Mad About the Duke (7 page)

More.
James shook his head and paused to get his bearings. Not that he had the faintest idea where he was, until he glanced up and saw the sign on the post.

Bond Street.

He smiled and turned to the right. He knew exactly where he was—but his confident decision to return to Cavendish Square via this familiar route was soon hampered by a shocking realization.

The streets were thronged with ladies shopping.

All kinds of ladies. Matrons. Debutantes with their mothers. Well-heeled countesses and lofty marchionesses with their entourages of friends and companions and maids and footmen trailing behind them like the faint glimmering lights of a comet's tail.

So this is what they do during the day, he realized, keeping his eyes down and his hat pulled low so that no one would recognize him. Not that it was likely, wearing Jack's coat as he was, or, for that matter, shopping.

For the Duke of Parkerton never shopped. Not like other people.

Richards handled all that, and when James needed to make a personal decision, the tradesmen came to him.

But here were the multitudes of Society, parading about and going from shop to shop to make their own singular choices from the myriad of offerings—not just the chosen few that had been winnowed down for his discerning eye.

Truly, it was rather fascinating, or so he thought.

But into his curious ramble came an unpleasant voice bellowing from a nearby shop window.

“Don't stick your hoity-toity nose in the air at me
…”

The man's foul tones sent nearby shoppers scurrying in a wide arc to avoid this detestable display of ill manners.

James had heard enough, and that was even before he saw the object of this man's displeasure. When he clapped his eyes on the lady bearing the brunt of this foul wrath, his vision glazed over with a red anger, and his fists curled into hard knots, like they never would have in the sawdust ring at Gentleman Jim's.

How dare this man…

“A few nights in Newgate ought to remind you of where your obligations lay,” he was now yelling, having drawn the attention of passing carts and carriages. “And if that isn't enough, then I'll—”

James stormed through the knot of curious onlookers and caught the fellow by the throat, cutting off his threats. With a strength and determination he didn't know he possessed, he hoisted the man up until his toes wiggled in the air.

“Then you'll do what?” he demanded.

“Aaa-aa-ah!” the man chortled out, his fingers clutching and prying at James's grasp.

“I thought as much,” James said, shaking him a bit before he let go, allowing the man to fall to the ground.

The man whirled around, his eyes bulging, his face red with rage, but he was a good head and a half shorter than James and had the looks of a toss-pot—given his ruddy complexion and bloodshot eyes. But
that didn't stop the fellow from spitting out, “How dare you! Do you know who I am?”

“No. And I don't care to,” James told him, holding his shoulders taut and sending a withering glance down at the fellow. But he wasn't in all his usual ducal glory, the finery that set him apart from mushrooms such as this, and this mean fellow wasn't about to stand down.

“I am Lord Lewis, and I do not take kindly to being roughed up on the streets. You'll not get away with this,” he said, shaking his fist under James's nose.

Lewis? Ah, yes. Lady Standon's wretched stepfather.

Good heavens, now James realized why it was he rode in his carriage and didn't walk about Town. Such low people there were to deal with!

“Mr. St. Maur, please, do not bother yourself,” Lady Standon said. “I can—”

“Shut up,” the man growled at her before he turned back to James. “As for you—”

James had heard enough. He caught the man by the shoulder of his coat and tossed him into the street, where he came to rest in a pile of dung.

A cheer rose up from the onlookers. With his cause lost for the time being, there wasn't much the peevish little baron could do but stalk off in high dudgeons, pushed along by the jeers and taunts of the crowd.

For a moment, James felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at his own outlandish behavior. He'd just tossed a man into the street! Like some sort of ruffian.

And instead of being mortified for his gross behavior, an odd sort of dangerous thrill ran through his veins.

But even that paled to the moment he discovered
that at some point between Lord Lewis flying through the air and right now, Lady Standon had slipped up beside him, and her hand now rested on his sleeve.

He stilled, almost afraid to move, for she had come to him, chosen him, as it were, and that sent a thrill of another sort through him.

“Mr. St. Maur, what have you done?” she asked in an awe-stricken voice.

“Why, saved you, I suppose,” he said, grinning from ear to ear at his own cheek. “It is part of my services, didn't you know?”

She smiled slightly. “No, I didn't. But I must say, your services are most, shall we say, impressive.”

James glanced down at her. Was Lady Standon flirting with him? Actually gazing up at him with regard and a modicum of feminine curiosity?

After a lifetime spent living moderately, James suddenly understood the appeal of being a rake.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. There was no harm in reminding the lady that he'd just saved her. And to add to his case, he lay his hand over hers to hold it in place.

He rather liked having her there in his shadow.

“No, not at all, other than having my nerves shaken a bit,” she said, making no attempt to free her hand or move away.

Or break the odd spell that had enveloped them.

She glanced into his eyes and the rest of London melted away.

The only thing he could hear was the pounding of his heart as it echoed one word.

More.

In those heartbeats, he saw her walking toward him in a moonlit garden wearing a diaphanous gown, her hair loose, hanging down to her waist. Her hips
moving with a mesmerizing sway, while her arms were held out to him, inviting him closer, begging him to take her into his arms and…

His body reacted. Fast and hot. Rakishly.

For if there was one thing he did know about women, the light in Lady Standon's eyes told him something very important.

Proper Lady Standon held a most improper regard for her man of business.

He probably should be shocked. Instead, James tried not to grin.

 

Elinor knew without a doubt that something had changed about Mr. St. Maur.

Not that he wasn't still handsome, in that rakishly dangerous way of his, but it was something else.

The way he looked at her.

“Mr. St. Maur, I really must thank you,” she said, stepping back and straightening her hat and pelisse, desperately trying to shake off the shocking waves of desire that had run rampant through her limbs as her fingers had discovered the muscled strength of his arm hidden beneath his poorly cut jacket.

“Lady Standon,” he returned, making a good bow. “It was my pleasure. Even if the situation was a bit alarming. Whoever is that Lord Lewis?”

Elinor grimaced. She had hoped he wouldn't ask, but she supposed he probably would like to know who it was he'd just humiliated.

Oh, and how he'd humiliated the baron. She pressed her lips together so as not to smile. But how could she not? For after all, Mr. St. Maur had just stepped out of the crowd and saved her.

And no one had ever done that for her. Ever.

“I'm afraid he's my stepfather,” she told him. “Lord Lewis. He's a baron with holdings in Cumberland.”
What was left of them.

St. Maur continued to quiz her. “Whatever did he want?”

Of course he would want the details. “A family matter, sir. Truly nothing worth recounting,” she said, plucking at her gloves and unwilling to look him in the eye again.

Why, the last time she'd done so, she'd stepped right back into that shocking dream of hers. And as he'd returned her gaze, she'd had the sense that he'd known exactly what she'd been remembering.

Right down to how it had felt to have his body covering hers, pressed against hers, his lips about to…

Elinor tugged at her gloves a little harder than she'd meant to and nearly popped one of the buttons.

Dear heavens, she needed to stay focused. And respectable. She needed to remember what it was she truly wanted from this man.

Help in finding a husband. Not a lover.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, smiling at a matron who was passing, her upraised brow indicating that she found Elinor's situation rife with possibilities.

Gossipy ones, mostly.

She took St. Maur by the arm—this time careful not to let her fingers cling too closely—and led him under the eaves of the shop.

Right in front of the crimson bolt of fabric.

“What am I doing?” he asked, looking a bit taken aback. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Why, shopping, of course. And rescuing fair damsels.”

“Rescuing—,” she began. “Oh, you mean me!”

He thought her a “fair damsel”?

She glanced up at him, for there was a hurried note to his voice that suggested this wasn't entirely the truth. Then again, perhaps he was on an errand for a client and was exercising a modicum of discretion.

I wonder just how discreet he can be
?

Elinor gulped. Good heavens! Where had that thought come from?

It was then that she realized that she was leaving a rather awkward silence between them, so she rushed to fill it. “Are you shopping for a new coat perhaps?”

Oh, yes, Elinor. That was stupendously well done. Insult his coat.

Luckily for her, he grinned. “I suppose I should. This one has seen better days.” He held out his worn sleeve for her examination. “Perhaps you can recommend a good tailor?”

She imagined having to measure him, the length and breadth of him, to come up with a coat that fit. Of him taking it off and…

Elinor closed her eyes. She was doing it again. “I…that is to say…I wouldn't know…The shops here are rather dear…”

She hardly wanted to be the one to humiliate the man and suggest that he couldn't afford Bond Street, but considering the state of his coat, the situation was rather obvious.

But to Mr. St. Maur's credit, he hardly appeared ruffled by his financial straits. “No matter, Lady
Standon. I am sure I will live without a new coat today.” He took a deep breath and rocked on his heels. The silence continued, but luckily for her, this time he filled it in. “Whatever are you doing out here—and without your maid or a footman?”

“Shopping,” she said.

“Alone?” he pressed.

Elinor ruffled a little at his presumptuous tone. What, a lecture on propriety from the man who'd just tossed a member of the House of Lords into the street?

“No, of course not. Minerva and Lady Chudley are with me. They went on ahead into that shop while I was distracted by a bolt of fabric.”

“A bolt of fabric?” This time his tones were more teasing. “And which one, dare I ask, warranted taking such a risk?”

She pressed her lips together. How could she tell him she wanted to dress like a courtesan to claim his attentions? So she lied. “That bolt,” she declared, pointing at another one in the window.

He turned and looked. “The green?” He shook his head. “No, my lady, that will never do. The red would be much more becoming on you.”

“That isn't red, sir. 'Tis crimson,” she corrected, even as she thought,
The crimson? Truly? You want to see me in that?

“Is it really?” he asked, peering into the window. “Then again I've never been able to tell a mulberry from a scarlet, but whatever color you want to call that bolt, I think it would be most becoming on you. Perfect, in fact.” He turned and grinned at her, and the brilliance of his smile sent a thunderbolt through her.

Elinor wavered in her boots. Was he flirting with her?

Oh, I hope so.

“In such a gown, Lady Standon,” he told her, coming closer and looking into her eyes with an intensity that sent a shiver of desire down her spine, “you wouldn't need your list. I think you'd find yourself
overtaken
by admirers.”

But it was almost impossible to keep herself focused when he looked at her thusly, when he said such things.

For all she heard was the
“overtaken”
part. The part where he snatched her into his arms and carried her off to some secluded alcove, library, room with a convenient bed, where her dress would no longer be the allure, but merely in the way.

“About my list—,” she managed to say.

“Yes?” He smiled at her. “Do you have an addition or two you would like to make—”

“Oh, no. But I am certain to meet Longford tonight—”

“T-tonight?” he sputtered.

“Yes, at the Setchfield masquerade.”

“That's tonight?”

“Yes. I have it on good authority that the duke will be there and I am certain to gain an introduction, for these sorts of events aren't so very formal.”

“But my lady—”

“Yes, I know it is rather soon, so I don't expect you to have a report on the man before this evening.”

“I don't think—”

“It is merely an introduction to the man, St. Maur. You men of business are ever so cautious. You must trust a lady's instincts on these matters.”

“It is just—”

“Yes, I know a masquerade is hardly the best place to gain an impression, what with the costumes and such.”

“Yes, looks can be quite deceiving,” he said in a distracted sort of way. He was staring at the crimson, but not really looking at it.

Elinor had no idea what had put that dark glower on his brow, so she continued on lightly, “Perhaps the duke will fall in love with me at first sight and whisk me away to Gretna Green. Then all my problems will be over and you won't have to trouble yourself with my frivolous business.”