by Darcy Burke
“Kate?”
She smiled tightly, shoving Percy out of her head. “Pardon. Old ghosts. In any case, it was going splendidly.” Kate’s hands shook as she thought of the intensity she’d felt under the duke’s ministrations. “Oh, I never thought it could be so. . .” Percy had only ever climbed into bed with her, lifted her shift, parted her thighs and prodded at her till he’d shook like a tree leaf and collapsed. All the while, touching her as little as possible.
“I’m glad you’ve finally known a bit of fun.” Imogen patted her hand. “No one deserves it more. So then?”
“He simply told me to go and I should find someone to love me.”
Imogen’s mouth dropped open till she looked like the fish in the Serpentine. “What?” She demanded crassly. She put down her tea cup and wiped her hands together brushing away the crumbs. “Did you tell him who you were?”
Kate paused. She supposed it was a bit odd she hadn’t said a word. But Percy Darrell had made their name quite infamous with his goings on. The last thing she wanted was to be thought of was as his widow. “No.”
Imogen lowered her chin. “What did you tell him?”
“I—Ah, . . .” Kate lifted her cup and mumbled into it, “I told him I wished for pleasure without a husband.”
Imogen lifted her hand to her forehead in dramatic frustration. “My dear, whatever shall I do with you?”
“Now look here, Imogen, I know I’m a bit green, but really!”
“Green? Dearest, you’re greener than a field in Ireland. And you let him think you were a virgin! Or at least a woman of no experience. No wonder he didn’t make love to you. Virgins are far too much trouble.”
Kate gaped, suddenly seeing her own idiocy. “So, if he had known I was a widow?”
“You would have been bedded till you thought nothing but bliss.”
The fact she had been so close to actually bedding the duke was beyond irritating. She could only imagine how wonderful that would have been. “Blast.”
“Blast, indeed.” Imogen tapped her finger against her chin. “Do you still want him?”
The thought of the duke’s strong hands on her thighs flashed through Kate’s mind. Good lord, she longed for his touch even now. “Yes. And I have every intention of seeing him again.”
“You mean you didn’t botch it?”
“Absolutely not.” Kate wiggled her eyebrows. “In fact, I know he desires me.”
“How is it that you know? Did he tell you?”
Kate couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Imogen about how he had taken her hand and placed it over his hard sex. It had been so strong and firm beneath her grasp. “Trust me. I just have to find a way to convince him that his sense of honor is misplaced.”
Imogen leaned back, understanding brightening her face. “The seducer shall become the seduced?”
Laughing, Kate gave Imogen a little salute with her tea cup. “Let the seduction begin.”
Chapter Four
“Good god, man,” Jack Eversleigh, the Duke of Hunt, said over the din of practice blades clashing. “Are all the women in London in heat? I refuse to believe it’s just you that has them rapping on your door. And in the middle of the night.”
Ryder’s hand stilled on the hilt of his rapier. He snapped his gaze from the series of lined up dueling strips to Hunt. He had made friends with the man over ten years ago, and in that time he, Hunt and another duke, the Duke of Roth, had formed the Duke’s Club. A club where they could be themselves and never had to worry about sycophantic bowing and scraping. Equals in power, they could all be brutally honest with each other.
It had been an incredible relief to find two other dukes who had also lost their fathers at a young age. At present Roth was on the continent, but Hunt was always a good source of entertainment and could bring Ryder’s spirits up when they were lagging to a dangerous point.
Even so, there were times when he wished Hunt wasn’t so blastedly incorrigible. Ryder sighed. “The gossip wheel is well greased I see.”
“Your neighbors make a profession of watching your door.” Hunt yanked his bottle green coat off his broad shoulders. “I swear old Lady Trentham would wither away in boredom if it weren’t for your exploits. She made her rounds early this morning.”
“Damned old trout,” Ryder gritted. “The woman should spy for the king.”
Hunt inclined his head and grasped the hilt of his rapier, walking back along the dueling strip. Ryder followed him, his own rapier in hand. The soft leather surface of the strip was dull compared to the highly polished wood floor.
Ryder eyed Hunt. With his towering stance, black hair and icy eyes, the Duke of Hunt could stop a man at a hundred paces with one hard stare. Yet, it never surprised Ryder to hear the man had a good gossip with the ladies of the town. “So, where did you hear about it?”
“Mm. I heard it over tea with Mrs. Barton. Lovely woman, that.”
Ryder laughed dryly. The sound echoed through the hall, bouncing off the plain white walls. “Tea, my arse. I had no idea you paid such polite social calls to the dear lady.”
Stretching out his arms wide in innocence, Hunt said, “Come now man, a gentleman such as myself would never besmirch a lady’s honor by referring to it so early in the day as anything other than tea.”
“And did she serve sweets?” Leaning back slightly and bending his knees, Ryder took his stance. He needed a good fight. He was tense from lack of sleep, and dreams. Dreams of soft blonde hair, pale skin and a guileless face. A face untouched by the hardness of this world.
“Let us say I shall be fasting for days. . .” Hunt flourished his rapier then propped his left hand on his hip. “Or at least a few hours.”
“You are a glutton.”
“I do believe you partake in a number of feasts yourself.”
Yes, he could eat night and day if that someone was a certain pale-haired young woman in a pale grey dress. Bloody hell, but he would love to feast on her. He’d start with her breasts, work his way down to her bottom and then, he’d spread her thighs and lick—
Blowing out a breath, Ryder advanced ready to let out his pent up frustration.
Thrusting forward, their blades clashed. Instantly, Hunt drove hard, his blade slicing through the air like lightning. Answering each strike, Ryder moved light upon his feet, controlling every parry then twisting right to riposte.
Hunt smiled as he retreated. “So, who is the bit of muslin?”
At the thought of the young woman, whose name he had intentionally not asked, Ryder hesitated, and Hunt’s blade sang forward, stopping an inch from his heart.
“A bit off, are we?”
Ryder backed off, tugged his linen shirt away from his throat then adjusted Jane’s ribbon about his wrist. “Certainly not.”
“Then what exactly do you call that?” Hunt’s dark brow arched skeptically.
Ryder shoved his hair from his face and resumed his stance. “Carelessness.”
“Not like you, old boy.”
Wordlessly, Ryder moved back in. He wasn’t about to admit than an hour in the presence of a country girl had shaken him. Especially not to Hunt. The man would never let up on the subject, and Ryder wanted this out of his head as quickly as possible. The only thing to do was change the subject and quickly. “How’s your brother?”
Hunt rolled his eyes. “We are talking about your woman.”
“I don’t have a woman,” he said tightly.
“Fine then. Charles is splendid. He’s off in India, no doubt risking his life, stealing into some harem.”
The Duke of Hunt’s twin brother Charles was one of their drinking companions and constantly required his brother’s motivational persuasion to keep him from drowning in gin and women. At least Ryder and Jack came up for air on occasion. The slightly younger man also owned the fencing club they were in at this very moment, proving that he wasn’t entirely frivolous. Still, the Eversleigh twins were the best bet in town for a very good outing.
Apparently, refusing t
o be distracted, Hunt struck fast.
Ryder snapped to attention, grabbing the upper hand, driving Hunt down the dueling strip. They moved back and forth seamlessly. The blades flashed and clanged as each tested the other. Few men matched Ryder’s skill with a blade, but Hunt was one of them. And he needed someone right now who could challenge him, make him work and get that damned woman out of his thoughts.
“So, the chit didn’t drain you dry?” Hunt spun in and raked his blade towards Ryder’s middle.
Ryder stumbled and dropped to one knee as the blade zinged past him. Why couldn’t Hunt drop the infuriating subject?
“Tripped, did you?” Hunt said brightly.
Ryder stood and wiped his linen sleeve over his sweating forehead. He planted the tip of his rapier into the leather strip and paused. “I sent her on her way, if you must know.”
Hunt blinked, as if he was absolutely mad. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have you gone deaf or do you enjoy hearing me repeat myself?” Ryder looked away for a moment then returned his gaze. “I sent her off.”
Hunt smirked. “Ugly was she?”
Ryder lifted his blade and pointed it at Hunt. “She was beautiful, actually. In a way I simply cannot—” He shrugged, not knowing how to put her attractions into words. She’d been captivating.
Hunt threw back his head and laughed. “Good god, man. You’re besotted. Who’d have thought it possible?”
Ryder lowered his rapier and paced to the bench lined against the wall. Sheathing the blade he made quick work of toweling himself with a piece of linen. He was not about to head down this line of conversation with Hunt. The man would be relentless, and Ryder was in no mood to convince him the woman just intrigued him and nothing more. “Don’t be absurd,” he barked over his shoulder.
Sauntering slowly towards him, Hunt’s eyes sparkled with an annoying self-assurance. “A woman is the very font of absurdity, old man, and you seem to be knee deep. Now, no secrets. Why didn’t you bed the little dear?”
Ryder was not going to let Hunt push him into a heated comment, even if the temptation to belt his friend in the face was building at an accelerating rate. Tugging his cravat around his neck a little too tightly, Ryder turned and said as calmly as he could, “She was too innocent for my tastes.”
The mocking glint cooled a little from Hunt. “Oh. I see.”
Though they had a number of differences, they had one main thing in common. Neither of them bedded overly innocents or virgins. It wasn’t worth the risk of pregnancy or ruin of the girl, all over miscommunication. Inexperienced woman often believed sex meant something more than a good romp. And a good romp was all Ryder or Hunt were worth. Both, for their own reasons, had long sworn off marriage.
“But who was she?” Hunt tugged on his plain, but superbly cut emerald green waistcoat and jacket.
Ryder ran a hand through his long hair, pulling it back into a queue. If she hadn’t been so interesting or so candid, if she hadn’t made him want to spill his secrets and have a chance at happiness, he might have asked her name, but since she evoked such dangerous thoughts, he hoped never to have need of her name. “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask her name?”
“No.” Part of him was damn glad that he hadn’t. There were enough people in London he might never see her again, and it was unlikely she could get an introduction into his set. “My butler claimed she was a Mr. Braithwait.”
Hunt stared blankly.
Ryder shrugged. “I have no idea what that was about.”
“So it’s a mystery?”
Ryder nodded tightly.
“That’s terrible, old man. Terrible,” Hunt intoned with great seriousness. He shook his head.
“Why?”
Clasping Ryder’s shoulder, Hunt looked him squarely in the eye. “Because you love a good mystery.”
“Sod off.” It wasn’t a mystery if he deliberately didn’t want to know her name. Indeed, it wasn’t.
“My, she has put you in twist.”
“Go to the devil,” he said flatly, hoping to put a firm lid on the topic.
“I’d rather go to the House of Lords. You are coming to vote?”
“Certainly.” Ryder was glad to change the subject. Once he got Hunt on the topic of reform, the man would never cease talking. Perhaps, it was his father’s murder which had given him such a sharp edge and passion for politics. “It’s the Catholic vote today, isn’t it?”
Hunt nodded his face grim. “I love my country, you know I do, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by while an entire group is kept from their rights.”
Ryder picked up his black over coat and quickly slung it over his shoulders. It seemed they each had their causes. Hunt wanted to change the world while Ryder simply wanted to get through it.
***
“You’ll never guess what I have!”
Kate looked up from The Pickering Press trying not to dwell on the fact she should probably be reading one of the more serious papers considering the shape of things in France. But really, she loved reading Snodgrass. The man was too amusing.
She laid the paper down beside her half-finished plate of bangers and toast. “What is it you have?”
Imogen bustled into the bright breakfast room, her pink skirts rustling. “An invitation to the Countess of Carmine’s private party.”
Kate paused. Try as she might, she couldn’t think why this should be so exciting. “And?”
Imogen let out a sigh and hurried over to Kate’s end of the breakfast table. “I know you read Snodgrass, and the man has mentioned the countess half a dozen times.”
The reality was when she read The Pickering Press the only name she sought out was Darkwell’s. “You can’t expect me to recall every scandal-ridden lady and lord in London. It would take me the rest of my life to commit them to memory.”
Imogen threw her hands up into the air. “She is only one of the most exclusive hostesses in London.”
Kate grinned. My, exclusive was quite nice. She whipped her napkin off her lap, plopped it on the table then pushed her chair back. “However did we get an invitation?”
Wiggling her brows, Imogen clapped her hands together as she closed the distance between them. “The countess and I have an understanding.”
After only a week in London, Kate already understood the nuances of ton life. Anyone could do anything as long as everything appeared to be proper. And she was certainly ready to begin doing everything. Kate leaned in as if they were sharing a dangerous secret.
Imogen placed a bejeweled hand on the linen covered table and leaned forward. “She invites me to her parties, and I don’t speak of the ménage a tois I came across last spring with the countess, her riding instructor. . . and her lady’s maid!”
Kate gasped. “Her what?” An image of three naked people in a straw and leather filled stable flashed through her head. She couldn’t help but wonder who’d done the riding and who had been ridden.
The famous countess riding her instructor brandishing her whip and shouting tally ho! came to Kate’s mind, and she had to bite back a laugh.
“Too scandalous for words, isn’t it? To look at the countess you’d think God himself had touch her with piety.”
“When is the party?”
“Tonight. So, we must find you a scrumptious frock. It’s no good having you look like a pigeon. Fine feathers are what you need, my friend.”
Pigeon, indeed. That was certainly not the impression Kate wished to give London. It was truly time to indulge in the most beautiful and perhaps scandalous frocks her money could buy. After all, there was no one to shout at her that she was dressed immodestly now. Kate grabbed hold of Imogen’s hand. “How am I to have a gown made so soon?”
Following her lead, Imogen rustled after her. “I suppose we could have one of my gowns made over, or perhaps Madame Sophie could produce something. She is the goddess of fabric.”
Kate smiled at her cousin as the onslaught of potential wa
shed over her. She’d never owned anything grander than the gowns of her youth and then the modest and proper gowns Percy insisted upon. And she’d certainly never been to such a party. Deeming them to be preposterous displays of wealth, her father never even gave her a coming out. Now nothing was going to stop her from having more gowns than she could ever know what to do with.
But. . . There was something odd about this whole circumstance. Even she knew it was strange to be invited on the day of the event. “Isn’t this short notice?”
“The countess’ parties are very hush hush, you see? Hence she only sends out notice a few hours before.”
Kate laughed. “So, what occurs at the countess’ parties—”
Imogen waggled her brows. “Doesn’t ever leave them.”
Not long after, they were secure in an open carriage racing down to Bond Street. Kate leaned back against the blue velvet squabs and drank in the sunlight. Turning her head to the passersby, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. In fact, her cheeks hurt with her happiness. A little over six months ago, she’d been trapped in a loveless marriage, and Percy, that dratted man, had been drinking his fill of London. Oh, but she was being cruel. He had bought her gifts. Books, in fact. Books on how to be an obedient wife, one who never questioned her husband’s authority.
Though it really had been too bad for Percy that he had died in a duel over another man’s wife, it meant she could now ride merrily through the park, on the way to spend a substantial portion of her own fortune.
This new world was a wonder to her, and she leaned forward, pulling the glass window down. A white carriage drove by. The women inside were dressed in peach and yellow silk, their hair curled and powdered. Two men in scarlet red coats rode just behind on great horses, swords glinting at their sides.
And the noise! Wheels clattered over the cobblestones. Children shrieked with laughter, their iron faced governesses calling after them. The side streets were packed with people, buying and selling. The cries of hawkers punctuated the air like some wild orchestra. In London, surely one could never be too sad.
Their carriage struggled through Bond Street and stopped in front of an elegant store with the words Madame Sophie embossed in gold letters above the glass and mahogany double doors.
