Duke of Fire (Unyielding Dukes #4)

Chapter 1

One

“My dear, if he bows any lower, he’ll be kissing the floor instead of her hand.”

Baroness Hartwell delivered her judgment like a woman who’d seen every excess and found most of them wanting. She leaned against her silver-tipped cane and gestured with it toward the receiving line where some dandy performed an elaborate swoop over the Duchess of Icemere’s gloved fingers.

Miss Eliza Hartwell, for her part, did not so much as blink, for her attention was upon the man she had formed a habit of observing behind her fan. Though she did respond to her aunt and employer, “Some women enjoy the spectacle.”

“Who would have thought my dear June would ever tolerate such sycophancy?” Lady Hartwell continued.

“But we are made of sterner stuff, you and I.” Her gaze returned to Eliza, sharp as a hawk’s.

“Eliza, do you perhaps lack interest in Lord Tewksbury’s performance? You attention appears to be elsewhere.”

“Do I not?” Eliza murmured, tilting her head to have a better view of her target as several lords circled him.

“What is it about my nephew that has your attention this evening?” Lady Hartwell punctuated that with a nudge against Eliza’s ribs.

She started then blinked and turned to her aunt. “My Lady, you know how keen I am of observing people.”

Without waiting for a response, nor seeking permission, Eliza returned to her task.

August Vestiere, the Marquess of Barrington was the sun around which the ton’s attention orbited.

He already bore the responsibility and authority of the Duke of Wildmoore while his father as still alive due to illness.

At present, August was dispensing laughter in generous measure to a crescent of powdered matrons, making even the plainest debutante glow with the thrill of being noticed.

A gentleman spilled his wine; August’s handkerchief appeared as if by conjuring, dabbing at sleeve and pride alike.

Two old rivals met eyes across the crowd, and August slipped between them with the deftness of a seasoned diplomat, clapped each on the back, and turned scowls into mutual smirks.

He was, Eliza thought, astonishingly good at this.

What the room did not see, because it was not looking or because it refused to see what it did not expect, was that August’s smile always arrived a second before his eyes did.

That he touched his temple with two fingers between conversations…

as if to rest. That, when the music rose too loud, he tensed almost imperceptibly in the shoulders.

He was a man built for the gaze of others, but it cost him dearly.

“You stare at him as if you can read his mind,” Lady Hartwell said, and Eliza turned to see the older woman’s gaze intently on her.

“Perhaps I can,” Eliza replied though she immediately regretted the boast. It was not in her nature to play these games, but if she let Lady Hartwell do all the needling, she’d be unfit for her post by the end of the week.

The Baroness, who was her late uncle’s widow, was the only family Eliza had left and employed her as a companion. This saved Eliza from genteel poverty and also taught her a lot about the Beau Monde’s superficiality.

“If so, you’re the only woman in London with such a gift,” Lady Hartwell said, a spark of admiration in her wrinkled eyes. “Most of them are content to read his face.”

At that moment, August caught Eliza’s gaze across the ballroom. Only for a breath. There was a flicker of… recognition? Defiance? The question of who was appraising whom was very much open to debate. Then a dowager countess seized August’s sleeve, and the game was over.

Eliza let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“You disapprove,” Lady Hartwell said, not as a question.

“Of which?” Eliza asked. “His effect on the room or the room’s effect on him?”

“Both, I suppose,” Lady Hartwell said, as if she had not expected to be understood so well. She tapped her cane twice. “But I do worry for him. Underneath the charm, there is…”

“A man who finds no comfort in crowds,” Eliza supplied.

“Perhaps. But he’s very good at pretending otherwise,” Lady Hartwell said. “It is the family disease, you know. That and gout.”

Eliza’s lips curved though the movement was barely perceptible.

“I would not call it a disease,” she said. “More a… method of self-preservation.” She felt her employer’s attention intensify. “He is not so different from most men of his rank, except that he has learned to care less about the opinions of others and more about their amusement.”

“Amusement is a kind of currency,” Lady Hartwell agreed. “But do not mistake him for frivolous. No one who has survived my sister’s birthing suite is capable of true frivolity.”

At that, Eliza did permit herself a smile. “Your Ladyship has a rather bleak view of the world.”

“Bleakness is the companion of clarity, child.” The Baroness’ eyes turned back to August, who was now skillfully separating two would-be dueling bachelors with nothing but a word and a half-bow.

“I admire him for all his faults. Or perhaps because of them. If I had his constitution, I’d have made a far better baroness. ”

“You have done very well for yourself,” Eliza said, meaning it. Lady Hartwell was feared by half the peerage and respected by the rest. A woman who had navigated a world of men with nothing but wit, wealth, and the refusal to be ignored.

“Compliments will not earn you an early night, Eliza,” Lady Hartwell said, but there was real affection under the tartness. “I suggest you enjoy the evening. The last dance, if I am not mistaken, is to be a waltz.”

Eliza raised her brows. “I am not a popular partner, My Lady. If you wish me to act as a spy, you must at least provide better bait.”

Lady Hartwell gave a soft, scandalized gasp. “You doubt the appeal of a woman with a brain and a dowry? You mustn’t underestimate the size of the average peer’s debts.”

But Eliza wasn’t listening. Not truly. Across the ballroom, August had finally extricated himself from the social whirlpool. He paused, looking up at the chandeliers as if studying the construction. Then, with a polite bow to his hostess, he turned and slipped out onto the terrace.

Eliza felt the moment coil in her chest. She should not. She would not. It was none of her business and certainly not her place. And yet—

She stepped away from Lady Hartwell’s side.

“Where are you off to?” Her Ladyship demanded.

“Fresh air,” Eliza said. “I’ll return before the scandal sheets can print it.”

“That’s what they all say,” Lady Hartwell replied, but her smile was proud.

Eliza crossed the ballroom quickly, dodging the edges of conversation, avoiding the gaze of any who might mistake her for a wallflower in need of rescue. She reached the French doors just as they swung shut behind August’s retreating form.

Lord forgive me, for my curiosity shall be the death of me!

She waited a heartbeat then let herself through, out into the cool relief of the night.

He hated these evenings, even as he excelled at them. The laughter. The velveted clamor. The relentless parade of the same seventeen stories, lacquered in varying shades of tedium. Even the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork seemed designed to reflect and amplify every snatch of conversation.

August stood alone on the moonlit terrace with his back to the ballroom, hands gripping the stone balustrade. The chill did not bother him. If anything, it served as a reprieve from the low, persistent ache that settled in the base of his skull after an hour or two of ceaseless company.

He closed his eyes and counted down from ten. By five, he could almost believe he was alone in the world, a man without obligations, without spectators, without—

The faintest shuffle of slipper against flagstone sounded behind him. August did not turn.

He let the silence draw out, just long enough to register disapproval, before glancing over his shoulder. Standing in the shadows was his aunt’s niece by marriage and companion, Eliza Hartwell.

“Come to join me in exile, Miss Hartwell?”

She was smaller than he’d remembered. A dark-haired thing in a demure dress, neither plain nor ostentatious. She stood framed by the open French doors.

“I might ask the same of you, Your Grace,” she replied.

He turned to face her, leaning one hip against the balustrade. “Do you find the party dull, or are you simply avoiding the company of my aunt?”

“Lady Hartwell and I understand one another,” Eliza said. “But if I am intruding—”

He waved her off. “Not at all. I could use the distraction.”

She stepped out onto the terrace proper, letting the door click shut behind her. The music inside faded to a muffled pulse.

“May I?” she asked, indicating the stone railing.

August gestured grandly. “All of London is yours, Miss Hartwell. You must only stake your claim.”

She approached, stopping an arm’s length away. Her profile was sharp but not unkind“You are the only man in the room who seems more tired at the beginning of a waltz than at the end,” she observed.

He barked a laugh. “Is it so obvious?”

“Only to those who watch closely,” Eliza replied.

He considered her anew. “You are not like the others.”

“Should I be?” Her brow arched, but she did not smile.

“It would make things simpler, I suppose,” he said.

“Simple things rarely interest you,” she answered.

August felt something like irritation. Or perhaps it was the thrill of being met, stride for stride, in a contest he’d thought unwinnable.

“You are very quick, Miss Hartwell,” he said.

“I have to be. The alternative is being left behind.”

He looked past her at the moonlit garden. “And yet, here you are. Outpacing the room.”

“It is less a matter of speed, and more of direction.” She rested her hands on the cold stone. “Some find it easier to move in a crowd. Others require… space.”

He turned to study her, his suspicion rising. “You make me sound like a wild animal.”

She shrugged. “I have seen you hunt, My Lord. But you wear your mask with such dedication, I begin to wonder if even you remember what is beneath it.”

He was caught between amusement and a flare of something less pleasant. “Are you always this forward?”

“Only when necessary.” There it was—the ghost of a smile.

He straightened, the sense of play giving way to something more bracing. “Very well, Miss Hartwell. Let us drop the pretense. I am not fond of these gatherings, but I attend them. For family. For duty. Because the world expects it of me.”

“Because you expect it of yourself,” she said.

He blinked. “You sound like my father.”

She shook her head. “If you wished to please your father, you would have married years ago, produced an heir, and retired to a country estate.”

“I do not wish to please him,” he said, more defensively than intended.

“I believe you,” Eliza said. She turned to face him fully. “I also believe that you are tired of carrying the room, but you do not know how to put it down.”

He stared at her. There was a reckless impulse to step closer. Instead, he reached for the armor of banter. “Miss Hartwell, are you in the habit of psychoanalyzing every man you meet on the terrace?”

“Only the ones who matter,” she said.

He barked another laugh, but this time it left him a little raw.

He studied her for a long moment. “You are a mystery.”

“Not really,” she said. “I am exactly what I appear to be. Most people simply do not look.”

He realized, abruptly, that he was being outmaneuvered. That this woman—this companion—was seeing more than she should. He did not care for it.

He pushed away from the railing, and his shadow loomed over her.

“I could make you go back inside, you know,” he said softly. “I could tell you that your place is not here with me.”

“You could,” she agreed, not flinching.

“But I suspect you wouldn’t listen,” he said.

“I suspect you would not truly want me to,” Eliza replied.

He had no answer to that.

A silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow.

Then she spoke, very quietly, as if only to herself. “You endure rather than live, My Lord.”

He felt the words as a blow. “And what would you have me do instead?”

“Whatever you wish,” she said. “But do not pretend that it does not cost you.”

He stepped closer, the line between them narrowing to nothing. “Who are you to judge?”

“No one,” Eliza said. And then, with the kind of recklessness that came from absolute conviction, she turned and walked down the steps into the shadowed garden.

August watched her go, breath hissing between his teeth. He was not used to being left behind.

He hesitated only a second then he followed.

She did not turn when his footsteps sounded on the gravel path. She kept walking, spine straight as a blade, until the ballroom’s windows were little more than floating lanterns in the dark. Only then did she stop.

He caught up to her, standing so close that he could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.

“Did you come out here to challenge me, Miss Hartwell?”

She did not look away. “Did you come to chase me, My Lord?”

He laughed, but it was low and a little dangerous. “You have a remarkable talent for turning the tables.”

“Is that so terrible?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “But it does make a man wonder what you are truly after.”

She drew a breath, steadying herself. “If I said I wanted honesty, would you laugh?”

“No,” he said, and this time he did not smile. “But I would warn you that you are unlikely to get it from me.”

“Why not?”

“Because honesty is the first luxury to be abandoned in survival.” His voice sounded like a man confessing a crime.

She nodded. “I see.”

He stepped closer still until the backs of her knees brushed a stone bench. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Eliza said.

He was inches away now. He meant to intimidate her, to restore the proper order of things. Instead, he found himself unsure who, exactly, was in control.

“You fascinate me, Miss Hartwell,” he said.

“And you terrify me,” she replied.

He tilted his head. “Good. That means you are smarter than most.”

She surprised him then by not stepping away. By not fainting, not pleading, not doing any of the things a lady was supposed to do when cornered by a man with a reputation.

Instead, she regarded him with clear, unyielding eyes.

“You will not ruin me, My Lord,” she said.

He smiled. “No, Miss Hartwell. But you may yet ruin me.”

A laugh almost escaped her then, but she bit it back.

At that moment, there was a noise—soft, but unmistakable—at the edge of the garden. August turned sharply, instinctively stepping in front of Eliza.

Two shapes resolved into ladies, both overdressed and overcurious. There was a brief, breathless silence. Then one of them gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Good Heavens! Another lady ruined!”