“She does, indeed,” Mr. Knight offered.
Eleanor shot him a glare—and checked on the limping dog. It was keeping up, but it couldn’t go far. She switched her attention back to Beau Brummel and pretended it had never wavered.
With a weary gesture, Beau Brummel asked, “Is the multitude still watching?”
“Of course,” Mr. Knight answered. “They always watch you, Brummel.”
His blatant flattery startled Eleanor, but Beau Brummel’s answer startled her more.
“My popularity is a cross I must bear.” He looked serious, leaving Eleanor in awe of his conceit. “Your Grace, I wouldn’t suggest anything quite so outrageous as this escapade again—”
If he only knew the scandal that would erupt when Madeline arrived!
“—but you should continue as you’ve begun. You are the future duchess. You will set the fashion. You are a belle—I have decreed it. You have a marvelous manner. Never apologize for your eccentricities.” He swept her tattered riding costume with a glance. “Although, do remember—a well-gowned traveler is a happy traveler.”
Eleanor maintained a straight face with difficulty, and she suspected Mr. Knight shared her amusement. Yet she wasn’t like him. He wasn’t like her. So to think that the two of them were of like mind on any matter disturbed and distressed her.
Beau Brummel had finished making his pronouncements to her, and asked, “Mr. Knight, may I assume I’ve been sent an invitation to your ball?”
“You have,” Mr. Knight assured him.
“I’ll be there.” Beau Brummel placed the back of his hand against his forehead in an affected faint. “Now I have walked too far for my delicate constitution. Farewell, Your Grace. Farewell, Mr. Knight.”
Together, they watched him mince away.
“Well.” Mr. Knight’s mouth had a suspicious pucker. “That went well.”
Her heart sank. She was right. He was amused by Beau Brummel. They did share a sentiment—a disturbing thought and one she put away to contemplate later, in the dark of night, a time when she unfortunately woke and thought of Mr. Knight. “Obviously it went well. Because I am the future duchess and I will set the fashion.” Leaning down, she gently stroked the dog.
“What are you doing with this…animal?”
She hadn’t known what she was doing with it, but now she did. “I’m befriending it.” Gently, she picked it up, taking care not to touch its hurt leg. It was just light enough that she could carry it, just heavy enough to drag her down. Tucking it under her arm, she trudged toward Diriday. The dog’s gangly legs stuck out, its weight pulled at her arms. Her hands hurt, her knee ached, and it seemed the distance to the horse grew as she walked.
Remington walked beside her, his gait effortless, and he made no attempt to help her. “Are you doing this as some sort of revenge on me? Because I will force you to become my wife?”
They reached the horses and stepped into the wood, out of the sun and the sight of any curiosity-seekers who waited for further scandalous exhibitions. The groom tugged his forelock and discreetly stepped away.
Panting, she put the dog down. It huddled at her feet, while she put her hands on her hips. “Mr. Knight, I know this is a difficult concept for you to grasp, but not everything I do or say is related to you. In fact, the world does not revolve around you. The moon lights in the night sky without you. And my existence does not depend upon you. Now.” She again bent down to pick up the dog. “I will take my dog home and give it a bath—without thinking of you in any way.”
“Wait.” Taking her arm, Mr. Knight pulled her erect once more. “I would not have you continue in this reckless behavior.”
Once again, he confused her. “What reckless behavior?”
“Of not thinking of me.” Sliding his arm around her waist, he kissed her.
Their first kiss had been gentle and enticing, their second demanding…and enticing. This one was once again different. With a gentle nip on her lower lip, he insisted she think of him, and when she opened her mouth to scold, he kissed her with wicked intent. He wanted all of her attention, and with his experience, he knew how to get it. He seduced her with teeth and tongue. His lips moved on hers until she was insensible to the dappled sunshine, to the scent of roses on the breeze, the dog and Beau Brummel and the dilemma she faced being with him. Every thought, every feeling was absorbed in the press of his body on hers and the appetizer of pleasure he fed her.
Then he let her go. He steadied her with one hand on her elbow while she tried to gather her dignity and her prudence.
The longer she knew him, the less she knew herself.
Helping her into the saddle, he handed her the dog.
She adjusted the creature under her arm, murmured comfortingly to it, and started toward Mr. Knight’s town house.
It was frightening, to change so radically in so short a time and for so simple a reason as a kiss. Would Madeline even recognize Eleanor when she came to London? Would Eleanor recognize herself when the time came to concede her rights to Mr. Knight?
Would she surrender him? Or would she fight for him?
Chapter 16
Remington strode along the gallery above the foyer. “This damned dog has got to go.”
His duchess hung over the stair rail, watching the servants scurry back and forth in last-minute preparations, setting up tables, icing bottles of champagne, filling vases with masses of yellow roses. Turning her head, she looked at him and at the dog trotting at his side. Although her face remained solemn, she glowed with an inner delight. “Damn is not a word one uses in mixed company in England.”
But damn, she looked good in a sweep of turquoise silk that turned her eyes a startling blue. A turquoise ribbon was threaded through her hair, and diamonds sparkled like stars in the short, dark strands.
Her own clothing, of course. Her own ribbon. Her own diamonds. She still wouldn’t wear what he had bought her, but although she didn’t yet know it, soon she would have no choice.
In the meantime, he had a dog following on his heels. Stopping by Madeline’s side, he pointed at the animal. “Look at it. It’s shedding black hair on my white stockings and tan hair on my black breeches.”
“It’s not as bad as all that.” She smiled at him and the dog, that charmed, secure smile that eased his tension. The smile she allowed herself so infrequently. “You have to admit, Mr. Knight, that Lizzie is much more appealing now that she’s had a bath.”
“Lizzie? Who’s Lizzie?” He was afraid he knew.
“Your dog.”
“It’s not my dog, and who ever heard of a dog named Lizzie?” He snapped his fingers at the frolicking animal. “Sit!”
At once, the mutt obeyed, adoring him with its eyes, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Washed and dried, it did present a better appearance and heaven knew a better smell, but rather than be grateful to Madeline, its rescuer, it had attached itself to him. It followed him up and down stairs, it lounged on the Persian rug in his bedchamber, it barked at his valet.
His duchess didn’t seem hurt by the mutt’s defection. Instead, Remington’s exasperation amused her. “Mr. Knight, you look very handsome, hairy breeches or not.”
“Hm. Thank you.” He straightened his formal black jacket. “I suppose. Although I don’t know if that is truly a compliment.”
She glanced at him, then away, as if that would hide the sensual awareness in her eyes. “It is.”
He smiled, wondered how she would cope with the dramatic announcement he had planned for the end of the evening.
Lady Gertrude bustled past in her party finery and clapped her hands. “Children, children, hurry up! The guests will be arriving soon.” Casting a stern glance at Lizzie, she said, “And put the doggie away. You know Lady Fendsworth is terrified of dogs.”
Lizzie barked reproachfully at Lady Gertrude.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t have you frightening the guests.” Lady Gertrude spoke to the dog as if the creature understood her.
Worse, Lizzie sighed as if she did understand.
“Off you go, then.” Lady Gertrude hurried down the corridor.
“All right. Lizzie is going in her crate.” He started for his room and felt a nip on the heel of his boot.
Swiveling, he glared at the dog, who pranced in joy at having obtained his attention. “Do you know what my valet is going to say about this?” Remington pointed at the scuff on his boot. “He’s going to…to give you another bath!”
At once the dog’s black tail wagged hard enough to thump the railing. Furthermore, Remington could have sworn the stupid thing smiled up at him.
Madeline burbled briefly, a choked half-laugh that seemed unpracticed in the art of joy. Then, as if she couldn’t resist, she went off into peals of pure merriment.
The duchess seldom smiled, and when she did, it was only politely. She seldom smiled with happiness, and Remington had never, never heard her laugh. Now this stupid dog with its sloppy tongue and its bizarre devotion to him—and his boots—had made her chuckle, and he liked the rare, sweet sound. Her joy sent a thrill up his spine like no other, and if this dog was what it took to entertain her, then this dog was his favorite animal, ever. Squatting beside it, he petted its head. “Good girl. Good…Lizzie.”
Lizzie’s frantic attempt to lick his face made the duchess laugh again.
As he listened and fended off the dog, he realized a new purpose. He would make Madeline laugh more often.
The candles cast a golden glow about the ballroom. Clad in their colorful garments, the guests stood or danced or drank. This party celebrating Remington’s betrothal to the future duchess of Magnus was a resounding success, except…catching the butler, Remington asked, “Has the duke of Magnus arrived?”
“No, sir.” Bridgeport leaned closer and whispered, “He is not in London.”
Magnus wasn’t here. “The bastard didn’t even come to his daughter’s betrothal party.”
“Perhaps, sir, he is embarrassed to face the ton after the loss of his daughter.”
“Perhaps.” Remington doubted that. Magnus was a bluff English bulldog of a man who drank deep and gambled without compunction. And beneath that jovial facade lurked a cruel man, one who didn’t quibble at murder to get his way. Had he learned Remington’s true identity? Was he even now hiding on one of his estates, concocting another pitiless scheme?
Tomorrow Remington would send out his men to discover the duke’s whereabouts. Then Remington himself would go and beat a confession from the damnable duke, and find out what further mischief he had planned. For Remington wasn’t entirely sure that the duke wouldn’t annihilate his own daughter before allowing her to marry a commoner.
But for tonight, the evening was a success, and midnight was fast approaching. Midnight…
Bridgeport asked, “Sir, shall we prepare for the toast?”
“At once.” As the fresh glasses of chilled champagne made their way across the ballroom on silver trays, Remington conversed with his guests, nibbled on the salmon, and always, always positioned himself to watch Madeline.
She stood still, allowing the guests to approach her. She listened to every comment, she considered each person gravely, she touched their arm or their hand, and it seemed that more and more, the women came to her to converse. Not to flatter or to gossip, but to tell her about themselves. The men came, too, in droves, and one and all they fell deeply in love.
How could they help it? What was it that fool Viscount Mauger had said? She is as fair as the sun in all its brilliance. Preposterous sentiment, except that it was true.
Madeline’s beauty was a complication Remington hadn’t planned on. He understood, of course, that with Brummel’s endorsement and her own exquisite style, it had become all the rage to suffer for love of her. He also knew that the infatuations of the gentlemen were shallow, and when Madeline became a matron, she would no longer hold the allure she held as a single girl. He looked forward to that day for, to his own incredulity, he suffered little stabs of jealousy with every alluring glance sent winging her way. He found himself wanting to take her aside and explain that the other men were superficial and untrue, while he…but no. He wouldn’t admit his fascination to her. Her female hands could take his heart and wring it dry. Besides, if his own infatuation was not shallow, then it was based on…on what?
Big blue eyes, an uncertain manner, a smile she almost never used, a lush body, a strong belief in doing what was right, a gentle kindness, a sharp intelligence she kept carefully hidden…
Excusing herself from the little crowd around her, she circulated throughout the ballroom. Stopping in the corner where the chaperons, governesses and companions were seated, she spoke to them. The chaperons and companions stirred and answered, but uneasily. She ordered drinks and trays of food for them, and left them feasting and sipping their drinks—and uncertainly eyeing their mistresses, as if waiting for retribution.
With a word to Bridgeport, Remington ordered that the chaperon corner be served throughout the rest of the evening. Again Remington moved into a position where, from across the ballroom, he could watch Madeline. He wanted to reach into his mind and claw away his absorption in her. He couldn’t afford this insanity. Not now. Not with his plans coming to fruition. For this maneuver, he needed a cool, clear mind. He did not need to be distracted by a woman.
A gorgeous woman, yes, but just a woman.
He didn’t understand her. That was the problem. She was beautiful but unaware of her beauty. She was rich but not grasping. She was timid, yet she rode fearlessly, and for a scroungy dog she roared like a lion.
Because of her, he’d had his best boots nipped by a mutt’s sharp teeth. Because of her, he’d ordered all flower arrangements changed from red to yellow roses. Because of her, he spent far too little time plotting the next step of his revenge, and far too much time plotting their wedding night. A night full of silk sheets, fine foods, and a gloriously gentle seduction.
So now, at last…with a nod to Bridgeport, Remington sought out his duchess. She watched him gravely as he crossed the floor toward her. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Is there something you require?”
“Come with me.”
As if she knew his plans, she placed her palms together in a prayerful attitude. “Must I?”
The woman before him had changed so much in the last few days. She’d cut her hair short. She no longer feared to appear in public. Her fair skin seemed to glow, as if lit from within. She was growing more gorgeous every day, and he would never let her go. “It’s too late to turn back now.”
She gave a shaky sigh. “I’m beginning to fear that is the truth.”
Offering his arm, he led her toward the platform where the orchestra played. Recognizing their cue, the musicians played a fanfare.
The guests turned and smiled. They thought they knew what he would announce—the betrothal.
But they didn’t know everything. No one knew except Bridgeport, who had helped him arrange matters, and Remington himself. Remington assisted Madeline up the stairs to the stage. She cast him an agonized, beseeching glance, but he paid no heed to her last-minute nerves. Joining her, he pulled a small box from his pocket. The last of the conversations died. Projecting his voice to the very edges of the ballroom, he said with theatrical flare, “I thank you for coming tonight to help me celebrate my betrothal to Madeline de Lacy, the marchioness of Sherbourne and the future duchess of Magnus. It’s a great honor to put my ring on her finger”—opening the box, he showed her the magnificent sapphire, set in a swirl of gold—“which I chose as a compliment to the beauty of her eyes.”
As he eased her glove from her left hand, most of the guests clapped.
A few did not. Despite the fact she had no invitation, Lady Shapster had arrived early and had spent an inordinate amount of time observing his duchess. Remington didn’t like the malevolent, narrow slit of her catlike eyes, and he had made sure Madeline was never alone with h
er for one moment.
Lord Fanthorpe did not applaud, either.
That didn’t surprise Remington. At Remington’s club, and at the Picards’ ball, the old man had ignored him with meticulous iciness. Fanthorpe was like the others, men and women who were willing to drink Remington’s champagne and dine at his board but who were not willing to welcome him into society.
Yet with the approval of the prince and the hand of the duchess, Remington would become one of the ton…and at last his sister’s suffering would be avenged, and his father’s ghost would rest in peace.
As Remington lifted Madeline’s bare hand to place the ring on her third finger, he felt the muscles spasm as she tried, for one second, to reject his brand of possession.
Lifting his gaze to hers, he saw panic there. Reality had at last overwhelmed her. In a dark, intimate whisper, he said, “Don’t try and resist me. I will put my ring on your finger.”
Her defiance collapsed. Her gaze fell. She waited docilely for him to complete the deed…but to his amazement, he, too, suffered a moment of hesitation.
The ring should be his mother’s. The girl should be his true love.
But those dreams had died twenty years ago in a fiery tragedy, and nothing could bring those dreams—or his family—back to life. He could only hope that marrying the daughter of the duke of Magnus would ease his pain—or at least give him someone with whom to share it.
His duchess watched as he slid the ring, fitted exactly to her hand, over her slender knuckle and settled it tightly against her palm. Lifting her hand, he held it so the ring sparkled in the blaze of candlelight. “Thank you, my friends, for helping us celebrate this moment, and celebrate with us again! Lift your glasses and toast our happiness!”
The guests drank with good cheer.
Remington wasn’t done. Still holding Madeline’s hand, he looked into her eyes, and announced, “This moment is especially precious to me. The archbishop of Canterbury has granted us a special license, and we will be married at St. James’s Piccadilly on…the day after tomorrow.”
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