The Duchess Diaries: The Bridal Pleasures Series (4 page)

Had he just asked her to dance?

“I’m sorry,” she heard herself reply. “I can’t.”

Good for her. Her manners, her good sense, came to her rescue when it seemed mayhem had won.

“Are you enjoying the party, Your Grace?”

His dark saturnine smile swept her into another panic. “Not particularly.”

“I’m glad to hear…”

What had he said?

This initial meeting was not unfolding as it had in her fantasies. She wasn’t supposed to become tongue-tied in his presence. She was supposed to charm him with her wit, with the dialogue that flowed effortlessly when written. Why did words fail her now that she needed to voice them?

This was humiliation.

How awful of Devon, leaning against the wall to watch her embarrassment deepen.

The duke did not appear pleased about the situation, either.

He stood beside her as they made a few more attempts at polite conversation until finally something inside her gave up. The Duke of Wynfield might be the man of her dreams, but it was obvious he had been dragged unwillingly into her company. And that he did not share her hope for a spark between them.

Unfortunately that dismal fact did not subdue her attraction
to him at all. Under different circumstances she could have stared at his beautifully sculpted face for hours. But she couldn’t keep chattering on forever. He would think there was something wrong with her.

“Devon made you ask me to dance, didn’t he?” she said, refusing to embarrass either of them any longer. “I understand. He’s done this before.”

“Not to me.” His dark eyes suddenly connected with hers, and she felt her heart give a wistful flutter for what might have been. At least in her imagination.

But there wasn’t a reason to keep pretending that he had any romantic motives in mind.

“I saw your handsome heads together. I know you were discussing me. And I know Devon and his antics, too.”

“Nonsense,” Gideon said firmly. “We were talking about political events.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing I could repeat in refined company. Distressful subjects and…such.”

“I see.” What she really saw was that he wielded charm as deftly as she did her fan. “I never knew that Devon took an interest in politics.”

“He might not have wanted to offend delicate ears with…”

“Distressful subjects and such?”

“Exactly.” And then to her surprise he edged in a little closer to her instead of running off gratefully into the night, as he had every right to do. “I’m curious about something. Do you typically put other gentlemen through a grueling interrogation before you agree to a dance?”

“Only the ones I suspect are paying me court because my cousins have talked them into it.”

“Don’t you
want
to dance with me?” he asked with a disarming smile.

She smiled back, stealing another look at him over her lace-edged fan. “Are you trying to corrupt me?”

“No. Corruption comes after the dance, which will apparently be over before this conversation is.”

She closed her fan, sighing deeply. “I think I should pay attention to the young ladies who are graduating. This is their night, not mine.”

He bowed. “Then I am disappointed.”

“You are not disappointed, and we both know it. It’s a relief. Tell Devon you did your duty, and I released you from it. Don’t let him make you feel guilty. He can be quite persuasive.”

“So can I, when given the chance.”

“I hope he didn’t hold some dire threat over your head. If so, I apologize. He’s incorrigible.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Boscastle, but I
never
do anything unless it pleases me. If you knew more about me, you would understand that.”

And if you knew more about me,
Charlotte thought,
you would understand
that
…That what? That she was infatuated with a man who had to be threatened into talking to her? That she had never been properly courted or known a romantic love that was reciprocated? And that with each lonely month that passed, her chances of finding the perfect man—which had been him—diminished? She turned her face toward the dancers weaving like ribbons across the floor. Why did he have to be so persistent? Why didn’t he leave her alone to feel sorry for herself? The diabolical man was determined to wear her down.

“Will you—”

“No, I’m dreadfully sorry. I have to keep my eye on my girls.”

“It must be a difficult job.”

“It is,” she replied in a clipped voice, not looking at him. “Especially at times like this.”

“Why are they called the ‘Lionesses of London’ after they graduate?” he asked, and she could feel him staring through her skin. “Do you teach them to catch gentlemen between their jaws?”

She glanced up at him again, caught unaware by the unbridled sensuality of his smile. “The reference has nothing to do with our predatory skills.”

“A pity. The notion intrigued me.”

“It refers to the academy’s original foundress, Viscountess Lyons.”

“So there’s no truth at all to the nickname?” he asked in an undertone.

“If there were,” she said, biting off each word, “this would certainly be the time to prove it.”

“Are you—”

She swung around. “The dance is over, you— It is intermission, Your Grace,” she managed in a dignified voice.

He looked up. “Well, so it is.” He gave her a gallant nod. “I was so engrossed in our conversation I didn’t notice. It has been…interesting.” He smiled crookedly. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” she said, too exhausted to argue. She could only imagine how difficult he would be to resist in a private setting. Or if he truly had his heart set on seduction. It had been more than interesting, although she could envision ways it would have been better. It could have
been a romantic interlude instead of a painful reminder of her unrequited affection.

Not that she would ever have to worry about such a scandalous fate befalling her. They were complete opposites. He was a raging bonfire to her timid flame. A devil-may-care challenge to her conscientious soul. It wasn’t his fault that she’d built a romance between them that had never existed. Or that he was so gorgeous she could weep on his wonderfully masculine chest.

But at least he had tried to be kind. Charlotte had to admire him for that, even if she was going to pinch Devon’s head off for making her an object of pity.

“Miss Boscastle?” the duke said in a deep, irresistible voice. “Am I forgiven?”

She stirred. “For what?”

He looked at her for a long time. “I was rather obvious, wasn’t I?”

“Yes,” she said. “You were obvious. Painfully so.”

“Well, now that the truth is out, would you give me the next dance?”

She shook her head, amused at his audacity. “No.”

“Perhaps in the future?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She forced herself to turn away, hoping he would take the hint and leave her to recover her wits.

She felt him withdraw a step. And not a moment too soon. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed two of her students drifting toward the French doors. Three young gentlemen were following in their wake. She gripped her rose-scented fan, steeling herself to thwart a scandal in the making. Duke of her secret desires or not, she would not tolerate any mischief under her guard. Nor would she give Lady Clipstone any tidbits to feed
the gossipmongers. For all she knew, Alice had a spy in the house. She had tried to bribe former students and servants away from the academy in the past to spill any confidences that would damage the school’s prestige.

“Another time, Your Grace,” she murmured, dismissing him with finality.

“I look forward to it.”

He bowed again. She gave him credit for hiding his relief. She had no doubt he would forget her the moment they parted company. And she would force herself to forget him, too, until the moment she sat at her desk and poured out her thoughts in her diary.

She decided that it would be the last reference she ever made to the duke. Her imaginary affair with him had to come to an end…even if he were more desirable in person than she had dreamed.

One night alone in his company would ruin her reputation forever. She would not be able to defend her virtue if he was of a mind to seduce her. Charlotte well knew the passion he could show her would make every other man’s company dreary in comparison. Of course no decent man would ever pursue her if she had a liasion with Wynfield. Would the memories be worth disgrace? She was afraid to admit to herself that they might be. And that was sufficient evidence that she had allowed herself to go too far with the silly fantasies about the charismatic duke. Still, any chance of a romance between them seemed as remote as the planet Venus.

G
ideon wasn’t sure that he had accomplished anything during his brief encounter with Charlotte Boscastle except to make a nuisance of himself. He doubted that
the time he’d spent with her had rendered her more desirable to other men. Or that he would have felt as comfortable teasing her if she hadn’t been Devon’s cousin.

But she hadn’t reminded him of Devon at all. There was a dreamy quality about her that set her apart from the rest of her family. She might have stepped from a watercolor painting that graced the wall of a country manor, her coolness an illusion. Her skin wasn’t an innocent white. It was sinful cream with a swirl of rose petals beneath the surface. Her smile had revealed an attractive slight overbite. The gold flecks in her eyes hinted at hidden fires.

He found himself wondering what she would look like if she unknotted the thick blond hair that sat primly on her nape. He had counted twenty tightly fastened buttons on the back of her modest dress. God only knew
what a fuss she’d have put up if she had any idea that he had been wondering how fast he could undo them.

And yet if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that there was an immediate sense of intimacy between them. Which wasn’t possible.

They hadn’t exchanged a single word the day he had seen her at the emporium.

“There you are,” a male voice called from the vicinity of the French doors. “Confess all. What did you say to chase Charlotte into the garden, and don’t tell me you’ve made a secret assignation to meet her there, because there are more spies planted outside than trees.”

Gideon snorted. “I’d prefer not to talk about it. I’m sure you will appreciate the fact that a gentleman does not discuss his dealings with a lady.”

“Did you offend her?”

“Probably, and it’s your fault.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Gideon said.

Devon looked skeptical. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” he repeated, and wondered why the admission felt like a lie.

“You asked her to dance?”

“Repeatedly.”

Devon shook his head. “And I thought that you were the most charming man at the ball.”

Gideon laughed. “I’m sorry to let you down. I tried. I failed.”

“You’re determined to pursue your life of decadence?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Devon nodded in grudging acceptance. “At least you gave it a go. Would you like to come upstairs to the gallery and drink a toast to your continued decline?”

“Not tonight. Other pleasures await. And I’ve promised to drop off a few friends on the way.”

“It’s just as well. Jane would probably corner you under the pretense of a friendly chat. She is unabashedly pursuing suitors for Charlotte.”

Gideon resisted looking back into the room. “Good luck to the man who can get past her guard. I couldn’t even convince her to lower the drawbridge.”

“Her brothers have written to Grayson announcing their intent to marry her off as soon as possible.”

“Thank you for the warning, after the fact. I knew I detected the scent of conspiracy in the air.”

“You could do worse for a wife,” Devon commented.

“I don’t disagree.” Gideon shook his head in amusement. “But I’m not in the market for one. I doubt I will be in the near future, either.”

“That’s what I thought right before I met Jocelyn,” Devon said. “One minute I was on my way to a midnight assignation with another woman, and the next I was standing at the altar wondering what had happened.”

Charlotte nibbled at her salad and raised her champagne flute to the woman sitting two chairs down from her. Harriet lifted her own glass high. Her feathered turban listed on her head like a dying turkey, but nobody seemed to mind. All the girls were present and accounted for. A full complement of young gentlemen had been flushed out of the gaming rooms to balance the room.

It was a rare event in Boscastle history—a party that had concluded without a scandal to make the morning news. Even Miss Peppertree, Charlotte’s prudish assistant, looked pleased. Weed, always a stickler for ceremony,
had his under footmen lined around the wall like wooden soldiers.

“To the Scarfield Academy!” Harriet called out over the happy chattering. And Charlotte felt an immense relief that the party was almost over. In fact, she was so sure the night would end uneventfully that she excused herself right after supper and went upstairs to make arrangements for the girls to leave.

Jane always kept a suite of rooms available for family; Charlotte had spent the previous night here with Harriet and the girls to familiarize them with the ballroom.

Harriet trailed her through the upper corridor. “I need my cloak and reticule. The Duke of Wynfield is dropping me and a crowd at another party. I don’t suppose I could convince you to come?”

Charlotte smiled wistfully. She wouldn’t enjoy sitting in the duke’s carriage while he was anticipating holding another woman in his arms. It was going to be difficult enough saying good-bye in her diary.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to persuade him not to go to Mrs. Watson’s later on,” Harriet teased her. “Jane and I watched the pair of you flirting—”

“It wasn’t flirting,” Charlotte said in dismay, pushing open the door to their suite. “Devon put him up to asking me to dance. What a mess in here.”

“It looked like flirting.…Oh, Charlotte, I know that you are drawn to him. I wish he— God above, look at the state of my turban.” Harriet confronted her reflection in the long cheval glass. “I can’t believe no one told me how hideous it looks. I don’t have time to do my hair, either. Where did I put my cloak?”