The Duchess of Love (4 page)

Mama and Ditee were both staring at her now.

“Yes, Mama. I'm sorry.” Venus stood and took her needlework up to her room. There was no point in attempting any more sewing. She was only turning herself into a pincushion.

She put her workbasket by her desk and stared out the window. As luck would have it, her room faced the pond, though of course it was too far away and hidden by the woods to see. But she knew it was there.

She rested her head against the glass. How would she ever face Mr. Valentine again without expiring of embarrassment? And she'd persuaded him to invite them and all the gentry of Little Huffington to Hyndon House. Everyone she knew could enjoy the spectacle of Miss Venus Collingswood turning red as a beet or engaging in her very first fit of the vapors. Mrs. Higgins and Esmeralda would be especially amused.

Venus straightened. No. She was made of sterner stuff than that—she would have to be. She must remember Ditee. Mr. Valentine was merely a means to an end, a way of bringing her sister to his cousin the duke's attention. She could put up with a little personal discomfort for that. Likely a London beau such as Mr. Valentine had seen countless women without their clothing—and had done many things (whatever those things might be) with them as well. He'd probably already forgotten one thin country miss's unremarkable figure.

He hadn't forgotten to arrange the party, had he? Mrs. Shipley said he and the duke weren't expected to stay at Hyndon House long. There was no time to waste.

She would write him a note. Yes, it was shocking—or would be shocking if they had a personal relationship. This was strictly business. She would remind him of the planned event—and if it wasn't yet planned, perhaps that would prod him into action—and suggest he might wish to bring his cousin into the village tomorrow afternoon so he could meet Ditee before the gathering.

She dipped her quill into the inkwell. Getting Ditee into the village would be a Herculean task in itself, but that was tomorrow's problem.

 

Drew was talking to Mrs. Edgemoor about the party when Mrs. Shipley arrived. Mrs. Edgemoor had taken it much better than he'd expected—certainly better than Nigel, who had stormed around the study predicting discovery and disaster.

Nigel might well be right, but one needed a little excitement in one's life.

“Oh, Lavinia,” Mrs. Edgemoor said, “you'll never guess. Mr. Valentine here says the duke is going to entertain the neighborhood.” Her voice was an odd mix of horror and excitement. “How shall I ever manage?”

“I'll help you, Maud. Don't worry.” Mrs. Shipley removed her bonnet and smiled at Drew. “Let me give Mr. Valentine this message, and then we'll have a nice chat about it.” She handed him a twist of paper and led Mrs. Edgemoor off.

He frowned at the paper. There was only one person at the vicarage who might send him a message, but he wouldn't have guessed she'd be so bold. His heart suddenly felt like a rock. He'd thought Venus was different, but apparently he was mistaken. Grasping hussies weren't limited to Town, and they chased anything in breeches, not just dukes.

He should throw the message away unread: Nigel certainly would. Sometimes—oftentimes—he thought his cousin would make a far better duke than he. He crumpled the paper up, but before he could toss it in the flames, curiosity got the better of him. He smoothed it out, read it—and chuckled.

Certainly not the impassioned missive he'd feared. Her handwriting was so precise, much like a schoolgirl's, and the tone … she sounded like someone's old maiden aunt. Had she gone through many drafts to get it just right? He'd wager she had.

His heart—and that other organ—lifted. She looked nothing like anyone's maiden aunt, old or otherwise. He'd spent quite a heated night, dreaming of her: her slim waist, her exquisite breasts, her soft skin and silky hair, warm brown eyes and sharp tongue. Thoughts of her tongue, and ways she might creatively employ it, had almost forced him to take himself in hand, as it were, something he'd not resorted to since he was a lad.

He folded the note and put it in his pocket. It appeared that he and Nigel had some business to conduct in Little Huffington tomorrow afternoon.

“Couldn't you have left the book at home?” Venus looked over at her sister as they trudged down the hill to the village. How did Ditee manage to read and walk at the same time?

“I'm at a very interesting part.” Ditee shot Venus an annoyed glance before she turned a page. “If you'll remember, I didn't want to come.”

“Even Mama agreed your blue dress needed some new ribbon to brighten it up.”

Ditee snorted. “That dress is perfectly fine the way it is. There's no need to waste time and money fussing with it.”

“Ditee, that dress is five years old.”

“So? I can't have worn it more than a handful of times.”

Venus drew in a deep breath. She would
not
argue, but she couldn't quite bite her tongue. “The white ribbons are yellowed with age.”

Why couldn't Ditee be a little more aware of her appearance? She didn't have to be clothes mad—that would be a mistake here in Little Huffington where the latest fashions were simply late, arriving two or three years after everyone in Town had moved on to other things—but a little interest wouldn't go amiss. She was so beautiful; she would be completely without par if she'd cultivate just a modicum of fashion sense.

Ditee's eyes traveled to the next page. “No one is going to be studying my ribbons at this stupid gathering. Really, I don't know why I have to go. I would be happier staying home.”

Venus nodded at Mr. Pettigrew, the blacksmith, as they reached the village shops. “Perhaps, but even Papa said you must attend, Ditee.” She'd tried everything to convince Mama and Papa to go and drag Ditee with them after the invitation to the duke's garden party had arrived this morning. She'd even pointed out Papa's living as vicar might be dependent on getting into the duke's good graces; Greycliffe could certainly decide to install someone else if he chose, and then where would they be? It was just an accident she'd mentioned Mr. Valentine.

She frowned down at her sturdy walking shoes. Why hadn't Mr. Valentine told her he'd written to Papa? She kicked a stone that was careless enough to be lying in her path and sent it shooting ahead of them. Once she'd mentioned
his
name, Papa's face had lit up. He'd told Ditee she had to meet Mr. Valentine, who was apparently quite a Latin scholar. Of course, Papa didn't know the man was also young and marriageable; he only cared that he was interested in the classics.

Ditee was supposed to be matched with the duke, not Mr. Valentine, but what did it matter? A husband was a husband, and if Mr. Valentine was more appropriate, so be it.

Venus felt very disgruntled.

“You don't happen to have a pencil and a scrap of paper, do you?” Ditee asked.

“Of course not. Why in the world would I?”

Ditee shrugged. “I didn't think you would; I merely hoped you might. I would have brought them myself if I hadn't had to hurry out of the house.”

“You didn't hurry anywhere. I had to hound you for the last half hour to get you to leave.”

Ditee sniffed. “There you have it. If you hadn't been badgering me, I would have thought to bring them myself. Now I have nothing to make a note on.”

“Likely Mr. Fenwick will have paper and pencil in his shop.”

Ditee's face lit up. “Of course! I'll—oh!” She'd quickened her steps just as a man came out of Mr. Whitcomb's snuff and spirits shop. She ran full into him, throwing up her hands to brace herself on his chest and dropping her book to the walkway.

The man grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “Are you all right, miss?”

Who was he? He was slightly above average height, well dressed—Venus would swear his clothes came from London—and moderately handsome. Hmm. Did he look like a duke?

Mr. Valentine appeared behind him.

Oh.

Venus felt rather like she had at the pond, completely unable to draw an adequate breath.

She'd dreamt of him again last night, of his shoulders and chest and, ah, other naked parts. She'd felt his light, brief kiss over and over, and she'd wished—
yearned
—for something more, though she'd no idea what more there was. She'd woken hot, feeling as if her skin was too tight, her sheets all twisted.

And now she saw him with clothes on. He was just as handsome in his snowy white linen, dark coat, and doeskin breeches.

And with his knowing, laughing eyes.

She snapped her mouth shut as he bent to whisper by her ear. “She's pretty, but not as pretty as you.”

Damn it, her jaw dropped again.

“Yes, yes,” Ditee was saying. She sounded oddly flustered. Venus swiveled her head to look at her sister more closely. Good God, was Ditee blushing?

“I'm fine,” Ditee said, stepping back out of the man's hold. “I'm so sorry, sir. I wasn't looking where I was going. I hope I didn't do you an injury?”

“Of course not, Miss …?”

“I believe this is Miss Aphrodite Collingswood,” Mr. Valentine said, “and her sister, Miss Venus.” He bowed. “And we are, as you've probably surmised, the Duke of Greycliffe and Mr. Nigel Valentine.”

“How do you do, sir—your grace,” Venus said, since Ditee seemed to have lost her tongue.

The duke glared at Mr. Valentine, who gave him an odd look in exchange. Then Greycliffe nodded—well, it was more a jerk of his head than a nod—and bent to save Ditee's book from the pavement. He glanced at the title and smiled as he handed it back to her. “You are reading Horace, I see.”

Oh, dear. Venus glanced at Mr. Valentine by her side. Would he jump into the conversation and start discussing classical matters, distracting Ditee's attention from the duke? That would be disastrous.

“Oh,” Ditee said, taking the book. “Yes. Thank you. Do you know the work?”

“Indeed. Horace is one of my particular favorites. I believe I've read everything he's written many times over.”

Ditee's face lit up in a way Venus had never seen before. It made her even more beautiful—as the stunned expressions on the men's faces proved. “Oh, that is wonderful, your grace. Then perhaps you can answer a question that has just occurred to me.”

Thank God the duke admired Horace. Now if she could just keep Mr. Valentine out of the conversation, all would be well.

Not that she wished to have the annoying man to herself, of course.

“May we escort you to your destination, ladies?” Mr. Valentine asked. “Then you and, er, my cousin can continue your discussion, Miss Aphrodite.”

Ditee glanced at Venus and then at the duke. “Oh, yes, that would be very nice. We were just on our way to Mr. Fenwick's store to purchase ribbon.”

This was a day for Venus's mouth to be constantly agape. Ditee hadn't ripped up at Mr. Valentine or told the men how she'd been forced to shop for silly gewgaws. She'd never heard her sister sound so pleasant.

“Splendid. Then let us proceed.” Mr. Valentine offered Venus his arm while the duke and Ditee walked on ahead.

Venus's fingers trembled slightly as she placed them on Mr. Valentine's sleeve. She could almost see his naked arm beneath the cloth, and she remembered very distinctly how it had felt wrapped around her in the water—

She waved her hand in front of her face. She could not think about such things.

“Hot?” Mr. Valentine asked.

“Yes. The weather is stifling.”

“I don't know. I think there's a bit of a breeze.”

Blast it, so there was. Time to change the subject. “I have a bone to pick with you, sir.”

“You do? And here I thought I'd been the complete gentleman. What is the problem?”

“Don't pretend innocence.” She looked up into his deep blue eyes with their long, long lashes. He looked like a choirboy, not the slippery fellow he was.

The sensation of his wet arms slipping over her naked body was so strong, she shivered. She forced her gaze ahead—and had the startling sight of Ditee talking in a distinctly animated fashion to a marriageable male. Good heavens! Her sister was even smiling.

Venus should be delighted that her matchmaking looked to be well under way, but she wasn't. She was too … annoyed with the man next to her.

“I'm not pretending,” he said. “I sincerely don't know what has put you in a pet.”

She clenched her teeth. “If you'll forgive me, I find that hard to believe.”

They reached Mr. Fenwick's establishment. The duke escorted Ditee inside; Venus turned and poked the miscreant next to her in the chest.

“You acted as though you had no idea who I was when we met at”—she felt herself flush—“before, but then I found out you'd written to Papa.”

Mr. Valentine's eyes looked decidedly wary. “Er, I did?”

“Yes, as well you know. You wrote him about some article he'd written in
The Classical Gazette
. So why didn't you mention that fact?”

His lips twitched into a half smile. “I was distracted.”

“By what?” She crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow. This should be interesting.

He glanced down the street and took her hand, directing her away from the shop door. They were in plain view of anyone passing by, but enough out of the way that someone would have to walk over to them to hear what they were saying.

His smile had widened and his eyes were gleaming with mischief … and something far hotter. “Do you have to ask?”

“Y-yes.” What game was he playing now? He'd kept hold of her hand and was drawing circles in her palm with his thumb. She felt it all the way through her glove to her, er …
core
might be the most polite way to refer to the area of her person that was fluttering and growing embarrassingly damp. “I have n-no i—” She sucked in her breath. His thumb had moved to the inside of her wrist, setting her disreputable core to throbbing.

She snatched her hand away from him. “I have no idea why you wouldn't have revealed such an important point.”

“Hmm.” He appeared to study her face. She'd swear there were little flames flickering deep in his eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt her lips swell. “What are we talking about?” he whispered, his voice rather hoarse.

What indeed?

Her lips ached to feel his touch. Would he—

Good God! She jerked her head back. “Don't try to avoid the question. You were about to tell me how you could have neglected to mention you'd corresponded with my father.”

“Oh, that's easy. I wasn't thinking about your father.”

“What
were
you thinking about?”

Oh, dear, perhaps that was a bad question to ask. If Mr. Valentine's expression had been warm before, it was scorching now.

“I was thinking how beautiful you were with your long, chestnut-colored hair and lovely creamy skin”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a hot, deep whisper—“
all
your creamy skin.”

Her knees felt as if they might give out. She put her hands on his chest to steady herself, and his fingers came up to cover them.

“And when most women would have been terrified, you were so full of spirit.” He gripped her hands tightly. “You took an outrageous risk, you know.”

“No.” She wanted to argue, but her brain and voice weren't functioning properly. She stared up at him; his face stilled, and his eyes focused on her mouth again. Oh. He was going to kiss her here on High Street in front of Mr. Fenwick's shop where the entire village could see them.

She should stop him.

She'd never been kissed. Not really. The brief brush of his lips at the pond did not count. That had just been a tease … perhaps a promise?

She tilted her face up, let her eyes drift closed …

And heard Ditee's voice behind her.

“Venus, Mr. Fenwick has—
what
are you doing?”

 

“You weren't going to kiss Miss Venus in the middle of High Street, were you?” Nigel asked as they rode back to Hyndon House.

“Of course not.” It hadn't been the
middle
of High Street …

Damn it, he
had
almost kissed Venus in full view of any passerby. What was the matter with him? He'd never before lost awareness of his surroundings so completely, except perhaps when he'd been standing naked at that pond.

It was all Venus's fault. There was something about her that made his good sense shut down. It wasn't just her beauty; he'd seen plenty of beautiful women in London. It was her spirit, her determination, her sharp tongue. He felt so alive when he was with her, as if something exciting—likely disastrous—was about to happen at any moment.

But the oddest thing was he also felt very comfortable with her, as if they'd been friends forever.

His mother had died when he was four; his father when he was thirteen. As duke, he had countless dependents, but he hadn't had a family in a long, long time. Yes, he had Nigel. Nigel was like a brother, but Nigel was seven years older than he. There had always been that distance—and Nigel would eventually marry and have his own family.

Drew had always felt deeply alone—but not when he was with Venus.

“This is only a small, rural village miles from London,” Nigel was saying, “but I'll wager my yearly income that gossip flourishes here, too, and rumors that the Duke of Greycliffe is showing a marked interest in a certain country miss will be flying back to Town faster than the wind.”

Blast it, Nigel was probably right. Hell, London's biggest gossips could have been standing at his elbow and he likely wouldn't have noticed. But Nigel did have one crucial detail wrong.

“The gossips won't be saying the duke is dallying with Venus; no one here knows I'm Greycliffe. They'll say you were the one misbehaving.”

The
ton
wouldn't know what to make of staid Nigel Valentine, so discreet—before Widow Blackburn, that is—acting in such a publicly scandalous way. Not that they'd know what to make of Drew either if the truth got out, but it seemed dukes were expected to behave as if society's rules did not apply to them.