“But it’s doubtful we’d be missed at all,” the duke muttered, loud enough for Aria to hear.
Shoes in place, Aria turned to leave, offering, “Thank you for the use of your study, your grace.”
Once out the door, she strode down the corridor, her gait more suited to boot-covered feet sinking in the sand than slippers and silks, but no matter how her stepmother tried to correct that, Aria couldn’t—or yes, wouldn’t—change the way she walked.
Stopping outside the doors of the ballroom, she leaned back against the cool wallpapered wall. Her insides were knotted tight as a sailor’s hitch. But she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and painted a smile on her face. She was nothing if not pragmatic.
The duke’s name was on her father’s list.
And she would become better acquainted with each and every one of the men whose names her father had scrawled on that piece of paper, be they betrothed, married with ten mistresses or hiding from matrimony. She would find out what they knew about his disappearance.
But the duke... she needed a new plan on how to approach him, so tonight she would focus on one of the other men.
Fortunately, it would never occur to the ton that she didn’t dream of ascending into their hallowed realms, and they had bought her ruse without a blink. After all, money excused any variety of unsuitable traits, and Aria’s father had plenty of wealth.
She swiveled on a slippered toe to peer in the wide-open double doors. The small but sumptuous ballroom overflowed with partygoers, who had doubled in number during her absence.
The gentlemen milled about, sizing each other up as if their birthright and bank accounts had been inked on their foreheads.
The ladies were worse. They acted with one single thought in their combined empty heads: secure a marriage. Whether for themselves or a relative, that goal tainted every discourse, every conversation.
The very idea of marrying someone here, spending her life among them, sent shudders down her spine. But what she thought about it didn’t matter.
She squared her shoulders and prepared to live up to her newfound reputation as a calculating flirt.
And perhaps she’d find George—somebody’s George—and dance with him again just to be contrary.
* * *
“Ariadne is a most unusual name, Miss Whitney,” Lord Wittleton said an hour later, his mouth pursed in a manner that spoke of his dislike for anything unusual. He’d cornered her between a silk-papered wall and a group of matrons including her chaperone, Lady Beasley, sitting in a circle of chairs. The collective scent of their individual perfumes reminded her of a less-than-pleasant stroll down the spice alley of Istanbul’s Great Market—so many strong odors competing for attention, they singed the ability to smell right out of her nose.
“Yes, my father—” A lump ballooned in her throat, but she forced it back. “He is fascinated by Greek mythology.”
Wittleton stared blankly.
“Ariadne is from mythology. The woman who fell in love with Theseus.”
The response was a slow blink.
“Theseus, the Athenian who killed the Minotaur?” She took a sip of her punch.
His lecherous gaze wandered down to her bodice. “Yes, Theseus. Minotaur. Of course.”
Good heavens, this man held sway with some of the most prominent men in the room? Had they met him?
Not that he’d offered introduction to any of them. But he’d become her only option thus far, as her chaperone, Lady Beasley, had proven little help in that regard, preferring to sit against the wall gossiping with friends and partaking heavily of the wine offered. And since the young women of marriageable age and their mothers had declared Aria Enemy Number One, they were more inclined to toss her over the balcony than smooth a path to potential matrimony.
Once again, she would have to take matters into her own hands.
“Has your headache improved, Miss Whitney?” The melodic voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned to find the duke’s betrothed a few feet away.
Aria considered kissing her for interrupting. “Yes, thank you. I do hope I didn’t—well, interrupt something.”
“Ravensdale will survive, though he’ll not admit it.” She turned to the man next to them. “Lord Wittleton, I am parched. Perhaps you might fetch me a glass of punch?”
He tore his attention away from Aria’s cleavage long enough to note the half-full glass in Lady Blythe’s hand.
“This punch is at least twenty minutes old and not remotely refreshing any longer.” To the lady’s credit, her lips didn’t even twitch.
“Of course, of course.” Lord Wittleton’s nose wiggled, and then his head dipped as he once again ogled Aria’s bodice.
Curse him to Hades. Aria lifted her half-full glass of punch, intent on dumping it over his head. Instead, Lady Blythe plucked it right out of her hand and shoved both glasses at him. “You’re ever so kind.”
The wretched man stomped away.
“I should have let you douse him.” Warm amusement coated her words. “And I did not realize in the study that you are Gideon Whitney’s daughter, or I might have peppered you with questions.”
Caught off guard, Aria cocked her head. “Whatever for?”
“Curiosity has abounded about you since you began attending events. Especially given that you settled in London last year. The fact that you did not participate in society the way your father did, well, it has caused a stir.”
“And you thought to assuage the curiosity?”
“I admit to being curious.” Her arms opened, as if encouraging trust, confidences. “But not for anyone’s gossip. I met your father a while back, and I found him utterly charming. I hope he is here tonight?”
Aria tried not to flinch. “He’s away on business.”
“What treasure is he hunting this time? He regaled a group of us with one of his hunts—that is what he calls them, right? What an incredible adventure.”
“He is quite the storyteller.” Realizing she was wringing her hands, Aria opened the reticule that dangled from her wrist and reached in for something to keep her wayward appendages busy. Her left hand wrapped around the key she’d shoved in earlier.
Blast!
She hadn’t relocked the chest or returned the key.
“But you don’t need me to go on. You accompanied him for many years.”
Aria held the key tight enough to feel the imprint heating her skin. Lady Blythe’s warm, open demeanor suggested they were none the wiser, but the duke would eventually realize the chest was unlocked.
With the key missing, it would take mere seconds for him to recall Aria had been there. Alone.
And perhaps one second after that to wonder why.
“Miss Whitney?”
She forced herself to focus. “Yes?”
Lady Ashton frowned. “Am I mistaken?”
No. Yes. Would you repeat that? A dozen responses flew through Aria’s mind, but she stood there, mouth ajar with nothing to say. Her shoulders sagged. “I must beg your pardon. I am afraid my mind wandered off.”
The lady gave a gracious chuckle. “I imagine you have stories of your own to tell. How long have you been in London?”
“Almost a year, Lady—” She exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I know this is rude and I’m certain my father’s wife will faint dead away should she hear of it, but how am I supposed to address you? Is it Lady Ashton? Lady Blythe? Your Graceness?”
A musical laugh accompanied the twinkle in her eyes. “I may have to adopt Your Graceness for Ravensdale. He would hate it. And I am not yet a duchess, so Lady Ashton would be proper. Even though it still causes consternation when people recall I share a surname with my betrothed.”
“Is that...common?”
“I was previously married to my betrothe
d’s cousin, Thomas Ashton. But I must ask, how is it you’ve been in London a full year and only made the rounds so recently? Your father cut quite a swath on the dance floor at many balls I’ve attended, but I don’t recall seeing you. It’s made you quite the mystery. But then, your father is a bit of a phenomenon amongst the ton.”
“A phenomenon?” Aria touched her free hand to her forehead. If she claimed her headache had returned...
Blythe frowned. “Are you feeling unwell again?”
“A leftover twinge, I fear.” The key burned a hole through her palm.
“Perhaps you might like some quiet for a few moments?”
Perfect. “I think I would.”
“Upstairs, the first door on the left. You’ll have some privacy there.”
“My thanks.” She turned on her heel to head toward the door that led back to the study.
“Miss Whitney.”
Against the strong desire to flee the room, Aria turned. “Yes?”
Lady Ashton pointed in the opposite direction. “Through that door.”
Aria sent a longing glance at the door she wanted to go through and realized she’d have to find a way around. “Of course.” She pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you.”
Once the other woman turned to leave, Aria moved with purpose toward the open set of doors leading to the entryway. If this home was like others she’d visited, there would be a servant’s staircase at the opposite end of the home. Somewhere. She might have to search it out, but she’d find it.
She hurried up the stairs, made a turn into the corridor, and headed straight past the first, second and third doors on the left without stopping. Lady Ashton had been so kind, and she did not want to get caught with—
“You’re walking right past opportunity, dearest.”
The words tripped her heart, then her steps. “Papa?” She whipped around.
“Papa?”
The corridor was empty. She’d imagined the words.
A wave of grief rolled like a load-heavy cart right through her, stole the strength from her body until she had to bend over to catch her breath.
“God, it seemed so real.” If only he were here. If only he’d never left.
If only she’d gone with him.
Aria shook the sadness away. She had to focus. And his words, imagined or not, were true. Her father was an antiquarian, trained to find things impossible to find. She may not have been allowed to dig in the trenches with his team, but he had taught her plenty.
“All right, Papa. What would you do?”
He would search every possible corner of this house, without hesitation. Aria moved to the nearest door, went inside and gave it a gentle shove until she heard a soft click. The room held the essence of musk, a hint of the man who slept there.
She faced the interior and took a quick inventory—a bed, an armoire, a set of chairs by the windows. Someone’s bedchamber.
Spying candles on a table, she lit one and then opened the armoire. The scent was stronger here: men’s clothing filled the armoire to the brim. She closed the doors and walked about for any other indications of ownership.
The room was luxurious, lined in rich brocades and silks in deep jewel tones of red and blue, the masculine undertone matched in the heavy lines of the furniture. No delicate chairs in here. A hefty book sat on a nightstand next to the bed. She peeked into the dressing room and found a large array of more clothes.
The duke’s bedchamber?
Turning back to the nightstand, Aria opened the drawer. Nothing but a few pieces of paper littered the bottom.
And she was being a ninny.
Who would leave priceless antiquities in a drawer?
Or a chest. Or a study.
Or anywhere, for that matter.
And how had she not picked up more—or any—skill at the hunt?
She’d spent years traveling dry deserts, lush forests, and whatever remote area her father’s team could find their latest treasures in. She had trailed behind them, begged them to let her participate. She’d dug in the dirt and covered herself in dust at the age of six.
She needed a better plan.
No, she needed a plan, period.
She had her father’s list. She also knew that many of the treasures he had discovered had disappeared.
Basically, she had nothing.
She sank to the edge of the bed, setting the candle on the nightstand before she dropped back upon the coverlet and let out a half grunt, half wail.
“What are you doing in here?” a deep voice boomed from behind her.
She jolted in surprise and shot up to a sitting position.
A blond man stood in the doorway, near to filling it with wide shoulders.
How long had he been there?
A deep frown furrowed his brow, but Aria couldn’t tear her gaze away. Her stomach fluttered before she squashed the sensation. Who cared if he put the English popinjays to shame with those blond curls, those shoulders and—oh, praise the gods, that body. He cut a fine feather, indeed, quite dashing, a fact that did nothing to quell the deliciously improper thoughts that raced through her mind. Was he as hard all over as the lines of his jacket and the snug fit of his trousers suggested?
She sucked in a deep breath, unaware until then that she’d forgotten to breathe.
“I asked you a question.” His words were clipped. The man took a step into the room, one hand pressing the door wide open. “Why are you here?”
“I am resting,” she snapped, without a thought as to how she might explain how resting included snooping in the recently opened drawers. Had he watched her search the room?
“In the duke’s bedroom.” The frown turned into a deeper scowl. “Did he invite you?”
“Yes,” she blurted out. Well, he had suggested earlier she find a room upstairs for some quiet. It hadn’t been an invitation to rifle through his personal belongings. Minor point of distinction, one might say. “He told me to come upstairs.”
He slammed the door shut. “I never liked the blasted man to begin with.” He strode toward her. “You will leave this instant, and I will wring his wretched neck if he thinks to insult Blythe by carrying on with a mistress at their engagement party. After all he has put her through.”
Aria’s jaw dropped. “What? No, you’ve mistaken me.”
She jumped to her feet at the same moment he stopped at the edge of the bed. His hands extended, and their bodies plowed into each other. “Oof!” Her muscles clenched from the collision, and she teetered on one less-than-sturdy slipper before falling backward onto the bed.
The man scrambled to gain his balance but failed and landed atop her with a thud that stole the air from her lungs.
Aria was pinned beneath his weight. Her heart raced, and it had nothing to do with fear.
“I say, this is rather...awkward.” His gaze darted about, clearly checking for a safe place to put his hands. A lock of blond hair dipped over his forehead, and she grew oddly fidgety.
“Your name is not George, by chance?”
He stared down at her with wary eyes the same vibrant blue-green of the seas near Greece. “No.” His hands found purchase on either side of her head, and Aria had the unexpected, yet pleasant sensation of being enveloped by him.
The weight of his body against hers was unlike anything she’d ever felt, all at once hard and soft. His scent, citrus and spice, filled the air; his face loomed inches from hers, and every inch of him pressed her deeper into the cool silk coverlet underneath. She wanted to stroke his chest, feel the swell and ebb of his muscles. Tug on his hair to find out if it really was as silky as it seemed.
And his lips. Were they as soft as they looked?
She leaned a little closer. He did the same. Her breath hitched as she held hersel
f inches away, waiting... savoring the delicious sensations in her core.
But he thought she was the duke’s mistress. And well, now, possibly George’s.
Had she gone daft?
She pushed her hands against his chest, shoved him off, and scrambled over the bed until she reached the other side. “Go away. I am not what you think I am.”
He shifted to sit on the bed. “The duke sent you to his bedroom. It is rather self-explanatory.”
“And you thought to take his place?”
“What? No! Where on earth would you—” He glanced to the spot where he’d fallen on top of her. “I was not accosting you! I tripped. You were the one lying on the bed.”
“I am not his mistress!” She quickly stood up. “I met the duke with his fiancée downstairs, and they sent me upstairs to find a room to rest. I had a headache.” She crossed her arms. “That is all.”
“Fine. I’ll have a discussion with Ravensdale, and he can confirm your story.”
“Yes, that is a perfect plan. Be sure to let him know you and I were in here together. Alone.” She waved a hand toward the door. “Behind closed doors.”
“Convenient for you. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“Then I shall leave you here to ponder the situation.” She turned to go.
“Not bloody likely.”
Chapter Two
“I beg your pardon?” The woman on the other side of the bed had the gall to look affronted, whether by his word choices or his accusations, he had no idea. Yet she was the one caught in the act.
But if she was not here to meet with his sister’s fiancé, then everything that had occurred could prove very bad for him, indeed. Good god, he’d almost kissed her. That moment when she’d held her breath, leaned in, he’d known what she was offering, and every fiber of his being wanted to take it.
What if she claimed he’d ruined her? The chances of the situation getting out of hand grew greater by the minute, but he needed answers.
“I am leaving,” she said, “and we cannot be seen leaving this room together. Therefore, you must remain.”
Cloaked in Danger Page 2
