To Marry The Duke (4 page)

“I’ve heard it’s lovely in the north.”

He made no further comment, and there was an awkward, uncomfortable silence.

“Do you have siblings there?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“Both.”

“How nice. Are you very close to them? Do they travel to London with you when you come?”

Whitby cleared his throat as if to say something, and James somehow knew his friend was going to correct the heiress on her behavior, for she had made another mistake.

James suspected it was just as unimportant to her as the last one.

“Miss Wilson,” Whitby said quietly, “perhaps someone should inform you that such personal questions may be acceptable in your home country, but here in England, they are considered rudely intrusive. I only mention it now as a friend, to save you some embarrassment. Has no one told you that?”

He said it kindly, as gently as possible, but still, the mother appeared quite horrified at the situation. Her daughter, however, revealed nothing of the sort.

“Yes, I have been told.” She snapped open her fan and flapped it leisurely in front of her face. “But I thank you all the same.”

Whitby made a slight bow as if to say “you’re welcome,” and all James could do was try not to laugh out loud and say “Bravo!” to the girl. Perhaps Whitby was right. Perhaps James was more of a rebel than he thought, for why else would he be so impressed by such a display. She had smirked at the English social code and didn’t seem to give a damn. That’s why Bertie was so taken with her—because of her daring nonconformity. It kept him entertained. It was a good thing, too, for if not for the Prince’s enthusiastic endorsement, she would be finished.

James gazed down at the frazzled mother, who had gone pale and seemed to think all was lost. He simply had to ease the poor woman’s mind.

“I was disappointed to hear that your dance card is full,” he said to Miss Wilson. “Perhaps next time I will arrive in time to—”

A look of panic flew across her mother’s face. “Oh! No, Your Grace! Her card is not full! I’ve kept one dance open. The last one.”

Somehow he was not surprised. James smiled. “Then would you be so kind as to allow me to fill it?”

“Oh, yes! Yes!” The mother grabbed clumsily for the card at her daughter’s wrist, tugged it downward and quickly penciled in his name.

The small woman’s cheeks flushed with what he could only describe as a mixture of triumph and ravenous hunger. There it was again. Nothing new, though English mothers of marriageable daughters usually did a better job at hiding it than this one.

Miss Wilson smiled politely. “I’ll look forward to it, Your Grace.”

He settled his gaze on her.
No, you won’t
.

Just then, a gentleman appeared out of nowhere, took her hand, and led her to the center of the floor. James watched her intently as she began a
Quadrille
.

Mrs. Wilson excused herself and ventured off toward a group of ladies, and James was left standing with Whitby, who immediately chided himself.

“What was I thinking? Correcting her like that?”

James laughed. “She certainly took it well.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to cross me off her card tonight. Damn my idiocy. I was hoping to make a good impression. But really, I wouldn’t doubt that she caused a few horrified swoonings just now, refusing to curtsy to you. Unless she wants to be cast out of London altogether, she really should be familiar with our manners and customs.”

“I do believe she is, Whitby. She just does what she likes.” Before James walked away, he patted the earl on the arm, and added quietly, “Good luck with that one. You’ll need it.”

He decided at that moment, to give up the idea of any kind of match with her—dowry or no dowry—for somehow, she had managed, in that brief, casual encounter, to again stir what had for years been consciously and contentedly still.

Near the end of the night, James found his mother standing by the door where there was a breeze, fanning herself and looking displeased.

“I saw you talking to the American,” she said right off.

“Lord Whitby made the introduction.”

“Hardly. I saw her march right up to you, bold as brass.” She glanced in the other direction. “Those Americans are always introducing
themselves
.”

Hands clasped behind his back, James stood in a relaxed position beside his mother. Neither of them said anything for a time. They simply watched the dancing.

“Lord Weatherbee’s daughter is out, you know,” his mother said. “Have you spoken to her this evening? She’s a charming little thing. Shame about Lady Weatherbee. Passed away last year.”

The Dowager Duchess knew she should never push young girls in James’s face. She knew how much he loathed it, and that to do so did more harm than good. She was trying to be subtle now, but he knew what she was doing. He did not reply.

“Look, there’s Lily,” the duchess said. “Dancing with that baron. Unfortunate, isn’t it, how short he is?”

James smiled at his sister as she went by, dressed in a cream gown trimmed in gold. She looked like she was enjoying herself.

A few minutes later, the final dance of the evening began. He’d been waiting for it—rather impatiently, he had to admit.

He let his gaze calmly sweep the room and spotted the heiress at the precise instant she spotted him. He smiled and inclined his head, she smiled in return, and he took a step to go to her. Just then, his mother— whom he had completely forgotten just now—took hold of his sleeve.

“You’re not going to dance with her, are you?” she asked, the lines on her hard face deepening with concern.

James retrieved his arm from the duchess’s grasp. “You forget yourself, Mother.”

She released him and took a step back, her face pale with pent-up frustration at not being able to stop him.

Her displeasure had no effect on James, however, for since he had become a man, they both knew she could not control him. Beatings in the schoolroom were no longer possible, and God knew, he felt no obligation to please or appease her. No desire to make her happy or proud.

James let the altercation roll swiftly and smoothly off his back, then straightened his tie and started off across the room toward the heiress.

Chapter 3

After giving Miss Wilson a moment to lift her train, James closed his gloved hand around hers and stepped into the “Blue Danube” with confidence and grace. He did enjoy dancing, and he was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which the heiress followed his lead. On her feet she was as weightless as a cloud floating upon a strong summer breeze. She smelled like flowers; he wasn’t sure what kind, only that they reminded him of spring when he was a boy—of the rare afternoons he was permitted to go off on his own, over the green grass and heath and bracken, down to the pleasingly calm, secluded lake.

He hadn’t thought of such things in a long time.

They danced the first few moments without speaking or making eye contact. He began to wonder what kind of life she led. What sort of house she lived in, what kind of education she’d had. She had asked him if he had siblings. He wondered the same of her now. If so, how many? Did she have sisters or brothers? Was she the oldest? Did they look alike? Where did she get her confidence and her beauty? She certainly didn’t get her height from her mother. Perhaps her father was a tall man.

“You dance very well,” he said at last, when she finally looked him in the eye.

“Only because you are a strong lead, Your Grace. It’s easy to follow you.” She said nothing more, and he found it strange that she was not talking. He’d seen her converse with every other partner this evening. She had always been talking and smiling and laughing.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, eager to dispense with the gentlemanly courtesies—for he was hardly a gentleman at heart—and get straight to the point.

Her astonished gaze darted up at him. “Most of the other ladies aren’t looking at their partners.”

“But you’ve been looking at your partners all evening. Why not me? Do you dislike me? If so, I should at least like to know the reason—even if it is completely warranted.” He spun her around to avoid bumping into another couple.

“I don’t dislike you. I barely know you. You simply strike me as a man who doesn’t enjoy light conversation. Beautiful turn, Your Grace.”

“Why would you think such a thing? Do you believe yourself clever enough to judge a man by taking one look at him?”

“You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

“Why bother with niceties when plain speaking is so much more efficient.”

She gave him a brief glance that told him he had surprised and challenged her, then she took a moment to consider his question. “Well, Your Grace, since we are being forthright, I will acquaint you with the fact that I have heard the London gossip—that you are called the Dangerous Duke—and I therefore feel compelled to exercise some caution with you. On the other hand, I do possess a mind of my own, and I have always been reluctant to believe every piece of idle chatter that lands before me. I wanted to decide for myself what kind of man you were, so I watched you this evening. I ascertained that you haven’t smiled once all night, except at that lovely dark-haired woman a few minutes ago—the one in the cream-and-gold dress. You don’t seem to enjoy socializing, and from what I understand, you rarely come to balls and assemblies. From that, I gather you don’t have much to talk about, or much interest in what others have to say.”

Good God, what an answer.

But there was more.

“And as far as being clever enough to judge a man by taking one look at him,” she said, “let it be known, Your Grace, that I took more than one look at you. Both tonight and last night.”

More than one look. Was she flirting, or just trying to support her superbly categorical rebuttal? Probably the latter, he thought, remembering all that she had said. Still, there was a fine line between candor and seduction, once the barriers of polite behavior were breached.

James pulled her a little closer. “All gossip about me aside, haven’t you ever heard the old adage that still waters run deep?”

She considered that. She seemed to always think before she spoke. “And do you believe you are like those deep, still waters, Your Grace? Hidden and unexplored?” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Or perhaps dark and
abysmal?”

They whirled past a statue of Cupid spouting water into a little pool. James couldn’t help smiling. He wanted to laugh! No woman had ever entertained him quite like this. “That depends. Which do you prefer?”

For a long moment she was silent, then she laughed. An infectious, bright, American laugh. He’d managed that, at least. He spun her around again, and she followed him flawlessly.

Sophia, trying to catch her breath, gazed up at the handsome man leading her around the floor. She felt like she was flying. Her heart rate was accelerating, and she wasn’t sure if it was the exercise—dancing and swirling around the room at such stupendous speed— or the preposterous subject matter of a conversation like this, with a man she knew had been labeled “dangerous” by good society.

He spun her around at the edge of the dance floor, then moved toward the center.

Sophia became all too aware of how large and strong and magnificently male he was. His shoulders were broad beneath her tiny gloved hand; he even smelled virile—musky and clean. And what skill on the dance floor! This was by far the best dance of the night.

The duke smiled down at her. Something enticingly wicked flashed in his eyes. It excited Sophia and planted in her an exotic desire to flirt and act recklessly. Maybe this was why they called him dangerous. He had the power to deliver irreversible ruin to someone like her.

“Ah,” he said, “I can see a light in your eyes. You are reconsidering your first impression of me, and you are beginning to find me moderately charming.”

Sophia could not stop herself from smiling. “Only moderately, Your Grace, but no more than that.”

She felt his hand move a mere inch up her back, and wished her brain would behave. There was no need even to notice where his hand was from one second to the next. Or how it made her skin erupt in tingling gooseflesh.

“Well, that is a start, at least.” He twirled her around again.

Sophia tried to change the subject, for she was beginning to feel dizzy, and not from the dancing. “As I said before, I heard you don’t often come to balls. I hadn’t expected to see you tonight.”
Nor had I wanted to, for I was afraid of exactly this
.

He grinned. “What was it you said to me earlier this evening? Oh yes: ‘I’m flattered you’d given my presence a second thought.’”

Sophia sighed. “You’re a very unique man, Your Grace.”

James pulled her a little closer—as close as the rules of polite behavior allowed. He was pushing the limits, though, and it sent a hot spark through her veins. She had never felt anything like it. It was all-encompassing. Thrillingly naughty.

He gently squeezed her gloved hand in his. Lord, his hands were so big. Warm, even through the gloves. She had never imagined that dancing with a man could be so impossibly knockdown, electrifying to her senses.

“Unique am I? You’re too kind. What flattery.”

She gave him another smile.

The waltz was coming to an end, and disappointment muddled James’s thoughts. He found himself quite unable to accept that this would be the last time he would talk with Miss Wilson, and surprised that he even cared. He hadn’t expected to enjoy conversing with her as much as he had.

He could always come to another ball, he supposed, but people would take notice and distinguish whom he was hoping to see. Not that he cared what people thought. It would matter only to his mother.

He didn’t care about that either. In fact, something about it tempted him.

James made another turn on the floor, and Miss Wilson followed him expertly. The corner of her full, pouty mouth curved up in a delicious little smile, and a base, male instinct sparked and flared instantly in his veins.

He wanted her. Every inch of her. There was no doubt about it. And being the highest-ranking peer in the room, he was very likely at the top of her peer-shopping list.

A small part of him felt a tremor of satisfaction at that—to know that if he desired to have her and all her bags of money, she would probably choose him above the rest.

It was highly uncharacteristic of him, he suddenly realized, to enjoy being the object of women’s ambitions. He supposed he was looking at his match. With all her money, she was as much an object of ambition as he.

The music ended, and the dance was over. James stepped away from the heiress. She let her train drop to the floor. For a long moment they stood in the middle of the ballroom, looking at each other while other couples flowed around them like water past a rock. He should say good night to her now. Return her to her mother…

“I should like to call on the Countess of Lansdowne tomorrow afternoon,” he heard himself saying, “if she is at home.”

Calmly and coolly, Miss Wilson inclined her head. “I’m sure the countess would be honored, Your Grace.”

Another few seconds dragged by before Miss Wilson gestured toward the edge of the dance floor, now almost cleared of guests. “I see my mother.”

Her mother… yes. James offered his arm and escorted Miss Wilson off the floor.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the older woman said, smiling brightly.

James made a bow. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Wilson. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.” With that, he turned and took his leave.

During the carriage ride home from the ball, Sophia felt thoroughly dazed. Her mother and the countess sat together on the opposite seat, gloating and scheming, thrilled that Sophia had danced with the duke, not to mention the fact that he had kept her on the floor so long afterward, gazing at her.

Sophia barely heard a word they said. She was staring at the window, feeling weak and breathless and thunderstruck about tomorrow, for he had said he would call.

Lord! He had been such a magnificent dancer. The way he had held her about the waist—with such firm control and adept skill. It had been effortless to float along with him, following his strong lead about the room. It was as if she had possessed wings.

All at once, she remembered the disconcertingly erotic feel of her small hand inside his strong one, and here in the carriage, something fiery and startling swooped inside her belly. It was the same sensation she had experienced earlier, when she’d noticed the moist heat from his hand and reveled in it.