How the Duke Was Won (8 page)

“What my daughter means to say,” Lady Desmond broke in smoothly, “is that the governess should maintain control over her charge.”

The ladies nodded.

That's not at all what she'd meant to say.

Breathe. Gentle flowing river. You are Lady Dorothea. Not illegitimate Charlene.

“I entreat you to change the subject.” Lady Tombs wrung her hands. “These innocent darlings should never be subjected to such an indecorous topic.”

Charlene barely suppressed a biting retort. These ladies were so wrong in their presumed superiority.

“I gather none of you are leaving?” the duke asked with a sardonic twist to his lips, as if he was rather hoping to thin the herd.

The ladies contemplated the carpet.

“Shall we play vingt-­et-­un?” Lady Tombs suggested, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“As you wish,” the duke said.

Drat
. The countess hadn't had time to teach Charlene any parlor games. She'd have to invent a reason to excuse herself from the game.

Charlene wondered if Lady Dorothea would be ashamed of Flor and want to hide her from society. The duke already left his daughter to the care of that pinch-­faced governess, when the child was clearly in need of love and companionship.

Still, he did acknowledge her, and presumably he would dower her. Charlene respected that, but it didn't change the fact that he was a
duke
. She knew that his title and inherited wealth bred corruption.

If Lady Augusta's whispers were to be believed, he was a rogue who'd left a trail of broken hearts across several continents. He had brought his daughter home with him, but that didn't mean he hadn't left a legion of unacknowledged children to rot in obscurity.

Watching him play guitar for his daughter had made her want to like him.

Which was completely out of the question.

A
s footmen brought card tables and rearranged chairs, James studied Lady Dorothea. He hadn't meant to reveal his daughter until after he chose a bride, because he knew the tempest Flor would provoke. He'd never thought one of the ladies would leap to her defense. Dukes often acknowledged illegitimate children, but they seldom invited them into their homes.

He sat down next to Dalton at one of the tables, still mulling over Lady Dorothea's surprising unconventionality.

“Will you join us, Lady Dorothea?” asked Dalton, angling to have her placed next to James, since he had those three hundred pounds riding on her.

“I'm afraid I have a slight headache,” she responded. “I'll sit here by the fire and watch the fun.”

Dalton's eyes danced with mischief. “Then His Grace will keep you company. I've often heard him say he much prefers watching cards to playing them.”

James frowned. He'd never said that. Oh, of course. Three hundred pounds.

“Well played, sir,” he murmured, rising to join Lady Dorothea.

“The rules of fair play don't apply to love and gentlemen's wagers” was the irritating response.

The mothers jostled their daughters into position around the card tables, displaying the wares to best advantage.

James could sit near Lady Dorothea. He didn't have to talk to her, or gaze at her, or wonder what it would be like to feel those decadent curves filling his hands. His lips. He certainly didn't have to imagine what it would feel like if
he
was filling—­

“What are you thinking about?” Lady Dorothea's smoky contralto caressed his senses. Why had she sounded so different at dinner? More affected, higher pitched.

He cleared his throat. “I . . . was wondering why you were so kind to my daughter.”

“It must be difficult for her to be here in an unfamiliar land, with no other children to play with. She's very lonely.”

“I hadn't really thought about that. You must have grown up in a large family?”

She paused for a moment. “I have . . . two brothers. And you, Your Grace?”

“I had one brother.”

She lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I forgot your loss.”

He waited for her to say more—­the usual trite phrases about how he would learn to bear the loss in time, or that he was the duke now for a greater purpose—­but she didn't.

She sat so still that even the feathers in her hair stopped swaying.

The flames in the enormous white chalk fireplace licked at logs from his oak trees. The ancient wood burned hot and long.

The ladies played cards, placing bets and laughing shrilly. Lady Augusta tossed her head, sending plumes and pearls quivering, staring at him boldly.

Lady Dorothea remained silent.

An image sprang to mind unbidden. Standing next to her on the deck of a ship, with salt wind whipping her curls against his mouth. She wouldn't care if her hair was mussed or the tea ser­vice jittered about on the table.

Despite her delicate features and small frame, she was strong.

She was someone he could lean on.

What an unexpected thought. One didn't lean on society misses. One protected them, shielded their eyes to the harsh truths of the world, cosseted and spoiled them.

To shake his thoughts away, he began talking again. “William was a good man. Steady and conventional. He'd been groomed to assume the title his whole life and would have made an excellent duke. Sober and just.”

He couldn't stop the bitterness from creeping into his voice. “While I am thoroughly unfit for the title . . . and for fatherhood.”

“We can't always choose our path. Sometimes we are given a task . . . an opportunity . . . and we rise to the occasion, or stagger under life's blows.”

He remained silent this time, contemplating her words. She spoke with conviction, as if she'd experienced hardship. Maybe there was something in her past, some hidden pain that he knew nothing about. It made him curious.

“You speak as if you have some experience of life's blows, Lady Dorothea.”

“I? How could I? I've led a very sheltered life, Your Grace.” She took a sip from her glass of cordial. “How did you come to bring Flor to England with you?”

“She was given to me unexpectedly. I sired her. And I accept the responsibility for her well-­being,” he said. “I didn't even know she existed until her mother brought her to me, two weeks before we sailed for England.”

“Was she very sad to give up her child?”

“She died of yellow fever four days after she left Flor with me. I couldn't abandon my child to die of a fever . . . or be captured by slavers. I apologize for speaking plainly, Lady Dorothea, but it's the truth. The only safe place for her is here. I certainly could never take her with me on my travels.”

Lady Dorothea sighed. “So much loss. It's clear she misses her mother terribly, and to lose her father will be heartbreaking. Was her mother a very good friend of yours, Your Grace?”

“We were barely acquainted.” This conversation was veering into extremely unexpected territory. Flor's mother, Maria, had been a Trinidadian actress of Spanish, European, and African heritage. They'd shared several nights. He'd been careful. There never should have been a child. But when Maria had brought Flor to him, so many years later, he'd seen the child's green eyes and known, somehow, that she was his.

He swirled the brandy in his glass. Now Lady Dorothea knew more about him than all but a handful of ­people. Something about the fathomless depths in her eyes seemed to free his tongue. “She's an intelligent child, lively and curious. But she has a rebellious streak and can be a holy terror when crossed. She's made short work of two governesses already, and Miss Pratt is exhibiting signs of defeat. She has that permanent wrinkle between her brows that signifies she's about to pack her valise and depart on the next mail coach.”

“Let her go,” Lady Dorothea said, leaning in earnestly. “She's too stern. Find a governess with a gentler touch.”

“Flor needs a strict routine.”

“She needs compassion.”

“She needs to learn to be strong and emotionless. She has screaming fits. She'll have to learn control if she is to enter society.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe she screams because she's lonely and she wants your attention?”

“I don't expect the daughter of an earl to recognize how cruel society can be. You've never had to endure scorn or ridicule. In England's eyes, Flor will have too many existing counts against her already—­her birth, her foreignness. . . . Can you see that I only wish to protect her?”

“What I see is a young girl who thinks no one loves her. You should spend more time with her.”

“If I spend time with her now, it will be even more difficult for her when I return to Trinidad and leave her here. She has to become accustomed to my absence. She will have a new mother soon, someone to protect her and use her influence to better her lot in life.”

“Your Grace,” said the marchioness, raising her voice to be heard over the conversation. “Will you join us? We're about to start another round.”

Lady Augusta flashed an unpleasant smile. “Before we play again, I hear Lady Dorothea has a talent to share. Do give us a demonstration of
Roman wrestling,
dear.”

Lady Vivienne frowned. “Whatever can you mean by ‘wrestling'?”

“I'm quite sure I don't wish to know. Miss Tombs, we should retire,” said Lady Tombs.

“Indeed,” said Lady Desmond, “I find myself overcome by fatigue. Come along, Lady Dorothea. No one can possibly be interested in the
outré
skills you acquired on your travels.”

“Come now, if she has a new skill, we'd all like to see it.” Lady Augusta rose and walked to the fire. She snatched a jeweled pin from Lady Dorothea's hair and held it aloft. “Pretend I'm a jewel thief. What would you do?”

“Give it back.” Lady Dorothea's voice was low and even.

“Oh
that
wouldn't do any good,” goaded Lady Augusta. “I'd be halfway down the piazza by now.”

“Give me the pin.”

“You'll have to take it from me.” Lady Augusta tossed her head challengingly.

Lady Dorothea's hands balled into fists.

“Ladies, please,” Lady Gloucester said sternly. “We've had a long evening. It's time to retire.”

Lady Augusta's eyes narrowed. “What if I were attacking you, what would you do?” She stared into Lady Dorothea's eyes, deliberately raising her hand as if she was going to strike her.

Lady Desmond gasped.

James jumped to his feet, his protective urge awakened, but he needn't have bothered.

Lady Dorothea blocked Lady Augusta's blow, and then, in a blur of sudden movement, Lady Augusta stumbled backward onto a sofa. On the way down, her hand clawed at the back of Lady Dorothea's gown.

There was a loud ripping noise.

A button flew through the air.

And Lady Dorothea's dress ripped open down the back like a peach splitting in half.

She retrieved the bodice before it fell, but not before he caught a glimpse of lush curves and even one rosy-­tipped nipple.

From the pandemonium that ensued, one would have thought a murderer was on the loose.

Girls shrieked, at least one mama fainted, Dalton gaped, and Lady Dorothea stood like a stunned deer facing an arrow.

James rushed to her side.

“Here, take this.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her shoulders, pulling it closed.

Her eyes were as glassy as a frozen winter lake.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I can't do this.”

 

Chapter 8

J
ames had half a mind to send Lady Dorothea back to London on the basis of clear unsuitability. A duchess never burst her seams in public.

Peach silk splitting to reveal lush, rounded breasts and a glimpse, just one tantalizing glimpse, of a pert, rosy nipple that he wanted to. . .

Stop thinking about it, James.

Thankfully, the shock of Lady Dorothea's unveiling had supplanted the scandal of his illegitimate child.

James climbed the stairs to the nursery. Lady Dorothea had said he should spend more time with his daughter. He'd never even been to the nursery. He eased the door open.

Flor was in bed, her little fists clenched tightly, her knees touching her thin chest. He reached down. Stopped shy of touching her hair.

She slept in a ball of fierce concentration. Eyes screwed shut, her thick lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Long black hair twining with the bedclothes. Even on the long ship ride to London she had slept through the lurching of the boat on the waves.

The voyage to England had been difficult for her. She'd sobbed and sobbed, mourning her mother, bewildered by the sudden change of circumstances.

Truth be told, he'd been glad of her company on the long voyage. After several weeks, she had emerged from her misery, wide-­eyed and curious, and her wonder had distracted him from thinking about what lay ahead. How he was the last of his line and would have to face the memories he'd buried for so long. Her presence had given him a purpose, a new goal. Protect her, bring her safely to England to a new life and provide her with a new mother.

She'd made friends with the first mate, who'd fashioned her little dolls out of scraps of broadcloth and rope. James had thought that if she could befriend a grizzled sailor, perhaps she could conquer even the frigid hearts of the British aristocracy.

Life would never be easy for a girl like her.

Lady Dorothea was wrong about how to handle her. If he coddled Flor, it would only make her more dependent and easily hurt. She would only have the last laugh if she beat them at their own game. Developed an even stiffer backbone than the marchioness and distanced herself from her disgraceful reprobate of a father.

She was too quick to rage and tears. Just as he'd been. Before his father beat that out of him. James was going to do her the best ser­vice he could: leave her alone. Give her a mother instead, someone with a firm, yet gentle hand. It was best for him to maintain distance from Flor. She would have more of chance to flourish with a mother to guide her.

Lady Dorothea thought he should love his daughter.

She used the word far too liberally.

After his mother had died, James had realized that love bored a hole straight through your chest, like a worm burrowing through an apple. And when you took your shirt off, you saw right through to the walls.

Love was a dangerous word. The precursor to Loss and Loneliness.

Better for his daughter to learn constraint.

Coolness. Control.

N
ever lose control, Charlene
. How many times had Kyozu told her that?
You're too quick to temper. Your opponent will make mistakes when you are calm
.

Charlene burrowed beneath the covers, drawing them over the ruined gown she still wore. The countess had warned her about Lady Augusta, yet Charlene had allowed herself to be needled into losing her temper. Tears pricked her eyes.

She'd failed. Embarrassed Lady Dorothea be­yond repair.

The other ladies had to be laughing about it right now, recounting the incident in a scandalized hush. There had been pity, not desire, in the duke's eyes as he'd handed her his coat. Charlene supposed her true nature would always burst free, marking her as an intruder in their restrictive, superficial world.

Defending herself against the amorous advances of a duke masquerading as a footman was pardonable. Tumbling her rival onto the sofa, even if she jolly well deserved it, in front of a group whose listings in
Debrett's
were longer than her arm was too far beyond the pale.

Not to mention the mortifying matter of splitting her seams. When the countess had told her the duke preferred wolves, she certainly hadn't meant for something as uncivilized as
this
to happen.

Charlene groaned, her cheeks burning. She shouldn't care about offending officious patricians, but the truth was she did care. She wanted to be good at this. Part of her yearned to prove she was the equal of the beauties of the
ton
and just as capable of winning a duke.

The door opened.

“Are you hiding, Miss Beckett?” It was the countess's stern voice.

Charlene pushed the covers off her head and swiped a hand across her eyes. “I do apologize. I lost control. I'll pay for the gown.”

Lady Desmond brushed a hand through the air. “The gown served its purpose. It won't be needed again.”

“I did inform Blanchard it was precariously tight.”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Lady Desmond's face. “You should have seen their expressions. The duke stared after you as if every speck of light had fled the room. And the other ladies.” The countess's lips twitched again. “Equal parts outrage and envy. Their maids are probably snipping bodice stitching as we speak in hopes of provoking a similar unveiling. You are very . . . well favored.”

Charlene sat up further. Where was the wailing and wringing of hands?

“I was not displeased to see Lady Augusta receive her comeuppance, either,” the countess said. “Of all the rude things, mentioning Dorothea's coming out accident.”

“Did she truly . . . vomit?”

The countess looked away. “We don't speak of that evening.” She turned back. “As much as I am loath to admit such a thing,” the countess continued, “your bizarre outbursts appear to be working to our advantage.”

Charlene pushed damp curls out of her eyes. “Then you think we are still in the race?”

“I should say we're very close to the finish line indeed. We need only find a way for you to be alone with the duke. Leave it to me, my girl, I'll find a way. He only needs a bit more encouragement, and he'll be mine.”

The countess headed for the dressing room.

How odd. It seemed Charlene could do no wrong.

Throw a duke to the floor?

Charming
.

Expose herself in public?

Too perfect
.

She would never understand the nobility.

Manon entered to help her undress. “I hear you put on a performance for the duke,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling with laughter.

“I suppose that's one way of putting it.” Charlene still couldn't believe the countess wasn't angry.

Manon helped Charlene out of the ruined gown and plucked the pins and crushed roses from her hair. Charlene's stomach growled, loud enough for Manon to hear.

The maid glanced toward the dressing room. “I saved a plate for you, in the larder, below stairs. I daren't bring it here, her ladyship might catch me. You should eat. It won't do any good to starve.”

“You mean I should go to the kitchens?”

“Why not? Everyone will be asleep soon, and you need your strength. Besides,” she smiled, “I have a feeling the duke prefers curves.”

Charlene returned her smile. “I suppose no one would stop an earl's daughter from raiding the larder if she had a midnight craving.”

Manon nodded and plaited Charlene's hair into a loose braid, tying the end with a silk ribbon.

“What a strange situation, don't you think?” Charlene asked the maid. “Thank you for helping me.”

Manon giggled. “So theatrical,
non
? Hidden identities, handsome dukes, gowns that give way on cue . . .”

“I truly thought my time before the curtain was over. Seems I've been given one more chance. I mustn't fail.”

Manon folded the torn lace-­covered dress over her arm. “Don't worry,
chérie
. The duke is halfway in love with you, he just doesn't know it yet.” She left, shutting the door between the rooms behind her.

She was wrong, of course. Men like the duke didn't know how to love. They only knew how to possess. He was a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and brooked no arguments. What would have happened if she hadn't been able to defend herself when he'd accosted her that afternoon, when he'd been dressed as a footman?

Had she been the woman who'd caught his eye, or would he have done the same to any of them and she'd merely been the most convenient?

She had to try to understand what he desired, what would bring him to the point of offering marriage. Play the coquette, or continue provoking him with unconventional behavior? It was difficult to tell which approach would succeed.

Charlene flopped onto the bed and spread his black tailcoat over her chest. It smelled of freshly cut pine boughs, masculine and woodsy. There was a hint of smoke from the fireplace. The apple tang of expensive spirits.

She slid a hand down the smooth cotton of her nightgown, under the coat.

Her fingers moved down her abdomen and lower, between her thighs.

There'd been a thread tied
here
. Stretched between her body and the duke's fingers while he'd played his guitar. She'd experienced every forceful strum and stroke on the strings as if he'd been playing
her
.

The wool of his coat scratched her cheeks and lips. His scent surrounded her. His fingers strummed, coaxing sighs from her lips. Her breathing quickened.

She thrust the coat aside and swung upright.

She
was the one being seduced, damn him. It wouldn't do.

She had to remember the secrets a handsome, charming exterior could hide. She'd seen it too many times before. There were girls bearing the mark of Lord Grant's branding iron on every street in Covent Garden. Charlene had nearly become one of them.

A man who treated women like livestock.

Was the duke any different? Assembling a harem to compete for his favor.

Charlene had to stop thinking he was somehow better. He was an aristocrat, arrogant and controlling. Women were pawns, to be manipulated for his purposes and discarded if they failed to please.

She must remain strong and in control.

He had a weakness, and she would find it.

Tomorrow, Charlene would don her disguise and be the most cultured, alluring debutante the duke had ever met. She would simper, and bat her eyelashes, and reel him in.

Tonight, in plain cotton with her hair braided, she was simply Charlene. Defensive, ill-­mannered Charlene, who cared nothing for maintaining a slender figure.

She wrapped one of Lady Dorothea's soft ivory-­colored pashminas around her shoulders and slipped out of her room and down the stairs. She tiptoed through the cavernous dining hall with its mahogany and bronze sideboards, and out the back door she had seen the servants entering from. She followed a long hallway with multiple doors, taking a few wrong turns before she found the narrow servant's stairs leading down.

Charlene swung the kitchen door open and froze. Her candle flame danced over gleaming copper pots, cured meats hanging from wide ceiling beams, and a tall figure looming over the black iron kitchen range.

It was the duke.