by Darcy Burke
Kate patted her narrow shoulder. “Relax right here, Aunt. I’m going to help Daphne for a moment. Whistle if you need me.”
“Whistling is not at all ladylike,” Aunt Havens said sternly. “Don’t engage in such antics once the Duke of Ravenwood is here, or he’s liable to give you the cut direct in the middle of your own museum.”
Kate’s shoulders sagged with relief. No more vacant answers. Aunt Havens was back. She even recalled Kate’s many complaints about the Frost King—the irreverent moniker Kate had once given him after he’d attended a ball and refused to dance with anyone.
She grinned to herself. Ravenwood might be a staid, emotionless, ice-in-his-veins stick-in-the-mud, but all that could be forgiven because Aunt Havens had remembered him.
Then again, despite his aloofness, the Duke of Ravenwood was handsome as sin. Who could forget wide shoulders and piercing green eyes like his?
Kate linked her arm with her aunt’s. Aunt Havens’ moments of confusion were brief, but Kate couldn’t help but worry. Sometimes a month or two might go by without incident, and then other times Aunt Havens couldn’t seem to grasp the conversational thread from one moment to the next.
Nights like tonight. When all Kate wanted was to share the joy of success with the sole close family member she had left. She leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder.
It was unfair. When Aunt Havens had opened her home and her heart to an orphaned little girl all those years ago, she hadn’t just become a mother figure in Kate’s life. Aunt Havens had become Kate’s confidante, her conscience. Her best friend.
She straightened her spine. It was good to see Aunt Havens’ eyes alight with wit and intelligence again. Whatever those moments of confusion had been, they were gone now. Aunt Havens was fine. She would stay fine. The two of them were a force to be reckoned with.
Starting with this charity soiree.
Kate clasped her hands to her chest and feasted her eyes upon the remade salon. Most of her precious antiquities were tucked safely into crates inside the back rooms, but a few carefully selected pieces were still on display.
With any luck, this gala would be a rousing success for Daphne’s charity and Kate’s museum.
She had spent days and weeks agonizing over which pieces would pique the most interest, which pedestals would display them to best light. If antiquities museums were not the preferred nighttime haunt of the fashionable set, well, Kate would simply have to change their minds.
The museum doors pushed open and a gaggle of Kate’s artistic friends rushed in, talking excitedly. She rushed forward to greet them.
It was vital that the struggling artists be here tonight. They had donated most of the paintings, woodwork, and lavish costumes on display for the auction. This was likely to be their one chance to witness a high-priced auction and realize the true value of their maligned and under appreciated talent.
Yet to make that happen, Kate had to ensure their presence would not send the Upper Ten Thousand fleeing home before a single penny had been raised.
Although it pained her to do so, she had no choice but to usher each cluster of her lower-class friends up the stairs and out of the way. She told them they were fortunate. The balcony railing would provide them a bird’s eye view of the proceedings.
They knew the truth. They didn’t argue or take offense.
Kate’s fingers clenched at her inability to make the beau monde accept talented artists like her friends simply because they were born from the wrong bloodlines.
Being near enough to spy bald spots atop moneyed roués was as close to equality as any of them ever expected to get. They were happy to be here.
“Don’t spit on anyone,” she teased before turning toward the winding staircase to intercept the next batch of guests.
“What about your Frost King?” Miss Nottingworth, a talented seamstress, teased back.
Kate gave an exaggerated shudder despite the quickening of her pulse. “He’s not mine, thank heavens. I pity the future duchess who spends her wedding night suffering frostbite.”
She slipped back down the steps to the sound of her friends’ laughter.
While she did indeed suspect Ravenwood’s touch to be capable of turning anything to ice, the mere thought of lovemaking did not send her a fit of the vapors, as it did so many of the useless debutantes gathering below.
What Kate dreaded was not the physical act, but marriage itself. The loss of her freedom. The requirement to bear children. The probability she or her child would not survive the ordeal. Kate’s fingers grew cold. The very thought paralyzed her limbs with dread and sent her into a panic.
Many of her earliest memories were of her Aunt Havens’ drawn face when she’d returned from a midwifery visit only to report one or both of the patients had not survived the birth.
Uncle Havens had been a parson. Each time, he would comfort his wife as best he could, then prepare for the funerals.
The sight of tiny coffins even smaller than Kate herself had been more than enough to convince her never to take such a risk.
As she’d grown older, as the cemeteries became crowded, her resolve had only strengthened. Losing one’s own life would be terrible enough. Losing a child…unthinkable.
Kate shivered. She might fantasize about knowing passion, but she did not need or want the trappings that came with it. She was perfectly happy to remain both a spinster and a virgin for the rest of her days.
Another reason why her artist friends loved to tease her. Many were not confined by the same rules and expectations. A few of them were married, but most took their pleasures when and how they pleased. They used scandalous devices like sponges or French letters to prevent conception.
Kate’s sensibilities should have been shocked by such unseemly behavior. Instead, she was deeply jealous of their freedom. Of the ability to connect with others without forethought or consequence.
As a lady, choosing not to bear children meant never marrying at all. She sighed. Sometimes she wished she were made of ice. Then maybe her fate wouldn’t seem so lonely.
For the moment, however, Daphne’s auction deserved Kate’s full attention. Streams of eager faces spilled through the front doors and into the receiving salon.
A grin spread across Kate’s face as she stepped into the milieu.
She loved this. The noise of excited conversations, the clash of a hundred perfumes, the whirl of colors as expensive silks and painted faces sparkled beneath the light of dozens of chandeliers. She drew a deep breath as energy sang through her veins.
Within the space of a couple hours, Daphne’s charity auction was a roaring success. The crème de la crème were having fun in an antiquities museum. Kate’s antiquities museum. It was perfect. Champagne flowed. Bids soared. Her friends watching overhead were openmouthed and awestruck at the exorbitant prices their hard work was fetching. Aunt Havens was laughing with Daphne and her husband.
Kate’s heart thundered with joy. Nights like this made her feel like she could do anything, be anyone she desired. The world was hers.
She clutched her hands to her chest and smiled at the whirling crush. What else might she accomplish if she put her mind to it? ’Twould be splendid if she could get the art-and-theatre crowd and the beau monde not only under the same roof, but actually interacting. Perhaps not like peers, but at least…like people.
A thought struck her. The ton loved to be entertained. They just didn’t realize how much of an effect their patronage—or lack thereof—truly had.
Kate could spread awareness, much like Daphne was doing, except Kate’s goal would be to entice the wealthier set to become more active patrons of the arts. Anyone could spare a few coins to sponsor the tutelage of a protégé. What Society matron wouldn’t wish to boast that she’d “discovered” London’s newest rising star?
The entertainment district would become richer in every sense. Artists and actors could focus on their craft instead of finding their next meal. And the beau monde, as spec
tators, would reap the benefit of their generosity.
Kate forced herself to push the tantalizing idea aside. At least for tonight.
Right now she needed to concentrate on flawlessly executing the charity event. Perhaps she could even lay the foundation for her future event by spending an extra moment with the faces she recognized as performers in past musicales, or those whose box was never vacant during a theatre performance.
Practically bubbling with excitement and good cheer, Kate made her way through the crowded salon. She gave a personal word of welcome to everyone she passed, teasing them all to return soon for a glimpse of the antiquities even their money could not buy. Mentioning favorite operas, favorite violinists to the aficionados who shared her passions.
A self-deprecating smile teased her lips. She could be more than charming when she wished. So could the ton. With them both on their best behavior, the evening was positively magical.
Until she caught sight of high cheekbones. Chestnut hair. Strong shoulders.
The devilishly handsome Duke of Ravenwood stood back from the crowd, almost in the shadows, but there was no hiding a form that tall. A body that muscular. A scowl that dark.
Annoyance itched beneath her skin. A charity ball was clearly too gauche for someone as high in the instep as Ravenwood, but did he have to glower from his perch like a gargoyle in a waistcoat?
Not that his frosty arrogance discouraged the eyes of every woman in the salon from turning his way. For a duke, everything was easy. He probably took his passion wherever he pleased. If he ever had any passion.
She was reminding herself that she was not to let him ruffle her feathers, when his hooded green eyes met hers—and just as quickly glanced away.
Her mouth fell open. Was he truly going to stand inside her museum and pretend not to see her?
She took a step forward.
He turned his back and slipped into the shadows.
Of all the—Kate curled her fingers into fists. He might be the silent prince of the ton but he would not cut her right in the middle of her own museum. Ice King or not.
She sniffed.
He wished to avoid her? Too late now. He could melt into whichever corner he liked, but no one knew this museum as well as Kate. He would not cut her again. Her heart banged as she stalked through the crowd. He could be as uppity as he liked in his domain, but tonight he had walked into hers.
She found him in moments, standing beside the open door to the storage cellar as if he were entitled to poke his aristocratic nose anywhere he pleased, simply because he’d been born with a title.
Well, he might be the Duke of Ravenwood, but he wasn’t lord of her museum. She’d built it from the ground up. Her unmarried status made it hers and hers alone.
Which meant she had every right to throw him out on his ear if he dared to insult her between these walls. After all, she’d invited him.
She stormed over with a ferocious smile. “Looking for the powder room, are we?”
He started in surprise—or at least, she thought he might have done—and then turned to face her in the slowest, haughtiest way imaginable. “The only thing I’m looking for is a respite from all the noise.”
The “noise”, as he put it, was the proof that her long weeks of planning and preparation had been worth every effort.
Of course His Grace wouldn’t approve.
“By all means,” she said as she brushed past him, “step into my lair. Be warned, there’s more dust on these shelves than Ravenwood House sees in a year.”
She strode into the storage area with her head high, pleased to have had the last word. His Highness would never follow her into such a lowly chamber.
Giddiness filled her. She had turned her back on him and walked away. Given the Duke of Ravenwood the cut direct. A laugh bubbled at her lips. Her friends would never believe this!
“You have never seen the inside of Ravenwood House,” came a deep voice from right behind her. “Nor are you likely to.”
She gasped and spun around, heart hammering.
He’d left his precious ton to follow her into storage quarters? Was he mad?
“Not be invited to Ravenwood House?” She arched a brow and tried to calm her pulse. “Be a gentleman and pass me your handkerchief. I fear I may weep.”
His cool eyes didn’t leave hers. “Come to think of it, I rarely see you at any society events. I’ve only seen your name in scandal sheets. Why is that?”
“Because you don’t go to society events,” she snapped.
He tilted his head to concede the point.
Good. She crossed her arms. If he wasn’t already aware, she would hate having to explain to him that she was rarely asked to attend any of the “respectable” balls anymore. While she’d never done anything scandalous enough to permanently ruin her reputation, her friendships with the art and theatre crowd tainted her by association.
If she were a man, perhaps her motley friends wouldn’t have mattered. Lord Byron managed to be a poet and a baron. Brummell managed to be both a dandy and a debtor.
For women, it was different. If one were an actress, the assumption was that she was also a whore. And if she were not an actress, but merely a woman who both enjoyed the performances and befriended the entertainers?
Well. She hadn’t flinched when her Almack’s voucher was revoked. She certainly wasn’t going to cry about the Duke of Ravenwood acknowledging her lower status.
The opposite, in fact. His unexpected pursuit of her into the storage area filled Kate with a giddy sense of unreality. Part of her was picturing herself telling her friends about her close encounter with the Frost King, and the other part of herself wondered if they’d even believe her.
A prideful man as high-in-the-instep as the lofty Duke of Ravenwood, shadowed amongst dusty wooden crates and towering shelves? Unthinkable!
Even here, surrounded by row after row of her painstakingly collected antiquities, the insufferable man looked more imperious than ever. More handsome. More unreachable.
His broad shoulders and tense frame seemed to fill the overstuffed aisle, making her feel for the first time as if she were not in her prized treasure room, but rather a wayward maiden who’d wandered into his domain.
She glared at him for daring to take her sense of ownership from her with his mere presence.
His eyes glittered back from beneath his dark chestnut brows.
He neither smiled nor frowned. As was his wont. Ravenwood was infamous for staring coolly out of those inscrutable emerald eyes, with no indication upon those firm lips and square jaw as to what he might be thinking. She had spent weeks trying to figure him out. Months.
Kate straightened her spine and tried to match his indifference with her own.
Let him see how immune she was to his arrogance and cold beauty. If she wanted a statue of Adonis, she knew where to find one. She already had one, in fact—packed away against the back wall. She didn’t need Ravenwood towering over her, judging her. Dismissing her.
She jerked her gaze away from him. The charity gala needed her concentration. Now that she was in the storage area, she might as well make something of it. But Aunt Havens had been in here earlier, “organizing” the collection…which always made it that much harder for anything to be found.
As Kate scanned the shelves in search of the Greek pottery she’d hoped to put on display after tonight’s gala, every prickling inch of her skin was hyper aware of Ravenwood’s unflinching gaze. Her usually steady fingers trembled as she reached for a squat wooden box tucked away upon one of the tallest shelves.
“Let me help,” came his deep voice from immediately behind her.
She jumped and flailed her arms. The preternaturally silent man had managed to startle her yet again, causing her to grasp the shelving to keep her balance.
It didn’t work.
Rather, she stayed upright—but the overpacked shelves wobbled just enough to send the items on the topmost shelf tumbling right at them.
A blown glass flower. A porcelain bust. And Aunt Havens’ misplaced pail of water.
Kate grabbed the bust and swung it onto the closest shelf.
Ravenwood rescued the glass flower.
The falling bucket splashed over them, dousing his wide chest and pristine cravat with cold water.
His impenetrable eyes met hers.
Kate swallowed. Her pulse hammered wildly. Words would not form.
He ought to look ridiculous. An uppity duke, clutching a glass flower, his neckcloth dripping as if he’d been caught in a summer rain.
The opposite was true. With his chestnut curls awry and his cravat plastered to his chest, the typically standoffish duke looked…approachable. Handsome. Dangerous.
She touched her fingertips to his cravat. “You’re wet.”
“You’re observant.” Against all odds, his mouth curved into a wry smile.
She froze in place, her palm against the heat of his chest, her startled eyes locked on the curve of his lips.
Had she ever seen him smile before? Heaven help her, he was gorgeous. That slow, self-deprecating smile transformed him from a princely statue to someone kissable. Desirable. Someone she absolutely should not be touching.
Fire, not ice.
She snatched her hand from his chest and jerked away—only for her slippered feet to skid out from under her on the water-slick floor.
He caught her to him, preventing her fall.
Her arms tightened about him reflexively before she realized her mistake. Er, mistakes. She was alone with the Duke of Ravenwood, her silk bodice plastered against his dripping wet chest.
And part of her didn’t want to let go.
She tried to breathe. His muscles were firm and hot beneath his snugly tailored coat sleeves. Her damp bosom trapped between his heartbeat and hers.
His hooded green eyes were no longer as unreadable as they’d been a few moments earlier. They were focused on her parted lips. The lips she couldn’t help but lick in anticipation.
He lowered his head toward hers…as the storage room door swung open.