At the Duke’s Pleasure (14 page)

“We were.”

“Then the rumors are true? Leave it to the duke to say nothing about the particulars.”

“Has he not?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise. She’d assumed everyone knew the circumstances of her engagement to Edward, but apparently he’d decided to leave the origin of their union a secret—or at least publicly unacknowledged.

The music began then, and with it the start of the set. Moving to the familiar rhythms of a country dance, she and Gresham threaded their way in and around the other couples, continuing their conversation as the movements of the dance allowed.

She turned to reform the line, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed Edward. As she did, she couldn’t help but see the woman standing at his side as well. Breath whooshed from her lungs in a sudden, dizzying gust.

Five years fell away as she stared. Five years rushed upon her as she recognized Felicia, Lady Bettis, who was just as beautiful now as she had been while a guest during her parents’ country house party all those years ago.

Gresham caught her hand as Claire swayed. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, managing somehow to take the steps required by the dance. “F-Fine. The warmth of the room was too much for a moment, but I am better now.”

“You look a bit pale. Are you sure we shouldn’t withdraw and find you a seat?”

“No. I am quite well. Let us continue.”

Before he could question her further, the dance separated them once again.

She tried not to look when Edward and Lady Bettis came into view again. But she couldn’t help it, her gaze locking on them with a kind of helpless fascination.

What were they doing together?

Was it just a matter of them both being in London for the Season or was it more?

Surely they weren’t still involved after all this time?

Surely she wasn’t still his mistress?

Nausea churned in her stomach, willpower alone the only thing that kept her moving to the music.

And then suddenly, gratefully, it was over. Ignoring Lord Gresham’s looks and murmurs of concern, she strode from the dance floor, wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself, and Edward and his mistress.

Stomach roiling again, she continued toward the far corner of the ballroom.

Lord Gresham followed. “Take a seat and let me get you a cool refreshment. You look most unwell.”

“I am fine.”

“Shall I find Mrs. Byron or Edward instead? Perhaps you should go home.”

“No!” she said in a fierce voice. “Not Edward.”

Gresham stared.

“There is no need to trouble him,” she dissembled in a far more modulated tone. “He will only worry, and for naught. Truly, it is only the warmth of the room. I am feeling recovered already.”

Gresham frowned, appearing unconvinced. “If you are sure—”

“Very sure. Though, as you so generously offered, a cool glass of punch would not go amiss.”

Pausing, he took a moment to consider. “Stay here and rest. I will be back presently with your refreshment.”

“Thank you. You are most kind.”

Casting her a last concerned look, he bowed and departed.

She slumped in her chair seconds after he left. As she did, her gaze fell on a man standing only a few feet distant. It was Lord Islington, she realized, and he was watching her, as he leaned in a negligent pose against a tall marble pillar.

Without considering the ramifications of her actions, she stared back, meeting his gaze.

He smiled and lifted an inquiring brow.

She knew she should lower her eyes, even turn around in her chair to dismiss him. Instead, she kept gazing at him, thinking as she did how much Edward would disapprove. But why did she care what Edward thought? Didn’t she want to earn his displeasure? He’d certainly earned hers by being with Lady Bettis. Her hands tightening into fists in her lap, she continued to study Lord Islington.

Should I or shouldn’t I?
she wondered.
Do I dare?

Abruptly, she tossed aside her caution and smiled.

C
laire wondered precisely what she’d gotten herself into as she watched Lord Islington straighten away from the pillar and saunter toward her.

A shiver raced along her spine, but not the delicious sort she always felt around Edward. This one was forbidding, almost menacing, as though she’d beckoned a cobra and it had decided to accept her invitation. But then he stopped in front of her and bowed, his manner both polished and easy. His smile was pleasant, his grey eyes alive with curiosity and a barely concealed amusement that seemed to belie her initial reaction.

He most definitely did not look harmless, she decided, but neither did he alarm her. She was only letting Mallory’s earlier warnings against him color her opinion. And even Mallory had admitted that she really didn’t know the man, only what Edward had said of him. Islington had a bad reputation. Well, most men had something about their pasts they wished to conceal. Anyway, how bad could he really be?

“Good evening,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here alone. It doesn’t seem right to leave such a beautiful woman to her own devices.”

“Lord Gresham is procuring a glass of punch for me and will return momentarily.”

“Parched from all your dancing, are you? I must confess that I noticed you out on the floor. You’re very graceful.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said, his gaze shining warmly. “I am Islington, by the way. Forgive my lack of decorum in introducing myself, but such formalities have always struck me as rather antiquated in our modern age. Particularly since you need not tell me your name.”

“Do I not?”

He shook his head. “Talk of Lady Claire Marsden is on everyone’s lips these days.”

“Oh?” she asked in an arch voice. “And what is it they are saying?”

“That you are either the luckiest young woman in the Ton or the cleverest to have wrung an engagement band out of the elusive Duke of Clybourne. Personally, I think it’s neither and you just haven’t had enough time to think the matter through.”

She laughed, fully aware that he was being deliberately provocative. He was practically inviting her to rebel. “Perhaps I shall mention your opinion to His Grace when next I see him?”

“If you were wise, you wouldn’t mention me to him at all. He doesn’t exactly approve of me, you see.”

“Really? And why is that, my lord?”

He shrugged. “An unfortunate misunderstanding is all, one for which he refuses to let me provide a proper explanation. I have tried, but his opinions tend to be rather rigidly held once they have been formed. What of your own, Lady Claire? Do you prefer to judge people on their merits or merely prejudge them based on the talk of others?”

“I am of an independent mind. Were I not, I wouldn’t be conversing with you at all.”

“Touché.” Smiling more widely, he dipped his head in approval.

Casting a quick glance across the ballroom, she scanned the room for Lord Gresham. She didn’t see him yet, but knew her time must be growing short.

“I…um…I believe the next set is about to form. Do you dance, my lord?”

“I have been known to on occasion.”

“Then perhaps you should make this one of them. I have yet to promise this set.”

He paused, his gaze taking on a speculative gleam. “And you would like me to ask you? I must caution that you would be playing with fire to accept.”

She cast another glance across the ballroom, locating Edward—and Lady Bettis, who was still standing at his side. She drew back her shoulders. “I like fire. I find it keeps things warm and lively.”

He looked in the duke’s direction. “Hoping to spark a reaction, are you?”

“Why no,” she denied. “I just want to dance.”

Tossing back his head, Islington laughed and reached down a hand. “Lady Claire, may I have this next dance?”

“You may.” Stomach somersaulting, she got to her feet.

Seconds later, Lord Gresham returned, a glass of pink punch held in his gloved hand, a scowl on his face. “Lady Claire, how are you feeling?”

“Much improved.” Reaching out, she accepted the beverage, grateful for the cool, sweet slide of the drink as she swallowed. She hadn’t realized how dry her mouth had become, or how much in need she was of the small distraction. “Delicious. My thanks,” she declared, handing the cup back to Gresham.

He took it, then held out his arm. As he did, he tossed a look of ill-concealed disdain at Islington. “Allow me to return you to Mrs. Byron.”

So, Lord Gresham doesn’t approve of Islington either
, she realized.

Trepidation swam in her system, but she pushed it aside. After all, even if Islington was a bounder, he couldn’t do anything to her inside a crowded ballroom, other than cause a bit of scandal—and wasn’t that precisely what she wanted?

“Thank you again, my lord,” she told Gresham, “but there is no need. Lord Islington has asked me to stand up with him for the next set, which, from the sound the musicians are making, is about to begin.”

“Lady Claire, I really don’t think—” Gresham began.

“Don’t concern yourself, Gresham. I’ll see she’s properly returned,” Islington drawled, offering his own arm to Claire.

Drawing a resolute breath, she laid her hand on Islington’s black sleeve, not daring to glance at Lord Gresham for fear of what he might glimpse in her eyes.

Then she and Islington were strolling across the ballroom, gazes turning their way as they went.

Edward fought off a yawn, as Lady Bettis launched into yet another round of flirtatious chatter. He didn’t smile as he knew she was hoping, or laugh, weary of her poorly concealed attempts to amuse and beguile him.

Years ago, they’d had a brief affair, one he’d ended without a moment of regret. She’d been less sanguine about the breakup, confiding that he was the best lover she’d ever had. Some men might have preened at the remark, since it was well-known even then that Felicia Bettis had had a great many lovers indeed. But Edward had merely wanted out of the relationship, sorry she desired him when he didn’t feel the same about her.

Their encounters since had been friendly enough—at least on the surface. But she made it plain that her offer was still open and that he was free to return to her bed any time he wished. To her regret, he didn’t, enduring her occasional attempts to rekindle something between them with stoic patience.

But tonight, she was not only boring him, she was irritating him as well. Before he could elude her, she’d snared him for a private coze. At first he’d thought she merely wanted to gossip. Soon he realized her true intentions, questions pouring off her lips about his engagement to that “Marsden chit” and her astonishment that he was going through with the marriage after all.

But he didn’t want to talk to her about Claire. His rationale for the marriage, his feelings for Claire and hers for him were private and had nothing to do with the Felicia Bettises of the world. Claire wasn’t a topic for conjecture or discussion, and he revealed as little to Lady Bettis as possible.

Yes, he was marrying Lady Claire.

No, they hadn’t set a wedding date.

No, he didn’t find her too much of a child anymore. In fact, she’d turned into a lovely, charming young woman whom any man would be pleased to wed.

Felicia didn’t like that last at all, her mouth screwing tight with obvious displeasure. But then her expression suddenly cleared like the sun coming out from behind a bank of clouds. That was when she began to flirt, trying to put him in a better mood. Unfortunately for her, all she succeeded in doing was boring him to death.

While she was chattering away, he scanned the room for Claire, wondering if she might like to join him for supper. He’d caught a glimpse of her dancing with Adam Gresham, but when he’d looked again, she was gone, lost somewhere in the milling crowd.

Having had more than enough, he finally decided to extricate himself from Lady Bettis’s attentions.

“Yes, how amusing,” he said in response to her latest remark. “But now, if you will excuse me, I must be going.”

“Must you?” she replied with a pout that was undoubtedly meant to be alluring. “I was rather hoping you might ask me to dance.”

“My apologies, but I cannot.” He refused to say more, or to make further excuses that both of them would know for lies.

“Until later then,” she said on an audible sigh, her shoulders slumping in resignation and defeat.

With a practiced bow, he departed, threading his way through the squeeze of guests in hopes of locating Claire. He hadn’t gone twenty feet, however, before another woman he could have done without seeing this evening stepped into his path.

“Your Grace, what a pleasant surprise running into you tonight,” said Philipa, Lady Stockton, her blue eyes shrewd in her winsome face, her lips rouged as red and ripe as cherries.

He inclined his head. “My lady.”

“I must say, it’s been ages since we last met,” she continued with a faint toss of her brunette head. “How is dear Jack these days?”

At one time, she had been his brother Jack’s mistress, although Edward had never fully understood the attraction, in spite of her outward beauty.

“Still married,” he said.

A laugh rippled from her throat. “Yes, so I hear. And a father now too.”

“Yes. A daughter, on whom he dotes already. The baby and Lady John are doing exceptionally well and the three of them remain very happy together in the country.”

Her smile faded ever so slightly. “Well, I am glad to hear it. I would ask you to send my best regards to dear Jack in your next letter, but I suppose you would find it frightfully inappropriate.”

Silence supplied his answer.

“Speaking of things one hears, I understand congratulations are in order, Your Grace. Allow me to wish you happiness on your coming nuptials.”

He paused. “Thank you.”

How civil of her
, he thought.
Surprisingly so.
In his experience, however, Lady Stockton wasn’t the sort who did things out of mere politeness. Generally there was some underlying motivation behind her actions. Did she want something? Or was he misjudging her and she really was simply extending her well-wishes?

“Oh, you’re quite welcome,” she continued in a friendly tone. “Your fiancée is lovely, I must say, with that beautiful blond hair and rosy complexion. The two of you make quite a striking couple. Light and dark are always complementary.”

He said nothing, silently twisting his signet ring on his little finger as he waited for her to continue.

“She is certain to do you credit as your duchess.”

“Yes, I am sure she shall,” he stated, wondering how soon he might be able to slip away without appearing impolite.

“Although I cannot help but note that she is young and obviously new to Town. There may be a few small pointers you wish to share with her about how to go on in Society. Clearly, she doesn’t realize her misstep, but I suppose all of us are entitled to one or two at first.”

His brows lowered. “What do you mean? What misstep?”

An expression of surprise rounded her features. “I assumed you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Why, that she’s dancing with Lord Islington. They just started a second set together moments ago and I must say, they are drawing comment. Good girls, even engaged ones, don’t generally dance with such a roué.”

Islington!

Edward’s hands turned to fists at his side, the emerald in his ring cutting tightly against the inside of his palm.
Why, that bounder
. How dare Islington ask Claire to dance when he knew exactly what sort of attention it would draw.

Flipping his ring around to its correct position, he executed a clipped bow. “If you will excuse me, Lady Stockton, I find I am needed elsewhere.”

She managed not to smirk, but couldn’t quite conceal the delight glittering in her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace. So good chatting with you.”

Suppressing the growl that rose in his chest, he turned away and strode through the crowd. People parted for him as he passed, stepping aside like wheat sheaves laid flat by a scythe.

Soon he found himself on the perimeter of the dance floor, couples moving to and fro with practiced movements. And there in the center of the action was Claire, her steps lively as she glided in time to the music with her partner, Gregory, Lord Islington, exactly as Philipa Stockton had claimed.

Edward forced himself not to stalk forward and wrest Claire out of Islington’s arms. The pair of them were causing enough comment without him creating a scene that would be the talk of every drawing room and dining table in London come tomorrow morning. Instead, he decided he would wait, calmly and with an apparent lack of concern. Once the set concluded, he would arrive at Claire’s side and lead her safely away.

No harm. No fuss.

Well, maybe a small amount of fuss, but once he had Claire back where she belonged, the situation would seem altogether ordinary, a raindrop in an ocean that was quickly absorbed and forgotten.

What he wanted to know, however, was how she had come to be acquainted with Islington in the first place. Who had introduced them? Clearly not Cousin Wilhelmina, who might be a bit silly at times, but who knew enough to keep her young charges well away from scoundrels like Islington. He remembered seeing Claire in Gresham’s company, but despite Adam’s own wild reputation, Edward knew Gresham wouldn’t put an innocent like Claire in Islington’s path.

So how had they met?
he wondered again, struggling not to glower and glare like an enraged bull as he watched the two of them dance.

Generally, Islington confined himself to experienced widows and bored wives, who didn’t mind kicking up a cloud of scandal and gossip while they conducted an illicit liaison with him. Debutantes and unmarried young women were on his do-not-touch list, though, and after “the incident” three years ago, everyone knew why and were careful to keep their marriageable daughters away.

Although to be fair, Edward was certain Claire didn’t realize what Islington was or that she ought to have steered well clear of him and refused his offer to take a turn on the floor. But the dance would conclude shortly, and once he had Claire by his side, all would be well.