The Seduction of a Duke (7 page)

Another breeze stirred the draperies near the open door to the gardens. The temptation to blend into the cool night and remove the tormenting frog mask proved too great a temptation. Enjoying a bit of his anonymity, William managed to walk around the edges of the ballroom without once encountering an ambitious young lady or a hovering matron. The novelty pleased him, though the thought of removing the head pleased him more.

The crowd inside had spilled out to the terrace, making it difficult to move without stepping on a lady’s skirts, or stumbling about in a most undignified manner. He was afraid his murmured apologies never escaped the confines of the mask. The light from the ballroom reached beyond the terrace before fading into the dark night. He thought he spied a path that led away from the crowds and eagerly sought it out. The farther he walked along the path, the sooner the music provided by the ballroom orchestra became replaced with the faint soothing sound of ocean waves meeting stone. Such a clean, refreshing sound. William reached up and removed the mask, letting the late summer breezes rejuvenate him as well. The moon shimmered on the undulating swells, making him feel small and insignificant: a simple man, not a duke with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders.

“It’s beautiful out here, is it not?” A woman’s voice interrupted his reverie.

At first, William didn’t respond, believing the woman’s question must be directed to a gentleman who might have accompanied her. He could well imagine a man’s motives on bringing a lady to such a secluded spot. A smile teased his lips. Some things remained the same on both sides of the Atlantic. He stole a glance in the direction of the amorous couple.

However, there was no couple. Just a goddess wrapped in bed linens. His breath caught. Moonlight shimmered on a copper crown on her head, giving the illusion of a halo to the heavenly presence beneath. The drape of the cloth hid her body but the comely shape of her face and shoulders suggested a form of equally pleasing proportions. The ocean breeze tugged at the folds of cloth, and he found himself wishing for a bit of a gale.

She stepped closer accompanied by the fresh scent of the gardenias. He longed to touch her, to feel if she were real or just a figment of his imagination.

“It’s so peaceful away from the crowds, away from prying eyes.”

This time he knew she spoke to him and to him alone, yet he was afraid he would sound like a bumbling idiot if he chanced to open his mouth. Her eyes skimmed his face and briefly settled on his lips as if she recognized his difficulty. She lowered her gaze to the hideous frog head, and broke into a soft, pleasing laugh.

“I saw you earlier. You arrived about the same time as the Duke, did you not?”

He nodded. Where had she come from? He couldn’t recall hearing footsteps behind him, and he certainly didn’t see her before she announced her presence. Such an appealing woman shouldn’t be alone out here, in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to disturb you.” He glanced about, looking for a matron or a chaperone hidden in the shadows. “In fact, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve an accent. You’re British. I suppose it wasn’t just coincidence that you arrived with the Duke. Are you a close friend?”

“Well, yes actually.” He silenced the soft chuckle that rose to his lips, but couldn’t suppress the resulting smile. Little did she know just how well he knew the Duke.

She stepped nearer. In spite of the ocean breeze and the lack of the stifling frog mask, a bead of sweat ran between his shoulder blades beneath his shirt. There was something familiar about the girl, though he couldn’t recall having met such a vision with her long finger curls, and dressed in such a titillating fashion among the many introductions he’d borne of late. The nymph moved so close a mere inch separated his knuckle from the hardened nub pressing through the silk of her costume. His groin tightened and all memories of recent introductions faded.

“What’s he like?” she asked, her voice innocent yet seductive.

“The Duke?” He forced the words through his constricted throat, resulting in the strangled utterance of an adolescent boy. Control yourself, he silently commanded. Just because such posturing on her part would be tantamount to a sexual invitation in England doesn’t mean society works the same way here. His hand clenched by his side, he drew a deep breath. A mistake as his lungs soon filled with the evocative essence of gardenias and moonlight. “He’s a good chap. Strong, reliable, and true.” His words rushed. “A good judge of horseflesh, I’m told.”

And other flesh, his body reminded him, as the breeze stirred the gathered drapes of cloth covering her chest, bringing his gaze back to that enticing nub. His mouth watered with the urge to coax the titillating swell into something harder, firmer. His body responded with a rise of its own. “Some women find him handsome.”

“Do they?” Inexplicably, and with a certain measure of awkwardness, she stroked the lapel of his jacket and tilted her head back as if expecting to be kissed.

Shocked, he had intended to raise his hand to force release of his lapel, but his fingertips reached instead for the dewy skin of her cheek. He traced the soft curve of her jaw and ran his thumb lightly across her full lower lip, wondering if he dare taste what she offered.

Remembering the excessive comforts evident at the cottage, gold and silver, the floral towers and abundant champagne, the thought suddenly registered that perhaps this goddess was meant to be his for the taking. A smile pulled at his lips. These Americans, they think of everything. The frog mask slipped from his grasp and thumped to the ground. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

“I’m not sure how these things are accomplished here . . .” he whispered, letting the urgent nature of his needs take over. After witnessing the opulence at the ball, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover a bed hidden beneath the cover of trees, a gilt-edged bed at that. He dragged his lips tenderly across her forehead, inhaling her sweet scents and preparing for an outright assault on her tantalizing mouth. “But if you’re offering what I believe—”

A sudden clamor of footsteps behind him interrupted. His spine stiffened. Dallying with a light skirt was one thing, but he did draw the line at public performances.

“Francesca Winthrop!” a woman’s shrill voice wailed. “Francesca, you foolish girl, what are you doing?”

SHE HADN’T INTENDED TO LOSE CONTROL OF THE flirtation. While she had hoped that a minor indiscretion

would lead to discovery and cancellation of the engagement contract, she hadn’t expected to enjoy indiscretion quite this much. His British accent played like music to her ears, while the expressive quirk to his eyebrows touched her deep inside. He had a secretive smile, as if he found humor in the most mundane things. His wide shoulders and strong frame seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps they reminded her of the knights in her illustrated copy of Arthur’s tales. Yes. That must be it, she reassured herself. Like those knights of old, tonight he was saving her from a future not of her choosing.

However, even with all these vaguely familiar physical attributes, his eyes managed to captivate her more than the rest. The night obscured the color, but she saw an interest in the depths that melted her bones and wobbled her knees. Randolph’s glance had never produced that effect and for the first time she felt gratitude at being unencumbered. Once the stranger had wrapped his arms about her and pulled her into his warmth she struggled to keep her wits about her. A clean, masculine scent filled her nostrils. Her eyes closed, her lips parted to receive an eagerly anticipated kiss. She waited . . . she waited . . .

Fluttering her eyes open, she saw his gaze turned to the left. With a subtle pressure on her side, he shifted her behind him as if to protect her from some savage beast. She bent to peek around him and saw he was indeed facing the most cunning and savage of all opponents—her mother.

“Francesca. It will do no good hiding behind this stranger. The damage has been done. Come out now and face the consequences.” Her mother harrumphed.

Although her handsome paramour tried to keep her safely behind him, she stepped around his restraining arm and moved to his side. When his lips opened to speak, she placed her fingertips to still his words, and yes, perhaps lingered a bit longer than necessary. She would have liked to have felt the pressure of those lips, just once. Perhaps once this was all over . . .

His eyebrow rose in that endearing fashion, pulling her answering smile before she turned to face her mother’s ensemble.

The Duke and Mary stood behind Maman. The family attorney, Mr. Whitby, was aligned to the Duke’s left. Her father and Mrs. Kravitz joined the group a moment later along with other curious guests, providing a rather satisfying audience. Normally, such a gathering would intimidate her into nausea, but not tonight.

Tonight, the crowd provided only a mild tinge of discomfort. With their presence, there could be no doubt as to the scandal and thus no better assurance of being released from this pledge. Fran’s gaze skipped to the bewildered Duke standing behind Maman, disappointed that he didn’t look more annoyed. She had hoped he’d be angry at her indiscretion. Could he truly value her dowry more than his pride?

“Your Grace,” Fran said, holding the folds of her costume out to the side as she executed an elegant curtsy.

“Your Grace,” her mother intervened, “allow me to introduce my
real
daughter, Miss Francesca Winthrop.” She turned back to Fran. “I suppose you had some purpose for this foolish dalliance with this . . . this . . .” Although Alva’s head bobbed at least six inches beneath the stranger’s, Alva still managed to look down her nose at him. “Ne’er-do-well.”

A disgusted look crossed the young Duke’s face as he stepped around her mother. Fearing that the Duke might harm the duped stranger in defense of her honor, Fran held her hand up in restraint.

“Please, Your Grace. No one would cast blame if you wished to call off the engagement—”

“Francesca!” her mother gasped.

Fran swallowed the panic induced by the growing audience. She had to see this through to the conclusion—then she could hide from the crowd. She stepped in front of the Duke so she could address him directly.

“Your reputation must remain above scandal. As you can see by my actions, I am not suitable to be your duchess. Nothing has been announced; the taint on my honor would be slight.”

No doubt Maman would send her overseas just to be rid of her, Fran thought with an inward smile. She could continue her studies alone and in peace. The more she contemplated that alternative, the more she was convinced that her actions had been just. Finally, the future she longed for, one of simplicity and solitude—no fancy balls, no crowds of endless faces. She was almost grateful to the Duke for providing this opportunity.

“There shall be no need of that.” The stranger’s voice, so deep and rich and close, sent a quiver through her chest, or perhaps it was his ominous tone. Either way, she didn’t need or want the stranger’s interference. Her plan had worked perfectly so far.

“This does not involve you,” Fran murmured. “I’m afraid you’ve been a bit of a pawn.”

“On the contrary, it most certainly does involve me,” he said with that damnable quirked eyebrow that nearly touched his hairline.

“Allow me to make the introductions,” the young Duke stepped forward with a wide grin.

“Miss Francesca Winthrop, I wish to present Duke Ne’er do-well, the ninth Duke of Bedford.”

Her mother gasped. Fran turned on her heel and said in a low accusation, “You tricked me.”

“It would appear we are well suited.” His eyes smoldered with a fire that quickened her pulse and induced the mild panic that hitherto had been the prerogative of a crowd, not an individual. The intonation in his voice reminded her that she had endeavored to trick him as he had her. A jolt of realization chilled her spine. Perhaps in this man, she had met her match.

He raised his voice sufficiently to extend to her mother. “Under the circumstances, I see no reason to call off the engagement.” His gaze shifted back to her. His appreciative stare warmed her in places unseen. “Indeed, I see every reason to hasten the wedding.”

“But that’s impossible,” Fran gasped, recognizing that he proposed hurrying the one thing she hoped to avoid. “It will take at least a year to arrange everything. There’s the matter of the invitations and my gown—”

“One month should be more than sufficient,” her mother said behind her.

“Maman!” Fran turned round on her.

“Did I neglect to mention that I ordered your wedding gown that last visit to Paris? The local modiste can make the final adjustments. We’ll have the wedding here. Invitations will be delivered within the week.” Alva looked steadily at the Duke. “One month.”

He nodded, then reached in his pocket before lifting Fran’s left hand. “I will forgo asking for your hand on bended knee. Such an unbecoming formality would serve no purpose with an arranged merger.” He slipped a ring onto her finger. “Shall we go and make the formal announcement to your friends? At least, to those that didn’t follow the promenade out here.”