“Let them wait.” His jaw tightening, Sam arrowed a glance up at the room’s vaulted ceiling. He wished he could see through it to the floor above and then to the ceiling above that, all the way to the third floor and down the long west hall and into the woman’s room to see exactly what it was that she was doing that was taking her so long and was so important that she thought she could keep a titled duke, no matter his opinion on the proprieties, awaiting her presence after specifically having been told—
A knock on the closed door cut off Sam’s burgeoning tirade and had him staring its way. His gaze focused narrowly on the door. At last. The American.
Well, my lady, turnabout is fair play. Glowering now, his temper simmering, Sam took a slow sip of his smooth whisky, savoring it for a long and purposeful moment. He then eyed the near-empty glass appreciatively, wondering if he wanted a refill. Perhaps. Thus he passed a few pleasurable moments. Only when he decided that he’d kept his guest waiting long enough did he call out a gruff invitation.
“Enter.”
The door opened. In stepped the woman. She closed the door behind her and stood across the way, her hands folded primly in front of her. She struck a penitent pose, yet she boldly met his gaze, her chin raised a notch, her green eyes defiant.
Sam ignored his suddenly thrumming heart, blaming impatience and anger for its quick pacing. She’d taken off her traveling coat, he noticed, and had arranged her hair. A very striking woman. Yet, even from across the room, he could see that she looked tired. Try as she might to disguise it, she still gave herself away. Her shoulders weren’t as squared as they could be. Her chin didn’t tilt up to the degree she’d managed only an hour ago upstairs. She looked ready to drop. And she said nothing. That in itself was very telling.
Sam held her gaze, content for the moment not to break the silence between them that threatened to burst into desire and have him striding across the room to her and—stop it. His grip on the whisky glass tightened with his self-remonstrance. Never looking away from her, Sam inhaled deeply, held the air in his lungs as long as he could, and then exhaled softly. Have the decency, man, to be a good host and not lust after your mysterious guest, uninvited though she may turn out to be.
That brought him around. Shouldn’t he at least offer her a chair? Ask her to sit? A simple courtesy, really. Offering a chair didn’t have to mean that he cared one way or the other about her. Because he didn’t.
But his conscience would not allow him to lie to himself. It told him differently: he cared that this woman looked drained of stamina. But why he should, and so quickly, was the part that he didn’t understand. It was also the part that made him very uneasy. He bristled defensively and broke the silence by behaving like an ass. “Do you know who I am?”
She started and her eyes widened. “I believe so. You’re the Duke of Somerset.”
“Exactly. Do you know what that means?”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
Rudely not arising from his chair, not even putting his feet on the floor, Sam sought to educate this American. “Etiquette, Miss … Calhoun, if that is your real name.”
She stiffened, her expression hardening. “I assure you that it is.”
“So you continue to say. But that is a discussion for another time. Namely, when my mother returns to either confirm or deny your story.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
“Of course it is. Which brings us back to my point. The proper behavior and form of greeting to be used when one comes into the presence of a duke.”
“I see.” She tilted her head at a challenging angle. When she did, a curling lock of copper-red hair freed itself of its pins and fell softly to her shoulder. Sam could not take his eyes off it. Then she spoke, bringing his attention back to her perfectly oval face with its pink and creamy skin. “Perhaps you’d care to instruct me in those areas where I’m lacking?”
“Indeed?” Sam allowed an arch and frankly sensual expression to claim his features as he blatantly raked his gaze over her shapely person. When he heard her intake of breath, he met her eyes. They blazed with anger. Sam sent her a triumphant grin as he raised his whisky to her in a salute. “It would be my pleasure to instruct you in whatever you wish.”
She started to say something—no doubt, some tart comeback that would roundly put him in his place—but apparently she thought better of it and closed her mouth, firming her lips together.
Sam bit back a chuckle at her response. No doubt, his intended etiquette lesson, given what he knew of independent-thinking Americans, would not sit well with her. Especially since he meant to exaggerate the customs greatly.
“Very well, then. Lesson one,” he began, managing to sound quite pompous. “The proper forms of address are, as you may know, ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Duke.’ Now, when you enter into the presence of a duke, Miss Calhoun, you are to curtsy and keep your eyes downcast. You may say ‘Your Grace’ as a greeting, but other than that you await the duke’s pleasure. Meaning, you speak only when spoken to. And you certainly do not question him or speak sharply to him.”
“I will endeavor to remember that … Your Grace.”
Enjoying himself too much, Sam admonished, “And never interrupt a duke. Now, lesson two: you stand unless asked or told to sit down. In short, you remain subservient at all times. Is that clear?”
From under lowered yet far from subservient brows, Miss Sarah Margaret Calhoun met his gaze. Her vividly green eyes flashed fire that should have left Sam charred. Instead, he felt triumphant, much as if he’d won a battle. No doubt, with her answer, she would begin the war. An exciting war, one he admitted he was intentionally goading—not simply for sport, but because he felt compelled to do so, for many reasons. Among them was her odd presentation here with that highly improbable story and name. Add to that the instant antagonism that had arisen between them. And the attraction. Yes, the attraction … the desire … the mutual wariness. In some ways, he and this woman were like circling dogs sizing each other up.
Her continued silence finally goaded Sam into speaking. “I’m waiting, Miss Calhoun.”
As if that were her signal, she hunched her shoulders and lowered her gaze. Her hands remained clasped together in front of her. “I apologize, Your Grace, for keeping you waiting. I also apologize for my ignorance of your customs and do heartily regret my embarrassing faux pas. Would Your Grace please allow me to correct my mistake by removing myself from your presence and then executing a proper entrance?”
Sam frowned. How disappointing. This was not what he’d expected or wanted. But now he was caught. “Certainly. Leave the room, then knock, and await my reply as you did before. We’ll proceed from there.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Still not meeting his gaze, she curtsied awkwardly and all but sidled meekly over to the closed door. Fumbling with the knob, she finally got it open and fled the room, closing the door behind her.
Alone now with only the ticking of the clock and his surprise, Sam shook his head, chuckled, and waited for her to knock …
And waited for her to knock. Only silence greeted his ears. Slowly, his grin faded. He shifted his weight about in his chair and finally put his drink down atop his desk. Still no knock. “What the bloody hell?” he muttered.
In one agile movement, he had his booted feet on the floor and was standing, staring at the door across the way. Still no knock sounded. And still he waited. He glanced at the clock and then eyed his bookcases, as if they could provide a clue. His jaw slowly tightened and his eyes narrowed. She was toying with him. She wouldn’t dare. There had to be another explanation.
Instantly into his mind popped images of him and his abominable behavior. And her meek response. Why, he’d scared her, the poor little bird. Even now, she was perhaps gathering her courage, perhaps even rehearsing what to say and how to curtsy properly. He pictured her out there, nervous and scared, trying to remember the protocol. The vision she made
in his mind unexpectedly affected Sam’s heart and had him urging her on. Come on, you can do it. Don’t be frightened. Don’t disappoint me.
And so, feeling magnanimous, he waited longer, wanting to give her more of a chance to take this brave step and face him again. But all too soon, given the continued lack of a knock upon the door, he became agitated. Why didn’t she knock?
Sam skirted his desk and stood in the middle of the room, planting his hands at his waist and staring at the damned door. Maybe he needed to say something. Maybe she was waiting for him to tell her to knock. Of course. That was it. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he called out, “You may knock now.”
But she didn’t.
“What the bloody hell…?” Sam stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “I said you may knock—”
He cut off his own words. The hallway was empty.
Chapter Five
Much like a woman’s shawl does her shoulders, the elaborate gardens of Stonebridge graced the manor’s grounds. With seemingly not a care in the world, Yancey ambled along the gravel walkway. The enchanting path meandered its way through the pleasing geometric grid that surrounded whimsical statues, neatly trimmed shrubs, and colorful flowerbeds. Stopping in front of a particularly interesting bed of roses, she leaned over to smell a freshly blooming blood-red specimen dotted with iridescent raindrops. She inhaled deeply. So sweet, its perfumed scent. A smile claimed her lips. It was nice out here in the garden, though a bit damp and cool and windy and dark.
She cast a sidelong glance toward the manor house to see if the duke were making a storming advance on her yet. He wasn’t, not that she could see. But she expected he would soon enough. With a secret smile claiming her lips, Yancey again devoted her attention to the flowers, coming to the complimentary conclusion that the English certainly had a way with gardens. In this one’s middle was a lovely three-tiered fountain surrounded by bedding plants and park benches. At the garden’s end began a maze comprised of tall greening hedges that looked inviting. A perfect place for a lovers’ tryst.
Yancey’s arm was suddenly grabbed, eliciting a gasp from her as she was whipped around. Though startled by the suddenness of the attack—he hadn’t been there only a moment ago—she wasn’t surprised to realize that her heart was pounding with fright and that she would find herself staring up into the wickedly angry gray eyes of the Duke of Somerset.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting me, Miss Calhoun.”
“Well, of course I was. You just startled me with the suddenness of your attack. How did you sneak up on me without my seeing or hearing you?”
“First of all, I do not sneak. And second, I came around a side way across the lawn.”
Yancey had nothing to say to that. She’d pulled a neat trick on him inside, but now it didn’t seem so funny. A functioning part of her mind committed to memory how extremely impressive the duke was—in size and in temper. With him this close, with only mere inches of rose-scented air separating him from her on the garden’s path, Yancey knew a moment of belated fright.
“Cat got your tongue, Miss Calhoun?”
“No.”
“Good. May I assume, then, that while standing outside my study”—his voice was a low warning purr, like that of a crouching jungle cat—“you were suddenly seized by an overwhelming desire to have a stroll through the gardens without giving anyone any notice of your intentions?”
Yancey swallowed, her earlier courage and sense of victory having now abandoned her. “Yes.”
“I see.” The duke firmed his lips together, then inhaled and exhaled, looking around and making a show of surveying their surroundings. Then, suddenly, his gaze swooped down on her. “And do you find the half-planted flower beds to your liking, especially on such a lovely gray and wet afternoon as this one is?”
He couldn’t have sounded more pleasant or more deadly. Yancey tipped her tongue out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. “Yes.”
He nodded as if finding her answers pleasing. “Excellent. And did you think there would be no consequences for making me feel the fool?”
Who did this man think he was? And what was she doing allowing him to handle her like this? “I don’t recall wondering or worrying what you might think, Your Grace. Probably if I had, I wouldn’t have done what I did. But then again, I might not have walked away if you hadn’t first behaved like such a—”
She clamped her lips together, short of calling him a name. There was valor, and then there was discretion.
The duke cocked his head as if trying to hear her better. “I’m sorry? Like such a what, Miss Calhoun?”
He didn’t think she’d dare say it. Yancey tried not to. She really tried. But failed. “Pompous ass. I’m sorry for the name, but you’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t been around many dukes. For all I know, every last one of you might behave this way.”
Her words had transformed him into every inch the insulted blueblood. The duke glared at her with narrowed eyes. “Given your very precarious position here, do you actually think it wise to call me names and to insult my peers?”
His grip on her arm tightened painfully, but Yancey refused to flinch or to struggle against his hold—or to be further intimidated by his hard-muscled size. Still, the heated anger that radiated off him in waves threatened to melt her where she stood. Calling upon her reserve of daring, Yancey found her voice. “I would remind Your Grace that you began the game. I merely played out my turn.”
His face a mask of anger, he inhaled stiffly, the action flaring his nostrils and raising his eyebrows. “Then allow me to end our little game with yet another reminder. Your position here is tenuous, at best. And you remain here only at my discretion and with my permission. Therefore, continued flippancy on your part will only get you and your trunks summarily thrown off all Somerset holdings—”
“Fine. Have my trunks repacked and please send for a—”
“Do not interrupt me.” He pulled her to him and lowered his head until his nose almost tipped against hers. “Somerset’s boundaries are considerable. So I would advise you to look about you at this wild country and how much you are at my mercy before you next speak or behave rashly.” He used his free hand to make a sweep of their environment. “The mountains behind you. The hills around you. The farms, the forest, the very road you traveled over to get here. Everything you can see, Miss Calhoun, no matter in which direction you look … is mine.”
Outrage at his high-handedness again won out over her fear of him and had Yancey jerking hard to free her arm. The tall duke released her suddenly, causing her to stumble backward before regaining her balance. With her hands fisted at her sides, Yancey all but launched herself at him. “Oh, you misspeak, sir, because not everything hereabout is yours. Make no mistake—I do not belong to you or to anybody. And you would do well to remember that … Your Grace.”
Standing defiantly in the middle of the rain-puddled garden pathway, Yancey craned her neck up in order to meet the duke’s thunderous gaze. The sheer blackness of his hair and the steel-gray of his eyes matched the rolling storm clouds overhead and gave him the appearance of being a force of nature in his own right.
“Your own woman? Perhaps in America. But not here. Not when you are in my charge. Remember that. And tell me—who exactly are you? And what are you doing here?” He pointed a finger at her. “And I warn you, I will not listen to or even consider the story you told me earlier.”
“Well, then, that being so, Your Grace, you leave me nothing to say. Because I’ve already told you the truth.” Well, as much of it as she intended to divulge at this time, she added to herself.
The angry duke crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one muscled leg. For long moments, he remained silent, frowning, staring down at her. He seemed to be struggling for control. Or insight. Yancey had no way of knowing. All she could do was wait.
Slowly his expression changed, finally smoothing out and becoming more contemplative than angry. “What am I going t
o do with you, Miss Calhoun?”
The smile lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes and his almost affectionate tone of voice disarmed Yancey. She sent the duke a sidelong glance rife with suspicion. “Am I to assume you have something definite in mind and you’re asking me to guess what it might be?”
His chuckle surprised her more than had his grabbing her arm, which still ached from when he’d gripped her so tightly. “No, Miss Calhoun. Hardly. I’m admitting that I have no idea how to proceed from here. Unless it’s to have you drawn and quartered. Which I’m not inclined to do. At least not yet.”
“I’m grateful for that, as you can imagine.” Yancey didn’t trust this calm of his. Still, she shrugged her shoulders. “But given that’s how you feel, it would appear we’re at a stalemate.”
“Yes, it would. As long as you’re not willing to tell me more about who you are and what you’re doing here. And as long as I’m not willing to torture you to get the information out of you. And as long as my mother is not here to ask … well, we’re stuck with each other as we are now, wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose so.” She continued to look for hidden meaning or veiled threats in his words, but could find none.
The duke pivoted his shoulders to look back toward the manor, then again sought Yancey’s wondering gaze. He hooked his thumbs in his waistband and favored her with a polite expression. “Would you care to join me for tea?”
Dumbfounded, her mouth agape, Yancey stared up at the extremely handsome and powerful man standing before her. “Tea? You’re asking me to come inside and have tea with you? I don’t understand.”
“Surely you’ve had tea before. Even in America—”
“I’ve had plenty of tea before, thank you. I’m talking about us.” She pointed from him to herself, adding for good measure, “You and me.”
Frowning, he shook his head. “I wasn’t aware there is an ‘us.’”
“There is, and we were only just at each other’s throats. And now I’m invited in for tea.”
The Marriage Masquerade Page 7