“My shadow will make the evening a success?” he asked sarcastically. Blast.
It was true, of course. And one of the many reasons he hated crowds. His mere presence always made them larger.
“Your attendance will attract…others.” Miss Ross leaned back in her chair, her pretty face free of worry. “Your large donation, delivered before all and sundry, will open their pocketbooks.”
“Why not Lambley?” Ravenwood suggested. There had to be an alternative. “Your cousin is a duke, financially sound, and popular. Is his schedule too full to fit another soiree?”
Miss Ross waved her hand. “Of course my cousin will be there. Lambley would never miss a party. Which is precisely why his presence is unlikely to cause a stir. Lambley’s notoriety is more likely to generate gossip than altruism. You, however, are someone the sheep affect to imitate.”
Ravenwood clenched his teeth. If Miss Ross’s goal was to sweeten him up, she was failing tremendously—and was undoubtedly enjoying every moment of it. The “sheep” she referred to were the upper classes. His peers.
She might think eschewing decorum and proper respect made her a free spirit, some sort of modern woman.
In truth, it simply made her unpalatable.
He was not, however, an unfair or unfeeling man. Far from it. Daphne’s charitable causes always improved the lives of some underserved portion of the population, and Ravenwood would not allow his distaste for Miss Ross’s lack of restraint to deter him from doing his part. As a duke, his first responsibility was to England.
His second responsibility was to his own peace and happiness.
“I will attend the auction.” He looked down his nose at Miss Ross. “I will bid high, I will encourage others to do the same, and then I will take my leave. Once my duty is done, our paths will not cross again. Are my terms clear?”
Lady Amelia gasped. “Ravenwood—”
“Your delightful presence will be deeply missed from that day forward,” Miss Ross said drolly, neither chastened nor flustered by his disapproval. Her lips quirked as she lowered her gaze to her glass of wine.
Ravenwood’s jaw tightened. His cut had not insulted her. Displeasing Ravenwood was likely the highlight of her evening. Miss Ross reveled in walking the line between respectable and fast. He could not tear his gaze away.
One night, he reminded himself. He would see her briefly from across the room—and then never see her again.
He couldn’t wait.
Chapter 2
Miss Katherine Ross grasped the thin, liver-spotted hands of her Great-Aunt Havens and gaily twirled the older woman about the salon of the antiquities museum. “Isn’t this fun, Aunt? Guests will arrive in less than an hour!”
Aunt Havens’ smile was as instant and as exuberant as a babe’s. Her eyes, however, did not light with understanding. “Are we having a party? Where are we?”
“This is my museum, Aunt. See all the glass displays atop those white columns? Those are the objets d’art Daphne will be auctioning for charity. She claims the cunning wooden animals inside them were carved by a pirate.”
“A pirate!” Aunt Havens gasped in delight.
The same reaction she’d had the three previous times Kate had relayed this same bit of information.
No matter. Kate kissed her aunt’s wrinkled cheek and led her to a comfortable chair with a direct view of the entrance.
Hopefully Aunt Havens would stop wandering off to the storage rooms this time. Every time she tried to “help” organize an event, another priceless artifact tumbled off its shelf.
Kate patted her narrow shoulder. “Relax right here, Aunt. I’m going to help Daphne for a moment. Whistle if you need me.”
“Whistling is not at all ladylike,” Aunt Havens said sternly. “Don’t engage in such antics once the Duke of Ravenwood is here, or he’s liable to give you the cut direct in the middle of your own museum.”
Kate’s shoulders sagged with relief. No more vacant answers. Aunt Havens was back. She even recalled Kate’s many complaints about the Frost King—the irreverent moniker Kate had once given him after he’d attended a ball and refused to dance with anyone.
She grinned to herself. Ravenwood might be a staid, emotionless, ice-in-his-veins stick-in-the-mud, but all that could be forgiven because Aunt Havens had remembered him.
Then again, despite his aloofness, the Duke of Ravenwood was handsome as sin. Who could forget wide shoulders and piercing green eyes like his?
Kate linked her arm with her aunt’s. Aunt Havens’ moments of confusion were brief, but Kate couldn’t help but worry. Sometimes a month or two might go by without incident, and then other times Aunt Havens couldn’t seem to grasp the conversational thread from one moment to the next.
Nights like tonight. When all Kate wanted was to share the joy of success with the sole close family member she had left. She leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder.
It was unfair. When Aunt Havens had opened her home and her heart to an orphaned little girl all those years ago, she hadn’t just become a mother figure in Kate’s life. Aunt Havens had become Kate’s confidante, her conscience. Her best friend.
She straightened her spine. It was good to see Aunt Havens’ eyes alight with wit and intelligence again. Whatever those moments of confusion had been, they were gone now. Aunt Havens was fine. She would stay fine. The two of them were a force to be reckoned with.
Starting with this charity soiree.
Kate clasped her hands to her chest and feasted her eyes upon the remade salon. Most of her precious antiquities were tucked safely into crates inside the back rooms, but a few carefully selected pieces were still on display.
With any luck, this gala would be a rousing success for Daphne’s charity and Kate’s museum.
She had spent days and weeks agonizing over which pieces would pique the most interest, which pedestals would display them to best light. If antiquities museums were not the preferred nighttime haunt of the fashionable set, well, Kate would simply have to change their minds.
The museum doors pushed open and a gaggle of Kate’s artistic friends rushed in, talking excitedly. She rushed forward to greet them.
It was vital that the struggling artists be here tonight. They had donated most of the paintings, woodwork, and lavish costumes on display for the auction. This was likely to be their one chance to witness a high-priced auction and realize the true value of their maligned and under appreciated talent.
Yet to make that happen, Kate had to ensure their presence would not send the Upper Ten Thousand fleeing home before a single penny had been raised.
Although it pained her to do so, she had no choice but to usher each cluster of her lower-class friends up the stairs and out of the way. She told them they were fortunate. The balcony railing would provide them a bird’s eye view of the proceedings.
They knew the truth. They didn’t argue or take offense.
Kate’s fingers clenched at her inability to make the beau monde accept talented artists like her friends simply because they were born from the wrong bloodlines.
Being near enough to spy bald spots atop moneyed roués was as close to equality as any of them ever expected to get. They were happy to be here.
“Don’t spit on anyone,” she teased before turning toward the winding staircase to intercept the next batch of guests.
“What about your Frost King?” Miss Nottingworth, a talented seamstress, teased back.
Kate gave an exaggerated shudder despite the quickening of her pulse. “He’s not mine, thank heavens. I pity the future duchess who spends her wedding night suffering frostbite.”
She slipped back down the steps to the sound of her friends’ laughter.
While she did indeed suspect Ravenwood’s touch to be capable of turning anything to ice, the mere thought of lovemaking did not send her a fit of the vapors, as it did so many of the useless debutantes gathering below.
What Kate dreaded was not the physical act, but marriage i
tself. The loss of her freedom. The requirement to bear children. The probability she or her child would not survive the ordeal. Kate’s fingers grew cold. The very thought paralyzed her limbs with dread and sent her into a panic.
Many of her earliest memories were of her Aunt Havens’ drawn face when she’d returned from a midwifery visit only to report one or both of the patients had not survived the birth.
Uncle Havens had been a parson. Each time, he would comfort his wife as best he could, then prepare for the funerals.
The sight of tiny coffins even smaller than Kate herself had been more than enough to convince her never to take such a risk.
As she’d grown older, as the cemeteries became crowded, her resolve had only strengthened. Losing one’s own life would be terrible enough. Losing a child…unthinkable.
Kate shivered. She might fantasize about knowing passion, but she did not need or want the trappings that came with it. She was perfectly happy to remain both a spinster and a virgin for the rest of her days.
Another reason why her artist friends loved to tease her. Many were not confined by the same rules and expectations. A few of them were married, but most took their pleasures when and how they pleased. They used scandalous devices like sponges or French letters to prevent conception.
Kate’s sensibilities should have been shocked by such unseemly behavior. Instead, she was deeply jealous of their freedom. Of the ability to connect with others without forethought or consequence.
As a lady, choosing not to bear children meant never marrying at all. She sighed. Sometimes she wished she were made of ice. Then maybe her fate wouldn’t seem so lonely.
For the moment, however, Daphne’s auction deserved Kate’s full attention. Streams of eager faces spilled through the front doors and into the receiving salon.
A grin spread across Kate’s face as she stepped into the milieu.
She loved this. The noise of excited conversations, the clash of a hundred perfumes, the whirl of colors as expensive silks and painted faces sparkled beneath the light of dozens of chandeliers. She drew a deep breath as energy sang through her veins.
Within the space of a couple hours, Daphne’s charity auction was a roaring success. The crème de la crème were having fun in an antiquities museum. Kate’s antiquities museum. It was perfect. Champagne flowed. Bids soared. Her friends watching overhead were openmouthed and awestruck at the exorbitant prices their hard work was fetching. Aunt Havens was laughing with Daphne and her husband.
Kate’s heart thundered with joy. Nights like this made her feel like she could do anything, be anyone she desired. The world was hers.
She clutched her hands to her chest and smiled at the whirling crush. What else might she accomplish if she put her mind to it? ’Twould be splendid if she could get the art-and-theatre crowd and the beau monde not only under the same roof, but actually interacting. Perhaps not like peers, but at least…like people.
A thought struck her. The ton loved to be entertained. They just didn’t realize how much of an effect their patronage—or lack thereof—truly had.
Kate could spread awareness, much like Daphne was doing, except Kate’s goal would be to entice the wealthier set to become more active patrons of the arts. Anyone could spare a few coins to sponsor the tutelage of a protégé. What Society matron wouldn’t wish to boast that she’d “discovered” London’s newest rising star?
The entertainment district would become richer in every sense. Artists and actors could focus on their craft instead of finding their next meal. And the beau monde, as spectators, would reap the benefit of their generosity.
Kate forced herself to push the tantalizing idea aside. At least for tonight.
Right now she needed to concentrate on flawlessly executing the charity event. Perhaps she could even lay the foundation for her future event by spending an extra moment with the faces she recognized as performers in past musicales, or those whose box was never vacant during a theatre performance.
Practically bubbling with excitement and good cheer, Kate made her way through the crowded salon. She gave a personal word of welcome to everyone she passed, teasing them all to return soon for a glimpse of the antiquities even their money could not buy. Mentioning favorite operas, favorite violinists to the aficionados who shared her passions.
A self-deprecating smile teased her lips. She could be more than charming when she wished. So could the ton. With them both on their best behavior, the evening was positively magical.
Until she caught sight of high cheekbones. Chestnut hair. Strong shoulders.
The devilishly handsome Duke of Ravenwood stood back from the crowd, almost in the shadows, but there was no hiding a form that tall. A body that muscular. A scowl that dark.
Annoyance itched beneath her skin. A charity ball was clearly too gauche for someone as high in the instep as Ravenwood, but did he have to glower from his perch like a gargoyle in a waistcoat?
Not that his frosty arrogance discouraged the eyes of every woman in the salon from turning his way. For a duke, everything was easy. He probably took his passion wherever he pleased. If he ever had any passion.
She was reminding herself that she was not to let him ruffle her feathers, when his hooded green eyes met hers—and just as quickly glanced away.
Her mouth fell open. Was he truly going to stand inside her museum and pretend not to see her?
She took a step forward.
He turned his back and slipped into the shadows.
Of all the—Kate curled her fingers into fists. He might be the silent prince of the ton but he would not cut her right in the middle of her own museum. Ice King or not.
She sniffed.
He wished to avoid her? Too late now. He could melt into whichever corner he liked, but no one knew this museum as well as Kate. He would not cut her again. Her heart banged as she stalked through the crowd. He could be as uppity as he liked in his domain, but tonight he had walked into hers.
She found him in moments, standing beside the open door to the storage cellar as if he were entitled to poke his aristocratic nose anywhere he pleased, simply because he’d been born with a title.
Well, he might be the Duke of Ravenwood, but he wasn’t lord of her museum. She’d built it from the ground up. Her unmarried status made it hers and hers alone.
Which meant she had every right to throw him out on his ear if he dared to insult her between these walls. After all, she’d invited him.
She stormed over with a ferocious smile. “Looking for the powder room, are we?”
He started in surprise—or at least, she thought he might have done—and then turned to face her in the slowest, haughtiest way imaginable. “The only thing I’m looking for is a respite from all the noise.”
The “noise”, as he put it, was the proof that her long weeks of planning and preparation had been worth every effort.
Of course His Grace wouldn’t approve.
“By all means,” she said as she brushed past him, “step into my lair. Be warned, there’s more dust on these shelves than Ravenwood House sees in a year.”
She strode into the storage area with her head high, pleased to have had the last word. His Highness would never follow her into such a lowly chamber.
Giddiness filled her. She had turned her back on him and walked away. Given the Duke of Ravenwood the cut direct. A laugh bubbled at her lips. Her friends would never believe this!
“You have never seen the inside of Ravenwood House,” came a deep voice from right behind her. “Nor are you likely to.”
She gasped and spun around, heart hammering.
He’d left his precious ton to follow her into storage quarters? Was he mad?
“Not be invited to Ravenwood House?” She arched a brow and tried to calm her pulse. “Be a gentleman and pass me your handkerchief. I fear I may weep.”
His cool eyes didn’t leave hers. “Come to think of it, I rarely see you at any society events. I’ve only seen your name in scandal
sheets. Why is that?”
“Because you don’t go to society events,” she snapped.
He tilted his head to concede the point.
Good. She crossed her arms. If he wasn’t already aware, she would hate having to explain to him that she was rarely asked to attend any of the “respectable” balls anymore. While she’d never done anything scandalous enough to permanently ruin her reputation, her friendships with the art and theatre crowd tainted her by association.
If she were a man, perhaps her motley friends wouldn’t have mattered. Lord Byron managed to be a poet and a baron. Brummell managed to be both a dandy and a debtor.
For women, it was different. If one were an actress, the assumption was that she was also a whore. And if she were not an actress, but merely a woman who both enjoyed the performances and befriended the entertainers?
Well. She hadn’t flinched when her Almack’s voucher was revoked. She certainly wasn’t going to cry about the Duke of Ravenwood acknowledging her lower status.
The opposite, in fact. His unexpected pursuit of her into the storage area filled Kate with a giddy sense of unreality. Part of her was picturing herself telling her friends about her close encounter with the Frost King, and the other part of herself wondered if they’d even believe her.
A prideful man as high-in-the-instep as the lofty Duke of Ravenwood, shadowed amongst dusty wooden crates and towering shelves? Unthinkable!
Even here, surrounded by row after row of her painstakingly collected antiquities, the insufferable man looked more imperious than ever. More handsome. More unreachable.
His broad shoulders and tense frame seemed to fill the overstuffed aisle, making her feel for the first time as if she were not in her prized treasure room, but rather a wayward maiden who’d wandered into his domain.
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 79
