And Kiara's been studying all of this much longer than I have.
When they began dressing that morning, Gabbi had tried to opt out of wearing the local fashions. "I'm your bodyguard. Why can't I wear my uniform?"
"Because it's rude."
Gabbi screwed her face up in an expression of distaste.
"Come on," Kiara urged her. "It could be fun. It's like playing dress-up. I think we could get into it."
"I never played dress-up as a child," Gabbi admitted. "Niven 6 doesn't have much in the way of excess—our own culture frowns on it, in fact."
"Then you should take this as a chance to play." Kiara swirled a length of diaphanous across her face and peered through it. "Think of it as a game." Her voice dropped. "After all, it's not like you're staying."
It wasn't the first indication she'd seen of the ambassador's anxiety, but she still didn't know what to say to make her new friend feel better.
The gods know I'd be unhappy about staying, too.
So in the end, she had agreed to go along with the duchess's training—and the elaborate dresses—in order to support Kiara as the ambassador moved toward a permanent position in this planet's hierarchy.
Now, Gabbi considered picking up another petit four, this one decorated with a miniscule carrot, weighing the risk of admonishment from the duchess against the reward offered by the tiny sweet.
Better not.
And this was what she was reduced to.
"Very well," the duchess said, sounding slightly worn herself. "I believe that is all we can do in the time we have. I assume you have reviewed the lessons and practiced the dances the Lord Steward of the Royal House sent you?"
Kiara murmured assent. At the time, the VR tutorials on how to behave at the Winter Ball had seemed full of almost overwhelming information.
If only I'd known—that was nothing compared to what we've learned since we arrived last night.
The amount of social etiquette they were expected to absorb in short order was mind-numbing. Worse, almost, than boot camp training.
No. No "almost" about it.
I knew I would use what I learned in boot camp. Once this posting ends with Kiara's wedding, I'll probably be shipped somewhere new. I will never again need to know how to eat soup like a New London noble.
With any luck, she wouldn't actually need to know it during this trip.
What kind of idiot serves soup to people in formalwear, anyway?
A light knock at the door was followed by the maid Millie entering and whispering something to the duchess.
The older woman frowned and glanced at Gabbi, nodded, and waved the maidservant away. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," the duchess said, "I need to speak to His Grace." Without waiting for a reply, she rose and left the room.
Gabbi wilted into her chair, leaning one elbow on the armrest, precisely as the duchess had instructed her not to. "Do you think it's weird that the duke's mother calls him 'His Grace'?"
Kiara's quelling glance might have been more effective had she not smirked and said, in a remarkably accurate imitation of the duchess, "When guided by correct etiquette, social interaction becomes predictable and smooth."
"Indeed." Both women jumped at the duke's voice from the opening door behind them, coming to a form of seated attention.
He was smiling when Gabbi glanced at him, though, so perhaps Kiara's gaffe wasn't too horrible. It was hard to tell; everything on this planet seemed designed to humiliate anyone who made a mistake.
Then again, maybe that was merely Gabbi's perception. Kiara didn't seem to hate it here, after all.
Good thing, too, since Kiara's going to be staying.
"I spoke to my mother a moment ago," the duke said.
Duke Wiltshire, Gabbi reminded herself. People call him by his title, not his name, unless they're invited to use his first name. "Christian" name, here.
"Please, join us," Kiara said, practicing her best New London manners as she stood and gestured toward the sofa. Gabbi scrambled a bit to follow her lead. The duke nodded his thanks and they all moved to the sitting area.
"We seem to have a problem," Duke Wiltshire continued, and Gabbi found herself mesmerized by the cleft in his chin and the way his dark jacket stretched across his broad shoulders as he leaned forward in the chair.
Plus, those muscular thighs. She suppressed an appreciative sigh. The planet's fashion options for men had some definite benefits.
"It seems that you were not actually invited to tonight's ball, Miss Esser. Apparently the MC wasn't expecting Miss Sadana to be traveling with a female companion."
Kiara's head jerked up. "Lieutenant Esser is my bodyguard." She stressed Gabbi's title.
"Of course," the duke said smoothly, one hand making a soothing gesture in the air. "And someday soon I hope such issues won't raise eyebrows on my home-planet. For now, however, we need to find a workable solution."
He turned to face Gabbi, his entire attention focused on her in a way that left her feeling unusually flustered. A hot flush bloomed across her cheeks.
"The simplest way to manage this is for you to attend the social events as my guest." The duke's expression was oddly intense as his gaze bored into Gabbi's.
"Like, as your date?"
Gabbi could practically see him turning the term over, considering it from all angles before answering, swirling it around as if he were tasting a fine wine.
Maybe they don't date here?
In any case, by the time he got around to answering, she was blushing again.
"Yes," he said slowly, drawing the word out. "A date. Indeed." He stood and swept a low bow to her, one leg tilted artfully forward. "Miss Esser, would you kindly accompany me to the King's Winter Ball as my date?"
Gabbi grinned at the extra flourishes he put into both the bow and his tone. She, too, stood, and practicing her very best curtsey, as his mother had instructed her, replied, "I would be delighted, Your Grace."
When she looked up, the sparkle in his bright green eyes sent her heart racing.
He really is very attractive.
She needed to read up on the planet's sexual mores again.
Because she was quite certain that getting that man into her bunk—and those broad, capable hands on her body—would be an amazing experience.
Maybe there was some sex-for-fun loophole I might have missed?
The instant she could get away from the constant etiquette lessons, she was definitely going to check her tablet download.
She nodded to herself as she admired his form after he had taken his leave and was walking out the door.
A fling with a New London noble might not be the best idea she'd ever had, and it was bound to be complicated.
But, oh, I definitely want him.
Chapter Six
OH, YES. I DEFINITELY WANT HER FOR MY DUCHESS.
The playful gleam in the lieutenant's eyes had charmed him even more than the ferocity of her protection of the ambassadoress in the foyer the day before—and Edward wouldn't have imagined that possible only a few hours ago.
Over the past few years, he’d compiled a list and she fit every single, secret criterion.
He enumerated that list silently for the third time that day, this time pacing the length of the blue salon on the first floor of the manor.
She's intelligent. She wouldn't have been chosen for this assignment otherwise.
She's loyal. Her relationship with her superior was strong—it was easy to tell that the two women had developed a bond.
She's kind. He had seen her interacting with the staff; she treated them as if they were her equals.
She's fierce. He hadn't realized he wanted that in a wife until she was crouched over him, knife in hand.
Now he merely had to work on making sure she fit the last item on the list: …in love with me.
That last point had him more worried than he cared to admit.
He had nothing to go on other than a few flirtatious glances. In his cu
lture, that was a fine start. But Edward had traveled enough to know that someone from the outside galaxy might engage in such exchanges without a second thought.
How to make sure she saw him as he saw her?
As marriage material.
"Your Grace." Graves entered the room, standing even more erect than usual. He held a folder in his hands, the edges crinkling from the plasti-screens inside. "Would Your Grace prefer to review these in Your Grace's office?"
The overly formal language, combined with the starched posture and flat, disapproving stare made clear Graves' opinion of nobles who examined tech docs outside the privacy of their offices, those spaces designated for professional pursuits.
Edward held his hand out for the packet. "The ambassadoress's party will be down momentarily, Graves. Please show them to the green sitting room and bid them wait before alerting me to their arrival." If Graves could be ultra-formal, so could Edward, even if they had played together as boys, Graves' father having served Edward's as butler.
"Your Grace." Graves bowed slightly, backing out of the room, every line of his body radiating displeasure.
"Oh, and Graves? Should Miss Esser find her way downstairs before the others, please show her in. No need to ask her to wait."
"Yes, Your Grace." The butler spoke in clipped tones.
Edward was going to have to find a way to overcome that kind of resistance. If he couldn't win his own household over to the idea of an off-worlder duchess, how would he ever convince the rest of New London Society?
Perhaps the information Graves had gathered would help him figure that out.
For the first time, he felt a frisson of real anxiety. What if Graves had tracked down some information that absolutely disqualified the beautiful lieutenant from a New London marriage?
What if she was already married?
With a new determination to take in as much information as possible, he moved to the letter-writing desk in the corner of the room and began perusing the plasti-sheets in the file, scrolling through pages and clicking on links to follow the leads Graves had gathered for him.
***
An hour later, when Graves opened the door and announced Miss Esser's arrival, Edward had a much clearer view of the lieutenant's life before her arrival on New London.
She wasn't married, thank God, but she wasn't precisely nobility, either.
More like one step up from a guttersnipe.
Then again, many of the original settlers on New London wouldn't have qualified for the Peerage on Old Earth, Edward's own ancestors included.
He closed the folder over the plasti-sheets and stood to greet his guest.
He had taken three steps toward the door when Miss Esser—Gabrielle, as he had learned in his reading—stepped around the hand-embroidered privacy screen designed to give the room's occupants' notice of company.
At the sight of her, he froze.
He had thought she was beautiful when she attacked him, charming when she lightly flirted with him.
Dressed for the ball, she was … he searched for the right descriptor.
Absolutely glorious.
His mother had outdone herself, and he wondered which of his servants had ratted him out. Clearly, the duchess wanted her future daughter-in-law to make a good impression.
Her blond curls were twisted up, tiny tendrils artfully arranged to frame her face. A silver-blue dusting of something shimmery across her hair and skin matched the hue of her ball gown, and brought out the blue underpinning the grey of her eyes.
"Perfectly breathtaking," he said as he approached her, took her hand, and bowed deeply over it, lightly brushing his lips across it.
She managed a creditable curtsey, and when his gaze met hers, something searing passed between them.
Oh, yes. Everything about her is absolutely magnificent.
***
Lords of Lantasha's Lunar Phases, this man is blistering hot.
Gabbi blinked several times as she tried to gather her wits. Something of her thoughts must have leaked into her gaze, because the expression in the duke's eyes flared with a quickly suppressed heat, and she found herself leaning toward him involuntarily, drawn to the passion she saw there.
Just one night with him. I bet it would be spectacular.
His glance dropped to her lips, and her tongue darted out to wet them.
Oh, yeah. Maybe even more amazing than I can imagine.
Perhaps she could convince him to join her in her tiny room after the ball? How would she even begin to broach the subject on this backward planet?
"Miss Esser," he said huskily, "Gabbi—"
"Your Grace." The two of them sprang apart at the sound of Graves' expressionless voice from the door. "Your carriage is ready, and the rest of your party awaits you in the foyer."
The rest of the party. Right.
Had he been about to proposition her?
A sudden spear of doubt shot through her as she thought about all the lessons the duchess had imparted.
This wasn't a propositioning kind of culture.
Gabbi smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, and turned away from the duke without looking up at him, afraid of what she might see in his gaze.
Because that's what men in these repressive cultures do, right? They go after women they consider inappropriately sexual, then attempt to shame them for acting on perfectly natural desires.
Nope. She was not going to be one of his creepy, patriarchal conquests.
One at a time, she pulled on her long, white gloves, pushing her fingers into them with perhaps more force than was absolutely necessary.
Still, she couldn't help but sneak a glance at the front of his black pantaloons as he tugged his clothing straight.
A small, satisfied smile flashed across her face as she looped her reticule over one arm, gathered her skirt in one hand, and placed her other, gloved hand into the duke's, precisely as the duchess had shown her.
He was definitely interested.
Chapter Seven
EVEN AS SHE ROLLED HER EYES AT HERSELF, Gabbi had to admit that there was something a little magical about arriving at the ball in a horse-drawn carriage. New Buckingham Palace was dazzling, its lights shining out into the night turning it into a twinkling fairy-tale castle.
I hope there's not an ogre at the center, waiting to eat us alive.
She smiled at her own whimsical thoughts, and drew her attention back into the carriage, where she discovered the duke watching her fixedly.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Gabbi blinked, certain that question should be directed at the ambassador. "Kiara?" she asked, attempting to deflect the duke's attention.
He flustered her. She had to admit that much, at least. She found him incredibly attractive. But on second thought, she was beginning to consider exactly how complicated a sexual relationship—even a short-term one—might end up being on a planet like New London.
As the duke handed her out of the carriage, his fingertips brushed against the bare skin between the top of her gloves and her puffed sleeves, sending a spark of awareness racing through her, and her nipples tightened. She froze for a millisecond, then kept moving.
It was all she could do to keep from gawking like the tourist she was when the duke's party was shown into the palace, and from there, into the ballroom. As they entered an antechamber, the duke handed several cards—either actual paper, made from plants, or designed to look it—to a man whose job was to announce their party.
The number of honorifics before both the duke's and the duchess's names made Gabbi's head spin. Even Kiara was "Her Excellency Kiara Sadana, The Ambassadoress of the Coriolis Sector of the Coalition of Planets." And Gabbi nearly laughed aloud when she was introduced as "Miss Gabrielle Esser, Lieutenant of the Fleet of the Coalition of Planets."
Her incipient giggle was swept away by the grandeur of the ballroom as she entered it, though.
Everything in the enormous space was either red or gold, from th
e gold-toned walls to the red carpeting covering every area except the center dance-floor. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected crystal chandeliers glowing with a golden light refracted in a million diamante directions.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"A perfect setting for such a jewel," a man who had stepped up to greet their party said as he bent over her hand.
The next few moments were a whirlwind of activity, with the duke introducing Kiara and Gabbi to several people whose names Gabbi was certain she would never remember.
The off-worlders were the hit of the evening, according to the duchess, who watched over them with a benevolent eye. She had issued both women what she called 'dance cards'—also made of either real or faux paper, and a short carbon writing utensil with which to fill out the time slots.
The duke had immediately requested two dances from each woman—the maximum he could politely claim. "The king may choose to override me, or any other nobleman, and take a dance for himself—in fact, I would expect it at some point tonight, if I were you," the duke had told them in the carriage on the ride over. "No one on your dance card will mind stepping aside for His Majesty."
Another bunch of rules to try to remember.
The duke had also encouraged the women to "sit out" some of the dances—and Gabbi had immediately claimed the more complicated dances as her chances to both avoid embarrassment and to retreat from the social-etiquette overload she suspected she would be experiencing.
By the end of the fourth dance, she was glad she had.
It had been one of the formal, formulaic dances peculiar to New London, where the participants lined up across from one another according to gender and marched around in varying patterns, much like soldiers doing formation training planet-side, if only the soldiers had sometimes held hands.
"Don't women ever dance with other women?" Gabbi asked the duchess. "Or men with men?"
"Not in public, dear," the duchess replied with a smile.
Gabbi frowned. Damned controlling culture. Thank all the gods I get to leave after the wedding.
Baby, it's Cold in Space: Eight Science Fiction Romances Page 49
