All the trouble she’d gone to in order to hide her identity had worked. Her success should be met with pleasure rather than disappointment.
Standing in front of the fireplace, Mr. Edward Alcott, for the better part of the last half hour, had been regaling his audience with tales of their adventures in Africa. He was animated, constantly using his hands to add excitement to the various accounts of their exploits.
Minerva had been so caught up observing Ashebury, hoping in vain that he might at least give her a passing glance, that she’d barely listened to Mr. Alcott, but Lady Honoria’s pressing a hand to her throat with a startled gasp had Minerva redirecting her attention to their orator.
“So there we were on the African savanna standing around for the better part of half an hour while Ashe set up his photography equipment,” Mr. Alcott continued in a mesmerizing cadence that had the ladies sharing the sofa with Minerva scooting to the edge of their seats.
“When all of sudden”—Mr. Alcott took a quick step forward and swept his arms in a dramatic gesture—“out of the blue, the lion pounced.”
Ladies inhaled sharply, jerking back as though that very creature had leaped from his fingertips. Gloved hands covered mouths. Eyes widened. Minerva took some satisfaction in not visibly reacting—she had little tolerance for women pretending they were far too delicate for the realities of life—although her heart was hammering madly.
“It was an incredibly spectacular sight. Muscles bunching, sinew stretching, a roar that echoed—”
“For God’s sake, Edward, get on with it,” Ashebury said from his far-too-relaxed stance, arms crossed over his chest. With gaslights rather than flickering candles illuminating the room, his black hair, unfashionably long, served to make the blue of his eyes that much more noticeable. He appeared bored. She wished she’d had a clearer view of him last night when he’d seemed more interested, wished she hadn’t closed her eyes when he’d kissed her. Had he closed his?
Mr. Alcott straightened. “Weaving a tale that mesmerizes is my talent. If you will be so good as to indulge me—especially as you serve as the hero of the story.” He turned back to his audience. “As I was saying, the lion sprung forth from the tall grasses so magnificently. Locksley and I were quite taken aback by the sight of nature at its most primitive, its most feral. I daresay, it took us a few seconds to actually register that a lion had indeed attacked Ashe, taken him to the ground. That the duke was the huge fellow’s prey, that the creature was in fact intending to make a meal of him.”
“Oh, my dear Lord, you might have been eaten,” Lady Honoria exclaimed. “What a ghastly way to go!”
Ashebury lifted a shoulder laconically and tilted his head slightly in a manner that implied he’d never doubted he would be the victor. Arrogant man. Minerva didn’t know why she found that so appealing.
“Its roar still echoing around us, we sprung into action and readied our rifles.” Mr. Alcott lifted his arms, leaned forward slightly, lowered his hands and his voice. “Unexpectedly, the great beast went completely and absolutely still. A hush settled over the grasslands. Then we heard a muffled cry. ‘For God’s sake, get him off me!’ Locksley and I rushed forward. Somehow Ashe had managed to pull his knife from its scabbard and kill the creature.” He straightened. “Not before it got its teeth into his shoulder unfortunately.”
As the ladies sitting near Ashebury fluttered their hands and looked on the verge of swooning, he slowly rubbed his hand over his left shoulder. Minerva wondered if he were even aware of the action. Then a corner of his mouth hitched up. “But I got my photograph.”
“Indeed you did,” Mr. Alcott admitted. “And a splendid one it is.”
There was such pride reflected in Ashebury’s tone, in his mien. Minerva couldn’t help but wonder if he would have exhibited the same satisfaction if he’d had success in convincing her to pose last night. Had he wanted the photograph of her as badly as he’d wanted the one of the lion? Not that he’d come anywhere near to placing his life at risk, but he’d spoken so passionately about the human form. She had to wonder now if he’d been terribly disappointed by her refusal to give in to his request. Or was the evening simply one of many? Had he already forgotten Lady V? Although he’d claimed that he wouldn’t seek a substitute, she couldn’t help but believe that he would have found someone to replace her quite easily, someone more adventurous, less prudish. She’d always taken such pride in her willingness to explore opportunities, to engage in new experiences. In hindsight, she couldn’t be more disappointed in herself.
“You must have been so terrified,” Lady Sarah said, breathlessly, both hands pressed to her chest, drawing Ashebury’s eyes to her cleavage. The duke, blast him, grinned wickedly at Lady Sarah and her heaving bosom, and Minerva fought back a spark of jealousy as she wondered if he might want to photograph those ample orbs.
“Petrified,” he admitted cockily, “but then I realized that if I didn’t take some action I’d never get back to England, and it became quite clear rather quickly that neither Edward nor Locke were going to be of much assistance.”
“You had to be incredibly strong to kill the awful beast,” Lady Angela said.
“Incredibly so. Perhaps you’d like to test my muscles later.”
Lady Angela turned red as a beet, her face splotchy, looking as though she’d broken out in hives. She never had been one to blush becomingly.
“That will be quite enough of that bawdy talk,” Lady Greyling admonished, coming to her feet. It had always amazed Minerva that she could so easily control the hellions. “Refreshments are waiting for us in the main salon, along with the displays of Ashe’s photographs. Let’s make our way there, shall we?”
Ladies began to rise and join the gentlemen. Ashebury sinuously shoved himself away from the wall, so very slowly as though he were mimicking the great cat that he had killed. Minerva had seen lions on display at the zoological gardens, knew their graceful movements. She couldn’t imagine the terror of facing one in the wilds.
“I’m going to make my way to Lovingdon,” Grace said, touching her arm, obviously wanting her attention.
“Yes, all right. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
Grace departed. Minerva considered making her way to Ashebury to commend him on his quick thinking, his strength, his ability to stare death in the face and come out the victor, but two ladies approached him, and he graciously offered each an arm, then began escorting them from the room. Last night for a few fleeting moments, he’d been hers.
“I wonder where Lord Locksley is?” Lady Sarah mused, holding Minerva back as though she had the answer.
“Is he the reason you’re here?” Minerva asked.
With a little wobble of her head, Sarah sighed. “Well, yes, I have to admit to being somewhat curious about him. He always makes an appearance in Mr. Alcott’s stories and yet he so seldom attends any social functions.”
“Why the interest?”
“Because he’s mysterious, and I’m fascinated by mysteries. Besides, aren’t you fascinated by the lords of Havisham? They’re so adventuresome and brave and—”
“They’re indulged,” Minerva cut in, as they wandered from the room and into the hallway. “People let them do whatever they want with no consequence. Other than Greyling, I don’t think any of them are seeing to their duties. How can they when they’re always traipsing about the world?”
“But their parents were killed in that awful railway accident.”
“A lot of parents were killed.” Sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters. Not that Minerva had any recollection of the event. She’d been a child, yet all these years later, people still spoke of the awfulness of it, especially when the hellions were about.
“They were left to fend for themselves,” Lady Sarah said, as though they’d been abandoned on the streets with no means whatsoever.
“Hardly,” Minerva stated. “They had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, clothes on their backs.”
“
But they ran wild over the moors. No one cared about them.”
Minerva had heard those stories as well. Mr. Alcott had an entire reservoir of mishaps to share at dinner parties. “I believe Mr. Alcott embellishes.”
“You’re no fun at all.”
Worse things had been said of her. They walked into the parlor. “Why? Because I want the facts?”
“Precisely.”
“They can ruin a good story,” a deep voice announced.
Minerva spun around to find Mr. Alcott standing against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his dark blond hair a riot of curls that seemed to mark him as untamable. The only reason she knew he wasn’t Greyling was because the earl seldom left his wife’s side. She wondered how much he might have heard, how much of their conversation might have echoed up the hallway. His eyes, the shade of hot cocoa, dark and somber, gave little away. Lady Sarah might have thought Locksley was the mysterious one, but Minerva couldn’t help but believe that Mr. Alcott had secrets of his own.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to have that now, would we, Mr. Alcott?” she asked, fighting not to have quite so much sarcasm dripping from her voice.
A corner of his mouth lifted into a seductive smile that, if rumors were to be believed, had ladies surrendering to his every whim. “Please, call me Edward. And stories should be designed to entertain.”
“They should not be purported as the truth when they stray from the facts.”
“Did Ashebury really kill the lion?” Lady Sarah asked, with hero worship fairly lending a dreamy-like quality to her voice.
“He did.”
“With a knife?” Minerva asked, not bothering to disguise her disbelief.
“It had a wickedly long blade and was incredibly sharp.” He lifted a broad shoulder in a casual half shrug. “Although he might have been assisted by some of our guides, who jumped into the fray. But where is the excitement in a story such as that?”
“There is beauty in facts.”
“Miss Dodger is terribly practical,” Lady Sarah said in the same tone that one might use when referring to an eccentric aging aunt who was boring people to death at a dinner party.
“So it would seem,” Edward said. “But the question is: Did you enjoy the story?”
“I adored it,” Lady Sarah responded enthusiastically.
But his gaze remained focused on Minerva. “No embellishment, Miss Dodger. Only the truth or if you prefer: only the facts. Did it hold you enthralled?”
Blast him. She relished the truth too much not to admit, “I found it rather fascinating.”
“High praise indeed. I consider the night a success.” With a laziness to his stride, he walked off. Undoubtedly, she had somehow managed to insult him. Was it a fault to value honesty?
“Drat,” Lady Sarah murmured. “I should have asked him about Lord Locksley.”
“I’m sure you can catch up with him if you really want to know.”
“Wish me luck.” Then she was gone, leaving Minerva to wonder why luck was needed to receive an answer to a simple question.
Shaking her head in wonder at the girl’s youthful exuberance—dear God but she suddenly felt old—she glanced around the salon. In its center, a table was adorned with food, another sported an assortment of spirits. Footmen meandered around offering tiny bits of pastry or glasses of wine. Along the outer edges of the room were the photographs, displayed on easels. Ashebury’s work.
It called to her, enticed her to draw near. She approached the photograph of a crouched lion barely visible through the tall grasses, but his gaze was intense, that of a hunter. And she regretted with everything inside her that they’d killed such a proud beast.
ASHE surmised that the guests weren’t really interested in the photographs. Oh, they gave them a passing glance as they flirted, stuffed tiny pies into their mouth, or sipped fine wine. But they were here to have fun, to take delight in each other’s company, to flirt. All except her.
Miss Minerva Dodger.
She took her time studying each photograph as though she appreciated what he had created with shadow and light, as though she understood it, as though it spoke to her. Once he even saw her lift her hand as though she wanted to pet the creature that he had captured with his lens. Photography was more than a pastime for him; it was a passion. Yet so few appreciated it. Not that he did it for public accolades. However, for some reason, he’d wanted these images to be admired. Perhaps because they’d nearly cost him his life.
So when Grey’s wife had expressed a desire to host a small party so she could display them, he’d been only too happy to oblige her request. Except now he felt quite self-conscious and wished he’d merely lent her the photographs and avoided the tedious affair. Unlike Edward, he didn’t crave attention, abhorred it, actually. He would do anything to escape the ladies presently fluttering their fans and cooing to him that he was remarkably brave and incredibly strong. One lady had even managed to discreetly squeeze his upper arm, testing his muscles, her eyes slumberous with invitation. He could no doubt find a secluded place to take her so she could squeeze to her heart’s content any part of him that she wished—
Except now he was intrigued by Miss Dodger’s perusal of his work. She lingered, perhaps because she despised the thing. He shouldn’t intrude, shouldn’t worry over her opinion. She’d no doubt give it bluntly if he asked. That was the thing about her—she was always so blasted blunt. Not that they’d spoken more than half a dozen times, if that, but sugar was certainly not going to melt in her mouth. Which was no doubt the reason she had yet to secure a husband. Money certainly wasn’t a factor. Her father, a former gentlemen’s club owner, had showered her in it, but her propensity to speak her mind made her troublesome and hardly wifely material. Not that he was in need of a wife or even desired one. He enjoyed his freedom too much for that. Grey had completely lost his when he married Julia.
Yes, Ashe should simply make his excuses and leave, go to the Nightingale and see if he had better fortune tonight in obtaining the photograph he wanted. Instead—
“Excuse me, but I have a matter to attend to,” he told the three ladies vying for his attention. Before they could protest or distract him further, he slipped away from them and approached Miss Dodger, his shoes barely making a sound as he neared. Peering over her shoulder, he smiled. Ah, the chimpanzees. One of his favorites. He’d been quite pleased with the way it turned out. “Do you like it?” he asked, then wished he’d bitten off his tongue. He felt as though he were on display as much as the photographs.
She didn’t so much as turn her head when she said, “Quite. It’s rather profound. I’m not certain I’ve seen photographs that managed to capture so much.”
“It’s the light and shadows, the way I use them. It’s a relatively new technique, brings an artistic flair to the method, if you will, that elevates the work to something beyond a simple picture.”
“They’re in love,” she said with utter conviction.
“The monkeys?”
“Yes.” She looked at him. He didn’t remember her eyes being so dark, so intense. And he was hit with the memory of other dark, intense eyes. On the cusp of that thought, he became aware of the scent of verbena drifting toward him. It took every ounce of control he could muster not to react, not to spin her completely around, not to peruse and catalog every inch of her. She could be the right height, depending on the heel of her shoe, her body the right shape if all the padding, petticoats, and corset were gone. He wished he could see her hair in flickering candlelight. He recalled its being darker, no hints of red. Here, in the brighter lighting, it was the incorrect shade. She was no doubt the wrong woman. He was just so desperate to find Lady V that he would imagine her in any woman he spoke with. But why hadn’t he imagined her as any of the others who had given him attention thus far this evening?
“You’re telling a story here,” she said. “They’re devoted to each other.”
Her voice was wrong. It wasn’t smoky and raspy, resembling a wh
isper. Could she disguise it? Never slipping? But it was more than the timbre that gave him doubts. She spoke as though they were passing strangers, as though they hadn’t spent an hour together, as though they’d never kissed. “They’re animals, Miss Dodger.”
“They’re soul mates.”
He might have laughed except that she was so blasted serious. And she could be Lady V. No, she was too practical for that. Then it occurred to him that perhaps she was exactly practical enough to want to know what all the fuss was about. Bold enough to go after it. While he’d not spent much time in her immediate company, knew her mostly by reputation, he had observed her from afar at balls, dancing with one gent or another, of late seeming to spend more time standing among the wallflowers yet separate from them. She would never be one to blend in. While most ladies would shrivel and shrink back if their dance cards weren’t written on, she’d always left him with the impression of being someone who couldn’t have cared less, someone waiting to throw down a gauntlet if the opportunity struck. “Tell me you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
“Unlike your storytelling cohort, I’m not one to lie, Your Grace.”
“Edward? What lie do you speak of?”
She arched a finely shaped eyebrow. “He confessed that you didn’t defeat the lion without assistance.” She nodded toward another photograph. “Is that him, the one you killed?”
Censure didn’t ring in her voice, but sadness thickened it. He wished he hadn’t brought that particular photo. Almost hadn’t. It saddened him as well, yet he was also remarkably proud of it. “Yes.”
“He was measuring you up. Misjudged.”
“Many often do.” Grimacing, he wondered why in the blue blazes he’d revealed that tidbit, especially to her. He couldn’t recall any of their previous conversations. Yet here he was blathering on as though his tongue had separated itself from his brain.
Tilting her head slightly, she studied him. “I find your work quite astonishing.”
“It’s my passion.”
“Truly? Based on the rumors, I’d been led to believe that women were.”
Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) Page 7
