How to Dazzle a Duke

by Claudia Dain

  “And a wager made, such a wager as this, is never forgotten. Where do I stand?”

  “Lord Staverton, who does not approve in the slightest, has told me that, as of a half hour ago, the odds were distinctly in the Duke of Edenham’s favor. I am sorry, Lord Iveston. Or should I congratulate you?”

  “To be discounted by one’s peers is not a subject for congratulation, Mrs. Warren. I must see what can be done to raise my esteem among them. The situation as it now stands is intolerable.”

  “And if you find yourself married to Miss Prestwick? Would that also not be intolerable?”

  Iveston looked down at her, at her flawlessly white skin and her pewter green eyes, her dark red hair a coiling mass upon her head. She was wearing white muslin and a silver cross dangled above her breasts, small diamonds at her ears. She looked as pure as ice.

  No one was as pure as ice.

  “You will soon find yourself married to Lord Staverton. Will you find it intolerable?”

  She flushed. In anger, not embarrassment. “Hardly. He is a wonderful man. I am fortunate to have his regard.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. He is a good man. He deserves a good wife.”

  Mrs. Warren took a deep breath and regained her composure. “Lord Staverton needs no protection from me, if that was your intent, Lord Iveston. Yet who will protect Miss Prestwick from you?”

  “Mrs. Warren,” he said, dipping his head in a bow, “the question is who will protect the male population from Miss Prestwick?”

  Nineteen

  IT seemed to Penelope that the entire population of London, or at least those sheltered within the stone walls of Lanreath House, was trying to keep Edenham from her. All she wanted to do was ruin the man! How much protection did he need from that? Certainly she’d do everything in her power to entice him to enjoy it. She had every expectation that he would.

  Just look at how Lord Iveston had enjoyed his brief moment in her arms, his lips upon hers, his hands wrapped around her waist … and her gown truly was a disaster as a result of his manhandling. She didn’t suppose he could help it. He was a man.

  Actually, he was far more a man than she had supposed, not that she’d given him much thought once she’d discounted him. And she still was discounting him. The Duke of Edenham was the man for her. If only she could get him alone and encourage him to toy with her. Why, she might be a duchess by next week!

  He had come with his sister, Lady Richard, she knew that, though by hearsay only. Still, it was reliable. Where he was now was a mystery. Lady Richard was in the reception room speaking with Sophia, about what she couldn’t imagine. A stirring of suspicion wound into her thoughts. Was it possible that Sophia would, in a fit of pique at not being paid, speak ill of her to Edenham’s sister, poisoning the well, so to speak?

  All the more reason to get Edenham ruined at the first opportunity.

  It was just then, when every thought she possessed was directed and consumed by the Duke of Edenham, that Lord Iveston appeared at the other side of the room. The room hushed.

  Oh, bother it all.

  Penelope enjoyed a good gossip as much as the next person, but there was absolutely nothing worth gossiping about concerning her and Iveston. Certainly anyone should be able to see that.

  Iveston, looking quite as tall and elegant as was his habit, looked directly at her with his bold blue eyes, and then, without any hesitation whatsoever, which did not look good, or at least innocent, to the witnesses in the room, made a resolute path to her.

  Her heart fluttered quite wildly in her breast. It was with mortification, obviously.

  He did move quite well, almost languidly. She could not quite decide if it was the result of superior tailoring or that he truly was as perfectly proportioned as he appeared. If she ever had the chance again, she just might delve into that. Certainly, if he found cause to remove his coat and waistcoat, she could get a better look at … his true proportions. All for science, or nearly so, and certainly not for any lurid intention. Not at all. This was Iveston, after all. She did not want him.

  And then he was before her and Edenham, whom she had not seen for hours, let it be remembered, flickered and faded from her thoughts. Iveston was right in front of her. It was all perfectly logical.

  Of course it was. Everything she did was perfectly logical. She’d made a firm habit of it.

  “Miss Prestwick,” he said, bowing slightly, his blond head gleaming in the candlelight.

  “Lord Iveston,” she said, dipping into a shallow curtsey.

  Lady Paignton was watching her without any subtlety whatsoever from not fifteen feet away. She had executed the most innocent and bored curtsey that had ever been imagined. Let Lady Paignton find something scandalous in that.

  “You’re not engaged at present?”

  Only in looking at him, but there was no need to be that honest, particularly with a man.

  “No, not at present. I expect my brother to join me at cards at any moment.”

  Another lie. She hated cards and George barely tolerated them. They were not very adept at the idle games of the ton, a fact that must be concealed, naturally.

  “I should so hate to drag you off from a spirited competition, yet I do find that I should like more proof.”

  “I beg your … what? More proof? More proof of what, Lord Iveston?”

  But of course she knew. The hammering of her heart and the watery feeling rushing into her knees and elbows proclaimed it.

  “More. Proof,” he said, looking down at her with complete composure. Actually, he looked almost bored.

  Her glance skittered about the room, noticing with no trouble at all that Lady Paignton was smirking at her, that Edenham had his back to her, that George was frowning at her, that Penrith and Raithby were staring at her expectantly, and that Sophia Dalby was looking daggers at her.

  She hardly needed more inducement than all of that.

  “Whatever you require, Lord Iveston, shall be supplied,” she said politely, her composure quite firm, even resolute. Oh, definitely resolute. She was not going to show any reaction at all, not to him and not to them. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Nothing spectacular, I assure you,” Iveston said. “It is only that the odds are most markedly in favor of Edenham, which is a blow to my pride.”

  “What a terrible pity,” she said crisply.

  “Isn’t it,” he said blandly, eyeing her casually. “I would very much like to shorten the odds, Miss Prestwick. I do think we can manage that between us, don’t you?”

  “As I do feel this is somewhat beyond the bounds of our original agreement, Lord Iveston,” she said softly, “I do think that I may expect something in return.”

  “Besides your most obviously displayed pleasure?”

  “Yes. Besides that,” she said, a bit more sharply than was wise. She got hold of herself immediately. Iveston seemed to take note of it and smile. Bloody sot. Did he think he could get the best of her? Not likely.

  “What would you have of me?”

  “Only that, if the odds do change in your favor, that would logically mean that Edenham will think himself out of my favor. I want you to make certain he knows he still has a chance to win me. Can you do that, Lord Iveston?”

  He smiled, a tight little smile that thrilled her. He was angry. How perfect. He deserved every bit of it. The only thing that could be better was if he developed those little white marks on his neck. Did he know he gave his emotions away on his very skin? She did hope not. It was a wonderful advantage in dealing with him, those telltales. Why, he must be the most abysmal gambler imaginable.

  “I have no doubt of it,” he said.

  “Yet I do,” she said.

  They were speaking quietly, in a secluded quarter of the room, the wall nearly at her back, her gaze encompassing the entire room. It was not to be imagined that they were overheard, and certainly no one would ever guess by their demeanor that anything untoward was occurring between them.

&n
bsp; She would never have supposed Iveston to be such a superb liar.

  She had, however, always known that she was very good at it.

  “You require some test of my ability?”

  “No. Only a test of your results,” she said. “If I am to subject myself to your unnecessary exercise, then I do think it only fair that you subject yourself to some proof of my own devising.”

  “I think you have got far ahead of yourself here, Miss Prestwick. I have required no proof of you; no screams of passion, no heaving bosom, no quivering—”

  “Lord Iveston,” she interrupted, her breathing having gone quite annoyingly shallow, “I only suggest that there is no way for me to know what you say to Edenham, let alone what affect your words may have.”

  “You could take my word for it.”

  “I could, but I won’t. I am a far more savvy negotiator than you seem to think.”

  “Miss Prestwick, you are entirely incorrect. I put absolutely nothing beyond you.”

  “Lord Iveston, I am hardly insulted by such an observation.”

  “Miss Prestwick, I would do nothing to insult you.”

  “Nothing but require me to endure your … experiment again.”

  “And again,” he whispered, his blue eyes gone quite molten.

  She was not alarmed; it was what men did when an attractive woman was around. She was a bit surprised, however; she had never expected the mild Lord Iveston of the day before to have anything molten at all going on beneath the skin.

  She seemed to have quite an effect on him. It was a quite pleasurable state of affairs, truth be told.

  “Again, Lord Iveston? Isn’t that a bit … greedy?” she asked softly.

  “Entirely. But then, I am most accustomed to having all my needs filled nearly upon the wish. I see no reason to change that now, do you?”

  “Of course not. I wish for the same accommodation myself. It sounds a perfectly lovely way to live out a life. Is it?”

  “Yes,” he said, moving a half step closer and turning slightly so that he could see more of the room.

  Penrith and Raithby were whispering furiously. Penrith held out his hand, showing two fingers. Raithby seemed to respond by producing three fingers. They nodded in agreement and then turned in unison to stare at her again.

  Wagering? Over her, obviously. It was nearly scandalous as everyone knew that Raithby was entirely horse mad and never gave a thought to anything else. Until now. She nearly preened.

  “I think you’ll enjoy it,” Iveston said.

  But he wasn’t speaking of his well-accommodated life. No, by the look in his flagrant blue eyes, he was speaking of … it. What they were about to do. Although, as he hadn’t actually spelled it out, what were they about to do? She was all for keeping to the terms of a bargain freely made, but she was no fool. There would be no blindly walking into what could easily become her ruination. No, not that. Not with this man.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more practice, would it? After all, a groom was just a groom. She probably should get more experience with a man closer to Edenham’s station in life. There were likely differences, perhaps even vast differences in technique and preferences. It was very nearly her wifely duty to Edenham to come into his bed with as much innocent practice as she could manage.

  How convenient that Iveston stood at the ready, so eager to tutor her.

  Of course, being a man, he had no intention of being of service to her. No, he was in this for his own reasons, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t get her needs met as well, did it?

  Naturally not.

  Poor Iveston. He truly did not know what an utterly essential service he was doing for her.

  Ah well, she would send him a nice note later, after she was the Duchess of Edenham.

  “Enjoy it or not, Lord Iveston, I do require some sort of evidence that you will convey what I want you to convey to Edenham precisely when I want you to convey it.”

  “I’ll confess to being slightly confused, Miss Prestwick. If you could elaborate?”

  Actually, she was a bit confused herself. He was standing very close to her and the urge to reach out and touch him was strangely strong. Because she had kissed him? He was familiar to her now, in a vague way. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Most certainly, as she was determined to marry Edenham, that is all there was to it. But it would be more convenient if he moved away from her a step or two.

  “Perhaps later, Lord Iveston. Now, I do believe that we should proceed, before the evening’s activities become more focused.”

  “Certainly, Miss Prestwick. How pleasant it is to converse with a woman of such a practical bent. It is quite beyond the ordinary, I assure you.”

  “Actually, Lord Iveston, I had not thought you had much experience with women of any type, practical or not.”

  “I have every hope of convincing you otherwise,” he said softly as they walked through the room, nodding pleasantly at the guests they passed, their mutual manner both so casual and so calm that, if not for her wrinkled dress, there should be nothing to murmur about at all.

  But her dress was wrinkled, as was Iveston’s cravat, and that did lead to the smallest of speculations. She only hoped Edenham was paying attention. As it happened, he did turn to look at her as they passed not ten feet from him on their way out of the drawing room and into the stair hall. He looked curious and not a little bewildered. Perfect. There was nothing worse than a man who was too sure of himself in affairs of the heart. They behaved very negligently, very quickly and she would have none of it, most especially not from her future husband.

  The stair hall at Lanreath House was not exceptionally large, though it was exceptionally well-appointed. The walls had been faced with white marble, the stair treads of pale stone, and the stair rail was of nicely wrought iron. The candlelight from the massive candelabra at the base of the stairs created a very appealing glow. More importantly, there was no one, not even a servant, using the stair hall at the moment. The moment the door to the drawing room closed behind Lord Iveston, he placed both of his hands around her waist, pushed her up against the closest wall, and kissed her savagely.

  Well. He seemed to have no control at all when it came to her. It was very nearly comical.

  In fact, she felt like laughing. The only thing keeping her from it was his mouth pressed firmly against hers, doing hot and tantalizing things with his tongue that the groom had never managed. As to that, Lord Iveston seemed to be using every opportunity to do more. This kiss was very much more than the last one.

  It was so nice when a man made every effort to surpass himself.

  She really ought to push him away from her. Or at the very least she should take a step back so that her breasts were not rubbing against his chest. Yes, she really ought to do that. And she would. Eventually. Certainly there was no rush about it, was there?

  “You do this very well,” he said, nearly echoing her own thoughts about him. She sometimes had the strange sensation that Iveston could read her mind. She didn’t like it in the least. “You think I do it very well. We get on, don’t we, Pen?”

  “Miss Prestwick,” she said against his mouth. “You are too familiar.”

  “Yes, I am that,” he said, grinning. She could feel the movement of his mouth against hers, his breath nuzzling against her skin, the vibration of his words tickling along her spine. “You don’t mind, do you, Pen? You like what I do. You like the way I do it. You would like more of it. You—”

  “You talk rather a lot, don’t you?” she said, pushing at his cravat, putting her mouth on his neck and biting him gently.

  “Only to you. There seems so very much to say,” he said, moving his hands so that they pressed beneath her breasts. Her nipples tingled in invitation.

  “Does there? I hadn’t noticed,” she whispered, licking his ear.

  He shivered. He also, perhaps in retaliation of sorts, flicked his thumbs over her nipples. She moaned and bit his earlobe.

 
“How much more can you stand?” he said softly, pulling her against his hips, his leg pressing between her knees.

  “I was about to ask you the same,” she said, running her hands around and under his waistcoat, nipping at his throat. He had the most tantalizing throat. Someone should be paid to write a sonnet about it.

  “I’m a half step from taking you on these stairs,” he groaned, his mouth at her neck, her throat, the swells of her breasts.

  “That sounds miserably uncomfortable. I shouldn’t like it in the slightest.”

  “Oh, yes, you would,” he said, chuckling.

  She giggled in reply, which truly wasn’t much of a reply, was it? But it was all she could think of, being that thinking was becoming increasingly difficult and the reason for engaging with Lord Iveston all but forgotten in the mist of desire and longing he created whenever, and she would never admit this to him, naturally, but whenever he looked at her.

  The door to the drawing room opened suddenly, throwing noise and reason all over them. Iveston pulled away from her instantly, so sudden a movement that she lost her balance and nearly fell to her knees. He put a hand on her elbow, steadying her, all the fun of the situation completely gone, and looked with the most bland demeanor at the intruder to their … experiment.

  It was Sophia. Penelope found she was not a bit surprised. Sophia was just the sort of person who intruded into the most private of situations, and she did it without a hint of reluctance.

  “Can you sing?” Sophia said, looking at them without any degree of censure or even curiosity that Penelope could detect. As her vision was a bit clouded by remnant passion, she was not entirely certain of her conclusion.

  “Are you speaking to me?” Penelope asked.

  “I am. Can you sing?” Sophia said, the door having been firmly closed behind her.

  “Passably well,” Penelope said a bit curtly. “Why? Do you think I should sing now?”

  She was more than a little frustrated. She and Iveston had been having such a pleasant time and truly got on better than she would have believed twelve hours ago, if she had bothered to think of him at all, which she nearly hadn’t. Oh, a passing thought, a speculation, but nothing serious.