How to Dazzle a Duke (16 page)

Lord Ruan smiled fractionally, his green eyes studying her

most carefully. Let him study her. She could withstand a bit of

study and not wilt. No, quite the opposite in fact.

“You have had a satire done of you, I suppose?” he asked.

“You suppose? You are not certain?” she prodded.

110 CLAUDIA DAIN

He smiled and then nodded, “All right. I am certain. You

have had a satire done of you. It was not a pleasant experience

for you.”

“Is that a question, Lord Ruan? I think it must be because I

always find satires to be enjoyable, particularly when they are

done of me. Doesn’t everyone? But darling,” she said, laying a

hand upon his arm, “haven’t you ever had a satire done of you?

How could a man of such esteem and . . . adventure been so

overlooked?”

“I’ve been slighted, have I?” he said, very nearly grinning.

“Only you can decide that,” she said, “but do something won

derful, something scandalous, something just beyond the pale

and you shall have your satire, I assure you.”

She was playing with him and he liked it, as well he should,

but then his gaze strayed across the room to where Markham and

John and the boys were standing, looking quite serious, she was

sure, and Ruan’s gaze slid back to her and all the playfulness had

been bled out of him. Pity.

“He knows of it, Sophia. Did you know?”

“Yes,” she said, staring into his eyes, showing him that she

was not bothered, that nothing in her world had gone wrong.

Ruan nodded and looked down at the fl oor between them,

wooden planks stained almost black and shining like a moonlit

pond. “I saw it. The satire of you, of Westlin, of Dutton, of Mel

verley.” His lashes lifted, dark lashes, thick and short beneath

straight dark brows. “I saw what was done to you by them. It is

an old satire. You were very young.”

Was it . . . why, it was pity in his eyes.
Pity?
She needed no

man’s pity.

“It is an old satire, Lord Ruan, and I was old enough then and

am young enough now, wouldn’t you agree?” She held his gaze,

smiling into his pity, refusing it, rejecting him if he forced it. She

How to Daz zle a Duke

111

had outgrown the need for pity, indeed, she was nearly certain

she had never needed it.

“What they did to you—”

“Darling Ruan,” she interrupted, “what we did, we did to

gether.”

“You don’t want my pity, do you?” he said softly.

“Not yours. Not anyone’s,” she replied instantly, though

nearly in a whisper. She did not know why, and then she did. She

whispered because this thing, this conversation, was the most

intimate act they had between them and it deserved the delicacy

of a whisper.

“Very well, Sophia,” he said gently. “No pity.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, a soft look, a quiet look, a

kind of look she had not shared with either man or woman for

year upon year. And then she smiled, and broke it. Intentionally.

Very
intentionally.

“It was your doing, wasn’t it?” he said after the moment was

broken. “You did it. You punished them with it.”

She could not seem to help herself. It was most disgraceful of

her, to be sure, but she could not help it. She laughed. “It was a

very good satire, my lord. It provoked such a vivid response.”

And then, because she truly could not help herself, she winked.

Ruan, because he was just that kind of a man, laughed with

her. It was most charming of him.

“Did they suffer?” he asked.

“Darling,” she said with a smile, “they suffer to this very day,

though the second Marquis of Dutton is dead now, of course, so

he can provide me with no more entertainment of that particular

brand.”

“His son, the third Marquis of Dutton, has not stood in for

him?” Ruan asked. “You seem to have a special talent for making

his life quite miserable.”

112 CLAUDIA DAIN

“Poor man,” she said gently. “I’m afraid he does that all by

himself. I take no credit for it and, indeed, do not wish him ill.”

Which was not precisely the truth, but which was close enough

to serve as truth.

“You know, Sophia, seeing you here with your brother, the

light dancing in your dark eyes as you recount the joy of punish

ing those who have slighted you, you seem very much an Iro

quois, very unlike the countess of Upper Brook Street, taking her

tea, ordering her life around her pleasures.”

Yes, very observant. The problem was, of course, that she was

beginning to appreciate that in him, to treasure it for the rarity

it was. Most men saw what they were prepared to see. The Mar

quis of Ruan simply
saw
.

“Ruan,” she said, taking a step nearer to him, her breasts

dangerously close to his chest, “I am very much an Iroquois. And

I do order my life around my pleasures. The only thing left for

you to ask is what my particular pleasures are. If you dare.”

“If I dare? Will you punish me, Sophia? For what offense?”

“For not providing me with my pleasure? That would suit,

wouldn’t it?” She smiled up at him, enjoying this dance of war

and seduction, of danger and satisfaction. It had been too, too

long since a man had entertained her mind as well as her body.

This one looked entirely capable of both. “You are a man of

adventure. Will you not dare to ask me how you may pleasure

me? Will you not risk my answer?”

“What am I risking, Sophia? For you, I would risk much.”

“How much?”

It had all gone serious again, dark and deep, and she didn’t

care. More shockingly, she loved it. How much would she let him

see of her and how much would he still want her, seeing more?

She let very few see any part of her beyond the mask. Ruan

sought adventure? Let him fi nd it in her.

How to Daz zle a Duke

113

“My own satisfaction,” he said. “I would see the men in the

satire punished for what happened that night.”

“That satisfies you. How does that satisfy me? It is an old

story, long forgotten.”

“You have not forgotten it. You have made certain that it was

recorded, in the satire.”

“Darling, you are too gallant. My daughter married Westlin’s

heir. Do you think I am not satisfied by that?”

“What of Dutton?”

“What of him? You think more of Lord Dutton than I do. I

thought we were speaking of me and of what I want. And what

you would risk to get it for me.”

“Is this the Iroquois speaking or the countess?” he asked

softly.

“Does it matter?” she countered.

Ruan smiled and shook his head. “No.”

Sophia chuckled.

“Will I come out of this alive?” he asked her.

Sophia smiled. “Does it matter?”

“No,” he said, his green eyes gleaming with humor and with

stark intent.

6

“NO, Miss Prestwick, I don’t know anything about Chinese por

celain beyond that it is expensive and therefore desirable,” Iveston

said.

“But if you knew something about it, perhaps that would ex

plain why it is so dear,” Miss Prestwick said.

“Miss Prestwick, it is perfectly logical, which you must admit as

you are a logical sort, that if Chinese porcelain were ten for a penny,

no one would want it to carry slops to the family pig. High price

equals high desirability. It is the rule of the marketplace.”

114 CLAUDIA DAIN

“You think I am a logical sort?” she asked quite earnestly,

which was quite adorable of her. “That is most observant of you,

Lord Iveston.” Which took the shine off the adorable part of it.

It would have been so much more effective for her to have told

him he was kind or sweet or some such mildly chivalrous

thing. But no, not Miss Penelope Prestwick. She thought him

observant
and praised him for it, much like a kind tutor with an

earnest pupil.

What was worse, he found himself actually beginning to be

charmed by it. It was just mildly adorable of her. He’d never

encountered a woman anything like her before now. Of course,

part of that was his very effective determination to avoid all

marriage-minded women, but truly, even accounting that in,

he had never met a woman anything at all like Penelope

Prestwick.

Oh, she had all the female bits. The lustrous hair. The shining

eyes. The stunning bosom. The rather charming heart-shaped

face. But she wasn’t at all
that
extraordinary. Until she opened

her mouth and refused to charm him or compliment him or even

attempt any effort at all to be noticed by him. In point of fact,

she seemed rather often to be annoyed by him.

It was singularly unusual as experiences went. He feared, at

least at present, that he was becoming increasingly fascinated by

it. By her. By her lack of any sort of
normal
reaction to him.

He simply could not think of turning away from the delightful

little oddity that was Penelope.

“But regarding the porcelain, even you must admit,” she said,

“that they are works of art and things of unique beauty, hence

their dear price.”

“Even I, Miss Prestwick?” he asked. “Because you have de

termined that I have no eye for beauty? That I would not recog

nize a work of art if it bit me on the chin?”

“Not at all, Lord Iveston,” she said primly, looking at him

How to Daz zle a Duke

115

very disapprovingly, as if he were a complete dullard. “It is only

that you clearly feel that for art to be precious it must be diffi cult

to obtain. My belief is that beauty is what is being paid for, not

rarity.”

“Can something common be beautiful, Miss Prestwick?”

He said it to annoy her. He found it fascinating to watch her

be exasperated by him. Why, he couldn’t have said. Perhaps the

rarity argument? Quite possibly.

“The glories of nature, Lord Iveston?” she counted.

“The simple magnificence of a rose?” he suggested, watching

her swallow heavily and avert her gaze. Perhaps Cranleigh had

something in suggesting he speak to Penelope about her roses.

She did seem to have some sort of reaction to them every time

they were mentioned. A most unusual and not at all positive

reaction.

“Roses are beautiful, are they not?” she said.

“I would never argue against a rose, or the lady who grows

them,” he said.

She fussed with her shawl a bit and looked across the room,

avoiding his gaze. What was amiss with her roses?

“I trust your roses are still beautiful after the events of the

ball?” he asked.

“Everyone is so very concerned about my roses,” she said, a

bit sharply, too. “I had no idea that horticulture was such a com

mon passion among the ton.”

“Had you not, Miss Prestwick?” he said, trying to resist the

urge to tease her, and failing at it badly. “The ton share many

passions, common and otherwise.”

She gave him a very scolding look, which suited her some

how, and said, “I have only to visit a shop and see a satire to

know the truth of that, Lord Iveston.”

A most awkward remark for her to have made as Cranleigh

and his bride had been the subjects of a very lurid satire that had

116 CLAUDIA DAIN

had not a little to do with their getting married. But then, wasn’t

Miss Prestwick in the habit of making awkward remarks? And

wasn’t her brother in the habit of smoothing the way for her? Her

brother was not at her side now. How would she do without

him? As it was Iveston’s brother who had been pricked, a most

unintentional pun, by Miss Prestwick’s remark about satires and

common passions, he felt it was his duty, his right, and his pleasure

to fight back against the most disapproving Penelope Prestwick.

For the family honor, and all that. Oh, and for curiosity.

“Or visit your very bruised and broken roses? It was your

conservatory, amidst your roses, that formed the backdrop of the

satire regarding Cranleigh and Lady Amelia, was it not? Do you

not bear some responsibility for what occurred at your own ball?

Or did you perhaps inspire the creation of the satire by a whis

pered word to some fellow who would relay the information to

Gillray?”

Penelope’s mouth dropped open, snapped shut, opened again,

and she said, very nearly standing on her tiptoes so that she could

stare him down, “I would never do such a thing! Do you think I

enjoyed having my ball ruined by that . . . that brawl that hap

pened in my conservatory? Do you think that I wanted my roses

to be the subject of speculation and lurid fame from now until I

can’t think when? And do you think that, if I had wanted such a

thing to happen at my ball, that I wouldn’t have gone to Gillray

myself? I, Lord Iveston, am no such person as to require others

to do my work for me, which I am quite certain must astonish

you as you clearly have no experience in doing anything for

yourself as it is well-known that you have required your very

able younger brother to fight the females off of you in packs. I

must express some pity for those who want to marry you as they