Her fist was still clenched around the chess piece; she shoved the knight violently under the sofa.
This time, a heavier pair of footfalls entered the room.
“Minnie?” said a man’s voice. “Miss Pursling? Are you here?”
Her nose scrunched and she pushed back against the wall. She made no answer.
“Gad, man.” Another voice that Robert didn’t recognize—young and slightly slurred with drink. “I don’t envy you that one.”
“Don’t speak ill of my almost-betrothed,” the first voice said. “You know she’s perfect for me.”
“That timid little rodent?”
“She’ll keep a good home. She’ll see to my comfort. She’ll manage the children, and she won’t complain about my mistresses.” There was a creak of hinges—the unmistakable sound of someone opening one of the glass doors that protected the bookshelves.
“What are you doing, Gardley?” the drunk man asked. “Looking for her among the German volumes? I don’t think she’d fit.” That came with an ugly laugh.
Gardley. That couldn’t be the elder Mr. Gardley, owner of a distillery—not by the youth in that voice. This must be Mr. Gardley the younger. Robert had seen him from afar—an unremarkable fellow of medium height, medium-brown hair, and features that reminded him faintly of five other people.
“On the contrary,” young Gardley said. “I think she’ll fit quite well. As wives go, Miss Pursling will be just like these books. When I wish to take her down and read her, she’ll be there. When I don’t, she’ll wait patiently, precisely where she was left. She’ll make me a comfortable wife, Ames. Besides, my mother likes her.”
Robert didn’t believe he’d met an Ames. He shrugged and glanced down at—he was guessing—Miss Pursling to see how she took this revelation.
She didn’t look surprised or shocked at her almost-fiancé’s unromantic utterance. Instead, she looked resigned.
“You’ll have to take her to bed, you know,” Ames said.
“True. But not, thank God, very often.”
“She’s a rodent. Like all rodents, I imagine she’ll squeal when she’s poked.”
There was a mild thump.
“What?” yelped Ames.
“That,” said Gardley, “is my future wife you are talking about.”
Maybe the fellow wasn’t so bad after all.
Then Gardley continued. “I’m the only one who gets to think about poking that rodent.”
Miss Pursling pressed her lips together and looked up, as if imploring the heavens. But inside the library, there were no heavens to implore. And when she looked up, through the gap in the curtains…
Her gaze met Robert’s. Her eyes grew big and round. She didn’t scream; she didn’t gasp. She didn’t twitch so much as an inch. She simply fixed him with a look that bristled with silent, venomous accusation. Her nostrils flared.
There was nothing Robert could do but lift his hand and give her a little wave.
She took off her spectacles and turned away in a gesture so regally dismissive that he had to look twice to remind himself that she was, in fact, sitting in a heap of skirts at his feet. That from this awkward angle above her, he could see straight down the neckline of her gown—right at the one part of her figure that didn’t strike him as severe, but soft—
Save that for later, he admonished himself, and adjusted his gaze up a few inches. Because she’d turned away, he saw for the first time a faint scar on her left cheek, a tangled white spider web of crisscrossed lines.
“Wherever your mouse has wandered off to, it’s not here,” Ames was saying. “Likely she’s in the lady’s retiring room. I say we go back to the fun. You can always tell your mother you had words with her in the library.”
“True enough,” Gardley said. “And I don’t need to mention that she wasn’t present for them—it’s not as if she would have said anything in response, even if she had been here.”
Footsteps receded; the door creaked once more, and the men walked out.
Miss Pursling didn’t look at Robert once they’d left, not even to acknowledge his existence with a glare. Instead, she pushed herself to her knees, made a fist, and slammed it into the hard back of the sofa—once, then twice, hitting it so hard that it moved forward with the force of her blow—all one hundred pounds of it.
He caught her wrist before she landed a third strike. “There now,” he said. “You don’t want to hurt yourself over him. He doesn’t deserve it.”
She stared up at him, her eyes wide.
He didn’t see how any man could call this woman timid. She positively crackled with defiance. He let go of her arm before the fury in her could travel up his hand and consume him. He had enough anger of his own.
“Never mind me,” she said. “Apparently I’m not capable of helping myself.”
He almost jumped. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected her voice to sound—sharp and severe, like her appearance suggested? Perhaps he’d imagined her talking in a high squeak, as if she were the rodent she’d been labeled. But her voice was low, warm, and deeply sensual. It was the kind of voice that made him suddenly aware that she was on her knees before him, her head almost level with his crotch.
Save that for later, too.
“I’m a rodent. All rodents squeal when poked.” She punched the sofa once again. She was going to bruise her knuckles if she kept that up. “Are you planning to poke me, too?”
“No.” Stray thoughts didn’t count, thank God; if they did, all men would burn in hell forever.
“Do you always skulk behind curtains, hoping to overhear intimate conversations?”
Robert felt the tips of his ears burn. “Do you always leap behind sofas when you hear your fiancé coming?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “Didn’t you hear? I’m like a book that has been mislaid. One day, one of his servants will find me covered in dust in the middle of spring-cleaning. ‘Ah,’ the butler will say. ‘That’s where Miss Wilhelmina has ended up. I had forgotten all about her.’”
Wilhelmina Pursling? What a dreadful appellation.
She took a deep breath. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not about any of this.” She shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Please just go away, whoever you are.”
He brushed the curtains to one side and made his way around the sofa. From a few feet away, he couldn’t even see her. He could only imagine her curled on the floor, furious to the point of tears.
“Minnie,” he said. It wasn’t polite to call her by so intimate a name. And yet he wanted to hear it on his tongue.
She didn’t respond.
“I’ll give you twenty minutes,” he said. “If I don’t see you downstairs by then, I’ll come up for you.”
For a few moments, there was no answer. Then: “The beautiful thing about marriage is the right it gives me to monogamy. One man intent on dictating my whereabouts is enough, wouldn’t you think?”
He stared at the sofa in confusion before he realized that she thought he’d been threatening to drag her out.
Robert was good at many things. Communicating with women was not one of them.
“That’s not what I meant,” he muttered. “It’s just…” He walked back to the sofa and peered over the leather top. “If a woman I cared about was hiding behind a sofa, I would hope that someone would take the time to make sure she was well.”
There was a long pause. Then fabric rustled and she looked up at him. Her hair had begun to slip out of that severe bun; it hung around her face, softening her features, highlighting the pale whiteness of her scar. Not pretty, but…interesting. And he could have listened to her talk all night.
She stared at him in puzzlement. “Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re attempting to be kind.” She sounded as if the possibility had never occurred to her before. She let out a sigh, and gave him a shake of her head. “But your kindness is misplaced. You see, that—” she pointed toward the
doorway where her near-fiancé had disappeared “—that is the best possible outcome I can hope for. I have wanted just such a thing for years. As soon as I can stomach the thought, I’ll be marrying him.”
There was no trace of sarcasm in her voice. She stood. With a practiced hand, she smoothed her hair back under the pins and straightened her skirts until she was restored to complete propriety.
Only then did she stoop, patting under the sofa to find where she’d tossed the knight. She examined the chessboard, cocked her head, and then very, very carefully, set the piece back into place.
While he was standing there, watching her, trying to make sense of her words, she walked out the door.
Want to read the rest of this book? You can buy The Duchess War now.
Excerpts: Entangled Scandalous
Seducing Charlotte
by Diana Quincy
Even if he is the catch of the season, Charlotte Livingston has a low opinion of the wildly handsome Marquess of Camryn. He’s everything a social reformer like Charlotte detests. But as a violent rebellion rages across England, an undeniable attraction flares between the passionate adversaries. Camryn vows to destroy the rebel movement, unaware that the spinster who has captured his heart harbors a secret—a shocking connection to one of its leaders that could shatter them both.
SIPPING HIS DRINK, Cam surveyed the crowded ballroom. The orchestra played on a balcony mezzanine which overlooked the crush of dancers below. Clinking glasses and the loud murmuring of dozens of conversations filled the air which, despite the open terrace doors, grew warm and humid.
“What you require is a wife,” his cousin said. “I shall make it my mission this season to find one.”
“Count on trouble now, my friend,” the duke said, dismissing the footman and returning his attention to them. “My duchess is unshakable once she sets her mind to something.”
“Willa is determined to fell me with the same marital bliss from which you are unable to recover.”
“Quite right.” The harsh angles of the duke’s face softened into a contented smile. “There is no hope of a cure for my affliction.”
Willa’s ears turned red as they always did when she was embarrassed. Her gaze swept beyond them. “Splendid. Charlotte has arrived. Cam, you must take a turn with her.”
“Must I?” He couldn’t see why. The humorless bluestocking likely had as little interest in dancing with him as he had in engaging with her. He drained his glass as Miss Livingston approached. The smooth liquid slid down his throat, its warmth radiating into his chest.
She wore a plain, dark-colored frock, which did nothing for her tall, shapeless frame. Their eyes met for a brief moment before both hurriedly looked away, but he caught the way her disdainful little nose wrinkled at the sight of him standing next to the duchess.
Careful to maintain a neutral expression, he said to Willa, “Perhaps Hart would care to dance with her.”
The duke chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure. Besides, I shall be taking a turn with my lovely duchess.” He inclined his head at the approaching lady. “Miss Livingston.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. Willa barely gave the woman time to exchange the usual pleasantries before pulling her aside for an animated conversation. He wondered what his cousin saw in the cold, strident Miss Livingston.
Admittedly, the lady’s looks improved a bit upon closer inspection. Some might even consider her handsome in a lackluster sort of way. Tall for a female, she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Definitely her best feature, they were like an island sky, clear and cloudless against her fair skin and firm patrician nose. Her unremarkable brown hair parted down the middle and was pulled into an austere bun at the nape of her neck. His gaze dropped to the modest neckline of her simple gown, which suggested little in the way of curves. She wasn’t to his tastes at all, which ran to buxom females with ample hips and an abundance of feminine slopes and valleys.
“You do remember meeting my cousin in town,” Willa said to Charlotte, drawing the gentlemen back into the conversation. Cam certainly recalled meeting the baron’s daughter once, several months ago at one of Willa’s salons, where the lady’s ardent diatribe on the importance of public education for the masses had been difficult to forget.
What he recalled most about Miss Livingston was her utter lack of feminine interest in him. Not that it mattered to him, of course. But if there was one thing to which he was unaccustomed, it was being ignored by the opposite sex. He knew he had a certain appeal to women and, except for the strange sexual doldrums he’d experienced of late, had been more than happy to return their attentions.
“My lord.” Miss Livingston regarded him with a courteous expression, but Cam detected a flash of discomfort in those soft blue depths.
“Miss Livingston, what a pleasure it is to see you again,” he lied, bowing over her hand.
Hartwell took his wife’s elbow. “Darling, let’s dance, shall we?” He glanced back over his shoulder as he ushered his wife toward the dance floor. “Cam, perhaps Miss Livingston will honor you with a turn as well.”
Left on their own, they faced each other in silence for an awkward moment. Then he donned a cool and polite smile since anything more would no doubt be wasted on this particular female. “Miss Livingston, will you do me the honor of standing up with me?”
She pursed her lips. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it. After all, the duke has practically commanded it.”
“Indeed.” He suppressed a sigh of irritation. Normally, his dutiful attentions toward wallflowers, spinsters, and bluestockings met with blushing, delighted gratitude.
Proceeding to a spot among the humid, perfumed throng of dancing couples, he placed his hand at the lady’s lithe waist and led her into a waltz. At least her height complemented his, and she moved across the floor with graceful ease. Surprising. Her subtle floral scent teased his nostrils, triggering an unexpected urge to lean forward to inhale it more fully. “You are quite an accomplished dancer, Miss Livingston.”
Extraordinary azure eyes considered him. “It is hardly gentlemanly of you to appear so thoroughly surprised.”
He was though. She didn’t seem the type to spend an abundance of time in ballrooms. He assumed she devoted most of her days to her causes. “Not at all,” he said with practiced gallantry. “No doubt your dance card is always full to bursting.”
Her even forehead rose in obvious amusement. “Hardly. You would not have asked me to dance had His Grace not badgered you into it.” Her voice did not match that prim exterior. It was smooth and rich, with just a touch of spice, a resonant sound that satisfied the senses like a fine, warmed liqueur on a lonely winter evening.
“Do you always speak so plainly, Miss Livingston?”
Her answering laugh was that of a woman, ripe and throaty, not the girlish tittering cultivated by most gently bred maidens. “Much to my mother’s chagrin. Unfortunately, there are times I simply cannot stop the words from slipping out.”
“Imagine that.” Plain as she was, upon closer inspection and acquaintance, Miss Livingston exuded an elusive allure, an indescribable something he couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps it was the translucent nature of her eyes that made them appear endless. It was almost startling to gaze into those plunging depths.
“Yes, indeed,” she said agreeably, inclining her head toward the blank-faced misses floating around them. “I look at the expression on their faces and wonder how they manage it.” She cocked her head, as if considering the thought. “Why do they insult themselves by pretending they haven’t a brain in their heads? Most women of my acquaintance are quite intelligent.”
“I believe they cultivate it quite purposefully.” He led her through another smooth turn, which she deftly followed. “A shy and gentle countenance is considered desirable for a young maiden of a certain station.”
“Hmm, then I am afraid Mother has the right of it. My cause is lost.” Mirth tinged her sparkling eyes. “I�
��m certain I couldn’t master that vacant stare, even if so desired. And holding my tongue might be a challenge.”
This time he was the one to laugh. “I’m beginning to see that.” She certainly was direct. Perhaps he’d been too rash in judging Miss Livingston’s appeal, having never engaged her in conversation before this evening. While her published essays on social reform hit a stentorian note, the lady herself apparently had a sense of humor. And she looked a little less plain floating in his arms, her cheeks flushed, those mesmerizing eyes shimmering with intelligence.
“I doubt you could look empty-headed, Miss Livingston. And even if you managed to pull off such a deception, your rather impressive writings would give you away.”
She crooked her lips, drawing his attention to her mouth. Unlike the lean, spare lines of her body, her lips were plump and succulently rounded. A sudden, unexpected urge to taste them assailed him. Startled, he shoved it away.
“As if you have read my essays.”
It took him a moment to refocus on their conversation. Ah yes, her essays. “Indeed I have. And I have enjoyed them.” Her obvious surprise amused him. They took another lavish twirl. “Even if your point is somewhat misguided.”
She stiffened, indignation shining in those brilliant eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your essays on the Luddites are brilliantly written, of course. However, I find the sentiment in them to be rather naive.” He smiled to realize he was enjoying the conversation. “You have an unfortunate tendency to romanticize the machine wreckers. There can be no legitimate excuse for behaving in an unlawful manner.”
Her nostrils flared. “Machinery is driving down their wages at a time when food prices have never been higher,” she said heatedly. “The fires have died in their hearths, and their children are starving. I think you, sir, are the one who is naive.”
Her eyes were even lovelier when lit with passion. Desire warmed his groin. Devil take it. What was the matter with him? “The life of the operative class has never been ideal,” he responded, trying to ignore his twitching prick. “Machinery could ultimately be advantageous for everyone, including our working people.”
The Turner Series Page 98