Daring and the Duke EPB

by MacLean, Sarah

  Forever.

  But he did not say that, because if he did, she would run . . . and she would never return. And so he kept his mask firmly in place and matched her coy question with an equally coy reply. “Why not?”

  She cut him an exasperated look—a fleeting glimpse at his Grace, from whom he’d received that look a thousand times when they were children. He’d always been serious—their life was not one that was conditioned toward whimsy—but teasing Grace had been one of his purest pleasures.

  “You don’t wish to guess?”

  She was gone, hidden away before she spoke. “Anyone with reason would guess that you were mad, saddling your staff with the mess all this greenery will have made in a few days.”

  “You must not know of me, in that case,” he replied. “They all think me mad anyway.”

  “They have said you were mad for years,” she said. “I would have thought your choice in decor would be the least of your problems.”

  “Perhaps I’m turning over a new leaf,” he said, emphasizing the pun.

  “Mmm,” she said, ignoring the reply and instead giving herself over to his dancing. She was a magnificent dancer, easily moving with him, and he resisted the urge to ask her whom she had danced with to make her so skilled a partner.

  “And you? What do you think?” he asked, wanting her to show herself—to show that she knew him. To tell him the truth of her identity and give them both the chance to talk.

  “I think the signs point to you being rather mad, yes.”

  He laughed at the words, turning them in a circle as the tempo of the music rose. Her fingers tightened on his biceps, sending a thrum of pleasure through him. “I meant, why do you think I built an arbor in my ballroom?”

  “Madness is not an appropriate answer?”

  “No,” he said, unable to stop himself. “I’ve turned over a new leaf on madness, already.”

  A heartbeat of a wait, and then she said, “I think you’re trying to get people’s attention.”

  Person’s, he thought. Yours. “Do you think it is working?”

  She gave a bright laugh—one he’d never heard from her before, and one he liked more than he could have imagined—and said, her gaze sliding over the room beyond his shoulder, “I think this particular ball will be remembered for years to come, yes.”

  “Will you remember it?”

  Her gaze lifted to his, and she smiled—still not Grace. “It is the first time I have danced in an arbor, so I would say yes.”

  It wasn’t true. He could remember her twirling in an arbor, as he sat against a tree, young and full of anger, desperate to keep them all safe from the man who would steal their future. The man who had stolen their future.

  He could remember her arms outstretched as the sunlight dappled her skin, setting her on fire as she spun and spun and spun until she was too dizzy to spin any longer and she collapsed onto the soft moss, her laughter the only thing that could pull him from his thoughts.

  She had danced and he had watched, and it had been the only thing he’d loved in that moment. Just as she had been the only thing he’d loved.

  But he did not call her on the lie.

  Instead, he spun her in another circle, faster than the last. She gave herself over to it, and a little inhale . . . of delight? He couldn’t help himself. “You will remember the decor, then.”

  Those gorgeous eyes found his. “Do you fish for compliments, Your Grace?”

  “Shamelessly.”

  She grew serious, as though the conversation had reminded her that they were at odds, and always had been—except when they weren’t. “I shall remember you, too.”

  He refused to release her gaze—to lose her attention. He lowered his voice, letting something other than gentility into it. “That’s why the trees. To give you something to remember.” For a fleeting moment, he thought he had her. But she didn’t move.

  Instead, she turned her head to consider the trees in question, her lips curving just slightly. “And what of your gardens? Have they been picked clean?”

  “Are you asking to see them?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He nodded toward the wall of open doors on one side of the ballroom. “It’s a masquerade—every reveler with a mask is ferrying unsuspecting ladies into the gardens.”

  “It is unfortunate for you, then, that I am never unsuspecting.”

  He coughed a little laugh at the words, surprised by the spar. She hadn’t been like this when they were young. She’d been too sweet and too innocent. But now . . . she was something else.

  Before he could mine the thought, she added, dryly, “Isn’t that the joy of the mask? No need to feign unsuspecting. Instead, one has permission to pitch oneself forward into ruination.”

  The word—ruination—came with a riot of images that made Ewan want to make good on every one of them. “Did you come alone?”

  She had. If she’d come with his brothers, they’d already have taken their pound of flesh.

  She’d come alone.

  A thrill shot through him at the thought. Whatever it was . . . whyever it was . . . it was not disinterest. And he could work with that.

  Her wine red lips curved into a little, knowing smile. “Are you offering to ruin me, Your Grace?”

  He met the smile with one of his own. “Are you asking to be ruined?”

  Her smile did not waver. Still not Grace, but Grace’s mask, the kind that would not easily be moved. “Who says I’m the one who would be ruined?”

  He almost missed a step. “Are you offering to ruin me?”

  “Are you asking to be ruined?”

  Yes.

  She saw the answer. One would have to be addlebrained not to see the answer. She gave a little chuckle that threaded through him, making him hard as steel. Making him ache for this Grace-who-was-not-Grace.

  “And if I said yes?”

  The words escaped him without thought, but her lips were the ones that that parted, soft and surprised, for a heartbeat. “You don’t know what you play at, Your Grace.”

  He wanted to know. He wanted to play.

  When was the last time they’d played?

  Had they ever played?

  Not like this.

  The music came to a stop, and so did they, her lush skirts wrapping themselves around his legs, the touch of fabric another temptation. He leaned forward, down the scant inches to her ear. “Show me,” he murmured.

  She did not retreat, holding her ground. “Do you not search for a wife?”

  No. I have already found her.

  “Are you interested in the position?” He forced teasing flirt into the words, when he wanted to rip their masks off, pack her into a carriage, and take her directly to a vicar. To make her duchess, as he’d promised all those years ago.

  “No.”

  Why would I settle for duchess? The words burned into him, and with them, the singular truth that the girl who’d once loved him was gone, replaced by this woman, strong as steel, who would not be wooed. Would not be chased.

  “That is an uncommon response to the offer.”

  “That’s because most women see a title and think it is pure opportunity—a line to freedom.”

  “And you?”

  Her lips curved, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “I know titles are gilded cages.”

  The words sliced through him, on a wave of the past. It was the truth—their truth more than anyone else’s. And she did not even know the whole of it.

  “Tonight is not for the future,” he said, hating the lie on his lips. Hating the way she breathed it in. Knowing that he had to tell it to keep her there. Knowing, beyond all else, that if she left him then, she would never return.

  Knowing that his invitation was an immense risk.

  But risk was all they’d ever been to each other.

  She turned slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. “Masks are dangerous. One never knows quite who one is when wearing one.”

  He di
d not hesitate. “Or, they make it easier for one to show his truth.”

  The wrong thing to say. He heard the bitterness in her little laugh. “Am I to believe this is your truth, Duke?”

  The second time she’d used the title, and the second time he had to hold back a flinch. He rushed to keep control of the emotions roiling through him. “It’s closer to it than you might imagine.” He paused. Then, “No one will notice if we leave.”

  She laughed at that. “You have been away from society for too long. Everyone will notice. They have noticed you flirting with scores of women tonight.”

  “Have you noticed that?” He liked that.

  She ignored the question. “And they will notice you leaving with me, and they will wonder about me.”

  “They already wonder about you,” he said, knowing he had scant seconds to convince her, before the orchestra began again and she would find a way to leave him. “The beautiful jewel who hasn’t yet realized that I’m the worst choice in the room.”

  “That might be the first true thing you’ve said all evening.” Damn her mask for hiding her from him.

  The words stung. The tacit agreement that he was not for her. And still, she stayed.

  He clung to that. “It’s not the first, but it is true,” he said. “So is this: they wonder about you, but will they know who you are?” They wouldn’t, would they? She didn’t live in this world. He might not know where she did live—what he would give to know her life!—but he knew she was not an aristocrat, and she could remove her mask without hesitation and no one in the room would know her.

  But still, he would never deliberately put her in danger.

  She gave him a small smile. “Someone might. I have an invitation, do I not?” He loved the teasing words—the way they warmed him. But that wasn’t what he was asking, and she knew it. “They shan’t know who I am,” she agreed, thoughtfully. “They are too deep in their desire for the fantasy you have offered them.”

  He clung to those words, rushing to beat the first strains of the orchestra. “And you, my lady?” He met her rich brown eyes. His lady. “What of your desires? What of the fantasy I offer you?”

  Time stopped as she considered the question, a single note of the violin seeming to hang in the air around them.

  Perhaps he’d never have her without the mask. Perhaps she’d never let him in again. But she was here, and she was in his arms, and if that was all he could have . . . it would have to be enough.

  Never.

  “Let me be your fantasy,” he whispered.

  Let me be everything you need.

  “Tonight only,” she said.

  He sucked in a breath. She offered him one night. Masked. Pure fantasy.

  It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.

  “Tonight only,” he lied.

  The words unlocked her. Her hand tightened in his, and she moved, magnificently, impossibly pulling him through the revelers and out into the gardens beyond.

  Chapter Ten

  What of the fantasy I offer you?

  Perhaps if he hadn’t framed it in such a way, using that word she loved so much—that word that had been tossed at her earlier in the week—perhaps she might have resisted it.

  Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tempting. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so handsome. Perhaps if he hadn’t had such a brilliant smile.

  Perhaps . . . but not likely.

  Because when he asked her, masked and all, about her desires, she realized that somewhere, deep inside her, she desired this. An evening of fantasy. An evening with this man, against whom she’d measured every other man for twenty years, like a curse. An evening with him, without any consequences—as long as she kept her mask on. As long as he remained in the dark.

  An evening when she took from him, not the other way around.

  He’d taken from her for so long. Her name, her life, her safety, her future. He’d promised her all of those things, and delivered on none. He owed her, didn’t he?

  So, what if she took the payment?

  Just once. Just tonight. In the gardens. Masked and unknown.

  Dahlia, collecting for Grace.

  A woman, finally getting her due.

  Tonight, and then she’d put this—and him—out of her mind.

  And tomorrow? She’d find a way to exit him from London.

  But tonight, she clasped his hand in hers and pulled him from the ballroom, through the writhing crowds and the soaring trees, the rich scent of moss that wrapped around them giving way as they walked out the doors and into the gardens, to the smell of flowers—evening-scented stocks, overflowing planters all over the balcony—and Grace stilled for a moment, letting the fragrance flow around her.

  The orangery at Burghsey Hall had always had stocks in abundance, and it had been one of her favorite evening hiding places, because of the rich twilight scent of the flowers. And with the scent, another memory, Ewan and her, beneath a gardening table as the sun set through the western windows. His hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined. Surrounded by this exact scent.

  She turned to him. Did he remember?

  He smiled. “By all means, my lady,” he said, his voice full of dark promise. “Don’t stop now.”

  Who was this new man?

  Where was Ewan? What had happened to him?

  You sent him away. And now, this man returns in his place.

  A whisper of suspicion came with the words. Something like doubt. Something that didn’t feel right. Pushing it away, she laced her fingers with his and pulled him down the steps, passing a chess piece giggling in the arms of a musketeer, and another Marie Antoinette, who peered closely at them as they rushed by.

  What was it with aristocratic women and Marie Antoinette—had they all forgotten that she’d misjudged her power and ended up without a head?

  But let them eat cake . . .

  He squeezed her hand and she looked back, stilling, letting him pull her around toward him and redirect their movements—no longer headed for the main garden, but for a side path, poorly lit and winding through a collection of linden trees. She followed.

  “I suppose it’s true what they say,” she whispered softly as he guided her away from the house and the light. “Unmarried gentlemen will always lead you down the garden path.”

  He did not laugh at the words. Instead, he cast a quick, scalding look back at her before stopping at a door, set into the wall to their right. She hadn’t noticed there was a wall, let alone a door, until he threw the iron catch and pushed the heavy oak open to reveal a magnificent landscape—a small patch of green, surrounded on its edges by a stunning garden in what Grace was certain daylight would expose as vibrant flowerbeds. And at the center, a gazebo, beautifully designed and painted.

  She swallowed, taking in the space. “It’s magical.”

  “It’s private,” he said, pulling her up the steps and into the gazebo before turning to face her, his fingers stroking along her arm, up, up, magnificently up, until the cool leather of his gloves was tracing over her chin, the sensation drawing her to him. Her lips parted, her eyes, behind her mask, tracking his own mouth, full and lush—just as she remembered it. How many times did she think of that mouth? How many times had she dreamed of kissing it, late at night, when she could afford a dream that felt like betrayal?

  How many times had she stopped the fantasy, hating that she still wanted this man who had betrayed her so fully?

  Let me be your fantasy.

  “Wait—” he said, pulling his hand away from her, the removal of the touch like punishment. He ripped his glove off with his teeth and tossed it to the ground. “Now. Let me—” and he reached for her, his fingers a hot promise against her skin.

  The touch was urgent and gentle, as though he couldn’t bear to wait for her, and still, he wished to do it right.

  “Let me . . .” The earlier command became a plea. He was asking to kiss her.

  She wanted it. Yes. And still—before she could speak the words, she hesit
ated. “Wait.” He did, instantly releasing her with a little groan of frustration.

  Was it a trap? Did he know her? She knew him—why did it matter if two played at this game?

  And if he didn’t—as he seemed not to—why did that matter?

  She met his eyes, barely visible in the light of the moon. “Why the trees?”

  He went still at the question. Nerves? Or surprise? Or both? “I told you,” he said, “so you would remember me.”

  Remember him in the past? Or remember him now?

  She would remember him. Like this, handsome and charming and wanting her, for the rest of time. “I will remember you.”

  I never forgot you.

  He nodded, taking a step closer to her, pushing her to the edge of the gazebo, until she was up against the wooden wall, and he dipped his head, whispering at her ear, “I intend to make it impossible for you to do otherwise.”

  Heat thrummed through her at the vow. It didn’t matter that it was meant to be fantasy.

  She would remember all of it.

  She would remember the feel of his breath on her neck, setting her aflame. And then the rest of his promise—“I will remember the smell of you, like cream and spice.”

  She would remember his fingers tracing down her neck and over her shoulder, down her arm, tugging at her glove. Removing it in a long, slow slide, and baring her hand to the late summer evening. More words. “I will remember the feel of your skin, like silk.”

  She would remember it, too, the feel of him, and the way she thanked God for the mask that kept him from her—because she didn’t trust herself not to tumble back into his arms if she could see all of him.

  “I will remember the sound of your breath in my ear. The way pleasure hitches in it. I would like to remember the taste of you,” he said, softly, his mouth tracing over her cheek, barely there, like a promise. Holding at the corner of her mouth, like a breath.

  She didn’t trust herself not to tumble back into his arms anyway.

  Just one night. Just one tumble.

  “Yes,” she whispered.