The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  “So I was previously in the Marwood daughter column, and now I am in the Marwood sister one?”

  “Something like that.”

  “This one is not as prestigious. I am now less interesting.”

  “Perhaps less useful is a better way to put it.”

  “My, you are cynical sometimes. I suppose that four years ago I was in the ingénue on the marriage market column, but that has changed now too. I am now in the spinster on the shelf column.”

  “I would say you were in the mature woman who knows her own mind and self column.”

  “That is generous of you. However we title it, I rather like this place.”

  He gestured to the other guests. “I think they know that. It is perhaps another reason that you feel a strangeness with them.”

  She stood. “If I am so comfortable with my mind and self, I should not allow others to make me feel strange. I think that I will be sociable for a spell.”

  He watched her walk off and greet two ladies chatting nearby. He could tell that before anything more was said, those ladies expressed sympathy for her loss. That would probably happen with each person she met, since most would not have been at her father’s funeral in the country. He did not expect her to be sociable for too long.

  He sought out Brentworth. He found him on the terrace, suffering a political harangue from the Viscount Weberly. Flushed and loud, the older man made pronouncement after pronouncement about the need to crush rebellions as they emerged and not wait for the niceties of legal action. Brentworth just listened, but when he saw Adam he used that as an excuse to extricate himself.

  “I thought Weberly would never cease,” he said, steering Adam farther away and in the direction of the punch. “I long ago learned that it was a waste of breath to try to explain to minds like his that while it may be expedient to imprison demonstrators without trials, it was neither legal nor English.”

  Weberly was not alone in advocating the government act in ways contrary to law and tradition. Fear motivated him and others. The French revolt still cast a long shadow, revived whenever unrest rumbled through the country. Since it roared at times now, Weberly and his ilk grew increasingly fevered in demanding action that would ensure their necks remained safe.

  Brentworth procured two cups of refreshment from a footman manning the punch bowls. He handed one to Adam. “You will like this. It is a West Indian potion with a fair amount of rum. That other bowl’s content is sweet, typical, and lacking any fortification.”

  “I am sure the ladies appreciate the choice.”

  “You would think so. Several of them, however, have availed themselves of that which we drink, several times over. I am keeping my eye on one of them, lest she pass out cold before the afternoon is over.”

  “Where is Langford?” Adam used the question as an excuse to cast his gaze around the garden until he spied Lady Clara.

  “Out there somewhere, taking your advice rather too seriously to flirt with all the young girls.”

  “He was born to flirt, and they are so appreciative that he cannot stop himself.”

  “He had better make sure one of them does not drag him behind a shrubbery, or there might be hell to pay. Are these girls getting bolder, or am I getting older?”

  “A bit of both, I think.”

  “Speaking of flirting, where is your lady fair?”

  “Over there beside the fountain, talking with Hollsworth and his wife.”

  “Shouldn’t you be there too?”

  “All in good time.”

  “I suppose that first you need to assess the terrain before mounting an assault.”

  “There will be no assault. I am a gentleman.”

  “Call it what you will. As for the terrain, there is a delightful folly in the far northern corner, amidst that grove of fruit trees. A little temple to the goddess Diana. It is very cool back there, even on warm days, so it is unlikely to draw many of my guests.”

  Adam eyed the fruit orchard in question. “I remember it, now that you remind me. The statue of the goddess is far nicer than one expects in a garden.”

  “It is ancient Roman. I should probably move it to the gallery.”

  “Lady Clara is a cultured woman. She probably would want to see it in its current location before you do.”

  “Do you think so? Regrettably, I have all these guests to attend to and cannot direct her there. Perhaps you will tell her about it for me.”

  “I will try to remember to do that, assuming she and I have cause to talk again.” He set down his glass, then headed down the terrace, toward the fountain.

  * * *

  Clara extracted herself from a lengthy discussion regarding the new fashion for very high necklines and spied the Earl of Hollsworth standing near the fountain. His countess smiled amiably in her direction, so she joined them.

  Hollsworth stood very straight despite his advancing years. Thin white hair rose in wisps from his head. Thick spectacles caused his eyes to appear very small. He smiled a greeting while the diminutive, gray-haired countess welcomed her.

  Hollsworth had been a friend of her grandfather and later her father. A quiet man, he observed more than contributed at social gatherings. Her father had told her once that Hollsworth’s retiring demeanor meant people often spoke without realizing he listened. Her father considered him one of the most well-informed peers as a result.

  Lady Hollsworth gave Clara’s dress a thorough examination. “Well done. I am so glad to see that you and your sister have ventured out and chosen to put aside full mourning. Young women should not have an entire year removed from their budding lives, and I find it odd that such a custom is becoming fashionable. Don’t you agree, Charles?”

  Lord Hollsworth just smiled and nodded.

  Clara devoted her attention to the countess, flattering her own fashionable ensemble. She had just finished when the earl straightened even more, enough that it drew his wife’s attention.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured, looking past Clara. She glanced askance at her husband, whose face turned to stone. “Surely he is not coming here.”

  Clara looked over her shoulder. The he in question was Stratton, who appeared to be walking in their direction.

  “He is an old friend of Brentworth,” she said, even though the duke’s presence did not need explanation.

  The earl’s jaw shifted. The countess peered up at him, concerned. “Why don’t you go admire the plantings, Charles.”

  With a stiff nod, the earl walked away.

  “Forgive us. However, my husband does not choose to converse with Stratton. Nor would he want to cut him directly. You can see the conundrum.”

  “I see it clearly. I am not sure I understand, however.”

  The countess kept her gaze on the garden between them and the house. Clara moved so she could see it too. Stratton took his time in his stroll, pausing to greet other guests, but remained on a line that would end with them.

  “He came back for reason. Notice how the men all greet him too heartily but grow sober as soon as he passes. He has come to find someone to blame for his father’s rash act, I assume. My husband would like to avoid a discussion with him about all of that,” Lady Hollsworth said.

  “Lord Hollsworth cannot be worried that the duke will challenge him. Stratton is not without basic decency and would never dare to do such a thing with a man of senior years, especially after a simple conversation.”

  Lady Hollsworth’s eyebrows rose. “I am sure many think so, but one never knows. Also, you are an odd choice to be his defender. Several times over. I expected you to follow my husband so as to avoid being a party to the meeting about to occur.”

  “My grandmother has decided we should make an effort to end that old argument. Since no one seems to remember what caused it, I suppose she is correct.”

  “This gets more curious by the second. Is the dowager not feeling well these days? She is not a woman to develop a faulty memory for any other reason.” Since Stratton was almos
t upon them, she fixed a smile on her face as he approached. “Let your grandmother suffer his inquisition about those jewels, if she has decided to make peace. My husband does not want to find himself parrying Stratton’s questions.”

  “What jewels?”

  “Stratton! How kind of you to seek out an old woman.” Lady Hollsworth greeted him and made a curtsy.

  He exuded charm that should put any woman at ease. “I could not pass on the chance to speak with you.”

  “You had only to call, and the chance would have been yours sooner.”

  “I will take that as an invitation. And Lord Hollsworth?” he asked. “He is well?”

  “Most well. He was just here a short while ago but sought the refuge of the flower gardens when Lady Clara and I began chatting about dress fashions.”

  “I am sorry to have missed him. Perhaps I will cross his path later.”

  “He would be most agreeable if you did, I know.” She made a display of rising on her toes and searching. “I should find him, I suppose. Clara, you and I will talk again soon, I hope. Call on me.”

  She strolled away, leaving Clara with the duke.

  “That was a little rude of her,” Clara said.

  “I counted on her leaving, so you and I could be alone.”

  “I do not think that will last long with all these people here.”

  “I am sure it will. No one here is seeking conversation with me.”

  He knew the reactions that followed him as he walked by.

  “You cannot like how the men treat you with caution. It is as if they refuse to accept you as one of them.”

  “With my station, they must accept me. I knew it would take some time for my absence to be forgotten or my return to be understood. Let us take a turn, if you are in the mood for it. Then some of the other guests can sit on these benches around the fountain, which I do not think they will do if I remain in this spot.”

  The benches had indeed emptied once he arrived. Clara agreed to a turn through the gardens.

  She still could not understand how blasé he remained about the social slights. “Do you know why men like Hollsworth avoid you?”

  He bent his head to sniff the blooms on a lilac bush. “Some worry I will take offense at something they say. If they do not dishonor me, offense would be impossible. Yet it concerns them.”

  “Hollsworth certainly knows that even if he insulted you outright you would never challenge an old man. I said as much to the countess. She said he wants to avoid a conversation with you.”

  He merely strolled on.

  “Do you not mind that they all consider you dangerous?” She gestured broadly with her arm toward the rest of the garden.

  “Do you as well? That would indeed wound me. I don’t care too much about the others.”

  “I have not decided yet.” She lied. She did consider him dangerous. To her. It had nothing to do with duels or the past or any of the reasons everyone else treated him with caution. Even now, strolling along these garden paths, she was not her normal self. His proximity flustered her. Looking at him threatened to leave her tongue-tied.

  Their path took them along the edge of an orchard abloom with flowers. “There is a folly in there,” he said. “A tiny domed Roman temple to the goddess Diana. The statue is antique.”

  The fruit trees had not yet fully leafed. Sunlight dappled the paths beneath the branches. She thought she spied the dome. Joining Stratton when he ventured into the orchard did not concern her. They would probably come upon other guests among these apple trees.

  The air cooled despite the splashes of sunlight. The folly stood in the far corner, near where the stone walls met. The marble goddess wore an animal skin and carried a quiver of arrows on her back. She bent to lace the sandal on a foot propped on a tree stump, against which her bow lay.

  Clara mounted the three steps that circled the structure and passed through the arcade that held up the dome and framed the statue. “It is very realistic. The different textures have been depicted so accurately one thinks they will not feel like stone.” She ran her fingertips across the animal skin.

  “It is probably early Roman. Brentworth’s father was a well-traveled man, with a keen eye for quality in art.”

  She paced around the statue. He came into the folly, only he looked at her, not the goddess.

  “You did not bring me here to admire this statue, did you?” she asked.

  “I brought you here because you demanded I not call at your house.”

  She turned to find him right behind her. Her heart rose, blocking her breath. Suddenly the orchard did not appear thin and open but instead dense and obscure. She could barely hear the sounds of the party in the open garden.

  He lifted her chin with his fingers. “Had you not been so strict, I could have done this there.” He kissed her, softly at first but then more passionately. Sensations cascaded through her, so that she did not want to be at all strict right now.

  He broke the kiss but kept his hand on her face. “I cannot allow you to spurn me, Clara. To deny this. I do not think you really want to either.”

  She had been very sure of herself after their ride. Her mind had been most clear. Right now she could not remember what her thinking had been.

  He spoke the truth, though. She did not really want to deny how alive she became when he kissed her. Considerations of his motivations ceased to matter then. She did not want to reject the pleasure or the flusters. She should, but she did not. She savored the way just seeing him excited her. She had dwelled within the memories of what happened on that hill for long spells ever since they last parted.

  He kissed her again, and embraced her. The warmth of his body both comforted and entranced her. So good. Too good.

  “If you repeat your command that I not call on you, I will have to pursue you into orchards and gardens all summer,” he murmured into her ear. “Discretion may become nigh impossible.”

  Within her heady delight she vaguely noted that he had not stood down. He had warned her that first day that he never did.

  Still, she should repeat her command. She should not do anything to encourage him. She should remember why these kisses were not only wrong but disloyal. Once this soulful intimacy ended, she surely would again care about all of that—

  Sounds penetrated the silence around them. A giggle, and a man’s laugh. Not far away. Nearby, on the path.

  Stratton abruptly released her and stepped out of the temple, leaving her alone with the goddess.

  A beam of sunlight illuminated a white dress and blond head among the apple blossoms. With another giggle, Emilia stepped into the little clearing with the temple. Her companion’s face fell when he saw Stratton.

  “Harry, how good of you to show Lady Emilia the way to this treasure,” Stratton said. “Her sister tried to find her before venturing here herself.” He pointed at Clara.

  Harry saw Clara. So did Emilia. They both flushed.

  Clara scolded herself while she fought to maintain her composure. In allowing the duke to once more bedazzle her, she had neglected her duty. Emilia was going to receive a very strong lecture on not being so stupid as to allow a man to get her alone like this.

  “Come and see the statue,” she said. “It is impressive.”

  Visibly relieved, Harry accompanied Emilia into the folly. They all admired the goddess together, then all walked back through the orchard and into the sunny garden.

  Clara decided she and Emilia should take their leave. She dragged Emilia to Brentworth so they could thank their host. While they left, she saw Stratton near the benches, watching someone. Her gaze followed the line of his, directly to the Earl of Hollsworth.

  Social niceties completed, she and Emilia settled into Theo’s coach for the ride to their respective homes.

  “Did you have a good afternoon and enjoy yourself?” Clara asked, pointedly, as the necessary social lessons lined up in her mind.

  “My afternoon was not nearly as enjoyable as yours, I t
hink.” Emilia shot a meaningful look across the carriage cabin.

  It was Clara’s turn to flush. She swallowed the long lecture she had intended to give her sister.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clara and Althea stood side by side in Clara’s library on Friday morning. On a long table, fresh copies of their journal waited in stacks. The printer would mail the ones to subscribers, but these had to be delivered to book shops, and the women who did that, friends of Mrs. Clark, would arrive at noon.

  Clara admired the thick booklets. The ones being mailed had no covers, but these sported ones of heavy blue stock with a nicely engraved title. They would look beautiful in the shops.

  Althea called out a number, and Clara took that number of copies and moved them to the end of the table. Althea followed and placed a paper with a shop’s name on that group.

  So far, half of the journals had been assigned to their shops.

  The chore had taken longer than expected because Clara had been describing the garden party. Not the part about being kissed again, of course.

  “Then Lady Hollsworth said, as clearly as you hear me now, Let your grandmother answer his questions about those jewels. I asked her what she meant, but by then Stratton was upon us, so she never answered.”

  “How intriguing. It is a wonder you did not tell the duke to go away so you could receive your response.”

  “I try not to be rude, Althea.”

  Althea checked her paper. “Ackermann’s. Fifteen.”

  Clara counted out fifteen copies and moved them to the other end of the table. “Have you learned anything of interest?”

  “I keep hearing the same things. Talk of those duels. Concern he will challenge people here. There is an assumption among some people that he will have to, in order to cleanse the family name of whatever besmirched it. Some of the older women believe honor means he cannot allow things to stand as they have been.”

  “Times have changed. Families no longer wear the sins of their ancestors like marks on their foreheads. To suggest as much is very old-fashioned.”