A Season for Sin (14 page)

Though he was tempted to walk past her, he couldn’t ignore the fan he’d broken. “I beg your pardon,” he said, bending to retrieve
the mangled ivory sticks.

“You are not to blame. Someone jostled my arm.”

Her excuse was the worst he’d heard yet. He didn’t even bother to hide his cynicism as his gaze traveled up her white gown.
Blue ribbons trimmed her bodice, drawing his attention to her generous décolletage. He continued his perusal to her heart-shaped
face. She watched him with twitching lips. Pillow-plump lips. He inhaled on a constricted breath. Lord, with that mouth she
could make a fortune as a courtesan.

Her long-lashed eyes twinkled. “Sir, if you will return the remains, I will see to its burial.”

Her witty remark stunned him. Belatedly, he realized he was grinning up at her. She probably thought he’d fallen for her ruse.
Exasperated with himself, he grasped the broken sticks, rose, and placed the ruined fan in her small gloved hands.

He met her amused gaze again, noting she did not simper or blush. She was no miss fresh out of the schoolroom. “I apologize
for the damage. Allow me to make reparations,” he said.

“It is quite beyond repair,” she said.

“I insist upon compensating you for—”

“My pain and suffering?” She laughed. “I assure you the fan’s death is a relief to me. Look, you can see it is exceedingly
ugly.”

They’d not had a proper introduction, and yet, she’d invited him to come closer. He decided to oblige her and find out if
her intentions extended beyond droll quips. While she chattered about a dim shop light and putrid green paint, he stole another
glance at her mouth, picturing those lips damp and kiss-swollen. Slow heat eddied in his veins.

She continued speaking in an unreserved manner as if they were old friends rather than strangers. “Even my maids refused to
take the fan,” she said. “So I decided to carry the pitiful thing at least once.”

A footman carrying a tray of champagne paused before them. She lifted up on her toes like a ballerina to place the ruined
fan upon it. Pint-sized she might be, but her flimsy skirts outlined a deliciously rounded bottom. He liked voluptuous women,
and his practiced eye told him this one had the body of a goddess.

His blood stirred. He wanted her.

A warning clanged in his head. She was probably
married, and he never dallied with other men’s wives. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. He found himself hoping she was a willing
and lonely widow, but he meant to do more than hope.

“Poor little fan. May you rest in peace.” She pirouetted and gave him a dazzling smile. “There now, I’m done mourning.”

She was exceptionally clever, but without the brittle artifice common among the ton. He caught her gaze, willing her with
his eyes. “Now that the funeral is over, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the refreshment table.” And thence to
a more private location.

“You are too kind, but I must return to my friends.”

Triumph surged inside him. She’d said friends, but made no mention of a husband. “Will you allow me the
pleasure
of your company a little longer? I mean to persuade you to accept my offer.”

“I have dozens of other fans,” she said. “Your apology is more than sufficient.”

She intended to play hard to get. Since he’d come of age, women had always pursued him. At the prospect of a chase, excitement
raced through his blood. But he must proceed with caution. If he’d misjudged her, she would take offense. A smile tugged at
his mouth. He knew exactly which card to play.

He reached inside his coat and produced his engraved card. “Take it. In the event you change your mind, send round a note.”
If she refused, he’d have his answer. But if she accepted, he’d have her name. And soon her.

When she started to reach for the card, he held his breath.
Take it, little charmer. I’ll ride you to the stars all night.

She hesitated and then peered at his card. Her doll-like
eyes grew round as carriage wheels. She curtseyed, mumbled something he couldn’t hear, and disappeared into the crowd.

Her sudden departure caught him off guard. He took two steps, searching for her, but the crowd had swallowed her. Obviously
she’d not known his identity beforehand. But why had she fled?

“There you are.”

At the sound of Hawk’s voice, Tristan turned.

“I tried to save you,” Hawk said, “but that dragon Lady Durmont waylaid me. So who was the latest clumsy belle to accost you?”

“I’ve no idea,” Tristan said. “I take it you do not know her.”

“I never saw her face.” Hawk frowned. “What the devil were you doing engaging a strange lady in conversation?”

“I stepped on her fan.”

Hawk made a sound of disgust. “Follow me.”

As he walked with his friend, Tristan frowned, wondering how he could have misread her signals. Then again, the women who
pursued him made no secret of their illicit intentions with their risqué innuendos. The mysterious lady had surprised and
intrigued him, but she’d not taken the bait, so he dismissed her from his mind.

Hawk led him over to a wall niche displaying a winged statue of Fortuna, goddess of fortune and fate. “Old boy, you’ve got
to be more careful,” Hawk said. “These chits are desperate. One of them might trick you into a compromising situation.”

Tristan huffed. “A cautionary tale in reverse. Lady Rake seduces unsuspecting bachelor.”

“There are plenty of schemers on the marriage mart who would throw away their virtue to marry a duke.”

“Ridiculous.” He’d never fall for such tricks.

“Forget this bridal business for now,” Hawk said. “You needn’t rush to the altar.”

“I’ve left the dukedom unsecured for thirteen years.” With good reason, he silently amended.

Hawk released a loud sigh. “You’re determined to wed.”

“Determined, yes. Whether I’ll succeed is debatable.”

“As usual, you’re making matters much too complicated. You’re in luck. I have a brilliant plan.”

“This ought to prove entertaining,” he said.

“It’s simple,” Hawk said. “Choose the most beautiful belle in the ballroom, get an introduction, and ask her to dance. Then
call on her tomorrow and propose. In less than twenty-four hours, you’ll be an engaged man.”

“You call that a brilliant plan?”

Hawk folded his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong with it?”

He huffed. “Most of the beauties I’ve met are vain, silly, and clumsy.”

“You want an ugly wife?”

Tristan scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What the devil do you want?”

“A sensible, respectable, and graceful woman.” He wanted more, but he wasn’t about to confess his fantasies.

“If it’s a boring and plain bride you’re wanting, you need look no further than the wall,” Hawk said, indicating a group of
pitiful-looking gels sitting with the dowagers.

Tristan had started to turn away when he saw the amusing lady he’d spoken to earlier. His heartbeat drummed in
his ears. She led two gangly young cubs over to the forlorn girls. The chandelier’s soft candlelight illuminated her curly
golden hair.

Within minutes, both cubs were escorting wallflowers toward the dance floor. The lady responsible for this turn of events
clasped her small gloved hands. As she watched the couples, her plump lips curved into a dreamy smile, and her eyes softened.
Transfixed, Tristan forgot to breathe. He’d last seen that expression on a woman after a vigorous bout between the sheets.

Then Lord Broughton and his new bride approached her. All signs of the temptress disappeared as the lady faced the couple.
“That’s her,” Tristan said.

Hawk squinted. “Who?”

“The lady I spoke to earlier. She is standing with Broughton and his wife.”

“Lord help us. It’s Miss Mansfield.”

Miss Mansfield?
She was a virtuous, unmarried lady? The devil. He’d almost made her an indecent proposition.

Hawk laughed. “You’ve never heard about her?”

“You’re obviously itching to tell me,” he grumbled.

“She makes matches for every ugly duckling in London,” Hawk said, wagging his brows.

Tristan scoffed. “You’re funning me.”

“I’m not jesting. She’s not called Miss Mantrap for nothing,” Hawk said. “The woman is a menace to bachelors. Good old Broughton
is a prime example.”

Good old Broughton gazed down at his pretty blond bride. The man looked as if he were suffering from unbridled lust, a term
women euphemistically called love.

Hawk regarded Tristan with suspicion. “Why are you so interested in her?”

“Mere curiosity,” he said with a shrug.

Hawk smirked. “Cut line. You thought she was available for dalliance.”

He’d never admit it. No doubt she was as poor as a church mouse, without noble family connections. She probably found matchmaking
preferable to taking a position as a lady’s maid or governess. Most likely, she’d only received an invitation to the ball
because she’d made Broughton’s match.

He wished she’d not refused his offer to pay for the fan. But he understood her pride all too well, and though he thought
her chosen career odd, he couldn’t deny she’d made a successful match for Broughton.

Tristan’s skin tingled. No, he would not stoop to hiring her to find him a bride. He could practically picture the news in
the scandal rags.
The Desperate Duke has hired a matchmaker
.

He was not desperate. He was a bloody duke. With a mere crook of his finger, he could have any woman he wanted. The problem
was he didn’t want just any woman. He’d formulated requirements for his ideal bride.

All he needed was to find someone who met them.

He thought about spending week after week trolling for a wife in ballrooms. He thought about fetching fans, handkerchiefs,
and parasols. He thought about his need for an heir. His chances of finding his perfect duchess seemed remote at best.

Tristan glanced at Miss Mansfield again and reconsidered. She needed money. He needed a bride. For the right price, Miss Mansfield
would keep her involvement a secret from all but the chosen girl and her grateful family.

He frowned, realizing he was basing his decision on
one example—Broughton. Hiring Miss Mansfield meant taking a risk, but if her efforts proved unsatisfactory, he could dismiss
her. Truthfully, a larger risk loomed. Marriage was for life, and as matters now stood, he was in serious danger of tying
himself forever to an unsuitable wife. Or no wife at all, at this rate.

Tristan sized up the situation and realized he had two choices: continue his haphazard search or hire Miss Mansfield. After
weeks of pure hell shopping at the marriage mart, the matchmaker won hands-down.

Of course, he had no intention of enlightening his friend. “I’m off to pay my respects to Broughton and his wife.”

Hawk snorted. “This marriage business has addled your brain.”

“I fail to understand what you find so amusing.”

“Miss Mansfield is a happily-ever-after spinster.” Hawk clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old boy. You’ve just
chosen the only woman in the kingdom who won’t wed you.”

Tessa Mansfield wanted to kick herself.

Heaven above, she’d practically flirted with that rake, the Duke of Shelbourne. She’d never seen him before tonight, but she’d
heard about his reputation. The gentleman rake, they called him. Everyone said he didn’t gamble to excess. They said he never
seduced innocents. Every other female, however, was apparently fair game.

She prided herself on her ability to spot a rake at twenty paces. This particular rake had fooled her with his agreeable manner.
But she knew rakes used their charm to disarm their intended victims. She recalled the duke’s slow
smile and could not deny she’d let his handsome face turn her head.

Tessa cringed as she recalled the way she’d chattered like a monkey. He must have thought she’d dropped her fan on purpose
like all those silly girls she’d read about in the scandal sheets. Oh, how lowering.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself she was unlikely to encounter him again. Thank goodness.

“I am glad to see you, Tessa. I’ve missed you so.”

Tessa returned her attention to Anne, her former companion and dearest friend in the world. “I missed you as well.”

Anne’s eyes misted. “I never imagined I would make such a happy marriage. You made all my dreams come true.”

For nearly a year, Tessa had promoted the match between Anne Mortland and Lord Broughton. More than once, Tessa had feared
all would come to naught, but true love and a dusting of luck had culminated in this fairy tale marriage.

Tessa glanced at Lord Broughton. “You both look well, my lord.”

Broughton gazed at his bride with adoration. “I am the happiest of men.”

Tessa’s heart contracted with a yearning for something she could never have.

Anne clasped her arm. “Tessa, look quickly. You do not want to miss seeing Jane dance.”

Tessa lifted up on her toes to see past the crowd. She caught a glimpse of her new companion, Jane Powell, but the fast approach
of two fashionable and handsome gentlemen diverted her attention. As they neared, her heart
thudded. She recognized the taller man with tousled black hair. It was the Duke of Shelbourne.