Bringing Down the Duke

by Evie Dunmore

  “I don’t understand,” Catriona said. “I’m awfully scatterbrained today.”

  She swept out of the room again.

  Hattie shot Annabelle a meaningful glance. “I think she’s nursing a tendre for Peregrin Devereux,” she murmured. “I think she took the glasses off to practice looking good at the ball tonight.”

  Annabelle frowned. “But Lord Devereux left for Wales about an hour ago.” She had seen him climb aboard the travel coach looking confusingly stone faced.

  His brother, however, had not yet returned to Claremont.

  A frisson of anticipation traveled up her spine.

  “Ye gods, please let that dress fit,” she said, and abruptly came to her feet.

  * * *

  Claremont’s reception room was abuzz with the chatter of a few hundred people ready to revel and dance. Jewels and champagne flutes shone softly in the muted light. A far cry from a country dance, this, a veritable sea of unfamiliar pale faces. Glances strayed her way, raking over her like fingers. “Look. It’s Celeste,” a lady said. “No, I am certain the gown is all Celeste . . . but who is she?”

  I’m the woman who wears a Celeste sans undergarments.

  The gown’s silky skirt had been too filmy for drawers; it clung like a skin to the thin underskirt. The feeling of nakedness was compounded by the snug, low-cut bodice that presented the tops of her breasts with rather dramatic effect. And apart from the lace trimmings on the flounces of the small train, there were no adornments to attract attention away from, well, her. The woman in the mirror had looked like a wealthy, fashionable stranger. Like she had every right to attend an illustrious ball. Peter, her escort, had turned the color of a beetroot once she had descended the grand staircase.

  “Annabelle.” Hattie emerged from the crowd on the arm of a handsome young gentleman with chestnut hair. She left his side and rushed toward her.

  “How stunning you look,” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh my. Zachary,” she said, turning back to her escort, “isn’t she stunning? I’m awfully envious. Annabelle, may I present my brother, Zachary Greenfield.”

  The young man’s brown eyes twinkled as he sketched a bow. “Miss Archer. You are as striking as a lotus flower and as graceful as a willow reed.”

  The moment he and Peter began exchanging opinions on the brandy, Hattie linked her arm through Annabelle’s and pulled her aside.

  “I told you,” she muttered, gesturing over her own dress. The cascade of bows and flounces swamped her pleasantly plump figure, their color somewhere between beige and yellow. “Apricot,” she groaned, “and these frothy layers—I look like a rice pudding.”

  “You look lovely,” Annabelle lied.

  Hattie gave her a speaking glance. “I’m sure my brother paid his friends to fill my dance card.”

  At least Hattie had a dance card. She’d be watching people dance tonight. No nobleman could ask her for a turn without causing talk, and Peter had informed her that as a man of the church, he didn’t dance, and he had stammered but stood firm when she had tried to bargain for at least a quadrille. So she would stay planted on a chair like a magenta wallflower all evening.

  Peter sidled up to her, offering his arm. “Shall we traverse to the ballroom, Miss Archer? I hear live reindeer are part of the decoration.”

  The melodies of Vivaldi’s Winter drifted through the wide open wing doors. The ballroom beyond glittered cool and bright like an ice palace—crystal chandeliers floated below the wintry blue ceiling, sparking stars and rainbows. Silvery glints struck from the champagne chillers and tiered platters on the refreshment tables. A profusion of snowy white orchids cascaded down from the upper balconies.

  The only thing that held her attention was the man greeting his guests by the entrance.

  Her pulse sped up. An exquisite tension tightened her body all over.

  God, but Montgomery was achingly handsome. His lean frame and austere face were perfect for the sharp, elegant lines of the black-and-white evening attire.

  When it was her turn to greet him, Montgomery did a double take. For a beat, he was as still as the ice sculptures lining the walls. But she had seen his gaze dip and graze over the swells of her breasts, a reflex against which he seemed as helpless as the next man.

  Faint color began tingeing his cheekbones. “Miss Archer.” His voice was clipped.

  “Your Grace.”

  He was already turning to her escort. “Mr. Humphrys. Welcome to Claremont.”

  Dismissed.

  It stung.

  For a moment, she walked on Peter’s arm blindly, feeling foolish. What had she expected? That words like graceful willow reed would pass Montgomery’s lips? Actually, yes. Apparently, she had begun thinking of him purely as a man with whom she shared a connection, and was hoping for affirmation. She blew out a breath. Gallic pride? Gallic delusions!

  She stiffly lowered herself onto the velvet chair near the far wall where she’d be stationed for the night. Peter remained standing, craning his neck around the ballroom.

  “I believe the reindeer were a rumor,” she snipped.

  He blinked. “Of course.” He gave a little laugh. “I mean, it would have been quite outrageous, wouldn’t it, and impractical . . .”

  She bit her lip. It was ill done of her to take her strange mood out on the man who was nothing but kind. Unlike Montgomery, who blew hot and cold. He was presently conversing with a grand older lady and a pretty girl in white, who was glancing up at him shyly now and again.

  “The Countess of Wareham,” Peter muttered, following the direction of her gaze, “they say her daughter, Lady Sophie, is one of the potential candidates for the new duchess.”

  Her throat constricted unpleasantly. “The new duchess?”

  Peter looked back down at her. “The duke will remarry next year. May I bring you a sandwich?”

  “Yes, please,” she murmured. She did not feel even the hint of an appetite.

  * * *

  The dance floor was soon busy with whirling couples who turned the air thick with an amalgam of perfumes and sweat. Hattie’s yellow-beige dress flashed in the crowd as Tomlinson spun her round in a quadrille. Peter Humphrys was lecturing her on red deer native to Wiltshire.

  It was still two hours until midnight.

  “Would you like another sweetmeat?” Peter’s eyes were on her, always on her.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Another sandwich, then?”

  “No, thanks, the last one was quite filling.”

  Montgomery wasn’t dancing. He was at the edge of the ballroom, hands clasped behind his back, talking to guests, too many of them women with debutante daughters in tow or men who looked eager to talk politics.

  Another dance ended, and Hattie approached, her red hair frizzy. She was vigorously fanning her gleaming throat.

  Peter swooped. “May I bring you ladies some refreshments?”

  “Some of the pink champagne, please,” Annabelle said quickly.

  The pink champagne bowl was on the other end of the ballroom.

  “Your wish is my command,” the curate exclaimed, and flung himself into the milling crowd.

  Hattie promptly took Annabelle’s arm.

  “I have to tell you, Tomlinson has been most attentive,” she murmured. “In fact”—she meaningfully waggled her tawny eyebrows—“he has mentioned taking some fresh air on the terrace.”

  “Do not go onto the terrace with him.” The words were out before Annabelle could take the sharpness out of her voice.

  Hattie’s face fell.

  “Just . . . don’t,” Annabelle repeated, softer now.

  “But it’s in full view of the ballroom.”

  “Even worse. Do you want to marry him?”

  Hattie flinched. “Marry? Why, no. He’s not titled.” She surreptitiously
eyed the young man, who was presently thumping Lord Palmer’s back and braying with laughter. “And he’s not exactly a Gabriel,” she conceded.

  “Then you really do not want to be caught in a compromising position in full view of the ton.”

  “But—”

  “No terrace. No alcoves. No dark, empty hallways,” Annabelle said. “Forgive me for sounding like a governess,” she added, attempting to make light of things.

  “You do sound rather like Miss Mayer right now,” Hattie said, sounding like a very lovely, very rich girl who was pondering whether to take advice from a woman about two dozen steps below in social rank.

  It stabbed like a little dagger between Annabelle’s ribs. “I’d rather you not get hurt,” she said softly.

  Tomlinson had sensed that he was an object of discussion; he half turned and raised his champagne flute to them. With his shiny eyes and fluffy hair, he looked as threatening as a poodle pup.

  He was still a man.

  “Hattie,” Annabelle said. “Men . . . they sometimes do outrageous things when they find themselves alone with a lady.”

  Hattie frowned. “My dear, I might not be as clever as you are in managing the gentlemen, but I assure you I know how to fend off an admirer.”

  “And what if you don’t want to fend him off?”

  Hattie’s eyes widened. “Are you implying I’d . . . let him?”

  “No, no, not like that,” Annabelle said hastily, “but there are some gentlemen who will promise anything, and I mean anything, and unless you are perfidious yourself, it’s very hard to see him for what he is.”

  Hattie’s mouth relaxed into a small smile. “But he can promise whatever he likes, can he not? As long as he doesn’t try to, well, you know”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“kiss me.”

  “And what if he kisses you and you like it so much that you forget all about fending him off, and when you come to, you realize he has maneuvered you behind a yew hedge.”

  “A . . . yew hedge?”

  Annabelle flushed. “Any hedge.”

  Hattie’s eyes had grown soft and dreamy rather than appalled. “To be kissed like that,” she sighed. “Oh, just once in her life every woman should be kissed in such a way that she forgets herself.” She ducked closer, her voice curious. “How do you know these things, Annabelle?”

  Oh, hell’s bells.

  Lord Palmer saved her from speaking a grave lie by strolling over to fetch Hattie for the next dance.

  Peter had not yet returned. Rather than sit back down, Annabelle took a couple of steps to loosen her legs . . . and found herself face to face with Lady Lingham.

  The countess looked comely in icy blue silk with matching fan and earbobs. She was still squarely overshadowed by the young gentleman by her side. Lord. He was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen—imposingly tall, but neither bulky nor lanky, just right, as if he had been made with ideal proportions in mind. Gleaming auburn hair fell in soft waves around his high-cut cheekbones and perfectly angled jaw. A face suitable for any one of the archangels. His loud pink waistcoat said he was anything but a heavenly creature. It was, in fact, a magenta-colored waistcoat.

  She must have stared at the man a moment too long, for his amber eyes shifted to her and promptly began to smolder. Her belly clenched with unease. She knew a predator when she saw one.

  “Miss Archer.”

  To her dismay, Lady Lingham’s fan was beckoning.

  She approached the pair reluctantly.

  The countess appraised her with a deliberate glance, her mouth smiling as if she were greeting a long-lost friend. “Miss Archer. How splendid you look tonight,” she said. “It’s a Celeste, is it not?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” said Lady Lingham. “Her designs are unforgiving.” She pointed her fan at her stunning companion. “Miss Archer, allow me to introduce Lord Tristan Ballentine. Lord Tristan, it’s a pleasure to present Miss Archer.”

  Lord Ballentine dipped his head. A diamond stud winked at Annabelle from in his right ear.

  “Lord Tristan has just returned from a ghastly little war in the colonies,” Lady Lingham said. “He received the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery on the battlefield a few days ago.”

  “You are humbling me, my lady,” Ballentine said, not sounding humbled at all. His eyes were busy examining Annabelle’s cleavage. “How come I have never made your acquaintance before, miss? I’m usually familiar with all the great beauties of the ball.”

  Lady Lingham pursed her fine lips. “Miss Archer is from the country.”

  He looked up and raised a brow. “The country? Whereabouts?”

  “Kent, my lord,” Annabelle said.

  “Lovely,” he said blandly. “Will you do me the honor of the next dance, and tell me all about that quaint place?”

  That was the last thing she wanted. He couldn’t be much older than her, but there was a depraved edge to his mouth that only came with a life of utter dissolution.

  “I’m afraid I have a touch of a headache.”

  His mouth quirked. “From not dancing a single dance yet?”

  That left her speechless. A gentleman wouldn’t press a woman, lady or not. He’d certainly not lead on that he had been watching her. Then again, he didn’t seem to stand on protocol—he had an earring.

  “I’m a rather clumsy dancer,” she said. “I fear partnering with me would endanger your feet.”

  “Beautiful women usually endanger a man one way or another,” he said. “I tend to find it worth the trouble.”

  “How valiant. I can see how the Victoria Cross has come to pass.”

  That had been a mistake. Ballentine’s lips pulled into a slow smile, the way a superior fighter might smile just before he picked up a gauntlet. “Indeed,” he drawled, “I cannot help it, the valiance. It’s my family motto, you see—Cum Vigor et Valor.”

  No doubt he thought he was outrageously charming, and to someone other than her, he might be.

  He presented his arm.

  She glared at it. She could not refuse now without causing a scene.

  “Oh, do us all a favor and dance with the man, child,” Lady Lingham tutted. “Ballentine never takes no for an answer and we will be bantering coyly until the morning hours if you don’t take a turn with him.”

  Perhaps there was a section in Debrett’s Etiquette Manual on how to fend off a joint attack by a countess and a viscount. If there was, she hadn’t read it.

  Slowly, she placed her hand on Ballentine.

  Lady Lingham smiled and tapped the scoundrel’s shoulder with her fan. “Do behave yourself.”

  The first notes of the music already filled the air.

  A waltz.

  She promptly forgot her displeasure and felt a sting of panic. She had not waltzed in over seven years.

  A big, warm hand settled on her waist.

  “Eyes on me, darling.” Ballentine’s silky voice came from high above and she tipped back her head to face him. He really was absurdly tall.

  And then her heart stumbled over itself.

  Over Ballentine’s right shoulder, her gaze locked with Montgomery’s.

  He stood right above her on the second floor at the balcony railings, his eyes blazing slits of silver.

  She yanked her gaze away, fixing it on Lord Ballentine’s tanned throat. It was a very fine throat, but it managed to hold her attention for all of three seconds, and then she glanced back.

  Montgomery was gone.

  The music picked up, and Lord Ballentine swept her into the first turn. Her worries about having forgotten all the steps quickly proved needless—the viscount could have partnered a sack of flour and made it look good. He led her with a firm hand, a languid grace in his movements that was unusual in a man of his size.

>   “Is it true, then,” he asked, “you have no idea who I am? No rumors have blackened your opinion of me beforehand?” He was watching her with lion eyes.

  How long was a waltz? Surely she could handle him for a couple of minutes.

  “I know that you have received our highest military honor, and who would find a fault with that?”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Are you awfully impressed?”

  “Of course,” she said. “What woman is not impressed by a brave man in uniform?”

  “Ah yes, the uniform. Alas, that bright red does not suit my coloring in the slightest.”

  He winked at her.

  Almost against her will, she was intrigued by his outrageous vanity.

  “The war—was it the Zulu invasion?” she asked.

  His shoulder tensed beneath her palm. “No,” he said. “Afghanistan.”

  Oh. “I hear it was devastating,” she said earnestly.

  “It’s always devastating in Afghanistan,” he said, “but it is rare to find a woman interested in politics.” His expression had turned polite, so polite it was almost blank. Admittedly, he was right to block that avenue of conversation. War was a most unsuitable subject for small talk.

  “Perhaps you should have been warned of my reputation, my lord,” she said.

  That rekindled the spark in his eyes. “Now you tell me. What danger am I in, miss?”

  “I’m a bluestocking,” she said. “I study at Oxford and I read all the pages of a newspaper. Especially the pages on politics.”

  His gaze darkened and in the next turn, he pulled her closer, and she could smell sandalwood and tobacco on him. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice impossibly low, “some men consider intelligence in a woman a rather potent aphrodisiac.”

  He’d probably consider it an aphrodisiac if a woman was looking his way and breathing. She strained slightly against his hold, and mercifully, he gave an inch.

  “If you are at Oxford, you know Lady Lucie,” he said.