I Dared the Duke

by Anna Bennett

  He strode to the sideboard, grabbed the decanter of brandy, refilled his glass, and topped off hers before handing it to her.

  He guided her to a settee in front of the fireplace where they both sat, the blue silk of her gown almost touching his trousers. He thought for a moment, and then raised his glass. “To ostrich feathers, which are far more utilitarian than most people realize.”

  Grinning, she raised her glass as well. “To leprechauns. Who are far more real than most people realize.”

  He clinked his snifter against hers and met her sultry gaze as the brandy slid down his throat. Damn, but those blue eyes of hers bewitched him.

  She certainly wasn’t acting like a wallflower. And in that moment, as a saucy smile played about her pink lips, he knew without a doubt that he’d rue the day he’d foolishly labeled her and her sisters the Wilting Wallflowers. Yes, his offhand, jocular quip had saddled the Lacey sisters with the epithet they hadn’t been able to shake for three seasons—and it would come back to haunt him. Maybe it already had.

  Miss Lacey set her glass on the table in front of them and smoothed her skirts, as though signaling she meant to return to business. Pity, that.

  “There are a couple of terms we should clarify,” she announced.

  Holy hell. “Such as?”

  “For one, our little deal must remain a secret. I would not want your grandmother to know I had to coerce you to spend time with her. That would rather defeat the purpose.”

  Why must she always make him feel two inches tall? “Agreed.”

  “Some subtlety on your part shall be required. A bit of finesse.”

  He shot her a wicked look. “I’ve no shortage of finesse. Perhaps you’ve already heard.”

  Her cheeks pinkened, and she brushed an imaginary speck of lint off her shoulder. “What I mean to say is that you cannot be too obvious or rush your grandmother to make a decision with respect to her wishes.”

  He draped an arm over the back of the settee, his fingertips tantalizingly close to a curl that dangled from her nape. “I do understand, Miss Lacey. However, I must remind you that time is of the essence. I feel confident that we shall be able to accommodate one another’s needs.”

  The blush on her cheeks deepened and spread down her neck over the delectable swells of her breasts, triggering a highly inconvenient wave of desire.

  Dragging his gaze away from her neckline, he arched a brow. “Have you any other last-minute rules you wish to impose?” he asked dryly.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s not a rule so much as a request.” She bit her lip as she glanced up at him, her expression uncharacteristically hesitant and—unless he was mistaken—vulnerable. The shrewd negotiator in him should have smelled blood, and yet, it was all he could do not to blurt, I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Everything.

  Attempting a droll tone, he merely said, “Go on.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your grandmother becomes distressed when we argue. I think that—for her sake—we should refrain from bickering when in her presence and strive to treat one another kindly.”

  It was hardly an unreasonable request, but he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, he let his gaze linger on her plump lower lip. “How kindly, exactly, should I treat you?”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, then shrugged. “Somewhat more kindly than you’d treat a mangy stray dog, and somewhat less kindly than you’d treat your…”

  “My what, Miss Lacey?”

  “Your mistress.”

  Good God. He leaned forward, wanting to read every nuance of her expression, every emotion written on her face. Her eyes held a flash of defiance and a spark of pride, neither of which was particularly surprising. But beneath her bravado lay a blush of something raw and wholly unexpected—longing.

  Then again, maybe he’d simply had too much brandy.

  “You made two assumptions just now,” he said smoothly, “both of which I feel obliged to correct.”

  She batted her thick lashes mockingly. “By all means, please enlighten me.”

  “First, you implied that I wouldn’t treat a stray dog with kindness. The truth is, I’d be more inclined to treat a mongrel well than I would most men of my acquaintance.”

  “That is good news for dogs throughout London and rather unfortunate news for your friends.”

  “Indeed,” he conceded. “I must also correct your second assumption—that I have a mistress. I do not.”

  “Forgive me, your grace,” she said dryly. “I did not mean to impugn your character.”

  Alex relaxed against the plush cushions of the settee and flashed his most charming smile. “No offense was taken, Miss Lacey. I just thought you should know.”

  * * *

  Beth could not imagine how the conversation had devolved to talk of mistresses, but perhaps the brandy toast was partially to blame for that—and for the headiness she felt from sitting so close to the duke.

  “I’m delighted that we’ve cleared up the matter of your nonexistent mistress,” she said primly. “And I do hope that in the future we shall be able to keep civil tongues in our heads—at least while we’re in the duchess’s presence.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the duke drawled. “Surely we can do better than mere civility. I thought we were striving for kindness.”

  “True, but I’ve since realized the folly of it.”

  He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “No, I think we’re quite capable.”

  Beth wasn’t so sure. The duke seemed to bring out the worst in her. But perhaps if they aimed for kindness, they’d manage to achieve civility. “Very well then. Our goal shall be kindness.”

  “Excellent. Let us practice.”

  “You want to practice being kind?” she asked, incredulous.

  “It may come naturally to you, but I suspect it will require rather more effort on my part.” He tented his fingers beneath his chin, then mused, “How to start? Perhaps I could begin by paying you a compliment.”

  Her cheeks heated. “That’s not necessary. Besides, you should save your kindness for when we’re in the company of your grandmother. No sense in using it up now.”

  “But kindness is not a limited commodity, is it, Miss Lacey?”

  “It isn’t for most people,” she muttered uncharitably.

  He shot her a mildly scolding look. “Tsk, tsk. I think you could use some practice too.”

  She bristled and set down her glass. “Believe it or not, I’m practicing right now. I’m refraining from all manner of retorts and, instead, bidding you a good night.”

  As she rose from the settee, he grasped her hand, making it suddenly hard to breathe. She could have easily pulled away. It’s what she should have done. But she didn’t.

  “Wait,” he protested. “If you leave now, you won’t hear my compliment.”

  She savored the warmth of his hand and the fluttering in her chest. “Nor will I hear further insults.”

  “I wouldn’t insult you.” He shook his head as though truly offended.

  “An empty compliment would feel worse than an insult.” She was amazed by her ability to keep her voice cool, even as her skin heated from his touch.

  He moved closer and clasped her hand between his, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I will always be truthful with you—to the extent that I can.”

  “Fine.” She couldn’t endure much more of this closeness, dismayingly enthralling as it was. “Pay me a compliment, if you wish.”

  His gaze traveled over her face and lingered on her mouth before dropping to her breasts and hips. As she braced herself for something wholly inappropriate and wildly titillating, she could already feel the heat climbing up her neck.

  “There are a great many things I could compliment you on, Miss Lacey, but the thing I admire most about you…”

  She closed her eyes, not certain she could bear it if he should mention a body part south of her chin.
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br />   “… is your devotion to my grandmother. Your loyalty to her is commendable.”

  She opened her eyes to see if the duke mocked her, but he seemed quite sincere. The breath she’d been holding rushed out of her. “Thank you. She is a rather amazing woman.”

  “And so are you.”

  Beth swallowed. They’d both had too much to drink. She shouldn’t have allowed him to hold her hand. Blast, she shouldn’t even have come to his study. He needed her services—such as they were—and as a certifiable rake, he was not above using pretty words to achieve his aim. Something she’d do well to remember.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll start to determine what the duchess might choose as her first wish,” she said. “But for now, I think it is well past time I retired.”

  Almost regretfully, he released her hand and stood. “I appreciate your assistance, and I have a feeling we shall make an excellent team.”

  Beth wasn’t so sure about that. If she was on anyone’s team, it was the duchess’s. But her knees were too weak to spar with him further. “Good night, your grace,” she said, rising and making a beeline for the door of his study, which suddenly felt more like a dragon’s lair.

  “Good night, Miss Lacey. And please do me one favor, if you would.”

  Drat, she’d almost made her escape. She halted and looked over her shoulder at his dangerously handsome face. “What might that be?”

  “Make sure you lock the windows and door of your bedchamber tonight—just as a precaution, of course.”

  A chill ran the length of Beth’s spine. Good heavens. What dangers lurked the halls of the duke’s house—besides him? “Don’t worry,” she choked out. “I will.”

  And if she could manage it, she might just block the door with her dresser for good measure.

  Chapter SIX

  Seated at a worn wooden table outside of the Goat and Goose, the fickle sun warming his face as he nursed a pint of ale, Alex could convince himself all was right with the world.

  That morning, he’d persuaded his friend, the Marquess of Darberville—Darby to Alex—to accompany him to a reputable shop on Crawford Street where he placed an order for a new coach. Mr. Dodd’s conveyances were widely touted as the finest in all of London.

  And yet the coach Alex had commissioned from the same man a mere three years ago was likely being used for kindling at that very moment. Little had been salvageable after his accident—only a heap of splintered wood, bent wheels, and broken axles remained. It was a miracle that he, the driver, and one of the horses had survived. Alex had to put down the other animal—a memory that would forever haunt him.

  But the possibility that someone else could have been traveling in the coach with him that day troubled him even more. Darby could have been accompanying him, or his grandmother … even Miss Lacey.

  He’d joined his grandmother and her feisty companion for breakfast that morning and nearly scalded himself with coffee when his grandmother announced that his new vehicle should be a vivid shade of purple, a royal and therefore supremely respectable hue. She ultimately—and fortunately—had a change of heart and settled upon midnight blue. Miss Lacey may have helped him dodge that particular bullet by commenting that she thought dark blue to be both classic and perfectly masculine.

  In any case, the coach was ordered, and the least he could do was buy Darby a couple of drinks.

  As Alex rolled his shoulders and took a long draw on his pint, he contemplated telling his friend about the intriguing Miss Lacey—that she was his grandmother’s new companion and that he’d made a devil’s bargain with her. But doing so would likely spark a host of questions Alex wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. It wasn’t that he kept secrets from Darby—in fact, he trusted no one more.

  But he didn’t feel like sharing Miss Lacey just yet. Especially not with an affable, highly eligible bachelor who’d probably never suffered the humiliation of a minor blemish, much less ghastly burn scars.

  As it turned out, Darby launched the conversation first—in an entirely different direction.

  “Have you figured out who the hell’s trying to kill you?” His friend grinned as he swiveled his torso and looked around the otherwise empty courtyard. “Or should I don my armor and raise my shield while in your company?”

  Alex shrugged. “Do what you must. It’s every man for himself.”

  His friend guffawed. “Until you require help.”

  Alex nodded. “Exactly.” Alex stared at the thin ring of foam floating on his ale. “I’ve been thinking. What are the chances that my illness and the coach accident were mere coincidences?”

  Darby snorted. “Not bloody likely. First, you’re poisoned at the club. Then, your coach axle mysteriously breaks a few weeks later? Something sinister is afoot.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t really poisoned. The brandy I was drinking might have turned bad, or I might have simply taken ill.”

  “Balderdash. A valiant attempt to explain away unpleasant facts. You’re as healthy as an ox, and the symptoms came on too suddenly to blame sickness. Besides, my drink came from the same decanter as yours.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Darby leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You were green and convulsing, for God’s sake. Face it. Someone slipped something foul into your drink.”

  “I remember.” He didn’t, actually, but he’d take Darby’s word for it. Alex had felt like death for three straight days, and the doctor had said he was lucky to have survived.

  Alex thought he was rather unlucky to have been poisoned.

  Once he’d finally managed to haul his ass out of his sickbed, he’d gone back to his club, searching for witnesses and possible clues—but turned up nothing.

  “I’ll admit poisoning is the most likely cause,” Alex said, “but the coach accident—”

  “Was no accident.” Darby stared thoughtfully into his ale. “You saw Dodd today. I thought the vein in his forehead was going to burst at the mere suggestion that an axle on one of his coaches could have been faulty. His reputation is solid. If there was a problem with your axle, someone must have tampered with it.”

  Alex cursed. “My staff would never allow such a thing.”

  “Anyone could have sneaked into your coach house at night,” Darby countered. “Or, some miscreant could have taken a hacksaw to it while you were at a house party or the opera or some bloody ball. There’s no telling how long you were driving around with it on the brink of snapping.”

  “True. Alfred, my driver, inspected it regularly, but his eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

  “Jesus, Alex. You have a driver with bad eyesight?”

  “I recently saw him offering a bowl of fish scraps to a rat in the stables—he called it Kitty. But he’s been a loyal employee for years. I can’t cast him aside just because he doesn’t see as well as he used to.”

  Darby raised his brows, disbelieving. “You might consider a different position for him—or buy him some damned spectacles.”

  “I offered, but that only got Alfred’s feathers ruffled.”

  Darby swallowed the last gulp of his ale and signaled the barmaid for another. “I’m glad we took my coach today.”

  Alex had bigger worries than his driver’s stubbornness, however. Until he figured out who was trying to kill him, he was going to be looking over his shoulder every time he left the house. And worrying about the safety of anyone who was with him.

  “I can’t understand why someone would want me dead,” he mused. “Whoever it is should just challenge me to a duel and be done with it.”

  “Maybe he fears you’d put a bullet through his head.”

  Fair point, although Alex was more likely to aim for a shoulder or knee. “So he’s a coward.”

  “Unless he has a good reason to remain anonymous,” Darby said. “Who are your enemies?”

  “That’s a loaded question.” Alex dragged a hand down his face. He’d rankled his fair share of the ton, for a couple of reasons. First, he detested small talk.
Standing around and exchanging pleasantries was akin to torture. Still, his lack of social graces, in and of itself, shouldn’t incite the kind of anger that drove someone to murder.

  Second, his reputation as an unapologetic rake had infuriated—even threatened—many a husband. Yes, jealous husbands were probably the logical place to start.

  “Lord Newton doesn’t like me much.” An understatement, to be sure. The viscount was under the impression that Alex had seduced his wife. Understandable, since Lady Newton herself had whispered throughout London’s ballrooms the salacious stories of Alex’s expertise at lovemaking. She claimed she’d been powerless to resist his charms—that no woman could.

  Which wasn’t quite true.

  But facts mattered little to the ton. What mattered was that the tale had been circulated and that it was believed to be true.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t called you out already.” Darby smiled appreciatively at the barmaid as she thrust her impressive cleavage close to his face and set a fresh pint on the table in front of him.

  “And publicly admit he’s a cuckold? He’s too proud for that.”

  Darby nodded thoughtfully. “Newton could be the one trying to kill you. Although, I can’t see him getting his hands dirty. He’d hire some lowlife to do the job.”

  “Not exactly comforting.”

  “Whoever the scoundrel is, he’s already proved he’s not the cleverest bloke. He’s botched the job twice.”

  “Right. You know what they say about the third time.”

  The smile slipped from Darby’s face, and his expression turned sober. “We’ll keep an eye on Newton. Who else wants you dead?”

  “Haversham owes me five thousand pounds. A friendly game of vingt-et-un at his house party last month turned nasty. He played too deep one night, lost, then accused me of cheating. I reached across the table and punched him.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Darby let out a long whistle. “Must have made for an uncomfortable scene at breakfast the next morning.”

  “I left that night—out of respect for Lady Haversham.”

  Darby snapped his head up and quirked a brow. “Did you and she…?”