Alighting, he took a moment to straighten himself before facing the footman, still holding the door. “Thank you,” he told him with the swift authoritative precision that he’d been practicing with Pierson.
The man’s eyes widened just enough to convey how shocked he was to have been addressed at all. A moment of awkward silence passed until the footman eventually allowed himself to respond with a brief nod. Turning away from him, Raphe strode forward, conscious of keeping his chin up and his eyes trained on the doorway before him as he started up the front steps toward the spot where another servant stood waiting.
“Welcome to Fielding House, Your Grace,” the man said, upon reading the invitation Raphe handed to him. “Right this way.” He directed Raphe toward the foyer, where another servant stood ready to escort Raphe through to a large parlor that appeared to have been adorned by a gathering of finely clad ladies and gentlemen. They stood and sat in clusters throughout, gems sparkling beneath the brightly illuminated chandeliers overhead. Their clothes were rich, their postures regal, regardless of age, and their mannerisms seemed to convey the sort of superiority that was owned, not acquired.
“The Duke of Huntley,” the servant intoned as soon as Raphe stepped over the threshold.
All conversation drew to an immediate halt. And then, as if commanded by the servant’s voice, each pair of eyes within the room turned to give Raphe their full attention. Stiffly, he remained where he was, uncertain of what was expected of him at this moment. He glanced about, inadvertently searching the curious faces for one in particular, only to discover that she wasn’t there. His heart slowed to a heavy beat.
“Your Grace,” a shrill voice cried. Turning toward it, Raphe saw that it belonged to a petite woman with silver hair. Her face was long and slim, her eyes sharp with predatory arrogance. Coming to a halt before him, she allowed a smile, the pink slash of her lips pulling tightly at her pale skin. “We are so delighted to finally meet you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lady Fielding, your hostess for the evening.”
“A pleasure,” Raphe said. He paused for a second. Richardson had told him to bow before his hostess, but that scenario had involved Raphe approaching her and not the other way around. Additionally, he’d been told to bow before speaking. Too late to change that now, though the question still remained—should he bow before her now, or not? Unsure, he attempted something a little less formal than what he’d initially had in mind, just a slight tilt of his torso.
Straightening himself, he tried to assess Lady Fielding’s response, but gave up on doing so when her expression failed to convey any kind of emotion. Instead, she raised her head slightly, her eyebrows arching into two sharp points. “Shall I introduce you to the rest of the guests?”
Raphe nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
She stared at him with considerable scrutiny until Raphe began to wonder if he might have said or done something to displease her. He could think of nothing, until she stepped toward him, turned and raised her hand, as though it was meant to be resting on something.
Giving himself a mental kick, Raphe quickly offered her his arm. Christ! How many times had Humphreys reminded him to do so? Apparently, he was incapable of remembering the simplest things, which did not bode well for the rest of the evening.
They started forward. Raphe made a deliberate effort to keep his pace slow and his stride half as long as usual in order to avoid dragging his hostess. “You have a lovely home,” he told her.
She glanced up at him. “It is in the Greek style.”
“I see.”
Arriving before a small group of ladies and gentlemen, Lady Fielding said, “May I introduce Baron Hawthorne and his wife, Lady Hawthorne, the Duke of Coventry and his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Coventry. And my son, the Earl of Fielding, with whom, I believe, you are already acquainted.”
Raphe greeted everyone with a bow and a general, “Pleased to meet you.” Eventually, his gaze met Fielding’s. Seeing no hint of malice, he decided to be polite. “You look well.”
The edge of Fielding’s mouth drew upward into a smirk. “And you look remarkably better than when I last saw you.”
Recognizing the barb, Raphe prepared to respond with an equally veiled insult when the dowager duchess said, “Sounds intriguing. Would you care to elaborate?”
The smirk lit Fielding’s eyes. Raphe felt his jaw tighten. He drew his fingers into fists. “I met Huntley when he first arrived,” Fielding explained. “Lady Gabriella and I were returning from a lovely drive in the park and, as you know, her house is right next door to Huntley’s.”
“Oh, yes. So it is,” Lord Hawthorne said.
“Frankly, I had no idea who he was at the time,” Fielding continued. “So I daresay I made quite a fool of myself when I went to introduce myself.”
“But you are the very model of propriety, my lord,” Lady Hawthorne said. “You could never say anything inappropriate.”
“Alas, I fear that isn’t true,” Fielding told her with a highly exaggerated tone of regret that rankled Raphe to the bone. “For indeed, I made the unforgiveable error of presuming that he was a servant.”
Unified gasps and wide-eyed disbelief followed. The effect drew other guests closer—the promise of scandal and gossip surely too great to be ignored.
Raphe bristled. “An understandable mistake,” he told his host sharply, “under the circumstances.”
“But why on earth would you presume such a thing?” someone asked from behind Raphe.
Fielding shrugged, a casual gesture that made Raphe feel like punching him. “His clothes were—simple, unsophisticated and cheap.” Murmurs began weaving their way through the crowd. “And when he spoke—well”—he gave Raphe a deliberate once-over, accompanied by a look of pity—“suffice it to say that I would never have guessed you attended Eton, Your Grace.”
Silence fell like heavy flakes of plump snow, filling the room until it threatened to bury them all. “Perhaps because I didn’t,” Raphe told him. He spoke slowly, paying great attention to his choice of words and pronunciation. “But . . .” he added, unwilling to let the unpleasant man get away with his insult, “in spite of your fine education, I still outrank you, Lord Fielding.” He allowed a deliberate smile. “Frustrating, isn’t it?”
A flood of crimson colored Fielding’s cheeks like an ugly rash. He glared at Raphe. “You . . . you . . .” he sputtered while his chest pumped up and down with ever-increasing fury. The man looked just about ready to explode.
“Yes?” Raphe inquired, unable to hide the fact that he was enjoying this.
“Cad.”
Raphe stared at him. Feeling his lips begin to tremble, he pressed them together and did his damnedest not to laugh, then told his adversary frankly, “I’ve received many insults over the years, all of them far worse than that. So if you’re looking to offend me, you’ll have to do better. Much better.” Leaning closer, he added, “Put that Eton brain of yours to good use, man.”
“Simpleton,” Fielding told him.
Raphe winced, embarrassed for the fellow. “Sorry, Fielding, but I’m not impressed.”
Fielding’s mouth dropped open.
“I suggest you leave it alone,” Hawthorne interjected while everyone else nodded.
“I’m not done,” Fielding protested. “Can’t you see that he doesn’t belong here?”
“What I see,” Coventry, said, “is a man handing you a spade and asking you to dig.”
Raphe smirked. He liked that analogy. And he quite liked Hawthorne and Coventry too for backing him up. Perhaps the ton wasn’t all bad. Lady Gabriella certainly wasn’t. And with that thought came the awful reminder that she was supposed to marry the arrogant earl with whom he was presently sparring. The idea was so unjust it made Raphe’s hands go all clammy. His cravat felt suddenly tighter—less comfortable, if such a thing were possible. He narrowed his gaze on Fielding, deciding he was very similar to Guthrie in his abuse of power. If only there were a way
to save the world from men like them.
“The Earl and Countess of Warwick,” a servant announced, dislodging his thoughts. “And their daughter, Lady Gabriella.”
Raphe felt his pulse rise in response to her name. Turning, he sought her with his eyes, a sigh of pleasure cascading through him the moment he saw her. She was wearing a pale blue gown trimmed with silver, displaying a figure that ought to bring every mortal man to his knees. Raphe’s throat went dry. He shouldn’t want her, but by God . . .
“I suggest you look elsewhere,” a tight voice murmured in Raphe’s ear. Fielding. “She is not for the likes of you.”
“Would you care to bet on that?” Raphe asked, unable to let the comment go.
Fielding scoffed. “I think not.”
And then the earl brushed his way past him, crossing the room with the elegance of a panther until he stood before the woman who’d somehow—inexplicably—begun occupying far too much of Raphe’s mind.
He watched the pair for a moment; the way Fielding bowed and smiled . . . Lady Gabriella’s timid response. It looked so rehearsed and so frustratingly false. They were like actors in a bad play, each trying to play the part that was expected of them rather than one that conveyed any ounce of true emotion. His pulse returned to normal, their interaction reassuring him that Fielding and Lady Gabriella shared a weaker connection with each other than he did with her. It seemed unlikely that they’d even kissed, though Raphe could not for the life of him comprehend Fielding’s restraint.
But he was thankful for it.
Indeed, his certainty of the matter filled him with jubilation. Ridiculous. It wasn’t as though he wanted to win her himself. Except, of course he did—ever since she’d wriggled her bottom at him. What man could possibly forget such a thing? What man could resist it?
But it was more than that. Much more. It was her kindness, her vulnerability, her pain. He wanted to taste it all on her pretty lips, bathe in her light and soothe away her fears.
A slow and tortured breath poured out of him. Wincing, he shook his head. He had no right thinking of her as anything other than his neighbor. She would marry Fielding, while he would ensure that his sisters made the best matches they could possibly achieve. And then, once they were properly settled, he would decide what to do with his own life.
Chapter 12
Smiling at Fielding, who’d just come to greet her, Gabriella remained keenly aware of Huntley’s presence across the room. It was impossible for her not to, considering his size; looming just beyond her direct line of sight, he portrayed an intense mixture of pure masculinity and raw power. A fleeting glance in his direction was all she’d allowed herself upon arriving. And it had been enough to send a swarm of fluttering sensations straight to her stomach. So she kept her gaze on the man she meant to marry, determined to will away the strange pull that would draw her to Huntley the moment she let down her guard.
Although their interaction had been amicable when she’d helped him with the teacup, she could not forget that he’d accused her of lying to his sisters. Words. That was all they’d been, but they’d hurt, damn him. The fact that he would think her capable of such deceit, of treating his sisters so carelessly, simply meant that he didn’t know her at all. Which was why she’d given herself a very firm talking to after returning home yesterday. “Gabriella,” she’d said, applying her mother’s tone, “you will keep your thoughts on point and quit all romantic imaginings of the duke. He is not the man you’re going to marry.”
It was a reprimand that had worked quite well since she’d had Eleanor to occupy her mind instead—the task of setting up a home for her in a vacant glass box a welcome distraction. Until she’d gone to bed and sleep had claimed her, filling her mind with dreams of lips pressing fully against hers, of strong fingers reaching, touching, stroking . . .
She’d awoken in a fever, her chest rising and falling with heavy beats and her nightgown hiked up around her hips.
“My lady?” Fielding said, reminding her of time and place. “Would you like some more champagne?”
She studied him for a moment, wondering if he might have caught a glimpse of her scandalous recollections by simply looking at her face. No. He did not look the least bit suspicious. So she gave him a nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
His absence allowed her another glimpse at the most unlikely duke in British history. He was even handsomer tonight than when she’d last seen him. He’d filled out since arriving in Mayfair, for which he had his cook to thank. The slim fit of his evening attire now enhanced the breadth of his shoulders and the firm planes of his chest. In the past, Gabriella had never spent any time pondering the shape of a man’s legs, but as she hastily regarded Huntley from head to toe, it was impossible for her not to notice how long and sturdy his legs appeared to be beneath the fine black wool of his perfectly tailored trousers.
His eyes met hers, intense and unyielding. Daring, almost. And then the edge of his mouth tilted into something that wasn’t precisely pleasant. It was rather . . . She struggled to find the right word while awareness took over, heating her in all the wrong places until she felt herself fighting for control. It was awful. He was awful, standing there so casually while she struggled to remain upright.
His cravat was beautifully tied this evening, his dark hair neatly styled, while his jaw appeared to be more freshly shaved than she’d ever seen it. Oddly, to her complete consternation, she found that she missed the faint hint of stubble that usually shadowed the sides of his face. The notion struck her as one of the most preposterous things to ever have entered her head. A man ought to be well groomed and presentable. To be seen by others—especially by ladies—with day-old whiskers bristling forth from beneath his skin, was unseemly.
Why, then, did the memory of him without a cravat, his hair ruffled as though he’d just stepped out of bed, and with his face roughened by unshaven whiskers, form a molten ball of lava in the pit of her belly?
Fear crept in, prompting her to look away just as Fielding returned with her glass. She took a sip, drowning the urge to revert to the impulsive girl she’d once been. She’d already gone far enough by choosing to help Huntley’s sisters. Allowing the duke himself to tempt her would only lead to severe unhappiness.
“Would you like to greet the other guests?” Fielding asked, scattering her thoughts. He offered his arm with perfect poise.
“Of course,” Gabriella replied with a polite smile that felt as though it had been glued to her face.
Slowly, they made a tour of the room, speaking briefly to those whom they passed along the way until they came within a few paces of Huntley. He was speaking to her father now, Gabriella noticed. “Suffice it to say,” Huntley murmured in low, even tones, his face reflecting the cool expression of a marble statue, “that I did not have the time, the funds, or the opportunity.”
Warwick flattened his mouth before speaking with cutting solemnity. “If everything you say is true, then I’d suggest you stop pretending to be someone you’re not, and go back to wherever it is you came from.”
Gabriella’s chest tightened. She knew her parents could be critical of others and blatantly protective of their stations in life, but to publically denounce a duke, was shocking even to her. “Papa,” she heard herself say as she reached her father’s side, “Huntley is the rightful heir. His title demands our respect.” She decided not to mention that he outranked them all, since everyone in the room would be quite aware of the fact.
Swiveling his head in her direction, her father leveled her with a patient look that conveyed a willingness to humor what he no doubt considered a frivolous female notion without substance. “Gabriella,” he told her, “your kindness is commendable, truly it is, but we must face facts.” He smiled with lukewarm sympathy. “Huntley does not have the necessary upbringing that the peerage requires of a duke.”
“And you have come to this conclusion in the space of five minutes?” Gabriella asked, annoyed by her father’s accusation.
&nb
sp; “All I can say is that a man—any man—who holds a noble title, must be deserving of its power, and the vast responsibility it embodies.”
The words were as sharp as a newly forged sword—a deliberate attack on Huntley’s worth and one that her father would never have dared use had he been speaking to someone else. Unable to help herself, Gabriella’s eyes flew to Huntley’s, the dangerous blackness of his gaze forcing her back a step. His jaw was clenched so tightly that slashes of white appeared to slice across his temples. Knowing that a verbal attack was no doubt forming in his mind, Gabriella shook her head and prayed for him to resist. Nothing good could possibly come of it.
She turned to Fielding. “My lord,” her voice beseeched him to say something—to do as a host was expected to do when emotions ran higher than what was seemly, and to attempt to diffuse the situation with decorum.
Instead, Fielding eyed Huntley with the sort of fleeting glance he might offer a stray dog, or a beggar. “Your father is right, my lady. The aristocracy is a very old institution to which many aspire, but few belong.”
Her mouth went dry. They hadn’t even sat down to supper yet and already Huntley was being dismissed as an inferior person, unworthy of their attention. She could scarcely believe it. They were snubbing a duke—a man whom they would have had the greatest respect for—feared, even—if only he’d had better diction. And for some reason, that thought alone was enough to make Gabriella’s spine stiffen. “You have invited him here,” she told Fielding sharply. When his eyes widened a fraction, she deliberately calmed her voice. “Please be polite.”
“Don’t you think that Huntley would be more comfortable elsewhere?” her father asked with a sigh.
The tightly held control with which Gabriella had been comporting herself for the past ten minutes began to snap. “I’m sure he would, Papa. Especially considering your hostility.” Tugging her arm away from Fielding’s, she met Huntley’s gaze once more. “Your Grace. If I may, I should like to apologize to you on behalf of us all. Unfortunately, good manners appear to be in short supply this evening.”
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 11
