The Duke's Accidental Wife (Dukes of War Book 7) (4 page)

If she were a man, perhaps her motley friends wouldn’t have mattered. Lord Byron managed to be a poet and a baron. Brummell managed to be both a dandy and a debtor.

For women, it was different. If one were an actress, the assumption was that she was also a whore. And if she were not an actress, but merely a woman who both enjoyed the performances and befriended the entertainers?

Well. She hadn’t flinched when her Almack’s voucher was revoked. She certainly wasn’t going to cry about the Duke of Ravenwood acknowledging her lower status.

The opposite, in fact. His unexpected pursuit of her into the storage area filled Kate with a giddy sense of unreality. Part of her was picturing herself telling her friends about her close encounter with the Frost King, and the other part of herself wondered if they’d even believe her.

A prideful man as high-in-the-instep as the lofty Duke of Ravenwood, shadowed amongst dusty wooden crates and towering shelves? Unthinkable!

Even here, surrounded by row after row of her painstakingly collected antiquities, the insufferable man looked more imperious than ever. More handsome. More unreachable.

His broad shoulders and tense frame seemed to fill the overstuffed aisle, making her feel for the first time as if she were not in her prized treasure room, but rather a wayward maiden who’d wandered into
his
domain.

She glared at him for daring to take her sense of ownership from her with his mere presence.

His eyes glittered back from beneath his dark chestnut brows.

He neither smiled nor frowned. As was his wont. Ravenwood was infamous for staring coolly out of those inscrutable emerald eyes, with no indication upon those firm lips and square jaw as to what he might be thinking. She had spent weeks trying to figure him out. Months.

Kate straightened her spine and tried to match his indifference with her own.

Let
him see how immune she was to his arrogance and cold beauty. If she wanted a statue of Adonis, she knew where to find one. She already had one, in fact—packed away against the back wall. She didn’t need Ravenwood towering over her, judging her. Dismissing her.

She jerked her gaze away from him. The charity gala needed her concentration. Now that she was in the storage area, she might as well make something of it. But Aunt Havens had been in here earlier, “organizing” the collection…which always made it that much harder for anything to be found.

As Kate scanned the shelves in search of the Greek pottery she’d hoped to put on display after tonight’s gala, every prickling inch of her skin was hyper aware of Ravenwood’s unflinching gaze. Her usually steady fingers trembled as she reached for a squat wooden box tucked away upon one of the tallest shelves.

“Let me help,” came his deep voice from immediately behind her.

She jumped and flailed her arms. The preternaturally silent man had managed to startle her yet again, causing her to grasp the shelving to keep her balance.

It didn’t work.

Rather,
she
stayed upright—but the overpacked shelves wobbled just enough to send the items on the topmost shelf tumbling right at them.

A blown glass flower. A porcelain bust. And Aunt Havens’ misplaced pail of water.

Kate grabbed the bust and swung it onto the closest shelf.

Ravenwood rescued the glass flower.

The falling bucket splashed over them, dousing his wide chest and pristine cravat with cold water.

His impenetrable eyes met hers.

Kate swallowed. Her pulse hammered wildly. Words would not form.

He ought to look ridiculous. An uppity duke, clutching a glass flower, his neckcloth dripping as if he’d been caught in a summer rain.

The opposite was true. With his chestnut curls awry and his cravat plastered to his chest, the typically standoffish duke looked…
approachable
. Handsome. Dangerous.

She touched her fingertips to his cravat. “You’re wet.”

“You’re observant.” Against all odds, his mouth curved into a wry smile.

She froze in place, her palm against the heat of his chest, her startled eyes locked on the curve of his lips.

Had she ever seen him smile before? Heaven help her, he was gorgeous. That slow, self-deprecating smile transformed him from a princely statue to someone kissable. Desirable. Someone she absolutely should not be touching.

Fire, not ice.

She snatched her hand from his chest and jerked away—only for her slippered feet to skid out from under her on the water-slick floor.

He caught her to him, preventing her fall.

Her arms tightened about him reflexively before she realized her mistake. Er, mistakes. She was alone with the Duke of Ravenwood, her silk bodice plastered against his dripping wet chest.

And part of her didn’t want to let go.

She tried to breathe. His muscles were firm and hot beneath his snugly tailored coat sleeves. Her damp bosom trapped between his heartbeat and hers.

His hooded green eyes were no longer as unreadable as they’d been a few moments earlier. They were focused on her parted lips. The lips she couldn’t help but lick in anticipation.

He lowered his head toward hers…as the storage room door swung open.

Chapter Three

Ravenwood released Miss Ross from his arms, his heart pounding in trepidation.

It was already too late.

An older woman stood in the open doorway, blinking owlishly at them from a pale, angular face.

“Oh, thank heavens.” Miss Ross all but sagged back into his arms in obvious relief. “It’s just Aunt Havens.”

Ravenwood stiffened. From what he had always gathered, aunts happening across an unchaperoned niece in the arms of a duke generally put one at distinct risk for a leg shackle.

He couldn’t risk Miss Ross becoming his
duchess
, for God’s sake.

She was intriguing and beautiful, but tempting curves and kissable lips were not the traits he most desired. No matter what his traitorous body might have thought when he’d given into temptation and pulled her into his arms.

He knew precisely what sort of woman would make the perfect wife and a wonderful duchess, and Miss Ross unquestionably did not fit his requirements.

When he married, it would be for his dukedom…and for love.

Or at least, that had been his plan until a few moments ago.

However, Mrs. Havens had yet to sound the alarm. Or do much of anything besides stare at them, with her back to the noise from the gala and Ravenwood’s freedom in the palm of her hand.

“She’s frowning because she can be slightly addled at times, not because she intends to compromise us,” Miss Ross whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”

Relief coursed through him.

His moment of weakness, of madness, was nothing more than that. A flight of fancy. It wasn’t like he had
actually
kissed her.

Mrs. Havens had done them a favor by interrupting.

He tried to calm his racing heart. Miss Ross’s ability to drive him mad with both distaste and desire did not deserve to be dwelled upon any longer.

Thank God they wouldn’t be compromised. If they could not be in each other’s company without arguing—or kissing—then they would simply take care to avoid each other’s company.

Indeed, it was past time for Ravenwood to select a proper duchess. If he had already taken a wife, he would never have made the terrible mistake of a horrifically incompatible woman like Miss Ross.

He required someone of moral restraint, of unimpeachable reputation, of soft words and a gentle heart. A duchess who would command the unflagging respect of the entire
ton
. Once he took a wife, he would no longer be tempted by the likes of Miss Ross.

He forced himself to drag his gaze away from the pretty flush on Miss Ross’s cheeks…and the sight of her tongue as she licked her lower lip.

No matter how badly he’d longed to escape the crowded salon, he should never have followed her into the storage area. Her goading was far less dangerous than the temptation of her kisses.

But then, who would imagine he could ever be tempted?

“There’s no trouble here, Aunt.” Miss Ross grabbed one of the dusty cloths covering the many crates and placed it atop the puddle on the floor. “We’re just attending to a slight mishap.”

“Why was a pail of water perched at the edge of a shelf to begin with?” he growled beneath his breath.

Miss Ross’s blue eyes sparked up at him from beneath dusky lashes. “’Tis my museum, not yours. I’ll store my possessions wherever I please.”

“Did I leave my bucket on the floor?” came a querulous voice from the doorway.

Addled sometimes
. He swallowed in sudden understanding. Miss Ross wasn’t the beautiful, shallow creature he’d believed her to be. Her fiery glare hadn’t been because she was cross with Ravenwood, but because she wished to protect her aunt from censure. He appreciated such a noble streak.

“Go back to the others,” Miss Ross called over her shoulder. “I’ll find you in a moment.”

Ravenwood’s entire body tensed as he waited to see whether Mrs. Havens would follow such a directive without asking what her niece was doing alone with a strange man in the first place.

To his relief, Mrs. Havens nodded as if this were a perfectly normal request. “Make haste if you could, please. Daphne has questions about the pink vases and Lambley says we’re running out of champagne.”

Ravenwood blinked at the mundane query.

Miss Ross had been correct. Everything was going to be all right. All they had to do was slip back into the salon before anyone else noticed them missing and then life would continue as planned.

The hardest part would be explaining why his cravat looked like he’d dropped it in bathwater.

As Mrs. Havens turned to close the door, her voice floated back to them. “No, you’ll have to wait for the champagne. Kate needs a private moment with a young man before she can join us.”

Miss Ross flushed pink and sucked in a breath.

Ravenwood covered his face with his hand.

The storage door swung back open with enough force to rattle its hinges.

“Ravenwood?” spluttered the Duke of Lambley in disbelief. “Why are you skulking about with my cousin?”

“A fine accusation, coming from the likes of you,” Ravenwood returned icily.

Lambley’s more illicit parties were legendary for their hedonism. They were also precisely the wrong comparison to make whilst explaining why Ravenwood was alone with Miss Ross.

Mrs. Havens clasped her hands to her chest and fixed her nephew with a worried gaze. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“Ravenwood is about to ask my cousin for her hand in marriage right this very moment, that’s what’s wrong.” Lambley stalked forward with his hands clenched into fists.

Miss Ross rushed forward. “Cousin, wait. It’s not what you think!”

Lambley drew up short, his posture relaxing. “Please tell me there’s a reasonable explanation.”

For a moment—a brief, glorious moment—Ravenwood let himself believe that he would be able to exit this museum the same way he had entered it: a bachelor.

Then dozens of familiar faces swarmed the open doorway in shock and delight.

“What is it?”

“Lambley nearly engaged in fisticuffs with the Duke of Ravenwood!”

“A brawl? In a museum?”

“The Duke of Ravenwood has compromised Miss Ross!”

“Can you imagine her as a duchess?”

“Can you imagine Ravenwood compromising someone? His blood isn’t made of ice after all!”

“A tryst, at a charity gala! Can there be anything more vulgar?”

“Must not have wanted him, though. Looks like she tossed her drink right in his face.”

“Not want a duchy? Are you mad? That’s a lover’s quarrel, that is. She wanted to be more than a mistress, but he had his sainted image to uphold.”

Ravenwood was clenching his jaw so tight he feared his teeth would grind to dust. His “sainted” image had been one of his prized possessions. An achievement of which he’d had every right to be proud.