It was warmer than usual for that time of year, and with not even as much as a breeze to speak of, it was downright pleasant being outside—especially when compared to the stifling heat of the ballroom. In fact, Anthony had to admit that his cravat and his jacket didn’t bother him nearly as much now as they had earlier. He eyed his companion, realizing that she might have been finding it chillier than he, what with her flimsy evening gown and no shawl to speak of. “If it’s too cold for you . . . ,” he began, but he stopped when she shook her head.
“Not at all—it’s quite a relief actually.” She nodded toward the ballroom. “As spectacular as it is in there, I’m happy to be able to get a bit of fresh air.”
“All the same, I do hope you’ll let me know as soon as you wish to venture back inside.”
She smiled brightly and Anthony felt his spirits soar. “I shall do so without hesitation,” she promised. “You have my word on it.”
It was Anthony’s turn to smile as he turned toward the far end of the terrace and began leading her forward at a leisurely pace.
Who was this woman he was talking to, and what was it about her exactly that captivated him so? He pondered the question for a moment, but, truth was, he had no idea. What he did know, however, was who she wasn’t. She was not Miss Smith—or at least he didn’t believe her to be—and she did not herald from a town by the name of Flemmington. He could easily drive himself mad speculating about the matter for the remainder of the evening, but he decided to opt for a much easier solution instead.
Anthony stopped in his tracks, bringing her to a standstill as well. He turned his head just enough to gaze down at her. “Tell me, Miss Smith, who are you really?”
He’d never seen anyone pale so quickly before. “It’s quite all right—there’s no need for alarm,” he felt compelled to say for fear that she might actually collapse in a dead faint. “It’s just that there was nobody on the guest list by the name of Smith, and with Flemmington being a fictitious location conjured by my brother’s overactive imagination, the fact that you readily agreed that this was where you were from only suggests that you’ve no desire for anyone to know your true identity. Am I correct?”
She stared back at him for what must surely have been a full minute before her mouth eventually closed. She looked up at him from beneath her long lashes and gave an ever so slight, almost imperceptible nod. “What will you do?” she asked.
“I shan’t have you evicted,” he said, realizing from her heavy sigh of relief that this was what she’d feared most. “After all, with your attire taken into consideration, you must at the very least be gentry—no lowborn person would ever be able to afford such a costly garment.”
“I . . . er . . . ah . . .”
“Oh, I see,” he continued, feeling the urge to tease her a little with the hopeful prospect of easing the tension that had descended upon them. “You are a noblewoman’s stepdaughter, locked away for countless years and forced to tend to your stepsisters’ every demand. But when you heard of the Kingsborough Ball, you stole one of their gowns and snuck away to attend. Am I right?”
“Right enough,” she whispered, smiling just enough to encourage him to continue.
Anthony felt his heart quicken. He wasn’t sure why, but her willingness to play along with this game sparked his interest in her even more. Of course he wondered who she really was—it was impossible for him not to—but for some curious reason, it didn’t seem like the most important thing at the moment. Especially not if she had her own personal reasons for keeping her identity secret. After all, she had mentioned an almost fiancé. What if she simply didn’t want the man to discover she’d come to the ball? It was a possibility.
They started down the steps. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Why am I still here? You know that I’m an imposter, so why have you not decided to have me escorted off the property? Why, even your brother and mother know the truth, and yet none of you have acted as I would have expected.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Anthony turned to look at her. It was difficult for him to discern her expression with the mask she was wearing, but he could see her eyes, and there was something so honest, yet desperate, hidden there that he found it impossible to look away. She was mesmerizing, and whatever reason she had for being there, he knew that it was vitally important to her, that attending the ball was not without risk. “You intrigue me,” he said, for it was the truth.
“And yet I’ve just told you that I have a fiancé.”
“An almost fiancé, I believe you said.”
The spark in her eyes dwindled. “Nevertheless—I will marry him. This . . .” She swept her arm in a wide circle to indicate their extravagant surroundings. “It cannot possibly last.”
Her voice held such a degree of sadness that Anthony felt his heart break for this lovely woman before him. Instinct told him to put his arms around her and hug her against him. He wanted to keep her safe, to prevent her from marrying someone she so obviously had no desire to marry. It must have been something her parents had arranged—a match that would serve all parties most favorably, except of course for Miss Smith. “Have you told your parents that the prospect of marrying this man makes you unhappy?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. “How did you—”
With a gentle tug, he began leading her toward the pumpkin carriage, the gravel from the walkway crunching ever so softly beneath their feet as they approached the grass. “You may not have said, but it is clear in both your voice and the expression upon your face—your eyes especially.”
She shook her head a little. “It’s a very fortuitous match actually—one that will benefit my family greatly.” She gave him an awkward smile and a shrug before adding, “We do what we must.”
The idea of it made him sick to his stomach. Nobody deserved to marry out of obligation. A thought struck him. What if he courted her? He was a duke, so her parents should have no qualms about approving the match, and besides, he was looking for a bride. Of course, there was no way of knowing if Miss Smith would not just be going from one undesirable fiancé to another. They’d only just met, and there was no way of knowing that he stood a chance of making her any happier than the man she was currently attached to.
And of course there was the slight detail of not knowing who she was. If she was prepared to sacrifice herself on the marriage altar, then perhaps there was something severely wrong with her—something this other gentleman was prepared to overlook, or worse, something he was not yet aware of.
Anthony cast a sideways glance in Miss Smith’s direction. Surely a woman with such delicate features, such clear blue eyes and such a delectable figure had to be perfect in every other regard. It was damn near impossible to imagine otherwise.
Sensing Miss Smith’s desire to avoid any further discussion of the matter, Anthony suggested they have their portraits drawn by the sketch artist instead, and with an eager nod of approval from the lady, he helped her up into the pumpkin carriage after Lord Shelby and a woman who was not his wife had vacated it. Anthony wasn’t usually one to judge (especially given his own history of rakish tendencies), but as it happened, he rather liked Lady Shelby and was therefore unable to keep himself from saying, “Ah, there you are, Shelby.” He eyed the woman Shelby was with—a widow who was notorious for sleeping her way into gentlemen’s pockets. “I say, is your wife aware of the company you keep, old chap?”
“No . . . er . . . I . . . that is . . . ,” Lord Shelby sputtered.
Anthony served him a strict frown. “I suggest you part ways with one another here, and none shall be the wiser—I’ve no desire for a scandal to ruin an otherwise pleasant evening.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Your Grace,” Shelby replied, abandoning the widow posthaste and hurrying off toward the house.
The widow gave Anthony a spiteful glare. “Was that really necessary?”
“I apologize for ruining your fun, Lady Trapleigh, but I suggest you keep your talons away from the married gentlemen this evening, or I shall have you removed from the property.”
She gave him a condescending smirk—her eyes darting toward Miss Smith in a predatory fashion as she took a step toward him, reached out and ran a long finger down his chest. Miss Smith gasped and Lady Trapleigh chuckled. “Perhaps I should offer my services to you instead?”
Years ago he would probably have accepted her proposal with a wicked smile to boot, but things were different now—he was different—and he wanted to do whatever he could to honor the memory of his father. Additionally, he did not want Miss Smith to think poorly of him. Lowering his voice to a near whisper he said, “That you would even imagine I might be interested in whatever it is you have to offer is only a testament to your own poor judgment.” Leaning toward her he added, “We both know that the only reason you were even invited here this evening is entirely out of respect to the friendship your late husband shared with my father.”
Lady Trapleigh opened her mouth as if to speak but wisely closed it again before storming off, her anger evident in every aspect of her being. Anthony watched her go before turning back to Miss Smith. “My apologies,” he said. He felt like an ass for administering such a set down in her presence, especially knowing that his father would have handled the situation with more class. “But I cannot abide people like that.”
Miss Smith smiled as he sat down next to her across from the sketch artist. “Really, Your Grace? Judging from your tone, I was under the impression that you were quite fond of her.”
Sarcasm, eh? A rare commodity in a young lady and one that Anthony definitely approved of. It was impossible for him not to laugh as he leaned back against the seat, only to discover that whoever had designed this vehicle must have done so with much smaller people in mind. It was practically impossible for him not to touch the entire length of Miss Smith’s body as they sat there, squashed together. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“Why don’t you move your arm, my lord?” said the artist as he waved his piece of charcoal in the general direction of Anthony’s left appendage. “Lift if up a bit . . . just like that . . . yes, there you go, that’s much better.”
Anthony could have sworn he heard Miss Smith gulp as he raised his arm and placed it against the top of the seat, but he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that their thighs were touching and that the curve of her breast was much too close for comfort. Dear Lord, but it was impossible for him to relax—especially when Miss Smith kept shifting from side to side and adding to the friction between them.
It was the closest he’d been to her since they’d met, and he found that it stirred to life an awareness of her that he couldn’t possibly ignore. Her scent was sweet—as if she’d recently bathed in the nectar of honeysuckles. Anthony winced. The thought of her bathing was probably one he should avoid at the moment. Dropping his gaze to her naked arm, he marveled at how unblemished it was—not as much as a freckle marred the milky whiteness of it. Unfortunately, said arm was directly perpendicular to her breasts. Anthony tried to do the right thing and stop his gaze from wandering, but his eyes were apparently less noble and refused to listen, which in turn led to a rather uncomfortable situation a mere second later.
Anthony hastily crossed his legs and looked back up at the artist, only to find the annoying little man grinning right back at him. Thankfully he held his tongue and returned his attention to his work, finishing the sketch with merciful rapidity so that Anthony could finally distance himself from Miss Smith. But in his eagerness to prevent any further inappropriate contact with the woman, he shot to his feet so quickly that he bumped his head on the roof of the carriage, lost his balance and landed right back in his seat. This alone might not have been such a disaster had he not placed his hand upon Miss Smith’s right thigh in an attempt to stop his fall.
Anthony learned a number of interesting facts about Miss Smith in the moment that followed. First, she was not too easily startled, for although she’d emitted a squeak of surprise at the moment of initial contact, she’d refrained from yelling or hitting him (for which he was very much obliged). Second, she possessed the ability to remain calm when faced with unusual circumstances. Third, and perhaps most memorable of all, was the way she felt. Anthony had never considered himself the shallow sort, and he was well aware that the first two elements were of equal, if not greater, importance because they pertained to her character, but he also knew that he could never deny the way his body responded to the softness of her. It was as if molten hot lava had surged up his arm, filling his entire body with a pulsing heat unlike any he’d ever felt before.
It confounded him to such a degree that he found himself at a complete loss for words. After all, it wasn’t as if he had no prior experience with the female sex. Truthfully, he had ample, for until his father’s health had begun to decline, he’d led the same life of debauchery as every other young and unattached gentleman. Casper could attest to this. In fact, it was probably the only cause for tension between them, because while circumstance had forced Anthony to grow up and become the responsible adult he was destined to be, Casper refused to abandon his roguish ways, declaring that it would be wrong to meddle with nature’s intent.
As for Miss Smith . . . Anthony removed his hand from her thigh and hazarded a glance at her, expecting a reprimanding frown. Instead, he found her looking down at the exact spot where his hand had just been. Even in the dim light of the carriage he could see that her cheeks were flushed. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes wide with wonder and her lips slightly parted as if she wished to say something but failed to find the right words. It was a moment that Anthony would never forget, for as he looked into her eyes, he knew that she had been just as affected as he.
“Your portrait, Your Grace.”
Anthony blinked, turned away from Miss Smith and accepted the piece of paper that the artist was holding out to him. With the spell broken, he voiced his thanks and alighted from the carriage before offering Miss Smith his hand. She quickly accepted and was on the ground beside him a moment later.
“There you are!” Anthony recognized the voice immediately as that of his mother. Looking over his shoulder, he found her walking toward him with Casper at her side. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you—the food is about to be brought out, so I thought it might be an appropriate time for you to make a toast.”
For the briefest of moments, Anthony considered asking his mother to do it instead, but he knew that would never do. He was the duke, and the making of toasts was his responsibility no matter how much he disliked the prospect of speaking to a room full of people. Being on public display like that made him uncomfortable—it always had—and was the reason why he’d delayed taking that dreaded seat of his in Parliament. But, in light of the fact that this was the first ball hosted at Kingsborough Hall since his father’s death, he couldn’t help but agree with his mother: saying something was the right thing to do. “Of course,” he said, managing a smile that he hoped would mask his nervousness.
“Thank you, my dear,” his mother said. She cast a quick glance in Miss Smith’s direction before returning her gaze to him. “And if you wouldn’t mind mingling a little with the rest of your guests for a while after, I think it would help reassure everyone that you’re taking your new role as duke seriously.”
The implication could not have been clearer if she’d spelled it out for him word by word. His mother knew, just as well as he did, that the woman whose company he’d been enjoying for the past hour was not only an imposter but also, perhaps, even unsuitable for him to associate himself with. It annoyed him—mostly because he knew she was right. He couldn’t remain absent from the ballroom too long without the guests wondering where their host had disappeared to, and since his mother would be the one to suffer most from any potential rumors, he had no choice but to do as she asked.
“Don’t worry,” Casper said with an impish smile. “I’ll be more than happy to keep Miss Smith entertained while you see to your ducal duties.”
Anthony had no doubt that he would, but knowing his friend’s devilish ways, he didn’t feel the least bit reassured by his willingness to help. Not when it came to Miss Smith. He was trying to think of an excuse to prevent Casper from spending any time with her when the lady herself said, “How kind of you, Mr. Goodard.”
“It’s settled then,” his mother declared as she took Miss Smith by the arm and started leading her back inside.
Anthony waited until they were out of earshot before he turned to Casper and said, “If you so much as look at her in an inappropriate fashion, I’ll call you out.”
Placing a hand upon his heart Casper said, “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Anthony frowned.
“Your lack of confidence wounds me,” Casper said with exaggerated sadness.
Anthony’s frown deepened.
“Look,” Casper said with a sigh. “Miss Smith is clearly more interested in you than she ever was in me—though I cannot begin to imagine why. Regardless of my reputation, I have never once risked ruining our friendship for the sake of a woman, have I?”
Forced to concede the point, Anthony shook his head.
“And I’ve no desire to do so now. If she’s so important to you, then I won’t ruin it for you—you have my word on that.”
“Thank you,” Anthony said with a nod as he started after his mother and Miss Smith. “I realize how strange it must seem to you, given everything we’ve been through together, but there’s something special about her, and I . . . well, I suppose I’d just like to keep her to myself for the remainder of the evening—find out if there’s a chance for anything more.” Considering what he knew of her, he somehow doubted that she would agree, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths had crossed for a reason.
Keeping pace with him, Casper raised an eyebrow. “More? You’re not thinking of reverting to your sinful ways with Miss Smith, are you?”
“God no,” Anthony said. He realized a moment later that Casper had stopped walking, and he stopped as well so he could turn to look at him.
“Surely you’re not contemplating marriage!” Casper was staring at Anthony as if his head had just fallen off his shoulders. “You barely know her!”
“Casper,” Anthony warned. “I have no intention of marrying anyone . . . yet. So if you don’t mind, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d refrain from hollering about it for the entire world to hear.”
“My apologies,” Casper whispered. “I can’t imagine what came over me.”
Anthony rolled his eyes before adding, “I happen to like Miss Smith.” Her soon to be fiancé aside. “And since I am entertaining thoughts of marrying in the not so distant future, I’ve decided to start looking at all potential candidates.”
Casper gaped at him. “Are you serious?”
“Quite. In fact, I’ve never been more serious about anything else in my life, and while you may be correct in that I don’t know Miss Smith well enough yet to propose to her, I do know that she’s very forgiving and has a splendid sense of humor.” And before he was tempted to tell his friend more about the time he’d spent in Miss Smith’s company, he hurried up the steps and strode inside the ballroom.