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

by Arietta Richmond

  He could no longer deny the fact that he cared for her. Cared more than he had allowed himself to care since Josephine, and perhaps, more than he had actually cared for Josephine at all. Which was a rather terrifying recognition. Especially with respect to a woman who appeared to despair of everything, in a way that he did not understand.

  He had begun to avoid conversation, even more than usual, becoming irritable as a result of the forced inaction – he could not act to help her, if he did not know the details of the cause of her distress. He could not follow his instinct, and deal unpleasantly with Scarpdale, unless he had just cause – which at this point, he did not. ‘Because the lady dislikes you’ was not sufficient justification for a duel.

  He refused to play yet another silly parlour game, and hence, was in a position to notice when Lady Isabelle slipped from the room. He rose from his seat in the shadows of the drapes which kept out the winter chill, and followed her. If he could not take out his frustrations on Scarpdale, at least he might steal this chance to speak with Lady Isabelle alone again, to discover more. And to kiss her again, whispered the small voice in his thoughts.

  As he stepped into the hall, he saw her disappear in the direction of the conservatory. Good, he had hoped she would be going there, and not to her rooms. He walked in that direction, casually, stopping at times to consider a portrait on the walls, making sure that no servants were nearby when he eventually went through that door, and down the short corridor to the conservatory. The warm air and the rich scent of plants wrapped around him when he stepped in. She was, as he had expected, seated in the same place, staring out blankly.

  He softly cleared his throat. She looked up, less startled than the previous time, almost as if she had been expecting him. That was a foolish thought – mere wishful thinking on his part. She obviously had more serious things to think about than him. he went to her, and sat, forcing himself not to touch her, waiting for her reaction.

  “Your Grace… is this wise?”

  “Almost certainly not. But I could not resist, when you slipped away from that tangle of inanity in the parlour.”

  She laughed, that brittle edged laugh again, but her eyes were sad. The sadness tore at his soul, and he reacted before thought, as he always seemed to do with her. He reached for her, drawing her to him – she came willingly, and he kissed her, all thought of anything else gone from his mind, instantly. It was deeper, more certain, than their previous kiss, and in her reactions that sense of hunger, of grasping at something desperately, was stronger.

  His body sang with desire, with heat, with a heady sense of connection that he had never known before. He did not draw back until she did. They sat, still touching, both breathing hard. There seemed no way to move past the moment, to speak, after the intensity of what had just been said without words. What exactly that was which had passed between them, he shied away from considering too closely. Instead, he forced himself to speak, to address the heart of what had been worrying at him for days.

  “My Lady, I cannot help but ask – what is it that troubles you? Is it to do with Lord Scarpdale? For I can tell, as I noted before, that all is not right between you.”

  “Not right….”

  Her voice trailed off into a small strangled noise, half laugh, and half sob. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb gently across its pale surface.

  “My Lady…?”

  She looked at him, and he felt weighed, judged in some way. Then she gave the tiniest of nods, and spoke.

  “Yes, it is to do with Lord Scarpdale, and it is most definitely not right, but it’s my own past foolishness that has brought it upon me.”

  “What does that mean, my Lady? What has occurred that you would describe so?”

  She looked at him, her blue-violet eyes clear and full of pain, then spoke, so softly that he could barely hear the words.

  “I once wanted to know something so much, that I let myself be convinced to go somewhere I should not have, somewhere that risked everything – but I was so focused on getting my answers that I did not think past that. In the end, I was not discovered, but…”

  “But now Scarpdale knows something, and threatens you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me the details?”

  “I cannot.”

  The anguish in her voice when she spoke those two words broke his heart, yet what could he do? Her secrets were hers to keep, as she wished, he had no right to them.

  He drew her to him again, and did the only thing he could do, which might offer her some comfort, which might show her that he cared what became of her, no matter that she would not tell him the depth of it. He kissed her again. She moaned softly against his lips, her own pressing to his desperately, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips, as if to taste him. His arms held her tightly, and he allowed everything that he felt, but could not say, to flow into his touch, his kiss. Finally, they drew apart, looking almost dazed. She glanced away, then brought her eyes back to his.

  “I wish…”

  “…that things might have been different?” He finished the words for her, and she nodded, swallowing a half sob. He lifted her hand and kissed it, his eyes holding hers. “Perhaps something will change?”

  She shook her head.

  “I do not think that is possible, no matter how much I might wish it to be.”

  “If you can tell me, perhaps I can help?”

  “I cannot. But thank you. Please, go now – I do not think that I can bear to even be tempted to hope.”

  He kissed her hand again, and nodded. What could he do, but obey her wishes – and think very hard about what Scarpdale might have, to hold over her as a threat. Lyon rose, and bowed, then left the conservatory as quietly as he had come. When Lady Isabelle did not appear at dinner, he was not surprised. He watched Scarpdale throughout the evening, and by the time that Lyon went up to bed, he was no closer to knowing what the threat might be.

  When he lay down to at least try to sleep, it took a very long time for his mind to slow enough to allow any rest. But, eventually, he slipped into that half dream state on the edge of true sleep. And an image came back to him, one he had last thought of, a few days before, on the edge of waking. As he had then, he sat up in bed, completely awake in an instant.

  That one time at Owlfege Manor, when he had seen the woman who he was now almost certain was Lady Isabelle... was that the key to it all? What if his passing thought before was correct – what if Scarpdale had seen her there, and was threatening to reveal that fact, dressed in the most lurid terms that he could imagine? That would be enough to damn a woman in the eyes of the ton.

  If that was the threat, then Lyon had to assume that Scarpdale had a price for his silence – but what? He could see no way to discover more, except asking Lady Isabelle outright. He was quite certain that, being the woman that he now knew her to be, she would not have gone to such a place without very good reason – and if that was what she had meant, when she said ‘I went somewhere I should not have been’, then it made even more sense. He would find a way to get her alone tomorrow, and ask – the worst she could do was to still refuse to tell him anything.

  ~~~~~

  Sleep was slow coming to Isabelle. Dangerfield’s kiss had left her even more distressed. Could she trust him? Could she tell him the truth? Regardless, surely, she was doomed.

  Chapter Nine

  The day of the Christmas Ball was clear, although there had been a fall of snow overnight. Isabelle woke late, and did not feel at all rested, for she had tossed and turned for hours thinking of her predicament, and of the fact that she desired His Grace of Dangerfield’s kisses. Truth to tell, she desired more than that – she had come to care for him – it had crept up on her, a little at a time, her feelings reinforced by every small kindness he had given her, by his attempts to protect her from Lord Scarpdale, and by the honesty of his words – he had not, ever, denied his reputation, or tried to minimise it – he had simply acknowled
ged that there were things he had done, which perhaps he was no longer interested in doing.

  If only… if only she had never gone to London with Banfield, if only she had met Dangerfield under different circumstances, if only Lord Scarpdale was not an unprincipled blackguard. But ‘if only’ would not change the reality of her situation. She could not face seeing people, could not bear to go downstairs and see Scarpdale watching her, gloating at his expected victory. So she took breakfast in her room, and claimed a another headache.

  Isabelle instructed Betsy to let Eugenia know that she still intended to attend dinner, and the Ball, but that she wished to rest until then, in the hope of having the headache dissipate.

  The day passed slowly, in an endless whirl of hopeless thoughts. She had been a fool, so very much a fool. She had thought, at the time, that she loved Banfield, and that he loved her – but in reality, they had each been using the other. Only now, as she came to know Dangerfield, had she begun to truly understand what love might feel like. Watching her brother’s happiness had begun the understanding, but Dangerfield had caused a cascade of feelings in her, the like of which she had never felt before. And now, at a point where there was no hope, no chance for such a thing to ever have a happy result, she had reached the painful realisation that she loved him.

  She sat with that thought, allowing it to expand – yes, she had come to love Dangerfield. A pointless, hopeless, and quite probably unrequited love – he might have kissed her, but, still, there was his reputation as a rake….

  For a little, she cried at the hopelessness of it all, then chided herself for becoming maudlin. She would do what had to be done, for the sake of her sister. She would agree to Lord Scarpdale’s requirement that she marry him. But she would, as a last act of rebellion, not tell him that until the very last moment, right at the conclusion of the Ball.

  When it came time to dress for dinner, she was calm, if sad and subdued. As Betsy pinned her hair up, Isabelle considered herself in the mirror – her face was pale, quite fashionably tragic looking, and she almost laughed at the thought. Almost – she could not bear to allow it of herself. She feared that, if she did, she might become hysterical.

  She went downstairs slowly, determined to meet her doom with dignity, no matter what. There would be dinner, then an hour or two before the Christmas Ball proper began. For that time, she would, if she could, pretend that her life’s hopes would not end before tomorrow’s dawn.

  ~~~~~

  Lyon spent the day in frustrated irritation. Lady Isabelle did not come down – it was reported that her megrims had returned, and that she was resting so that she might be better for the Ball. He wanted to see her, wanted, if he was honest with himself, to kiss her again, to kiss her senseless, and far more than that.

  But to do so would require that he forgo his resolution to never let himself be open to such pain again. His mind shied away from it. Generally, if a man felt as he did about a woman – a woman who was respectable, and who he had no intention of ruining – it could lead to only one thing. He was not ready to consider that, not yet. He pushed those thoughts aside and went back to thinking about Lady Isabelle’s problem. He was no closer to certainty, and until she came downstairs, he had no possibility of speaking to her, to discover more.

  His only consolation in the day was the fact that Scarpdale seemed even more out of sorts than he felt himself.

  By dinner time, Lyon felt as if he might snap at the next person who spoke to him. He was greatly relieved when, as he passed into the hallway on the way from the parlour to the dining room, he glanced up and saw Lady Isabelle coming down the stairs.

  She looked beautiful, as always, but pale and sad, as if a terrible weight bore down on her. His own frustrations fell away at the sight – all he wanted in that instant was to help her, to take the sadness from her eyes, to fold her into his arms and hold her, to keep her safe. Her eyes met his, and she gave him a wan smile. He waited, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, he offered her his arm.

  “Lady Isabelle – may I escort you in to dinner?”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  She placed her hand on his arm, and it was as if lightning had struck him, so intense was the heat that ran through him from that point. Somehow, he managed to simply walk, with her at his side. When they entered the dining room, he was most pleased to discover that he had been seated beside her for the meal.

  Once they were seated, he turned to her, and spoke as softly as possible.

  “Are you well? You look very pale, and… almost sad, Lady Isabelle. I do not like to see you looking so distressed.”

  She gave a tiny gasp, and her hand came up to her lips. He had the sudden urge to kiss her, no matter the presence of a room full of people. He repressed the urge, and waited.

  “Oh dear. Do I truly look so?”

  “You do. To me – but perhaps I observe you more closely than most people do?”

  “Perhaps.”

  For a moment, there was a flash of brightness in her.

  Lyon took a steadying breath. If he was to have the opportunity to speak with her, alone, to ask her the truth of Owlfege Manor, then he would need to arrange an assignation. And now was the best time to ask, before someone entered the room, and took the seat beside her.

  “Lady Isabelle, I would speak with you… privately. Will you meet me in the conservatory, once dinner has concluded?”

  His voice was barely audible, a breath as close to her ear as propriety would allow. She turned startled eyes to him, and her lips parted. Again, a need to kiss her seized him. When she spoke, her voice was equally soft, breathy, and slightly shaky.

  “Your Grace, I… should not accede to so scandalous a request… yet I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  He had acted barely in time, for moments later, Lord Ballymill took his seat on her other side. Dinner seemed interminable, and Lyon found himself lacking all appetite. So too did Lady Isabelle, it seemed, for she barely ate a morsel, simply pushing her food about the plate. Neither of them spoke much at all, and Ballymill soon turned his conversational efforts elsewhere, much to Lyon’s relief. When dinner was complete, the gentlemen stayed at the table as port was served and the ladies retired to the parlour, although he expected that most would rapidly go to their rooms to change into their ballgowns.

  Lyon made short work of his port, barely noticing the taste, then excused himself from the room. Kilmerstan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He wondered what the man would think, if he knew where Lyon was going.

  She was waiting for him, on that same seat in the conservatory, and the darkness of the outside world seen through the glass panes behind her, made her seem all the more pale and wan, where the moonlight caught her face. He went to her, and took her hands in his as he settled onto the seat beside her. She looked up at him, her blue-violet eyes wide and glittering with unshed tears. His heart broke.

  “You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. Lady Isabelle, what I am about to ask is something that I, truly, have no right to ask – yet I find that I must. I must know, for I cannot bear to see you so discomposed.” She simply waited. He licked lips which were suddenly dry. There was no easy way to ask, no polite way to couch such a question. Bald simplicity was all that he could use. “My Lady, this May past, were you at Owlfege Manor, near London?”

  She turned her face away, a sharp movement, full of anguish, but she did not withdraw her hands from his. Her breath came rapidly, and she was shaking – he could feel it in her hands. He waited, afraid to move, afraid to say any more, lest she run from him, refusing to answer. Never before had a few minutes been so long. She turned back, and met his eyes. It seemed that she had come to some decision.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer was as baldly simple as his question had been.

  “I thought so. I believe that I saw you there, just a glimpse upon the stairs. It was not a place that I found to my taste, and I never returned to
it, after that day.” Her face expressed her horror that he had seen her there. It was as if she waited for him to draw away from her, to reject her.

  He supposed that most men of the ton would have done so, damning her as a wanton, simply based on that one glimpse. Yet he, of all people, understood that seeming was not reality – for much of his reputation had arisen from such assumptions. He could not judge her in such a way, could not be so hypocritical as to judge her the way that others judged him.

  “My Lady, I do not judge you for your presence there. I can only assume that you had a good and compelling reason to be there – for nothing about you suggests to me that you could be the sort of woman who more commonly frequents that house.”

  Her pale cheeks reddened in what must be embarrassment. Her eyes again glittered in the moonlight, and he suspected that tears were close. Unlike most women, she did not let them fall.

  “I am surprised at your generosity. Most would condemn me without a further thought. Yes, I did have good reason for being there – at least I thought it so at the time.” She hesitated, as if choosing her words with infinite care, then sighed and went on. “The Earl of Banfield knew something of what had happened on the battlefield where my younger brother died. He refused to tell me, saying that it was not entirely his tale to tell. He assured me that he could trick the man responsible for Stanton’s death into a situation where he would tell me the truth of it, but that to do so, we would have to go to London. I wanted so badly to know, that I agreed, and partly lied to my family about it. I did spend a few days with my friend, Lady Marguerite Weston, but the rest of the week I was away, I was with Banfield. I know that none will believe it, but I did not give him my virtue. In fact, once I learnt what I had wanted to know, I removed myself from his company as soon as possible.”