What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  “What is it that you intend to do, Annie?” Her friend had always been daring, but never had her eyes been lit with such a reckless gleam.

  Annie did not answer, but only called for a maid to take Isabella to her room.

  A few moments later she was not worried about her friend.

  There was a note upon her pillow.

  Did you think you could escape us? You have two more days or we go to the authorities with what we know.

  Despite the heavy flourish of the masculine hand, the heavy scent of lavender wafted up as Isabella lifted the note with trembling fingers.

  This time she was gone. He had told her he did not care and she had taken him at his word.

  Most of her belongings still hung on hooks in the dressing room, or were carefully packed away in drawers, but she had taken her favorites—and the carefully lined-up row of small empty purses could not be mistaken.

  She was done being paid.

  Mark swept the row into his palm and then tossed them in a fluttering mess onto the bare hearth. The desire was great to throw something else, something that would break with a most satisfying crash, but he held back.

  He did not want the servants to know his upset, to know that he could not hold on to a mistress. He would sell this house and all its contents as soon as possible.

  Now—now he would return home and dress for the night’s events as if nothing in his life had changed. Divers would be pleased not to be called to dress him in the early hours of the morning.

  He only hoped that Divers had listened to him and found a costume that did not involve codpieces.

  He could find another mistress whenever it pleased him.

  Isabella was no different from any other woman.

  Only she was. And she had left him.

  A low meow had him turning. Duchess lay curled in a small forlorn ball on Bella’s pillow. Her wide blue eyes begged him to stay and pat her. He scooped up her small body and cuddled her to his chest. Bella must have felt desperate if she left the cat behind. He’d seen for himself how much Bella loved her.

  If he hadn’t been a duke he might have allowed himself a solitary tear for what might have been.

  Only he was a duke and a duke soldiered on.

  Still holding Duchess, he headed home.

  She could not be seen in this. She could not. Isabella stared at her reflection in the mirror. The half mask and blond wig were wonderful. Nobody would ever recognize her in them. Even her lips looked fuller and puffier with the mask ending just above them. And the rouge Annie had chosen—scandalous.

  But it was the dress that was impossible. While the right breast beneath the single shoulder fastening was reasonably covered, the other one—well, the truly important parts were hidden, or at least mostly hidden. Bending forward, Isabella tried to decide if they would stay out of sight. It appeared that they would, although the impression was definitely the opposite.

  She imagined that men would be watching all night hoping for that forbidden glimpse. At least they wouldn’t be staring at her face. She doubted there was a man alive who would recognize her from her breasts—well, perhaps there was one, but she wouldn’t think about that, about him.

  “It looks wonderful on you,” Annie said as she entered the chamber. Her own costume was in place and for a moment Isabella could only stare. Did she look that way too? Each step caused a sway of the hip that bespoke a personal confidence that Isabella had never had. It said, Look at me, dream of me, I can be all you ever wanted. And then Annie smiled, slowly, seductively—and Isabella found herself swallowing. In truth it was Annie’s regular smile, but when combined with the mask the effect was powerful.

  “I am not quite sure it fits.” Isabella tried pulling the fabric up over her left breast. “I keep worrying that it will fall.”

  “It won’t, but even if it did you will be wearing a mask—and have three more of us in costume. Nobody would ever know it was you.”

  “Somehow I don’t find that reassuring. I am really not sure I should be doing this.” That was an understatement. From the moment she’d found the note on the pillow she’d been determined to flee again. But where? She was very tired of running.

  “Of course you should. When will you get another chance? Enjoy this night for all it is worth.” Annie stepped forward and arranged a curl. “I will need to go down soon to be sure all the arrangements are finished. And I need to let Richard see me in my costume. My plan will only work if he knows what I look like.”

  “He doesn’t know what your costume is?”

  “No, not at all. He has shown no interest. In fact, the only interest he has shown in the masquerade at all is to forward me a list to be sure I invite those he considers politically important. He didn’t even discuss it with me. Just handed the porter a list of those I should be sure were included. I’d invited them all already. I do pay attention, but he will never know that.” Annie’s voice grew quiet at the end.

  “How soon after tonight do you think we can leave for the country? I am eager to be gone.”

  “I can understand that and I assure you it will be as soon as possible—as soon as I know I am with child. I have no desire to linger.” Annie turned to the mirror, puckering her bright red lips to check the rouge. “I will go down— Oh, there is one more thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Your brother and sister will both be here tonight.”

  He’d never shown his legs in public. Mark stared down at his bare calves. What had Divers been thinking?

  “You’ll certainly have the ladies after you tonight—and that’s before they even know who you are.” Douglas was clearly enjoying this.

  “Believe me, if I have to go in this—this thing, they will never know who I am.”

  “If that’s how you feel why bother to attend at all? Your host will never know. Though I think you need to be there at midnight for the mask removal in order to be polite.”

  “Blast. You are probably right.” Mark turned again. “Do you think I could just pull out my uniform and go as a soldier?”

  “You’re a soldier now.” Douglas nodded at the sword hanging at Mark’s waist.

  “I was thinking of a few thousand years later. I’ve never had a fascination for Romans. I much prefer a musket to a sword—even a decent one.” He pulled the sword from his belt. “I know I told Divers I didn’t want a large codpiece, but somehow this feels like revenge. It’s hardly even a toy. I can’t help feeling women will be judging me by it all night.” He held it out and the flimsy tip bent down. Quickly he shoved it back in his belt.

  “Are you concerned about women—or one particular woman?”

  Mark did not pretend to misunderstand. “She won’t be there. Why should her opinion matter?”

  “I was thinking more of later in the evening—or earlier in the morning. I would think you care very much what she thinks of your sword.”

  Pulling back his shoulders, Mark turned away. “I will not be seeing her then either. She has decided the arrangement does not suit her.”

  Douglas made as if to pat him on the back, but pulled away at the last moment. “She’s probably right. I told you she didn’t seem the mistress type.”

  “But she left—she just left. How will I know that she is fine if I don’t know where to find her?”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before.”

  “Before what?” But Mark knew the answer—before he had made her his mistress and taken away her choices.

  Douglas changed the subject. “Are you expecting to see the king tonight?”

  “I could not say. I would not be surprised. He should be in church praying, but . . .” He thought it unlikely that the king would spend the night on his knees—and Brisbane had hinted at the same.

  Even with Douglas’s continued effort to keep the talk away from Bella, Mark’s mind returned to her again and again. He was angry, furious. She should not have left—she should have trusted him, talked to
him. He would have listened, not argued. Or at least not argued much.

  It was good he would have a mask tonight. He did not want people questioning his scowl.

  He grabbed the mask off a table and shoved it down upon his head. Damn, with its furrowed brow it was scowling too. At least nobody would question that. The problem was he didn’t know how he’d answer if he was asked why he frowned.

  He was enraged, but he didn’t know at whom. Most probably at himself.

  Isabella stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the crowd below. She was partially hidden by the curve of the wall. She laid her hand upon the cool marble of the banister, wanting to run more than she ever had before. Masters would be there. And Violet. And Lord Peter. And she didn’t know who he was, but chances were her mysterious follower or his employer would be there also.

  Tapping her fingers on the banister, she debated—and took a single step forward.

  She was tired of running—and even more importantly it seemed that no matter how far and fast she ran she was always found. She had been sure nobody had followed her to Annie’s house and yet the note had been on her pillow. She’d considered running to her sister and begging Violet to hide her, but that would be the first place they would look.

  A deep breath. Another step.

  And another.

  The mask was firm upon her face, the blond wig covering her own coppery curls. She should be safe.

  Another step.

  The light silk of the dress drifted up, partially baring one leg. She hadn’t realized it would do that. Think of it as distraction from anyone looking at her face. She doubted even Mark would recognize her knees.

  She could see through the grand double doors to the dance floor. There were only two Graces visible. She needed to be there for Annie’s sake. Annie had said she would slip out at eleven-ten and it was now eleven-twenty.

  What did Lord Richard look like? What costume was he wearing?

  How was she to make sure both that he saw her and that she avoided him if she didn’t even know what he looked like? She should have asked Annie. It was too late now.

  She pulled in a final deep breath, spread a smile across her face, and sauntered into the room, hips swaying.

  Not halfway across the room, she stopped and slowly turned. A prickle of awareness made its way up her neck. Her gaze scanned the crowd. What had made her stop? Three King Henry VIIIs. A shepherd with two sheep. Who would come to a party dressed as a sheep? A woman dressed in Arab garb, her belly bare. There had been pictures of such clothing in one of Violet’s books. A Viking. Several knights. Two damsels. Far too many Grecian gods and goddesses to count. Or perhaps they were Roman. How did one tell?

  Still, nothing to cause her alarm.

  She started forward again, and saw him. One of the multitudes of Greeks—although actually he clearly was Roman. A centurion.

  Mark was here. The air rushed from her lungs and for a moment she felt faint.

  Chapter 23

  Why was it always the fear you did not have that came to be? With all the multitude of parties and events in celebration of the coronation, he should not be here. There were, she was sure, at least a dozen other events he could have attended. So why was he here?

  Did he know Annie or Lord Richard? Surely Annie would have mentioned something. Or would she have? She had waited until the last minute to mention Masters’s and Violet’s attendance.

  Forcing her eyes from Mark she scanned the crowd again. Her brother and sister were nowhere to be seen. Why was she sure she’d even recognize them? And if she did, why did she think they’d not recognize her? She’d known Mark almost instantly.

  Her gaze slid back to him. He was beautiful. The word did not normally spring to mind when she looked at him, but the tight-fitting leather chest piece was a work of art. And his legs. She’d never given his legs enough notice before. She swallowed, feeling heat rise in her chest.

  It had been only a day since she’d seen him, but her body cried that it had been at least a week. She put a hand to her cheek, hoping the mask would hide her flush. It was growing very warm in the ballroom. The dozens and dozens of candles that lined the walls and hung from above could take the blame for now. And the press of people—they were what pulled the air from the room, leaving her lungs empty.

  As if sensing her presence Mark turned. His glance passed over her, and then returned. He stared at her feet, and slowly his gaze moved up, pausing at thigh, and hip, and breast—and back to breast, up to lips, back to breast. She almost laughed out loud at the relief. Not even Mark seemed capable of looking at her face. Oh, his glance was moving up again. She shifted to turn more of her left side toward him, sloped her shoulder to let her dress gape. His gaze dropped again.

  A waltz began playing and he stepped toward her, his eyes still fixed well below her face. She tried to ease back into the crowd. If he didn’t recognize her now he would as soon as he heard her speak. Someone stepped behind her and she had to wildly sidestep to avoid the stomach of one of the Henry VIIIs. This one looked far too real and Isabella had no desire for that type of contact.

  Turning quickly she ran into a hard, firm chest—at least it was not a chest she knew. Her eyes darted up and stopped. She might not know the chest. She did know the man.

  Lord Peter St. Johns, her sister’s husband, wearing a devil’s horns, but no mask.

  He glanced down at her, smiled, and gently lifted her away. With the barest of nods he turned and headed toward a woman dressed in angel’s wings, her face fully covered by a sheer waxed-cloth mask. Her face might be hidden, but not her flowing red hair or her curves. It had to be Violet.

  Isabella started toward her sister. It would be so wonderful just to be near her. Even if they did not speak, Isabella would content herself with the knowledge that they had been close.

  A hand reached out, blocking her way. Strong, tanned hands, a slightly lighter, well-muscled arm. This arm she did know. This man she did know. Almost unwillingly she raised her eyes to Mark. Their glances met for the barest of moments and then he inclined his head toward the dance floor.

  The waltz was still playing. It had probably only been seconds since it began, although it seemed like hours as Isabella glanced again at her sister. She could not see her face, but it was impossible to miss the way her body softened and leaned forward as Lord Peter drew near.

  Mark coughed, drawing her gaze back.

  She looked down at his hand and placed her own within it. The tightening of his fingers bespoke safety, a safety she did not trust. He turned and she followed him to the floor. He placed one hand upon her waist and, still holding the other tight, lifted it high, swirling her out onto the dance floor.

  Happiness. She should still worry. She should keep her guard up, but Isabella had always loved to dance and, as Mark held her as close as propriety would permit, she let herself get lost in the music. There would be time enough to fret when the dance ended. This moment she would take and keep, locked deep within. Whatever happened in the future, the warm clasp of his fingers, the perfect rhythm of the music, the feeling of his gaze upon her lip would stay with her.

  And then it was over. They slowed to a stop and stood for a moment, silence between them. Did he have as little desire for speech as she did?

  “I want to kiss you,” Mark whispered against her cheek as he leaned forward, bringing her hand to his lips.

  Did he know who she was? And if not, why did he want to kiss her? Was she that forgettable?

  He didn’t know why he had said the words. Mark stared down at the young Grecian goddess before him. He wished he could see her eyes, but the depth of the mask shadowed them from his view. He’d thought she was Bella at first glance. Her lithe and seductive movement as she edged around the dance floor had seemed too familiar.

  Unfortunately that could only be wishful thinking. He’d wanted to find her and let himself believe that he had. There was no way that Bella could have gained entry to a party such as this
one. He peeked another glance down at her breasts, not wanting to appear rude. And Bella would certainly never have worn anything like that. Even the clothing she’d bought since becoming his mistress was discreet. For God’s sake, her nightdresses were barely transparent.

  At least she didn’t smell like Bella. The musk she was wearing was almost overpowering.

  The breasts were very similar, the same perfect size and delicate shape. Would they taste the same, like salty strawberries? What was he thinking? He’d barely met the girl and he was thinking about suckling her breasts and wanting to kiss her. He’d never been this way with anyone but Bella.

  Bella. This was all about Bella. Was it coincidence that he’d chosen a girl who reminded him so much of her? No, he was honest, it was not.

  She hadn’t answered his statement, which was probably a good thing. Bella or no Bella, a gentleman did not tell a gently reared girl that he wanted to kiss her only moments after meeting her.

  “I’d like that too. But where?” Her low whisper called his attention back to her mouth.

  He blinked and could only hope his own mouth had not fallen open. She could not have really said that—could she? He looked at her more closely, wishing he could see under the mask. “The terrace? The library? The servants’ hall?” He glanced about. “Behind that large potted tree?”

  “Do you know the way to the servants’ hall?” She kept her voice so quiet it was hard to hear.

  Damn. He had no idea. He’d never been to Lord Richard’s house before and it certainly wasn’t a question he could ask. In fact, the only place he could find with some certainty was the terrace and it was unlikely to be empty given the lovely weather. The potted tree was starting to hold real appeal.

  “Should we explore?” She offered her hand.

  He paused, surprised at the guilt that suddenly ate at him. He should not be doing this. He should be thinking about Bella.

  Only Bella had left him.

  He placed her hand upon his arm and headed toward the high open doors leading out to the terrace, the scent of night jasmine leading him forward.