The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  “I will be happy for even ten minutes. Because of the peace, as you said.” And because he could look at her while she watched the river. She was lovely in any ensemble, even black, but this bright blue habit enlivened her beauty. The color matched her eyes, and its contrast with her chestnut hair made her appearance extremely vivid.

  “I think a painter would be glad to have you for a subject right now, Lady Clara.”

  Those blue eyes turned to him. “Why?”

  “The colors and lighting enhance your natural beauty, and you in turn improve on that of nature. It would be a fine composition without any artistic license.”

  She blushed and returned her gaze to the river. He sensed that the flattery confused her, as if she were not accustomed to compliments and did not know how to react.

  “Before, when we spoke of my grandmother, I thought it sounded like you had been one of her victims,” she said. “Were you?”

  “I was not. She does not turn her power on men, least of all men who will be dukes.”

  “Was it your mother, then? I know Grandmother did not like anything or anyone French, but that was not unusual during the war. I know she said things on occasion, but I do not believe her words were given much weight.”

  He debated whether to avoid this conversation. She gave him such an earnest look, however, that he found himself explaining. “The words that you heard are not what mattered, but others spoken long before. The dowager did not approve of my father’s marriage. It was not her business or concern, but back then she saw herself as the arbiter of society. And so when my mother first took residence in town, the dowager let it be known that this French duchess should not be accepted. Society fell in line because it was easier to do so than to fall out with your grandmother over a stranger. The campaign was most effective, and also very cruel.”

  She hung her head and closed her eyes. “How difficult it must have been for your mother. She would have had no friends to rely on here. No circle where she felt welcome.”

  “It made her very unhappy, that is true. It also did nothing to encourage our fathers to be more friendly.” Her empathy, as it had in the park, touched him. It was good of her to appreciate how hard those years had been for a woman whom she had never met. “Then, after some years of this, the dowager suddenly lifted her heavy hand. Perhaps she grew bored with the game. Invitations came after that, although with the war, very few women would claim her as a close friend.”

  “I am relieved to hear that the worst ended, however. I do not understand why your mother being French should have caused so much grief either. She was not the only French émigré living in England.”

  “She was not of the aristocracy. That was probably part of it.”

  “Please do not tell me she was the sister of a revolutionary.”

  “Her father was a scientist and not political at all. But they were of the intellectual bourgeois, and that class was associated with the trouble. So I suppose there were always those who wondered about her sympathies.”

  She frowned. “After hearing this story, I am all the more confused as to why you agreed to meet with my family, let alone entertained a plan to bury the sword through a marriage. I would think you would much prefer to see my grandmother miserable and worried than contented.”

  Her gaze sharpened on the view, then she swung it directly on him. “I am not part of your own plot, am I?”

  “What plot could that possibly be?”

  “Do not dissemble. The plan was for you to marry Emilia, but instead you turn your wiles on me. That alone would make my grandmother apoplectic and could be a revenge for what she did to your mother.”

  “I do not seek revenge for my mother. Nor can I imagine why my proposal to you rather than your sister would matter to your grandmother. The same goal is achieved with either of you, isn’t it?”

  He reached over and toyed with a tendril of hair dangling below her hat’s brim. A flush rose up her neck to her face. But she did not push his hand away.

  “My most notable quality is my fortune, I assume.”

  “A good fortune has a way of outshining even the finest character and most entrancing eyes. I, however, have no need of another fortune. That is my most notable quality. As for you, besides your eyes and alluring mouth, your reckless spirit and self-possession find favor with me. Indeed, I admire all those traits that probably make your family despair and call you a shrew.”

  “I intend to scold Theo for that. It was most disloyal.”

  “He made you sound interesting, not unappealing the way he intended. I would no more want to have a docile woman than you would want to ride the quiet mare the groom tried to send today, instead of Galahad.” He spied a hatpin and plucked it out. Then another. He stabbed both into the ground beyond the blanket. “I have deprived you of your weapons.”

  “I keep one on my reticule.”

  That reticule rested out of her reach. He removed her hat and cast it in that direction.

  He cupped her neck’s nape and eased her toward him. “Believe me when I say that I have desired you since that day you upbraided me as a trespasser. It is convenient that you desire me too.”

  * * *

  How had she gotten here, on her back, with the duke all but covering her? That thought pierced Clara’s thoughts when the possessive kisses left her mouth and new ones pressed her neck and chest.

  Soft hair brushed her face. Masculine weight filled her arms. Rivulets of sensation ran though her body with increasing frequency. She opened her eyes a slit to the bright blue sky above, then looked down to where kisses now circled her breasts. He made her wish the fabric of her habit did not shield her from the full effects of what he did. Astonishment at her reaction had long ago turned to desire for more.

  He awoke amazing pleasure in her. Dangerous pleasure. She did not heed any cautions her mind tried to present. She wanted more of this, enough to store for months or years, enough to sustain her memories on days when she did not feel very young anymore.

  It is convenient that you desire me too. Oh, yes, yes. She did now. That was the name for the edge within the pleasure, for the more that she hoped he would dare, for the urgency in her blood.

  She moved her hand over his shoulders, feeling his form, then down his back. His strength beneath her palm excited her even more. Those kisses burned right through her garments now, tantalizing her until she arched toward him.

  His caress smoothed up her body until it closed on her breast. She thought she might die from the delicious torture he created then. He touched her as if he knew just how to drive her further into madness.

  Soon she could not control herself or her reactions. She imagined him tearing off her clothes and covering her completely and filling the need that pulsed and called now, that chanted shocking urges in her head.

  He did nothing like that. To her furious disappointment, he even stopped the best caresses and soon removed his hand from her breast. She wanted to scream.

  “You are too arousing to bear,” he murmured before kissing her neck gently. “Your passion inflames my own all the more. However”—he kissed again—“we are no longer entirely alone.”

  She heard them then. There were others on the hill. Not many, and not too close, but—she comprehended what might have been seen on this blanket soon, if Stratton had not kept his senses better than she had.

  She sat bolt upright, then scrambled to stand. She snatched up her hat. Stratton handed her the hatpins so she could fasten it to her crown.

  By the time she was done, he had the basket and blanket packed away. He looked at the shrubbery, then strode to her, took her head firmly in his hands, and claimed a final, fierce kiss. And she loved it, every second of it, but—heaven help her, what had she done?

  Stratton untied the horses. The world became too real. She found it awkward to still be with him, and worse yet to have him lift her onto her saddle.

  She avoided any further intimacy on their way back to town. She rode briskly, g
alloping when she could. She did not want conversation with him. Casual chatting would be impossible. What could she say after what had happened?

  To her shock, he reached over and grabbed Galahad’s bridle while they paced toward the bridge. He held the horse firmly.

  “You are embarrassed. Do not be.”

  “I am not embarrassed. I am . . . dismayed.” It seemed the best word for the confusion of emotions inside her. “I should not have—We should not have—”

  “I want you and you want me. Of course we should have.”

  “I do not want—” She caught the lie before she finished. Oh, such a lie. Even now with all her suspicions revived, she wanted him. Just looking at him made her body betray her in a hundred ways. Do not be a coward, she scolded herself. Do not pretend. He already knows the truth.

  “I should not want you,” she said firmly.

  She yanked the reins and freed Galahad from his hold. She trotted across the bridge and made her way to Bedford Square. Along the way the rest of her sensual haze lifted, leaving the world very crisp indeed.

  Her thoughts did not leave the man riding alongside her. Only instead of her body making her sigh with pleasure, her mind now insisted on lining up the many reasons she should not want him. Not only the old animosities made him a kind of forbidden fruit. Other considerations forced themselves into her mind more starkly than in the past.

  He might have returned for revenge, the on-dit said. Against whom? For what reason? She thought about how Grandmamma wanted to make peace with him, and how Theo was afraid. Was it possible they thought the danger came not from that old argument, but from something more recent? Did Stratton want revenge against them?

  She wanted to reject that idea because it changed why he pursued her. It turned those kisses into something very unromantic and calculating. There were all kinds of revenge, after all. All kinds of ways to conquer the enemy. Not all of them required pistols or swords.

  She glanced over at him. He appeared very handsome on his steed. Very confident too. As if he assumed he was winning some contest. If so, she was the prize. One of them was not plagued by doubts about the meaning of what happened on that hill.

  You want me and I want you. She could not disagree with that. But an act could be motivated by desire and also by other far less honorable things.

  Once at Bedford Square, she slid off her saddle, not caring how clumsy she looked. She took the reins and pressed them into Stratton’s hands.

  “Thank you. However, I cannot do this again. I cannot do that again. Please do not call on me in the future.”

  Chapter Ten

  Clara’s decree that he not call again irritated Adam profoundly for two days. Not only was his desire frustrated, but also his conviction that he was making progress in his quest for the whole truth about his father.

  On the third morning after their ride, he hit upon a way to share her company again. He arranged to meet with Langford and Brentworth later that day.

  The bottle of port that they all shared was half-finished before Adam proposed to Langford that he host a garden party at his house. They sat in the card room at White’s, losing money to each other on this rainy evening, making the lamest of wagers on ridiculous things.

  “Here I thought you wanted us to get together in the spirit of friendship, and instead you had ulterior motives. May I say, as directly as is polite, that if you have need of a garden party, you must host it yourself, Stratton.”

  “He can’t,” Brentworth said after tipping his glass to his lips. “If he hosts it, he cannot spend all his time flirting with Lady Clara.”

  “I have no ulterior motive,” Adam said. “Nor did I even suggest he invite Lady Clara.”

  “Not yet. It was coming soon, though,” Brentworth said.

  “Self-interest was the furthest thing from my mind. Indeed, the idea came to me because Langford keeps complaining about being hounded by those mothers. If he hosts a party and does not invite the two young ladies in question, it should put all the talk to rest.”

  “Talk? What talk?” Langford sat up straight, suddenly alert.

  “Oh. You have not heard. What a faux pas on my part to refer to it.”

  “Do not castigate yourself, Stratton. He was bound to come upon it eventually,” Brentworth said.

  “Come upon what? Speak plainly, one of you.”

  “There is talk that Miss Hermione Galsworthy expects a proposal before the Season is out,” Adam said. “Very soon, actually. It is said—”

  “Her mother is only stirring gossip in the vain hope that I will rise to the bait. These women are relentless. Well, I won’t have it. I will—”

  “It is said,” Brentworth repeated, “that at the Fulton ball you kissed her. Behind a potted palm, no less. Really, Langford, if you are going to misbehave, try to find more discretion.”

  Langford blanched. He drank a long swallow of port.

  “Well, did you kiss her?” Adam asked. “If you are going to allow the enemy to compromise you like that, I will have to reconsider the respect I give your advice on strategy.”

  “I did not kiss her . . . She . . . kissed me.”

  Brentworth leaned in and made a show of being perplexed. “How ever did that happen? She is half as tall as you. Did she climb up on a chair, grab you by the ears, and plant a big kiss on you? Pretend to have a cinder in her eye, then steal a kiss when you bent to check?”

  Langford scowled at him.

  “You can see the brilliance of my idea,” Adam said. “Have that little garden party, but do not invite her or that other one whose mother is probably plotting how to thoroughly compromise you now that the stakes have risen and time is of the essence.”

  Langford narrowed his eyes on Adam. “Perhaps I will. I should also leave Marwood and his family off the guest list, so no one misunderstands my interest in his sister.”

  “I care not if you invite Marwood. As for his younger sister, your brother Harry will want her to be there, I am sure. He seemed quite taken by Lady Emilia when we all called at Marwood’s house that day. Since she will need a chaperone, you can also invite her grandmother—”

  “No.”

  “Or her older sister.”

  Brentworth grinned. “Nicely done, Stratton.”

  “Langford may be the prince of seductions, but I pride myself on being a king at extricating myself from their consequences.”

  “That is better than Brentworth, who has become the emperor of having no fun.”

  “Why do you say things like that? You know very well that it isn’t true,” Brentworth said.

  Langford gave Adam a man-to-man look. “There was a fine party late last summer. Brentworth here deigned to attend. Only once he arrived he made us all promise not to encourage gossip about it later.”

  “I did not think in these unsettled times that it would benefit the realm to have every drawing room and coffee shop abuzz about lords chasing naked Cyprians in the forests of the Lake Country during a game of satyrs and nymphs.”

  “The gossip is half the fun. If you did not approve, you should not have come and enjoyed yourself so much.”

  “It was not a matter of approval, but of discretion. I know that word is not in your vocabulary, but it is worth learning.”

  “Discretion be damned.”

  “So you always have said. Since your indiscreet behavior is not saving you from those mothers, and indeed is being used against you, your reputation does you neither credit nor benefit. I, on the other hand, am amazingly free of such feminine tactics. Which of us has managed this more wisely, do you think?”

  “He scares them,” Langford said to Adam. “The face he wears while he suffers their blandishments has even the most ambitious mother shrinking away. He is called the Most Ducal Duke now. It is not intended as a compliment.”

  “If it keeps schoolgirls from throwing themselves at me at balls, I’ll live with the title.” Brentworth shook his head. “A potted palm? What did you think was going to hap
pen when the little flirt lured you there?”

  Langford flushed again. “Well, I have no intention of hosting a garden party. I would be made a laughingstock. They are for old ladies to host.”

  “Since Langford here is too stubborn to see the salvation that your plan offers, I will do it, Stratton, and save him in spite of himself,” Brentworth said. “My garden is far nicer anyway.”

  “I have a very fine garden,” Langford said.

  “Brentworth’s is better,” Adam said. “You will come, however, and pay a lot of attention to the girls invited, so no one concludes you indeed have formed a tendre for Hermione Galsworthy.”

  “I will come, as long as you understand that I will not attend on Marwood’s younger sister,” Langford said. “Let my brother Harry flirt with her, if he even knows how.”

  “I do not want you to attend on any of Marwood’s sisters,” Adam said pointedly.

  “A week hence, then,” Brentworth said. “There will be no potted palms, Stratton, but the garden is replete with obscuring shrubbery suited to your purposes. I trust you will make good use of it. Discreetly.”

  “I told you that my plan was not for my sake, but Langford’s.”

  “Ah. Of course. Forgive me, I forgot that part.”

  * * *

  “I still say you need a footman,” Jocelyn muttered into Clara’s ear while setting down the refreshment tray.

  Clara ignored her. In three days a housekeeper would take over duties such as serving tea and coffee to guests and answering the door. Another woman would clean. A third would cook. Her household was expanding in a satisfactory manner as far as she was concerned.

  The one hole in the list remained the coachman and groom. She would attend to them, then buy a carriage and pair. Perhaps she would purchase a riding horse as well. She had so enjoyed galloping along on Galahad.

  Her thoughts quickly moved from the galloping to other activities in which she had indulged that day, as they had too often since parting from Stratton. She would not mind so much if those memories engendered revulsion or at least self-castigation. Unfortunately instead she found herself well flushed and aroused before she summoned a more appropriate reaction and also reminded herself that he may well have ulterior motives.