The Devil In Disguise by Stefanie Sloane Read Free Book Online Page A

elicit a physical response she’d never before experienced, she was relieved to learn that the duke held no power over her when held at arm’s length.
    Which is where he would remain for the entirety of their courtship, she vowed.
If
she agreed to his proposition. She needed more time to consider whether she should do so.
    “I will take your proposal under advisement,” Lucinda answered, pointing the jasmine at him to underline her decision.
    He reached for the flower and took hold of Lucinda’s hand. “Of course. Though you should know, I’m not a patient man.”
    “Patience is a virtue, Your Grace,” she said, tugging her hand from his. “And one you’d do well to practice should you wish to go forward with this … this …” She halted, unwilling to use the word that even now, seemed implausible when applied to herself and the man known as Iron Will.
    “Courtship, Lady Lucinda,” His Grace finished for her with amusement.
    Clearly, she thought with annoyance, the idea of such a connection held no trepidation for him.
    And God help me
, Lucinda thought as she gave him a curt nod, tilted her chin, and turned toward the ballroom.
God help us all
.

4
    A gentle breeze stirred the crimson silk curtain concealing the half-open window in Lucinda’s bedroom. Her town house in Grosvener Square was an elegant, beautifully appointed home, and usually Lucinda found it wonderfully comfortable.
    Not so tonight.
    Unfortunately, the air did little to cool her. She stripped off her diamond earbobs, bracelet, and her long gloves, waiting impatiently as Mary freed the clasp of her glittering necklace. The maid deftly unfastened the pale pink gown, retrieving it when Lucinda stepped out of the crumpled silk. Minutes later, Lucinda was free of her undergarments and dressed in a favorite nightgown of pale blue silk, inset with matching lace.
    Mary swiftly plucked the pins from Lucinda’s coiffure Lucinda shook her hair free and took the brush, pulling it through the long strands herself as Mary left the room. Normally, she found the rhythmic strokes of brushing soothing, but tonight her nerves wouldn’t be calmed. Restless, she quickly braided the thick mane and paced across the room.
    Walking didn’t ease her.
    She still felt overly warm.
    She crawled onto her bed and drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her bent knees.
    Thoughts of the duke’s proposal—and, frustratingly enough, of the duke himself—sent diminutive flames flickering across her too sensitive skin. One touch from him had done more to wreak havoc in her meticulously ordered life than the fumbling, bumbling, fervent pleadings of eligible bachelors from London to Scotland.
    And he barely touched me. What have I done?
    She vividly remembered the warm weight of his hand at her waist and wondered whether her vow to keep him at arm’s length was sheer bravado on her part.
    “Well, my girl, what news have you of the ton?”
    Lucinda started at the sound of her aunt’s voice and turned, hand pressed to the silk covering her pounding heart. “Aunt Bessie, you nearly frightened me to death!”
    Elizabeth Bradshaw, the Marchioness of Mowbray, sauntered barefoot across the plush cream and scarlet Persian rug toward Lucinda, a delicate Wedgwood plate piled high with macaroons balanced carefully in her right hand. She wore a dressing gown of deep rose, the silk clinging to her curves. It emphasized what Bessie was perhaps most proud of at fifty-and-some-years of age—a shapely figure that had inspired awe in the male gender from the day she’d turned sixteen.
    “Hmmm, I suspect that whatever is occupying your mind at the moment has far more to do with your excitable nerves than my sudden appearance,” Bessie answered with her usual shrewd perception, setting the plate on the bedside table before joining Lucinda down to a seat beside her on the bed.
    Lucinda avoided her aunt’s gaze and instead concentrated on tracing her