The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Yancey struggled up to a sitting position. She’d expected to feel residual dizziness or weakness, but there was none. Glad for that, she refused, however, to credit his kiss—as if he were the prince and she the sleeping beauty—with fully awakening her. Instead, she insisted, it was her iron constitution and years of training that accounted for her alert, wide-eyed status. Swinging her hair out of her face, she braced her palms behind her and atop the bedding.

  “Hey, Duke,” she called out, being purposely insolent.

  He stopped as if he’d hit a solid yet invisible impediment. Grinning, feeling the pendulum had finally swung back in her favor, Yancey nevertheless blanked her smirk of triumph as … ever so slowly … the insulted peer pivoted to face her. His expression as much as said she should be put to death at the next sunrise. A knee bent, his hands planted at his waist, he drawled, “Yes, Miss Calhoun?”

  “What do you think you’re doing, kissing me like that? You have no right.”

  He merely raised an eyebrow at that. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in this household to support that statement, Miss Calhoun. And, amusingly, you have none to blame but yourself. After all, you are the one who introduced yourself as the duchess. Deny it all you want, but we both know that’s exactly what you did.”

  Guilt brought an instant heat to Yancey’s cheeks. “I admit nothing. Still, you and I know differently. I am not your wife, and you will take no further liberties with me, sir.”

  Irritatingly, he chuckled, making the sound at once erotic and threatening. “I still claim that I have every right. I am the Duke of Somerset. And Stonebridge is my ancestral seat. I told you that when you first arrived. And I also told you, Miss Calhoun, that everything here, everything on this land and in this house … is mine.”

  Yancey’s breath caught in her throat. The way he had said mine in such a slow, growling purr had made her feel the word as a vibration down low in her belly. Though sensually unhinged by his voice as much as by his commanding stance, she narrowed her eyes. “I’m afraid I must correct you, Your Grace. I also told you yesterday that there was one exception. And I am it. That remains true, sir. I belong to no man.”

  A challenging light claimed his eyes and lifted his eyebrows. Looking perfectly dangerous, he sketched a formal bow for her and then straightened, meeting her gaze. “Perhaps not now, Miss Calhoun. But only for now, I assure you.”

  With those words hanging in the air between them, he pivoted on his heel. Though shocked … and titillated … Yancey again helplessly raked her gaze over his body. Her mind registered his power and his virility, but she refused to give in to his charisma. And so, unchallenged, he exited the room and disappeared from her view as he entered the sitting room.

  Still atop the bed, Yancey sat as one in a trance and stared at the empty doorway where only a moment ago the duke had stood. Though she seemed to feel every bone and muscle and cell in her body, she couldn’t move her limbs. His spell, despite her best intentions otherwise, still held her in its thrall.

  “I think I’m in trouble,” she murmured.

  * * *

  Sam stood in his study on the first floor, his back to the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared out the window at the meadows where his prize stock of horses grazed contentedly in the English sunlight. The scene, though tranquil and inviting, made barely an impression on his consciousness. Instead, his thoughts were turned inward on the woman upstairs. He wondered exactly how long it would take Miss Calhoun to seek him out in order to continue their spat. A check of the mantel clock told him he’d left her over an hour ago. Much the same as it had been yesterday when she’d kept him waiting. But given what he now knew of her impetuosity and her spirit, she was overdue.

  With a start he realized that he was eagerly anticipating their next confrontation, much as if this were some sort of merry game between them. It was nothing of the sort. So why was he behaving as if he couldn’t wait to see her again? Certainly, she was an entertaining distraction and she excited him physically. A man would have to be dead not to respond to her. But he was over the top with his reaction to her. Here he was as excited as a schoolboy at the prospect of a holiday.

  A frown of concern ate at Sam’s expression. He couldn’t allow himself to be taken in by her. He tried to tell himself he was merely biding his time with her, playing cat and mouse. He’d thought that if he didn’t respond to her, she would eventually expose her game. But the truth was she excited him in ways he hadn’t ever been excited before. Not to this extent. And he remained intrigued by her, no matter the many possible explanations that lay behind her presence here. Whatever they were, none of them would be favorable, he suspected.

  Certainly, he had in mind all the right questions and suspicions regarding her. His eyes were open on that score. She was up to no good. He knew that. But he didn’t give a damn right now. He was too intrigued by her. Too, she didn’t appear to be any real physical threat to him or to those under his protection. So … let the game continue.

  Sam chuckled. How very jaded of him. He meant to string her along in her own game. He hadn’t known he was capable of such a thing. All it took, apparently, was the right woman. It was enough for him now that she relieved for him the boredom of isolation at Stonebridge. And he hadn’t lied when he’d told her that he allowed her to be known as his duchess simply because it pleased him. It did. Very much. He’d asked himself what life would be like to have a woman like her as his duchess. And he’d liked the answer: it would be infinitely exciting.

  But Sam had a more logical reason for allowing her charade to continue. Simply put, by not calling her on her lie, he’d locked her into the role she’d thrust upon herself. Now if she didn’t wish to continue as his duchess, she’d have to tell him and his household the truth. Then she would be exposed, and by her own hand. Sam nodded. He liked it. Besides, by not challenging her, by not simply tossing her out as he’d threatened yesterday, he had gained the upper hand. She was now completely isolated here with him and her own story. Completely at his mercy and where he could watch every move of hers.

  What he had better do too was watch his own moves more carefully. In his mind’s eye he could see her shocked expression when he’d kissed her. The contact had been exquisite and his body had damned near exploded with desire for her. He’d had all he could do not to leap atop that bed and take her. Sam closed his eyes and rubbed hard at the pounding space between his eyebrows. The woman excited him to passion and to violence, to tenderness and to sarcasm. She was very dangerous and very desirable.

  Even standing there alone, he thought he could feel her lips, soft and yielding. The scent of her skin, delicate and feminine. And the sultry fire he’d felt against his mouth, the fire that had threatened to consume him—the same fire that had him pulling away from her before he fell into her feminine trap.

  Yet here he was wishing to tumble right back into it. This simply would not do. Sam stepped back from the window and paced angrily around the room, skirting such things as the sharp corners of his desk and avoiding the protruding bookcases. Why this woman? It was the most incredible thing, the way she of all women affected him. Certainly he’d known more beautiful women—more tractable women, to be sure. But for some reason, his body ached for her and his thoughts always returned to her.

  Could it be possible that they’d only met yesterday afternoon? No. Surely he’d known her forever. Why, he could already feel her in his very marrow. And he wasn’t the least bit happy about that. How had she done it? How had she so quickly tangled his emotions up with hers? Was she better at this game than he’d given her credit for being? Was he already lost and he just didn’t know it?

  That was entirely possible. Probable, even. Then, hang it all, from this moment on, and until he knew better, he would treat her as the enemy. But with a change in tactics. Where pomposity and confrontation hadn’t drawn Miss Calhoun out, cordiality and courtliness might. Sam liked it. This could work. It was a good plan. Feeling bette
r now for having one, he set off in a long-legged stride across his study. In his mind’s eye he saw himself charging up the stairs and drawing Miss Calhoun out of her room and hauling her downstairs and—

  He stopped again, his hand on the doorknob as he faced the blank façade of the solid door, not six inches from his nose. And doing what? He had no idea, but he would think of something. With that, he opened the door, only to have his chest beat upon by a feminine fist.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry—”

  “Miss Calhoun!” Excitement, as much as surprise, had Sam’s heart pounding. The mere sight of her slender body with her feminine curves and the overall effect of her widened green eyes and long red hair on his sensibilities was staggering—and unsettling for being so. Manners, man. Remember your manners with her. Be courtly, yet distant. Preserve yourself.

  “Oh, I do apologize, Your Grace. I meant only to knock upon the door and not your person.”

  “No need to apologize. I was just on my way to get you.”

  “You were? Really? Why?” Smiling, she leaned in toward him. Bright, expectant lights danced in her eyes.

  Sam’s first impulse was to grab her and ravish her right there. Though a certain other part of him stiffened, as well, he tensed his body against the base urge and took a deep breath. Thus steeled, he managed to reply in a calm manner. “Please. You first, Miss Calhoun. What did you want with me?”

  Tugging her hair behind her ears, she suddenly looked everywhere but at him. “Actually, permission to have a saddled horse or a carriage placed at my disposal so I might go into the village.”

  “The village?” An outing. A place away from here. It was perfect. She was playing right into his hands. A sudden calm and calculation came over Sam. This was a game he could handily win. Get her alone with him in the carriage and question her. But obliquely, of course. “How intriguing, Miss Calhoun. You wish to go into the village. Hoping to find its idiot, are you?”

  It was a fabulous opening he’d given her, one he could see she struggled not to respond to. She was actually grimacing and sputtering. Oh, those words wanted out in the worst way. Feigning a sincere smile, Sam raised his eyebrows and waited, knowing she wanted to blurt out that she’d already found the village idiot, and he was it.

  “No, hardly, Your Grace,” she finally gritted out. “Instead, I simply find myself in need of a … of a—”

  “Of a what?” he prodded, watching her struggle. Suddenly he didn’t think his plan of courtliness and good manners was what was called for, after all. Perhaps a military campaign or a fencing duel with well-placed parries and thrusts that forced her to respond in kind or be skewered.

  “Of a dressmaker,” she finally blurted.

  “A dressmaker?” Sam barely bit back a guffaw. “That’s the best you can do?”

  She sobered, apparently insulted. “I don’t take your meaning, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “And I’m telling you I don’t, Your Grace.”

  “Truthfully?” He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Have it your way, then. I apologize if I’ve offended you. But tell me, have you received an invitation I’m not aware of, one that necessitates new gowns?”

  “I’ve only just arrived, Your Grace. Who would issue such an invitation to me?”

  “I have no idea, as I know not the first thing about you. For all I know, you are boon companions with everyone hereabouts.”

  “And if I were, you too would already know me, am I correct?”

  She had him there, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Proceed then, Miss Calhoun.”

  “Thank you. Robin—my lady’s maid, you may recall—has informed me that I must dress for dinner. She’s very concerned that my, uh, trunks with my … gowns haven’t arrived yet and that I will therefore make a poor showing. So I thought perhaps the local dressmaker might have some ready-mades I could purchase for the occasion.”

  “How very sympathetic of you. One wouldn’t want one’s maid’s sensibilities to be offended, would one? However, I find it curious that you have more trunks coming. I mean no offense, Miss Calhoun, but for just how long did my mother invite you to stay?”

  Her face colored. With embarrassment or guilt? “She didn’t actually put an end date on it, Your Grace. But you are free to do so. As you’ve pointed out to me, everything hereabouts is yours, so I assume even time spent here is under your control?”

  “Yes, it is.” Sam’s body thrummed with excitement. Such a quick and refreshing intellect she possessed. She certainly kept a man on his toes … and more. Exhaling for calm, reminding himself yet again that she was no innocent, Sam managed a schooled response. “However, I will defer to my mother’s invitation to you and to whatever her wishes may be for how long your visit should last.”

  “Very sporting of you, Your Grace. And as it should be.”

  They were like circling dogs, looking for an opening. Sam felt she’d handed him one, and he didn’t intend to leave it unchallenged. “Would you like me to accompany you into town, Miss Calhoun?”

  Her eyes rounded with surprise. “Oh no, Your Grace, I’m sure you’re much too busy to attend to something so silly. I would never dream of presuming on your time.”

  So she didn’t want him to go. Well, then, go he would. “Nothing silly about it, Miss Calhoun. I find the fitting and making of women’s dresses to be an endlessly fascinating spectacle.”

  She eyed him as if he were a dirty, pawing old man. “I don’t doubt that you would.” Then she smiled. “Well, then, Your Grace, if you insist on going, far be it from me to deny you your bit of entertainment.”

  She then caught him completely off guard by executing a full and formal curtsy—the first one he’d wrung out of her. And hadn’t it come at an interesting moment? Sam nodded his head in regal acknowledgment of this show of respect and courtesy on her part, though he expected she meant it in a disparaging sense.

  Indeed, her expression as she looked up at him from under her eyelashes could only be termed daring. “I would be honored if you would accompany me.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled. We’ll go after luncheon, which should be ready just about now. And as luck would have it here in the country, we don’t dress formally for the noonday meal.” Sam pulled away from the doorjamb and held his crooked arm out to her. “May I escort you into the dining room, Miss Calhoun?”

  She smiled brightly, accepting his offered arm. “By all means, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Ten

  Luncheon consisted of cold meats and an assortment of breads and fresh greens, which were followed by an offering of cheeses. In the formal dining room and seated at the other end of the long table from the duke, Yancey remained quiet as she ate her fill. A need to be fortified for her upcoming jaunt into town with him accompanying her lay behind her behavior. She couldn’t believe this twist. Shopping for gowns had only been her excuse and certainly not her intention when she’d come downstairs and knocked on his study door. As it stood now, though, she would actually have to engage in the tiring activity. Damn. How the devil would she pay for a wardrobe of gowns? Mr. Pinkerton would not be amused should she be forced to put them on her expense account.

  All she’d wanted from the duke, when she’d knocked on his study’s closed door, was his cooperation in ordering a vehicle, or at least a saddled horse, to be placed at her disposal. Only he could give such an order. Then, once she had her conveyance, she’d meant to slip away to the village and post a letter—a formal report she’d written this morning and so couldn’t possibly send from the manor because it was addressed to the famous Mr. Pinkerton.

  Even now, the letter to her employer was tucked into her skirt pocket. Though not heavy in its own right, it held the emotional weight of a good-sized stone weighing her down. She had created it and now had the responsibility of it. A very incriminating thing it would indeed be too should it be discovered by anyone here. She’d have a lot of explaining to do. Still, despi
te that risk, she was glad she had composed it. The very act of writing it had put her firmly back on track with her mission here. She’d of course left out her embarrassing faint and then the kiss. A very complicating kiss from a very complicated man.

  Stealing a glance at the duke as he spoke patiently to Her Grace Nana, also in attendance at table with them, Yancey exhaled her distress. The handsome, arresting man was a craving she could not satisfy. Around him, she had no sense of objectivity, much less decorum. She wanted only to run her hands over his body, tear her hands through his hair, and pull him to her.

  Such heated thoughts, accompanied by sensual visions, had Yancey inadvertently tightening her hand around the warm, buttered bun she’d all but forgotten she held. Melted butter ran between her fingers. Shocked and dismayed, but undetected, she surreptitiously plopped the mess onto her plate and wiped her hands clean on the linen napkin in her lap.

  Imbecile, she admonished herself. Around him, you behave more the harlot than the seasoned detective. You could be swimming in murderers and you wouldn’t even know it. Pay attention to your job and not your … heart.

  Easily said, but it wasn’t her heart that was throbbing at the moment. Yancey fidgeted in her chair, trying her best to subjugate her desire to her will. She worked to convince herself that she was suffering only a momentary weakness and she had only herself to blame. But the truth was she was angry with him. Did he really intend to pretend that he hadn’t kissed her? As a duke, had he thought nothing of taking whatever lay under his roof—or atop one of his beds? Well, she couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. Still, should he try it again, now that she wasn’t recovering from a swoon, he’d have a big surprise coming. She knew a thing or two about disabling a man, whether he be amorous or murderous.

  Thus fortified, Yancey took her last swallow of a white wine they’d been served. As she did, she again eyed her handsome and enigmatic host at the other end of the long table. He was pointedly ignoring her. Evil man. Yancey’s grip tightened on her wine glass. Fearing it would go the way of the bun, she carefully set it down and lowered her gaze until she stared at her plate. She needed to remember that she was a woman of twenty-six years with six years of undercover detective experience behind her. Why, she even had a notch on her gun. Not that she was proud of the life she had taken, and not that it was the first one … but there it was, nonetheless.