by Betina Krahn
“Meanwhile”—Sylvia wrenched them back to the point at hand—“we must deal with this upstart American.”
“Can’t have Arthur getting notions about women and marriage until after old Dorchester snuffs it,” Bertram declared.
“Which is where you come in, Nephew.” Sylvia looked him up and down. “You have the skills and experience to see that this creature is distracted from all thoughts of matrimony with the duke.”
He thought of the determination in the American’s brazen eyes and voluptuous lips. A frisson of anticipation slithered through him.
“And if she should prove impervious to distraction?” he asked.
“She is as fresh and forward as they come,” Aunt Sylvia declared. “I am sure you can find a way to make yourself more interesting than Arthur.”
This was almost beyond belief. He’d lost count of the times the old trots had chastised him for his prodigal living and indiscreet romances. Now they wanted to sic him and his intemperate ways on an upstart American who had the audacity to set her sights on the family coronet.
He glanced from one hooded gaze to another and read in those determined stares a shocking bill of license. They wanted him to do more than just distract her; they wanted him to seduce her.
The thought spun in his mind like a coin on its edge, then fell with a sweet, remunerative-sounding clink. The American was quite the little package. Lovely. Rebellious. Apparently quite rich. He smiled. It was a combination tailor-made for his kind of trouble. Then it occurred to him that there were yet other possibilities in the situation. He had attended the ball tonight hoping for a chance to plead for an increase in his dwindling stipend.
“Distraction,” he said smoothly, “can be a very expensive business.”
Every visible part of Aunt Sylvia puckered at the mention of “expense.”
“I suppose”—she glanced to the others, who seemed more appalled by his demands on the family’s beleaguered treasury than they had been by a suggestion that he seduce on command—“accommodations can be made.”
Chapter Three
In the glittering, mirrored ballroom, Daisy squirmed as she watched the duke wend his way toward her through the revelers. Men kept blathering on about the latest election and women kept thrusting their homely daughters forward, slowing his progress. The countess’s hand on her wrist, hidden between their skirts, reminded her she had to wait for the duke to acknowledge her.
It was a unique torment for an American, waiting on one’s betters, and a particular irritation for Daisy, who was not used to having to wait for men of any station to acknowledge her. It wasn’t like she and the duke hadn’t been properly introduced. They had “taken tea” together for three days running, and she had already suffered through two of his lectures on Lugubrious butterfli-mi-cus, or some such.
The duke’s legs came into view first, then his waist and discreetly padded shoulders. Nothing about him was long and lean and well muscled, which was probably a very good thing. He was taller than average and his grooming was impeccable, from his perfectly pomaded hair right down to his handsomely polished shoes. What did it matter that his hands weren’t strong and sure fingered? A tingle in her breasts made her recall the feel of—no!
She struggled to raise both her gaze and the tone of her thoughts. The duke’s hair was a medium brown, his eyes were a medium gray, and his modest lips seemed perfectly sized for sedate ducal smiles. Unlike the library stranger’s perfect teeth and broad, sensual lips that promised magnificently abandoned pleasures. Phantom sensations of that rakish mouth nibbling its way across her—
The countess squeezed her hand again.
Chastened, Daisy averted her gaze and tried to think about something, anything else. Ribbons. Horses. Pomegranates. Horses wearing ribbons and eating pomegranates. Up came rebellious visions of her wearing just ribbons—thick, satiny ribbons—and being fed pomegranates by—
“Miss Bumgarten.”
She looked up to find the duke had arrived with a coterie of hangers-on and was reaching for her hand. His gaze fastened with delight on her gown, and her heart sank. He was captivated, all right, by the damned butterflies.
“Your Grace.” She made a half curtsy, summoned her brightest smile, and reminded herself of the impact he would have on Mrs. Astor when they visited New York. The gorgon of society would suddenly find that her famed ballroom held New York’s Four Hundred plus two.
“Unless I am very much mistaken,” the duke said eagerly, “you have a Melanargia galathea and a Parnassius apollo in your hair.”
“Is that what you call them?” she said. Glowing with delight took an appalling amount of effort for some reason. “The little things landed as I stepped out of the coach, and I didn’t have the heart to make them leave.”
He smiled as his gaze fixed on the butterflies impaled together on the stickpin at her shoulder. “And how clever of you to pair a Purple Emperor with a Cleopatra on your gown.” His eyes widened. “A rather aberrant pair, however. I don’t believe in the wild those two would ever frequent the same bush, much less attempt to procreate.”
“Your Grace,” the countess intervened anxiously, “the music is delightful and Miss Bumgarten has not yet had her first dance.”
“Truly?” The duke seemed genuinely dismayed. “What an intolerable state of—oh.” He blushed. “Forgive me. The sight of your butterflies was such—I’m not much for tromping around a ballroom floor, but if you have your heart set on a dance, Miss Bumgarten—”
She placed her hand in his and two interminable dances later she retired to the side with tortured toes and a face frozen in a grimace of a smile. The duke, it seemed, was not given to self-deprecation for humor’s sake. When he said “tromping about a ballroom,” he did indeed mean tromping . . . and pitching and galumphing . . . like a steer with a belly full of locoweed. But her abused feet and his frequent apologies were outweighed by his comments on her “grace” and “pleasant demeanor.”
“Ladies,” the duke had confided as they danced, “put me on edge. So many rules to observe in their company. Things not to say, where not to look, what not to bump. But you, Miss Bumgarten, you are effortless to be around.” He warmed to his subject. “You listen so easily, dance so easily, and laugh so easily. Easy, Miss Bumgarten, that’s what you are!”
Easy. She reddened. The duke was not the first to offer that opinion, but he was certainly the first to intend it as a compliment. Having finally roused the duke’s masculine interest, she was just starting to feel some confidence in her enterprise when disaster struck in the form of a tall, dark figure with sinfully handsome eyes.
“Sin” was the word to keep in mind, Daisy told herself as her library stranger boldly planted himself before her and the duke. And she’d already had more than her share of iniquity, thank you very much. Her breath caught as her gaze fell to the splash of blue on his lapel.
“Arthur, you sly dog. Monopolizing the most enchanting creature on the dance floor,” he said. “The least you can do is introduce us.”
“Really, sir—” she sputtered, eyes narrowing on the sight of her blue butterfly in his lapel.
“Thoughtless of me.” The duke smiled guiltily. “Ash, meet Miss Daisy Bumgarten, of Nevada. That’s ‘out west,’ as the Americans say.” He turned to Daisy. “May I present my brother, Lord Ashton Graham.”
His brother? Her heart gave a convulsive thump in her chest. How could she have known? She glared at him over a fierce little smile. There was some family resemblance. And she did recall the countess mentioning that the duke had a brother somewhere . . . a scapegrace out of family favor.
Her breast tingled alarmingly. Trouble. Within two minutes of laying eyes on him, he had been feeling her breast like a peach for the plucking. If she had half a brain, she would keep at least a couple of county lines between herself and the nimble-fingered wretch.
“Great Heavens, Ashton”—the duke broke into her thoughts—“you’ve got a Common Blue on your lapel. No
, an Adonis Blue!” His excitement was quickly overtaken by confusion. “Whatever are you doing wearing a Polymmatus bellargus?” His gaze suddenly flew to Daisy’s butterflies and back, as if he were struggling to make sense of such a coincidence. She could see from the onlookers’ faces that they were making a connection, one that if allowed to develop might sink her matrimonial hopes altogether.
“They’re all the thing,” she said as airily as possible.
Lord Ashton’s fascinating mouth quirked up on one end and he stroked his lapel. “Indeed. Everyone’s wearing butterflies this season.”
“They are?” Duke Arthur looked quickly at nearby guests for additional signs of the infestation. “Don’t tell me I’m on the verge of becoming fashionable.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Lord Ashton broke into a sardonic smile that made Daisy want to kick him. Just then, the music began again, and he held out a hand. “Perhaps Miss Bumgarten will honor me with a dance.”
She almost groaned aloud.
Social success, the countess had drilled into her, was as much about knowing what and whom to refuse as it was about knowing what and whom to accept. She made a show of consulting the dance card she had left mostly empty in order to be free to spend time with the duke. Before she could craft a convincing lie, the library-lurking lord seized her hand, trapped it on his arm, and steered her onto the dance floor.
As they merged into the flow of couples already dancing, she refused to look at him and was actually grateful for those blasted gloves that prevented skin-to-skin contact.
“You have some nerve, wearing my butterfly,” she muttered, desperately bolstering her defenses against the heat radiating from him.
“Seemed a shame to waste it,” he said, leading her expertly in the waltz, “seeing how expensive it was. You may thank me by removing that scowl from your face. People are staring.”
“Thank you for what?” She glanced around them and did indeed note curious eyes aimed their way. She forced herself to relax.
“For rescuing you from social infamy. Everyone in the ballroom has been watching you and Arthur, counting the steps you’ve taken and the minutes you’ve spent together. One more dance and you would have been labeled a gauche American title hunter. The sound of doors closing to you all over London would have been deafening.”
“You’re saying you saved my reputation?”
“I’m generous that way,” he said with an infuriatingly handsome smile, no doubt the undoing of many a susceptible young girl. Fortunately, she was neither that young nor that susceptible.
“One thing you are not, sir, is gallant.”
“‘One thing you are not, my lord, is gallant,’” he said.
“What?” The correction infuriated her. It was all she could do to keep from leaving him flat-footed in the middle of the dance. She glanced around at the people watching and settled for mentally calling him names that would have dropped the countess like a plank.
“You really must brush up on forms of noble address if you’re aiming for a title yourself,” he said. “When in doubt, use ‘my lord.’ It’s safe for every rank but dukes, who are addressed ‘Your Grace.’ My brother is oblivious to such things. Unfortunately for you, the family elders are not. They have rather exacting standards.”
“Then they can’t be overly happy with you,” she said testily. “Unless I miss my guess, you’re more accustomed to violating standards than upholding them.” She was rewarded with additional space between them.
“Careful, Miss Bumgarten.” His voice deepened. “Such remarks might lead one to wonder how you came to be such an expert on men.”
It was a perfect opening.
“A body doesn’t have to have been bitten to recognize a snake.”
He threw back his head and laughed, a full, resonant sound that set something deep in her chest quivering. Sweet Jesus. Vibrations spread through her like ripples on a pond, and she bobbled a step.
“You are so American.” He covered her misstep with annoying grace.
“What the devil does that mean?”
“It means”—he leveled an amused look on her—“that you speak your mind regularly and emphatically, damn the consequences. The prince must adore you.”
“What prince?”
“Wales, of course. What other prince is there? You have been presented to Bertie, have you not?”
“Not,” she said defensively. “Apparently he’s busy yachting.”
“Well, I’m certain you’ll get on famously. He has a penchant for pretty American girls with sharp wits and bags of money.”
He wasn’t the first to call her pretty, but he was the first to make it sound like a hanging offense. Arrogant piece of humanity, issuing judgments on her person and lecturing her on manners and decorum when he was clearly used to doing whatever he pleased to whomever he pleased. He was the walking, talking embodiment of the arrogance of the British male. From government minister to stable hand, they all blustered and swaggered as if they were personally responsible for creating the empire.
The instant the music ended, she left him in the middle of the dance floor.
* * *
Ashton watched Daisy Bumgarten sail away a second time, sensing that she was trying to escape her interest in him as much as his admittedly caddish behavior. The way she reacted in the library, the way she met his eyes and melted beneath his touch; she was attracted to him.
Virgins as a rule sensed the danger his sensuality posed and avoided him like the plague, but there was no such wariness in Miss Bumgarten’s gaze. Was that just the American in her or a sign of something more interesting . . . like . . . a desire for a little sensual adventuring?
The sound of his brother’s voice made him look around. Arthur was holding forth on some point of naturalist’s lore that was making his listeners’ eyes glaze over.
Imagining Daisy Bumgarten with his elder brother, Ashton winced. Vibrant and dull as ditchwater. Calculating and clueless. She was spirited and plain-spoken and unpredictable. . . a disastrous combination in a wife, much less a duchess. Yoking them together for life would be like harnessing a plow horse to a panther.
A flood of boyhood images came back to him: Arthur tromping through mud and muck about the estate park with a book in one hand and collecting net in the other, squinting with concentration, oblivious to guests and obligations and even his own importance. A surge of nobility seized him. Artie. Once again in his ancillary, “spare to the heir” life, he had to protect his poor brother—this time, from the matrimonial schemes of Daisy Bumgarten.
* * *
After she left Lord Ashton on the dance floor Daisy spotted the countess in the ballroom doorway trying discreetly to attract her attention. The moment she came within reach, she seized Daisy’s arm and steered her out into the upstairs hall.
“The duke’s family has summoned your uncle for a word.”
The news stunned Daisy. “What kind of word?”
“I’m not certain.” The countess was clearly unsettled. “It is too early for negotiations. But, the duke has shown extraordinary interest.”
Hope roused at the sound of those blessed words: extraordinary interest. By the countess’s best estimates, marriage negotiations were still at least a couple of balls, a few house parties, and several gallons of afternoon tea away. Why would they want to speak with Red?
“Your uncle was well into his second punch bowl.” The countess took a whiff from the vial of smelling salts she had taken to carrying. “God knows what he’s saying to them.”
“You mean, now?” Daisy’s heart stopped as the full impact of it struck. “He’s with them this very minute? Where?”
The countess pointed to the opposite upstairs hallway and a heartbeat later Daisy was striding down it, hot on her uncle’s trail.
“What do you think you are doing?” The countess panted a bit as she worked to both keep up and maintain some sense of decorum.
“Drunk or sober, Uncle Red can talk a dog dow
n off a meat wagon,” Daisy said to herself as much as to the winded countess. “But he needs somebody to keep him on track.”
“Not you.” She pulled Daisy to a halt. “That is unthinkable.”
“It’s either me or you.”
After a moment, the countess wilted around the edges.
“The man is utterly unmanageable,” she said defensively.
“Then it has to be me.”
“B-but your presence would be unmaidenly.”
Daisy groaned silently. That again. Why was the whole damned world obsessed with maidenhood?
“Well, they won’t be getting a ‘maiden,’ they’ll be getting a duchess, and I think they should know that right up front.”
Chapter Four
Latching on to the sound of voices, Daisy and the countess located the source in a cozy upstairs parlor tucked away at the back of the house. There, a well-marinated Redmond Strait stood before a half dozen wizened countenances that bore an uncanny resemblance to human remains they’d seen in the British Museum’s Egyptian Exhibit. Three old ladies sat around a tea table while an equal number of old gents loomed behind them. At their head was a veritable prune of a woman swathed from head to toe in what Daisy had learned was British deep-mourning attire.
Red hitched around at the sound of their entrance and grinned sloppily at the sight of his niece. The countess stammered apologies and, in a choked voice, introduced herself and her protégée. The duke’s family elders spoke not a word of greeting to either.
“As I said,” the one called Lady Sylvia addressed Uncle Red, “we are duty bound to see to the young duke’s interests and honor.” The others at her back nodded, all but one old gent who was listing badly to one side, looking as if he might be slipping into rigor mortis. “After all, there are standards to be maintained.”
Daisy gave Uncle Red an elbow in the ribs and, sensing the gravity of the moment, he rose to the challenge.
“Well, our Daisy—she ain’t exactly standard.” His chuckle made Daisy wince; under the influence, Uncle Red always imagined himself a wit. “But she does take a bit o’ maintainin’.”