The Confessions of a Duchess (8 page)

Belle had written,

Mama was in her cups last night, and she let slip to us that you had gone to Yorkshire not only for the fishing, dear Dexter, but also to offer yourself on the Altar of Matrimony for all our sakes! Such Noble Sacrifice! You are indeed the Best of Brothers!

There was much more in the same vein about how much Belle was looking forward to her come-out ball the following year and how Charley and Roland had lost their shirts at the gambling tables the previous night, and how Mama had an utterly beautiful new peacock-blue morning gown. Dexter shuddered to read the list of all their extravagances.

There was also a short note from his father’s ward, Caroline Wakefield, whom everyone knew to be another of the Anstruther Collection masquerading under the false respectability of wardship.

Caro had written crossly,

Dear Dexter, pray do not regard Belle’s nonsense. The truth is that if we have no money we shall all have to economize and in the last resort find employment. Belle will not expire over the loss of a season, and your mama would have more to spend on gowns if she did not spend so much on gin. If you choose to marry for money for our sakes then you are a fool.

Dexter smiled ruefully and put the letters in his case. Caro had grown up with no illusions about her place in the world and a far more practical approach to financial matters than his other siblings. He tried to imagine blond featherbrained Belle going out to earn a living—and failed miserably.

“I should stay here and work,” he said, gesturing to Lord Liverpool’s letter, “and so should you. Liverpool mentions that there is someone who may be able to help us in the matter of Warren Sampson and that you will effect an introduction—”

“Later,” Miles said, grabbing his arm and hustling him out of the room. “Anyway, this
is
work, Dexter. You need to listen to the gossip and to meet the suspects. What better way than by mingling with all the fortune hunters and heiresses at the assembly?” They went out into the market square. It was a blustery night with the wind rising and the moon dodging behind ragged clouds. The Morris Clown Inn, a sprawling coaching inn that dated back to medieval times, was on the southern corner of the square, opposite the town’s small but nicely appointed assembly rooms. Fortune’s Folly had been little more than a hamlet until fifty years before when Sir Monty’s grandfather had taken advantage of the fact that the natural springs around the village were thought to be medicinal. He had created a spa, laid out a small park, built an assembly room and a circulating library and had watched Fortune’s Folly grow into an exclusive watering place. There were new houses and shops, and in the summer the town attracted visitors from Harrogate and York. Now that it was the marriage mart of England it attracted a fair amount of riffraff, as well.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Argyle, the master of ceremonies, said unhappily, on seeing them.

“Not two
more
gentlemen. Disastrous!”

He threw open the doors to the assembly rooms and Dexter immediately saw the problem. The place was packed with men in evening dress and there was scarcely a lady to be seen.

“All the respectable visitors have left town,” Mr. Argyle said. “They say that Fortune’s Folly is full of fortune-hunting rogues who lower the tone of the place.”

“They’re not mistaken,” Miles said. He caught Dexter’s arm. “Look, there’s that dashed libertine Jasper Deech. He’s been hanging out for a rich wife for years.”

“So have you,” Dexter pointed out. “So have I.”

“That’s different.” Miles looked affronted. “Deech is very unsavory.” He paused.

“It’s not impossible that Deech could be the one engaged in criminal activities. I have often wondered where his money comes from. And that is Warren Sampson over there—” He gestured toward a middle-aged, florid-looking man who was rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the room. “I cannot believe that he seeks a wife here. He is not in need of a fortune.”

“Men like that always want to increase their capital,” Dexter said dryly. “I thought he was already married?”

“He buried his second wife last year so perhaps he is looking for a replacement,” Miles said. “Speaking of disagreeable characters, is that not Stephen Armitage over there, as well, fawning over Laura Cole? It certainly isn’t marriage he’s after there! He tried to fix his interest with her in London before she was even out of mourning. Frightfully bad form.” Dexter spun around so quickly that he almost dislodged three glasses of lemonade from a tray carried by one of the servants. He apologized and tried to right the drinks before they splashed all over his and Miles’s shoes. It had not occurred to him that Laura would be present that evening but now he wondered why he had made that assumption. The main purpose of the assemblies might be for the young ladies of the neighborhood to meet eligible men, but it was also an opportunity for everyone in the community to meet and mingle and talk, and tonight there was much to talk about.

“Laura is in looks tonight,” Miles said, still watching the dowager duchess with deep appreciation. “I always thought she was far prettier than anyone gave credit and now that she is rid of that louse of a husband she positively blooms—” He broke off on a splutter as Dexter took him by the neck cloth and pulled tight.

“You are mighty familiar, bandying about her grace’s name with such ease,” Dexter said through his teeth. The unbearable thought that Miles might be another of Laura’s lovers took hold in his mind and could not be dislodged, no matter how he tried. Miles was a rake of the first order and his conquests were legendary. Dexter knew that it should not matter to him if Laura Cole was simply another name on the list but the fury that clouded his mind was as sudden and uncontrollable as it was unexpected and illogical. Miles, Stephen Armitage, and no doubt a dozen or more others…

“Steady, old fellow,” Miles protested, flailing his arms about and wheezing for breath, “Laura is my cousin! Known her since we were children. Why shouldn’t I use her name?”

Cousin.
The word pierced the rage that seemed to envelope Dexter’s mind like a blanketing fog. Laura was Miles’s cousin, not his mistress. His grip eased slightly.

“Your cousin?”

Miles’s eyes bulged. “That’s what I said. Remember when we were in London I told you that I had a cousin living here? And what is it to you, anyway, Dexter?” Dexter released him slowly. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought that the Duchess of Devonshire was your cousin.”

“She is.” Miles looked affronted. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Dexter? No reason why you should know all the ramifications of my family tree, is there? I have cousins all over the
Ton,
not that it’s any of your business.”

“Good evening, Miles. Mr. Anstruther…”

Dexter and Miles both jumped. Laura was standing before them in a glorious dark blue silk dress embroidered with tiny diamonds. It was cut discreetly low over the swell of her breasts yet it seemed to Dexter that the very modesty of the design and the tight swathing of the material served only to emphasize the sheer sensuousness of Laura’s curves. Whenever she moved, whenever she breathed, the gown shimmered with the radiance of a thousand tiny stars. She looked exquisite. He felt hot just looking at her.

Laura’s hair was swept up into a matching diamond clip. It shone with rich golden and chestnut lights and it seemed to beg to be unpinned and touched. Dexter felt his breathing constrict as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He stood still and looked at her and absorbed what felt like a physical blow. His habitual cool rationality had never seemed so far away. He could not move. He could not speak.

“Is there some kind of problem?” Laura asked, looking pointedly at where Dexter’s hands were still resting on Miles’s shoulders.

“Not at all,” Dexter said, coming to himself and smoothing Miles’s jacket down hastily. “Lord Vickery merely had a small malfunction with his wardrobe.”

“Next time you can call my tailor rather than attempting to assist yourself,” Miles said, glaring at him. He adjusted the set of his jacket and bowed to Laura, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on it.

“How are you, Laura?” he asked, sounding suspiciously to Dexter as though he was putting extra emphasis on his use of her name. “It is good to see you again. You look divine tonight. That must be one of Madame Hortense’s creations, I think.”

“I thought,” Dexter said sharply, unable to help himself, “that her grace was a relative of yours, Miles?”

“Not a close one,” Miles said, smiling wolfishly at Laura.

“Thank you for the compliment, Miles.” Laura’s smile held a sparkle of mischief.

“But you need not waste your time on me when there are other richer and more susceptible ladies about.” She stood gracefully on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Even so, it is a pleasure to see you, too.”

“You are as proper as always,” Miles said, smiling at her.

“And as impervious to your flattery,” Laura responded, her lips tilting into an irresistible answering smile. “Pray remember I am a dowager duchess, Miles, not a green girl to fall for your compliments.”

Miles released her hand with every sign of reluctance. Dexter felt his temper bristle.

“You are the most seductive dowager I have ever known,” Miles said, “and trust me, I have known many and in every way imaginable.”

“Enough, Miles,” Laura said, her strict tone giving Dexter a most inappropriate frisson of sexual excitement. “I do not wish to know about your conquests, nor do I have any intention of joining their ranks.”

“Oh very well…” Miles sighed. “I hope Hattie is doing well,” he said, reverting to a more cousinly tone. “I have brought some gifts for her from Mama. If I might call tomorrow…”

Dexter smiled. The image of an utter rake like Miles traveling from London with a child’s toys in his luggage was irresistible. Miles shot him a dark look.

“Of course,” Laura said. Dexter felt rather than saw her cast a quick look in his direction. Her tone was slightly strained. “Hattie will be delighted to see you.”

“Capital,” Miles said.

Laura turned to Dexter and her smile was several degrees cooler than the one she had given her cousin. It felt as though she was only addressing him because socially she had to.

Dexter felt excluded. He did not like it. The urge to make her take notice of him, to force a response from her, was strong. This ice maiden could not have been more different from the sensuous woman he had held in his arms only a few hours before.

He caught her eye and for a second the awareness shimmered between them again.

The noise from the crowd faded and it was just him and Laura looking at one another. He tried to force his gaze away from her and failed signally to do so.

Miles cleared his throat loudly and they both jumped.

“I wondered what had brought you to Fortune’s Folly, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said icily, covering her embarrassment with an arctic chill that Dexter thought might freeze him to the marrow. “I assume that both you and Miles are here because of Sir Montague’s outrageous edict? It is the only thing that I can think of that would bring two such
in
eligible gentlemen as yourselves to the north.”

“A man has to do what he must,” Miles said gloomily, “no matter how repugnant it may seem.”

“What an admirable approach to marriage, Miles,” Laura said. She was laughing.

“And you, Mr. Anstruther—” Once again her tone had chilled as she turned to Dexter. “Do you hold the same sentiments? Your mama has made no secret of the fact that she wishes you to seek a rich and conformable wife.” She sounded derisive, as though Dexter were tied to his mother’s apron strings.

“Dexter needs to try harder to find a girl to suit him,” Miles said, grinning maliciously at Dexter. “He’s too damned—sorry, dashed—particular.”

“Possibly you cannot find a suitable bride because most young ladies have the wit not to be conformable these days,” Laura said. She threw Dexter a mocking look. “Is that what you want, Mr. Anstruther? A henwit?”

What Dexter wanted was to respond to Laura Cole’s provocation by shaking her—or possibly kissing her senseless. He felt alarmingly heated, as though his clothes were too tight and were smothering him. He wanted to break out of their restrictions with a roar and grab Laura and carry her off. He wanted to forget that his life was governed by sense and order these days and be decidedly disordered and irrational.

“And what of your own matrimonial prospects, your grace?” he inquired smoothly, clamping down on instincts that were becoming more ungovernable by the moment. “You are, after all, a single woman and a resident of Fortune’s Folly. As such you fulfill all the criteria for Sir Montague’s tax. Are you resigned to handing over half of your fortune to him?”

Laura laughed. “I most certainly am not, Mr. Anstruther! I have no intention of doing so. But with so small a fortune of my own I imagine that I am a negligible part of Sir Montague’s plan.”

“I doubt,” Dexter said, “that Sir Montague sees any sum of money as negligible, your grace.”

“Well, he won’t get his hands on mine,” Laura snapped.

“Then you
will
marry to avoid the tax?” Dexter enjoyed the flash of anger he had provoked in Laura’s eyes.

“That is even less likely than that I would willingly hand over my minuscule fortune, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “I have had one husband and have no wish for a second.” Dexter could well believe that having finally got rid of the ghastly Charles, Laura would not wish to compromise her freedom again. And why should she, when widows could manage their lovers as they pleased as long as they showed a little discretion? The thought did nothing to soothe his aggravation.

“I am fascinated to know how you plan to solve this dilemma,” he said. “It is marry or pay, is it not?” He raised his brows. “Are you not trapped, your grace? Sir Montague’s edict has the weight of the law behind it, distasteful as it may be. Surely you cannot intend to break that law? You, a dowager duchess and pillar of the community?” For a moment he thought he saw a hint of amusement in Laura’s face before she veiled her expression again.