Barbara Pierce (8 page)

Discreetly, studying the baron through the lace edging her parasol, Kilby could not imagine her mother befriending this gentleman or taking him as a lover. She wrinkled her nose. While his hair was dark and comparable to her
own, she saw no other similarity. She silently conceded that more than nineteen years had passed since he and her mother had known each other. People change. They might have been lovers. However, Kilby doubted the man was her father.

The baron and his companion led her inadvertently to the outskirts of the fair. An impressive crowd had gathered around a stage. Some sort of event was about to commence. Lord Ordish had mentioned the baron favored wagering on sporting events.

The five shillings she handed to the man selling admission tickets a few minutes later confirmed her suspicions. Lord Ursgate was there to wager on a match. Instead of using their fists, the combatants were using singlesticks. Kilby collapsed her parasol and tucked it under her arm as she threaded her way through the crowd. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive Lord Ursgate.
This is hopeless,
she despaired. The baron had disappeared. She should admit defeat and return to the carriage where Lyssa and Darknell were waiting. They would not gloat—much.

It took mere seconds to realize that departing was impossible. A man, likely the umpire, was on the stage, calling for order so he could introduce the combatants. She had to leave. Now. Alas, there were simply too many people around her. Her pursuit of Lord Ursgate had thrown her into the very heart of the throng. Belatedly, she noticed the few women near her were not as elegantly attired as she. There were noble ladies in attendance, but they had chosen to remain in their carriages. Gritting her teeth over her blatant breach of etiquette, she decided that going back the way she came was not an option, so she pressed forward, and swiftly found herself near the stage.

The umpire called forth the first combatant, Lord Hollensworth. Kilby stilled, slightly surprised the attractive,
blond-haired man on the stage was a titled gentleman. She had never attended an event like this, but she had assumed the opponents were local villagers or perhaps fighters by profession. Kilby did not know the baron, nor did she recognize any of the gentlemen or ladies sitting in the surrounding carriages. With a little luck, she might actually get through this afternoon with her reputation intact.

That cheerful thought lasted three seconds; until someone had the nerve to pinch her sharply on the backside. Kilby whirled around and glared at the men standing directly behind her. She did not trust their innocent expressions for one instant.

“The next man who pinches me will get the point of my parasol in his eye,” she threatened the three men closest to her.

“Such a fierce temper, Fitchwolf,” Darknell said, approaching her from the left. Lyssa was at his side. “And here we were worried about you.”

Kilby was so pleased to see her friends. Giddy with relief, she gave each one a brief hug. “I knew you would not abandon me,” she said, letting her resentment fade away. “I—”

“Fayne Carlisle, Duke of Solitea,” the umpire yelled out over the din of the spectators. His arm arced horizontally in a grand manner, introducing Lord Hollensworth’s opponent.

Kilby’s mouth fell open as she recognized the man. “Him.”

“Who?” Lyssa craned her neck to see who had caught her friend’s interest. “Lord Ursgate?”

“No, I lost sight of him twenty minutes ago. I had already given up the chase for the day before your arrival.” Kilby turned away from her friends. Incredulous, she stared up at the man on stage, raising his arms to encourage the cheers he received from the throng. This man was the old duke’s heir. “
That
is the new Duke of Solitea,” she said, glancing back at her friends for confirmation.

“Yes,” Lyssa said, equally startled to see two gentlemen on the wooden stage.

Darknell seemed rather displeased by the young duke’s presence. “If I had known of your interest, I could have arranged an introduction.”

Kilby lifted her brows. If she had not been so intimately acquainted with the viscount, she might have thought he was jealous. “I do not desire an introduction. I was merely curious. After all, his father died in my arms. I have often wondered what his family thought of—well, the strange circumstances in which he died.”

In truth, she was telling Darknell a tiny fib. It was not simply curiosity about the family that held her attention. It was
him
. Kilby had seen this gentleman before. It mattered little how many weeks had passed since that night. The new Duke of Solitea, like his father, was not the sort of gentleman a lady easily forgot. She had noticed him immediately when he entered the ballroom.

He was very striking in appearance. Tall, lean, with a hint of muscle in his broad shoulders, the man had entered the room as if he had claimed it for his own. There had been several other gentlemen at his side, but they were not as fascinating as the man who had intrigued her. It had been difficult not to boldly admire him. Priddy had explained that such behavior was too brazen. The viscountess had her practicing in front of a mirror for hours the discreet art of observing without being observed; the cunning and graceful use of her fan. The hours of repetition had been tedious. However, Priddy had been satisfied with the results. Kilby too saw the benefits of honing such skills. It allowed her to move through polite society, discreetly observing the gentlemen of the
ton
without overtly doing so.

It had also given her the distinct pleasure of admiring the man, who she now knew was the heir to the Solitea dukedom. She liked the way he moved as he circulated the
large room speaking to various groups of people. His graceful masculine gait revealed a quiet strength with a hint of dominating arrogance. She did not particularly care for arrogant gentlemen, but she supposed the young duke could not avoid this trait. Sophistication and arrogance were in his blood.

Kilby had also been enthralled with his hair. He wore it long. The wavy length was tied neatly at his nape, but it reached the middle of his back. And what an unusual color! His hair was a thick, burnished chestnut that, even restrained, gleamed with an inner fire. Kilby had often wondered about the color of his eyes. Were they blue, black, hazel, brown, or green? Although tempted, she never strolled close enough to discover the answer.

He had watched her, too. A woman sensed when she had a man’s interest. He had spent the entire evening watching her, and yet he had not approached her. How many times had they circled the ballroom that night? She had felt a pang of disappointment when he had abruptly left the ballroom and had not returned. Oh, if she had bothered to point him out, Priddy would have eagerly made the appropriate introductions. Despite her interest, Kilby had refrained. The heir to a dukedom was too lofty an aspiration for a lady whose paternity was being called into question by a member of her own family.

“What are they doing?” Lyssa asked, drawing Kilby back to the present.

Darknell looked grim. “Backswording.” They all watched as the combatants removed their coats and handed them to their respective friends. He lashed both women with his heated glare. “Neither of you have any business being here. These battles can get rather bloody.”

Kilby felt the full weight of his disapproval settle on her slender shoulders. “Well, we are stuck with our misadventure, my lord. It is impossible to escape this mob. Perhaps
the brutality of two men pummeling one another with wooden rods is a fitting punishment.”

She had never seen two men engaged in backswording. However, they were using rods instead of genuine swords. And these men were
gentlemen
—such a battle could not be so dangerous.

“Do not be so certain,” Darknell said.

Kilby returned her attention to the stage. The man who had sold her a ticket had called this match a demonstration of skills. Kilby was beginning to have her doubts as she observed the Duke of Solitea tense in response to something Lord Hollenworth said. This was not a friendly match between two friends. They looked like they wanted to kill each other.

“We are leaving,” Darknell said, grabbing both ladies by the upper arm. “Now.”

“My lord, pray be sensible,” Kilby begged, struggling in his harsh grasp. She was not about to be dragged off like an errant child in front of all these people. “Darknell, you are calling undue attention to us. We are too close to the stage to move in any direction and the way out is through at least two hundred people! You will have to let Lyssa and I endure this noble display of masculine ferocity. If either of us feels dizzy, you can waft my vinaigrette under our noses. You will find it in my reticule.” She gave her arm an unladylike jerk to free herself.

“A favor,” the duke’s voice rang out, the low rousing quality of it slipping beneath her skin and making her shiver. “I demand a lady’s favor. Who shall claim me as her champion?”

Women all around Kilby cried out, pleading with His Grace to take their tokens. Craning her neck back and agilely poised on her toes, she noticed even the ladies of the
ton,
elegantly draped in their carriages, were vying for the duke’s attention. Bits of lace, colorful ribbons, and silk
scarves were brandished in the air. Kilby was too busy staring at the ladies in the carriages trying to guess which one the duke would choose, so she did not notice he had jumped down from the stage and was standing behind the lady he had selected.

“Lady Kilby Fitchwolf.” The Duke of Solitea said her name in a low, provocative drawl. “Will you favor me?”

Fayne could not believe his good fortune. While he stood on the stage, listening to Hollensworth snarl insults at him before the match, his roaming gaze had alighted on the elusive Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. What was she doing here? Had she come because she had learned of the match? Fayne was not truly interested in the reasons that brought his father’s mistress to him.

Lady Kilby was here. Staring down into her wary face, Fayne realized he did have the answer to a question that had haunted him since the night he had seen her at the ball. The lady had violet-colored eyes. Intriguing. He had the sudden urge to glide the tip of his tongue lightly over her dark lashes, tracing the almond shape of her exotic eyes.

This was the first time he was standing close enough to touch her face. And yet, he had picked her out of a crowd. It was as if the elegant curve of her spine, the flirtatious tilt of her stunning face, and her black tresses had been imprinted on his brain.

Lady Kilby seemed charmingly flustered by his question.
“A favor,” she repeated, frantically touching the brim of her small bonnet, the cuffs of her sleeves, and hem of her bluish-gray silk shawl as she tried to comply with his request.

She was wearing a white muslin dress with lace trimming. The dress was demure in comparison to the one Lady Silver wore that afternoon. Between the two, Fayne would have never thought modesty could be so stimulating.

“The lady has nothing to offer, Your Grace,” her male companion growled. It was apparent the gentleman viewed Fayne’s presence as trespassing. “There are others who will gladly give you what you seek.”

Fayne was not intimidated. Her scowling friend was not the first man who thought to challenge him over a woman. If Lady Kilby returned his interest, she would be well worth the inconvenience of a duel.

Lady Kilby looked startled by her friend’s rude dismissal. Fayne noted the heightened color flowering in her cheeks. If she had not invited his father to her boudoir, he would have thought her an innocent.

“Lord Darknell speaks truthfully,” she said apologetically. “I have nothing that is not stitched, pinned—”

Fayne placed a finger on her soft lips. Without breaking eye contact, he brushed his fingers against the gauzy bluish-gray aerophane crepe bow poised so irresistibly on the front of her bodice. Grasping one of the nearly transparent tails, he collapsed the pretty bow with a decisive tug. Fayne grinned mischieviously as her beautiful violet eyes crossed at his brashness. “There, you see? You have something to offer, my lady.”

Wrapping one of the ends around his fingers, he slowly pulled the long, wispy band of crepe that had been threaded through the fabric loops framing the edge of her rounded bodice until it was free. Without the modesty of the bow, he was treated to an enticing glimpse of her breasts. The spell broken between them, Lady Kilby gasped and slapped her
hand over her bodice. Clutching his prize, Fayne longed to press his tongue against her soft flesh and taste. She took a retreating step back as if sensing his lustful thoughts.

“Don’t rush off,” he entreated, amused by her sudden coyness. His father would not have been attracted to a timid creature. He held up the length of crepe. “Will you honor me by tying your favor to my arm?”

Lady Kilby’s forehead furrowed at his polite request. He thought at first that she might refuse him. Ignoring her friends, she moved closer and took the gauzy scarf from his hand.

“Very well. If you insist, Your Grace,” she softly said, and began winding the length of fabric several times around his upper arm before tying the ends into a secure knot.

Fayne grimaced at the clearly feminine trimming on his arm. She stepped away from him, pleased with her accomplishment. Noting her smile, the complaint forming on his lips faded. His reputation would not be outdone by a lady’s scarf. Her male companion was certainly not pleased with her. If his grim expression was any indication, Fayne would be facing another dawn appointment if he pursued her.

“You intrigue me, Lady Kilby,” Fayne quietly confessed. It was the only warning he could give her.

Startled by his admission, she hastily glanced at her companions. “It is not my intention to do so, Your Grace.”

“And yet I seem unable to resist.” Fayne shrugged, hearing another summons coming from the stage. “And what about you, my lady? Do you require courting or do you prefer a man who just takes?”

He did not give her a chance to reply. Alas, the Lady Kilby Fitchwolf would have to wait for another opportunity when they could privately discuss their mutual desires. Hollensworth was impatiently awaiting his return.