The Dastardly Duke (17 page)

But somehow, the haughty arch of that ducal brow and disdainful condemnation of the pianoforte’s innards had worked wonders. Suddenly the guests were applauding as if Hannah had somehow committed an act of heroism. As one they rose and surged toward her.

A firm hand under her elbow helped her rise. Hannah did not have to look to know it was the duke who assisted her. Lifting her chin defiantly, she calmly met the gazes of Lady Greeley’s guests.

“I imagine it was those triplets that caused all the mischief,” she said with a ladylike shrug.

Relief showed on the face of her hostess, and everyone burst into good-natured laughter. The duke did not laugh, but his gaze was filled with something that might have been approval.

“Do you want to leave?” he said a few minutes later, after the crowd moved away from the pianoforte and onto other activities the hostess had hastily arranged.

“Yes,” she confessed grimly, “but I am determined to remain for a while.”

For the next hour, he did not leave her side. Hannah found his protective hovering reassuring, if rather curious. He held himself stiffly erect, with a soldier’s watchfulness, almost as if he meant to spirit her to safety at any moment. Lady Huffington, meanwhile, did her best to dismiss the entire episode, mingling about to denounce the current fashion for “those awful new inventions, when the old ones are quite satisfactory.”

Hannah sipped the punch the duke had brought her. Though most of the guests appeared to have forgotten the incident, she caught the occasional pointed look in her direction. Eventually, the pressure of trying to look unconcerned took its toll. Though the dizziness and ringing had vanished, she now had a splitting headache.

Watching her intently, as he had done all night, Julian did not miss the tiny, pained wrinkles at the
corner
s of her eyes and the furrow in that otherwise smooth brow. He decided she had displayed her courage long enough.

“Come,” he commanded, removing the cup from her hand. “I will summon the carriage.”

“I cannot leave.” Her voice lacked her usual conviction.

Julian steered her toward the door. “On the contrary. You have proven to one and all that you can face down disaster with aplomb. I see no point in remaining.”

To his surprise, she gave no further argument. As they left, their hostess once more apologized profusely but seemed relieved that the very visible reminder of the unfortunate episode had decided to remove herself.

As he handed her into his carriage, she sighed gratefully then closed her eyes. She did not even protest when he seated himself next to her, instead of across.

Julian felt strangely protective of this woman who had displayed such valor in the face of ridicule. All evening he had been ready to kill anyone who dared to laugh at her. Amid her acute embarrassment, she had shown a simple, gracious dignity quite at odds with what might be expected of a woman of her background. Studying her, Julian knew why he had been so unwise as to tell her about his father’s deathbed confession and the secret that—if she chose to disclose it—could bring down the dukedom. It was because blackmail seemed beneath that odd dignity of hers.

She put two fingers against her temples, her delicately tapered fingertips making healing circles over her skin. There was something immeasurably strong about this woman, even in her apparent fragility.

With a mind of its own, his arm slid across the back of her shoulders and his fingers moved to supplant hers. She stiffened slightly as he began to massage her temple. Then she leaned back against his arm as if to say that the protest on her Ups was not worth the effort to utter it.

It was easy enough to provide her this small re
li
ef from her pain, Julian reflected as he smoothed her cool, dry skin. When those lines in her face began to relax, he knew a moment of great pleasure.

Coiling an errant tendril of her hair around his finger, he marveled at its sheen. At first, he toyed only with the wandering strands that had escaped the hairpins. But there was a restless tension within him, and soon his searching fingers began to remove the pins from the elaborate coiffure she had worn for the occasion.

He was sure she meant to object. But the fight had gone out of her. She simply sighed as he continued to run his hands through her hair until the tangle of honey-and-cinnamon curls tumbled down around her shoulders.

Slowly, he smoothed her hair into one glorious ribbon against her pale skin and delicate gown. She had worn that batiste confection he had bought her, with the profusion of tiny buttons up the back and the consistency of spun gossamer. Though it perfectly captured her grace and subtle femininity, he knew that were he to undo those tiny buttons, he would find a womanly strength beneath.

Without quite knowing why, Julian rapped gently on the roof. The signal was familiar to his coachman: he was to drive around a bit before reaching their destination. Julian had often found the privacy of a closed carriage perfect for seduction; the servant was accustomed to guiding the vehicle aimlessly through London streets at night.

Seduction was not his intent now, however. Though he had no compunction against using his wiles on the defiant wench from the Lock Hospital, he would not take advantage of this exhausted, troubled young lady who leaned into the crook of his arm so trustingly and who inspired such fierce protectiveness within him.

But neither could he bring himself to relinquish this mesmerizing moment so soon.

For many minutes, Julian smoothed her hair, delighting in her small sighs of pleasure, savoring the feel of the silken rope in his palm. He wondered whether her skin would feel as soft and could not prevent himself from trailing his hand over the sleeve of her gown until it met the bare part of her arm. Then he did so again, stroking from the crown of her head down the length of her arm.

Again and again his hand traveled that route, until once by sheerest accident his thumb grazed the outside curve of her breast. She made no sound or movement that
might
be interpreted as objection. As his loins stirred, Julian swallowed hard.

That night in his study he had been angry, vengeful, bent on using her. Now he simply wanted to comfort her, protect her, smooth away the memory of tonight’s trials.

It was strange, then, that his fingers again brushed her breast. Strange that his hand snaked lower to rest lightly on her hip. Strangest still that his fingers had the audacity to curve over her abdomen, pressing ever so gently as they inscribed widening circles over the material of her gown.

Julian frowned, wondering why he could not seem to restrain his wandering hands. He had no intention of taking advantage of her condition. Tonight he had only noble intentions—if a man like him could possess such a thing.

Still, it would have been helpful if she had been her usual self, sitting up straight and briskly calling him to account.

Unfortunately, she did no such thing. When he lifted her gent
l
y into his lap, she simply curled against him, burrowing into his chest as if for warmth. And when his willful hand toyed with the hem of her gown, she merely sighed.

His restless fingers touched the raw silk of her stockings. Julian knew that if his hand wandered far enough afield it would find the ties that kept the stockings in place and shielded her bare calves from his touch. Scarcely daring to breathe, he willed his offending hand upward.

Still she made no objection, but continued to huddle against him as if for protection against the unsettling forces suddenly stirring around them.

At that moment, he hated the practiced seducer he had become. She would get no protection from him, after all. Apparently there was not a noble bone in his body. Deftly he untied the laces at her knees and knew himself for a true knave.

Strangely, touching her bare legs made him tremble. A helpless bewilderment swept him. This was not the carefully orchestrated seduction he had attempted in his study that night. This was beyond his control.

When his fingers crept unerringly upward to find the most delicate part of her, she grew very still—as if listening for something, though surely that was impossible.

Perhaps for a woman who could not hear, touch resonated as acutely as any sound. Julian pondered that thought, even as he began to stroke her softly, probing for the precise touch that would resonate for her.

In awe, he watched as she clung to him, hypnotized by his touch, lost in a world apart from the confines of his jostling carnage. His body ached to join her in that world, but his mind wanted only to drink in her trembling features as she took her pleasure.

When she arched into him with urgent abandon, he thought that he had never seen such a beautiful face as Hannah Gregory’s in the moment of release.

Afterward, she did not say a word. Julian stared at the top of her head for a long time, savoring the feel of the smooth silk of her hair against his face. At last he rapped discreetly on the roof, signaling his coachman to take them home.

His loins ached. His nerves were taut with unslaked desire. But his mind was strangely at peace. In her silent passion, Hannah had done that for him, though he did not know how or why.

When the carriage rolled to a stop on the drive, Julian lifted her from the vehicle and carried her inside his house, past a gaping Higgins and up the stairs to her room. Gently he laid her on the bed. She stared up at him with solemn eyes as deep and wide as the moon.

As he held her gaze, the ridiculous observation floated through his brain that those little buttons up the back of her gown were still fastened tightly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Abruptly he pulled the quilt over her and left the room.

Out of the ethereal haze that surrounded her, Hannah caught a movement. Lucy stood at the door to her room, clad in a dressing gown.

“Are you all right?” Lucy asked, frowning. “You are home early. Where is Aunt Eleanor?”

Hannah cleared her throat. The second question was rather easier to answer than the first. “I believe the duke has returned to Lady Greeley’s to fetch your aunt. He brought me home early because I had a headache.”

Lucy advanced into the room, staring intently at Hannah, who lay under the quilt precisely as Julian had left her.

“Something went wrong, did it not?” Lucy bit her lip. “I knew it. I should have been there to turn the pages.”

“Some of the piano strings broke and became entangled with the hammers,” Hannah confessed.

Though she gave Lucy a reassuring smile, she did not feel like smiling. Something momentous had indeed occurred tonight, and it had nothing to do with Lady Greeley’s piano strings. She ought to have been outraged at the liberties the duke had taken, ought to have fought him. But there was only this wondrous sense of pleasure, as if she had been given a new and precious gift. The silence had never contained such splendor and her heart such joy and wonder as during those few, precious moments in the carriage.

And now? Confusion, mortification, embarrassment filled her. Hannah knew she had been weak, turning to him for comfort against the vicissitudes of the evening. The duke was not a man to dispense such a precious commodity.

And yet, she had sensed a selflessness in him. It had made her feel cherished and—she almost would have said—loved.

Dear Lord. She could not fall victim to that fantasy. A woman like her did not believe in miracles.

“Can I help you out of your gown?” Lucy eyed her curiously. “I daresay you would sleep better if you got out of your clothes.

Hannah forced a laugh. “Yes, of course.” She rose obediently, but she did not really want to let go of the gown or the, memories connected with it. As long as she wore it, she could still sense his hands, still feel the way his probing fingers had shaken her world.

Lucy made short work of the buttons. When Hannah turned to thank her, Lucy bore a stricken expression and was chattering wildly.

“... my fault ... should
have been there ... all because of Charles.”

Hannah frowned. “You were unwell. You were right to stay here.”

“I am never unwell,” Lucy replied, flopping into a chair and covering much of her face with her hands. Hannah caught only an occasional phrase.
“...
the wretch ... never speak to me again ... what shall I do?”

“Slow down, for one thing, or I shall never make sense of what you are saying.” Hannah folded the batiste gown and placed it on a stool at the foot of the bed. She knew she would never wear it again.

Lucy pulled her hands away from her face. Her eyes were red. “I could not face Charles tonight.”

“Charles? But he was not there,” Hannah replied. “I thought it curious, but—”

“Not there! Then he must have meant it!” Lucy bit her lip until Hannah thought she would draw blood.

“What has happened, Lucy? What has Charles done?”

Tears rolled from Lucy’s impossibly brilliant eyes and splashed onto her flawless cheeks. “He k-k-kissed me.” Heavens. If Lucy thought a kiss scandalous, what would she think about the activity that had taken place in her brother’s carnage tonight? Fighting off her shame, Hannah studied her friend in concern.

“Charles does not strike me as the sort to take undue advantage of a woman.” Unlike the duke, perhaps, who would readily take all sorts of liberties with a befuddled woman with a splitting headache. Doubtless she had deluded herself with notions of his selflessness. Given what she knew of the duke’s character, he must be filled with smug satisfaction at what happened tonight. On the other hand, perhaps it had meant something to him. She wanted desperately to believe that it
had...