How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days (4 page)

Her favorite flower.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

Just then, Mrs. Couch and two young footmen entered the room, their arms filled with
more
flowers, if that were possible. One would think the entire species of flower had been plucked from the ground and was now in her parlor.  The room looked like an overgrown hothouse, for heaven’s sake! 

“What is all this?” Pippa asked, though she had a feeling she already knew the answer. There was only
one
man in London who could afford such an overt extravagance. It was nauseating. “Where did these come from?”

Mrs. Couch set a vase down on the only available space, a patch of carpet beside the mantel. She plucked a card from the large bouquet and handed it to Pippa. “Every card says the same thing.”

Pippa sighed, glancing down at the card. It was precisely as she’d feared.

With deepest esteem from His Grace, the Duke of Arlington.

On the back, a note was written in neat block letters.

You shall accompany me to the theater tomorrow evening, eight o’clock.

Another command.

If he thought she would yield to his commands, he was painfully mistaken. The flowers, however beautiful, would
not
buy her affections. 

The duke was wealthy, titled, and ridiculously handsome; he had everything to recommend himself. If one completely discounted his personality, that was. Pippa, however, could hardly overlook that glaring defect. Cold, ruthless, and utterly unfeeling—it was a wonder
any
woman found him agreeable.

Pippa turned to Mrs. Couch, who was directing a batch of footmen, their arms laden with more flowers. “What are we going to do with all these flowers? Can you turn the delivery men away?”

“I’ve tried.” Mrs. Couch placed her hands on her hips, exasperated. “The duke gave explicit orders to have these bouquets hand-delivered, and they refuse to leave until every flower has been accounted for and accepted.”

Pippa sighed. Well, he certainly was determined, if nothing else. “How many peonies can there be in London? Soon there will be none left!”

“One can only hope,” Mrs. Couch said. “At this rate they’ll fill the entire house.”

Pippa rubbed her temples. “You can start putting them in the library, then the bedchambers. Steer clear of Father’s study—flowers cause him to sneeze.”

Mrs. Couch nodded, then turned to leave, catching three footmen on their way into the parlor. She shooed them out. “No, no, not in here. There’s no more room. Out in the corridor, if you please.”

For the first time, Pippa’s gaze swept the entire room. If she were being completely truthful with herself, she had to admit the gesture was really quite romantic.  If he were any other man, she would be flattered, perhaps a bit smitten.  

But he
wasn’t
any other man. He was the Duke of Arlington—the positively, absolutely, no mistaking it,
wrong
man for her.

Reaching over, she plucked one perfect bloom from its carefully arranged bouquet and brushed the soft petals across her lips. White peonies. Though they had no perfume to speak of, they smelled fresh, wholesome, and she closed her eyes and inhaled the flower’s earthy scent. 

How could he have known they were her favorite? 

With a heavy sigh, she took the flower up to her bedchamber and placed it on her nightstand, along with the duke’s card. It was clear he would be a formidable foe. No one, save her father and perhaps a handful of servants, knew how much she loved white peonies—which meant only one thing. He’d enlisted someone from her household to spy on his behalf. It was dastardly, but, she had to admit, also quite brilliant.  

Two could
certainly
play at that game.

It was clear she’d have to be more calculated in her thinking, more cunning.

She could simply cry off publicly, of course, but that would only incite his anger—or perhaps worse, his retaliation. Charles was right: what she needed was to force his hand. Make him well and truly sorry he’d ever selected such a troublesome, unappealing bride.

Her lady’s maid, Rose, swept into the room with a handful of fresh linens, prepared to dress Pippa for her day.

“Rose,” Pippa said. “What have you heard about the Duke of Arlington?” 

“Only that he’s a callous sort of man, clever in business.” Rose poured water from the pitcher into the basin and unwrapped a fresh bar of soap. She turned to face Pippa, her lips curled up into a playful smile. “And that he’s extraordinarily well equipped.  I’ve heard he has a different woman in his bed every night.”

“He couldn’t possibly have a different woman in his bed
every
night.  Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

Rose shrugged. “My cousin used to work as a maid in the duke’s household, and I can assure you, it isn’t an exaggeration. Ladies practically throw themselves at his feet. He has more than enough of them to choose from.”

Pippa wrinkled her nose at the thought of another woman’s hands all over him. She had no reason to be jealous, but for some mysterious reason, the image rankled.   

Then it dawned on her.

If she caught him in bed with another woman, he would be infuriated. What man wants a snooping, meddlesome wife? And if she had witnesses to the event, then he would be hard-pressed to deny things later. 

It would be bold of her, though—perhaps
too
bold. A woman bursting into a duke’s bedchamber was a recipe for scandal. Her witness would have to be relied upon for his or her discretion and secrecy.

Then there were the duke’s servants to consider. Just one word from them and the gossip about her would spread like wildfire. Her reputation would be in tatters by teatime.

But if it meant escaping Arlington’s grasp, then it was a risk she was willing to take. Better a spinster than tied to a man as cold and ruthless as he. 

“Order the carriage, Rose. I’m going out.”

By the time she was dressed, and her hair was suitably coiled and coifed, it was nearly eight o’clock.  She rushed out of the house, her bonnet in hand, and directed her driver to the most exclusive decorator in Town—Mr. Howard Vaughn.

If Arlington wanted to play dirty, she was more than happy to oblige.

*   *   *

There was nothing quite like being accosted first thing in the morning. Lucas was asleep, or had been a moment ago, when he was awoken by frantic voices—gaining in both pitch and volume—as they carried in to his bedchamber from the corridor.

“Miss, please, no! He’s still—”

Benson’s voice cut off abruptly as the door to Lucas’s bedchamber swung open. Miss Welby and a sharply dressed gentleman filed in as though entering a man’s bedchamber as he slept were the most natural thing in the world. Miss Welby carried a writing board in her hand, and her eyes went wide in shock for a fraction of a second.

“You’re alone,” she breathed in astonishment, before her eyes flicked away. 

Confusion and a liberal amount of anger instantly swamped him. Lucas sat up. “What in the devil is all this?”

“Now,” Miss Welby said, ignoring him. She pointed at the curtains with the tip of her pencil. “If we can replace these horrid blue drapes with a light, airy pink. That should brighten the room up considerably, I think.”

The gentleman nodded his agreement, careful to keep his eyes cast as far from Lucas’s naked torso as humanly possible. This was no doubt as uncomfortable for him as it was for Lucas. More so, he would wager, if his pained expression and rigid posture were any indication. Lucas had a feeling he would flee if it were possible to do so without looking foolish.

“What is this?” Lucas repeated, only just keeping a rein on his temper.

“And the furniture really is atrocious. It simply
must
go,” she said, ignoring him again. She placed the blunt end of the pencil against her chin, mulling over God knew what. “I do think
white
furnishings would complement the pink drapes nicely. And perhaps lace. Yes, lace dripping off every surface would be sublime.” She turned to the man standing next to her, a stout, older gentleman with graying hair. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Vaughn?”

Mr. Vaughn cleared his throat, his gaze wandering about the room—studiously avoiding the bed where Lucas sat, glowering at him—and nodded. “Yes, yes, sublime indeed. Lace.”

Good God, Lucas was going to wrap his hands around her graceful, swanlike neck. There was mischief in her eyes, in the way her lips curled up impishly. She was trying to humiliate him, no doubt, and he’d be damned if he allowed that to happen.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose to his feet and tied the white bedsheet around his hips as he stood. Miss Welby and Mr. Vaughn both paused, suspended in motion as Lucas headed straight for Miss Welby. 

Her face blanched as he approached, her shocked gaze flicking over his unclothed body. Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of crimson.

He grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her out into the corridor, her writing board and pencil falling with a crash to the floor. She drew in a startled breath and pulled away from him.

If she thought she could storm in here and upend his household, then she was gravely mistaken. Indeed, he would turn the tables and exploit that mistake to his advantage.   

Benson stood horrified in the corridor. “Please forgive me, I—”

Apologies would have to wait.

“Benson, show Mr. Vaughn to the parlor. He doesn’t set foot outside that room until I’ve given him leave. And order the small carriage for Miss Welby. I want it waiting at the back door in half an hour.”  

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Lucas continued down the corridor at an even clip, dragging Miss Welby along with him. She squeaked in protest, attempting to tug her arm out of his grasp, but he wasn’t giving an inch. Indignant anger burned like acid in his gut. 

Her attempt to humiliate him was little compared to the damage she’d undoubtedly done to her own reputation, and that was what angered him the most. That she would risk herself in such a way, thoughtless or uncaring of the ridicule she would suffer because of it. 

“
Where
are you taking me?” she snapped. “I demand to know.”

He remained silent, too infuriated to respond. Once they reached the White Room at the end of the hall, he opened the door and shoved her unceremoniously inside.

As the room’s name suggested, it was large and drenched completely in white—everything from the carpet, to the drapes, to the bed linens. More importantly, it was the room
farthest
from his—on the opposite end of the long corridor.

She whirled around to face him, her eyes wide as he clicked the door shut behind him. He leaned against the wide oak panel, arms crossed over his chest, contemplating his next move. 

It was clear she intended to wriggle out of this engagement somehow—either by wit or subterfuge. He couldn’t let that happen. The demand for coal was ever expanding, and Miss Welby stood to inherit one of the largest coal mines in England. He wasn’t about to let that slip away.

There was only one way he knew how to persuade a woman.

Pushing off the door, he took one step toward her. Eyes wide, she seemed to read his intent and took a step back, then another, until the wall prevented her from retreating any farther.

He advanced on her, his movements slow and languid, imagining all the different ways he could strip her bare. He’d do it one piece of clothing at a time, revealing inch by tantalizing inch of her creamy white flesh, starting with her full, rounded breasts. 

Her gaze flicked over him as he stopped in front of her. Leaning in, he placed his hands against the wall on the either side of her head, completely caging her in. Her fresh scent enveloped him, and he inhaled deeply—he couldn’t resist. He loved the way she smelled—like mint leaves and a hint of lemon. Her scent was a clean, subtle fragrance and so unlike the cloying perfumes worn by the women in his circle.

Dipping his head, he brushed his lips lightly against her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Tell me, Miss Welby, do you like what you see?”

She placed her hands on his chest to push him away. A jolt of energy sparked between them, and she jerked in response. Her hands were bare, and the feel of her soft skin pressed against him heated his blood, made his cock swell. He wanted her. Here.
Now
.

How easy it would be to press her up against the wall and push into her soft, inviting heat. She’d be wet for him—desire flickered in her eyes, drawing him in like a lure. He would watch her face as she came, as he came inside her, and as she came again and again.

Placing one hand over hers, he guided it across his chest, to his flat nipples, then down, over the ridges of his abdomen. She licked her bottom lip but made no move to pull her hand away. Curiosity burned in her eyes, and he smiled. He was more than willing to teach her everything she needed to know.

He guided her hand lower, then lower still, her fingers dipping beneath the sheet and brushing the tip of his erection. She sucked in a sharp breath, and he drew his free hand into a fist. He wanted her like he’d wanted no other woman in his damned life. He wanted to sink into her and lose himself to the oblivion she would offer.

He growled, deep in his throat, leaning in to take possession of her mouth.

Abruptly, she ducked under his arm and put several paces between them, each breath coming in short, erratic bursts. She curled her hand around the bedpost, her other hand clutching her midsection as though she’d just run the length of Hyde Park. Uphill. Twice.  

“I’m engaged,” she said, the words emerging rushed, panicked.

He paused. Every muscle hummed with tension. “Yes. To me.”

Still turned away, not looking at him, she shook her head. “No, to a um…friend. We had an understanding before you printed that preposterous invitation in the papers.”

It was a game, another plot to thwart him. He narrowed his eyes at her back—she stood tall, her chin raised, but she trembled, the only sign of vulnerability.