by Brenda Joyce
“He is my cousin,” Stacy Worthington announced. She smiled smugly, as if being the cousin of a duke was a matter of great importance.
“How fortunate you are,” Nicole managed.
Stacy did not catch Nicole’s implied sarcasm. “We have known each other since childhood,” she said grandly.
Nicole smiled.
“He is in residence,” Margaret said, “and this Friday we are holding a masque in his honor at Tarent Hall. After all, he must be welcomed properly to the country.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“I am sure that if the Earl and Countess were in residence, they would have the honor of hosting the event, but as they are not, my mother has decided to do so.”
Nicole nodded.
Stacy smiled. “We knew that you were here, not in London, and of course it would be most improper if we did not invite you. So, here we are.”
Nicole blinked, stiffening. She was astonished at what Stacy had said and the way she had said it. She had just been given the rudest invitation, the implication clear that she had to be invited whether she was wanted or not. At the same time, the young woman had referred to Nicole’s not being in London with her parents and sister and all the other unwed young ladies of means and position who were husband-hunting. The further implication was worse—that she was not welcome in London. And that was not true.
Not exactly.
“Oh,” was all Nicole could think of to say. She felt put on the spot. She rarely went out into society—in fact, she hadn’t in years. Did this woman know that? Of course she did. Everyone knew it.
“Of course you’ll come,” Stacy smiled. “Won’t you?”
Nicole could not smile. She was being challenged. It was not her imagination. And her stomach was in knots. It had been so long. Certainly by now people would have forgotten.
“Well?” Stacy asked. She was still smiling.
Nicole disliked her. The other woman expected her to decline the invitation. Everyone knew she rarely went out. And they had not come calling in friendship, but only out of duty. It would be so terribly improper if they did not invite the Earl of Dragmore’s daughter to such an important event. “Of course I’ll come,” Nicole said proudly, unsmiling.
Stacy looked shocked. But that was nothing compared to the expression on Margaret’s face. “You will?” the blonde squeaked.
Anger filled Nicole. She still did not understand Stacy’s motivation, but that did not matter. What mattered was the challenge. “Until Friday,” Nicole said, standing.
When the two women had left, Nicole regretted letting them back her into a corner. But how could she refuse the challenge Stacy Worthington had thrown at her? And by now people had forgotten, hadn’t they?
After the scandal, Nicole had been the object of much ugly gossip and speculation, and it had hurt. Her parents had been very angry with her, and even if she had wanted to hide at their London home, they would not have allowed it. But she was not a coward, and she had continued the season as if nothing had happened, holding her head high and ignoring all the gawking and gossip.
When the scandal began to die, Nicole bowed out. From the time of her debut, Nicole had not been impressed with the balls and routs, the soirees and supper parties, which she found endless, repetitive and quite boring. She enjoyed rising with the sun and spending her day on horseback, tending to Dragmore with her father and brothers. And to her, a good book was much more entertaining than most of these affairs.
The past four years had not been unhappy ones. Nicole loved her family, she loved Dragmore and she was content with the life she led. In fact, it was because she hadn’t wanted to change her life that she had caused the scandal in the first place.
But…sometimes, usually when her younger sister Regina was in London with her mother, attending one party after another, dressed in fabulous silks and courted by handsome bachelors, Nicole missed her and felt alone, and she would suddenly wish that she were there, too. Regina was always the belle of the ball, the way Nicole had never been, and Nicole knew she wished for what she could not have. It was a small wish, a fleeting wish. Nicole reminded herself of the few times she had gone out with her family since the scandal, times that had not been fun, times where people looked at her and remembered, and sometimes whispered behind her back as well. She had only to remember those times and the wistful feeling would pass and be forgotten for weeks on end.
And now she was not only going out again, but she was going alone. Not only were her parents and Regina in London, her brother Ed was at Cambridge and her brother Chad was in France on business. She didn’t have an escort. Ladies did not attend parties unescorted unless they were over thirty, which she was not.
Yet she would attend this masque, even without an escort. She would do so in high style and show up that snooty Stacy Worthington.
Draping herself in a fine red wool cloak, Nicole set off for Tarent Hall on Friday night. She was a jumble of nerves when she was finally on her way. Earlier that day she had given in to a few doubts about going without an escort, but she had finally laid them to rest by sheer willpower. She had been challenged and she was no coward—she was going to attend the masque, come what may.
She had a terrible feeling that she was going to regret this night. If she were sane, she thought to herself, she would forget all about Stacy Worthington and stay at home as a proper young lady should.
But it was too late now, Nicole thought, fingering the brilliant orange petticoat and vividly pink skirt beneath her cloak. She had never been proper, not really. There was a wild streak in her, and there always had been. She got it from her father’s side of the family, or so her mother said, although the Earl insisted disregard for convention was a Barclay trait. At the age of twenty-three she was mature and honest enough with herself to recognize this outlandish side of her nature and accept it. It was this wild part of her that had accepted Stacy’s challenge and that was even now propelling her forward without an escort against her better judgment.
Nicole had always hated the rules and conventions that bound all the women of her day. Fortunately, she was not alone, although she was in a quite radical minority, led by suffragettes and agitators like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and her aunt, Grace Bragg. Women were supposed to do nothing more than bore themselves with gentle womanly pursuits such as flower arranging and watercolors. When her tutor had tried to teach her those arts, the eight-year-old Nicole had flown into a rage. She would spend her days painting roses while Chad, Ed and her father rode across Dragmore, overseeing the tenants, the farms and the livestock? Never!
Of course, she was forced to learn such pursuits, which she did in a dismal fashion, but in her free time she haunted the menfolk of her family and was allowed to accompany them after her studies, a liberty unheard of for a well-bred young lady. Through childhood and adolescence she had been endlessly sorry that she was not a boy—another son. When she was not on horseback with her brothers and father, she could be found reading, everything from Byron’s sensual poetry to John Stuart Mills’ The Rights of Women. Her family never thought twice about her boyish inclinations until she was suddenly a full-grown woman, and then they did their best to ignore her unconventional ways.
They would drop dead if they knew what she was doing, or, worse, if they saw her now.
She had only had three days to find a fabulous costume, but she had solved the problem by scavenging in the vast attic of her home. Her mother, Jane Barclay, had been a popular stage actress, although she had given up her promising career to devote herself to her children, her husband and Dragmore a few years after her marriage. Acting was in her blood, for Jane had been following in the footsteps of her mother, the famous and incomparable Sandra Barclay, and there had been trunks of wonderful costumes in the attic.
Nicole chose a gypsy costume. Even she had to admit that, with her coloring, in the brilliantly colored clothes she had found, she looked like the real thing. Of course, the costume was daring. It was not exa
ctly proper. The blouse fell off of her shoulders in a very suggestive way, and the skirts were only knee-length. But gypsies—or so the thirteen-year-old Annie assured her—went barefoot in short skirts. Nicole did not care. When Stacy Worthington and her little friend saw her, they would be set upon their ears! Nicole was certain that they did not really expect her to come at all.
She smiled as she sat back on the plush leather seats in the big black Dragmore coach, which was pulled by six greys and attended by four liveried footmen. Not only was she attending the masque in a very authentic costume, she was actually starting to become excited. It had been ages since she had been out among the set, and even longer since she had been to a costume ball.
The circular driveway in front of the Georgian brick home was already filled with coaches and carriages. A coach twice the size of the Dragmore vehicle had turned into the drive ahead of them. This carriage was also black, and so highly polished it gleamed in the moonlight. The coat of arms was brilliantly vivid, the lights of the carriage making sure that no one could possibly miss it, oversized and embossed as it was on two of the doors of the carriage. Two lions, one red and one gold, reared up against a black, red and gold shield, while another red lion snarled above it. Below the shield, the two rearing lions stood on a silver ribbon, bearing a motto that said simply, “Honor First.” Such an elaborate coat of arms could only belong to the Duke of Clayborough.
Eight magnificent blacks pulled the coach, gold plumes waving from their bridles. Four footmen stood on the back running board, splendid in red, black and gold uniforms. A dozen outriders accompanied the Duke, all mounted magnificently on matching bays, all liveried in the Duke’s colors. The coach was splendid enough for royalty, which, Nicole knew, the Duke was not.
They stopped in the drive, her carriage behind his, with Nicole straining to glimpse the illustrious guest of honor. She discerned only a tall, powerful figure in ebony tails, a black cloak swirling about his shoulders, lined in crimson, as he alighted. He had chosen not to come in costume, she noted, and there was no Duchess in tow.
She was helped from the carriage and hurried up the steps toward the bright lights of the mansion. The front doors were open, and a liveried servant took her cloak, not blinking once at her attire. She followed a footman to the entrance of the ballroom, her heart beginning to pound. When he asked for her name, she gave it automatically.
For just a moment, she recalled too many soirees, and too many failures. For just a moment, the daring side of her retreated, and she felt frightened.
She paused behind the Duke while he was announced. He was even taller than she had guessed, nearly half a foot taller than she, with massively broad shoulders. His hair was too long to be fashionable, as if he were too busy to bother with a barber. It was a dark, tawny color, and even in the interior lighting, she could see that it was heavily sun-streaked, as if he spent most of his time out of doors.
“Hadrian Braxton-Lowell, the ninth Duke of Clayborough,” the butler intoned. A long string of the Duke’s various other titles followed.
The Duke paused, his posture impatient and careless, but the butler had barely finished the introduction before he was striding down the steps into the ballroom. Nicole moved forward, watching him as a splendidly attired woman, clearly the hostess, greeted him.
“Lady Nicole Bragg Shelton,” the butler was saying.
Nicole did not hear him. Her heart was in her throat. She was suddenly overwhelmingly conscious of her bare legs and bare feet. She felt as if the entire crowd was staring at her, which they were, of course, because she had just been announced and, that, right after the Duke. A hush fell upon the crowd, and she prayed it was because of the Duke and not because of her appearance at this masque.
But he, too, turned and stared at her.
Nicole held her head high. Barefoot, as a true gypsy would be, bangles on her arms, her hair flowing to her waist, her skirts swirling above her calves, she gracefully descended the stairs. People started to whisper. Nicole had an awful feeling that they were talking about her.
She had been right, she should never have come. No one had forgotten, and her costume was too daring even for a masque.
Unfortunately she glimpsed Stacy Worthington standing in front of the crowd, clad in a white Regency gown, a perfectly proper kind of costume. Stacy wasn’t on her ear. She was smirking.
Nicole forgot all about Stacy Worthington. The Duke was staring at her. He took her breath away. Somehow, she moved toward her hostess without falling dead away into a faint. “Lady Adderly,” she murmured, curtsying.
The Viscountess blinked at her. Nicole felt the Duke’s eyes burning on her. “Oh, yes, Lady Shelton, how good of you to come. And what a…charming…costume.”
Nicole could not smile, she still could not breathe. But she was not sure whether it was because she was still being gawked at by a hundred guests, or whether it was because he stood so close beside her she fantasized she could feel the heat of his powerful body. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“A magnificent costume,” the Duke said, his voice carrying without any apparent effort on his behalf.
Nicole whirled and met his eyes. The floor seemed to drop out from under her feet.
He was handsome. Devastatingly handsome, devastatingly male. He nearly dwarfed her. His dark eyes seemed to command hers, and she was held enthralled in his power. “You are unique, Lady Shelton,” he said abruptly, his gaze slipping down her body. “And I, for one, find it refreshing.”
Just as abruptly, he turned his back on her, nodded to his hostess and strode off, leaving the two women standing there alone.
“Unique,” Lady Adderly said, as if she could not believe it.
Nicole’s heart started to beat again. A wild ecstasy filled her. She recognized his words as a compliment. God—that gorgeous man had praised her!
She found herself floating through the crowd. People still stared, but where once Nicole had hated being gawked at, today his words rang in her ears and she was oblivous to everyone around her. “A magnificent costume…You are unique, Lady Shelton….”
Nicole found herself holding a glass of champagne. Her pulse was pounding rapidly and she felt overly warm. She scanned the crowd. She saw him instantly. To her shock, he was staring intently at her.
They were leagues apart. She could not clearly see his eyes, but she felt scorched by his gaze. She could see the intensity on his face. She could not look away from him, not until he lifted his own champagne glass, as if toasting her—or them.
Quickly, Nicole turned away. The Duke of Clayborough. How long would he be at Chapman Hall? Was he married? And what was happening to her? She was a mass of quivering nerves, and she could not take her eyes off of him! She found herself staring at him again.
He was listening to several lords and ladies, looking rather bored and as impatient as he had been when he had first entered the room. Stacy Worthington was beside him, gazing up at him adoringly. Nicole felt a stabbing of jealousy, deep and quick and hot. The intensity of it surprised her. And then, as if feeling her gaze, the Duke shifted and pierced her directly with his stare again. Nicole knew she should drop her eyes, but she did not—she could not.
An electric look passed between them.
“Dear Nicole, how long it has been!”
Nicole’s attention was forced from the Duke, just as she saw his lips seeming to curve in a bare, sardonic smile. She recognized the gray-haired woman as the Marchioness of Hazelwood, and she tensed. This woman had been one of her biggest detractors after the scandal.
But now the Marchioness was smiling, as if they were old friends. “It is so nice to see you again, Nicole. My, can you imagine? The Duke says you are quite the thing!”
Nicole did not know what game the Marchioness was playing, but she would not be a part of it. “Yes, it has been some time, has it not?” Her voice was cool, for she had not forgotten how this woman had cut her four years ago. “Oh, I do believe it’s been four years—s
ince the soiree at Castleton. You do remember that little fête?”
The Marchioness surely had to remember how she had drawn her verbal sword and slashed Nicole to ribbons in front of a dozen of Castleton’s guests, even going so far as to call her an Unacceptable, knowing Nicole could hear her every word. But now she smiled as if that night had never occurred.
“Oh, there are so many affairs,” she sighed. She held up her spectacles, studying Nicole’s costume. “Yes,” she announced, nodding, “I can see how the Duke would find your costume quite unique. Please, do call the next time you are near Hazelwood, and give my regards to the Countess and the Earl.” Patting Nicole’s hand in a friendly manner, she turned away.
Nicole was stunned—and outraged. She was no fool. She knew that the Marchioness had invited her to Hazelwood only because the Duke had approved of her. She fumed inwardly. If the Duke had not been here tonight, or if he had not approved of her costume, would she have been the least bit friendly? Nicole was certain that the answer was no.
Nicole drank another glass of champagne, moving about, looking for the Duke discreetly, hoping to bump into him. To her amazement, many of the guests sought her out, extending invitations to her. She could not be pleased. But for the first time, she realized the extent of the power that someone like the Duke wielded. Tonight he had not tried to be her protector. His statement had been honest yet careless. Yet suddenly it was as if the scandal had never existed.
“You do not look happy, Lady Shelton,” his deep voice came from behind her.
Nicole gasped. Spinning about so quickly to face him, champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass. He stood so close to her that her breasts, bound only in a thin chemise beneath her silk blouse, brushed his arm. Horrified, blushing, she stepped back wildly, spilling more champagne.
The look in his eyes, as he took the glass from her, was difficult to read. Their color, she saw, was not really dark brown, but the rich gold of sherry. She thought he might be somewhat amused. And his hand, taking her glass, touched hers, and seemed to caress her very soul. It burned.