An Unsuitable Duchess

by Laurie Benson

  Katrina’s heartbeat quickened and she had an urge to adjust her hair. Reliving his kiss, she refused look at him, certain she would blush. Surely Sarah would be able to tell they were now more than passing acquaintances.

  ‘Sarah, you have to stop. Someone might overhear you.’

  ‘But do you not want to know that his eyes are still on you?’ Sarah looked at Katrina with a wrinkled brow. ‘Why will you not even acknowledge him?’

  At this moment she couldn’t acknowledge him. If she did, everyone around her would know they shared a secret. It would be impossible to hide it in her expression.

  Katrina was saved from responding by the appearance of Madame de Lieven, who glided up to them on the arm of Mr Armstrong. It was the first time she could recall being happy to see the woman.

  ‘Miss Vandenberg, Miss Forrester—how lovely to see both of you again. You remember Mr Armstrong?’

  Katrina recalled the hawk-like features of the youngest son of Lord Greely. ‘Of course. How do you do, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘Quite well. I had the opportunity to speak with Wellington at length earlier.’ His chest was puffed out a bit more than usual. ‘I am acquainted with him, don’t you know?’

  Katrina watched him raise his quizzing glass and observe the room. When his quizzer rested on her, Katrina raised her chin until he lowered the glass.

  ‘Pray tell, Miss Vandenberg, have you found the time to explore Town yet? I am certain it’s like no place you have imagined,’ he said.

  ‘I find London most diverting,’ she replied politely.

  His lips rose in a superior smile. ‘I notice you were extended vouchers to attend Almack’s. You dance very well for an American.’

  How exactly should one respond to a comment like that? She was never certain. Glancing to her right, she noticed Sarah’s attention was on her slippers, her pursed lips giving away her amusement.

  ‘I understand you know how to waltz?’ Mr Armstrong continued.

  Oh, no. No. No. No. Why couldn’t she have talked with him later in the evening, when her waltzes might have all been claimed?

  ‘I do,’ Katrina replied slowly, glancing at Madame de Lieven. She caught the knowing glint in the woman’s eye.

  ‘I believe that’s the beginning of one now. If this dance isn’t claimed, would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Miss Vandenberg?’ He held his arm out to her.

  She wanted to flee. If she waltzed with him she would have to spend time with him for longer than any human being should be required to be in his company. However, if she declined his invitation she would be forced to sit out every dance. That would lead to a very dull evening.

  She had no choice but to take his arm. If only he were Julian.

  * * *

  Julian stood near the threshold of the ballroom and watched Lord Greely’s whelp escort Katrina onto the dance floor. Even in the low light coming from the chandeliers above he had no difficulty tracing her graceful form as she moved through the waltz. She was a vision in white organza and blue silk. He could watch her all night...

  ‘I would not wait too long to pursue her. She will be taken if you do,’ Hart commented casually.

  Julian took a sip of what he was certain was watered-down Madeira and wished he had borrowed his grandmother’s flask. ‘I don’t need your advice.’

  ‘Apparently Armstrong has no objection to the lady’s nationality. Maybe he likes leprechauns...or would the children be wee beasties? I cannot recall.’

  ‘What do you suppose he is up to?’ Julian wondered out loud as he narrowed his gaze.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? The man appreciates a pretty face and a lithe form. He might even enjoy dancing.’

  ‘I’ve never trusted him,’ Julian said, eyeing the couple over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Really? You don’t trust him with all things or with your Miss V?’

  ‘She isn’t mine, and I have never trusted him about anything. He is a sycophant and always has been.’

  ‘You are aware there is a bet placed in White’s about the two of you.’

  ‘Me and Armstrong?’

  ‘No, you dolt. You and Miss V.’

  Julian’s heart began to pound. He had only called on her that one time, and he had taken pains to walk to her house in the pouring rain with a rather large umbrella. How could someone know of their secret arrangement?

  ‘How was I not aware of this?’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Do you really care? There are plenty of bets placed about me. I pay them no heed.’

  A tic formed in Julian’s jaw. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The bet is on how long it will take for you to enter into a liaison with her.’

  Julian had a sudden need to crush something—or someone. He consciously relaxed his hold on his glass. At least the bet was not about if he was having a liaison with her already.

  ‘Who placed the bet?’

  Hart resumed watching the dancers and crossed his arms. ‘Don’t recall. They really are stunning together...all that golden glory. I imagine their children will be very attractive. Unless, of course, they do take on the appearance of green beasties.’

  ‘You’re an ass.’

  ‘So you have said—time and again,’ Hart replied with amusement. ‘Shall we play some cards? I have a hunting box in Scotland that Lord Middlebury must be missing. I am feeling generous and may lose it to him.’

  * * *

  Helena stepped to the edge of the dance floor and studied the woman who had captured Lyonsdale’s attention. Could this be the woman who had somehow persuaded Lyonsdale to waltz with her at Almack’s?

  Elizabeth, the Duchess of Skeffington, approached her side. ‘I am amazed we are listening to a quartet this evening. And the wine is positively insipid. It appears, Helena, that the Whitfields are not as prosperous as they once were. I would not be surprised if young Whitfield is hunting an heiress this very night.’

  When Helena made no reply, her friend continued. ‘That is a lovely gown she is wearing. I believe by the cut it’s French. It certainly cannot be American-made.’

  Helena shifted her gaze. ‘To whom are you referring, Lizzy?’

  ‘Oh, forgive me. I thought you were watching Miss Vandenberg—the woman dancing with Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘Why would I concern myself with someone dancing with a mere third son?’

  ‘Because she is the woman Lyonsdale waltzed with at Almack’s. I was watching them that night. He appeared quite taken with her. I assumed you had heard. It was on everyone’s lips the next day.’

  Of course she had heard about his waltz. She paid attention to every bit of gossip in the papers. One never knew when it might be used to one’s advantage. However, Lyonsdale had danced with the woman only once, and she had assumed it was for political reasons.

  ‘You never said anything to me.’

  ‘As I said, I assumed you had already heard. You know how much I loathe gossip. It was astonishing to see, though. He appeared to be smiling that night. I don’t believe I have ever seen him do so with a woman.’

  The American was still turning about the floor in her waltz. Her hair was the colour of straw, and her lips were too thin. The gown she wore covered a form that did not possess breasts or hips that would bring a man to his knees.

  ‘Who is she?’ Helena asked her friend.

  Lizzy’s eyes brightened. ‘She is the daughter of Mr Peter Vandenberg, the American author who is here on diplomatic affairs. One would think London was full of bluestockings, with all the talk of his book.’

  They stood in silence, each watching Miss Vandenberg.

  ‘It’s fascinating,’ Lizzy continued, ‘that when Lyonsdale chose to waltz it was with an American. That’s rather...humbling.’ Lizzy eyed Helena over her fan. ‘I’ve not witnessed you and Lyonsdale conversing tonight.’

  An unwelcome flush crept up Helena’s neck and she forced herself to appear relaxed. Was it possible that he had ended their affair because of a provincial colonial?
What did it say about her that he had replaced her with an American? She stole a glance at the men and women standing around them. Were they discussing it behind their fans and casting judgement?

  ‘Surely you haven’t been watching him all evening,’ she said to Lizzy, pushing her nails further into her gloved fist.

  She needed to ensure no attachment was forming between Lyonsdale and the American woman before she found herself the subject of gossip in the papers for her smug brother to gloat over.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For a ball consisting of weak beverages and a poor choice in musicians, Katrina found there was quite a crush. Apparently the Whitfield name meant something to the ton. She excused herself from Sarah and Mrs Forrester to find a bit of a reprieve in the ladies’ retiring room. When she crossed the threshold, she was relieved to find the delicate gilded chairs were empty and the sole occupant was a maid, who remained by the door.

  Walking towards a wall hung with mirrors, Katrina peered at her reflection. She had a rosy glow, which sadly was the result of heat and not from the joy of dancing with her various partners. They hadn’t exactly been horrible partners. They just weren’t Julian. If she had been dancing with him her glow might have been from an amusing conversation—or from the way her body seemed to catch fire whenever he was near.

  She missed him. She assumed he was keeping his distance so as not to cause speculation. It was an honourable action, but she didn’t have to like it. How she wished he would ask her to dance. Then she could listen to that amusing deep voice that warmed her like a cup of chocolate.

  Katrina was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice a woman in a Pomona-green silk gown walk up beside her. She was stunning, with perfect delicate features and a thick head of dark hair. The woman studied her own reflection and adjusted the curls near her temples before shifting her grey eyes to Katrina.

  ‘Aren’t you that American woman?’

  Would there be one ball, one fête she would attend where she wouldn’t have to face at least one ignorant comment about Americans?

  Katrina held back a sigh, anticipating one of those conversations. ‘There are a few Americans in London. Which one do you believe me to be?’

  ‘The author’s daughter,’ the woman replied, raising her chin.

  ‘By author, do you mean Peter Vandenberg? If so, I am indeed his daughter.’

  The woman eyed Katrina critically, from her slippers to her hair. Did she not realise Katrina could see her?

  ‘And who might you be?’ Katrina asked.

  ‘Oh, I am Lady Wentworth. I am a very dear friend of the Duke of Lyonsdale. I understand you danced with him recently at Almack’s?’

  That statement had not been uttered by chance. Katrina’s muscles tightened like a bowstring. ‘His Grace and I did share a dance.’

  ‘He is a handsome man, is he not?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  If one liked men who had wavy dark hair, moss-green eyes, chiselled features, and cut a fine form.

  Lady Wentworth let out a soft, disgustingly lovely laugh. ‘Surely you agree? It’s a pity you’re American, and therefore could never become his duchess. I can assure you whoever he does marry will be quite fortunate.’

  Her lips rose in a sly smile. She leaned close to Katrina’s ear, and her hot breath scorched her neck.

  ‘He knows how to do delicious things to make a woman quiver with need.’

  She stepped back, looked Katrina directly in the eye, and cocked an arrogant brow. Katrina’s stomach rolled and pitched. She would not give this horrid woman the satisfaction of knowing how her words had filled Katrina with a sense of betrayal. Could this be why Julian had not called on her?

  After weeks of pretending that English aristocrats didn’t bore her to sleep, Katrina had become quite adept at hiding her emotions. She smiled sweetly back at the witch beside her. ‘One would imagine that since he is neither married nor publicly displaying a mistress he has yet to find a woman who makes him feel the same in return.’

  There—that felt better.

  Katrina forced her lips into the brightest smile. ‘Do enjoy your evening, Lady Wentworth.’

  As if she didn’t have a care in the world, Katrina turned and breezed out of the room. Unfortunately the reality was that her world had just become a colder place. She would only be in London for a few months. It shouldn’t matter to her that this woman was sharing Julian’s bed—but it did.

  She needed time away from the ballroom and the sight of Lady Wentworth.

  Earlier in the evening she had a pleasant conversation with the Duchess of Winterbourne, who had mentioned there were some lovely landscapes hung along this long, deserted hallway. Now was the perfect time to view them.

  The sound of confident footfalls had Katrina praying that the pompous Mr Armstrong had not found her. Turning her head, she was startled when Julian took her arm and tugged her through one of the open doorways into an oak-panelled room.

  The sight of three large stuffed birds glaring at her in the moonlight from the round table beside them made her jump, and it took her a moment before she shifted her attention to the man standing a few feet in front of her. Lady Wentworth’s comment echoed in her mind, and it occurred to her that all Julian had to do was look at her to make her insides quiver. She had to remind herself he was not the man for her.

  ‘Are you trying to ruin me?’ she demanded, placing her hands on her hips. ‘What possessed you to drag me in here?’

  He stepped closer, creating a cushion of heat between them. No man deserved to look that good in unremarkable formal black evening clothes.

  ‘Of course I’m not trying to ruin you. My committee meetings have been consuming my days. I wanted you to know I have not forgotten about our promise.’

  Once more she heard Lady Wentworth’s voice.

  ‘Please do not feel obligated to continue to read with me. You’re a very busy man, and I’m certain you’d prefer to read the remainder of the book at your leisure.’

  He lowered his gaze towards his shiny black dress shoes. ‘On the contrary, I would rather read it with you.’ As he looked back up at her through his thick lashes a look of confusion crossed his face. ‘Do you no longer wish to read with me?’

  He was not courting her. She had no claim on him. How could she tell him how she felt without sounding jealous? Which she absolutely wasn’t.

  ‘Do you really think this is an appropriate place to have a conversation? We should not even be in here together.’

  ‘I had no choice—you would not so much as look at me.’

  ‘I was trying to avoid speculation about us.’

  Julian narrowed his eyes and tipped his head back. ‘We have spoken before in public. I do not think it would shock people if we were to do so again.’

  ‘And how would you have informed me that you want us to continue reading together with people around us?’

  The faint, distant strains of the quartet drifted into the room through the closed door as he flashed her a devilishly handsome smile. ‘That is why this is an ideal location for our discussion.’ Sliding his hand around her waist to the small of her back, he pulled her to him. ‘I cannot stop thinking about you and our kiss.’

  Neither could she, and that was a problem. Before she fell asleep she thought about it, over and over. Even at odd moments in the day she would think about the feel of his lips and the taste of his tongue. She had wanted that kiss to go on for ever.

  She placed her hands on his solid chest, intending to push him away. Her arms wouldn’t move. How she longed to press her body further into his.

  A look of what might have been tenderness softened his features. ‘You are most unexpected.’

  It would be so easy to lose herself in him, but according to Lady Wentworth he was one of many English aristocrats with philandering ways. She would not be one of his conquests.

  He lowered his head to hers and his soft breath caressed her lips. This time she pushed agains
t his chest, and he immediately let her go.

  ‘I will not kiss a man who shares his affection with another.’ It was said in such a rush she wasn’t certain she had been coherent.

  He jerked his head back and crossed his arms, his biceps bulging under the sleeves of his coat. ‘Are you referring to me?’

  She put her hands on her hips. ‘Yes—you were the one who looked as if you intended to kiss me.’

  ‘I did want to kiss you... I do want to kiss you. However, I’m not sharing my affection with anyone.’

  Now it was Katrina’s turn to narrow her eyes. ‘Not even with your paramour?’

  He let out a bark of laughter. ‘My what?’

  ‘Your paramour...or mistress. Or do you call her something else?’ Katrina huffed. ‘I would appreciate it if you would not find so much amusement in what I’m saying.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Julian said, quietening down and trying unsuccessfully to stop smiling. ‘I can truly say I have never met any woman quite like you.’

  ‘Simply answer the question, please.’

  ‘What was the question? Oh, yes—well, I don’t call her anything because there is no one else.’

  ‘But I thought... That is to say, aren’t you...?’ Katrina chewed her lip, feeling foolish. She knew she hadn’t mistaken Lady Wentworth’s insinuation. But who was she to believe? A horrid woman she didn’t know or Julian— Julian who felt deeply about honour and duty?

  ‘Do you really think we should be discussing this?’ he asked, lowering his head and prompting Katrina with his eyes. ‘You know gently bred ladies should not even be aware of such things?’

  ‘Well, I am. I lived in Paris and I have witnessed open displays of indiscretion.’

  She had even stumbled upon Comte Janvier and Madame Broussard in a garden once. The Comte’s trousers had been down around his knees and Madame Broussard’s skirt had been lifted so high Katrina knew exactly what occurred between men and women. However, it wasn’t necessary for Julian to know the extent of her knowledge gained from that tableau.

  ‘Are you are telling me there is no one you are sharing your affections with?’