Lady Hope and the Duke of Darkness: The Baxendale Sisters Book 3 (4 page)

She stood a little away from those who enthused about the performance, her mind occupied with the duke standing somewhere behind her. She wouldn’t turn to look. She would
not
turn.

“You enjoyed the music, Lady Hope?” a deep voice with a French accent inquired.

Hope stilled, turned around, and gazed up into the duke’s handsome face. Her thoughts unprepared, she said the first thing that came into her head. “I found it disappointing, Your Grace.”

Surprised amusement warmed his dark eyes. With a casual sweep of his arm, he motioned for her to walk with him. They strolled to the far end of the room, and left the assembled crowd to discuss the merits of the metal-framed piano. He stroked his chin drawing attention to his long fingers. “In what way?”

“I don’t enjoy the combination of three separate movements by different composers.”

His gaze slipped down her body like a caress. Her neck prickled. Surely, they were observed. She clasped her hands together and relented slightly. “No doubt the pianist wished to reveal his improvisation skills.”

“It is usual, is it not?”

“Herr Shunke is a superb pianist, but I don’t particularly care for the practice. I would have preferred him to play Bach, Mozart, or Haydn, and not an adaptation.”

An amused smile lifted his dark features and banished, for a moment, some unspoken pain. “I find myself tempted to agree with you.”

She’d amused him! She cast her eyes downward in consternation. She’d sounded opinionated, but she considered herself well informed about music after years of study. Hope stole a glance at his face. Seeing the gleam of interest in his eyes, her cheeks heated. It was impossible to think clearly, when his velvet gaze caught and held hers.

The duke bowed. “I mustn’t detain you.” He made his way to the pianist and said something that sent the fellow scrambling into a deep bow. Then, after a brief word to Lady Stewart, the duke was gone, leaving the room with a nod to those he passed.

Hope watched him depart with a huff of frustration. He’d left so abruptly. She hadn’t had time to seek his opinion and listen attentively to his reply. His arrogance knew no bounds! She joined her mother, where the conversation had turned to how steam locomotives would bring more composers to London in the future.

“What was your conversation with the duke about?” her mother asked when they left Lady Stewart’s house.

“Only the music.”

“Surprising that he singled you out,” her mother said as they crossed to the waiting carriage.

“We met in Paris. I wouldn’t put much store by it.”

“No of course not. Now that he lives in France it’s unlikely he’d marry an English woman again.”

Hope searched her mother’s face. “Again?”

“Yes. A tragic story. He’s a widower.”

The signs of a painful loss were evident in the deep grooves beside his mouth and the darkness in his eyes. “He’s a widower? What tragedy?”

“You keep repeating what I say, Hope,” her mother said crossly as she settled in the carriage. “I expect I’ve turned him into a romantic figure, when I suspect he’s quite short-tempered. After all, he
is
French.”

“What’s wrong with the French?” Hope asked as she sat beside her.

“You were too young to remember much about the war,” her mother said as the carriage rolled forward. “I don’t understand them.”

“He speaks English as well as we do, Mama.”

“I don’t mean the language. The French are different by nature. Too excitable. Look at the Revolution.” Her mother shivered and pulled her evening cloak around her. “That could never happen here. The English are calm people.”

“Not always, Mama,” Hope protested, wondering why she leapt to his defense. He surely didn’t need it. “King Henry VIII had his wives’ heads chopped off, and poor King Charles also lost his head.”

“You are being argumentative.” Her mother’s pale face looked worried in the lamplight. “Be sensible, I beg you.”

“It hardly matters what I think. He appears to be in London on some political matter. He was closeted with the foreign secretary at the Lieven’s soirée for some time.”

“Good.”

“But please tell me about his tragic loss.”

Mama shook her head. “I have no intention of encouraging you, my dear. Your Season will be over before you know it, and you mustn’t waste it chasing after rainbows.”

Hope gazed out the window at the lamp-lit streets while considering the new perspective her mother’s words had painted of the French duke. She’d thought him arrogant and dismissive, but sadness and loss could affect one so. She was curious to learn more and cast her mind over the ladies she’d met who might know of him. Amy Tyndale’s three sisters were married. She would have an excellent source of knowledge at her fingertips. Hope sat back as the carriage took them home, reliving the few moments she’d spent with the autocratic and mysterious duke. She was flattered, she supposed, that he’d sought her opinion, even though she’d been too forthright in giving it. She’d never remain cool when his dark eyes, fringed by thick black lashes, looked into hers. Suddenly hot, she opened her fan.

Her mother eyed her. “I do hope you’re not sickening for something. The evening is quite chilly.”

Hope fanned herself briskly. “It’s just airless in the carriage, Mama.”

****

A man shouldn’t go too long without a woman, Daniel decided as he left Lady Stewart’s house. Abstinence distorted a man’s thinking. He’d begun to see possibilities where they didn’t exist. He would call on the lady who’d offered him more than friendship the night before. Madam Ellis was undeniably beautiful. A courtesan who took lovers from amongst the
ton,
she was sophisticated and entertaining, which was all he wished for in a lover.

When he entered the lady’s boudoir an hour later, however, he couldn’t help noting her artistry, a hint of the many men who’d gone before him. The coquettishness in Madam Ellis’ manner began to grate after some moments of flirtatious conversation. Daniel gave her his small gift of a diamond bracelet, made his apologies, and left.

He returned to his quiet hotel suite, wondering what the deuce was wrong with him. He’d just left a beautiful, willing woman. He couldn’t blame his return to England. There seemed nowhere on God’s earth he could go to escape the past. He sat by the fire and took up his book of Wordsworth’s
Lyrical Ballads.
Wordsworth had lived in France. The poet’s spontaneous expression of powerful feelings somehow connected to Daniel’s soul. He read for hours, imbibing more Cognac than was his habit, until the image of a young woman’s fresh face caused the words on the page to blur. He put the book down. She wasn’t what he expected of a young lady in her first Season. Quite firm in her opinions. Thinking of her in her demure white gown, her fair curls teasing her soft cheek lifted his spirits. Perhaps it was her name, Hope. He couldn’t blame the Cognac.

The next morning, Daniel
did
blame the Cognac. His head ached, and he surprised his faithful manservant by growling at him. He dismissed the ludicrous rambling thoughts of the previous evening as he drank his coffee. He’d been a fool; Madam Ellis had been an unfortunate mistake. He must be more prudent in his choices. When his servant brought in several letters on a silver salver, Daniel put down his coffee cup to read his correspondence. His groom, Anton, had sent a missive from France. Daniel’s gelding Tonnerre wasn’t faring well. The horse had contracted a chill, compounding the problem of his damaged leg. Daniel threw the letter down and wondered when he could extricate himself from his commitment to Canning and return to France. Snatching up another letter, he slit the paper open with the pearl-handled letter opener. It was from the Bow Street Runner he’d hired. He read it quickly, with interest. There had indeed been a farmer named Lester. The farm was up for sale, and the little money it brought would go to his adopted daughter, Sophie. The runner went into more detail of his father’s actions. Daniel’s jaw tightened at the duke’s hypocrisy and culpability as he read the unflattering account. Sophie’s claim was legitimate. She was his half-sister. He pushed away from the table and rose to stalk the room.

He couldn’t condemn his father for grasping at happiness, when Daniel lacked the courage to risk loving a woman again. Perhaps the duke wished to blot out the guilt he suffered when he’d left it too late to leave France, and Daniel’s mother had died at the hands of marauding peasants. And to suffer such a loss again!
Unendurable.
But to send the child away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and hide the fact that the marriage had ever existed! That was the action of a coward! The thought of such a dastardly act tore through him, making him burn with shame. Please God, never let him be his father’s son in thought or deed.

While Daniel could never undo his father’s abominable treatment of Sophie, he would make amends as best he could. Purchase a home for her in Mayfair if she wished. He would consult his solicitor and arrange a generous allowance for the rest of her life. That would be the end of the business. He sat down at the desk to write to her at the address in York she’d recently sent to him.

Daniel paused, pen in hand. He could not leave this to his solicitor. He owed it to Sophie to speak to her in person, and wrote to arrange a meeting.

Chapter Four

At the next dance Hope attended, she was about to put her question to Amy Tyndale concerning the Duc du Ténèbres, when a kerfuffle interrupted them.

“It’s His Grace, the Duke of Winslow,” Amy said in a revered tone.

Winslow had just entered the ballroom. He was one of the dukes Hope had found in her father’s book.

“He seems rather ordinary for a duke,” she murmured to Amy.

“I danced with him once,” Amy said. “He has a pleasant, quiet manner.”

“Does he?” Hope swallowed her disappointment at his appearance. Winslow lacked the Duc du Ténèbres’ autocratic presence. Close to forty, the English duke was slightly less than average height, with light brown hair, his pale eyes slighted hooded. Nevertheless, he was a duke.

Hope watched the duke’s progress through the ballroom as she returned to her mother. The Marquess of Dalton introduced his daughter, Lady Pamela, to the duke, and when the minuet was announced, Winslow escorted her onto the ballroom floor.

The annoying Lord Hogg, who had seldom raised his gaze from Hope’s chest the last time they’d danced, came to request the minuet, and she had no option but to agree. When the music began, Pamela, who was almost a head taller than Winslow, whispered to him, and continued in the same vein whenever the steps brought them together. Curious as to what they discussed, Hope watched them. She became so intrigued she almost missed taking Lord Hogg’s hand. His colorless eyes narrowed.

“You must listen to the cues of the music, Lady Hope,” he said in an undertone when they met again. “Your deportment shall improve with practice.”

Hope bit her lip. Admittedly, she’d dismissed Lord Hogg as of no importance. But snubbing him could damage her reputation, so she plastered on a polite smile.

“You needn’t fear. My first instincts were that we wouldn’t suit, but I am not entirely persuaded to that view.” Hogg dropped his gaze to her bosom.

Her temper flared. “Please don’t go against your instincts on my account, my lord.”

His lips thinned. When the dance ended, they crossed the floor in silence, her hand barely touching the rigid tension of his arm. On reaching her mother, Lord Hogg bowed and left without a word.

Hope sat down glumly.

Her mother lifted her brows. “Lord Hogg didn’t look pleased. Was something said?”

“It’s merely his manner.” Hope searched the crowd for the Duke of Winslow. He was not far away. She sat up straight when the duke began to converse with her father.

Hope’s pulse quickened as her father led the duke over to them. Winslow was cordial, but she could read nothing in his manner to judge his intentions. He requested the waltz. She took his arm, determined to be at her most graceful and attentive. She would endeavor to emulate Pamela and have him leaning forward to hear her every word. Pamela watched them stony-faced as they passed. Hope’s gown and hers were both fashioned from the same embroidered material, although with different trimmings. Pamela’s had too much lace.

The duke guided her around the floor. “You are light on your feet, Lady Hope,” he said with a crisp nod of approval.

Hope was relieved. She still burned after Lord Hogg’s comment. Winslow’s dancing could be said to be proficient if rather lackluster. As he expertly led her, she contemplated which of her rehearsed discussions she should introduce. She decided on King George III’s library, even though it had not interested Lord Hogg. She was rather curious to hear the duke’s opinion on the matter.

“I prefer a quiet woman,” he said, before she could speak.

Nonplussed, she gave him her warmest smile in return and didn’t chance another remark. They danced on without further comment.

Later, in the ladies withdrawing room, while Hope pinned an escaped lock of hair, Pamela entered. She stood before the mirror, smoothing her gown over her thin hips.

“I note your dress is similar to mine. They say imitation is the sincerest of flattery.”

“You surely have no need to copy me, Lady Pamela.” Hope looked up from studying her hair in the mirror, hairpin in hand.