From the lust in his open stare, he had noted every womanly curve he’d only moments ago attributed to the form of a young lad.
It was Luci’s turn to smirk.
And smile she did. “You may show proper honor to my skill by collecting your senses and closing your gaping mouth, or I will think you find it offensive to be bested by a woman.” Luci outright grinned, pride swelling inside her to finally have the nerve to expose her face to one of her defeated opponents. “You may issue your accolades whenever you are ready…and it is my lady, not my lord.”
He stalled for a moment before speaking. “I must say, the only thing to overshadow your skill with a foil is your beauty, my lady.” He bowed slowly, his eyes traveling the length of her as he did.
Luci could feel the heat of his stare as it took in her form for the second time.
She’d never had occasion to overthink her preferred fencing attire, that of her male counterparts, to be scandalous or revealing in any overt manner. But his intense scrutiny scorched her from her face, down to her toes, and back up again. It was not hard to imagine her face blossoming with heat, as well. She would give him due credit for his eyes only lingered at her bosom—barely noticeable under her tightly bound cloth wrap—a brief moment before returning to her face.
However, his inspection gave her time to look closer at him. He was as tall as she’d suspected, and just as broad, his fencing attire not adding to his size as hers did. His hair hung nearly to his shoulders in a way far less gentlemanly than was preferred in London’s premier ballrooms. But it was his eyes that attracted her notice most. Their blue depths held something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. Hurt? Anger? Betrayal?
What could this lordly arrogant man know of these things?
His examination of her person sent a shiver down Luci’s spine, and all her defenses, bred through years of dealing with her father and competing in fencing, jumped into action. She should pivot, turn and flee Bentley’s immediately; instead, she asked, “Your name, kind lord? I wish to add it to my extensive list of conquests.”
She would never allow him to know of his appeal. When a man was given the upper hand in any situation, it was Luci’s experience that they used it to exploit others and gain exactly what they searched for. Though there couldn’t be anything the dark-haired lord sought from Luci. Only a moment before, he’d had no notion whom he sparred against, let alone that she was the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Camden.
His grin only widened when he snorted with laughter.
Was the man overly familiar with such blasé commentary from the women he associated with?
Luci was in the presence of a rogue—a taker of the innocent, a philanderer with no moral compass, a charlatan in lord’s attire. The set of his crooked, self-assured grin, and his open appraisal of her was something Luci had witnessed on at least a dozen occasions.
She knew the type well, had lived under the roof of such a man her entire life—and called him father.
“What is so amusing?” she asked when he continued to grin at her after this laughter had ceased—likely due to her penetrating stare and uplifted chin. “Do you think it luck that handed me the win today?”
“Oh, certainly not, my lady.” He moved and set his mask and foil on the bench against the far wall and then proceeded to remove his gloves, his back to her. “For a lad, your skill was at an expert level, but for a woman?” He shook his head and turned back to face her. “It was complete mastery—a practiced prowess many men never achieve in all their years at the sport.”
Her face flushed—from the compliment or the overt use of the word prowess, she was uncertain. “I am overjoyed to see that we are in agreement of my skill, and furthermore, your need to study the sport more thoroughly before our next match.” She rocked back on her heels, not attempting to hide her smugness over her victory and her mastery of their back and forth banter.
As he paced back toward her, he tapped his bottom lip with his forefinger. “And what, my lady, makes you think I would agree to another match only to be bested soundly once more?”
It was Luci’s turn to laugh. Her deep chuckle filled the room, empty except for her and the jet-black-haired man before her. His shoulders stiffened when she expressed her own merriment with the situation. “Are you saying you would turn down another round of sparring?”
“I said nothing of the sort; however”—he halted several feet from her—“I am not in the routine of agreeing to things if there is no chance of them working in my favor.
“Well, I never offer if I do not know I will win.” Luci tilted her chin up a notch.
“Your name, my lady?” he requested again, his stare returning to its former intensity and never leaving hers. He was not appreciating her womanly curves nor waxing poetic prose about her silky hair and vibrant green eyes. It appeared he truly wished to learn her given name. “My lady?” His brow arched in question.
She should not give her name, but there was something about the man that pulled the words from her. It could be his sincerity, his forthright nature, or possibly his confidence in being bested by a woman at a predominately male sport. “Lady Lucianna Constantine, my lord.”
“Your Grace.”
“Pardon?”
“It is Your Grace.” His smirk returned as he seemed to go from intense to playful with each breath he took. “The Duke of Montrose, but you may call me Roderick—you have bested me with a foil, after all.”
All thoughts of her own coy nature disappeared quickly with the one damning name.
As she’d suspected, he was a rogue, a rakehell, and a debauched man.
And the very first lord she’d taken down with the Mayfair Confidential.
The exhilaration from her victory on the strip dissipated.
Chapter 3
Roderick whistled as he stepped through his townhouse door just as the sun was setting on the day. The shock on his butler’s face was evident; however, he was still wholly focused on the nimble beauty that was Lady Lucianna. He’d attended Bentley’s for several years now and had never crossed paths with the woman. Or had he? Would he have known a woman resided under her fencing attire?
Their time together had ended quickly when he’d given his name, as she’d no doubt recognized him from the scandal two months prior, when he’d been falsely accused of being unfaithful to Lady Daphne—his betrothed. But the gossip sheets had gotten it all wrong.
Unfortunately, Lady Lucianna hadn’t given him the time to explain anything. Bloody hell, he wasn’t even certain that was the reason her entire demeanor had changed and she had hurried off.
Blast it all, but he couldn’t resist thinking of her tightly clad legs that had seemingly gone on forever. No skirting with petticoats and underpinnings to hide the muscular curves of her calves or the toned expanses of her thighs.
He shook the image of said thighs wrapped tightly around his waist from his mind as he handed his overcoat to the waiting servant.
He’d thought of her well-trimmed, slender frame—while she’d been plotting her escape.
“Your Grace, Lucian awaits you in your study.” The butler dipped his head and hurried off.
Lucian had returned already?
Roderick had expected the servant to rest and return to the Gazette on the morrow, or by earliest that night.
“Inform him I will see him now.” His words echoed in the empty foyer; his butler having departed for parts unknown. “I suppose I can inform him myself,” he mumbled, starting down the hall toward his study.
The man’s news could only serve to further brighten his day after so many months—nay, years—of desolation caused by his father’s reckless investments, and then that bloody column.
The tides were turning.
They had to at some point, and the closer he came to the study the more hope surged.
Roderick could practically feel the weight being lifted from his shoulders. Not that knowing the identity of the Mayfair Confidential authoress
would solve all his financial—and social—problems; however, it would be a start; a way to gain some semblance of control over his life, which had been spinning endlessly out of his control for some time.
He strode into the study, pushing the door closed behind him, and smiled at Lucian. “I hadn’t expected to see you for a few days.”
Lucian stood from his chair before Roderick’s desk, wringing his hat in his hands once again. Roderick needs must remember to explain to the servant that the nervous gesture did not invoke a sense of confidence. If Lucian ever expected to gain employment with Bow Street as a runner, he need hold his head high and meet every man’s eye, regardless of their station and status.
“I have news, Your Grace.” Lucian’s head dipped.
“You have secured her identity?” Roderick still found it hard to believe a woman—a gently bred lady at that—was behind the atrocious column that had stolen his future. Though, after his morning at Bentley’s, Roderick now understood women sometimes exceeded what men thought of them. Their roles not so specifically fitting into the neat square society and generations of teaching had created for them.
“I have, Your Grace.” For the first time since agreeing to take on the assignment, Lucian smiled. He’d successfully completed a task Roderick had assigned to him. “The authoress is none other than Lady Lucianna Constantine, eldest daughter of the Marquis of Camden.”
Roderick felt like he’d been punched in the gut…and pushed off a cliff. The name dispelled any light that had begun to peek through the gloomy haze that had settled over his life.
“Are you certain?” He half expected the servant to laugh, slap him on the back, and jest about the look of horror that’d crossed Roderick’s face before informing him that he’d seen him leave Bentley’s earlier in the day.
However, that was not to happen.
“Yes.” Lucian nodded severely, completely sober. “I sketched the crest on the carriage door a few nights ago and I finally found another servant—in Lord Esquire’s employ—who knew the family name. It did not take long to locate the Camden townhouse in Mayfair, and I saw Lady Lucianna return home at midday.”
The irony of her townhouse location and the name of her column was not lost on Roderick.
“Does the marquis have other children, perchance?”
“Yes, Your Grace, but I have been told they are all still in the schoolroom.”
She’d known all along whom he was at Bentley’s. Her coy, playful manner was all a jest at his expense. The entire time, he’d been mooning over her skill and beauty, she’d known full well he was the man she’d ruined with her fallacious ramblings in the London Daily Gazette.
Breathing deeply, Roderick attempted to suppress his anger.
He’d enjoyed almost an entire day without the need to slam his fist into a wall or throw a door closed until it fell from its hinges.
He’d been a fool to think any weight had been lifted or that his days living under a cloud of scandal were to be dispelled so easily. All so simply vanquished by learning the identity of one alluring, captivating, and utterly enchanting beauty.
The back of his throat soured at the thought.
The woman would pay for the havoc she’d caused in his life.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“I left her at the Earl of Shaftesbury’s townhouse,” Lucian said. “She arrived in a fine blue gown with her mother. I suspect they will be there until the end of the evening. I asked a coachman, and he said they were gathering for Lady Edith Pelton and Lord Torrington’s betrothal ball.”
“Wonderful,” Roderick seethed. She’d ruined his life, made a fool of him at Bentley’s, and now she planned to spend her evening twirling about a dance floor and drinking spiced sherry? Oh, no. “You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The servant turned on his heels and stalked from the room, a rare moment of confidence infusing his long stride.
Unfortunately, every ounce of the confidence born and bred into Roderick as the heir to a Dukedom had fled the moment Lucian had uttered Lady Lucianna’s name. He’d scrutinized her with longing not long before—had thought of future matches between them. All impossible now as he’d misjudged her interested in him.
Roderick would not cower. He would not hide his head in shame. He had done nothing wrong by escorting the widow Cavendish to the opera. They were friends—the former Duke of Montrose being close to the widow’s late husband.
Blast it all, but he was a duke…and no mere slip of a debutante would be the cause of his thorough ruination.
Not without severe consequences.
He’d been debating whether to accept an invitation to a soirée or garden party that very morning. It was long past time Roderick donned his ballroom finery—and attended a betrothal celebration…with or without a proper invitation.
Chapter 4
The night was purely magical. Everything that Edith and Triston—Lord Torrington—deserved in their betrothal ball. The ton had turned out in droves, not an invite turned down as they all clamored to the Earl of Shaftesbury’s Mayfair townhouse to gain a look at the new couple. Their love story, or at least what society had been told, started when Lord Torrington had dashingly rescued Edith, Luci, and Ophelia from a carriage accident outside of London.
Thankfully, no one had inquired as to why the ladies had ventured into the English countryside unchaperoned, or how their parents had not discovered they’d been missing an entire day, which was advantageous for the trio because there had been no carriage accident. However, Lord Torrington had rescued Edith from the clutches of his evil stepmother, who’d kidnapped her from the London streets and whisked her off to the seaside cliffs of Southend.
All had been set to rights since her rescue the month before, and now, Luci adored Torrington as much as Edith and Ophelia did. He was a man above all men, and one not tarnished by scandalous misdeeds—all too common in Englishmen.
He was perfect for Lady Edith.
“It is allowed for one to be envious of a friend so long as it does not cross the line to jealousy,” Luci recited quietly as she watched Edith, held securely to Triston’s side as they greeted guests and walked the perimeter of the ballroom.
Everything was perfect.
As Luci knew the couple’s future would be.
“I am surprised you are not dancing this set,” Ophelia said, handing Luci a flute of champagne as she turned to examine their dear friend and her betrothed greeting yet another couple who’d joined the ball.
Luci stifled another yawn. “I am exhausted. After staying up all night to deliver and make certain the column was posted, and then my morning at Bentley’s, followed by helping Edith prepare for this grand soirée, I am falling asleep on my feet.”
Ophelia fanned her face and took a sip from her champagne. “Mayhap, if you’d listened to me and not been in such an uproar over your father’s actions and your need to harm him, you would have gotten at least a bit of sleep last night.”
“And we both know how I excel at taking orders from others.” Luci glanced at Ophelia out of the corner of her eye. The woman with her auburn hair, fair skin, and pale blue eyes was as exotic as Luci was, but in a wholly different and more innocent manner. Luci was all dark with her long, black hair, startlingly green, catlike eyes, and height as tall as most men. Ophelia was pure light—if she would ever come out of her shell and allow herself to shine.
“Oh, look!” the woman exclaimed, pulling Luci’s attention back to the crowded room in time to see her father depart the card room with none other than Lord Abercorn. “What is your father doing with that vile man?”
“A better question is: why was Abercorn issued an invitation at all?” Luci seethed.
“Come now, Luci,” Ophelia chastised. “Abercorn is Lord Torrington’s neighbor. And no one would want to offend the man, lest he spread rumors about what truly happened when Edith was taken. And, as far as Edith is concerned, she thinks it best to keep her friends close a
nd our enemies closer.”
“Very true.” Luci narrowed her gaze on the men, wishing her look would set the pair ablaze. While her father hadn’t killed anyone—that she knew of—the Marquis of Camden and the Duke of Abercorn were identical in many ways. “When he drops his guard, we need be close and ready to expose him. The man will not get away with Tilda’s death, I assure you of that. He should have been hauled off by the magistrate the very night it occurred.”
“You know I agree with you, but there just was not enough proof that he pushed her, Luci.” Ophelia snapped her fan shut and turned her stare back to Edith and Lord Torrington, who were now moving in their direction.
Ophelia could refuse to discuss the topic all she desired, but Luci knew full well what she’d seen. Abercorn and Tilda had argued, he’d shaken her, and then Tilly was plummeting to the ground floor at Luci’s feet. How Abercorn had changed from his red dressing robe back to his formal attire, Luci wasn’t certain, but she knew he had been the one to kill Tilda.
If only her two friends had spoken up that night, aligned with Luci and pointed the finger at Abercorn, none of this would be happening now. Then again, the Mayfair Confidential column would not exist, Edith would not have met Torrington, and Luci would not have had to run from her fencing club after learning the name of her opponent that morning.
So many things would be different. Maybe the trio of them would have completed their first Season and found loving, honorable husbands, instead of observing the appropriate mourning period for Tilda.
Unfortunately, none of them would know how things could have turned out.
“You are scowling, Luci,” Ophelia hissed, nudging her elbow into Luci’s hip. “And people are starting to notice.”
“Let them stare. The girl who cried wolf,” Luci mimicked the name she’d heard society call her behind her back; however, she attempted at least a look of passivity as opposed to an outright frown. “I will not be happy until Abercorn has been punished.”
The Misfortune of Lady Lucianna (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 2) Page 3