by Lisa Kleypas
And when he took his first step, Ivy was certain she felt the quake of it beneath her feet.
“For his tardiness,” the dowager duchess continued, “we should question him ceaselessly about his formula.”
“Duchess, I fear we should not antagonize your nephew,” Lady Cosgrove said, likely in the hopes of making a favorable impression for Lilah’s sake.
Earlier, it had seemed that neither Ivy nor Lilah had made any impression on the duke at all. He hadn’t spoken a single word of acknowledgment. In contrast, Ivy had spoken far too much. While she’d blamed that dratted second cup of tea before, now she was beginning to wonder if it was something else. She tended toward verbosity when she was nervous. Yet what reason could she have for being nervous? She didn’t care what the duke thought of her. All she wanted was to ensure a match for Lilah.
“If there is any person used to criticism, it is my nephew. And he is a stronger man for it.” The dowager duchess’s voice lilted with obvious pride.
Criticism? From what Ivy had heard, he’d inherited the title at the age of fifteen. And from what she saw, he wore the ducal title like a second skin. His stride was sure and direct, his hematite gaze disarming. Who would dare criticize such a man?
That thought aside, however, Ivy wished he would look away, or that a footman would offer him a glass of wine, a wedge of cheese, a fig tart . . . Anything. A frisson of fear dowsed the dizziness, though fear of what, she wasn’t certain. All she knew was that her heart was beating faster now. Moreover, she had the uncanny desire to bolt from the room.
“Ivy, I beg you not to mention my shoes or spill wine on my gown,” Lilah whispered from beside her.
He would be upon them any moment. Even from half the distance of the room away, he stared at Ivy as if she were completely insane. Or possibly as if she’d offended him in some manner. Truly, he looked entirely too bothered by her presence.
“Of course I won’t,” Ivy said, her voice thready and quivering. She was in a state of panic now. “Lilah, please tell me that you see a friend in the crowd—someone with whom you must visit this instant.”
Lilah released a quiet, sardonic laugh. “Whyever for?”
“Pray, do not ask me, because I do not know.” Then, like an answer to a prayer, a footman crossed in front of Ivy, breaking the spell she’d fallen under. Hastily, she took Lilah’s hand, turned, and curtsied to their party. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I only now spied a drop of wine on Lilah’s gown. We must make haste to the retiring room before it stains.”
Even before being dismissed, Ivy hauled her friend away in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going, but she started to feel better immediately.
It wasn’t long before Lilah wrenched out of their clasped hands. “What has come over you today, Ivy? And more importantly, why must my dress be the one with the stain? Yours would be equally ruined by an imaginary splash of wine.”
“But not as noticeable.” Ivy smoothed her hands down the front of her gown, more out of a need to calm herself than to make her point. Her left glove had slipped down her arm again. Drawing it up, she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder to see if the duke had noticed their abrupt departure. “Besides, I needed to ask you what topics you would like to discuss with the duke. There must be certain things you’d want to know about your future husband.”
“Have you gone mad?” Lilah squinted, her brown eyes flashing daggers. “Please tell me now before your assistance in seeing me wed goes any further.”
Ivy drew in a breath. She knew her actions of this day were questionable. Not even she could guess how to explain herself. All she knew was that she needed to keep her distance from the duke until she figured it out.
She drew in a breath, preparing to exhale a slight fabrication of the truth. “I’m almost entirely positive that I’m not mad. However, I have realized, quite suddenly, that I have been neglecting to consider the other gentlemen in attendance. Given the freedom of an informal dinner, we really must take advantage and mingle around the room.”
Lilah’s eyes softened somewhat as she studied Ivy. After a moment, she nodded. “That is perfectly sound reasoning—though perhaps you could have used that as your excuse for our departure instead.”
“If you’ll recall, that was my first attempt when I asked you to find a friend,” Ivy pointed out, lifting a finger as she adjusted her glove once more.
“You gave me two seconds to examine the entire room.”
Ivy offered a half shrug and a grin. “Very well, I forgive you.”
“You are lucky that I am fond of you, otherwise I might accidentally spill an entire glass of wine over your head,” Lilah said all too sweetly.
“Tut tut. No need for theatrics, dearest. From this moment forward, I shall be perfectly sensible.” As long as I stay far away from the duke, Ivy thought. The only problem was, if she continued to avoid the duke, then how could she steer him in Lilah’s direction?
NORTH SPENT THE next hour mingling, just as Aunt Edith had intended. He welcomed nearly all of his guests—all except two. Thus far, Miss Sutherland and her friend with the pinching slippers remained elusive. However, not so elusive that he was unaware of their placement in the room at any given moment.
Even so, while his mind was diverted, he displayed the proper amount of interest in various topics of conversation. During this time, he heard no fewer than four dozen castigating reports on the state of the roads. At least thirty criticisms regarding the inconvenience of house parties at such a time of year. And yet, an unending list of the accomplishments possessed by the debutantes in attendance.
The reason for the last was that many assumed this party was for the purpose of finding a bride for himself. Whether or not they thought his half-commoner blood was inferior to theirs, his title made him irresistible. Once he revealed his true purpose—the final proof of his Marriage Formula—he would soon prove his worth on his own terms.
His guests would be more than delighted. Well, at least the men would be. They were, after all, the ones put upon by all this Season nonsense and pointless courting rituals.
Two years ago, at the club, North had overheard Basilton and Pomeroy speaking of the expenses and inconveniences of each Season. That was what had first given North the idea for the formula. He knew there had to be a simpler method for a gentleman to find a bride whose person and dowry appealed to him. And once North proved his formula, he would finally earn his Fellowship.
To his mind, the formula and his plan provided a universal benefit to society. Edith, however, was not at all convinced that women would want to be partnered by way of a formula instead of a series of parties and balls. He hoped his aunt’s sentiments were not shared by too many others of her sex. He knew that if women gave his formula a chance, they would soon see the brilliance of his plan.
“Why does Aunt Edith appear so cross with you, cousin?” Beside him, Liam Cavanaugh, Earl of Wolford, plucked a fig tart from the tray and ate it in one bite, leaving time enough to reach for another before the footman could get away.
North glanced over a half dozen heads to Edith. Her narrow-eyed gaze was already upon him, and it abruptly snapped to another person in the room—or persons, rather—before it returned to him. This was Edith’s way of pointing out that he’d neglected to greet Miss Sutherland and her friend.
He offered his aunt a nod of understanding. Then, as his gaze skimmed over the crowd, it lingered for a moment on Miss Sutherland, standing not two strides from him. She was turned away, but only just. From his vantage point, he noted the tension in her jaw and the way her eyes darted around the room, searching. He wondered if there was cause for her restlessness, or if she was forever in motion, unable to be still.
While he pondered this, she shifted. The line of her shoulder tilted, drawing his attention to the movement of her arm at her side, and to the glove that slipped down her slender arm. His gaze fixed on the small expanse of milky flesh it revealed.
The tips of
his fingers tingled, making him aware that he’d left his chamber before taking his gloves from his valet. Typically, an idea for a new invention made him absent-minded. This time, however, his preoccupation had been Miss Sutherland’s fault entirely.
After a moment, he forced himself to turn back to Liam. “How do you know Edith isn’t glaring at you instead?”
His cousin failed to subdue the amused smirk that creased one side of his mouth. North and Liam resembled each other enough for one to presume a familial connection. Both were of the same height, build, and age. Both had the same dark brows and dark hair, but that was where their similarities ended.
Liam wore his hair at a length befitting a man of leisure and overindulgence. More than that, his reputation for excess was well earned. He was fortunate that dissolution had not marred his more refined features. Or dulled the glint of mischief ever-present in his green eyes.
Most important, however, was their final dissimilarity—if Liam had been born just one month sooner, he would have become the Duke of Vale without the barest hint of disapproval.
“Because she likes me better,” Liam said, nudging North with his elbow.
North had always suspected as much. After all, he did not possess what some might call a warm, engaging personality. “Where is your usual coterie? I thought both Thayne and Marlowe expressed an interest in the ascending room I’ve built in the east wing. Of course, with Burton and Hormer’s design marginally flawed, I felt the need to modify the pulley system to my standards.”
“Had I half your brain, all of London would be my playground.” Liam shook his head and tsked as if in regret.
North lifted his brows. “You mean to say that it isn’t already?”
“Hmm . . . a third, perhaps,” Liam said with a thoughtful nod. “As you might have guessed, Marlowe will not attend. Once he learned that the Earl of Dovermere was due to attend with the eldest of his eight daughters, he changed his plans.”
It was common knowledge that Jack Marlowe was Dovermere’s illegitimate son. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, Marlowe had never had the acceptance of society. Criticism over a less-than-acceptable birth was something both he and North had in common. “An oversight, though I’m sure Edith meant well. Since Dovermere was a friend of our late uncle’s, she merely wants father and son to reconcile.”
“As for the estimable Marquess Thayne, he and his mother will arrive on the morrow. As of yet, he does not know that Lady Granworth has chosen your party to reemerge into society. Something tells me that Thayne will be quite surprised. After all, everyone remembers the scandal between the two of them . . .”
North barely heard his cousin speaking. Like earlier today, his mind abruptly stopped. Everything around him slowed, voices merged into a collective murmur, the room seemed to darken everywhere but where Miss Sutherland stood. And for an instant, he caught her staring in his direction.
Even from this distance, he saw her shocked expression clearly—a delicate movement in her throat, the widening of her pale eyes, and the first tinge of bright red to her cheeks. In the way her lips parted, he saw rather than heard her small gasp.
All of a sudden, he wanted to hear that sound. Taste it. Feel her breasts rise on a swift intake of air as he hauled her into his embrace. The weight of arousal dropped swift and low inside him, like the sudden plummet of a sandbag at the end of a rope. She turned away quickly, but the result didn’t alter. He still felt that inexplicable, heavy desire for her.
Before he returned his attention to Liam—who now, strangely enough, spoke of a pair of draft horses he’d purchased solely for the journey on the off chance of a heavy snowfall—North watched Miss Sutherland pull up her glove once more.
That glove. Watching it slip down, inch by inch, was like the veil dance he’d witnessed during his travels to India. Only this was much slower and, surprisingly, more erotic. He was becoming obsessed with the flesh hidden beneath that glove. He wanted to dip his fingers inside and peel the garment from her arm.
“What are your thoughts on the matter?” Liam asked.
North didn’t hesitate to respond. “I wonder why you didn’t purchase a sleigh instead. The vehicle’s performance on snowy terrain is unsurpassed.”
“Hmph. I thought you weren’t listening,” Liam said with a smirk, his gaze skimming to Miss Sutherland’s general direction and then back again.
She slipped her arms behind her back and thrummed her fingers together. Once more, her glove slid down. North grabbed a glass of merlot from a passing tray, downed it in one swallow, and replaced the empty glass before the footman was out of arm’s reach.
North made sure his expression was perfectly bland. “Have I given the appearance of rudeness or preoccupation?”
“No,” his cousin answered, scrutinizing him. “And you never do. It’s just that most of the time, I have the feeling that your mind is busy on other tasks.”
An astute observation, North mused. Perhaps both he and Liam shared another similarity. However, North wasn’t about to admit anything. He didn’t have to—he was the duke. “I believe that we should speak with Edith and find out which one of us has earned her censure.”
“I already know it isn’t me,” Liam said with a grin before he set off on a direct path toward their aunt.
North, however, took a slight detour.
Unable to fight the urge, he walked in Miss Sutherland’s direction. At the same time, he calculated the nearest footman’s route. Just as he’d anticipated, both the footman and he arrived in the narrow path behind her in the same instant. Then, in the second that transpired, he graciously allowed his servant to pass, while he himself skirted within a hairsbreadth of Miss Sutherland, his front to her back.
There was no time for an exchange. Or even for him to make his presence known. There was only time for a breath—filled with the sweet scent of persimmons perfuming her simple coiffure—and a single touch.
The pad of his index finger grazed the warm, soft flesh of her arm and dipped, ever so slightly, beneath the cuff of her glove.
A hedonistic shudder wracked him in that briefest of moments. And he was already several steps away before he heard her gasp.
Chapter Three
“I DO NOT WISH to be late to the concert,” Lilah said from the door to their chamber the following evening. “Aunt Zinnia would not be pleased. She left a quarter of an hour ago.”
In the dressing room, Ivy hunted for her other slipper. It had to be here, somewhere beneath the array of petticoats, stockings, and chemises strewn about. She’d seen it only a moment ago . . . “Since your aunt prides herself on pedestrianism, she must leave inordinately early. We, on the other hand, have no qualms over employing a quick pace when the need arises.”
Ah ha! She spotted the blue silk toe peeking out from beneath the chair in the corner. Rushing over, she snatched it and slipped it on as she hopped toward the bedchamber.
“It may sound strange to your ears, Ivy, but some of us prefer not to arrive winded and gasping for breath . . .” Lilah’s friendly scolding stopped when Ivy appeared. “I thought you asked the maid to press your sea-green gown for this evening.”
Ivy smoothed her hands down the fine blue satin and adjusted the darker velvet sash beneath her breasts. That same velvet trimmed her sleeves, hem and bodice. Where the red gown last evening had helped her feel confident, this gown made her feel calm. Right now, she needed as much calm as she could manage. “I changed my mind. Sea green is such a turbulent color. I don’t think it suits me.”
Lilah laughed but kept her comment to herself. “You will be wearing gloves this evening, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Yet at the mention of gloves, Ivy felt her face heat. She turned away from Lilah and crossed the room toward the bed. Surreptitiously, she withdrew the folded pair of evening gloves that she’d tucked beneath her pillow last night. Slowly, she pulled them on.
All day long, she’d been trying not to think about the duke’s inadvertent touch
last evening. The problem was, not thinking about it turned into thinking about it. Often. And in those moments, she’d come to the conclusion that his touch had not been an accident. The swift, warm graze of his flesh against hers had felt entirely too purposeful. Not to mention intimate. Especially when he’d delved beneath.
Ivy glanced down at the underside of her arm, certain that a mark had been left behind. She could still feel the path his finger had taken. Still feel the hot frenzy of tingles beneath her flesh. Incomprehensible though it seemed, her pale skin was unmarked by anything other than the appearance of a long blue vein. That vein must, assuredly, lead to her heart, because its rapid palpitations kept tempo with the tingles.
When Ivy walked to the door, Lilah eyed her with speculation. “Do you always keep your gloves beneath your pillow?”
“I didn’t want to misplace them. After all, I knew you’d be in a rush,” Ivy answered on a single breath, hoping to distract her friend. Then, linking arms with Lilah, she made haste down the corridor. If they didn’t hurry, they would surely be late for the concert.
“That I’d be in a . . .” Lilah stopped on a huff, slipping free of Ivy. “You know very well that I value punctuality, whereas you are the one making us tardy.”
Ivy tossed a grin over her shoulder. Occasionally it was easy to fluster and distract her friend at the same time. “If that is true, then why am I four steps ahead of you?”
Lilah wanted to be cross—Ivy could tell by the set of her jaw—but in the end she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and mouthed the word incorrigible, giving up a smile in the process. Yet there was something altogether mischievous in that small curl of her lips. “Perhaps because you are heading in the wrong direction. Again. Therefore, I am four steps—now five, six—ahead of you.”
This time, Ivy was the one who stopped. Sure enough, she peered down the corridor in the direction she was heading and saw a narrow window in the distance. Drat! This castle had her turned completely around. “Perhaps I know of a shortcut.”
