How the Duke Was Won (16 page)

Flor pulled on his hand. “Papa? I taught Lady Dorothea how to use the
castañuelas
. Did you see?”

“I did see. You learn quickly, Lady Dorothea,” he said, avoiding her gaze. She'd be quick to learn everything, he had no doubt. And there were so very many things he wanted to teach her.

“Fetch your guitar, Papa, and play for us,” Flor suggested.

That was the last thing he needed—­Dorothea's sumptuous hips undulating while he controlled the rhythm on his guitar.

Dorothea shook her head and unwrapped the silk cord from around her thumb. She handed the
castañuelas,
or castanets, as they were called in England, back to Flor. “It's late, dear, your father must return to his guests. Time for you to go back to bed.”

“No.” Flor stamped her foot. “I want Papa to play for us.” Her lips pressed together in the mutinous expression he'd come to know so well in the last year. It signaled she was on the verge of erupting into one of her fits of temper.

Dorothea didn't scold his daughter; she only bent down until her eyes were at a level with Flor's and said, with careful patience, “Remember what I said to you earlier? We can't always have our way. Sometimes we have to bend, just a little bit. Sometimes we might even sway, like a tree in a storm, but we won't break. We only become stronger.”

To his surprise, Flor nodded. “I understand,” she said softly. “I'll go to bed.”

James smiled. “Maybe just one dance before bed.”

Flor's eyes sparked with excitement. “Really?” She brought his hand to Dorothea's hand. “Dance with Lady Dorothea, Papa.”

He took Dorothea's hand. He couldn't stop himself. He wanted to touch her, in whatever way was available.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” He bowed over Dorothea's hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles, breathing in the scent of crushed rose petals.

For a moment, he had the strangest feeling that Dorothea was about to cry, but then she smiled and inclined her head, the polished debutante. “With pleasure, Your Grace.”

Flor started humming a triple-­meter waltz.

“I thought this was a Spanish dance?” James asked.

“No.” Flor shook her head emphatically. “A waltz. You are in a fashionable ballroom, and everyone is watching you.”

James laughed. “A waltz then.” He clasped his arm around Dorothea's waist. She stiffened for a moment, but relaxed as he guided her into the movement. They glided across the balcony, with Flor humming and giggling beside them.

There were shadows in the hollow of Dorothea's neck, in the cleft of her breasts, her eyes.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “The song you sang. It sounded as if you might have experienced a gentleman's inconstancy. Was there . . . is there . . . someone else?”

He tightened his grip around her waist. There'd better not be.

“No, there's no one.”

Thank God. He believed her. She was a talented performer, that was all.

Dancing with her almost made him wish he'd been able to attend the season. To waltz with her in as many different ballrooms as possible.

She broke away from his grasp. “Dance with Flor now.” There was a catch in her voice. Why did she sound so sad? He tilted her chin toward him.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Dance with Flor.”

James stepped away and bowed to his daughter. “May I have this dance, Lady Flor?”

She smiled shyly and curtsied. “Yes, Papa.”

He lifted her into his arms, spinning her around the balcony. His daughter was full of light, and life, and laughter tonight. He realized he hadn't heard her laugh much. It was a lovely sound.

He glanced over Flor's head and met Dorothea's eyes. She smiled, but was that a tear glittering in her eye?

“You dance divinely, Lady Flor,” he said with great gravity.

Flor wrapped her arms tighter around his neck. “Thank you ever so, Your Grace,” she replied, with her best imitation of a society lady.

The murmur of voices from the salon grew louder. “Where is the duke?” he heard the marchioness ask loudly.

He set Flor down.

“Time for bed now,” Dorothea said. She kissed Flor's cheek. “You'll remember what I told you?”

Flor nodded.

“I must go back,” Dorothea said to James.

James carried Flor to the nursery and tucked her into bed. As she curled up and fell immediately into a deep sleep, the realization struck him like the flat of a heavy sword across his chest.

He was going to miss his fearless little Flor. Dearly.

And it had taken an equally outspoken woman with blue-­gray eyes glowing brighter than diamonds in moonlight to make him see it.

 

Chapter 18

M
anon unfastened velvet buttons and removed diamonds.

Tomorrow, Charlene would never wear diamonds again, never be wrapped in the luxury that was Dorothea's birthright. Dorothea would perfect her trousseau of fine linens and silk in preparation for her wedding night while Charlene returned to gray worsted flannel nightgowns and a lonely, narrow bed.

In her mind, she'd dropped the “Lady” when she thought of her half sister. Didn't impersonating Dorothea entitle her to claim a more intimate acquaintance? It was probably silly, but Charlene was beginning to feel connected to her half sister. As if she was preparing her a gift.

Here, take this duke. Be his perfect duchess. Be a good mother to Flor.

The countess sailed into the room, still dressed in black silk and pearls. “Well, Miss Beckett?” she asked. “You were absent for quite some time, and the duke was as well. What happened?”

“We waltzed on the balcony in the moonlight.”

“And?”

“He kissed me.” Well, he hadn't actually kissed her, not this time. He'd been thoughtful. Pensive. But he'd wanted to kiss her. And he
had
kissed her, twice before.

“Splendid.” The countess motioned to Manon. “Now for the coup de grâce. Run and fetch Madame Hélène's creation.”

Manon curtsied and headed into the dressing room.

“You will go to him tonight,” the countess said. “We have the location of his bedchamber on good intelligence. Blanchard will spirit you there, under cover of night. I will give you some time before I appear.”

Charlene shook her head. “He won't be in his bedchamber.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Don't worry, I know where he'll be.”

The countess narrowed her eyes. “Where?”

“The kitchens.”

“The kitchens? Why would he be there?”

“He has difficulty sleeping. His . . . cook told me he goes to the kitchens to prepare cocoa.”

The countess removed her gold-­embroidered wrap and compressed it into a small square with neat, precise folds. “Very well, then, I will meet you in the kitchens after a suitable interval. Need I remind you of the stakes here?”

Charlene met her calculating gaze. “I'm perfectly aware of the terms of our bargain.”

The countess gave a curt nod. “Despite your unfortunate upbringing, you're a remarkably resourceful girl, with surprising backbone.”

Charlene smiled. “Why, thank you, your ladyship.” It was as close to a compliment as she'd ever receive from the countess.

“I'm counting on you, Miss Beckett. Lady Dorothea is counting on you. Don't fail us.” The countess left, her black silk skirts rustling across the carpet.

Manon entered and held up a filmy negligee. “You will be irresistible in this, Miss Beckett.” She laid the garment reverently across the bed.

A long length of creamy satin. Thin straps and lace insets. Pure seduction, the finest the countess could buy.

Manon brushed Charlene's hair. Twenty strokes. All the snarls gone. Fifty. One hundred. Waves of wheat-­colored silk falling to Charlene's waist.

“The duke is very handsome and commanding,
non
?” Manon's brown eyes twinkled. “Are you sure you can control him?”

Charlene bit her lip. “What if I can't control
myself
?”

Manon smiled. “Perhaps you shouldn't.” She helped Charlene out of her shift and slipped the negligee over her head. The heavy satin slithered down her body and settled against her curves in a whispered caress.

Manon drew a cut-­glass perfume bottle from her apron pocket. “This is from Paris.” She dabbed scent onto Charlene's wrists, behind her ears, and in her hair.

Vanilla, jasmine, and something sharper and herbal. Almost like rosemary. More sophisticated than Dorothea's simple roses. A scent that would linger in a man's memory.

Charlene touched Manon's hand. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure.” Manon gathered the discarded dress, petticoats, and slippers. “You know? The duke, he doesn't stand a chance.” She closed the door behind her.

Charlene ran a hand over her breasts, over peaks that stood out against the creamy satin of the negligee. Lower, over her belly and down, between her thighs, to a pulse that beat, faint but steady.

Would he touch her there?

And, if he did, would she be severed from the old Charlene forever?

Her sensible gray dress and worn leather boots had to be in the bottom of one of the trunks, waiting for her. She could find them right now. Run away.

Before it was too late.

She took a step toward the dressing room.

Satin swirled around her legs.

Jasmine and vanilla drifted in her hair.

No fear, remember?

She heard Grant's chilling voice in her mind.
Don't fight me, little bird. I've waited too long for this.

She was no man's doxy. She would see this through. For Lulu. For her mother. For their freedom.

But also . . . for herself.

She wanted the duke's hands on her, where her hands had been.

She wanted him.

For her.

Charlene stared at the woman in the mirror.

Two women stared back.

One still closed and barricaded. Wary of her mission and of the duke.

One impatient and ready for sin.

She wanted to go to him.

Hurry up,
the wicked self said.
Take your fill. Enough to last a lifetime
.

O
utside the kitchens, Charlene breathed in the familiar scent of chocolate and spices.

The duke.

She stopped for a moment to pinch her cheeks and fluff her hair around her shoulders. Slowly, she pushed the heavy wooden door open, her stomach fizzing.

There was
someone
cooking chocolate on the range. But it wasn't the duke. Her throat closed with disappointment and she almost ran away, but Mrs. Mendoza turned her head and saw her.

“Come here.” She motioned to Charlene with her head.

At Charlene's puzzled glance, the old woman smiled. “See what I'm making.”

Charlene sniffed the mixture. Red chili peppers bobbed in the bubbling liquid. It smelled spicy and thick. The peppers made her sneeze.

Mrs. Mendoza laughed. Even though her face was weathered, and wreathed with deep wrinkles, her brown eyes shone bright and clear.

“Don't you want to take some chocolate to the duke?” She smiled slyly.

“Do you know where he is?”

Mrs. Mendoza stopped whisking. “Outside. He has been working on the cocoa press. We will make the finest drinking chocolate together. My family's cocoa beans will be famous in all of England.”

She poured the mixture into a large stoneware mug, placing a towel over the mug and wrapping it tight. She handed it to Charlene and guided her toward the back entrance to the kitchens and out into the night air. “Hurry, or it will be cold. Follow the path. You see his light.”

There was a light wavering in the windows of the structure where the duke had kissed her earlier today.

“But I—­”

“Go. Quickly.” Mrs. Mendoza clapped her hands. “
Rápido, por favor.
”

Charlene clutched her dressing gown closed with her free hand. Was she really supposed to walk across the lawns and disturb the duke? The countess wouldn't know where to find them.

This was not the plan.

The door closed in her face.

She shivered in the cold air. Began to walk along the path, toward the duke's light.

His gardens were meticulously maintained. Moonlight glinted on a white marble fountain, and the trim hedges cast long shadows around her. No piece of bracken would dare poke sideways on these ruthlessly perpendicular hedges.

The pathway was lined with red roses. Charlene was more accustomed to roses bound together and stacked in piles in the wheelbarrows of the flower vendors at the Covent Garden market. Here they were rooted in the soil, able to whisper to their sisters at night.

Soon, when the sun warmed them and the rain fed them, they would open. Petal by petal. Unfurling into the sun, offering what they had to give. Color, scent, beauty.

The lives of the girls at the Pink Feather were like those London roses—­clipped too early, forced to unfurl. How small their world was. Bordered by soot-­stained walls and doors that closed on the commerce of lust.

Charlene wanted them to be able to put down roots. Soak into the soil. They would have a garden at the new boardinghouse.

The door to the duke's hideaway was closed, but she could see smoke rising from a chimney.

She knocked.

No answer.

She tested the knob, and the door swung open.

The duke was at the far end of the oblong room, heaping wood onto a roaring fire in an iron grate. He didn't hear her enter because of the grinding of a metal apparatus pumping and whirring behind him.

The strange device bristled with angular pipes and was connected by copper tubing to the stove.

“I've brought your cocoa!”

He didn't hear her over the clanking and hissing.

There was a collection of knives hung along one wall. Curved scimitars, primitive stone tools, jeweled silver daggers. The floor in one corner was covered with a red carpet and piles of cushions, as if he slept here sometimes.

“Your Grace,” she shouted, louder this time.

He spun around.

Sweat dripped down his neck, and his white shirt stuck to his heavily muscled chest. He appeared perfectly at home here, in the flickering inferno, with oil lamps and firelight limning his powerful form.

He mopped a towel over his brow, leaving a streak of soot along his cheekbone that gave him a diabolical air.

He was more devil than duke.

She swallowed.

Keep calm. There's no danger. The water is shallow.
She repeated his words from the boating accident in her mind as she crossed the long room, entering deeper into the devil's lair.

J
ames wiped the sweat from his forehead.

He'd been thinking about Dorothea constantly and here she was, wrapped in a quilted pink silk dressing gown, with her hair unbound and streaming around her shoulders in a golden halo.

His thoughts made flesh.

She held out a mug. “I brought you some chocolate.”

He blew on the hot liquid before taking a sip. Chili pepper burned his lips, dissipating quickly, leaving the chocolate liberally mixed with sugar and milk. “Josefa sent you to me?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her eyes were unfathomable dark pools in the dim light.

“She likes you.”

He
liked her. Far too much
.
No use denying it any longer.

She eyed the steam press. “What is this?”

The press clanked and shuddered behind them.

He took another sip of chocolate. “It's supposed to be a steam-­powered cocoa press. It uses the same principles as the steam engine you saw at the factory today. On a smaller scale, of course.”

“You
made
this?”

“With Van Veen's help. We can't seem to get it quite right. It doesn't apply enough pressure. It's supposed to take the chocolate liquor, created from crushing the beans, and press out all the fat.”

James showed her the thin trickles of amber-­colored oil trailing into catch basins on either side of the tall machinery, which held a series of interconnecting bowls designed to apply pressure to the chocolate liquor.

“Van Veen says if we can press the fat out, the cocoa left will be easily powdered and far more soluble. It won't go rancid so swiftly, either.”

The amber liquid was cooling quickly into a yellow waxy substance. He dipped a finger into the catch basin. “This is the fat, called cocoa butter, because it cools at room temperature into a solid but melts on contact with skin.”

He rubbed the butter between his fingers. “A useful product in itself. Edible. And a natural moisturizer that women use to achieve a youthful glow.”

“Really? May I try some?” she asked.

Dear God above
. Her innocent request filled his mind with provocative images.

Dorothea. Naked. Slick with oil and desire. Moaning his name.

He'd been fighting the obvious until this moment, but when a beautiful woman—­this
particular
beautiful, maddening, gloriously clever woman—­invaded his inner sanctum, offered him chocolate, and then asked him to rub her with cocoa butter . . . there could be only one outcome.

He wasn't going to fight it any longer.

James brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek, down her throat, and into the opening of her robe.

Blue eyes swirled with smoke.

She stepped away, and his heart lurched.
Don't leave
. But she stayed, gazing into his eyes, and slowly unknotted the sash at her waist.

The dressing gown slid to the floor, revealing a creamy satin-­and-­lace confection designed to capture a man's soul and bring him to his knees.

Burnished gold curls spilled over thin straps and bare shoulders.

A gilt-­framed invitation to paradise.

Damnation. He wanted her.

Her spirit. Warmth. Courage.

Those full breasts that fit perfectly in his palms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into him with a throaty moan that shredded the last of his control. He filled his hands with her soft breasts, kneading her nipples until they contracted into tight peaks.

The scent of her filled his nostrils, something floral with an herbal edge that drove him wild.

Wet steam in the air. The wetness of her mouth, her tongue and his, miming the thrust of the metal pistons convulsing beside them.

There was an ear-­piercing whistle, and a cloud of steam erupted next to them.