Loving the Lost Duke
‘Mama is a positive menace to impressionable young ladies.’ Sophie Wilmott leaned on the balcony rail and sighed. Below her the ballroom floor swirled with colour and movement and, right in the centre, a handsome middle-aged couple gazed into each other’s eyes as they danced far too close for decency.
‘It is romantic, their being so unfashionably in love.’ Toby, her dear friend since childhood, leaned on the polished walnut balcony rail, his elbow nudging companionably against hers. ‘Everyone knows the story of how Lord Elmham came back to England after eighteen years abroad and tumbled into love all over again with his childhood sweetheart.’
‘They weren’t childhood sweethearts. They met when Mama was making her come-out and it was all terribly proper and repressed – secret glances, heavy sighing, soulful yearnings, I imagine, from what Mama has let slip. And then she did the dutiful thing and married a man old enough to be her father and had me and never stopped loving Lucas Randall. And Step Papa did what all impoverished younger sons are supposed to do, he went abroad and made his fortune and pined for her. Then he came back with a title and wealth and found Mama was a widow and swept her off her feet and now even the starchiest old dowager whips out a handkerchief and sheds sentimental tears over them.’
‘Whichever it was, they have been a bye-word for romantic love for, what? Six years? What is so wrong with that?’
‘Because they are the exception that proves the rule. Why do you think people sigh and smile over them? Because true love like that is as rare as hens’ teeth. But seeing them makes every foolish girl believe that a young man who gazes deep into her eyes and whispers sweet nothings in the moonlight loves her heart and soul, when in fact all they want to do is get under their petticoats or into their trust funds.’
She had certainly fallen for that fairy tale. Head over heels into the romance woman-trap with eyes blinded by star dust, until the reality of male desire blew away every glimmer of magic. Foolish, innocent, gullible girl that she had been.
Most men wanted one thing, and one thing only. Power. They wanted money and sex too, but those were so intimately tied up with power in the male psyche it was hard to separate them, as far as she could see. Step Papa was a notable exception, a man of honour and decency. Toby, when he grew up a trifle, would be one too, she earnestly hoped.
The waltz came to an end, couples bowed and curtseyed, the floor emptied and the volume of chatter rose.
‘That’s pretty harsh, Sophie.’ Toby straightened up and tugged down his waistcoat, the picture of wounded male feelings. ‘Not all of us are rakes or fortune hunters, you know. Some of us have the purest of intentions.’
‘Your intentions, my darling Toby, are very pure and very obvious – to stay as far from Parson’s Mousetrap as you can get.’ He grinned and settled back at the rail with her. ‘You run screaming if a respectable young lady comes within five yards of you.’
‘They scare the daylights out of me,’ he admitted with a shudder. ‘They are all done up like the prettiest of presents just begging to be unwrapped. I’m no saint, I’m tempted. But you know you mustn’t so much as tug on a ribbon or you’ll have compromised the chit and be leg-shackled before you can blink. And even at a respectable distance they giggle and blush and look at a fellow with those great big eyes and I haven’t a clue what to say to them.’
‘You have no trouble talking to me.’ Sophie tweaked her amber silk skirts and batted her eyelashes at him. Blushing to order was beyond her and she certainly was not going to giggle, not even to tease Toby.
He grinned and bumped elbows. ‘I’ve known you ever since you pushed me in the duck pond aged six and you don’t expect me to come the pretty with you, Soph.’ She could feel his eyes on her. He was about to say something typically tactless. ‘But what about you? You’re twenty five.’ He flinched as she glared at him. ‘Twenty four, then. You’ll be on the shelf if you don’t start doing some flirting yourself.’
‘When I am good and ready. I have a system intended to save me making an idiot of myself with giggles and blushes. And it weeds out the rakes and the fortune hunters for me. I call it WWIGG.’
‘Whig? You’re taking an interest in politics? Are you set on not marrying a Tory, then?’ Toby swivelled round to face her and, as always when faced with Sir Tobias Greenwich’s earnest bafflement, she smiled.
‘No, not the political party. It is an mnemonic to help me remember all the important characteristics of the ideal husband. W, W, I, G and G. I think about it if I find myself falling for someone with broad shoulders but no brains, or an indecent amount of charm but dubious antecedents. W and W stand for – ’
‘Weasely? Wobbly? Weak-minded? There’s Dunsford and Pilling, they’d fit all of those, especially when Dunsford’s forgotten his corset.’
‘Idiot. Well-bred and well-endowed.’
‘Well-endowed? You brazen hussy, you.’ Toby’s grin was positively evil.
‘Well-off, I mean. It’s the same thing isn’t it?’ He was smirking. ‘What is so amusing about well-endowed?’ She had better find out, it was probably something that no-one told young ladies.
‘Er, well…’ Toby had gone red now. Definitely something risqué then. ‘You know.’ He made a sweeping gesture at the front of his black silk evening breeches. ‘In the trouser department.’
‘What?’
‘Wedding tackle. Large. As in well-hung.’
‘Wedding – ? Toby, honestly, of all the expressions! And how is a lady supposed to judge that, might I enquire?’ She came over hot and cold just thinking about it. And impossible, surely, without careful inspection and that was out of the question. She hadn’t even had a good look when Jonathan… Stop it.
‘You can’t. I mean, breeches are pretty tight these days, but it doesn’t follow that what it’s like at rest is the same as when a fellow is…’ His brain appeared to catch up with his tongue and he went red. ‘Oh, hell, Sophie, stop asking questions a gentleman can’t possibly answer. This paragon has got to be rich and well-bred. What else?’
‘I for intelligent.’ She would ponder on the issue of well-endowed males later in the privacy of her own bed chamber.
‘That rules me out.’ Toby was unashamedly not bookish.
‘So does well-off.’ He had just inherited a very modest estate. ‘Anyway, we don’t want to get married to each other so it is academic. G for good-looking and also good-humoured, as in having a sense of humour, not being some blustering buffoon.’
‘You don’t want much, Sophie,’ Toby observed. ‘Virtually every man you will encounter socially is well-bred, but as for the rest of the list, it’s a tall order to find them all in the same package.’
‘I know, but it is very handy. I find myself becoming interested in a handsome face, or a witty or intelligent conversationalist and then I apply WWIGG and can cross the gentleman off because he doesn’t meet all five criteria.’ And even if he did, she would have to add the secret requirements – U for Understanding and F for Forgiving.
She thought she might have found the ideal candidate – pleasant, good-looking, a duke’s grandson, intelligent company – but he seemed no more eager to advance the matter than she did. Love she did not expect or need – friendship and reliability were what were important – but some enthusiasm would be welcome.
‘It almost sounds as though you enjoy crossing them all off, Soph. Don’t you want a husband?’ There was a screech of tuning violins. ‘Oh hell’s teeth they are going out for the next set and I’m promised to that Harrison beanpole. At least she’s yearning after Adrian Haye, so I’m safe.’ Toby fled towards the stairs and emerged just below her a minute later, running a hand through his unruly curls as he made his way to his partner.
She should go down soon herself. Lord Heaton had claimed the supper dance set and she was almost certain he was a WWIGG, although she had doubts about his sense of humour. But he might just be on his best behaviour which was making him somewhat solemn. But was he any better than Ralph Thorne, her exceptionally reticent leading candidate?
‘Tell me, Sophie,’ enquired a deep voice from the shadows behind her. ‘Do you want to cross them all off the list?’
She spun round, staggered, grasped the balcony rail. A complete stranger. A tall, dark stranger who had heard all of that. Even the well-endowed wedding-tackle part. ‘Oh, my Lord.’
‘Oh, Your Grace, actually,’ he remarked, emerging fully into the light cast by the great central chandelier.
‘You are a duke?’
Good looking, well bred, certain to be rich. Tick, tick, tick went an out-of-control internal scorekeeper. Pull yourself together, her brain snapped. You are unchaperoned in a deserted gallery with a strange man and you have just been overheard in an outrageously improper conversation. He might very well be making assumptions and intending to act on them. Which might be wickedly wonderful… Stop it, Sophie!
‘I am.’
‘You can’t be. I know all the dukes and you are not one of them.’ He looked like dukes ought to look according to fairy tales and, disappointingly, never did. Twenty seven? Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, patrician nose, grey, beautiful eyes, exquisitely cut evening suit, flat stomach. Her gaze began to shift downwards and she wrenched it back with an effort and met an amused smile. He wasn’t a mind reader, was he? ‘They are all too old. Unless you are the Lost Duke.’
‘I am not at all lost,’ he said. ‘I know exactly where I am. In the gallery at Lady Radlett’s May Ball.’
Oh yes, her internal scorekeeper added, that voice. Deep, warm, drawling. You should have added SS for Staggeringly Sexy.
‘You are the Duke of Calderbrook?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you might not be lost now, but why did you go away for so long? You’ve been gone for almost more years than I’ve been out.’ Not lost exactly. Apparently he had written letters home from time to time, but all those did was track where the errant nobleman had been, never where he was going. Or what he was doing, come to that. Or why.
‘Away, not lost. My nearest and… dearest knew where I was all the time. More or less.’ He strolled forward until he could put his hands on the rail beside her and look down. The hooded eyes scanned the dance floor, but Sophie noticed he took care not to lean so far forward as to be seen himself. ‘You’ve been out that long?’
‘You have been eavesdropping.’ He might at least have had the gallantry to observe that she didn’t look old enough for what his calculations told him. ‘And I came out when I was seventeen.’ Seven years ago.
‘You and your young friend intruded into my eyrie. Naturally, expecting that an amorous encounter was about to ensue, I retreated discretely into the shadows.’
‘But neither closed your eyes nor put your fingers in your ears, apparently.’
‘No, not that,’ he admitted. ‘It was potentially entertaining.’ Shameless man. ‘I congratulate you on finding this hideaway.’
‘We came up from the door near the library and locked it behind us, so I suppose you used the rear corridor entrance.’
‘Do you know every trysting place in every ballroom in London, Sophie?’
‘As you so ungallantly reminded me, Your Grace, I have been out for years and years so yes, I know every nook and corner that rakes use to lure their victims into their webs, usually so I can take care to avoid them. And it is Miss Wilmott, if you please.’
‘Gareth Thorne, Duke of Calderbrook. At your service, Miss Wilmott.’ He lifted her hand in his own ungloved one and kissed her fingertips, then carefully replaced her hand on the rail. Sophie stared at the fine embroidery on the backs of her gloves and attempted to get her breathing under control.
‘I am not spinning webs for innocents this evening, rest assured. No, not for innocents,’ he added, almost under his breath.
Which is a good thing, under the circumstances, given that every iota of common sense I possess appears to be lying on its back, wagging its tail and asking for its tummy to be tickled. Her nostrils flared, catching a clean, faintly spicy, sharp note over the muddle of scents and smells rising in the heat from the ballroom. ‘What are you doing, Your Grace, all alone up here? There has been no whisper of your return. Ralph… I mean, your cousin Mr Thorne, told me nothing of it and last time he mentioned you it was to say you were in the South Seas.’
His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Ralph’s name, but he said nothing about him. ‘I am carrying out a reconnoitre of the battlefield, Miss Wilmott.’ He turned from his contemplation of the dancers and leaned back against the balcony rail to study her face. Sophie stiffened her spine and gave him back stare for stare. She was not going to blush and get into a flutter. ‘You are Arthur Wilmott’s daughter, are you not?’
‘I am. My father died some years ago.’
‘Your mother must be a beauty in that case.’ He reached out and tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. His fingers were cold. ‘You did not get your guinea-gold tresses from him. Or those lovely blue eyes.’ He leaned closer. ‘Not sapphire. No, not the hardness of a stone. A flower. Delphinium? Not quite…’
‘Most gentlemen compare them to the summer sky, or forget-me-nots. It becomes rather tiresome,’ she said, knowing she sounded like a spoiled beauty. But at least he moved back a trifle. She did not need to know that his eyes were a light and unsettling silver-grey with a darker ring around the iris. And she did not need to be so close to observe the indecently long eyelashes or that he had a small mole by the corner of his left eye. If, fifty years before, a beau had placed a patch there it would have been called ‘the roguish’, she recalled from her grandmother’s tales.
‘I have inherited my mother’s colouring, yes.’ She did have some air in her lungs after all. ‘She is married to Viscount Elmham now.’ The duke was still altogether too close for comfort, even though he was staring out over the ballroom again, his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled and she shivered. ‘I must go down now. I am engaged for the supper dance. Welcome back to London, Your Grace.’
‘Allow me to escort you to the dance floor, Miss Wilmott.’
‘Thank you.’ Goodness knows why she was thanking him, he obviously intended to leave the gallery anyway, because he had seen what, or who, he was looking for. She was very glad she was not his quarry. That smile had been positively wolfish. Sophie led the way to the left-hand spiral staircase and, when they were out in the corridor, locked the door and slipped the key back into its hiding place. ‘This way to the ballroom.’
‘I must return the key that I used.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and strolled off in the opposite direction.
Struggling was undignified. He would release her once they reached the other door, she told herself. Dukes did not abduct young ladies in the middle of balls. Unfortunately, said the wicked voice in her head. Stop it! common-sense ordered. But when he returned the key to its lock he kept walking in the same direction.
He was a duke but he had spent years living in the most uncivilised places, according to his cousin Ralph. He might have had his brain turned by the tropical sun, or have been indoctrinated into strange rites by some South Pacific tribe. Perhaps she was being abducted…
Sophie kept her voice steady, as much to calm her own wild imaginings as to bring him to order. ‘We need to go back now. This leads only to the head of the stairs and the main entrance.’ His side was hard and warm against the back of her hand. She shifted nervously and felt the silk of his coat lining slide over the silk of his waistcoat. Layers and layers over bare skin…
‘Where better to enter?’
‘But I have already been announced.’
‘I have not.’
So how did you get in?
The receiving line had gone when they reached the famous double staircase with its gilded flambeaux holders, but a footman was still in attendance to announce the late arrivals.
‘The Duke of Calderbrook,’ her abductor said. ‘Miss Wilmott has already been announced.’
The man threw open the double doors, Sophie gave a determined wriggle and found herself swept along regardless.
‘People will think I have been outside with you,’ she hissed between stiff lips.
‘But you have. It is quite all right, you do not have a hair out of place and you certainly do not look as though we have been disporting in some retiring room. Don’t get into a pother, Sophie.’
Disporting indeed! Was he trying to reduce her to strong hysterics? ‘I am not in a pother.’ I am being kidnapped by a man with deliciously strong arms and swept into a scandal and if he was sweeping me anywhere else I would be delighted. Terrified, but delighted. I am obviously in the grip of a brain fever. ‘It is Miss Wilmott and I am exceedingly cross with you. Oh, I could hit you!’ she stormed in a whisper as he took no notice whatsoever.
‘Take first place in the queue, Sophie. I am certain there will be a long tail behind you wanting to do just that in a minute. Now, here we go.’
The music had stopped. The footman cleared his throat. She was going to be late for the next set.
‘His Grace the Duke of Calderbrook!’