“You don’t need to go through the whole list,” Samuel said, bowing again to Chloe and then, at last, looking up, with a stare perfected for maximum impact, into a pair of bewitching blue eyes that drew the breath from his body. Fortunately, he was adept enough at deception to hide his intense pleasure.
“I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,” he said smoothly, handing a disgruntled Philbert his shield and lance. “Knight-errant,” he added, “who seeks adventure.”
“Knight-errant, indeed,” the viscountess retorted, giving him a frank look. “What was your latest act of chivalry, or shouldn’t I ask?”
Samuel caught the smile that lurked on Lily Boscastle’s full lips. “I fought a duel this morning in Hyde Park.”
Lord Philbert regarded him in dismay. “Isn’t that a provocative conversation piece? What does it have to do with honorable acts?”
He and Samuel had played the roles of incautious rogue and discreet adviser for so many years that they had not only perfected them; they earnestly lived them. “Honor had nothing to do with it. My opponent is a close friend.”
“What did you duel over?” Chloe inquired after a short hesitation.
“He dared me to shoot his boot off his head,” Samuel replied. “And then he took a shot at me. It was a prank. I didn’t invite the press to attend.” But he had sent them an unsigned letter, stating that the duel would take place. He had also published an editorial on London’s sewer system that same day, and his notoriety would help draw attention to those who might otherwise not read the piece.
Lord Philbert flushed as if he were coming to a boil. “If you’re going to tell the story, you might as well finish it. Both men missed.”
“At least a lady’s honor was not involved,” Chloe said with a meaningful glance at Lily.
Samuel smiled. He was doing his damnedest not to stare at her again himself. Why had he felt compelled to explain that the duel was a boyish caper? His reputation was at risk. He’d never admitted an innocuous motive to explain his antics before. But he had never tried to impress a lady in such a short time, either. What chance did he have of seeing her again if her guardian declared him an enemy of virtue?
And that guardian, in her vivid beauty, gave him the impression that she had dealt with a rake or two in her own past. Chloe. Chloe Boscastle. He frowned then, looking at her with renewed respect. “Lady Stratfield, I do know of you.”
“Oh, my,” Chloe said with an uncertain smile. “Not in front of my cousin, please.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of an introduction,” he went on, his admiration genuine. “But I am aware of your work in the female penitentiary.”
Chloe appeared taken aback. But then her eyes glistened in delight. She released Lily’s hand from her defensive clasp. Samuel observed the significant gesture in relief. Common ground. His instincts had proven true again.
“That was some time ago,” Chloe confessed. “What a memory Your Grace must have. Nobody cares about that segment of society.”
“Don’t we?” he asked in a dangerously intimate voice. “I admire your bravery.”
“Do you?” she asked, cynicism slipping back into her tone. “You’re brave yourself.”
He scented victory and felt not the slightest guilt in forging onward. A knight-errant was forced to do what he must do to win his lady fair. He waited for the next opening. It came as Lord Philbert’s senior footman approached the quartet and said sotto voce to his master, “Pardon me, milord. But there is a lady frolicking in the main fountain.”
“Then get her out,” Philbert muttered, withdrawing a handkerchief from his vest pocket, Samuel’s knightly accoutrements banging awkwardly in his grasp. “She’ll catch her death at this time of night.”
The footman bowed, his words practically inaudible. “Especially as she is in the raw and shouting for the Duke of la Mancha to save her.”
Lily lifted her gaze.
Her blue eyes kept returning to his, even though she must know better. Her mouth was tempting as a plum. He had to have her. He shrugged. “I have nothing to do with this.”
Lord Philbert turned toward the retreating footman. “You will have to excuse me for a few moments, ladies. Gravenhurst, I trust you will keep our lovely guests politely entertained.”
“I have a brilliant idea,” Samuel said, his gaze locked with Lily’s. “Why don’t I escort the ladies on a private tour of the gardens? The formal affair will be a crush.”
Lord Philbert shook his head. “It hasn’t been properly lit up yet. You won’t be able to see much in the dark.”
“All the better,” Samuel said with a deep chuckle, “if we have a naked noblewoman in our midst.”
“That is a wonderful idea,” Chloe said after Philbert trudged off to take care of his frolicking guest. “Lily and I would love a peek at the gardens. I would also love another glass of champagne.”
“Allow me,” Samuel said, gesturing to a pair of footmen stationed in a candlelit alcove.
At his subtle movement one footman braved the crowd to make way for the other to balance a tray that held three glasses of champagne. Lily could not believe it. Had the duke brought his own staff to the party, or had Lord Philbert assigned individual servants to attend him? Either way, she was growing more impressed with him by the moment.
Across a room he had drawn her notice by appearing to be an insouciant rogue. Up close he countered the image with a geniality that neither she nor Chloe seemed able to resist. Handsomeness was one thing. Personal magnetism was another. Look how easily he had persuaded them to go out into the gardens. Indeed, it was hard for Lily to hold any sensible thoughts in her head when she was caught up in his charm. And he was beautifully formed, his frame agile and almost slender. She would have felt ungainly if he hadn’t topped her by several inches.
His face, or what she could make out of it beneath his half mask, fascinated her. His brown eyes brewed with unfathomable emotions above hollow cheeks that gave his face its chiseled symmetry. His strong chin balanced what at first glance seemed to be a seraphic appeal, marking him as pure, dangerous male. She reassured herself again that he posed little danger to her at a party.
Still, she wanted to pull off his mask and put the rest of his features in perspective. The parts of his face she could not see might explain what it was about him that mystified her. That seemed missing. He was definitely not an uncomplicated man.
“Come, Lily. Your Grace,” Chloe said. “We cannot stand here staring at one another forever. Let’s view the gardens that London is raving about. Don Quixote, would you be so kind as to lead the way?”
He straightened, grinning at the loud creak his breastplate made. “With pleasure. Please excuse any rude noises coming from my costume.”
Lily stifled a laugh as he gave her another engaging grin. He was going out of his way to amuse her. Should she be flattered or raise her guard?
“There is a private anteroom in the main hall that leads through the dining room,” he explained, bending his head between the two women. Lily caught a whiff of his lime cologne. Divine.
“From there,” he continued, “the last door to the right takes you into a private gallery overlooking the garden.”
Chloe gave one of her low, uninhibited laughs. “Your Grace is an architect, too?”
He smiled artlessly. “Madam?”
“How else do you know the secret exits so well?”
“I’ve been forced once or twice to make an escape.”
“By yourself?”
“Her Ladyship is naughty to ask.”
Chloe inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Your Grace is naughty not to answer. Understand that my cousin is my concern.”
“Rightly so,” the duke agreed. “It would be remiss of you to entrust her to a . . . scamp.”
Lily listened to their exchange in envy. Her cousin could tease to her heart’s content as a viscountess and reformed sinner. What a shame Lily had never come to London for lessons in the wicked graces
. They seemed delightful. But who was charming whom here? She couldn’t decide whether Chloe or the duke had won the match. Was it possible that she, an unknown girl from the country, was the prize?
Undoubtedly not. Gentlemen like Gravenhurst viewed young ladies as—she glanced down at her dress—feathers to put in their caps. Still, she was enjoying his attention. His playful energy attracted her more than all of London’s other entertainments combined.
“To the gardens,” Chloe said with a spirited laugh.
And the evening might have ended innocently, the three of them absconding together, had another band of the viscountess’s past admirers not intercepted them as they approached the gilt candelabra in the corner.
“Chloe, Chloe, Chloe!” a chorus of beguiling voices called. “Don’t run away yet—we haven’t seen you in ages!”
Chloe halted, unable to resist glancing back, beau-monde butterfly that she was. Overall, in Lily’s opinion of her, which grew warmer by the minute, Chloe resisted little when it came to indulging convivial pleasures.
“I’ll only be a moment, I promise.” Chloe bit the edge of her lip in clear hesitation. “Dash it all. Go on without me. I’ll be right there. And I mean it.”
Lily took a breath. “But I—”
Chloe gave her a light hug. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she whispered. “And that goes double for you, Your Grace. We Boscastles have spies everywhere.”
Lily heard the duke’s voice beckoning her. She looked up slowly. “You will be perfectly safe,” he said. “Lady Stratfield knows where to find us. Our challenge will be making sure that the rest of the party doesn’t catch on.”
He opened a door behind him that she had not even noticed. But then, how would she have been aware of an exit when she had been staring at the winsome Gravenhurst all night?
Chapter 7
They stole through the interconnecting corridors like a pair of thieves. Samuel took light hold of Lily’s elbow. Now that he’d gained the opportunity he’d wanted, he wasn’t about to let her slip away. The viscountess knew a thing or two about trysts. She wasn’t liable to abandon Lily for any length of time to a man of his repute. Still, for now they were alone. Sufficient unto this moment was the temptation thereof.
“Oh.” Lily caught her breath.
Samuel had slowed to unlatch the French doors of a private courtyard, where a three-tiered fountain glistened beneath the moonlight. She was standing too close to him for propriety’s sake. But then, as if she realized that pleasant fact, she took a discreet step back.
“That isn’t the fountain, is it?” she asked over the duke’s shoulder.
“No.” He drew her outside with one hand and closed the doors with the other. “Not a naked lady to be seen.”
“Thank goodness,” she said with feeling.
He grinned. “Come on.”
“Where are we going first?”
“Do you have a preference?” It was amazing how she had turned an event he dreaded into a novel experience. And because he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “Do you have a favorite author whose work is being displayed tonight?”
“I . . . Yes.” She pulled herself free and gathered her feathered cloak around her arms. “No one knows his true name. Or whether he is one person or many.” Her voice dropped. “Whoever he is, he writes with a passion that—” She fell silent, clearly trying to curb her enthusiasm.
“Do continue,” he said gravely. “This passion . . .”
“His writing sweeps me off the ground,” she whispered.
“In any particular direction?” he asked slowly.
“Yes.” She raised her voice back to its ladylike tone. “Toward the gardens. Where my cousin is joining us, perhaps even with her husband. That would be Viscount Stratfield. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He doesn’t live in London, but he’s got a name, I understand, and something of a temper.”
Samuel reached back instinctively for her hand, half listening, aware of wasting time. He had seen the gardens only once or twice in various stages of construction and felt more uncomfortable than anything about viewing a tribute to his books. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Philbert’s efforts to immortalize Wickbury in boxwood. But he was presently more interested in fleshy things than in foliage or public accolade.
“Viscount Stratfield, did you say?” Good God. Now that he put his mind to it, Samuel did remember an intriguing rumor he had read a few years ago, when he was ruining his own image in the press. “The viscount who came back from the dead?”
He didn’t add that Lord Stratfield’s resurrection had allegedly occurred in his wife’s dressing closet, specifically in a trunk of Chloe’s undergarments, where Stratfield was said to have been hiding. That scandal had so delighted the ton that it hadn’t mattered whether it was true or not. Having just met Stratfield’s wife, Samuel tended to believe it was. What a story that must have been.
Lily’s grin suggested that the scandal had not been a fabrication. “I refuse to deny or confirm any gossip about my relatives.”
“Good for you. I admire a lady who isn’t influenced by low talk. And I admire . . .” His gaze traveled over her, his meaning explicit.
Her mouth tightened in reprimand.
“. . . your costume,” he said, guiding her around the fountain to a flagstone path. “It’s very original. I don’t believe I’ve seen another Goose-Girl at a masquerade before. I realized who you were the instant I looked at you.”
“You were looking at me rather a lot.”
He looked at her now with unabashed candor. “You didn’t mind, did you?”
“Shame on you,” she said mildly, pulling her hand from his. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”
“Not really. But there are footmen standing guard in case we get lost. Be careful here where you step—the stone is slippery. You looked at me a lot, too. And I didn’t mind at all. Do you enjoy reading fairy tales?”
She glanced back at the brightly lit house. He wondered for a moment if she would run away. But then she turned back and said, “Yes. I especially love the Brothers Grimm.”
“You read German?” he asked her in surprise.
“My great-aunt does.” She gave him a guarded smile. One of her pale feathers fluttered to the ground. “I think,” she said, staring down with a frown, “that their stories are sheer genius.”
Competition. He released a disgruntled sigh. It followed him everywhere. He led her a few steps deeper into the garden before he replied, “I’ll admit the two of them have a certain flair for the fable, but then, how many of their stories were taken from other unsung authors through the ages?”
She broke into laughter. It was an infectious if unexpected reaction, and he found himself grinning at her. “What is so amusing?” he asked as they slowed at the entrance to a parterre.
“You are,” she said. “You may never have met another Goose-Girl, but I’ve never met a gentleman who confessed he reads fairy tales, let alone has given their origins serious thought.”
“This is a literary masquerade.”
“But not all the guests are literate.” She looked a little guilty. “I shouldn’t have said that. It sounds mean.”
His chest felt suddenly constricted. Either he needed to undo his breastplate, or Lily’s sultry laughter had stolen his breath.
“I’d no idea the Grimm brothers were literary thieves,” she said wistfully.
Now he felt guilty, not only for disillusioning her, but for maligning the young writers whose work he envied. “I didn’t mean they stole ideas. I think the brothers are brilliant.”
“ ‘The Pink’ is the best.”
“Some ladies do not approve of fairy tales at all. The violence offends them. But I thought that your favorite author was this mysterious fellow Lord Anonymous.”
Another of her feathers drifted from her dress onto his padded sleeve as she smoothed the seams of her off-white gloves. She moistened her lower lip. Samuel watched her in absorpt
ion. A suit of genuine armor and a shield would not be enough to protect either of them from the instincts that Lily had incited. She had to know she was desirable. He plucked the loose feather from his sleeve, capturing it between his fingers.
“I was hoping that Lord Anonymous would make an appearance,” she admitted, edging around him to stare into the garden. “Do you think that there’s any chance?”
He grimaced. “Positively not.”
She swung around, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Don’t tell me the two of you are personally acquainted.”
“All right. I won’t.”
She took a breath that lifted her lush décolletage. For a moment Samuel could not have repeated his own name, let alone the pseudonym that always made him cringe when he heard it. His ducal title did not appear to impress her. His secret identity as Lord Anonymous did. Was he reckless enough to betray himself for a wicked kiss in the dark?
He feared he might be.
He bent his head. “You are the loveliest woman I have met in . . . in forever.”
“How nice of you to say.” She paused. “Tell me what you know about Anonymous.”
Samuel blinked. “I meant what I just said.”
“Yes,” she murmured. She gave him a measuring look. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or offended. Judging by how quickly she had dismissed his compliment, she was either accustomed to flattery, or she thought he was a complete scoundrel who could not be trusted.
She tilted her face up to his. “I would be ever so grateful if you whispered his real name. I promise I’ll keep it a secret. On my honor as a Boscastle. I’ll carry your confidence to the grave. Please, Your Grace. Please.”
If ever Samuel had been tempted to confess that he and Anonymous were one and the same, this was the time. Or at least, she was the temptress. “I wish I could,” he said in genuine regret. “Assuming I knew—and I’m not admitting I do—I would not be at liberty to say.”
She stepped a little closer to him. “You don’t know anything, do you? He has never been caught out in public.”
He examined the brown-speckled feather she had shed on his sleeve. “This belonged to a hawk.”
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