For the Duke's Eyes Only (School for Dukes #2)

by Lenora Bell

  “I’m not acquainted with Lady Catherine but I’ve heard about her discovery of Bronze Age barrows in Wiltshire. I’ve also heard she’s quite the eccentric.”

  Indy shrugged impatiently. “That’s what people say when they don’t have a box to fit someone inside. Lady Catherine is my archaeology mentor and my friend. I’ll be glad to have the chance to visit with her. I received a letter from her recently that was rather worrisome.”

  “How so?”

  “She wrote that she was in ill health and was experiencing heart palpitations and terrible vertigo. She consulted several medical doctors but only found a small measure of relief after hiring a Dr. Lowe, whom she calls a mesmerist.”

  “I’ve heard of mesmerism. It’s all quackery.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. It does sound as though Dr. Lowe has a very powerful influence upon her. She’s a very wealthy woman, and I only hope he’s an honorable man.”

  They reached her town house and Indy opened the door with her key. A piano concerto whirled into the air with a crashing of ominous bass notes.

  “Who’s playing?” asked Ravenwood. “It sounds like a man. Why is a man playing the piano in your house?”

  “Don’t be jealous. It’s not a man, it’s my friend Miss Beaton. She practices here as my piano is superior to hers.”

  “I wasn’t jealous.”

  Odd that he would deny it in such a guilty tone. Had he actually been jealous at the thought of a man in her town house?

  “We depart for Paris tonight at five o’clock. Meet me at The White Bear, Piccadilly,” he said tersely.

  She watched him walk away. Men and women alike turned their heads and stared as he passed. He was larger than life. Taller, more confident, more charismatic . . . with enough charm to woo the world.

  She tore her gaze away. She must hide her desires more carefully.

  Build her walls higher.

  She could never let him see how he disarmed her.

  Chapter 7

  Safely inside her house, Indy collapsed against the solid wood door, her breath coming in short pants.

  Holy mother of . . . what in the nine concentric circles of tormented Hell had just happened?

  She felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest yet again and pinned to her lapel, beating and bleeding for the whole world to examine.

  This wasn’t just an unexpected twist, or a plummet from a cliff. She had no idea what this was. She had no precedent in her experience for quantifying its meaning.

  This morning she’d been on solid footing, and now . . .

  Now she knew that Ravenwood kissed with his eyes open, as if he didn’t want to miss a millisecond of her response.

  She knew the muscular scaffolding of his torso, the lean lines of his abdomen, the marble-sculpted roundness of his buttocks beneath her questing hands.

  The gruff, encouraging noises he made when he was pleased by the progress of said questing hands.

  The sensation of being both supported and overwhelmed by the sheer strength of his body, the force of his kisses. He’d always been larger than life in her mind, a sort of colossal statue of a man, like a monolith carved into bedrock.

  But beneath that arrogant, mocking exterior she knew now that he had a heart that thumped against her breast, eyes that heated with desire . . . lips that played over hers with such teasing gentleness that it drove her to the brink of madness.

  She unbuttoned her pelisse and removed her hat, setting them on the hallway table, moving heedlessly while her mind and heart still raced.

  You’re in trouble, Indy. So much trouble.

  She couldn’t simply unlearn all of this newly acquired knowledge. She was both an archaeologist and an archivist by nature. She not only wanted to make incredible discoveries, she wanted to pore over them until she’d classified them, until she understood their deeper significance.

  The passions, fears, and forces that had driven the lives of ancient peoples. The mistakes that had destroyed them, the passions that had overruled their good sense, or the hope that had sustained them.

  The kiss with Ravenwood had given her the exact same thrilling sense of discovery as uncovering an archaeological site. She wanted to know what it meant.

  She wanted to know why he’d kissed her, why he’d lost control this time, when all the other times they’d clashed he’d remained mocking and emotionally removed. Yes, he’d wanted to frighten her, but she sensed it had been more than that.

  For that matter, why had she kissed him? She couldn’t help the detailed, wanton dreams she had about him, but she could have pulled away from his kiss.

  Because you wanted him to kiss you.

  You want to learn him, understand him. Scratch his surface and dive beneath.

  What she must do is pretend it hadn’t happened. Bury these new feelings just as deeply as the old ones. Lock up all of these questions and swallow the key.

  Easier said than done.

  When the Observer made its way to Paris, everyone in British society there would be asking them questions about those ridiculous, grandiose wedding plans she’d described.

  She untwisted her hair from the knot her lady’s maid, Fern, had fashioned that morning. She needed to loosen something. Unravel something. Because she was wound so tightly she might snap.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, scratching her scalp with her fingernails. She was the owner of this body, this mind, this heart . . . no one else.

  It was only a game. A diversion tactic.

  Their mission was real and of paramount importance for her, and for England.

  Viola’s piano playing stopped abruptly and Indy heard the sound of muffled cursing.

  Enough thinking. What’s done was done. They left for Paris in only a few short hours.

  Indy entered the music room and ducked her head to avoid being hit by the clothbound notebook sailing through the air.

  She knelt and picked it up.

  “Oh I am sorry.” Viola swiveled on the piano stool. “I hope I didn’t hit you.”

  Indy opened the notebook. “Symphony Number Ten in D minor, opus one twenty-six,” she read aloud. “Number Ten’s not going well?”

  “Number Ten will be the death of me. Father’s hearing is worsening every day. I can’t tell precisely what he wants to convey and so I take stabs in the dark . . . but that’s not why I threw the notebook.”

  Indy joined her by the piano. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was sacked today.” Viola played a ferocious chord progression with her left hand. “Can you imagine? Sacked from the worst music teaching post in all of London. Attempting to finesse a melody from Lady Clara’s fingers was a hopeless endeavor, I assure you.”

  “They let you go because she wasn’t making any progress?”

  “Lord Bent sacked me because he pinched me on the bum when no one was looking, as he’s done so many times before, and something in me just snapped. I couldn’t stand there in silence anymore, so I let him know in no uncertain terms that I was not a lump of dough to be pinched and that if he didn’t keep his hands to himself I’d be forced to use mine to slap him.”

  “I suppose that didn’t go over very well.”

  Viola’s face fell. “I don’t know what I’ll do. It was a well-paid position. I’m a fool.”

  “No you’re not.” Indy put her arm around Viola’s shoulders. “I should go over to his house and put my knife to his throat and see how he likes being at a power disadvantage.”

  “He would deserve that. Loathsome creature.”

  “You’ll find another position. I’ll ask my brother if any of his friends could use the best music instructor in all of England.”

  “Thank you.” Viola smiled. “And thank you for letting me use your piano. This is such a pleasure to play.” Her fingers caressed the gleaming ivory keys, teasing out a lilting melody.

  Indy’s lady’s maid, Fern, entered carrying a tea tray and set it on the table. “All your things are read
y for Paris, my lady.”

  “Wonderful. Have a lovely time with your family while I’m away.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I do appreciate the extra time.” Fern bobbed a curtsy and left.

  “Paris?” asked Viola.

  “I had a trying day as well,” said Indy.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Indy opened a cabinet and produced a bottle of sherry. “I think we both could use a dash of this in our tea.”

  Viola sat with her at the table and Indy poured equal parts sherry and tea.

  “Now, what’s happened?” asked Viola. “You went to your brother’s house?”

  “It’s going to be all over the broadsheets soon, so I may as well tell you. I’ve done something impulsive.”

  “You? Do something impulsive?” The feigned incredulity on Viola’s face made Indy smile.

  “It’s shocking, I know.”

  “What did you do?” asked Viola with a curious glance as she sipped from her cup.

  How to explain what had happened when she couldn’t make sense of it herself? “While you were fending off boorish unwanted advances, I was succumbing to . . . temptation.”

  “What sort of temptation?”

  The wicked scoundrel sort. “It’s somewhat difficult to explain, but the heart of the matter is that the Duke of Ravenwood and I are to be wed.”

  Viola set down her teacup and liquid sloshed over the side. “Have you gone quite mad?”

  “It’s all hogwash. Don’t believe what you read about it in the papers. We’re not really going to be married.”

  “You’re marrying . . . or you’re not marrying?”

  “It’s only one of our battles. It’s all a game. The Grandest Wedding that Never Will Be. We’re seeing who will cave and bow out first.” Indy swallowed more tea. “It won’t be me.”

  “I need more tea.” Viola poured herself more sherry, and no tea. “But how did this happen?”

  “There was a misunderstanding.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding?”

  “We were arguing.”

  “Arguing is grounds for marriage?”

  “We may have been . . . argue-kissing.”

  “What on earth is argue-kissing?”

  “It’s when you’re half arguing and half kissing. Maybe a better name for it would be hate-kissing. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and such. I’m sure it happens to people all the time.”

  “I’m not sure of that in the least. I’ve never been tempted to hate-kiss anyone.”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “I gathered as much. So . . . you were hate-kissing the Duke of Ravenwood and then what happened?”

  “Then my brother, and Mr. Peabody from the Observer, walked in upon us.”

  Viola sprayed tea, which was mostly sherry by now, in an unladylike manner. “What did you say?”

  “My brother Edgar was being interviewed about the steam races and he wanted to show Mr. Peabody a model of his steam engine. He didn’t know what was happening in his library.”

  “Hate-kissing,” Viola supplied helpfully.

  “Exactly. And . . .”

  “There’s more?”

  “There may have been some . . . arse-grabbing.”

  “Oh sweet Lord. Lady India Rochester. What exactly was occurring in that room?”

  Indy bristled. “I don’t even know, really. It just . . . happened. And then when we were caught I was so furious with myself and angry with Ravenwood. I didn’t want the newspaperman to publish an account and have everyone think that the duke had won the war of the sexes, and so I said the first thing that popped into my head.”

  Viola groaned. “Oh no. That never ends well.”

  “I know,” said Indy ruefully. “Sometimes I can’t hold my tongue. I explained to Mr. Peabody that we had been betrothed since birth but that Ravenwood had finally agreed to set a date. I then proceeded to elaborate upon our wedding plans. I thought that if I made up enough outrageous details Peabody would be distracted from the hate-kissing.”

  “And did it work?” Viola poured Indy more sherry.

  Indy swallowed it in two gulps. “I think so? We’ll know when the paper is published. I won’t be here because I’ll be in Paris. With Ravenwood.”

  Viola’s eyes widened. “Wait. First you were kissing, next there’s a wedding to plan, and now you’re traveling to Paris with him?”

  “We’re both searching for the same antiquity to . . . purchase.”

  Viola shook her head. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”

  The sherry tea was taking the edge off Indy’s panic. Maybe it wasn’t so bad what she’d done. Maybe everything would work out splendidly.

  She’d ignore Ravenwood. They’d find the stone on the very first day. She’d verify the name of the temple and be off to search for Cleopatra’s tomb within a week’s time.

  She downed the remainder of her tea.

  “Do you have . . . feelings for the duke?” asked Viola, gazing into her teacup instead of at India.

  “I do have feelings for him. Botheration, annoyance, rage, and . . . oh yes, the urge to strangle him most of the time. I haven’t had the chance to tell you yet that he discovered my disguise when I infiltrated the Society of Antiquaries yesterday.”

  “He didn’t,” said Viola, her eyes widening. “Did he give you away?”

  “No, but only because there was no personal gain to be had by doing so. I made a discovery that he was too dense headed to see and that’s what started this whole antiquities quest.”

  “I still can’t believe you snuck into the meeting. Your heart must have been pounding so loudly.”

  “It was a close thing with that moustache—the paste didn’t hold very well.”

  “I might think about infiltrating the Royal Society of Musicians.”

  “I don’t think your disguise would be as easily believed as mine.” Viola was slender with an adorable button nose and large green eyes. Her personality was oversized, but her person was petite.

  “The male societies are not all they’re cracked up to be,” said Indy. “It was actually really boring and staid. All they did was sit around a table and make lists.”

  “An all-female society would be much more fun, I’d wager,” said Viola with a giggle.

  “So much fun. We’d drink sherry tea and cook up schemes for female world domination.”

  “I like that. If they won’t let us join their societies then we should start our own.”

  “A gathering place for all the females who’ve been barred from the societies they should by rights be eligible to join,” agreed Indy.

  “I could invite Miss Ardella Finchley to join. She’s a brilliant chemist.”

  Indy didn’t have many friends in London. Only her brother, Mari, and Viola. She was traveling so much of the time. It might be nice to associate with other unconventional ladies.

  Viola lifted her teacup in a salute. “To the Society for Professional-minded Ladies.”

  “We can’t name our society anything so obvious or we’ll be shut down for seditious activities.”

  Viola set down her teacup. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. It would be rather a perilous undertaking. Perhaps we could call it something domestic and innocuous, like the League of Lady Knitters? We could keep knitting and mending baskets at the ready as cover in case we’re raided by the authorities.”

  “I do like that. Or we could call it something Greek or Latin. Very respectable-sounding, yet non-specific.” Indy fingered the shape of the coin necklace beneath her bodice. “Like the Minerva Society, for Minerva, goddess of wisdom.”

  “I do like that.” Viola clinked Indy’s teacup with hers. “They’ll never even notice us. We’ll hide in plain sight.”

  “We’ll do more planning when I return from France,” said Indy.

  Viola sighed. “I do envy you traveling so freely—I can’t leave Papa these days. I love him dearly but he is tryi
ng to one’s patience.”

  “Ravenwood would try the patience of a saint. I’m hoping we’ll conclude our search swiftly and I’ll be able to resume my plans for my next journey.”

  “He may try the patience of a saint, but please don’t let him turn you into a sinner.”

  Too late for that. She’d been sinning in her dreams with Ravenwood for years now.

  The hall clock chimed and Viola jumped. “Is it already so late? I must be going home.” She rose from her chair and kissed Indy on the cheek. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I know that you and Ravenwood have a history.”

  “Not to worry. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. If I could throw him. Which I couldn’t. He’s too large.”

  He was so large. He’d been thrillingly in control as well. Why had that been so thrilling?

  Those hands of his . . . She was not a small woman, she had generous curves, and his palms had covered quite a lot of territory.

  The sensation had been strange. He’d made her feel almost delicate, and she had to be so very strong and powerful all the time to achieve her aims.

  And that kiss . . .

  “Indy,” said Viola. “I must leave now.”

  Her mind kept diving off of cliffs. She must grab hold of herself. “Not to worry, all will be well. You’re welcome to practice here while I’m away. I should only be gone less than a fortnight.”

  She escorted Viola to the door before climbing the stairs to her bedchamber.

  You’re making a habit of touching me. He’d said the words flippantly but they’d cut her because they were true.

  She’d never been able to shake the desire. The young girl who secretly loved it when he pulled coins from her ears was now the woman who dreamt of him at least once a week.

  She’d tried everything: sleeping potions, counting sheep, long walks before bedtime . . . none of it helped.

  The dreams started out innocently enough. Everyday, ordinary Ravenwood interactions. They argued and hurled insults at each other, much as they’d done earlier today, and then . . . the heat of anger transformed into the heat of desire.

  And not ethereal courtly desire—earthly, fleshly desire.