by Diana Quincy
Devon’s face gleamed with satisfaction. “Excellent.”
They were gathered in the salon for drinks before supper. It was a high-ceilinged chamber with damask silk walls of the palest green. Matching upholstered gilt-trimmed chairs and sofas lined the walls and flanked the immense carved white stone fireplace.
Hunt studied Leela’s stepson. He didn’t hold a strong opinion of Devon. The man was courteous, hospitable and maintained a decent reputation. His estate appeared to be thriving and his finances sound. In other words, there was no hint of scandal or impropriety, an important consideration when it came to aligning his name with that of another noble family.
The houseguests clustered in small groups around the salon, except for Foster, who stood off in a corner in an ill-fitting dinner jacket. Devon’s aunt had pressed Hunt’s secretary into service after Griff’s sudden departure. The viscount had unexpectedly left for London that morning. Lady Helene needed to ensure that an even number of men and women sat to supper.
Hunt and Devon stood apart from the others by a wide bay window that looked out upon the extensive immaculate manicured gardens. Most everyone took care to arrive before the duke, in deference to his rank. However, Leela and Lady Victoria had yet to make an entrance.
He had not seen Leela since yesterday morning’s golfing outing. Last night, Devon had arranged a card tournament for the men. They’d supped on their own, the footmen serving in the cards room during a break in the play.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Leela. She was deliberately behaving in a contrary manner. He played her words over and over again in his head. She claimed the night at the Black Swan had meant nothing to her. That he’d served as a physical consolation to ease her loneliness. It would be easier if that were true. Hunt knew it was not.
He couldn’t quite classify what they meant to each other, but he knew it didn’t fit into any of the neat little categories of which he was so fond. He also knew he didn’t deserve Leela’s ire. He certainly hadn’t forced himself on her.
The butler approached and murmured in Devon’s ear before stepping away.
“They are ready to serve,” Devon informed Hunt. “Unfortunately, my late father’s wife has yet to appear.”
Devon neglected to mention that his sister was also missing. As if on cue, the mahogany double doors opened, and Leela and Lady Victoria came through them.
As much as he wanted to look away from Leela, he could not. His stomach dropped. He recognized the sensation. It was the same irresistible pull he’d felt when he’d first laid eyes on her at the Black Swan. In desperation, Hunt had half convinced himself that the magnetism between them was an anomaly, a onetime sensation after a tumultuous evening.
But, as infuriating as Leela had been yesterday, and the day before that, Hunt still wanted her. Badly. His body yearned for her. It was like a force of nature he had no control over. Not only did his need of Leela remain as intact as ever, it perhaps even burned brighter now. What a disaster.
Her shimmering silk violet gown made her smooth bronze skin glow. Her eyes, large and dark, made him ache to discover the secrets locked away in those impenetrable depths. He wanted to know her, to cleave only unto her, as he had with no woman before her. And with a desperation that took his breath away. He’d never wanted anything so much.
“Ah, you are here.” Devon went to Lady Victoria and proudly took both of her hands into his. “You look lovely, my dear.”
Hunt followed, barely able to pull his eyes from Leela. “I agree,” he said gallantly. “Lady Victoria is a vision this evening.” She wore a white gown that showcased her slender neck and trim figure. However, next to Leela’s ample womanly form, Lady Victoria looked like what she was—a young girl.
Leela looked everywhere but at Hunt. Unfortunately, courtesy required that he address her. “Lady Devon is also in excellent looks.”
She pretended to look at him, but her gaze fixed on his brows rather than his eyes. “Your Grace is too kind.”
They were saved from further conversation when Devon turned to call the assembled guests into dinner.
“Shall we?” As he had on the previous evenings, Devon offered his arm to Baroness Wallace.
Hunt paused. Protocol called for the host to escort the highest-ranked lady into supper. Yet Devon hadn’t taken Leela in. That would mean that, as the Countess of Devon, she was acting as hostess. Hunt felt the blood drain from his face. As the gentleman of rank in the room, the duty fell to him to escort his hostess into dinner.
He stared momentarily at Leela. She raised her eyebrows in return, seeming unaware of, or at least unconcerned, with his dilemma. He braced himself. There was nothing to be done for it. He offered his arm. “Lady Devon.”
Leela’s eyes rounded. He saw her resist a natural inclination to step back, to put distance between them. She didn’t move. Hunt felt like an arse with his elbow extended. Did she dare refuse him? A murmur rippled through the guests, making Hunt’s blood run cold. Surely, she would not cause a scene.
Tales of the Countess of Devon refusing his escort would no doubt reach London. And the gossips would gleefully speculate about what the Duke of Huntington had done to deserve the public censure.
He’s like his brother after all, they would say. Hunt had spent the last four years trying to undo the damage Phillip had done. He’d been a model of decorum, his behavior above reproach. He’d worked hard to pay off his brother’s numerous debts and to refill the drained ducal coffers. All of that effort to show society that he wasn’t his brother—nor any of the reprobate Townsend dukes who had come before him—would be all for naught if Leela publicly rebuffed him.
Somewhere in the sea of faces, Hunt met Lady Helene’s shocked gaze. But then a light touch skimmed on his arm.
“Your Grace.” Leela stood by his side, her steady gaze finally meeting his shaky one. She settled beringed fingers in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”
“Yes.” Relief weakened his legs. “This way.”
Guests fell into line behind them as they made their way. The dining room was a generous space, long and narrow, with pale lilac walls, flowing white plasterwork and ribband-back chairs in solid mahogany.
Hunt registered Devon’s surprise as soon as he entered with Leela on his arm. The earl stood at one end of the lavishly set table. Lady Helene followed, escorted by Mr. Paget.
Hunt led Leela to the head of the table opposite Devon. He felt pressure on his arm. He looked askance at Leela. Her jaw was set, but she said nothing. He seated her in the hostess’s chair, noting the high color on her cheeks. The other guests quickly took their seats except for Lady Helene, who surveyed the table with a perturbed expression on her face before finally electing to sit close to her great-nephew at the far end of the table.
Hunt reluctantly seated himself to Leela’s right. His rank dictated that his place was at the hostess’s side. It was going to be a trying evening. It did not help that both Devon and the old lady kept shooting furtive looks their way.
“What the devil are they looking at?” he inquired in a low tone.
“You,” Leela answered under her breath. With a serene smile, she nodded as Mr. Paget took the seat to her left. “And me.”
His heart thumped. “Why? Surely they don’t suspect—”
“How are you, dear sir?” she inquired of Mr. Paget. “It has been quite a long time.”
“Eh?” Paget said loudly.
“I trust you are in good health?”
“You will have to speak up, my lady.” Paget gestured to his ear. “Infection. Last spring. Can’t hear a thing in my right ear.” Which was the ear closest to Leela.
“Oh.” Her smile slipped. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Paget smiled blankly and nodded, clearly having trouble making out her words, and turned to speak to the lady on his other side, where his good ear was.
Leela looked down the table as the guests took their seats. She motioned for Lady Victoria to join them at the
ir end of the table. The girl started for them until she noticed Foster standing by looking completely lost. A kind expression on her face, Lady Victoria directed Foster to a seat at the middle of the table. She hesitated momentarily before seating herself beside the young man.
Leela practically groaned. “What is she doing? Surely she is not going to leave us alone.”
If Hunt wasn’t so irritated by Leela’s desperate attempts to avoid speaking to him, he might actually be amused. “We are hardly alone,” he said impatiently. “Why do Devon and his aunt keep staring at us?”
Footmen in burgundy-and-gold livery brought in the first course, fish and soup. Leela summoned one of the footmen with a slight movement of her hand and murmured in his ear.
Hunt’s gaze caught on her hand. She wore rings on three of her tapered fingers, cut gold with intricate designs that sparkled when she gestured. Those fingers had touched him intimately. He closed his eyes, remembering the sensation of Leela stroking his prick. And of her fingers digging into his back as she climaxed. Then feathering across his chest as he held her, sweet and warm, in his arms. A shiver ran over the expanse of his skin.
“Wine for Mrs. Paget,” Leela directed the footman. “However, Mr. Paget prefers port.”
Hunt forced himself to focus. “How do you know that?”
“I was mistress here for some years,” she said coolly, still avoiding looking directly at him. “Mr. and Mrs. Paget were frequent guests.”
“How many years?” He hadn’t asked her before. “How long were you married?”
“Seven years.” She gave a footman standing by the sideboard a speaking glance. He immediately stepped forward to refresh some of the guests’ drinks.
“It looks like you ran a tight ship.”
“My mother taught me how to manage a noble household.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the white cream soup before her. “I wanted Douglas and his guests to be comfortable.”
“Would you care to inform me why Devon keeps staring at us?” Hunt resisted the urge to loosen his cravat. “And I can practically see the daggers in Lady Helene’s eyes.”
“It is because I am seated in the hostess’s seat.”
“And?”
“Really.” She set down her spoon. “Must I spell it all out?”
“Apparently, yes, you must.”
“Who did you seat in this chair when I was absent from supper?”
“I escorted Lady Helene into the dining room.” He picked up his fork and cut into the turbot in his plate. “She acted as hostess.”
“Exactly.” She maintained a serene look, despite the fact that Baroness Wallace, the old aunt’s particular friend, was frowning in their direction.
“I don’t follow.”
“Aunt Helene is Devon’s hostess.”
“Then why the devil didn’t Devon escort you in?” he demanded to know. “You are the highest-ranked lady here.”
She smoothed her napkin. “You have so much to learn.”
He took a bite of fish. The white lobster sauce was particularly delicious. “Perhaps you should educate me.”
“I doubt that’s possible.”
“Please do try.” The woman was as vexing as she was irresistible. “If it is not too taxing on you.”
“Very well.” She released an annoyed breath. “After my late husband’s first wife died, Aunt Helene served as hostess at Lambert Hall for many years. And then I arrived, a seventeen-year-old nobody—”
“The daughter of a marquess is hardly a nobody.”
“My father was no ordinary nobleman. He rarely mixed in polite society and was deemed mad for marrying my mother, a woman of low associations.”
He could not imagine anyone considering a woman as remarkable as Leela to be beneath their notice. “Go on.”
“Lady Helene was not happy to find herself usurped by the daughter of the Mad Marquess and his foreign merchant wife. As soon as Douglas died, Edgar restored Helene to what they both saw as her rightful place as mistress of Lambert Hall.”
“I say, what kind of soup is this?” Paget interrupted loudly.
As Leela turned to answer the older man, Hunt reached for his wine. Leela’s use of the word mad had jogged his memory. He faintly recalled his father speaking about the infamous “Mad Marquess” who’d wed a foreign woman of low origins.
He should have bedded her, not wedded her, Father had said. Some wenches are meant solely for amusement. You cannot make a duchess out of a shopgirl. Remember that, son. Remember your duty.
Father didn’t bother to add, “unlike your brother.” He didn’t need to. Even as a young boy, Hunt vowed never to be like Phillip.
There were two stillborn babes, both boys, in the decade between the births of the duke’s heir and Hunt, his youngest son. Hunt’s earliest childhood memories included his parents’ unending arguments over Phillip’s worsening debauchery. Perhaps it cannot be helped, his mother had said with tears in her eyes. What if the Townsend curse is real and this generation is truly lost?
Resolved not to wallow in unpleasant memories, Hunt pushed the past aside and reached for his wineglass. As he drank his gaze floated over to where Foster and Lady Victoria were quietly engaged in conversation.
“They’re no doubt talking about books,” Leela said.
“I beg your pardon?” He saw that he had finally regained Leela’s attention. “Are you talking to me?”
“Who else would I be addressing?”
He shrugged. “How should I know? You seem awfully determined to speak to everyone but me.”
She closed her eyes. It was possible he heard her counting under her breath. Her lids blinked open. “As I was saying, Victoria told me that your young Mr. Foster is an avid reader, much like herself.”
“I caught them discussing that travel book I mentioned to you.”
“Which book?” She regarded him with actual interest for the first time all evening. “Travels in Arabia?”
“That’s the one.” He finished off the last bite of his fish.
Leela paused. “And what did Victoria think of it?”
“She raved. As did Foster.” Hunt didn’t care that they were having one of those politely boring conversations he normally abhorred. At least Leela was acknowledging his presence. “Lady Victoria mentioned looking forward to the next volume, which is due next month.”
“The month after next,” she corrected.
“Is that so?” He looked at her. “I see that you too are an admirer.”
She examined her soupspoon. “I am familiar.”
The footmen came to clear away the table. Briskly and efficiently, they removed the white tablecloth and replaced it with a clean one before bringing in the next course. The footmen laid out an assortment of meats, including larded quails, game pies and beef smothered in a rich cream sauce. The footmen circled the table, serving vegetables while the guests helped themselves to the meats.
Hunt was about to tell Leela how Lady Victoria had kindly offered to loan Foster her copy of the book, but she turned to engage Mr. Paget. Hunt marveled at the fact that she’d rather talk to a man who could not hear her than to him.
Turning away, he spent the next hour dancing attendance on the lady seated next to him. The wine flowed freely, lubricating the guests’ chatter. Bursts of laughter erupted from the opposite end of the table. One of Devon’s friends diverted most of the guests, regaling them with amusing stories about his latest travels. The courses came and went until finally it was time for dessert, and Leela returned her attention to Hunt.
She nibbled on a hothouse strawberry, drawing his attention to her mouth. Her plump lower lip was stained red from the fruit. He resisted the urge to swipe the juice with the pad of his thumb. Or with his own tongue. Her pink tongue darted out to lick her lip. That mouth had kissed him hungrily, had sucked the sensitive skin at the side of his throat, making him crazy with need. His skin warmed. His prick stirred, growing heavy.
“Perhaps if you both
ered to spend more time with Lady Victoria,” Leela said to him, “she would share her interests with you, rather than your secretary.”
“What?” He attempted to concentrate on not coming to a point right there at the supper table.
“Lady Victoria?” She said the words slowly and distinctly. As if he were a simpleton. “You should make an effort.”
Hunt reached his limit. He was going to jump out of his skin. Silence was not an option. Turning to Leela, he said, “It is difficult.”
“What is?” She leaned closer to hear him. Her scent, warm, feminine and fleeting, reached him, teasing his senses. He inhaled, eager to take that sweet warmth into his lungs.
“If you intend to wed the girl,” she said impatiently, “you should trouble yourself to take the time to become acquainted with her. And now you’ve run out of time.”
“I have?” He frowned. “Why?”
“The house party ends tomorrow. All of the guests will be departing.”
“The guests, perhaps, but not me.”
She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m staying on. It has long been the plan for me to remain at Lambert Hall until we all return to London together for the ball.”
She jerked as if she’d been hit. “Surely you jest.”
How had no one informed her of the plans? “I am not a man given to joking.”
“You are to remain here at the Hall for the entire fortnight?”
“You needn’t sound as though someone just condemned you to transportation.”
She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Getting shipped out to Australia would be preferable.”
“These next weeks are meant to give Lady Victoria and me time to become better acquainted.” Guilt bore down on his chest. “But it feels wrong.”
“What does?”
“Contemplating wedding Lady Victoria when all I can think of is you,” he murmured so that only she could hear.
She stiffened, her hands flat on either side of her plate. “Wallah,” she said under her breath, “you are a hamar.”
The way she said the foreign words did not sound like a compliment. “What does that mean?”
