A Duke in Shining Armor

by Loretta Chase

  She pulled away from the women and marched to the mirror.

  They followed her and stood peering into the mirror around her reflection, a frame of smiling faces.

  “Perfect!” said Mrs. Thorne.

  “Perfect,” her minions echoed.

  “Perfect,” Molly said breathlessly. “Oh, I never.”

  “I’ll bet you never,” Olympia said.

  She straightened her spectacles, marched to the door, and pulled it open.

  Distantly aware of the chorus of dismayed voices behind her, she continued her march to the room next to hers.

  She didn’t knock or stop to think. She pulled the door open, marched in, and slammed the door behind her.

  “Is this one of your jokes?” she said. “Because . . .”

  She found herself staring at the muscled back, taut bottom, and long, muscled legs of a man something over six feet tall, who stood, quite naked, in a large basin before the fire.

  He went still, and Olympia ought to have turned her head—or better yet, marched out of the room with a semblance of dignity.

  Evidently she wasn’t yet fully in her right mind, because all she could think was how different an unclothed, fully grown man looked—in the flesh, literally—from a naked little boy.

  The back of his neck and his shoulders and . . . muscle, miles of muscle. Good heavens, his arms. The arms that had carried her up from the river.

  She’d seen marble statues of naked men. Who hadn’t? She’d seen drawings. But he was alive, so very alive. As still as he stood, he was breathing, and she caught the faint motion of shoulder and back muscles. His skin wasn’t marble or paper white but golden in the room’s firelight. The amber light glinted on the dark hair along his arms and lower legs, and altogether it was—he was . . . nothing like a statue . . . and heat was swamping her and breathing was more difficult than it ought to be.

  “I might have known,” he said. He started to turn.

  She started to turn, too, toward the door again, but her limbs refused to cooperate, and she failed to make a dignified exit before he reached for the towel draped over the nearby chair and wrapped it about him. Not completely. His broad shoulders, most of his back, and the lower part of his legs remained in view. He stepped out of the basin and stood, dripping, on the rug.

  She lifted her chin and feigned a composure she by no means felt.

  “You might have, indeed,” she said. She told herself she was six and twenty, not a schoolroom miss by many years—seven long ones—and—and—what had made her burst in here?

  The dress.

  “It’s French,” she said.

  “What?”

  He turned, and now she was treated to the front view of strong neck, shoulders, and upper torso. Warmth rushed over her in waves and she felt her jaw start to drop.

  Good heavens, he was . . . his physique . . . so . . . athletic. She was still recovering from the back view. The front . . . his collarbone . . . his chest . . .

  Stop gawking, you ninny.

  She made herself glare down at her attire, though in fact this was the most beautiful, most dashing day dress she’d ever worn.

  “It’s French,” she said waving an only slightly shaky hand over the dress. “And I won’t tell you what’s underneath because you must already know, but I’ll have you know I know exactly what it is.”

  “Undergarments?” he said. “Because it looks too—” He gestured with the hand not holding the towel. “Too much of a dress, in what can’t possibly be your natural shape. With all that skirt swelling out, and the sleeves like wine barrels? Obviously what you’re wearing underneath is a large stock of armature.”

  “The male mind is truly a wonder,” she said. “That isn’t the point.”

  “I knew there’d be a point,” he said. “And modest fellow that I am, I didn’t believe for a moment that you exploded into my presence with a wild longing to wash my back.”

  Heat swarmed over her face and her neck and other places that were not supposed to call attention to themselves.

  “Brilliant thinking,” she said. She fluttered the splendid mantelet draped about her shoulders. “It’s this. Blond. Black blond. At the very least, suitable for a married woman—not but what I entertain great doubts as to whether any matron of my acquaintance wears black and pink embroidered underthings. And pink ribbons! I ask you.”

  His eyes became hooded, but she didn’t need to see them. She felt his gaze going down and up and down and up.

  Her skin prickled, the way it had done the first time she’d met him, only more so, though she was seven years older and had seen more than her share of rakes in action. Though never in action with her.

  “If you’re asking whether I can see your undergarments, the answer is no,” he said, his voice a shade deeper than before. “And since I can’t see them and you seem to be thoroughly covered—rather more thoroughly than before, I might add—”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, to think you’d understand. I shall make the best of it and tell myself at least I’m interesting, and after all, perhaps I’m far too hungry to think in an orderly fashion. I’m an orderly person, I’ll have you know. And boring. I have never worn black blond in my life!”

  She started to turn away, for the exit she should have made rather a while ago.

  “About time you started, then,” he said. “It suits you.”

  She turned back. “It doesn’t suit me in the least. It’s dashing. I’m not dashing.”

  “Could have fooled me,” he said. “Bolting from your wedding and such. Climbing over the wall. Falling out of the boat. Whatever else one might say about you—and I’m not sure what to say, frankly—boring isn’t on the list.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “That isn’t the real me. That is Olympia a trifling well to go.”

  He lifted one black eyebrow. “A trifling?”

  “The point is, I am no longer slightly intoxicated—”

  “More than slightly was my estimation, and I’m an expert, recollect.”

  “In any event, it was a stupid thing to do, and though I’ve racked my brains I cannot produce an intelligent or even intelligible excuse.”

  Panic wasn’t a good excuse. True, not much time had passed between the courtship and her accepting the proposal and the wedding. True, she’d let herself be swept up in her mother’s and aunt’s excitement. Those weren’t good excuses, either. Something had happened to her this morning, even before the brandy, else she wouldn’t have drunk the brandy.

  Maybe the brandy had propelled her, but in his company, the effects seemed to continue, even as the alcohol wore off.

  No, in his company, the effects were getting worse.

  She glanced down at the dress, and stifled a prickle of longing. “We’d better go back.”

  There was a pause, and she waited for the I told you so. Hadn’t he asked her, several times, whether she was sure she wanted to continue? Hadn’t he pointed out how easy it would be to return?

  “We are bloody well not going back,” he said.

  Chapter 5

  Though Ripley wore nothing but a towel, it would have taken a great deal more than near nudity to disconcert him. On the contrary, he would have paid a hundred pounds to catch the look on her face when she burst in on him. He’d been painfully tempted to turn, sans towel. He would have paid two hundred for her reaction to the frontal view.

  Luckily he’d remembered in the nick of time that she was Ashmont’s chosen one. Joke or not, a fellow didn’t go about presenting his naked front to his best friend’s bride-to-be.

  In any event, the sight of a woman in a dashing dress, hair coming down, ranting at him while her bosom heaved up and down like a raging sea—and he fresh and clean in his birthday suit—was likely to trigger a lot of vain hopes in the sensitive fellow below his waist, aggravation Ripley could do without.

  Equally important: In ordinary circumstances one could expect Ashmont to treat a s
cene like this as a great joke. These were not ordinary circumstances. While Ripley had no experience of strange encounters with friends’ brides-to-be, he suspected even Ashmont might turn out to be a trifle tetchy when it came to his affianced bride seeing his best friend bare-arsed.

  “That ship has sailed,” he said. “We’re not going back.”

  “Do not be nonsensical,” she said. “You’ve asked me several times if I wouldn’t rather—”

  “That was before,” he said. “But you’ve crossed the Tiber—”

  “The Rubicon, you provoking man!”

  “The die is cast,” he said. “I’m taking you to your aunt, as we agreed, and you will stop changing your mind every five minutes.”

  “I do not change it every five minutes! I haven’t changed it at all. Until now.”

  “We have a plan—”

  “You have a plan, which all the world knows is never a good idea.”

  “I am quite dry now,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so good as to spare my modesty and hand me the dressing gown.”

  “Where are the servants?” she said. “Oughtn’t you to have half a dozen of them running about to do your bidding?”

  “Only minutes before you irrupted into this room,” he said, “I sent them out to see what had become of the meal and clothing I had ordered a good while ago. Ye gods, even in one of his sulks, my chef Chardot can produce a feast in half the time they’ve been about it. There were a few other matters to be attended to, as well. It seems I sent them away not a minute too soon. One can’t expect inn servants to hold their tongues, no matter how much one bribes or threatens. I doubt news of the present tableau will go down well with your family, and, as I believe I’ve mentioned, I’m bored with duels.”

  The dressmaker and maidservants would talk, but since they weren’t eyewitnesses to this, he could use their gossip to advantage. He wasn’t greatly concerned about Lady Olympia’s blabbing, either. He counted the odds as slim she’d tell a lot of strangers she’d burst in on any man while he was bathing, let alone the infamous Duke of Ripley.

  She colored. “All the more reason for us to return, sooner rather than later.”

  “No,” he said. “The dressing gown? If your ladyship would be so good. Never mind, I’ll get it myself.”

  Chin jutting out, she marched to the bed, snatched up the dressing gown the servants had so reverently laid out there, marched back and, arm outstretched, held it out for him.

  When he took the garment, she turned her back. “Now that my mind is clearer,” she said, “the idea of leaving matters to you strikes me as an act of self-destruction.”

  He studied the back view.

  Mrs. Thorne had chosen well. The black lace cape thing draped becomingly over her ladyship’s shoulders, which were well shaped, neither too broad nor too narrow but neatly proportioned to the rest of her excellent proportions.

  Indeed, she had a fine back. He’d noticed, more than once in the past, the way she carried herself, the hint of impatience in her walk that made a man want to slow her down and get her full attention. Maybe that’s what had finally got to Ashmont: the challenge she offered—I dare you to possess me.

  At present, the back was furiously straight and unyielding. Oh, she’d give Ashmont cause to pay attention.

  But not yet.

  Ripley couldn’t return her to Ashmont now. Well, he could, but that would make it too easy. His Grace with the Angel Face needed to make a real effort, more than his alleged wooing. By lucky accident, the man had found the perfect Duchess of Ashmont. But he wouldn’t appreciate her as he ought to do if he didn’t have to work harder for her.

  “You cut me to the quick,” Ripley said as he shrugged into the dressing gown. “I’m famous for my plans.”

  “I won’t dispute the famous part,” she said. “The newspapers like nothing better than to write about them. In detail. Let me see. There was the dinner party when you replaced all your dining and drawing room mirrors with distorting ones.”

  “A pity you didn’t see it,” he said. “It was a laugh, watching my guests reel from here to there, and not even drunk yet.”

  The mirrors had led several inebriated guests to cast up their accounts, but the fun was well worth replacing the carpet and several chairs. Ripley had laughed himself sick. As had his two friends.

  “Then there was the dinner party you gave for stammerers and stutterers,” she said.

  “Can’t take credit,” he said. “That was Blackwood’s idea. I did help him find them all and collect them in one place. No small task, that one. But the conversation was worth it.”

  “It was cruel,” she said.

  “I’ll have you know the guests thought it was hilarious,” he said. “They were falling out of their chairs laughing, and the more they laughed, the harder it was for them to talk. A concept you won’t understand—not talking.”

  “I don’t doubt the wine helped.”

  “Of course. We never serve inferior wine.”

  “In any event, I am sober, and will not meekly do as the Duke of Ripley says merely because His Grace says it,” she said. “In fact, the opposite course of action strikes me as far more rational.”

  “After all this, you’re ready to go back with your head hanging and your tail drooping between your legs, the repentant runaway?” he said.

  That wouldn’t do at all. Ashmont needed her bold and defiant and, generally, difficult.

  “It was very wrong, wrong in so many ways I get a headache trying to count them,” she said.

  “Headache is a known aftereffect of overindulging in brandy,” Ripley said.

  “I’ve embarrassed my family,” she said. “And while I know my so-called rejection won’t hurt Ashmont, I have humiliated him publicly. His pride will be wounded, and that is an unkindness he’s done nothing—to me—to deserve.”

  But it was such a good plan Ripley had devised.

  A perfect plan. For Ashmont. For her.

  And yet . . .

  She was kind, Ashmont had said last night, his voice soft with wonder.

  People weren’t kind to Their Dis-Graces. People did what they were told or paid to do. People fawned or tried to seduce or gave the cut direct or put up with or lectured. It would not occur to anybody that a rakehell duke might want or appreciate kindness.

  Ripley remembered last night—early this morning—Ashmont so cheerful, talking about getting married. Appointing Ripley to make sure all went well.

  Stealing the bride—which is what it would be now, when she wanted to go back—was not, after all, making all go well.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll take you back.” But he’d drop a few hints on the return trip about the care and management of His Grace of Ashmont.

  “Thank you,” she said, and started for the door.

  “But we’re not taking the damned boat,” he said to her back. Her fine, straight back.

  She shrugged her equally fine shoulders and went out.

  A short time later

  Olympia sat, trying to eat a sandwich, while Molly and Jane arranged her hair. From where she sat, she could see her bridal dress and veil reflected in the dressing glass.

  Her attendants had spread them out to dry in front of the fire. There the torn and dirty garments lay, like the corpses of her one chance to marry splendidly and rescue her brothers from their financially irresponsible parents.

  She’d much rather not dwell on what she’d done this morning, but she wasn’t a duke. Unlike Ripley, she couldn’t make uncomfortable subjects leave her mind on command.

  He had seemed to believe a second chance was possible, and he ought to know his way around scandal. On the other hand, none of the ducal trio fell into the World’s Greatest Thinker category. And on the third hand—why not have a third one or a fourth, for that matter?—Ashmont was notoriously unpredictable. One had no idea when the next practical joke would happen, or the next fight. His title, looks, and charm had carried him until the past year or
two, when London’s hostesses had had enough of his bad behavior and finally begun to drop him from their invitation lists.

  Suppose he didn’t give her a second chance?

  Not that she was sure she wanted one . . . and then, to look on the bright side of his rejecting her, there was Lord Mends.

  At this point he might seem to her parents a less monstrous candidate than before. If he was still willing to be a candidate. For all Olympia knew, he might have found another woman eager to be his librarian.

  True, he was elderly and pedantic. True, Mama and Papa had been outraged to the point of hysteria at the idea of their one, precious daughter marrying a man nearly old enough to be her grandfather. If Olympia had truly loved him, she might have brought them round. But she only loved his books.

  While her parents had declined his invitation to bring Olympia to see his library, she felt as though she knew it intimately, based on what she’d read and what he’d told her. Though he sadly admitted it couldn’t compare to those of the late Dukes of Marlborough or Roxburghe, a catalogue he’d had privately printed had brought her close to swooning: the Psalmorum Enchiridion, in the beautiful binding by Clovis Eve for Marguerite De Valois, the works from Maioli’s Library . . .

  In any event, within days of her parents’ rejecting Lord Mends, Olympia had had her fatal encounter with the Duke of Ashmont.

  And now . . .

  A fatal encounter with the Duke of Ripley’s naked bottom. And other parts . . . and the realization that the Duke of Ashmont would have naked parts, too, and so would Lord Mends, and contemplating marital intimacy with either of the latter made her want to jump from her chair—and possibly out of the window.

  At this moment, the door opened and the Duke of Ripley sauntered in.

  She blocked all the other images from her mind and focused on where she was and who she was and him, because there he was and she could hardly see anything else.

  “You’re not done yet?” he said.

  “No,” she said. “And you’re not to tell me to make haste. I and this army of women have been making all the haste that’s humanly possible. It’s hideously unfair of men, who haven’t nearly as complicated a dressing process, to complain of the time required. Do you not recall all the time it took you to get that thing off my head?” She nodded at the corpse of the bridal crown and veil. “Do you think restoring a measure of sanity to my coiffure can be done in an instant?”