How to Dance With a Duke (7 page)

Lucas evaded the question. “What brings you here? I thought you’d rather be run through with a dull sword than attend another ball this season.”

Christian shrugged.

“I told m’sister I would attend so she’ll have the assurance that at least one of her dance partners won’t step on her toes. I gather she had a bad time of it with Wolsey last week.”

Lucas winced in commiseration for Miss Monteith’s toes. John Wolsey was a notoriously bad dancer and a great bull of a man to boot.

“What about you?” Christian asked, turning the question back on his friend. “I thought you were bent on learning something about Will’s Egyptian expedition. Somehow the Bewle ballroom does not seem the appropriate venue for that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lucas said, keeping his eyes fixed on Cecily’s twirling form.

Christian followed his friend’s gaze and let out a low whistle.

“Aha,” he said with a nod of appreciation. “Well done. It’s quite sensible of you to focus on Hurston’s daughter. She should be able to learn something from her father.”

“The man’s been ill since he got back,” Lucas said. “And besides that, he is apparently not keen on her interest in Egyptology. I’ve asked around and it’s said that he refuses to discuss anything of his expeditions with her.”

“Doesn’t mean he did so this time. People are liable to behave strangely when they know they will soon be shuffling off this mortal coil. Hurston might have confessed all to his daughter in an effort to mend fences.

“Families are a dashed complicated business,” Christian continued. “Though I still think it’s a canny move on your part to concentrate your energies on the daughter. Not only does she seem to be rather intelligent for a female, but she’s also a ripe little piece. Who would have guessed at the curves hidden under those—”

Monteith broke off his assessment of Miss Hurston’s charms at Winterson’s low growl.

“You will not speak in such a disrespectful manner of Miss Hurston again,” the duke ground out, his jaw clenched. “Understood?”

“Absolutely,” Christian responded, raising a hand in appeasement.

The two stood glaring at one another in awkward silence until Lucas backed down, and stared back out at the dance floor.

“What was that?” Christian demanded. “We haven’t tussled over a female since Eton, at least. I had no idea you even knew the lady,” he continued, rubbing a hand over his jaw, as if in contemplation of the uppercut his friend would have delivered. “I meant no disrespect.”

At Lucas’s raised brow, Monteith shrugged. “Perhaps I meant a little disrespect. But I assure you it was well intentioned. I was simply marking my surprise at her … er…”

“Her beauty?”

“Indeed.” Christian clutched at the life rope his friend offered. “I’ve never seen her look so radiant. She’s transformed.”

Lucas declined to mention the head tilt. Perhaps it was a fluke.

“I am less interested in the results of her transformation,” he said, “than in the reason for it. Why on earth would a bluestocking who has spent three years firmly on the shelf develop a taste for fashion and a desire to waltz with the most eligible gentlemen of the
ton
? It makes no sense.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d made such a study of Miss Hurston’s habits,” Christian said. “Perhaps she tired of sitting out every dance. I know I’d be driven to drink if I had to spend all my time in conversation with the current crop of wallflowers. And don’t get me started on the chaperones. Ghastly.”

Lucas acknowledged that his friend had a point.

“But why tonight?” he asked. “I am not ashamed to admit I’ve never even noticed her before today. I suspect that’s been her goal, to remain unnoticed. She was ejected from the Egyptian Club this morning,” the duke continued, “and this evening she appears at the Bewle’s ball with a fashionable gown and a new hairstyle. Somehow the two are connected.”

“Look at her dance partners,” Christian said, eyeing Miss Hurston as she curtsied to Deveril before taking young Lord Pennington’s hand. “With a couple of exceptions, they all seem to be in the Egyptian Club. Could she be searching for something with regard to her father in the same way you are?”

Lucas stared, arrested by the notion of what Christian suggested. “Who has she danced with?” He began to tick them off on his fingers. “Deveril, Sydnam, Ashcroft, Fortenbury, Deveril again, and now Pennington.”

“All prominent members of the
ton,
all bachelors…”

“And all members of the bloody Egyptian Club,” Lucas finished, his voice low but intense.

“I’d say you’ve got a dance in your future, Winterson,” Christian said.

The other man gestured to his walking stick and grimaced in the general direction of his injured leg.

“Dammit, I forgot. Sorry, old fellow.” Brightening, Monteith grinned. “I don’t suppose you’d care for me to do the pretty in your stead?”

“Are you fond of your head, Monteith? Or shall I remove it for you?” Lucas’s tone was friendly, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it. “Watch and learn, my friend, how not to dance with a lady.”

*   *   *

When Lucas arrived at Miss Hurston’s side, she was giggling at some nonsense Pennington had just said, her head tilted, her eyes blinking.

Two could play at that gesture game, he thought.

He raised his brow and lifted his quizzing glass.

“You are in fine looks this evening, Miss Hurston,” he drawled, enjoying the blush that rose from her chest to her cheeks.

She glanced down, but it was no act. Miss Hurston was genuinely flummoxed by his arrival. He felt a tightening in his chest at the thought.

“Your Grace,” she said, sinking into a deep curtsy. A curtsy that gave him an excellent view of her excellent bosom. Christian had been right. She had been hiding some delectable curves beneath those ugly gowns.

When he looked up, he saw that he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view of Miss Hurston’s charms. Pennington was looking his fill, the insolent puppy. Lucas resisted the urge to throw her over his shoulder and carry her from the room.

A raised brow and a meaningful gesture of his chin had the younger man scurrying away like a frightened rabbit. Before the lady knew what had happened, her hand was tucked into the crook of Lucas’s elbow and he was leading her toward the Duchess of Bewle’s torch-lit terrace.

“That was very handily done,” Cecily said dryly, following along at Winterson’s side until they reached a brightly lit bench.

It was the first time she’d ventured out onto a balcony with a gentleman since her ill-fated engagement to David, and she was more grateful than ever that they’d kept that engagement a secret. If anyone in the ballroom had known of it, they would have taken far greater interest in her than they currently did. A bluestocking taking the air with a duke was newsworthy, of course, but a bluestocking who had been thrown over once before taking the air with a duke was infinitely more interesting. She could see the lines in the gossip sheets now:
“At the B
_____
ball the Duke of W
_____
was seen taking the air with that bluest of stockings, Miss H
_____
, who was very happy indeed to be seen in the company of a gentleman for the first time since Mr. D
_____
L
_____
broke their engagement. One hopes she holds on to this gander more tightly than the last!”

Their bench was far enough away from the other couples taking the air that they might speak freely. Even so, Cecily felt a bit of a thrill to be on the arm of such a handsome man. And the sound of her gown brushing against his breeches mixed with the warmth of his arm beneath her gloved fingers was intoxicating. It would be so easy to imagine that they were here together because they liked one another. Not because he thought her father had murdered his brother.

That thought stifling any illusions she might have about their relationship, she spoke first. “To what does the daughter of the man responsible for your brother’s disappearance owe this great honor?”

Cecily turned to gauge his reaction and was pleased to see Winterson wince. Let him hear his own words thrown back at him and know how foolish they sound, she thought.

Even so, he continued, his voice as calm as she was agitated. “I have heard that you are frequently at loggerheads with your father over your scholarly pursuits. Surely it comes as no surprise to you that others might share your ill opinion of him.”

Cecily removed her arm from his, and turned to face him, her temper lending her a measure of coolness she did not feel.

“I do not deny that my relationship with my father has often been a difficult one, Your Grace,” she said. “But that relationship is my business. Not yours. If you have brought me here to continue your treatise on the manner in which my father has wronged you, then you will simply have to find a more suitable audience.

“On the other hand,” she continued, turning away, grateful not to be facing him so that she might finish her speech without looking him in the eyes. “You wish to know whether I know anything about your brother’s disappearance, and I will tell you plainly that I do not. As you have stated, my relationship with my father is not always an easy one. I have certainly never been his confidante on matters relating to his expeditions, given the fact that he has refused to take me with him, but his recent illness has meant that we are unable to speak of even innocuous topics. William’s disappearance has been as much a mystery to me as I suppose it is for you.”

At the mention of his brother, she saw him tense up. At her denial of having any more information, however, he sighed in frustration. A pang of sympathy ran through her as she thought of how difficult it must be not to know what had happened to his brother. At least she and Violet had Papa here in their care. Having him go missing would have been unimaginable.

Winterson stepped back and handed her down to sit on the bench, then used his walking stick to lower himself to the one opposite.

“I thank you for your candidness, Miss Hurston,” he said, his blue eyes meeting hers. She noticed for the first time a tiny network of lines in the skin around them, and more bracketing his mouth. Both, she suspected, remembering his attempts to charm her this morning, were from laughing. Though she had doubts that he’d spent much time in that activity since his brother’s disappearance.

“I don’t suppose you have access to any of your father’s papers from that trip, either?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, hating to dash his hopes again. “Those are what I was looking for this morning at the Egyptian Club.”

“Ah,” he said, infusing the word with more emotion than should be possible.

“I didn’t arrive in time to hear your reason for trying to get in.” He grinned. “I was, however, able to see you kick the door in frustration.”

Cecily felt her cheeks redden. “Not one of my finer moments,” she said, looking at her hands. Then, her sense of humor intervening, she continued, “In my defense it was a most impertinent door.”

Their eyes met and held for a moment. Cecily felt the breath rush from her under the intensity of his blue gaze.

“I suspected as much,” he said gravely, one dark brow curving upward. “It had that look about it.”

Cecily couldn’t help herself, giving in to a surprised laugh that punctured the veil of seriousness that had held them. Winterson laughed too, and for a moment, Lord Hurston’s illness and Will’s disappearance were forgotten in that flash of shared mirth.

Their laughter spent, they sat together smiling until Winterson spoke up.

“Why the transformation this evening?” he asked, waving a hand toward her hair and gown.

It was the last question she’d expected from him. She’d spent so long preparing her set-down for him, it hadn’t occurred to her that he would even notice her new gown and new hairstyle.

Well, that was not strictly true, because in a moment of weakness she had imagined how he might see her newer, prettier self and proclaim his undying love while she stepped on his beseeching hands as he knelt before her. But that hardly counted.

Deciding not to make a fuss, she said primly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Just for good measure, she smiled, batted, and tilted.

“Have you got something in your eye?” he asked, frowning in concern.

Cecily’d bet anything that Amelia Snowe was never asked if she had a crick in her neck or a piece of lint in her eye.

Apparently taking her clipped “No” at face value, he pressed on with his questions about her attire. “Come now, Miss Hurston. I may not be able to translate texts in half a dozen languages, but I’m no simpleton. I can tell the difference between a gown that is made for comfort and one meant to entice. And tonight’s gown is definitely the latter.”

Entice?

“If you are suggesting that our meeting this morning sent me rushing home in search of a new hairstyle and a new gown…”

“Pax, Miss Hurston!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “That is not what I meant at all.”

She eyed him with suspicion, not quite sure what to do with a conciliatory Winterson. She was much more comfortable dealing with the accusatory one. When he behaved himself it was much too easy to notice how very blue his eyes were, and how very good he smelled—like sandalwood and soap.

Perhaps sensing her unease, he added, “Truly, not what I meant at all.” Then he smiled in what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring expression, but which merely emphasized his handsomeness and put her back on her guard.

Still, she could hardly fault the man for something so far out of his control as his good looks. “Good,” she said finally, “because the change in my appearance has nothing to do with you.”

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Surely he wasn’t disappointed, Cecily thought. Then remembering who she was thinking of, she chided herself. He probably had indigestion from the Duchess of Bewle’s crab patties. Still, for all her distrust of him, they did share the common goal of wishing to gain access to the Egyptian Club. And though she disliked admitting it, they both wished to learn whether or not Lord Hurston was involved in Mr. Dalton’s disappearance. Albeit for radically different reasons.