A Most Unlikely Duke

by Sophie Barnes

  “My lady?”

  She spun about to find Pierson standing behind her. Inclining his head, he indicated the hallway to his left. “His Grace will see you now. If you’ll please follow me.”

  Chapter 6

  Nodding, Gabriella told Anna to have a seat on the bench while she waited and then followed the butler, his leisurely pace provoking her nerves until they finally reached a door where Pierson paused to knock.

  “Come in!”

  The door was pushed open. “Lady Gabriella to see you, Your Grace,” Pierson intoned. He then stepped aside so she could enter, her eyes falling first on Mr. Richardson, who was standing the closest. He bowed his head in greeting, while she offered a smile in return. She then turned more fully toward the other person in the room—the man whom she’d come to see.

  Her breath caught.

  Standing behind a massive desk was Huntley, except he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the man whom she’d sat down to tea with a couple of days earlier. Gone were the plain, working-class clothes. Instead, he wore a crisp white shirt with a brown waistcoat, a dark green jacket and beige trousers. His coffee-colored hair had been trimmed around his ears and at the nape of his neck. His jawline, which appeared freshly shaved, accentuated the angular shape of his face. She noticed for the first time that his eyes were dark brown with tiny flecks of amber, and that his nose was elegantly shaped—a feature she’d initially missed when she’d been distracted by his unpolished looks.

  “Lady Gabriella.” His voice held a raspy texture that somehow, quite inexplicably, managed to tickle her senses.

  Swallowing, she tried to ignore the sudden flutter in her belly. “Your Grace—you appear quite transformed.”

  The edge of his mouth twitched. “Do y—you approve?”

  His attempt at proper speech went straight to her heart, accelerating its pace like a piece of music approaching a crescendo. Unsettled by the sensation, Gabriella deliberately straightened her spine. She forced herself not to stare at the slight dip between his collarbones. “Yes. But a cravat would not have hurt.”

  His eyes remained on her, unblinking. “I disagree.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Gabriella looked to Richardson. He’d been with the previous duke for the last five years or so, so Gabriella was well enough acquainted with him to feel comfortable in his presence. He glanced toward the duke, who hesitated a moment before waving at a chair. “Will ye-ou have a seat . . . my lady?”

  “Thank you.” Gabriella lowered herself onto the chair, her skin pricking at the realization that Huntley was following her every move. Sucking in a breath, she expelled it slowly in an effort to calm herself.

  He cleared his throat, the sound immediately drawing her gaze to his by reflex. “I err . . .” He scratched the back of his head with a boyish restlessness that forced a smile to Gabriella’s lips.

  There was something so endearing about the uncertainty of a large and powerful man that very nearly melted her heart. “Would y—” Huntley caught himself again. “You, care for some tea, Lady Gabriella?”

  “I would love some. Thank you.”

  Her positive response seemed to ease the tension in Huntley’s posture. He went to the bell pull and gave it a tug before returning to his chair and sitting back down.

  “If that will be all, Your Grace,” Richardson began.

  Gabriella instinctively froze. Huntley looked at her, his brown eyes warming with understanding. “Stay,” he said, addressing Richardson, before adding a gentler, “please.”

  “If you wish,” the secretary replied.

  Gabriella breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of being alone with Huntley tightened her nerves. Perhaps it was silly, but there was just something about him . . . something that urged her to keep her wits about her when in his presence. She licked her lips, moistening them before gathering her courage and meeting those dark brown eyes of his with determination. “I have come to warn you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

  “The Dowager Countess of—”

  A knock sounded, and a maid entered. “We’d like some tea, please,” Huntley told her.

  The maid nodded. “Shall I bring some cake as well?”

  The duke stiffened. “Well—err . . .” His eyes darted from Gabriella to Richardson and back to Gabriella again. “Cake?” he asked, as though it were much too complicated a matter to contemplate.

  Taking pity on him, Gabriella leaned forward in her seat. “A small plate with a slice for each of us,” she whispered.

  The duke nodded before returning his attention to the maid. “Per’aps a small plate, with a slice fer each of us?”

  Gabriella’s heart clenched at the sound of his unschooled speech. She’d never heard anyone slaughter the English language with such lack of remorse before.

  “Very good,” the maid said before disappearing once more.

  The duke relaxed against his chair. “Ye were—” He closed his eyes briefly and expelled a deep breath. Opening his eyes again, he spoke with deliberation. “You were saying?”

  Gabriella nodded, impressed by his effort to speak correctly. “The Dowager Countess of Fielding is having a dinner party next Friday. She has sent you an invitation in the hope that you will attend since she would like to be the first to show you off.”

  “The invitation arrived earlier today,” Richardson said. “I have advised His Grace to decline.”

  “Oh good,” Gabriella murmured. “Indeed, that is my reason for calling on you. Lady Fielding is very partial to propriety and etiquette. She prides herself on the company she keeps.”

  “Like yer—your mother,” Huntley said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Yes, I suppose the two are rather similar in that regard,” Gabriella confessed.

  “In other words, she’s a snob.”

  Huntley spoke the words not as a question, but as though he’d assessed both women at great length and concluded that this was the most fitting word for them. And for some reason, even though Gabriella knew that there was some truth to it, his censure bothered her. “They are of a certain class, Your Grace, and they have never been accustomed to anything else. You cannot simply expect them to accept . . .” Oh dear. She’d no idea how to finish that sentence without causing offense.

  “Yes?” he inquired.

  She dropped her gaze. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake.

  “I cannot expect ’em to accept what?” Huntley prompted. Although he spoke softly, his tone cautioned her to choose her words carefully.

  Swallowing, she tried to think of a polite way of stating the obvious. She glanced at Richardson, whose expression had grown somewhat tight around the edges. Realizing she’d get no help from him, she forced her gaze back to Huntley and braced herself for his response. “To accept a peer with a questionable background.”

  Huntley stared at her, his gaze burrowing its way straight through her until she felt herself tremble. “In other words, I’m not worthy to sit at the same table as yer noble self.”

  “I—I . . . No, that is not what I meant to say.”

  Leaning forward, his gaze caged her until she found it difficult to breathe. When he spoke again, it was with controlled crispness. “Then by all means, yer ladyship, tell me what ye meant by insultin’ me in me own home.”

  Shrinking back, Gabriella felt her heart drop. This wasn’t going anywhere near as well as she’d initially hoped, and she hadn’t even suggested helping his sisters yet. “I just meant to warn you of what to expect. These people—”

  Another knock at the door brought the maid back. She entered on Huntley’s command, bustling in to set a tray on the table before departing once more.

  Thankful for the momentary reprieve, Gabriella nodded toward the teapot. “Shall I pour?”

  Huntley hesitated a moment before eventually giving her a curt nod. Gabriella edged forward in her seat, her entire body aware of his direct perusal. Not once did he avert his gaze, the effect sending a tra
il of heat along her limbs, flushing her skin and tightening her belly. Disturbed by it, she tried to focus on other things, like the tea that she was supposed to serve if she could only stop her hands from trembling.

  Taking a deep breath, she strengthened her hold on the teapot and filled three cups. “Milk or sugar?” she asked, her eyes going first to Richardson before sliding across to where Huntley was sitting. Her heart skipped. There was something about his gaze . . . something dark and dangerous and terribly unnerving. She didn’t understand it any more than she understood her reaction to it. Because, although it frightened her, it also intrigued her in a way she’d never been intrigued before. It was a new awareness—the sort that only a woman would feel in the presence of a man who . . .

  “Neither,” he said, the word scattering her thoughts.

  Jolting slightly, she turned to Richardson. “And for you?”

  He gave her a quizzical look, akin to the sort one might offer a person who’d forgotten to comb their hair before leaving the house. “A drop of milk and a spoonful of sugar, please.”

  Completing her task, she picked up her own cup and took a lengthy sip. Good lord! She hadn’t felt this muddled since her lessons in the “secret” language of fans, and all because of a duke who neither looked nor behaved anything like a duke ought to look and behave.

  “You were saying?” Huntley prompted after a couple of seconds.

  “Hmm?” What had she been saying? She searched her mind for the answer and almost groaned when she recalled what they’d been discussing prior to the tea’s arrival. “Oh, yes. These people—the ton, that is—will assess you and judge you. They will not forgive the way in which you—” She hesitated a moment before saying, “express yourself, on account of being a duke. On the contrary, they will likely condemn you even more because of your title.”

  “Why?” Huntley asked.

  Studying him—the glint in his eyes, and the firm lines of his jaw—she realized that he probably knew the answer already. So she decided to be completely honest. “Because you will not live up to their expectations. Instead, you will come across as an undeserving intruder—a man who, if I may make an educated guess, never attended a commendable school, who lacks proficiency in simple etiquette and who takes no issue with getting dressed without putting on a cravat.”

  His lips parted slightly, his expression one of complete astonishment. “You dare to speak to a duke like that?” There was something about his eyes that suggested he might be a little impressed by her courage.

  The thought made her straighten her spine. “No. Of course not. But your situation is different from the norm. You must learn what it means to have such an impressive title, and until you do, you won’t earn the respect or the status you require in order to see your sisters properly settled, as I imagine you wish to do.”

  “You seem to share me . . . my . . . servants’ opinion.” His eyes shifted to Richardson before returning to Gabriella. “They want me to take all sorts of lessons. An’ you’ll be ‘appy to know that I’ve agreed.”

  “Oh.” Gabriella was pleased by how simple her suggestion now seemed. “Well, that is excellent news.” She took a deep breath before adding, “I would like to offer my assistance. If you like.”

  His mouth dropped open. He darted another look at Richardson, stared at Gabriella for a fraction of a second and finally leaned forward in his seat. “Your ladyship wants to teach me ‘ow to be a gentleman? Ain’t that a bit inappropriate?”

  Good Lord!

  “That is not what I was proposing,” Gabriella managed to say while heat rushed from the top of her head all the way to the tips of her toes. “I was offering to help your sisters.”

  “I see.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “And yer parents approve of this idea, do they?”

  Gabriella bit her lip. “No. They’ve forbidden me from socializing with all of you.”

  Richardson made a groaning sound that suddenly made Gabriella doubt her resolve. If her parents ever found out about this . . . She’d rather not think of how they’d react.

  “Then why did ye come? Why do ye—you—care so much about me an’ me sisters that ye’d risk yer parents’ wrath?”

  Glancing at him, she saw that he looked genuinely curious, as though he’d never before encountered someone who might be kind toward him or his sisters for no other reason than to simply be kind. And in that instant Gabriella knew that the chance she was taking would be worth it.

  “Because I know how challenging it can be to satisfy Society’s many demands.”

  He scoffed at that. “I find that very ‘ard to believe.”

  Rising to his feet, he left her no choice but to look up at him. The force of his masculinity was overpowering in its straightforwardness—the strength of his body so skillfully harnessed beneath his perfectly tailored clothes, crowding her until she felt like shrinking away into nothingness. It was overwhelming . . . frightening . . . and unlike anything else she’d ever experienced before. Because, in spite of everything, she felt an inexplicable urge to move toward him, rather than to flee.

  “Well, it is the truth.” She forced the words out past the thickening of her throat, disturbed by the gentle quiver in her voice.

  Huntley frowned. He seemed to assess her once more with uncanny precision, until she was certain that every inch of her was permanently branded in his mind. “I’ve decided to accept the Fielding invitation.”

  Gabriella blinked. “What?”

  “It’s not in me nature to run away with me tail between me legs.”

  “My,” she said, pronouncing the word with deliberate emphasis on the ‘y.’

  For a moment, he looked a bit baffled, but then he collected himself and said, “Right.” He then repeated the word just as she had spoken it. “My.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, which, if she wasn’t mistaken, made the edge of his mouth twitch. The reflex sent a wave of warmth through her, like a welcome fire on a cold winter’s day.

  “I mean to prepare myself instead. The servants ‘ave offered to ‘elp, but if ye . . . ou’re truly willing to assist my sisters, I’d be mighty grateful.”

  The distinct discomfort with which he spoke made it clear to her that he was pushing aside his pride for his sisters’ sake, and Gabriella couldn’t help but admire him for it.

  “They will have to be presented at court,” she said.

  “I have already put in a request,” Richardson told her. “Given the length of time it can take for an invitation to arrive, I thought it prudent to start right away.”

  “Very good,” Gabriella agreed. Rising, she forced herself to meet Huntley’s gaze directly. “You may tell your sisters to expect me tomorrow morning at ten. And speak to your servants too. Their discretion is vital to our success since one whispered word about my coming here will put an abrupt end to your sisters’ lessons.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” she told him, relying on the rigidity of her spine to distract her from the charming dimples that appeared at the edge of his mouth whenever he smiled. “Then I’ll thank you for the tea and bid you a good day.” She moved toward the door.

  “Just one more thing,” he said, his voice a touch lower than before—more intimate somehow.

  The effect made her nerves shiver. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Do ye like dancing, Lady Gabriella?”

  Chapter 7

  Raphe could tell by her sharp intake of breath, the hesitant look in her eyes and the flush creeping into her cheeks that Lady Gabriella found the question unnerving. He’d suspected she would, which had only tempted him even more since the way she responded confirmed the suspicion he’d started having from the moment she’d entered his study a half hour earlier. Against her better judgment, no doubt, Lady Gabriella was attracted to him. And that thought alone—that a man like him might stir an unwelcome desire in a woman like her—filled him with an undeniably primal sense of victory.


  The edge of his mouth quirked with amusement. He watched as she followed the movement with her eyes, her chest quivering slightly on a tremulous inhalation. He felt his body grow taught. No, he warned the devil within. She was destined to marry Fielding. Pompous arse. And yet . . . he couldn’t help but imagine . . . after all, she was here in his home against all common sense . . .

  “Dance?”

  Her question halted his increasingly scandalous thoughts. Which was just as well. “Yes. Richardson has arranged for me sisters an’ I to take lessons. I’ll be needin’ a partner.”

  “Then I would suggest you ask your sisters.”

  “They won’t know the steps.”

  “Well.” She stood completely still for a moment as if she might actually be considering his proposal. But then she said, “It wouldn’t be proper. I am to marry the Earl of Fielding, a man who insisted I stay away from you, and that I give you no warning about the dinner his mother is hosting, because he believes Society ought to know the truth about you.”

  “And yet it seems as though you thwarted those wishes,” Raphe said.

  A sigh of exasperation drifted past her lips. “In regards to your sisters, Your Grace. But where you are concerned, I do believe we ought to keep all contact to a minimum.”

  “Why? Are ye afraid I might tempt ye away from Fielding?” She was looking so delightfully flustered that he couldn’t help but tease her.

  Tilting her chin, she pointed her pretty nose at him. “My family needs that match.”

  “What about you, Lady Gabriella?” Raphe quietly asked. “Is it what you need? What you want?” He knew his questions were daring—could practically feel Richardson’s disapproval crashing over him. But he wasn’t expected to behave like a gentleman, and decided therefore to take advantage. Besides, in his estimation, the Earl of Fielding was a fool. He didn’t deserve to be seen with the lovely woman who presently stood across from him.