The Duke Can Go to the Devil (11 page)

Dropping the eyepiece to the blanket, she came to her feet, startling all four of her companions. “If you'll excuse me, I have an errand to run. I'll be back shortly.”

“Miss Bradford,” Evansleigh started to say, his mouth turned down in a very chaperonelike expression, but Sophie stopped him with a light tap to his chest.

“She's fine, Evan. She simply needs to stretch her legs
for a moment, and if she can travel the world in one piece, I'm certain she shall be fine in Sydney Gardens. Right, May?”

May sent her a grateful look, suddenly very, very glad that she had managed to find such wonderful friends. “Yes, quite. I shall be back before you know it.”

Drawing a fortifying breath, she set off across the lawn, aiming to intercept the duke before he reached the boundary of the park. She had no idea what she would say to him once she caught up to him, she knew only that this was her chance, and by Jove she was taking it.

*   *   *

Though the music had been remarkable, and the evening exceedingly fine, there was nothing that could compel William to stay once Vivian and Norwich had joined the box beside them. It was as though the woman had a sixth sense about where she wasn't wanted.

He'd recognized her flaming red hair in an instant, piled atop her head and draped with the distinctive diamond tiara his father had given her on the occasion of Julian's birth. She wore a sheer silvery gown with an even sheerer gossamer overlay and an open décolleté that dipped appallingly low across her chest. It was an outfit better left to the bedroom, as far as he was concerned.

He was extremely displeased that she was continuing to see the earl, and he had no intentions of sitting beside them as though he was perfectly amenable to their pairing. He stalked along the grass, taking the most direct route back to his horse, heedless of the state of his shoes. This was
not
how he'd envisioned the evening progressing. He was much too dignified for this sort of thing, but once again, the woman had gotten beneath his skin.

A movement in the bushes ahead snapped his mind
back to the present, and he took a quick step to the side. “Who goes there?” The lanterns were few and far between this far from the concert, and he squinted into the darkness.

A gold-masked blond woman appeared from around the foliage and whispered his name.

He gritted his teeth against the curse that came to his tongue. Of course Miss Harmon would pounce on the chance to get him alone. Extending a stern finger in her direction, he said, “Perhaps I wasn't clear enough before, so let me be
very
plain. I have no interest whatsoever in you.
Go away.
”

Even with the dim light and the mask covering her features, he could see her eyes go saucer wide. Good. Perhaps he'd finally gotten his point across. She pressed her lips together, straightened to a surprising height and said, “Thank you for clarifying. I have no intention of being where I'm not bloody well wanted.”

His heart slammed to a stop in his chest the moment she said “thank you.”
May!
He started forward, determined to correct his mistake. “Miss Bradford, I—”

But she held up her hands, cutting him off. “And for the record, if you had wanted me to go away, all you had to do was say so. I'm not a blasted mind reader, you know.”

“Miss Brad—”

“Furthermore, you need to work on your communication skills,” she said, her finger pointing back at him just as he had done to her. “One can't smile and wink at another without said other feeling as though their company is at least somewhat welcome.”

She was in full dudgeon now, her eyes flashing like black diamonds in the darkness. He could just make out the rest of her, outfitted in a superbly fitting gown that
had just enough sheen in the moonlight to hint at its silkiness. The color was impossible to determine, but it was dark against her pale skin.

“I—”

“Good evening, Your Grace. Or better yet, good life.” She turned sharply on her heel and took one magnificent step forward.

“May,”
he exclaimed, grabbing her hand in a bid to halt her escape.

That got her attention, to say the least. She snapped her mouth shut as she whirled back around to face him, her eyes piercing in their intensity. Yes, he'd taken drastic measures, but she'd be halfway across the park by now if he hadn't stopped her momentum.

Taking advantage of her shock, he tugged her toward him. She stumbled forward, stopping only inches from his chest. Awareness washed through him, pooling in his gut as he realized just how alone they really were in that moment. Drawing a calming, floral-tinged breath of air, he said evenly, “I thought you were Miss Harmon.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Whatever spell that had held her in thrall abruptly shattered. She drew back, her face screwing up beneath the mask. “Miss Harmon? How on earth could you confuse me with that earth-vexing woman?” She yanked her fingers from his grasp and crossed her arms, waiting expectantly for his explanation. She looked every bit as imperious as a disapproving Greek goddess.

Waving a hand vaguely, he said, “Gold mask, blond hair, dark night. Mostly, I had no idea you were even here, and I most certainly knew she was, much to my dismay.”

“Oh,” she said, dropping her arms back to her side.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “And once again, all I get is an ‘oh.'”

“Yes, well, it was an honest misunderstanding on both our parts.”

He let the comment go without challenge. To challenge her would only get her back up again. Purposely relaxing his stance, he tilted his head to catch her eye. “Were you looking for me?”

She gave a little shrug, her lips lifting in an enticing little smile. “Yes, though I'm having a hard time recalling why.”

Across the park, the orchestra started a new song, this one slower, more languid. It was the perfect backdrop to the warm and slightly humid night.

“Are you?” he replied, his voice slightly rough. He pursed his lips, hating that she still looked like the distasteful Miss Harmon. “One second,” he said, moving closer so he could reach the strings of her mask. Thanks to the delectable cut of her gown, he saw the rise of her breasts as she inhaled sharply. He realized how unseemly their position was, but it seemed best to just be done with it instead of making it seem as though he were retreating from her. Swallowing, he tugged the strings and pulled the mask from her face.
Much better.

Stepping back quickly, he cleared his throat and returned to the conversation. “Perhaps you wished to say good-bye without a ballroom of people as witness?”

She was more beautiful than she had a right to be. Her skin looked as pale and smooth as fresh cream in the silvery moonlight, her eyes as dark as the night sky. Why had she come after him? She had followed him into the darkness, wanting to speak with him in private. His pulse kicked up at all the reasons why she might wish to do such a thing.

“Perhaps.” She gave a delicate shrug, arching one impish brow. She stepped forward then, closing the distance he had just made between them. Slowly, she reached up one hand behind him to untie his mask. He'd knotted the ribbons himself, and it didn't give way as hers had. Instead of giving up, she slid her other arm up into something that very much resembled an embrace and worked the knot free.

She smelled so incredibly good, he fought not to draw a long deep breath. Through force of will, he held very still until she was done. It was sweet torture, something he never would have imagined he'd feel with her.

“There,” she said quietly, pulling the mask free. He exhaled.
Finally.
She allowed her hands to slide down the front of his chest, her touch little more than a skim. “I much prefer being able to see you.”

He smiled, a lopsided lift of his lip. “After the way things started off between us, I never would have expected to hear those words from your mouth.”

She chuckled. “Touché.”

She didn't step away, and neither did he. Of their own volition, his eyes fell to those full, beautiful lips of hers.

“Won't you be missed?”

Surely she had come with others, so it stood to reason that they'd be wondering where she was. The last thing he needed was indignant chaperones making an appearance.

“Soon. But not yet.” She wet her lips, sending anticipation burning through his chest. She was brash and forward, irreverent and impulsive—everything that he thought he didn't like—yet in that moment, he had never wanted to kiss someone more in his whole life. The desire was as strong as gravity, making it near impossible for him to pull away from her.

He was a gentleman, he reminded himself. It wasn't right to kiss an innocent like her. It was up to him to do the right thing. Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath, trying to find the strength to step away from her.

“Radcliffe,” she breathed, the longing palpable in her voice.

Shaking his head, he opened his eyes. “I can't. There are rules in society that cannot be ignored.”

He was a duke. He didn't misstep; he didn't dabble in scandal. He held the moral high ground because he lived his life according to the rules. Kissing her would hardly be a cardinal sin, but it would compromise the strict code that he lived by.

“Damn the English and their ridiculous rules,” she muttered darkly. She was silent for a moment, and he imagined he could hear her heart beating as loudly as his was. “Did you know,” she said at last, “that there are many acceptable ways to say good-bye, depending on where you are from?”

He blinked, doing his best to follow where she was headed. “Oh?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his as she stepped back. He hated the distance she put between them, even as he willed her to step back farther. “In China, they bow, but differently from the British.” She demonstrated, bending forward with one hand fisted and the other wrapped around it. “In India, one doesn't bow. Instead, they press their hands together and dip their heads slightly.” Again she showed him, murmuring, “Namaste.”

Straightening, she said, “In America, shaking hands is more common, or so I hear.” Reaching out, she slipped her right hand into his and moved their combined hands up and down a few times. When she stopped, she didn't release her hold. “And in Italy and France?”

She tightened her grip and slowly pulled him to her. He could have resisted—should have—but he allowed her to draw him close. Lifting onto her toes, she pressed her lips to first one cheek, and then the other. “They kiss. It's not only acceptable, it's expected.”

“Good to know,” he said, struggling to keep the desire from his voice.

Offering a slow, challenging smile, she turned her head, presenting him with the impossibly smooth skin of her cheek. “So tell me good-bye, Duke.”

M
ay held perfectly still, with even her breath frozen in her lungs, waiting for Radcliffe to lean down and press his lips to her. She couldn't even say what had happened. One minute, they were arguing and teasing again, and the next, her heart was thundering with anticipation. She stood there, hoping,
wanting
, waiting for the man to break out of his own bonds and seize what he so clearly desired.

To give them both what they wanted.

He leaned forward, then hesitated, his breath warming the skin at her neck. She shivered with the sheer delight of it. The smell of his sandalwood soap mixed with the unnamable yet intoxicating scent of his breath, drove her mad. He would taste like that; she knew he would. Despite her resolve to stay still, she swayed toward him an inch or so, encouraging him to take what she offered.

Then, just when she was sure he would give in, he exhaled deeply. He leaned back—the wrong direction, damn him!—and lifted their still joined hands. “And in England,” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper, “this is how we say good-bye.” Holding her hand as gently as if it were made of bone china, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her curled fingers. The warmth of his mouth easily penetrated the thin leather of her glove,
but still she cursed the thing to perdition. She wanted to feel
him
, damn it, not the sterile suggestion of him.

But it was not to be. Straightening, he released her hand and stepped away. She immediately felt the loss of his warmth, and cursed him for his blasted manners. “I knew there was a reason I so disliked this country.”

A small ghost of a smile graced his lips. “It's been a pleasure, Miss Bradford. I wish you all the best.”

“Do you? I'm not certain I should say what I wish for you right about now.”

He chuckled then, the sound half mirth, half regret. “I can imagine.”

*   *   *

There was nothing different about the way the park looked that morning. The trees were still heavy with damp leaves, the grass still cool and wet beneath her feet. The river still swooshed by quietly within its banks. The light was less than inspiring, with the dull gray clouds hanging low and ominous above, but even that wasn't unusual in this soggy little country.

It was all as it had been, but yet somehow empty. Heartless. The festival was over, and the exodus of its attendees was under way. Other than Charity and Sophie, who would both be leaving on Monday, two days hence, there were only a handful of people she would truly miss. Dering actually lived in Bath, part-time at least, so she wouldn't be completely bereft of company. The vicar had proven to be an entertaining companion, so she would truly be sorry to see him leave.

But none of these impending departures explained the hollowness that settled heavily in her chest that morning. It darkened her mood and dulled her enthusiasm for the exercises she generally loved. She, Mei-li
Bradford, strong and independent person of worldly experience, was missing a man.

It was ridiculous. Galling even. But absolutely true. Which was even more galling. Blowing out an exasperated breath, she got into position and began her routine. She eased from one movement to the next, slowly and methodically, concentrating on the hum of her energy and the gracefulness of the move. Still she pictured him, his bronze eyes burning through her as they had the night before.

She paused midmotion and stood. She had to get out of her own mind. Shaking her limbs, she drew another long breath and settled back into the position she had abandoned. Closing her eyes, she pictured the dramatic, cone-shaped mountains of Thailand, rising out of the deep blue waters of the Indian Ocean. She imagined the many shades of green, the fierce reds and oranges of the flowers, the familiar call of wildlife. White sand, gentle waves, Radcliffe standing barefoot in the surf, shirtless, as the ocean breeze tousled his sun-lightened hair.

Gasping, she opened her eyes, her heart pounding. What in the world was wrong with her? She rubbed her cool hand over her face, trying to get ahold of herself.

“A bit off this morning, are we?”

She gave a little shriek of surprise and whirled around to find the man of her imagination standing there behind her. He was properly dressed, hat in place and hair neatly combed, but her belly still flipped at the sight of him.

Not wanting him to guess her thoughts, she set her hands to her hips and lifted her chin. “Can I help you?” It still rather smarted that the man had refused to kiss her yesterday. She'd spent much of the night before lying in bed and thinking of the encounter, all the while toying with the ribbons of his mask.

He smiled at her insolent tone. Taking off his hat, he set it on the heap of her jacket and walked over to her. “I certainly hope so. There is nothing so bothersome to me as a squeaky conscience.”

What the devil was he talking about now? “If you are looking to confess, I know a very good vicar to whom you can speak.” Lord knew his wounded conscience had nothing to do with her. If it had, she would have slept much better last night, satisfied with a proper kiss good-bye.

“A vicar cannot help, I'm afraid.” He clasped his hands behind his back and paced before her, the damp grass softening his footfalls. “I find I cannot bring myself to leave you here alone in Bath, with only your aunt for company. It wouldn't be fair to either of you.

“Further, it occurred to me that you have formed quite an unfair opinion of this country, which sorely needs to be corrected. What better place to do so than at the finest estate in all of England?”

Something fluttered deep in her chest, but she couldn't help teasing him a bit. “In your humble opinion, I suppose?”

“My opinion is never humble,” he said decisively. Now that was something she could believe. He stopped his pacing and pinned her with a look that was unnerving in its earnestness. “I'll write to your aunt this afternoon. There is no reason for you to be miserable until your father returns. Lady Stanwix can come on and keep my stepmother company, and I shall take about the task of demonstrating to you why England is the greatest country on Earth.”

“Again,
so
very humble,” she said dryly. His offer thrilled her, but she chafed at his high-handed manner. Did it ever occur to him to ask instead of decreeing?

Just to be contrary, she said, “I'm not convinced the company would be such a vast improvement over my current situation.” Still . . . it was extremely tempting. She had no interest in hearing more about the wonders of the British Empire, where men like him were handed riches and respect without so much as lifting a finger, but if it meant getting out from beneath her aunt's thumb, she was willing to go along with it.

He quirked a brow. “You wound me.”

“I'm intrigued enough to consider it . . .” She trailed off, straightening as a thought occurred to her. “But if I am to submit to your lessons, I would ask you to submit to mine.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and she sincerely wished she knew what he was thinking. “I can't imagine you'd think I'd submit to anything.”

She smiled at him, taking in his perfect appearance, covered from wrist to neck to the soles of his feet. The image of him as she had imagined him on the beach slipped back through her mind. What she would give to see him loosen up a little. To drop the driving need to be proper at all times, and actually live a little. “I agree to go with you to your estate—assuming my aunt agrees—and to listen to whatever predictable, inflated thing you have to say about this country and its customs, but in return, I'd like something from you.”

“You do realize that the entire invitation is for your benefit, yes?”

“So you say. But if you want me to come, I want to share my morning routine with you. I can easily teach you a few basic moves.”

His brows shot up his forehead. “Here? You must be mad. If someone were to see me involved in such a thing,
I'd never live it down. It's bad enough that I am here alone with you now.”

Yes, of course—an unpardonable sin to have a conversation with a female acquaintance. “Fair enough. At your estate, then. I'm assuming you have a lake or stream on your property, yes?”

He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Several of both.”

“Excellent. Do you agree to my terms?”

His smile bordered on devilish. “I have no reason to. I could easily say no and leave you to your aunt's lovely company until your father returns.”

“But you won't,” she said confidently, flashing him a knowing smile. The fact that he had invited her at all spoke volumes about the way he thought of her. Anticipation wended its way through her veins, a very heady sensation indeed.

He sighed heavily and shook his head. “But I won't. Be ready at noon, two days hence. I'll take care of speaking with your aunt.”

Without waiting for her response, he turned, retrieved his hat, and took off into the morning gloom.

*   *   *

“I must say, I am at a loss, old man.”

William nearly raised his glass to that. Dering wasn't the only one feeling that way. “Is that so?”

His friend swirled his drink round and round his glass, peering thoughtfully over the rim. “That's so. Am I to believe you have developed an interest in Miss Bradford since the last time we spoke?”

William took a long drink of his wine, considering the question. “I wouldn't say that.”

“So you have no intentions toward her? Marital or otherwise?”

If William hadn't already swallowed, he would have choked on his drink. “I
definitely
wouldn't say that.”

Setting down his glass, Dering met his gaze squarely. “Then what would you say?” There was a distinct edge to his voice. A warning, unless William was mistaken. In all their years of friendship, he couldn't recall ever hearing that particular tone directed toward him.

He didn't appreciate the implication. “I would say it was none of your business.”

“I'm well aware that you look down on the girl, Will, but I won't allow you to hurt her.” He was serious. It had been years since Dering had called him Will. With his hulking shoulders tensed and his dark eyes narrowed, he would have been uncomfortably intimidating if William didn't know him as well as he did.

Actually, it was still intimidating.

Dering leaned forward, earnestness outlined in his every feature. “I
will
show up on your doorstep if I believe your motives are less than gentlemanly. And I assure you, I am not an easy person to move.”

This was
not
the visit William was expecting when Dering had shown up unannounced shortly after supper. The man was a friend, but William had no intention of being interrogated by him or any other person. Setting his goblet aside, he came to his feet. “I meant it when I said it was none of your business, but you of all people should know I am a man of integrity. Your interference is both unwelcome and unneeded.”

Dering rose as well, then crossed his arms as he looked down on William. Though the study was spacious enough normally, Dering's censorious presence seemed to dwarf the room and its fine antique furnishings. “That
girl has no father or brother to speak for her at the moment. I will not apologize for being concerned for her welfare.”

“For heaven's sake, it's not as though I intend to accost her. Furthermore, if you were such a great friend to her, you would know that if it was needed—and it is not—Miss Bradford is more than capable of taking care of herself.” In fact, if she had any inkling of this conversation, she'd be livid.

Dering shook his head. “You are discounting how easily passion can get the best of a person.”

“I'm not a man controlled by his passions.” In fact, William was more in control of his baser needs than any man he knew. If he wasn't, would he have walked away from the kiss he so desperately had wanted the night of the concert? He bit the inside of his cheek, remembering just how much he had yearned to take her in his arms. Perhaps that wasn't the greatest example.

“That's what you think,” Dering said, pulling William back from his thoughts. “When you truly fall for a woman, you will know how absurd that statement is.
Every
man is a man controlled by his passions when the right woman is about.”

The fervor with which he spoke belied how personal the issue really was. Once again, William knew he was thinking of a different time, a different female.

Shifting uncomfortably, he nodded. “If it makes you feel better, I give you my word as a gentleman that Miss Bradford will be perfectly safe in my presence.”

Blowing out a sigh, Dering set a wide hand to William's shoulder. “There is one thing you are forgetting, old friend. Women can be ruled by their passions as well. Be careful, or you will have me to answer to.”

Giving him an uncomfortably firm pat to his back,
Dering brushed past him and headed for the door. “Safe travels, my friend. When in doubt of how to behave, just imagine my fist in your face.” The last was said with a wink before he disappeared into the corridor.

William stared after him, hardly able to believe the odd conversation. Despite the wink, he had the distinct impression the man meant what he said. Lucky for William, he had every intention of keeping his word. May was a friend, of a sort, and he intended to keep it that way.

And if she was the first female friend he had ever invited to his estate, well, that simply spoke to how well he thought of her. He sat back down and rubbed his jaw. Perhaps Dering's threat wasn't such a bad thing after all.