The Duke Is But a Dream--A Debutante Diaries Novel

by Anna Bennett

  There are a great many ways to capture a gentleman’s attention. You may resort to all manner of tricks, such as wearing a gown with a shockingly low neckline, pretending to sprain your ankle, or laughing excessively at his attempts at humor. All of these tactics, while tried and true, work only in the short term.

  If you wish to gain his notice—and keep it—you must create a more lasting connection. Try asking him a personal question or offering a sincere smile, all while staying true to who you are.

  If the gentleman responds in kind, you are on your way to establishing a deeper bond.

  If he does not, you must ask yourself why you are wasting your time with him.

  Perhaps, instead of desperately seeking to gain a gentleman’s favor, you should require the gentleman to seek yours.

  Caroline swallowed, stunned. This advice resonated too. Not only in regard to what it said—but also how it was said. The Debutante’s Revenge meant something to her—the real her. She sensed it deep in her bones.

  Encouraged by the admittedly small development, she proceeded to read all of the columns, in chronological order. She spent hours studying every drawing and rereading each letter, searching for clues, searching for herself.

  When a knock sounded on the door, she sat up on Delilah’s bed, slightly dazed. She’d been so absorbed by the task that she’d lost all track of time. “Come in,” she called.

  Delilah strode through the door, and Molly followed with a cart. “We thought you should take a break for tea,” Delilah said cheerfully. “You must be famished.”

  “Thank you,” Caroline said. She carefully organized the columns and set them on Delilah’s desk. “Tea sounds lovely. You’ll join me, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Delilah replied. “I’m curious to hear your thoughts about the column.”

  Molly wheeled the tea cart toward a small sitting area near the window and uncovered a tray filled with small sandwiches, scones, fruit, and clotted cream. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” she said kindly.

  “It looks delicious,” Caroline said, her belly rumbling in agreement.

  Molly clasped her hands in front of her starched white apron and bobbed a curtsy before leaving. Delilah kicked off her slippers, tucked her feet beneath her gown, and gratefully accepted the steaming cup of tea that Caroline had poured. “Did you enjoy the rest of the articles?”

  “I did.” Caroline nibbled a scone, thoughtful. “But I felt more than enjoyment. I felt a connection to the column.”

  “I do too,” Delilah said. “Sometimes I feel as though the authoress is speaking directly to me.” She paused to sip her tea and froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. “Wait. Do you think your connection to The Debutante’s Revenge extends beyond that of a reader?”

  Caroline worried her lower lip. “Does that make me sound a little mad? Doesn’t every person who’s taken leave of their senses believe that they’re someone talented or famous?”

  “You’re not mad,” Delilah assured her, her voice brimming with excitement. “It’s entirely possible that you’re associated with the column in some way. Could you have drawn the sketches?”

  Caroline pushed the sleeves of her gown up to her elbows. “There’s only one way to find out. May I have a sheet of paper and a pencil?”

  Delilah sprang out of her chair, rummaged through a desk drawer, and produced a sketchpad and pencil. “Here you are. What will you draw?”

  “Not what. Who,” Caroline replied with a smile. “You shall be my subject.”

  “Me?” Delilah hastily attempted to smooth her hair.

  “Sit in your chair and relax while I sketch your portrait,” Caroline instructed, staring at the blank paper in front of her and wondering where in the world to begin. Maybe a few bold lines. Some subtle shading. She let the pencil glide over the paper, trusting that any talent she possessed would manifest itself on the page.

  Alas, it did not.

  Delilah must have noticed Caroline’s dismay. “How is it looking?” she probed.

  “Not good,” Caroline said flatly. “I can confidently say that I am not the artist behind The Debutante’s Revenge.”

  “Are you certain?” Delilah said. “Artists are notoriously critical of their own work. Perhaps you should let me judge.”

  Caroline glanced at the blob she’d drawn, which might have been a passable likeness—if Delilah had been a cross between a mermaid and a sheep.

  “No.” Caroline tried to snap the sketchbook shut, but Delilah grabbed it and swiftly moved it out of her reach.

  Delilah deliberately turned the sketchbook around, then studied the drawing, trying valiantly to keep her face impassive. “Well,” she began. “It’s not so bad.” Pointing to the sheep’s tail, she said, “This is obviously my nose.”

  Caroline rotated the paper one-hundred-eighty degrees. “That’s your foot.”

  Grinning, Delilah handed the pad back to her. “You’re definitely not the artist,” she agreed. “But you could be the writer. You felt a connection to the column, and I think you must trust your instincts.”

  “My mind hasn’t been terribly reliable of late,” Caroline replied dryly. “What I need is proof.”

  “The column is cloaked in secrecy,” Delilah said sadly. “And that makes proof difficult to come by.”

  Caroline blinked. “What day of the week is The Debutante’s Revenge published?”

  “Fridays. Oh.” Delilah’s eyes grew wide. “If a new letter doesn’t appear in Friday’s Hearsay, we’ll know that your instincts are correct. Six days. Not that long to wait.”

  “I hope to regain my memory sooner, but in case I don’t, it’s comforting to know we’ll have confirmation one way or the other.”

  “How exciting,” Delilah breathed. “I eagerly anticipate every letter, but the next one may turn out to be enlightening on multiple levels. And if we learn that you are behind the column in some way, you have nothing to fear. I would never expose you.”

  Caroline’s eyes stung. “In just a few short days, you’ve become like a sister to me. And in an odd way, your friendship makes me feel homesick for a place I can’t even name. I only know I need to find my family. To discover where I belong.”

  “You belong,” Delilah said firmly. She reached out and gave Caroline’s hand a squeeze that she felt somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and prayed once more that she wouldn’t forever be Caroline, the girl with no real name or family.

  “Would you like to hear about my walk in the park?” Delilah’s pretty face beamed, and her shoulders lifted as though she’d burst if she didn’t share.

  “Absolutely,” Caroline said, chuckling.

  “I happened to meet Lord Brondale as I was strolling along the promenade. He’s very charming and witty. Handsome too,” she said, sighing. “I think he is fond of me. And I know I am fond of him.”

  “How wonderful,” Caroline said. “You deserve to have a dashing beau. Is he courting you?”

  “Not ostensibly. That is, he hasn’t sought permission from Nash—probably because he knows my brother would disapprove.”

  A shiver stole over Caroline’s skin. “Nash doesn’t like Lord Brondale? Why not?”

  “He refuses to give specifics—only that he has reason not to trust him.” Delilah pushed herself out of her chair and paced her bedchamber. “But I suspect he would disapprove of any gentleman who called on me.”

  “Your brother clearly adores you, and I’m sure he wants you to be happy. Perhaps I could talk to him about Lord Brondale. Try to persuade him that you are capable of judging his character for yourself.”

  Delilah faced Caroline and clasped her hands under her chin. “You’d do that?”

  “Of course,” Caroline replied. “I can’t promise that I’ll succeed, but I’ll try.”

  “He’s eating dinner at his club tonight, so it will just be the two of us,” Delilah said.

  Caroline tamped down
a twinge of disappointment and placed a hand over her full belly. “After all this food, I couldn’t possibly eat more. Would you mind terribly if I skipped dinner and retired early tonight?” She needed time to sort through all she’d learned about the column. To try and fit some of the puzzle pieces together.

  “Not at all,” Delilah assured her. “I shall do the same. Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow, we’ll both have a few answers.” She gestured toward the stack of newspapers on her desk. “Would you like to take the columns with you?”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Perhaps she’d study them some more after a little rest.

  “There’s no one I’d rather share them with,” Delilah said warmly.

  “Thank you.” She pulled Delilah into an impulsive hug. “For everything.”

  Caroline gathered up the newspapers and made her way to her bedchamber, contemplating the earliest acceptable time to change into her nightgown. But when she entered her room, she pulled up short.

  Sitting on the chest at the foot of her bed was a neat pile of folded clothes and a pair of boy’s boots. She swallowed as she lifted the shirt on top and held the worn fabric against her chest.

  Her clothes. The ones she’d been wearing on the night she lost her memory. Besides her bag, they were the only tangible connection to her real life.

  Her pulse skittered as she closed the door and loosened the laces of her gown. Perhaps slipping into her old disguise would help her remember the woman she’d been—and who she still was, deep down.

  Chapter 10

  “Most men wouldn’t dream of committing to one person for the rest of their lives without experiencing a taste of passion. Why, then, should you?”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  Nash ate dinner at his club and returned home late that night. He’d needed some time away from the house and the bittersweet memories it held.

  Last night he’d talked about Emily more than he had in the five years since she … left him. Uttering her name had hurt. Like lancing a wound.

  Of course, he hadn’t revealed the entire truth about Emily and his father. Hadn’t told Caroline the part he’d played in that tragedy. The guilt was his alone—his burden to bear, his price to pay. To shrug it off would only compound his sins.

  But still, he’d spoken Emily’s name, and the earth had not swallowed him whole. If anything, talking about her—however briefly—had released a bit of the anger and pain. Like a geyser venting steam to prevent the earth from cracking open.

  Caroline was responsible for that small, temporary relief. And she’d been on his mind all day. It turned out that the brilliant green leaves rustling in the park were the same green as her eyes. The sunlight sparkling on the river’s surface was the same gold as her gown. How the hell was he supposed to not think about her?

  Especially after the kiss they’d shared. The one that had stirred something deep inside him, making him lose the control he prized above all else.

  He’d had an idea, though—a way that they might be able to locate Caroline’s family. He intended to talk to her about it at breakfast tomorrow, reasoning that as long as Delilah sipped tea across from them and sunlight streamed through the windows, he and Caroline might resist the temptation to fall into each other’s arms again.

  Now, as he made his way to his bedchamber, each room he slipped past was blissfully quiet and dark—save Caroline’s. A soft light glowed from beneath her door.

  He told his feet to keep walking, but they stuck to the floor outside her room. He couldn’t pass up the chance to see her briefly. To find out if she’d been as affected by the kiss as she.

  So, he knocked softly.

  He heard a shuffle on the other side, then her voice, low and slightly breathless. “Who is it?”

  “Nash,” he answered, his cheek against the door. “Am I disturbing you?”

  The door opened a few inches, revealing a narrow swath of Caroline’s face—one green eye, the curve of her cheek, and a dark tendril curling around her chin. “Did you wish to talk?”

  “Yes,” he said earnestly. “But it can wait until morning. I shouldn’t have knocked so late.”

  “No, it’s fine,” she insisted. “It’s just … I’m not dressed for company.”

  “I’m not company,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t care if you’re wearing a nightgown and robe—unless you do?”

  She bit her lower lip. “I’m not wearing a robe. Or a nightgown.”

  “Oh,” he said—momentarily stunned. His blood heated at the thought of what Caroline was not wearing.

  Before he could articulate a coherent response, she grabbed his wrist, pulled him into her bedchamber, and shut the door. She whirled around, eyes twinkling with mirth as she strode to the center of the room and planted a hand on one hip. “I was trying on my old clothes,” she said unapologetically.

  Nash swallowed and tried not to gape. Leather boots hugged her legs, snug trousers cradled her bottom, and a billowy white shirt floated around her torso. Her thick tresses tumbled around her slender shoulders and down her back, tickling the nip of her waist. Standing there, so proud and assured, she took his breath away.

  “Why?” he managed to ask. “Not that I object to your choice of evening wear. Quite the contrary. But why would you put on your disguise tonight?”

  She absently pressed fingers to her temple. “I was trying to remember.”

  “Have you?”

  “No,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.

  “I suspect it’s like trying to swim against the tide. Fighting the currents will exhaust you. But if you can manage to float along for a while, you’ll eventually head in the right direction.” He shot her a wry smile. “Then again, it’s easy for me to be philosophical. I’m not the one lost at sea.”

  “True.” She crossed her arms like she was suppressing a shiver, and he checked the urge to haul her against his chest and comfort her. “You said you wanted to speak with me,” she said. “I’d hoped to talk with you as well.”

  “Would you like to go first?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  She nodded, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the mattress beside her. “Please, sit.”

  He did, wondering if she knew the effect she had on him. That his pulse leapt just from being close to her.

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you,” she began. “It’s about Delilah.”

  At the mention of his sister, his hackles rose slightly, but he nodded. “Go on.”

  “She told me today that she is rather fond of a certain gentleman—and that you disapprove of him.”

  “Brondale,” Nash growled. “He’s no gentleman, and I wouldn’t let him within twenty yards of my sister.”

  Caroline tilted her head. “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.” The primary one being that Brondale was one of half a dozen young bucks who’d made a vile wager in the betting book at his club. The first one among them who provided proof that he’d deflowered a virgin would win the pot.

  “Don’t you think you should share your reasons with Delilah?”

  “No,” he said firmly. He couldn’t begin to imagine how to have that conversation with his sister.

  “She’s not a child, Nash.” Caroline’s eyes flashed with passion. “She’s smart. And quite capable of making her own decisions.”

  “I know,” he said, exhaling slowly. “She reminds me daily.”

  “Then talk to her,” Caroline urged. “Tell her your concerns and trust her to listen.”

  “I’m trying,” he said earnestly. “But she needs to trust me too. She was only thirteen when my father died, and, since then, I’ve been more than her older brother. I’ve had to be her father and guardian too. I want her to be happy—honestly, I do—but every instinct inside me screams to keep her safe. To protect her from scoundrels who would take advantage of her sweet nature.”

  Caroline impulsively reached for his hand, and his skin tingled from her touch. “It’s diffic
ult to watch the people we love falter and make mistakes. But everyone deserves the chance to make a few of their own. It’s how we learn and grow.”

  Nash swallowed. “My head agrees with you. It’s my heart that’s stubborn.”

  Caroline smiled serenely. Maybe even affectionately. “You should tell her that.”

  “I will,” he promised, gazing into her eyes until the air between them seemed to sizzle.

  “Good.” She blinked and pulled her hand away. “Now it’s your turn. What did you want to discuss?”

  “I had an idea,” he said. “About how we might—” He paused and watched as Caroline repeatedly rubbed her palm over her thigh. “Does your leg pain you?”

  “No. Forgive me,” she said, frowning slightly. “I just happened to feel something in my trousers. I wonder if there might be something in the pocket.”

  For the space of several heartbeats, neither of them spoke. But her expression—one part excitement and one part fear—said what they both knew. That the object in her pocket could be the clue they’d been searching for. The one that would take her home.

  When he gave her an encouraging nod, she slipped a hand into her waistband, felt around blindly, and withdrew a small, folded paper. Her hands trembled as she carefully opened it. “It’s a drawing,” she breathed. “Of a man and woman.”

  She handed him the wrinkled paper, still damp from being laundered along with the trousers. The pencil strokes were smudged and faded, and the sketch appeared incomplete. And yet, somehow, the couple seemed to live and breathe on the page. The man gazed at the woman with unabashed desire.

  Nash studied the young woman on the paper, shown mostly from behind, looking for any resemblance to Caroline. There were similarities—the gently sloped nose, the strong chin, and thick curls. It could have been her, but it was impossible to say for certain. The mere possibility gave him a sick feeling in his gut.

  He gave the drawing back to her. “Do you think the woman is you?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. It feels oddly familiar, but I have no idea where it came from or who the couple is.”