The Duke's Fallen Angel

by Amy Jarecki

  “And Viscount Saye?” added Richard Fiennes who always seemed to be in Fordham’s shadow.

  Pauline flushed, giving a graceful curtsy. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said in heavily-accented English.

  Fordham slipped the dance card from Bria’s fingers and held up a sharp pencil. “I was disappointed when you missed our ride through Hyde Park.” He signed right below Mr. Hughes and returned the card.

  “Forgive me,” she replied. “But I do have a duty to Chadwick Theater and cannot miss a rehearsal when one is called.”

  The earl’s gaze slipped downward and paused a bit too long on Britannia’s bosom. “No apology is necessary. I should have thought you would be engaged, especially the day after the ballet opened.”

  “Are you settling in now?” Lord Saye asked.

  Pauline nodded. “We are, thank you.”

  He pointed to her dance card. “May I?”

  “Certainly.” She giggled. “It would be awkward for a troupe of dancers to attend a ball without dancing.”

  “It would, indeed.” Lord Fordham signed Pauline’s card as well.

  “Have you had the pleasure of chatting with Miss Bisset?” Bria gestured to Florrie who was standing beside Mr. Hughes.

  “Ah, yes. She was at the Dowager Duchess of Ravenscar’s soiree. I found her quite chatty. We spoke for...”

  Bria tuned out the earl while she scanned the room for a tall man with black hair and coattails, no doubt.

  “He’s not here.” Fordham tapped Bria’s shoulder, giving her a knowing look. “Ravenscar’s mother is a patroness at Almacks.”

  “Ravenscar?” Bria asked as if she hadn’t been searching for the man. “It is only right for the duke to attend his mother’s exclusive ball though invitations only went out to members of polite society.”

  “Which is why we are here, what say you, Saye? I’d reckon the lion’s share of the gentry would rather be in Kensington this night.”

  “And they are.” The viscount swept his upward palm across the scene. “My guess is news of the success of La Sylphide has brought them to Hughes’ mansion in droves.”

  Bria gave Pauline a wink. They had worked so hard, it was uplifting to have Londoners accept them. Of course, there were critics, but naysayers lurked everywhere, even in Paris.

  And as the evening progressed, it didn’t escape Bria’s notice that Lord Saye danced with Pauline twice. She flirted unabashedly. In fact, she seemed captivated by the nice-looking nobleman, slender and of average height with blue eyes and fair hair. He carried himself with an unpretentious air and didn’t seem as much of a predator as Lord Fordham. Even without Ravenscar’s warning, Bria found the earl to be brash—definitely more suitable for someone like Florrie.

  Both she and Pauline danced every set until intermission was called and they were ushered into the dining hall for the evening meal. Three courses all served with wine, the first with soup and bread, the second with five different meat and vegetable dishes and the third with irresistible cakes and ices along with port. But by the end of the meal, Bria was ready to head for the boarding house. It seemed as if London parties were never as fun without the Duke of Ravenscar.

  JUST AS DRAKE HAD IMAGINED, Almacks wasn’t quite the bustling hub of activity usual for a ball early in the Season. The ballroom glimmered in a sea of taffeta and lace and smelled as fragrant as a field of lilies. He stood with a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with Baron and Baroness of Calthorpe, which was much preferable to striking up a conversation with a nervous debutante attending her first ball of her first Season.

  Mother slipped beside him, her lips in a white line—a sure sign she was madder than a hornet. “I hope Mr. Hughes is happy with his den of debauchery this evening. It has drawn too many eligible gentlemen away from what should be the ball of the year.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t such a bad thing for the Season to begin slowly,” said Lady Calthorpe. “I recall during my debut, I attended a masque and was absolutely overwhelmed. I’d been raised in Gloucester and despite being the daughter of a duke, I truly had no idea how to handle myself among gentlemen. Mind you, though they possessed rank and titles, some behaved like absolute scoundrels.”

  “Well said, my dear.” The Baron of Calthorpe looked a bit awkward in his coattails and Drake imagined him much more comfortable wearing tweed, hunting on his country estate with a pair of Gordon Setters. “Young ladies need time to adjust to the London scene.”

  “Well, I hope this is not the commencement of the downfall of polite society,” Mother said.

  Drake held his tongue. With the fortunes being made by entrepreneurs, the downfall of the ton and exclusivity owed only to the nobly born had already begun.

  “There’s a sizeable crowd, and next week there will be no conflict with Almacks.” Lady Calthorpe gave a polite curtsy. “If you will excuse us, Your Graces, Calthorpe and I are expected in the card room.”

  “Of course.” Mother grasped Drake by the elbow. “Come, dear. There’s a young lady I’d like you to meet.”

  Resolutely, Drake allowed Her Grace to pull him through the sea of bright-eyed debutantes, all giggling behind their fans, no doubt longing for a chance to dazzle a duke. He’d grown accustomed to the stares, though would always rather be anywhere than a ballroom this time of year.

  Mother introduced Lady Blanche whose coloring was a likeness to her name. As expected, Drake engaged the daughter of Viscount Falmouth in conversation, finding her to be the epitome of good manners and excellent breeding—not at all what he wanted in a wife and everything his mother expected. Of course, manners and breeding were necessary, but a sense of humor and expression of passion were descriptors he might envision for his future bride. Unfortunately, overt passion was discouraged by The Mirror of the Graces. Drake knew why. Young ladies who were flippant and predisposed to temper tantrums oft disgraced themselves and, as a result, society had labeled passion akin to the fervor Miss LeClair demonstrated on stage as being vulgar.

  Playing the dutiful son, he danced with Lady Blanche and a number of other young ladies, but at intermission, he slipped away and instructed his coachman to take him to Mr. Hughes’ residence. His plan? After he checked to ensure Britannia and the others were well, he’d return to Almacks with his mother none the wiser.

  When he arrived, the musicians were taking a recess and Miss LeClair stood in the ballroom with her back to him. He accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and stood behind a pillar where he could observe without notice. No matter where she was or what she wore, Britannia served as a shining beacon in any room she graced.

  Tonight, her cinnamon hair was elaborately knotted atop her head, exposing her long, slender neck. The modiste had captured perfection with an elegant cut of the nape. Starting at her shoulders, the gown plunged into a wide V. With Britannia’s subtle movement, the silkiness of her skin enticed. How much would any man present pay just for one chance to brush his fingertips across her statuesque perfection?

  Drake sipped. I’d kill anyone for the mere suggestion. Two more men joined the ever-growing circle with Britannia in the center. Perhaps her gown was too damned revealing.

  Blast it all, for the past fortnight, Drake had thought of little else than the ballerina, but he’d kept his distance on purpose. No use giving the gossip columns something more to write about. He had vowed to protect Miss LeClair, not debauch her. Unfortunately, he doubted any other female in the British Isles had a chance of tempting him while the ballerina was in London. His mother would simply have to wait another Season or two before her wish came true.

  A young lady who’d been chatting with Britannia spotted him and pointed.

  Drake wasn’t ready for the melting of his knees when the diva turned. God’s bones, how had he ever considered her anything but exceptional?

  “Your Grace. I’m surprised to see you here.” As hypnotic as the Sylph, she smiled while they moved together and joined hands as if they were old friends.
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  “I cannot stay long.” Bowing, he gave the back of her hand a kiss. “Are you having a good time?”

  “We are dancing, how could we not enjoy ourselves?”

  “Well put.” He looked to the young lady from the corps and bowed. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced, madam.”

  “This is Miss Pauline Renaud, my dearest friend. Though you know of her, I do not think you have been formally introduced.” Britannia gestured to the woman—one of the corps dancers. “Allow me to introduce the Duke of Ravenscar.”

  Pauline curtsied. “’Tis my pleasure to meet you, monsieur.”

  “You Grace,” Miss LeClair corrected.

  “Pardonnez-moi, Your Grace.”

  He chuckled at Pauline’s heavily-accented English, which he’d first expected from Britannia. “You both look lovely this evening. And Miss LeClair, your gown turned out splendidly.”

  “Thank you, and especially your mother’s modiste.”

  He’d paid extra to have the sewing expedited, and the additional coin had been well worthwhile. Britannia glowed like a ray of sunshine bursting through a forest’s canopy.

  Viscount Saye joined them. “Ravenscar, I didn’t expect to see you this evening. Cut mummie’s apron strings, did you?”

  He shot the man who’d once been his partner in crime at Eton a leer. “Hold your tongue. And why are you not making an appearance at Almacks? Hasn’t the dowager viscountess come to London as of yet?”

  “My mother has no say in my affairs.” Saye directed his attention to Miss Renaud. “The next dance is a waltz. Is your card full?”

  “I believe I have reserved the next dance for you, my lord.”

  While Saye offered his elbow, Drake glanced to Britannia. “A waltz, did he say?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in. “Is your card full?”

  “Pauline and I both purposely kept our cards open for the second half of the evening.”

  “Why? Were you looking to monopolize some poor man’s time?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Scandalous.”

  She placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Though Fordham told me you weren’t coming, I didn’t relinquish hope, Your Grace.”

  His tongue went completely dry. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye while his heartbeat sped. No, not a single well-bred debutante at Almacks this evening had come remotely close to soliciting any sort of romantic inclination, yet after exchanging a few words with Miss LeClair, he was ready to spirit her to a side room and steal another kiss. Something which he definitely intended on not doing, which was exactly why he had kept his distance the past fortnight. Britannia had been waiting for him to come to Hughes’ ball? That, in and of itself, was a warning he should heed.

  The introduction to the waltz began as they stepped onto the floor and assumed their positions. “Do you enjoy dancing?” she asked.

  “Very much.”

  Those whisky eyes widened. “Surprising.”

  How did she make his heart melt merely with a look? “Why?”

  With the count of three, Drake pressed his palm into the small of Britannia’s back and together they began the waltz. Not surprisingly, the woman followed his every nuance, not afraid to take gliding steps for the downbeat.

  “I don’t know.” Her gaze meandered to his chest. “You seem so worldly...and...ah...strapping.”

  Drake nearly tripped over his own feet. Was it her perfume? Or was the lady flirting?

  “What other pursuits do you engage in to maintain such a physique?” she asked, her eyes wide, staring at him as if she performed the waltz without giving the steps a thought.

  For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Did she know how much she was tempting him? And good God, she followed his lead like water in a brook. Together they moved and flowed without effort, and she thought he was fit? “I-I spar—boxing most mornings with Lord Percy.”

  “A sport which demands a high level of skill.”

  “I daresay not as much as ballet.”

  “Perhaps, but you need a good foundation to win.”

  “True.”

  Britannia slid her fingers to the top of Drake’s arm and squeezed. “And my guess is your training has been superb.”

  If only he could roar. Not only had she drawn him in with her loveliness, with only a few words, she’d made him feel like a king.

  Unable to help himself, he tugged her closer—too close for Almacks, but not bloody close enough for him. Her silky skirts brushed his calves as she lost herself in the dance, smiling, laughing softly, her head swaying in time with every step as if she were one with the music. Britannia was more fairy than human, more endearing than a rose, and more tempting than any imaginable fancy known to man.

  Seemingly unaware she’d captured him in her spell, she clapped and chuckled when the waltz came to an end. A sultry chuckle. One that stirred him right where he shouldn’t be stirred. “The first time I saw you, I thought you would look magnificent on stage, and I wasn’t wrong. You are a wonderful dancer.”

  She? The nymph who could make grown men swoon and lose their ability to speak considered him anything but passible at waltzing? “Thank you. From you, that is quite a compliment.” He offered his elbow and led her off the floor before his ego inflated the entire room.

  “Where did you learn to dance?” she asked.

  “At Eton mostly. Schoolboys are not allowed to move on to Oxford without showing some finesse in the social arts. And my mother insisted on private lessons in the summers. She firmly believed that a future duke should never be embarrassed in public.”

  “Well, she was successful at ensuring quality dance instruction. But being an efficient dancer is only a small piece of living in the public eye, surely.”

  “Very true.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve also mastered the art of acting.”

  “Stage acting?”

  “Only when I was a lad. Of course, dukes do not act in plays. Do not tell anyone, but my acting is mainly in the public eye. It is very English to be in constant control of one’s emotions.” He snatched a lone glass of champagne from a footman’s tray as they strolled past a sea of smiling faces.

  “Where are we going?”

  Taking a drink of champagne, Drake spied an exit. “Do you mind taking in a bit of air? Dancing made me overwarm.”

  “Wouldn’t that provide fodder for the gossips?”

  “I imagine there are others taking a turn on the terrace.” He handed the glass to her. “Apologies. There was only one.”

  “Thank you, I’m parched.” She sipped. “Mm, this is quite good.”

  “You like champagne?”

  “I like this.”

  Drake peered through the French glass doors. “As I thought, there are several others outside. I suppose the journalists will have to find someone else to throw to the wolves tonight.”

  He opened the door and ushered her out while couples nodded and said hello. Spotting an unoccupied corner, he pressed his palm into the small of Britannia’s back and steered her toward it. Even better, a canopy of trees hung over the rail, giving them privacy.

  He toyed with one of her lazy curls. “I haven’t yet told you how beautiful you look tonight.”

  “Ah, but you have.” After taking another sip, she handed him the glass.

  “I was just being polite.” He drank again allowing the bubbles to tickle his tongue before swallowing. “Your dress is spectacular. Everyone else in both ballrooms here and at Almacks pales in comparison.”

  “Thank you for the compliment. I gather you must have received top marks in charming ladies at Eton...or was that Oxford?”

  Chuckling, he set the glass on the rail and backed her further into the tree’s shadows. “How did you guess?”

  Britannia swayed as if a tad tipsy—or happy. “Oh, please do not make me divulge my deepest secrets.”

  He caught her fingers and drew them to his lips, brushing an airy kiss across her
knuckles. “But I want to know.”

  She met his gaze before her eyes shifted aside. “You have a way of setting my insides aflutter.”

  He dipped his chin and breathed in the floral scent of her hair. Orange blossoms tonight. Lord save me. “I think...”

  With his hesitation, Britannia’s tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth as if tasting something sweet there. Suddenly, Drake had no idea what he was about to say. The need to sample her lips consumed his mind. He craved to have that delicate, pink tongue dance with his at this very moment.

  It took less than a heartbeat to bury her in his arms and lay claim her mouth. As their lips joined, he was lost in the searing heat stretching through his body. She tasted so damned sweet, her lithe body molding to his hard like a perfectly matched pair. Never in his life had he wanted a woman as much as he wanted Britannia. Here. Now. Without hesitation. He wanted her naked and beneath him. For weeks she had driven him to the brink of insanity every time he saw her dance, and now he craved to satisfy his wildest dreams.

  And when she moaned, his knees buckled. His fingers pillaged from her hair to her back to...oh yes...her tight derriere.

  His cock lengthened with every stroke of his tongue. God save him, if he didn’t take control of himself, he’d hoist her onto the rail with her skirts hiked up over her slender thighs. Long legs, he’d itched to caress with her every arabesque.

  He opened his eyes wide enough to check to see if any of the others were nearby.

  As his attention drew away, Britannia slid her palm to the middle of his chest. “We mustn’t.”

  His gaze snapped to her face. Her eyes glazed, her lips swollen from the intensity of his kiss. But still she shook her head.

  Realization of his err washed over him. Good God, he’d nearly acted on his base desires. This was his dancer. A woman in his care. What the hell had he been thinking? If he kept her in his arms one moment longer he might just act on his inappropriate desires. Abruptly, he released his hands. “Forgive me.”

  “I think we should go back inside.” She took a step away. “The romantic feelings coursing through me whenever I am in your presence are wrong—and kissing only serves to make it worse. You mustn’t tease me, else I’ll begin to fantasize that the dizzy and passionate flutter in my breast might lead to something beyond master and servant. Especially with...you.” Her final word was whispered—albeit a pained whisper.