A Devil of a Duke by Madeline Hunter (4)

Chapter Four

Amanda folded her hands on her lap and kept a friendly smile on her face. She sat on a divan in the house on Bedford Square. Six women sat in chairs forming an arc in front of her. They kept looking at her.

Small talk flowed, but social chatting was not the reason for this meeting. Amanda Waverly was. She could not imagine why.

The housekeeper brought little cakes to eat along with the tea, coffee, sherry, wine, and, unless Amanda’s eyes deceived her, whisky. Thus far, only Lady Farnsworth had indulged in those spirits. Twice.

A woman whom Amanda had not seen before, Lady Grace, reached for one of the cakes. An ideal beauty with dark hair, blue eyes, and ivory skin, the lady had been blessed with a thin, lithe figure that allowed her to indulge in as many sweets as she wanted.

Lady Grace remained silent, as did two of the other women who were new to her. Mrs. Dalton, a stout woman with a cloud of pale hair and respectable but unimpressive garments, listened attentively. Another woman, Mrs. Clark, clearly of lower station to all the others, looked wide-eyed and attentive, but subdued.

Right across from Amanda, watching her very hard indeed, sat the Duchess of Stratton. This was the journal’s patroness of whom Lady Farnsworth had spoken.

Amanda judged her to be in her middle twenties. She also was so heavy with child that Amanda wondered the woman had left her home. Copper streaks lit the duchess’s brown hair. Her clear blue eyes assessed Amanda while Lady Farnsworth held forth on a recent bill submitted to Parliament. Beside the duchess sat Mrs. Galbreath, the editor of the journal.

The duchess smiled at Mrs. Galbreath when Lady Farnsworth finally took a breath. “I think this will be a perfect solution. Don’t you agree?”

“If I did not, I would have never asked you to come. In your condition—”

“Don’t you start on that. Adam is bad enough. The coach is so filled with pillows that I did not experience one jostle, although getting in and out was comical.” She turned her sights on Amanda again. “Lady Farnsworth has extolled your talents to all of us. We have a proposal for you and hope that you will hear us out.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“The journal has seen unanticipated growth this last year. We are thinking of moving from quarterly publication to bi-monthly. That is not realistic if Mrs. Galbreath continues doing everything, as she does now. Ordinarily I would help her, but under the circumstances . . .” She rested her hand upon the bulge in her pale lemon muslin dress. “We are looking to find some help for Mrs. Galbreath. Lady Farnsworth suggested herself. Or rather, you.”

“It is the accounts, you see,” Mrs. Galbreath said. “I loathe doing them, so I put them off until last, but sometimes last never arrives. I admit that I have not seen to them properly as result. Lady Farnsworth described how you have taken over her household accounts and managed them so well, and we thought we might impose on you to do the same for the journal.”

Amanda did not know what to say. She had been similarly speechless when Lady Farnsworth had brought her the household accounts. If any of these women knew about her past, they would never trust her with finances. Actually, they would never sit in the same chamber as she did.

She had told herself that the past was just that—the past. It had allowed her to accept the duty from Lady Farnsworth. Only now the past was not the past so much.

“You are concerned that it will interfere with your responsibilities to me, I expect,” Lady Farnsworth said. “You are not to worry. This will not take much time, and you can do most of it in my house. We will set aside a few hours a week for that purpose. No one intends to add to your labor.”

“Indeed not. I will not have that,” the duchess said. “If you cannot fit it into the time you give Lady Farnsworth, either we will find another solution or we will compensate you for the additional hours. The decision would be yours.”

“It sounds as though it would be interesting,” Amanda said. Numbers were numbers, but seeing how one financed a journal would be fascinating, and more informative than scrutinizing the fees owed butchers and stationers.

“Then you will give it a try?” the duchess asked.

“Since Lady Farnsworth is agreeable to sharing me with you, I will gladly try.”

“That is a great relief to me,” Mrs. Galbreath said. “Should we toast to your inclusion in our literary sisterhood?” She leaned forward, lifted the sherry decanter, and poured a round.

Amanda sipped hers, noting how the liquid warmed her inside as it trickled down her throat. She rolled her tongue over the flavor. A little sweet, a little not. She rather liked it.

“Now, dear, there is one more thing,” Lady Farnsworth said. “The duchess insisted on having a look at you, and that is understandable. However, you are not to tell anyone of her patronage. In the autumn, the journal will begin including her name and role, but for now it is a secret.”

“It is not really a secret,” Mrs. Galbreath corrected. “However, there was some business last year and we thought it best to wait a while before being forthcoming.”

“How scandalous you both make it sound,” the duchess said with a laugh. “Miss Waverly, a year ago Parnassus published a story about my family. We continued leaving my patronage unmentioned lest some think the revelations were not complete due to my involvement. I am sure you understand.”

“I would think you could forever leave it unmentioned if you choose. It is really no one else’s affair.”

“It is past time to claim ownership, I think. I am very proud of Parnassus. Oh, how I miss the excitement of creating the first issues with Althea—Mrs. Galbreath—just the two of us, finding the contributors, rushing to the press, begging the booksellers to give it a try—” She smiled warmly at Mrs. Galbreath. “You do better alone than we did together, Althea. The idea was mine, but the success was always yours.”

Mrs. Galbreath blushed. “You are too generous, and hardly accurate.”

“Not too generous, but also not accurate,” Lady Farnsworth pronounced. “It was always a collective endeavor, and should be known as such. Women who band together can achieve anything.”

“And now you will endeavor with us,” Mrs. Galbreath said to Amanda. “I know you will be a great help.”

Amanda hoped so. She liked these women, although she found it odd that she sat now with a duchess and the widow of a baron and the sister of an earl. Odder yet that they treated her like an equal even though she would really only be an employee once removed.

She looked around the little group while all of the women, even Mrs. Clark, began discussing the journal’s next issue. Friends, all of them. A sisterhood, the duchess said.

After fifteen minutes, she excused herself. Mrs. Galbreath escorted her to the door.

“I was quite serious about your joining us, Miss Waverly,” she said. “This house is a club, and you are welcome as a member. There will be a little vote after you are gone, but it is clear how it will go. You are to think of this as your second home and visit should you choose to when you are in this area of town.”

“A club? Like men have? I am grateful but must decline. There are fees and—”

“We have members who do not pay fees. No one ever knows so it is not as if you would be seen as different.”

“That is very kind of you. I doubt I will have much occasion to avail myself of this wonderful gift, but I appreciate it.”

Mrs. Galbreath cocked her head. “It is not a gift. Your help with the journal will far surpass what most members contribute. You should definitely be a member. It is only right and fair.”

Amanda’s amazement passed by the time she descended the steps to the street, and was replaced by the overwhelming sense that she had begun to be two people. One Amanda sat with fine ladies and agreed to help them with a journal.

The other Amanda intended to allow a man to seduce her in order to have the opportunity to commit a crime that could get her hanged.

* * *

That evening when Amanda returned to her home, she ladled soup out of the pot always simmering on its hook in the hearth. She cut some bread and sat down at her small, rustic table to have her supper. Lady Farnsworth always fed her a main meal at midday. That went far toward helping her stretch her money.

After her meal, she gazed into the fire while she garnered her courage to read the most recent letter. It had been at Peterson’s Print Shop when she’d stopped by this evening. Her mother had used that mail drop for years and, upon learning Amanda was going to London, had written that she should simply make use of the same name so her mother could write to her there.

She removed the letter from her reticule. Addressed to Mrs. Bootlescamp, it showed her mother’s hand.

He grew impatient, did he? It set her teeth grinding that an unknown and unseen man could impose on her life like this.

Not that Mama was blameless. Oh, she did not mind that her mother expected much. She did resent the inescapable conclusion that the only reason her mother could find herself at this man’s mercy was if her mother had tried to steal from him. Also, this man would never have known about her daughter if Mama had not told him in a bid to save herself.

He was a wealthy adversary. Mama never bothered stealing from anyone else. Wealthy and perhaps powerful. Maybe the kind of man who could see a thief was shown no mercy and hanged.

She laughed at herself, bitterly. It was what her family did, wasn’t it? Her parents had been cleverer than most thieves, but that was all they were. Highly sophisticated, extremely bold thieves.

It was also what they had taught her to be.

She put the letter in a drawer in a small table. Then she set quite different garments from those of last night on her bed. She removed her dress and donned them. She would go out again tonight, but first she needed to practice.

She did not know if she still had the physical ability to execute her plan. She would not know until she actually tried it. However, she could at least work at making success more likely than not. She had not forgotten her training, although she no longer thought it a game the way she had when a child.

She positioned herself on one of the chalk marks on her wooden floor. She bent into a half crouch and set one foot behind the other for leverage. She summoned all her strength, then jumped high and long.

* * *

“Who are you looking for?”

Brentworth posed the question while Gabriel and he rode through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.

“I am not looking for anyone.”

“Are you not? You pressed me to enter this crush when I know you normally avoid it. Ever since we arrived, you have been peering furtively left and right. I must conclude that you intend to meet someone here. Accidentally, of course.”

Gabriel steadied his gaze straight ahead. Peering furtively, hell.

“It wouldn’t be the shepherdess, would it?”

Damnation. He had found himself scrutinizing feminine chins and mouths the last two days, to see if any looked familiar. If he saw berry-red lips, he peered even harder, to see if they appeared painted. That was not the reason for this ride, however. Rather, he sought to distract himself from the delicious anticipation of tonight. The mere thought of it had had him half-cocked the whole day.

His fascination with this mystery woman was unusual enough to make him reflect on it. He supposed her lack of experience to be part of the appeal. His lovers were normally far past any need for initiations. To play the role of guide and teacher in the many ways of pleasure—the notion tantalized him.

He forced a laugh. “The shepherdess? What makes you even suggest such a ridiculous thing?”

“You disappeared with her for a goodly amount of time at that ball.”

“You noticed.”

“I did. So did others. I daresay the entire northwest quarter of the garden was avoided, lest you be discovered with your bare bum aglow in the moonlight and your trousers down at your ankles.”

“Since I am not looking for anyone, you can be assured it is not a shepherdess. Nor would I know her if I stumbled right onto her, so I can hardly be looking for her.”

Brentworth just smiled.

“Although,” Gabriel added in his best not that I give a damn voice. “Normally I recognize who is at a ball, even in a mask. I did not recognize her. Did you?”

“I tried to place her, but could not. As I said, she is probably a Cyprian, perhaps one recently arrived in London.”

“I don’t think so. I think it more likely she was a married woman hoping to find some adventure and relief from her brute of a husband.”

Brentworth turned a long gaze in his direction. “You have written quite a story for her based on a brief, chance encounter. But then, I would never dare to question your expertise on the subject.”

“Perhaps not a husband. A strict father or overbearing brother might explain it. She was afraid, you see. Terrified of discovery. If she were a prostitute, that would not matter much at all.”

“It seems your absence in the garden was mostly for conversation. How good of you.”

Gabriel knew that sardonic tone. “I believe I possess a special intuition regarding ladies and their essential characters.”

“You concluded she was a lady, did you?”

The question took Gabriel aback. “I suppose I did conclude that without ever really contemplating the question. Rather I did not conclude anything else.” He thought on the matter now. “Her language, her manner—she seemed a lady, or a woman schooled to be one.”

“Damned good thing you will never see her again, if that is the case. She sounds dangerous. When a lady has a husband, father, or brother who rules with a fist, her lover often finds himself in a duel.”

Brentworth did not offer it as advice, but Gabriel heard the undertone of warning. Not that he would heed it. Dangerous or not, he fully intended to provide as much adventure as the shepherdess would allow.

* * *

That night, Gabriel entered his brother’s house with his valet, Miles, in tow. The servant carried the epicurean delights with which he planned to entice his mystery woman.

A lone groundskeeper slept near the door, ostensibly guarding the house. Gabriel woke him, slipped him some money, and told him to leave the premises until morning.

He led the way into the library and had the footman lay out the tarts and strawberries and cream, picturing the last painted on a naked feminine body. He had the three bottles of champagne placed on a table that he moved near a divan that faced the fireplace.

After a low fire had been built, he sent his man away too. “Have the carriage sent at dawn.”

Finally alone, he went down to the kitchen and unbarred and unlocked the garden door. Then he returned to the library and took inventory with a quick examination of the details. Aside from the many books and some peculiar objets d’arts, he spied two decorative pillows that he moved to the divan, and some odd Turkish textile that he placed near it too. Content that he had prepared the chamber as best he could for seduction, he opened one of the bottles of champagne, poured himself a glass, and waited.

He idly wondered if Harry would mind if he made use of one of the bedchambers. He eyed the divan and the carpet, considering all possibilities. None of his speculations did much to dull the pitch of sensual provocation he experienced, much more piquant than normal. He admitted that the mystery and novelty of this assignation awoke his jaded imagination. So had the lady’s arch wit during their first conversation. She had thrown a glove to the ground. He looked forward to making her moan with submissive pleasure.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten o’clock. He listened, only to hear silence. The notion began to snake into his mind that she might not come.

Ten more minutes passed. Then ten more. He drank his fourth glass of champagne and began to accommodate his disappointment. What had he said to Harry? There was a river of women out there.

He opened another bottle of champagne. It occupied him for a few minutes. When he had it ready and waiting on the side table, he settled back in and admired how the low light from the hearth gave the wine a pleasant glow full of dancing bubbles.

As he did so, he realized that he was no longer alone.

She stood in the corner near the door, barely visible. Only by concentration did the shadows come alive with her form. He had heard nothing. She’d simply materialized there.

He peered hard at the few details the flickering light picked out. No mask. Dark hair bound tightly. She wore a long, dark shawl that hung like a cloak and obscured her a shape. A bit of dark cloth at her neck suggested she wore a dress that was far different from her shepherdess gown.

“So you have come.”

“At great risk to myself.”

“Why?”

“You promised champagne. I have never had any.”

He lifted his glass. “Some might say it is worth any risk.”

She did not move or speak. His eyes adjusted to the dark more. That ugly dark shawl festooned with dark red rose blooms hid her dress, her body—everything.

“Why don’t you sit here, and I will pour you some.” He gestured to the divan beside him. Sit here, my dear, and I will soon relieve you of that hideous shawl and whatever it covers.

Again, she neither moved nor spoke. He looked harder, this time at her face. Large pools looked back. He noticed the way she kept her back to the wall. His intentions receded from his mind, and he saw a woman, not a conquest.

A frightened woman. Of what or whom? Him, or just being here?

You jaded, stupid ass. She had said she risked much. He had known she was not very experienced. Of course she was afraid. Of him, of being here, of many things.

His decency emerged from the lake of champagne he had drunk. He readjusted his plans. “Perhaps you would prefer to sit in that chair in front of you.”

She hesitated, but moved to sit on the high-backed chair. Her shoes poked out. Black slippers. No wonder she had not made a sound.

Then he noticed what showed above them, encasing her legs from knee to ankle. What in hell?

He poured her a glass of champagne and brought it to her, not getting too close. She held it up and watched the bubbles.

“It is pretty.”

“Try it.” He retook his seat.

She moved it partway to her mouth. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

He had already had plenty, but he poured himself another glass.

“Tell me, shepherdess. Is there any particular reason why you are wearing trousers beneath that shawl?”

“They are pantaloons. You find that repulsive, I expect.”

“If that was your intention, you have failed. I have known two women in my life who preferred men’s garments to dresses. I know their reasons, and am curious about yours.”

“I walked here.”

“Through town at night? Had you told me, I would have sent a carriage.”

“I would have had to refuse the offer. Besides, I often walk at night if I need to go somewhere. There is always the chance that I will have to run fast, however.”

“From assault?”

“Or a constable. They do not like finding women on the streets after dark. They think the worst. The pantaloons mean I can run if need be without my skirt hiked up around my hips.”

“What a tantalizing image. Your reasons are practical, then. Why no coat to complete the ensemble?”

She picked at the front of the shawl. “I do not have one. Also, when I have this on, no one notices what is on my legs. They are so far down as to be almost invisible in the night. The shawl makes me a woman. If I need to be seen as a man, I can easily drop it.”

“Why don’t you drop it now? You are definitely a woman to me, with or without it, and you are safe here.”

She smiled. Her red lips parted just enough to reveal glimpses of white teeth. Erotic images regarding that mouth settled in his head then and there. It would probably be weeks before they left.

“We both know I am not safe here.”

“You are safe from the dangers you mentioned. As for any other danger, a shawl is poor armor.”

“You won’t be scandalized to see me in men’s garments? You don’t find it unnatural?”

“The notion of sharing champagne with a woman in pantaloons is provocative.”

She shrugged off the shawl. Above the black pantaloons, she wore a dark brown man’s shirt. It billowed above where she had tucked it into the pantaloons’ waistband. No stays underneath, unless he was mistaken. How convenient.

She sipped her champagne, then laughed softly. “My nose feels funny. What a peculiar sort of wine. It bubbles all the way down too.” She sipped again. “I think I like it.”

One more sip and she lowered the glass. She gazed around the library. “There are a lot of books here.”

“Harry is a scholar. Some of these are his, and some he has taken from the family library.”

“It was good of you to allow him to deplete your library so he could enhance his own.”

If Harry had taken ten times the number, it would not deplete his own. Her comment made him wonder about something. “Do you know who I am?”

“A gentleman of some standing, I would say.”

He hesitated, possibly because he almost never had to identify himself. Everyone just knew. “I am Langford. The Duke of Langford.”

She did not appear impressed. “So you say.”

“Do you think I am lying?”

“I think you have dishonorable intentions and a man with that way of thinking will say anything to a woman.”

“I truly am Langford.”

“And you are also a man with special talents with women. If I raised an eyebrow at that, I must raise two at your claims to be a duke.”

The minx was determined to challenge him on all counts. She begged for him to be ruthless.

“As you learned in the garden, my claims regarding women were not idle boasts. As for being Langford . . .” He held up his hand. “Here is my signet ring. If you come over here, you can see the insignia on it.”

“I think I will stay here. If you are a duke, that is most peculiar.”

“How so?”

“Being a woman of normal intelligence, I am bound to ask myself what a duke wants with a woman like me. You are attractive enough to be able to get most any woman to drink wine with you if you have a calling card like that. Or have all the fashionable women decided you are too conceited?”

He wanted to laugh. Instead, he drank. “Attractive enough, am I?”

“More than passable to most. Which I, in turn, am not. Hence the question I ask myself.”

“Do you want me to object and say you do yourself a disservice, that you are far more than passable?”

“I would not mind. However—a woman knows the truth of that. We love the flattery, but we know.”

“I will answer your question honestly. This duke finds you refreshing and far more than passable. Also different. A mystery.” And a challenge, but no need to tip his hand on that. “I have now told you who I am. Will you return the favor?”

She looked at her wine, then at him. She shook her head.

* * *

She had seen the empty bottle when she’d entered and realized that fortune had smiled on her again. He had to be well into his cups already. A bit more and he hopefully would fall asleep before she had to succumb to his seduction.

She had accepted before she pursued his brother that she might have to give herself most literally to the effort to save her mother. She had told herself that it probably would be no worse than the last time with Steven, when she had known what he was but had not yet left him. It had been enlightening, that last night. There could be pleasure even without love, it turned out.

No matter how it would be, however, she would prefer not to do that. She had even come here last night to see if she could gain access another way. Like Sir Malcolm’s house, however, this one’s garden doors were barred and the lower windows locked. Short of breaking panes and mullions, she had no way in.

Now she hoped this duke would doze off before the act, and she would not need to agree to the act itself in order to get him to fall asleep.

Either way, she wanted him sleeping soundly by midnight.

He poured additional champagne into his glass. He drank more. Then he settled back into the divan.

“There are refreshments over there, if you would like some.” He gestured to a table near the windows.

She rose and ventured over, mostly to use up time while he drank. Berries, tarts, and cream in silver bowls waited. “Strawberries. They look delicious.”

“They are delectable with the cream.”

She picked one up by its stem, dipped it in the thick cream, and bit. Juice ran down her chin. Her host had thoughtfully included napkins, and she hurriedly made use of one. She resisted the temptation to eat more when she noticed he watched her every move.

She retook her seat quickly. “Thank you. That was as good as it looked. So few things are.”

“More criticism of sumptuous meals? You are an exacting woman. You should have more. I will gladly help so you do not soil your shirt.”

“That would suit your intentions neatly—feeding me berries laden with cream. Would you lick off the dribbles, or use the napkin?”

“You have an inventive mind. The licking part, which I had not considered, enthralls me now that I consider the possibilities.”

“Shall we speak of something other than food so you can recover?”

“If you insist. You can explain a simple thing to me.”

“Simple questions suit me since I am a simple woman.”

“Hardly. However—what are you afraid of? Whom? You can tell me that without revealing your name.” He gazed at her quite seriously.

The question startled her. She did not think anything about her revealed her fears. She barely admitted them to herself. “What makes you say I’m afraid? That is more humorous than perceptive.”

“Your fear of discovery with me makes it explicit. Also, it is in you. In your eyes. I think I am the least of it. If I did not assault you in the garden, you know I will not do so now.”

She knew nothing of the sort. She remained cautious of this man, duke though he may be. And she was afraid because even without any assault she could find herself as vulnerable as a woman can be.

As for the other fears . . . he was too curious. That was the problem with being a mystery. People wanted to solve it. She decided to be somewhat forthcoming so he would have a story that would make him less interested.

“There are expectations of me. Demands. They do not include parties and assignations with dukes or anyone else.”

“Your family’s expectations?”

“My parents abandoned me at a young age. My father left, then my mother put me in a school. I have found a place now. If it were discovered I was here, I would be turned out.”

He thought about that, while he drank yet more. “You are a dependent, then. I hope that in this place you have found you are not ill treated, even if your behavior is watched.”

“Not ill-treated as such, no.”

“And yet it is a lonely place, I expect.”

His words shot through her, naming as they did an essential part of her life that she tried to ignore. She pretended he had not met his mark so squarely. “Why would you expect that? It is not as if a duke would have any experience in such things.”

“There are all kinds of abandonment. Oh, I do not claim what I knew matched your tale. I lived in luxury and my parents were present. However, they were utterly indifferent. I was the heir. I filled a purpose and duty, little more.” He drank a good swallow of his champagne. “It was worse for my brother. I tried to help him with that. Tried to give him a brother at least.”

He was quite drunk. He had to be if he was telling her this.

“One day I returned unexpectedly from university,” he said. “I walked in on his lessons. His tutor—” His jaw hardened. “I am sure you know that there are people who will take advantage of any power if they can, even that over a child. Harry was eight, and this tutor was caning him. I don’t even remember why.”

“What did you do?”

“I thrashed the man, then told my father to get rid of him. I sat there when the new men were reviewed for the position, and helped choose the next one. Then I got that fellow alone and told him that if he ever touched my brother, if he ever ill treated him because he saw my parents never noticed, I would kill him.” He emptied the last of his wine. “He turned out to be a superior tutor.”

“You saved your brother from years of misery. Now you save him from women who pursue him at balls.”

He laughed at that, but it brought his attention on her again. “Did you never think to marry, to escape your current place?”

“Ah, yes, the solution for every woman, and a sure road to support. You describe indentured servitude, only there is no end to it.”

“I am the last person to disagree with a cynical view of marriage, so I will give you the point.”

“I was not speaking of all marriages, only the one you described for a woman in need.”

“Then you did consider it.”

How had this conversation arrived at that question?

He raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

She could tell him about this. She would never see him again, after all. “There was a man, soon after I left the school. I was young and trusting.” She took a sip of the champagne in order to obliterate the sudden bitter taste in her mouth. “It is an old story and a common one.”

“Another abandonment?”

There had been sympathy in his tone and she now saw it in his eyes. In their connected gaze passed a frank acknowledgment that he knew too well what had happened, and his judgment fell on the man, not her.

A bit more passed too. She knew he would have never lured her here if she had been innocent, and that he had determined in the garden she was not. He might condemn Steven for that seduction, but it left her vulnerable to other men, like this duke.

She could not deny his appeal. Talking like this near the low fire created the illusion of domesticity and friendship, no matter what else stirred the air. She had never thought he meant it when he claimed to want only conversation. He wanted much more, but he seemed to require the conversation first.

She wished little bonds did not form with each revelation. Tethers wove between them invisibly. She wanted him to remain a stranger. She needed him to fall asleep and forget about her once he woke.

He stifled a yawn. That gave her heart.

“So you are not a wife,” he said. “I had wondered, you see.”

“No, not a wife. Nor am I a dependent. That was your word, not mine.”

“What are you instead?”

She laughed because the truth marched to her tongue, caught just in time. A spinster, a secretary, a thief. “You make it sound as if there is only one answer. For you, there most likely is. I am Langford, you can say. Of all your privileges that is the greatest—knowing what you are from the day you are born to the day you die.”

“Everyone knows what he is. It is not a privilege of the peerage.”

“Women do not know from one year to the next. A girl marries and becomes a wife and mother. Her husband dies and she becomes a widow. Imagine staring into the looking glass one day and seeing someone who is not what she was the day before, and all the expectations have changed too.”

“When you look today, what do you see?”

“Can’t you guess? A man who claims such abilities with women should be able to tell.”

He pondered that with an elaborate frown. “Widow? I think not.”

She shook her head.

“Betrothed?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness. It is the one something that might get me called out. That or daughter. Men are full of new possessiveness with the first and full of duty about the second. If a fiancé or father knew you met me, it might get dangerous for someone.”

“Just on hearing I met you? You must have a terrible reputation.”

“I will admit to it being a tad notorious.”

“I suppose that is inevitable for a man who has devoted his life to bestowing his great gifts on womankind. It is a wonder you are still alive.”

“Someday, if we enjoy each other’s company, I may explain how I survived.”

“I will only learn your secret if I agree to allow you to lure me to my fall first? That is unfair.”

“I have done very little luring, shepherdess. You did not have to come here tonight. So there is no father who might do something stupid?”

“Daughter is not in the looking glass now. Obviously it was in the past.”

“Mistress?”

“That is a good guess. I might be the mistress of a man who has a taste for lovers in pantaloons.”

“Hence your seeking out another man. I am running out of ideas. Revolutionary? Radical? Reformer?”

“None of the Rs.”

“I am grateful it was not the last. I have had enough of that for the time being.”

“Someone is trying to reform you? How interesting. It sounds as if you are more than just a tad notorious, if that campaign is afoot.”

“Not interesting at all. An annoying nuisance.”

“Is that why I am here? So you can prove you are not reformed?”

He looked astonished, but recovered quickly. “You are here to drink champagne, to be kissed with great nuance, and to try to resist my grand seduction to no avail.”

“Ah, yes, that one kiss,” she said. “Do you want it now?”

His lazy smile could have charmed a bear. “If that suits you.”

“I think it best. Then you might believe me when I say there will be no more.”

She waited for him to come over to her chair. Instead he just watched her with devilish sparks in his eyes.

“It was your idea,” he said.

Memories from the garden drifted into her mind. Exciting ones. She forced them away. This was not the night for a real seduction if it could be avoided. She stood and marched over to him, leaned down, and pressed her lips to his.

A hand on her face. He held her so the kiss continued. He pulled her down more, and pressed her nape so the kiss could go on and on.

The sweet pleasure almost defeated her. Her resolve and tonight’s risks proved small defenses to how seductive he could be. For all of the physical stimulation she experienced, what truly tempted her was the offer to escape everything she knew, and live within the sensations that he could create in her.

He pressed her nape enough to cause alarm. She glanced down. Soon, his other hand would brush against her shirt.

She pulled away from him. She looked down at eyes almost black, their color had deepened so much. The way he gazed at her weakened her even more than the long kiss had.

He knew. He could read her mind. He leaned toward her, reaching. Offering. She looked at that outstretched hand, so masculine and handsome in its own right.

She walked back to her chair.

He took it surprisingly well. Perhaps gentlemen believed they had to be gracious about such things. Then again, the way he kept yawning may have told him it would hardly be his best effort.

“What do you do when you are not fulfilling the demands of your place, or sneaking off to balls and meetings with me?”

More conversation. More curiosity. But he was fading. The hour and the champagne were working on him. “I read.”

“Harry would have liked you more than he knew.” A deep yawn swallowed his last words.

“I also sing.”

“Do you now? Do you perform?”

“If I cannot go to parties, I can hardly do something so bold as perform.”

“Then to whom do you sing?”

“Myself.”

“That is sad, if you only sing for yourself. Why don’t you sing for me? I will be a most respectful and appreciative audience.”

“I suppose I could do that, if you like. I am not accustomed to an audience, however. It might be best if you do not look at me. That might put me off.”

“I will look at the fire instead.”

He fixed his gaze there. She began an old Scottish folk song heavy with the tones of that country. The duke did not look at her, but she looked at him. She sang and watched his lids falter by the third verse.

At the end of the song, he was sound asleep.