Her Night with the Duke

by Diana Quincy

  “The duke moves with such grace,” gushed Mrs. Paget, a neighbor whose estate bordered Devon’s. She was a small round woman in her forties attired in swathes of bright yellow flounces that threatened to swallow her up.

  Leela’s heart beat hard against her ribs. Elliot stood tall, his bearing proud in a muted Mazarine blue tailcoat, tan waistcoat and black pantaloons tucked into gleaming boots. The sun’s shadows cut across a strong nose, sharply angled cheeks and an inscrutable expression. Uncommonly graceful for a man of his size, the duke’s long, solid legs moved through the steps with skill and ease.

  He danced the way he’d made love to her at the Black Swan. Bright energy tempered by a certain languor, his warm body sliding against hers with effortless control. But here on the dance floor, his movements lacked the passion, and the possibility of complete sensual abandon, that had so taken Leela’s breath away.

  The remembered sensation of Elliot moving inside of her, the sublimity of being intimately joined with him, rolled through her body. Heat suffused her as if she’d been dropped into a pot of scalding water. Mortified, Leela forced her eyes away from the duke.

  She focused on Tori instead. Attired in a periwinkle gown that enhanced her singular eyes, the girl was more than a match for the duke. This afternoon, she was a vision of gracious beauty, light on her feet, effortlessly keeping in step to music. Tori had always excelled at her dance lessons.

  “It is like they are gold and silver, with her light hair and his dark golden curls,” proclaimed Aunt Helene, a steely woman, tall and bony, with a helmet of white hair. “Such beautiful English coloring. I do hope Victoria protects her lovely pale complexion against the sun once they have finished dancing.”

  As if to punctuate her point, Aunt Helene propped the parasol shielding her higher above her head. Not that it was necessary. All of the ladies, including Leela and Aunt Helene, were wearing wide-rimmed bonnets.

  Guests streamed across Lambert Hall’s velvety green lawn. Well-dressed gentlemen escorted ladies wearing vibrant afternoon dresses in various shades of pink, peach, blue and yellow. Some visitors settled in cozy seats in the shade of the majestic oak trees, where they could take in the excellent view of splendid landscaped gardens.

  “Who is that imposing-looking gentleman with the scowl on his face?” asked Baroness Wallace, a woman of advanced years who was Aunt Helene’s constant companion. An elaborate arrangement of feathers on her bonnet quivered when she spoke. “Do you see who I mean? The dark-haired gentleman over there by himself.”

  The stranger in question dressed severely in black and possessed a long, elegant face punctuated by a sharp nose. He was attractive, despite his harsh features. Standing in the shade of an old oak, the man had positioned himself quite apart from the other guests.

  “That is Viscount Griffin,” Aunt Helene said. “He is a particular friend of the duke’s.”

  “Viscount Griffin?” Mrs. Paget stared at the man. “Not the young man they say killed his parents?”

  “Nothing was ever proven,” Aunt Helene responded in a high-handed manner. “As a friend of the Duke of Huntington, he is most welcome here.”

  Leela suppressed a snort. The older lady would happily entertain the Ratcliffe Highway murderer—who’d killed seven people in Wapping a few years back—in order to land a duke for Tori.

  “I believe Griffin has yet to wed,” one of the other matrons remarked, “despite his title and fortune.”

  “Who would dare?” asked another guest. “Falling asleep in his presence could be detrimental to one’s health.” Some of the older ladies tittered.

  Baroness Wallace’s attention returned to the swirling couples. “I do believe this is Huntington and Lady Victoria’s second dance. Do you suppose the duke will ask her for a third?”

  “I would not be surprised,” said Aunt Helene. “His Grace has all but declared his intentions.”

  Anxiety coiled in Leela’s stomach. A third dance with Tori would be tantamount to Elliot publicly confirming his betrothal.

  Mrs. Paget’s eyes gleamed. “I have heard that perhaps the Earl of Devon will announce his sister’s betrothal before everyone returns to London on Monday.”

  “Now, now.” Aunt Helene looked very smug. “We will all just have to wait and see.”

  The old lady must know a betrothal was all but certain. Unless Tori changed her mind. Which might happen if the young woman spent enough time with Elliot. Would she decide the two of them did not suit? Leela’s stomach dipped. What if they did suit?

  Whatever happened, Leela wasn’t going to allow idle gossip to force Tori into a loveless marriage. The girl had a good head on her shoulders. She just needed time to come to the correct decision.

  You’re just jealous. Was she? Leela had had a full day to ponder that possibility. But she dismissed it. Obviously, she was physically attracted to Elliot. Their night at the Black Swan, and her body’s involuntary reaction to the man just now, conclusively proved that. But there were no emotions involved. She wasn’t even certain she liked the man. She’d probably forget all about him the moment she took another lover. Which she would do, if necessary.

  Tori’s happiness was her goal. If the young woman truly came to love the duke, and if Elliot could return her feelings, Leela would simply resume traveling the world. And when she was in London, she’d visit with Tori, just the two of them, when the duke was absent. But first, Tori must be given every opportunity to make the choice that was right for her.

  “Surely all of this talk of a betrothal is premature,” Leela said.

  Aunt Helene glared at her. “No, it is not.” She, like Edgar, had never quite forgiven her brother for making Leela his countess. “You have been away in foreign lands for so long. Naturally you would not be caught up on the happenings this Season.”

  “Foreign lands?” Mrs. Paget inquired. “Where did you go?”

  “I spent most of my time in a town just a few miles outside of Jerusalem.” Leela shifted in her chair. Calling attention to her background while in formal company made her uneasy. Mama had spent her married life avoiding all mention of her Arab roots, and would be appalled to hear her daughter speak of them now. “I was acquainting myself with my mother’s side of the family.”

  Mrs. Paget’s eyes widened. “Jerusalem? You traveled to the Levant?”

  “Ah, yes,” Baroness Wallace put in. “I do remember hearing that your mother was . . . erm . . . not English.”

  “She was not,” Leela acknowledged. Papa had been eager to make his marchioness a British subject, which required a private act of parliament. But Mama absolutely refused to participate in the process. Lady Brandon felt pursuing the matter would embarrass Papa by calling attention to his marchioness’s foreign blood. Besides, Mama was English in every way that mattered, from her dress and manners, to her perfect polished command of the King’s English.

  “Do your mother’s people live in tents?” Mrs. Paget inquired.

  “No, they live in houses made of stone.” Leela was accustomed to these sorts of inquiries. They were polite on the surface, but the underlying intent was to point out that Leela was different. “Some are built around a shared central courtyard that all of the rooms open up to.”

  The Bedouins, pastoralists who never stayed in any one place for long, did live in tents made of goat’s hair or sheep’s wool. However, in towns and villages like Al-Bireh, where her uncles, aunts and cousins lived, people resided in solid structures. Mama’s relations lived in houses made of limestone, but the less prosperous, such as her dragoman, constructed homes with bricks made of mud and straw.

  “In many ways, the accommodations are not terribly unlike what we are used to here, although they are certainly not as grand as Lambert Hall,” Leela added.

  “Naturally.” Aunt Helene made a skeptical sound. “I am sure your people live in homes that are nothing like ours.”

  Leela’s cheeks warmed. She ignored the older lady’s jab. She’d heard it all before. The co
nstant reminders that she didn’t belong, even if her father had been a marquess. She might hold the title of countess, but Leela’s merchant connections and warm skin tone guaranteed she’d never completely blend in.

  She returned to the subject weighing on her mind. “I do hope Lady Victoria will take her time and not be rushed into an unconsidered decision.”

  The other women gaped at her as if she’d suddenly grown two heads. Baroness Wallace blinked. “Perhaps Lady Devon is unaware that the Duke of Huntington is the catch of the Season. He can have any girl he desires. It would be the honor of Lady Victoria’s life to be singled out by His Grace.”

  Leela lifted her chin. “I am inclined to think my stepdaughter is the prize of the Season and any gentleman would be most fortunate to be accepted by her.”

  “How kind of you to say.” Aunt Helene’s icy words could freeze the Jordan River. “But now that Lady Victoria’s dear papa has met his demise, her blood family will see to the girl’s best interests.”

  Biting back a retort, Leela returned her attention to the dancing couples only to discover the duke had quitted the dance floor. Tori had a new partner, a slender fellow who was only slightly taller than the girl. He moved awkwardly, a stark contrast to the assured grace of Tori’s previous partner.

  “Who is that dancing with Lady Victoria?” she inquired.

  “He’s a nobody,” Aunt Helene answered irritably. “One of the duke’s employees. His secretary, I believe. Now that Victoria is likely to become a duchess, she really must be more selective in her associations.”

  Leela had had enough of Aunt Helene. “Excuse me. I’m feeling rather parched. I shall go and get some lemonade.” She wandered away, relieved to escape Aunt Helene and her cronies. She treaded over thick carpets the servants had rolled out to keep the ladies’ hems and shoes clean.

  The refreshments were laid out in a white tent set up for the occasion. Long tables covered by white cloths offered an abundant feast, silver platters piled with breads, biscuits, cakes, sandwiches and pyramids of stacked fruit including peaches and apricots. Leela bypassed the coffee, tea and claret. She considered indulging in an ice. Deciding against the icy treat, she reached to pour herself a glass of lemonade.

  “Allow me.”

  Leela immediately recognized the deep masculine voice. Chills sprinkled down her back as Elliot came up from behind her and reached for the carafe to pour her drink. She had a fleeting sense of body heat and the remembered scent of warm male skin before he took care to put distance between them. “I can manage,” she said stiffly.

  “I am sure you can. After all, I have seen how well you handle a knife.” He held the lemonade out to her, taking great care to ensure that their fingers did not touch. His serious gaze met hers. “We cannot avoid each other forever, Leela.”

  She tried to breathe through the sensation that wild horses were stampeding on her heart. “Perhaps not. But we can, and must, maintain our distance from each other.”

  Up close, the navy-gray of his tailcoat brought out the deep blue in his eyes. It was her first good look at the man since she’d discovered his true identity. All at once he felt both familiar and like a stranger. The same, yet entirely different.

  At the inn, he’d worn an easy smile, carelessly tousled hair and time-worn clothing. The man before her was anything but relaxed. He stood impossibly upright. Everything about him spoke of containment—the slickly tamed hair, tight lips and formfitting expensive clothing exquisitely tailored to his masculine frame.

  “And don’t call me Leela,” she added in a sharp whisper. “What if someone hears you? You must take care to refer to me as Lady Devon.”

  “Lady Devon.” He spoke her name with quiet gentleness. “I accept all blame for what has occurred.”

  “As if that makes any difference,” she said softly, stealing a glance at the two footmen attending to the refreshments. She paused, waiting until they filled a tray with glasses of lemonade. The two servants departed with the drinks, leaving Leela and Huntington alone in the tent. “Our behavior was abominable.”

  “We didn’t know. Otherwise . . .”

  “You were on your way to visit the woman you hope to marry.” Regret panged through her. “If only you’d remained true to Victoria.”

  He reddened. “I was not yet betrothed. I am still not.”

  “It is my fault as much as yours.”

  “I understand why you might be feeling guilty about what happened between us—”

  “Is that so? Why? Because I am a woman? A strumpet?”

  “Certainly not.” His eyes were warm, the words low and intimate. “I could never think of you in that way.”

  An answering heat flooded her body before quickly giving way to panic. She could not allow him to summon these sensations in her. There could be nothing between her and Elliot. No softness, no murmured conversations or stolen glances. Any private words, understandings or gestures were a betrayal of Tori.

  “Well, that is a relief.” She hardened her tone, resolved to drive a necessary wedge between them. “After all, I am not the one who behaved dishonorably.”

  Surprise lit his eyes. “I understand you are overset.”

  “The truth is the truth.”

  “If a man insulted me so, he would find himself facing the business end of a pistol at dawn.”

  She forced the words out. “That’s certainly an effective way to make sure you don’t have to take responsibility.”

  His face clouded. She’d provoked him. Good.

  “I am not a married man. I am not even officially betrothed,” he hissed in a low voice. “It is perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to take a woman to bed under those circumstances. Do not blame me if you are having misgivings about your part in this. As I recall, you were no innocent miss that evening.”

  She gasped. “Why you—” His words hurt her to her core, enveloping her like a giant wave throwing her off her feet and knocking the words out of her. She understood all too well what he left unsaid. That his behavior was perfectly acceptable for a man, while Leela had played the part of a lightskirt. Were those his true feelings?

  “There you are!” Tori’s delighted voice floated between them. “Delilah, I see you’ve found the duke.”

  Leela struggled to keep her voice even. “I certainly have.”

  Tori’s gaze bounced from Leela to the duke and back again. “I do . . . hope . . . you are becoming better acquainted.”

  “Indeed.” Elliot’s cool eyes were on Leela. “I am beginning to know your dear stepmama so much better.”

  “Are you well, Leela?” Tori asked. “You are flushed. I do hope you are not with fever again.”

  She avoided Elliot’s gaze. “Actually, I do feel a bit nauseous.”

  “Oh no!” Tori exclaimed. “I had so hoped you were feeling better. Was it something you ate?”

  Leela nodded. “I have consumed something terribly foul.”

  “Have you now?” There was an edge to Elliot’s voice.

  “Indeed.” She smiled, closemouthed and insincere. “I cannot tell you how much I regret it. There are times something looks particularly appealing, but when you indulge you realize it is not at all what you expected.”

  He returned a chilly smile. “I know that feeling of regret and distaste very, very well.”

  Tori’s perplexed gaze skittered from the duke to Leela. “Perhaps you should lie down for a bit.”

  There was nothing Leela wanted more than to escape. But there was Edgar to consider. She’d promised to attend the breakfast party. “I don’t think I should, dear. Devon was quite insistent that I attend.”

  Tori took Leela’s hand. “The party will go on for several hours yet. Surely Edgar won’t mind if you return to your bedchamber to rest for a half hour or so. He won’t even know you’re missing.”

  Leela squeezed the younger woman’s hand, grateful for the opportunity to escape. “You are right. I shall go and rest.” She forced a disdainful look at Ellio
t. “Hopefully, the duke won’t ask after me and call attention to my absence as he has done previously.”

  “I do see now how grave a mistake I have made.” He gave a stilted bow. “You may rest assured, Lady Devon”—he pointedly emphasized her formal title—“that I most certainly will not ask after you.”

  “That is kind of you . . . Your Grace,” Tori stammered. “If you will . . . excuse us, I shall escort Leela . . . inside.”

  Leela linked arms with Tori as they left Elliot in the tent staring after them.

  “Well,” Tori asked once they were away from the duke, “what do you think?”

  A knot twisted hard in Leela’s chest. She’d deliberately acted quarrelsome and unreasonable. Now surely Elliot would turn his focus to Tori. “Oh, I don’t know. I have only just met the man. Besides, it is your opinion that matters.”

  “I have been thinking about what you have said about fate and marrying your true love.”

  Leela brightened. “Have you?”

  “Perhaps Huntington is not my fated mate.”

  Leela instantly felt lighter. It was like a thousand weightless angels waltzed joyfully inside of her. “Truly?”

  “It would be pleasant to have a husband who I enjoy talking to. A gentleman of quality who shares my interests.”

  The angels inside of Leela’s chest pirouetted in unison. “Absolutely.”

  “But I am not entirely certain.”

  The dancing halted. “You’re not?”

  “No, that is why you must spend more time in the duke’s presence.”

  “Me? Spend more time in that man’s company?” She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. “Why would I do that?”

  “Who better than you to help me decide whether he is the man for me?”

  She’d rather have five teeth pulled all at once. “Oh, darling, I cannot make that decision for you.”

  “You are my dearest friend and the big sister I never had. If I cannot depend upon you to help me with the most important choice I will make in my lifetime, who can I rely on?”

  Leela’s lungs deflated. “Well, if you have need of me, how can I refuse?”