by Cheryl Bolen
“Beautiful woman?” Twigs’s head bobbed from one point of the ballroom to the other. “Where?”
“Where are all the men gathered?”
“In the card room, naturally.”
“In this room, you idiot.” Since Twigs was not only his best friend but also his oldest friend, Radcliff could take liberties in his address. “Where do you see most of the men flocked?”
Twigs pondered this for a moment, then ventured, “Over there by Alfred Wickham’s cousin.”
“Do you mean to say that black-haired lady is Wickham’s cousin?”
Twigs’s eyes shot to the woman in question. “Hair is black, I do believe. Yep, that’s Wickham’s cousin. Name’s Bonny Barbara Allan. Like the song.”
The duke recited the first stanza of “Barbara Allan” to himself.
In Scarlet Town where I was born
there was a fair maid dwelling.
Made every youth cry Well-a-way!
Her name was Barbara Allan.
“Barbara Allan.” The words fell off his tongue like precious poetry. “Could you introduce me?” He moved toward Bonny.
“Would if I knew her. Fact is, I don’t.”
They were within five feet of her now, and the duke noticed that his own cousin, Stanley Moncrief, had found his way to the beauty’s side. What a good-looking pair they made, he thought. Stanley, with his coloring like hers and his almost-too-handsome face, was nearly as exceptional as she.
A sudden longing to hear the Incomparable’s voice, to shut out all the noises of merriment in the crowded room overwhelmed the duke, and he moved closer to her.
“Miss Allan,” he heard Stanley say, “may I have the honor of calling on you at home tomorrow?”
Bonny gave him ar mischievous look. “You may, but I will not be there, sir.”
The men circling her chuckled at her flippant reply.
Radcliff’s eyes twinkled. This was no simpering miss, throwing herself at Stanley’s feet as all the other women did. The duke’s hand stopped Twigs from advancing, and the two of them stood a few feet from Bonny, watching as Stanley maintained his perfect smile and exited the group, his face flaming.
Stanley’s gaze swung up to meet the duke’s. “Richard, I had no idea you were here. I thought you were still at Hedley Hall. Is all well there?”
“Yes. I’m taking very good care of Hedley Hall, but don’t depend upon it just because you’re next in line. I plan to outlive you.”
Stanley smiled graciously, a dimple creasing one handsome cheek. “I’m sure you will. After all, you’re only my senior by a mere five years.”
The duke glanced at Bonny. “And I may still marry and produce an heir.”
Stanley looked from Radcliff to Bonny. “Do you know the lovely Bonny Barbara Allan?”
“Not yet.”
“But I’m sure you will, cousin. You have such an infamous appreciation for beautiful things.” Stanley looked at Lady Heffington and took his leave to dance with her.
“I’ve got just the ticket!” Twigs announced to Radcliff.
“For what?” the duke inquired.
“To meet the Bonny gel. Get Wickham to introduce you.”
“I regret that I haven’t seen Wickham tonight.”
“Pity. Neither have L Oh well, shall we go to the card room?”
Emily moved to Bonny’s side and whispered, “If you’ll look straight ahead at the two men walking from the card room, you will see the Duke of Radcliff. He wears a royal blue velvet coat.”
Bonny turned to watch him. He stood under six feet in height and at first seemed nothing but ordinary. Average height, build only a little more muscular than average, wavy hair the color of honeyed toast. But there was something in his craggy face that suggested an inner strength that knew no equal. Perhaps it was the way the corners of his firmly set mouth tugged downward that gave him a sense of omniscience. Bonny studied his face as he politely listened to whatever it was his friend was saying, his eyes holding a hint of insolence.
A Lord Something-or-Other came to claim Bonny for the next dance. Bonny learned the young gentleman’s name was Reginald Keating, but the quadrille offered no further opportunity to converse. As they danced, she felt the eyes of the Duke of Radcliff on her, but she avoided his pensive gaze. Though she felt uncomfortable knowing he watched her, she wanted to perform her dance steps flawlessly. She wanted the duke to find no fault with her.
When the dance ended and Keating escorted Bonny from the dance floor, the Duke of Radcliff approached them.
Her heart hammering, Bonny still avoided the duke’s gaze. Why did the man have such an effect on her?
“Keating,” the duke said, eyeing Bonny, “might I commend you on your selection of dance partners? Pray, make me known to this lovely lady.”
Keating, his cheeks turning red, stammered, “C-certainly, your grace.” He stepped away from Bonny and presented her. “Miss Bonny Barbara Allan, the Duke of Radcliff.” With a half bow and the utterance of “Your very obedient servant,” Keating took his leave.
Radcliff peered into Bonny’s eyes. “Bonny doesn’t suit you. You were born to be a Barbara.”
She cocked her head and said challengingly, “Why doesn’t Bonny suit, your grace?” She hoped her response concealed the tremors within.
“Because it implies a lovely, rosy-cheeked child. Not a woman with regal bearing.”
She could feel the sweep of his gaze, and she could not have felt more undressed had he removed her gown. Color flooded her face.
“Would I be too much the fool to hope you could save one dance for me tonight, Miss Allan?”
The only dances still open were waltzes. Aunt Lucille had told Bonny she was not to dance the waltz until the patronesses at Almack’s accorded her permission. But she had been waltzing back at Milford for the past two years, and she was quite good at it. “My card is full, save for the waltzes, your grace.”
“A waltz will do very well.”
While the duke and the beauty engaged in discourse, Stanley Moncrief eyed the pair from beneath lowered brows. It was not the first time he had studied Bonny Barbara Allan. Since first laying eyes on her a week before, he had contrived to reacquaint himself with Alfred Wick-ham, to learn where Wick-ham’s lovely cousin would be each night, to dance the maximum two dances with her on each occasion and, simply, to join her court of admirers.
Did she not realize how fortunate she was to receive such homage from one whose blood was far more blue? From one to whom any number of women in this very room would readily surrender their virtue? To think he had relaxed his own rule of courting only heiresses to pay such marked attentions to this country miss, who had returned the privilege with the utmost discourtesy.
Only steam shooting from his ears could have accurately portrayed his thunderous mood as he watched Bonny treat his cousin with such civility. Did she not know Richard could not ride nearly so well as he could? And did she not observe that the duke’s dress was not of the latest order of fashion, as was his own? Why, just look at Richard’s cravat! Had his own man created so simple an effect he would have turned him out without a reference! And Richard’s address was not as generally commended as his own. He was the one who had patiently cultivated Bonny’s acquaintance, yet Richard—not following the proper, if unwritten, rules of the ton—had blatantly introduced himself to the unworthy chit and now enjoyed the fruits of what Stanley could only perceive as the advantage of his cousin’s rank.
Well, he was not going to let the chit make a cake of him. Stanley strode across the room to an assemblage of young women, with a flicker of his eyes detected the loveliest one and begged the pretty thing to stand up with him.
The girl’s widened eyes sparkled when the handsome Stanley distinguished her with his notice, and she floated with him to the dance floor on a cloud of her own self-importance.
When the duke claimed Bonny for a waltz, he slipped an arm around her, finding her size much to his liking. She was neither
short nor tall but just right. “Is this your first journey to London, Miss Allan?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“And how do you like it?”
“I know I’m supposed to say I’m in raptures, but actually I find myself quite uncomfortable.”
The duke’s step slowed, and he shot her a concerned gaze. “How so, Miss Allan?”
“Being country bred, I find so many rules a bit stifling.”
“Well put!” he exclaimed. “I confess to such feelings myself.” The girl must be referring to Almack’s, he thought. “Tell me, have you been to Almack’s?”
“Not yet, your grace.”
He made a mental note to get Lady Jersey to send a voucher to the remarkable Barbara Allan. But, of course, others in her party would have to be included. “You stay with your family, Miss Allan?”
“With my uncle, David Wick ham, Viscount Landis. I am to be presented along with his daughter, Emily.”
Two vouchers, he thought. “Where, then, are your parents?”
“I’m from the North Country, your grace.” She hesitated. “My father, who has been dead six years now, was a country vicar and something of a scholar.”
He liked her even better for her honesty. Most maidens avoided mentioning vicar fathers—and hence a lack of dowry. In no way did the lovely Bonny Barbara Allan act like a girl straight from the schoolroom, as he knew she must be. Even her full, rich voice sounded like a woman’s.
“Did your father’s sons inherit his scholarly interests?” the duke asked.
She lowered her head. “Unfortunately for him, your grace, he had no sons. In fact, he and Mama were married some twenty years before they had a child, and they had to settle for one disappointing girl, whom I fear my father raised very much like a boy.”
“I find it very hard to believe they were disappointed in you and even harder to believe you are anything like a boy.” His eyes whisked over her entire body. “Did you inherit the scholarly pursuits?”
“I regret to say I wasn’t a very good student, though Papa did try.”
“Then you’ve read the classics?” he asked.
“Yes, your grace,” she said shyly.
This beautiful creature he held in his arms must know a great deal more than all the other silly girls, he thought with appreciation. “Funny that you should say your parents had no children for twenty years. It was the same with my parents.”
“Then you are an only child, too?”
“Yes. In fact, now I’m the only Moncrief left—save my second cousin, Stanley.”
“I am so sorry for you, your grace.” In a hoarse whisper, she added, “I will soon be the same.”
“Your mother is ill?”
“Gravely.”
By God, that’s why the girl was in London. Soon to be orphaned with not two guineas to rub together, she would probably accept the first offer she received. The thought was like a blow to his windpipe. A surge of protective tenderness toward her washed over him.
And—against all logic—he vowed to be the first to make her an offer.
Chapter Two
Her legs spread wide over the Duke of Radcliff’s muscled torso, her bare breasts brushing against the patch of hair on his chest, Lady Heffington softly brushed her lips across his damp forehead. “Oh, mon chéri, but I had to do all the work tonight.” She slid off Radcliff to lie beside him in her regal-size bed. “Did you have a long workout with Jackson today?”
“How well you know me,” he lied. How could he tell her he would not have been in her bed this night had he not promised her earlier? How could he tell Lynda she had been unable to arouse him as she usually did by merely removing her clothing? How could he tell her his mind was full of a raven-haired miss swathed in white?
“I know you so very well. In fact,” she said, reaching across his chest to stroke his arm, “we suit most agreeably. And, of course, our backgrounds are so similar. You do remember my grandfather was the Duke of Hargrove.”
“How could I forget, lascivious Lynda.”
“I do love it when you say these things to me, Radcliff. I love you much too dearly. You have made me lose my pride. For the pleasure of your touch, I forget that you ignored me earlier tonight. Not one waltz!”
“But don’t you agree this is infinitely superior to dancing?” He removed her hand from his arm, kissed it, sat up and got out of the bed.
“You’re not going to stay the night?” She sounded disappointed.
“We must consider your reputation, my dear lady.”
She moved to a sitting position on the bed. Muted light from the tall casement nearby illuminated her full breasts. “You never worried about that before.”
He stepped into his breeches. “I have an early meeting with my solicitor in the morning.” Another lie.
What a contrast bustling London was to the loneliness of Milford, Bonny thought the next day as she took in the capital city’s ever present activity. The boot-clad matron with mismatched clothes who sold posies on the street, the nuts warming over a small fire while the barker yelled, “’Ot chestnuts,” the constant clopping of horses’ hooves colliding with stone streets.
Bonny and Emily entered the hack waiting outside Bonny’s old servant’s house on Kepple Street and settled back in its plain seats, which were not nearly as plush as those in Aunt Lucille’s barouche.
“Were you not pleased with Mrs. Davies?” Bonny asked Emily.
Emily sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, she is all that you said she was, and her lodgings are far better than I had hoped for,” Emily replied with feigned enthusiasm.
“And we can count on her discretion. In my entire life I’ve never known her to betray a confidence.”
“That is most reassuring.”
As much as she abhorred lying, Bonny settled back in the coach and concocted stories that would explain to an enraged aunt what two young ladies of quality were doing in a rented hack. For herself she would not lie, but she would to protect Emily.
Of course, the likelihood was slim her aunt would discover their clandestine journey, but in the event she did, they needed a satisfactory explanation. Perhaps they could say Em became too exerted from their long walk through Hyde Park to make it back to Cavendish Square on foot. Any account they devised would be far superior to the truth.
When the coachman, at Bonny’s instruction, brought the hack to a stop a block away from Cavendish Square, the two women disembarked and Bonny paid the driver from the remains of the money her grandmother had left her. They walked briskly in the afternoon sun, much too warm now in the merino cloaks they had needed when they left the viscount’s slumbering household that morning.
A placid Styles met them in the marble entry hall and informed the young women that her ladyship was most desirous of communicating with them.
Before they could put up their cloaks and reticules, an overdressed and highly agitated Lady Landis swept into the foyer, her heavily perfumed scent permeating the room. “Wherever have you been?” she demanded.
Emily gave a start, slowly removed her cloak, faced her mother and calmly announced, “Why, Bonny and I wished to have a nice long walk in the park.”
Lady Landis glanced disapprovingly at them. “I can see that neither of you has any idea how ladies of fashion are to behave on the day after a rout. Did you not know gentlemen would begin calling?”
“We will freshen our toilets at once, my lady,” Bonny said, moving to the wide staircase.
“It’s much too late!” Lady Landis glared at Emily. “Are you aware of whose personage called here this hour past?”
Emily looked down at the gilded baluster. “No, ma’am.”
“None other than the Duke of Radcliff,” her mother announced smugly.
Bonny felt a flutter in her breast at this announcement.
“But, Mama, I didn’t even dance with the duke last night,” Emily said, brushing a blond ringlet from her face.
“Of course you
didn’t. You had every dance promised. You did quite well for yourself,” said a beaming Lady Landis. “There’s just one thing. We must get Martha to sew lace around the neckline of your dresses. Your endowments are a poor match for Barbara’s.” Lady Landis shot an angry glance at Bonny’s generous bosom.
The door slammed open, and Lord Alfred came strolling in. “Let me look at you two,” he said heartily, smiling with pleasure upon his sister and cousin. “All I’ve heard from my chums is how bloody lucky I am to live with the two prettiest girls in London.”
“Pray, don’t look at them now,” Lady Landis said. “They’ve exhausted themselves walking for hours, but you should have seen them last night, Alfred.” She attempted to give him a reproachful look but instead slyly smiled at her son, whom she quite adored. “Where were you last night? I did so want to show off my two children, for even though I do say it myself, your father and I produce the most attractive offspring!”
Alfred ignored the compliment. “Those affairs ain’t for me and well you know it, Mother.”
“I am sure I don’t know why not. All of the young beauties would probably fight each other over you, Alfred,” his proud mother said.
Color flushing his face, Alfred made eye contact with Bonny. “Pray, pay no attention to my mother, Bonny. You know how mothers are.”
“I do indeed,” said Bonny, smiling.
“Tease about me if you like, but we’ll see how the girls will set to blushing when they lay eyes on your handsome features,” his mother said.
Though Lady Landis’s affection for her son might blind her a little, Bonny had to admit her remark about her children’s attractiveness rang true. The tallish, brown-haired Alfred certainly could be described as handsome, though he was totally unaware of it and cared only for the sporting pleasures and the company of other young bucks.
