by Amy Jarecki
Lady Calthorpe, a petite woman, peeked around Mother’s shoulder. “Your dancing was astonishing, Miss LeClair. I for one am an instant admirer. I adored your vitality.” One of the Duke of Beaufort’s seventeen children, Drake had always looked fondly upon the baroness, aging well and in her late thirties. “My, your English is impeccable, my dear.”
“How nice of you to say so.” Britannia’s gaze seemed to linger on the woman’s face. She leaned forward as if a question danced on the tip of her tongue.
Lady Calthorpe appeared unperturbed by the ballerina’s staring. “Before you arrived, His Grace told us about your unfortunate beginnings.”
Again blushing, Britannia ran the ends of the pink ribbon at her waist through her fingers. “Yes. ’Tis embarrassing to admit, but I am a foundling.”
“No one ought to feel poorly about their beginnings. Did you have a guardian?” asked Her Ladyship.
“I was taken in by a wonderful couple in Bayeux.”
Opposed to the ballerina, the baroness’ coloring paled. “Pray tell, what is your age?”
“Ah—” Flustered, Britannia glanced to Drake.
“My word, Charlotte.” Beaufort stepped beside his daughter and grasped her elbow, his port sloshing over the rim of his glass. “Give the poor artiste a bit of room to breathe.”
“A moment. I have another question or two to ask.” The baroness tugged her arm free with enough force to make Beaufort’s port spill. To everyone’s horror, the ruby liquid splattered straight down the front of Miss LeClair’s gown.
“Oh no!” chirped Her Ladyship. “Please forgive my clumsiness.”
“Well done,” Beaufort mumbled in a barely audible tone, though Drake didn’t miss the dissention from one of Chadwick Theater’s greatest benefactors. Were the gossips making a mockery of tonight’s performance behind his back? Unfortunately, now was no time to confront the man.
Britannia gasped, gaping at her dress. She looked to Drake, her eyes filled with panic.
The Earl of Fordham offered his kerchief.
She took it. “Is there a withdrawing room where I can compose my person?”
“Straightaway. Come with me, dear.” Mother grasped Britannia’s hand.
Drake followed them to the grand staircase until Her Grace turned and thrust out her palm. “I shall call my lady’s maid and she’ll find Miss LeClair something to wear. There’s no need for you to leave our guests.”
“Of course. My thanks, Your Grace.” Drake bowed his head, then shifted his gaze to Britannia. If only they could have a moment alone where he could truly tell her how much he’d enjoyed her performance this evening. Duty bound to accompany his mother home, there had been no time to venture backstage and congratulate the ballerina. “You are in good hands, mark me. And I will ensure your gown is replaced.”
“Thank you. I haven’t quite saved enough coin for a new one as of yet.”
Drake watched as they ascended the stairs, frustrated as hell not to be the one escorting Britannia upstairs. She threw a forlorn look over her shoulder before they rounded the landing. Bless it, she was new to this country and ever so fragile, and it didn’t help to have every man in the hall slavering over her. He’d only been acquainted with the nymph for a short time, but he already knew she wasn’t like the others. She was virtuous and talented and...and vulnerable.
“Well, that put a damper on the evening,” said Fordham.
“Indeed,” Saye agreed. “Your ballerina has us all mesmerized. Did you see her eyes? They’re as spellbinding as a doe’s.”
Clenching his fists at his sides, Drake faced them. “Both of you had best find someone else upon whom to project your affections. That young lady is not to be trifled with.”
Fordham’s jaw dropped as he exchanged glances with Saye. “Do not tell me you have eyes for her?”
“Pull your mind out of the gutter. Miss LeClair is my responsibility, not to mention she potentially is the biggest draw for Chadwick Theater this Season and I will abide no man who puts my venture in jeopardy, especially one of you.”
BRIA WIPED THE STAIN with Fordham’s handkerchief and followed the maid down the corridor.
The woman spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll take you to Lady Ada’s chamber. We might find something suitable for you to wear in there, though I daresay, not even our scullery maids are a small as you, miss.”
“I’m sorry to be a bother.” She dabbed again. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to remove this stain.”
“Wine is difficult, but if anyone can do it, our laundress can.” The maid opened a door and gestured inside. “She always manages to clean every spill from His Grace’s clothing.”
“His Grace? Are you referring to the current duke or his father?” Bria stepped inside a bedchamber that was four times the size of the room she shared with Pauline. Colors of periwinkle and cream made the chamber a happy room with a fourposter festooned with satin bedcurtains.
“The son. His father has been gone near ten years now. Drake Chadwick grew up in this house during the Season, of course, though I think His Grace prefers to be up north.”
“Have you been there?”
“Peak Castle?” the maid asked over her shoulder as she stepped through an archway and opened a trunk.
“Yes.” Bria tapped a rocking chair and watched it sway, sparking memories of a similar chair from her childhood. She’d lived in a manor once. Not a palatial residence like this one, but a home with many comforts.
“Heavens, no. The family employs a full staff of locals from The Peak.”
“Of course.” Bria shook her head. This was a world as foreign to her as the depths of the sea. No wonder His Grace preferred his Half Moon Street town house. At least a person could find the exit when they wanted to venture outside.
“Ah.” The maid pulled out a blue redingote and shook it. “This ought to suffice. It might be a tad long, but it opens in the front and you shouldn’t trip.”
“’Tis beautiful.” Bria slipped it on, but the overdress dwarfed her.
Tsking her tongue, the maid stood back. “This will not do at all.”
“Honestly it should be fine to see me home. I can roll up the sleeves.”
“No, I’ll tack them up and while I’m at it I can move the buttons for a better fit. It shan’t take me but a moment.”
Before Bria could object, the lady’s maid swept out the door and left her alone in Ravenscar’s sister’s bedchamber. The tapping of raindrops sounded at the window. She rubbed her outer arms, wishing she was back in the tiny attic room with Pauline. How humorous for everyone to watch the poor foundling being drenched in red wine. Her only evening gown ruined.
Well, at least she would have an excuse not to attend any more soirees for a time. All those wealthy people. No wonder the duke thought she was a shrinking violet. She was completely, utterly out of her element in every way.
Bria strolled to the bed and ran her fingers over the silky coverlet. What would it be like to be raised in such opulence?
When the door clicked, she looked up expectantly. “My heavens, you couldn’t have altered the redingote that quickly.”
“I beg your pardon?” Ravenscar replied in his deep bass as he stepped into the chamber.
Snapping her fingers behind her back, Bria’s stomach leaped. She oughtn’t be touching the coverlet. What if she marked it? “Your Grace, should you not be with your guests?”
“They are my mother’s guests.” He moved inside, one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin, seeming as if he wasn’t sure if he’d found the right room. Despite his expression, his elegant and polished theater attire suited the chamber’s opulence, while Bria felt discordant and ill at ease.
“Though,” he continued, “I do appreciate Her Grace’s efforts to support Chadwick’s grand opening.” Stopping in front of her, the duke reached out, then closed his fist and drew it over his heart, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Good Lord, could a man look more beautiful?
“S-she’s a very gracious woman. You are fortunate to have her.” Bria toyed with the long pink ribbon tied around the waist of her dress.
With one more step in, he grasped the silk from her fingertips and together they watched it run across his palm. Bria backed away, her stomach performing involuntary entrechats.
“She is and I am.” His gaze grew dark, meandering down her stained dress. “Ah...where is Mother’s lady’s maid?”
“Stepped out for a moment to make a few alterations of your sister’s redingote.”
“Right,” He grinned again, bigger this time. “I imagine there’s nothing in this house that would fit you.”
“Is she here? I wasn’t introduced.”
Azure eyes met hers—mysterious eyes reflecting intelligence, vitality, and, oh heavens, hunger. “Who?”
Bria licked her lips. “Your sister.”
He chuckled as if at his own absentmindedness. “Ada is expecting her second child. She’s now Viscountess Bindon, living in Dorset.”
“Oh my.” Turning her back so she wouldn’t have to endure his disarming gaze, Bria smoothed her hands over her hair. Had any pins come loose in the mayhem? And why had she suddenly become so self-aware? “Honestly, I would be fine to don my cloak and return to the boarding house.”
“That wouldn’t do. You still have admiring fans waiting in the reception hall.”
She sensed him move closer, shivering as his warm breath skimmed the back of her neck. “I wanted a moment alone to tell you myself, your performance this evening was nothing short of magnificent. There were times when my heart stopped and I was unable to breathe. If half the patrons in the audience reacted as I, Chadwick Theater will be sold out for the duration of the Season.”
Sighing, Bria reflected on the ballet. She hadn’t been the only one who’d given her all. “Monsieur Bonin was fabulous.”
“His performance was but a shadow to your brilliance.”
Her thundering heart beat so wildly, she clasped her hands to quell it. “Surely you exaggerate, Your Grace.”
“Not at all.” Another whisper of warm breath washed over her. “You were every bit as good as Mademoiselle Taglioni. More so. And...and I’m irritated by the way my friends fawned over you.”
“They were gentlemanly enough. I’m sorry I behaved awkwardly.”
“No. You were delightful.” Though the duke’s voice was soft, it was intense and sure. “They were imposing and overbearing.”
Bria turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll improve when in the public eye. I’m not accustomed to being among so many important people.”
A large, masculine hand touched her arm. “You felt beneath them?”
“Yes. Why would I not? I am a foundling.”
“Sometimes people rise above their birth and accomplish amazing things.” His hand smoothed down the length of her arm and he gently squeezed his fingers. “Face me, Miss LeClair.”
If she turned around now, there was every chance she might swoon into his embrace again. No one had ever spoken to her thusly. It was as if he understood her deepest thoughts. As a duke, Ravenscar could never think of her as his equal. But in private, he seemed to be more at ease—more human. With the coaxing of his fingers, she relented and turned.
Still smiling, his eyes searched her face while he cupped her cheek. “You are an astounding talent on the stage—enchanting like nothing I have ever seen.”
She sighed into the delight of his touch. “Truly?” Bria didn’t recognize the breathlessness in her reply.
“I never pay a compliment unless it is warranted.” Those smoldering eyes fanned by long black lashes, shifted to her mouth. His breath caught. So did hers.
“If I could grant you one wish-come-true, Miss LeClair, a boon freely given for tonight’s performance, what would it be?”
She instantly thought of the Sylph, a creature not of the earthly realm, who’d longed for the love of a simple Scottish farmer. A love not meant to be. Bria knew better than to wish for the impossible. And yet...
“I would like one kiss,” she said, her limbs growing numb as she uttered the words. “Do not misunderstand. Maintaining my virtue is of utmost importance to me. I do not go about demanding or even permitting kisses, Your Grace. I do, however, dance the role of the Sylph. And just once I’d to know what she longs for without risking the heartache she endured.”
Ravenscar twisted a gold signet ring around his smallest finger. The ring was crested with a unicorn rampant. How fitting that his crest should be a mythical creature.
“I once aspired to the stage.”
Of all reactions, Bria did not anticipate his admission and His Grace’s expression suggested he hadn’t planned to offer it.
“Dukes do not tread the boards,” he went on. “I know what it is to yearn for that which cannot be. If it is a mere kiss you wish for, I would be honored to be the man to give it.”
He didn’t offer a rakish grin as she might have expected. He looked curiously serious, which Bria found more alluring. She suspected few saw this side of him, and even fewer knew he’d once wished to be a performer.
New sensations curled through her body. She wanted to kiss him, to taste his lips. Alone and standing with a duke in a fairytale chamber, suddenly all Bria wanted was to know what it was like to let him stoop down, to draw near, to meet his lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking a step nearer.
He closed the gap and in a rush of tingling, he brushed his mouth across hers. Sighing, her knees turned boneless while his gaze met hers.
One kiss on the most important night of my life. Why should I not?
Her trembling fingers slid to his waist while she took one last step into him, drawn by the magic of the night. Those powerful hands shifted to her cheeks as he closed his eyes and kissed. His tongue skimmed across her lips. Bria stiffened for a heartbeat, but he persisted. Light, gentle sweeps politely asked to enter her mouth. Timidly, she opened for him and, for the briefest of moments, his tongue caressed the tip of hers.
As if she’d grown wings and began floating, she followed his lead as his kiss grew more impassioned, more demanding, more—
“Beg your pardon.”
With the lady’s maid’s three words, Bria jumped away, clapping her fingers to her face. “I-I-I—”
“I was just congratulating Miss LeClair on her debut.” His Grace bowed. Twice. “Forgive me for my overt display of enthusiasm. I will leave you to change.”
Completely flummoxed, Bria stood dumbfounded while she watched the duke stride out the door. The man could make butter melt with the heat of the fire in his eyes. Slowly, she brushed a finger across her lips, the sensation of his kiss lingering. It may have merely been an act of enthusiasm to him, but she would cherish this moment for the rest of her days. Didn’t all girls remember the thrill of their first kiss?
Her dilemma? She must never let it happen again. Dancing was her life, her love, her master. Being alone with the Duke of Ravenscar was dangerous. And kissing him would lead to nothing but heartache.
Chapter Eight
DRAKE JABBED WITH THE right then danced to the left. With Percy’s block, he saw his opening and threw a hook, landing a facer exactly where he’d aimed.
Grunting, Percy staggered backward. “God’s stones, Ravenscar. What has your bristles up this morn?”
“Bugger all. You’re just slow, you maggot.” Drake danced in place and beckoned with his boxing gloves. “Come. Another round.”
The future Duke of Northumberland stepped out of the sparring ring. “I think not. You’ve got something in your craw and I know better than to play the stand in for a whipping boy whilst you take out your ire.”
“What do I have to be angry about?” Drake asked, growling a little too much. “Ticket sales are rife.”
Percy tugged open the laces on his gloves. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Drake threw a half-dozen jabs through the air. Percy had no idea how cl
ose to the mark he was. Damnation, Drake was a bloody gentleman and the only thing he could think about was kissing Britannia LeClair last eve—and how much he wanted more. Why the devil did he have to kiss her?
Oh yes, Miss LeClair if you want to kiss a duke, by all means use me as your dupe.
For the love of God, he wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. She’d enchanted him, the minx. He was a bloody man, not a mannequin. Contrary to what people believed, blood pulsed beneath his skin.
Now, every time he looked at the woman he would be reminded of the wildness of her taste, her eagerness, of being washed in the scent of wisteria while experiencing the sensation of floating. Merciful mercy, the damned floating. No mere kiss had ever made his knees go weak. Not like last night. Ravenscar was supposed to be in control, supposed to be chivalrous. Who knew what had come over him when he’d dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers?
She wasn’t just the Sylph on stage, she embodied the nymph off stage as well.
Snarling, Drake threw six more jabs.
“See?” said Percy. “You have something in your craw.”
“I have no idea to what you are referring.”
“Right. And I’m Saint Christopher.”
Drake shot him a look. “Just leave it alone.”
Percy tugged off his gloves. “If she’s going to be out in society, you ought to at least ensure the woman is properly attired.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your new diva. And do not try to deny it. I saw how every man in the hall slavered over Miss LeClair last eve including you, Ravenscar.”
Drake grumbled under his breath. “She’s a quandary...and too lovely for her own good.”
“She’s a novelty. And you’ll have your hands full if you intend to keep the wolves at bay.”
Drake scowled. Again. Bloody Christmas, he already had his miserable hands full.
“Alors,” said Pauline, sitting beside Bria on the bed and pulling the parcel from her grasp. “This one is from the Earl of Fordham, did you say?”
Bria leaned in and watched her friend open the gift. “I met him last night. He was a bit forward.”