Ellen watched him approach, but not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did she show her unease. She had seen his scowl as he left Fred and Georgie, observed how he assumed a look of slightly bored amusement when he drew nearer and wondered what barbs he had for her tonight. As if she wasn’t already suffering from his attentions. Their tête-à-tête at the theatre had given rise to any number of comments, from the barely concealed jealousy of her ardent admirers to outright disapproval from more than one fond mama with a daughter to marry off.
He bowed and requested the pleasure of dancing with her. Ellen dropped into a curtsy.
‘I regret, Your Grace, that I am promised for every one now, except the last dance of the evening.’
‘Then I shall count myself fortunate to have that,’ he replied with another bow.
She was annoyed to see how her admirers had drifted away when confronted with the ducal presence. Was everyone so in awe of him? That put her on her mettle and she fixed him with a dazzling smile.
‘I hope, Your Grace, that you do not mean to spend the rest of your time in the card room this evening, as you did at the Dragon. That would be very cruel, when there are any number of ladies here without partners.’
‘So you were following my movements, were you?’
Ellen had no intention of admitting anything of the kind. She threw him a pitying look.
‘It was remarked upon, Your Grace. And several ladies were disappointed.’
He looked taken aback by that and as she went off with her first dancing partner, Ellen felt a little spurt of satisfaction to know he was not so uncaring as he tried to make out.
* * *
By the time Ellen went in to supper with General Dingwall her satisfaction was completely routed. She had had the dubious pleasure of seeing Max dance every dance with a different lady. He was at his most charming as he circled the room for a country dance with a shy debutante, participated with great enthusiasm in a Scotch reel with a dashing matron and flirted outrageously with his pretty partner during the cotillion. She watched him give his arm to Frederick as they went into the supper room and he remained with the Arncliffes until an ambitious matron dragged her blushing daughter forward to remind him that the dancing was about to begin again. At that point he jumped up with alacrity, not even sparing a glance for Ellen as he passed her table.
She tried to concentrate on the general’s anecdotes, but she had heard them before and they did not hold her attention. She was bored, the evening was so dull that she wanted nothing more than to go home but that was impossible, Mr Rudby was already coming up to claim her for his partner. She went back to the ballroom, hoping the exercise would drive off these unaccustomed megrims.
The evening moved inexorably to its conclusion. The final dance was the lively Boulanger, performed in a circle and with little opportunity for private conversation. That at least was a relief, thought Ellen, a smile pinned firmly in place as Max led her out. Her nerves were stretched to the limit, she felt angry and ill at ease and blamed it all on her partner. It was his fault she had had to remain on the dance floor, smiling like a ninny when all she wanted to do was to go home and shut out the world. The dancing seemed to go on for ever, but at last the musicians fell silent and her ordeal was over.
‘I am taking the Arncliffes back to their house,’ said Max, making his bow to her. ‘Perhaps you would like to take your leave of them?’
‘I would, thank you.’
Her reply was as studiously polite as his question. She would infinitely have preferred to walk away in the opposite direction but she could not leave the Crown without saying goodbye to Georgie and Frederick, so she bore the Duke’s escort with as much grace as she could. However, they soon saw that the benches were empty.
‘Perhaps they are waiting for you at the door,’ she suggested, but when they went downstairs there was no sign of Fred or Georgie in the throng of guests waiting for their carriages.
A servant came up and bowed low to Max.
‘Your Grace, I have a message for you from Mrs Arncliffe,’ said the footman in a loud, carrying voice. ‘She has taken her husband home in your carriage, Your Grace. Mrs Arncliffe regrets the inconvenience to yourself and very much hopes that Mrs Furnell will be able to take you up as far as your hotel.’
‘Impossible,’ Ellen said at once.
‘Out of the question,’ Max declared.
The servant looked a little startled at their response, but at that moment the cry went up that Mrs Furnell’s carriage was at the door, so he bowed again and stepped back to allow them to pass. Ellen stood, irresolute, but Max took her arm and ushered her out to the waiting barouche.
‘At least a dozen people heard that message,’ he muttered. ‘We would look no-how if we refused to comply.’
Silently Ellen climbed into her travelling barouche and huddled in the corner, as far away as possible from her companion. She wished now that she had brought a cloak, so that she might wrap herself in its comforting folds, instead of having only her thin stole of Norwich silk. Not that she was cold, the summer night was remarkably warm, but the Duke’s powerful presence made her skin tingle. She was so aware of him it was like a tangible bond; invisible, silken threads drawing them together. He was sitting on the edge of the seat, facing her, and that added to her unease.
She said pettishly, ‘If you had not insisted upon dancing with me, you could have left with your friends.’
‘If you had kept an earlier dance free we would not be in this fix. As it is I had to waste the evening doing my duty by all and sundry.’
‘Hah, an exceedingly pretty all and sundry! You appeared to be enjoying yourself.’
His countenance was illuminated by the glow of the numerous street lamps shining in through the glass and his contempt was all too clear.
He said, ‘Perhaps you would have liked me to spend the evening leaning against the wall and gazing soulfully at you, like those idiots who fawn upon you?’
‘I cannot help it if that is what they do. I do not encourage them.’
‘No, madam? That low-cut confection you are wearing tonight had every red-blooded male lusting after you, which I do not doubt was your intention.’
Ellen raged at his sneering tone. He had as good as called her a doxy! She lunged at him, but he was ready for her, catching her wrist in a vice-like grip.
‘Oh, no, Ellen, you will strike me only when I allow it.’
They were so close now that with every ragged breath the lace of her corsage brushed his waistcoat. And they were both breathing heavily.
‘I hate you,’ she ground out, each syllable heavy with loathing.
He bared his teeth. ‘What you think of me doesn’t really matter, does it?’
Even as she opened her mouth to protest he swept her into his arms and kissed her savagely. With her nerves already stretched to breaking, Ellen had no defences. She was flying, falling, drowning under the onslaught. His kiss conveyed a mixture of angry frustration and desire. She knew it immediately, because she felt the same, but it was desire that swept her up, calling to the fierce yearning she had buried for so long. Her bones turned to water, she felt hollow inside, wanting him to fill her, to possess her, just as she longed to consume him. She trembled, gathering herself to respond.
No! Even while her body was screaming out to give in she remembered the pain of losing him. She could not bear that again; she could only survive if she remained in control. Ellen struggled in his arms, but they only tightened, holding her against him. She was desperately fighting her own desires as well as his and she knew she was losing. Her body was ignoring reason and succumbing to an overwhelming passion. Only the sudden slowing of the carriage saved her. They came to a rocking halt and the bluff, cheerful tones of her footman announced that they had arrived at the Granby Hotel.
Ellen pushed Max
away and hastily drew back into the shadowed corner as the carriage door opened. In one fluid move he scooped his hat from the floor and jumped out, walking off to the lighted entrance of the Granby without a backwards glance. She pulled the thin shawl about her shoulders and felt the tears burning her eyes. Despite everything, despite knowing it could only bring more heartache, she knew nothing had changed. It was Max’s strong arms she wanted around her.
There was no time for weeping. Ellen spent the short journey to Paradise Row composing herself and it was with tolerable equanimity that she went into her house, even finding a smile for her butler as he opened the door.
‘A letter has arrived for you, ma’am,’ he greeted her. ‘Express from London.’
‘Ah, that will be from my lawyer. Thank you, Snow.’
She carried the missive into the drawing room and waited until the door was closed upon her before breaking the seal. The neatly written, carefully worded missive contained no surprises. Her lawyer informed her that his enquiries confirmed that it was all as His Grace the Duke of Rossenhall had explained to her. The army records were now complete, including the Chaplains’ Returns, and he had seen the marriage entry with his own eyes.
I hope you will allow me to congratulate you upon your elevation, Your Grace, and to assure you that I am, as ever... etc., etc.
She choked back a sob and scrunched the paper between her hands. So she had proof, if proof were needed, that she was Max’s lawful wife. Four years ago she would have given anything for that news. Now, the thought filled her with dread.
* * *
Ellen remained at home the following day, crying off from several engagements with the excuse that she was not well. Word spread quickly and by dinner time she had received several messages of sympathy as well as a small nosegay from General Dingwall. There was also a terse note from Max informing her that if she did not appear at tomorrow’s ball at the Granby he would personally come to Paradise Row to fetch her.
Damn him.
* * *
Knowing there was no escape, Ellen prepared for Friday’s ball as if for a battle. She made subtle use of the rouge pot on her wan cheeks and allowed Matlock to spend more time than usual arranging her hair in artless curls. Even the silk gown with its white lace trim was scarlet as a soldier’s coat. She delayed setting off for the Granby as long as she dared and half-expected to find Max glowering in the doorway when she arrived. He was not, but she immediately spotted his tall, commanding figure on the far side of the room. He was deep in conversation with a group of gentlemen, but not so engrossed that he missed her arrival. He glanced up and for a brief moment their eyes met, glances clashing with all the cold fury of duelling swords.
A cotillion had already started and Ellen was relieved the necessity of dancing immediately. She made her way around the room, gratified by the warmth of her reception as friends were quick to ask if she was fully recovered from her malaise. Ellen made sure that no one seeing the golden widow that evening would think anything amiss: her smile was brighter than ever, she laughed at the mildest joke and greeted every acquaintance with warmth and kind words.
At last she reached the benches where the Arncliffes were sitting. Ellen quickly put out her hand to stop Fred trying to struggle to his feet but his wife had already jumped up and was looking at her nervously.
‘Georgie, my dear.’ Ellen pulled her close and kissed her cheek, feeling a little shudder of relief run through her friend.
‘Oh, Ellen. When I heard you were ill yesterday I thought it might have something to do with the trick we played on you Wednesday night.’
‘Heavens, no, of course not.’ The laughing lie tripped off Ellen’s tongue with shocking ease. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’
Georgie smiled in relief and linked arms with Ellen, moving a little further away so Fred could not overhear them.
‘It was all Fred’s notion and of course he does not know the truth about you and Max. He thought you were getting on so well that it would be a great thing to throw the two of you together, which, of course, is what we want, but I knew you would not like it.’
Somehow Ellen kept her smile in place, but she could not help saying, ‘I wish you had dissuaded him.’
Georgie looked a little guilty. ‘I confess I did not try too hard. Fred is not nearly so fixed now upon Max marrying his sister. That is surely a good thing.’
‘Then, perhaps, might we tell him the truth?’ suggested Ellen.
‘Oh, no, I fear the shock would be too great. He and Max have been friends for so long, you see. To discover that Max had been married all these years and never told him would be such a blow. Please, Ellen, let us continue as we are. It cannot be for much longer.’
Ellen looked at Fred. He was watching the dancing with every semblance of enjoyment, but Ellen thought he looked thinner and more frail than ever. No wonder Georgie was worried. Fred’s sudden smile and the way Georgie released her arm gave Ellen warning of Max’s approach. She turned, perfectly composed and a friendly smile in place.
Fred waved his stick at him. ‘Max, you old dog, you haven’t said a word to me yet. Are you come to sit with me?’
‘No, I have come to dance with Mrs Furnell, if she will do me the honour of standing up with me.’ He was holding out his hand, a smile as false as her own curving his mouth.
Ellen’s deep curtsy was perfectly judged. A model of respect and obeisance. A model of pretence. ‘The honour will be all mine, Your Grace.’
Ellen did not miss the triumphant glance that Fred sent his wife. He thought himself a matchmaker, so surely the knowledge that she and Max were already married would not kill him.
But the knowledge of his best friend’s deceit might.
Ellen’s thoughts raced as they worked their way down the set. And what of Max? It would be an exquisite punishment to ruin his friendship with Frederick Arncliffe, to destroy the trust between the two men, but it would be too cruel a trick and she knew she could not do it.
‘Come along, ma’am, I think we must have some conversation while we wait our turn to dance again.’
The Duke’s soft drawl caught her wandering attention.
‘To talk as well as dance with you?’ she said through her smile. ‘A double penance.’
‘But one you must learn to endure.’
‘For the present,’ she flashed back, smiling even more. ‘I am not doing this to save your face, but to spare my friend a shock that might well end his life.’
It was time to dance again; he reached for her hand, murmuring as he closed with her, ‘And you will continue to do it, madam, if you wish to remain as my Duchess.’
She had the oddest fancy that twin devils danced in his green eyes. Her head came up. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfiture.
The dance turned into a duel. Every barbed comment was parried and their smiles were icy as they vied for the advantage with furiously sharp wit and glittering ripostes. Even the clasp of their gloved hands was full of menace, shards of heat racing through Ellen’s arm at each touch. Her heightened senses imagined the sparks flying around them, yet through it all they performed the steps with perfect precision. It was at once exhausting and exhilarating. Ellen’s blood raced through her body and she felt gloriously alive as they battled for supremacy, neither giving an inch. When the dance ended she accompanied Max off the floor with her head held high.
Honours even, I think.
Mr Rudby was waiting to claim the next dance and the Duke relinquished her without any noticeable reluctance. He did not approach her again that evening, but Ellen saw the smouldering fire in his eyes whenever they rested on her. She recognised that look: despite all that had occurred he still wanted her. The thought sent a small, triumphant thrill skittering through her body, but she suppressed it angrily. Yes, he desired her, just as sh
e still longed for his caresses, but that had nothing to do with tenderness, or trust. Or love.
* * *
By the time she left the Granby that night Ellen was exhausted. Her cheeks ached from smiling and there was an angry tightness in her chest. She was unusually silent as Matty helped her into her nightgown and brushed out her curls, but although she told herself it was tiredness, when at last she fell into bed it was to toss and turn restlessly, unable to forget the devils dancing in Max’s hard-as-emerald eyes.
She fell asleep eventually, but even in dreams she could not escape. It was their wedding night. She felt again the gentle rocking of the dahabiya as she lay naked on the bed, waiting for Max to come to her. Then he was before her, his muscled body gleaming in the near darkness. She trembled, shivered in anticipation as he stretched himself out beside her, cupped her breast in his hand and gently stroked it with his thumb, circling the nub until it was hard and aching. She slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him close while her body arched and her thighs parted instinctively, inviting more intimate caresses. She moaned softly, her skin longing for his touch as desire pooled, curled and unfurled, rippling through her in ever-growing waves. Her senses swam with the sweet, heady scents of an Egyptian night, she breathed in the delicate, woody fragrance on Max’s skin as she clung to him and he carried her towards the final climax. And even as she was falling into oblivion she heard his voice murmuring softly. ‘With my body, I thee worship.’
* * *
A knock on the door roused Ellen. She stirred, remnants of the dream so fresh in her mind she thought it was real and she almost purred with the feeling of sensual well-being. Until Matlock’s brisk good morning brought her back to the cold reality of an English morning.
* * *
Ellen was at breakfast when her butler announced the Duke. Her hand shook as she put down her cup, spilling coffee into the saucer.
‘I have shown him into the morning room, ma’am,’ said Snow, observing her reaction with interest.
The Duke's Secret Heir Page 9
