The Duke Can Go to the Devil (2 page)

Finally, the horses slowed to a stop, and the butter yellow limestone of the Assembly Rooms came into view. Without waiting for the groom to assist them, May pushed open the door and stepped out, grateful for a breath of fresh air. She pulled off her wrap and lifted her arms. She sincerely hoped no dampness marred the silk bodice.

Her aunt alighted from the carriage, her brow
ominously furrowed as she took in May's gown. Before she could say whatever sour thing was perched on the end of her tongue, May held up her hands. “Please, may we just enjoy a pleasant evening? I won't say or do anything to embarrass you. I will speak with Charity and Sophie and consider the evening a rousing success for not having conversed with anyone else. I honestly have no wish to draw any attention outside of our performance.”

The Warden looked none too pleased with May's little speech. “Is that so? One wonders at your choice of gown if it is not attention that you seek.” Shaking out the voluminous skirts of her lavender gown, she sighed and said, “However, I shall take you at your word. Do not make me regret it.”

An hour later, May was valiantly attempting to recapture her earlier good mood as she stood off to the side of the Ballroom with Sophie during intermission. Sophie, who was now the Countess of Evansleigh and still very much a blushing newlywed, had that certain gleam in her eye as she looked past May's shoulder, which warned her of Sophie's intentions before she even said a word.

“Don't look now, but you are being watched most intently.”

May grimaced. She had been right: Sophie was matchmaking. Letting out a long-suffering sigh, she sent Sophie a stern look. “I have absolutely no problem not looking. In fact, I shall continue to not look for the rest of the evening.”

She kept her gaze where it was, idly watching the milling crowds of music lovers all here for the extravagant gala honoring the arrival of the festival's patron. Everyone seemed to be decked out in their absolute finest,
with jewels glittering every which way one looked and cravats reaching their most absurd heights yet.

Sophie merely grinned, her enthusiasm not dimmed in the least. Of course, when it came to Sophie, very little ever managed to dim her enthusiasm. It was one of the things May liked best about her. “Yes, I know, being gawped at is a completely normal experience for you, blond goddess that you are, but it's not the staring that is unusual; it's who is
doing
the staring.” She leaned forward, clasping May's hands in excitement. “It's the Duke of Radcliffe!”

Ah, the patron himself. Lord High-and-Mighty, whom Aunt Victoria deemed too lofty to be tainted by May's lowly presence. The awe in Sophie's voice was unmistakable, and May didn't wish to trample her excitement, but it was difficult to keep her cynicism at bay. “That's nice,” she said diplomatically, though with no real enthusiasm.

Though she was technically English, many of the social customs here were still foreign to her. The incredibly strict rules relating to a lady's behavior was at the top of the list, but the tendency to practically worship peers of the realm was a close second.

That's not to say that she didn't enjoy some peers on an individual level—Sophie's new husband, the Earl of Evansleigh, was quite lovely, as was Charity's betrothed, Baron Cadgwith—but elevating the group as a whole merely because of the lucky circumstances of their births seemed beyond absurd. Particularly when the peer in question couldn't even be bothered to attend the very festival he was patronizing until the very last week—a fact that everyone seemed to be tactfully ignoring.

Undaunted, Sophie rolled her eyes and said, “It's not nice—it's tremendous! He is young—but not too
young—handsome in a reserved sort of way, obscenely wealthy, unmarried, and as close to royalty as we could hope to find outside of the palace grounds. And believe me,” she added, looking around as she lowered her voice, “he is
much
more attractive than any of the royal family.”

Despite herself, May laughed at her friend's less than shocking revelation. “From what I hear, most anyone is more attractive than the royal family.”

“What have you two got your heads together about?” Charity Effington, the other member of their little musical trio, approached with three punch glasses precariously balanced in her slender hands. Her cheeks were about as red as her hair, no doubt thanks to the overly warm and crowded hall.

Sophie grinned, her dark eyes sparkling every bit as gaily as her yellow-and-white diamond necklace in the Assembly Rooms' dazzling candlelight. “The Duke of Radcliffe has fallen for our May. Perhaps if we can match them up, we can keep May from leaving us when her father returns.”

“He most certainly has
not
fallen for me,” May cut in, widening her eyes at Sophie. “And I most certainly will not fall for him. Just because you two find yourselves rather happily impaled upon cupid's arrow does not mean I am similarly inclined.”

“You only say that because you haven't
seen
him,” Sophie said, irrepressible as always.

Charity chuckled as she handed out the crystal punch cups. “He is rather handsome, in a tall, dark, and imperious sort of way.”

“Charity!” Sophie exclaimed as she playfully bumped her arm. “You are not helping.”

“Oh yes, she is,” May responded, flipping open her fan
with her free hand. It was hot as hades here tonight thanks to the two unusually hot days they'd had in a row. Perhaps she was losing the immunity to heat she had spent a lifetime acquiring in the tropical climes in which she'd grown up. That thought did not sit well. “I've no interest in any of the men here, and dukes in particular. If I wanted to spend time with someone unaccountably superior, I'd seek out Miss Harmon.”

“Touché,” said Charity, laughter buoying the word. Miss Harmon seemed to go out of her way to belittle every female in a half-mile radius, and not a one of the three of them had been spared her barbs.

Speaking of unaccountably superior, Mr. Green, one of the festival coordinators, squeezed his way through the crush, his pale eyes looking down at them all the while through the smudged lenses of his spectacles. “Pardon me, ladies. I thought it prudent to remind you that you are scheduled to be the first performance after the intermission. Please be at the stage in five minutes.”

There was no love lost between the trio and Mr. Green. He'd been so insufferably rude the first time they had met, it was hard now to address him with any amount of respect. May smiled with all the sweetness of a sack of coal. “Not to worry, kind sir. We shall be punctual or die trying.”

“Well, there is a first time for everything,” he retorted before turning on his heel and marching away.

Before May could form a properly cutting insult for the man, Charity sighed and shook her head. “One must wonder if he has ever known a moment of joy in his life. Such a shame to go through life with such a sour outlook.”

Ever since she and the baron had come to know and later love each other, Charity had begun to look at
others with a kinder eye. May, however, was not so afflicted. “If you ask me, he takes quite a bit of pleasure in spreading misery wherever he goes. Now then, shall we make our way toward the stage? I should hate to give Mr. Green the satisfaction of seeing us late.”

The others nodded, and they quickly finished off their drinks. May couldn't have cared less about the duke's supposed interest in her, but his patronage had made the festival possible, and for that she could be no less than grateful. And in any event, she and the other girls were always happy for an excuse to perform together, even if May's aunt did so hate exposing the tender ears of their fellow festival-goers to May's Chinese zither. Relinquishing their cups to a passing footman, they smiled to one another, linked hands, and headed off toward the stage.

“C
ongratulations on attaining the ripe age of thirty, old man. Many happy returns, et cetera, et cetera.”

William Spencer, Duke of Radcliffe, turned away from the lovely blond vision in blue silk below and nodded in acceptance of his friend's felicitations, such as they were. Lord Derington was one of the few people in the world who dared speak so familiarly to him. Although, anyone who could legitimately claim to have saved William's life at one point or another was certainly welcome to the same privilege.

“Thank you, Dering,” he said dryly, lifting a sardonic eyebrow. “Your tidings warm the soul.”

The man grinned as he came to join William at the balcony railing. “Quite a gathering for your royal self. I'm beginning to wonder if elephants and tigers will be next.”

Following his gaze, William had to agree. As the guest of honor, he was seated on the balcony enclave where he could best view the performances and, by extension, the attendees. It was better than mingling below, but this
wasn't how he had envisioned his first night in Bath. “Honestly, I find this whole exhibition quite unnecessary.”

He'd been so furious when he'd received word of his stepmother's latest exploits, he didn't think of the ramifications when he sent word of his intention to attend the last week of the festival. He'd been focused on arriving as quickly as possible in order to curtail her activities, not on the fact that his arrival would set off the inevitable series of events leading to just this sort of evening.

Yes, he had provided the initial funding for the first Summer Serenade in Somerset music festival, and yes, he had used his connections to help populate it with some of the best musicians in the country, but that didn't mean he had expected or wanted such a display in his honor.

However, someone on the committee had known it was his birthday and they had taken it upon themselves to surprise him with an event fit for, well, a duke. So far, they'd trotted out half a dozen of the festival's finest, from opera singers to lute players, and though they themselves were tremendously talented—England's best and brightest, to be sure—he didn't particularly like being displayed in a manner not unlike the exhibits at the tower menagerie.

Actually, he took that back. Being on display was ten times better than being at the mercy of the attendees. This was not some London event, where those present were more or less of the same social status and with an ingrained knowledge of propriety. Here, there was a much more diverse population, and his arrival had caused quite an uncomfortable stir.

In fact, in the half hour or so before he'd taken his place of honor, he'd politely ignored at least three eager young women who, despite their lack of proper
introduction, had rather baldly attempted to catch his attention. As though
that
were the way to win the heart of an unmarried duke.

He did understand their enthusiasm—the honor of his station had been engrained in him since birth—but it was difficult to endure such breaks in protocol. In his family, there was nothing more sacred than pomp and circumstance. Whenever he did finally choose a duchess, it would be a woman who understood and respected such things.

His friend scoffed at William's declaration. “Of course you find it unnecessary. Which is why it is such great fun to watch you endure it.” Dering's dark gaze glinted in the candlelight as he gave William a devilish wink. “It's even greater fun to know that, now that you've entered your fourth decade, calling you ‘old man' takes on a frighteningly accurate new meaning.”

“I believe now is a good time to remind you that you are precisely one year younger than me, Dering. Barely perceptible difference, really.” It was good to banter with his long-time friend again. William had been preoccupied—obsessed, really—with his project for too long and had made time for little else.

His friend snorted in amusement. “Perceptible enough for those of us young enough to still be in possession of all our faculties.” A bit of the humor dimmed as he took in William's appearance. “What's happened that should bring you here at this late date? I remember you stating quite clearly that you were entirely too busy working on getting your new mill up and running to attend the festival.”

The muscles of his shoulders instantly tensed. “I'll give you precisely one guess.”

Understanding flooded Dering's features as he shook his head. “And what is dear Lady Radcliffe up to now?”

It was a testament to their friendship that Dering knew exactly what might bring him here. Since the day the old duke had announced his plan to marry Vivian a decade ago, she and William had clashed with each other. His father had been blinded by his lust for the Parisian beauty, and she had wisely kept him dangling after her like some sort of rutting stag by refusing to consummate their relationship until marriage. Once the deed was done, her true colors had been revealed, and William's poor opinion of her had been vindicated.

She had always been her own top priority. She brought no money, no connections, no pedigree to the union. Nor did she bring respect for either the old duke or William. The only positive thing that he could say about her was that the affairs didn't start until his father had died. Once she was a widow, all efforts of keeping up appearances had been tossed to the wind, and he'd been left with the continual task of damage control ever since.

He'd have disowned her from the family years ago if it weren't for Julian and Clarisse, his young half siblings. He'd been raised without his mother, and he'd be damned if he'd allow the same to happen to them. At only five and seven years old, they still had need of her, even if she rarely had need of them. He was literally counting the days until they reached their majority and he could cut ties in good conscience. “She is a master at turning the screw. It's diabolical, really.”

“A new lover, I take it?”

“Not just a new lover,” William said, the words as sharp as his lingering anger. “She's bloody well taken up with Lord Norwich.”

As understanding dawned, Dering's eyes widened
and he dragged a hand down his jaw. “Bloody hell. She really is a piece of work. As is he, for that matter.”

William nodded grimly. He had spent the last six years spearheading the fight to break the East India Company's trade monopoly so that English textiles could get a toehold in the market. Though William had been largely successful, the Company's exclusive trade rights to China remained firmly in place, so there was still more to fight in the next session. His strongly held philosophy was and always would be that the more work was kept in England, the better off her citizens would be.

Norwich, whose fortunes were integrally tied to the Company, had been his biggest opponent in the House of Lords. Who better for Vivian to take up with, then? She seemed to savor her ability to infuriate him.

“So you are here to keep an eye on her?”

“More or less. She could bed the whole of His Majesty's army, for all I care. But I intend to force her to be discreet about it.”

Dering quirked a brow, his faith in such a feat clearly lacking. “How, exactly, do you plan on accomplishing that?”

“Same as every time she does something like this,” William said, the frustration rising in his throat like bile. That woman needed attention like most people needed air. “As soon as I personally confront her, she always backs down. It's the most tiresome cycle in the world, but I can't seem to break it.”

The master of ceremonies climbed the four steps onto the stage then, and the hum of the crowd quieted. William drew a long breath, setting aside his renewed annoyance as best he could.

Dering started to turn toward the stairs, but William called him back with a wave of his hand. “You might as
well stay. Ox that you are, you'll cause a commotion if you try to make your way back to your seat now.”

They settled onto the elegant, almost thronelike wooden chairs and listened as the man on the stage announced the next performance. William straightened in his seat as he realized the trio included the tall blond woman of nearly otherworldly beauty that he'd spotted a few minutes earlier.

The interest that had been diverted by Dering's arrival surged back to the forefront, and he leaned forward for a better look. He was in no mood to be bothered by the fairer sex just then, but exquisiteness such as hers demanded a man's notice, whether he wished it or not.

With her regal bearing, golden skin, long limbs, and an inherent gracefulness that could rival any prima donna, she was exactly the sort of female with whom the
ton
clamored to associate, yet he was positive they had never crossed paths. Given the company she'd kept this evening, she was clearly of the higher echelons of society. How was it they had never met? She should have been on every gossip's tongue and included in every betting book in town as to when and to whom she would marry. She should have been invited to any number of exclusive balls, and danced with only the most eligible of bachelors, including William.

Especially
William. He was England's most eligible bachelor, if the gossip rags were to be believed. So how had this diamond of the first waters managed to escape his notice?

The three women climbed the steps onto the stage, which was already outfitted with a pianoforte as well as another long, wooden instrument William couldn't place. He recognized the other two women. The ginger-haired girl was Viscount Effington's daughter and the short
brunette was one of the Wembley girls. Both decent families with good connections, so it was unlikely they would cleave themselves to someone who wasn't good
ton
.

“Ah, I see you've noticed Miss Bradford.” Dering's low voice reflected a shared appreciation for the lady in question.

So she was a miss, as opposed to a lady. “Bradford, you say?” The name didn't sound familiar.

“Indeed. She's new to Bath. Staying with her aunt, Lady Stanwix.”

William leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. Lady Stanwix. Quality relations, then. The dowager countess was the epitome of a proper English matron. There hadn't been even a whisper of scandal associated with her or her family since he'd been alive. Now that he was thirty, he did need to start thinking of the future. Producing an heir was his number one duty, after all, and he was nothing if not committed to the title. He made a mental note to add her to the list of acceptable candidates for when he was ready to consider such things.

On the stage below, the girls turned to face the crowd and curtsied. He kept his gaze on Miss Bradford, curiosity about the woman burning even brighter now that he knew a bit of her family.

He liked what he saw. The way she held herself showed innate confidence. A comfort in her own skin. Her chin was raised slightly, a soft smile gracing her full, rose-hued lips. And those high, pert breasts that were so tantalizingly swathed in silk?
Perfection.
“Perhaps an introduction is in order.”

He surprised himself with the declaration, but apparently not as much as he surprised his friend. Dering made a suspicious noise—was that choked laughter or just a cleared throat?—but by the time William looked
back at him, his face carried only an expression of mild helpfulness. “Absolutely. I shall be more than happy to oblige.”

William narrowed his eyes. Dering was definitely amused. The tight waver of his voice was a dead giveaway. But before William could question him to ascertain what he was up to, the music began. Shaking his head, he reluctantly turned back to the stage. As clear, resonant notes began filling the hall, he settled back to enjoy the performance.

The Effington girl was at the piano and was performing a solo as the other two appeared to wait for their cue. William blinked, realizing then that Miss Bradford stood behind the odd instrument he had noticed earlier. Its many strings stretched almost the entire length, an odd combination of harp, guitar, and zither.

She raised her fingers over the strings, and he found himself leaning forward, waiting to hear the beautiful music he was certain someone as lovely as she would produce. Already he could imagine a sort of heavenly and ethereal harplike music, fit for God himself. Her hands descended, as graceful as gull wings soaring on the breeze, and then . . .

What in the world?

Twanging, foreign noise—certainly not music—came pouring forth from the instrument, mangling the otherwise impeccable performance of Mozart's masterpiece. It was an abomination. He cut a glance toward Dering, whose fingers were tapping gaily against his thigh as he bobbed his head in time with the beat.

“You can't possibly be enjoying this performance,” William hissed. “It's rubbish!”

His friend's expression changed not at all as he continued to tip his head from side to side. “I knew that
would be your reaction. I think it's bloody brilliant, but you, my friend, are a purist.”

He couldn't be serious. “It was written by a master of the art; of course I'm a purist.”

Dering chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “Well, you are virtually the only one who thinks so. The trio has been quite popular, hence their performance tonight.”

William sat back and crossed his arms, disappointment washing away his interest of only moments ago. Anyone who could take the work of an absolute master and mangle it beyond recognition—not by poor playing, but by willful disfiguring—was of no interest to him.

For several long minutes, he listened with distaste as the twanging notes continued to rake across his nerves. Dering must be mistaken about their popularity. How could anyone think this fine music? But even as William scowled, the audience's approval quickly made itself known as the song came to an end, and muffled, enthusiastic clapping of a thousand gloved hands erupted throughout the room.

After letting out a shrill and highly inappropriate whistle, Dering turned toward William and grinned. “Still looking forward to that introduction?”