by Lavinia Kent
Her features were delicate: a small pointed chin, a slender nose, arched brows, eyes of chocolate brown—and lips full and moist, lips of sin on the face of angel. He could not see her clearly from his position across the room, but he did know them, know her.
Could it really be her?
And those lips were smiling; a feeling of anticipation radiated from her as she turned. Time stopped as he waited to see what had her looking like that, smiling like that.
He’d never seen that look upon her face before.
Was that why had it taken him so long to recognize her? The web of braids should have been enough of a clue. He’d remarked on them once, commenting that they were as restrained as she. A wry smile twisted his mouth.
But her smile was not restrained now, full of wonder, full of …
But even as he had that thought, her face changed, not in an obvious way, but subtly—the hope leaving it, the secret inner glow banked and put away.
Her eyes were settled somewhere in the crowd, somewhere he could not see.
He was old.
Old and with a belly.
He was talking now, discussing the breeding of some strange farm animal, but there was no mistaking that it was he who spoke, he whose voice tickled at her inner memories, the secret chambers of her mind.
The height was right, or almost so. She’d remembered him taller, but she knew that could be a trick of memory. This man could have been him, been Charles, in height and general structure.
But he was old.
And had a belly.
And gray hair. Yes, it was thick and curled almost exactly as she remembered—as she remembered touching, remembered running her fingers through, remembered pulling as lightning sparked through her body.
But he had a belly.
Perhaps all else could have been hidden by dim candles and firelight, but she’d admired that body, thought of it as a gift of the gods.
This could not be him.
Even a month of Christmas dinners could not result in this great a change.
She was wrong again, had allowed herself to wander down a foolish path again.
Disappointment welled within her.
A tear rose to her eye.
She’d been so sure. So confident that this time she was right. Her eyes might have deceived her, her own desires fooled her, but her ears? Surely, she could not have been so mistaken?
Only she was.
And the worst was that she knew this man, had talked to him in the past, laughed at his strangely piercing sense of humor.
She didn’t know him well. Her place had been well removed from his, but she knew him.
Mirth.
The Duke of Mirth.
A man old enough to be her father.
Chapter Thirteen
Geoffrey could only stare at the woman as he watched the warmth slip from her face, as he watched those plump lips tighten and then relax.
It seemed impossible that his body had responded in such a way to her.
Lady Brookingston was the wife of one of his school friends.
The first time he’d seen her had been at a ball similar to this one. She’d been standing next to John, shoulders straight, head perfectly poised, her face slightly defiant as she gazed about the room. But she’d greeted him graciously, her gentle smile seeming to evoke in him a quiet peaceful feeling the likes of which he’d never known.
He’d thought at the time that Brookingston had found a perfect wife, a wife who would help bring tranquillity into the chaotic world in which they all lived.
He’d found her attractive, in a well-bred sort of way—quite young, with refined features, sleek but unremarkable hair bound tight to her head, and a good enough figure, though nothing that would make a man turn his head and follow her with his eyes.
He’d been drawn to her, he could not deny that, but it’d had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the soft grace that seemed to surround her.
Or had he been lying to himself—had she always possessed that something that called to his body, that made him wish to nibble at her neck, and then lower?
There was no denying that a few moments ago he would have been ready to take her into the gardens, find some hidden spot, and plunge into her without further preliminaries. His mind had filled with images of her pressed against a low stone wall, her skirts up, her white thighs parted, her moisture glistening beneath the night sky.
But, damn, that was not what he saw now. All he saw now was his friend’s wife, a woman he’d thought was all a wife should be: proper, restrained, controlled, a woman who would never cause a man doubt, never cause his blood to boil—for any reason.
And yet there were those succulent lips, lips that spoke of anything but restraint. How had he never noticed them before?
Why was he noticing them now?
His body cooled and fired at once. He could not lust after Brookingston’s wife—or should he say widow? His friend was long in the grave.
He tried to remember if he’d seen her since the death, and couldn’t.
Well, what did it matter? He’d pay his respects to her and that would be it. There was no reason to let his mind dwell on her, even if his body had its own ideas.
“She does have something about her, doesn’t she?” The voice came from behind.
Geoffrey turned and observed his friend and neighbor, Stephan Perth, the Earl of Duldon. “I am not sure to whom you refer,” he replied.
“Lady Brookingston,” Duldon answered with a nod of his head. “It’s the first affair she’s been to in years, since long before Brookingston’s death. She’s always been one to prefer the quiet and the country—or so rumor goes. But now she’s back, and you know what that means.”
“No, I can’t say that I do.” Geoffrey felt his back stiffen at his friend’s informal tone.
“She’s husband hunting. It’s the only thing that brings that type back to Town once they escape. She’s looking for a man to warm her bed. I’d be interested myself if it was just that, but she’s the type to think the vicar needs to be involved. Still, if what I hear about her income and estates is correct, it’s no wonder that half the men here are looking her over.”
Squelching the anger that erupted at his friend’s words, Geoffrey calmly focused his attention on Duldon’s face, ignoring the strangely tempting Lady Brookingston. “Income?”
“Apparently she brought quite a portion into her marriage, a portion that remained hers after Brookingston’s death. And then she inherited more from a maiden aunt or some such. Plus, Brookingston’s estates were largely unentailed and rumor has it he left all he could to her. The lady may be worth a bloody fortune—or so rumor says.” Duldon leaned back against the wall, crossing one booted foot over the other. “Not that it matters to you.”
“Rumor? Since when have you listened to rumor?”
“I listen all the time—particularly to the financial ones. They may not always be completely true, but they normally give an indication of what is happening or what is about to happen. It’s amazing how much a man can learn simply by keeping his ears open and his face still.”
Geoffrey resisted the urge to snort. If there was one man who knew finances, it was Duldon. Geoffrey had never been sure how he did it, but Duldon always knew which way the markets were headed and which ships full of goods were due in. If it were possible he would have even sworn Duldon knew which ships’ goods had spoiled long before they even drew near shore. “And are the rumors true?” He turned back to gaze at Lady Brookingston, whose eyes still remained locked on someone hidden by the crowd.
“Yes, as a matter of fact they are. The woman might as well be sitting on bags of gold.” Duldon’s eyes moved to look upon Lady Brookingston and then turned back to Geoffrey with iron intent. “And your question makes me believe that other rumors may be true as well.”
A cold pit opened in Geoffrey’s gut, blocking out all other thought. “Other rumors?”
Duldon held his gaze
, as if seeking confirmation. “Rumors that your father has finally found a way to escape from your net of restraint. Is it true that he is leasing Risusgate—and to an American?”
Geoffrey tore his eyes from Duldon’s and turned back to the milling crowd, back to her, seeking any distraction from the furious tumble of emotions that Duldon’s words fired within him. And then the crowds parted and he saw the focus of Lady Brookingston’s attention.
The Duke of Mirth stood laughing, a wine goblet in each hand, a man without a care in the world.
The Duke of Mirth—his father.
She had to stop staring. Louisa forced her glance away. It wouldn’t do to be caught with her eyes locked upon this older duke as if she were a young girl catching sight of a boxful of kittens.
If only her spine would stop prickling and her heart stop racing. It was not him. And she had to stop thinking that every other man she saw was her mysterious lover.
Charles was gone—and must remain that way.
The heat that rose in her body, that pooled between her legs, that longed for something more was only in her mind. And she could control her mind—or at least she could try.
Another drink would do the trick. Perhaps she’d move from punch to champagne. Something cooling was called for, perhaps something with just that little bit more.
And she wasn’t talking about bubbles.
Raising a hand, she gestured to the footman who had just entered the room with a silver tray of delicate glasses.
The glasses clinked slightly as he walked toward her.
And then, as she reached for one, another hand snaked past her, grabbing the very glass she reached for. Stepping back in surprise, she found herself bumping into another body, a warm body smelling faintly of peppermint and something else she couldn’t quite put a name to, something green and fresh.
“So sorry, my dear.” The voice, that voice, echoed from behind.
Turning her head, she found herself looking up at the Duke of Mirth’s smiling face.
“I do tend to be a little bit overeager when the champagne makes the rounds. I’d say it’s all the gas, but my son would chide me for being rude. He’d be convinced that I meant something other than I did. I just happen to like bubbles. They tickle my nose.”
“I was just thinking of my own fondness for bubbles,” Louisa replied. It wasn’t quite true, but it was close enough.
“More beverages should have them,” the duke said, handing her a glass. “Do drink up. It is a fine vintage. Lady Hamilton always does well by her guests. No desire to cut corners, unlike some others.”
“I am not sure to whom you refer, your grace, but I do agree about Lady Hamilton.” She took a sip and smiled. “She has a most generous soul. I knew her well when I was younger.”
The duke narrowed his eyes and squinted at her. She could feel him cataloguing her in his mind, searching for her identity.
“You’re Landes’s girl, married the Beckwith boy—the one who had the hassle of inheriting the title and becoming earl. Brookingston. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She could only blink. “Why, yes, he is.”
He sensed his faux pas, and it was the duke’s turn to blink. “Sorry. My Geoffrey may be right about my manners. I never do like the bother of thinking before I speak. You must have been fond of the boy. Wives aren’t always, but you look the type to have insisted on the kinder emotions.”
“Well, yes, I was. I did consider it a love match, for all our families approved.”
“That’s good. I do like a love match. Had one myself. Corrine was always a dear, knew just how to handle me.” He wiped at the corner of his eye. “She’s gone, too. It does still hurt, even after all these years. I can see you feel the same.”
“Why, yes.” This was one of the strangest conversations she’d ever had.
The duke suddenly held up his flute, already empty although she’d barely seen it touch his lips. “Let me get you another.” His solemn expression changed in a moment, a wide grin spreading from cheek to cheek. “It never does to dwell on sad things. Does the soul much better to move on, to stay busy. I imagine you think the same—why else would you be wearing such a festive dress? It’s always good to put off the mourning and move on. Are you here looking for a new husband? I don’t remember hearing of any babes. Didn’t some cousin or other inherit Brookingston’s title? Never do remember these things, but I am sure that’s right. Hard on you not having an heir—but there, I am getting glum again. No need for that. If it’s a husband you want, it’s a husband we’ll find.”
Louisa could only blink in response.
How did the whole world know of her search for a husband? She’d written Lady Perse asking for help, but now the whole world—or at least all of society—seemed to know.
“Don’t have much to say for yourself, do you? Some men like that. I know my son would. Have you met him? You must have. He was a great friend of Brookingston when they were young. Maybe you should marry him—my son, not Brookingston, that is. You already did that.”
More blinks. Who was Mirth’s son? It took her a moment to pull the connections together in her mind. Swanston. Mirth’s son was Swanston. And yes, she had met him on several occasions, although it was hard to connect the dark, reserved man whom she remembered with the Duke of Mirth. It was hard to imagine two men who appeared to have so little in common, although she supposed they were of similar height and build and that Mirth’s hair must once have been dark. If she truly thought about it, there was quite a striking resemblance. “I do believe that I can find a husband on my own.”
“Then you do admit to wanting one. I truly think you might just do for my boy. I’ll throw a soiree and introduce you. I am always looking for an excuse for a good party. Though the lad does tend to avoid parties I throw—all because of the elephants. Who knew what a mess elephants could make. I thought it a jolly fine idea, and so did my dear Bliss. And my son doesn’t like the llamas, either. What kind of a man doesn’t like llamas? Sweet creatures.”
Llamas? Elephants? What did elephants have to do with anything? “Truly, your grace, I am quite content to make my own way and—”
“I think the boy is here. I do believe I saw him earlier, although to tell you the truth I was avoiding him. He’s had that cross look in his eyes recently and I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, but if I introduce him to you that just might cheer him. I should warn you, though, the boy doesn’t have much of a way with women—a bit repressed, I am afraid. He never does seem that interested—not that you need to worry about anything funny. He’s just a bit shy, reserved. I’ve tried to teach him, but—”
“I am sorry, your grace, but perhaps you are moving a bit quickly, I’ve only just returned to society and—”
“Oh, look, there’s my daughter—Bliss, you know. Bliss Danser—can you think of a better name for a girl? And look at that dress. The girl does have style. You’d know her for a Danser anywhere—not like Swanston, glum lad. Forgive me, I must go talk with her, find out what she’s doing with the Countess Ormande. Never have been quite sure what that woman’s after. Strange creature. The Countess, not Bliss. Bliss is a dear and so much fun. She does take after me and she’s promised to find out if …”
Louisa did not hear the end of his statement as he hurried off after his daughter—who was wearing one of the most incredible dresses that Louisa had ever seen. It looked like she had half a hot air balloon under her skirt. It was true that skirts were growing fuller, but this one looked as if you could turn her on her side and roll her.
And standing behind her, talking over her shoulder, was the tall woman from the retiring chamber. The Countess Ormande? Her eyes locked on Louisa, and without thought Louisa raised her hand to her cheek, feeling a connection between them.
Shaking her head at the strange family—and their strange acquaintances—Louisa turned back toward the dance floor.
The night was still young, and she did have a plan to pursue.
The room w
as crowded and it was difficult to see beyond the wall of men’s shoulders. Lady Perse had given her a list of men with whom she should converse and so far Lord Peter was the only one she had met—and without a specific reason in mind, she knew he was not right for her needs.
Perhaps the best move would be to find Lady Perse and allow her to make the introductions. With determination in her step, she forged into the crowd.
Swanston watched her disappear. His feet almost moved in pursuit, but he held them back.
She was his friend’s widow. She was not what he was looking for—for any type of pursuit, although once again he was beset by erotic images of pressing her hard against a wall, of pushing down that tight bodice and …
Blast, she was Brookingston’s widow. And she was not the type of woman he planned to wed. He could not, should not, be having these thoughts about her, should not be imagining binding her hands, spreading her before him, blindfolding her, winding the cloth tight about those orderly braids …
For some reason that last vision twisted at his gut, had him surging into the throng in pursuit.
Surely if he talked to her this strange fascination would fade. Once he was face to face with her he could return her to the small pocket of his mind she’d always occupied: friend’s wife, sweet girl, calming presence—put her in that place that did not require thought, that did not sneak out and cause his cock to rise at the most inopportune moments. He was a man, not a schoolboy. He controlled his body as he controlled everything else—which did not explain why he was elbowing his way into a crowd.
And she’d been talking to his father. If that wasn’t enough to cool his ardor, something strange was definitely happening. Normally any thought of his father was enough to bring him down to earth, if not to the depths of hell. He’d been cleaning up after the duke—indeed, after the entire family—for years.
As if that thought had been a harbinger, there was Bliss, looking like the cherry atop a meringue. She stood next to the Countess, their gowns clashing like an apple and a strawberry—forget the cherry. Now, that was a pairing he needed to discourage. He shuddered at the thought of what trouble his sister was in the midst of, and how the Countess might influence her. He’d long been prepared for the scandal that he knew was to come. Bliss was trouble waiting to happen—trouble he didn’t want to be his responsibility. He’d tried sending her off to school—it was a pity England no longer had convents—keeping her on the ducal estates, hiring her the strictest of chaperones, and still she was always at the center of the party, a step away from disgrace.
