The Duke Heist

by Erica Ridley

  “No, dinner parties aren’t that complicated.” Although he supposed for her they might be.

  It occurred to him how brave she was being: not just by admitting the obvious failures in her upbringing but by putting herself in situations again and again where she might be ridiculed or rejected outright.

  Whatever her faults, Miss Wynchester was willing to try. Willing to be wrong as many times as necessary in order to become right.

  “I’ll attend the party with you,” he explained. “Well, not with you, of course. I’ll arrive on my own, and you with your aunt. But if you run into trouble, send a glance in my direction and I will do my best to guide you.”

  Her brow creased. “Won’t your rank place you too far down the table for me to see?”

  Well, that was surely an exaggeration. True, at such parties one tended to speak to one’s immediate neighbors. And if they found themselves on the same side of the table, facing each other might be difficult. But that was no reason not to—

  “Your pen and paper, Your Grace.”

  Lawrence accepted the materials from his footman and set about scratching a quick note to Lady Ainsworth, apprising her of his attendance, to give her time to juggle the seating arrangements.

  He folded the paper, then added Lady Ainsworth’s name before handing the letter to his footman. “See that this is delivered at once.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Lawrence paused in sudden discomfort. A duke could decide at the last moment to do or attend whatever he pleased, but someone like Chloe Wynchester had to literally abduct him out of desperation to negotiate a handful of trifling invitations.

  To her, they were not trivial and insignificant. For Miss Wynchester, an invitation meant the world.

  He could help. His attraction to her was foolhardy and dangerous, but he could push that aside and concentrate on objective, concrete tasks like proper comportment and what new things she could expect. He enjoyed helping others. There wasn’t any more to it than that.

  “Guests will enter the dining room by rank, in the method I described,” he explained to Miss Wynchester. “At supper parties the hostess will often alternate female guests with males. The intermittent pattern means one needn’t cleave to a strict Debrett’s hierarchy.”

  She tugged at her curl. The one he had touched. It made him long to reach out anew, stretch the soft ringlet in his fingers, then cradle her face with both hands and give her the kiss he would have stolen if her aunt had not returned at that moment.

  “So we will be sitting together?” she asked. “Since one needn’t cleave to hierarchy?”

  “Probably not, as I’m still considerably—” He cleared his throat and looked around. The footman had just left the room. Great-Aunt Wynchester had started to snore. Lawrence lowered his voice all the same. “About what happened earlier…”

  Miss Wynchester lifted her delicate brows. “Nothing happened earlier.”

  Fair enough. He tried again. “About what almost happened, then.”

  Miss Wynchester’s return gaze was direct and unflinching. “What almost happened?”

  She knew, he realized. She knew good and well and was trying to force him to say I almost kissed you because I have lost all self-control and cannot trust myself whilst in your company. A kiss would be just the beginning.

  “Are you in love with Miss York?” she asked.

  He drew backward. “Love is not relevant to business decisions.”

  “So Miss York is…good business?”

  He clenched his jaw. She made it sound so cold! Which, he supposed, it was. But it was how things were done.

  “Faircliffe was a highly respected title for generations,” he explained. “My grandfather was arguably the most esteemed of the line, but an apoplexy caused my father to inherit at a young age. He spent the subsequent decades dismantling every advantage our predecessors had fought to attain.”

  Lawrence fought a wave of memories better left suppressed.

  “If my father could undo two centuries of high regard with a series of poor choices, then it is my duty to restore our lost stature with a series of correct choices.”

  “And Miss York is the right choice?”

  “She is,” he said firmly. “For myself and for future generations.”

  “You’ll have a circus together?”

  Lawrence could not picture that at all. “We will not. But I’ll be able to give my children a sterling reputation, financial security, and societal approval.”

  “Is that what children want?”

  “It’s what they need.” He swallowed hard. “It’s what any father who cared about his offspring would strive to give them.”

  “What about a better world outside of the home?” she asked. “Do children want that?”

  “I strive for that as well.” This was much safer ground. “It is my hope that Miss York’s father and I will champion complementary issues in our respective chambers of Parliament. Indeed, one of my pet projects for reform is excluding children from workhouses and other means of exploitation, such as their use as chimney sweeps.…”

  Lawrence was deep into this familiar territory when he realized he’d been speaking for five minutes straight, and the usually inquisitive Miss Wynchester hadn’t said a word.

  Was he boring her? This was a topic he dared not bring up outside of Westminster for a reason. It was hardly the stuff of flirtatious dinner parties.

  He trailed off and made an apologetic face. “I beg your pardon. One cannot help becoming passionate about such subjects.”

  Miss Wynchester’s eyes flashed. “Then please allow me to take a counter position.”

  He lifted his palm.

  She gave a sharp smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Poverty is not limited to children. By generalizing the adult poor as rabble who eschew ‘honest work,’ you paint a picture wherein it is only children who do not deserve exploitation and unpaid labor—”

  “Pardon me,” he interrupted. “You do not understand how Parliament determines—”

  “I’ve determined you don’t understand.” She pushed to her feet.

  “Oh dear,” Great-Aunt Wynchester murmured, no longer asleep. “Now you’ve done it.”

  “Miss Wynchester—” he began.

  “I shall smarten myself up for the party.” She scooped up her basket and stalked away from him without a backward glance. “I ‘understand’ your people value looks over brains.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. How he wished he hadn’t botched everything! He and Miss Wynchester both wanted the same things. But Parliament was a slow-grinding machine. He was the one in a position to do something about it.

  “You’re wrong,” Great-Aunt Wynchester said flatly.

  He glowered at her. “What did you say?”

  “She knows more about Parliament than you do.”

  He straightened. “I scarcely think—”

  “Obviously.” Great-Aunt Wynchester glared at him. “My niece, on the other hand, rarely misses a session.”

  “I never miss the House of Lords,” he informed her. “And I’ve never seen your niece at Westminster.”

  “Or anywhere, I wager. Not until you failed to mind your carriage and she ran off with you like a cat with a mouse.”

  “That’s not how it happened!” That was essentially how it happened. “My driver was in his perch only seconds before, until he went to investigate a commotion caused by—”

  “When does the dessert course start?” she interrupted. “I’m peckish.”

  He took a deep breath. “This isn’t the real party. We’re still acting. You’ll visit the Ainsworth residence once your niece is back from the retiring room.”

  “You’ve an ugly carpet.” Great-Aunt Wynchester pulled a face. “A duke should have an Axminster.”

  “It is an Axminster. All of the rugs—” Lawrence tilted his gaze heavenward.

  What was he doing, arguing with an old woman about whether his grandfather had
overpaid for the carpets?

  And how “smartened” did Miss Wynchester believe she could get? A taupe underdress with a taupe overlay would blend straight into the Ainsworths’ oak décor.

  An odd protectiveness itched beneath his skin. He liked Miss Wynchester and wanted things to go the way she hoped they would. He wouldn’t wish being mocked or mistreated on anyone.

  At Eton, Lawrence had been both singled out and left all alone because of his father. Because of her family, Miss Wynchester was in a similar situation—only, in her case, it was much worse. Lawrence was a peer. No one could deny him his rightful place. Whereas Miss Wynchester…

  She deserved a fair chance. There had to be a way. Perhaps he could help her find a talented modiste at a price she could afford. It was too late tonight, but if she commissioned a nicer gown, she might catch the eye of—

  Miss Wynchester swept back into the room.

  Lawrence’s throat went dry and his mind emptied of rational thought.

  Gone was the insipid blandness of tan on tan. Although she wore the same underdress, her curves were now draped in an elegant overdress of white-and-pink netting. The dark velvet trim on the light rose bodice matched the velvet Vandyke points decorating the bottom, just above two matching twists of white crepe encircling the hem. The gauzy romantic colors brought out the dark brown of her hair and the deep brown of her long-lashed eyes.

  His body tightened, and it was all he could do not to reach for her, pull her against his chest, and claim the kisses that weren’t his to take.

  A smile flitted over her lips, as if she sensed the maelstrom she’d unleashed within him. Arm stiff, she held out her hand and dropped her basket to the floor.

  Her kitten hadn’t been inside; rather, it was an entirely new identity.

  His lungs squeezed, making it difficult to speak. “You look magnificent.”

  “She looks like Chloe,” Great-Aunt Wynchester barked.

  He barely heard her. Lawrence’s eyes were still drinking in Miss Wynchester, thinking her much too far away for his taste. That bodice would be displayed at its best pillowed against his chest, the perfect distance for a man to embark on a trail of kisses from her rosy lips, down the column of her throat, and into the swell of her bosom.

  Tonight he would dream of nothing else.

  Why hadn’t she begun the evening dressed like this? If tearing his eyes from her had been next to impossible before, this…this… He couldn’t believe others thought her plain. He had believed she dressed in her dowdy attire because she didn’t own anything better. Yet she now appeared a worthy model for any fashion plate. It was almost as if—

  It was almost as if she’d done so on purpose. Dressed not to impress but to be comfortable. To allow her personality, rather than a garnet tiara, to shine. She didn’t want to catch everyone’s eyes, only that of her future husband.

  This evening she might well accomplish both.

  “You look as marvelous on the outside as you are on the inside,” he tried again.

  She sent him a flat look. “You don’t know me. And I’m a Wynchester.”

  He opened his mouth to explain that her scandalous family was perhaps not an insurmountable disadvantage, but was it true? All the fine clothing in the world wouldn’t prevent members of the beau monde from lifting their collective noses and muttering Wynchester in disdain as she walked by.

  Had she not absconded with him in his carriage, Lawrence would still be just as superior and condescending today. The realization made his stomach turn.

  “My apologies,” he said quietly. “Instead of assuming I knew best, I should have come to know you before making a judgment.”

  She let out a slow breath. “Perhaps I should say the same.”

  He blinked. Had she been appraising him from afar and found him lacking? He smiled grimly. Was the idea so fantastic?

  Like her, he longed to be judged for who he was, not what he was. When people looked at her, they saw a Wynchester. When they looked at him, they used to see his dissolute father. Now they saw a duke, a title, in want of a wife.

  He was trying to use their preconceptions to his advantage. He had made his case to Miss York as His Grace, an unwed duke in search of a duchess, rather than as Lawrence, a man with thoughts and feelings and secret dreams of his own. Perhaps he suspected those attributes wouldn’t be enough.

  Perhaps that was why offering a dukedom was so much safer than offering his heart.

  Miss Wynchester took a step toward the table. The swing of her hips was sensual and confident. She was a Wynchester and a woman of flesh and blood. Not being a lady erased none of her power.

  He leapt to his feet to help her into her chair.

  She stopped her forward progress when she was less than an arm’s length away from him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see. Her eyes were the warmest shade of brown he had ever beheld. They were fathomless, penetrating. He wanted to see them flutter closed in pleasure and know that it was he who had brought her to that peak.

  All he could offer were bland lessons in comportment. Such banality should have dampened his ardor, yet his blood quickened at the wickedness of his forbidden thoughts under the surface.

  Lawrence could pretend there was nothing between them but a gentleman granting a simple favor for a little while longer. There was no cause to rush off to the Ainsworth party. The earliest guests wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour.

  He needn’t share her yet.

  “I find myself very pleased to meet you, Miss Wynchester.”

  “I fear I may be just as pleased to meet you, Your Grace.” She gave him a pert look.

  He grinned back. Miss Wynchester had no need to avoid her reflection. She was an impressive young woman, no matter what she was wearing.

  “This kitchen is abominably slow.” Great-Aunt Wynchester made a disgruntled sound. “We rang for tea an hour ago.”

  Miss Wynchester sank into her seat. “We did not ring for tea, Aunt. This isn’t a real party. We are pretending.”

  “How will your pretending ease my parched throat?” Great-Aunt Wynchester made tiny coughs. “Every time I sip from my glass, it’s empty.”

  “I’ll ring for tea,” Lawrence said. He had never previously done such a thing—he despised tea—but there was always plenty on hand for the staff. He motioned for a maid to bring the tea.

  “I should smarten up as well.” Great-Aunt Wynchester swayed to her feet, then lowered her mouth toward her niece. “I told this pup he has ugly carpets and that you practically live in the Palace of Westminster.”

  Miss Wynchester’s eyes met his, and the corners of her mouth twitched. “One of those things is true.”

  Her great-aunt scooped up the basket and doddered out of the door.

  Lawrence’s eyes were only on Miss Wynchester. “You hate my carpets?”

  “You have fine carpets.”

  He’d been afraid she would say that. How had he been so wrong yet again?

  “You watch from the ventilation holes in the attic?” he stammered.

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not the best angle, and not everyone enunciates, but we make do.”

  “‘We’?” he echoed faintly.

  “My siblings sometimes, if I wheedle,” she explained. “But I’m not the only woman interested in politics. A few of the statesmen’s wives have attended in this fashion for as long as I have.”

  She was right, he realized. He didn’t know her.

  And now that he had begun to, he could not help but like her more each time.

  “What are your thoughts so far this session?”

  “The Highways Act was brilliant, the Hospitals Act overdue, and the East India Trade Act a nightmare,” she replied without hesitation. “If you didn’t spend so much time dithering over the Postage Act, perhaps you could address poverty and exploitation. If I have to hear one more speech about the post—”

  “Boring, is it? The reason we’re always on about postage—”

/>   Thus began the liveliest discussion Lawrence had ever had outside of Parliament. Great-Aunt Wynchester was right: Her niece knew more about current issues than half of the peers. And she could boast significantly better attendance.

  Even when he’d let his membership in his club lapse to save money, he’d continued to debate ideas at private homes and political dinners. But never had any of his compatriots alternately complemented and skewered his ideas with Miss Wynchester’s surgical precision.

  Perhaps because they were like him, he realized. An entire room of peers shouting sweeping generalizations based on a superficial understanding would either send her into paroxysms of laughter or tears.

  How he would enjoy frequent heated discussions with Miss Wynchester. She was brilliant. Thrice already he’d reached for his pen to jot down a salient point he needed to consider or have investigated in a more comprehensive manner.

  They were both startled by the arrival of the tea service.

  Miss Wynchester reached for the pot. “Aunt prefers lukewarm tea, so I’ll pour hers now. It’ll be just how she likes it when she returns.”

  Lawrence suppressed a shudder. Lukewarm tea was worse than hot tea, and cold tea was an atrocity worse than that. He might actually attend the occasional tea party, if the teapot were make-believe.

  Because he was paying more attention to the kissable curve of Miss Wynchester’s cheek than what she did with her hands, she filled his cup with tea before he could stop her.

  He recoiled from the steaming brown liquid in horror.

  Bloody hell. He’d offended her more than enough for one day. He would have to drink the tea.

  Perhaps if he wasted enough time preparing it, she and her aunt would finish before he was required to sip any. Cheered by the thought, he began sliding lumps of sugar into his cup one by one, making each brief journey from dish to tea last as long as possible.

  Miss Wynchester watched him over the rim of her own cup. “Is this another haut ton profligacy ritual?”

  He was so startled, he dropped his spoon. “What?”

  “If you want to eat the sugar, eat the sugar. No sense turning perfectly good tea into marmalade to prove that you can. Sugar is expensive. You’re a duke; you’ve got lots of it. I’m suitably impressed. Just drink your tea.”