blink, two women plastered themselves to his lordship’s side and escorted him off, laughing, into the shadows, past another gentleman she also recognized, sneaking in the back—

“Pirouette!”

Just then, a big hand smacked her buttocks, latched there, and squeezed.

Daphne squawked and jumped. A glance over her shoulder confirmed her assailant to be the same cretin as before, looking rather pleased at getting such a solid handful of her. Indeed, in the next moment, with the help of a friend’s knee, he hurled himself half on the stage, reaching for her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a hound on the street. “Come on, sweet. How about a little ballum-rankum?”

Lunging away, she somehow managed to twirl like a ballerina—

Only to crash into the girl behind her. The room erupted in laughter. In her discomposure, she’d gone the wrong way. The girl shouted a vulgarity a lady ought not to even know and gave Daphne a shove in the opposite direction—

Just in time for her to see the most attractive gentleman plant his fist in the face of the man who had affronted her.

Looking up, he glared at her rather ferociously, something that ought to frighten her but instead inspired everything inside her to tingling. Yes, he had to be a gentleman because he looked so very fine with his cravat so perfectly tied and his dark blond hair so neatly cut, somewhere between short and longish, the ideal frame for his broad cheekbones and astonishing gray eyes.

“Thank you,” she shouted, though she knew he couldn’t hear her for the din of the room.

The gleam in his gray eyes intensified. She’d never had anyone look at her like that, so blatantly, without the filter of decorum, as if she was not a girl or even a lady, but a woman.

“You’re welcome.” Or at least that’s what his mouth appeared to say. She couldn’t hear him either.

A large crash sounded from the direction of the entrance. A woman screamed. The music trailed off. An enormous man in a black suit and top hat appeared on the threshold. Patrons scrambled away from him, pushing and shoving.

Bracing his legs wide, he bellowed, “Under his majesty’s authority, this bawdy house is hereby closed for the crimes of lewdness and common nuisance.” Lifting both hands high, he displayed what appeared to be a constable’s blazon and piece of paper that could only be a warrant. “You are all under arrest.”

A swarm of men rushed in behind him, wielding batons.

Daphne stood paralyzed for a long moment. She? Daphne Bevington, under arrest?

Like everyone else, she dashed for the door.

THE DISH

Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop

From the desk of Jennifer Delamere Dear Reader,

One reason I love writing historical fiction is that I find fascinating facts during my research that I can use to add spice to my novels.

For Tom Poole’s story in A LADY MOST LOVELY, I was particularly inspired by an intriguing tidbit I found while researching shipwrecks off the southern coast of Australia. In describing the wreck of a steamer called Champion in the 1850s, the article included this one line: “A racehorse aboard Champion broke loose, swam seven miles to the shore, and raced again in the Western District.” Isn’t that amazing!? Not only that the horse could make it to land, but that it remained healthy enough to continue racing.

Although I was unable to find out any more details about the racehorse, as a writer this little piece of information was really all I needed. I knew it would be a wonderful way to introduce the animal that would come to mean so much to Tom Poole. Tom and the stallion are the only survivors of a terrible shipwreck that left them washed up on the coast near Melbourne, Australia, in early 1851. Tom was aboard that ship in the first place because he was chasing after the man who had murdered his best friend. By the time he meets Margaret Vaughn in A LADY MOST LOVELY, Tom has been involved in two other real-life events as well: a massive wildfire near Melbourne, and the gold rush that would ultimately make him a wealthy man.

As you may have guessed by now, Tom Poole is a man of action. This aspect of his nature certainly leads him into some interesting adventures! However, when he arrives in London and meets the beguiling but elusive Miss Margaret Vaughn, he’s going to discover that affairs of the heart require an entirely different set of skills, but no less determination.