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 fingertip over the scarlet floral pattern embroidered on her coverlet. “What ever would make you think such a thing?”
The closed door of her bedchamber burst open with a clatter.
“Utter one more word without us and we shall never speak to either of you again!”
Lucinda smiled as her two other aunts, and Bessie’s sisters, Victoria and Charlotte, hurried toward the bed.
Encased in yards of white muslin and wrapped in fine cashmere bed shawls, the middle and youngest of the Grey sisters managed to exude an excruciating level of primness that made Bessie’s eyes roll nearly to the back of her skull.
“Really, girls,” Bessie said, shaking her head. “Are you at such an advanced age that you must cover yourselves from head to toe?” she asked.
Lucinda hid a smile as Bessie, in an automatic move, leaned back slightly so that even Charlotte, whose eyesight was poor at best, could not fail to notice her sister’s impressive bosom.
“Once a lady, my dear Bessie, always a lady,” Victoria St. Ainsbury, the Duchess of Highbury, answered emphatically with only a touch of sarcasm. She nudged her eldest sister aside with her bony hip to make room for herself next to Lucinda.
Lady Charlotte Grey patted Bessie on the shoulder, took a place at the end of the bed, and eyed Lucinda expectantly. “All right, dear, proceed.”
Lucinda took in the sight of her three aunts, “the Furies” as they were known to all. As unlike from one another as anyone could be, the sisters shared one trait in common: sheer, single-minded willfulness. Their differences could always be resolved by their agreement that absolutely nothing should stand in the way of what they wanted. Not men, nor society, and certainly not one another.
“It’s King Solomon’s Mine,” Lucinda began, taking note of the immediate reaction that each sister had to the prize stallion’s name. “I’ve been offered the chance to win him.”
“How utterly glorious!” Bessie shrieked, “Rufus will be green with envy. A stallion with the bloodlines of King Solomon’s Mine practically guarantees success. Ours will be the superlative breeding program in all of Britain.”
Victoria halted Bessie’s rhapsodizing by gently covering her sister’s mouth with her palm. “Yes, Bessie, we’re all aware of what King Solomon’s Mine has to offer,” she said before Bessie could interrupt her. She huffed to a halt, drawing a deep breath before continuing. “But do not torture your son with the news just yet. How, exactly, Lucinda, will you go about winning him?”
Lucinda tugged at her long, thick hair. “It’s rather simple, really. I’ve only to allow someone to court me for a specific amount of time. At the end of that time, if I’ve managed to avoid losing my heart, the horse is mine.”
Bessie pulled Victoria’s hand away from her mouth and sat up straight. “Considering that you’ve refused most of the eligible male population of England, this will not be a problem. Now,” she continued, reaching for the plate of macaroon. “let us celebrate with a tiny midnight morsel, shall we?”
Charlotte took a treat from the plate and settled back into her cozy spot at the foot of the bed. “Lucinda, dear, I’ve only one question: Who is he?”
“Yes, who is this man?” Victoria asked, speaking between bites. “I’m afraid I lost track of King Solomon’s Mine after that idiot Whytham gambled him away to that infamous Iron Will.”
Lucinda discreetly wiped at a bead of perspiration at her temple. “Well,” she began, “that is to say …” She hesitated and took a hasty bite of her macaroon.
Charlotte gasped, moving closer to the circle of women. “It’s him, then, isn’t it? The Duke of Clairemont.” She looked at her sisters, then back at Lucinda. “It’s Iron Will.”
Victoria slowly lowered the remainder of her macaroon onto the plate and stared owl-eyed at Lucinda. “Of course not. Lucinda would never entertain the idea—”
“I knew it!” Bessie interrupted. “The open window, your jangled nerves, the telltale perspiration … He’s captured your fancy! It is Iron Will.”
Victoria’s eyes were growing wider by the second. “What do you know of such young men? Do act your age, Bessie. Or has your memory failed you yet again. in which Your son, the Duke of Mowbray, is now two-and—”
“Really, Victoria, looking at you is more than enough to underscore our advanced years, thank you very much,” Bessie interrupted, tossing her head to shake her glossy, dove gray mass of hair over her shoulder for effect.
Lucinda took advantage of her aunts’ sparring to stand and cross the room. She fanned herself with her hand before sitting down at her writing desk, the breeze tickling a tendril of hair at the nape of her neck.
“Ladies, I believe we were speaking of the appropriateness of His Grace as a suitor for Lucinda. Do keep to the subject, won’t you?” Charlotte chided gently, pushing her robust frame from the bed. “I knew his parents, of course, but I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the boy. Lucinda, dear, is he a gentleman worthy of your attentions?”
Victoria rose from the bed and marched across the room to where Lucinda sat. “A rake of the first order!” she answered in a severe tone.
“A man of experience, to be sure,” Bessie chimed in, rolling over on the soft mattress to lie on her side and smile at Lucinda. “But why that should be seen as an impediment is beyond me.”
Victoria frowned and wagged her finger at Lucinda, who had not been able to hide an amused grin. “This is hardly a laughing matter, my dear.”
“Yes, quite. Of course, Aunt,” Lucinda responded, forcing her lips into a serious line. “Though I would think the news would be cause for some celebration—on your part, in particular, considering your passion for horses.”
Lucinda had touched a nerve when she mentioned the one thing in life that had yet to disappoint Victoria. Her marriage at age eighteen to the Duke of Highbury had been a disaster, the duke being far more interested in his many mistresses than he ever was in his wife. Victoria’s inability to bear children had broken her heart and driven her further away from her friends and acquaintances, until all she had left were her sisters and Highbury’s vast stables.
While the duke understood little about Victoria, he discerned even less about his prize equines. His absence from the day-to-day stable operations left Victoria with free rein to learn all she could. To love as she would, to set free all the passion and caring forbidden her in her marriage.
And she did. Soo every follower of horse racing who ever visited Taltersalls could not get enough of the Highbury horses, whose impressive races were the event to attend.
At first, it was fulfilling for Victoria. But the duke’s arrogance over his “influence and guiding hand” caused her mild annoyance with the man to grow to outright hostility, until Victoria could hardly bea
r to be in the same room as the man.
And then he was killed in a riding accident, his stubborn insistence that his inexperienced mount take a high fence ending tragically for the horse, deservedly for the duke. The lack of an heir meant the estate passed to her nephew, leaving Victoria a very wealthy woman, thanks to her settlement, but without a home.
Her sisters immediately implored Victoria to join them at Bampton Manor, where they’d resided since the death of Lucinda’s parents, the magnificent unentailed estate having been willed to young Lucinda.
Once settled at Bampton Manor, Victoria had enlisted Bessie, Charlotte, and Lucinda’s help and begun to build her own breeding program. They created a fictitious male farm manager and, using their ample income, began buying colts and fillies, stallions and mares, and housing them on the estate.
King Solomon’s Mine was to be the crown jewel of the stables, a stallion with just the right lineage to guarantee the superiority of their bloodstock for generations to come.
And then Whytham, an irredeemable dolt of a man, had gambled away the key to all of Victoria’s dreams.
Charlotte, having watched the play of emotions cross Victoria’s face as she considered the situation, cleared her throat.
“To my way of thinking,” Charlotte said when she had their attention, “we must ask ourselves two questions. First, is the Grey name sufficiently influential to survive the gossip that will likely ensue if Lucinda allows this ‘Iron Will’ to court her?”
Bessie rolled over and sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. “Despite his rather questionable qualifications,” she began, arching an eyebrow for emphasis, “I would not hesitate to say that the Grey name would weather such a trial in grand fashion.”
The women looked at Victoria, whose pinched face and heightened color revealed the struggle between her strict adherence to her moral code and the passionate desire for success.
“Yes, of course,” she said finally. “No one would dare question Lucinda’s good name should she choose to allow this man the honor of her company.”
“We are in agreement, then,” Charlotte concurred, moving closer to Lucinda. Gently, she pushed back a stray curl that had fallen over Lucinda’s brow. “Now, dear girl, the second question. I assume you will make your intentions clear to this young man, namely that the horse is your desire, not him.”
Lucinda nodded in agreement. “Yes, Aunt, I will.”
Bessie left the comfort of the bed and with Victoria joined Charlotte. All three of Lucinda’s aunts faced her, concern clearly written across each of their solemn faces.
“Human nature being what it is,” Bessie began, “we are somewhat hesitant to release you into the hands of such a formidable foe as this Iron Will appears to be.”
“Really, Aunts,” Lucinda responded, hoping the instant warmth that flooded her veins at the mere mention of the duke’s name wasn’t visible on her features, “you’ve never doubted my resolute will to remain unmarried before. Why now?”
“He clearly made an impression this evening,” Bessie began.
“Too true. Her color is heightened, it cannot be denied,” Victoria observed.
“Do not forget the perspiration,” Bessie hastily added.
Lucinda stood, the heat of the room seeming to grow by the second. “I’m that easily swayed, then? Countless suitors have come before and, may I remind you, been denied. But this one, with a wink and a smile will steal my heart silly?”
It was a question posed to all, including herself.
In a matter of mere minutes the man had somehow appealed to Lucinda’s basic needs. Despite all that owning King Solomon’s Mine would bring, dare she accept his wager? Could she trust herself with His Grace?
The gentleness of Charlotte’s voice calmed Lucinda’s shaken nerves. “My dear, you’ve only to answer the question and we’ll never speak of it again.”
“Then do ask, Aunt. Now.”
“Are you capable of dealing with the likes of Iron Will?”
Lucinda’s mind began to race as images assaulted her senses. The duke’s voice, soft as silk, when he repeated her name upon meeting. The feel of his hand at the small of her back when they danced. The look in his eyes when he spoke of the courtship. His fingers tracing the length of hers, branding her with a fire that she swore lingered even to this hour.
But she wanted King Solomon’s Mine. And what’s more, she realized as she looked at each of her aunts, she wanted what they wanted—the happiness and complete satisfaction to be found in doing something well, doing something that would mean so much for so many.
Lucinda squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and forced from her mind all thoughts of the unsettling affect the duke had on her too susceptible body. “Yes.”
The note was delivered just after breakfast. The merest hint of citrus escaped when Will tore open the seal—Lady Lucinda’s scent. His training in the Young Corinthians had ensured he could discern a staggering number of details about an individual in a relatively short period of time. Along with her height and approximate size, he’d already committed to memory her voice and any number of physical characteristics that might be useful during the course of keeping her safe. Or bedding her, though he was fairly sure that both Carmichael and Northrop would have him castrated on the spot.
Another agent had guarded Lady Lucinda when she’d left the ball, and then yet another agent, this one masquerading as a footman, had been installed in her household. Assured she was well protected, Will had gone straight from the glitter of the Mansfields’ ballroom to Carmichael’s office. The exclusive group of men gathered there were committed to capturing Garenne. Will joined them, spending the next hours poring over documents and maps, discussing and hammering out a detailed plan. When they disbursed to their homes just before dawn, he was satisfied that their scheme to protect Lady Lucinda was seamless.
He’d managed perhaps an hour of sleep before receiving her note, and there’d been little point in trying for more after reading her reply. Smithers had been too enthusiastic for Will’s taste at such an ungodly hour, but he couldn’t have done without his valet’s help. Arranging his wardrobe fell just below learning to play the pianoforte on Will’s list of things one must master before dying, though he had to admit that Smithers’s choice for the day was quite … well, gentlemanly. Snug, fawn-colored breeches were tucked into his Hessians, which were polished to a high shine. A pale green waistcoat beneath a dark blue coat of superfine cloth completed with an intricately tied cravat.
The damn neckcloth was the one thing Will could barely tolerate. Brummell should have been hung by a length of his own neckcloth, as far as Will was concerned. The strips of starched linen would see far better use in bandaging a wound or tying a woman to the bedpost.
Depending on one’s situation, of course.
Will had endured Smithers’s fussing for a good hour before the valet pronounced him fit to leave the house. For his part, Will had thought himself remarkably patient, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Lucinda would be suitably appreciative.
With expert maneuvering and a firm hand on the reins of his matched bays, he threaded his high-perch through traffic. He nodded at an acquaintance who hailed him from the walk but did not slow for a more substantive greeting.
He couldn’t shake memories of Lady Lucinda.
The blasted woman dancing, smiling as she turned so easily in his arms, nearly coming undone at his touch. His imagination took flight. He wondered if she dabbed the faint lemon scent on her slender wrists, the soft skin just behind her knees, and lastly, between her breasts.
Will grimaced, frowning. Height, weight—these were familiar factors to remember in his line of work. But the feel of her as they danced, conjuring up a vision of her unclothed? Will couldn’t quite convince himself as to the relevance of such things.
This was not beginning well. He needed emotional distance from his charge—anything less could result in a slip in his concentration and thus danger to Lady Lucinda.<
br />
True, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the mid-morning sun, never before had a woman been so intimately involved in Corinthian business, at least not to his knowledge.
Also true, his fondness for the fairer sex was no secret. News of his liaisons had found their way into the gossip rags, the legend of Iron Will growing with each report.
But this was different. Lady Lucinda was different. And it had to stop. It was distracting and, even worse, dangerous.
Will slowed the bays and brought them to a dancing stop, noting the movement of the sun behind the stone façade of de Bohun House. Carmichael had mentioned on more than one occasion that Will’s mental strength was rivaled only by his physical prowess. He would test that theory thoroughly with this mission, his wits sure to be put to the test by both Garenee and Lady Lucinda.
He would perform his duty to the best of his ability. But his fascination with this woman would end at her doorstep.
It would not be simple, but it would be done.
His tiger leapt down from his perch and ran to the bays, grasping a halter strap with both small hands.
Will stepped down, handed the reins to a waiting groom, and strode up the steps to the front door.
“Where the devil did he disappear to?” Bessie asked, attempting to discreetly poke her head around the gold damask curtains and peer out the spotless windowpane at the street below.
“Remove yourself from view at once,” Victoria hissed. She rapped her sister’s arm with her fan, the audible thwack earning a startled squeak from Bessie.
Charlotte tsked gently, sighing as Victoria nearly toppled over as she leaned toward Bessie in an attempt to peer outside. “Really, ladies, do you think your curiosity will hasten the gentleman to our door?”
“He has lovely dark hair, that much I saw before he disappeared,” Bessie continued dramatically, ignoring Charlotte’s mild chastening.
“Are you speaking of the horse or the man?” Victoria asked. And she was so utterly serious that the rest of them could not help but giggle.
The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 5