Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (2 page)

They completed the set without exchanging another word.

Chapter 2

“B
lake, old fellow.” A well known and utterly unwelcome figure blocked his path.

The evening just got even worse. Bad enough having to attend a ball in his parents' house; worse that his presence was required in order to dance with the most pestilential female he'd ever known. He didn't care that Minerva Montrose was the prettiest debutante in London. He wasn't interested in prettiness, or debutantes, and above all he wasn't interested in Minerva. The girl had been a thorn in his side when he was wooing her elder sister. Not having her as his sister-in-law was a huge consolation when Diana threw him over for bloody Sebastian Iverley.

Now this. Just when he'd reached the relative safety of the dining room, but before he'd acquired badly needed liquid sustenance to top up the brandy he'd downed earlier. He looked down into the face of his enemy and resisted the impulse to rearrange the angelic features with his fist.

“Huntley,” he said, with a curt nod.

“How are you, Blake?”

He turned to catch the eye of a laden footman. There were enough people seeking refreshment that he couldn't either hit or cut the scoundrel without drawing the attention of other guests.

“What, no handshake for your old school friend?”

Blake snatched a glass from the tray and responded with a brief, unapologetic grimace. It was good to keep his hands occupied. He scarcely trusted himself to speak.

Huntley gave the guileless smile that charmed so many, but no longer fooled Blake. “It's good to see you. You were away from town for so long. Two years is it? Your friends have missed you.”

“Have they?”

“You should have let me know you were back.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I understand, Blake, because I know how maladroit you are with a pen. I believe your handwriting's got even worse since Eton.”

“Which is why you were so kind as to perform the task of writing those vowels on my behalf.”

“As you know, I've always been present and willing to help my friend.”

A cold wind buffeted Blake's heart. His “old school friend” was never going to let him go. He'd trusted the boy with his secret; the grown man had taught him the foolishness of relying on another. He took another draft of wine and stared at the man, who looked better than the last time they'd met. Plumper and healthier and dressed by a good tailor. Why not? He'd done well for himself.

“What do you want, Huntley?”

The reply to the bitter question came with blithe cheeriness. “Why, nothing. Merely a chance to renew our friendship, raise a glass, and talk over the good old days. You always called me Geoffrey then.”

“Things change, Huntley.”

“You weren't so haughty at school. It never mattered then that your father was a duke. Of course, I could be of use to you.”

During all their years of friendship, why had he never noticed that Huntley was a sniveling whiner? It would have tipped him off to the man's fundamental dishonesty.

“I think I've more than repaid any past favors,” he replied. “What are you doing in my father's house?”

“I was invited. I'm standing for Parliament in the Westborough by-election, don't you know? As a member of the duke's faction.”

If he'd wormed his way into the circle surrounding the Duke of Hampton, Blake would never be rid of the little parasite. And any degree of intimacy between Huntley and his father could lead to disaster.

Huntley's expression was ever designed to invite trust and elicit confidences, but Blake read nothing but provocation in the innocent round features. Huntley knew he was worried and wanted to make him sweat, to beg even. Blake decided to disappoint him, at least for the moment. “Excuse me. I'm engaged for the next dance.”

“I understand. Is it the smiles of the beautiful Miss Montrose that call again, or some other incomparable?”

Blake turned his back on the bastard and made for the exit.

“Enjoy yourself,” Huntley called. “I'll still be here.”

The encounter drained away his last drop of well-being. The day had been so satisfactory, especially the invigorating afternoon in Desirée's bed. Before he remembered he'd promised his mother to attend her damnable ball.

God, he wished he could return to Henrietta Street and his mistress's perfumed arms and silken body. She'd hinted at something new, although a week of almost nonstop Desirée had left him depleted. But delicious as she was in bed, she was also an amusing conversationalist without any intellectual pretensions. With her he could relax and laugh and never feel stupid. Ridiculous, since Desirée was shameless about her mercenary motives, but he was quite infatuated with his expensive new ladybird. Little wonder, perhaps, since the two years he'd spent in the country had been almost celibate.

And all because of Huntley, whose exorbitant demands meant he had to rusticate to pay his debts. Though there were aspects of life in Devon he'd enjoyed, he felt he deserved a little recreation unmarred by demands from young ladies, old enemies, or his parents.

If he left now he'd avoid his father's rebuke and his mother's reproaches for his late arrival tonight. He'd also ensure the parental admonishments would be all the sharper for being postponed. Worth it, perhaps, but Desirée had made it clear in her alluring way that she'd very much appreciate bracelets to match the ruby necklace he'd given her. With this new demand on his purse he'd better not anger the old man any more than he usually did, just by existing.

Still, he'd be damned if he'd go looking for trouble by returning to the ballroom and being forced by the duchess to dance with a marriageable virgin. Since the dining room was occupied by Geoffrey Huntley, he sought another refuge.

The small withdrawing room was unoccupied, but the table of drinks ensured someone would come in. The odds were overwhelming that, whoever they were, Blake wouldn't want to see them. He helped himself to an open bottle and slipped into the window embrasure, behind the curtains. It was a quiet and agreeably cool retreat from rooms overheated by bodies and candlelight. He could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet and complete the process of becoming foxed enough to face the duke without pain.

“There's no one in here.” A well-known voice intruded on Blake's second glass of champagne. James Lambton was about the only person whose company he welcomed. He'd forgotten his friend had told him he would attend this infernal ball. He'd forgotten a lot today.

About to emerge from his hiding place, he stopped at the sound of a woman's voice. “There's no comfortable furniture either.”

How amusing. Lamb was engaged in a tryst. And since he recognized the lady, Blake knew exactly the object of the meeting and what kind of furniture they sought. A bed for preference but a sofa, or even a large chair, would suffice. Just as long as it could accommodate a couple looking for a fast, furious fuck.

In his early London days he'd accommodated the lady himself during an assembly or two. The Duchess of Lethbridge wasn't much older than him in years, but surpassed him by decades in experience. Having produced three sons in as many years as a bride, her equally licentious husband let her do as she liked. What she liked was young men. As far as Blake knew, his friend had never been called upon to service the beautiful and lascivious duchess and this was his big chance.

“This won't do,” she said. “Where else is there?”

“The library won't be in use during a ball.”

“There's not enough time now. I promised I'd stand up with the Prime Minister. I'll meet you there in an hour.”

T
hings improved. Minerva's next partners were more to her taste: a young peer, about to be seconded to the embassy in Vienna, who listened appreciatively to her impressions of that city; a junior secretary in the War Office. The fact that the Duke of Hampton was one of the leaders of the opposition party didn't stop members of the government accepting his hospitality. Mr. Thomas Parkes, a staunch supporter of the Hampton faction, had engaged her for a second set later in the evening.

“He must be serious,” observed Juliana, the young Marchioness of Chase, “since he requested the supper dance.”

“Are you sure you didn't do the inviting, Min?” Mrs. Tarquin Compton asked.

“There was no need,” Minerva said, ignoring Celia Compton's needling. “He was waiting for me as the last dance finished and he would have stayed and talked, but he was hoping to have a word with the Prime Minister.”

“He prefers a politician to you? How appalling! You should cut the acquaintance at once.”

Minerva laughed. “I wouldn't have anything more to do with him if he failed to grasp such an opportunity.”

“I hate to break it to you,” said Juliana, “but your Mr. Parkes must have failed. The Prime Minister is waltzing with the Duchess of Lethbridge.”

The three ladies looked with interest at the beauty in the arms of the country's premier. Minerva had promised to help Sebastian with his fashion report. “Would you call that pure white?” she asked. “I think the shade is a little creamier than my gown, but perhaps not. Mind you, that embroidered satin is hardly the kind of thing I would wear. She's practically naked on top.”

Celia, who had refreshingly liberal notions of what was proper to discuss with an unmarried girl, made a noise that a rude person would call a snort. “The duchess is hardly a debutante. According to Tarquin she's enjoyed liaisons with half the good-looking men in London.”

“Including him?”

“He claims not, says he wasn't handsome enough to tempt her. Nonsense of course, but I'm happy
he
wasn't tempted. What about Cain?”

The pursed disapproval of Juliana's pretty lips was spoiled by a twinkle in her eye. “I've never enquired. Better not to know what he got up to before we married.”

Minerva glanced down at her own simple white silk with its net overskirt and the embroidered satin slippers below. A slight aura emanated from the toes, a familiar visual disturbance echoed by a faint ache behind her eyes.

“Bother,” she muttered but not softly enough.

“What is it?”

“It's all right, Celia. Well, no, it isn't. I have a migraine coming. I know the signs.”

“Truly?” Celia asked. “This isn't one of your convenient headaches, letting you sneak off to a secret meeting and plot the downfall of the government?”

Minerva managed a wry smile. “I'm a reformed character. All the time I was in Vienna I never got into a scrape.” Hardly ever, she amended silently. No point worrying Juliana. “I wouldn't invent illness during a ball given in my honor. I'll admit I don't get real attacks very often, but when they come I can be in pain for hours.”

“Is there anything you can do to stop it?” Juliana asked.

“I have my powders with me. Sometimes if I take one and lie down, it goes away. If I'm gone more than half an hour, please make my excuses to our hostess.”

H
alf an hour and half a bottle later, Blake had an idea. He and Lamb had been torturing each other with pranks for years. Why not tonight?

The library at Vanderlin House, though far smaller than that at Mandeville, the country seat in Shropshire, was well stocked. Gilt spines glowed by the light of a single lamp, turned down low. Slipping in from the deserted passage, Blake couldn't appreciate the restful cool of the room with its faint odor of leather. Above the serried bookshelves loomed the ghostly marble faces of Greek and Roman philosophers. During visits to the library under the supervision of his tutors he'd often fantasized about shooting the smug bastards. Especially the Greek ones.

God, he hated Greek. He took a swig from his bottle and found it empty.

Narrowing his eyes, he assessed the odds of bowling it to bring down a bust of Plato. Easy with a cricket ball, but he wasn't sure he could control the spin on a flying champagne bottle. He almost missed the fact that he was not alone. A woman in white lay on the divan, provided for comfortable reading but handy for a less cerebral activity.

The duchess had arrived early.

A tall woman, her feet hung over the end of the padded bench. One gloved arm was draped over her eyes while the other trailed dramatically toward the floor. He very much doubted she was asleep. Rather, he guessed, she had invited Lamb to participate in one of her little games.

Wandering satyr surprises sleeping nymph, perhaps. Or—suitable to the library setting—visiting scholar ravishes the virginal daughter of the house. Pondering the possibilities aroused a little interest in him. Not much. He'd spent most of the past week in Desirée's bed. He was also quite drunk.

On the other hand, it would be amusing if Lamb arrived to find his position already occupied, so to speak. Childish but amusing. This was even better than surprising Lamb in flagrante. He stepped quietly across the room and squatted on the floor at the end of the couch, contemplating a pair of white slippers, made from silk with a swirly pattern. He corrected his balance by falling onto his knees, averted his eyes from the nauseating spirals, and looked at the duchess's ankles instead.

Very pretty. Blake had always had a weakness for a neat ankle, though he didn't recall ever taking note of Anthea Lethbridge's. Slender, well defined, and deceptively innocent in pure white stockings.

With the tip of his forefinger he traced the bone beneath the silk. She didn't move. He opened his hand and felt warmth under his palm. She twitched at his touch. He closed his hand around the tender limb and inched it upward. Her body undulated seductively and her legs parted a little, though from the rhythm of her breathing he'd think her asleep.

Sleeping nymph it was. Good acting.

With a hand on each ankle he gently drew the legs apart and leaned over to kiss the spot above her slipper, then, nudging at her skirt with his brow, he ran his lips up her inner calf.