To Dance with the Dangerous Duke: Clean Regency Romance (The Nettlefold Chronicles Book 2)

by Arietta Richmond

  Lyon took a deep breath, straightened his coat, drew on his gloves, and lifted his hat from the seat beside him. His valet, Fulham, would deal with ensuring that his luggage was handled properly. He gave the man a nod, then turned to the open door. When he stepped down onto the gravel, he was composed, elegant, and darkly brooding as always. The footman took a step back when faced by his stern expression, then bowed.

  “Your Grace. Follow me, if you would. Your luggage will be taken to your rooms.” Lyon followed the man, and was soon passing through the grand entryway, where boughs of pine and holly were set about the place as Christmas decoration. It was all, he thought, disgustingly cheerful. “Your Grace, I will show you to your guest suite now, and we will send your valet up to join you as soon as the luggage is arranged. Once you have had a chance to refresh yourself, His Grace of Kilmerstan will welcome you in the main parlour for a drink before dinner. When you are ready, just ring for a footman to guide you there.”

  They proceeded up the grand staircase, and then up another, followed by passing through a long gallery where past Kilmerstan Dukes looked down from their portraits, as if disapproving of this invasion of their home. Lyon looked about him with interest – Kilmerstan’s ancestors seemed about as stuffy and self-important as his own did – perhaps this was common to all of the old and noble families?

  The suite of rooms he was shown into was elegant, decorated in burgundy, cream, and gold – rich, but not overly ostentatious. He breathed a sigh of relief when the footman left him, glad to be completely alone, even for a short while. He strode to the window, and looked out at the sparkling, snow sprinkled expanse of the gardens below him.

  His peaceful isolation was very short lived. Only minutes later, Fulham came bustling in, directing three footmen who carried his trunks. Lyon sighed, and watched with some amusement as the valet directed the placement of the trunks in the adjoining dressing room, and immediately began to unpack, his expression strained as he muttered to himself – ‘only two hours to get everything prepared, before His Grace needs to be downstairs! Ridiculous!’

  He should, he supposed, be grateful for Fulham’s dedication to ensuring that he looked perfect on every occasion, still, the man’s fussiness sometimes drove him almost mad. Lyon turned back to the window. Below him, a movement in the snowy gardens caught his eye. A woman, walking along the paths, slowly, as if deep in thought. For a fraction of a second, he thought it was Josephine, then he saw the differences, but there was still a somewhat shocking sense of similarity. This woman’s hair was dark, and glossy – the kind of hair that felt like silk when it slipped through the fingers, he thought, hair darker than Josephine’s, and, from the look of it, longer. Her skin was pale, although he thought that perhaps her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Who was she? He supposed that, over the next few days, he would find out.

  He turned back to the room.

  “Your Grace, which waistcoat do you prefer?”

  Fulham held up two garments. Lyon considered.

  “Perhaps the red brocade, Fulham. If everything else I wear is black or white, that will stand out nicely, without being garish. And the ruby pin for the cravat, I think.”

  “An excellent choice, Your Grace.”

  Fulham turned back to the dressing room. Lyon settled into the large armchair which was placed near the fire, and waited.

  ~~~~~

  Two hours later, precisely on time, Lyon strode into the large parlour, as the butler announced him. The room was as elegant as his suite, with tones of the same burgundy and cream, contrasted by a rich deep blue. A man came forward to greet him – Kilmerstan, he presumed. The man had grown into his frame – what had been tall and a little ungainly in the boy at Eton had filled out to a powerful and handsome man. A man whose smile seemed genuine – remarkably enough, for a member of the ton.

  “Dangerfield. It’s been quite a few years. I’m glad you could come.”

  “More than a few, Kilmerstan! You’re looking well – I gather that marriage agrees with you?”

  “It does indeed. Which has been as much of a surprise to me as to the people who know me. I never expected to marry so soon, yet here I am, and happy with it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Too many of the men who went to Eton with us married in haste, and are regretting it. They have discovered that a pretty face does not compensate for a lack in character and intelligence.”

  “Ah, so you agree with me on the matter of women’s intelligence? Excellent. I cannot imagine being happy with a woman who thought of nothing but fashion and ostentation. But come, let me introduce you to my family.”

  Lyon followed Kilmerstan across the room, towards a group standing near the fire. As they approached, a woman, whose back had been towards them, turned. Lyon felt the breath leave him. It was the woman from the gardens, the one he had seen from his window earlier. That echo of Josephine was still there, but this woman was more – in all ways.

  He had been ready to judge her simply because of that resemblance to Josephine, but he found, in that instant, that he could not. Somehow, he knew that she was a different quality of woman entirely. She was an undeniable beauty – quite magnificent. A smile spread across her face as they approached. He forced his breath to come again, drew himself up into his best haughty, dangerous, dignified air, and continued beside Kilmerstan.

  “Mother…” Kilmerstan waited until the older woman turned towards them, away from a quick conversation with a footman. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Dangerfield. Your Grace, this is Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Kilmerstan, Her Grace, the Duchess of Kilmerstan, my wife, and Lady Isabelle Rutherford, my sister.”

  The Dowager Duchess inclined her head exactly to the right degree to show a respectful acknowledgement of an equal in rank. The Duchess smiled in a friendly way, slipping her arm through Kilmerstan’s, and Lady Isabelle curtsied, a fluid movement, elegant and worthy of a court appearance. Lyon greeted them each in turn, and bowed over Lady Isabelle’s hand. For the first time in months, he felt the inclination to flirt, to discover what really lay behind her pretty smile and sparkling blue-violet eyes. He took a steadying breath as he released her hand. Flirting would not do at all – not with his host’s sister!

  Especially as he had resolved to avoid all entanglement, after the pain that Josephine had wrought in him.

  Lady Isabelle eyed him sharply, as if assessing him in some specific way. It was disconcerting.

  She did not simper, and made no attempt to look away bashfully, or do any of the other things that he had come to expect from husband hunting young women of the ton. Yet she must be seeking a husband, for he could tell, at a glance, that she was older than the usual girl making a come out – yet he had not seen her in London the past two Seasons.

  Then it came to him – her father had been dead but 18 months, and had, if Lyon remembered aright, been ill for a year or more before that. So she would not have been out. Which would, he assumed, make her all the more desperate for a husband now.

  A fact he would do well to keep in mind. Still, there was something about her, apart from the slight resemblance to Josephine. It was almost as if he had seen her before – but where? That seemed most improbable.

  With a start, he realised that he was staring. In fact, their eyes were locked together, and neither of them had moved, or looked away.

  He shook himself out of his stillness, and dragged his eyes away, to discover the Dowager Duchess watching him, speculatively. That really would not do at all!

  “Your Grace, I suspect that you are responsible for the excellent organisation of this delightful house party – am I correct in that?”

  The Dowager Duchess allowed him to distract her, and smiled.

  “You are indeed correct. I enjoy organising events like this, and the last few years have been far too full of sadness and mourning – this is a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the season of peace and joy with those we have not seen for some time.”

  “A s
entiment that I can only agree with.”

  “I am glad. I wondered if you would come, Dangerfield, for from everything I have heard, you’ve been somewhat of a recluse these many months past.”

  Lyon nodded, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  “One can only bear one’s own company for so long, before it is necessary to venture out again. But do not expect me to be greatly sociable. I have come to be rather out of the habit, I’m afraid.”

  ~~~~~

  Isabelle came back to herself as he looked away from her. She flushed with embarrassment. She had been staring rather rudely – but… how could she not? He was intriguing, and handsome in a way that made her heart beat faster. But she had heard of this man, heard the whispers of his reputation, as a rake and a duellist, and a sometime gambler, in conversations with Marguerite, where Marguerite relayed all of the latest gossip that she had heard. He was exactly the worst kind of man – and therefore far more interesting than anyone she had ever met before. His aloofness only made it more so.

  Chapter Three

  Isabelle woke early, as she often did, and lay in bed, her thoughts running in circles. Circles which went around the Duke of Dangerfield. ‘The heart of danger’ Marguerite had told her he was called, not so secretly, by the women of the ton. She shivered, remembering his deep brown eyes staring into hers, as if he could see right into her, could see all of her secrets. And he had not behaved as she had come to expect of gentlemen. He had not made any attempt to engage her in conversation, had barely seemed to pay any attention to her existence after that first few moments when they had locked eyes.

  To have a man ignore her beauty was a new experience – one she wasn’t sure she liked at all. But that attitude made him intriguing – even more so that his general manner and reputation. He was, most certainly, not a man who could be described as dull. Having now met him, she rather understood why he was called ‘the heart of danger’. It would be all too easy to develop a tendre for a man like that! She should avoid him, knowing what she did of his reputation. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to know more about him.

  She wanted to know why he was standoffish, why he cultivated that dark and threatening manner – for she was sure that he did cultivate it, with absolute intent. She wanted to know what was going on behind those deep brown eyes. And the fact that her mother and sister would likely disapprove only made him the more interesting.

  Shaking her head at her own waywardness, she slipped out of bed, and rang for Betsy, then tucked herself back under the covers until Betsy could build up the fire to warm the room. An hour later, after eating a small breakfast from a tray brought to her room, she dressed in her warmest pelisse over a soft woollen day dress, put on her most waterproof boots, and went downstairs. Her thoughts still ran in the same circles, and she had decided to walk in the gardens to think. That was something she had always done, and the peace of the place always helped sort out her thoughts.

  She walked through the rose garden, where bare stalks reached mournfully for the grey sky, and imagined it as it would be come spring – but this year, she would not see it, for she would be in London. Beyond that, past the hedges of the small maze, she followed the path down to the small stream, and the lake that it fed. Under the bare branches of the trees, the bank of the lake was rimed with ice, the early sun drawing sparkling glints from the crystals of it. It was beautiful, in a cold and distant way. She leant back against the trunk of a tree, staring into the distance. What should she do? Should she do as she wanted to, and attempt to learn more of Dangerfield? Or should she, for perhaps the first time in her life, do the sensible and well-behaved thing, and avoid the man, beyond polite acknowledgement when required?

  Across the lake, in the distance, where the path came out of the trees of the small home wood, a movement caught her eye. A rider. She watched, curious – who was it? Who might be out this early on a cold winter’s day?

  As the rider got closer, Isabelle began to be sure that it was none other than the object of her circling thoughts. It seemed that he had been out for a ride in the early quiet – another intriguing thing about him – most of the ton did not rise until the middle of the day, yet here he was, in the crisp cold air, returning from a ride, barely an hour past the late winter dawn. It was soon obvious that he was going back to the stables, and without considering her motives too closely, Isabelle turned away from the lake and went back into the main garden area.

  If she walked across to the herb garden, then she could see the stables – would, in fact, be between the stables and the house. She refused to think about why she was walking that way – she simply went. The small voice of reason in her mind, which told her that she should turn away, should take another path, was one she had long practice at ignoring.

  ~~~~~

  Lyon felt better than he had for months. The cold morning air stung his cheeks, and his breath turned to mist as it left him. he had woken abnormally early, and taken up the offer that Kilmerstan had made the previous night, to borrow a horse from his stables. He had gone out in the pre-dawn light, and watched the sun rise over the sparkling ice-touched landscape, with only the sound of a few robins to disturb the silence. He had not, he realised, been anywhere that quiet for years.

  The silence had somehow drained the tension out of him – a tension which had been present since the fateful dawn when Josephine had made her choice. It had been a good idea to come to Upper Nettlefold after all.

  He returned the horse to the stables, and set off to walk back to the house, studying the expansive gardens around him, and imagining how they might look come spring, filled with flowers and rich scents. He passed the end of a high hedge, and stepped into what he thought was a herb and scent garden area. As he did so, he almost collided with someone standing on the path, just past the hedge.

  Instinctively, he reached out to stabilise himself, and them. He discovered himself to be holding Lady Isabelle. Time slowed to a crawl. Their eyes met, through the blended mist of their breath, and he became acutely aware of the warmth of her beneath his hands, of the reality of her body, pressed against him, where she had stumbled when he had collided with her.

  He found that he did not want to release her, although all propriety and sense said that he should. Her eyes were wide, their blue-violet depths drawing him in, her lips were slightly parted, where a small gasp of surprise had escaped them when she had nearly fallen. His eyes traced their perfect shape, as he would like to trace that shape with his own lips, with his tongue.

  Slowly Lyon began to lower his head, bringing his lips ever closer to hers. She made no attempt to pull away. He might have kissed her, then and there, but for a noise from the direction of the house. It was enough to snap him out of the dreamlike state that he found himself in. He straightened, carefully releasing her, making sure that she was steady, and stepped back from her.

  Her eyes followed him, full of something he was unable to interpret, something that seemed to be composed of regret, and something more.

  “I do apologise, Lady Isabelle, that was very clumsy of me. I was not looking where I was going – I was foolishly too busy admiring the layout of the gardens.”

  He expected a simpering, flirtatious response, or shock, or… one of a dozen other responses he could imagine most of the women in Town making. She made none of them. She simply stood, watching him, then sighed, turning away slightly.

  “I must take equal blame, Your Grace, for I was not expecting someone to come around the hedge so rapidly, and I did nothing to catch myself. I like to come out into the gardens early, before most people rise, for it is peaceful, and allows me to think. But I rarely see another soul when I do.”

  “I chose to ride early for exactly that reason – the peace and quiet of a time when others still sleep. Most unfashionable of me, I know, but so be it. It is rare for me to meet anyone else – apart from the servants, of course, whose day runs on a very different schedule from ours.”

  She turned he
r eyes back to him, and there was a moment, again, when they simply stood, looking at each other. His eyes went to her lips again. The temptation was so strong… yet he had come here to avoid such entanglements, to avoid the memories that such thoughts inevitably drew to the surface of his mind. He looked away, breaking the spell.

  “Your Grace… might you tell me of events in London of late? I am to go up to Town for the Season come spring, and would know more of recent events.”

  It was almost, he thought, as if she was searching for something to talk about, to prolong the moment. He should politely excuse himself, and escape before she intrigued him further. Instead, he smiled, and held out his arm.

  “Walk with me? Help me to imagine this garden in spring, whilst we talk?” Her eyes met his again, and he thought he saw a moment of indecision, before she placed her hand on his arm. They turned, and began to walk through the gardens, past ice rimed benches and frozen fountains. “Events in London? I suspect that I am not the best person to ask, my Lady. For I must admit that the past few months I have been rather a recluse. But what sort of thing would you wish to know? I will see if I can answer.”

  ~~~~~

  Isabelle felt dizzy. The warmth of the man’s arm under her hand was palpable, even through his thick coat, and seemed to spread through her body from that point. She hoped that she had not presented the impression of a foolish woman – she hated being assumed to be foolish and feather brained. But this man discomposed her. He was nothing that she expected – not from his whispered of reputation, nor from her experience of other men of the ton. Admittedly, he presented a rather haughty and forbidding appearance – which only enhanced his striking visual appeal – and the sense of danger was present in him, as if he might do something devilish, without warning, but in all other ways, he was… different… somehow.

  It was as if, beneath that rather forbidding surface, there was some deep secret hidden, that she did not understand.