My Dark Duke (2 page)

The Library Plays its Part

‘Alethea, for goodness sake, and for the sake of my nerves, will you
please
endeavour to exhibit a pleasant countenance?' hissed Victoria Sinclair, Duchess of Alton. The two women were standing to one side of the large ballroom in the Earl of Mulgrave's town house. ‘I realise you do not wish to be here, but I have already explained to you that as this is your sister's first season, she requires your support to navigate the perils of mingling in polite society.'

Her daughter suppressed the intense urge to roll her eyes. This was far from the first time her mother had commented on her ‘countenance' that evening. ‘For your information, Mother, this
is
my pleasant countenance. You should be well aware of that by now. I
have
been your daughter for five and twenty years.'

‘There is no need to be rude, Alethea. Just smile. Surely Miss Davenport taught you that much during your deportment lessons.'

‘She didn't say I had to smile.' Alethea was bored and frustrated, but she was also well aware of the pressure that her parent was under. She softened her tone. ‘Have a look at Charlotte, Mother; she doesn't need my help at all.'

They both looked over to the younger Sinclair, who was standing a few feet away, whispering and giggling with two of her friends. The group of girls were casting furtive glances at two young men across the room who were dressed in startlingly bright yellow and purple. Alethea smiled to herself. She still recalled the state of excitement she had experienced during her first season at the thought that she was finally at a ball with other grown-ups, not to mention the nervous anticipation of being in the actual company of young men. How naïve she had been.

‘What are the girls thinking? They are behaving in an unseemly manner. Since Harriet's aunt and Georgiana's chaperone appear not to have noticed, I shall have to be the one to remind them.'

‘Mother, let them . . .' Alethea started to say, but either her mother didn't hear her or had decided to ignore her. With a swish of her dark blue taffeta skirts, the duchess was already moving off towards the direction of the unsuspecting girls. Alethea sighed as she looked at the gaily dressed crowd before her. The ladies were dressed in every conceivable colour, powdered and bejewelled within an inch of their lives. The men were no less colourful. She winced as Lord Percy, wearing a waistcoat in a particularly florid shade of puce, walked past, pausing to give her a bow. Alethea quickly trained her gaze in the distance, knowing that the fop was eyeing her as if he was planning to speak to her. Realising that she was currently unchaperoned, he reluctantly proceeded on his way.

The young woman saw that another two ladies had now joined her sister and mother and all appeared to be deep in conversation. Excellent. This was her chance to escape the stifling ballroom. The duchess was a close friend of the Countess of Mulgrave, having grown up together on adjoining estates, and as a result of their families' continuing friendship, Alethea knew the house well. She slipped out of the double doors and hurried down the hall, tugging her white domino mask down to her throat.

Arriving at a familiar door, she pushed it open and went in.

James's head jerked up at the sound of the door opening. It had taken barely an hour of polite society to realise that nothing had changed, leading him to seek retreat in the earl's library. To his surprise, a woman entered the room, and he watched as her shoulders slumped in relief and a faint smile appeared on her face when she beheld the wall of books before her. Although nowhere near as large as his own library, the earl's was nevertheless extensive, containing works in a variety of languages, many in Italian, as the former countess had been Italian-born.

But neither the books nor the earl's ancestry were on the duke's mind in that moment. Instead, he found himself entirely captivated by the enchanting profile of the slender beauty before him. Like the other women at the ball, the hair piled high atop her head was powdered, so he was unable to discern what its natural colour was. He thought that it would likely be of a dark shade, as that was the shade of her eyebrows. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows arched above eyes which appeared dark in the muted light in the library. Even from his position in the corner of the room, he could see that her long, thin nose was slightly more pointed than convention would dictate as beautiful. But it was her rouged mouth that drew him like a beacon. Its bow-shaped upper lip and full lower lip filled him with an unexpected urge to possess it, to make her his own and no other man's.

Her movement pulled him out of his reverie, and he blinked at the fanciful thoughts that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. She walked towards the short library ladder and he looked on with some amazement as she placed a slippered foot on the first rung, her wide skirt and petticoats forming a clear obstacle. His lips twitched at the look of frustration on her face before she determinedly gathered a large handful of cream silk material in both hands and hiked up her dress, exposing a slim calf covered in silk stockings. Awkwardly, she began to climb up the ladder and he started forward out of the shadows, concerned at the fact that she was holding on to nothing but her petticoats.

James paused a foot away as the intrepid woman dressed in the heavy cream silk gown leaned precariously over and reached for a book to her right. Judging by the expensive French Argentan lace trimming her gown, her husband was obviously a man of means. Book finally in hand, she straightened up and gingerly lowered her left foot onto the rung below. It was fortunate that he had anticipated what was to occur next because a squeak was all the warning he received. The lady flailed her arms, trying to find something to grasp and then toppled surprisingly gracefully off the ladder.

He leapt forward and caught her in his arms. Unfortunately, the weight of her gown combined with the force of her fall caused him to lose his balance and he fell backwards onto the floor. The woman landed with a soft ‘oof' on top of him in a tangle of silk skirts and petticoats.

‘Damn and blast,' Alethea muttered as she stared at the exquisitely detailed embroidery on the black brocade waistcoat which her face was pressed up against. Her mind was furiously trying to process what had just happened. One moment she was balancing on the ladder and the next she was lying on top of a man. A man with an impressively strong chest, if she wasn't mistaken. Bracing her hands on the floor, she slowly pushed herself up. Her eyes met a pair of sombre dark brown eyes, a lighter shade than her own. He stared down at her over his noble nose.

‘Are you all right?'

She felt his deep baritone voice vibrate in his chest against her and the sound of it resonated deep within her. Stunned by her fall and her reaction to his voice, she could only stare at him in silence, lips parted. Alethea saw his gaze drop to her lips for an instant before he grasped her arms firmly and pulled her upright. Before she had even realised that she was now sitting in a scandalous position on top of his thighs, he was already moving her off him, his hands hard against her waist. The man, his powdered hair tied back in a simple queue, stood up and held out his hands to her.

Alethea put her hands in his, feeling the calluses on his palms. As he pulled her up, she wondered where he had gotten them from. The only other men she knew with calluses on their palms were her father and brother, and theirs were the result of manual labour when they had assisted the tenants on her father's estate with harvesting. Once he was certain that she was able to stand, he dropped her hands and took a step back, making her feel a pang at the loss of contact. What in heaven's name was wrong with her? Never had she felt like this about someone she had met mere moments ago.

For the first time since her fall she was able to take a good look at him. He was tall, standing about six inches above her own not insignificant height. Aside from his stockings, he was dressed entirely in black, the only adornment a gold signet ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. His coat was cut more narrowly than current fashion dictated, the cutaway style emphasising the leanness of his build. Her eyes were about to drift down his lower limbs when she suddenly realised what she was doing and jerked them back up to his face, feeling her face heat at his faintly amused look. Hastily composing herself, she fervently prayed that her face powder concealed her pink cheeks.

‘Do I meet with your approval?' he asked.

She thought she had only felt the effect of his voice earlier because of her close proximity to him. How wrong she was.
Alethea, pull yourself together. You are the daughter of a duke. You have been at court. You can handle this man.
Straightening her already perfectly straight spine, she chose to ignore his question. ‘My lord, I thank you for your assistance.'

A corner of his mouth lifted as he walked casually over towards the ladder, her eyes following him. ‘And what is it that I assisted you with?' He picked up the book that she had taken off the shelf, looking down at the title. She saw him lift a dark eyebrow.

‘For . . . um . . .' Alethea lost her train of thought when his eyes looked intently into hers. The next words were uttered without thought. ‘For breaking my fall perfectly.'

The intent look disappeared and he threw his head back in laughter. She watched, entranced at the change that laughter had wrought on his face. Gone was the severely impassive façade and in its place was a man who, in that moment, appeared free of the cares and responsibilities that she could tell normally sat heavily on his shoulders.

In response to his laugh, she smiled, before her eyes widened as he approached her.

‘
L'Homme aux Quarante Ecus
?' he questioned, holding out the book to her.

She took the book from him, just managing to stifle a flinch when his fingers brushed against hers. Her fingers still tingling, she nodded. ‘
The Man of Forty Crowns
.'

He cocked his head slightly. ‘You read Voltaire?'

‘Sometimes. I prefer poetry. Voltaire, Jacques Delille, Evariste de Parny.'

‘You are fluent in French, then?'

She gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to appear as if it was a common thing to find herself alone in a hushed, intimate setting with a darkly handsome, extremely dangerous-looking man. ‘Isn't everyone?'

He inclined his head. ‘My French is only passable. My Latin is an infinitesimal degree better. Languages are not my
forte
, I fear.'

Alethea smiled. She would never have thought someone so obviously powerful and privileged would admit to any weaknesses. ‘
Amicus est Socrates, magister meus, sed magis est amica veritas.
' (Socrates, my master, is my friend but a greater friend is truth.)

He returned her smile and she felt her breath hitch at the warmth contained there. ‘
Se magis velle consentire veritati, quam amicitiae Platonis, doctoris nostri.
' (I prefer to be in accord with the truth, than with the friendship of our master, Plato.)

Their gazes locked and she saw something flicker within the depths of his dark eyes. She stopped breathing as he slowly drew closer.

A door down the hallway slammed and the spell was broken. Alethea watched in disappointment as his eyes became shuttered and the mask he wore earlier slid back into place. ‘We need to go. Your reputation will be ruined if we were discovered. And your husband will then feel obliged to challenge me to a duel.'

Alethea blinked, startled at the assumptions he had made about her. ‘I don't think so. You see, I'm . . .'

He interrupted her. ‘Well, let's hope he doesn't. I am an excellent marksman and an even better fencer.' His tone was matter-of-fact.

‘I gather you and modesty have never met?' she retorted, unable to help herself.

He gave a careless shrug, although laughter gleamed in his eyes. He walked to the door and held it open. ‘You should leave first.'

Alethea stepped out into the hallway, heading back to the ballroom. Just before she rounded the corner, she looked back, unable to stop herself. The darkly dangerous man, who had stirred her senses like no other, stared after her with narrowed eyes. Swallowing hard, she wrenched her eyes from his and hurried away, fingers quickly adjusting the pins in her hair and slipping her mask back on.

To her relief, her mother was still engaged in conversation, this time with a middle-aged couple. Alethea's spirits immediately lifted when she caught sight of an unexpectedly familiar face beyond them.

‘Ruth!'

Her childhood friend, whom she regarded more as a sister, beamed at her and they rushed into each other's arms.

‘Why did you not tell me you were coming tonight?' scolded Alethea, linking their arms together as they made their way to the row of chairs in front of them.

‘I'm sorry, dearest. I didn't think I was able to. Henry has been ill and I was concerned about his health.' Henry, the Earl of Pembroke, was Ruth's husband. ‘He improved somewhat today, so I decided to come. I knew how much you dreaded attending this ball.' The two ladies sat, and Ruth took Alethea's hand in hers. ‘So are you bored mindless yet?'

‘For the most part it
has
been tiresome and tedious and utterly uninteresting. But, something did happen.'

‘Oh?' A frown marred Ruth's delicate features. She had forgone the domino mask this evening. ‘Alethea, I know that look. What have you done?'

‘I didn't do anything!' the brunette protested indignantly. ‘Well.' She smiled sheepishly. ‘I sort of fell upon a man.'

The blonde woman gaped at her. ‘You did
what
?'

Alethea told her best friend what happened, leaving nothing out, including a description of the man in question.

At the end of the story, Ruth frowned, looking thoughtful. ‘I wonder who he —' She was suddenly interrupted by the voice of their host.