He tried to visualize Dorothy’s finer points, her sensible, light brown hair and warm coffee-brown eyes.
Instead, images of velvety ivory skin and luminous auburn hair intruded.
Yes, he understood why the gentlemen here tonight vied for this woman’s favors.
His own father had spent what had remained of the family fortune courting such a woman. In the end, he’d earned only her rejection.
The men of his family had a weakness for such emotional punishment.
At Miss Jones’ side, a man of about forty, with a pleasant face and slightly balding plate, gazed at her with worshipful eyes… the Duke of Froster.
It’s her fault that Papa died.
Dorothy’s strident words echoed in his mind.
Miranda Jones pushed and pushed until he caved to her demands for more luxury, more gifts. She hounded him, forced him to place all his money in a losing investment. The strain of it killed him. I know it did.
Now she’s set her sights on the Duke of Froster. He’s such a dear, sweet man. You must stop her.
He told himself it had been the urgency in her voice, the pleading in her eyes that rendered him unable to deny her request. Dorothy was more than a lover. She was his friend. But, in truth, her final plea is what finally goaded him into action.
If you won’t do it for me, then do it to make her feel what it means to lose. Make her atone for Papa. Make her atone for your sons having lost their grandfather so early and so needlessly.
The nerve she hit reminded him how much his sons had lost so early in their lives. The night he sat at his wife’s deathbed he’d vowed to make up for that. They had lost both of their grandfathers too soon. He couldn’t bring Carrville or his own father back. However, he could prevent the mild-mannered and naïve Duke of Froster from throwing his grandchildren’s financial legacy away as Adrian’s father had.
Despite these truths, despite his private vow and his promise to Dorothy, something even more private had driven him here tonight.
He wanted Miranda Jones to look him in the face.
He wanted to confront her.
It was a damned waste of his time. There wouldn’t even be any good prospects for large wins in the card room. These events, where gentlemen were so focused on the women, proved poor pickings for a gentleman like him, one bent on rebuilding his family fortune via gambling.
As he approached the circle of fawning, worshipful men, not a single one greeted him but, instead, kept their eyes glued to the lovely, glittering nightbird.
“Froster,” Adrian said.
The duke didn’t reply, and Adrian realized the man was so caught up in the slightly naughty little jest that Miss Jones was telling that he didn’t hear him.
“Froster,” Adrian said, sharply, unable to conceal his disgust with the older man’s enraptured state.
Froster turned, his eyes alight with pleasure, cheeks flushed. “Good evening, Danvers.” He motioned for Adrian to come closer. “Miss Jones has been telling us the most delightful stories.”
“Has she?” Adrian said, forcing a disinterested tone as he directed his attention towards Miss Jones.
Eyes of palest green, with a radiance like pearls, met his. Eyes that narrowed slightly.
Her haughty, slightly bored expression stung his pride. He was the twenty-seventh Earl of Danvers, a Sutherland, descended from a bloodline with noble roots as old as England itself. Who was she? A commoner. Just another woman among scores of her kind in Mayfair, no different from thousands of her poorer sisters selling their wares to the highest bidder on the streets of London.
He fought to keep his expression pleasant.
“Good evening, Miss Jones,” he said smoothly.
“Good evening, Lord Danvers.” Her expression warmed to starchy politeness, the barest hint of a curve to her lush mouth.
“Start the story over, Miss Jones,” Froster said with boyish earnestness.
Adrian shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary.” He held out a hand to Miss Jones. “I hear the quartet setting up. Perhaps you’d care to dance?”
Her lush, red mouth dropped open, and her eyes rounded. A lovely, exaggerated performance. “Dance, my lord? With you?”
She glanced around at her circle of admirers, her gorgeous mouth twitching. With a graceful flourish, she swept her fan up to cover her nose and mouth. Then she laughed, her eyes dancing above the gold lace that edged the fan.
All exaggerated actions.
All artifice.
Just the type of behavior that he despised—and expected—from women of her type.
The noblemen who flocked around her echoed her laughter like pathetic puppies. He kept his attention focused on Miss Jones.
“You find something amusing in my invitation?” he said.
“My lord, it is well known that you do not dance with courtesans.”
“What man wouldn’t make an exception in your case, Miss Jones?”
“My goodness.” Miss Jones fanned her face with slow, languid motions, making her ringlets flutter.
The gentlemen around her continued to chuckle.
“Will you dance with me or not?” he asked tersely.
Though she continued to smile, her gaze hardened. “You do me quite an honor, Lord Danvers. I can hardly say no, can I?”
He offered his hand again.
She took it.
“Now see here, Danvers,” Lord Peters said. “You have no right to just stroll in here and take our lovely Miss Jones away.”
“Yes, quite so,” Lord Thomason said. “You don’t even attend events like this.”
Adrian ignored them and led Miss Jones to where the other couples were assembling for the dance.
As Miss Jones followed at his side, she smiled. She sparkled.
Every male gaze followed her.
She exuded such sensual appeal, such dramatic exuberance, it was impossible not to notice her. Not to stare.
She certainly seemed to have overcome any grief she might have felt over the loss of her long-time protector.
However, she wasn’t Carrville’s widow. There were no rules to mandate a mistress’ mourning period. And she would need to find a new protector.
It was only fair to give her a chance.
This impromptu interview, this dance, was her chance to prove to him that she wasn’t the scheming, predatory creature that Dorothy believed her to be.
However, Miss Jones didn’t know she was being interviewed. Did she even stop to suspect that she might be tested? Confronted?
He took her hand and they circled each other.
Her expression continued to radiate excitement, joy, warmth. Yet when her gaze met his, he glimpsed the iceberg.
Cold enough to freeze a man’s stones off.
Unable to stop casting a covert glance at her ivory-hued cleavage, he led her through the moves of the dance, too aware of his hardening erection.
“I am not interested in a one-night assignation.” Her cool, cultured tone fell over him like icy water.
“What?” he blurted.
“My lord, it is well known that you have no interest in keeping a high flier for a mistress. Well, I am not interested in being a one-time light o’ love of any man. No matter his rank or…” As the dance pulled them apart, she slid her gaze inch by inch down his body as though recording every detail of his face, cravat, coat and waistcoat.
So intense was her inspection, he almost felt her touch. His erection grew hard as iron, his cock leaking.
She lifted her gaze to his face. “His qualifications.”
He returned a lazy, lengthy assessment of his own. Despite his painful erection, he maintained a cool expression at the sight of every luscious inch of her. He managed a grin. A slight one. “What makes you think I am interested in a one-night assignation?”
“Why else approach me?”
“Perhaps I am simply being friendly to the former mistress of my late wife’s father. Not just my father-in-law but a dear fr
iend and mentor.”
“You were friends once, yes, but in later years not that close.” Her arch glance cut into him. “He was confused at the loss of your closeness.”
Guilt pricked, but he shrugged. “Friends often grow apart.”
“It is not the kindest act to turn away from a true friend.”
Anger flared. What the devil would this chit know about what had motivated his cooling towards Carrville?
“How unfortunate that Carrville and I had that parting of the ways. As a result, you and I have not yet had the chance to come to know each other.”
Her eyes flashed with ire. “I’ve told you that I have no interest in being party to any gaff affaire.”
That flash in her eyes. Another brilliant, yet all too brief, flash of utter beauty. Like lightning, it crackled through him, sending his heart racing.
Christ, what was it about her that made him think in such an appalling excuse for poetic phrasings? Was it just her youth? Or perhaps it was the memory of her once wide-eyed innocence when her aunt had first presented her at a courtesan’s ball four years ago. Did he hold on to the vague hope that that innocent girl still existed beneath her cool expression, elegant coiffure and glittering wardrobe?
Heaven help him if part of him struggled under that illusion.
For he knew all about her kind. She was the daughter of a courtesan. Such characteristics had been born and bred into her. Time had won out.
Only a fool would cling to a memory.
And external beauty was the most treacherous of all illusions.
They danced in silence after that.
She smelled delicious. The most delicate, refined blend of rose and musk imaginable. Then came a sweet scent of fruits too exotic to name, followed by a hint of spicy things too ephemeral and nuanced for him to discern.
The music ended, and he led her away from the dance floor. As he did, the meaning of her words struck him. Once on the edge of the chamber, he stopped and turned to her.
“Gaff?” he asked.
“You treat your women cheaply,” she said.
He chuckled softly. “I’ve yet to receive any complaints.”
A flush brightened her cheeks. Her breathing increased, as did the rise and fall of her bosom. The dangerous swell of her cleavage transfixed him, yet again.
He reached for the locket nestled between her breasts. Soft flesh seared his fingers, briefly.
God.
Renewed lust flared in his loins. His cock grew harder than iron.
He lifted the locket and examined it. The cheapest silver. Shoddy artistry. Why would she even allow such an item on her person, much less wear it when she was amid other people?
His fingers brushed flesh that was soft as velvet. Warm.
“My lord, I have not given you leave to be so informal with me.”
He shifted his gaze to her face. She’d gone rigid, her eyes cutting into his like icy shards. Even her wintry stare didn’t cool his lingering pleasure at having brushed his fingers against those magnificent breasts. The metal heart he held still retained heat from her flesh.
Reluctantly, he let it go. “Why do you wear such a plain adornment? The last time I saw you, you were wearing some lovely pearls.”
She compressed her lips.
“They looked quite expensive,” he added.
“It’s none of your business.”
He regarded her for a moment. “Did you sell your necklace?”
“I have expenses, my lord, and I am in need of a protector. You know that Carrville died with his finances in disarray.”
“Didn’t Carrville provide some security for you?” He frowned. “The man was totally besotted with you.”
Sickeningly so, in fact.
Amusement flickered in her stare. “Do you think his family honored his promises one day beyond his demise?”
The music began again, a lively country tune, a sharp contrast to the sudden disquiet inside him.
Had he misjudged her?
He reached for her hand. “Let’s have some refreshment.” He led her to a sideboard and procured a cup of wine punch for them both. After they had finished, he took her cup and set it aside.
“Surely you possessed a contract?” he asked.
She stared. Her expression seemed about to crumple. Or had he only imagined that? Now her eyes looked like flints. “Carrville’s heir has employed a solicitor who declared that he had not been in his right mind.”
For a moment, she looked lost.
Girlish.
Innocent.
His heart panged at this change, such a bittersweet, aching sensation. As though that organ, perhaps even more traitorous than his faithless, senseless cock, had been waiting for this evidence of her humanity.
Softness and warmth. A swelling sensation centered in his chest.
How ridiculous!
At least his brain hadn’t turned to mush.
He knew better than to believe this ploy. Was this how she had snared Carrville?
He was estranged from Carrville’s eldest son. But he was still close to Dorothy, and he had heard nothing of any campaign to cheat the girl out of anything that was legally hers.
These high fliers would say or do anything to appeal to a man’s sense of protectiveness, whilst doing whatever was needed to stoke his lust.
Likely she had every penny piece that Carrville had ever gifted her with, tucked away in an account. She wouldn’t wear the jewels he’d given her. She would present herself as being in dire need of provision.
If the men she’d been talking to earlier were any indication, her ploy was sure to work beautifully.
Cool cynicism made a soothing balm for his inflamed lust and hardened his softened heart. He nodded towards the open doorway. “You command quite an impressive court.”
She met his gaze evenly. “I use no sorcerer, my lord. They follow no call but that of their own will.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “So you are a guileless girl?”
She laughed, a woman’s sensual laugh. “I never claimed that, my lord.”
“Surely you have prospects?”
“I do.”
“So who is next?”
She laughed again. “That’s too intimate a question, my lord.”
He couldn’t help a frown. “The Duke of Froster,” he said, meaningfully.
“He’s a dear man.”
“He’s besotted with you. Anyone can see that.”
She lifted her finely arched, dark russet brows. “You disapprove?”
“You’d do better elsewhere.”
“He is a kind man.”
Froster was a fool. A boy trapped in an older man’s body. He’d be totally taken in by a skilled courtesan. He wouldn’t stand the least chance of saying no to her.
Adrian regarded Miranda, seeing not her cool, jaded facade but that lost girl whom he had first met.
Before Carrville had her.
Debauched her.
The words echoed inside him with painful poignancy.
Yes, Carrville had been his friend. He had been quite close to Carrville, had cared for him deeply in fact. But after that twelfth-night ball, after Miss Miranda Jones had left with Carrville in his carriage and never returned to her mentor’s house…
A cold, heavy weight settled in Adrian’s chest.
Had Carrville’s family really put her to the street as she had claimed?
“It is not that great a misfortune, my lord.”
Her velvety tone, warmer now with some emotion, with some…humor? pulled him from his thoughts. “Misfortune, eh what?”
“You said it was unfortunate that we had not yet come to know each other well. It is really not that unfortunate.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I won’t be treated cheaply, like you treat everyone else.”
He flinched.
Then his blood flared.
Satisfaction lit her gaze. The coldest sort. The kind that held i
tself superior and took joy in irony.
He didn’t fancy being the object of her amusement.
He was not the one in the wrong here.
He was not the one on trial.
His heart hardened.
It did not matter what she had been before.
All that mattered was what she had become.
Jaded. Heartless. A money-hungry harpy preying on the carnal weaknesses and vanity of noblemen who were weighed down by the harsh expectations placed on them, desperate for lovely distraction. The pressures put on a man to possess such a creature could even lead to his death.
So it had been for his father.
Perhaps for Carrville too.
“I am watching you, Miss Jones.”
The slight widening of her eyes was the only indication that she’d heard the firmness in his tone. She smiled and laughed softly. “I have noticed how you watch me.”
“Don’t make a jest of this.”
She cocked her head and drew her brows together. “My lord?”
“I watched as you hounded Carrville into investing more of his wealth than he felt comfortable with. I watched how the strain of it drove him weaker and weaker.”
She paled. “You dare accuse me?”
“I do.”
“I would never hurt Carrville.” She narrowed her gaze. “Never.”
“You knew how Lady Danvers’ death had weakened him.”
She looked stricken. “It has been three years since Lady Danvers died.”
“I know how long it has been. I also know that Carrville never recovered.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide, her expression stripped of all artifice, all pretense. “He never blamed you.”
Adrian’s blood turned to ice.
He had never considered that Carrville might have confided family affairs to his mistress. Just how much did this chit know?
“He was distraught, in shock.” Her voice was soft, almost pleading. Nothing like he was used to hearing from her. “You and he…”
Adrian went rigid and backed away from her. “Our friendship is none of your business.”
“You know how he was.” Her face crinkled, as though with concern. “He was too timid to approach you. You should have forgiven him.”
A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) Page 19
