Chapter Three
The gentleman clicked his heels smartly as he bent his head in a gracious nod. He was tall, dark, and expensively dressed. A blue-rimmed white satin sash held in place by a gold medallion lay diagonally across his broad chest. It was a Continental look, she had learned from her London associations. That all took a moment to sink in, along with “Your Grace.
”
This was a duke
.
Her hand extended, seemingly of its own accord, as she sank on weakening knees into a well-practiced curtsey. She rose into the glow of a smile beaming at her from beneath large brown eyes that glinted with amusement. He had short dark hair and square, solid features that were ennobled by an aquiline nose and a firm mouth.
“Maximillian, Duke of Ottenberg has been so good as to grace us with his presence this evening,” Tutty continued, a bit too eagerly.
“Miss Bumgarten.” The duke’s voice was deep and pleasant around her name as he gave her hand a kiss and a surprising bit of pressure before returning it to her.
“Your Grace, it is an honor to meet you,” she managed, reeling a bit.
She glanced at the far end of the room, wondering if her mother was watching.
“The pleasure is mine, dear lady,” he said with a throaty accent that marked him as being from the north of the Continent. “Our host speaks the truth to say that you brighten this gathering with your radiance. I hope you will make this evening all the more memorable for me by accepting my invitation to dance.”
“I would be pleased to, Your Grace.” She gave him her hand and accompanied him to the dance floor where couples were answering the music’s call for the next dance. It was a waltz, a dance Frankie had not only been tutored in, but actually enjoyed. As he put his hand to hers and clasped her waist, she felt the stares of the room collect around them and experienced a trill of excitement.
The duke was as impressive a dancer as he was a figure. His every movement seemed confident and calculated to put his partner at ease. She fell into the rhythm of the music and steps, feeling her skirts sway pleasantly in the turns. She couldn’t imagine a more perfect partner.
“And where is Ottenberg, Your Grace? I’m afraid I have not had time to study the geography of the Continent as much as I would like.”
“Prussia,” he said tautly, watching her for a reaction. “The north of Germany. My lands border the Mecklenburg.”
She nodded, making a mental note to find a map somewhere.
“And what brings you to London? Business or pleasure?”
“Business is ever in a German’s mind,” he said with a laugh. “But not in his heart. There we find room for . . . sweeter pursuits.” He collected her gaze in his and smiled warmly.
Oh, he was a charmer.
As they whirled through another round of steps, he made her feel as if they were the only two people on the dance floor. He spoke of his interest in shipping and acquiring contacts in international commerce and she told him of her first home in the great American West and how she came to be in London. He confessed that he longed to visit the United States, land of cowboys and gold mines and endless opportunity. When she asked if his duchess enjoyed London, his gaze took on a canny edge.
“I am unmarried, Fräulein Bumgarten
.” He increased the pressure of his hand around hers. “I have only myself to blame. I search the world for the perfect woman. Nothing less will do. One with eyes of sky blue, hair the color of polished mahogany, and a fire in her heart.” His hold on her hand grew tighter still. “But where am I to find such an angel?”
She reddened at the implication of the bold words that he clearly intended to describe her. Perhaps she was misreading his flattery. Lord knew, she was no expert on Continental customs. It could be that German nobles were raised to different standards of propriety from Brits or Americans.
“Well, if I run into such a lady, Your Grace, I will be sure to send her your way.”
He chuckled, drawing her into a mischievous laugh as the waltz drew to a close. He surprised her by continuing to hold her hand discreetly after the music faded away. He asked earnestly for another dance, being “so reluctant to part with you after only having found such a rare and companionable young beauty.”
She was a sucker for blatant admiration.
The next dance was not as lively, but the slower pace gave them more of a chance to talk.
“Horses,” she informed him, were her family’s trade at her Nevada home. “Well, horses and silver. We were—are—mining people.”
“Horses and silver.” He mused on that. “We have a great tradition in Prussia—excuse me—Germany
, of breeding horses for battle and for show. If someday you come to my country, you must see the Lipizzaner stallions. They are silver and white horses that are trained to do the most remarkable things . . . to perform the dressage and do the airs above the ground. You know this, yes? The airs?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of them.”
“Remarkable things. To stand on hind legs and jump and lunge through the air . . . is most extraordinary. These horses were bred first by the Hapsburg royalty for battle. Spanish and Arabian stock increased the strength and endurance.” He studied her. “You ride, then?”
“Do I ever. But there are so few places in London for a truly pleasurable ride. Hyde Park’s ‘Rotten Row’ and Serpentine are always so crowded and scrutinized. I am used to open spaces where you can give your mount his head. I love flying across the countryside with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. So much better than sitting primly and having to match pace to every other horse and rider on a simple path.”
She halted. He was watching her keenly and his hand had once again tightened on hers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on so.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You Americans, you have the reputation for living free, yes? And I would love to see you riding so—with your magnificent hair unbound and your face to the sun. You have the free spirit, Fräulein Bum—”
“Frances, please.” She dared correct his address in the name of forming a more interesting connection. “Or Frankie. Family and friends call me that.”
“A ‘little name’?”
“We call it a ‘pet name.’”
“Ah. You honor me with such permission. Then you must address me as Maximillian. Alas, my family had no ‘pet name’ for me.” He made a moue of a face that bordered on the adorable. “They were serious and dutiful people.”
“Something tells me you are of a different stripe,” she said, smiling.
He blinked. “Stripe? I have no stripes.”
She laughed softly. “It just means you are different from them. Like a horse of a different color.”
“I see.” He seemed to relax and whirled her around in an elegant spin that required him to hold her tighter. “Alas, I am indeed my parents’ son. Ottenbergs breed true. Duty and determination are passed on in the bone and sinew. That and a burning desire for beauty.”
She could have sworn his eyes glinted, but the next moment the music ended and she spotted her mother standing at the edge of the dance floor, making a show of conversing with friends but in reality, watching Frankie and her intriguing partner. Frankie felt the duke’s presence in the firm pressure of his hand around hers.
Without a word, he conveyed that he intended to have her for a third dance, and she felt oddly conflicted. One dance was simply custom, and two was a display of enjoyment or interest. But three in a row was considered too exclusive, too familiar. It was possible the German duke was unacquainted with the nuances of England’s social niceties. Lord knew it took her
a while to catch on to them, even with the Countess of Kew for a guide.
Thinking of the beloved countess who had tutored her and her younger sisters in society’s expectations, Frankie wondered what she would think of the duke’s forward behavior. Was this the start of something she would come to celebrate or to regret?
When the music began, the duke took her into his arms, then halted with a start and looked over his shoulder. He removed his hands from her and stepped back, his expression dark and his mouth suddenly a hard line. Reynard Boulton came fully into view with a wicked little smile and a gloved hand presented for hers.
“Forgive the intrusion, old man,” Boulton said with more than a hint of insolence. “But I believe this dance was promised to me.”
The duke stepped back, gave a stiff bow accompanied by a forced smile—“until later, fräulein”—and strode off the dance floor.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she hissed as the Fox set a hand to her waist and steered her into the flow of dancers.
“Saving your reputation,” he said with a smile that was clearly meant for everyone but her. “People are starting to talk.” He met her eyes for a moment. “Primarily your mother. Good God—that woman. Another dance and she’d have had you wedded and bedded before banns.”
She glanced toward her mother’s last known location, remembering the suppressed excitement in Elizabeth’s face as she watched Frankie with the duke. The S
in Elizabeth S. Bumgarten did not stand for subtlety.
Curse his hide, Boulton was probably right.
“I should think you would know better, Miss Bumgarten. Displaying such simpleminded fascination with a Prussian.”
“Simpleminded—” She bit back few ranch-hand words in favor of something more ladylike. “My dance partners are none of your business.”
He was totally unaffected by her censure.
“In fact, you should thank me,” he continued, “for preventing you from squandering your reputation on a man you know nothing about.”
“And I suppose you know everything there is to know about him. Your stock and trade, right? Knowing everything about everyone.”
There was a slight hitch in his otherwise flawless steps, and his features lost some of their customary hauteur. It was then that she realized just how close he held her and how easily they moved together. She slid her hand to his shoulder, meaning to increase the distance between them, but discovered an unexpected muscularity beneath that elegant tailoring. Distracted by the realization that the Fox was hard in more than manner, she looked up and straight into his gaze.
“He is Prussian,” he declared, looking away sharply. “That is all one needs to know.”
For a moment, his dove gray eyes had seemed softer, more accessible. She was relieved to see only a hint of old bruising on his face.
“And what about being ‘Prussian’ should disqualify him as a dance partner?”
“They are a hard and militaristic people. They have a passion for guttural consonants, cuckoo clocks, and fat liver sausages. Their nobility rule with an iron hand, and when they see something they want, they take it.” He glanced away, checking their progress on the floor. “There. You now have all you need to know about Prussians and your fascinating duke.”
Something in the tenor of his voice and the way he avoided looking at her made her wonder if something more than just outraged propriety caused him to intervene so crassly. After he brought her uncle Red home the other night, she had considered that he actually might feel some responsibility, however reluctantly, toward their family because of his ties to Daisy’s husband. But this—stepping in to save her from herself—this was beyond the pale.
“Good to know you’re such an expert on nationalities,” she said, determined to show him she wouldn’t be intimidated. Since there were a number of measures left in the dance and they had to talk about something. “What can you tell me about the French? One Frenchman in particular. I believe his name is Julian Fontaine. He is the maestro of the orchestra providing this lovely music. What do you know about him?”
He put another inch between them, and she noted the way he retreated into superiority.
“Why should I know anything about him?” he said, glancing away. “He is a musician
.”
“A very talented musician. The conductor of a fine and sought-after chamber orchestra.”
“It sounds as if you’ve already made a thorough study of your own.”
“Not nearly as thorough as I would like,” she said, making a point of looking through the dancers toward the orchestra.
“You do have eccentric tastes, Miss Bumgarten,” he said frostily. “Dukes. Musicians. Prussians. Frenchmen.”
“Not all Prussians, just Maximillian. And not all Frenchmen, just Julian.” They happened to be passing the orchestra at that moment and she turned her head to glimpse the handsome conductor, knowing that Boulton watched her with a frown. He was under the impression that she was asking about Fontaine for herself and didn’t like it. Ooooooh
. A trickle of excitement wound through her. “Do you think he’s handsome?”
“I don’t think about him at all.” He was growing downright testy. “He is a musician.”
She craned her neck to look past his shoulder at Fontaine, and felt Boulton broaden the distance between them yet again.
“I think he’s absolutely dreamy.”
* * *
He left her at the edge of the dance floor, with an irritable nod that gave her a twinge of guilty pleasure. She’d managed to rile him. Mr. Know-it-All. Mr. Smooth-and-Worldly. Mr. He-Stoops-to-Conquer
. Why would her presumed interest in other gentlemen concern him in the least?
Unless he had taken a more personal interest in her reputation.
In the midst of those musings, her mother appeared at her elbow and drew her out the nearest door and up the stairs to the ladies’ retiring room.
“A duke, Frances. Heaven above
, what splendid luck! You must be on your best manners here—none of your Nevada nonsense tonight.” She pulled Frankie closer on the stairs and lowered her voice. “No flirting or dallying with other gentlemen—especially not that impossible Reynard Boulton. What were you thinking, abandoning the Duke of Ottenberg for a turn around the floor with that miscreant?”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she said, bracing for a barrage of advice intended to turn her into better matrimonial bait. “Mr. Boulton cut in and insisted I had promised him the dance. Objecting would have caused a scene.”
Elizabeth looked around to be certain no one could hear them.
“Of all the nerve. The man’s not yet a viscount, and he has the gall to interfere with a duke’s
choice of partner.”
She put her arm through Frankie’s as they climbed the stairs and traversed the upper hall to the ladies’ retiring room.
“Well, no matter. It’s clear the duke is smitten with you. And why wouldn’t he be?” She patted Frankie’s hand. “You’re a prize, Frances. A perfect gem of a prospective bride.”
Frances.
Frankie cringed. When her mother used her given name, she was either being wrapped in praise meant to confine her on a pedestal or was in trouble and headed for much worse. In this instance, it was probably both. Her mother now saw her as a potential duchess and wouldn’t give her a moment’s peace until she was wedded, bedded, and the subject of bragging rights. And despite the duke’s obvious attractions—she flexed her hand, remembering his forceful grip—she wasn’t yet certain that becoming the Duchess of Ottenberg was desirable.
I’ve never even tasted a liver sausage.