Chapter 5

Lady Weatherby’s grand ballroom was tightly packed with all the popular ladies and gentlemen in their fineries. The golden chandeliers above cast a warm glow on the dancers, making the silk and satin gowns sparkle as if studded with stars. Music, laughter, and chatter pulsed around Elizabeth, and as she stood by the sidelines, she hated that she had attended tonight. There was simply no use for her attending balls. Her recent public disagreement with the Duke of Basil had not gone unnoticed, and it left her standing alone, an observer of the joy she could not touch.

Whispers followed her like shadows, and the smiles she received were tight, polite, but cold reminders of doors closing one after the other. The ardent hope that the marriage mart in London would be different from New York had died a swift death. Without her fortune acting as a beacon, no one dared court her. It was her fourth ball since her arrival in London, and she felt a profound sense of isolation. At least back home, her dearest friend Cassandra would keep her company with her delightful presence.

“Mama,” Elizabeth said, “I believe it is time I return home. I find no enjoyment at tonight’s ball.”

“My dear, only an hour has passed,” her mother said softly, understanding in her gaze. “Please give it some more time.”

A perverse humor darted through her. “More time for what?”

“Someone might ask you to dance.”

She stared at her mother in astonishment, wondering about her ability to ignore the obvious. “Mama, even before my … social gaffe with the duke, no one asked me to dance. The reason for this is evident. I am not of the ton, and there is no reason to consider me when there are far more eligible ladies here. The only offers I have received are ones without honor.”

Shock widened her mother’s eyes. “Who had the audacity?”

“Two earls and a viscount,” Elizabeth said. “The letters are at home in my letter box if you wish to read them.”

“Oh, Bette, why did you not tell us about it?”

“Because it was irrelevant.”

Her mother said no more as her brother came over. She smiled when he lifted her gloved hand to brush a kiss there.

“You look lovely tonight, Bette.”

“Nonsense,” she said with a light laugh, “I always appear lovely.”

“Mama,” Brandon said, “you seem upset. Is all well?”

Their mother took a steady breath to compose herself. “We shall not speak about it here.”

He frowned. “Now I am worried.”

Elizabeth leaned closer to him and murmured, “I unfortunately mentioned to Mama a couple of unflattering and audacious offers I received. They were not offers of marriage but a far more suggestive arrangement.”

Her brother stiffened, anger darkening blue eyes remarkably like hers. “Who dared?”

“There are some who do,” she said softly. “I will not respond, and I do not think you should either. These are powerful men in the ton and it best to ignore them.”

“Men have fought duels for less,” Brandon said through gritted teeth. “I will not allow—”

She reached out and gripped his hand. “Please, Brandon. You and I both know dueling affairs are often made public, and such a spectacle will only cause more scandal. Do not let me regret informing you.”

He blew out a harsh breath and squeezed her fingers gently in reassurance before releasing her hand. Brandon shifted to stand beside her.

“Bette,” he began, his tone unusually serious, “a friend of mine will be speaking with you soon.”

“Who?” Elizabeth asked, her curiosity piqued by his cryptic introduction. When he remained silent, she prodded further, “Why are you acting so mysteriously?”

He let out a pained sigh. “The Duke of Basil.”

Elizabeth stiffened, her pulse quickening despite her annoyance. “Why does he need to speak with me? To insult us more? I assure you I have already plotted how to take him down should he ever approach me again!”

“Elizabeth!”

Her brother’s use of her full name signaled his growing frustration, a rare break in his usually calm demeanor. She glared back at him. “I am aghast that you are not angry at the insult dealt to our family!”

“He is my good friend,” Brandon insisted. “Please give him the chance to apologize and make amends?”

“You believe a man as arrogant as the Duke of Basil would apologize?” she countered skeptically.

“Yes. He can be cutting and very arrogant at times, but he is an honest gentleman. Two years ago, I came to England for the first time, and His Grace was one of the first people to invest in our company. He paved the way for others to follow.”

“How are you friends with him?” she challenged, her tone incredulous. “When did the connection formed evolve from business acquaintances?”

“It’s a long story,” Brandon muttered, looking away briefly.

“Well, no one is asking me to dance,” Elizabeth said pertly. “I can happily lend a listening ear.”

Brandon scowled, clearly vexed by her stubbornness and perhaps by the uncomfortable position in which he found himself. She looked away from her brother as a ripple of awareness kissed over her skin. Elizabeth’s mouth dried. Without looking, she knew it was the duke, and he was staring at her.

A lady she recognized as Lady Stephenson said quite loudly, “It’s the Duke of Basil!”

A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the room, followed by a renewed flurry of whispers. Elizabeth’s first instinct was to retreat onto the terrace balcony, but she forced herself to remain inside when several guests started to look at her and whisper behind their fans. Their gazes swarmed over her, and she felt as if ants crawled over her skin.

The duke appeared, looking devilishly handsome. His dark hair was impeccably styled, his tailored black jacket and crisp white shirt accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as he made his way directly toward her. The conversations around her dimmed, her pulse quickened, and every step he took seemed to stir the air, sending a wave of anticipation through the crowd.

“Are you certain he means to apologize?” she asked her brother, nervousness knotting inside her belly. “Why would he do this when he has nothing to gain?”

“I trust him. Promise me you will listen, Bette.”

Elizabeth nodded once, hating the sense of nervousness scything through her. What was there to be anxious about? Possibly her alarming reaction. There was a sleek, predatory grace about the duke and wild flutters swirled in her belly as she watched him. The duke stopped before her, and the room held its breath. Elizabeth couldn’t help thinking this man was the epitome of what a duke should be, his presence commanding yet enigmatic. His gaze met hers, an unreadable expression on his face that made her heart pound in a mixture of dread and an inexplicable thrill.

Elizabeth lowered into a curtsy that would make her mother beam with pride. “Your Grace.”

She was acutely aware of the many eyes now fixed on them and of the keen interest their interaction was generating.

“Miss Armstrong,” he said, his voice low and unexpectedly warm. The duke briefly lowered his head in a bow. “A pleasure to see you. The next set will be a waltz; provide me the honor of partnering with me for a dance.”

She was shocked. For a moment, she hesitated, her mind racing through the potential consequences of accepting or declining his offer. “A dance?”

His eyes were dancing with cool humor and mockery. “Yes. Unless it is promised to another.”

His unwavering stare felt almost intimate.

“I … all my dances are available, Your Grace. Why …” Elizabeth’s throat closed around the question, and she flushed.

A small smile edged his mouth. “Who else but your partner in scandal would dare ask you to dance, Miss Armstrong?”

Partner in scandal? Oh, he saw the scandal sheet!

His eyes gleamed with something almost intimidating. Then, something in that silver gaze, a flicker of genuine regard, perhaps, swayed her decision. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice steady but soft.

Elizabeth placed her hand in his and drew a collective gasp from the onlookers. As they took their positions, she peered up at him, wondering why she felt this shattering awareness. The strain of the waltz started, and the duke drew her closer than she had anticipated. Their gazes collided, and there was a wicked devilry lurking in the depths of his silver eyes. They started waltzing, the duke guiding her in the sensual dance with powerful yet graceful movements.

“Why is everyone staring at us and whispering behind their fans,” she asked when he tugged her close.

He spun her in a wide arc, drew her back in and then said, “I have not asked a young lady to dance in three years.”

“Is this a cause for gossip? I’m impressed by the ton’s skill in transforming even the most mundane topics into tantalizing gossip. Or is there something special about a dance from a duke?”

A cynical smile touched his mouth. “Many speculate on my actions and put their own reasoning behind it. The most important conclusion they will draw is that you are a treasure they perhaps foolishly overlooked.”

A heart-pounding awareness burned through her. The duke did this to help her. Feeling tossed out of order, she said, “Thank you for asking me, Your Grace; I understand your intentions.”

He pinned her with an insouciant stare. “It is my apology, Miss Armstrong.”

As they danced, the whispers grew distant, and the world narrowed down to the man whose hand was warm in hers, whose steps matched hers flawlessly, and whose eyes’ dangerous allure quickened her heartbeat. At that moment, under the glow of a hundred candles and the watchful eyes of society, Elizabeth began to realize that the duke might not be the wretched adversary she had imagined but perhaps someone far more intriguing.

* * *

The evening had unfoldedwith far more ease than James had anticipated. Miss Armstrong had handled herself with poise and grace, uncaring that so many people stared at her behind lifted fans. He had not danced with any other lady, an upset he knew would be mentioned in several newssheets in the upcoming weeks. He had made his way through the ballroom, pausing only to speak with a few political allies. Yet as he navigated the crowd, a wave of shameless whispers trailed in his wake.

“Why did he dance with Miss Armstrong?”

“Perhaps there is a tendre,” another suggested, sparking further speculation.

“With an American, when we have so many suitable English ladies?” a third voice gasped, both incredulous and a bit disdainful.

“Do not be foolish; everyone knows the duke has an aversion to marriage.”

“But did you see the look on his face when they danced? His Grace certainly seems taken with her.”

James retreated to the quiet of the gardens, realizing he would need to dance with another lady or two to contain their speculations.

“What want is this that I am unable to bloody hide?” he hissed, irritated that the awareness he had of the lady was naked on his face for people to speculate.

Boredom crept over his senses, and he lifted his gaze to the night sky. James had never enjoyed the frivolities of balls and dancing. There were no more sessions to be held in the House of Lords until next year. Perhaps it was time to visit his sister, Alicia, Viscountess Hadleigh, and his nieces. James missed their company.

A soft sound caught his attention. Lifting his brow in curiosity, he watched as Miss Armstrong discreetly made her escape through the music room windows. She moved with a grace that belied her apparent haste, smoothly lifting herself over the sill and then pausing to glance over her shoulder, ensuring her departure had gone unnoticed.

Hidden in the deep shadows of the gardens, James observed as she made her way down the cobbled path, illuminated only by the soft glow of a lantern. His heart quickened with each step she took toward him, though she was unaware of his presence. She paused, tipping her face up to the night sky, her expression one of wistful longing. The moonlight cast a soft glow over her features, lending her an ethereal, almost otherworldly beauty.

James’s breath caught when he saw her lift a finger to swiftly brush away tears from her cheeks. The sight stirred something deep within him, a mix of concern and an inexplicable urge to comfort her.

Why do you cry?he wondered silently, his earlier resolve crumbling as he felt an unexpected pull to go to her. It was a source of annoyance that what he wanted to feel and what he felt were two different beasts.

Her shoulders shook, and more tears trailed down her cheeks. It felt as if he was driven by an outside force when he stood, tempted to reveal himself and hand her his handkerchief. James steered clear of young ladies whose eyes sparkled with matrimonial fervor whenever they spoke and danced with him. Over the past decade, he had skillfully avoided six such outrageous traps. The most recent involved a public scandal that had cost him a few notable supports in the House of Lords, which had been needed to pass a motion to relieve the horrific burdens/poverty mothers and wives faced after losing their sons and husbands in the war.

The lady’s reputation had suffered greatly because of James’s refusal to marry her under such deceptive circumstances. Many in society pointed condemning fingers at him, arguing that a man of honor and good breeding would have married her to salvage her good name. However, he was determined never to be deceived into any decisions he made.

James only allowed himself the company of women seasoned in the arts of romantic liaisons and discreet affairs. These women understood exactly what James had to offer and were clear about what they could reciprocate. This mutual understanding fostered relationships that were straightforward and devoid of any burdensome expectations. For this reason he should allow Miss Armstrong to cry her silent tears and not make it known that he was present.

Fucking hell!He raked his fingers through his hair as she sobbed harder. Miss Armstrong pressed her palm against her mouth as if to contain the sounds. Her ragged sigh pierced through James’s body, and the unhappiness he heard pricked at his chest. He started to walk toward her, intending to make his presence known, when she gasped, whirled and fled in his direction.

James received no chance to sidestep her unexpected flight.

“Oomph!” she gasped upon colliding against his chest.

Instinctively, he slipped a hand around her waist to steady her from falling and pressed the other over her mouth to prevent her screaming. Her scent filled his nostrils, sensual and heady. He couldn’t stop himself from inhaling deeply. James was thoroughly tempted to bite, and that he wanted to was damn aggravating.

“Be quiet,” he said, “It is James. Do not scream, or we will be discovered, and I assure you, Miss Armstrong, you will be irrevocably ruined.”

She nodded, and he slowly lowered his hand. He could feel the harsh jerking of her heart against his body. “Your … Your Grace?” she questioned softly.

“Yes.”

“I—”

A low, sensual laugh sounded, and she stiffened against him. James glanced up and observed a lady giggling in Lord Egbert”s arms. Ah, so this was the reason Miss Armstrong fled toward the darkness.

“Peter,” the lady gasped, “here? How can we be so naughty?”

The man leaned down and whispered something to the lady, and then they started kissing.

“Have they gone?” Miss Armstrong whispered.

“No.”

“They … what are they doing?”

“Given the way they cling to each other, they are about to tup.”

She delicately cleared her throat. “Tup? What is that?”

The naivety in the question rattled James, reminding him that he should not be hidden in a dark alcove with a woman like Elizabeth Armstrong.

“They are going to do the very thing mothers warn their daughters rakes would do if caught alone.”

“Oh.” The soft curiosity and wonder in her tone tightened his gut.

“Is that what they call it here in England? Tup? How novel.”

Miss Armstrong surprised him by turning around so she could watch them. Most young ladies would have possibly fainted, started to sob, or did some other nonsense and revealed their presence. The couples were coming together in passionate haste, their kissing frantic.

The lady leaned against the water fountain, and the young viscount dropped to his knee and pushed his head beneath her skirt.

A ragged breath slipped from Elizabeth, and James thought the lady might be unaware that she leaned against his chest as if she needed the support.

“My good sense is telling me that I should look away,” she whispered shakily.

The lady screamed and Miss Armstrong jolted.

“What is he doing to her?”

“He is licking her.”

“Where?” she said softly, her tone scandalized.

“Her sex.”

Miss Armstrong made another soft sound; this time, it kissed over his body and traveled to settle against the base of his cock. James gritted his teeth until his dam jaw ached. There was no damn reason for him to stay with her sensual curves pressed against him, watching another couple steal a moment of pleasure.

The lady’s moan grew louder, and Miss Armstrong turned around, pressing her forehead against his chest. James smiled, feeling the heat generated by her blushing. Though she hid her face, the noises they made were inescapable. He could grab her arms and tug her deeper into the garden and away from the couple, but a wicked deviltry made him stay in place.

“Peter,” the lady gasped when he lifted her weight, pressing her against the fountain, and slammed inside her.

“Not so loud,” he groaned when she cried out.

Miss Armstrong had fisted his jacket, her fingers digging into the material, her heart slamming so hard James felt it. Her breathing was ragged, and she pressed her forehead more against his chest. The sounds the couple made were indeed arousing.

“You can watch,” he suggested.

“No! How wicked of you to say it, Your Grace.”

“Why are you afraid to watch?”

“Must you provoke my blushes?”

“Yes.”

“You are insufferable.”

James laughed, and even to his ears, it sounded mocking. “Why are you afraid, Miss Armstrong?”

“It makes me feel too …” she whispered so softly James barely heard.

“Too what?” he said, his tone as low as hers.

A slight tremor cascaded through her body. “Too achy.”

Fucking hell.

“How long will they take?” she asked, sounding irritable.

Holding back his chuckle, he said, “It can be a minute, or five, or even fifteen.”

Miss Armstrong’s soft groan of denial stroked wickedly against his senses as he imagined the hot little sounds she would make if he took her. His cock rose hard and thick and sure between them, pushing at her belly. James silently cursed virulently, shifting so she did not feel his reaction to her proximity. He gripped her shoulders, and as if she sensed he was about to push her away, the damn chit pressed even closer.

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