“That is not true.” She angled to try and peer into the ballroom, to see if indeed Lord Harold had departed.
“Come now, it is not as if you knew his character prior to flirting with him.”
She leveled her gaze on the irritating man who had just ruined days of planning and hours of hard work. “One can tell much about a character without knowing a person. He looked a little shy to me. You do not.”
“He is not shy. He is, however, reserved in the extreme and very private. He is also no fun. Trust me, you are far better off with me.”
“Does his conceit match yours? Is that a family trait?”
“I speak honestly, not with conceit. We are all blessed with special talents. My brother’s gifts will benefit mankind down through the ages, I expect. My gifts benefit womankind here and now.”
“Your gifts must be significant if you assume in advance any benefit at all. Most men merely hope that their efforts are seen that way after the fact. I suppose your skills took much practice.”
“It always takes practice to develop a natural talent, but it is worth it. A life without purpose has no meaning.”
The word conceited did not do this man justice. He had just proclaimed himself a great lover, natural born from the sounds of it. Which probably meant he barely made do, but women pretended otherwise because he was rich.
Tempted though she was to prick the hot-air balloon of his pride, she needed to find out if anything of this night’s plan could be salvaged. “Your brother is leaving town, you said?”
“At dawn. He is a studious type. His home will be locked as tightly as a reliquary while he goes off to rusticate for a few months and write a book. See what I mean? No fun at all.”
Months? She almost cursed aloud due to disappointment. If Lord Harold would not be in town for months, she really had no use for him. With this news, the entire night became worthless. It was time to remove herself from this disaster and find another way.
“I was not looking for fun, whatever you meant by that. You misunderstood my interest in him.” It sounded very weak even to her own ears.
“Come now. You threw yourself at him. Like many people here, you came to flirt freely while hiding behind a mask. Well, here I am and I promise to accommodate you. Flirt away.”
She could not flirt now even if she wanted to. In the ballroom, Lord Harold had been at the disadvantage. Now she was instead. Thoroughly.
He stepped closer. “Have you lost your nerve?”
Goodness, he was big. She much preferred his brother, who did not exude this overweening confidence and . . . danger. She expected no assault. However, she could not ignore how she had to muster her will to keep his presence from dominating her.
“Not at all. I will admit to losing a sense of adventure, however. The man I sought to know was all subtlety and nuance, while I find his substitution rather obvious and predictable.”
Even with the mask and the dark, she saw his eyes narrow. He had not liked that.
“Thank you for trying to ensure I was not abandoned,” she said. “However, I think I will do very well without the fun you promised, and must decline the bountiful gifts you offer. My experience has been the more sumptuous the meal, the less talented the chef.”
“I think I just heard a challenge, shepherdess. I trust you know I cannot stand down.”
“Only the most arrogant man would consider my words a challenge, instead of a statement of indifference and skepticism. Now, I will take my leave of you.”
She turned toward the door, but he took her hand in his, stopping her. “I cannot allow you to leave with such a poor opinion of me. This chef insists on at least giving a taste of the savories he can create.”
With one fingertip, he slowly slid the top of her high glove down her arm. His sly touch skimmed her skin in a sinuous path.
A mesmerized reaction claimed her. No man had touched her like that in years. Not since she’d accepted the truth about Steven and left him. Her mind recoiled at the imposition, but her physical self celebrated with exhilarating thrills.
Stunned, she watched that glove go down until it bunched near her wrist. Then his head dipped. He kissed the inside flesh of her elbow. Warmth. Intimacy. It had been so long. So very long to be alone. One kiss. Two. Both warm and luring. With the third press of his lips, he found a spot that sent an intensely sensual shiver up her arm.
He kissed down toward her wrist. An explosion of excitement made her heady. She saw herself like she watched a character on a stage. The lanterns on the terrace and in the garden joined the stars as a backdrop of dancing lights.
Her other hand instinctively moved to push him away, but it halted and hovered over his head while she battled the urge to comb her fingers through his dark curls. Just a bit more. Another moment of feeling so gloriously alive.
He looked up into her eyes in a frank acknowledgment that she had done nothing to stop him. “Was that nuanced enough? Suitably subtle?”
He straightened and pulled her to him. He placed his palm on her face while his other hand continued stroking her inner palm. He held her to a kiss.
It shocked her to discover that he did indeed possess inordinate skills. Despite the sensual stupor dulling her mind, she could tell that he noticed her responses and altered the kiss accordingly in a superb display of the subtlety and nuance she had said he lacked. How else would he know just how to communicate both dominance and care at the same time? How else to tell just when she would let caution fly and succumb to the insinuation of pleasure untold? With one kiss, he won the duel he claimed that she demanded.
Then he sped her along the terrace, pulling her by the hand. She tripped along, her thoughts scrambled, trying to find herself within the excitement that had changed this night into one of audacious magic.
Despite her confusion, one clear thought emerged. If she did not lose her head entirely, she might succeed with the Duke of Langford after failing with his brother.
* * *
Astonishment. That was what he saw in her eyes. Not what he’d expected, but it charmed him. Not so bold now. Not so clever with her scathing wit. Not speaking at all, she was so breathless. She reacted as if no one had ever touched her before.
He doubted that. Still, her artlessness stirred him. Not a Cyprian, that was clear. He was glad. There was nothing challenging or novel about seducing a whore or making a courtesan your mistress.
He led her down the steps and into the garden. Her gasps of surprise reached his ears, but not any objections. He pulled her deeply into the plantings and swung her behind some shrubbery. A few lanterns danced in the breeze nearby, but their pools of light did not reach back here.
They still might be seen. He would not mind. Maybe that would wipe the knowing, sanctimonious approval off the faces of all those idiots who thought a certain duke had reformed.
“I don’t think—I did not—”
Her words never got far, she was so breathless. He found that adorable and wondered what the deuce she thought would have happened with Harry had Harry been amendable to her flirting.
He pulled her into his arms. “You fully intended to be kissed tonight. How sad if you were disappointed.”
He kissed her soundly. She did not resist. For a second, shock immobilized her, however. Then her mouth softened beneath his and she allowed it like she had on the terrace. He tasted no paint. Her lips were naturally that wine-red color.
The dress was a damned nuisance, sheathing as it did firm stays that encased her like armor. The mask severely limited his art.
He felt behind her head for the ribbons. “Let us remove this so I can—”
“No. I cannot be seen by anyone here.”
“It is so dark in this garden that you would never be recognized.”
“I cannot risk it. Not even with you.”
So be it. He paid all his attention to her mouth to discover just how artless she may in fact be. Not totally without experience, it turned out. She permitted the increased intimacy when he
slid his tongue in and even sparred with her own. That was enough to send his arousal to new levels. He began calculating how brazen he could be in this garden tonight.
The dress interfered with caresses, but its neckline offered impressive opportunities. He moved his mouth to her ear, then neck. He kissed down her soft skin to the firm swells of her breasts. The scent of lavender rose while he indulged himself there. Her bated breaths sang a melody of desire into his ear.
She arched against him so her body pressed his and she presented her breasts for more. She clutched his shoulders as if seeking refuge. The little shepherdess had entered the stage of abandon that became needy and fevered.
He turned her in his arm. “Come with me. There is a little folly back here where we can—”
She took three steps, then dug in her heels. “There are others about. I can hear them. I dare not.”
Damnation. Not so abandoned after all. He embraced her again while his desire sought other possibilities. He would go mad if this was all there was. He wanted her and she wanted him, and there could be only one conclusion now.
“Come with me to my house,” he murmured between nips and invasions, dodging the edges of that damned mask. “You leave first, and I will follow and take you there. We will have privacy and drink champagne.” And he would drink his full of her too. Slowly. Fully. Savoring each drop in the least predictable ways that he could devise.
“I must not be seen with you.” She got it out in fits and starts around gasps and muffled cries.
She was married. That was the most likely explanation. A bored wife who had finally had enough sitting at home while her master gambled at his club. Gabriel knew those wives very well.
“Is there somewhere else?” she asked. “Somewhere in town in a neighborhood other than Mayfair?”
Her willingness made his thinking sharp. His mind sliced through to a solution. “We can meet at my brother’s house tomorrow night. It is near the City. No one will be there except you and me.” He did not welcome the delay, but he would live with it.
She kissed him aggressively. Enough that he lost track of what he had been saying and moved his caresses to her hips, where they might be more effective.
“Where is this house?” she asked. “Are you sure it is safe for me?”
“No one notices anything on that street. It is not far from the British Museum.” He fanned his hands across her bottom and pressed her hips close. The warmth and pressure provided some relief but also edged him toward recklessness. “Say you will join me there tomorrow.”
She deliberately put some space between their lower bodies. “You expect too much, I fear.”
Not too much, but too soon. It had been a green boy’s mistake. He was better than that. He forced a modicum of calm. “I expect nothing except sharing champagne and conversation. And one kiss, that is all. Not even an embrace or caress.” Lies. She wouldn’t stand a chance after that first kiss.
She pressed her hands against his shoulders. She looked up at him. “How would I get in?”
Ah, victory. “Through the front door, of course.”
She shook her head. “You have no idea what I risk. If you leave the garden door unlocked, I will come that way.”
“You can climb in a window if you want.”
She did not laugh. She spoke not a word and didn’t even move.
“I promise the garden door will be unlocked.” He ventured another kiss, a sweet one of reassurance. “You will meet me?”
“Not tomorrow. The next night.”
“Any night you want. No costume, though. No mask.”
“Then I cannot—”
“You can trust me that much. I will leave the lamps unlit and the fire very low. Would that make you more contented?”
She held his shoulders. He sensed her thinking hard. “Where is this house?”
“Bainbridge Street.” He gave her the direction. “The night after next. Ten o’clock. Promise you will be there.”
She extricated herself from his embrace. “I will try. I must go now. I have already stayed here too long.”
“Until two nights hence, then. I will be waiting.”
She turned away.
“Wait. What is your name?” he asked.
She looked back over her shoulder. Then she ran up the garden path.
Chapter Four
Amanda folded her hands on her lap and kept a friendly smile on her face. She sat on a divan in the house on Bedford Square. Six women sat in chairs forming an arc in front of her. They kept looking at her.
Small talk flowed, but social chatting was not the reason for this meeting. Amanda Waverly was. She could not imagine why.
The housekeeper brought little cakes to eat along with the tea, coffee, sherry, wine, and, unless Amanda’s eyes deceived her, whisky. Thus far, only Lady Farnsworth had indulged in those spirits. Twice.
A woman whom Amanda had not seen before, Lady Grace, reached for one of the cakes. An ideal beauty with dark hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin, the lady had been blessed with a thin, lithe figure that allowed her to indulge in as many sweets as she wanted.
Lady Grace remained silent, as did two of the other women who were new to her. Mrs. Dalton, a stout woman with a cloud of pale hair and respectable but unimpressive garments, listened attentively. Another woman, Mrs. Clark, clearly of lower station to all the others, looked wide-eyed and attentive, but subdued.
Right across from Amanda, watching her very hard indeed, sat the Duchess of Stratton. This was the journal’s patroness of whom Lady Farnsworth had spoken.
Amanda judged her to be in her middle twenties. She also was so heavy with child that Amanda wondered the woman had left her home. Copper streaks lit the duchess’s brown hair. Her clear blue eyes assessed Amanda while Lady Farnsworth held forth on a recent bill submitted to Parliament. Beside the duchess sat Mrs. Galbreath, the editor of the journal.
The duchess smiled at Mrs. Galbreath when Lady Farnsworth finally took a breath. “I think this will be a perfect solution. Don’t you agree?”
“If I did not, I would have never asked you to come. In your condition—”
“Don’t you start on that. Adam is bad enough. The coach is so filled with pillows that I did not experience one jostle, although getting in and out was comical.” She turned her sights on Amanda again. “Lady Farnsworth has extolled your talents to all of us. We have a proposal for you and hope that you will hear us out.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“The journal has seen unanticipated growth this last year. We are thinking of moving from quarterly publication to bi-monthly. That is not realistic if Mrs. Galbreath continues doing everything, as she does now. Ordinarily I would help her, but under the circumstances . . .” She rested her hand upon the bulge in her pale lemon muslin dress. “We are looking to find some help for Mrs. Galbreath. Lady Farnsworth suggested herself. Or rather, you.”
“It is the accounts, you see,” Mrs. Galbreath said. “I loathe doing them, so I put them off until last, but sometimes last never arrives. I admit that I have not seen to them properly as result. Lady Farnsworth described how you have taken over her household accounts and managed them so well, and we thought we might impose on you to do the same for the journal.”
Amanda did not know what to say. She had been similarly speechless when Lady Farnsworth had brought her the household accounts. If any of these women knew about her past, they would never trust her with finances. Actually, they would never sit in the same chamber as she did.
She had told herself that the past was just that—the past. It had allowed her to accept the duty from Lady Farnsworth. Only now the past was not the past so much.
“You are concerned that it will interfere with your responsibilities to me, I expect,” Lady Farnsworth said. “You are not to worry. This will not take much time, and you can do most of it in my house. We will set aside a few hours a week for that purpose. No one intends to add to your labor.”
“Indeed
not. I will not have that,” the duchess said. “If you cannot fit it into the time you give Lady Farnsworth, either we will find another solution or we will compensate you for the additional hours. The decision would be yours.”
“It sounds as though it would be interesting,” Amanda said. Numbers were numbers, but seeing how one financed a journal would be fascinating, and more informative than scrutinizing the fees owed butchers and stationers.
“Then you will give it a try?” the duchess asked.
“Since Lady Farnsworth is agreeable to sharing me with you, I will gladly try.”
“That is a great relief to me,” Mrs. Galbreath said. “Should we toast to your inclusion in our literary sisterhood?” She leaned forward, lifted the sherry decanter, and poured a round.
Amanda sipped hers, noting how the liquid warmed her inside as it trickled down her throat. She rolled her tongue over the flavor. A little sweet, a little not. She rather liked it.
“Now, dear, there is one more thing,” Lady Farnsworth said. “The duchess insisted on having a look at you, and that is understandable. However, you are not to tell anyone of her patronage. In the autumn, the journal will begin including her name and role, but for now it is a secret.”
“It is not really a secret,” Mrs. Galbreath corrected. “However, there was some business last year and we thought it best to wait a while before being forthcoming.”
“How scandalous you both make it sound,” the duchess said with a laugh. “Miss Waverly, a year ago Parnassus published a story about my family. We continued leaving my patronage unmentioned lest some think the revelations were not complete due to my involvement. I am sure you understand.”
“I would think you could forever leave it unmentioned if you choose. It is really no one else’s affair.”
“It is past time to claim ownership, I think. I am very proud of Parnassus. Oh, how I miss the excitement of creating the first issues with Althea—Mrs. Galbreath—just the two of us, finding the contributors, rushing to the press, begging the booksellers to give it a try—” She smiled warmly at Mrs. Galbreath. “You do better alone than we did together, Althea. The idea was mine, but the success was always yours.”
A Devil of a Duke Page 4