How the Duke Was Won (7 page)

 

Chapter 7

“W
hat do you think he'll do next?” Miss Tombs whispered to Charlene. “He's dressed as a footman, served us outlandish food, and curtailed the meal in a wonderfully unconventional manner.” Her dimples deepened. “Isn't this fun?”

Charlene smiled and nodded, only to be polite. This wasn't fun. This was war.

And she was an armored citadel.

The duke was playing games, trying to shock them, catch them off guard. Or maybe he was sending them a warning. That was more plausible. He was taking pains to prove unequivocally that he would never be a solicitous husband, that the ladies could only hope for abandonment at worst and eccentricity at best.

Miss Tombs settled onto the couch beside Charlene. “You were superb at dinner. What a performance!”

What did she mean by performance? Charlene searched her face, but her smile was open, friendly, with no malice.

­People saw what they expected to see, just like the countess kept telling her. “Thank you, Miss Tombs. And you were . . . charming.”

“Oh, please call me Alice! And there's no need to lie,” she said cheerfully. “I know I'm hopeless. Nothing to be done. That's just me.”

Sighing heavily, deep in conversation with Lady Gloucester, Lady Tombs surveyed her daughter from across the room. The mothers had gravitated to one side of the room, while Lady Vivienne and Lady Augusta were talking to each other nearby.

“Drives poor Mama absolutely insane,” Alice whispered in Charlene's ear.

Charlene couldn't decide when Alice was being serious. She seemed so intelligent but obviously had no idea how to attract a male. She had light brown hair and lithe curves, but her pale, aquamarine eyes that danced between green and blue made her truly alluring. It was lucky she didn't seem interested in landing the duke.

“You might try speaking of more . . . ordinary topics,” Charlene said.

“Oh, you mean like the weather? Or horses?”

“Exactly.”

Alice smiled. “It's very magnanimous of you to help me. I'll try, I promise.”

Why had Charlene emptied so many glasses of wine? Her head was fuzzy.

As if on cue, a footman offered her a glass of something orange colored that smelled like Christmas pudding. Alice declined, but Charlene took a glass.

“I thought you were delightfully saucy. I'm sure I saw the duke gazing at you admiringly,” Alice said.

Lady Vivienne sank back against the sofa cushions, one elegant, long-­fingered hand sweeping through the air. “He does seem rather unhinged,” Charlene heard her say.

“Uncivilized,” agreed Lady Augusta. “Those arms. So unfashionably muscled. Like a dockworker. I'll wager he could lift me with only one of them. I hear he's a heartless rake. Do you know, Lady Caroline told me . . .” She dipped her head, speaking too low for Charlene to catch the words.

The subject of their conversation entered the room, followed by Lord Dalton. The duke positioned himself on a velvet-­cushioned stool in the very center of the drawing room, as if he'd been posing for an art class and they'd been meant to sketch him.

He shrugged out of his tailcoat and flung it to a footman.

There was an audible ripple of interest from the girls, and protest from the mothers.

Then he began unfastening his cuffs.

First one.

Then the other.

Alice caught Charlene's eye and leaned in to whisper. “See? What did I tell you?”

He rolled up his sleeves, deliberately flouting all drawing room conventions. One's host wasn't supposed to strip himself after dinner, exposing heavily muscled and sun-­darkened forearms.

You could have heard a pin drop across the room.

He sat on the stool with legs akimbo, spine straight, shoulders firm, so commanding and in control. Everything female and inebriated in Charlene awoke. But she wasn't the swooning type. And her heart never palpitated or even fluttered.

Except right now she couldn't catch her breath, and her heart galloped against her rib cage.

Brace yourself, Charlene. You have strong defenses. You are no man's doxy.

“Ladies,” said the duke, “I pray you will forgive my incivility. I have been too long in the company of rough men. Allow me to play for you.”

He cradled the guitar against his body, his fingers traveled over the strings and teased the tuning pegs into alignment.

“I give you a Spanish fandango. A courtship dance I learned to play during my travels through Andalusia.”

There was a dizzy crescendo of notes and then the rhythm began, slow and steady. A foreign cadence, highlighted by lilting, tremulous grace notes. He drilled the strings for emphasis, slapping the heel of his hand against the guitar, making it sing and click like the sound of heels striking a polished floor.

With rolled-­up shirtsleeves and that thick, dark hair falling into his eyes, the duke was unlike any other nobleman she'd met. There was nothing smooth or polished about him. He sat with his legs spread wide, bracing the guitar on one bent knee.

This must be how he got his calluses and ragged fingernails,
Charlene reflected as she watched him striking the strings. He played with abandon, not caring what they thought. His fingers shook the guitar neck, then gently caressed the strings.

The rhythm grew faster, more frenzied, he attacked the strings, his hair falling into his eyes. The visibility of his emotions startled her. He grimaced and sighed, lost in the music. The melody vibrated into her. Invaded her. It was sad and euphoric all at once.

For this one moment she forgot why she was here and simply let herself feel the music.

I am a man and you are a woman,
the strings sang.
This is our dance. There is no shame. No sin. Follow my lead, let me guide you. Here are the steps, move with me.

The other ladies were rapt, leaning forward in their seats, lips parted.

The music was fierce and demanding one moment, heart-­achingly melancholy the next.

Charlene imagined his fingers caressing her, coaxing sighs from her lips.

The song came crashing to an end, and a wooden clicking sound drew their eyes to the drawing room doorway.

A child stood, framed for effect, her hands raised to one side. The duke raised his head, nodded at the girl, and began a new song.

She couldn't have been more than six or seven years old. Her abundant black hair was caught into a graceful chignon at the side of her neck and decorated with a red rose. Her skin was a soft shade of brown. She was wrapped in a red silk scarf with a long fringe that brushed the carpet.

She swayed in time to the music, her little red slippers tapping the floor as she twirled into the room, a bright smile on her face as she wove between the furniture and reached the duke.

She raised her arms into the air, and Charlene saw she held hollow wooden discs in her fingers, tied to her thumbs with red silk cords. She rapped them together in time to the music, and their clattering served as a sharp counterpoint to the duke's strumming.

The pair moved in perfect synchronicity, her feet and his fingers performing an intricate conversation of taps and runs. She flung her hands up into the air and twirled her wrists gracefully, whirling and clicking.

Who was this child, and why was he playing for her so sweetly?

As the dance ended, the little girl plucked the red rose from her hair and offered it to Lady Augusta with a pretty curtsy.

Lady Augusta giggled. Her mother stared piercingly at the duke, as if by sheer dint of will she could transform him from a guitar-­playing, shirt-­sleeve-­rolling disgrace into a cricket-­playing, properly buttoned peer of the realm.

Lady Augusta patted the girl's cheek.

Lady Selby raised her quizzing glass. “My, what an enchanting child. Whose is she, Your Grace?”

“I am Flor Maria,” the girl lisped with a heavy foreign accent. “Who are
you
?”

“Flor,” the duke said warningly.

Charlene suppressed a smile.

“Gracious.” The marchioness lowered her glass. “Such manners.”

“Flor is a very nice name,” Charlene said.

The girl nodded. “My mama named me Flor. She is with the
ángeles
now. Do angels dance, do you think? They must dance. For if they do not, Mama will not be happy in heaven.”

“You're a wonderful dancer,” said Charlene.

“I can teach you how to dance, and how to use the
castañuelas
.” Flor held the wooden discs toward Charlene.

The duke winked at Charlene. “Lady Dorothea may not be able to learn a fandango.”

Flor stared intently. “She is quite fair haired, but I think I could teach her.”

Lord Dalton grinned. “What about Lady Vivienne?” He gestured to the brunette.

Flor turned to Lady Vivienne. “Certainly. You shall begin your lessons tomorrow,” she said to Lady Vivienne and Charlene. “You may begin by practicing your toe taps. Toe first, heel second. Like this.” She demonstrated. “Toe then heel.”

Lady Vivienne was obviously unaccustomed to taking orders from six-­year-­olds and didn't know how to respond.

Charlene nodded solemnly. “I promise to practice.”

“Really, whose child is she?” persisted the marchioness. “One of your servants, perhaps?”

The duke placed a hand on Flor's head. “She's mine.”

The marchioness dropped her quizzing glass and it swung from a chain around her neck. “Yours?”

Lady Desmond gaped at the duke. “You were married abroad?”

The duke gripped the neck of the guitar. “I was not.”

There were gasps and murmurs from the ladies.

Now that he said it, Charlene saw the resemblance. The clear green of the girl's eyes, the determined lines of her jaw.

He acknowledged his foreign, illegitimate daughter. The unwanted, unacknowledged child inside Charlene wanted to stand up and shout,
Hurrah!

“This is not a suitable topic for the young ladies. Please remove the child from our presence, Your Grace.” Lady Selby lifted her chin in the air haughtily.

Flor looked up at her father with questioning eyes, sensing the wave of disapproval rolling to­ward her.

She tugged on the duke's sleeve. “Why don't these ladies like me, Papa?” She shivered. “No one ever tells me I'm pretty here, and it's so cold. I want to go home.”

The duke pointed to the door. “Off to bed now. Where's Miss Pratt?”

“I want to stay here with you.” The girl's plump lower lip trembled, and Charlene's heart melted.

“I think you're very pretty,” Charlene said.

Flor raised dark green eyes that shimmered with tears. “Thank you,” she sniffed.

“You've made a friend, Lady Dorothea.” There was a mean edge to Lady Augusta's voice.

The duke handed his guitar to a footman and rose. “Miss Pratt!” he bellowed.

A thin woman in a severe gray dress and white cap hurried into the room. “I am mortified, Your Grace.” She dropped a hasty curtsy. “My ladies.” She curtsied again, this time to the marchioness. “I had no idea she had escaped. I thought she was asleep.” She grasped her charge by the shoulder and tried to pry the wooden discs out of her fingers.

“Don't touch my
castañuelas
. They were Mama's.” Flor glared challengingly at the ladies. “No one touches my
castañuelas
.”

“Flor! You must apologize. Do you want the fine ladies to think you a savage?”

Flor stuck her chin in the air. “I'm not a savage.”

“Good gracious.” The marchioness tilted her regal head. “Such an unfortunate temperament.”

“I do apologize,” the governess said, her lips pinched, as if she'd been eating lemons. “Come along, child.” She pulled Flor from the room.

“Who was her mother, Your Grace?” the marchioness asked.

“A . . . friend.”

“I trust you don't make a habit of exhibiting the child in public.”

Both countesses nodded.

The duke fastened his cuffs and accepted his coat from a footman.

“I have a foreign child who was born out of wedlock,” he said. “If that is a fatal flaw, you are quite welcome to take your daughters and leave.”

Charlene sensed that he was barely containing his fury.

“Oh.” The marchioness blinked. “Well.” She seemed to be seriously thinking about gathering Lady Vivienne and departing.

Charlene imagined the dialogue happening in the marchioness's mind.

The duke has one of
those
daughters.

Yes, but he's a
duke
.
And Lady Vivienne will be a
duchess
!

But the child is foreign. How repugnant.

Yes, but one could keep the child hidden away, dower her heavily, and marry her off at fifteen to some minor Spanish nobility.

Lady Tombs's plumes quivered. “Such an indelicate topic. Miss Tombs, perhaps you had better start humming something. I don't think this conversation is quite the thing.”

Alice pursed her pink lips. “The child said she was cold. It must be much warmer in the West Indies. The poor little thing.”

Charlene nodded. “I'm sure she's lonely as well. Children of her age need companionship.” She addressed the duke. “Are there no neighbor children for her to play with?”

Heads swiveled. Lady Selby stared at her as if she had sprouted horns and cloven hooves, and Lady Desmond's foot tapped a warning.

Apparently ladies did not suggest that a duke's bastard play with neighbor children.

“One does not allow children of
that kind
to fraternize in public, Lady Dorothea,” said the marchioness with great displeasure.

“I don't believe Flor should be penalized for the circumstances of her birth,” Charlene said. “How can one hold a child responsible for—­?”