A Duchess in the Dark: Excerpt

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CHAPTER ONE

London 1814

 

IF MISS PIPPA WELBY had learned anything in her short twenty years, it was that one must be prepared for anything.

But this was quite beyond the pale.

She stood paralyzed at the threshold of her father’s study, eyes fixed on the gentleman standing just a few feet away.

“You asked to see me, Father?” she said finally, turning her gaze away from the austere gentleman who stood by the mantel.

Her father turned, but the gentleman didn’t acknowledge her presence. He merely stared into the flickering amber flames, one polished Hessian boot perched arrogantly on the lip of the hearth.

She had recognized him instantly. Indeed, his tall, imposing frame, dark hair, and dashing good looks weren’t easily forgotten. He was Lucas Victor Alexander, ninth Duke of Arlington, and quite possibly the most sought-after bachelor in London.

His presence in her father’s house was startling, if not puzzling. She’d met Arlington only once, last year in Yorkshire at the Tisdale ball. Indeed, the disastrous meeting had been branded into her memory forever. Even now, it often crept into her thoughts with little provocation. Someone might comment on the weather, for instance, and the flurry of unpleasant memories would come rushing back—a figurative tidal wave of mortification. It galled her that he’d gotten under her skin so completely, but there was no helping it. And she should know. She’d dedicated the last six months to expunging him from her thoughts, only to be met with his image every time she closed her eyes.

“Come, sit down, Pippa.” Her father gestured to the blue-striped chair nearest Arlington. “His Grace has something he wishes to discuss with you.”

Narrowing her eyes, she had the sudden, inescapable feeling her father had led her into a trap. She’d been summoned to the study without the barest hint that Arlington had come to call. She shouldn’t be surprised. Her father was no fool, and he likely realized she’d have no interest in visiting with the gentleman who’d slighted her in front of everyone.

“Oh?” she said in a coolly unaffected tone. “Will it take long? I’m absolutely famished and breakfast will be laid out soon.”

Mortification swept over her father’s plump face. He was a proud, self-made man, and quite willing to pour money into his daughter’s upbringing, especially if that meant entrapping a titled husband. It didn’t matter how successful his investments were, or how much wealth he amassed; noble blood would never pulse through his veins. Certain members of the haute ton had made that painfully clear. Admission into their ranks could not be purchased. His only glimmer of hope was in Pippa—his only child—marrying into the crème of society, which would elevate him, at last, to the upper echelons.

She hadn’t the heart to tell him that his dream was all but impossible.

“I hope you will forgive my daughter’s lack of manners,” her father said after an awkward moment, eyeing her sternly. “I’m afraid your visit may have caught her off guard.”

Arlington remained leaning against the mantel but turned his head to look at her. For the first time since entering the room, she saw his face. His straight, aristocratic nose and the firm line of his jaw, one dark eyebrow arched at her father’s words . . . and his eyes. They were the most uncommon shade of blue, like a cloudless sky, and they stared at her with such intensity, she thought she might wilt under his penetrating gaze. Instead, she lifted her chin a degree.

“Miss Welby’s priorities are perfectly understandable,” he said lazily, as though her blunt dismissal hadn’t offended him in the least. He flicked his gaze in her father’s direction. “Leave us, Welby. I’d like to speak with your daughter alone.”

Her father didn’t hesitate to do as bidden, coming around his massive mahogany desk to lay a kiss on her cheek. Then he was out the door, leaving her completely, helplessly alone with the duke.

She glared as she lowered herself into a nearby chair, perching on the edge, poised to escape at the first opportunity. The way he ordered her father around like a servant in his own home was positively reprehensible. He might intimidate all of London, but Pippa refused to yield to such arrogance. He had no right to barge into her home and start making demands.

“Well, since I have breakfast waiting and you have”—whatever scoundrels do first thing in the morning— “whatever it is you have to do, why don’t we cut straight to the matter, Your Grace? What is your purpose in coming here?”

His lips twisted into a faint smile. “Playing games, are we, Miss Welby? You must know why I’m here.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “Nor do I care, particularly.”

That nonchalant comment nettled him, as she had suspected it would. She could see it in the way he glared as he moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous helping of her father’s finest brandy. His posture was rigid, every move stiff and deliberate. Women didn’t speak to men of his ilk with such indifference, especially women of her “tainted” breeding.

“You haven’t the slightest idea why a man might prevail upon you and your father at this early hour?” He took a healthy sip of brandy, then set his glass on the small, circular table beside her. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Miss Welby. What I perceived as intelligence is clearly no more than artfully concealed ignorance.”

She narrowed her eyes at the insult. “You slighted me at the Tisdale ball last year. Why would I have any reason to believe you would call upon me, of all people?”

He raised one elegant brow. “Slighted you, did I?”

Now that nettled her. Good heavens, she wasn’t even worth remembering! To this day, she relived that horrid moment, agonizing over every humiliating detail. His blank, slightly horrified expression as Mr. Tisdale had introduced them. His subsequent silence. Then finally, his curt dismissal as he turned and walked away, in front of everyone.

Word of her humiliation had spread rapidly, of course. They’d called her presumptuous for wrangling an introduction to a duke, and though it was Mr. Tisdale’s oh-so-brilliant idea, not hers, she was still somehow at fault. She was arrogant, pompous, assuming, pretentious—the list of vicious names multiplied for weeks until the story grew tiresome and the gossips found another poor soul to torment.

“What would a duke want with a tradesman’s daughter?”

He chuckled then, a dangerously seductive tone that Pippa struggled—unsuccessfully—to ignore. His voice was deep, masculine, and it rumbled through her like a gathering winter storm.

“You astonish me, Miss Welby. I would have thought the reason was quite clear.” He leaned down and placed a hand on each armrest, caging her in. For a brief moment, it felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room. She could scarcely draw in a breath. Her heart fluttered at his nearness, but she didn’t lean back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I want you in my bed, of course.”

Bewilderment struck her first, followed swiftly by disbelief, then pure, unfettered outrage. He wanted her for his mistress! Perhaps she hadn’t been born a true lady, but she was certainly a lady now, in spirit if not by blood, and she would not be used for the singular purpose of warming a man’s bed, duke or not.

With one hard shove, she pushed him out of the way, stood, and snatched a carved ivory letter opener off her father’s desk. The ivory was a beautiful piece, made by the master carvers in the seaport village in Dieppe, France, where her father had often traveled before the war. It’d be a pity to get blood on it. She wondered briefly if it’d stain. The surface of the ivory blade was smooth, unblemished. She was fairly certain Arlington’s blood would just wipe off with nary a sign she’d plunged it into his cold, unfeeling heart.

“Just six months ago you gave me the cut direct.” Pippa leveled the blunt letter opener at Arlington’s chest. “Now, you dare saunter into my house and propose I be your mistress?”

Arlington curled his long fingers around her wrist and pulled it aside, effectively thwarting any attempt on his life. “Much as you’d like to stab me, that wouldn’t be wise, Miss Welby. People will ask questions, and I’m not entirely sure you are ready to hang for a simple misunderstanding. I don’t want you for my mistress,” he said. “I want you for my wife.”

All of her anger drained away instantly. She blinked several times; certain she’d heard him wrong. “Your wife?”

With his free hand, he plucked the letter opener from her grasp and let it fall with a heavy thud on the desk.

He was too close, hand still curled around her wrist, his tall, powerful body just inches away. The heat of his skin, the smell of brandy on his breath, coiled around her senses. If she were any other woman, she might tilt her head up and taste those wicked, wicked lips, perhaps trace their outline with the tip of her tongue. For the flicker of a second, she wondered if he would taste as delicious as she imagined. But the moment the thought formed, she pushed it away. She would not be seduced, and certainly not by him. A woman had her dignity, after all.

More than that, he couldn’t possibly be in earnest. He was a duke of the realm, and would naturally be expected to marry high. What in heaven’s name did he want with her?

She pushed at Arlington’s chest. He released her wrist, but he didn’t retreat. Her heart skipped, then galloped. “What game is this, Your Grace? Tell me, so that I may at least know the rules.”

“No game, Miss Welby.” He straightened and took a step back. “I’m a practical man. I see something I want and I take it. It’s quite simple.”

“I’m a woman, not property. I will not be taken, as you so eloquently put it.”

“You have a duty to accept me.”

Yes, society would see it that way, and her father certainly would as well. But none of that really mattered—she would never marry him. Her mother had been a member of the aristocracy—the granddaughter of a baron—and when she’d married Pippa’s father, society had treated her with such contempt, she’d refused to venture out of the house for fear of the scorn and ridicule she would have inevitably faced—if only in her own head. During the last years of her life, she only left the house to attend church on Sundays, or to visit very close friends—but even that was a rarity.

Pippa had sworn to herself, long ago, that she would never run in such circles. Never in a million lifetimes.

“Be that as it may, I’m afraid I cannot accept you.”

There was a fierce, slightly dangerous look in his eyes. “Yes, you can,” he said. “And you will, or it shall be my singular purpose to convince you otherwise.”

The rough, erotic way he said the last sent tingles sweeping through her body. She had little doubt how he intended to convince her, and despite herself, she wondered just how far he would take his threat.

She lifted a brow. “I should like to see you try.”

As soon as the words slipped past her lips, she wished she could call them back. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to challenge a well-seasoned rake on his ability to seduce, especially considering the disturbing swiftness with which her body responded to his nearness.

He lowered his head until his lips hovered dangerously close to hers. Just an inch or two more, and they would be touching. A thrill of anticipation skipped up her spine and spread through her limbs. Her heart thudded frantically against her ribs.

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he stepped back. “I accept your challenge.” His smile was slow, wicked. “Good day, Miss Welby.”

With that, he was gone.

For one wild, impossible moment, she thought she might have dreamed the whole dreadful conversation. Had she really just refused a duke of the realm? Now, in the cold aftermath, it hardly seemed possible.

Moments later, her father rushed back into the room, his features drawn tight. He held a folded piece of sealed parchment in his hand, and Pippa wondered idly what it was. An order of execution? Death by hanging might be preferable to her father’s anger once he discovered she’d thrown the duke’s proposal back in his face.

Her father handed her the parchment. With numb fingers, she unsealed it and read the contents. “It’s an invitation to an engagement ball,” she said.

“Whose engagement?”

“Mine.” She swallowed. “And it’s in ten days.”

CHAPTER TWO

UNCERTAINTY WAS AN ABHORRENT thing and he didn’t like it, not a damn bit. Lucas prided himself on cold, rational thinking. He was calculated, confident and never asked a question he didn’t already have the answer to. And if no answer was forthcoming, then he created one.

Miss Welby was his answer.

Until this morning when she’d refused him.

Like any rational gentleman with his wealth and position, he’d naturally assumed she would accept his proposal. With her unfortunate connection to trade, she wouldn’t make a better match. Still, she’d refused him, and that rankled more than he was willing to admit.

Lucas glanced down at the legal documents strewn across the surface of his desk when voices echoed in the corridor, just outside his study. Seconds later, the door burst open to reveal a very angry Miss Welby as she stormed into the room with several females in tow. Judging by their simple attire and the slightly frightened look in their eyes, he deduced they were servants of some variety.

He counted them quickly. Eight women. Good God, was she planning a full-scale attack?

Benson rushed in behind the legion of women. “Apologies, Your Grace, I—”

“Tried to stop them,” Lucas finished for the butler. “Yes, I can see that. Excellent work. You may leave us.”

As Benson slinked from the room, Lucas rose to his feet and moved around to the front of the desk, leaning against it casually.

His gaze swept over the female servants as they huddled behind their mistress. “Eight chaperones is a bit excessive, wouldn’t you say?”

She lifted her chin. “One can never be too cautious.”

There was caution and then there was pure lunacy. Women in general had a tendency to go mad from time to time. The madness was cyclical and yet still somehow dangerously unpredictable.

From the first moment he’d glimpsed Miss Welby at Tisdale’s ball, he’d been intrigued by her subtle, enticing beauty. Even now, he remembered the pale pink gown she wore that night. It clung to her every curve perfectly, accentuating her lush, ripe breasts. Instantly, he’d been entranced.

Tisdale had introduced them, or had attempted to, in any event. When she’d curtsied, then lifted her vibrant green eyes to meet his, Lucas had been rendered utterly speechless.

There, in the middle of the ballroom, his mind groped blindly for words. Any words. “My uncle is an ape,” would have sufficed, if only to fill the long, uncomfortable silence that had stretched between them. In the end, rather than look the fool, he’d turned and walked away.

It was that night he’d decided he wanted her.

Months later, he’d discovered she stood to inherit her father’s coal mine, and all the pieces had begun falling into place.

She stepped forward and held out a piece of parchment. “What is this?”

He didn’t need to look at it; he knew precisely what it was. “I should think it would be obvious,” he said. “It’s an invitation.”

She let her hand drop. “Yes, clearly. What I would like to know is why it has my name on it?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You are my intended. Whose name should be on it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; someone who wants to marry you, perhaps?”

He laughed, amused by her annoyance. “Oh, you want to marry me, love, you just don’t know it yet.”

“No,” she cried. “I don’t! And I certainly do not approve of you inviting guests to a ball that will not, under any pretense, take place.”

Lucas swept his gaze over the gaggle of maids once more. “Let’s discuss this in a more private setting.” In his bed, their naked bodies tangled in the sheets, perhaps.

“This setting is perfectly agreeable.”

“Perhaps I should make myself clear—I will not discuss my private affairs in front of an audience. Your flock of hens must leave.”

She narrowed her eyes. “They stay.”

Good God, the woman was impossible, and he found himself wondering why on earth he’d deliberately set upon this aggravating path toward matrimony. For twenty-seven years, he’d managed to avoid entanglements altogether, and it looked as though that bit of fortune was finally catching up to him. It was unavoidable, he supposed. One must settle down eventually.

And marrying Miss Welby had strategic advantages–control of the largest coal mines in England, for one.

“I will allow one maid to remain with you. Just one.”

She let out an exasperated breath and turned to one of the younger maids. “Rose, you may stay. The rest of you, please wait just outside the door. I’ll be along in a moment. This won’t take long.”

Oh, it would take plenty long if he had anything to say about it. And if she thought a young, simpering maid would preserve her cherished virtue, then she had no idea what she was up against.

Once the door clicked shut, Miss Welby whirled around to face him. “Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, call off the engagement ball or I will be forced to strangle the life from your”—she dragged her gaze up the length of him and swallowed—“pathetic body.”

His bride-to-be wasn’t much for subtlety, he was learning.

The room was large and there was a fair amount of distance between them. He rectified that by taking several steps toward her, stopping just inches away. She eyed him suspiciously but made no move to retreat. He liked that about her—she was passionate, determined to hold her ground.

She’d make a magnificent duchess.

Their children would be willful like their mother, no doubt, but that could be managed with the proper guidance—and an army of nurses, governesses, and servants.

Reaching out, he skimmed a finger down her pearl-white cheek. She flinched and took a step backward, almost tripping in her haste to escape him. He caught her easily, one hand curled around her upper arm. A tiny gasp escaped her moist, petal-pink lips.

“Release me.” She eyed him boldly. “Right this instant.”

Lucas chuckled and released her arm just as she snatched it away dramatically. “We are engaged. Surely that affords me some liberties, however few.”

A bleak, regrettable few.

Fury sparked in those sharp green eyes. “We are not engaged.”

Lucas shrugged. “You’re mine, Miss Welby, and the sooner you realize that, the faster we can end this tedious game of cat and mouse.”

Too much depended on her marrying him. Everything Lucas had worked so hard for his entire life rested on this.

If he were being cruel, he could say she’d brought it upon herself. The moment her eyes caught his at the Tisdale ball had led her to this very moment. She had no one to blame but herself.

“Why?”

“Because I wish it.”

“Why marry me when you could have any woman you please?”

“That’s precisely it, Miss Welby. I can marry whomever I please. I am not bound, as some men are, to marry for wealth or position.”

“I was born into trade. You were born into nobility. There were never two creatures more dissimilar.” She swallowed. “Think of your future children. Their mother would be the daughter of a tradesman.”

“Yes.” She still wore her bonnet. He reached out, took the thick, blue ribbon beneath her chin, and tugged. The delicate bow unraveled easily, and as the ribbons fell away, she drew in a sharp breath. “But their father would come from a long line of noble blood. It all evens out, you see.”

Indeed, there was an additional benefit to matrimony, after all. He needed an heir, and Miss Welby could provide him with one. Quite handily, he imagined.

She glared. “Then it must be the money. It’s the only thing that makes sense. You’ve gambled your fortune away, and you need a wealthy wife to fund your extravagances.”

He toyed with the end of her ribbon. “Wrong again. I don’t need your fortune, and I told your father as much yesterday. He can keep the money. All I require is you.”

Genuine astonishment swept across her face, but to her credit, she didn’t pull away, didn’t move. She was as still as marble, the pulse at the base of her throat the only trace of movement. His own heart kicked up a notch as he swept the ribbons aside and exposed the gentle curve of her jaw.

With his forefinger, he gently traced the curve, keenly aware of her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. Her skin was soft, smooth like silk beneath his fingertips, and he imagined all the different ways he would taste her . . .

She wanted to flee—he could see it in the way she looked at him, shocked and slightly confused. But she didn’t. Was it curiosity holding her in place, or a deep, elemental need to feel his touch?

He wondered idly how far he could push her until she either surrendered or pulled away. Brushing his finger up the line of her jaw to the lobe of her ear, he caressed it gently. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch, then snapped open instantly, as though realizing she’d succumbed, even for just a moment.

Trailing his hand up, he caught her bonnet and tugged it off her head. Her eyes widened and she lunged for the bonnet, which he held up, out of her reach. “That’s mine. Give it back, if you please.” The last was said through gritted teeth, as though it cost her everything to remain civil.

He tossed it onto the white settee behind him, and then turned back to her. Her eyes sparked with defiance. “I know what you are about, Your Grace, and I will not be intimidated. I’m far too smart to be seduced by the likes of you.”

Ah, so that was the way of it. Determined not to be seduced, was she?

Innocent, untried debutantes were not his usual fare, but he found her continued protests intriguing. He wanted to know what impelled her, what inspired her, what tempted her?

He smiled. Perhaps he should find out.

She wore a pale blue pelisse that buttoned down the front, white flowers embroidered along the hem. He reached out and unfastened the first button at the base of her neck. Her eyes fluttered up to meet his.

What he saw reflected in those deep green pools made his breath catch. She wanted him. It was unmistakable. Just the thought sent hot, violent need rushing through his veins.

A faint gasp came from the other side of the room, where Miss Welby’s maid stood, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. “Miss?”

Miss Welby spoke without taking her eyes off Lucas. “It’s all right, Rose. He does not affect me in the least.”

He chuckled. A good, honorable man would leave it at that. His father had been a good man, so generous and altruistic he’d slowly depleted the family estate until he’d rendered the family destitute. It had taken years for Lucas to rebuild the family fortune—to restore his family’s legacy. And in that time, he’d learned one important lesson: good men were trampled, used, and discarded. Good men were left vulnerable and powerless.

Lucas was not a good man.

“Is that so, Miss Welby?” He arched a brow. “Very well. Prove it.”

“Happily,” she said with confidence. “And when I do, what will be my prize?”

“You won’t win.”

“How about . . .” She tapped a finger on her chin, thinking up ways to torment him, no doubt. “I win, and you promise not to send the invitations.”

She wouldn’t win, of course. The legend of his seductive skill was . . . well, legendary. There wasn’t a woman this side of London who’d ever refused his advances—unless one counted Miss Welby, which he certainly did not. She was clearly an anomaly.

He smirked. “Done.”

Without turning, she said, “Rose, wait outside for a moment, will you?”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind her. At last, they were alone, and he wasted no time.

Reaching out, he unhooked the second, third, then fourth button, revealing the thin, transparent material that concealed the tops of her breasts. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as he continued with the fifth, sixth, seventh buttons. He imagined all the garments he would strip away on their wedding night, until every lush, feminine curve was bared to his hungry gaze. Until she was naked beneath him, her fiery red curls fanned out around her.

Just the thought heated his blood.

When the last button was undone, the pelisse gaped open, revealing Miss Welby’s ripe, curvaceous form. There was the pesky matter of her morning gown, stays, and chemise, of course, but all of that could be remedied easily enough. An easy compliment, a flick of the wrist, and they’d be pooled at her feet before she could draw a breath.

Smoothing his hands around her waist, he tugged her flush with his body. She was warm, supple, and fit against him perfectly. White-hot desire licked at him from the inside as he pressed himself more firmly against her.

She drew in a long, uneven breath and her eyes darted up to meet his.

Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers. Gently, he coaxed her mouth open and slid his tongue inside. She opened herself up to him, allowed him to take control as he slowly, deliberately, deepened the kiss.

Time halted, slipped away as he lost himself in the hot, honey-sweet taste of her mouth. The warmth of her body pressed to his, the feel of her hands skimming up his back, groping for purchase, ignited something within him. Want. Desire. Passion.

Everything centered on her, on them, on this moment.

Placing a hand on his chest, she pulled back. Lucas let her, his hands still encircling her waist, reluctant to let her go. In the end, he did, dropping his hands at his sides.

What in God’s name was that? Innocent, prudish Miss Welby kissed like a goddamn siren! His hands trembled as he raked them down his face. Christ, he’d never been so shaken by anything in his life—and certainly not over something as trivial as a kiss.

But that wasn’t just a kiss. It was something else entirely. Something remarkably powerful.

“Well,” Miss Welby said, astonishingly composed. She patted her hair, then began buttoning up her pelisse. “That was certainly interesting. But it in no way alters my decision.”

Lucas raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. Panic was settling in. What he assumed was panic, in any event. He had little experience with the emotion. “Tell me you felt that.”

“Quite,” she said. “It was lovely.”

Lovely? His entire world had shifted off kilter, and she thought it was lovely. Good God, what was happening to him? Somehow, he’d stepped back in time, to his awkward, flailing youth when just a look from a female could set his desire ablaze.

The notion was unsettling, to say the least.

Once her pelisse was buttoned up, she sidled up next to him and placed one delicate hand on his chest. She looked alluring, freshly kissed, ready for passion. “Tell me, do I tempt you, Your Grace?”

There was no use denying it. The evidence of his arousal strained against his falls for all, including and especially Miss Welby, to see.

“Thoroughly.”

A slow smile spread across her lips. She kissed the tip of her finger and pressed it to his mouth. “I win.” She turned, opened the door, and addressed the maids who were waiting just outside his study. “Come, girls. We’re done here.”

And with that, she and her flock were gone.

CHAPTER THREE

THE VISIT TO ARLINGTON’S hadn’t gone quite as expected. Indeed, it had gone rather awry toward the end. She’d kissed him—deliberately—which had not been part of the plan. For that matter, enjoying it hadn’t been part of the plan either.

She shook her head. It was never happening again. She’d done it to set him off balance, which she most certainly had. She’d emerged victorious! Now that that feat had been accomplished, there was no reason whatsoever to tread that ground again—even if there was a small, wicked part of her that might want to . . .

Arlington’s elegant town house was only two short blocks from her father’s and therefore there’d been no need to take a carriage. The brisk walk home was just what she needed to cool her frayed nerves.

Arlington unsettled her. His presence was powerful, domineering, and he was far more handsome than he had any right to be. Indeed, it must be a hanging offense to be that wealthy, powerful, and shockingly handsome.

More shocking, perhaps, was his determination to marry her.

Except Arlington had never actually proposed. He’d commanded, but in actuality the question, “Will you marry me?” had never crossed his lips.

You’re mine.

The words were said as a declaration, a claim of ownership.

A shiver of something—disgust, surely—rolled through her at the memory of those roughly spoken words. The man certainly knew what he wanted, and it appeared she’d somehow captured his interest. But why? That was the question.

It didn’t matter. She’d won their little game and he would call off the ball. She needn’t encounter Arlington ever again.

When Pippa finally arrived home, she thanked the maids and dismissed them to their duties. Inside the parlor, she was surprised to see Charles Hurst lounging on the settee like a drunken sailor. He wasn’t drunk, and in fact he never drank to excess, but one would never know it by his waggish character.

She’d always loved his droll humor. They’d been best friends since childhood, when their fathers had gone into the mining business together. Indeed, he was like a brother to her. Over the years, they’d weathered society’s cruelty together—and she rarely went out into society unless Charles was in attendance. The very idea of facing the sneers and whispers without him was terrifying.

Charles lowered the newssheet he’d been reading and flashed her a brilliant, pearl-white smile. “There you are, my pet. Where in heaven’s name have you been?”

She plopped down onto the chair opposite him, leaned back, and sighed heavily. She’d hoped to confront Arlington and make this all disappear without anyone ever being the wiser. “Just taking a walk.”

He raised one elegant eyebrow. “Half of London saw you arrive on the Duke of Arlington’s doorstep this morning.”

“How?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “I was excessively cautious.”

He flashed her a bored expression. “You walked there, as I am told, with a dozen maids, like Joan of Arc leading her army—and at the fashionable hour, no less. You weren’t likely to go unnoticed, were you?”

Pippa blew out a breath. She should have thought of that, of course, but this morning in her anger, all she could focus on was confronting Arlington and telling him exactly what she thought of his preposterous engagement ball.

“What I’d like to know,” he continued, “is why you visited a man you detest?”

Pippa sighed. He ought to know the truth.

“Arlington offered for my hand.”

Charles nodded. He didn’t seem surprised, which was curious, but perhaps she was wrong. He lowered his foot to the ground and straightened, all seriousness now. “Do you want to marry him, Pip?”

Her heart skipped a beat at his question. “Heavens, Charles! What an idea! You know how much I detest the aristocracy.”

Charles sat back again and sighed. “You’ll have to marry one day, Pip. Why not to a duke? No one would dare sneer at a duchess—not to her face, in any event.”

“If I marry at all, I intend to do it for love,” she said sternly, knowing his response would be to snicker. Charles was decidedly unromantic. “A nice, quiet tradesman would suit me very well.”

Charles held up the newssheet. “Then perhaps you can explain why an invitation to your engagement ball has been published in the papers.” He glanced at it, then back at her. “It’s very elegant. I love the lettering.”

Pippa jumped to her feet and snatched the newssheet from Charles’s hand. “That scoundrel! No wonder he agreed not to send out the invitations! He’d already invited all of London!”

Her heart sank. She’d thought she’d been so clever to have outwitted him! Turned out, he’d outwitted her.

“But you refused him.” Charles frowned. “Or didn’t you? I’m quite confused.”

Pippa threw the newssheet down on the table in disgust. “Of course I did, but that hardly deterred him. In fact, he didn’t offer for my hand at all; he commanded I marry him. I’m astonished he even felt it prudent to inform me!”

“He can’t marry you against your will.”

“The duke is a powerful man. I’m afraid he may retaliate if I don’t go through with it. He’s known to be quite ruthless.” She let out a breath. “The man is insufferable.”

“Women seem to find him quite handsome.”

“He’s distracting, to say the very least,” she said.

And if she thought of him naked, every last inch of him exposed to her very hungry gaze, then that was perfectly normal, surely. She was a red-blooded woman with natural curiosities, after all. There was nothing odd or disgraceful about it.

What worried her was how invasive those thoughts had become. For six months, since first glimpsing him at the Tisdale ball, she’d imagined all the different ways she might slap him across the face, then claw every finely tailored garment off his powerful body.

It was a problem, indeed. Especially since she had no intention whatsoever of encouraging their ridiculous engagement—if one could even call it that.

“Curious that he’d make a match he must find degrading.”

She shot Charles a sharp glare. “Thank you kindly.”

“It’s no slight against you, darling. You know how the elite view our kind.” He tapped his chin. “Did he give you a reason?”

“Aside from my irresistible charm? No. The only explanation he gave was ‘because I wish it.’” She sighed heavily, then glanced back up at Charles, a plan forming. “Perhaps you and I should become engaged. Only until Arlington loses interest. He can’t marry me if I’m already betrothed to you.”

And considering the direction of her thoughts, the sooner this whole mess was dispatched, the better.

Charles shook his head. “You know I’d do anything for you, Pip, if you were truly in a bind. But honestly, I’m perfectly capable of creating trouble for myself. I don’t need to entangle myself in your schemes as well.”

“What am I to do, then? Arlington won’t relent. He is quite determined to wed me for some mysterious reason. I wouldn’t put kidnapping past him.”

Charles stood and paced the room, pausing occasionally before resuming again. Finally, he turned to her, finger on his chin. “What if you were to chase him away?”

Pippa knit her brows together. “How, exactly, would that be accomplished?”

Charles strode to the desk on the far side of the room and snatched up a blank piece of parchment and a quill and ink. He brought them back and sat in front of her, using the low table between them as a desk.

“What are the qualities a duke would loathe in a wife?”

“How am I to know?”

“Come now, think. A duke would want a wife who is intelligent, beautiful, graceful . . .” Charles smiled. “If you are the opposite, then he will have no choice but to turn his attentions elsewhere.”

Pippa clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! A man like Arlington would never tolerate a wife who is anything less than perfection.”

“Precisely,” Charles said. “And if there’s anyone who can turn a man’s stomach, it’s you, my dear. I have complete faith in your abilities.”

Oh! Leaning forward, she swatted at him. He dodged her effectively by leaning to the side and away, out of her reach. “You are insufferable!”

He laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “I meant it in the most complimentary way possible, I swear it!”

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” she sighed. “Well, I suppose that settles it . . . I must lose the duke, and I only have ten days in which to do it.”

 

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