“Excuse me?”
“Your swarm of sirens, nest of nymphs… When I first came to London, I was terribly impressed. Thought you had a mistress a day. But then they came and went so fast, and Uncle explained they were all female artists that you sponsored. Terrible day. Your pedestal melted like a snowball between the thighs.”
Casper raised a disdainful brow. “The day you discover the most proper Mrs Locke’s real name is the day I shall parade in those absurd striped stockings you wear.”
Ernest tipped his empty glass. “We have a wager.”
The soggy aroma of stable clouded Evelyn’s skirts as she glugged champagne, the hackney’s floor having been strewn with enough straw for a dozen donkeys.
She’d entered the aristocratic Plymtree portals without scrutiny, arm in arm with Matilda and “Great-Aunt” Flossie, who had peered somewhat sceptically at her new great-niece but then decided she belonged to the wild Harris branch of the family.
Herself and Matilda had at once made for the retiring room, where in hushed whispers, Evelyn had divulged her list of objectives:
No. 1 – Drink champagne for courage.
No. 2 – Indulge in a parlour game of “Hunt the Duke”.
No. 3 – Drink champagne for recuperation.
No. 4 – Meet back in the supper room for “Hide the Lobster”.
No. 5 – Drink champagne for…just because.
Evelyn could only hope the duke was present at this grand affair, otherwise all her practised dance steps, relearning of fork positions and Artemisia’s stitching toil would be for naught. But at least No. 1 on her list had been successfully accomplished before Matilda had returned to “Great-Aunt” Flossie in the ballroom. And No. 3 was assured.
“I’d marry him in a thrice,” declared a voice as the door opened and a pretty, dark-haired girl drifted through. “Handsome, rich and titled. What more does one require?”
“But he never smiles,” bemoaned a second, equally pretty girl. “Or dances. Or plays whist. Or…anything. He’s too dull.”
The two girls requested the maid to freshen their necks with cooling cloths and then strolled with languor to stand by the window.
Evelyn drained her goblet and made for the mirror, remembering to walk as though on air and not stomp and swerve as one had to on the pavements of Seven Dials.
Staring at her reflection, she restrained a wayward curl…or three, whilst earwigging.
“A dull husband is preferable to violent or wrinkled,” the dark-haired girl assured.
Evelyn could not disagree. This girl may be callous in her practicality, but daughters were oft bartered as cattle, their say in the matter inconsequential.
Nodding sagely, the other girl pinched her cheeks to feverish. “Even his cravat refused to wrinkle tonight, and I doubt the duke could be stirred enough to beat a wife.”
Evelyn brushed away a tenacious stalk of straw from her hem and pondered. Dukes of a marriageable age did not grow on trees, so perhaps Rothwell was here…or some duke, at the very least.
Ruefully smiling at the maid, who grinned as she swept up half a hay meadow, Evelyn departed the retiring room and flounced back to the ballroom, gazing down corridors and peering into corners just in case, but only ancient marble busts faced back, eyes forever blank.
The ballroom heaved with bodies whilst the air hung heavy with wax and perfume. As a rule on a late spring night, all the French doors would be flung open, but this evening a few stood merely ajar, a cool north wind gusting the curtains.
A Classical style had been chosen for the decor, with mock columns rearing tall and friezes upon the wall depicting ancient battles. Huge candelabras lit the ensemble and an orchestra played in the corner with rosy faces and rapid virtuosity. Evelyn stood on tiptoes, as best she could in Flora’s slippers, to view the dancers.
Nothing but a blur of colour and faces, and so with rumbling belly, she hastened towards a waiter holding a tray of champagne, hoping another might quell the ravenous clamour.
Supper could not come soon enough.
But then…ahead, a proud golden lion cut her view of the summoning goblets.
She blinked.
Two lions, in fact.
She blinked again.
And then noticed that one of them was a few years younger with a Byronic mane, golden spectacles and the latest striped stockings, whereas the elder radiated authority, eyes skimming the ballroom in utter ennui.
Alas, the champagne would have to wait.
Drawing a deep breath of heated air and smoothing her silk skirts, Evelyn slowly sauntered towards the Duke of Rothwell.
“Notice me,” she whispered under her breath.
But of course, he didn’t. Solely kept his eyes an ostrich-feather’s length above the dancers’ heads.
And then, sod it, an attractive dark couple appeared before them.
The duke’s sinful looking younger cub led the midnight-haired lady to the edge of the dance floor, leaving the two lofty gentlemen together.
A formidable pair.
One dark as Hades, with a glare to wilt any flower, the other a beacon of sunshine which could revive any fallen blossom with a smile.
Except he was glaring also.
Not to be hen-hearted, however, she continued on her path.
The dark as Hades gentleman noticed her course of collision first and one satanic brow raised that gave the shivers and commanded, Halt. Don’t bother.
But he’d never been in debt to Mr Filgrave, so she held straight and true.
Hades’ lips moved and the Duke of Rothwell’s gaze lowered. She discerned the very moment it hit her red curls as a single line creased his forehead.
The line doubled as his eyes met hers and trebled as it took in her gown.
She paused before them and gave a curtsey. After all, they had been introduced…in a fashion. “Your Grace. What a coincidence.”
“Mrs Swift.” He bowed, hair glinting with Midas gold in the candlelight.
Nothing more was said, but Evelyn refused to take her leave or grant him the pleasure of gabbling like a ninny, so she instead twiddled a curl and acted nonchalant despite her heart racing like a pack of rabid dogs.
The second gentleman tapped an ebony cane to the floor – how vulgar at a ball – but she supposed no one dared gainsay that harsh mien. Shady-jade eyes raked her from curl to slipper. “Known to you, Rothwell?”
The duke’s gaze travelled about her face and then journeyed to her bosom with no attempt whatsoever at subtlety. Ballroom etiquette had certainly evolved since her youth or maybe it was the title of widow that adjusted a man’s thinking.
“Merely an…acquaintance,” he declared. “Mrs Swift, may I introduce, His Grace, the Duke of Rakecombe.”
Oh.
The trouble with Flora’s curse was that it left no room for advancement. She now required something coarser than sodding hell.
Because everyone, from Rookery villains to aristocratic nobles alike had read of this second duke’s reputation: pitiless. And they appeared to be cronies. Maybe dukes did grow on trees after all.
“A pleasure,” she said brightly.
His Grace Number Two took her gloved hand as though it were coated with arsenic and bowed. “And how did you become…acquaintances?” His lips curved, eyes that shone a little darker than her own narrowing.
“I possess something His Grace wants.” Whereupon she winced. That could have been phrased better.
“I’m sure you do.” A vague curl of lip traversed the Duke of Rakecombe’s dark features, and she glanced at Rothwell to discover…an amused grin.
Will wonders never cease.
“Mrs Swift,” grouched Rothwell, removing her hand from Duke Number Two and placing it upon his own arm. “We will dance.”
Sodding, sodding, sodding hell.
Chapter 8
Three stars out of five: could have done better.
Casper intended this as an assessment, of course.
The
dance.
To watch for any suggestion that Mrs Swift was not au fait with the steps, etiquette or protocol. To prove she was a fake.
On no account was it because he wished to hold her close.
Ignoring Rakecombe’s smirk, he tugged her compliant body to the dance floor as the orchestra struck-up with the first violin strains of a waltz – palms clasped, his fingers seized her waist, a white satin glove ever so leisurely climbed to his shoulder.
Minx.
The waltz began and without conversation or preamble, he swept her into a slow twirl.
She passed, damn it.
Light on her feet and with no movement of lips to count the beats, she wove in his arms without pause or flurry.
Not a word between them but the very air simmered with intensity as she faultlessly executed the turn, and he was left in no doubt that whatever had befallen Mrs Swift, she had, at some point, been taught the manners of a lady.
Her spine remained straight, the requisite arm’s length separating their bodies, mossy eyes glued to his cravat – or perhaps the diamond therein – and her steps were more graceful than any princess.
And as for that dress…
A sinful creation of apple green and lily white. Luscious, edible, awaiting a bite, and with some doubtless fashionable motif decorating one side of the hem. The silk clung to her magnificent frame – bosom, hips and backside, and he clenched his jaw, staying a hand that wished to trace such a glorious outline. But with such lushness, he wondered at the contradiction of sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes, skin almost translucent by candlelight.
Most women wore hairstyles with complicated crimps, ribbons, plumes and gems but Mrs Swift’s glorious red coiffure remained unadorned, curls grazing her throat, fire tempting him with its flame.
The waltz had begun in unhurried leisure but now the rhythm swelled, their motion agitating his breath.
Wholesome soap once again teased his senses, but on this occasion, it also carried a hint of hay meadows, an innocent daisy within a dancefloor of exotic blooms.
Confound it, he’d be borrowing Ernest’s novels soon.
“Who did you arrive with?” he enquired. No doubt she’d inveigled an invitation on the arm of some raddled old nobleman.
Her dress brushed his thigh. It teased him.
“Miss Matilda Griffin.”
“Who?”
“A cousin. Black hair, short, pretty, glasses.”
Casper stared, perplexed. “Related to?”
Her hand squeezed on his shoulder. It taunted him.
“The Clod-sku… I mean Viscount Astwood.”
Now there was a peer he vaguely knew of. A wastrel.
“Why did you not reveal this connection at our meeting?”
His hand tightened upon her waist as her foot tripped a little and she fell against him. It tormented him.
“’Tis a distant…distant connection but Miss Griffin wished for my company tonight.”
Hmm, and he could hardly interrogate Astwood as that set had headed to some debauched house party in the country.
It would, however, explain Mrs Swift’s position in life; there were hundreds of gentlewomen – widows and spinsters – milling about with no way to gain decent employment, poor relations dependent on the largesse of their family. He himself had forty-six dependants scattered about the country.
The tempo of the violins grew, the room a spinning blur but for Mrs Swift and her clover gaze.
Her bosom brushed his chest. It…
“I need some fresh air,” he announced, eyes scanning the room. And as their waltz approached the French doors, he tugged her from the floor. A footman stood hovering but with no more than a glare, the door was pushed wide.
“Soddin– I mean, phew, this is rather chilly.” Evelyn smiled radiantly, glad to be removed from the stifling ballroom but with pulse pounding and skin freezing.
Now was her chance to display ladylike manners and convey the information about her showing in two days’ time but instead she gawked dismayed as the duke commenced removing his tailcoat.
Did he think her a lady of the night? A blowsabella ready to–
The tailcoat was draped upon her shoulders, the soft silk enveloping her in rich clove and kindling warmth.
Oh dear heaven. If he started being nice, she’d begin to feel guilty.
The duke scowled. “Did you attend this ball purely to meet with me?”
Then again, maybe not. Presumptuous, conceited…accurate beast.
“That is somewhat arrogant.”
He prowled the terrace, dancing slippers soundless on the flagstones, and Evelyn was able to admire him in the glow of the lanterns which had been strung along the rear of the house.
How could any debutante consider him dull merely because he refused to play whist? To her, all his ancestors’ lineage of fighting knights, keen leadership and stern authority were encapsulated within his lean, muscled body which pulsed with vigour and power.
Sans tailcoat, she could appreciate his…attire: immaculate white billowing shirt sleeves, an equally immaculate burgundy waistcoat that enhanced his broad chest, immaculate cravat with a spanking diamond, immaculate black breeches which clung in all the right places and immacu– actually, no, his hair appeared scruffy, as though he’d been heaved through a hedge.
Still, it must take him hours to ready himself of a night.
And where had a duke accumulated so much muscle?
“I am arrogant, Mrs Swift, have you not noticed?” He braced hands on hips. “If not, who would listen to me in the House of Lords? Who would comply with my orders for the thirty-four thousand acres that I inherited? Indeed, if I did not display conviction in my own beliefs and abilities, any hassling jade at a loose end might seek to deceive me.”
He neared and her gaze was forced up. She’d always suspected he would possess too many acres.
“My showing of The Fall of Innocence Unveiled,” she said, ignoring all that arrogance, “will be held two days hence, but if you do not wish to attend, I’ll find some other duke.”
A knuckle stroked below her chin. “Abundant dukes aren’t wandering around willy-nilly, you realise.”
Evelyn thought otherwise but that knuckle navigated her cheek to encounter a ringlet which he rubbed between his fingers, and she strived to act the widow, an experienced woman who’d not flinch like a naive girl beneath a man’s touch. She sighed breathlessly instead, which he appeared to appreciate as he drew back as though singed.
“I’ve met two of you tonight,” she stated innocently, batting her lashes.
“For your information, there are currently twenty-eight dukes, unless one has died this sennight without issue. Half have little interest in art whilst the rest are either no longer sane, haven’t the coin or are distributed around the globe, hunting butterflies in the Ionian Isles or mouldering in Wales.”
Grief.
“Well, dukes or no dukes, my showing will take place on the hour of nine at No. 3 Clipstone Street.”
“I could not possibly attend at that hour. I have a meeting with my man of affairs every day at nine.”
“Can you not…amend it?” After all, she would need to enter and remove herself from the house before any residents of Clipstone Street had arisen from their beds and could query her claim to be the new occupant of No. 3.
“I do not amend my schedule for anyone or anything.”
“Maybe ten–”
“Not ten either. My days begin thus: seven, I partake of breakfast and newspapers. Eight is ablutions. Half past is shipping ventures. Nine is my man of affairs. Half past estate business. Ten, I lecture Ernest. Eleven, parliamentary matters. Twelve is for–”
“Visiting one’s mistress?” Evelyn suggested, not believing anyone’s life could be thus regimented or that a duke laboured so hard. “Ten past the hour is lift her skirts, thrusting by quarter-past. Finished by half past in order to stuff oneself at the local chop house, then home for a nap at one.”
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br /> As his eyes widened to whirlpools, Evelyn slammed a hand to her lips – blamed the champagne, blamed her empty stomach, blamed Flora, blamed the duke…for everything.
He stalked a step forward.
She took a step back. And another, until her spine met the cold stone of the house.
Was he to reprimand her for such a direct manner? Lambast her for pretending to be a lady?
The duke placed one hand to the wall, blocking Evelyn’s means of escape – should she wish to.
With a dip of the head, his lips brushed her earlobe. “Are you suggesting, Mrs Swift…” A gloved hand caught her throat, the finger stroking her pulse. “…that I require only one quarter of an hour for lovemaking?”
The atmosphere, which was turbid enough, transmuted to fog, cloaking both illicit thoughts and his wandering hand which trailed the edge of her bodice. Evelyn ceased breathing as his fingers dawdled beneath the ribbon trim.
“I…”
“Because,” he continued, “I can assure you, Mrs Swift, I am nothing but thorough in all that I do.” Lips caressed the skin beneath her ear, and that hand slipped to her side, ran down her hip, glided to her rump and yanked her close.
Their bodies collided. Muscle to pliancy. So heated in this cold night that she didn’t care if she burned to a cinder.
But he neither kissed her nor moved.
Simply held her so tight, she could feel every single unyielding bulge, until finally a husky breath tormented her ear once more. “Our day of reckoning shall be two days hence, Mrs Swift, at a time of your convenience. And within my schedule, I shall allot you…two hours.” Breath lingered and she shivered. “But for now, you’d best return to the ballroom unless you wish to witness first-hand exactly how exhaustive I can be in any task I choose to accomplish.”
And with a last caress of her waist, he stepped back.
The delectable Mrs Swift declined to turn tail and run.
She ought to.
Because feral need and barely suppressed lust held Casper in its vehement grip. A raw and indulgent lust that had for too long been buried beneath ink and paperwork.
Instead, she slipped his jacket from her shoulders and reached up, draping it upon his own, breasts grazing his chest.
The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1) Page 6