The Trouble With Being a Duke (4 page)

“Well, that would explain it,” Casper said as he tossed back the last of his champagne and gazed out at the crowd. “It looks as though the orchestra’s getting ready for the next set—isn’t it time for you to find one of your partners, Anthony? You’ll never get through six dances in one evening at the rate you’re going.”

“Six dances?” Louise stared up at him in surprise. “But you don’t even like to—”

“I’m the host, Louise. I have responsibilities tonight, and besides, I’ve no desire to disappoint Mama.”

“That’s very admirable,” Winston said as he snatched another glass of champagne from a passing tray. “I do believe I’ll help. Anyone particular you’d like me to ask?”

Seizing the opportunity to tease Casper, Anthony said, “There’s a woman, just over there—the one in the yellow gown and the gold mask standing just to the left of the orchestra.”

Casper moved as if to step forward, but Anthony held him back. “Ask her to dance, Winston, and while you’re at it, find out who she is.”

Winston’s face brightened. “A mystery! I do so love a good mystery.”

As he crossed the ballroom, Casper turned to Anthony with a glower. “You’re a fiend, you know.”

Anthony nodded. “You’re probably right, but then again, I did see her first, and with looks like those”—he made a gesture that encompassed Casper’s entire figure—“you have to admit that it’s only fair of you to give me a chance to catch her interest before you make a move.”

“And yet the fact that you’re suddenly so keen only makes me want her more,” Casper sighed.

It was Anthony’s turn to glower.

“Besides, you can’t possibly make time for her with six dances ahead of you. While
I,
on the other hand, have only the one with Lady Georgina.” Casper smiled his signature smile—the one that was meant to disarm even the most stubborn lady. “That ought to give me a two-hour advantage with our mystery woman.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Best get on with it is all I can say.” Turning toward Louise, who’d been following the exchange with rapt interest, he gave a slight bow, said something humorous yet meaningless to Huntley and then sauntered off as if he’d been King Midas and everyone present his subjects.

Anthony watched him go, finding it impossible not to smile. It was just like the good old days at Eton when the two of them had placed the oddest bets against each other.

“The man has a point, you know,” Louise said a moment later, “though I would encourage you to consider the Hampstead move—it’s a classic.”

“Louise, you’re a veritable gem!” If it hadn’t been for Huntley, Anthony would probably have picked her up and twirled her about to show his enthusiasm, but some things just weren’t done when one was in the presence of the lady’s husband and with all eyes of the
ton
preserving each false move to memory—not even if you happened to be her brother. So instead he said, “I’ll ask Cook to make crêpes for you every day while you’re here.”

Louise smiled. “Just best Casper and I’ll be happy enough.”

“Why, Louise, it almost sounds as if you hold a grudge.”

“Croquet, six years ago—that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

“And here I was thinking you’d forgiven him for that long ago.” Anthony turned to Huntley, who was looking terribly confused. “Goodard indirectly caused my sister to break her ankle one year, leaving her bedridden for the entire summer.”

“And you’ve been waiting all this time to exact your revenge?” Huntley asked as he took a small step away from his wife.

Louise smiled. “One ought to pick such a moment carefully.”

Huntley’s eyes grew wide. “Remind me never to cross you, my dear.” He suddenly frowned. “What exactly happened, anyway?”

“I’ll tell you all about that later, but it basically involved a hole and a squirrel.” Huntley’s mouth opened as if he planned to ask for further explanation, but Louise gave him no chance as she quickly turned her attention back to Anthony and said, “Now get a move on, will you? Your competitor’s no novice, so unless you hurry up, he’ll undoubtedly depart for Gretna Green with your prize before you have so much as a chance to speak with her.”

With one last tug at his cravat, Anthony handed his empty glass to a footman and went in search of his first dance partner.

Chapter 4

W
hatever her imaginings, nothing could possibly have surpassed the opulence that greeted her as she entered the Kingsborough ballroom. Ladies dressed in the finest silk and lace, their gems sparkling beneath the thousands of candles that filled three massive chandeliers. Gentlemen garbed in elegant evening black, their shoes buffed and their cravats tied to perfection, all carrying themselves with the utmost grace.

Spotting a vacant corner close to the orchestra, Isabella moved toward it. She was in no hurry to socialize just yet, for that would mean lying, and while she was prepared to do so, she was more than happy to wait a while as she enjoyed the scenery. No one was dancing yet—they all looked as if they were far too busy chatting with one another, creating a steady hum of voices that rose to compete with the soft rise and fall of the music.

Allowing her gaze to roam, Isabella noticed that there were large vases filled with daffodils and hyacinths strategically placed throughout the room. Even the refreshment table boasted a magnificent floral arrangement of pinks, purples and yellows. Isabella couldn’t help but smile. She loved daffodils, for they were such happy flowers—a true testament to spring.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind her right shoulder.

Isabella jumped. She’d been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she’d failed to notice that someone had walked up behind her. Turning around, she came face-to-face with a sweet-faced lady who was in possession of a very welcoming smile. She was not alone however. Beside her stood a dark-haired gentleman who looked equally pleasant.

“I do hope you will forgive me for startling you,” said the woman, “but we couldn’t help but notice that you were standing here all alone, and immediately decided that you might enjoy some company. I am Lady Winston, by the way, and this is my husband.”

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Isabella replied. “My name is Miss Smith.” She’d deliberately chosen one of the commonest names that England had ever known as her pseudonym in the hopes that it would fit at least one of the names on the guest list.

“Of Flemmington?” Lord Winston asked.

Flemmington?

Isabella had never heard of a place by that name, but it did appear to offer her the perfect alibi, so she quickly nodded and said, “Yes, that’s it—Flemmington.”

A momentary look of surprise registered on Lady Winston’s face, but it quickly vanished again as her husband continued with, “I’ve never had the opportunity to visit it myself, but I’ve heard that it’s particularly lovely this time of year.”

“Winston,” said his wife. “I don’t think—”

“The lake is rumored to be surrounded by crocuses, and there are supposedly boats that you can hire if you wish to sail out to the small island in the middle for a picnic.”

“How romantic,” said Lady Winston.

“Have you ever done that, Miss Smith?” asked Lord Winston. “Gone rowing on Flemmington Lake?”

What a relief that this was a masked ball, for Isabella could feel the heat rise to her face out of sheer and utter mortification. She’d always hated liars, and she hated herself for standing there now and being so blatantly dishonest with these people. Well, at least she could be honest about taking a boat out on Flemmington Lake. She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Lord Winston frowned. “Do you not swim?”

His question was rewarded with a sharp nudge in the ribs from Lady Winston. “What?” he asked his wife. “It’s a perfectly legitimate question in light of the fact that Miss Smith has never been out on Flemmington Lake before.”

“As a matter of fact, I quite enjoy swimming,” Isabella said. Perhaps she should have stopped there, but feeling the need for more honesty, she added, “And I’ve been in a rowboat before as well—just not on Flemmington Lake.”

It looked as if Lord Winston might have had more to say on the matter, but he was cut off by a petite, older woman who approached their small group with a “There you are, Winston. I was wondering what happened to you.”

“Mama!” Lord Winston stepped aside to give way to his mother. He then turned back to face Isabella. “You are acquainted with the Duchess of Kingsborough, of course?”

The Duchess of Kingsborough? Good heavens!

Isabella had never before longed for a quicker means of escape than she did right now. Her eyes darted from one individual to the other. “Then you are . . . ,” she said, looking at Lord Winston. “And you must be . . . ,” she continued, her gaze shifting to Lady Winston. “I mean . . . I . . . er . . .”

The duchess frowned a little and said, “I don’t believe I—”

“This is Miss Smith,” said Lord Winston. “Of Flemmington.”

The duchess’s frown deepened and she opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off once again by her son as he said, “Such a delightful town, though it’s really a shame that Miss Smith has never been out on the lake.” He then changed the subject of conversation entirely. “Sarah, didn’t you mention that you were hoping to ask Mama for some advice in regards to the governess?”

Lady Winston nodded. “Indeed I did.”

“Right,” Lord Winston continued cheerily. He returned his attention to Isabella. “Are you interested in the subject of governesses, Miss Smith, or would you prefer to dance?”

There was no need for Lord Winston to ask twice for her to know the answer to that question, but how could she possibly say that she would rather dance than participate in the duchess’s and Lady Winston’s forthcoming conversation?

Thankfully, she was saved from saying anything at all by the duchess herself. “I shan’t take the least bit offense if you would rather dance,” she said with a kind smile.

“There,” Lord Winston exclaimed. “You have been granted permission by the highest authority.” He then performed a most elegant bow. “Miss Smith, would you care to dance the next set with me?”

Unable to keep from smiling, Isabella nodded and said, “I would love to, my lord—if your wife approves.”

It was Lady Winston’s turn to smile. “I do, Miss Smith, for my husband simply loves to make me dance with him to the point of exhaustion. I’m indebted to you for allowing me a moment’s reprieve.”

Lord Winston leaned closer to his wife and said, “Fear not, Sarah. The first dance of the evening has yet to commence, so I promise you that there will be ample opportunity for you to partner with me later.” He then winked at her, offered Isabella his arm and began leading her in the general direction of the dance floor, saying over his shoulder, “Oh, and don’t forget to tell Mama about Flemmington—I don’t believe she’s very familiar with it.”

A
s evenings went, this had to be the strangest. Two hours had passed since her arrival at Kingsborough Hall—a feat she’d accomplished, just as Jamie had suggested, with the help of her cousin Simon. He’d met her by the stables at a designated hour and led her through a back entrance that had bypassed the entire receiving line. None of the servants had stopped them to ask questions—they’d all been too busy attending to the many guests.

No more than half an hour after her arrival, Isabella had met not only the Duchess of Kingsborough’s son but the duchess herself as well. It was incredible. Yes, there had been a moment when Isabella had been sure the dowager duchess would call her bluff, but Lord Winston had averted that catastrophe with his enthusiasm for Flemmington. Heaven help her but she’d never talked to someone for so long about a place she’d never been to, never mind heard of before.

She regretted the lie, but what choice did she have? If she told the truth—that she wasn’t even gentry but merely the daughter of a carriage driver—they’d waste no time in tossing her out on her backside. Of this she was certain.

Thankfully, her appearance was serving to persuade them that she belonged, because however fantastic the gown she was wearing had looked in the dim candle glow of her room, it looked even more incredible now in the brightly lit ballroom. Heading toward the refreshment table after finishing yet another reel, Isabella was just about to pick up a glass of lemonade when a deep voice gave her pause. “You’re quite the success this evening.”

Turning slightly, she found herself gazing at a face more handsome than any she’d ever seen before. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “I . . . er . . .” He looked precisely like the sort of trouble her mother had always warned her to stay away from, and the fact that he’d approached her without being formally introduced to her first only confirmed this.

“Mr. Goodard at your service.” He smiled, and Isabella couldn’t help but admire his beauty. But then he looked beyond where she stood, frowned and muttered, “Blast!”

Isabella instinctively turned her head to see what had caused the outburst, only to find yet another gentleman striding toward them with quick determination. His gaze was intense, his mouth drawn tight as if ready to start a quarrel, his hair dark and slightly ruffled, and his cravat in severe danger of falling into disarray.

Isabella felt her stomach tighten. Of the two, there was no doubt that Mr. Goodard was the handsomer one, if one favored the more classical and well-polished features. But Isabella had had enough of that in the form of Mr. Roberts. She was sick of it, in fact. The man approaching, on the other hand, appeared to be everything Mr. Roberts wasn’t, and Isabella’s pulse quickened in response.

“I never would have imagined you’d stoop so low as to apply the Hampstead move—especially given the fact that
I
invented it,” Mr. Goodard said a bit too nonchalantly for Isabella’s liking, since the other gentleman in question looked eager to engage in an altercation.

“You were determined to have your way, so I felt the need to delay you a little.”

Mr. Goodard frowned. “At least you had the decency to pick some very agreeable ladies for your little scheme.”

The other gentleman chuckled. “We are friends, are we not?” He didn’t wait for a reply but turned to Isabella instead, bowing ever so slightly as he gazed into her eyes. Lord help her, she was in trouble. “I hope you will forgive the lack of etiquette and allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, the Duke of Kingsborough.”

The time had come for Isabella to find a chair and sit down before she collapsed on the floor in a dead faint. Before her stood not only the most perfect man she’d ever seen—a man who appeared to be everything Mr. Roberts wasn’t—but he was a duke as well, and he had bowed before her as if she’d been a princess. Heaven above, she ought to curtsy. So she did—as graciously as she could manage given the flummoxed state she was in.

Rising to her full height again, she realized that there was only one flaw to this magnificently spectacular moment—she was a nobody, and dukes did not associate with nobodies.

“Miss Smith, is it?” the Duke of Kingsborough asked as he reached for a glass of lemonade and offered it to her. “I believe my brother had the pleasure of dancing with you earlier.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The duke said nothing further, so Isabella decided to add, “I also enjoyed a conversation with your mother and sister-in-law—two very lovely ladies.”

The edge of Kingsborough’s mouth edged upward to form the beginnings of a smile. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Bloody hell.”

Isabella’s eyes widened, and Kingsborough’s face grew taut. He turned toward Mr. Goodard. “Such language has no place in a lady’s presence.”

“My apologies,” Mr. Goodard, said, taking her hand in his and placing a kiss upon the knuckles. “It’s just that I suddenly realize I’ve lost my chance.”

Isabella wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and she was afforded little time to ponder it before he took his leave and Kingsborough in turn asked her to dance. Everything from that point onward happened in a daze. It was as if she’d been drifting toward the dance floor on puffy clouds, her whole body humming with anticipation while her heart hammered against her chest and her stomach tickled.

The music started, and Isabella realized that the dance they were about to engage in was a waltz. She almost lost her nerve. She’d never danced one before, and from what she’d heard, it was the most scandalous dance there was. She couldn’t possibly go through with it. If her mother somehow found out . . . Oh, dear Lord, why on earth did she have to think of her mother at a moment like this? Her hands began to tremble and she felt ill, but then a thought struck her. “From what I understand, a lady requires permission to dance the waltz, Your Grace. Unfortunately, I have no such permission. Perhaps we could take a turn about the room instead?”

Taking her hand in his, the duke pulled her toward him. Heat swept through her body in a torrent until her mouth grew uncomfortably dry, and she found herself licking her lips. Kingsborough’s eyes widened. “Then it is fortunate that we are in the country, where people are less inclined to notice.
And
this is a masquerade—they may not even recognize you.”

He had her there, but she decided to ignore the point, saying instead, “But they are the same people who will flock to London for the start of the Season, are they not? Propriety and etiquette are the very backbone of the world they live in. If there is just the slightest bit of deviation they will surely notice—you cannot possibly think otherwise.”