Denying The Duke (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 3)

by Virginia Vice

  The next was another contrived creation, sole baked in a beautiful pastry shell that looked like it could swim. It had the crowd in ecstasies and Lord Windon and Lady Amelia sat primly and discussed the predilection of the ton. The meal was by no means an unknown, but it the aspic displays were so original, a complete garden of little jelly molds, that they applauded the meal with more gusto than deserving. This reaction was greeted again by covert smiles by the couple at the crowd’s incredulity. The party went on, but each was riveted on the other.

  “Pray tell," he asked deadpan with his eyes flashing his amusement, “what matters of the kitchen would be deemed worthy of being greeted with such enthusiasm?"

  She held her laughter by staring into the glass of claret as if to heat the content by the ferocity of her gaze. "If you must praise food, I dare say it should be only by composing compliments to the hostess or chef." They both turned as one to regard the crowd and shared conspiratorial smiles.

  The rest of the meal continued in the same vein. The two were engrossed in each other, unaware that they had a private audience who looked at the blossoming romance with approval. They murmured between themselves and engaged in light, bantering conversation with a bit of witticism that had them chuckling privately.

  The meal finished with light fanfare. After it was done, the ladies stood up to leave the men to their port and spirits. Robert was loath to leave her invigorating presence for an hour of masculine boasting. He had barely been shown into the spacious study of their host when his cousin Lord Felton cornered him and commandeered his entire attention.

  “Are you attending the Gingham hunt?” Lord Windon wondered if he had ever greeted the world with such puppy-like enthusiasm.

  “You know I have no interest in idle pursuits,” he answered, knowing it would only fire the young lord.

  “Even you cannot confess an aversion to hunting,” came the sharp retort. “It is quite shabby, old man, to refuse me company. I shall never earn my place within the circle of notable Corinthians such as yourself."

  “I have no intentions of cavorting with their likes, and I have no doubt I am not considered a Corinthian, notable worth or no,” he answered sedately.

  “Because you would not share a cup with them no doubt. They have taken to calling you the Black Corinthian, no doubt for your manners and the thunder-like scowl on your brow.”

  The Duke of Windon regarded his petulant relative with a look half curious and half amazed. “And no doubt for the manner in which I am attired." Lord Windon was known to favor solemn colors, among which black seemed his favorite.

  “S’truth!” His cousin retorted with what was suspiciously like a pout. It looked very unmanly on him.

  “By Jove. I cannot imagine, Felton, your fixation with those prancing bucks. What are they to you?”

  “They are, I tell you, in the know and have among them only lords of landed worth and high society—which you and I, in all your black guard inclinations, are ourselves. And yet they exclude me! Lord Cheltenham laughed when I suggested a curricle race.”

  “Perhaps because everyone knows you wreaked your curricle a month ago.” Felton opened his mouth to retort, and Windon hurried on. “I believe I saw Chuffy earlier. I shall behove myself to introduce you. Will that be satisfactory?”

  He then, of course, introduced his cousin. Windon extolled Felton’s manner of handling horses and how he had an excellent eye for horseflesh. He even told the anecdote of the curricle crash, which was caused by appalling road conditions and stray sheep, not driver error. Felton himself had no need for another passport into Chuffy’s good graces as they were well matched in all things involving the handling of horses. Windon left them avidly discussing the advantages of a racing curricle over a phaeton. He circled the gathering to give the host his compliments on a fine evening.

  The host, Lord Gainsborough, was pleased Lord Windon had deigned to attend and offered him a glass of very excellent port. The idle conversation rolled on with several men debating the odds on various bets on the books at White’s until the host deemed it time to return to the women in the drawing room.

  Chapter Three

  Amelia was bored out of her mind. The matter of embroidery she had wished to escape by faux pas had returned with a vengeance. The women had split into little groups to gossip. She had by default joined the largest with the lady of the house holding court. After accepting compliments on acquiring a most excellent cook, the lady, no doubt titillated by her success, led the group in a mind-numbing lecture on how to secure the best servants for the most modest of wages. The strategy of paying a fair wage had worked quite well at the St Clair estates for generations.

  Lady Amelia arched a stubborn brow and waited impatiently for her dinner companion to return. She wondered if the men were drinking port and perhaps a bit of smuggled French brandy. No doubt they were discussing important things like the prettiest opera dancer, or the importance of the navy vs. the cavalry. More than a few dashing men in uniform had graced the dinner. She wondered in an absentminded manner how dashing Lord Windon would look in the brass button. Was that how he had gotten his scars? It made his face so much more interesting, like a highwayman or a pirate. She imagined him in a loose billowing shirt, undone nearly to the waist. The most inappropriate thought caused a blush to creep up her cheek.

  The men rejoined the company of women with the smug looks that suggested the women ought to be honored to have them return. Despite herself, Amelia bristled, but managed to compose herself in time to catch sight of Lord Windon striding towards her. Another blush stained her cheeks for an entirely different reason.

  They resumed their discussion with the ease of friends who had an acquaintance of a lifetime. Lord Rochester had noted the attention paid by Lord Windon on his daughter and had tried to ascertain the manner of man he was. His findings were satisfactory, if a bit vague. Lord Windon kept his own company. The manner in which the younger man excused himself to quickly return to his daughter’s side was something her father approved of absolutely.

  “How have you fared with the enthusiastic debates of embroidery?”

  “I have restrained from inflicting bodily harm on every party involved, but I must ask you a question. You see, it would put a matter that puzzles me to rest.” Windon was worried about the overly serious expression on her face. It did nothing to detract from her pretty face but it worried him nonetheless.

  “I am at your service in all things.”

  She turned to him with a prim air.

  “I have once consigned the matters men discuss apart from us to be nothing of much import saving which horse would be most likely to win the Royal Ascot. Tell me, was I remiss in such thoughts?” Her eyes twinkled with the most impish delight. Her rapid fanning told him she was quite overcome by laughter and barely capable of restraining herself.

  He looked at her with such a woebegone look that she had almost called off her jest. But then she realized he had no doubt caught the joke. He laughed, a deep uproar with his head thrown back. The milling crowds turned curious stares. Lady Amelia herself was most enamored with the strong column of his neck, once hidden by his lapels and the cravat, now half exposed to her hungry stare.

  His laughter was a rich flood, a reaction she had not expected. She would have settled with the smiles that sent waves fluttering through her. The laughter tugged strongly. “Have a care, Your Grace.” She whispered urgently even as she turned a bland look to the curious crowd. “People are starting to stare.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Amelia, but I am simply overcome by the circumstances.” He smiled benignly, but more than amusement was in his eyes. “I must confess that you are not far off the mark. Even, I am most ashamed to say, I am guilty of such insipid conversation. I have spent the better amount of the time in this gathering introducing a man with no more to commend him than his way with horses, his excellent seat and a discerning eye for horseflesh.”

  He looked so comically apologetic that she laughed, a f
luttery, soft sound behind her fan. He wished she had not bothered to hide behind the contraption of lace and wood. He would have no doubt enjoyed her joy, in much the same way he had enjoyed her many expressions. “I ask for forgiveness for my many sins.” He waited until she recovered.

  “And I am graciously ready forgive you.” She conceded with a soft smile.

  “Indeed you are.” He waited a moment then turned to her. “Do you ride?” She looked at him with a mixture of mock indignation and mock consternation.

  “I am an accomplished horsewoman, Your Grace.” She answered with an impish smile.

  “I wonder if I may call on you for a ride in the park.” He inquired softly.

  “I fear we are returning to the country posthaste. The Season has nearly ended and the London air is very disagreeable to my father.” Her apology was sincere.

  He turned to her fully. Despite a conversation that had spanned the night, they knew little of the other.

  “Might I inquire after his health?”

  “You may. It is serious, but not immediate. Our physician is of the opinion that the country air is kinder and easier on his disposition. And I am inclined to agree. He does not suffer so in the brisk country air at our estates.” She stated calmly, with the air of one who had given the matter a lot of thought.

  “I must then regret the loss of opportunity to pursue our acquaintance.” He was not just saying the words, and she, if her expression was something to go by, felt the same way.

  “If I may be so bold to return your sentiments. Alas, he is not at all in good health and once his Parliament duties are discharged we must return with haste. I cannot in good faith continue to have him risk his own health for my prospects.”

  “I can curb my displeasure long enough to commend your acts of devotion to your father. He must be infinitely pleased to have a daughter so devoted to him.”

  “There are other things I am sure would please him more.” She sighed. It was so tough, when what her father wanted most was for her to leave him, but she had so little time left with him! Lord Windon read this comment as a thinly veiled allusion to the marriage mart.

  “Indeed,” he murmured assent. He was aware of the demands of familial responsibilities and how one was always called upon to act, but would inevitably not come up to snuff. He turned back to the crowd of which a good portion was playing charades. He noted no one had invited them to join in and that led him to feel a kinship with the lady. It was refreshing, much unlike the embroidery-loving girls aiming for a good connection.

  “You remind me so strongly of my sister. She is also smart and loyal.”

  “You have a sister? I would be delighted if you would introduce me. Is she out yet?”

  “She is whatever beyond out is. Settled, that is the word.” He answered with a twitch of his lips.

  “She is married then.”

  “Yes, several Seasons past now. She is my elder by many years.”

  “And you inherited despite the fact that she was born first.” She asked breezily, much too easily, as if she was commenting on the weather. It made him increasingly wary as if there was a trap suddenly looming beneath his feet. “To think that Queen Elizabeth was perhaps the best monarch our country will ever see, and yet men still doubt the capabilities of the female sex.”

  “It is the way of things.” He returned with a puzzled expression and that was the exact wrong thing to say. She stiffened in a way that his answer was a personal affront. He hurried on, “You forget, even Queen Elizabeth inherited after a younger brother, and an older sister too, come to mention it.”

  Amelia opened her mouth for a retort, but bit back her argument. The fate of queens and the rules of primogenitor would not be solved at a dinner party. She put on a blank smile. “Yes, that is so. Do you see your sister often?”

  “I saw her at one of the christenings a few years ago, but I haven’t bothered to go to them all. Babies all look alike. She is well-married and my duty to her is discharged.”

  The comment brought her to a stop, it was so offhand and callous. He was not the man she had hoped. Her polite mask shattered like bone china.

  “Your Grace, I am to believe you did not visit or correspond with your sister, your smart, loyal sister, after her marriage?” Her voice trembled with outrage and shock. This was not like the charming, well-read man she had assumed him to be.

  “There are few matters we have to discuss I cannot direct to her husband. There is little need for correspondence.” The admission did nothing to aid his cause. It was all true but he felt a twinge of guilt at her incredulous gaze. By Jove, he liked to think he had done well by the old girl, but now he was not so sure.

  Her lips pursed and her already rigid self grew even more so. He had no idea how, she was already so stiff.

  “Is there no end to the indignities suffered by women?” The words were under her breath, and not meant for any ear apart from hers, but he caught them anyways.

  “Beg pardon.” The words ripped from him in surprise.

  “Your Grace.” Her teeth clenched and her fan trembled in her white fist. “Do you think it kind that you not only inherit what would ordinarily be hers by virtue of birth, but also abandon her after her marriage, as if your only interactions are those required by duty and not filial tenderness? The courtesy of correspondence personally addressed to her would not be remiss.”

  He squirmed inside. When she put it like that he agreed wholeheartedly but being called out on the matter was galling. “It just never occurred to me. That is just the way of things.” This weak reply had her sniffing with disdain. If it had not worked earlier, he found it to be doubly ineffective now

  “It is also the way of things for the Crown to seize the holdings of lords without male heirs. We have come to the crux of what ails my father.” The trembling fan still gripped in her tight fist was her only show of anger. Her voice was light and almost conversational if one missed the slight edge in her words.

  “My apologies.” He knew no other words to say and these were damningly inadequate.

  She nodded stiffly. “It is apparently I who must beg pardon of all of England for not dying in place of my brother.” The words were bold but the pain was so evident in her sharp gaze. It nudged him painfully but he would not be able to offer her any comfort.

  “My Lady! Surely, you don’t mean—you don’t wish...” He stumbled to a halt. She had withdrawn without moving an inch. She saw him now to be a member of the same Society that stifled her. She was so bold, mind and beauty.

  Many would quail in her presence because of her bold, forthright manner and how she had little patience for coy action. It was the way of the world that rich, connected heiresses were allowed their eccentricities, but poor spinsters were given no mercy. The London which had allowed her such liberties today would also condemn her once her fortune fell.

  That, more than anything, troubled him. When the Crown seized her father’s holding she would be left just enough to scrape by. He had heard tales. “A thousand apologies. Again, if I may be of comfort?” He held out a square of pressed linen, a small thing to deal with a large grief.

  “I am afraid that I have been too emotional for a first meeting.” She accepted the handkerchief and hide her face briefly in its folds. It smelled slightly of warm male and pipe tobacco. “Thank you for your restraint in chastising me fully. I must relieve Lady Hammond on the harpsicord. It was a pleasure.” The dismissal stung, but that was the way of things. He had been lulled by their matched wits to think that she was willing to remain beside him, but he was as always bereft of luck. He had forgotten the monstrosity of his scars for a scant half-hour, although it seemed a lifetime.

  “Indeed, thank you for your indulgence of remaining in my presence for so long.” He murmured politely as he bowed to her, lingering over her fingertips.

  Lady Amelia nodded stiffly, without meeting his eyes, and walked off. Her head was held impossibly high.

  Lord Windon watched her go wit
h an ache in his chest. He had not at all predicted her shining presence at this event. And he had been most grateful for the accident that prodded her to seek a place so close to him and start talking. She was different, yet she was neither slatternly nor unusual. And she possessed a fine intellect for a woman. At the thought he flushed. She had accused men of treating women with indignity, supposing an intellect was something given to humans of the male gender. He was ashamed of himself. He complained of Society, yet he followed its edicts, albeit within the looser rules that governed the behavior of dukes, and that was the gravest of hypocrisy. If only he could take away the pain and disappointment from her. The eyes that had smiled so winningly at him now filled with thinly veiled disgust.

  Lord Rochester had completely missed the less than amicable parting of his daughter and her suitor. He had cornered a good friend of his and the two of them had proceeded to reminisce on their rowdy Eton days. Their laughter was unrestrained, tongues no doubt loosened by the host’s glass of fine brandy. Lord Rochester restricted himself to port, albeit of equally high quality, and kinder to his condition.

  Lord Rochester used the opportunity to inquire again about Lord Windon. The Black Corinthian he was called. His skill in all manners of sport was exceeded only by his arrogance. He was allowed his arrogance but not, his friend informed him, the sardonic eye and the bold back he turned on Society. He was, after all, a duke and such a lofty title with such solvent accounts allowed for an eccentricity or two. The boy was ignoring his social responsibilities, but that did not stop the invitations from flooding into his lap.

  His friend could not quite know if he kept a mistress or not. But, if he was, then he was damned discrete about his affairs, and that was always a commendable thing in a man. Lord Rochester did not comment on that but merely nodded affably. But for all his arrogance, Windon was a good lord and his investment schemes had paid out richly, so he was not hunting for an heiress.