How the Duke Was Won (4 page)

“I heard that, Blanchard!” said the countess.

“Lady Desmond, Lady Dorothea, welcome to Warbury Park.” A tall man whose hair glowed copper in the afternoon sun bowed over Charlene's hand. The duke? Hadn't someone said his hair was black?

“Lord Dalton.” The countess inclined her head. “Where is His Grace?”

“Feeling a touch indisposed at the moment, nothing to worry about, he'll be fine this evening.”

“What a shame,” said the countess. “Do tell him we are so pleased to be here on this auspicious occasion.”

“Oh, I will.” Lord Dalton grinned, his deep blue eyes full of devilry.

A dignified steward with a shiny bald patch at the back of his head ushered them into a cavernous entrance hall. Warbury Park was a blur of dark wood paneling, bloodthirsty hunting tapestries, and white plastered ceilings too high for mere mortals. This was the coliseum where four girls would fight to the death—­their prize, a duke.

The mythological beasts worked in gold and crimson on the carpeting covering the stairs to the next floor jeered at her.

Imposter. Fraud.

How had she ever thought this could work? One glance and a footman could tell she was no lady.

The steward announced that Lady Desmond and Lady Dorothea would occupy the Jonquil Suite.

More oak-­paneled walls, faraway white ceiling, and patterned canary-­yellow silk stretched above a carved wood bed. The countess and Charlene had adjoining rooms separated by a large dressing room. Manon and the countess's dour lady's maid, Kincaid, were already here supervising the unpacking.

Charlene unhooked her velvet spencer and removed her bonnet. She'd only be in the way while the countess and her troops of maids and footmen ensured none of the fragile gowns had been damaged in transit.

She stared out of the narrow, diamond-­mullioned windows at the emerald lawns flowing into thick oak woods bordered by skirts of bluebells and violets. Such peaceful vistas weren't meant for girls accustomed to the bustle and grit of Covent Garden.

What was she doing here? This was a Lady Dorothea room. A room for a girl who sipped chocolate for breakfast and had a new pair of slippers for every ball gown.

If the footman hadn't already voiced his suspicions, she might have a chance at bribing him. What would be the price for a footman's silence?

A low, husky voice startled her. “There you are. Thought you could escape from me? Not likely.”

Charlene ran damp palms down the unfamiliar fine muslin of her skirts and turned around. The rude footman stood in her doorway, his arms and ankles crossed, a mocking grin quirking up one side of his finely molded lips.

Remember
,
it's his word against yours
.
And you're Lady Dorothea
. She raised her chin and fixed him with a haughty stare. “Are you addressing me?”

He strode toward her.

No doubt those passionate, hooded green eyes turned the parlor maids to jelly, but they did nothing to her. She'd been towered over before. Propositioned. Assaulted. She was a fortified strong­hold, immune to broad shoulders.

No romantic preambles for this one. He cupped her chin in his large hands and dragged a thumb across her lower lip. “The artist didn't do you justice.” He stared into her eyes. “There's far more stormy gray than placid blue in your eyes.”

Anger bloomed in her mind, strong and swift. She jerked her head back, but he held her firmly. She met his gaze. “Kindly remove your hands or I'll—­”

“Shhh . . . don't speak.” He pressed his thumb against her lips, silencing her. “You're not going to stand on ceremony, are you? Pretend you don't know me?”

Charlene's heart thumped. “I
don't
know you. We've never met before.”

He grinned. “Yes we have.”

“You're mistaken. Now let me go.”

“We've met,” he insisted.

She shook her head. “That's impossible.”
Please, please don't say you met me at the Pink Feather.

He brushed a curl away from her cheek. “I meet you every night, angel face . . .”

Every night?

“ . . . in my dreams,” he finished.

Relief washed through her. He was only another man who saw her petite figure, yellow curls, and blue eyes and assumed she was a porcelain doll fashioned for his pleasure.

Looks could be deceiving.

His lips descended and hot breath fanned her cheek.

He was so huge, so male. She collected herself and straightened to her full height, which only brought her in eye contact with his angular jaw.

Charlene adopted the clipped, autocratic tones of the countess. “This is unacceptable. The duke will hear of this outrage. Now leave this instant.”

“Ordering me about on my own estate?”

His estate? Now that was one liberty too far.

Charlene flexed on the balls of her heels, tensing for what came next. “If you don't leave this instant, I'll make you sorry.”

He raised one brow. “And how would you do that? Step on my toes? Rap my knuckles?”

That's it. This footman needs a lesson.
Charlene angled toward him and tilted her head, smiling coyly. “I have my ways. All that is required is a bit of this.” She lifted onto her tiptoes and leaned forward.

He blinked. The men who tried to kiss her always did.

“And some of this.” She ran a finger along the edge of his starched collar and found a strong grip.

“And then
this
.” She turned her right hip into his thighs and stepped in, catching him off balance with a sweeping throw.
Harai Goshi
. The easiest way to incapacitate someone much bigger and stronger than oneself.

When they landed together on the carpet, she swiftly wrapped her arms around his neck, applying a basic collar choke, with enough pressure to reduce his air supply without cutting it off, crushing his face against her chest.

Unfortunately, he'd made quite a lot of noise crashing to the floor.

The countess appeared in the doorway, followed by Manon, who squeaked and clasped her hands to her heart.

The balding steward rushed into the room and dropped to his knees. “Speak to me! Are you injured, Your Grace?”

Had he just said . . . ?

“Your Grace?” Charlene echoed.

“Guilty as charged,” came the booming response, muffled by a mouthful of bosom and lace.

 

Chapter 4

B
ugger and blast.

Charlene leapt to her feet. A footman might be unusually tall, and possess piercing green eyes and the kind of angular jaw one could use to cut glass, but that bred-­in-­the-­bone sense of entitlement? Pure duke. Why was he dressed as a servant? It was a dreadful trick to play on a girl.

Pretending to be someone else. Running about seducing ­people.

Exactly what
she
was doing.

Blast it all to hell
.

The steward flapped his arms like an overwrought mother hen and helped the duke stand.

The countess was uncharacteristically rendered speechless.

“I do apologize, Your Grace. I had no idea. That is . . . I thought . . .” One probably didn't call attention to the fact that a duke was dressed as a footman.

She'd be lucky if he didn't clap her in prison. Rumpling a duke's collar and wrestling him to the floor had to be a capital offense.

“Well,” Charlene said brightly, “we seem to have commenced our acquaintance in rather an unconventional manner, Your Grace. Please allow me to apologize. I trust you have a whole room full of snowy linens? Excellent. Well then, we should keep unpacking, so lovely to have met—­”

“Stop.” His voice was deep and low and infused with such authority that she instinctively obeyed.

She'd been blathering.
Pull yourself together
. How would Lady Dorothea react in this situation?

Lady Dorothea would never have been in this situation.

“What the dickens
was
that, Lady Dorothea?” asked the duke.

“A . . . mistake?”

No one acknowledged her feeble attempt at humor.

Lady Desmond's eyes narrowed until they were icy blue slivers. However, like any seasoned military strategist, she recovered swiftly. “Gracious, the strange talents one learns abroad.” She swatted Charlene's shoulder. “Lady Dorothea returned from a Roman tour mere days ago,” she said, as if that explained everything.

The duke raised one perfectly arched, perfectly ducal eyebrow.

“Ah . . . yes.” Charlene cleared her throat. “I was quite taken with the . . . ah . . . statues of ancient athletes.” Think,
think
. “Some young ladies collect souvenirs or develop a taste for flavored ices, but I discovered a mad passion for . . .” She searched for a plausible explanation. “ . . . Roman wrestling.”

Not that plausible. She added several eyelash flutters and a nervous Lady Dorothea giggle for good measure.

“Roman wrestling?” The duke's eyebrow rose higher. But he hadn't ordered her head on a pike yet. That had to be a good sign.

“Roman wrestling.” Charlene warmed to her fabrication. “All those ancient marble wrestlers locked in mortal combat. So thrilling! And I thought to myself, why, I would like to know how to do that. How useful such a talent could be if there were one perfect bonnet in a shop window and two ladies spied it at the same moment.” She attempted to appear simultaneously crestfallen, contrite, and ready for combat.

“It's true,” said the countess. “When she arrived back from Italy, Lady Dorothea nearly toppled
me
with her embrace. And the poor servants, they're positively black and blue. Isn't that right?” She turned to Manon.

The maid nodded enthusiastically. “Lady Dorothea tosses me around as if I were a sack of flour.” She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

The seams of the borrowed jacket strained and stretched as the duke crossed his arms. “I can understand how that might be possible, since you're of a height. But what I don't understand is how a tiny thing like you managed to overturn
me
.”

“I'm sure it was pure luck, that's all.”

The duke turned to his steward. “Bickford, kindly warn the other household staff about Lady Dorothea's
mad passion
.”

“Of course.”

“There's no need for that.” The countess dug her fingernails into Charlene's forearm. “Lady Dorothea will be a perfect lamb from this moment forth.”

Charlene nodded and mustered what she hoped was a suitably sheeplike expression.

The duke's lips twitched. “Somehow I very much doubt that's possible.”

His gaze moved slowly from the tips of her white leather half boots, up her gown, to linger on her bodice, which was askew and showing far too much flesh.

Why wasn't he angry? The men she knew would have been furious. After all, she had thrown him to the floor. But no, he looked, well,
hungry
. There was no other word for it. Any moment now Bickford would tie a napkin around his master's neck and hand him a fork and knife to carve her up with.

As he continued his lazy perusal, warmth spread from her belly to her cheeks. She felt exposed, as if his large hands were exploring her instead of his gaze. This put the attempted kiss in an entirely new light. It was a hopeful sign, wasn't it?

So far she'd made a proper hash of being seductive. But now she knew he was the duke. She stared at him as well, her gaze boldly sweeping his frame.

Ink-­black hair falling in waves above the nape of his neck. Shoulders like crossbeams. Strong and oak-­hewn. Long, lean legs.

Wealth, privilege, and beauty. Life had to be so easy for him.

She wanted to flip him again and wipe that predatory smile off his face.

Instead she smiled and giggled softly, lowering her eyelashes. Charlene
never
giggled.

“Lady Dorothea, I trust you will refrain from assaulting my servants long enough to join me for dinner at half past seven,” the duke said.

Charlene nodded in the graceful, demure way the countess had taught her, but the duke was already striding from the room with Bickford and the flock of footmen following in his wake.

When the door shut, there was an ominous silence.

Charlene prepared for the worst.

The countess advanced on her with fire-­and-­brimstone eyes. “That, my girl, was
the
most vulgar, the most
shocking
display I have ever witnessed.” The countess punctuated each adjective with a menacing step. “It was crass, base, unseemly, and the only question now is . . .”

She stopped in front of Charlene and grasped her arms. “Can you do it again?”

“I'm terribly sorry, I . . .”

Wait.
What
? “Do it again?”

“Throw him to the floor. Reduce him to a helpless puddle. Can you repeat it? Or was it only a momentary talent?”

The rattling carriage wheels must have jarred something loose in the countess's head.

“Well?” The countess tapped one narrow, elegant foot.

“Yes, of course. But . . . why would I?”

“Because, my dear, this duke clearly prefers wolves to lambs. Blanchard, wouldn't you agree?”

Blanchard grinned. “Without a doubt, your ladyship. The duke, he is captivated. She has bowled him over.” She smiled. “Quite literally.”

“Indeed. A complete change of strategy is in order.”

The two women exchanged glances, then nodded in military precision.

“The peach satin,” said the countess. “But which jewels?”

“The topaz?”

“Too demure.”

“The diamonds and seed pearls?”

“Pardon me.” Charlene waved her hand in the air.

They ignored her and continued discussing jewelry options.

“Pardon me!”

They turned and stared as if they had completely forgotten her presence.

“You're not furious with me?”

The countess's brow wrinkled. “Furious? I should say not. I will admit there was a precarious moment or two, but I must say I underestimated you, my girl. The duke enjoys unconventionality to a degree I never suspected.”

“It's just that he was dressed as a footman and made advances. I was defending myself.”

“The duke was obviously taking advantage of the freedom the uniform afforded him to indulge his . . . baser instincts. I think this works to our advantage.”

Charlene still didn't understand. “But
why
was he dressed as a footman?”

The countess waved her hand dismissively. “My girl, dukes may do whatever they please. If he told us to eat the paper hanging on these walls, we'd all start tearing off strips.”

While the countess and Manon plotted, Charlene reflected that what could have been a disaster had transformed into a small victory. She'd catapulted a duke over her hip and placed him in a choke hold, and the countess had congratulated her.

How extraordinary.

Perhaps she could do this after all.

He hadn't seemed to mind her strength, and he'd stared, as if she was an intriguing challenge to unwrap and savor.

She was
intriguing
.

Charlene took smooth, lilting, future-­duchess steps to the mahogany-­framed oval mirror in the corner of the room and practiced smiling seductively.

She could captivate him.

It didn't matter if he made her heart sprint and her stomach somersault. She would never lose contact with the knowledge that she was Charlene.

Not the swooning type.

She would convince him that she was madly in love with him. It would only be an act.

She needed to find a quiet corner and practice her
katas
. The duke was an unusually large and heavily muscled man, not the portly peer she'd imagined. She needed to be in top form if she was required to throw him again.

Especially since he would no doubt be ready for her next time.

“S
he tumbled me on my arse like a public house brawler,” James said.

Dalton sprayed brandy on the library carpet. “We're speaking of Lady Dorothea? That diminutive thing?”

“The very one. Quite a grip on her. Arms like a sailor. Wouldn't be surprised if they were covered in ink tattoos.” James rested his aching neck on the chair cushion. “You can stop laughing now.”

“Can't. It's too droll. The great Goliath felled by a dainty David.”

“I was trying to frighten her off. I thought since I was dressed as a footman, if I was unforgivably rude, she'd faint and be declared unwell and have to go back to London, or at least be confined to her chamber.”

“And you did that,
why
?”

“I told you. I can't afford any distractions. I want a sensible wife, one that won't cause me any trouble. And Lady Dorothea is trouble. You can see the storm brewing in her eyes from twenty paces. One moment I was staring into those tempestuous eyes, and the next,
bam
! Flat on my back with her wrists locked around my neck and my feet kicking like I was hanging from a noose on Snow Hill.”

It had been wholly unexpected, and inexplicably arousing.

“Clearly Lady Dorothea knows how to make an impression,” drawled Dalton. “I've never noticed her before. Seems a quiet, nervous sort of girl.”

“Said she'd developed a passion for Roman wrestling in Italy.”

“Roman wrestling?”

“That's what she said. It's so implausible, it can only be true.”

“D'you suppose we could persuade Lady Dorothea to wrestle Lady Augusta before she leaves? Just one round? I know gents who would pay a great deal to see that.”

James reached over and punched Dalton's shoulder.

“Ouch. What was that for?” Dalton asked.

“This is a business arrangement. Not an erotic prizefight.”

Land him on his arse. He'd teach her a lesson. Yes, that is exactly what he had to do. Charm and disarm her and then,
bam
! Flat on
her
back. See how
she
liked it.

Of course there would be a bed to catch them. And she'd be wearing a chemise and nothing more. Of the very thin, very transparent variety.

James clutched his forehead.
Absolutely not
. Business transaction. Rational. Bloodless.

Lady Dorothea was enigmatic, delectable, and completely distracting. More capable of inflicting further ruin than of salvaging his reputation. What if she went about pitching barristers? Or wrestling matrons whose bonnets she disapproved of?

“Well, what of the other contenders?” Dalton asked. “What do you make of them?”

James checked the ladies off on his fingers. “Lady Augusta practically plastered herself to my chest.”

“I saw that. She likes footmen, apparently.”

“My future wife can't like footmen. Chaste. Biddable. That's what I need. Lady Vivienne sailed across the courtyard like the Queen of Sheba—­she'd certainly silence the gossips. And Miss Tombs is quite promising.” James drained his glass. “Those dimples are adorable.”

But it wasn't Miss Tombs's dimples that plagued him.

He kept revisiting that oddly perfect moment as he drowned in Lady Dorothea's stormy gaze.

The moment right before she tumbled him arse over elbow.

Get a hold of yourself
.

What kind of wife would she make? The dangerous kind. The kind that would never be content with a business arrangement. The kind that would want to change him, bend him to her purposes. He needed a pleasant wife, refined and subtle, attractive, but not outrageously so, someone to redeem his reputation and counterbalance his recklessness.

“Since I was unsuccessful in deterring Lady Dorothea, I'll ignore her the remainder of the visit,” James announced.

Dalton smiled knowingly. “Hurt your pride, eh? Not every day a man is thrown by a little chit like that.”

“My pride is
not
hurt. She's not the bride for me, that's all. I'll be living in the West Indies most of the time. I have to know my wife is living a staid, blameless existence.”

He might not have been fit to be a duke, but he needed a wife fit to be a duchess. And duchesses did
not
practice Roman wrestling.