by Diana Quincy
“Romantic assignation? It was no such thing!” She prayed he’d have the good manners to vanish as quickly and quietly as he had appeared.
Instead, the scoundrel chuckled. “Once the heart-warming declarations of love and marriage began, I was keen to learn how it would all resolve itself.”
She batted the smoke away in quick, jerky movements. “It was private—”
“Most assignations are,” he interrupted, his eyes dancing. “Are felicitations on your impending betrothal in order? Allow me to be the first to bestow them.”
“You are insufferable.” Embarrassed indignation filled her chest. “A gentleman would have made his presence known. But you are obviously no gentleman.”
“So some have said.” He drew on his cheroot and exhaled, watching darkness swallow the curling fog of silvery smoke. “But enough about that. Do tell, are you and old Gus stepping into the parson’s mousetrap?”
As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she could make out the unforgiving angles of his face. Sharp cut lines which would look quite menacing, if not for the roguish glint in his eyes. “Even if it were so, I surely wouldn’t share information of a personal nature with a stranger,” she said, her nerves on end. “I do not know you, sir.”
“Quite right. I’m suitably chastened.” His answering grin flashed white in the darkness. “Do accept my most humble apologies.” His hand whipped out to grab her arm. Startled, she jumped back with a cry of alarm. His ungloved fingers tightened around the bare skin of her arm above her silk evening gloves, and the shock of flesh on flesh sizzled through her.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, struggling as he dragged her behind the hedgerow. Jerking his head in the direction of the stairs, he brought a long finger to the firm curve of his lips, signaling for her to be silent. She followed his gaze to the top of the stairs, where a couple prepared to descend. She clamped her mouth shut. The last thing she needed was another hint of scandal if she were discovered alone in the garden with a strange man. Why did she always seem to land herself into these situations?
The glowing tip of the cheroot sailed to the ground, the stranger’s boot heel silently coming down to crush the life out of it. They stood frozen while the couple walked down the stairs chatting, passing Willa and the stranger, who remained hidden by the greenery.
The man’s tall form stood so near that his body heat lapped at her. He smelled intoxicatingly fresh, like soap, as though he’d just scrubbed himself clean, intermingled with the distinctive scent of tobacco. A heightened sense of her own physicality zipped through Willa; her breathing sounded unnaturally loud; the rhythm of her heart clanged a clumsy beat and her skin warmed despite the evening chill.
“Please unhand me, sir.” Disconcerted by her peculiar bodily reaction to him, she shrugged his hand off the moment the couple moved out of earshot.
“What was it you mentioned to your amorous suitor? Something about the follies of your past? I took it upon myself to spare you any further embarrassment.”
Beastly man. Inside, she churned with humiliation, but on the outside, her face assumed the cool, imperious cloak it wore so well. The one that kept people at bay.
“Surely I deserve words of praise from the lady,” he continued, “rather than her scorn?”
“Alas,” she said tartly, “the words you truly deserve would never pass a lady’s lips.”
Perfecting her posture, she turned away. Taking pains to appear unhurried, she sailed back up the stairs while his quiet laughter drifted behind her in the darkness.
…
The Earl of Bellingham sipped watery lemonade while watching a pretty brown-haired maid set more of the tepid liquid out in the refreshment room. So Willa planned to resist him. He went hard just thinking about it. She’d been damned appealing back when she’d been willing. But now, all fiery and reluctant, she was spectacular. Once the chit belonged to him, he’d enjoy bringing her back into submission.
The clatter of glasses turned his thoughts back to the brown-eyed maid and the sway of her generous hips. He quietly followed the wench along the narrow service corridor until they were alone in a tight alcove between the main assembly rooms and the kitchen.
“Girl,” he called out.
She stopped at once and turned around. The usual appreciation his physical appearance drew from wenches flickered in her widening eyes. “May I be of service, my lord?”
The light slanted across her unremarkable features, revealing the girl to be rather plain of face. No matter, he needed relief and she would do well enough. Advancing on her, he flicked a coin in her direction. It clattered to the ground before she could think to catch it. “Yes, you could be of service to me.”
She looked confused for a moment until her gaze fluttered down to his obvious arousal, which he made no attempt to hide. She reddened and backed away, crossing her arms against her chest. “Oh, no my lord. I am a good girl. I could send Stella to ye maybe.” Her color deepened. “She’ll give ye a toss for a price.”
The idea of a willing whore bored him. “No, I’ll have you.” The fear in her eyes made him harden even more. “Or I shall be forced to let everyone know that you stole that blunt from me.”
Eyeing the shiny sovereign winking up at her from the floor, she trembled. “But I didn’t, my lord.”
“Who do you think they will believe, a peer of the realm or an inconsequential nothing like you?”
She bowed her head as tears filled her eyes. Tasting victory, Augustus’ pulse accelerated. His arousal swelled and ached with anticipation.
“Do not concern yourself overmuch. I am not interested in what’s between your legs.” He moved in on her, unfastening his breeches. “Get down on your knees, my pet.”
…
“There you are, Willa.” Her cousin, Arthur Stanhope, Marquess of Camryn, stood with her mother. “I believe you owe me a dance.”
“We were looking for you,” Mother said. “Where did you take yourself off to?”
She smoothed her face, anxious not to appear unnerved. “I stepped out for some air.” Her eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of either Augustus or the annoying man from the garden.
“Unaccompanied?” Her mother frowned. “Really, Willa.”
Her cousin saved her from further scrutiny by reminding her of their dance. “Now that you are quite refreshed, shall we?” He offered his arm.
“But this is a waltz,” Willa teased. “Think of all the maidens you’ll disappoint by standing up with your cousin.”
“Exactly,” he said, leading her out onto the dance floor. “You are the safest option for an unmarried marquess.”
Her good-natured cousin made her feel safe as well. The eldest son of her father’s brother, Cam had assumed the role of protective older brother after inheriting her father’s title. Looking up into his speckled green eyes and at his unruly tawny hair made her smile. Cam had the appearance of an untamed animal in his stiff evening clothes. “Surely you aren’t shirking your duty to marry and beget an heir.”
“Perhaps it is time for both of us to contemplate the matrimonial state.”
“With my reputation?” She forced a light tone, which belied the heaviness in her chest. “We have been over this more times than I care to count.”
“I could arrange an excellent match,” he said in a grave tone. “There are many fine gentlemen who would treat you well.”
“Thanks to the fortune you’ll bestow upon him for accepting me as his wife? No, I am quite happily on the shelf.” She lifted her chin. “Now, will you find me a tutor? You did promise.”
“You are a peculiar female, cousin.” His grave countenance fell away, restoring his usual easy amiability. “Most maidens are interested in the latest fashions rather than world politics and the inner workings of Parliament.”
“There’s just so much to learn and I’ve been rusticating in the country for far too long.”
“Not to worry. I’ve already had my man of business inquire into i
t. It shouldn’t be long before he finds a suitable tutor.”
Excited by the prospect, Willa favored her cousin with a dazzling smile. Deciding not to marry had freed her to pursue her interests. After the tranquility of country life, she anxiously soaked up London’s bustling atmosphere. The metropolis was so alive and dynamic, teeming with remarkable people and new ideas she longed to explore.
She wasn’t the same sheltered girl who’d almost become Augustus’ wife. Marriage struck her as so limiting now, what with so much of the world waiting to reveal itself. The Ladies Reading Society that Flor had recently introduced her to promised far more excitement than any man could. Although her mother would suffer the vapors if she learned they were currently reading The Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft, whose radical assertion that females were not inferior to males was considered scandalous.
Besides, she’d be a fool to take a husband. With her reputation, only fortune hunters would want her now. Augustus had certainly demonstrated how distasteful the physical side of marriage could be, and her late father’s flagrant philandering was a testament to a husband’s inconstancy. Except for Cam and his brothers, men were not to be trusted. She’d learned that lesson well. When the music ended, Cam returned Willa to her mother before wandering off to fetch lemonade for the ladies.
“Adela is enjoying herself,” Mother said. “Her dance card is full.” They watched Willa’s angelic-looking sister float across the floor with her latest smitten dance partner. Now nine-and-ten, her younger sister had grown into a beautiful young woman. Addie moved as if on air, her sunny, ethereal disposition a perfect complement to her fair, delicate looks.
“She will no doubt make a brilliant match,” Willa said. “One can only hope it’s not that clod she is dancing with right now.”
“That is most unkind.” Mother admonished her. “The Earl of Spence comes from a noble ancient family and he has six thousand pounds a year.”
“But he is rather clumsy, I have to agree,” said Cam returning with lemonade and a conspiratorial wink for Willa.
She sipped her lemonade, the lukewarm liquid doing little to cool her in the growing warmth of the assembly hall. Someone had thrown open the terrace doors, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference because the air remained thick and still. Surveying the hall, her mind wandered as she watched the well-dressed couples take their turn about the dance floor, absentmindedly tapping her slipper to the music. Her foot froze when she saw the scoundrel emerge from the crowd.
Framed by strong shoulders, his towering black-clad form moved with supreme self-assurance, like a god who’d descended from Mount Olympus to walk among lesser beings. He strode across the room in a way that was both leisurely and aggressive, exuding an unmistakable air of dominion. She pretended to ignore him, as if that were really possible, and prayed he wouldn’t see her. But the beast cut a path straight toward her; his long, strong legs moved with determined purpose, eating up the distance between them.
Her stomach plummeted. There was no escape.
“Preston, you nonesuch, however are you?” Cam said when the beastly man came to a stop before them. “I was beginning to think you meant to stay abroad forever.” Cam clapped his hand on the stranger’s shoulder and shook his hand with vigor.
Willa’s mouth fell open. This Mr. Preston person was clearly known to Cam, who seemed quite pleased to see him. There’d be no avoiding the scoundrel now.
“Ladies, allow me to present His Grace, the Duke of Hartwell.”
She jerked back. A duke! It was unimaginable.
“This is my aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Camryn.” Cam turned to Willa. “And my cousin, Lady Wilhelmina Stanhope.”
The duke greeted them most properly, except for the glint in his dark eyes when he bowed over Willa’s gloved hand. She curtseyed—perhaps not as deeply as one should for a duke—and murmured the usual polite salutations, all the while taking care to avoid his gaze. But once he returned his attention to Cam, she stole a closer look.
He couldn’t exactly be considered handsome—his features were too vivid for that. They were like sharp-cut glass, giving him an almost harsh appearance. He wore his dark mane unfashionably long and tied back at the nape of his neck, which emphasized his bold features.
“For shame, Camryn,” Mother was saying. “How is it that you haven’t made His Grace known to us before now?”
“Preston has been abroad.” He turned to the duke. “Although I suppose you are Hartwell now since you’ve come into the title. Must I address you as ‘Your Grace’?”
“Hardly,” the duke said in a dry tone. “Hartwell will do nicely.”
“The duke and I were up at Cambridge together,” Cam said. “We had some good times, didn’t we, Pres…errr…Hartwell?”
“Indeed.” The duke’s smile softened the severe angles of his face. “However, I fear there is little we can say of it in front of gentle company.”
“No doubt,” Willa said tartly. The words slipped out almost before she realized she’d spoken aloud. Mother gasped at the insolence.
“Touché, Lady Wilhelmina.” Mirth lit the duke’s eyes, which had seemed black at first, but were actually a midnight blue. They crinkled up at the corners when he smiled. “It appears you know your cousin quite well.”
“Willa is hard on me.” Good humor filled Cam’s voice. “I suppose this is how it feels to have a sister.”
“And quite a lovely sister at that,” Hartwell said. “I see the next set is about to begin. Perhaps I could have the honor of dancing with Lady Wilhelmina?”
Willa drew back. “I am complimented, Your Grace. But I find the dancing has quite worn me out.”
“Nonsense.” Barely-controlled excitement caused Mother to fidget as though she needed to use the chamber pot. “You were saying you’d like another turn around the dance floor and, fortunately for His Grace, you have room on your dance card.”
Willa suppressed a sigh. She’d said no such thing. But standing up with someone of Hartwell’s consequence would be quite the achievement for a girl who’d teetered on the brink of ruination for as long as she had.
“There you have it then.” The duke favored Mother with a heart-stoppingly wide smile, revealing an orderly row of long bright teeth, except for a couple of renegades which tilted their own way. His twinkling eyes settled expectantly on Willa as if defying her to disappoint her own mother.
Drat it all. “As you wish.” Willa forced indifference into her voice.
“Excellent!” Mother clasped her hands together, her face glowing with delighted anticipation. “Do enjoy yourselves.”
As fortune would have it, the next dance was another waltz. She shivered when the duke placed a firm hand on her waist, taking her gloved hand in the other as they joined the crowd of dancers on the floor. His solid strength encased her, making her feel strangely safe and protected.
“Alone at last,” he said.
“Indeed.” Slipping behind the protective mask of detachment she often donned in public, Willa gazed about the room, adopting a deliberate pose of polite disinterest.
…
Grey Preston, Duke of Hartwell, cocked one eyebrow, both amused and disconcerted by Lady Wilhelmina’s show of disdain. That didn’t happen to him often, especially now that he’d come into the title. Still, her cool distance gave him a chance to examine her more closely.
She was exquisite. Much of her beauty came from the incandescent quality of her skin. Smooth and flawless, the soft, porcelain-like surface seemed to glow from within. His gaze moved from the graceful turn of throat to the smooth expanse of her fashionable décolletage, which revealed the creamy slopes of generous breasts.
His blood warmed. He couldn’t blame Bellingham for being besotted with such an extraordinary creature. Contrary to what she’d assumed, he’d heard only snatches of the exchange on the terrace. The word marriage had certainly been bandied about several times. His stomach tightened with disgust at the thoug
ht of Gus Manning laying a hand on her person. Surely, Cam would never allow such a sordid match. But how could she not be married by now? She must have had numerous offers. Her obvious beauty easily eclipsed all of the other, less fortunate maidens in the room.
She regarded him with impossibly large eyes, which dominated her face, their velvety mocha color alight with intelligence. “It seems I should thank you for not referring to our….ah…earlier encounter outside.”
“Do not think of it. It is I who should apologize for discomfiting you.” He paused. “Might I ask if Bellingham is a serious suitor?”
“Most assuredly not. I hadn’t seen him in years before this evening.” She had a voice like melted dark chocolate—creamy, vibrant, and smoothly potent. “Are you acquainted with the earl?”
“We were at Cambridge together.”
The lines of her body stiffened. “So you are friends.”
“No.” He resisted the urge to make a rude sound. “One could not call us friends. Although it appears the same could not be said about the two of you. Bellingham does seem quite enamored of you.”
“It is nothing.”
“From what I overheard on the terrace, Gus would disagree. It is easy to comprehend why he remains besotted with you. You are uniquely lovely.”
Especially given the intriguing strands of red and gold which lit her chestnut curls, dancing each time they fleetingly caught the light. His gaze fell to the enticing plumpness of her moist, pink lips. “Perhaps Byron thought of you when he wrote his latest poem, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry nights.’”
The lady blushed. “Are you a poet as well as a world traveler, Your Grace?”
“Not at all.” The lovely flush of color against her luminescent complexion entranced him. How charming that someone of such extreme loveliness could remain so modest. “It is your beauty that inspires me to quote poetry.”
“I believe Lord Byron wrote that poem for his betrothed wife,” she said coolly.