The Trouble With Being a Duke (7 page)

Mr. Goodard frowned. “Now you’re just mocking me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Isabella quipped as she gave him a sly smile. She accepted his hand again, and they moved past the other dancers.

Mr. Goodard raised an eyebrow. “Sarcasm? No wonder he likes you.”

“Who?” Isabella asked, instantly aware that her dance partner had just said something that he’d probably not intended for her to hear. The look of surprise on his face confirmed it.

“What?” He looked about as if seeking a means of escape, but of course there was none—not unless he planned on being particularly rude.

They returned to their places as the music faded, and Mr. Goodard bowed, while Isabella curtsied. He then offered her his arm and led her away from the dance floor.

“Who likes me?” Isabella asked, determined to squeeze that little bit of information out of him.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Goodard said as they walked across to the refreshment table.

“But you just said . . . I mean, when we were dancing . . .” Mr. Goodard raised an eyebrow as he picked up a glass of lemonade and handed it to her. She breathed a sigh of defeat. “Oh, you’re insufferable.”

A cheeky smile graced Mr. Goodard’s lips. “I know,” he said. He looked away from her and added, “Oh look, there’s Kingsborough right now. He’s coming our . . . oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Isabella asked, craning her neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the duke.

“It looks as though he’s been detained by Lady Deerford.” Concern crept into his eyes. “From what I’ve been told about the lady, I do believe this could take a while.”

Disappointment flooded Isabella. It was ridiculous. She barely knew the duke, had spent no more than an hour in his company and would never see him again once the evening ended. Hoping for something more with him was impossible, and if he ever discovered who she really was—a lowly woman who lived in a simple cottage on the wrong side of town—he’d never forgive her. Especially not if she continued this charade and allowed him to think that the only thing standing in his way was a man she wasn’t even engaged to yet. No, she had to find a way to avoid his company for the remainder of the evening—for both of their sakes. She turned to Mr. Goodard. “Then how about if we pass the time with another dance? Is that not a quadrille starting?”

Mr. Goodard hesitated a moment and then smiled with mischief. “Indeed it is, Miss Smith. Shall we show the others how it’s done?”

There was humor in his eyes as he spoke, which brought an instant giggle from Isabella. “Most definitely,” she said as she placed her hand upon his arm and allowed him to guide her back to the dance floor.

Isabella enjoyed the quadrille immensely, mostly because it allowed for more conversation time with Mr. Goodard than the country dance had done. Desperate for a bit more information about the man whose company she really craved, she turned to Mr. Goodard for answers. She worried he might be reluctant to say too much, but she quickly discovered that once Mr. Goodard started talking about his childhood exploits with the duke, there was no stopping him. It was delightfully entertaining, especially when he spoke of the treasure they’d buried in the garden one time while playing pirates. The gardener had dug it up years later and believed it to be real.

“I do believe we ought to go and save him from Lady Deerford’s clutches,” Mr. Goodard suggested as soon as the dance ended and he finished another story involving a trench they’d dug around the duke’s tree house one year, pretending that it had been a moat.

Determined to ignore her better judgment, Isabella was just about to agree when a gentleman she’d not yet met appeared, blocking their path. He was just as tall as Mr. Goodard and almost as handsome, though there was something in his eyes and the way he smiled that put Isabella immediately on edge.

“Ah, Lord Starkly,” Mr. Goodard said in a bored tone of voice. “I was rather hoping to avoid you this evening.”

Pinning Isabella with his gaze, Lord Starkly didn’t as much as glance in Mr. Goodard’s direction as he said, “Yes, I imagine you were. But then again, it’s not you I’m here to see but the lovely lady whose company you’ve been keeping. Perhaps you’d be so good as to introduce me to her.”

Heat scurried across Isabella’s flesh. Not the good sort of heat that she’d felt in the duke’s company but rather the kind that made her feel like a little trapped rabbit, about to be flayed. She sensed Mr. Goodard’s indecision, but propriety apparently won out, because he finally managed to say, “Miss Smith, this is Lord Starkly—Lord Starkly, I present to you Miss Smith.”

“A pleasure,” Lord Starkly murmured as he took her hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, lingering there for one second . . . two seconds . . .

Mr. Goodard coughed and Lord Starkly straightened himself, releasing Isabella’s hand with a roguish slowness that could only be defined as most outrageous.

“Would you please do the honor of partnering with me for the next dance, Miss Smith,” Lord Starkly asked, the corner of his mouth rising to form a crooked smile.

Heaven above, she’d never seen someone look more arrogant in all her life. He knew she could not refuse him without being rude, for he was a nobleman while she was a mere “Miss.” She turned to Mr. Goodard, gazing up at him as she prayed he’d see the imploring look in her eyes that said
Please rescue me from this scoundrel.

“I don’t believe that’s possible,” Mr. Goodard said as he looked about the ballroom. “For she has already promised to dance the next set with another gentleman.”

“Oh? With whom?” Lord Starkly asked, his eyes narrowing as he leaned toward Mr. Goodard.

“With . . . er . . .” Isabella watched as Mr. Goodard continued to look about, realizing that he was trying to find somebody for her to partner with. “With me.”

“What?” Both gentlemen turned their gaze on Isabella. She wasn’t surprised, for her question had sounded like a croaked squeak.

“That’s right,” Mr. Goodard announced. “We were simply taking a small reprieve to quench our thirst, but since you’ve delayed us, I daresay we’ll have no time for that. Come along, Miss Smith.”

Finding it difficult to believe what had just transpired, Isabella stumbled after Mr. Goodard, leaving behind a very angry-looking Lord Starkly. “You cannot do this,” she said as they arrived back at the dance floor. “We’ve already danced twice. People will think . . . it’s unseemly and—”

“What was I supposed to do?” Mr. Goodard hissed. “I couldn’t allow you to dance with that man—he’s a renowned womanizer.”

“And you’re not?” She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, for there was suddenly something deadly in Mr. Goodard’s eyes.

He leaned toward her. “Think what you will about me, but at least I treat women with decency and respect. I don’t toss my mistresses out without a penny the instant I tire of them or, worse, get them with child. No, Miss Smith, I am nothing like Lord Starkly—please don’t make the error of presuming that I am.”

Isabella shuddered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“I know the consequences of dancing more than twice. Had it been up to me, you would have danced with someone else, but Lord Winston, as you can see, is about to dance with his wife, as is Lord Huntley. As for Kingsborough . . . I’ve no idea where he is, for I cannot see him anywhere.” He met her gaze. “Fret not, Miss Smith. This is a masquerade, after all, we are in the country and you are not familiar to anyone. In fact, it won’t surprise me in the least if after this evening none of us here ever lays eyes on you again.”

Isabella stared back at him, shocked by his observation. She swallowed hard and then nodded. Whatever the case, dancing three sets with Mr. Goodard was surely more favorable than having to dance a single one with Lord Starkly. Taking up her position for what unfortunately promised to be another waltz, she felt Mr. Goodard’s hand upon her waist just as a deep voice rumbled from behind her.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing, Casper?” It was the duke who’d spoken, and he did not sound the least bit pleased. Turning her head, Isabella gasped. He looked just about ready to kill somebody.

As if Mr. Goodard had just discovered that Isabella was infected with the plague, he released her and stepped back. “Thank God you’re here,” he said, his features relaxing with visible relief. “I was beginning to fear for my freedom.”

“Not as much as I was beginning to worry about your intentions. Really, Casper, you know three dances with the same woman is unacceptable.”

“Of course I do, but what choice did I have with Lord Starkly preparing to pounce on her. Frankly, I can’t imagine what you were thinking inviting him here in the first place. You know what he’s like, and to submit poor Miss Smith here”—they both directed a gaze toward Isabella, who was feeling rather like a piece of rope in a game of tug-of-war—“was unthinkable. I tried to locate you, but you were nowhere to be seen, while both your brother and brother-in-law are occupied with their wives.”

The duke averted his gaze from Mr. Goodard for a moment, frowned and said, “So they are.”

“All in all,” Mr. Goodard continued, “I think I did the right thing considering the circumstances, but now that you’re here, I do suggest you take over while I enjoy a much-needed brandy. Miss Smith,” he added, bowing toward Isabella, “thank you for your company. It was a delightful pleasure.” And then he hurried off before either of them could say anything further.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” the duke said as he pulled Isabella toward him, placing his hand against her waist as he guided her forward to the first tunes of the waltz. A flutter of nerves settled in the pit of her stomach in response to his closeness. And the way he was looking at her . . . there was an elemental possessiveness behind his eyes that made her heart beat faster and her legs turn to jelly. Thank God he was holding onto her, for she feared that if he hadn’t been, she’d have collapsed to the floor. “As noble as his intentions might have been, Mr. Goodard was about to make a very serious mistake. I had no choice but to intervene.”

“I see,” Isabella said as he twirled her about. “Then it really is fortuitous that you were there to prevent it—particularly since I’d hate having to explain to Mr. Goodard that I’m practically engaged to someone else. I daresay it would have been detrimental to his ego, not to mention that it would in all likelihood have ruined my own reputation.”

“It’s not a laughing matter,” he said, though the corners of his lips were beginning to edge upward. “I’m being quite serious.”

“Oh, I know,” Isabella replied, smiling sweetly. “So am I.”

The duke laughed. “Miss Smith, what am I to do with you? You’re unlike any lady I’ve ever met before—so free and spirited that I cannot help but wonder . . .” He stopped himself from saying anything further, but his hold on her tightened as he led her about in a wide circle. “Tell me,” he continued. “This man you intend to marry—do you love him?”

She wanted to say yes, willed herself to do it even, for she knew that it would stop the duke from pursuing her any further. And yet the word wouldn’t come. It remained on the tip of her tongue until she realized that she could not bring herself to say it. “It’s complicated,” she said instead, averting her gaze.

“I wish to court you.” Anthony blurted out the words without thinking. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, for he hadn’t done much else
but
think—about Miss Smith, that was. He’d done as his mother had asked and had spoken to several of his guests—had even suffered through Lady Deerford’s detailed description of her newly acquired doll. And yet, through it all, he’d been thinking of Miss Smith—her eyes, her smile . . . the touch of her thigh beneath the palm of his hand. He’d known her for less than a day, and yet he found himself smitten, though he thought he ought to clarify his sudden statement in case she thought him in love with her. That would be ridiculous—he barely knew her. “What I mean to say is that I’d like to spend more time with you—get to know you better.”

She stared back at him from behind her mask, and he longed for nothing more than to tear it from her face so he could get a proper look at her.

“That’s impossible,” she said, breaking the silence with words he’d no desire to hear, in a voice filled with pain and regret.

“Why, Miss Smith?” He wanted to shake her and make her see that marrying someone she did not love was a terrible idea, no matter the reason for it. “Who is this man? Why do you feel yourself bound to him?”

“I cannot say,” she muttered.

“Look at me,” he said, determined more than ever to change her mind and suddenly willing to risk making a fool of himself in the bargain if that was what it would take. She was too special, too perfect, too . . . destined to be his. He felt it deep in his bones like nothing he’d ever felt before, a pure certainty that demanded he do whatever it might take to win her.

Where this notion came from, he couldn’t imagine, but it was there, as real as the fact that he was dancing with her right now. It took a moment for her to comply, but then she did, and there was pain in her eyes that tore at his heart. “I’m a duke, Miss Smith. Don’t tell me that if I come to call on you your parents will send me away. Don’t tell me that should I offer to marry you, your father will say no, all because of an understanding you might have with some other gentleman.”

The music faded and they glided to a slow halt. He bowed before her while she in return curtsied, but when he straightened himself, he noted that her eyes were glistening. Bloody hell, he’d made her cry. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he steered her toward a set of open doors at the side and toward the hallway beyond. He had to speak with her in private . . . had to make her see that she was making a mistake—one that could still be averted.

Chapter 7

“W
here are we going?” he heard her ask as he pulled her along behind him.

Her voice sounded wary, and rightly so. After all, he was leading her away from the ballroom with the inappropriate intention of getting her completely alone where no one would be likely to disturb them. “In here,” he said, ushering her into a room as he swiftly closed and locked the door behind him. It was his library—his sanctuary—a place where he could just relax and be himself. Turning around, he found Miss Smith eyeing him as if he’d been a no-good pirate who’d just asked her to sail the seven seas. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.

Intent on putting her at ease, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s your favorite food, Miss Smith?”

He saw her frown, as if she was examining his motive for posing such an absurd question. But then her expression eased and she said, “Strawberries, Your Grace. Not baked in a pie or turned to jam, but fresh, plump, juicy strawberries.”

Anthony stared back at Miss Smith—at her lips, to be exact. Her talk of strawberries only served to make him wonder what those lovely lips of hers might taste like, and worse, how he might go about discovering it.

He watched as she walked across to one of the bookcases and gave its contents a close inspection.

“What is all this?” she asked.

Anthony shrugged. “My collection, I suppose.” He’d forgotten about it in his hurry for privacy—had intended to have it all moved upstairs to his bedroom so nobody else would see it. Not that he cared if anyone happened to think it strange that he liked turning bits of scrap into something more, but there was something personal and private about it that made him want to protect it from scrutiny. Casper was the only person outside his family who’d seen his work. He held his breath now, waiting for Miss Smith’s evaluation.

“Did you make these?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him briefly before returning her attention to an elegant lady that he’d fashioned from a crooked nail, two brass buttons, a bit of fabric and some twine. He’d had a devil of a time getting her face right, recalling how he’d had to wipe the paint away twice before it had looked just the way he’d wanted it to.

Scratching the back of his head as he stepped forward, he didn’t answer right away but watched instead as she moved on to the next figure—a dog made from bits of folded newspaper and painted black. “Yes,” he said, feeling much the same as when he’d had to make that dratted toast.

Again he found himself holding his breath, but then she turned around to face him, her eyes wide as she said on a whisper of breath, “They’re splendid.”

Splendid.

The sense of elation that buzzed through him, replacing the nervousness with warm pleasure, was heady indeed, for she had voiced her praise as though she’d been looking at a fantastic landscape painting complete with a castle, some mountains and a boat upon a lake, so vividly depicted that one might imagine stepping right into the scenery. Instead, she was merely regarding some odd bits and pieces that he’d glued, tied and pinned together to make some funny-looking characters. It was absurd really, and yet he couldn’t ignore the admiration that shone in her eyes, for it was the first time that anyone had ever looked at him quite like that—as if he’d been capable of magic.

With renewed determination, he stepped forward and took her hand in his, enjoying her sharp intake of breath and the way her pulse fluttered against his fingertips. “Who are you really?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers as he moved even closer.

She shook her head. “I cannot say,” she whispered.

“Why not?” he asked as he cupped her head with his hands, forcing her to look at him. “I won’t tell a soul if you do not wish for me to do so. Your parents will never discover that you were here, and neither will your intended, but I need to know who you are . . . the name of the woman who’s captured my interest.”

“Please stop,” she muttered as she tried to back away from him. She couldn’t go far, for the bookcase was right behind her. “Whatever it is that you wish from me is impossible. You’re a duke and I—” She clamped her mouth shut.

Anthony leaned toward her. “You’re what, Miss Smith?” he asked as his eyes searched hers for answers. There was fear there, the sort of fear that he could not begin to understand. What on earth would have her so worried?

“You will ruin everything for me,” she said, avoiding his question. “My parents are counting on me to do the right thing and yet here you are, determined to make a mess of it. I won’t let you.”

“Is your father in debt to this man? Did he perhaps lose you to him in a game of cards?” Anthony asked, the desperation he felt at her rejection filling him with anger. “Because if that is the case, then let me talk to them. I can—”

“No,” she said. One simple word that hung in the air between them, promising to tear away whatever dreams Anthony had of sharing a future with Miss Smith.

“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t marry a man you do not care for when you and I . . .” He took a deep breath to steady himself against the onslaught of emotions that whipped through him at the thought of having to relinquish all hope. “You cannot deny that there’s something between us—something more than what is usual between two people who have only just met.”

Jaw clenching, she tilted her head backward and looked him squarely in the eye, saying, “While your company has been charming, I fear I must disappoint you, for I noticed no such thing.”

She was lying. Anthony had seen the flash of concession that had marked her features for a second before she’d managed to train them. “Is that so?” he asked as he backed her further up against the bookcase, jolting the heavy piece of furniture enough for one of his figures to fall over. Miss Smith gasped, her eyes startled and her body stiff. She would
not
deny them their happiness, Anthony decided. “I do believe I am about to prove you wrong.”

Capturing her head with his hands he lowered his mouth over hers and moved closer until he was pressed up against her, the faint taste of the lemonade she’d recently drunk still present upon her lips. She felt rigid against his embrace, and he half expected her to start flailing him for his unsolicited advances. But since she wasn’t hitting him yet, or even attempting to get away from him, for that matter, he decided to move ahead with his attempt at enticement and slowly ran the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip. She shivered. There could be no denying that. “Kiss me back,” he whispered as he kissed his way along her jawline and toward her ear, licking the edge of her lobe just enough to—

“Oh God,” she moaned, her arms reaching around him and tugging him against her as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline.

Everything that followed was a frenzy of movement, as if neither could get enough of the other. He’d done it—he’d acted on the rakish impulse he’d tried so hard to repress since making her acquaintance.

Suppressing the guilt that threatened to surge, Anthony allowed his hands to move down Miss Smith’s back while his tongue roamed over hers, and all he could think of was strawberries. Plump and juicy strawberries, or even better, Miss Smith biting into said strawberries. He’d never considered the possibility that there could be something erotic about food, and yet Miss Smith had changed that for him—she’d spoken of strawberries with that delicious mouth of hers and he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that strawberries would forevermore be reminiscent of something delightful and enticing.

Tilting her chin for better access, he kissed her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her, though he couldn’t quite place it. He’d thought of honeysuckles earlier, but that wasn’t it. It wasn’t roses or lavender either as was commonly used by ladies, but something entirely different—something pure, like the sunset in the evening or the dew upon the grass in the morning. “I love the way you smell,” he murmured as he kissed his way along her collarbone. “Tell me, what is it?”

“Chamomile and honey—from the soap I use.” Her breath was raspy as she spoke, her fingers twining through his hair, holding him against her with a desperation that matched his own. The pulse at her neck was beating fast—he could see it, that rapid thrum of excitement.

Encouraged by her response and by the way his own blood roared through his veins, he grew daring, allowing his hands to slide down her back until he cupped her bottom, squeezing her slightly as he pulled her against his own hardness. Her eyes widened, but her back arched as he’d expected, pushing her breasts forward and up until they strained against her bodice. “Make no mistake, Miss Smith. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything else before in my life. It may defy logic, but I am powerless to stop it.” He deliberately lowered his eyes to her breasts, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “Say what you will, but I know that you feel it too, as evidenced by your eagerness to—”

“How dare you?” she snapped, cutting him off as she wrenched herself away from him, killing the moment and surprising him in the process.

Anthony froze. What the devil was going on? Had she not just been cavorting in his arms as though her life was entirely dependent upon his kisses? Where was the anger coming from? For there was definitely anger. Plenty of it, in fact, as he caught a glimpse of her stormy eyes.

“You . . . you . . . argh!” With a hard shove she pushed him away, just enough for her to escape his closeness. She stopped at a reasonable distance and turned to face him as she held her hands up before her. “Stay right where you are,” she warned.

Her breathing was still coming fast, and there was a blush to her cheeks that put Anthony more at ease, for it suggested that her temper hadn’t flared because of his kiss or even because of what he’d said (though he felt sure she’d have a different opinion on the matter), but rather because she’d just realized that he was in fact right. She pointed an accusing finger toward him. “I had everything worked out before I met you,” she said. “I knew my life wasn’t perfect, but it was one I was willing to accept. My mother was right to warn me about the stories I chose to read. Fairy tales are for children. As adults, we must think rationally and without dreams of the impossible clouding our judgment. I know this, and yet I was still determined to come here this evening—some deep-rooted wish to experience the fairy-tale splendor of the legendary Kingsborough Ball—before I lost the chance forever. The memory of this evening was intended to last me a lifetime. But then I met you and—”

“And?” Anthony asked carefully as he moved hesitantly toward her.

She let out a quivering sigh, and when her eyes met his again, there was desperation there—like that of a trapped animal. “And I found myself hoping for more—wishing for something that isn’t meant to be. Don’t you see? You’ve ruined my life by kissing me, for it will be impossible for my future husband to live up to what we just shared, and because of that, I will have to live with the regret of what might have been had things been different, as will you.”

It was bloody difficult not to smile with male pride in response to her words, but he attempted a serious expression anyway, hoping for a look of concern. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We
can
be together if you’ll only tell me who you are so I can speak to your father. I’ll ask for permission to court you and—”

“I’ve already told you it’s impossible, so please, stop making this more difficult than it already is,” she said. Her shoulders slumped, and she gave him a sad little smile. “I should probably go.”

“And miss the fireworks?” Anthony asked, knowing full well that he was trying to find any reason to hold on to her for just a little while longer. Perhaps if they spoke some more she’d let something slip—some small detail that would help him find her again, because whatever ridiculous reason she thought there might be for denying his courtship, he was confident he’d be able to fix it once he knew what it was. He saw her pause and decided to press his advantage. “You really can’t say that you’ve attended the Kingsborough Ball without seeing the fireworks.”

She looked skeptical but eventually nodded. “Very well, Your Grace. I will agree to watch the fireworks, but as soon as they are over, I really must take my leave. Are we in agreement?”

“Certainly, Miss Smith,” Anthony said, knowing full well that it was the best deal he was likely to get at that moment.