Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  Her throat felt raw and parched, and she realized she must have been screaming for several minutes if he had been concerned enough to enter her room.

  He motioned toward the door, and several women in caps moved back. The maids must have heard her as well. She’d probably awakened the entire household. She felt her face heat and wished she could bury herself under the covers.

  Of course, it was at that point she realized she was naked, and the sheet only barely covered her breasts. She ruched it up to her chin and glanced at Wyndover. His focus was on the servants in the doorway.

  “The lady is fine now, as you see. A nightmare. We can all return to our rooms.”

  With a murmur of feminine voices, the maids withdrew. Wyndover bowed to her and backed toward the door. “May I fetch you anything, Lady Vivienne?”

  She shook her head, her throat too raw to speak.

  “Good night then.” At the door, he paused, glanced behind him. “We need to talk,” he hissed in a whisper. “I’ll return in ten minutes.”

  And he was gone.

  Vivienne fell back on her pillows. If she hadn’t still been shaking from the dream, she would have been mortified that her screams had awakened an entire household. A duke’s household, no less. As it was, she wanted to pull the covers over her head and hide from the memories.

  But she was a princess, and she had to behave as such.

  The maids had found a simple day dress for her to wear, but she didn’t want to call them to help her dress. Instead, she wrapped the sheet around her body and dangled her legs over the side of the bed. For weeks, all she’d thought about was fleeing to London. London was safety in her mind.

  But was it really? Would she be safe anywhere with the dreams and memories haunting her?

  London was no different than anywhere else. The assassins could find her there. She would not be safe while they wanted her dead. Even King George could not protect her forever.

  If he protected her at all.

  A quiet tap on the door made her jerk her head up. Wyndover peeked inside, holding a lamp. Seeing her sitting on the side of the bed, he entered and shut the door soundlessly behind him.

  “How are you feeling?” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

  “Better.” Surprisingly, she meant it. When she was in his presence, so many of her fears seemed to dissipate. “Better now that you’re here,” she said.

  He didn’t reply, but his gaze stayed focused on her, those bluer-than-blue eyes studying her face. Then his gaze slid down her neck, and she felt the heat of it on her bare shoulders and through the thin sheet over her breasts, her stomach, her hips, thighs, legs, until his gaze rested on her naked feet and ankles, hanging exposed.

  “We should speak tomorrow.” His gaze returned to her face. “I jeopardize your reputation with my presence.”

  For a long moment, she was not certain what he meant. But, of course, the English had different customs and traditions than the Glennish.

  “In Glynaven, a lady’s reputation is not so easy to tarnish. Virginity is not so highly prized.”

  “I know.”

  Of course he did. He had been to Glynaven.

  “You’re not in Glynaven any longer.” He looked at the door as though contemplating withdrawing.

  “Stay with me for a few moments.” Panic bubbled inside her at the idea of being alone again with only the sightless eyes for company.

  “Won’t you?” she added, when his jaw tightened.

  She might be a princess, but this man was no underling she might order about. She patted the spot on the bed beside her and gave him what she hoped was an inviting smile.

  He studied her again—definitely a man who took time with his decisions—and then placed the lamp on the bedside table and stood before her. He made no move to sit beside her. Perhaps that went too far for his British sense of honor.

  “I spent the evening reading accounts of the revolution. I’m sorry about your family.”

  She inclined her head in a gesture she’d mastered by the age of two. “Thank you.”

  “Was it very bad?”

  When she blinked at him, he cleared his throat. “I meant your nightmare. Was it very bad?”

  “Bad enough.” She couldn’t speak of it. Her body wanted to shudder at the mere thought of those sightless eyes. She suppressed the instinct and swallowed hard. “I am better now.”

  Much better with him so close, his shirt open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves. That bare expanse of his bronze neck made him somehow more vulnerable. She had the urge to touch the skin there, to kiss it and the golden stubble on his jaw. Instead, she wound her hands together, pressing her fingers tightly.

  “You’re safe here,” he said. “I’ve ordered a man to be on guard at all times. The staff will keep your presence here a secret. No one has any reason to look for you here or to associate the two of us. The Duchess of Sedgemere is the only one who knows I found you, and she won’t speak of it except to her husband.”

  She nodded. She was safe, for the moment. Finally, she raised her gaze to his. “But I cannot stay here forever, and even if I could, you would not be able to keep my presence a secret for that long. The assassins will come for me, and eventually they will succeed.”

  “No.” He said the word emphatically, bracing his legs apart as though he might take the assassins on himself. “I won’t allow any harm to come to you. I give you my word. My vow.”

  “How very noble.” She didn’t intend for the sarcasm to trickle out, but it had.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Forgive me. I don’t believe in anyone right now. You see, in order for the reavlutionnaire to carry out the attack they did, they must have had help. How else would they know how to enter the palace? How would they have found the royal chambers so quickly? My parents were dead before they had a chance to escape to the safe room. The reavlutionnaire knew where to find them.”

  “Is that how you escaped? A safe room?”

  She nodded. “I was the only member of my family to reach it, and only because I happened to be awake when the attack began and the alarm sounded. But the alarm was late, too late to save anyone else.”

  “Members of the royal court must have assisted the revolutionaries, been part of the insurgency.”

  “Yes. Men and women I trusted. People I knew, no doubt. So you must forgive me if I do not trust you.”

  “I do forgive you. Anyone who has been through what you have would feel the same. In time, you will trust again.”

  That was true, but he gave her too much credit. She had always seen the worst in people, never the best, even before the revolution.

  “In time, I hope you can come to trust me. I have vowed to protect you, and I always honor my vows.”

  “Why do you make such a vow to me? Because, as you said before, you are a gentleman?”

  “Yes, and because I have fond memories of Glynaven, fond memories of your family. They were very generous when I visited the court. I want to do something to honor their memory.”

  If he spoke the truth, he was an amazing man. If she was to believe what he said, believe anyone could be so selfless, then he was a man she must learn to trust.

  He stepped closer to the bed, and their knees almost touched. “I know you don’t trust me yet, but I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt when I say we cannot travel to London yet.”

  She jerked back, her gaze flicking from their knees to his face. “Why?”

  “Because I must appeal to the Regent personally. Even then I have no reason to believe he will make any effort to help you. He is not a man known for doing anything that does not benefit him.”

  I must appeal to the Regent.

  He had not said you, had not said we. It was the speech of a champion. Her champion.

  “We can do that in person. I will appeal to the man directly.”

  “No. Too dangerous.” The duke took her hand. His was large and warm, while hers was cold and sh
aking slightly. She wanted to withdraw it so he would not know she shook so, but she couldn’t seem to force herself away from his heat.

  “If you go to court and appeal to Prinny, we can no longer keep your presence a secret. You will be an easy target for the assassins.”

  “I will ask the prince to offer me protection and asylum.”

  The duke squeezed her hand. “And he will do so out of the kindness of his heart?” Wyndover shook his head. “He will tell you no, because it’s not politically expedient to protect you. England wants no part of this civil war.”

  “It is not a civil war! It’s an insurrection!”

  “Be that as it may, we did not intervene when France lopped off the heads of most of its nobility, and we will not intervene now. Prinny will want to appear neutral as the revolutionaries have some ties with Spain and Morocco. We need those countries as allies.”

  Anger bubbled to the surface. She knew what he was not saying. Money and trade were at the bottom of this.

  “And Glynaven is to be sacrificed so you might keep your shipping lanes open and your ships from harassment?”

  “There’s the temper I remember,” he said with a smile in his voice. His expression remained sober, though. “I don’t say it’s the correct thing to do. I merely state facts. You have nothing to bargain with, nothing to sway the Regent to your side.”

  She began to argue, but he put a finger over her lips.

  “Let me finish, and then you may rail at me all you like.” The finger slid down, and despite the tingles it caused to course through her, she did not press her lips together.

  “If you go to Town and approach the prince, you have little chance of success and you expose yourself to danger. What I propose is writing to His Highness and gaining his support in absentia. One of my neighbors, the Duke of Stoke Teversault, always holds a ball this time of year. He and the Regent are old friends, and the prince always attends the ball. We arrange to speak with the prince at Teversault. He will be in good spirits and that, coupled with my persuasive letter, gives us the best chance I can think of to assure your petition will meet with success.”

  The plan made sense. She was infinitely safer here, under the duke’s protection, than she would be without a protector at court. That was, if the duke could really control his staff and keep her presence a secret.

  “There is one problem you have not considered,” she said.

  He arched a brow.

  “Whether I am here or in London, I still have nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer the prince to induce him to support my petition for protection and asylum.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. There are those in the prince’s inner circle who might be willing to persuade him…for a price.” He allowed the words to hang in the air for a long moment.

  He was intimating she might become a powerful man’s mistress. The very thought of sharing the bed of a man simply for gain made her ill. Had she really been reduced to a state where she had nothing to offer but her body?

  “But if that sort of arrangement is not to your taste, perhaps you might allow me to bargain for you.”

  “What can you bargain?”

  “The prince needs an advocate for several bills he would propose in Parliament. I can offer to support those. If that is not enough, there’s always the promise of money.”

  “I cannot allow you to pay for my safety.”

  “You could consider it a loan.”

  “When I have no possible way of ever repaying you?”

  “Then it’s a gift. Surely in your royal capacity, you have been given many gifts.”

  She had. And he was right that she’d never felt the need to repay the giver, although favors were certainly implied and even expected. For the first time, she did feel some obligation and a sense of duty. Wyndover owed her nothing and seemed to expect nothing in return. The more he offered her, the more indebted she felt.

  Which was ridiculous. She should accept his generosity and cease questioning it. From the statements he’d made in the carriage, she could surmise he had been infatuated with her at one point. He might still be infatuated with her. He still wanted her—not that he offered assistance because he hoped to bed her in return. She knew better than to even suggest such a thing now.

  But perhaps this was a means of courting her. Courting her? Did he want her for his duchess? She could not imagine why. A duchess with assassins after her would make a very poor duchess indeed.

  Or perhaps he thought to seduce her…

  Or perhaps he was just a kind man who wanted to help her.

  Why was that so difficult to believe?

  Because she’d never known kind men or women, only those who grabbed and grasped at every morsel of power they could. In the royal court of Glynaven, nothing had been free and everyone wanted something.

  She did not think England was so very different. And so she would wait and watch.

  “Very well, I accept your gift.”

  He seemed to be waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he gave a short laugh as though chiding himself.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He’d wanted her to thank him. Of course. She should have realized.

  “If you are feeling better, I will take my leave.”

  Her fingers tightened on his hand. She’d be alone again with the sightless eyes. She forced her grip to loosen. She was a princess, not a frightened child, and she could hardly keep the man from his rest because she did not want to be alone.

  “Good night, then.”

  He bent, and she drew back instinctively. He caught her chin with two fingers. “It’s not that sort of kiss, Your Highness.”

  She stilled as the soft flutter of his breath whispered across her cheek. And then, very slowly, he dipped his mouth and brushed his lips over her temple. She closed her eyes, her heart swelling at the sweetness of the gesture. It thudded hard in anticipation when his lips trailed down and kissed her cheek. She wanted to turn her head, to meet his lips with hers. If she kissed him, took him to bed, she would not have to be alone, would not have to face those sightless eyes.

  Instead, she held very still, and his lips kissed the corner of her mouth. He smelled of wine and bread and the spices that had been in the broth he’d had sent for her dinner. He smelled delicious.

  Desire flooded her body with heat. It had been months and months since she’d even thought about a man in that way, and the sensation surprised her. She didn’t act on it, though.

  She knew he would refuse her, that his honor would compel him not to touch her. But that wasn’t the only reason she resisted. This was a man of honor and principle, not some rake intent on seduction. If she bedded him, it would mean something to him and, she suspected, to her.

  Best for both of them if they remained acquaintances.

  But as he drew back and lifted the lamp, carrying it to the door, she knew remaining just an acquaintance would be far more difficult than she had anticipated.

  Chapter Five

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  She was still the most fascinating woman he’d ever known, Nathan thought the next morning as he watched her walk in the gardens. Like her, the flowers were in full bloom, resplendent with blossoms in purple, pink, red, and white.

  And yet, in her ugly gray dress with a hideous white collar, she was more beautiful than all of them. The dress was too long for her, even though he supposed one of the younger maids had given it on loan. Vivienne had to hold the hem off the ground as she made her way through the paths his gardeners tended. Nathan imagined they would be thrilled someone was enjoying the garden. He had a perfect view of it from his bedchamber window, where he stood now, but he never actually stepped foot in it.

  He never had time. Too much to do.

  Even today was full of correspondence to answer and that most-important letter to the Regent on Vivienne’s behalf. He’d spent most of the night pondering what to offer the prince, what might sway the Regent to offer Vivienne and any other refugees from
Glynaven his royal protection.

  Nathan could think of nothing enticing enough until he had hit upon the idea of a ship of the line. Those were ridiculously expensive to build. He would offer to build one for the prince—no, he would build three. The expense would make a dent in his fortune, but would not deplete it. If he managed his estates well—and he always managed his estates well—he could replace the funds in a decade or so.

  Vivienne was worth that much to him and more.

  It occurred to him as he made his way out of his room and toward the garden—the garden he never visited—that he intended to marry her. He had no reason to think she would agree. She hadn’t loved him eight years ago when he’d first met her, and she didn’t appear to have fallen in love with him last night.

  But the truth was, he was in love with her. He’d never fallen out of love with her. That was why he’d resisted marriage all these years, despite his mother’s cajoling and her reminders about that American cousin. He’d told his mother he hadn’t met a woman who could do honor to the title she’d held for so long, and when practically every fourth debutante he met fainted at his feet, that was not wholly a lie.

  On the other hand, there were many very lovely, very acceptable ladies who did not faint at his feet. They might sway a little, but they showed promising fortitude.

  And yet he’d tarried. Because he still wanted Vivienne. If anyone had asked him two days ago why he did not marry, Vivienne would not have crossed his mind. He didn’t think of her daily, hadn’t realized she was the reason he’d put off the leg-shackling.

  Until he saw her again. And then he’d known he wanted her for his duchess. Seeing her last night, sitting on that bed, her fragile shoulders hunched, her small body shaking with fear—he’d wanted her for his wife. When she’d patted the space beside her on the bed, he hadn’t refused the invitation out of propriety, although that was a consideration, he’d refused it because he would not have been able to resist wrapping his arms around her and stripping that sheet away.

  The sight of her bare shoulders, her small pink feet, her long dark hair falling down her back in slightly damp waves had fired his blood. And those green eyes set with determination and filled with pain. He wanted to wipe that pain away, make her eyes dark and unfocused with passion.