“I’m told I run hot and cold. Can you handle both fire and ice?”
His face was a whispered breath from hers. “It all depends on how much fire is underneath the ice,” he answered, and couldn’t believe he just uttered that statement to this monumental woman.
“Your Grace, I feel a need to divert our conversation. It’s quite hot in the ballroom, and I came out here for a breath of fresh, cool air. Instead, I found you. You seem to bring warmth with you wherever you go.” She flicked open her fan.
“And you have determined this to be a fact?” he asked in amusement.
“I would attest to it with absolute certainty.”
His eyes held a hint of humor. “Is there anything in which I could assist you? Perhaps you would care for a glass of cool water?”
“I do believe it would take more than water, Raven.” She moved back a pace or two but found that the man was whisper close again. “I have the notion any water you poured would sizzle.”
“I have an equal notion chariot rides with you might fan the fires even more.”
The firmament, winged horses, silver chariots and a goddess in a sheer dress could appeal. The vision of such became a sinful wish on his part. He closed his eyes to blind his memory of another woman who also was such an unknowing sorceress—his late wife.
Damnation. A hidden part of his soul wanted to enjoy such pleasures again, but not with his mistress. He determined Samantha not only believed in magic; she conjured it all too well. The tale she wove with such ardor made him long for her brand of mysticism with every bone in his body. If he could, he’d like to have his hands glide over her. No. No. No. He questioned his sanity. Such thoughts were unfamiliar and so contrary to his sensibilities.
The scent of her hung heavy in the air. Raven summoned his control, but it didn’t answer.
“I suggest we return to the ballroom, Samantha. The air has not cooled. Nor should we tempt fate or each other.”
He extended his arm, and she took hold of it as they passed through the French doors to society.
Chapter Five
Samantha fanned herself. Truth was he stirred something within her. She wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad omen. She stopped near a potted palm and took a deep breath. Sanity, come back to me.
“I know you wish to propel our country into a more significant position in the world. I worry about what will happen should you succeed. You could make enemies along the way, personally and professionally,” she said.
“Progress always makes someone an enemy. I should not be deterred by the prospect. Otherwise, civilization would not be here.” His tone was more strident.
“The problem, Your Grace, is we live in a permissive society in which we have no real standards to support what we do.” She gestured with her fan to the younger aristocrats around them. “Their concern is for enjoyment, primal pleasures, cards, alcohol and the next social event. These are not requisites to be used as role models.” She turned to him. “There is an attitude that someone else will take care of the problem. That could be someone like you, Your Grace.” Samantha took a deep breath and waved her fan like an errant weapon.
She forged on like a warrior woman. “You are wise to attempt to protect your good fortune and also to promote England’s importance in the world. It is men like you who shape our future.” After she pondered a thought, she added, “I agree with you, it’s wise to remember the responsibilities are endless, yet they can be like yokes upon us.”
She turned to take his arm and continued as if no one else were present. “Progressiveness and moderation in all things,” she spoke. “A difficult stance, isn’t it? But to the young men and women of our times, moderation can be boredom. It’s the progressiveness that excites.”
Raven listened, seemingly amused.
“I long to embark on new adventures, to change and reshape the future, or help someone in the endeavor. There are times when I wish I could have participated in this political revolution,” she spoke.
“What a pity that would have been.” He laughed. “England would have lost a beautiful rose.”
Samantha thought him quite attractive when he allowed himself to laugh. She beheld his chiseled nose, full eyebrows that tended to arch, an arrogant but handsome angular chin with lips that gave the appearance of austerity, all veiled in a smile that charmed. Ah, yes, those lips, she sighed. His long slender manicured fingers caught her attention while his dark queue signified his disavowal of the trend to wear a wig or powder the hair. Could he be a bit of a non-conformist, or did his strong confidence affirm him to be a man comfortable in his skin?
She captured his eyes with her own. “Your coal dark eyes penetrate. I wonder if they might slice anyone who got in the way. Somehow I think they could.” She gifted him a provocative grin. “Do you seek any victims?”
He asked, “Are you volunteering?”
“No, I’m not certain if it would suit me.” Then she whispered something quite preposterous to goad him. “Your Grace, my aunt mentioned to me tonight you are one of the most eligible bachelors in London. While I so enjoyed our conversation and your intellect, should you not spend your time with someone else more suited to your station?”
Raven appeared taken aback by the obvious affront, a dismissal, but continued to listen.
She ventured further, “I’m considered too independent in my thoughts and tend to frighten men with my comments and opinions.” The bloom on her cheeks warmed, but she meant her remarks and would not recant them. “It’s intentional on my part,” and released her fan. “Have I frightened you, Your Grace?” Goodness, was there no relief from this inner heat?
“I’m sure you’ve heard I’m a difficult man to frighten. My words were nothing more than a mere courteous conversation with a lady,” he remarked in a demeanor that cooled.
“If you want inane conversation, you should speak with someone else. I can almost feel your mind whirl, Your Grace. Do you think I’m outrageous?”
He took out his monocle and quizzed her. “No, I don’t. I believe you’re frightened of me. And I would say you are unconventional in a clever manner. However, I appreciated your demeanor in the carriage. Why spoil it now? I believe you’ve gone out of your way to shock and offend me, but it hasn’t succeeded. You sound older than your apparent years.”
“Oh, yes. Five and twenty years is not considered young in the ton. I’m a difficult woman to please.”
“Why is that, Samantha?”
She noted he seemed annoyed. Good. What a challenge it would be to tame the man.
“I’m ‘on the shelf.’ Too old in the ton’s eyes. I want more than just a handsome, wealthy husband—I want a forever-extraordinary love. It will be someone who will appreciate my intellect and someone who wants a helpmate. He will have no other women in his life. Men with mistresses upset me.” She paused and her forehead creased. “Your Grace, you are such a learned man. Why do these ideas persist? Why can’t men find passion and fulfillment within marriage? Why are mistresses a necessity?”
“Damnation. You can’t brand all men as unfaithful. There are those of us who did find the passion within marriage.” Out came his quizzing glass again, and he held it with a firm hand.
“Why do men treat women as chattels and not equals?”
“Now, how did we get on the subject of mistresses and chattel? You are persistent. Lady Samantha, everything has a purpose in life. Mistresses are an accepted social form. Women need men’s protection, so they are possessions and chattel. That is the basic fact. You may not like the premise, but men are considered superior. You alone can’t change hundreds of years of culture.” He shook his head seemingly annoyed.
Before he could further educate her, she interrupted. “Do you have a mistress, Your Grace?” Her audacious voice quivered.
He arched his brows and exhaled. “What an impertinent question. This conversation is not appropriate for us. Polite society does not talk about mistresses with suitable young ladies, even those who are recent
widows too advanced in their thinking.”
“I’m not a recent widow,” she retorted, her chin held high.
Raven adjusted his hand to his quizzing glass. His manner took an arctic tone. “You are correct, Lady Samantha. You are too outspoken and presumptuous for these times.” He reassessed her. “You are more than just a beautiful woman. It appears you are ready to engage me in battle, yet your actions belie your words, and you invite attention. Those are two potent war plans.”
“I will not admit we are in combat. That would be foolish of me.” Samantha’s smile became a siren call to danger. “Conflicts exist that do not require lethal weapons aimed to kill and maim.”
“In the short time we’ve known each other, you know how to get under my skin. Tell me, do you practice such things, or perhaps it comes naturally?” He exhaled, “There are also pyrrhic victories. You do know the definition?”
“Is this a test? I believe the word dates back to the Greeks and the King of Pyrrhus. It sometimes means you have to lose a battle to win the war as you regroup and reassess.”
“Well said.” Raven nodded in apparent admiration. “Did you also play with your brother’s tin soldiers as a child?”
“Yes, I did. I learned along the way. He was still better at the strategies than I was, so sometimes I cried, and he would relent. Perhaps one could say I used childish little girl tantrums to make him feel sorry for me. I don’t do that now, Your Grace. I use other tactics.” Her lips pursed, and her eyes assessed his mouth. Ah, those lips.
****
“You are a dangerous woman.” Raven moved closer to her. All he had to do was bring his lips to hers and allow her to use her female weapons until he’d exercise his male inclinations. “You are also a challenge. Exercise caution lest you bite off more than you can chew. I do believe you scheme something. I’m known to be a formidable opponent.”
Now she laughed. “No one has ever said that to me, Raven. Let me recall; I believe you called me a voluptuous woman in the carriage, and now you comment I’m a dangerous woman. Mentally I will tattoo these phrases on my heart. This is risky business, isn’t it?”
Raven likened Samantha to a chameleon that changed its color to accommodate the subject and surroundings. A natural flirt with charm and wit made her a woman of interest. He viewed her as a young lady with a wonderful appetite for life, well read and articulate. Too outspoken to be sure, but an independent being dwelled within her lovely breasts. Was this spirit engendered because Samantha did not know society could damn such freedoms to a woman?
His dark side tempted him to break her spirit. At times, he could be ruthless. He took care to foster his reputation for a love of supremacy because the power of love could destroy a man—if he didn’t exercise caution.
So he chained his darker side. Raven didn’t doubt her courage but was certain she would be troublesome from the start. It served to entice him all the more.
How had this conversation advanced to the point of causes, primal pleasures, truth, honor, progressiveness, and moderation? Samantha, a woman who paid no attention to her beauty and its effect on others, continued to intrigue him. Had no man ever told her she was a beauty beyond compare? He enjoyed the opportunity to talk to a female who enjoyed serious thoughts—like his late wife.
He wanted—needed—to know if he could tame her indomitable spirit. He recognized her as a significant woman of interest. He’d missed banter with a clever woman who was a blithe spirit. Let the games begin, Samantha. I will best you.
So close together, and neither of them withdrew. Damnation. Both were in full sight of everyone. With an outward cool reserve, her passion burned on subjects she believed.
“What else do you want in this dream husband of yours? Is it a husband you want, or do you just want a lover to warm your bed?” he asked, not sure how she would answer. Not one to suffer boredom, two could play this game. He was determined to win.
“I want magic,” she whispered through full lips that hinted of wonderful things to come. She fluttered her fan and released it again. She backed up a few steps and then clasped her hands to her bosom, her face beaming.
“You have already indicated that to me. Magic is not reality,” he retorted.
“I will not settle for reality alone. In my short marriage, a preponderance of it weighed heavily on me. There should be more to life than rules, regulations, and conformance. Did you know, Your Grace, every time we conform it’s a compromise?”
He noted she never answered his question about her wanting a lover. Curious.
His eyes became drawn to her luscious lips when she broke the silence. “Every time we compromise, something inside us dies.” Samantha looked away for a moment.
What a mournful sentiment for one so young and lovely. Just how many times in her life was she forced to compromise? He had to know more about her. Raven knew all too well how it hurt to die inside. He would have sworn he found himself back in the schoolroom with his tutor, Mr. Fletcher, who lectured him after his own father’s death. All those years of tutor training were difficult to ignore, even at his mature age. He became convinced Samantha believed in everything she said.
He weighed his words with great care now. The annoyance Samantha inspired in him could force him to say things he didn’t consider before. Men of responsibility have to be accountable for their actions on behalf of their family and fortunes. “Wherever did you get such notions? Compromise is sometimes a necessity when one considers the alternatives.” He moved backward.
“That is just the point, your Grace. Alternatives are for cowards.” She moved forward.
He thought perhaps he misunderstood her statement. “Did you say, cowards?” His pulse pounded like a thunderbolt to his head. Blood surged as he struggled to retain his normal disciplined composure.
She nodded.
More than annoyed, this young woman vexed and perplexed. He drew back his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “I beg your pardon, but that is not so. Wars are won and lost on alternatives. Compromise and reconciliation make treaties. Why do you suggest this is wrong?”
Great thunder and damnation. It occurred to him that her education mirrored that of his youth. Women did indeed have their place and didn’t belong in a man’s schoolroom. He would have to talk to Winston about this. He would not endure such disrespect.
“I’m not sure, Your Grace, but I do feel those qualities are altruistic. Why are wars fought in the first place?”
“Sometimes there is no other choice. When confronted with the possibility of war, diplomacy is far more civilized,” Raven argued. “Lives are saved because of mediation.”
He experienced the fire in his gut and wanted to counter all her words. Deep within it occurred to him she had an equal inferno. It made him want to do so much more, such as bring her to heel. It was obvious she would continue her barrage.
“Whose ego is elevated at the expense of someone else’s? The young men go to battle while the older politicians stay out of the line of fire. They play at their wars on maps with toy ships and cannon like over-aged school boys.”
“Perhaps you should be in Hyde Park on a soap box.” He scowled at her, placed his monocle in his pocket and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The better to control the urge he had to strike her down. No, he could not and would not ever do that to a woman because of his code of honor. Why did he subject himself to this conversation? How dare she infer he was an over-aged schoolboy? He couldn’t believe his ears. She impugned him and did so with great relish along with her sense of combative sincerity.
Then he remembered an invitation to the War Ministry’s Department of Defence along with other prominent members of Parliament where he reviewed maps on a table with mock ships and cannons.
But her comment unsettled him. It was a herculean effort to be civil to her. The woman went out of her way to insult him, and he would endure no more. Her accusation that he profited from the war at the expense of younger men became another thorn in hi
s side. Damnation. He didn’t feel old—just older than she. His face blanched as he stood in front of her, retrieved his monocle to stare her down with a cold, calculated look, his back ramrod straight. He held his head at a superior stance. “I shall deliver you to your aunt and brother. I can see your education in deportment lacks many things.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Then her tone sweetened. “But what does mine lack?”
Ever the polished gentleman, he said, “Civility to your elders, to start with.” He reached for her elbow to guide her back to the other guests, but he fumed, and his breath came out in spurts.
“I don’t consider you my elder, Your Grace. And may I remind you that when I allowed you to kiss me in the carriage that single kiss became memorable because of how you kissed me. It appeared to me you enjoyed it.” She continued her manner of speech. “You are my contemporary even though you are older. That was a compliment. I consider my aunt my elder, and I respect and love her.”
She turned to face him. “You are typical of your generation.” Vehement in how she spoke Samantha said, “You can’t abide other persons with different opinions, and if it’s a woman, it’s something to be humored, ignored or bridled. If you want to have sycophants assuage your rather large ego, then, by all means, allow them to do so. You can rest assured it won’t be me.”
She waged war with her fan again. “But you will never get the truth that way. And without truth, Your Grace, there can be no honor. Vanity applies to men as well. You seem to have a fair share.”
“Damnation,” he said. “You are beyond impertinent.”
“Yes, May I remind you that you did call me a dangerous woman?”
“When I made that remark, it didn’t pertain to your political views. It pertained to pleasurable thoughts that have lost their appeal at the moment. You exuded feminine qualities in the carriage. They have now taken flight.” His voice simmered, but this time not with desire.
Chapter Six
Samantha muttered and hastened toward her brother and aunt. She whisked her fan with ferocity, and if not careful, she could be tempted to hit him. The thought occurred to remove his quizzing glass from its cord and step on it. That would give him something to puzzle, but in this she contained herself.
One Night with a Duke Page 4
