by Devon, Eva
Rafe forced himself not to gape at her accurate summary of him. “Yet here I stand with you.”
“Yes,” she said. Her lips curled with amusement. “It’s because I irk you.”
He nearly guffawed. “You irk me?”
“Indeed,” she confirmed merrily, her white-gloved hands folding behind her. “I am not like the other young ladies about you, in the sense that I do not bow down in kowtow to you because you’re a duke. I have been raised to think that dukes are rather silly creatures, only necessary because of our current government.”
Her tone suggested no malice, merely a playful honesty which he found refreshing. . . giving all the more cause to admire her. How many young ladies would suggest he was a silly creature?
None. That’s how many.
“Miss Finley,” he teased dramatically. “You are speaking near treason.”
“Treason?” she gasped, her gaze now as merry as her speech. “Oh, no. It is merely reason. Aren’t we allowed to have some reason?”
“Reason, yes.” He cocked his head to the side, savoring her boldness and humor. “But to declare our government to be. . .” he paused.
“Silly,” she put in helpfully as she batted her long, dark lashes.
“Yes, silly,” he repeated. “It seems rather daring for a Miss from the country.”
“Who else should dare if not I?” she stated.
“Well said,” he replied, liking her more for her answer. He often found that most people wanted others to be bold whilst they hid behind their muffins and tea. He smiled. “Who, indeed?”
The truth was, he actually thought that the government was rather silly too.
It galled him to agree with her. Still, it was a good government. There were few like it in the world, and he wasn’t about to speak overly badly about it.
“May I ask, why do you say it’s silly?” he asked.
She narrowed her gaze and drew in a long breath as though she had thought long and hard about the government’s silliness. “Because all of those men in Parliament can’t seem to organize the country very well.”
“I do beg your pardon?” he asked. Truly, he needed to stop being surprised by her assertions, but he still was.
“Well,” she continued easily, “if they organized it better, surely there would not be so many men and women out of work. Surely, there would not be such a labor force who were condemned to work morning, noon, and night in generally terrible conditions with little recourse and fewer wages.”
The merriment left her gaze as she continued passionately, “Surely, people would not live in such meager subsistence, barely living at all, if Parliament organized our country with less silliness. But as it is, the people drudge their lives away. Don’t you think the people of England should be happier?”
He’d seen other countries and the way their people lived. It was a benefit that he knew the good fortune of England in comparison to others. . . Still, he took her meaning.
“Even so,” he said, curious as to what she might reply, “Don’t you think they are somewhat happy?”
“Somewhat?” she echoed, gaping at him. “What kind of a word is somewhat? Somewhat is a rather sad word. You are content if the people are a little happy in their unfortunate lives. I am happy if they’re content in safe and clean conditions with meat and bread to eat,” she said. She gave a nod, obviously meant to solidify her point. “That’s what I would wish for them. Contentment at the most. It is what I hope and strive for myself.”
“You don’t strive for happiness?” he asked, amazed again. Most people he knew, ran about like chickens with their heads lopped off, seeking happiness.
“How can one be happy all of the time?” she scoffed. “It is not possible. It is not the natural state of humans. No, we must find that which keeps us in a healthful and content state of being.”
He stared at her.
Who the devil was he talking to? Certainly not some chit, up from the country, who’d never read a book in her life or engaged in debate. Clearly, this young woman had been reading all sorts of interesting things, or at least, conversing with very interesting people.
“Who the devil taught you this?” he asked.
“Myself,” she said brightly before adding, “Well, also my father, I suppose. He is an excellent conversationalist and likes to spend a good deal of time reading.”
She was singular, and he liked it very much. Liked it so much, he wished he could give it to all young ladies.
“There you have it,” he concluded.
“Have what?” she asked.
He waggled his brows. “The reason for your singularity. Your unique upbringing.”
“Is that the reason for my singularity?” she mocked lightly. “I thought I was simply singular. And determined.”
“True, but do you think you’d be so singular if you had not had your father to guide you?”
“No,” she concurred easily and without resentment. “I agree with you. It would have been far harder. I still think I would’ve been singular,” she continued. “It is my personality, after all.”
Miss Finley nibbled her tempting coral lip. “Still, without the support of my father and if I had not had Lady Persephone. . . I would not be able to be singular at all.”
She pursed her lips. “I would not even be here.”
“I beg your pardon?” he queried.
“I would not be here in this room,” she said, gesturing to the beautiful salon about them, “without Lady Persephone and my father. You see, my father. . . It was he who made the mistake which lost us our fortune, and Lady Persephone is the one who—”
He cut in, “Who has got it back?”
“Exactly,” she said. “I’m glad you understand.”
Suddenly she blinked. “How the devil are you inducing my confidence?” she asked, apparently as astonished as he by their conversation.
“The devil, you say,” he said softly. “Young ladies aren’t supposed to say such things, you know, Miss Finley.”
She blushed. “You’re right, of course. I’ll be in terrible trouble at any moment from the dowager duchess. I quite like her, and I don’t wish to displease her one jot.”
“Very clever,” he said, wishing to give her some assurance. But the truth was Miss Finley wasn’t given to the behavior of a debutante. And that seemed inescapable. “The dowager is a lovely woman, and no one wishes to see her displeased. A young chit likely couldn’t manage it, though.”
“I do beg your pardon,” she replied with a touch of indignation. “I am not a chit.”
He hadn’t meant to give offense, but immediately, he knew he had. He’d accidentally dismissed her. “I beg your pardon, most heartily.”
She nodded. “You can’t help being an arrogant duke.”
“No, I suppose I can’t.”
“And I am a young lady,” she stated.
Though he wasn’t entirely certain if she was reminding herself or him.
“Are you?” he asked softly before he could stop himself. Usually, he was much more subtle.
She stared at him for a long moment. And just as he was certain he was about to see fury blaze across her lovely face, she grinned at him ruefully.
“I am indeed a lady,” she said wearily. “It is my curse as well as my blessing. I know that I am quite lucky to have been born into the circumstances that I was, but sometimes I do wish I had a bit more freedom.”
“It seems to be the fate of ladies to have little,” he agreed sympathetically.
“I suppose so,” she said. “Do you suppose ladies of the night are more free?”
He nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ladies of the night,” she reasserted as if they were talking about the state of the wool trade.
“I don’t know if you’re very foolish or very wise,” he said slowly, doing his best to appear utterly unsurprised for the sake of the company. Lest they arise undue suspicion.
“How do you mean?” she asked, apparently used to sp
eaking bluntly.
Rafe cleared his throat, wondering how in blazes to phrase his own knowledge about said ladies. Knowledge which was through engaging them in their trade.
“My dear Miss Finley.” He drew in a long breath. “Firstly, this is a very unusual conversation, and if you must know, many of those young ladies often die terrible deaths. They don’t all retire merrily, wealthy courtesans, living in small cottages in the country, counting their gold.”
“Of course not,” she rushed, her cheeks turning a cherry red. “How thoughtless of me. I merely meant that they get to choose so much of their own fates. Whereas young ladies of society. . . We are driven by the dictates of fathers, brothers. . . Society.”
“Perhaps they are independent from husbands, brothers, and fathers, even the rules of much of society,” he said cautiously. “I can understand your admiration for that. But like everything, there is always a price to pay.”
As he gazed down at her wide-eyed fascination, he suddenly laughed.
A laugh deep enough to turn several heads. “My God. Do you realize what we are speaking of in the middle of a ton drawing room? With half of the society dancing before us?”
“Yes,” she said as if he were missing his wits. “We’re speaking of courtesans.”
His laugh dimmed, and he resisted a groan. She really was singular, and it was going to prove either brilliant or disastrous.
“You do realize that young ladies are only supposed to speak of a few things, don’t you?” he pointed out.
“Oh, dear,” she said with a gasp. “The rules. I confess, I was told about them, and it seems I’ve already forgotten that I must obey them.”
“I think you’re going to be in a great deal of trouble, Miss Finley,” he whispered, wishing he could protect her from the trials and cruelties that unusual people so often faced.
“I hope not,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I never had to worry about getting into trouble over my discourse, particularly in the country with Papa and Persephone.”
“Well,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You’re going to have to worry about it here every moment. And given you say you and your cousin are cut from the same cloth, I’m beginning to wonder if Lady Persephone is going to get my friend into as much trouble as you seem to be getting yourself into.”
“I have yet to get in trouble,” she informed, a slight scowl doing the most marvelous things to her dimples.
“Only because of my benevolent nature,” he declared gently. Really, he wasn’t certain if he should castigate or applaud her. “Imagine if I were to go about telling everyone that you spoke of courtesans in such a manner in front of polite company. Or that you had the vocabulary of a naughty lad.”
“Will you?” she asked pointedly, as if she’d suddenly realized just what he could do to her in society.
“Will I what?” he queried.
Her face paled. “Tell everyone what I’ve said? You didn’t seem that sort of—”
“No,” he cut in quickly. He wanted her to understand the dangers, not truly frighten her. “I shouldn’t like to throw you into the fire on your first night out.”
She squared her shoulders, clearly relieved. “How did you know it was my first night out?”
He all but laughed. Again.
“Miss Finley, please. It is extremely obvious that you have no experience of polite company.”
“I think the company I’ve kept is very polite,” she sallied with surprising boldness.
He rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help but admire how she wasn’t cowed. She couldn’t help being herself any more than he could.
“You know exactly what I’m referring to,” he replied. “And if you wish to find a husband, you’re going to have to stop—though I hate to say it—being yourself publicly.”
He had a terrible feeling his advice would be as valuable as telling the sun not to rise. But he had to make the attempt.
“Are you concerned about my finding a husband?” she asked abruptly with narrowed eyes, her arms folding beneath her beautiful silk-covered breasts. “I thought you were concerned about the mercenary nature of myself and my friend.”
He sighed. “I recognize that all women must be, to a degree, mercenary in their choosing of husbands. Truthfully, most men are as well. They can’t simply choose any woman to be their wife.”
“Can’t they?” she asked, her hands dropping to her sides.
“No,” he said. “For a husband depends as much upon his wife’s character as she does upon him. They must support each other and do an excellent job of bolstering the other. If one falters, the other falters too. It is the nature of things. When you cast your lot in with your spouse, that is the lot you choose in society. For divorce is rarely an option, and it is almost impossible to leave.”
She nodded, her gaze kind and surprisingly full of understanding. “You have given this a good deal of thought, have you not?”
“Indeed, I have,” he said tightly. “I have seen many marriages that have ended in tragedy.”
“May I ask,” she ventured. “Your parents. . .”
He peered down at her, shocked that she would dare, but saying, “Yes, you may, since we are already speaking of shocking things.”
She searched his face then asked carefully, “Your parents, were they happy?”
He blinked as his heart tightened, not wishing her to see what thoughts it evoked in him.
“My parents,” he repeated. “My parents were the happiest couple in all of the world.”
And it was true.
He had loved seeing his parents together.
They had absolutely adored each other and gone everywhere together.
It was why his mother never left the country now. No, she would never leave without her husband. Not even if it meant she could never, ever leave the estate.
She had supported Rafe’s father every day of his life, even when some of those days had been a true struggle.
For his father had suffered from the deepest melancholia and a desire to hide away from society for as long as Rafe was alive. Longer if he believed the accounts he’d heard.
Even so, he smiled softly at the memory of his mother and father hand in hand. “Yes, my parents loved each other.”
To his horror, his eyes stung, and Rafe looked away. “Well, love each other, I suppose. I think my mother will love my father until the very end of time.”
“That’s a very romantic thing to say,” she said.
“No, it is not,” he countered quickly. “It is simply the truth. While I would give a great deal for the sort of love my parents had, it takes a great deal of sacrifice to maintain it. A great deal,” he said. “I doubt that I shall find it.”
She leaned towards him, her hand reaching out for a moment before she pulled it back. “Perhaps you should have a bit more hope, Your Grace.”
“Should I?” He swallowed, determined to change the course of their intimate exchange. “Or should I simply ask you to dance and be done with this conversation?”
“Well, if it doesn’t please you to continue it, then of course, let us dance,” she said, her lips curving in the most delicious of smiles.
With that, Rafe led her onto the floor, wondering how the devil she’d gotten him to speak of his mother and father, two people whom he almost never spoke of now and for very good reasons.
It was a complicated matter, his parents. More complicated than he could ever admit to anyone except the members of the Number 79 Club.
His father. Yes. . . It was very, very difficult indeed to keep his own secret from the world.
Rafe had to be careful or else he could easily let it slip to someone as persuasive as Miss Finley. It had astonished him the degree to which she had been able to elicit such information from him.
Now, he slipped his hand to the curve of her waist, savoring the feel of her. As he drew her closer, he took in her floral scent and felt himself falling. . . Falling deeper into desire.
T
hey joined the other couples making their way about the room. She danced beautifully, her slippered feet skimming the polished wood floor. Leading her was heaven. They moved as one. . . which made him curious as to how they might move together in a far more pleasing activity.
The touch of her gloved hand in his was shockingly thrilling. And it was just a simple touch.
It amazed him that he could enjoy it so much from a young woman who wasn’t trying to be seductive.
No, she was everything else. She was merry; she was intelligent and intriguing. Which made her dangerous. Dangerous to him, at least.
That much was certain.
Miss Finley was dangerous to him, and really, he should do everything in his power to stay away from her, but he could not.
Oh, no.
Instead, he found himself taking in every aspect of her person. How he enjoyed the way that she glanced at him as they danced. My God, just the brush of her skirts against his legs made him feel as if he might lead her into a hall and demand to know every single one of her secrets.
Secrets of her body, her mind, her soul.
When the song came to an end, instead of doing as he should have done, which was lead her off the floor, the sounds of a waltz began to play.
Compelled by some deep voice inside him, a voice which longed to keep her close, he pulled her towards him instead. “Again?” he queried softly.
“Again,” she declared easily.
And that was the moment he knew that something had begun between them that no one, and nothing, could stop. Damn the consequences.
Miss Finley was his destiny.
And no man could escape that.
Chapter 5
Penelope adored dancing. Though she had little experience of balls or even country dances, she and her cousin had practiced every day. Sometimes for hours on end.
Throughout the years, they had waltzed the halls. Then they’d bounced to the steps of country dances. Sprightly, they’d taken up the jig and the reel.
It was always delightful. Usually, they ended up in peals of laughter, being very dramatic with each other.
But in all her years, and the few times she had danced in company, she had never danced with a man like the Duke of Royland.