by Eva Devon
“I’m going to trod on you,” she whispered. “I just know it.”
“Go ahead,” he said, his head bowing slightly, his voice a delicious rumble. “I promise not to show it. I’m a grand duke after all.”
And that was all it took for her to feel perfectly at ease when her whole body had been a riot of nerves just a moment before.
And much to her surprise, because she’d refused to study her fairly empty dance card, a waltz began.
He bent his head just a little. “Shall we fly?” he asked.
She nodded, her heart doing the most odd thing. It seemed as if it was dancing, too. “Yes, if you please.”
And then they were making their way about the large ballroom, her toes barely touching the polished wood floor.
The sweeping notes of the orchestra slipped through her. The feel of his hand about her waist cast everything else away. And as his gaze locked with hers, she felt as if she’d been lost in one of the novels she loved.
“People are staring,” he said finally, softly.
“Of course!” she agreed. “You’re a duke.”
“Not at me, Eglantine.” His blue-green eyes were dark, dark with emotion and. . . desire. “At you.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she felt her own body respond to his need. But that was impossible. That had to be done. So, she said, “They’re waiting for me to step on my gown.”
He blew out a breath. “Can you not receive a compliment?”
She arched a brow. “Say something about my brain.”
His lips curled in a slow smile. “It is a very fine thing.”
“Why, thank you, Your Grace.”
“But Eglantine, whether you like it or not, you’re gaining a good deal of notice now.”
“Thank you,” she replied truthfully. “My dance card shall be a bit fuller.”
“A bit?” he nearly choked.
“I do hate the idea of being a wallflower.” She scowled. “It’s as awful as it sounds. They do frown on reading at balls.”
At that, the duke threw his head back and laughed.
She studied him, bemused by his reaction. “I’m glad I have amused you.”
“Not you,” he countered. “The Duke of Drake said I’d find you reading behind a curtain.”
“Did he, indeed?” Eglantine queried. “He is a most mysterious person.”
“That does not begin to cover Drake. But it’s a good start.”
“I did not know he even remembered me,” she confessed. Drake was not the sort of man she’d thought to notice someone like her.
“There is little he forgets or does not take note of. But he seems to think you have no interest in parties.”
“Absurd,” she replied. “Who would not be at least interested? Perhaps not these parties. But parties where the most powerful people in the world are? How could one not wish to see the goings-on?”
George groaned. “You really are going to be a terror, Eglantine.”
She beamed. “I think that is the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.”
He spun her quickly then pulled her close. “Well, at least you’re receiving my compliments now.”
“I am aware of the limits of my person. . . but my personality? It has none.”
The look upon his face verged on awe, and she found it nearly impossible to breathe as he looked at her.
The room seemed to slow, the other dancers still spinning. To her horror, she realized that they had stopped dancing and were simply standing and staring at each other.
Half the ball was staring at them.
Fans snapped up to cover whispering mouths. Eyes darted about, shocked.
But then the music stopped and he was leading her off the floor, leaving her beside her mother.
He bowed and quickly retreated without another word as if he had been burned.
“My dear girl, would you care to tell me what just happened?” her mother asked casually from behind her feathered fan. There was a curious gleam in her mother’s blue gaze.
Eglantine stood ramrod straight, forcing herself to smile and meet the gaze of anyone who dared to look upon her. “Whatever can you mean, Mama?”
Her mother waved her fan, not a note of censure about her, only observation. “I know you and George are very well acquainted—”
“So, we are,” Eglantine cut in. She did not wish her mother to worry when there was nothing to worry about. Truly. “I am happy to call him friend.”
“He’s a rake. A duke. And powerful in the extreme,” her mother said gently but intently. She turned slightly and folded her fan. “An unmarried woman must exercise caution if she wishes to be friends with him. And are you sure that’s all he wishes?” Her mother studied her face carefully, kindly. “Friendship.”
Eglantine bit her lower lip, unable to entirely declare that.
“Oh dear, Eglantine,” her mother said. But then her lips twitched. “I shan’t prove a hypocrite. You know my feelings on the equality of the sexes. What do I write my letters for if to prove otherwise now? I should not wish you to be a boring little miss, pudding brained, and ignorant. But nor will I say that the world shares our opinion. So, as you be my independent, different daughter, tread carefully.”
“You are worrying for no reason, Mama,” Eglantine declared, even as her heart warmed. Truly, did anyone have a better mother than she? A lady who wished her daughter happy and free, but also understood the way the world worked? And even in that understanding, urging her daughter to be herself? Eglantine was fortunate, indeed.
“Glad to hear it.” Her mother snapped her fan back open and waved it vigorously. “Hmmm. If you are friends, indeed, we should petition George to support. . .”
But she did not hear her mother speak as she realized that several young men were fast approaching her, all with an exceedingly determined looks upon their faces.
Her gaze snapped to where George had headed. He was lingering on the edge of the room, studying her. Just as the crowd of young men descended upon her, she spotted his visage. The look he gave her was all too knowing and if he’d been standing beside her, she knew exactly what he would have said. I told you so, did I not?
He would be absolutely impossible when she saw him next. . .
And as the men began to barrage her, petitioning for her hand in a dance or shared glass of punch, she fairly reeled. He’d told her that she was being noticed. And now, she had to believe him.
Chapter 12
The brandy decanter sloshed and George poured out another snifter full as he sat by the fire. He’d eschewed his coat, pulled off his cravat and was now slouched in the wing backed chair in one of the front rooms of an exclusive house on a quiet street.
“You’re three sheets to the wind, old boy,” Royland said with surprising cheer as he joined him in the small parlor of Number 79.
A party was occurring in the next room.
The guests at said party were laughing and having an exceptionally good time. Diamonds glittered, champagne flowed, and a good many poets were reading their pieces aloud. The chaise lounges were covered with couples reveling in an atmosphere which did not require distance.
Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on that room.
Usually, George would have been there, delighted by the fray. He loved good conversation, art, and artists. In the past, he had enjoyed almost every pleasure life had to offer, avoiding the truly destructive ones.
It was the role of a duke, after all, to be a patron and support painters, writers, and actors and it was good to be able to converse about other things than the weather or the current bill in the House of Lords.
But not tonight.
“Pandora has opened the box,” he drawled as he drew his brandy glass to the lips.
Royland looked pointedly about, his dark hair touched with red in the firelight. “I have yet to see a plague.”
“Do not be so literal,” George growled. “I have uncovered Helen.”
Royland cleared
his throat as his amber gaze sparked with amusement. “Should I fear a fleet of ships?”
George narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever seen a woman completely transform before your eyes?”
“Almost every night,” Royland drawled as he flung himself in the chair opposite George.
“Not like that,” George growled. “I saw her become powerful.”
“Who the devil is the Pandora or Helen in question?” Royland reached for the brandy and poured himself a glass. “How much have you had to drink? I need to know how far behind I am in this race.”
George frowned. There was no point in hiding it. Drake knew. It would be little time before they were all ribbing him, certainly.
“I’ve had too much but not enough and the lady in question is Eglantine Trewstowe.”
“She’s always been lovely,” Royland said with a surprising lack of. . . well, surprise. “Brilliant mind.”
George scowled. Did everyone admire her? Had he been blind before? “She’d love to hear that.”
“I’ll tell her if I ever see her. I do like to see a happy lady. But I don’t usually attend the sorts of affairs she must go to.”
George winced. “I think she’d rather not go, too.”
Royland’s brows rose. “Oh?”
“Everyone seems to think her quiet and having no wish to be involved in the social whirl,” George began, annoyed at himself for having taken Eglantine for granted for so long. “But what I’ve realized is she has no interest in being part of a milk toast social whirl and worse, she’s a firm believer in love.”
“Oh. Dear.” Royland rolled his eyes and sighed. “Well, that’s a recipe for a woman to take London by storm.”
George sighed with relief and dread. “I’m not the only one who sees that.”
Royland winced. “I hope she chooses a good husband. If she does not, it will go terribly.”
George scowled.
Royland’s eyes rounded. “You wish to marry her.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” George all but thundered.
“Is it true?” Royland asked, unintimidated as only he and the other dukes of Number 79 could be.
“Well, I thought so,” George said into his brandy glass. And then he lowered it. It was surprising that he felt so defeated. He was happy for her and yet. . . he felt bloody miserable about it. “And I did.”
“Good God. She turned you down.”
George ground his teeth. “I’m getting very tired of this conversation.”
“You should make an announcement in the Times and it would all be done.”
“Very practical. Duke of Harley rebuffed by Lady Eglantine. . . thank you. Meanwhile, she was certain that she’d have an uneventful Season. Knowing her, this was never going to transpire. And I was right.”
Royland leaned back in his chair. “Of course.”
“She was all but swooped up by the young bucks.” He shuddered. “I’ll kill any of them that hurt her.”
“And what was this about her believing in love?” Royland smiled. “I don’t think she’s alone in that.”
“Love is a lovely notion. But it’s rare. In marriages.”
“I grant that. My parents loathed each other.”
“Exactly.”
Royland cocked his head to the side. “But you seem to be rather attached to her.”
“I care about her,” George admitted easily.
“I see.” Royland placed his glass on the small table beside him and clapped his hands together. “Well, no doubt, she’ll find some passionate, young blade who’ll proclaim his love over Byron and they’ll wed in a trice.”
George threw up his hands, wishing to beat his head against the wall.
Why did everyone seem to understand her in a way that he hadn’t when he’d proposed? He had a good feeling that if he had quoted Byron and talked of the beauty of the love already between them that would bloom like a rose when spring emerged, things would have gone very differently.
He’d wanted to blame Eglantine for being bullheaded and nonsensical. Now, he knew the only person to blame was himself for being a soulless dunderhead. And really, with every day that passed, it was becoming stranger and stranger the idea that she would never be his. Especially given their recent conversations.
“Wait. You don’t actually think she’d be taken in by one of those idiots?” George snapped.
“I don’t know the lady well enough.”
George couldn’t believe it. She believed in love. Surely, sensibility to romance would not overcome her.
Royland angled his glass to the firelight. “I say, why don’t you just ask her again?”
George sputtered on his brandy. “I beg your pardon?”
Royland gave him a determined look. “Ask her again.”
“I’m not in love with her,” George declared, feeling his gut twist. Why couldn’t liking have been enough? Or why couldn’t his damned heart simply behave and fall in love on cue? “She won’t have me if I’m not.”
“Ah, I see. Well then, you’ll just have to let some other lucky chap step in.”
It struck him then that he could lie to her. He could tell her he loved her. That she had turned his world upside down. Part of it would be quite true.
And at that moment, the door to the parlor opened and Madame de Coqueville bustled in, her green silk gown sliding over her body like a second skin.
Her red, curled hair was lush and coiled around her head. A single emerald on a golden chain teased between her breasts. She was a woman of self-possession and the sort of confidence that the best ladies had. That meant she really didn’t care what anyone thought of her.
“Ah! Mon amis,” she purred. “I have been looking for you. What are you two doing sitting in the dark?”
“We’re not in the dark. There’s a fire,” retorted George.
She quirked a brow at him. “Mon Dieu, Harley, have you had a tiff with your lover?”
George nearly threw up his hands. Thankfully, he did not, given he was holding brandy. “I do not have tiffs and I do not have a lover.”
“Then you obviously need one,” she replied as she came further into the room and stood by Royland. “You are looking most tense. L’amour. It will cure your ills.”
Usually, George quite liked Madame de Coqueville. She was candid, intelligent, a great artist with words, and she had escaped Madame Guillotine. Barely. It had been a very near thing. And only Royland had made her escape possible by hiding her body with a corpse.
She was not just a beauty. She was a woman to be admired. She had more courage than most men for she had dared to protest the treatment of women before the Assembly. It had condemned her to death. But right now, he was not interested in what he might or might not need.
“Harley has been refused in marriage,” Royland said dryly.
“Non!” Yvette gasped, her red lips forming a perfect “O”.
“Oui,” George drawled, dropping his head back against the chair. He’d known he couldn’t keep it quiet amongst his close friends.
“Tres desole, George,” she said kindly. Which was as kind as she ever was given her French pragmatism.
“It’s my own fault,” he bit out.
She shrugged. “But of course. You were too English.”
He coughed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I can see it,” she said, lifting her slender fingers as if she were painting a picture of the event for them to see. “You did not speak of summers hand in hand, of growing old together, of drinking sweet wine, or of passionate nights.”
“If you must know,” George started as he shifted uncomfortably on his chair. He’d never thought himself one of those Englishmen who could only talk of affection to their dogs and horses. He was beginning to wonder. “I did speak of children.”
She arched a dark brow, clearly not succumbing to his defense.
“Fine,” he groaned. “I spoke of heirs.”
Royland threw his head back and laughed.
Laughed and laughed.
“You will put your back out if you carry on like that,” George gritted.
“Sorry, old man.” Royland wiped his eyes. “It’s just too good.”
“Non, cher Royland. It is tragic. His lady clearly is intelligent and not easily bought.”
George blew out a breath. With every time he told of the events of the proposal it became clearer that he had lost his ability to be romantic. Oh, he knew how to seduce. But romance was something else. At least, the true kind was.
“She is not my lady,” George said, his mouth bitter. “But you are correct in the other things you claim.”
“What a misfortune,” Madame de Coqueville sighed.
Royland nodded. “Especially since he has taken defeat so easily. I don’t think you really did wish to marry her, George.”
George snapped his gaze to his friend. “Why the devil would you say that?”
Royland rolled his eyes. “You’ve given up so easily.”
“She told me no,” George said tightly. “One should respect a lady’s opinions.”
“Bravo, Monsieur le Duc, I congratulate you.” Yvette applauded. Her emerald ring winked in the firelight. “I wish more men felt thus. It would save women a great deal of inconvenience, trouble, and danger.”
Royland looked duly chastened. “I would never go against a lady’s wishes.”
“I know, mon ami,” she said kindly. “I know your heart, but in this I think Harley is correct. He must not ask again. . . unless she invites it.”
George blinked, his attention suddenly riveted on Yvette. “Invites it?”
“Perhaps, you can show her what she has missed.” Yvette’s lips curled in a knowing smile. “Go about your life. Enjoy it. See her. Enjoy her. Be kind. Life is too short to lament.”
He stared at Yvette. Could he just let things be? No. But nor did he have to. It would be a seduction of a very different sort for she clearly did not mind his company. Perhaps. . . perhaps, it was not too late after all.
Chapter 13
Richard Heath studied the names of great men who owed him vast sums of money. The list of names was long, written in perfect black ink in a column that did not waver. The amounts were listed under the names with the details of when the debts had been incurred.
