When Seducing A Duke (4 page)

“And I think you should wear the blue Worth to your first ball. Perhaps the pink Pingat to the second. How kind of the duke to pay for such beautiful gowns! You must remember to thank him.”

Rose acknowledged her mother with a faint smile. The older woman had scarce drawn breath since they’d left Bramsley. While she loved seeing her mother so animated—she’d been practically on a shade in the last two years since Rose’s father’s death—she really wished for a little peace to gather her thoughts before they arrived at Ryeton House.

“I will thank Gr—the duke, mama. I promise.”

Her mother smiled and clasped her hands together in her lap like a child overcome with joy. She peered out the carriage window, her gaze lit with joy. “It’s been so long since I’ve been to London, I’ve forgotten how much I missed it.”

Her mother hadn’t been to London since her father died. Rose at least had the advantage of visiting her friend for a few days last year when the family was in town. Not during the Season, of course. This was her first Season in almost three years. Three long years since she’d had a new gown that wasn’t black or gray. Three years since she’d danced or put flowers in her hair. So long since she’d dressed up and made herself pretty so a would-be suitor might notice her.

Three years—until last night.

One more thing to add to the list of things to thank Grey for. At this rate she’d spend the next week doing nothing but showing him her appreciation.

Part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had been wrong—she had done something sinful. But she had wanted to do it. Wanted it more than she’d wanted anything—more than she wanted her father not to have lost all their money.

And it was wonderful, more than she could have imagined, but it had been awful too, because as much as Grey might have pretended that it was she who he had made love to, he believed it to be someone else. He would never know the truth, and that tarnished the beauty of their night no matter how few regrets she had about it.

Her mother adjusted the black silk of her skirts. She refused to come so far out of mourning as to wear any kind of color. Fortunately, she was one of those women who looked rather fetching in black, giving a kind of sad elegance to her appearance. Rose fancied not even Queen Victoria herself could find fault in her mother’s mourning of her husband. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight chignon that would have looked severe on a less striking woman. Her skin was so fair—more so than Rose, who favored her father in coloring as well as looks. And her eyes were as green as spring grass. So lovely, was her mother. It almost hurt to see her looking so happy. She deserved to be happy.

“And what will you wear to the balls, Mama?”

Her mother shrugged. “I’m sure I have several gowns that will suit.”

All black. All simple and plain. Her mother wouldn’t want to be noticed, and that fact alone would garner her unwanted attention. Her looks would guarantee gentlemanly stares. Only the black armor she wore would protect her.

Leaning across the short distance between them, she seized her mother’s hand, careful not to wake the little gray terrier snoring on the seat beside her. “You will let yourself have some fun, won’t you?”

Smiling as only a mother indulging her child could, her mother placed her free hand over Rose’s. “Of course.” Meaning she would take the brunt of her own happiness from whatever joy Rose managed to find.

Not that Rose should take responsibility for her mother’s happiness, of course. That wasn’t the expectation and Rose knew it, but that didn’t stop her from feeling the heaviness of the burden upon her shoulders.

“Perhaps you could call upon some old friends,” she suggested, leaning back against the cushions as the carriage rocked, bouncing lightly over the cobblestones. “Renew old acquaintances.”

Her mother looked vaguely surprised by the notion. “Why, yes, I suppose I could.” She smiled. “It would be lovely to see some of those ladies again.”

The pressure around Rose’s chest eased, pressure that she hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. “I’m certain they would enjoy seeing you as well, Mama.” The ones who had been true friends would anyway. Others might care about Rose’s father’s loss of fortune and cut her mother, but there would always be those who could overlook that in favor of the Duke of Ryeton’s guardianship.

Good lord, the list kept growing.

Rose stretched her back. How much further was it to Ryeton House?

Her mother must have noticed her discomfort. She cast a glance out the window at the passing scenery. “We’re almost there.”

The next thing Rose knew, they were rolling between the thick stone columns of a gate. The wrought iron swung closed behind them, and they continued up a smooth gravel drive that led to a shady courtyard.

Ryeton House.
Her heart gave a tremulous thump against her ribs. They had arrived.

What did she hope would happen when they entered the house? That Grey would come to meet them, realize she was his lover from the night before and fall prostrate at her feet? Maybe he would beg her to marry him as well, giving her no choice but to fully defy her father’s wishes and consent to be his wife.

What she would truly like was to face Grey and not feel as though the world was quivering beneath her feet when he looked at her. She would like to know that the degree of emotion she felt for him could be felt for another man as well. She had to hope that was true.

A footman in the Ryeton livery opened the door and released the steps for them, then reached in a gloved hand to help first her mother, then Rose from the carriage. Her mother held Maurice, the terrier, against her chest as she stepped out into the afternoon air.

Rose followed. The air was reasonably fresh compared to the stuffiness of the carriage, but not as sweet as she was used to in Kent. Still, it was London air, and that made it lovely all the same.

While the footmen collected their luggage, Rose and her mother continued up the steps to the house. The door was opened by Westford, the butler, who greeted them both with a polite but genuine smile. “Lady Marsden, Lady Rose. Delightful to see you again.”

Inside the house, Rose’s heart began to pound a little harder. Would Grey meet them? Or was he away from home? Perhaps he was still at Saint’s Row, in the bed where she left him…

“Camilla, Rose!”

A tremor raced through her at the sound of his voice. Only he would be so familiar as to call them by their Christian names. Her parents had insisted upon the intimacy, especially after he saved them. It was more than most married couples allowed, but somehow, it seemed right to grant him such liberties.

He came through the hall dressed in dark gray trousers and matching coat. His shirt and cravat were snowy white, stark against the tan of his skin. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, and the mask he’d worn last night was no where to be seen.

He felt comfortable enough with them to show his scar.

It was a jagged white line that ran from just above his left temple all the way down to his jaw. It was about a quarter of an inch wide, but it wasn’t the scar itself that was disconcerting, it was how he came to have it.

He walked up to them, greeting her mother first. Rose just stood there, staring stupidly as Grey took her mother’s hands and kissed her smooth cheek. She didn’t hear what they said to each other; she couldn’t think over the rush of blood in her ears.

And then, Grey turned to her, offering an embrace that could only be described as brotherly. “Rose, I’m so glad to see you.”

Looking at him, she could tell that he meant it. He was happy to see her. He also had no idea that he had seen her just that morning. He didn’t know. Face-to-face with her, holding her in his arms, how in the name of all that was holy could he not recognize her as the woman he had made love to the night before? Did her hair not smell the same? And what of her scent? Did she no longer smell of spring rain? Or had it all been a lie?

How could he not know her? Was it so impersonal for him that he didn’t recognize his lovers when he saw them? Mask or no mask, surely he could tell. She recognized him without his mask. She would know him anywhere.

Had she completely misjudged his attraction to her, his feelings for her?

Or perhaps, she thought a little bitterly as she stepped out his embrace, she was simply getting what she deserved for deceiving him in the first place. Perhaps she should be happy that he didn’t recognize her. She should be thankful right then and there that despite his obvious desire for her, she’d made no more of an impact upon him than the women he used to take pleasure with and then cast aside.

And she was thankful. Then she wouldn’t have to explain why she’d done what she had done. If he didn’t know her then he couldn’t be upset with her when she failed to show up for the tryst the following week.

And make no mistake, she was not returning to Saint’s Row.

Chapter 4

“L
ady Hilbert requests the pleasure of our attendance at a tea at her home next week,” Rose said, scarcely looking up from the soft pink invitation in one hand as she placed a delicate teacup back into its saucer with the other.

Since it was just the three of them taking tea in the parlor, Grey used the intimacy as an excuse to watch her openly, a faint smile upon his lips. He’d meant it when he told her he was glad to see her. She was like a ray of sunshine after a week of rain. Thanks to his lovely companion of the night before he was able to enjoy the sight of beautiful Rose without the onslaught of unslakable lust and longing that usually hung over his head at their meetings.

Not that his desire for her had lessened. It hadn’t. In fact, his mystery lover had only served to deepen the fantasy. He could imagine now that he had actually made love to Rose, could imagine that the supine arms that had wrapped around him so tightly had truly belonged to the gorgeous creature sitting across from him. He wanted her all the more for it, but without the usual desperation.

Could she see it? Was that why she’d barely glanced at him since her arrival? If he didn’t know better he’d say she seemed almost embarrassed to look at him. Was it the scar? It had never bothered her before, or had she become so very refined since they last met?

Absently, Grey’s fingers went to the jagged strip of satiny flesh that ripped down the side of his face. The flesh around it was vaguely numb, like a child’s nose after an afternoon of snowman building. He followed the scar all the way down to its thickened end, remembering all too clearly how the serrated blade had burned and tore as it forged its bloody path.

“Ruin that pretty face of his,”
one of his attackers insisted. But this was as far as they got. Were it not for the interference of Rose’s father, his dear friend Charles, he might not have gotten away as lucky as he had. The man who cut him had obviously enjoyed his work and intended to apply himself to a job well done.

Camilla, Charles’s pretty widow, sat across from him, the perfect lady on a stiff-backed settee. “Do you know Lady Hilbert, Your Grace?”

He favored the older woman with a charming smile. It was an expression he rarely wore these days. “My dear friend, how many times must I remind you to call me Grey? Or at the very least Greyden.”

Her answering smile was as endearing as he’d come to expect from her. “A few more, I’m sure,
Greyden.”

Grey helped himself to a cucumber sandwich and took a large bite. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again: “To answer your question, I’ve known Lady Hilbert most of my life. She was a good friend to my mother.” Then he addressed Rose, “I would view it as a personal favor if you were to accept her invitation.”

That made her raise her head. Her gaze locked with his—like a doe in the woods. “I wouldn’t dream of refusing.”

There was a huskiness to her voice that recalled murmured words of passion, so sweet and real that his prick—impudent thing—stirred at the sound.

But then she went back to her task. The invitation from Lady Hilbert she set to her right. There was a smaller pile to her left, and the larger unopened batch still in front of her. “Those on your left, are those ones you plan to refuse?”

Her smooth cheeks—normally a dusky ivory—flushed as sweetly as her name. “I think it the wisest course.”

A perplexed frown tugged at Grey’s brows. “Forgive me, but after such a long absence from society I would think you eager to attend any and all functions.” Especially given how excited she’d been to return to the rat infested sewer that was the London
ton.

She looked at him with something like indignation in her gaze. Was that resentment as well? Ridiculous. After all he’d done for her and her mother, why would she have any reason to think ill of him? He’d never been anything but obliging—and certainly would never dream of telling her how to live her life or which parties to go to. Hell, it wasn’t as though he ever attended any.

“Because one of these invitations is from Lady Francis. The other from Lady Devane. Were not both of those ladies suspected of having a hand in the attack against you? Or did I misunderstand the discussion you had with my father?”

“Rose!” Camilla was positively scarlet, obviously embarrassed that Rose was indelicate enough to bring up such a subject. Grey was made more regretful than humiliated by the reminder. In fact, he was oddly touched that she would snub two hostesses because of him.

“You should never have heard that conversation,” he lamented. “But since you did, I cannot deny the accuracy of it, though I’ve never seen sufficient evidence to damn either lady. I do not wish you to turn down an invitation on my behalf, but neither would I have you attend a gathering that would make you anything less than comfortable.”

Rose looked away, returning to her previous shyness—avoidance. “They only invited me so they could ask about you, I’m sure.”

“Rose,” her mother chastised. “That is quite ill natured of you.”

The young woman shrugged gently rounded shoulders, hugged snugly by her dark blue day gown with crimson piping. “Be that as it may, Mama. It makes the statement no less true. I do not wish to be social with any lady, no matter how grand, who could be considered capable of such vileness.”

Grey could kiss the chit senseless for her misguided allegiance. She might be all righteous indignation on his behalf, but he’d deserved what had happened to him that night. In fact, that incident had changed his life forever, and for the better he believed.

There were those who thought he shunned society out of humiliation or fear. People who thought he could not bear to face them with his “pretty” face not so pretty anymore, but that wasn’t true. Grey no longer went out in society because he despised the ugly lie of propriety and civility that lurked beneath the surface. He avoided society because it disgusted him.

“You’ve a great deal of honor and nobility in you, Rose,” he said—to the side of her head since she wouldn’t look up. “You remind me of your father in that way.”

She looked up at that—a glimmer of tears in her big brown eyes. “Thank you.”

Charles Danvers had been the best of men, but he’d no head for business or money management, like many of their class. That was what led to his undoing. Years of free spending, on himself, his wife, and his precious daughter led to a slow downfall. Grey had been just as ignorant as anyone else, since Charles never said anything. So when ruination struck, it struck hard.

Poor bloke never recovered from it.

Grey continued to hold Rose’s gaze, fairly drowning in the dark depths of her large eyes. How long they stayed as such he had no idea, but when Camilla cleared her throat, he knew it had been too long.

“I’ve never had a chance to properly thank you for all you’ve done for us, Your…Greyden.”

“My dear madam, that is quite unnecessary.” It might sound as though he was merely being polite, but it was true.

“Still,” Camilla pressed on. “Your kindness to Rose and me…sponsoring Rose for the Season…I can never thank you enough.”

Grey’s gaze flitted to the young woman sitting silent and pink-cheeked at the desk. “Seeing Rose happily married will be thanks enough.”

Camilla chuckled with happiness, as any mother would at the thought of her daughter’s marriage. Rose, however, went from flushed to chalk-pale in seconds. She looked at Grey as though he’d punched her.

“Not that my wants should be a consideration in your quest for a husband, Rose.” It occurred to him that a goodly portion of London society might be present at Rose’s wedding. It also occurred to him that she might be embarrassed to have him, a scarred, masked freak there as well.

It also occurred to him, like a well-aimed kick to the head, that the idea of watching Rose marry anyone was something he looked forward to about as much as he would castration.

Possibly less.

He cleared his throat, aware now that there was a strange silence in the room. “You may take your time in your search. I will see to your comfort for as long as necessary.”

“Oh!” Camilla gasped, hands pressed to her generous bosom. “You are all kindness, sir!”

Grey managed to flash a tight smile before returning his attention to her daughter, a girl who took up way too much of his thoughts as it was.

“Have you any traits that you require in a husband, Rose? I might know some gentlemen who would please you.” None half so much as he would like to please her. None who would kneel down before her and worship her as he did.

Forget his obsession with her; he respected her as well. He’d watched her go from a spoiled girl to a brave young woman who stood beside her father during his ruin. A woman who had helped nurse him after his attack. A woman who’d supported her mother when they both lost the only man they could depend on. So Grey had stepped into that role, because he’d never had anyone love and need him like those women had loved and needed Charles Danvers. Taking over their care had done so much more for him than he would ever be able to do for them.

Rose toyed with an unopened envelope, her fingers tracing the edges. Her gaze fell to the table before her, then up to meet Grey’s own. This time at least she didn’t look so hesitant, but there was still a trace of defiance in her gaze that puzzled him.

“My requirements in a husband are simple,” she informed him smoothly. “All I want is a man who will hold me above everything else, including his horse, his fortune, and his pride.”

Hearing that simple yet seemingly impossible declaration was like a blow to Grey’s solar plexus. She was going to be so disappointed, the poor thing. How perverted was it of him to secretly rejoice over her wants? She might find a man who could love her more than his horse, perhaps even more than his fortune, but never would she find a man willing to sacrifice his pride—not without that same man coming to hate her for it eventually.

“More than his horse?” he joked. “My dear girl, you ask too much.”

He flashed a bright grin to let her know he was only teasing, and it seemed to do much to warm her toward him. He’d never felt this withdrawal from her before. They’d always been such good friends despite the torment it gave him. So, when she returned his smile with a tentative, then full-fledged, one of her own, it was like a gift from heaven.

“Perhaps I could be persuaded to overlook that requirement if the gentleman is handsome enough.”

The three of them shared a chuckle, and soon settled back into an easy companionship. Grey snatched another sandwich and watched Camilla make a plate for her daughter.

“You have to eat something, Rosie. I won’t have you wasting.”

“Wasting?” Her daughter laughed at the notion. “If I want all the gowns Grey bought me to fit properly I shall have to be very careful what I put in my mouth.”

Immediately Grey’s gaze dropped to that mouth. A sweetly curved upper lip rested tenderly above a full, pouty lower. He could think of at least one thing he’d like to slide between those lips.

Christ, he was such a cad. A despicable cad. It was thinking of women this way that got him in trouble years ago, but it seemed he had yet to learn his lesson. He might not whore around like he used to, but his libertine ways hadn’t been completely obliterated.

Rose indulged her mother and took the plate of sandwiches and biscuits she offered. She even went so far as to eat a little of it before setting it aside to return to her invitations.

How many of them were from people who were sincere in their request for her company? Probably less than half. Some would have acted out of a sense of what was expected of them given that Rose was the daughter of an earl—albeit a ruined one—and, thanks to Grey, had a large dowry. Others would simply view her as a way to gain a little titillation by using her as a way to find out gossip about him. Those people would no doubt be sorely disappointed. His lovely Rose was nothing if not loyal. She would not talk about him—not in the way society would relish. In that way she was one of his most steadfast friends. One of the few people who refused to turn against him even when it would have been in her best interest to do just that.

His attack happened before Charles lost everything, so it hadn’t been a sense of self-preservation that drove her loyalty either. She was simply not capable of turning her back on someone she cared for.

That realization humbled him more than any serrated blade ever could.

“Thank you,” he blurted. Startled glances shot his way. “Both of you.”

Camilla, paused in the middle of pouring herself another cup of tea. “Whatever for?”

“For your kindness.” A huge lump seemed to have formed in his throat as his gaze locked with Rose’s. “I am honored to have your friendship.”

Rose’s expression softened into something he couldn’t read, but it seized his heart all the same. What the hell was wrong with him? A few hours in her company and he already unmanned himself.

“You shall always have it,” she told him quietly. Then, a quick glance to the woman near him. “Isn’t that right, Mama?”

Damn it all, in those few seconds he’d forgotten about Camilla. “Of course,” she replied with a gentle smile as she laid her hand over one of Grey’s. “Always.”

Somehow, he managed to smile. Then he made some foolish excuse so that he might leave their company. He felt Rose’s questioning gaze upon his back as he left the room, and he had to force himself not to look back. Because if he did, there was no telling what insanity he might get up to.