Scandalizing the Duke

by Leslie V. Knowles

  She caught that lower lip between her teeth again and he looked away from the temptation to nibble that lip himself. Unfortunately, his gaze settled on the neckline of her gown and heated his inappropriate thoughts even more. Despite its modest cut, it allowed him an intriguing glimpse at the shadowed depths between her breasts.

  "Is the Earl of Grantley here this evening?"

  He pulled his gaze from her neckline and realized her eyes had cleared and she’d formed a new plan of action. She didn’t give up easily, which only confirmed his suspicion that if one title didn’t appear, she’d seek another. He was disappointed to be right. Would it matter to her that Grantley had inherited his title when his elder brother had taken a fall in a drunken horse race and would likely come to a similar end?

  "You wish me to introduce you to him as well?"

  "If you would be so kind," she said with a smile that set his teeth on edge. "And the Earl of Marley, too, if you would."

  Good Lord, did she have a list?

  CHAPTER 3

  He repressed huff of exasperation.

  Obviously, she had searched Debrett's in anticipation of the Season. Though the book chronicled title and lineage, it did not reveal finances, temperament or character faults. Marley was a year older than Grantley and had developed a tendency to gambling beyond his means of late.

  Despite her branch of the family's lack of distinction, both she and her sister deserved better than the futures those men were likely to provide. He caught his thoughts in surprise. That was her father’s responsibility, not his. Lucien had enough on his own plate.

  He avoided her gaze and surveyed the crowded ballroom. "May I remind you that I do not play matchmaker for my sister's friends."

  She nodded and smiled before saying, "Again, Your Grace, I do not ask you to. An introduction makes no commitment between either party, it only opens the door for exploration and options." She raised her gaze to his and he recognized that she sincerely, if naively, believed what she said when she continued. "You are in no way responsible for the choices either party makes after that."

  It was apparent she had no idea how disastrous an inappropriate introduction could be to a lady's reputation, let alone her virtue, in the company of a scoundrel. "I am if I knowingly put an innocent on the road to ruin."

  "Are Everham, Grantley and Marley so dangerous to a lady's reputation?" she countered. “From what you have indicated, Everham's greatest deterrent is a love of animals that may border on obsession."

  "Not, perhaps, in the literal sense,” Wolverton admitted, "but they are unlikely to make stable marriage partners."

  "I thought you didn’t care for matchmaking."

  "I don’t."

  "But it‘s as much a form of matchmaking to reject possible suitors as it is to select them." Again, she focused her determined gray gaze on his. "So as such, you should introduce those who request introduction and let the parties involved decide their fate... not you."

  Balderdash.

  "If I make no introductions, I make no such distinctions."

  He would not put his sister’s friend in the way of any male. Her naive boldness revealed her inexperience, a quality that less honorable men would be quick to exploit. She circled him as the dance steps dictated and he admitted the chit was a delectable innocent who would tempt a cleric into scandal.

  He cleared his throat.

  "Other than for my sisters, I take no part in the matrimonial games and strategies of the Season. I leave introductions to their mother. I step in only should there be question of propriety or suitability."

  They danced in cool silence for some moments after that. Eventually he recovered his manners and sought a new direction of conversation. He nodded to where her sister Elizabeth and Ravencliffe dipped and circled to the music. "I see your sister is dancing. I was led to believe she was not so inclined."

  "It’s not that she’s unwilling," Miss Longborough responded. "It’s more that she is seldom asked a second time."

  He turned his head to observe that Miss Longborough's sister moved with grace and obvious enjoyment. "She does not appear to be clumsy," he commented, "and she knows the steps."

  "Ah, but does her partner appear charmed or disgruntled, Your Grace?" .

  Ravencliffe's expression did appear somewhat disconcerted. "I'm not sure." he admitted. "Is it her conversation?"

  "It shouldn't be, but I suspect it is. In general discussion, she contains herself to the usual subjects of the weather and upcoming social events. But she’s told me that when dancing, many gentlemen make the mistake of asking about her interests... and she tells them." Her eyes gleamed when she told him, "Elizabeth has unusual interests.”

  The dance separated them, and Lucien absorbed his partner's explanation. When the dance brought them back together, he asked, "How unusual? What are they?"

  "She likes tools." She grinned at his involuntary start of surprise. "Her embroidery is appalling, but her wood carving is exquisite."

  Lucien wondered now who was being less than truthful. He shot a glance over to the petite woman who circled her partner and found he could not picture her—or any other woman of his acquaintance for that matter—wielding saws, chisels, or whatever other tools were involved in woodworking. "She...er...makes wooden objects?" Perhaps he had misunderstood.

  "Wood is as much a passion for her as,” her face lit with mischief, "raising dogs is for the Duke of Everham."

  Lucien gazed into the slate gray eyes that should have reflected the coolness of stone but that sparkled with amusement and life. Without thought, he asked, "And what is your passion, Miss Longborough?"

  Her eyes blinked and a dusky rose tinted her cheeks before washing her neck and shoulders. He knew that faint flush traveled well beyond those soft shoulders, and he had to check his sudden urge to haul her off the dance floor to find a secluded area in which to discover her rosy warmth. Dear, God. He certainly had more control than that. What was it about this young woman that raised his lust at the same time as she trampled on his dignity?

  Her gaze met his, first with question, then it sharpened. "I enjoy gardening." Her voice held a note of restrained civility that revealed her irritation. The warmth of her expression had chilled to the stone cold of slate after all, and Lucien discovered that his sister's friend was not quite so frivolous as he'd believed. The chit might be naïve, but she was no fool, and his response to her far too inappropriate for a respectable miss.

  Silence hung between them while he searched for an innocuous response. In the end he could only say, "Then you do not share your sister's unusual interests?"

  "I may not share them," she murmured quietly, "but I enjoy the fruits of her labor."

  Thankfully, the music finally ended, and he was able to escort her back to her aunt. He bowed to them, took his leave, then scanned the ballroom for his missing half-brother. His irritation at his wayward thoughts refocused onto Tristan. He had eventually sent Lucien word he would attend their sister’s ball, so where the devil was he?

  THANKFULLY, AUNT POPPY was in conversation with Lady Littlemarsh and paid Charlotte no attention once the duke was gone. Charlotte watched the duke with a mixture of irritation and confusion while he crossed the room, and decided the man was as annoyingly pompous as they came. Except for that startling question about her passions, he had held himself in aloof disapproval simply because she had asked him to introduce her to a few eligible gentlemen.

  She bit her lip and admitted that perhaps she’d overstepped propriety there. If she couldn’t introduce herself to a gentleman, though, why couldn’t she ask someone to do it for her? Was that why he’d asked about her passions? Did he think her common?

  At first, she'd believed his question flirtatious and a little scandalous. But then she'd realized he expected her confess something vulgar—like performing acrobatics upon the stage. Her ignominious catastrophe in the park made him think she was some hoyden with no sense of propriety or dignity. Dignity, humph. The man ha
d enough dignity for everyone in this overcrowded ballroom. And what's more—

  "Charlotte?" Elizabeth's voice interrupted her indignant thoughts. "Charlotte, why are you scowling like that? "

  Charlotte suddenly remembered exactly where she was. "I wasn't scowling." She smiled to give credence to her claim, and asked, "So how did you enjoy your dance with Lord Ravencliffe?"

  Elizabeth laughed before she took Charlotte's arm and led her to some chairs along the wall, "Far more than he did, I'm afraid. He asked the usual things about how I liked town, and did I enjoy the lovely spring weather, but he eventually asked how I spend my free time." She gave a rueful little shake of her head. "I truly tried to keep our conversation on acceptable topics. But when he asked me about embroidery and painting, I had to confess how wretched I was at such activities... and he kept asking." She hesitated, then her expression turned sheepish and she blurted. "So, I told him."

  She chuckled. "He was more polite about it than some of the gentlemen who've asked. He merely made a slight misstep and paled before recovering himself. He even rather kindly asked about my current project."

  At that moment, Ravencliffe came into view. He neared the cardroom, followed by a rather boisterous younger man chortling over something that had been said before they came within hearing distance.

  "When I saw you stand up with the Longborough Amazon I knew you would be unable to suppress your shock when she spoke of oak woods versus walnuts or—“ He gave a choked laugh. "Whatever else she took it in her head was fit conversation for a ballroom. Last year Lord Alton quit the floor in the middle of the set, he was so appalled."

  Elizabeth gasped and turned pale. It was all Charlotte could do to remain seated, but she didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.

  The earl responded with apparent bored disinterest. "I agree the talk of carving and polishing various woods was most unusual. However, the lady is hardly an Amazon. If anything, she is quite petite and dances most gracefully."

  His mild disclaimer didn’t slow the man’s commentary. "She is a freak of nature," he assured the earl. "I hear her sister's making her come-out this year. I wonder if she's as strange." He shook his head. "I doubt it, though. There couldn't be two freaks in one family." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Though there is word of taint in the line so perhaps they are all freaks."

  The two men reached the card room and their voices faded from hearing. Charlotte turned to her sister with dismay. Elizabeth stood stiffly, her face ashen. "Oh Elizabeth, pay no attention to that oaf. He is obviously no gentleman."

  "Oh, but he is." She gazed at Charlotte, her eyes suspiciously moist. She firmed her lips. "That was Lord Marshburn, the Earl of Dovehurst's heir. He is not the only gentleman to have expressed similar sentiments, nor, as you heard, is he the first to react quite so publicly."

  Lords Alton and Marshburn were two more names to cross off her list, Charlotte decided without regret.

  In all Elizabeth’s stories about the glories of a London Season, her sister had never once mentioned the Lord who had left her standing abandoned on the dance floor. How humiliating. Charlotte’s heart ached now that she understood the pain Elizabeth had hidden beneath rueful humor whenever she'd regaled her sisters with stories about her failed Season.

  Elizabeth straightened her spine and adjusted her gloves. "I wish I could pretend to be a proper miss long enough to capture someone's interest, but neither do I wish to pretend to be someone I am not."

  Charlotte linked her arm with her sister's and drew her from the room. "Mama taught us to worry less about what people expect and more about being ourselves,” she reminded her. "You are perfect exactly the way you are. You have a unique gift, and any man who does not see that is not worthy of you. That oaf is not worthy of anyone, let alone a woman of unique quality."

  She steered Elizabeth down the wide hall. "Let’s pay a visit to the ladies retiring room to wash our hands before joining the others in the ballroom. I believe Mr. Hook asked for the next set, did he not?"

  Charlotte was grateful to find the retiring room empty. Both she and Elizabeth needed time to calm themselves before returning to the ballroom. Charlotte hated that people considered Elizabeth odd simply because she preferred woods to embroidery threads.

  Elizabeth took advantage of the basin to cool her flushed face then turned to Charlotte with what Charlotte recognized as a determined smile. "Don’t worry about me," she said. "I refuse to let the small minds of pompous men ruin my enjoyment of the Season’s entertainments. If that means that I sit with Aunt Poppy as an observer when we attend balls, then so be it."

  Charlotte gave her sister a hug. "There has to be someone special for you. It may be that such a man will not be found in the fashionable ballrooms, but in some of the other places of intellect and variety London provides. Perhaps Uncle Aubrey could escort us to a scientific lecture or demonstration one day."

  At that moment, a reed-thin woman in her late twenties entered the room and crossed to another of the basins. Her bright rose gown was dirt smudged and she held her right wrist tightly to her middle. She kept her face averted from them while she poured fresh water into the bowl with her other hand. The pitcher slipped and she automatically tried to catch it before it fell. When she did, she gave an involuntary exclamation of pain at the movement and water sloshed from the pitcher, splashing her gown before she was able to return it to the table.

  Charlotte and Elizabeth hurried to her side. "Are you alright?"

  The woman shook her head in denial. "It is nothing.” She once again cradled her wrist against her body. "I—I merely—” She stopped. She closed her eyes briefly, then spoke in a calm, low and firm manner. "I injured my wrist in a fall in the garden when I went out for a respite from the heat. It is not serious, but I wanted to soak it in some cool water for a few moments." She gave them a tentative smile. "I did not realize how heavy the pitcher was."

  "Are you sure that’s all?" Elizabeth asked. "Perhaps we should have Her Grace summon a physician to be sure it isn’t broken."

  At this, the lady's face blanched and her voice took on a note of panic. "No, please do not disturb our hostess. Truly, it is but a minor hurt of the moment and will be fine. I beg you return to the dancing without further concern."

  The woman’s agitation made Charlotte believe there was more to her story than she'd told them. She said she had been in the garden, and Aunt Poppy had been quite clear from the moment they'd arrived that they were not to go beyond the terrace of this or any ballroom for any reason. Had someone assaulted the woman in some way? The panic in her voice seemed more than concern about making a scene in a public place.

  "My husband was with me when I fell, and he encouraged me to soak my wrist while he called for our carriage. He will be waiting for me in the hall as soon as he has made the arrangements.” The woman shot a nervous glance at the doorway. “Please. I thank you for your concern, but I shall soon be home."

  It was clear that their continued presence made her more uncomfortable than the pain from her wrist.

  "If you insist," Elizabeth acquiesced, "we’ll go."

  As they quit the room Charlotte surveyed the hallway and did, indeed, spy a gentleman speaking to one of the footmen. Charlotte caught her breath and cold shock froze her lungs. He wore his light brown hair in the latest style and dressed in the black and white of fashionable peer instead of the ordinary clothes of a land steward, but nothing else about him had changed.

  She’d not been mistaken that day in the park.

  The man in the hallway was Albert Franklin as surely as her name was Charlotte Longborough.

  She hadn’t seen him since she was eight years old, but she recognized the man who’d locked her in a tool shed and threatened her life before letting her out hours later. The injured woman they'd left said he was her husband—so he had married again. And the woman’s injured wrist told Charlotte he had not changed in any other way.

  Charlotte had, though, and when they pa
ssed him in the hall, she averted her face to avoid giving herself away.

  He was a guest of the Wolvertons. Would she be able to avoid being introduced to him? What would he do when he realized who she was? She was no longer a child.

  Would anyone believe her now?

  CHAPTER 4

  Lucien moved through the crowd away from the Longborough chit, his progress slowed by various guests who approached him. His sister’s ball was the lauded crush that hostesses craved, and he had learned to hate. Too many people, too many gossips, too many expectations. Most of the guests had a daughter, sister, or cousin of marriageable age.

  By the time he reached the other side of the room, he’d decided that this year's crop of hopeful young ladies must be the largest on record. Tall, short, plump or lean as greyhounds, each of them had a female relative with determination, and the erroneous belief that he needed a wife and full nursery.

  He had enough obligations. In addition to his sisters and stepmother, there were the numerous estates to run and his responsibilities to the House of Lords. He didn't resent his duties but chose not to add to them. He maintained a polite facade when faced with hopeful mamas and their giggling, simpering charges, of course, but kept the contacts as brief and distant as possible. He prayed his sister did not simper when out of his sight. He glanced away from Lady Ormsby’s giggling daughter to where Anne smiled serenely at the gentlemen vying for her attention. She wouldn't dare do so in his company.

  Charlotte Longborough does not simper.

  The thought renewed his irritation. Neither did she show proper awareness of demure behavior. She must have a list. And surely no proper lady prepared a list of marital prospects. He looked around the ballroom at all the hopeful faces, then admitted the truth. They all did. Or at least their mothers did.

  Nevertheless, proper young ladies did not brazenly request introductions to one man while dancing with another. Everham, Grantley and Marley of all people. Not, he assured himself, that he was offended that she clearly did not include him on the list. That assurance brought him up short. Why would he care if he were on her list? Too many ladies already made it clear his name was on theirs. He selected a glass of champagne from a passing footman and took a thoughtful sip. Even so, he was surprised to note the idea stung. Why wasn’t he on her list?