Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  . “I know my presence here is putting pressure on you both,” Teresa added. “Believe me, if the opportunity to marry the kind of man I can love were to present itself, I will marry. I just – get anxious at those parties.”

  “As long as you keep your opinions to yourself,” Amelia commented, “you can easily attract a man. Teresa, you are so beautiful. Look at you, your big blue eyes and a figure any woman in London would kill for. I have seen the way men look at you. But no one wants to marry a bluestocking.”

  Blushing, Teresa chuckled. “Yes, well, I can’t seem to help myself. When I have an opinion, I air it.”

  “If you perhaps put a rein on your impulses until after you’re married,” Amelia said with a grin, “then you can turn your tongue on your husband.”

  Laughing, Teresa picked up her tea. “The poor fellow. He’d be in for a surprise.”

  “So will you attend the ball at the Whittaker’s?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I’ll try the new medicine the doctor gave me. Perhaps that will help the anxiety this time.”

  “He will be here soon to examine me,” Amelia replied with an approving smile. “Perhaps he can talk to you as well.”

  “Actually, he is here.”

  Teresa and Amelia glanced up to see Thomas framed in the doorway. He grinned at the two of them, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I heard you talking about the upcoming ball. I’m glad you agreed to go, little sister.”

  Teresa ducked her head. “Yes, I suppose it is past time to husband hunt. I may get lucky enough to find a husband at my advanced age.”

  “Of course you will. I do want to see you married, Teresa. You are still young and quite beautiful.”

  “They say that if a woman is over eighteen,” Teresa said, gazing down at her hands. “Her chances of ever marrying are slim.”

  “Let us see first,” Thomas replied. “Amelia, he is waiting to see you.”

  Rising, Amelia paused beside Theresa’s chair, smiling down at her. “We have room enough for you, sweetheart, even if we have children. Please do not fret.”

  Watching the two of them leave, Teresa felt both her guilt and anxiety over the thought of attending the ball rise. “Can I ever overcome this anxiety of being in a crowded room in order to meet the right man?”

  Restless, she stood up to pace to the tall window on the other side of the room that faced the London street outside.

  Carriages and wagons rolled past in the wide avenue below as pedestrians strolled along the sidewalks. Not far away, the tall trees of Regent’s Park rose over the tops of the townhouses that lined the thoroughfare. “Is my husband out there somewhere?” she mused.

  An hour later, Teresa sat in a chair in the drawing room as the doctor examined her, Amelia sitting nearby as a chaperone. Even as the small man asked her questions about her diet, her anxiety levels, her breathing, Teresa had no need to inquire as to Amelia’s state of health. Gazing past the physician’s shoulder, she observed Amelia’s happy smile.

  Even as the man listened to her breathing and her heart, Teresa felt an attack coming on.

  Her throat tightened until she felt she might suffocate, her palms grew damp and her pulse pounded in her head. The doctor frowned.

  “You seem to be having an attack now,” he said, his fingers on her wrist to gauge her heart rate.

  Teresa nodded, unable to speak past the tension in her throat. She struggled to breathe, drawing in only small amounts of air. Spots danced behind her eyes and she closed them, concentrating on the simple act of drawing in one breath after the other. At long last, the tightness in her throat relaxed a fraction.

  “I believe you only had these when you were surrounded by people, Miss Wolcott,” he said, sitting back and watching her closely. “What brought this on?”

  With a faint flutter of her fingers toward Amelia, Teresa tried to smile. “She is with child, is she not?” she whispered. “I’m going to be an aunt.”

  “That news should not alarm you.”

  Teresa shook her head slightly. “But now I have to attend parties and balls until I can find a husband.”

  “Teresa, no,” Amelia said, leaving her chair to crouch beside Amelia’s. “Do not put such pressure on yourself. Yes, I am with child, and I want you to be happy, not filled with dread that you must move out. Thomas and I love you.”

  “I know you do. But I cannot be such a burden on the pair of you. Not now. Not ever.”

  “You are not, and never will be, a burden.”

  “I am. And I will attend this ball if it kills me.”

  Chapter 2

  Solomon Eli Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill

  He stood with his back to the wall, watching the dancers circulate on the floor in time to the music. The vast ball room, under the vaulted roof belonging to the Baron and Baroness of Whittaker, held hundreds of guests this night, and it seemed that the only topic of conversation among them was himself.

  Solomon Dunn, the Duke of Thornehill, smiled inwardly, yet he let nothing of his amusement show in his countenance.

  He stood alone because no one at the ball wanted to be seen talking to him.

  He only received an invitation because of his very high status among the ton. He only accepted the invitation because he desperately needed to talk to the one man who would rather shoot him on sight before speaking a word to him.

  Solomon watched Thomas Wolcott and his wife dance on the floor, their eyes only for one another in the avid way only newlyweds could gaze at each other. Snorting softly at the sight, he wondered how long before their wedded bliss dissolved into dislike and bitter arguments. “There is no such thing as love,” he muttered. “Only making love.”

  “Your Grace?”

  Startled out of his thoughts, he found a liveried footman at his elbow with a silver tray filled with glasses of wine.

  Setting his nearly empty glass on it, he picked up another, and nodded his thanks.

  The footman bowed and moved on, offering the drinks to the Earl of Mowbray and his small circle of cronies.

  Seeing the Earl’s contemptuous eyes on him, Solomon lifted his glass toward him as though toasting him, then sipped from it.

  “Bloody moron,” he grumbled under his breath. “I know you blackmailed your father-in-law into selling you his lands, yet you dare stare at me with judgmental eyes. Casting the first stone, are you?”

  Observing Thomas Wolcott and his pretty wife exit the dance floor, Solomon edged his way toward them, wending his way through the milling socialites, ignoring the glances of appraisal or shock.

  His skin was far too thick by now to be moved by what the ton thought of him, and cared even less about how his behavior scandalized them.

  “Mr. Wolcott.”

  Thomas Wolcott turned at the sound of his name, a pleasant social smile in place.

  The smile faded as he caught sight of Solomon approaching. His brows then furrowed, his face grew tight with loathing as Solomon came to a halt in front of him. “May I have a word with you?” Solomon asked.

  Thomas bowed stiffly and his wife curtsied, her own eyes wide as she glanced between Solomon and Thomas. “No,” Thomas replied, his voice cold. “Your Grace.”

  With every eye in the wide hall on them, Thomas turned his back. His hand on his wife’s arm, he guided her away and across the room where they disappeared into the mix of people.

  Solomon grit his teeth in anger, his face expressionless, neutral, refusing to permit the watching cream of polite society to realize how the snub affected him.

  If I didn’t need your help so badly, I’d leave you to your rancor. Solomon did need his help, however, and thoroughly understood Wolcott’s animosity. Nor did he blame the man. If Wolcott were not the best investigator in all of London – Turning, still holding his glass of wine, he slammed headlong into a young lady half his size.

  Under the impact, his wine sloshed onto his shirt and waistcoat. A startled oath sprang from his lips before he could halt it, and he inst
inctively reached his hand out to steady the young miss before she stumbled and fell backward from the recoil.

  “I am so sorry,” Solomon told her. “I fear I was not looking where I was going.”

  The woman tried to smile up at him, but by the tautness in her expression, her eyes that all but bulged from her face and the red in her cheeks, he suspected she suffered from something other than being run over by the Devil Duke. Concern filled him. “I say, are you all right?”

  She offered him the tense smile again and an awkward curtsey, and said in a choked voice, “I – Your Grace.”

  Spinning, she all but fled from the ball room under the speculative stares of all who had witnessed the encounter, and left Solomon to wonder what was wrong. While he was used to the snubs and contempt of his fellow peers, that girl didn’t act like she was running because she despised him. It almost appeared as though she could not breathe.

  He could not walk away from her. Despite the fact that she looked familiar to him, he could not find it in himself to leave her alone if she was in some kind of difficulty.

  None of the well dressed and well heeled people in the room would act on her behalf, he realized. Thus, if anyone felt concern for her welfare, it would be the Duke of Thornehill.

  Striding across the room in the direction she had vanished, Solomon found a short hallway with others branching off of it that led to the rest of the mansion.

  He had been at the house often enough in the past to know that at the far end was a door that opened onto the spreading garden. As there were no other people in sight, he suspected that perhaps the woman had gone there.

  Solomon located her by the sound of her harsh ragged gasps. The garden was lit by a few lanterns, but primarily covered by darkness and long shadows. Hoping to not frighten her by appearing out of the night wearing all black, he cautiously stepped toward her and peered around a hedgerow. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice low. “I have no wish to startle you.”

  “It’s all right,” he heard her reply, her own still hoarse. “I heard – your footsteps.”

  Solomon strode around to find her seated on a bench, her breasts heaving as she fought to breathe. “I came to see if you are in need of assistance.”

  In the faint light, he witnessed the lines of strain in her neck, her skin now waxy pale. She recognized him instantly, and rose to curtsey. More worried about her health than her show of deference, he waved her back down. “Please, that’s not necessary in your state. How might I help?”

  Returning to her bench, she shook her head. “I will be – all right. In a – moment.”

  Not liking how he loomed over her, Solomon took a backward step and put his hands behind his back. “I know you from somewhere, do I not?”

  The young woman nodded, offering him a smile. “The boy – in the market.”

  Solomon burst into a short laugh. “Ah, I remember you now. The little spitfire who was ready to rip into that shopkeeper.”

  “Yes. Your Grace.”

  Frowning slightly, he made a small gesture toward her. “I do not remember then that you had breathing difficulties. At the time, your lungs worked perfectly.”

  “I suffer – anxiety – when in crowds,” she answered, her breathing still labored but appeared to be smoothing out. Her color took on a more normal hue, he noticed. “I try to stay calm, but I cannot always manage it. I am so sorry I spilled your wine on you.”

  “Bah, hardly worth commenting on.” He smiled briefly. “One advantage to wearing black.”

  At last, she took a deep breath, and stood up. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. And your company.”

  “You have the advantage it would appear.”

  “I am Teresa Wolcott.”

  Her name jolted him, and he kept his facial muscles still with an effort. “A pleasure, Miss Wolcott. Ah, excuse me, but you do not seem overly worried about being seen with me.”

  “That is quite true. I am not afraid to be seen talking to you.”

  “May I ask why that is?”

  Her smile widened into a grin. “I am a witness to your kinder side. Besides, I am no stranger to the gossips. They talk about me almost as much as they do you.”

  “How so? You seem a proper young lady to me.”

  “I wear my hair down in public and do not hesitate to air my opinions.”

  “Neither of which is gossip or scandal worthy in my book. How often do these, panic episodes, occur, Miss Wolcott?”

  She glanced away. “More often than I would like, Your Grace.”

  “I would like to share something I learned in my travels,” Solomon said, glancing around for any potential witnesses. “It may help in such future events.”

  “Something that would stop me from panicking when too many people are around me?” she asked, her voice eager.

  “Yes, that is the intent. However, I must touch you. Do I have your permission?”

  Miss Wolcott suddenly flushed. “Well, it is improper, Your Grace. But if it helps I’ll try anything.”

  His hands open, his palms out, Solomon stepped toward her. “It is a simple thing, really, to massage the neck and shoulders. It does not just relax the muscles, but can assist in many aspects of stress. May I?”

  “Yes.”

  He ambled behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Immediately, he felt the tense knots under her flesh, and worked them with his wrists and thumbs. “When one is stressed,” he murmured, “the body tightens, which in turns adds to more stress. Release some of that, and the rest follows.”

  “This is – wonderful. I cannot believe how good this feels.”

  “I traveled in Asia,” Solomon went on, gently yet firmly massaging the knots and kinks from her neck and shoulders. “They make a study of the human body, and practice a medicinal use of needles.”

  “Needles?”

  “Yes. I do not remember what they called it, however. The needles release energies that make the body ill.”

  “That is fascinating, Your Grace.”

  Letting his hands drop, Solomon gazed down at her as turned around, flexing her neck and shoulders. “Perhaps we might make a test of this treatment?”

  “How?”

  “Come back inside and dance with me.”

  Chapter 3

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  Teresa gazed up at him, open mouthed. “You would dance – with me?”

  The Duke’s lips quirked upward. “Do you fear for your reputation?”

  “No, that is not it. I just thought, you know, you would prefer a lady of your own social status. I am not exactly the heir to a fortune or a title.”

  His smile grew more genuine. “I happen to like fearless women who are not afraid to speak their minds. That was a very honest reply. And my answer is this – women of my social status only wish to see me in private.”

  Teresa burst into shocked giggles. “Now that was honest.”

  “Will you join me for a dance?”

  “I would love to.”

  Walking beside him back to the ball room, Teresa felt not just relaxed from his massage, she felt overwhelmed by a strange power that emanated from him. Yes, he was large and powerfully built, but this seemed to be an inner strength, an iron will, perhaps. His green eyes had bored into hers, yet the warmth and kindness she glimpsed that day in the market lay underneath it all. His brooding good looks and rugged handsomeness attracted her, drew her to him, as no man ever had before.

  The party was still in full progress as they returned, and no few eyes appraised them as the Duke led her onto the dance floor. Ignoring them, she permitted him to enclose her into his arms, his dark hair falling rakishly over his brow. “How is the anxiety?” he asked as he flowed through the steps with her.

  “What anxiety?” she replied, grinning up at him.

  “Ah, then perhaps out little test is a success.”

  The Duke danced as light footed as a cat, spinning her around to the music, his eyes on hers. Entranced
by him, Teresa moved in perfect step with him, feeling as though she trod on a cloud and not slate tile. “You are a marvelous dancer, Your Grace,” she breathed.

  “And look at you, Miss Wolcott, dancing under the stares of the snobbish elite without a care in the world. In the midst of people without feeling a shred of panic.”

  Teresa felt awe flow through her. “You are so right,” she exclaimed “Being among them does not bother me a bit.”

  “Then I am very happy to have helped you.”