Authors: Stephanie Stevens
"Yes?" she murmured.
A maid entered, bobbed a curtsy. "My lady, His Grace has arrived and awaits you in the upper salon."
Tiffany touched the fragile petal of a violet, fingering its velvety texture. "Inform His Grace I will join him momentarily."
"Yes, my lady."
Before the maid left, Tiffany instructed, "Be sure French brandy is available for His Grace." Tiffany was momentarily surprised. She had instinctively seen to his comfort.
"Yes, my lady." The maid curtsied and left, closing the door softly.
Tiffany walked away from the French door into the glow of the candlelit room, pausing before a full-length mirror. She gazed at herself. Her midnight hair was brushed away from her face and ears. Masses of spiral curls, lightly sprinkled with silver dust, cascaded down the bare plane of her back. Turning, she peered over a bare, beguiling shoulder, viewing the waterfall of silver-highlighted curls. She lightly tossed her head, the effect eye-catching--the black tresses glittered as if stardusted. Her eyes glided down the graceful curve of her back; a warm blush touched her cheeks as she saw the expanse of creamy skin exposed by the backless design of the gown. She wondered how she could have allowed the modiste.to cut it so. At the time, her thinking was to upset Clinton with the gown, to show him she was not conventional, not the material for a duchess, but the vixen her father accused her of being. Now she had reservations about wearing it. She feared not arousing his anger, but his libido.
T
u
rning, she studied her mirrored image. She wore an elegant French-fashioned gown of pure black silk whose narrow skirt flared out slightly at the hem instead of falling straight to the ankle like the English design. Its cut was exquisite, leaving her back, shoulders, and arms bare. The d^colletage was cut daringly, barely concealing the soft beguiling swell of her breasts. Save for the fine silk straps resting off her shoulders, nothing more held up the gown. When she moved, the black silk came alive with the light reflected off the fine silver threads woven through the silk, causing the gown to shimmer.
Studying her face closely, with her hair drawn away, she caught the twinkle of the brilliant diamond teardrops that adorned her small, shell-shaped ears. Long, sooty lashes framed her dazzling sapphire eyes, providing the perfect foil to Tiffany's otherwise dark, sultry beauty.
She felt sinful--wickedly so! Like an evening star, glittering, twinkling, shimmering, against the black curtain of night, she made her way to the door.
Clinton stood at the fireplace, his arm leaning against its mantel, a glass in his hand. A pleased smile lit his face as he lifted the French brandy to his lips. He was inordinately pleased knowing Tiffany knew his preference for the amber liquor and had it delivered to him. Yes, he was certainly making progress! Sipping the brandy and laying the glass atop the mantel, he began to think of the progress he had made.
Over the past weeks he detected a softening, a lowering of her defenses toward him. Although she'd never admit it, she was beginning to enjoy his company. He had forced her to be in his company. His intent? He smiled, smugly. Other than the obvious, that he enjoyed being with her, he did indeed have an ulterior motive. To keep her occupied, so occupied shed not have the time to interfere with the arrangements.
He had been successful in that quarter, for the weeks flew by without a protest from her, and this evening had arrived. Of course, it was not due to her change of heart, he was not foolish enough to believe that. She had yet to acknowledge the losing battle against the powerful tug of attraction she felt toward him. But he had seen the progress he was making. Often hed find her regarding him from under lowered lashes, quickly looking away when discovered.
He had also made progress with her desire. A wolfish smile split his face. She didn't pull away from him as quickly, nor stiffen when they accidentally touched a shoulder or brushed a thigh. No, now when he wrapped her in his arms, she responded. She'd deny it, for it was still too soon; Tiffany equated any admission of desire with surrender. Knowing she was prideful, he took care not to injure her pride unnecessarily.
Leaning his back against the mantel, he crossed his arms loosely over his chest. He knew it was not love that caused her response, but passion. The passion he had awakened by his touch. The spark of passion he saw in dazed blue eyes. For now he was content, knowing the spark would flame once he had total possession of her body. And after he released her passion, he would have her love. Right now he was one step closer to his quest--her body would soon be his totally.
The past month had afforded him an almost uninterrupted view of the woman who would soon be his wife. A broad smile crossed his face. She had lived up to his expectations and then some. He had seen all the facets to her he had yet been able to explore fully. She was impetuously reckless, absolutely spontaneous, abandoned, and bewitching. He loved her laughter, her mercurial moods, volatile nature, and vulnerability. She made him whole. She aroused feelings of lust, love, protectiveness, jealousy. God, he could go on and on. He desired her company and was most reluctant to leave her, and only the assurance that soon, very soon, she would be his gave him the willpower. Tonight was evidence their days and nights apart were coming to a close.
Tonight would be hers to rein and lord over all those country bumpkins who had hurt her, laughed at her, made her lonely. Tonight she would shine like a star. He would give her tonight.
The soft closing of the door brought him from his reverie. He looked up; his breath caught in his throat as he watched Tiffany float toward him. She was bewitching--a sultry temptress, an alluring vision of shimmering darkness.
Tiffany stopped a breath away. Clinton's bright, unwavering gaze drank in her beauty. The black silk shimmered with a life of its own, molding to her lush form. Briefly he wondered what held the gown up.
"Princess, you take my breath away."
His voice, his words, deep, sensual, sent a ripple through her. Tiffany took in his handsome visage, the elegant cut of his clothes giving him an aura of understated elegance. His rich black evening coat fit his broad, muscular shoulders to perfection. The black silk waistcoat shot with silver threads tapered to his lean, masculine waist. Long, muscular legs were sheathed in tight pantaloons. His stark white cravat contrasted sharply against his tanned, masculine face. His gray eyes were smoky, seductive, as he looked at her from under heavy lids. Her knees weakened, her heart fluttered, as she beheld his devastating image.
She could hardly lift her voice above a whisper. "You are quite handsome yourself, Your Grace."
Pleased she was as taken with him as he was with her, his voice as soft as a caress, he said, "It's Clinton, Princess; say my name."
"Clinton," she breathed.
Reluctantly he turned from her to the stone mantel, retrieving a long velvet box. Facing her, he opened the box, lifting a sparkling diamond necklace off the satin bed. "I fear my gift too humble for your beauty."
A soft gasp escaped her lips. Tiffany beheld eighteen perfectly cut teardrop diamonds connected by an almost transparent chain of silver filigree. The sparkling stones glittered and winked at her, catching the light of the candles. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
"May I put it on?" Clinton moved behind her, noting for the first time the backless design of the gown. Again, briefly he wondered what held it up. Tiffany faced the mirror that hung above the mantel, watching him.
He lifted the heavy mass of curls at her nape. At his warm touch, shivers ran down her spine. She closed her eyes when his firm, warm lips brushed her nape. His soft kiss caused tingles to run up and down her arms. He fastened the necklace about her neck and drew back.
Tiffany fingered the diamonds at her breast. They lay beneath her collarbone, resting against the beguiling swell of her breasts. The stones glittered and sparkled as if alive.
She caught his eyes in the mirror. He moved up behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder, his fingers splayed down. She swallowed convulsively. He spoke in a silken voice. "Your beauty gives them life." He lifted a stone. "Before they were only stones; now they radiate with your beauty."
Caught in a spell, she allowed herself to be turned in the circle of his arms. She looked into his smoky gray eyes as he spoke. "It was given to my family by Queen Elizabeth I for our loyalty. It was her birthday necklace, eighteen perfectly cut diamonds, a new one to be added each year." His finger touched her earbob. "These are part of the complete set."
All her senses blossomed under his gaze. She was unable to unlock her gaze from his smoldering one. With a flutter of lashes, she received the gentle kiss she knew would come, feeling his lips move softly against hers. When his mouth left hers, she slowly opened her eyes.
"Come, Princess, sit while I pour us some champagne." His hand rode her back, causing her to shiver. A moment passed. Clinton popped the cork of a bottle of champagne, filling two glasses, handing one to Tiffany. They drank in companionable silence, and after he refilled their glasses, he spoke.
"I have been thinking, Tiffany ..."
"A commendable pastime, my lord. I hope it was not an exercise in futility for you." Tiffany smiled over the rim of her glass.
Clinton smiled at her comment. Pouring more wine into their glasses, he continued, "That I should reconsider your position this evening." Laying his glass down and sitting back in the chair, he watched her. "Tonight was to be my victory celebration. You know, to the victor go the spoils."
Tiffany awarded him with a glare for reminding her of her predicament. "The war is not over, my lord."
"True, Princess, there is still another battle left. However, I have reconsidered your position and decided you are not to be cast in the role of the spoils, but rather the victor! I am aware of what you have suffered in the hands and minds of the vast group of acquaintances who will attend this eve. I will not add to the sins committed against you. Therefore, I concede this night to you. Tonight you are the victor and I the conquered."
Over the rim of her glass of wine, amazement was clearly etched on her face. Tiffany could not believe what she heard. Her the victor, he the conquered! "I don't know what to say . . . Clin . . . Clinton."
Her mind was in a whirl! What caused this sudden change of heart? Why tonight? What had she done to make him cry off? Who cares, she thought, the deed's done. Her heart leaped in elation and yet a sadness crept through. "You . . . you've taken me by surprise."
Clinton poured more of the effervescent wine in her glass, asking, "Well, Princess, is my surrender accepted?"
"With honor for a most courageous knight." A smile lit her face, reaching from her eyes. She wanted to tell him nice things; if she had not loved another, she could have loved him. A twinge of remorse filled her for this powerful, yet unyielding, man who had tolerated her childish tantrums, cries of hatred, and indifference with humor, and patience. She wanted him to embrace her, kiss her one last time. But she said none of these things, instead replied softly, "I am truly grateful for your change of heart, for putting my feelings above yours, for I know it cost you dearly. I wish there was some way I could repay your sacrifice."
A slow, roguish grin split his face. "Well, now that you mention it. There is something you could do for my wounded pride."
A warning bell went off in her head. She quickly pushed it from her. She had nothing to fear. He had said he conceded. It was only fair and she readily asked, "What might that be?"
"A promise of sorts." A slow, appreciative smile worked its way across his face. His eyes rested on the creation of black silk, and he wondered how that damn gown was held up before he continued. "You are familiar with the old adage 'One hand washes the other'?"
An impish grin lit her eyes. "Or one good turn deserves another?"
"Precisely," he agreed. "I ask only this. You promise me the first and last dance."
Thinking the request harmless enough, she quickly agreed, "I would be honored."
The sounds of carriages lining the drive, the opening and closing of their doors, and the murmur of voices broke the night.
She drained her glass, and Clinton leaned over to refill it. He watched her. She was a natural temptress. Provocative sensuality emanated from her. His mind drifted to another night, soon to come, when her silken body would writhe beneath his in sweet, tormenting ecstasy. To break the course his thoughts traveled, he asked, "The necklace is enhanced by your beauty, Princess."
She fingered the diamonds lightly. "I have never indeed been given such a priceless, beautiful gift." She gazed up at him, a hint of regret in her eyes. "I shall be sorry to part with it."
His brows drew together in a mild frown. "Part with it? It is yours, Princess. My gift to you."
"Oh, it would not be proper ... as much as I love it. By rights it belongs to your future wife, the duchess."
"By all that's holy, Tiffany, what are you talking about? You are my future wife, my duchess."
A feeling of impending doom shook her. She stood. "But no more."
At his confused expression, she rushed on. "By your own words, that has changed. You conceded the night, the betrothal is no more."
Clinton stood facing her, shaking his head. "I conceded the night, Princess, nothing more."
Tiffany broke into his words. "No, you said you yielded your victory to me."
"Aye. The night, Princess, only this night," he stated emphatically.
A look of stunned disbelief etched her face. "No! All you asked was for the first and last dance, that's all, nothing more!"
Clinton grasped her by the shoulders. "Tiffany, do you honestly believe I would give you up? You are mine. I do not give up what is mine." He drove his point home. "The first and last dance will forever be mine so there is never a doubt with whom you arrived or any question with whom you will leave--the first and last dance is for me."
"You deceived me. You are a villian, my lord," she snapped. "You conceded the night to me!"
"Tonight is yours, Princess, to shine, to conquer the small minds of this broad group of acquaintances, nothing more."
The butier knocked, and Clinton called to him to enter. "Your Grace, Lady Courtland, the guests have arrived." Clinton nodded in acknowledgment and the butler departed.
"Shall we, Princess?" he asked, offering her his arm.
Tiffany paused before accepting his proffered arm, thinking how utterly foolish she had been to believe him. Tonight was hers; well, she thought, it shall be a night he'll never forget. She intended to thoroughly enjoy herself at his expense.
A challenging gleam sparkled in her sapphire eyes, which she raised to him. Tilting her head, accepting his arm, she replied, "By all means, let the night begin."
While they walked to the door, Tiffany said, " 'Tis a shame you forfeited your night, my lord."
Clinton stopped, causing Tiffany to look up at him. His gray eyes gleamed and his voice held promise when he spoke. "Do not distress yourself. I forfeit this night for another soon to come to enjoy my spoils."
Two liveried footmen pushed open the double oak doors wide. Clinton and Tiffany entered the ballroom, standing beneath the amber glow of a sixtier chandelier. Hundreds of hand-dipped tapers burned brightly in golden sconces decorating the silk-hung walls.
The braided footman announced, "The duke of Wentworth, The duke of Chablisienne, Clinton Claremont Barencourte, and Lady Tiffany Elizabeth Courtland."
A collective hush fell over the room when the guests viewed the handsome couple. Sounds of appreciation filled the air when Clinton bowed to his lady, presenting her to them. The musicians picked up their cue and the sound of a hundred violins filled the air as the strained first notes of a waltz began.
Enthusiastic applause was heard as Clinton, taking the lead, took Tiffany into his arms, whisking her across the floor.
Ooohs
and
aahs
were heard from the room when the black silk came alive as the silver threads caught the candle glow and her silver-dusted curls glittered with the swaying movement of the waltz. The diamonds shone brilliantly, and the candlelight cast a peachy hue to her skin. Admiring whispers and approving nods were exchanged among the guests.
Clinton waltzed her over and across the ballroom in grand sweeping, graceful circles, showing her off to the crowd. His eyes glided over her flushed face and wandered to the black silk gown the color which heightened the translucence of her bare neck and shoulders. "Princess, whatever holds that gown up?"
Tiffany, as always when she danced with him, was lost, for he danced divinely. Her eyes glittered more brilliantly than any sapphire. Tilting her head back as he swept her into another circle, she smiled impishly and replied breathlessly, "That is something, my lord, you'll never know.''
Clinton chuckled, a pleasant rumbling sound, causing shivers of anticipation to course down her spine. "I wouldn't bet on it."
The final strains of the waltz found the couple surrounded by guests who applauded and whispered their congratulations. Tiffany, flushed and breathless, found her hand seized by Austin, and again she was brought to the floor to be swept into another waltz.
Clinton stood to the sidelines surrounded by acquaintances and friends engaging in small talk. His possessive, appreciative gaze never wavering from the dazzling figure in black silk.