The Most Dangerous Duke in London

by Madeline Hunter

  He followed her back into the chamber. He took it all in with one of his sweeping gazes before giving her a quizzical look.

  “This is the dress that Emilia wants,” Clara said, pushing the plate toward him on the table surface. “If it is in cream muslin and she wears a fichu, do you think it would be objectionable? It has been over six months, so—”

  “There will be no gloss or shine to the fabric, and no more embellishment than perhaps this raised embroidery here. You can see it is most discreet,” Emilia rushed to say.

  “I cannot imagine anyone would object. You are a young innocent. I was surprised to see you in black when Langford and I called. White seems more appropriate to me.”

  Emilia’s face lit. “Oh, I am so glad you think so.” She jumped up and went looking for Madame Tissot, so as to be measured.

  He turned his attention on Clara. “Are you also allowed to step out of black now?”

  “Perhaps a bit. My grandmother wants us to only consider deep purple or grays. I was thinking, however, that this color might do just as well.” She tapped the hydrangea. “Although I suppose it has some rose in it, and that would never do.”

  “I do not see rose. I see a bluish purple.”

  “I do too. And it will not be this deep a hue, but paler.”

  He took the plate. “Is this the dress?”

  “Goodness no. That is far too—” Fun, she almost said. Fashionable. “This one here is the style.”

  He gave a little shrug. “I prefer the other, but I understand the problem. This should be attractive on you too. Where will you wear it?”

  “Emilia and I are going to accept a few invitations to quiet, small gatherings. Garden parties and such. Perhaps a dinner party given by family friends. She is missing what should have been her first Season and feels it sharply now that she is in town and all her friends are telling her about the balls.”

  “So you will be her chaperone.”

  “I suppose so, if we can escape my grandmother’s company.”

  “Who will be your chaperone in turn?”

  She laughed. “I am too old for a chaperone. Perhaps you forget how ancient I am.”

  His gaze raked her from head to hip. “I would like to see you in something besides black, I know that much.”

  I don’t wear black now when I am at home and not planning to go out. Call on me on such a day and—She caught the thought up short, astonished with herself for even contemplating such a thing. “Perhaps we will both attend one of those quiet events and you will.”

  “I will have to make sure that we do.”

  One of Madame Tissot’s seamstresses entered then and invited Clara to follow her so she too could be measured. As she left, she looked back and saw Stratton reaching down and flipping through the fashion plates.

  * * *

  Before finishing with the dressmaker, Clara ordered several other dresses on impulse. Her conversation with Stratton reminded her that she would have opportunities to use a larger wardrobe in the weeks ahead. None of the women who would visit her house for meetings about Parnassus would be shocked if she added some color. Althea had been urging her to do so for weeks now.

  She also promised to pay Madame Tissot a premium fee if the entire order was given priority in the queue. Madame proved more than happy to arrange that for a mere extra 30 percent. The seamstresses would be put to work immediately, and two of the dresses should be ready within the week.

  Two men waited in the reception salon when she and Emilia emerged from the back chambers. Theo’s lead coachman sat there, chatting with the duke.

  “How kind of the duke to help you pass the time, Simmons,” Clara said while both men shot to their feet. “But then the two of you have met before and had other conversation, haven’t you?”

  Simmons, a stocky man with a fringe of graying hair around a bald crown, shrank back at her tone. She gave him a severe look to let him know she did not appreciate that he had traded her whereabouts for this duke’s coin.

  The coachman became all business, gathering up Emilia and escorting her down the stairs. Clara and the duke followed and watched Emilia roll away.

  They had stayed at the dressmaker long enough that dusk was gathering. Clara gazed at the duke’s carriage. Her better sense urged some caution.

  “I think I will hire a hackney after all. You really should not have stayed, especially since it was all for naught.”

  “Are you afraid of my company because of that kiss, Lady Clara?”

  “Perhaps a little.”

  “That is probably wise, although I do not think you frighten easily. I certainly do not think you allow fear to govern your choices and actions. Nor do I believe it is me that you fear, even a little.”

  Oh, the look he gave her. So aware. So knowing. He might as well have said You fear yourself with me, which is different.

  What a conceited, impossible man. How had she forgotten that? Right now, standing beside the street, it seemed incomprehensible to her that she had allowed those kisses in her library earlier today. Her sympathy regarding his father had probably turned her judgment, and now he used it against her. His reasons might still be obscure, but not the intentions.

  Afraid of herself? Hardly. Afraid of him? Not at all. She was not some awestruck child, too inexperienced to see what this man was about. She had fought off her share of seductions in her day, and they had been more artful than his lack of subtlety. She had enjoyed her share of kisses without turning into a fool too.

  She strode to his carriage. “Directly to my home, please. No detours and no delays, if you do not mind.”

  * * *

  Lady Clara could not be enjoying this carriage ride much. She sat so stiffly that she swayed hard from left to right with the jostling of the equipage on the uneven pavement. She had not moved in any way since settling into the cushion across from him.

  He half expected her to pull out that hatpin and hold it at the ready. He did not doubt that she would use it.

  Picturing that led to other images. “Your brother said your father taught you to ride and shoot,” he said. “It sounds like you were very close to him. Were you his favorite?”

  Her stern expression softened at once, so much that he almost regretted the question.

  “I suspect I was. No, that isn’t fair. I know I was. He loved all of us, however, even if Theo may think—I came from one part of my father’s life, and Theo and Emilia from a later part, that is all. At least I think it is.”

  “Did he indulge you all the more after that first part ended?”

  “He did not indulge me. What a word to use. We enjoyed each other’s company. We fit each other like favorite garments.”

  Indulge was exactly the right word, from everything he had seen and heard. The late earl treated this daughter like a son. He had allowed her to remain unmarried and had provided the means for her to be independent.

  He had probably confided in her.

  “Women in your situation sometimes think it unfair that they cannot inherit,” he said.

  “I did not think that, although once he told me that he did. I think he really meant that he regretted I had not been a son. He frankly told me as much, and it did not hurt me. Men such as he marry to sire heirs, not daughters. He felt that obligation deeply, as all peers do.”

  “And so he remarried?”

  “I suppose that was one reason for it.”

  The main reason, most likely. Adam pictured the late earl. He could see him with very young Lady Clara, explaining to a child why he was taking another wife, telling her that she would not be displaced and be at the mercy of a stranger in their home. He did not like the earl and had good reasons to be both suspicious and angry about the man, but the ways he had cared for this daughter suggested he had not been all bad.

  “Did you know that this idea that our families make peace was his?”

  That amused her. “I am very sure it was not.”

  “Your grandmother said as much, th
at first day when I visited. Your father gave her instructions on what to do.”

  Her brow puckered. “That makes no sense. If he wanted such a peace, he could have seen to it himself.”

  “Perhaps he thought a new generation meant a new, clean page. He may have assumed that I would have cause never to trust him or listen to such a plan if it came from his lips. I find it odd that he did not tell you his thinking on this, since you were so close to him.”

  She pondered that, not happily. “He barely mentioned your family at all in my presence, as I have said.”

  “Not even to your grandmother? If they plotted this together, you might have overheard them.”

  She frowned all the more. “And yet I did not,” she murmured, as if in her mind she found that odd too.

  “When will your new wardrobe be ready?” He changed the subject lest he give in to the impulse to kiss that frown away.

  She pulled her thoughts away from wherever his questions had sent them. “I told them to see to my sister first.”

  “So you are condemned to black another month? That is unfair.”

  “If I merely wanted some color, I could wear what is in my wardrobe. I left fair-weather garments in London and have now moved them to Bedford Square.”

  “Do you have a riding habit among them?”

  “I do, but I did not bring my horse to town and should not borrow one of my brother’s now. Nor would I wear bright blue in the park where anyone could see me.”

  He saw her in that bright blue, flushed from galloping into the breeze. “I have a horse that you can borrow.”

  Her eyes lit for an instant before she subdued her excitement. “I do not think it would be appropriate for me to use your horse.”

  “Is there a rule of propriety about that? Similar to how often a woman dances with a man who is not her intended?”

  A smile tried to break. She bit it back. At least the frown was gone.

  “Hear my plan, and refuse if you choose. On Sunday I will bring a horse to your house,” he said. “You can wear the bright blue because we will be out of town before anyone is up and about. Instead of the park, we will ride in the country. I will have my cook prepare a basket.”

  She just looked at him.

  “You know that you miss riding,” he said. “Nor will we have to weave among the fashionable set on a park’s path. We can ride hard if we choose.”

  She visibly wavered.

  The carriage stopped just then. They had arrived on Bedford Square.

  He helped her alight from the carriage.

  “I will call at ten on Sunday,” he said.

  She did not say anything. Since she was not a woman who held her tongue when in disagreement, he decided that meant she consented.

  Chapter Nine

  Clara went to bed on Saturday with a little prayer that it would rain in the morning. When she woke to a gloriously beautiful day, however, she greeted the weather with more enthusiasm than she expected. She blamed that on how long it had been since she had enjoyed a good ride. Any equestrienne would want to be in a saddle on such a day.

  Jocelyn helped her dress and only raised one eyebrow when Clara called for the blue riding habit. Clara decided one eyebrow was allowed when the woman had been her maid for close to ten years and now performed multiple duties with only a few complaints about ladies’ maids not doing that kind of thing.

  Jocelyn helped her dress, then fixed her hair and set a small hat on her crown. She anchored it with two hatpins, then prepared her reticule.

  By ten o’clock she was ready, standing by the library window to see if Stratton would show. She had not actually accepted his invitation. He might have concluded coming here with an extra horse in tow would be pointless.

  Promptly at ten o’clock she spied him turning his white horse into the square. A beautiful chestnut horse paced behind him.

  Jocelyn even did door duty when the knock sounded. She brought Stratton into the library, where Clara still feasted her eyes on that magnificent chestnut. It was a gelding, and his lean lines suggested Arabian blood.

  “I was not sure you would come. I never responded to your invitation.”

  “I assumed that while you could resist my company, you would not forgo that of a good horse.”

  “You were correct.” She gathered up the train of her habit. “On such a fair day, to deny myself would be a sin.”

  “We can’t have that. Sins of omission are the worst kind. All of the guilt and none of the fun.”

  “No sins at all are the best kind.” She trusted he heard what she was saying. There will be no sinning of any kind today.

  It wasn’t that she did not trust him. She simply did not want to spend the day explaining how those kisses had been an error and that she only agreed to this ride because he had lured her with a fine horse and a finer day.

  She noticed when she passed Jocelyn that both of her eyebrows were up now.

  Stratton helped her into the saddle. “His name is Galahad. He is not accustomed to a sidesaddle, but I am sure you can handle him. He may require a firm hand, however.” He patted the chestnut’s neck, then mounted himself.

  She and Galahad became acquainted while they made their way south to the river. The horse resisted restraint and did need a firm hand. It pleased her that Stratton had brought Galahad and not some boring, safe horse with little spirit left.

  Very few people were on the streets at this hour on a Sunday. The pealing church bells sounded loud in the quiet town, as did their horses’ hooves. They moved through a London rarely seen.

  Once they crossed the Vauxhall Bridge, the countryside beckoned. The road alongside the river stretched open and free. No clutter of carts and wagons jammed it on Sunday morning. She gave Galahad permission to canter, then pushed him to a gallop.

  They charged down the road with Stratton close behind. She raised her face to the wind and sun and enjoyed how the horse beneath her stretched to go faster. It had been weeks since she had a good, fast ride.

  Some wagons meandered near a crossroad up ahead, and she pulled her reins to bring Galahad back to a walk. Stratton’s horse fell in next to hers.

  “That was glorious,” she said. “I must try and bring my own horse Thunder up to town and stable him near Bedford Square. Then I can ride out every Sunday morning.”

  “What would interfere? It seems a simple plan to me.”

  “Theo may claim Thunder is not mine but his. Which, legally speaking, is true.”

  “Surely he would not be so churlish as to refuse you the horse you have ridden for years.”

  “Oh, I can handle Theo. If my grandmother tells him to refuse me, however, he will probably obey her.”

  “She is nothing if not a redoubtable woman.”

  “What a kind word you choose. My brother is trying to be his own man, but it is hard when faced with such formidability.”

  “Yet you are not cowed.”

  “I will confess that when I defy her, I still tremble after all these years. However, I have trembled so long that I no longer capitulate. It took a long time to find the courage. In a few years, I expect my brother will too.”

  “Or not. I did not joke that day we met when I referred to her influence. She still has the power to have people shunned. Perhaps you can defy her because you do not care about such things too much. Your brother, however, probably does.”

  Was that where her courage came from? A decision that she would not be ruled by the kinds of social whips that Grandmamma used? Those whips had cracked loudly at that dinner when she announced she would move elsewhere.

  What if Grandmamma made good on her threats? Clara did not think herself a slave to society, but she would not like it if she was never received again or the invitations ceased arriving.

  “Let us ride to Richmond Hill,” Stratton suggested, pointing to the good mail road heading southwest. “The prospects are very fine, and we can share the contents of this basket while we enjoy them.”

  Ri
chmond Hill was a popular spot, but the day was still too early to have attracted others to its heights. They galloped again, to cross the miles, and rode to the hill’s crest almost an hour later.

  Stratton plucked her off her saddle. “We will have company soon on such a day. Let us go beyond those trees there, so perhaps we can enjoy the view of the Thames without children running to and fro in front of us.”

  They led their horses out of the sun and through the cool shade of the trees until they emerged onto a strip of high grass near the edge of the hill’s crest. Stratton tied their horses to a sturdy sapling, then lifted a basket off his saddle.

  Clara admired the view stretching below her. The terrace walk meandered a short way down the hill, from which visitors could admire the views. A few pleasure boats had ventured onto the Thames, which curved below. One empty barge slowly made its way toward London.

  When she turned her attention back to Stratton, she saw that he had laid a thick blanket on the ground. It billowed here and there atop the heavy grass and looked much like a feather mattress recently aired and fluffed.

  She looked at that blanket, and him, and the wine emerging from the basket. She noticed how those trees shielded them from eyes as well as noisy children. Not that any of either currently existed up here. Other than the birds’ songs and her own breathing, she could not hear a sound.

  She and the duke were thoroughly alone.

  * * *

  He watched her take in their surroundings and isolation. The trick was to keep her from marching to her horse immediately.

  He eased the cork out of the wine and poured some into the two crystal glasses. He held one out to her. “There is good well water too, if you want some.”

  After a considered pause, she walked back to him and took the wine. “What else is in that basket?”

  He sat and poked through it. “Cooked fowl, cheese, bread, cakes and strawberries. And this.” He held up a nosegay of small crocuses and one yellow narcissus.

  She took it and sniffed deeply, then sat, arranging herself so she faced the view, not him. “I am only staying awhile because it is lovely and peaceful up here. However, if we do not have company soon, we will have to leave, so do not unpack that food.”