Mastering the Marquess (18 page)

“Yes, as a matter of fact they are. The woman might as well be sitting on bags of gold.” Duldon’s eyes moved to look upon Lady Brookingston and then turned back to Geoffrey with iron intent. “And your question makes me believe that other rumors may be true as well.”

A cold pit opened in Geoffrey’s gut, blocking out all other thought. “Other rumors?”

Duldon held his gaze, as if seeking confirmation. “Rumors that your father has finally found a way to escape from your net of restraint. Is it true that he is leasing Risusgate—and to an American?”

Geoffrey tore his eyes from Duldon’s and turned back to the milling crowd, back to her, seeking any distraction from the furious tumble of emotions that Duldon’s words fired within him. And then the crowds parted and he saw the focus of Lady Brookingston’s attention.

The Duke of Mirth stood laughing, a wine goblet in each hand, a man without a care in the world.

The Duke of Mirth—his father.

She had to stop staring. Louisa forced her glance away. It wouldn’t do to be caught with her eyes locked upon this older duke as if she were a young girl catching sight of a boxful of kittens.

If only her spine would stop prickling and her heart stop racing. It was not him. And she had to stop thinking that every other man she saw was her mysterious lover.

Charles was gone—and must remain that way.

The heat that rose in her body, that pooled between her legs, that longed for something more was only in her mind. And she could control her mind—or at least she could try.

Another drink would do the trick. Perhaps she’d move from punch to champagne. Something cooling was called for, perhaps something with just that little bit more.

And she wasn’t talking about bubbles.

Raising a hand, she gestured to the footman who had just entered the room with a silver tray of delicate glasses.

The glasses clinked slightly as he walked toward her.

And then, as she reached for one, another hand snaked past her, grabbing the very glass she reached for. Stepping back in surprise, she found herself bumping into another body, a warm body smelling faintly of peppermint and something else she couldn’t quite put a name to, something green and fresh.

“So sorry, my dear.” The voice,
that voice
, echoed from behind.

Turning her head, she found herself looking up at the Duke of Mirth’s smiling face.

“I do tend to be a little bit overeager when the champagne makes the rounds. I’d say it’s all the gas, but my son would chide me for being rude. He’d be convinced that I meant something other than I did. I just happen to like bubbles. They tickle my nose.”

“I was just thinking of my own fondness for bubbles,” Louisa replied. It wasn’t quite true, but it was close enough.

“More beverages should have them,” the duke said, handing her a glass. “Do drink up. It is a fine vintage. Lady Hamilton always does well by her guests. No desire to cut corners, unlike some others.”

“I am not sure to whom you refer, your grace, but I do agree about Lady Hamilton.” She took a sip and smiled. “She has a most generous soul. I knew her well when I was younger.”

The duke narrowed his eyes and squinted at her. She could feel him cataloguing her in his mind, searching for her identity.

“You’re Landes’s girl, married the Beckwith boy—the one who had the hassle of inheriting the title and becoming earl. Brookingston. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She could only blink. “Why, yes, he is.”

He sensed his faux pas, and it was the duke’s turn to blink. “Sorry. My Geoffrey may be right about my manners. I never do like the bother of thinking before I speak. You must have been fond of the boy. Wives aren’t always, but you look the type to have insisted on the kinder emotions.”

“Well, yes, I was. I did consider it a love match, for all our families approved.”

“That’s good. I do like a love match. Had one myself. Corrine was always a dear, knew just how to handle me.” He wiped at the corner of his eye. “She’s gone, too. It does still hurt, even after all these years. I can see you feel the same.”

“Why, yes.” This was one of the strangest conversations she’d ever had.

The duke suddenly held up his flute, already empty although she’d barely seen it touch his lips. “Let me get you another.” His solemn expression changed in a moment, a wide grin spreading from cheek to cheek. “It never does to dwell on sad things. Does the soul much better to move on, to stay busy. I imagine you think the same—why else would you be wearing such a festive dress? It’s always good to put off the mourning and move on. Are you here looking for a new husband? I don’t remember hearing of any babes. Didn’t some cousin or other inherit Brookingston’s title? Never do remember these things, but I am sure that’s right. Hard on you not having an heir—but there, I am getting glum again. No need for that. If it’s a husband you want, it’s a husband we’ll find.”

Louisa could only blink in response.

How did the whole world know of her search for a husband? She’d written Lady Perse asking for help, but now the whole world—or at least all of society—seemed to know.

“Don’t have much to say for yourself, do you? Some men like that. I know my son would. Have you met him? You must have. He was a great friend of Brookingston when they were young. Maybe you should marry
him
—my son, not Brookingston, that is. You already did that.”

More blinks. Who was Mirth’s son? It took her a moment to pull the connections together in her mind. Swanston. Mirth’s son was Swanston. And yes, she had met him on several occasions, although it was hard to connect the dark, reserved man whom she remembered with the Duke of Mirth. It was hard to imagine two men who appeared to have so little in common, although she supposed they were of similar height and build and that Mirth’s hair must once have been dark. If she truly thought about it, there was quite a striking resemblance. “I do believe that I can find a husband on my own.”

“Then you do admit to wanting one. I truly think you might just do for my boy. I’ll throw a soiree and introduce you. I am always looking for an excuse for a good party. Though the lad does tend to avoid parties I throw—all because of the elephants. Who knew what a mess elephants could make. I thought it a jolly fine idea, and so did my dear Bliss. And my son doesn’t like the llamas, either. What kind of a man doesn’t like llamas? Sweet creatures.”

Llamas? Elephants? What did elephants have to do with anything? “Truly, your grace, I am quite content to make my own way and—”

“I think the boy is here. I do believe I saw him earlier, although to tell you the truth I was
avoiding him. He’s had that cross look in his eyes recently and I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, but if I introduce him to you that just might cheer him. I should warn you, though, the boy doesn’t have much of a way with women—a bit repressed, I am afraid. He never does seem that interested—not that you need to worry about anything funny. He’s just a bit shy, reserved. I’ve tried to teach him, but—”

“I am sorry, your grace, but perhaps you are moving a bit quickly, I’ve only just returned to society and—”

“Oh, look, there’s my daughter—Bliss, you know. Bliss Danser—can you think of a better name for a girl? And look at that dress. The girl does have style. You’d know her for a Danser anywhere—not like Swanston, glum lad. Forgive me, I must go talk with her, find out what she’s doing with the Countess Ormande. Never have been quite sure what that woman’s after. Strange creature. The Countess, not Bliss. Bliss is a dear and so much fun. She does take after me and she’s promised to find out if …”

Louisa did not hear the end of his statement as he hurried off after his daughter—who was wearing one of the most incredible dresses that Louisa had ever seen. It looked like she had half a hot air balloon under her skirt. It was true that skirts were growing fuller, but this one looked as if you could turn her on her side and roll her.

And standing behind her, talking over her shoulder, was the tall woman from the retiring chamber. The Countess Ormande? Her eyes locked on Louisa, and without thought Louisa raised her hand to her cheek, feeling a connection between them.

Shaking her head at the strange family—and their strange acquaintances—Louisa turned back toward the dance floor.

The night was still young, and she did have a plan to pursue.

The room was crowded and it was difficult to see beyond the wall of men’s shoulders. Lady Perse had given her a list of men with whom she should converse and so far Lord Peter was the only one she had met—and without a specific reason in mind, she knew he was not right for her needs.

Perhaps the best move would be to find Lady Perse and allow her to make the introductions. With determination in her step, she forged into the crowd.

Swanston watched her disappear. His feet almost moved in pursuit, but he held them back.

She was his friend’s widow. She was not what he was looking for—for any type of pursuit, although once again he was beset by erotic images of pressing her hard against a wall, of pushing down that tight bodice and …

Blast, she was Brookingston’s widow. And she was not the type of woman he planned to wed. He could not, should not, be having these thoughts about her, should not be imagining binding her hands, spreading her before him, blindfolding her, winding the cloth tight about those orderly braids …

For some reason that last vision twisted at his gut, had him surging into the throng in pursuit.

Surely if he talked to her this strange fascination would fade. Once he was face to face with her he could return her to the small pocket of his mind she’d always occupied: friend’s wife, sweet girl, calming presence—put her in that place that did not require thought, that did not sneak out and cause his cock to rise at the most inopportune moments. He was a man, not a schoolboy. He controlled his body as he controlled everything else—which did not explain why he was elbowing his way into a crowd.

And she’d been talking to his father. If that wasn’t enough to cool his ardor, something strange was definitely happening. Normally any thought of his father was enough to bring him down to earth, if not to the depths of hell. He’d been cleaning up after the duke—indeed, after the entire family—for years.

As if that thought had been a harbinger, there was Bliss, looking like the cherry atop a meringue. She stood next to the Countess, their gowns clashing like an apple and a strawberry—forget the cherry. Now, that was a pairing he needed to discourage. He shuddered at the thought of what trouble his sister was in the midst of, and how the Countess might influence her. He’d long been prepared for the scandal that he knew was to come. Bliss was trouble waiting to happen—trouble he didn’t want to be his responsibility. He’d tried sending her off to school—it was a pity England no longer had convents—keeping her on the ducal estates, hiring her the strictest of chaperones, and still she was always at the center of the party, a step away from disgrace.

If only he could manage to marry her off and make her somebody else’s problem.

He stopped and stood still, the thought having been distracting enough to halt his pursuit
of Lady Brookingston.

Unfortunately, Bliss spotted him. She came running—only Bliss could run in such a crush—straight to him, flinging herself into his arms. “Oh, Geoff, I am so glad you’re here.”

And he hugged her back. That was the problem with Bliss: He might despair of her, but he did love her. She was one of the few in the whole world toward whom he would admit to that emotion.

“Hello, Poppet. What are you up to? And what are you doing in such company?” He let his gaze drift back to the Countess, who stood watching them, watching him.

Bliss looked up at him, her eyes serious for a moment. “You don’t actually want to know, do you?”

He stared back down at her, ignoring the Countess, and trying to keep his tone light. “Do I need to? Will your creditors appear in my office in the morning—or, even worse, angry dowagers?”

A long, tired sigh left her lips. “No. I promise. For tonight I will do nothing more than spin ridiculously fast as I dance.”

“And those skirts will not rise up to your waist?” His eyes sought the Countess, who stood apart, still studying them.