“They were gentlemanly enough. I’m sorry I behaved awkwardly.”
“No. You were delightful.” Though the duke’s voice was soft, it was intense and sure. “They were imposing and overbearing.”
Bria turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll improve when in the public eye. I’m not accustomed to being among so many important people.”
A large, masculine hand touched her arm. “You felt beneath them?”
“Yes. Why would I not? I am a foundling.”
“Sometimes people rise above their birth and accomplish amazing things.” His hand smoothed down the length of her arm and he gently squeezed his fingers. “Face me, Miss LeClair.”
If she turned around now, there was every chance she might swoon into his embrace again. No one had ever spoken to her thusly. It was as if he understood her deepest thoughts. As a duke, Ravenscar could never think of her as his equal. But in private, he seemed to be more at ease—more human. With the coaxing of his fingers, she relented and turned.
Still smiling, his eyes searched her face while he cupped her cheek. “You are an astounding talent on the stage—enchanting like nothing I have ever seen.”
She sighed into the delight of his touch. “Truly?” Bria didn’t recognize the breathlessness in her reply.
“I never pay a compliment unless it is warranted.” Those smoldering eyes fanned by long black lashes, shifted to her mouth. His breath caught. So did hers.
“If I could grant you one wish-come-true, Miss LeClair, a boon freely given for tonight’s performance, what would it be?”
She instantly thought of the Sylph, a creature not of the earthly realm, who’d longed for the love of a simple Scottish farmer. A love not meant to be. Bria knew better than to wish for the impossible. And yet…
“I would like one kiss,” she said, her limbs growing numb as she uttered the words. “Do not misunderstand. Maintaining my virtue is of utmost importance to me. I do not go about demanding or even permitting kisses, Your Grace. I do, however, dance the role of the Sylph. And just once I’d to know what she longs for without risking the heartache she endured.”
Ravenscar twisted a gold signet ring around his smallest finger. The ring was crested with a unicorn rampant. How fitting that his crest should be a mythical creature.
“I once aspired to the stage.”
Of all reactions, Bria did not anticipate his admission and His Grace’s expression suggested he hadn’t planned to offer it.
“Dukes do not tread the boards,” he went on. “I know what it is to yearn for that which cannot be. If it is a mere kiss you wish for, I would be honored to be the man to give it.”
He didn’t offer a rakish grin as she might have expected. He looked curiously serious, which Bria found more alluring. She suspected few saw this side of him, and even fewer knew he’d once wished to be a performer.
New sensations curled through her body. She wanted to kiss him, to taste his lips. Alone and standing with a duke in a fairytale chamber, suddenly all Bria wanted was to know what it was like to let him stoop down, to draw near, to meet his lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking a step nearer.
He closed the gap and in a rush of tingling, he brushed his mouth across hers. Sighing, her knees turned boneless while his gaze met hers.
One kiss on the most important night of my life. Why should I not?
Her trembling fingers slid to his waist while she took one last step into him, drawn by the magic of the night. Those powerful hands shifted to her cheeks as he closed his eyes and kissed. His tongue skimmed across her lips. Bria stiffened for a heartbeat, but he persisted. Light, gentle sweeps politely asked to enter her mouth. Timidly, she opened for him and, for the briefest of moments, his tongue caressed the tip of hers.
As if she’d grown wings and began floating, she followed his lead as his kiss grew more impassioned, more demanding, more—
“Beg your pardon.”
With the lady’s maid’s three words, Bria jumped away, clapping her fingers to her face. “I-I-I—”
“I was just congratulating Miss LeClair on her debut.” His Grace bowed. Twice. “Forgive me for my overt display of enthusiasm. I will leave you to change.”
Completely flummoxed, Bria stood dumbfounded while she watched the duke stride out the door. The man could make butter melt with the heat of the fire in his eyes. Slowly, she brushed a finger across her lips, the sensation of his kiss lingering. It may have merely been an act of enthusiasm to him, but she would cherish this moment for the rest of her days. Didn’t all girls remember the thrill of their first kiss?
Her dilemma? She must never let it happen again. Dancing was her life, her love, her master. Being alone with the Duke of Ravenscar was dangerous. And kissing him would lead to nothing but heartache.
Chapter Eight
Drake jabbed with the right then danced to the left. With Percy’s block, he saw his opening and threw a hook, landing a facer exactly where he’d aimed.
Grunting, Percy staggered backward. “God’s stones, Ravenscar. What has your bristles up this morn?”
“Bugger all. You’re just slow, you maggot.” Drake danced in place and beckoned with his boxing gloves. “Come. Another round.”
The future Duke of Northumberland stepped out of the sparring ring. “I think not. You’ve got something in your craw and I know better than to play the stand in for a whipping boy whilst you take out your ire.”
“What do I have to be angry about?” Drake asked, growling a little too much. “Ticket sales are rife.”
Percy tugged open the laces on his gloves. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Drake threw a half-dozen jabs through the air. Percy had no idea how close to the mark he was. Damnation, Drake was a bloody gentleman and the only thing he could think about was kissing Britannia LeClair last eve—and how much he wanted more. Why the devil did he have to kiss her?
Oh yes, Miss LeClair if you want to kiss a duke, by all means use me as your dupe.
For the love of God, he wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. She’d enchanted him, the minx. He was a bloody man, not a mannequin. Contrary to what people believed, blood pulsed beneath his skin.
Now, every time he looked at the woman he would be reminded of the wildness of her taste, her eagerness, of being washed in the scent of wisteria while experiencing the sensation of floating. Merciful mercy, the damned floating. No mere kiss had ever made his knees go weak. Not like last night. Ravenscar was supposed to be in control, supposed to be chivalrous. Who knew what had come over him when he’d dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers?
She wasn’t just the Sylph on stage, she embodied the nymph off stage as well.
Snarling, Drake threw six more jabs.
“See?” said Percy. “You have something in your craw.”
“I have no idea to what you are referring.”
“Right. And I’m Saint Christopher.”
Drake shot him a look. “Just leave it alone.”
Percy tugged off his gloves. “If she’s going to be out in society, you ought to at least ensure the woman is properly attired.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your new diva. And do not try to deny it. I saw how every man in the hall slavered over Miss LeClair last eve including you, Ravenscar.”
Drake grumbled under his breath. “She’s a quandary…and too lovely for her own good.”
“She’s a novelty. And you’ll have your hands full if you intend to keep the wolves at bay.”
Drake scowled. Again. Bloody Christmas, he already had his miserable hands full.
“Alors,” said Pauline, sitting beside Bria on the bed and pulling the parcel from her grasp. “This one is from the Earl of Fordham, did you say?”
Bria leaned in and watched her friend open the gift. “I met him last night. He was a bit forward.”
“Eau de parfum.” Pauline dabbed a bit behind her ears. “Mm. At least he has good taste.”
“What did he write?”
“‘Please do me the honor of sharing my phaeton for a jaunt through Hyde Park this afternoon…’”
“This afternoon? Does he not realize you have a rehearsal?”
“Evidently not.” She set the letter aside. “I’ll send my regrets.”
“And thank him for the perfume.”
“That, too.” Bria watched Pauline place the bottle atop the small table between their beds, wishing Fordham hadn’t sent the gift. And the others as well, for that matter.
Pauline plopped back down and grasped Bria’s arm. “I sense your unease.”
“I do not want to be indebted to anyone.” She gestured to the gifts strewn across the bed. “It doesn’t feel right to accept all these things.”
“Where is it written a ballerina cannot receive a gift of appreciation from an admirer? Marie is showered with flowers and the like every night. Goodness, if you want to be a wallflower, you should have stayed in the corps with me.”
“You’re Florrie’s understudy now. It won’t be long until you’re a principal as well. I cannot wait to be there to see all the gifts you receive after your debut.” Guilt. That was why Bria didn’t want these things. It wasn’t right for her to receive so many gifts while the person who had been her best friend through thick and thin had not.
She selected the next missive, stamped with a blank. “Odd, this one bears only my name.”
“No sender?”
“Non.” She broke the seal and unfolded it. As she read, a sickly chill churned her stomach. “Not everyone enjoyed last night’s debut.”
“Mon Dieu, you look as if a ghost just crossed your path. Quickly, read it aloud.”
The parchment trembled between Bria’s fingers as she translated the English into French, “Miss LeClair, your dancing is disgraceful and unfitting for Britons. Take your immoral conduct and return to France. You are not welcome here.”
“Gah!” Bria crumpled the missive against her roiling stomach. “This invalidates every last complimentary letter I’ve received.”
“It most certainly does not.” Pauline snatched the parchment and crumpled it even more. “Who would write such a thing?”
In an instant, Bria went from sailing on a cloud to crashing into a stone wall. A letter like that was enough to drive a girl crawling under her bed to hide throughout the duration of the Season. No, not everyone would appreciate her dancing, but she didn’t expect to receive such a scathing personal strike. She dared lean over and peek at the missive again. “It isn’t signed.”
“Unbelievable.” Pauline scanned it as if she could read English. “Whoever wrote this is a coward. I’m throwing it out.”
Bria curled over, covering her face with her hands. Why did people feel the need to be so callous? Ever since the LeClairs died in Bayeux she had encountered bullies and browbeaters at every turn. There was no reason for it. What had she done that was so disgraceful? Shortened her skirts an inch? Dance with passion? Tears blurred her vision as she glanced to the complimentary missives and gifts she’d already opened. Why must one evil naysayer ruin the joy?
Pauline tore the letter, tossed it in the rubbish, then brushed off her hands. “We shall put those words of bitterness out of our minds and not think on them again.” Picking up the next missive, she resumed her seat on the bed. “Only a few more to go. Open this one. Providence tells me it will be far more pleasant than the last.”
Bria didn’t take it. “I think I’d rather wait.”
“Truly?”
“Oui.”
“I see.” Pauline tapped the missive on her palm. “You receive one bad apple and you’d prefer to brood for the rest of the day?”
“I certainly cannot make emotions rise and fall like a lantern wick.”
“Perhaps, but you can choose to look at the odds.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bria regarded her friend, waggling her eyebrows, blast her.
“You have received a dozen or so glowing missives, some with lavish gifts, and you are choosing to allow a solitary curmudgeon to ruin your entire morning. Not everyone is going to love you.”
“I know.”
Pauline shook the letter. “Then open this blessed missive or I’ll do it for you.”
Sighing, Bria took it. Perhaps she was being overly sensitive. But how did one shrug off such slander to one’s character and pretend to be unaffected? She examined the seal. “Oh my goodness.”
“What is it?”
“This one’s from Baroness Calthorpe. She’s the lady who spilled wine on my dress.”
Pauline clapped a bereft hand over her heart. “Someone spilled wine on you? And you didn’t tell me about it?”
Bria cringed, glancing at the soiled dress now draped over her trunk with the stain hidden. “Forgive me. You were asleep when I arrived home last eve.”
“Good heavens, what happened?”
“Nothing untoward aside from the wine…” And I kissed the Duke of Ravenscar. Avoiding Pauline’s eyes, Bria read the missive, which, thanks to Pauline’s insistence, did help raise her spirits.
“Did the baroness soil your gown on purpose?”
“Heavens no. She accidently bumped her father’s glass.” Bria shook the parchment. “Listen to this:”
“Dear Miss LeClair,
Please allow me to say how much I enjoyed La Sylphide. Your performance was brilliant. I have never seen a ballerina dance with more grace, style, and passion. Once more, I must apologize for ruining your gown at the soiree. In recompense I have established a credit of twenty pounds in your name at Harding, Howell and Company on Pall Mall. They carry all the best ladies’ accoutrements in London with fans, gloves, ornamental items, and haberdashery of every description, including silk, muslins, laces and the like. They even have a line of perfumery.
I trust you will find something to suit your fancy.
Sincerely,
Charlotte Calthorpe”
“Twenty pounds?” Pauline plucked the missive from Bria’s fingers and waved it like a flag. “That’s more than my entire year’s pin money.”
“Mine as well, but I’m guessing it won’t go far at a fancy shop on Pall Mall. Isn’t that where all the wealthy buy their things?”
“It is and, moreover, I think you might need to be a member of the gentry to venture into that part of London.”
“Nonsense.” Pulling the letter from her friend’s fingers, Bria refolded it, wondering if there was any truth to Pauline’s claim. She wouldn’t want to visit a high-end shop only to be turned away. How dreadful would that be? It would embarrass her to her toes. Had Lady Calthorpe considered such a thing?
Last night, the baroness had been pleasant and inquisitive. For a moment, Bria thought she might have met Her Ladyship before, but how could she have? She’d never been to England, and certainly wasn’t familiar with the woman’s name…and the baroness’ father was a duke. Aside from Ravenscar, Bria had never encountered anyone as important as a duke. In fact, she knew little of and, after last night, was decidedly ill at ease among nobility. Which is another reason why I am averse to Lord Fordham’s invitation to ride through Hyde Park.
“Well, you certainly won a great many admirers with your debut.” Pauline picked up a pair of exquisite doe leather gloves. “Do you mind if I borrow these?”
“Why not? Take them. You deserve them more than I do.” How could Bria say no? If it weren’t for Pauline, she would have withered on the vine living among so many thorny and competitive dancers. And this morning, she had been given so much while her dearest friend, the nicest person she knew, received nothing. All the gifts had been unexpected—a reticule, a bonnet, posies of flowers, three gold sovereigns, not to mention the perfume from Lord Fordham. Moreover, she’d been invited to balls, soirees, and teas. In all, it was overwhelming.
“Miss LeClair?” a knock came,
though by now she recognized the delivery boy’s voice.
Pauline sniggered. “He’s climbed the stairs so many times, the poor lad is going to be sore on the morrow.”
“Perhaps we should have taken a room on a lower floor.” Bria hastened to open the door.
The boy looked up at her with enormous blue eyes. “The Duke of Ravenscar is waiting, miss. And he has a carriage outside.”
At the mention of the man who hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d practically begged him to kiss her, Bria’s stomach fluttered. Trying not to blush in front of Pauline, she knit her brows. “Did His Grace say why he is here?”
Squirming, the lad turned one foot inward. “Said something about a modiste, and he gave me a coin to make you come quickly.”
“Oh, did he now?”
“Yes, now come.” The lad beckoned with a wave of his hand.
“Give me a moment.”
“But—”
Bria shut the door and dashed to the dressing table. “My hair is a disaster.”
Pauline picked up the brush. “No one’s mistress, did you say?”
“Hold your tongue!” Her hackles bristling, Bria stamped her foot. “Absolutely not. The duke promised to replace my gown and now that I have the credit at Harding, Howell and Company, I will not need his help.”
“Mm hmm.” Pauline sniggered. “So, why am I putting up your hair?”
“Because I cannot go downstairs looking like an alehouse wench.”
Twisting Bria’s long rope of tresses into a chignon, Pauline reached for a hairpin. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. You dined with him. His mother invited you to her mansion.”
Bria held up her finger. “She invited all the principals.”
“That’s because it wouldn’t have looked proper for her to have only invited you.”
“Oh, please.”
“And now he’s downstairs waiting to take you to the modiste? He’s a duke—an important man with many responsibilities. Not to mention the magnate who built our theater. Something is afoot with him. Mark me.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 183
