Mad About the Duke (8 page)

“It isn't like that at all, it is just—”

“Yes, yes, I know. The Setchfield ball always promises some scandalous
on dit
—why, look at last year. The Duchess of Hollindrake shot that horrible pirate in the middle of the ballroom.”

“Better she'd shot—,” he was muttering.

“Pardon, sir?” she asked. Whatever was he going on about? He looked ready to toss another baron into the street.

“No, nothing, but I just realized the time.”

“Yes, and here I am prattling on and you must have your shopping to finish and matters to attend to. Other clients and such.”

“Nothing is more important to me than your welfare, my lady,” he said, making a short bow.

Elinor could feel the heat of a blush rise on her cheeks. “You probably say that to all the damsels you save.”

“Only the worthy ones, madame.”

He looked ready to take his leave, yet she didn't want to let him go. “St. Maur?”

“Yes?” He turned toward her, his sharp gaze searching hers.

“I wish—”

“You wish what, my lady?”

Tell him. Tell him everything…

“Nothing, sir. Just another one of my foolish fancies.”

Like seeing how he would look at her if she wore a gown made of that crimson velvet.

Elinor tore her gaze away from his, willed herself to give up such imaginings for her sister's sake.

That turned out to be quite easy to do when her sights fell on the tag attached to the roll of fabric.

“Oh, good heavens,” she gasped.

“What is it?” he asked, looking over his shoulder and definitely not seeing what she was.

“The price,” she told him. “I fear such a fabric is too dear for my budget.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Do you not see what it is a yard?” She pointed toward the tag. “Why, that price is completely scandalous.”

“I wouldn't know,” he admitted. “I thought ladies just charged such matters to their accounts and paid no heed to the bill.”

“When they have someone to pay those accounts,” she told him. “I haven't such a luxury any longer.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Hollindrake has threatened to close our accounts. Or rather the duchess has. It is back to my old ways, I fear.”

“Your old ways?”

She laughed at his puzzled expression. “If you must know, I come from rather humble origins. Noble, but humble. When my father died and his title passed, there was little for my mother and sister and me. My mother remarried, but my stepfather wasn't one to spend money incautiously.”

“Lord Lewis?”

“Yes, the same,” she said, shuddering at the thought of the odious man.

For in truth, Lord Lewis was a spendthrift—as long as it was spent on his pleasures and desires. Clothing two stepdaughters? An utter waste of money in his estimation.

She continued on. “My mother was good with a needle and had an eye for remaking gowns. And happily she had a closet full, for my father loved seeing her beautifully dressed.” Elinor smiled, remembering the closets of silks and brocades and hours spent dressing up in her mother's finery.

That is until Lord Lewis had discovered the hoarded gowns and sold them off to pay his gambling debts.

“I still maintain such a color would serve your cause admirably,” Mr. St. Maur said.

Elinor agreed, but she said nothing, her gazed lowered, for she didn't trust herself to look him in the eye at that moment.

And as luck would have it, her gaze fell on his faded sleeve, the wool thinned at the elbows, the cuffs in a state of genteel shabbiness.

That is to say, they were well worn and had been turned more than once.

Just as her mother had done with the secondhand gowns she'd managed to buy and redo for her and Tia.

Secondhand…

That was it! She could gain her crimson gown, rescue Tia and perhaps even find a way to pay for Mr. St. Maur's services.

Matchmaking services, that is…

And in all her whirling thoughts, Elinor envisioned one last selfish moment when she would indulge her
self before she once again entered the bonds of matrimony.

One passionate encounter, as fiery as that velvet.

Elinor glanced up at her man of business and smiled. “Sir, what would you say to having your bill paid in a way other than cash?”

J
ames arrived home in a flurry, calling for Richards and Winston and Jack and Miranda.

“Are you attending the Setchfield masquerade tonight, madame?” he asked Miranda, who had hurried down the stairs in response to his bellowing.

“No, you had said that it was too scandalous by half,” she replied.

“I've changed my mind, we are all attending.”

“But Your Grace—”

“James—”

“I will send around a note—,” Winston began.

“No!” James told his secretary sharply. “No notes. I don't want anyone to know I am there.”

“Good luck with that,” Jack said. “When you stroll in there wearing some King Charles costume, there won't be a matron in the room who will rest until she determines who you are.”

“He's correct,” Miranda agreed.

“I have no intention of making a spectacle of myself,” James declared. He turned to Cantley and
asked, “Are the costumes from those masques my father liked to throw still up in the attic?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Get them down and air them out quickly.”

Jack's mouth fell open. “Oh, yes, James. Subtle. Dressing as the Sultan of the East. In all that silk and a turban and the feathers. If you think to impress the lady, you'll end up looking like a fool. Everyone will know who you are.”

James grinned at him. “I'm not going as the Sultan. You are.”

 

The Duke of Setchfield had stood in the receiving line of his wife's annual masquerade for hours watching the parade of Robin Hoods, pirate lords, fairy queens, a cavalier or two, as well the usual mix of milkmaids, goddesses, and highwaymen.

Temple, as his friends called him, wore his usual costume, which meant he'd donned a black suit of clothes and a domino.

No amount of coaxing from his beloved Diana could get him to entertain the notion of disguising himself.

He'd done that for years in the service of the King and his days of espionage and skullduggery were over.

Beside him, Diana was gowned in a diaphanous silk with a quiver of arrows on her back. She'd threatened to shoot him earlier if he didn't don the costume she'd had made for him, but he'd been able to talk her out of such a plan.

Well, not precisely
talk
her out of it.

And the memory of those happy hours was more than enough to make him smile again.

Diana nudged him out of his reverie. “Is that who I think it is coming in with Lord and Lady John?”

He looked up to find a sultan, his consort and another young lady in a more modest harem attire coming up the steps. “Yes, 'tis Jack and Miranda with Parkerton's daughter, Lady Arabella.”

“No, Temple, behind Lord John. Isn't that Parkerton? The one dressed as the sultan's attendant.”

“No, it cannot be. Parkerton never attends—” Temple stopped. “Dear God, I do believe you're right. What the devil is
he
doing here?”

Diana rubbed her hands together with glee. The Duke of Parkerton at her ball? Why, it was a social coup of a rare order. “Do you think he's here to—”

“Stop matchmaking,” her husband warned her good-naturedly. “He's most likely here to ensure that his daughter doesn't end up in some scandalous coil.”

“I beg to differ. See there, he's already scanning the room. He's looking for someone.”

Temple shook his head. “Now you've gone as mad as the rest of the Tremonts. Parkerton is not in the market.”

“Care to wager on the matter?”

The duke knew better than to wager with his wife. Next year he'd find himself wearing an outfit almost as ridiculous as Mad Jack's.

“Ah, the Sultan of Smuggling,” Temple teased as Jack stopped before him. Since it was a masquerade, their majordomo was not announcing the arriving guests, thus allowing everyone to remain anonymous until the unmasking at midnight.

“This was not my idea,” Jack complained.

“Still, you wore it.”

“Under duress, Temple. Duress, I tell you.” When it appeared Temple wasn't about to be subdued, Jack
leaned closer and whispered, “Say another word and I'll tell Her Grace that you were seen out driving a new phaeton on the Western Road.”

Temple was known for being a wretchedly bad whip—a danger to himself and everyone on the road, yet he persisted on trying to learn how to handle ribbons, much to his wife's horror.

But being sharp of hearing, Diana had caught wind of their conspiratorial whispers.

“You were driving?” She shot a hot glance at her husband that could have roasted a goose.

His, precisely.

“No, ma'am,” Jack demurred. “I was just saying I wanted him to send someone by Thistleton Park to pick up a shipment I procured recently—a French wine I thought you would like. His Grace had wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

Diana looked anything but mollified, but being a diplomat's daughter, she tactfully changed the subject. “Your costumes are admirable. And you've brought a servant, I see. A lofty one.” She cast a glance at Parkerton, who was dressed like a eunuch.

“He prefers his anonymity,” Miranda said, sending a glance over her shoulder.

Temple smiled. “Is there a reason?”

“What else?” Jack complained. “A lady.” There was a fit of coughing from the tall fellow in the servant's costume, and Jack's gaze rolled upward.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance and move his search along,” Diana offered.

“Please,” Jack practically begged. “Can you direct my mad brother toward Lady Standon.”

Temple coughed this time. “That troublesome lot? I don't think we should help. Might be held responsible and all.”

His wife ignored him. “Which one?”

“Elinor,” Miranda supplied.

“She's dressed as Penelope.”

There was a snort from the glowering servant behind Jack.

“Yes, Penelope the patient, obedient wife. I found that amusing as well,” Temple said, “since the Standon widows are hardly known for their compliant ways.”

Diana rose up on her toes and surveyed the room. “She arrived with Lady Chudley, who is easy to find—she's dressed as Medusa.”

“Another apt costume,” Jack muttered.

Everyone ignored him, not that any of them disagreed with his observation.

“The last time I saw Lady Standon,” Diana said, “she was dancing with Longford.”

There was an impatient growl from Jack's servant and he deserted his post, stalking into the crowd.

“Hardly the dutiful eunuch,” Temple said.

“I wish he was,” Jack shot back as he adjusted his turban.

“What, dutiful?”

“No,” Jack replied. “A eunuch.”

 

Aunt Bedelia hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said that Elinor and Minerva were about to become the toasts of the Town.

More to the point, to every unmarried man.

Despite their costumes and masks, their identities quickly spread about the room like wildfire.

Elinor could see Bedelia's hand in that bit of mischief. The woman was bound and determined to see them married.

But their newfound popularity gained them little favor with the other unmarried ladies and less so
with the matrons trying to foist off their unattached daughters.

“Do you think we could find a way out of this crush without Aunt Bedelia catching us?” Minerva whispered.

“Would you truly risk it? She'd probably have us transported for leaving
this ball
.” Elinor emphasized it as much as the lady had earlier when both of them had tried to cry off.

For Aunt Bedelia had just waved off Minerva's protests and her halfhearted claim of megrims.

No one turns down an invitation to the Setchfield masquerade ball,
she'd proclaimed.
Not unless they are utterly and completely mad.

Minerva blew at the gauzy silk veil that kept toppling forward into her eyes. “Whatever was I thinking letting her dress me thusly?” She glanced down at her costume and shuddered.

Aunt Bedelia had also arrived armed to the teeth—with costumes for both of them and four maids to help them dress, as if she had known all too well of the mutiny brewing in their hearts.

For Minerva she'd brought a Maid Marian ensemble, a green velvet dress with gold lace trim, and a high chapel with a shimmering veil.

“You actually look quite lovely,” Elinor told her.

“Thank you, but if I have one more of these fool Robin Hoods come over and offer to prick me with his arrow, I am not going to be responsible for what I do with one of their arrows.” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at the crush before them.

“Perhaps you can find a wicked baron to lock them all up and carry you off,” Elinor offered, which only made Minerva's brows arch above her mask.

“Right now I would welcome the most wicked
baron who ever lived if he could save me from my aunt and her plans,” Minerva declared.

“Careful what you wish for,” Elinor advised, even as her friend shuddered when Aunt Bedelia waved at them and pointed at an elderly man in a jester's costume.

Pressing her lips together to keep from laughing aloud, Elinor could at least commiserate, for her situation was no better. “At least you have more clothes on than I, and you do not have to cart about this ridiculous spindle!” She held it up. “What am I supposed to do with this if I am asked to dance?”

“Poor, faithful Penelope,” Minerva teased. “Just waiting for her Odysseus to return. Perhaps you can spin us a rope to climb down from the balcony.”

“Still mapping your escape route, Minerva?” Aunt Bedelia said. “You should have done that before you let your father bully you into marrying Philip Sterling. But now you have the pick of the
ton
and you want nothing more than to run scared. Bah! You forget who you are.”

“I never forget who I am, Aunt Bedelia,” she replied.

There was an undercurrent to their conversation—something odd about the tone—that caught Elinor's ear, but when she turned her gaze on the pair, Minerva had turned away and was feigning interest in the musicians, while Aunt Bedelia had engaged the aged crone next to her in a lively debate, pumping the old gel for information.

Elinor looked at the colorful parade of costumes and found herself—much to her chagrin—wondering what sort of character Mr. St. Maur might favor.

A pirate, she mused. In a great plumed hat, breeches and tall boots. His black eye covered with a patch and a brace of pistols across his chest.

That chest…
Elinor nearly sighed aloud. Instead,
her fingers flexed as she wondered how that muscled expanse would feel beneath her fingers, her bare hands over his warm skin.

Even the thought of it sent a shiver of longing through her, a desire to know what it was to be loved…thoroughly and expertly.

Ravished by a man with a dangerous gleam and…

“Elinor Sterling!” Lady Chudley said, nudging her out of her delicious reverie. “He is coming over!”

“He is?” she said, thinking of her pirate.

“Yes! Longford has been asking after you since the first moment we entered the room, and he is on his way to beg an introduction.”

“Longford?” Elinor stammered.

“As in the man on your list,” Minerva said in a discreet aside. “Do you recall him, or were your thoughts elsewhere?”

Elinor blushed. “Was it so evident?”

“You do get a look about you when you think about that solicitor,” Minerva said. “Really, Elinor, what is it about him?”

“I don't know,” she confessed.

“Here he comes, my dears,” Aunt Bedelia declared, the halo of silken snakes in her turban bustling back and forth. “According to Lady Sollinger, you've caught his eye, Elinor.”

“I have?”

“Yes!” Bedelia leaned in and continued, “Now, I've heard some rumors about Longford, and when I mentioned him to Chudley, he made a rather indelicate noise about the man, but I think most are just put off by his wealth and rank. That, and he's sinfully handsome!”

Elinor nodded, recalling St. Maur's reaction to Longford.

Over my dead body…

“Why ever has he singled me out?” Elinor asked.

Bedelia's smile curved into a sly grin. “Why, because he's dressed as Odysseus.”

“Odysseus?” she gasped, looking down at her Penelope costume and then back up at the lady. “You knew!”

The lady preened. “I haven't found myself five husbands by being a fool. This is the Marriage Mart, my dears.” She huffed a bit. “They call Wellington a hero because he made his way across Spain. But I dare the man to walk this field of battle,” she said, waving her hand at the packed ballroom.

Just then, a man dressed in a Greek tunic, with a sword at his waist, laced-up boots, and a commanding presence stopped before them. His golden hair was brushed back and a half mask barely concealed his strong Roman features.

“Oh, my,” Minerva whispered as they curtseyed before him. “I'd say your wait is over, patient Penelope.”

Elinor nudged her back.

“Ah, my fair wife! We are reunited at long last,” he said, a lazy smile on his lips. “Come, we must dance.” He extended his hand to her.

It wasn't a request but a command.

For a moment, she hesitated, almost unwilling to take his hand, for this was exactly what she'd been waiting for.

Would his touch send her heart racing? Her breath catch in her throat? That dizzy sense of destiny that overcame her every time St. Maur—

Good heavens, Elinor, stop thinking of the man and concentrate on your good fortune.

And then Longford's fingers twined around hers and she paused…stilled…waited.

For nothing. For nothing happened.

She stole a glance at his handsome features, his brown eyes, and tried to will her heart to race. But there was nothing, just the warmth of his hand and the strength of his grasp.