Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (4 page)

“Who the devil are you?” he breathed.

“What the blazes are you doing downstairs?” she demanded.

He grinned. “Do forgive me, was I to remain in my room?”

Her smoldering eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“Whatever made you think I would do so?”

“Good manners,” she snapped.

“I don't have them and, given your summation of my character, you knew that.”

She scowled. “I didn’t think you’d sneak about the house like a thief.”

“I am a master sneaker,” he said, barely able to contain his amusement.

“No doubt from all your years eluding husbands,” she accused, her shoulders squaring.

“I don’t deny it.” He shrugged. “One must rescue all those poor wives from their dastardly husbands.”

“You risk ruin with those visits!”

“What bliss does not have its risks,” he countered, enjoying teasing her far too much though he also spoke the truth.

“Ha.”

“Spoken as one who has not yet achieved bliss.” He eyed the pages she clasped so ardently. “Or so I thought, and yet. . .”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know you aspire to novel writing.”

She clutched the pages to her chest more tightly and her brows rose just a shade. “Aspire?”

“I confess to reading a few lines before I coughed.”

She stiffened. “They are merely the words of a bored mind.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He longed to put her at ease even though it was tempting to rib her. No doubt, she was exceedingly embarrassed. “You must be aching of it here in this gothic hall, away from all excitement.”

“It is not gothic. It is Elizabethan.”

“The age of torture and oppression,” he pointed out.

“Hardly. It was the Golden Age. Elizabeth was a great monarch. A great writer herself—“

“Ah. So you wish to be a great writer.”

She was silent.

“I think it marvelous if you have such an ambition.”

“Do you, indeed?”

“I do,” he replied in all honesty. “But if you love books, you really must take better care of yours.” He gestured to the novel in his hand. “Damp is very bad for books.”

Her lips pressed together as she stared at the novel in his hand. “Have you read it?”

“I own it, but no. Not as of yet. It is all the rage, is it not?”

She continued to stare as though stunned. “So I hear.”

“Is this the sort of thing you wish to write?” he asked, holding the book up.

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath suddenly driven by the wish to aid her. “Well, if you have any skill, I know several publishers.”

She blinked. “How kind.”

He grinned. He wanted her to think him not entirely nefarious. . . Which was quite odd. It wasn’t as if he planned to seduce her. . . Did he?

Oh God.

He did.

It hadn’t even truly hit him, but given the way he had just been completely bowled over by her presence and how we was now offering to introduce her to his publishing friends? Yes. He was hoping to have an affair with her.

After all, what man would turn from such a fascinating woman?

Many, actually.

But he wasn’t many and he reveled in the rare and she was rare, indeed.

Still, she was also, in a way, in his care. He should not be thinking of taking any sort of advantage but it struck him that Lady P could take care of herself.

Given her uncle and her demeanor, she’d been taking care of herself for years.

“You don’t think the idea of a lady writing abhorrent?” she asked flatly.

“Dear woman,” he drawled. “I find
ladies
in general to be abhorrent.”

She eyed him as though he were mad. “I don’t follow.”

“They are,” he explained, “through no fault of their own, often ill-read, without conversation, without experience, and interested in little that matters. Society makes them thus. A lady who writes is a lady who flouts society.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Well, I suppose it is no surprise you like women who are scandalous.”

Charles shook his head. “That isn’t just it. A woman who aspires to a profession aspires to independence and independent thought. Scandal is not interesting by itself.”

Her stance eased. “Perhaps you are not as trivial as I thought.”

A laugh burst from him. “I think I can say the same about you.” Charles stuck out his hand. “Can we not form a truce?”

She contemplated that hand as if it were a cobra, ready to strike. “I do not know.”

“I’m not going back to my mold-ridden room anytime soon but nor will I be leaving the house, if that was your wish.”

A smile tilted her lips, transforming her face into that of a mischievous sprite. “It was so very obvious?”

“Subtlety is not your strong suit.”

“Is it not?” she queried, lips twitching.

“Mystery? Yes. Subtlety? No.”

At last, her smile turned into a rich laugh. “Well then, let us form a tentative truce.”

He stuck his hand out further.

She eyed it again.

“I do not have the plague.”

Her laughter diminished and she grew serious. “That is not my concern.”

“Then what is?”

Whether she realized it or not, she licked her lower lip.

The room seemed to spin for him.

It was such a small, almost unnoticeable, gesture and yet it was undeniable.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly as she stared at his hand.

She liked his touch.

That was why she didn’t wish to take his hand.

But finally, she secured her papers in the crook of her arm then took his hand in a firm shake. “Allies,” she said.

“Allies,” he agreed.

He smiled. If she was so easily agreeable, as the vast majority of women were when he unleashed his charm, things were looking up. Yes. This was all going to go exactly as it should.

Chapter 4

Devil take it. Now, how was she going to get rid of him?

As she pulled her fingers back, trying not to shiver at the pleasure of his strong hand touching hers, she tried not to gape at him.

He was a conundrum.

Usually, she didn’t care for rakes beyond their role as material for her work. Rakes were self-centered, ignorant, trouble making fools. But Lord Charles was proving to be more than she had first surmised.

It had completely stunned her, his erudite and accurate description of ladies. It had also stunned her that he valued not scandalous women, but independent ones.

She would have thought that all he cared about was a voluptuary who was happy to hike up her skirts whenever he gave her the side eye.

His offer to assist her with her career was suspicious and inconvenient.

A naive person might think he would do such a thing out of guilt.

She was not naive.

Someone like Lord Charles would have intentions that were neither entirely good nor entirely bad. He might help her, but then he’d expect something in return.

And while the idea of slipping into his bed might not be so very terrible, she had no intention of doing so. Gentlemen’s beds, rakes or no, were off limits.

And just as his bed was off limits, so was his desire to be her ally.

Fortunately, she didn’t need his help.

Unfortunately, he was more intelligent than she had given him credit for.

Her usual tactics for convincing an unwelcome guest to depart hadn’t worked.

He was far too determined apparently.

But why the devil should he be so very nosy?

Finally she cleared her throat. “This is all well and good, Lord Charles, but surely you’ve an orgy to attend?”

To her surprise, he suddenly looked uncomfortable. . .

A laugh threatened to bubble from her throat. Oh goodness. He
did
attend orgies. That was why he looked as if she had called him out on the carpet.

He forced a smile. “I do not wish to be anywhere but here just now.”

“Do forgive me, but I fail to see why.”

His hard face softened. “Because you are alone in this world.”

The simple statement hit her like a knife through the heart.

She couldn’t draw breath and she hated him for it. For a moment.

How dare this debauched man show up on her doorstep and point out the loneliness of her existence. That even in her double life, the one she lived in London in the dark of night, she was alone. After all, when one had to constantly lie, one was always alone.

She narrowed her eyes. “How would you know anything about loneliness? Perhaps I love solitude.”

“You might,” he agreed. “Many do. . . But you don’t.”

“Don’t I?” she challenged.

“No,” he replied confidently.

“How do you know?”

“Because I am lonely, too.”

It was a shocking confession and the moment he’d made it, a look of amazement crossed his face.

“You didn’t mean to tell me that, did you?” she asked.

“No. I did not.”

“Lord Charles,” she began carefully, “perhaps we can be allies, but I do not think we should allow this conversation to go any further.”

“Why?”

“Because as tempting as it might be to pretend an accord, we are nothing alike.”

That wasn’t true. To her horror, as he continued to insist on revealing things about himself, she was beginning to think that they were remarkably similar.

If she had been a titled man, perhaps she would have been just like him.

She hoped to think she would have made better choices, but her experiences had led her down dark paths. Paths which fascinated her. Paths which allowed her to glimpse lives she could only dream of even with her double life.

Lord Charles lived those lives.

He was not happy for it.

Of that, she was certain.

A relationship of any kind with him would be dangerous. Fascinating, but dangerous.

He was silent for a long time and then he asked, “Are you afraid I will tarnish your reputation?”

She considered this. Her reputation was always one step from utter destruction. If anyone found out about her alter ego, her life would be ruined. . . P. Auden was bad enough. However, the world might accept a lady author. But if anyone found out about her nocturnal research forays? She’d be run out of England.

So, she squared her shoulders and said, “Yes.”

“I suppose you are correct. But I feel as if I owe you something.”

“You do not,” she assured him.

“And then. . .”

She didn’t like the sound of those two words. “Then?”

“I think you have a secret.”

“What lady does not?” she asked quickly. No one thought Lady Patience had secrets. She was always for too terse, far too austere for that sort of thing.

“Too true. I am curious, even so.”

“If I do, a secret by its very nature is. . . Well. . . Secret. Why should you wish to discover it?”

A wicked grin tilted his lips. “So, you admit you have one.”

“No.”

His smile didn’t dim and a sort of devilish glint flashed in his eyes. “I like a mystery.”

She frowned. Deuce take it but why was he so difficult to manage? “And we have established that while not subtle, I am a mystery.”

“Exactly so.”

“I thought we were to be allies,” she reminded.

“We are.”

“Friends do not try to force their friends into intimate confessions.”

“Ah, but we are not to be
friends
. We are merely under truce. Did you wish to be friends?” he asked softly.

“No,” she replied far too quickly.

He shrugged then gave an exaggerated sigh of woe. “You see, I thought not.”

She arched an impatient brow. “You seem to see a great deal for one of your notorious reputation.”

He smiled. “Perhaps there are layers to my nefariousness.”

“Layers?” she queried.

“Yes. Like trifle.”

Good God, he was so bloody maddening and yet she was enjoying their discourse in a most alarming way. She didn’t often speak with someone who loved to spar so easily with words.

Still, she rolled her eyes at his playfulness. “You do not resemble a trifle in any way.”

“I assure you I do.”

“I do not wish to know how,” she said with growing exasperation even as she was secretly amused.

“How could anyone wish to dismiss trifle?” he teased.

She gave him a withering stare. As much as she was beginning to enjoy him, she needed to put their exchange to a stop. He was too clever and the longer they spoke, the more likely it was he would begin to suspect Lady Patience was far more than she seemed. He already was suspicious.

Lord Charles lifted his hands in supplication. “Dessert isn’t for you. I understand. Then what should we discuss? If not ourselves and not my layers, then what?”

“The weather is a very fine subject.”

“Weather be damned,” he declared, absolutely serious now. “You’re more interesting than that.”

She gave him what she could only call her most spinsterish look, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, spine straight as a ramrod. It was an often practiced look. “Am I?”

“You know it.”

“Ah sir,” she said with as much humility as she could muster, “I am naught more than a reclusive lady who scribbles away. I’ve no aspirations to greatness or singularity. I am merely an unassuming and rather boring creature.” 

He snorted. “There is nothing
mere
about you.”

Drat and double drat. Why wouldn’t he accept that she was just a bored recluse who wrote romantic prose for her own entertainment?

“Why are you so determined to unearth something that isn’t there?” she demanded, her temper flaring.

“Because I believe it is there and truth be told. . . I am bored.”

“Bored?” It was all she could do not to roar at him. He was causing her all this trouble because he was
bored
?

“Bored,” he repeated with exaggerated articulation.

“How can someone of your birth and your good fortune be bored?” she asked incredulously, though she’d seen it before. The sight of men and women born to every chance, every privilege and who went about sighing with ennui would have been tragic if it wasn’t so infuriating. In her opinion, bored people needed a good slap.

“Ah.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “To echo you, Lady Patience,
you know nothing about me.”