How to Dazzle a Duke

by Claudia Dain

  Unless there was some measurable benefit to either George or himself.

  He was not an unreasonable man, after all.

  “Oh, this does put me in an awkward position, Lord Prestwick. I do not know quite how to proceed from this point. What would you advise?”

  And she looked directly into his eyes, her dark brown eyes as provocative and mysterious as every rumor of them, and her mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles.

  He said what any man would have said. “Proceed directly, Lady Dalby. I promise that you will be well cared for, your every need met, if I may be so honored.”

  “How gracious you are,” she said, leaning forward slightly to adjust her skirt. There was the slightest shadow, just a suggestion really, of the sweep of her bosom. He felt himself harden just below his green silk waistcoat. “It is certainly quite clear how well served the viscountcy will be under your firm hand and wise counsel.”

  He lifted his chest and grinned. The buttons of his waistcoat felt a bit tight across his chest, but he didn’t suppose that was unusual in such a regularly fed man of his years. He looked, he was quite certain, as prosperous as he was.

  “What would you have of me, Lady Dalby. I am entirely at your disposal.”

  “Again, so gracious, but I do not require you to be at my disposal, Lord Prestwick. Only your daughter. And perhaps that lovely stretch of land you own on Stretton Street?”

  All thoughts of Sophia Dalby’s beauty and charm evaporated like mist. Prestwick was, first and foremost, a man of numbers and accounts, and he was not going to give away anything to anyone, no matter how pretty her bosom happened to be.

  “I can’t think why you’re asking, Lady Dalby. I wouldn’t give my mother, if she lived, such a gift.”

  “Would you give it for your daughter?” she said, leaning back upon her chair, the picture of composure.

  “To her or for her?” he asked.

  Sophia laughed lightly and nodded her head at him in an entirely pleasant manner. “She is very like you, Lord Prestwick. I do like that about you both. There is something so soothing about a direct answer. One finds so few in Society who are capable of it.”

  If they hadn’t been talking about money and property, he might have taken the time to find offense in the comment. As things stood, he felt the sting of criticism, but not the throb of poisonous libel. After all, it was likely true.

  “Miss Prestwick approached me yesterday with a request, Lord Prestwick,” Sophia continued. “She asked that I help her find a duke for a husband. I answered that I would, for a price. As she has nothing I want, she offered you up to me, and quite without hesitation, I might add. I do think it showed such spirit on her part, don’t you? A fearless negotiator, your daughter. I do think she should be commended for it.”

  “She made no arrangement with me,” he said, forcibly ignoring the fact that his daughter had been bold enough to offer him, bodily, one assumed, to a beautiful and dangerous woman in the form of payment. Aside from the shock, he was almost flattered. But that was not the point at the moment, more’s the pity.

  A duke? It was a splendid idea, and if there was one woman in ten thousand who could arrange it, it was Sophia Dalby. Penelope wanted the proper husband and had gone to the proper person to see it done. What she should not have done was left the contract, as it were, open. One did not proceed in any business dealings without all the particulars agreed to, and signed, before the first breath of the first step was taken. A sloppy bit of work, that.

  “No, she made it with me, and as we are two adult females, I can’t think but that it’s binding, no matter the results.”

  “The results? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Lord Prestwick, that your daughter, all eagerness, made her bargain with me without arranging for payment, and then before I could arrange anything at all for her made a bit of a muck of it with both the Duke of Edenham and the Marquis of Iveston. I can’t think what’s to become of her marital prospects now, and I did warn her against being precipitous all the while doing what I could to aid her. Still, I did my part and, no matter that her prospects on the marriage mart are exceedingly dim at present, I do think a bargain made must be a bargain kept, don’t you?”

  “Dim? Why dim? What’s happened?”

  “Darling Lord Prestwick,” she said, smiling gently at him. It was singularly horrifying. “Miss Prestwick has made quite a spectacle of herself, wagers all over the book at White’s, first for one man and then the other, and then both together. It’s all anyone who has nothing but time in which to idle can speak of. Naturally, as I am quite good friends with Edenham”—and here Prestwick felt a pang of actual pain in the region where he supposed his heart must be, for Edenham, rich as a king and in possession of his title, would have been the perfect husband for Penelope, and Sophia would have been the ideal person to arrange it—“I was able to keep him out of the worst of the fray, for lack of a better word, but Iveston, whom as you must know, is not often out in Society and is very much more inexperienced at dealing with women, fell fully into the thick of it. He and Miss Prestwick have …” and she shrugged in a female gesture of helplessness.

  He had heard many things about Sophia, but helplessness was not one of them. He didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  “Have what?” he prompted. “My daughter’s reputation is intact, I trust? Penelope has always been a very practical girl, not given to fits of any sort.”

  “Yes, well, she hasn’t always been trying to arrange for a husband, has she?”

  “You don’t mean to tell me she’s been ruined?”

  He felt slightly cold and wet across the brow. If he fainted it would be the end of everything. He refused to faint, simply refused.

  “No, Lord Prestwick, she is not ruined. Not quite ruined.”

  That didn’t sound encouraging at all. How could a woman make not ruined sound like the worst possible situation?

  “You are proposing something, aren’t you? You’re here to help.”

  “I’m here, Lord Prestwick, to be paid.” She smiled. “As Penelope is your daughter, I have made the assumption that a bold, straightforward approach would be most welcomed by you. As I told her, I do nothing for nothing and while I am prepared to help her gain her duke, I am not prepared to do so as a public charity. I am quite confident that you understand completely.”

  He did. He had not got where he was, being a very wealthy viscount, by doing things for nothing. One only did things for nothing for the right person, a person who could eventually, if events fell into a lively order, do something for you. As Sophia was far higher than he on the ladder of privilege and influence, she was not in a position to be required to do something for nothing, and he knew enough about her history to know that she had worked tirelessly to get where she was. He had nothing but admiration for her. Indeed, he only thought it was a very fortunate arrangement of events that Sophia herself did not feel the need for a duke, for surely, as she and Edenham were friends, she could have married him without any effort at all.

  What could Penelope have been thinking?

  PENELOPE had been thinking all night, not able to sleep in anything more than fits and starts until dawn finally broke and she tumbled into a deep sleep that lasted for three hours. It was going to have to be enough. She simply had to work it out, make everything fall into place.

  It was all a hopeless muddle and seemed quite impossible. Things had looked so hopeful yesterday. She had made her arrangement with Sophia, which was hardly an arrangement at all, pursued Edenham with a very logical plan that had somehow landed her all over Iveston for the better part of the day, and now had been made a laughingstock who could not win a man on a bet.

  It was simply not to be borne. She was not the sort of girl to tolerate being a laughingstock. Simply not. There was no negotiation about it whatsoever. Things must, from that specific point, be remedied.

  She was going to win a man. One of those wagers on White’s book was going to be wo
n. But which one?

  Penelope paced her bedchamber, her brow furrowed, her feet scuffing across the carpet. Her cat, Peacock, was chasing the train on her dressing gown, batting at her ankles. She was too upset to be either annoyed or amused. She had to marry! Actually, it was more complicated than that. She had to pick a man to marry and then force him into it.

  Of course, truly, wasn’t that always the way of it? She was very disposed to believe, particularly now, that most men had to be forced into it one way or another, and as long as that was how it worked, why should she feel any shame about what she was being compelled to do? Certainly he would be happy enough once the deed was done and there was no undoing it. There was nothing observable in Society that disputed that notion and, so, it might as well be a fact.

  Very well then. It was a fact.

  Now, which man must she force and how was she going to go about it?

  Her initial plan, to arrange for Edenham to ruin her, seemed the most logical, as well as being the most impractical. She had barely spoken to Edenham. How was she going to get him to ruin her today? For it must be today. She simply could not wait another week, what with all this wagering nonsense, which would only grow worse as the hours passed, the whole of Society watching, waiting to see who, if anyone, would do anything.

  And they wouldn’t. No, no one, and by that she meant Edenham and Iveston, who had proved himself, hadn’t he? He was very nearly a rake, toying with her as he had done, and clearly so proud of himself and not one whit repentant that he had kissed her passionately and done it all for a wager. It had been one thing when they had both been doing it for a wager, and known it, too, but to do it behind her back, that was the worst sort of behavior. She would not have thought he had it in him. How on earth had a man as backward and peculiar as Iveston was reputed to be ever learned how to kiss like that?

  Oh, bother, not kiss, but maneuver and manipulate, that’s what he was so very good at. Kissing, well, kissing was not so very difficult, was it? One simply put some effort into it and there you were, being kissed.

  Being kissed.

  Penelope felt her nipples tighten just thinking of it.

  She did not have time for tingling nipples now. Now, she had to think how to get herself married. To Iveston.

  To Iveston?

  She shook her head violently and just barely missed kicking Peacock a glancing blow. Peacock, being a very agile and experienced cat, jumped onto the bed, glared at her, and then jumped down and scooted under the chinoiserie chest where she took up licking her left foot.

  Practical cat, Peacock. Get out of the way and then get on with life, which in her case meant a bath.

  Peacock’s example before her, though she would deny it if anyone ever accused her of taking advice from her cat, Penelope made her choice. It would be Iveston. It had to be. He simply had a leg up on Edenham, what with all their private moments because of the wagers. If only Edenham had been around more, but he hadn’t, and that left Iveston.

  Penelope felt immeasurably better, that decision made. Now the only thing left to do was to somehow arrange for him to ruin her, and the sooner the better. She grinned and hugged herself just thinking of it.

  “THEN we are agreed,” Sophia said, eyeing Lord Prestwick appreciatively. She did so enjoy doing business with a man who had a business frame of mind. Penelope became more easily understood after communicating with her father.

  Penelope and George looked very much like each other, dark of hair and eye, of slim frame and a sort of quickness of manner that was nothing like Lord Prestwick. Prestwick was barrel-chested and of ruddy complexion. His hair, what he had left of it, was dark blond and frizzy. His eyes were of grayish blue. Still, at heart, Penelope, while she clearly looked like her late mother, was very much like her father.

  “Agreed,” he said. “You seem very confident, Lady Dalby.”

  “I am always confident, Lord Prestwick. It is why I succeed so regularly.”

  Prestwick chuckled and nodded his head. “That is very true. Now, when will you begin it?”

  “Now, I should think. It only requires that you summon Lord Iveston to you. He will come and things will proceed from there.”

  “You will want to speak to Penelope, naturally.”

  “No,” she said slowly, “I should think not. Your daughter is quite able to manage Lord Iveston and, once she is certain who it is that she wants, will get him.”

  “How can you be certain it is Iveston she wants?”

  Sophia smiled. “Lord Iveston will convince her of it, of course. Isn’t that how it’s usually done, Lord Prestwick?”

  Lord Prestwick puffed out his chest and grinned. Sophia smiled encouragingly at him. He was a dear man, wasn’t he, and so very agreeable about giving up a lovely bit of land to aid his daughter’s matrimonial aspirations. What better thing could be said of a father?

  “But if you’re not going to speak to Penelope, then what is it that you are going to do to ensure her marriage to Iveston, Lady Dalby?” he asked, which was perfectly right of him as he surely did not want to pay something for nothing.

  “I will drop in at Hyde House now, Lord Prestwick, where everything will be managed beautifully. You need not deliver the deed to the land until the day of their wedding. I am that confident.”

  “Of course, Lady Dalby,” he said, bowing.

  “A pleasure, Lord Prestwick,” she said, dipping her head, her bonnet concealing the very satisfied expression on her face.

  Twenty-Three

  “YOU won it,” Cranleigh said. “I can’t think how you managed it, but you definitely won.”

  “Of course you can,” Iveston said almost sullenly. “You can imagine very well how I did it.”

  “You don’t look the worse for wear. I trust you left Miss Prestwick in good condition.”

  “I suppose you’re trying to be amusing?” Iveston said stiffly, looking at Cranleigh a bit severely.

  Cranleigh, who had not been smiling, looked even less as if he were smiling. Not quite grim, but close. “Not at all, Iveston.”

  “Good.”

  They were sitting in the music room, Iveston at the pianoforte, picking out a tune that began nowhere and went nowhere. It was entirely appropriate to his mood.

  He’d won his wager with Cranleigh. There were not words to express how little that meant to him. It had all stopped being about Cranleigh and that meaningless wager from the moment he’d first kissed Penelope, likely a few minutes before. She was an astonishingly forthright little thing, so full of ideas and plans, so blunt in her opinions. Having been hunted by every mama with a bland daughter in tow for the past ten years, conservatively, he could say without qualification that Miss Penelope Prestwick was the only honest woman he’d ever met.

  It was nearly thrilling. Certainly it was shocking, at least at first, but once one found one’s footing, and he had, it was quite a pleasant experience. No, pleasant wasn’t quite the word. Refreshing. Yes, Penelope was refreshing. And exasperating. And impossible. And irresistible.

  His tune turned quite melancholy, his fingers finding their own way upon the keys, reflecting accurately, too accurately his private thoughts. He knew this to be so because of the very odd look on Cranleigh’s face.

  “You don’t look at all happy to have won this particular wager.”

  “It wasn’t for very much, was it?” Iveston replied.

  “Perhaps for more than you yet realize.”

  Iveston looked up at Cranleigh and said, “I do realize it, Cranleigh. Don’t be absurd.”

  It was at that moment that Amelia, Cranleigh’s bride, entered the music room looking as fresh as sunshine in white muslin with some sort of pattern in blue thread around the hem of her skirts. She smiled upon seeing her husband. Cranleigh grinned. Iveston sighed and let the keys reveal his condition.

  “Lady Dalby’s just arrived. She’d very much like to see you, Iveston,” Amelia said.

  “I’m not in to Lady Dalby,” Iveston said.
>
  “You should see her,” Cranleigh said, which was a shock.

  Cranleigh, for the most part, hated Sophia Dalby, though no one could quite understand why. If Cranleigh understood why, he was not forthright about his reasons. Forthright. Only Penelope was reliably forthright. Of course, she was also a woman who had only used him to get another man. That was unforgivable, wasn’t it? Obviously. He was no such man to be used that way. Ridiculous of her not to realize that.

  “I’m not in,” Iveston repeated, his gaze on the keyboard, watching idly as his fingers moved over the keys, the music rising to the high ceiling where it was forever trapped until wasting away to whispers of sound, and then nothing at all.

  He heard a few hushed words between Cranleigh and Amelia, ignored them, and then the door opened and Sophia Dalby was admitted, his mother at her side. Words could not express how profoundly miserable he was at this moment.

  “Iveston, do stop that dreadful business at the pianoforte,” Molly, his mother, said crisply. “I should want to jump into the Thames if I hear one more melancholy note.”

  Iveston left his seat at the pianoforte, lifted his chin, and faced his mother. As Lady Dalby was smiling at her side, he did not expect mercy. No, nor did he deserve it.

  They sat. The music room had recently been done up in a rather stunning shade of aqua green silk damask. The instruments, golden wood and a bit of gilt here and there, mostly upon the harp, looked quite good against the pale green. So, too, did the occupants of the room. Of course, Sophia Dalby looked good in any room.

  “Lady Dalby, what delicious on dit do you have for us today?” Molly asked as Ponsonby, the butler, supervised the bringing in of tea and cakes.

  Cranleigh groaned, and quite audibly, too.

  “Cranleigh,” Molly said, a scowl forming between her brows that was almost an exact match to Cranleigh’s rather famous scowl, “I do think you should get over this horror you have of gossip. How is anyone to know anything without someone having talked about it? Certainly I don’t wish anyone ill, but I must know what is going on in Society. How else am I to avoid offending someone if I step into a posthole of my own ignorance?”