Chapter 3
The Duke of Buxton’s coach rolled to a stop before Lord Savorton’s stunning residence, a feast of white marble, doric columns, and too many windows to count. The house sprawled out against a stunning display of well-manicured beds filled with all manner of flowers.
Footmen immediately descended, encircling the coach, shouting directions to each other as the door was opened.
Hugh took a deep breath and stuck one foot out of the door.
The instant his foot touched the gravel of the drive, a young lady dressed in pale yellow appeared, popping up like a squirrel positioned directly in front of the steps, blocking his path. There was absolutely no way to avoid an introduction unless Hugh leapt over her.
Good lord. It has already begun.
Hugh Lansing, the Duke of Buxton, was currently England’s most eligible bachelor, much to his dismay.
He’d lost count of the number of young ladies who had attempted to compromise him—as ridiculous as that sounded.
Only last week, at a ball, a girl had leapt out at him as he’d enjoyed a cheroot on the terrace, startling Hugh so much that he’d nearly tipped over the balustrade.
Luckily for Hugh, the scene had been witnessed by two other gentlemen, also enjoying cheroots, and the young lady’s aspirations at becoming a duchess had been squashed.
Lady Savorton, hands clasped before her, watched Hugh from the door. Amusement colored her pretty features, as the girl now blocking his path sank into a perfect curtsey. Obviously, his hostess would be of little help.
How annoying of her.
As the hostess, the least Lady Savorton could do was help Hugh beat off the young lady before him—and her overeager mother. Or instruct one of the footmen to come to Hugh’s aid. Instead, Lady Savorton was attempting not to laugh out loud, shoulders shaking as she tried to control herself.
So this is what it has come to. My life is a comedy.
“Your Grace,” the girl before him uttered softly, skirts splaying out until she appeared to be sitting in a buttercup.
“Your Grace.” Her mother had lowered beside her. “We were out taking the air and happened to see your coach arrive.” She nudged her daughter forward an inch.
The pair were probably lying in wait for me to appear.
“I fear you have me at a loss,” Hugh said politely, bestowing one of his polite but bland smiles on them, struggling not to show his irritation.
Brief introductions followed. Lady Mentor and her daughter, Miss Pilson. Hugh would likely forget their names before the meal was served this evening. That was the risk you took when accosting a hungry duke who still had the dust of travel on his clothing and required the bloody privy.
There would be an entire week of this nonsense.
He moved away from Lady Mentor and her daffodil of a daughter and made his way up the steps to Lady Savorton. Hugh greeted her warmly, especially when, after taking a good look at him, she immediately snapped her fingers and instructed the butler to show His Grace up the stairs.
“A tray and brandy will follow,” she whispered to him. “You look parched.”
“I’m starving.”
“That explains your mood.” She floated away, already preparing to greet the next coach coming up the drive.
Hugh’s temples ached dreadfully as he trudged up the stairs. After being shown to his room, he flopped on the bed, debating whether he could plead a stomach ailment and forego the entire evening, which might have been the case if he’d eaten one of those dreadful meat pies.
Completely worth a stomachache. Considering he’d met Miss Muriel Bell.
Was she wandering about below, deciding what sort of fruit to use in place of an ear in one of her paintings?
Or evading her unwanted suitor?
Hugh had been sitting at the coaching inn debating whether to go on to Savorton’s when she appeared, shaking him out of his thoughts by nearly running into a wall.
He’d only just decided to return to London and avoid this matchmaking debacle when Miss Bell had delighted him by not knowing who the bloody hell he was.
No fawning. No attempts at flirtation. Instead, she’d insinuated that his ego was overinflated due to excessive arrogance.
He could feel the attraction between them crawl up his skin, sparking along his arms so forcefully, he’d nearly kissed her in the taproom.
But he didn’t understand why. Miss Bell was entirely average.
Height, form, and face. Nothing whatsoever about her should make a man like Hugh give her more than a passing glance.
That was why he was here at this bloody house party instead of inside his luxurious coach headed back to London. Oh, he’d told himself it was because he’d promised Savorton he’d come and didn’t want to disappoint his friend but…
I’m afraid it might be Miss Bell.
A maid appeared a few moments later, tray laden with tiny sandwiches, a decanter of brandy, and a carafe of water, all of which made Hugh feel a great deal better.
The Savorton drawing room was filled with a collection of matchmaking mamas, herding about their daughters, all of them near breathless as Hugh made his entrance. There was a great deal of whispering, all done behind hands or fans. Fingers pointed discreetly in his direction.
Well, that was fine, he supposed. Admiration of a duke was perfectly acceptable. Being hunted to ground like a fox? Was not. But Hugh had been the only available duke for nearly two Seasons, which he supposed did make him something of a rare, exotic creature.
“Your Grace. I thought you might never come down.” Large brown eyes, like a doe save for the calculation gleaming in their depths, blinked prettily at him before Lady Lavinia Hutch dropped into a perfect curtsey.
“My lady, I didn’t realize you’d be here.” Though Hugh should have guessed, given Lavinia’s ambition to become a duchess. His, in particular. “Have you discarded Lady Fabel so soon?”
Her lips twisted ever so slightly. “Lord and Lady Fabel are just there.” She tilted her delicate chin towards an expensively garbed couple on the other side of the room. “My parents do not dog my every step.”
They probably should.
Lavinia was a beautiful girl. Intelligent.
Perky bosom. Well-bred. Connected. She’d make an excellent wife.
He’d considered, before coming here, to just offer for her and be done with it.
Spare himself the continued stalking of his person.
It was rather tiresome. Once wed, his life could return to normal.
He would return to his mistress. Lavinia would likely take lovers after giving him an heir.
Their union would be amicable, somewhat affectionate, and pleasant.
Nothing more.
The nothing more bothered Hugh.
“I worried you might not come,” she said. “I—” Lavinia stopped abruptly when a loud braying sound filled the air behind her. Her tiny nose wrinkled in annoyance.
“That’s rather terrible,” Hugh said. “I wasn’t aware Savorton was inviting donkeys to his house parties.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, Your Grace, I doubt it will be the last time you hear such a thing. Lord Todson is quite enthusiastic in his jests.”
“Todson? I thought he died.”
The braying sounded once more, and Lavinia visibly winced. “No, Your Grace. That was his older brother, along with his recently acquired young bride. Carriage accident.”
Hugh leaned to the side and took in the older well-dressed gentleman behind her. “That’s terrible. No heir, I take it.”
“Five daughters,” Lavinia answered.
She was better than the newspapers when it came to gossip. And entirely far too sophisticated for an unwed young lady. At times he pitied Lord Fabel.
Todson angled his body as he spoke, eyes roaming discreetly about the room and settling on Lavinia’s posterior. He studied her for some moments before moving to an older woman and her daring decolletage. “A reformed rake on the hunt for a wife.”
“Hardly reformed, Your Grace. I’m sure he had hopes his brother’s new wife would produce a son so he could continue his pursuits, but now that he’s inherited, he’ll be forced to wed. Not that he plans to give up his lifestyle.”
Hugh watched as Todson turned to yet another young lady who’d entered the fray. “I don’t doubt it.”
“I do pity the girl he’s chosen,” Lavinia said lightly. “The only thing she will look forward to in her marriage is Todson’s death.”
“My lady…” Hugh put a hand to his heart. “That is most unkind.”
Lavinia was something of a mercenary.
“But entirely true…” She lowered her voice. “Just look at him. He even had the audacity to inquire after me, but Father refused him, of course.”
“Of course.” Because Lavinia had a higher title in mind than a mere earl, though Todson’s family was well respected. She was waiting—less patiently than before—for Hugh to offer for her. And honestly, he should. Lavinia was duchess material.
Yes, but I want…something more.
That was the problem when your parents had been a love match—unrealistic expectations.
You wanted more from your future wife than money and property.
You didn’t care if her family had been around since the time of William the Conqueror, as Lavinia’s had been.
Maybe that mattered to a great many gentlemen, but not Hugh.
“Lord Allred’s daughter is Todson’s future widow, from what I understand.” A soft laugh came from her. “Miss Bell is having yet another disastrous Season, and according to gossip, Lady Allred has lost patience after Lord Habersham was refused.”
Hugh nodded absently, keeping his features carefully composed and giving no indication he was acquainted, albeit briefly, with Miss Bell. Nor that the very idea that Todson was her unwanted suitor bothered him in the least.
Yet it did. Far too much, on such short acquaintance.
Scanning the guests gathered in the drawing room, he searched for the odd but utterly delightful Miss Bell. A growing sense of anticipation filled him, a quickening of his pulse. The strange sensation he’d felt in the taproom returned like small pricks of lightning along his chest.
“Oak tree, indeed,” he said under his breath.
“Your Grace?”
“I said, your gown is lovely.”
“Thank you.” Lavinia beamed. “You know, I almost feel bad for Todson. Allred’s daughter is a bit eccentric and outspoken. Possibly addled. There is a reason she’s yet to secure a match.”
“Addled? How so?” Though Hugh knew perfectly well.
“Miss Bell paints…portraits using…vegetables.”
“Well,” Hugh said, “that doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“Oh, I don’t mean a bowl of vegetables, Your Grace. Or fruit. She incorporates pears for noses for instance. A pocket watch for an ear and the like. I saw one of her portraits. Utterly disturbing.”
“I see.” A smile pulled at his lips.
“I’ve never seen her dance, save once. She tripped and tore her skirt in the middle of a ball before sliding on her backside across the floor. The entire ballroom fell silent at the sight of her ankles.”
Hugh nodded “Horrifying.”
“And,” Lavinia leaned closer. “I watched as Miss Bell wandered to the refreshment table and dropped her fan into the punch bowl. She strolled away as if nothing had happened. What young lady who isn’t addled does such a thing?”
Miss Bell. Your reputation precedes you.
The urge to see her increased the longer Lavinia detailed her detriments, thinking only that Miss Bell had the most desirable pair of lips he’d ever seen. He’d studied them, unable to look away as she spoke about her art, while that prickling sensation had suffused his skin.
“I’ve heard,” Lavinia said in a low tone, forcing him to lean forward, “that Lord Allred has forbidden her to sketch over the duration of the entire house party so as to avoid embarrassment.” She inclined her head in the direction of the far corner of Savorton’s cavernous drawing room.
Hugh followed the direction of Lavinia’s gaze to a small group clustered beneath a painting of a landscape.
Miss Bell was garbed in a gown of soft rose, her honey-colored hair, some of which he’d only glimpsed from beneath her bonnet earlier, pulled up into a cascade of ringlets.
The slight mulish tilt to her chin was difficult to miss, as was the tense stance of her body.
Hugh drew in a slow breath, marveling at the way his pulse beat harder. He had gone thirty years, bedded of the most beautiful women in London without such a stirring, and now it was happening for a girl who preferred a dead Italian painter to a husband.
“Have you ever heard of an artist named Arcimboldo?” he asked Lavinia without looking away from Miss Bell. “Italian.”
“I don’t believe so, Your Grace. Should I be familiar?”
If Hugh said yes, Lavinia would immediately hunt down every book or scholar in England who could advise her on the painter so she could ingratiate herself further with him. He’d be presented with one of Arcimboldo’s horrible fruit paintings.
“Merely curious. He was known for odd portraits.”
Lord Todson swaggered across the room to Miss Bell and her parents, pausing here and there to linger over a bosom or pretty face.
He was older, closer in age to Lord Allred, distinguished, with only the slightest hint of dissipation in his features.
There wasn’t any doubt most women would find him appealing.
Todson greeted Lord and Lady Allred, before turning his well-honed charm on Miss Bell.
She regarded the earl with what Hugh could only call polite horror.
Probably imagining his head as a rotting cabbage.
A smooth, practiced smile crossed Todson’s lips as he took Miss Bell’s fingers in his, all while eyeing Lady Coptic and her bosom to his left.
A small but distinct burst of possessiveness erupted inside Hugh.
Not for Lady Coptic, though she was known for displaying her spectacular bosom, but because Todson was touching Miss Bell. He didn’t care for it in the least. Which was somewhat ridiculous. And unsettling.
“You’re frowning Your Grace.” Lavinia plucked at his sleeve. “Have I offended you?”
“Not at all, my lady.” Hugh prided himself on his overtly polite and correct demeanor. Dukes did not go marching about punching aging rakes merely for the sin of taking the hand of a girl. “Would you like a refreshment, my lady? Lemonade, perhaps? Or ratafia.”
Lavina grinned. “I’m parched.”
He deftly steered her towards the refreshment table, finally acknowledging that his attendance at this house party had little to do with Savorton or the errand Hugh had promised to help his friend with, but with Miss Bell.