The Debonair Duke (26 page)

“Somehow I cannot imagine anything to do with you might be considered ordinary in any way,” Pamela said impulsively. When he gave her an arrested look, she scolded herself for possibly revealing too much of her feelings for him. As one who had never been impulsive in her life, she had suddenly
developed a penchant for doing the spontaneous. Such behavior could plunge her into a bumble broth, for certain.

“Most kind of you,” he said, polite as always, but with a gleam in his gray eyes that caught her notice.

“Yes, well,” she blurted out in a rash confession that was most unlike her former reserved self, “when one is inclined to be deemed ordinary, one becomes most sensitive to the state.”

“Never say that anyone had the temerity and bad taste to consider you in anything but a highly favorable light!” he said with a charming smile that turned Pamela’s insides into mush. “You are a very lovely girl.”

“I was most improper to go haring off with you in the hours before dawn. We would have truly been in the soup had anyone seen us,” she reminded him, although she was certain he was all too aware of that by now. One tended to develop second thoughts about situations given a bit of time. The remark about her being lovely she stored away for future consideration.

“We do not actually know if we escaped detection, you know,” he replied casually, picking off a speck of lint from his rich coat of fine mulberry velvet that he wore with superb grace over a pair of white satin breeches. “You may yet find yourself suddenly betrothed to me.” He crossed one knee, then idly swung his patent slippered foot quite as though he hadn’t uttered such shocking words. He ignored Pamela’s gasp, causing her to wonder what his motive might be in pointing out the possibility.

“I think not
,
Your Grace,” she said promptly, determined to scotch any notion he might have that she sought to ensnare him. “If we keep our heads, we ought to manage well enough. As you said, your blue coat might have belonged to another and my cloak is a most ordinary color.” She gave him a thoughtful look before adding what she decided might be a telling bit of reasoning. “Besides, I am well aware of what the duchess considers your due, for I have heard her tell my mama at least twice what she expects in a future duchess of your choosing. Do you think she would permit an alliance between
us? I give leave to doubt it. And, as I told Lady Anne, a compelled marriage would be of all things most repugnant to me.”

“How much did you reveal to Lady Anne?” He did not comment on Pamela’s remarks, to her disquiet. Nor did he deny his mother’s possible reaction to news that he had been found in a compromising situation with Lady Pamela Taylor. Never mind that Pamela would eventually be a countess in her own right. She suspected she did not have the position of a
sans pareil
to satisfy the duchess as a future daughter-in-law.

“Just the part about chasing after that singularly inept robber. Do you know,” Pamela said with a considering tilt to her head, “the more I think about the matter, the more I’m inclined to believe that fellow was a novice. He ought to have had a better aim—not that I’d wish you dead, you may be sure. But to use single-barrel pistols? I would expect a robber to have two double-barreled pistols at the very least, if not triple! There is something that strikes me as rather odd about the whole incident.”

“Now that you mention it, I agree,” the duke replied, not for the first time thinking that the pretty Lady Pamela had a sound head on her shoulders.

“And I also think it most peculiar that we should have been led to the very inn where the baron had been stabbed. Confess,” she begged, placing a hand gently over his, “do you not agree there is a definite connection? And that Lady Vane is somehow involved? Although in what manner is beyond me at the moment.”

“True,” he agreed, thinking she had graceful hands and a very gentle touch. They went nicely with her well-bred voice and manners.

Yet, in spite of her propriety this evening, he could not forget how she had felt wrapped within his arms. Her submission to his kiss had rapidly turned into a warm response that had thrilled him to his core. Had it not been for the necessity that they exit the inn as quickly as possible, who knows where that kiss might have led? Her carnation scent drifted over to tease his senses, enhancing his memory of that most audacious of kisses. She had stirred him as no woman had done for a long
time, if ever. And this was incredible, for by her own admission she was such a well-bred and proper little dab of a thing. He frowned while he considered this seeming contradiction.

His thoughts flashed back to the inn. What if one of the men had demanded their identities? What if they had been seen and recognized? While it was dark out, a lantern had thrown flickering light on the inn yard, and thus, on them when they had dashed for the carriage. Had her hood sufficiently concealed her?

Which brought him back to the gently bred female sitting at his side. He’d no right to involve her in something so dangerous as last night. From now on, she would have to be guarded more carefully. And he really must mind his own manners. A gentleman simply did not go about enfolding a young unmarried Lady of quality in his arms and kissing her nearly senseless. What had she thought? he wondered.

“You have recovered from the ordeal?” He rubbed his jaw while studying her face to see if her words reflected what he thought he defected in those cerulean eyes.

“Indeed,” she said in a subdued voice, her fingers tracing the pattern on the skirt of her gown. “Although I must confess, I did not think it
all
an ordeal,” she said, meeting his gaze with a fearless honesty that revealed an emotion he knew was not antipathy. “There was a part of it I found most enchanting, I must admit.”

He could think of nothing to say in reply. Never had he been spoken to in such a candid manner. He was about to make a polite observation, allowing her to believe he misunderstood what she’d said—for propriety’s sake—when Algie strolled up to join them.

“If you two are intending to become the next item of gossip, you are a fair way to accomplishing your goal.” He gave the duke an admonishing look, then turned to his companion. “Lady Pamela, may I relieve you of that glass, then beg the next dance?”

She rose at once, handing Algie the glass—which he placed on a nearby table, then walked at his side to the next room, never once glancing back at the duke.

It was just as well, for he was looking something like a thundercloud at the moment, cursing himself for being ten kinds of a fool. He had not said what he ought, given her delicate and hesitant declaration of admiration—or more. Instead, he had sought to hedge, using his usual caution when dealing with women, and lost all. Or had he?

“Your friend makes off with the prize of the evening,” the vicomte observed as he came up behind him. “Small wonder you look furious.”

“The prize of the evening, you say?” the duke replied, intrigued.

“When a gentleman knows her better, he realizes Lady Pamela is indeed a prize beyond compare. I understand her dowry is excellent and the entire estate comes to her, you know. Or did you? She will be an extremely wealthy woman in her own right. She is also a delightful person.”

* * * *

The lady in question dipped and twirled through the measures of a minuet with her head in a fog. It was a wonder she didn’t make a total hash of the dance. She had implied much to the duke, and he in turn had said nothing. He had merely stared at her as though she was an alien creature whose language he did not comprehend.

What a fool she was. Never would she make that mistake again. Never would she intimate that her affections were engaged until the gentleman had declared himself. Never had she been so mortified.

True, that gleam had remained in his gray eyes, but what that might mean was beyond her. He retained that touch of aloofness, emphasizing a distance between them that she had best not forget again.

It was with profound relief that she greeted her mother’s decision to leave the assembly early that evening. Without bidding anyone good night, Pamela slipped on her soft velvet cloak, joining her mother in the entry to await their carriage.

* * * *

The following morning did not find Lady Pamela riding in the park, as the duke had hoped. He compressed his lips, then decided he would call on her that very afternoon no matter
how it might look. Actually, he was past caring about what others might think. He must find a way to mend his fences. And why that was most important, he refused to consider at the moment.

* * * *

Lady Pamela sat with her mother in the drawing room entertaining the callers during her mother’s customary at-home afternoon. She chatted politely—if somewhat distantly—about whatever neutral topic came to mind. The weather was always a good subject, as London weather was usually dreadful, and if splendid, all the more a matter of amazement.

Lady Vane was ushered up shortly toward the close of the afternoon, Pamela admired the pretty print gown she wore that had full sleeves, gathered with pretty ribands above the elbow and wrist, and of the latest style. Pamela studied the lady, wondering how she managed to keep a calm mien, given the death of her lover. Somehow more must be learned about the situation.

After offering a stiff curtsy and a few words of general chitchat
,
Lady Vane softly requested of the countess, “Do you suppose Lady Pamela might join me and a few of our friends for a picnic in Richmond Park two days hence? She is always such a charming addition to our company.”

Pamela exchanged looks with her mother, nodding slightly to indicate she would welcome the diversion.

“I believe she would enjoy such an outing. Is that right, my dear?” Lady Gresham beamed a smile on her dear daughter.

“Above all, yes. I adore picnics.” Pamela said politely, then wished her words unsaid as Lady Vane continued.

“Prince Radinski and Vicomte Reynaud will attend. How unfortunate the baron was killed, for he was always a welcome addition to your daughter’s court.” She gave Pamela a speculative look.

Having steeled herself not to react in any way at the mention of that scandalous event, Pamela gazed blandly at her ladyship, giving no clue to her emotions other than a look of proper distress. She wondered how Lady Vane could appear so
unfeeling. “I never felt his attentions were beyond polite, you know,” Pamela said in a prosaic manner.

“La, Lady Pamela,” Lady Vane said with a light laugh, “you are too modest. It is not every young woman who wears a ransom in jewels every evening and has a ring of beaux including an English duke, a German baron, a Russian prince, and a French vicomte clustered at her feet.”

“The jewelry is distinctive. I’d warrant that without it, I might fade to nonexistence,” Pamela replied with an equal lightness.

That bought denials and laughter, both of which sounded slightly false to Pamela’s sensitive ears. She suspected the picnic would turn out to be an ordeal rather than a delight. However, she had committed herself, and to cry off did not bear thinking. Her mother would demand to know why, and Pamela felt she could not offer a reasonable explanation.

Grimes announced the duke, and Pamela felt pure shock jolt through her at the sight of him. She’d not expected him to call. It was the outside of enough that he came to see her after her silly admission.

He bowed low over Lady Gresham’s hand, then greeted Lady Vane before turning his gaze on Pamela. “Fine weather, is it not?”

“I trust it is.” She did not meet his gaze, concentrating on her teacup as though she’d not seen it before.

“You did not ride this morning,” he said in a flat statement, letting Pamela know that he had looked for her and found her absent.

“No, I was a trifle fatigued.” Pamela still refused to look at the duke, fearful that her eyes would reveal her admiration for him—in spite of his behavior last evening.

“The news of the baron’s death was most alarming. What is the world coming to, I ask you,” Lady Gresham said, echoing one of her husband’s favorite sayings.

Lady Vane cleared her throat, then spoke. “I believe we must look to something more pleasant. To that end I am organizing a little picnic at Richmond Park. Do say you will join us, Your Grace. It will not be complete without you.”

“I shall be most happy to join you. I trust Lady Pamela will be there, too?” He turned his attention on her with its usual effect, for he’d caught her looking at him. Unseen by Lady Vane, he gave a significant lift of his brows, indicating he felt the occasion consequential.

“I shall,” Pamela said, feeling as though life had just become infinitely more complicated.

Chapter Fifteen

She faced the prospect of the picnic with stoic calm. There was no use repining, she’d accepted the invitation to this event, which would place her in a social situation with the duke. In spite of those stolen kisses, Pamela had to again remember that she’d contacted him solely to locate the true owner of the necklace and nothing more.

They had run into a blank wall, since Lord Chudleigh—whom the duke was convinced had purchased the jewels—refused to reveal to whom he had presented the necklace. No one would talk. Short of using force, she could not see how they were to compel his lordship—or the jeweler—to reveal the identity of the former mistress.

Sleuthing had produced nothing. Lord Chudleigh was not only closemouthed, he was prudent beyond belief. Not a gossipy soul knew who it was he had in keeping—which led to the belief that his paramour was on the fringe of society, passingly respectable, and possibly someone they had met and mingled with at the opera and other social occasions.

The woman must yearn for the necklace. The effect of possessing such magnificent gems had transformed Pamela’s life; it certainly hadn’t been dull of late.

Sir Cecil had deemed the picnic acceptable entertainment for his expectant wife. Naturally, Pamela had been invited to drive with them in their comfortable carriage. Now Lady Anne’s soft voice pulled Pamela from her musings.