The Secret Duke (11 page)

She noted with regret the reactions of the targets of his flirtation—rendered silly, every one of them, young to old. She’d heard of men who could turn a woman’s wits to water, and now she’d met a specimen.

And been turned silly herself for a while.

No more of that. She attended to her partners and looked for scandal. There were certainly partners she’d like to pillory, such as the fleshy senator who squeezed too close in the dance, or the stick-thin one who took an excuse to poke at her breast. Or this hairy one with moist lips who was sweating so profusely that his toga was damp.

No, that was unkind, for the room was very hot. The long windows stood open, but even though it was September it was unseasonably warm and she felt no cool breeze. When she returned to dance with the goatherd, she said, “It’s so hot in here.” She saw the wicked spark in his eyes and hastily deflected a suggestive remark. “A blessing that we’re all lightly dressed. Perhaps this costume should become the fashion for dancing. Imagine this heat in layers of petticoats and silk.”

“Or a suit of embroidered velvet,” he agreed.

“On a goatherd?” she teased.

“Do goddesses sweat?” he tossed back.

“But I am a nymph. . . .”

“And nymphs are notoriously naughty.”

“And goatherds are . . .” But she could think of nothing to say.

“Goats are lecherous,” he offered helpfully. “Perhaps it’s contagious. Oh, dear,” he added, squeezing her hand slightly, “we’re contaging.”

“Then you’ll have spread lechery throughout the whole body of dancers, sir. Which, on reflection, would be rather like giving a rash to a leper colony.”

“Kelano! You shock me. But if you are hot . . .”

He deftly slipped them out of the dance and through open doors onto the lamplit terrace. It was cooler—on her sweat-damp skin almost cold—but a fire of alarm rushed through her.

She turned back toward the room, but he said,

“Cold?” and picked up something from a bench. He swirled a large shawl around her shoulders, capturing her and pulling her toward him.

She tried to brace her hands on his chest to hold him off but she was too late. A moment ago she’d been dancing, and now here she was, trapped against his scantily clad body.

“Playing hot and cold?” he asked.

“Playing the goat? Release me.”

He chuckled and then he kissed her. A quick kiss at first, but in moments one arm came around her and his other hand cradled her head. He kissed her again, deeply and with skill, teasing her mouth open so she felt his tongue on hers.

She tried to resist, but a starved piece of her, the part that had danced and flirted once, and yes, even kissed on dark terraces a time or two, sprang to terrifying life. She’d been kissed and enjoyed being kissed, but she’d never been kissed like this before. Never felt quite like this before.

So endangered.

So seared.

She twisted her head and pushed fiercely away.

He allowed it, but he was smiling, eyes glittering, and he’d captured the ends of the shawl again, snaring her.

“Let me go!”

She intended a demand, but breathlessness made it more of a gasp. She knew she was feverishly awaiting his dramatic response.

He released the corners of the cloth.

She gathered it around her to conceal bare arms and shoulders—and disappointment. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come to the revels.”

“Is that the sort of event this is, then? Where young ladies are attacked for playing a part?”

“It’s the way of any masquerade, if the lady too wishes to play.”

“I did not—”

“If my kiss offended, I apologize, but you did not seem powerfully offended, my very sweet and tasty nymph.”

Bella swallowed, innate honesty forcing her to admit that he was right, and the wicked, foolish parts of her wanted to fall into his arms again.

She found the strength to unwrap herself, and dropped the shawl back on the bench with what she hoped was a casual air. “After our brief diversion, slave, I must return to more elevated circles.”

“Don’t trust the senators and gods. For all their august glitter, they’re men just like me. If you’re the sort of innocent you imply, you will wish me to return you safely to your party.”

It was a challenge, as deft as a blade between the ribs, and she remembered his remark about recognition. What did he suspect? She tried to read the subtleties of his expression, but out here the lamplight was dim, doubtless by design.

“If I allow that,” she said, “you would know who I am.”

“Know a person by the company she keeps? Intriguing. You think you can remain eternally unidentified?”

“I can try.”

That mouth, that sensuous mouth, curved in a true smile, creating brackets in his lean cheeks. “I will find out, you know.”

Bella wanted to return that smile, but she raised her chin. “I doubt it.”

“It’s merely a matter of when. I already feel I know you.”

“And I doubt that.”

“Are you a provincial, then, new to Town?”

“You’ll tease no more information from me, slave.” She was in danger, however, the longer she dallied here, so she said, “And now, farewell,” and slipped back into the ballroom.

Praying he wouldn’t pursue, she wove quickly straight through the line of dancers, ignoring objections. When she reached the far door, she glanced back. Part of her hoped he was close behind, about to capture her again, sweep her again into yet more wicked folly, but most of her was wiser.

She felt a pang of disappointment, however, to see him still in the doorway to the terrace, having lost all interest. He was talking to a gray- haired man in a simple robe.

There, see, you idiot. That encounter, that kiss, meant nothing to him.
And of course she’d never truly thought otherwise. She felt able to linger a moment, puzzled by his sober, intent manner.

She remembered that she’d wondered if he too was an invader. In that case she’d think him talking to a conspirator, perhaps plotting to harm someone. Were the two men planning to kill the duke, or set fire to the house? She should do something to stop that.

Then he looked across the room, straight at her. She’d swear his masked eyes widened. Had he understood her thinking? Frightened in a new way, she turned to leave the room, but a group of people were pushing in and she had to step aside.

She shot a quick glance back at the goatherd.

He hadn’t moved, but he was still looking at her.

Bella turned again to flee, but now she saw some people were staring at her. Directly at her. Their masks concealed their expressions, but their intensity seemed almost hungry.

Had she been recognized as an interloper? Were they about to tear her apart?

One woman looked her up and down, lip curling. Lud, had the wretched man disturbed her gown and left her indecent? Bella looked down at herself. All was in order, even the stars on her toes, but something was amiss, and she didn’t know what. Almost blind with panic, Bella slipped through a gap in the crowd and hurried off to her right, trying not to look like a criminal fleeing justice. She had no idea where she was going. She prayed only to find a quiet place to collect herself.

Then she heard the hiss: “Scandalous!”

Bella flinched as if stabbed, but when she looked around no one was looking at her. Three Grecian goddesses were half whispering in the way of people sharing gossip, and smiling with glee at a reputation to shred.

Bella checked around again, but no one else was nearby.

Her heart rate was settling and her mind clearing. Perhaps she wasn’t in imminent danger of any kind. And scandal was what she was here for.

She bent down as if she needed to adjust a strap on her sandal, listening to the whispers.

“In flagrante delicto, dearest. Absolutely!”

“But who?”

“Grandiston, I heard.”

A titter. “Then no wonder. So very, very virile in that ancient armor . . .”

Grandiston? The name was vaguely familiar, but Bella couldn’t place it. Was he important enough to be meat for Lady Fowler’s letter? And who was the woman?

One of the women must have asked the same thing.

“Psyche Jessingham.”

Bella knew that name, because Lady Jessingham’s adulterous liaison with Ithorne had been talked about at Lady Fowler’s, but not included in the Fowler letter. Lady Fowler had been forced into marriage when young with a disgusting older man and she had compassion for other women who suffered the same fate, even if they sinned.

Lady Jessingham was a widow now, but Lady Fowler kept to her policy, even though she would like to expose Ithorne for not marrying the woman whose reputation he’d tarnished.

“Psyche and Grandiston?”

The voices dropped, and Bella strained to hear. Would Lady Fowler still refuse to use scandal concerning that lady?

“She never did learn discretion,” one said. “So what exactly was seen?”

More murmurs, then, “Very disheveled,” the informative one said with meaning. “Gown ripped down the front . . .”

Bella suddenly realized the three matrons were looking at her, eyes cold.

She gave a weak smile and hurried away, catching just one more word. “Rothgar . . .”

Lud!
Had the great marquess also been involved? Her time with Lady Fowler had introduced her to some scandalous knowledge, and she now knew that men sometimes shared one unfortunate woman. That would definitely be a story for the letter. But, oh, Lord Rothgar’s poor wife, large with child, and already having been forced to accept his adult bastard daughter into her home.

She must learn more. Where was this scandalous Grandiston encounter taking place?

 

 

 

 

T
horn moved through the throng as quickly as he could without showing urgency, for most people here recognized him and he didn’t want to start any alarm. He also masked his anger, but he was furious with himself. He was going to be too late to avert disaster because he’d neglected his duty. Instead of monitoring the event and keeping an eye on the king, he’d slipped off to play with an enchanting Amazon nymph on the terrace.

He’d had to let Kelano slip away unidentified, dammit, but this wasn’t a wasps’ nest he could ignore. Christian had been caught in one of the private rooms of the house with some woman, and caught by Psyche Jessingham, of all people. She thought she could buy Christian as a husband, so she’d scream this to the heavens.

He supposed he should give Christian some credit for using a distant room for his liaison, but he’d have his guts anyway. What had he been thinking? He was already embroiled with three troublesome women. In addition to the rapacious Psyche, he’d made a foolish marriage at sixteen to a Yorkshire girl who went by the inauspicious name of Dorcas Froggatt. He’d thought her dead, but recently learned she was alive. In searching for her in hope of an annulment, he’d fallen in love with a Mistress Hunter, but she’d fled him on finding that he was a married man.

To add insult to all this, the warning message he’d received on leaving the terrace had come courtesy of Rothgar.

Thorn was ready to grab a Chinese vase off the nearby table and hurl it at a wall.

“Sir.”

Thorn whirled to find a Roman soldier looking ready to make an arrest. “You are asked for,” the man said sternly.

Thorn cursed, but silently. He couldn’t ignore a summons from the king. He turned back toward the revels.

George had chosen to wear a plain toga, attempting to be one of the people. He failed, of course. Everyone knew better than to bow or curtsy or give any other sign of recognition, but that was difficult for people trained to court ways from the cradle.

Thorn only just managed not to bow as he said, “I gather there has been a small contretemps, sir. I apologize.”

“Very naughty,” said the king, yet he seemed in good humor. “But a married couple, what?”

Married? Thorn hid surprise and inclined his head in acknowledgment of worldly wisdom. “The powers of marital affection, sir.”

“Which I understand, as I am so blessed, what? May I hope you as happy soon, Ithorne? A noble line, and you the sole remainder, what?”

The king’s habit of tacking “what” onto the end of nearly everything he said made Thorn want to throttle him, but at the moment he merely wanted to escape this conversation and discover the extent of the problem.

“I seek to be as happy as you, sir,” he said, “and thus I’m making a careful choice.”

“Let your friends pick, what? As I did.”

And had complained of Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz’s looks and manner, Thorn remembered. At the time, George had been taken with pretty Sarah Lennox. But the king and queen did seem a truly fond couple now, which gave support to his own intent to make a rational marriage.

“I will take your advice, sir. But for now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Waved away, Thorn returned to his original direction, considering the implication of the warning message having come from Rothgar. Had he set up this scandal and then made sure that the king knew, hoping the king would blame the host?

Thorn considered his contest with Rothgar purely political, but would the Dark Marquess be willing to use any means to diminish a challenge to his power?

He saw his serious-minded secretary, Overstone, approaching, uncomfortable in a toga, and paused for more news.

“According to tattle, sir, Lord Rothgar has diluted the scandal by claiming the couple is married. It is believed by some, but stridently denied by Lady Jessingham, who is voicing a very low opinion of the lady. Shall I support the marriage story, sir?”

Thorn thought quickly. “Not yet, but don’t deny it, either. Be soothing.”