One Fine Duke

by Lenora Bell

  A brunette with bright brown eyes waltzed past and gave him a brilliant smile.

  That’s what debutantes were supposed to do when they encountered a single duke in possession of a vast fortune.

  Smile. Flatter. Flirt.

  Miss Penny must be confused.

  “I haven’t read your uncle’s letter yet,” he admitted. “But I certainly will now, if only to spot the untruths.”

  “Oh.” A pink flush spread across her cheeks. “I thought you had read it already.”

  “Why do you hate the countryside?”

  “Let me count the ways. The loneliness. The lack of excitement. Every second of every day you know precisely what will happen. The exact same thing that happened yesterday. Nothing.”

  “That’s not even one bit true. There’s always something happening—a calf being birthed, a field to plow, seeds to sow, or a fence to repair.”

  “My point precisely. Nothing. No opera house, no museums, no Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, no London Tavern where the intellectuals and radicals debate weighty matters. Only turnip fields and sheep as far as the eye can see.”

  “You sound like my brother,” he muttered.

  “Lord Rafe?”

  “That’s the one. Are you acquainted with him, Miss Penny?”

  A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I met him on several occasions when he visited my uncle’s estate.”

  “He shares your distaste for sheep. And what do you have against turnips?”

  For that matter, what did she have against dukes?

  She certainly wasn’t hoping to become a duchess. It was almost as if she’d planned what to say to make herself least appealing to him. For some perverse reason that made her more intriguing.

  “I sneeze when I walk across country fields. I break out in red welts all over my face. It’s dreadfully unattractive.”

  Drew paused for a second and she tugged on his shoulder to keep him in step with the music.

  “Of course I know the rotation of crops is one of your passions,” she continued blithely. “I’ve read your treatises on the subject and they are so utterly scintillating and fascinating.” Her tone spoke the opposite, her laughter tinkled, brittle as spun glass.

  “Do you know, Miss Penny, my mother told me that you had a charming, rustic air.”

  “I do not,” she said indignantly. “I’m worldly and sophisticated. There’s no air of the country about me. I’m no obscure, provincial female with piffling concerns or countrified manners.”

  “And yet your complexion has a healthful glow.”

  “From staring at London sunsets. Coal smoke creates such pretty shades of violet, don’t you agree, Your Grace? Although you wouldn’t know, since you spend all your time in Cornwall.”

  Ah, here it came at last. Perhaps now she would finally say that she’d always wanted to visit the southland in all its craggy glory, or some such nonsense.

  “I suppose you’ve always wanted to visit Cornwall?” he prompted.

  She wrinkled her pert nose as if he’d suggested she might want to visit the privy at a sporting tavern.

  “Certainly not. I hear there are more sheep than people. Not a circumstance to recommend a place, to my way of thinking.”

  Perhaps she was only being contrary to differentiate herself from the other ladies. A tactic which was working beautifully. He’d forgotten all about the gossips, how stifling the air in the ballroom was, and how he couldn’t breathe deeply with such a crush of people around him.

  Her rudeness was somehow refreshing. He was beginning to enjoy Miss Penny. He liked stroking the ridge of her spine. Delicate, yet sturdy.

  He liked that she was challenging him. That she was brave enough to insult him.

  Some would say foolhardy enough.

  She’d dared to antagonize a dangerous, half-mad duke. He wanted to know why. And he wanted to throw her off balance. Fluster the bold, brave Miss Penny.

  Show her just how bad and mad he was.

  “Miss Penny, you put me in mind of a Cornish bog. You’re pretty to look upon, but one false step and a man could be sucked to a muddy death.”

  She appeared to be genuinely delighted by this. She grinned. “I’m so glad you think so, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, Miss Penny, you put me in mind of bogs . . .” he stared into her eyes and lowered his voice to a husky whisper “. . . and beds.”

  Her smile wobbled. “Did you say beds, Your Grace?”

  “Beds are much nicer than bogs, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Penny?”

  “Ah . . . I suppose so.”

  “So many wonderful things happen in beds.”

  She blinked. “I’m quite fond of sleeping. I never rise before noon. I never help with household chores, I prefer to laze abed.”

  “Mmm. Yes. Lazing about in bed can be so very diverting.”

  “About your treatise on the rotation of turnips and clover, Your Grace—”

  “I’d rather talk about beds than turnips, wouldn’t you? I have a nice bed. It’s big. Comfortable. Has crimson velvet bed hangings. Beeswax candles to light my way in the dark.”

  “Quite as I pictured a ducal bed to be,” she said gamely.

  “Do you picture ducal beds often?”

  “Er, almost never,” she mumbled. “That is never. I never, ever picture beds. Or dukes in beds.” She clamped her mouth shut.

  “Are you quite sure about that?”

  No, she wasn’t sure about that.

  She was picturing his bed right now. With him in it, wearing the bedclothes and nothing more. Soft linens sliding down a heavily muscled expanse of chest to reveal . . .

  When he gazed at her and spoke of beds in that low, husky voice that sent shivers between her shoulder blades, well, any red-blooded young lady would experience at least a little bit of thrill.

  Except that this was a full-blown quake, as if her body wanted to split along the seams.

  He had the most disconcertingly gentle grip, as though he thought her hand the most precious gift he’d ever received.

  There was an indefinable quality about him, a majestic ownership of his body that Mina felt on her own skin, within her own body.

  He was the heated, menacing atmosphere right before a thunderstorm. The zing of attraction zipped from where their hands touched, up her arms, and spread throughout her body.

  Her hair might be singed when the waltz ended.

  She wished Thorndon would stop talking about beds. And she wished she could stop picturing him in bed.

  Gather yourself together, Mina.

  Stairs and doors.

  That’s where her attention should be. Lord Rafe would either come through a door or descend the central stairs.

  “You keep glancing at the entrances,” said Thorndon. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  Your brother. Who is my pathway out of the prison of rusticating spinsterhood and into a thrilling life of international intrigue and espionage.

  So stop distracting me with your molten gold eyes and molded jaw.

  She had to regain the upper hand here. All of that talk of beds . . . he’d been trying to fluster her, but what if he truly was taken with her? It would ruin everything if he decided to want her.

  She had to antagonize him further.

  “Of course not. Why would I be waiting for someone? I’m dancing with the very pinnacle of English manhood. The very essence of a country nobleman. You’re ever so rustic and quaint.”

  “Quaint?” he growled.

  She widened her eyes. “Don’t you enjoy striding across the moors with a hunting rifle swinging at your side and a pack of foxhounds baying at your heels?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And if your carriage becomes stuck in the mud, you drag it out yourself instead of waiting for your servants to unstick you?”

  “With one hand tied behind my back.”

  “Rustic,” she said. “Quaint.”

  “I was told you were the rustic one. My mother
said that you were raised in the countryside and had a talent for estate management. I pictured you churning butter with one hand while balancing account books with the other.”

  “Ridiculous!” As a matter of fact, she had learned to churn butter, but she certainly wouldn’t admit that to him. “What do you think I am, a combination milkmaid and secretary? You’ll have to seek elsewhere if that’s what you’re looking for. This ballroom is filled with ladies who are finished and polished to a highly reflective sheen.”

  He glanced around the room. “You’re right. But you’re not one of them.”

  Blast. She should have made more of an effort with Grizzy’s decorum lessons. He saw right through to her rough and splintered heart.

  She stared up at him as if he were a squashed insect on the ceiling, and not a virile, devilishly good-looking, and highly infuriating duke. “If you’re insinuating that I’m not a proper dance partner for a duke, then have no fear, Your Grace, there are dozens of ladies dying to take my place. I would be more than happy to relinquish you to one of them.”

  He took a leisurely perusal of the room, stopping to gaze at several beautiful, elegant, and poised young ladies. “You’re right, Miss Penny.” He caught her gaze and held it. “You’re infinitely replaceable.”

  The music ended. She retrieved her hand from his grasp.

  His bow was perfunctory. Her curtsy nearly insulting.

  He stalked away. She whirled around and marched in the opposite direction.

  Goal achieved. He wasn’t the least bit interested. She wasn’t memorable. She was infinitely replaceable.

  He’d find some graceful, meek, biddable lady, sweep her off her feet, and install her in his desolate mansion on the moors.

  And why that idea rankled so much, she had absolutely no idea.

  Chapter 3

  Now that Mina had driven away the duke, her one purpose for being here was to speak with Lord Rafe. She had a proposition to make. She and Lord Rafe would forge an equal partnership—one based on mutual skills and ambitions.

  Lord Rafe was affable, charismatic, and infinitely more manipulatable than his brother. Perhaps he wasn’t the most brilliant of men, but he was perfect for her purposes.

  With his charm and access to society, and her pedigree in espionage, they would bring the criminal underworld to its knees, starting with Le Triton, the notorious French antiquities thief and spy who had murdered her parents. She burned to have revenge on the cruel man who had cut her parents’ lives short and left her so alone.

  She planned to corner Lord Rafe and explain her proposal for building his career as a secret agent and establishing their partnership.

  After which he would agree to marry her.

  After which he would spirit her away to the gardens for her very first kiss. He was a wicked rake, after all, and would be woefully unimpressive if he didn’t steal a kiss.

  She wouldn’t close her eyes while he was kissing her because she’d want to soak it all in, to remember it for later, remember what freedom looked like. Tasted like.

  His kiss, their partnership, would mean her escape from her uncle’s control, her legitimate entrée into the world of espionage, and her freedom.

  He wouldn’t close his eyes, either. He would feel the connection between them, the inevitability of their partnership. His eyes would glow hot and gold.

  Wait. No. His eyes were cool and blue as the ocean.

  What was wrong with her? She’d actually pictured Thorndon kissing her. Thorndon. The man her uncle had decided would make an excellent substitute jailer. Her uncle wanted to hand Thorndon the keys and have Mina locked away in Cornwall.

  Blast her guardian. And blast all arrogant dukes.

  Grizzy appeared at Mina’s side. How did she move so swiftly through a crowded room at her advanced age?

  “I didn’t think you had it in you, Wilhelmina,” she said, steering Mina toward the back of the ballroom. “But you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Dazzled the duke.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  Grizzy stopped walking. “Take a look. Not too obvious, now. A small backward glance will suffice.”

  What was she on about? Mina glanced over her shoulder.

  Good lord. Thorndon was staring at her. Glaring might be a better word. Their gazes locked and time stopped. The crackling energy that surrounded him arced across the room, setting her cheeks ablaze and her heart pounding.

  Why did he have to be so overbearingly good-looking?

  “Thrust out your bosom,” instructed Grizzy. “Laugh a little. Toss your hair. Like this.” She made flipping motions against the precise gray curls hanging down from her towering coiffure.

  When Mina just stood there, Grizzy glowered at her. “Flirt, girl, flirt. The Duke of Thorndon is staring at you.”

  “I thought I was supposed to maintain an air of detached decorum.”

  “There’s a time and a place for everything, and now is the time for thrusting out your bosom and flirting. He’s entranced.”

  “You’ve had too much rum punch.”

  Grizzy shook her head. “I know an entranced duke when I see one. He couldn’t take his eyes from you the entire time you danced. What were you speaking about?”

  Grizzy must be wrong. Mina had thoroughly antagonized the duke. “He’s not entranced, he’s incensed. I insulted him.”

  Another darting glance told her he was still staring. She swiped a lock of hair out of her eyes impatiently. What did she have to do to be rid of his attention?

  “That was perfect,” said Grizzy.

  “I wasn’t flirting. My hair was in my eyes.”

  “Now walk slowly away. Don’t look back again.”

  “I think I’ll go to the retiring room and splash some water on my face.”

  Grizzy gave her a knowing look. “Feeling a little faint? I don’t blame you. He’s handsome as sin.”

  “It’s not that, it’s only the room is unbearably close and hot.”

  “Take a moment to compose yourself, but then you must return and dance with another gentleman, to make the duke jealous.”

  Mina promised to return even though she had no intention of dancing with anyone else until Lord Rafe arrived. She would have promised anything to make her escape.

  Dancing with Thorndon had thrown her mind into a spin, like a child’s top set in motion. He was everything she’d thought he would be—rude, arrogant, controlling. He’d all but propositioned her on the dance floor and he’d done it just to make her blush, to assert his mastery over her emotions.

  She should be angry, and she was, but she was also . . . spinning.

  Splash her face with water. Attempt to restore equilibrium to her thoughts.

  She might require a whole bucket of ice water to find her footing again.

  She’d nearly made it to the retiring room when she saw the dreaded Duke of Marmont, another of the marriage prospects highlighted in the Duke Dossier, and his mother heading her way. She dove for the first cover she saw, a large grouping of potted ferns.

  “Pardon me, but this is my hiding place, I’ll thank you to move along,” whispered a female voice from inside the cover of the plants.

  “Just let me stay for a few moments. Please. It’s a matter of great urgency.” She squished in beside the other girl, holding her breath and praying that the duke hadn’t seen her.

  “Miss Penny,” called Marmont. “Where has that girl gone off to? I swear I saw her come this way.”

  She could only see pieces of him through the fern fronds. A knobby knee. A blade-thin nose.

  “Never mind, Eugene,” said his mother. “We’ll find her. If she’s the one you want, she’s the one you’ll have.”

  “Marmont. Ugh,” whispered the girl. “You can stay here as long as necessary.”

  “Bless you,” Mina whispered. Her companion had pale red-gold hair and a thin face with purplish shadows under hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. The yellow gown she wor
e did her complexion no favors.

  The duke and his mother finally took their search elsewhere.

  “He’s a proper nincompoop,” said the girl when it was safe to talk. “Which is a corruption of the Latin non compos, you know. He’s a fool.”

  “I’m well aware. I had the terrible misfortune of dancing with him earlier. He has a horror of communal punchbowls. He also advised me on the most efficacious methods of avoiding phlegmatic ailments.”

  “He’s a hypochondriac.”

  “A what?”

  “Borrowed from the Greek hypochondria, meaning the organs of the upper abdomen, behind the ribs, thought to be the seat of melancholy.” At Mina’s blank look, the girl added, “he suffers from a depression of the mind that centers on imaginary physical ailments.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just learned that one.” The girl held up a book. “Whyter’s Etymologicon Magnum. Have you read it?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” said Mina politely. “Is it very good?”

  “It’s wonderful, though I’m going to become a lexicographer and compile a much better one. Mine will be much thicker. Words are my passion.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I’ll be a confirmed old maid after this interminable Season is finally finished and I’ll devote myself fully to my etymological studies. I’ve been invited to join a secret society of professional-minded ladies—oh dear, I’m not supposed to tell anyone that.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me. I’m Wilhelmina Penny, by the way.”

  “Lady Beatrice Bentley.”

  Rafe and Thorndon’s sister—a stroke of luck. “I was hoping to meet you tonight, Lady Beatrice.”

  “You were? I suppose it’s to do with my brother the duke. Everyone’s being so nice to me now, even Lady Millicent Granger told me she liked my ribbons, when she’s never said two words to me before and always calls me Beastly Beatrice behind my back.”

  “Why would she call you that?”

  Lady Beatrice turned her head fully toward Mina for the first time. The right corner of her mouth and her right eyelid sagged slightly downward. “Facial palsy. Slight partial paralysis.”

  She pronounced the medical diagnosis with such naked emotion that Mina’s heart ached for her.