A DEVILISH DUKE

  LORDS OF TEMPTATION

  TAMMY ANDRESEN

  Copyright © 2024 by Tammy Andresen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  CONTENTS

  A Devilish Duke

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  A Scandalous Scot

  A Scandalous Scot

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Tammy

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  www.tammyandresen.com

  Hugs!

  A DEVILISH DUKE

  A Devilish Duke

  Lords of Temptation Book 11

  He’s as cold as he is criminal…

  Who does a former lady turn to when there is nowhere left to go?

  The Duke.

  But every refuge in this cruel world has a price. The cost for Ophelia Lexington is to be housed in the Duke’s brothel…her virginity to be sold to the highest bidder.

  She’s as talented as she is innocent…

  One look at Ophelia Lexington, daughter to a baron, and Clayton knows he should cut her loose. She’s too beautiful, talented, and far too fragile for his world, but those are all the same attributes that make her highly desirable.

  And not just to prospective clients. Lust burns inside him, threatens to consume them both. She’s meant to be his greatest asset. Instead, she’s becoming his worst temptation.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “One never knows how deep a hole can be, until they’ve reached the bottom.” —Lord Reginald Fairbanks

  Ophelia Lexington gave a shiver, perhaps from the memory or just from the cold that seemed to have penetrated her bones. The words had been uttered by her former fiancé as they’d stared down into her father’s grave.

  His observation had been terribly insensitive given the circumstances, not that she’d complained. In that moment, Reginald had been her lifeline in this world.

  If only she’d known then that Lord Reginald Fairbanks had been nothing but fool’s gold.

  She snorted under her breath, so as not to be overheard. She’d found a small doorway within which to curl herself.

  It did nothing to block the cold, but at least she had cover over her head. And the door, being inset, kept her invisible from the casual observer.

  If only she could find a shred of warmth, she might be able to sleep. Just for a little bit.

  She pulled her pelisse, now worn threadbare and covered in soot, tighter about her body, clasping her hands together.

  Reginald was surely warm now, likely stretched out in front of a fire. Did he have a sherry in hand, his cuffs undone as he was wont to do after a day of mindless leisure? Had he found a new fiancé? A woman with the means to finance his preferred lifestyle?

  Her head sank. She’d been desperate enough to allow him to fool her into thinking he cared. What did Reginald know about the depth of holes? She curled her knees tighter to her chest, the sound of footsteps making her shrink even deeper into the doorway.

  She couldn’t believe how much she missed the single bed in the workhouse that she’d slept in just two nights prior. The place had smelled foul, like stale sweat and waste. The single flowing water source, a trench down the middle where people both pulled drinking water and tossed out waste.

  Ophelia grimaced at the memory but remained silent as the footsteps drew closer.

  “I’m telling ye, he bought my whole tray of slices,” one woman cackled gleefully. “Paid a quid. I’ll eat well tonight.”

  The woman had surely managed to procure an orange and had peddled the slices for coin. It was a common practice among the impoverished, their cries for their goods filling the streets daily.

  Ophelia had not yet learned the tricks of gaining items such as oranges. She’d managed to sell every last bit and bob she could lay her hands on, including the brass buttons that had adorned her pelisse, but she’d run out of items.

  “I sold six cheroots today,” another answered.

  "Where’d you get ‘em?”

  “Same place you got your orange, I stole ‘em.” They both cackled at that.

  “Are you going to Finnigan’s to eat? I’ll join ye.”

  Ophelia’s stomach gave a treacherous growl, so loud the sound echoed off the walls, just as the women passed.

  One, an older woman, her skin like leather and several teeth missing, stopped to look at Ophelia.

  Ophelia had made the mistake, in the beginning, of thinking that women were less dangerous than men. That an older woman might lend a helping hand. The first one she’d asked for help had lifted Ophelia’s needle and thread so that she could neither sell the goods nor repair her clothes.

  So, she shrank deeper into her alcove as the woman gave her an assessing stare. “Ye’re a pretty one.”

  Ophelia didn’t know what the other woman meant by the compliment, but she was certain it wasn’t good, so she said nothing. The last thing she wanted was to become a threat for this woman simply because she was younger. There was no telling what she could do to Ophelia. Her knuckles were locked so tight, she might not be able to unclench them.

  “That she is,” the other answered, taller, thinner, but no less worn than her companion. She wiped her hands on her filthy apron that peeked out from under her equally dirty coat. “Reached the bottom, have you? Sleeping in a doorway.”

  Was being homeless and destitute the bottom? That was valuable information to know. Still, Ophelia was skeptical. “I’m not certain if I have or I haven’t. I don’t seem to know until tomorrow comes and then I can decide if life has gotten worse.”

  Both women cackled, clearly amused by Ophelia’s comment, though she hadn’t meant it to be funny.

  “Ye’ve got a fine accent too, what are ye doing down here in the slums?”

  Ophelia shrugged. They didn’t want her life story and she didn’t wish to give it. “It’s a rather boring story in that it’s alarmingly typical.”

  “What’s that now?” the tall one asked, her brow scrunching as though she were confused. Had Ophelia said something too complicated? She had learned to speak more plainly over the last year, that was for certain.

  “She’s just like all the other girls who start high and land here,” the first woman answered, cocking her head to the side as she continued to stare. “You’re just the sort he likes.”

  Fear prickled along her skin as she held her breath, watching the two women like a fox might observe the hounds. She shouldn’t have spoken. Then they’d have simply let her be.

  “Who’s that?” the second one asked.

  “The Duke, of course,” the first answered. “She’s the sort he takes off the streets.”

  The Duke? Her breath sucked in. She’d heard his name whispered by men and women alike. Sometimes it was spoken in fear, other times in reverent tones of how no one in this neighborhood dared to cross the man. “I’m fine. Thank you but⁠—”

  “Don’t be a fool, girl,” the shorter one barked. “Heed my words. You want a warm bed and food. Go see The Duke. He’s two streets over on Hanesbury. Green door. Brick building. Can’t miss it.”

  And then the women sashayed away, leaving Ophelia shivering on her stoop, their words echoing in her head.

  A warm bed and a full belly…this idea was tempting. She’d soon starve to death if she didn’t freeze first.

  But a man who took in pretty women like her, one feared by all, that had the potential to be far worse than dying quietly on a stoop.

  Then again, each new day had been a fresh hell. And her future wasn’t the only one at stake. She thought of her brother, Maxwell, locked away in prison, her eyes fluttering closed.

  She sat undecided for several more minutes until a gust of wind so fierce it filled every crack and crevice swirled down the street and blew into her alcove, cutting straight through her worn pelisse. A violent shiver wracked her body, and she just knew…she wasn’t done fighting. Unclenching her hands and then her knees, she pushed up from her spot in the doorway.

  She gave the spot one last look.

  Someone else would surely find it if she left. There was no coming back. The question was only, was that stoop the bottom of the hole, or did she have lower still to sink by seeking out the Duke? There was only one way to find out.

  The walk to Hanesbury Street should have only taken a few minutes, but Ophelia had underestimated just how weak she’d become.

  One street over and she had to stop, placing a hand on the stone building she passed to stop the spinning of her addled head.

  She’d not eaten in two days. And before that, she only managed food sporadically. With only a few ha’pennies jingling about in her pocket, she’d been saving the coins just in case.

  But she was weak enough that the short tri
p to two streets over felt as though she were on some great journey, her limbs threatening to buckle under her with every step.

  She stopped several more times, the wind cutting through her threadbare garments until finally the door came into view.

  The building was exactly as the woman had described. The entire street was lined with brick buildings in various states of disrepair, but the one with the green door was clean and well maintained, with freshly painted white trim and evergreen bushes lining the front beds.

  The house spoke of money in a neighborhood that lacked any, and only a person with extreme power would be comfortable announcing their affluence here.

  She walked along the wrought-iron fence that hugged the front gardens until she reached the cobblestone path leading to the steps.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she stopped before the stairs, preparing herself for the climb. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, partly from her fear and partly from the effort as she swallowed down a lump in her throat.

  What waited on the other side of that door?

  As though her question were being answered, the door swung open, and out stepped a man, a woman clinging to his arm with a smile painted on her lips, the low cut of her gown making Ophelia shiver again.

  The woman’s gaze caught hers as she clung to the railing, and her smile disappeared. “Oh my,” she gasped out before turning back toward the door. “Duke!”

  In that moment, hearing his name made Ophelia limp with relief as she sank a bit deeper onto the railing. “I’ve come…” she started, her tongue darting out to wet her cracked lips.

  “Honey, we all know why you’ve come,” she said as she lifted her skirts to hustle down the stairs, the man she’d been escorting following.

  Behind them, the light from several candles filled the doorway, looking warm and inviting. She lifted her face toward it, as though she might feel the heat from where she leaned at the bottom of the stone stairs.

  Suddenly, the light dimmed, a massive man filling the frame and blocking the warm glow. She gasped despite herself, her fingers tightening on the rail. He appeared a shadow or a wraith, and fresh fear stiffened her limbs.

  “I…” She looked up, trying to see the man’s face, but all the light was behind him. Was it a nice face? She needed something to ease her racing pulse.

  The angle of his jaw came into view, the square line of it, giving him an unyielding appearance. “Who is this?”

  His voice was sharp, deep, the sort that cut through her and she found herself shrinking even more. “I…” she started again. “Someone…a woman…she told me to come…I…” She didn’t even know the woman’s name, and she didn’t know why she’d recommended this place of all places.

  Ophelia hadn’t cried in quite some time. Tears were pointless and silly, but she found her eyes welling up with them now.

  The man moved closer. Was he the Duke? She craned her neck to look up at him, see the features of his face, assess if he looked kind or cruel, hoping for some sign she hadn’t made a terrible mistake, but tipping her head back disturbed her balance and suddenly the dizziness she’d been fighting sent her spinning.

  She tried to drop her head down to regain calm, but she only clonked her forehead on the heavy railing.

  “Christ, this one’s in bad shape.”

  That was likely true. Should she run? Return to her alcove? “I haven’t eaten and…” But her legs chose that moment to give out.

  She knew the stone under her feet was going to be hard and cold, but she couldn’t stiffen her muscles to stop the fall.

  She never hit the ground.

  Instead, strong arms caught her, then pulled her against a hard body that was so warm she gave a low moan just to feel the heat.

  “Did I hurt you?” He eased his grip, but he didn’t wait for her answer to carry her inside. She closed her eyes. She could feel him climbing the steps, and when they moved inside, the warmth hit her like a wall and made her moan again.

  “No.” She pushed out an answer to his question on a sigh. “The warmth feels so good.”

  “A bath,” he barked out and she nearly cried in pleasure again at the very idea of soaking in warm water.

  Had she fought this place? There was nowhere else she’d rather be. Then again, one never quite knew where the bottom of any hole actually was.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The man who’d carried her inside had plopped her in a chair and left again without a word. She had no idea how long he would allow her to stay, or what the price might be, but just the warmth of the stove might be worth it.

  A woman, who’d been introduced as Mama Rose, pushed a steaming mug into Ophelia’s hands. “Take this and drink.” Ophelia did as she was commanded, bringing the cup to her lips and taking a sip of the steaming chicken broth. As the hot liquid breathed life into her limbs, she closed her eyes, relishing the flavor.

  Ophelia did not care about the cost, not yet. She’d live in this moment without thinking about the next.

  Mama Rose turned away again, pulling a copper tub from the butler’s pantry and pushing it directly in front of the wood stove that heated the kitchen.

  “Is that for me?” Ophelia asked, before taking another large gulp of the broth.

  “Yes,” Mama Rose answered. She was an older woman with fine lines all over her face, but she pulled the tub easily, her body still appearing healthy and strong. Far stronger than Ophelia.

  Ophelia looked around, grimacing at the public space. “I greatly appreciate your efforts,” she said as the first bucket of water poured into the tub, “but shouldn’t I bathe somewhere more…” private.

  And Mama Rose clearly knew because she looked back over her shoulder, cocking a brow. “This is the warmest place in the house, and we don’t stand on ceremony around here. Bodies are just another tool.”

  Ophelia nodded, not arguing further. She’d not had a proper bath in far too long. Bathhouses cost money she didn’t have.

  “Finish your broth?” the woman asked.

  In answer, Ophelia brought the clay mug to her lips and drained the last of the liquid.

  “Good.” Mama Rose took the mug and handed her a piece of plain cooked chicken breast. “Eat this.”

  The chicken melted in her mouth and Ophelia forgot every manner she’d ever learned as she stuffed more of the meat into her mouth.

  “Not so fast,” Mama Rose held up her hand. “Your stomach needs time to adjust.”

  Ophelia drew in a shaky breath. “You’ve done this before?”

  “You’re not the first girl that the Duke has taken in.”

  Ophelia shivered, but this time, it had nothing to do with the cold. Mama Rose’s words were a reminder that this comfort would need to be repaid.

  She’d have to learn what that the price was, but for the moment… Mama Rose helped her up from the chair and began stripping off Ophelia’s filthy clothes. “I’d like to tell you that we’d wash these, but I think we ought to just burn them.”

  She jerked her chin in acceptance. She’d be happy to see them go. They were a reminder of a life long past, anyhow.

  “He’ll provide you with new ones,” Mama Rose said as she dumped the clothes in a pile.

  She had a brief moment to wonder what those clothes might be like before Mama Rose took her hand and helped her over the lip of the tub, where she sank into the hot water, another moan of pleasure passing through her lips. Hot water was heaven on her cold, dirty, aching body.

  Mama Rose ignored the sound, unpinning Ophelia’s hair instead. “I’m going to use some lavender oil first,” the woman said, pulling a bottle from the shelf. “It’ll condition your scalp and get rid of any lice.”