“Not really, no.”
“Well, my plan is to woo Jenny for a bit more, then go to her father and ask for her hand.”
“Then why the interest in the man with whom Lady Louisa is dancing?”
“Merely keeping a watch over Ravensley’s sister since he isn’t in attendance this evening.”
“Where is he, by the by?”
“No doubt licking his wounds again. Apparently Mrs. Rose is not impressed with his title.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. She is insisting that Jenny marry a duke, but I believe a clever man could convince her otherwise.”
“And you believe you’re a clever man?”
“I’m not going to give up as easily as Ravensley.”
“You’re interested in Jenny?”
“I’m interested in any woman who can fill my coffers.”
Hawk wondered if Falconridge was a serious threat to his plan to acquire Jenny. The music drifted into silence. Hawk shoved himself away from the wall. “It is time for me to pour on the charm,” he said lightly.
A strategist did not let the enemy know he had uncovered his weakness. Damnation, now he was thinking of his friends as enemies.
“The beauty of my plan is that no charm is needed,” Falconridge said.
Hawk turned. “Then why are you here?”
“Merely to observe and take pleasure in the fact that I will soon be beyond all this.”
“And does your plan include moving Jenny beyond all this?”
“I cannot say for certain, but it is possible.”
“You are becoming a very irritating friend.”
“I have become a desperate one.”
Hawk shook his head. “I wish you luck with your endeavor, whatever it is.”
Falconridge’s mouth turned up only slightly, his eyes seemed to dim, not to match the merriment of the ball. “Won’t need luck.”
Whatever his plan was, Hawk truly hoped it turned out well for him, although he also hoped that it wouldn’t place his quest of Jenny in jeopardy. Why was Falconridge always so tight-lipped? Perhaps because he didn’t want to hear Hawk voice his suspicions of the success of any plan that required little effort.
He thought of Louisa, who had stopped waiting for a gentleman to call and give her the life she deserved and instead had taken matters into her own hands. She had coins to spend, a smile that was more dazzling than the crystal chandeliers in the room, a laugh that wafted over to him, and the attention of a man reputed to be worth millions. She had set a fine example, an example Hawk intended to follow.
He wanted to catch her eye, to receive some sort of acknowledgment of his approach, but she was busy talking with the younger Mr. Rose and a young woman whom Hawk did not recognize, introducing them perhaps. All three laughed as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Envy did not suit Hawk, but he certainly felt it sitting upon his shoulder.
“Looking for me, Your Grace?”
He snapped his head around at Jenny’s words, hoped the heat of embarrassment that suddenly warmed his face wasn’t visible. “Indeed, I have been looking forward to our dance.”
He offered his arm and forced all his attention on the woman who placed her hand on it. “Your brother seems to be enjoying himself,” he heard himself say before he could prevent the words from tumbling out.
“Indeed. I think he’s trying to get Lady Louisa into a bit of trouble. He taught her to play chess last night, and she soundly beat him. He said he’s never known a woman who is as much a strategist as she is.”
“He enjoys her company then,” he murmured, as they reached the dance area, and he took her into his arms.
“Oh, they get along famously well.”
“How does your mother feel about their…friendship?”
“I don’t think she’s too keen on it, but Jeremy is her only son and can do no wrong in her eyes, so I suspect she will hold her tongue.”
“I have been given the impression that your mother is very particular about whom her children marry.”
She laughed gaily. “She has her opinion, and we have ours.”
“And who will have the final say?” he asked.
“When it comes to my marriage, I will.”
“And if I were to speak with your father—”
“Are you proposing?”
Was he? Good God. An unexpected shiver of dread coursed through him. “I’m merely attempting to assess my chances of success.”
“My father will not force me to marry anyone I don’t wish to marry. I believe that I have mentioned that passion is my criterion. I’m very fond of you, Your Grace, but as of yet, I have been unable to experience your passionate nature. I must also confess, I’m in no hurry to wed or even to be spoken for. I intend to spend this Season sampling the selections. Perhaps next Season I’ll make my decision.”
“Sampling the selections?”
She smiled. “Oh, yes. My chaperone is so very attentive that I must proceed cautiously and slowly so as not to arouse suspicions.” She winked at him. “Perhaps you could arrange another outing to the opera. Remember, Your Grace, it is passion I seek above all else, and I will not be content with less.”
“I would like to escort Miss Jenny Rose to the opera again,” Hawkhurst said. “But she insisted I must verify her schedule with you.”
Louisa fought not to be disappointed that Hawkhurst was continuing his pursuit of Jenny or that the young lady was encouraging it. She was finding it increasingly difficult not to be aware of every nuance associated with him when he was near. She looked at her dance card, where she had been making notes. The duke was rudely looking over her shoulder.
“Thursday, she has a dinner engagement with Lord Bertram.”
“Mmm,” he rumbled near her ear, and she heard the censure in his muttering.
With impatience, she glanced back at him. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with Lord Bertram?”
He glanced around, before leaning nearer, bringing his unsettling scent of musk and maleness that much closer to her. “Boils upon the buttocks,” he whispered.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If that were the case, the man would be unable to sit, and I have seen him sit on numerous occasions.”
“He has them frequently lanced.”
She couldn’t help herself. She grimaced as an image filled her mind…“I don’t believe you.”
“Ask him.”
As if she would ask a man about the very personal nature of his buttocks.
“Who else seeks her favor?” he asked.
“That is none of your concern.”
He narrowed his dark eyes. “Do I see the Marquess of Umberton on your list?”
She sighed. “And I suppose you find fault with him.”
“He is known to drink heavily before noon.”
“Ha! You forget how well I know you, Your Grace. The same could be said of you.”
He gave her a devilish grin. “I cease at dawn.” He held up a finger. “And I do not resume until twilight.”
“And you find that admirable.”
“I find it more admirable than a man who is constantly at the bottle. I also believe I spotted Lord Ketchum’s name on your list.”
“I know he does not drink.”
“Webbed feet.”
She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He held his hand up, his fingers spread wide, and drew imaginary lines connecting them. “He joined me at the seaside once. We went swimming. He’s a remarkable swimmer. Has webs between his toes. Like a duck.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I thought so as well, but there you are. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor? Who else?”
She dropped her hand to her side. “None of your affair.”
“It does not seem right that a lady as lovely as you should be using her dance card to keep records of another lady’s social engagements.”
She didn’t think her snort was too unladylike. “I’m not here to dance.”
Was that a frisson of anger she heard opening in his voice?
“I do not see that my actions are your concern,” she said.
She watched his jaw clench. He was angry. Why? Why would he care?
He cleared his throat. “Dance with me then.”
“Mrs. Rose would be none too pleased if she caught wind that I’d danced with you again.”
“You are the daughter of an earl. Who gives a damn whether or not she is pleased?”
She spun around and faced him. “You are as irritating as my brother. You don’t understand the importance of my position.”
Heat flared in his eyes, his nostrils flared. “Do not for one moment mistake me for your brother.”
She furrowed her brow. “He is your friend.”
He shook his head as though straining to rein in his temper. His behavior was most odd. She did wish her experience with men was such that she could decipher subtle nuances in behavior.
“Take a walk about the garden with me,” he said.
“I must see after Jenny.”
“She has another dance after this one and one after that. I daresay her dance card is filled and then some. Please, Louisa. Step outside with me.”
Louisa. Not Lady Louisa, as though there was an intimacy shared between them.
“On one condition. That I may ask a question of you, and you will honor me with the truth.”
His gaze grew intense. “Ask.”
“Does Lord Bertram truly have boils?”
He straightened, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. “No.”
“And Lord—”
“You said a question. I have fulfilled my obligation, and now you must carry through with yours.”
“You are attempting to discredit other lords so that your own shortcomings might be overlooked,” she stated, hating that she’d allowed him to manipulate her, that she’d actually believed his lies.
He extended his arm. “I believe we could both use some fresh air, and as you are a chaperone—as you repeatedly remind me—and not a debutante, no one should think anything of our leaving together.”
“It would, however, be best if we weren’t touching, if we weren’t giving any sort of indication of intimacy.”
“Very well. If you will lead the way.”
She thought she might be leading the way straight into hell. Still, she made her way to the glass-paned doors that had been left open to provide some additional air in the room. Dancing tended to make one extremely warm, as did having a gentleman so near. She was grateful to see that they weren’t the only ones walking along the lighted garden path, and she couldn’t help but wonder if a time would come when chaperones would be a thing of the past. Already, her role was not so much guardian as advisor.
“It’s a lovely evening,” she said quietly. Anything to break the silence that seemed to have come upon them as soon as they’d stepped outside.
“Do you not miss it?” he asked.
She glanced over at him. “Miss what?”
“The attention.”
She laughed lightly. “I was never one to receive much attention. No dowry, you know.”
“Yes, that does make it difficult for a lady.”
“It makes it impossible.”
“Your brother believes that, if he were to marry well, he could see you nicely situated in marriage.”
“Ah, but now I have experienced independence, and I’m not entirely certain that I want to return to the way things were. Why do you know that this afternoon I actually went shopping again without an escort? At my leisure. I was amazed. It was quite…liberating.”
“And dangerous,” he fairly growled.
“I was perfectly safe. There were constables about.”
“A woman needs protection.”
“Protection, a chaperone, a dowry, a husband…I cannot say that any of those things is precisely what a woman needs.”
“And what do you perceive as a woman needing?”
“I daresay, I think the Rose sisters have the right of it: passion and love. Unlike them, though, I do not think the order is important as long as a woman acquires both.”
“A husband can provide those things.”
“Not always, Your Grace. I would have thought your mother would have taught you that.”
“And what do you know of my mother?” he asked, a frisson of anger working its way through his voice.
“Only what I have heard. Your father died when I was but a babe, but I know he was considerably older than your mother. Was it a love match?”
“No, I suspect not.”
His voice contained a profound sadness.
She stopped walking and touched his arm. “My sincerest apologies. That was not only rude but insensitive.”
“Did your father love your mother?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe he did. Too much perhaps. He indulged her every whim. It is part of the reason that we are in poverty now.”
“Can a man love too much?” he asked.
“I suppose not. But he can love rather foolishly.”
“With that sentiment, I will not argue.”
A couple passed by them, and Louisa decided it was best to stay on the move. She began walking again, and he fell into step beside her. “You wished to speak with me about something?” she prodded.
“Yes. It is no secret I’m in dire financial straits.”
“No, Your Grace, it is no secret.”
“I need your assistance—”
“I cannot give it, as I have already explained.”
“Answer me this: How will Miss Rose deduce that any man is one of passion if you never grant her a moment alone with him?”
“You are not suggesting that I grant you a moment alone with her?”
“I’m merely curious.” He took her arm, led her off the path, into the shadows of the trees. “If her criterion is passion, how can you judge that a man may provide what she desires?”
“I’m certain there are ways.”
“Don’t be naïve, Louisa. Passion must be experienced in order to be proven, and if you will not allow her a moment alone with me, then you must serve as messenger.”
With one bare hand—when in God’s name had he removed his glove?—he cradled her cheek and tilted her head back slightly, just before he bent down and lowered his mouth to hers. The first brush of his lips was as gentle and warm as summer rain, a tantalizing touch, a mere whisper…
She should have pulled back then, stepped back, retreated. Instead she held her ground as though she were on the cusp of battle. She was aware of his other hand circling her waist, aware of him pulling her nearer until her breasts were flattened against his chest, her heels rising of their own accord to bring her nearer, a blossom turning toward the sunlight, and then his growl rumbling along his chest, vibrating against hers, as he returned his mouth to hers, hungrily, greedily. His eagerness took her by surprise, and when she parted her lips, his tongue swept inside, to claim, to conquer, to seduce.
To elicit passion.
Passion. Which had always been only a word. Spoken. Understood. But never experienced.
Until this moment.
Heat poured into her, sluiced through her. She felt as though every nerve ending had been ignited. She was vaguely aware of her arms wrapping around his shoulders, hands rubbing his neck, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair.
Passion. Dangerous, dangerous passion.
If he were to lift her into his arms and carry her to a hidden corner of the garden, she would not object.
She’d been chaperoned all her life, and until this moment, she’d never truly understood the reasoning for it.
Now she understood all too clearly.
His kiss alone caused her body to thrum with yearning, his intoxicating scent heated her with desire, weakened her knees. All her senses were heightened, even as they all seemed to blur into one.
He drew back, breathing he
avily, and even in the shadows of the garden, she could see the fervor burning brightly in his dark eyes. “Do inform Miss Rose,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, “that I am fully capable of delivering the passion she so fervently desires.”
With that, he spun on his heel and stormed away, leaving her bereft and weak. She backed up until her knees rammed into a stone bench. She dropped onto the cold slab, fighting to draw in each labored breath, her body trembling with needs unfulfilled, with desires unleashed.
She pressed her gloved fingers to her swollen, wet lips. She could still taste him—brandy, from drink or sweet, she did not care—an addictive flavor that longed to be tasted again.
Passion? Oh, my word yes, the duke certainly was capable of delivering passion…and a good deal more.
Chapter 12
What in God’s name had possessed him to take Louisa into his arms? To press his mouth to hers, to devour greedily what she so innocently offered? She was not the one he should desire, not the one who should haunt his every waking moment, his every lurid dream.
After leaving her in the garden, he’d immediately left the ball, located his carriage, instructed the driver to go home without him, that he would walk to his residence, and now he was prowling the streets like some ravenous beast, his hunger unchecked. He could still taste her upon his tongue, thought he might forever taste her, even when he kissed another.
He had not originally taken her into the garden for the purpose of seduction. He had intended to plead his case, to be honest and forthright, to strip himself bare if need be in order to gain her as an ally…
Instead, he had been mesmerized watching the light from the gas lamps play over her features. And when she had cut him off, refusing even to consider a request from him…he had reacted with poor judgment. Diabolically poor judgment.
If he’d ever held any hope that she would help him, he’d certainly dashed it all to hell with his actions. He had behaved exactly like the blackguard she’d accused him of being. He wondered if she took great satisfaction in being proven correct.
On the other hand, it had been impossible to gauge what thoughts might have been running rampant through her mind. She had looked at him like a woman fully aroused, and that had made his walking away doubly difficult.
Duke of Her Own, A Page 13