She Tempts the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “Apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “It is I who should have been watching.”

  The implication was clear. Sebastian was lacking. At that moment he wanted to plant his fist in the man’s face. If he hadn’t felt Mary’s hand come to rest on his arm, he might have done something he’d later regret.

  Glancing down, he saw her clutching the fabric at her waist. “I need to see to getting this taken care of. Would you be so kind as to escort me off the floor?”

  Kind? Nothing about him was kind. Still he did as she asked.

  “It looks beyond repair,” he told her.

  “It’s not nearly as bad as it appears. They’ll have a seamstress in the retiring room who’ll put things to rights quick enough. Ladies are always stepping on their hems.”

  “I knew dancing would be a dreadful notion. I’m sorry I subjected you to it.”

  They were away from the dancers now, near the doorway that would take her to the stairs.

  “Don’t be silly. I enjoyed it. I hope to have a chance to dance with you again.”

  Never. Never again. But he merely nodded and strode away, leaving her to tend to her torn gown.

  Fortunately there was no line to the seamstress and the woman was quick of fingers. It wasn’t long before Mary was back in the ballroom. She spied her quarry standing with a group of gentlemen. She plastered a smile on her face and glided over with all the grace and poise she could muster.

  “Gentlemen, forgive my intrusion,” she said, smiling even more brightly, batting her eyelashes as though a cinder had flown into her eyes. “My lord Fitzwilliam, may I have a word?”

  “Shortly. As soon as I’m finished—”

  “This is important. I fear it can’t wait.”

  “A man is a fool,” Lord Chesney said, “to spend his time prattling with men when he can be in the company of a beautiful woman.”

  “You’re quite right, of course,” Fitzwilliam said, before offering Mary his arm.

  She waited until they were in an alcove, hidden from prying eyes, before she let her anger seethe to the surface. “You did it on purpose.”

  “What’s that, sweeting?”

  His pretended innocence only served to anger her further. “Bumped into Keswick.”

  “What an absurd notion. He crossed into my path. Yet as a gentleman of the first order, I took the blame in order to spare him the humiliation.”

  “You spared him nothing.”

  “Do not take that tone with me. You are to be my wife.”

  “That does not make me your property.”

  “According to the law it does.” He slammed his eyes closed, took a breath, then opened them. “Good God, what are we doing here, Mary? We had a bit of a snuffle on the dance floor. Hardly worth scathing words and anger. Barging into him would have also served to embarrass you. I’d have not done it.” He touched her cheek. “You are too precious to me.”

  This was the closest he’d come to declaring he might have strong feelings for her. That he cared, she had no doubt. But he’d never given voice to the strength of his affections. It was her understanding that few men did. For them, actions spoke louder and Fitzwilliam had never given her any cause to doubt his fondness for her.

  Yes, in all likelihood the incident was Sebastian’s fault. His gaze had been riveted on her with such intensity that she’d scarcely been able to breathe. For a few moments it had seemed as though they were the only two in the ballroom, in the entire world. She’d become lost in the wonder of him. His strength, his masculinity were so apparent that he made other men seem lacking.

  In retrospect, the sudden end to their dance had come at a most fortuitous moment, before she’d made an utter fool of herself and asked him to escort her onto the terrace so they might have a moment of privacy. She wasn’t certain what she intended to happen during it, but it could not have boded well.

  “My apologies for the accusations,” she said contritely.

  “None needed. Now let’s return to the festivities before our absence is noted. I’d not have your reputation tarnished before we are wed.”

  “Nor afterward either, I should think.” She gave him a teasing smile, which he returned with one that held the promise of passion.

  “I must confess that I am very much looking forward to having you alone,” he said with a seductive whisper.

  She couldn’t mistake his meaning. She’d hardly given any thought to the intimacies of marriage. She felt her skin grow warm with a flush. She was certain she would find pleasure in his bed. But she suddenly found herself wondering if it would be enough.

  He did not belong here, Sebastian reflected. He would never belong here. In the glittering ballrooms where ladies and gents flirted, waltzed, laughed without care. Their easy banter sliced deep for nothing in his life had been easy. He was only twenty-six and yet he felt to be a man twice his age.

  After the debacle on the dance floor, he found Lady Alicia and explained that regretfully he would have to forego their dance. She merely blushed, stammered her understanding, and hurried away. She’d no doubt witnessed the ungainliness he’d exhibited with her cousin and was relieved to be spared a similar fate. Then he conversed with a few lords about trivial matters: weather, agriculture, bills before Parliament. He made his way to the card room and discovered that Rafe was nowhere to be seen. He’d obviously taken his leave. He was no more comfortable in these surroundings than Sebastian. He did wish his brother had sought him out to see if he might be of a mind to depart with him.

  Not that he would have. It would have been cowardly to leave so soon after arriving. But taking a turn about the garden—that spoke only of a man who required a bit of fresh air. Based on the scent assailing his nostrils the garden was awash in roses. Based on the quiet murmurings that reached him, the garden was dotted with secretive trysts. He wondered if one of them involved Tristan. He’d lost sight of his brother in the ballroom. He did hope he wasn’t doing something reckless that would find him with a wife in hand before Season’s end.

  It irritated the devil out of him that he didn’t know his brothers well, wasn’t certain of the kind of men they were. They were loyal to him, but that had been ingrained in them from birth by their father. Sebastian was the heir and they owed their fealty to him. But other than that, he knew them hardly at all. He despised his uncle for stealing that knowledge from him as well. He and his brothers were joined by blood, but beyond that, they shared few of the same experiences. None of them seemed wont to speak of the years they were apart, which lent a well of loneliness to their being together.

  But he had Pembrook to sustain him. Based on tonight’s fiasco, he had decided he would return there. To hell with London. Tristan seemed more at home here. He could see after the London residence and keep an eye on matters. Watch for any nefarious plans their uncle might be plotting. As for the wife—he wasn’t in the mood to hunt for one. He would hire a matchmaker perhaps or—

  “Sebastian?”

  He paused at the soft voice. He was far into the garden now, should no doubt continue on. But he turned ever so slightly and watched as Mary strolled gracefully toward him. She was limned by the glow from the gaslights that lined the pebbled path. Even shadows could not disguise her beauty.

  “You’re not enjoying the ball,” she said quietly, and he heard her disappointment, which only served to make him feel like an ogre who had let her down.

  “Do gentlemen usually?”

  “I’m sure some of them don’t, but they’re generally better skilled at hiding it. Alicia informed me that you recanted on your invitation to dance with her.”

  “I thought it best under the circumstances to spare her the embarrassment of having a torn gown.”

  “Mine was fixed easily enough.”

  “Still, it should not have happened at all.”

  Silence eased in around them and brought with it a comfortableness that had often accompanied the pair in their youth.

  “Do you enjoy the balls?” He didn�
��t know why he asked. Perhaps because he knew as little of her as he knew of his brothers, and it seemed a shame after all they’d shared as children.

  “More than I should, I suppose. I love the glitz and glamor of them. I enjoy seeing the ladies in their ball gowns, draped in jewels, and exuding excitement as they anticipate the night. The gentlemen are always so dashingly handsome in their swallow-tailed jackets. The music fills me.” She laughed. “I could go on.”

  In the distance, he could hear the faint strains of the music that filled her. Her father had denied her this because of him. “By all means do.”

  He meant it. She could discuss the manner in which grass grew and he thought he would be fascinated. He’d not been with a woman—truly been with a woman—since shortly before the battle in which he’d nearly died. He preferred women who gave of their bodies willingly, not for gain. Mary would be such a woman, and her willingness would be gilded with enthusiasm that came from deep within her. She’d never been one for half measures. While he’d amassed years of not knowing the details of her life, he was fairly confident he still knew the particulars of her character. She was strong, bold, and had a penchant for caring deeply for those who needed it. She would fight to save a wounded sparrow with the same determination she’d fought to save three abandoned lads.

  “I would only bore you,” she told him. “Besides, that was not my purpose in seeking you out.”

  He wasn’t certain why his gut clenched or why he was so sure he was not going to like what followed, but still he heard himself ask, “And what would that be?”

  “I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier on the dance floor.”

  “You’re clearly not to blame. You nearly lost a toe in the process.” He caught a flash of her smile in the flickering gas lamps. He wished he had the ability to keep her smiling. But it was neither his responsibility nor his place. “Fitzwilliam, blast him, was correct. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I knew I had to be ever vigilant.” But I’d become lost in you, and for a moment had felt close to being whole.

  Not that he could tell her that. Not that he should even admit it to himself. Yet he had. Her sweet fragrance, the green of her eyes, the delicate touch of her hand folding over his.

  “I would ask you to forgive my boldness, that it is a friendship forged as children that prompts me now, but I was hoping we might finish our dance. Here in the garden. Where we’re less likely to bump into anything other than roses.”

  “Thorns can hurt, Mary.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  Terribly bad idea, sweetheart. To hold you in my arms again, to have your clothes occasionally brushing against mine, to have your scent so much nearer.

  His thoughts traveled along paths they shouldn’t traverse. She was betrothed. She belonged to another.

  “No.” He bit out the word.

  “That’s your pride answering, Your Grace.”

  “Leave it be, Mary.”

  She moved a step nearer, and it took everything within him not to take a step back. She brought with her the sweet fragrance of orchids. And a glimmer of tears. And a stubbornness in the set of her jaw that he’d never been able to defeat. She’d always possessed the power to conquer him, to make him ignore his better judgment.

  Reaching out she touched his shoulder. He could feel the gentleness, the slight trembling of her fingers. “Please, dance with me.”

  “I don’t want a damned dance.” The harshness in his voice would have sent any other young miss scurrying back to the safety of the ballroom. But not Mary. He’d never been able to intimidate or frighten her. She was the most courageous creature he knew.

  “What do you want?” she asked with equal parts tenderness and challenge.

  How often had he done things only to prove something to her? Let her see now the sort of man he was. What the years had transformed him into.

  “To forget.” He thrust a hand into her hair, cradled his palm against her cheek, moved her farther into the shadows.

  “Mary,” he whispered like a soft benediction and hoped to God that she didn’t connect the two sentences and think it was she he wished to forget. Never her. She was the only thing worth remembering. No, he wanted to forget his disfiguring scars, his sightless left side, the stares he garnered, and the doubts and guilt that plagued him. But never her.

  He tilted up her face and covered her mouth with his. He wasn’t gentle. He wanted to replace horrendous memories with something worth remembering. He was not only starving, but greedy. He would hate himself in the morning. Hell, he’d hate himself as soon as his mouth left hers because the blackguard he’d become was taking advantage of her charitable nature.

  She didn’t protest, but her tongue was hesitant against his. He suspected she’d never had her mouth ravished to such a degree. The thought had him gentling the plunder, had him relishing the taste and feel of her. She’d sipped champagne and the rich flavor of it teased him now just as her orchid scent filled his nostrils.

  She skimmed her hands up his arms, entangled her fingers in his hair, pressed herself closer, and became as bold as he. He almost smiled. She’d always matched his adventurous spirit with one that rivaled his. He wondered now if it was the competitor in her nature that had her stepping forward instead of back. Or was there more?

  Had she wondered, as he had, what it might be like between them?

  God, but she was delicious. He locked his other arm around her, assisted her in her quest to get nearer, pressing her close. His palm cradled her chin, the side of her throat, and he could feel the hard, rapid pounding of her heart. He became lost in the wonder of her. He’d wanted this when he sat on the bench with her that long-ago afternoon, when he’d given her the necklace. He’d wanted to know her flavor. Now he knew he would never forget it, even though he would never taste it again.

  This was a forbidden moment between them. She was betrothed. She deserved better than he could provide. He could give her all the comforts of life, but he lacked the ability to comfort her heart and soul. He recognized this shortcoming in himself. He wasn’t particularly proud of it, but he didn’t delude himself into thinking that he would ever be able to give a woman more than a contented marriage. And Mary deserved far better than that.

  She deserved love and adoration. She deserved a whole man who could not only take her to unheralded heights of pleasure but could lift her up from depths of despair. Life was not always pleasant. She needed a true partner who would give his all to her.

  His all belonged to Pembrook.

  Her soft moan echoed between them, and it fired his blood. A tempest raged through him. He could take her deeper into the shadows, lay her on the grass, ease up the hem of her gown—

  He growled with the desperation that gnawed at him to do just that. This was Mary. Mary who had saved them. He owed her everything.

  Breaking off the kiss, breathing heavily, he gazed down on her upturned face. From somewhere, light chased away the shadow and he could see her heavy-lidded gaze, her slightly parted lips. Her confusion.

  “Forgive me, Mary. I …” What words could he give her? What possible explanation for his actions would suffice?

  “You won’t dance with me in the garden, yet you’ll kiss me?”

  “I’ve obviously become a barbarian. I have no excuse. And if we’re seen, you’ll have no reputation.”

  Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed back toward the garden path, but rather than turn toward the manor, he picked up his pace and headed even farther into the darker confines provided by roses and trellises. He had to leave now. He would exit through a back gate, leave his carriage for Tristan. He could walk back to his residence. It would do him good, cool his ardor.

  He heard a sound. Dried leaves crushed beneath the weight of a foot.

  He knew better than to turn to his left, to lose his advantage by a momentary blindness when meeting a foe, but he’d thought it was Mary chasing after him as she had when they were ch
ildren. Only as he felt the knife slicing into his side did he recognize the true cost of his folly. Before he could even see the enemy he launched a powerful swing with his right arm. He took satisfaction in the sound of cracking bone, the grunt, the seething curse. He expected his attacker to attack again, but instead his pounding feet echoed and faded away.

  Sebastian’s knees hit the ground with a jarring thud that caused everything to shake. The world spun crazily around him and then turned black.

  Chapter 13

  Who would have ever thought that Tristan would find women who flung themselves at him so utterly boring? He’d had a life of challenges, had longed for the life of ease that came from being born the son of a duke, but now that he held it, he wondered why he’d ever wanted it.

  He intrigued the ladies. They all desired introductions and a dance. But they didn’t fascinate him in the least. They were all the same. Smiling, batting their lashes, peering from behind their ivory fans. He knew what their questions would be before they were asked. He knew what they would say before they spoke. Everything was practiced, rehearsed. Even the woman who had swooned in his arms had been performing. A grand performance to be sure, but a bit of acting nonetheless.

  It was a mistake to have come here. He intended to find Sebastian and inform him that he was taking his leave. He’d seen his brother escape through the double doors that led into the garden, but had yet to see him return. Perhaps he’d arranged a tryst. If so, regrettably it would be interrupted.

  He scoffed. Why should he care if he spoiled his brother’s pleasures? He should simply leave, but something nagged at him. He needed to find Sebastian before he departed this affair. It was a sense he had. With Sebastian, he’d always known when something wasn’t quite right. Perhaps because they had shared the womb. It bothered him that he’d never felt the same connection with Rafe. With Rafe, there was no mooring, nothing that anchored them. Tristan had known when Sebastian had been gravely wounded. Although he’d been at sea, he’d still known. A coldness as frigid as death had settled into him. He’d never prayed for himself, but he’d prayed for his brother that day.