How to Tame a Modern Rogue Read online

  “Cutting loose before you move from an apartment you’ve lived in your whole life is allowed, you know.” June chewed each grain of rice like it was a mouthful. Ally was going to miss the way her roommate ate, or rather, didn’t eat. She was going to miss a lot about her. But Will’s clothes were already in the drawers; his Mets poster was newly hung on the kitchen wall where Ally’s Monet print had been. They were all ready to move on.

  A rap at the front door startled both women out of their individual reveries. They lived in what their landlord Tony called a “garden” apartment, despite the lack of anything even remotely resembling a garden. What it really meant was that their door, shadowed under the grand stairs that led to the three aboveground apartments in their converted brownstone, opened directly onto 113th Street, and any nut who wanted to knock on it could.

  But it wasn’t the nuts that frightened Ally.

  She braced herself for the dreaded hope that rose within her whenever there was an unexpected knock: They came back for me.

  June’s face got serious. “Hey, it’s Ma and Pa,” June said, just like she always said when someone knocked unexpectedly or the phone rang in the middle of the night or Ally just got that look on her face for no reason beyond a sense that her parents were near.

  “Think they bought me a lousy T-shirt?” Ally asked. My parents got wicked into debt from their gambling problem, then went on the run, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.

  June had been through this a million times with Ally. The two of them said the exact same thing every single time, and every single time, those few dumb words grounded Ally. My fantasy about my parents returning is ridiculous. I am twenty-four years old. Twenty-five at 8:42 p.m. tomorrow. I don’t need them and I don’t care. Especially now. I am leaving.

  Ally could hug her friend for understanding how much it helped to state her ridiculous fantasies out loud so that she could hear how idiotic they were. “Why am I leaving you again?” Ally asked.

  “So Will and I can have loud, wild sex without worrying about the schoolteacher in the next room.” June softened her voice. “You okay?”

  “Not a twinge of hope for the impossible,” Ally lied. There was a twinge of hope. But just that. Totally manageable. “Let the wild sex begin.” Another knock at the door, this time harder. “If that’s Will, I’ll go out and see a movie.”

  “Please. I’m much too tired to let the wild sex begin tonight. Plus, you and me only have three more nights together, so if it’s Will, I’m kicking him out. He can cope for a few nights without me. That’s what Internet porn is for.” June floated to the living room.

  Last chance, Mom and Dad. After I turn twenty-five tomorrow, I’m gone for you forever. It had been an arbitrary date—ten years since their running off and leaving Ally with her grandmother—but Ally was determined to stand by it. It was a childish test, she knew, but still, they had failed. Of course, Ally had been a ball of ridiculous, irrational emotion these last few days, wondering if they’d come through and show up at the last minute, as if they could sense her made-up time limit from wherever they were—a cosmic pull, an invisible thread that connected parents to daughter. She’d read about things like that. Like most things she read about families, though, it seemed to be bull.

  June rose onto her toes to peer through the peephole. “Granny Donny!” she cried. She threw open the door, and in bustled Ally’s granny Donatella. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Granny Donny launched herself into June’s arms. For an instant, Ally thought she had seen a horse out on the street, but it was hard to tell, as the space over her grandmother’s shoulder became filled with a tall man who entered the apartment behind her.

  Tall beautiful man. He had a long piece of grass gone to seed sticking out of his mouth. He was beautifully and expensively dressed, yet somehow, remarkably askew.

  Ally tried not to stare.

  Which, despite the man’s stunning beauty, wasn’t hard, as Ally had just fully registered that Granny Donny was wearing a ball gown.

  Of another century.

  And it was pink.

  “Granny Donny, how are you?” Ally asked her eccentric grandmother, not at all sure that she wanted to know.

  Rakes, rogues, ne’er-do-wells—Princess Alexandra despised them all. Unfortunately, the only thing more insufferable than a man of low morals was a man of high morals. This was why she spent inordinate amounts of time with her horse, a mare.

  —From The Dulcet Duke

  Chapter 2

  Ally, dear, may I present to you the Duke of—” Granny Donny paused, confusion clouding her usually radiant face.

  The man bowed. “I am the Duke of Midfield. Duke Whatthehell,” he said. “At your service.”

  Ally’s stomach lurched. The man, her grandmother’s ball gown, and the confused look on her grandmother’s face all signified the same thing: trouble. Ally tried to still the panic building inside her. What was going on here? Eccentric as her grandmother usually was, this felt different. It felt serious.

  It felt sickening.

  The man rose from his bow and Ally exhaled the breath that had caught in her throat. His black hair was a disheveled mess, sticking up in points here and there, as if a personal wind had been blowing it around unmercifully all afternoon. His black suit was ridiculously well cut, but cockeyed and open. His yellow silk tie was loose and half undone. The wind again. The guy was a walking tornado of invisible forces.

  Hormones. Ally knew the type well from teaching high school. Only usually the type wasn’t a grown-up.

  But this was no time to be mesmerized by a beautiful man. She focused on her grandmother.

  Oh, hell.

  Granny Donny leaned in to kiss Ally’s cheek. She smelled old-fashioned, like lavender water. Ally had been hoping she would smell of rum, and that this was just a drunken escapade. No such luck. “I’ve brought you a husband,” she whispered.

  Ally looked at the stunning man. His eyes were riveted on June’s chest. “Not such a good one,” she whispered back.

  “It’s your job to fix that, dear.” Granny Donny gave her a shove toward the man.

  Ally stumbled into him. He caught and righted her with an ease that said, No worries. I’m used to women careening into me, willy-nilly, all day long. She didn’t make a dent in his concentration on June, who was leading a shaky Granny Donny to the couch.

  Whatever was going on, the timing was lousy. Not now, Grandma. I’m leaving. I can’t stay. Remember my deadline? But no matter how hard she thought it, she knew her plans were about to get thrown out the window. There was no one else to take care of her grandmother if something went wrong. And from the looks of things, something was clearly going very, very wrong.

  She gathered her energy, determined to address the man with a sternness she usually reserved for her worst students. Mr. Wonderful had the smoothness, coldness, and assurance of the con men she’d watched prey on her parents while she was growing up. She had to be sure he knew something stood between Granny Donny’s money and him. “I’m Ally Giordano. Mrs. Giordano’s granddaughter.”

  “I am Duke—”

  “How do you know my grandmother?” She cut him off before he could begin. No one survived teaching at PS 142 without becoming an expert in dealing with wiseasses.

  “Oh. We go back bloody far. Generations of nasty inbreeding. You know how noble families are. I believe your great-uncle, the Earl of Flatulence, was the bastard twin of my father, the Marquis of Nosehair, who was also your grandmother’s brother. And father.” He paused. “Once removed.”

  The grass was gone from his mouth. Ally wondered if he had eaten it.

  He cocked his head. “Oh, don’t look at me like I just spiked the punch at the grand ball. Me and your granny, we go back”—he paused—“forty-one blocks.” An upward twitch of one corner of his finely drawn mouth almost stirred Ally to swoon, but she sternly reminded herself that she was not the swooning type. He smelled like champagne. And money. And grass g
one to seed. “Your grandmother rescued me, actually. I owe her my life.”

  “Careful, we might just hold you to that,” June said.

  “A duke never goes back on his word.”

  Was he faking the upper-class British accent? No, he was too well dressed to be an American male unless he was gay. Judging by the intensity he was now focusing on June’s ass as she bent over the couch to tend to her grandmother, he wasn’t gay.

  Ally smiled, but she didn’t mean it. Her grandmother’s money attracted the worst kinds of hangers-on, and this one seemed shameless. Usually, her grandmother could handle them: can’t con a con woman. Her grandmother hadn’t made her fantastic wealth selling Girl Scout cookies, after all. She and Ally’s grandfather had gotten in early on the Cuban tobacco and rum trade before Castro cut it off in 1959, then taken the profits and invested heavily in Hollywood. Granny Donny had even starred in two fairly successful movies, back in her day.

  Now her grandmother spared no expense in living her life. She wore only her signature Dior black silk suits. In winter, she topped them with a fox stole and in the summer sometimes accessorized with a floral silk scarf. But pink? Taffeta? A duke? Who was this woman, and what had she done with Donatella Regina Arabella Giordano? Whatever was going on in her grandmother’s head now, it seemed to involve satin slippers and matchmaking and this phony duke, who had to be dispensed with immediately so she could figure out the whys and what-the-hells of the new wardrobe.

  Ally followed his eyes to the slit of June’s bare stomach peeking out above her yoga pants. “She’s engaged,” she informed him.

  His eyes swept from June to Ally with rakish charm. His right shoulder quirked up, then down. A sinful smile spread across his lips. “To a duke?” he asked.

  Ally was tempted to sucker punch the duke. “Duke Whatajerk, was it?”

  “Whatthehell.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  They locked eyes. Ally had never seen a grown-up with such dancing eyes. No, wait, she had. They were the eyes of a gambler on a winning streak, a man who thought his luck would never run out.

  Your luck stops here, buddy.

  Granny Donny had finally settled her dainty dress on the couch to her satisfaction. “Tea. With biscuits. And cakes. Thank you, dear,” Granny Donny said to June. She smiled sweetly up at the duke, patting the pillow next to her.

  “And you, er, duke?” June asked.

  “Whiskey. Straight.” Duke Whatshisname sank beside Granny Donny, loose-limbed and easy. He watched June’s ass openly and with deep admiration as she retreated to the kitchen for the tea and whiskey. Ally wouldn’t have been the least surprised if he’d let loose a long, soft whistle.

  “Excuse me.” Ally maneuvered herself between the man and her grandmother, hip-checking him aside. Images of her grandmother in her pink dress on the streets of Manhattan picking up strangers made Ally rigid with apprehension and boldness.

  They sat in steely silence until June returned with a bag of rice cakes and a glass that stank of cheap whiskey. “Tea’ll be ready in a minute. This is the best I could do for cakes,” June said to Granny Donny, covering the old woman’s hand with her own. Her brown, smooth hand on Granny’s blue-tinged, gnarled one gave the effect of a real hand resting on a crumbling marble statue.

  Granny Donny didn’t seem to hear June. She picked up the duke’s glass and sipped, her pinky extended. Her face lit up with pleasure, a spot of color rising to her cheeks, and for an instant, Ally thought, There’s the Granny I know. Let’s go sit in the Rose Club, and you can have your signature vodka martini and flirt with the twenty-something bartenders.

  Then Granny Donny took a bite of the rice cake and grimaced. She bent toward Ally and whispered loudly, “You really should look into procuring quality help. Orientals make lovely tea, but very dry cakes.”

  June’s eyes met Ally’s. Ally let out a soft whistle.

  “Do you know where you are?” Ally asked her grandmother. This was the first question she always heard those TV doctors ask to see if people were nuts or not.

  “Why, we’re in London, of course, dear. Please, don’t tell me you’re going dotty on me, child.” She had inhaled the entire double shot of whiskey. Hiccuping softly, she put the glass down carefully, as if unsure why the table was moving so erratically.

  “What year is it?” Ally asked.

  “Eighteen twelve, dear. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Who am I?”

  “Why, you’re my granddaughter, Princess Alexandra.”

  Oh, dear.

  “And now that you’ve turned sixteen,” Granny Donny continued, “it’s high time we found you a husband!”

  Ally’s stomach hit bottom. “Grandma Donny, I’m twenty-four. Twenty-five tomorrow.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, darling. You’re not that old! Out to pasture! On the shelf! Certainly not!” Granny Donny put her hands to her heart and rolled her eyes, then hiccuped again.

  Ally turned to the duke, trying to pack her words with as much menace as possible, as if to say, Mess with my granny, and I’ll slit your throat. What she actually said was, “I think you should go. Thank you for bringing her here safely.”

  The duke didn’t move. Or rather, he stayed in one place while he practically vibrated with energy. He studied her intently, and Ally had to hold on to the couch cushions to avoid spiraling into his orbit. Dark stubble shaded his face to sinister perfection, and between that and his steel eyes and his bow-shaped lips, she feared for the safety of all women within a ten-mile radius.

  “Oh, I didn’t bring her,” he said finally. “Her coachman did. I was just along for the ride.”

  “Coachman?” Ally felt her world unhinge. There was a horse outside.

  Granny Donny rose, slow and unsteady, the whiskey having taken hold. “I must be getting home for supper. I only wanted you to meet the duke so that you would see how lovely it will be when all of us retreat to my country estate, Carleton House, for the rest of the summer. London is no place for a girl of the ton after the season. Especially one in need of a husband. We’ll have a house party and a ball and we’ll see to your future, Alexandra! Before it’s too late.” She hiccuped and then smiled shyly from behind her hand. “After all, you must bear a male heir if you’re to inherit my fortune!”

  “Oh my God,” June said under her breath. “Carleton House. Princess Alexandra. A dissolute duke. I read this book.”

  Ally looked at her friend but couldn’t find the words to reply.

  The duke raised his eyes to June’s face, the first time he’d gotten his gaze that high.

  “It’s The Dulcet Duke, by Genevieve Lancet,” June explained. “I must have read it fifty times. It’s been on my keeper shelf for years!”

  “Grandma,” Ally said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Have you been reading a book called The Dulcet Duke?” Granny Donny loved historical romance novels almost as much as June. They both inhaled them like air, trading them back and forth like blissed-out junkies. You got the new Puffington in hard cover? Oh, baby, I’ve got to have it. Now.

  “I have no idea what you’re gabbering about, dear.”

  “Gabbering. That’s pure Lancet,” June said. She covered her mouth with one hand and pointed at the duke with the other. “Which means he’s Duke Blackmoore. Yeah, he looks just like him. Tall and dark and dissolute.” June caught herself. “Not that you’re dissolute, I mean. I’m sorry, I don’t even know you.”

  “Of course I am,” the duke assured her. “Horridly dissolute.”

  “Even the messy hair fits. And those burgundy lips…” She trailed off, lost for a moment in her memories of Duke Blackmoore and his lips. She shook herself, her dancer’s control making the action startlingly erotic. “He’s trouble. The ones with burgundy lips are always trouble.”

  The duke straightened proudly. “Am I? Sounds devilish and fun. What do I get to do?”

  “Wenching. Gambling. Drinking. Dueling. The usual.”r />
  “I don’t duel. But I could start.”

  Did Granny Donny think she was living in a Regencyera romance novel? Where a normal person might lapse into confusion, self-doubt, and depression, had something terrible happened to Granny Donny, and she gripped her lack of clarity with gusto, forming it into a world that pleased her? Had she, by the sheer force of her ferocious personality, taken even sickness—or whatever this was— and made it into something original, exciting, and fun?

  Well, fun for her, at least.

  Ally felt herself tumbling into an abyss of doctors and caretakers and possibly even an old-age home for her grandmother. No, she couldn’t. Not that. Never. She’d take Granny Donny with her to San Francisco. How do you get a woman in a ball gown, plus her horse and coachman, on a plane? There had to be a way. But at the moment, Ally couldn’t imagine it. It wasn’t that they’d never discussed what they would do as Granny Donny aged, but the time had seemed so far off. Ally assumed she’d settle in San Francisco, marry, buy a big rambling house, fill it with kids, and only then would her grandmother move in after endless cajoling. She’d set up her mah-jongg game in the parlor, cheating the local blue hairs discreetly while she showed off her perfect great-grandkids.

  June was still talking. “Which makes you, Ally—I mean, Princess Alexandra—the good woman who has to reform the duke. Oh, it’s such a romantic, lovely story!” June hugged her body close.

  “But why would a good woman want anything to do with a man as irresponsible and childish as Duke Black-moore? He sounds like a jerk,” Ally said, looking straight at the duke. If this duke thought he was getting anything out of her grandmother just because she temporarily (it just had to be temporary…) believed she was a bit player in a historical romance novel, he was sorely mistaken.

  “Because he’s very, very hot,” June said.

  The duke smiled. “Merci, mademoiselle.”