How to Tempt a Duke

by Madeline Martin

  His exotic scent was no longer foreign to her, and was uniquely appealing. Conversation was difficult to focus on when it was all too easy to let her gaze wander to his full mouth. And when he held her thus, lightly, almost in a caress.

  She liked this, she realized. The closeness to his strong body, the wonderful smell of him, the enticement of intimacy. Was this what marriage would be? A blend of comfort and excitement?

  It was far more than she’d ever anticipated a marriage could be.

  “What I’ve learned about you makes me want to know even more.” The Duke stared down at her, drawing her attention from his sensual mouth. “Lady Eleanor, you fascinate me.”

  Her face warmed in a blush. Was he intentionally trying to distract her?

  Stay focused.

  “How?” She spoke quietly, only half hoping he would hear.

  “You dress as an Ice Queen to force the ton into acknowledging their own gossip and yet you wonder why you fascinate me?” He chuckled. “But that isn’t all you want to ask me, is it?”

  The enormity of her previous anger and hurt crushed the delicate mood of flirtation. She wanted to ask him why he’d offered to court her. If he’d been sincere, or if he’d merely been covering his appearance with a viable excuse. But she realized she was not willing to hear the answer.

  “What was your true purpose in calling on my mother?” she asked instead.

  They began to twirl once more, and the room whirled by in a spinning array of resplendent gowns and murmured conversation. Eleanor held tight to ensure she did not fall. Their eyes locked, held, and she fell into the moment, tumbling head over heels into the palpable intimacy charging between them.

  It was more dizzying than the dance, and the rush of emotion nearly overwhelming.

  “I’m looking for a precious stone,” the Duke of Somersville replied. “A ruby as large as a man’s fist. It shines as though a fire were lit at its center.”

  The spinning stopped, but Eleanor’s rapid pulse did not slow. Not when she was so close to Charles...not when her body had grown accustomed to his touch on her back. On her skin.

  “The Coeur de Feu,” she whispered.

  The Duke of Somersville stiffened. “You know it?”

  “Of course. A magnificent ruby named the Heart of Fire for the way light flickers at its center. It’s lost, from what I understand, though there was one person my father was certain knew of its location.”

  The Duke’s gaze fixed more intently on her. “You know a great deal of it.”

  “Young ladies may be made to remain silent before their fathers, but it does not mean they do not listen. My father spoke of little else in the last year of his life. His inability to locate it consumed him. It was the one thing he could not control.” Bitterness seeped into her tone.

  “You know about the journals, then?”

  The step the Duke of Somersville had been performing fell behind by half a beat, a move subtle and practically imperceptible. Had they not been so close she might not have noticed. There was something bright in his eyes. Excitement? Desperation?

  He blinked, and recovered with a smooth smile. But it was too late. She’d seen exactly how important those journals were to him.

  And she knew where they were located.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charles ought to be vexed by Lady Eleanor’s lengthy silence. She glanced up at him with a coy look borrowed from Lottie and his heart missed a beat. While on Lottie he found the expression irritating, on Lady Eleanor it held a considerable amount of appeal. It also meant she knew something and was holding her cards close to her chest.

  The snag of crystals against his fingers told him that her gown lay against his hand. The warmth of her seeped through into the tips of his gloves, reminding him of the nakedness of her back where the gown did not cover it, and how badly he wished he could stroke her silky skin.

  She gazed up flirtatiously from beneath her mask and her full breasts rose and fell with her exertion. Despite all that had transpired between them she appeared to be at ease with him once more. Perhaps he had not fully ruined his opportunity. If that was indeed the case, he was an absolutely lucky devil.

  “You know where the journals are, don’t you?” he asked in a disaffected tone.

  Deep down, he was anything but. He wanted those damned journals with such ferocity he could practically feel the smooth worn covers against his palm. He was too close to fail.

  “I plan to read them,” Lady Eleanor answered, with the simplicity of one discussing the weather. “To see what is so intriguing it would make a man lie.”

  The twirling began again, and he held her by her slender waist to keep them together. Their gazes locked, the way they might if they intended to kiss, and his blood raced with frenzied force through his veins.

  He smirked at her confident reply. “You won’t find what you need by simply reading them.”

  “Won’t I?” She tilted her head.

  “There’s a key to decipher a careful series of coded letters,” he said. “At least to obtain what is needed to locate the Coeur de Feu.”

  “I presume you have the key you’re referring to?”

  Her lips were pursed in a shrewd expression. He wanted to push his mouth against them and drag the tip of his tongue over her lower lip until she opened for him with a soft, eager breath.

  Damn it. She was the daughter of his enemy, the keeper of what he needed. She was a means to an end, not a plaything.

  “I do.” His reply came out lacking the smugness he’d intended.

  “Of course you do.” She tossed her head, a haughty move so carefully blended into her steps anyone might assume she’d done it as part of the dance. “How very convenient.”

  There was something in their verbal tête-à-tête he was rather enjoying. Her blend of astute observation and bold flirtation was enticing, and the glint of those green eyes certainly caught his attention.

  “You look as though you are planning to make a bargain with the devil,” he said.

  “I very well might be.”

  His hand went to her waist again, while the other held hers at shoulder-height as they paraded around the dance floor, forced to regard one another from the side.

  “Go on,” he pressed.

  “You have the key,” she said. “And I have the journals.”

  “What do you want for them?” He spun her around.

  “My request is twofold. Firstly, I want us to work together.” Her voice was gentle, breathy...the way a lover’s might be after a particularly passionate tryst.

  “I’m a pirate, mind you—not a devil.” He winked at her and reveled in her pretty flush.

  The orchestra began to slow until the last notes faded away almost regretfully.

  “And I’m not truly an Ice Queen.” She curtseyed to him as he bowed.

  She was indeed not an Ice Queen. The title of Ice Queen belonged to her mother, who now glared at him with all the hatred in the world. The Countess of Westix truly was a woman befitting a man like her late husband.

  “What is the second part of your request?” he asked as he offered her his arm to lead her back to the watchful viper.

  “If I am unable to find a husband you must agree to marry me.”

  His step faltered. Was she serious?

  But the Countess of Westix was not the only person who awaited Lady Eleanor’s return. Several men milled about the Countess, chatting in idle conversation while keeping their focus firmly planted on the glittering form of Lady Eleanor.

  They snapped to attention like well-trained pups at her approach.

  “I do not think the latter concern will be an issue,” Charles offered.

  “Only because the elusive new Duke of Somersville danced with me.” She tutted. “Besides, it should not be a true concern. And to think just this afte
rnoon you were willing to court me.”

  The wry twist of Lady Eleanor’s lips told him she had seen through his ruse. It also told him well enough how she felt about it.

  “Think on it,” Lady Eleanor said as he bowed a final time and released her to those so wholly unworthy of her company. “I’d like an answer soon.”

  “Tonight,” he said.

  It was an audacious suggestion, for it meant they would either have to be alone together at some point, in order to speak candidly, or he would be dancing another set with her. One or the other would certainly set a flame to the possible kindling of a scandal.

  Charles turned from depositing Lady Eleanor among the pack of puppy-eyed suitors and all but bumped into an angel on his departure. But not truly an angel, for surely no celestial being had so robust a bosom as the one being tilted with obvious calculation in his direction.

  The angel curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

  He nodded, unable to scrape up her name from his memory. Her face certainly was familiar, with its pink apple cheeks and bright blue eyes framed by a white feathered mask.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” She blinked up at him with feigned sweetness. “I came to Somersville Manor often.”

  Ah, yes, now he remembered. The Carston chit. The very one who used to dump dirt in Lottie’s hair and rudely point out the quality of her worn dresses when they were all children. Charles worked hard to keep cultured impassivity on his face, when he wanted so badly to give in to a scowl of dislike.

  “Lady Sarah.” He nodded at the woman and hoped her costume was indicative of a bettered nature—for her own sake. “I trust you are well?”

  She giggled behind her fan. “You do remember. And I’m quite well, I thank you.” She leaned closer. “The other ladies are envious of our acquaintance. Many are clamoring for an introduction.”

  True enough, several faces were turned in their direction, all framed in a sea of curls and coiffures.

  Dear God.

  Attending Lady Covington’s masquerade ball had been a dire mistake. In doing so he had publicly declared himself an eligible bachelor, with a new dukedom, and plopped himself squarely in the middle of the marriage mart. Invitations would be overwhelming Somersville House the following day, and no doubt all the mothers would be seeking to thrust their daughters into his path.

  “This will be a very exhilarating set.” Lady Sarah looked wistfully toward the dance floor and blinked up at him once more.

  Charles gritted his teeth and made a silent apology to Lottie for what manners dictated he must do next. “Would you care to dance, Lady Sarah?”

  She put her hand to her chest, as if the request had taken her by surprise. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

  She fluttered her lashes at him once more, with such vivacity he wondered if one of the feathers had come loose and was stuck in her eye.

  Lady Sarah slipped her arm through his, tugging herself a bit closer than was necessary. While she paraded him through the ballroom like a prize won, Charles caught sight of Lady Eleanor, making her way to the dance floor on the arm of the notoriously eligible Marquess of Kentworth.

  Charles had to focus once more on not scowling as he settled himself in front of Lady Sarah. He’d been wrong when he had declared himself merely a pirate. For now, being forced to dance with an angel while watching an Ice Queen with another man made him feel very much like the devil himself.

  * * *

  Eleanor’s newfound appeal to the ton had more to do with the new Duke of Somersville offering to dance with her than the results of her social edification. However, her suitors made one realization glaringly obvious: not all men were like the Duke of Somersville.

  Where he was warm and encouraging, sometimes even teasing, and with the most pleasant hint of flirtation, other men were—well, they were dull.

  The Marquess of Kentworth was an exceptional dancer, and yet he’d prattled on so about his physical prowess that her eyes had nearly rolled from her head. The tall and awkward Viscount Rawley had come next, with a nervous bow, and during the course of their dance had dropped a scrap of paper with the dance steps written on it in blotted ink.

  Following supper, which she’d been unfortunate enough to be forced to attend with Viscount Rawley and his many dietary allergies, had come the very anticlimactic affair of unmasking.

  It wasn’t until she was subjected to Earl of Devonington, though, that she had finally had quite enough. She might have fallen asleep dancing the Scottish reel, with his boring chatter over his hunting dogs, had it not been for the many numerous times he trod upon her toes with his surprisingly dainty feet.

  The final notes of the dance finally whispered through the air—far sweeter than any Eleanor had heard before. The Earl of Devonington gave a final deft leap and came down hard on her foot. The very one he’d crushed so often earlier in the dance.

  He led her back to her mother with a comment on hunting that teetered precariously on the inappropriate and a promise to call upon her the following day. It was then Eleanor decided she needed a moment to herself, lest she go mad.

  It had been wonderful, initially, to have the attention of so many gentlemen when she had previously been so woefully ignored. But easy conversation had not come with the others as it had with the Duke of Somersville. The carefree comfort she possessed when she spoke with him had not come as readily either.

  The set she’d danced with him had set the night twinkling with promise and excitement. Everything thereafter had fallen rather flat.

  Only when she was alone could she finally acknowledge the bold request she’d made of him: to marry her in the event that another man could not be found. She’d done it out of necessity, of course, to ensure her own financial security. At any rate, it did not seem likely he would need to follow through.

  And yet she knew the offer had been unwise. Not only would her mother never allow such a union, Eleanor did not know what to make of the emotions swimming in her stomach when he was near, the sensation as exhilarating as it was frightening.

  It was far too easy to recall the brush of his hand over her naked back, the way their eyes had locked while the world spun around them, as though their souls were joined. It was fanciful and ridiculous and altogether reckless.

  She strode from the withdrawing room into the empty hall while thinking of the waltz. While thinking of him. They’d been so close—near enough for her to note the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled down at her, the way their bodies touched and how incredibly strong his broad shoulder had been under her hand. Even now the exotic spice of him clung to her skin and gown, the way the residual warmth of a good dream might linger into wakefulness—as if she could still savor him.

  “What is it that puts such happiness on your face, Lady Eleanor?” a smooth, masculine voice asked.

  Eleanor turned to her right and found the Duke of Somersville approaching her. “Your Grace...” Her heart fluttered like a freed moth in her chest.

  The Duke tilted his head regretfully. “I’d ask you for a second set if you weren’t so popular.”

  “You mean if it wouldn’t be so scandalous?” she chided.

  “I think I’d very much like to be scandalous with you.”

  He grinned at her, his lips parting over his perfect teeth and making him appear very much the pirate. Heat burned its way up from Eleanor’s neck and scalded her cheeks.

  The Duke of Somersville did not move closer to her, and yet the intimate glint in his eye made her feel as though he’d just closed the proper proximity.

  “Why, Lady Eleanor,” he said with feigned concern. “You appear to have overexerted yourself on the dance floor. Perhaps you ought to forgo this set and venture to the veranda for a bit of air?”

  Her breath caught. Had the Duke of Somersville just suggested she meet him for a tryst?

  And was
she truly considering it?

  Chapter Twelve

  Charles did not wait for Lady Eleanor’s reply before he bowed and took his leave. The suggestion of her joining him on the veranda hung in the air between them, ripe with temptation.

  He let the stretch of time work in his favor and strode with a purposeful gait through the ballroom, nodding at the few attendees he recognized favorably and ignoring those he did not. Masquerade balls could be very convenient for avoiding unwanted social interactions.

  And for creating enticing ones.

  Everything in him wanted to turn and look behind him, to see if the sparkling Ice Queen of the ball followed, his invitation answered. He had to force his head to remain straight ahead, fixed on the doors to the terrace.

  Several people milled about outside, in search of either fresh air, a moment unseen by an escort, or a liberating break for solitude. It was not improper for one to go outside alone at a ball, even less so at a masquerade ball, where minor transgressions were glanced over. It was his suggestion which had been improper, bordering on indecent.

  Though it was not his place to crave it, he wanted a moment with her alone, somewhere she would be only his. Where suitors would not be present, seeking a dance or some of the attention she’d doled out with charming smiles and genuine attentiveness. The idea of her being solely with him eased some of the curious knots tightening in his stomach.

  He stepped through the doors onto the veranda. The music was muted by the closing door, and the quiet of night overtook him.

  The door opened behind him, but Charles did not look to see who had arrived. A tingling at the back of his neck told him that his senses had picked up everything he needed to know.

  Lady Eleanor had arrived.

  He didn’t have to turn, but he did, for he would not miss the sight of her striding toward him.

  “Ah, Lady Eleanor.”

  He’d meant to say more, but the words died on his tongue. Moonlight caught and twinkled in the crystals on her dress and hair, making her shimmer. The white cloth blended with the fairness of her skin, so only the pale blue fabric of the gown and slit sleeves showed, as delicate as a moonbeam across her skin.