Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
U nfazed by the lady’s inappropriate comment, Dorian let the insult roll over him like water on a duck’s back. He explained, “I fence, my lady.”
“Oh.” Relief washed over the lady’s face, the jet beads on her turban quivering as she nodded at something he’d said. “My apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean any disrespect.”
No, I am sure you only meant that the thought of a noble working with his hands is as disgraceful as a harlot becoming a lady.
The younger Miss was red to the tips of her ears, temptingly so. The coral silk evening gown she wore hugged her curves and complemented her softly coiffed auburn hair. The firm, rounded tops of her breasts seemed to quiver in embarrassment… or relief?
He did not know, nor did he care that much; he was not there to attend to little Misses or their fawning aunts—all he needed was to find a suitable match for Evelyn.
As the newest—and most elusive—duke in London, he knew that dozens of ladies had their hats set on him; if only he was marriage-minded. If fate dictated so, he would happily settle for a marriage of convenience where the lady stayed out of his way and he out of hers.
“Please, excuse me,” he bowed, unwilling to stay in a conversation that did not profit him much.
She is likely just as conceited and classist as her aunt.
“Your Grace, please—” she stopped him three long paces away. Her lips were pressed tight, painful horror spreading across her face.
Objectively, he could admire her as a beautiful woman, softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin, wide moss-green eyes, and a delicate bone structure. Her lips, rosy and full, parted on a breath, and he noted the bottom one had an inviting divot at its center.
“—before you go, I must apologize for my aunt,” she let out a breath. “She is very… opinionated. I hope you do not think she meant to insult you.”
“A lot has been said of me over the years,” Dorian murmured, genially sliding one hand into his pocket “But the calluses on my hands are nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I am sure they aren’t,” Miranda replied tightly. “I have always held it that the most disgraceful thing one can do is to rule by proxy.”
“Have you now…” Dorian said evenly, absently curious to find out what she meant. “And have you ever stepped foot inside parliament?”
She blinked. “Well, no, but… it is simply judicious.”
“And what about outside of parliament, hm?” he asked, his tone slightly mocking. “Do you expect a lord to labor with the common folk?”
Flustered, Lady Miranda replied, “Erm, why not? It could set a precedent.”
“It could start a scandal,” he retorted, suddenly finding himself dually amused and irritated by her ingenuousness. “You are very idealistic, my lady. And na?ve.”
She lifted her chin, “I don’t see why having hope for the better is na?ve.”
“In this Town, it is,” he finished. “Please excuse me.”
Again, she stopped him, “But wouldn’t you like to have a spirited conversation.”
“I would,” he muttered, and hope birthed anew in her visage—only to get crushed when he added, “But not with a spoiled little Miss wearing rose-tinted spectacles while viewing the world. Now, I must get back to my sister.”
Striding away, he searched the room with one sweep of his eyes and spotted Evelyn speaking to two ladies, twins by the look of it. He ground his teeth, hoping these women wouldn’t be pandering to her to get to him.
“Evelyn,” he called to her while the two turned. “May I have a word.”
“Sure,” his sister smiled up at him. “But before that, Ladies Eugene and Euphemia, may I introduce you to my brother, Dorian Greaves, Duke of Redbourne.”
As he predicted—and feared—the women turned into simpering piles of panderers in mounds of silk. They curtsied, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
He bowed, “My ladies.”
“I am dearly honored to be one of the first to meet the most elusive duke in London,” Euphemia smiled seductively. “I think I would make headlines if I were also one of the select few to make a turn around the room with you.”
His brow ticked up, “I am not here to dance, my lady.”
“Such a shame,” her shoulders slumped. “I do hope you change your mind.”
Ladies and light-skirts alike swarmed him, and he took care to avoid being near them, conscious that these rumor rags made fortunes off his supposed exploits and consequences. The only females he avoided the most were the marriage-minded Misses.
“Would you please excuse us.”
The two shared a look before curtsying again and walking off, and as Evelyn made to speak, he lifted a hand, “I know what you were up to, aiming to introduce me to well-intentioned, nice young ladies . But need I remind you, we are here to get you married, not me.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Well, on the topic of marriage, I have been thinking about you.”
“Me?” Dorian looked over her shoulder at the woman who seemed to be wearing a whole peacock on top of her head, the perilous tilt of brown and black feathers.
“Yes,” she smiled at a group of ladies passing them. “You do know that you must eventually marry. You are the one to carry on the family name, after all.”
“You can do the same,” he put in while spying a few lords looking his sister's way.
Spluttering, Evelyn replied, “By immaculate conception?”
Eyeing his sister gravely, he added, “I am fine where I am now, but you are one-and-twenty. I do not want you to face the Shelf, Evie.”
“It is my first Season,” she beamed, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Surely I am not facing spinsterhood anytime soon.”
“Not at all if I have anything to do with it.”
“Can you at least try and enjoy yourself tonight? I have counted no less than twelve ladies looking at you, trying to get your attention.”
“Well, I have no intention of giving it.”
An elegantly dressed man, slender, tall, with blond hair styled perfectly, approached them then. His face was handsome, with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. Clad in shades of gray and silver piping, he bowed.
“Your Grace, I apologize for the impolite interruption. I am Sam Blakely; Marquess of Bigham, and I would be truly grateful if you would allow me the first dance with her ladyship.”
Blakely —now, why did that name sound so familiar?
“You may ask her yourself,” he stepped aside with a flourish.
The man looked like the decent sort but if more grew from this dance, he would have to make sure this man had a spotless reputation, or he would not get within a mile of his sister.
As the strains of a waltz emerged from the orchestra, he spotted Lady Miranda weaving her way through the mirrored ballroom. It did not look like her purpose was to find a dance partner for the floor—but rather, to escape it.
Why?
Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he contemplated the situation further. She was a duke’s daughter; she should have suitors lined up a mile long. Why was she looking to escape the room?
While keeping an eye on his sister, dancing her heart away, he unvaryingly allowed his gaze to follow Lady Miranda around the room. Lords stopped to speak with her, Earls, Marquess’—all men of grand stature tried. But while she appeared polite and conversed with them, he did not get the feeling her heart was in it.
Lady Miranda was not one the ton considered as beautiful, with her unabashedly red hair—more than once he had heard people scoff, there is nothing so common as red hair —and generous curves were not the features on current fashion plates. Yet the moment he had laid eyes on her, he’d been struck by a bolt of attraction that disconcerted him.
What would it be like to explore her body, to feel the lush swell of her hips, the dip in her waist and upward, cradling the full curves of her breasts, feeling their sensual weight…
He jerked so hard in his step, the liquor in his glass sloshed to the rim.
“Good god, where did that come from?”
Confusion and anger at himself swept through him and his fingers tightened around the glass. This was certainly not what he had prepared for when attending this ball.
The music swelled and he turned his attention to Evelyn and felt pleased how delighted she looked as the lord spun her on the floor; he had never before seen his sister look as charmed as she seemed then.
Yet his eyes flickered inevitably to Lady Miranda.
Had I been too harsh with the girl? She was only extending her gratitude.
“Dare I believe my eyes,” the familiar tone of his old friend from Eton, Alexander Vere, Marquess of Portland, came from behind him. “Dorian Greaves is out from his self-imposed citadel of stone.”
Snorting, Dorian turned, “You are back from traversing the East, I see.”
“And it was glorious!” Alexander grinned; his copper hair looked burnished under the gas lamps and candles as he swirled his punch. “The Indians have this majestic book of coupling that will make my escapades that much more interesting.”
“I am surprised you have not already lured the daughter of a Maharajah into a seductive web,” Dorian tutted.
“And who says I didn’t? They don’t call me Narcissus reborn for nothing.”
Having won the bloodline lottery, Alexander was considered the pinnacle of female fantasies. He had the face of Narcissus: high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips, and dancing cerulean eyes.
“Is that so?” Dorian asked, “I thought you were the faux version of Apollo.”
Slamming a hand to his chest, Alexander mock groaned. “You cut me, Sir, you cut me deeply.”
“You’ll survive,” Dorian muttered, his gaze landing on Lady Miranda again.
Coming to his side, Alexander nodded to the lady, “You have your eyes on Lady Miranda, then, eh? You and every lord from London to the coast. You might have your work cut out for you though.”
“I do not have my eyes on her… but for argument's sake, why is that?”
“This is her fourth Season,” Alexander adjusted his coral-colored cravat. “She has received seven offers for marriage but turned them all down. She nearly married one only to find the man was up to his eyeballs in debt and had two mistresses clamoring for his attention.”
“A very timely discovery,” Dorian murmured. “There is no doubt her dowry would have been spent in days, paying his debts and buying jewels for his mistresses.”
“One more thing,” the marquess nodded again to her. “It is widely known that she will not marry for anything less than true love.”
“I blame Miranda Press,” Dorian snorted. “Notions of true love in a culture of marrying for rank, fortune, reputation, and political connection is beyond belief.”
“It happens,” his friend shrugged. “I do acknowledge your ennui though. I’ve missed it.”
“I have not missed you and your madcap escapades,” Dorian replied.
“You willingly jumped into the Thames at midnight that time,” Alexander grinned. “And you climbed the belfry at Eton just because we dared you that you couldn’t. Admit it, Greaves, under all that indifference, you are no less a madcap yourself.”
“Not anymore,” Dorian said, “Not when I have responsibilities. I have left the carefree boy behind me. Since my treacherous uncle forced me to grow into the man I had to be, I cannot let my old habits creep back in.”
“Is one of those old habits called smiling,” Alexander laughed. “If you frown anymore, your face might get fixed that way. And if you want to dance with Lady Miranda, the best way to go about that is to ask her. You’ve been staring at her long enough.”
A quick glance at his pocket watch showed it to be nearing ten, and there was going to be a very short pause before the next dance.
I do owe her an apology.
“Excuse me,” he said to Alexander while his eyes remained fixed on Miranda. She had lifted her head at the right time to meet his gaze and hold it. Tugging his jacket down, he made his way across the ballroom, holding her gaze as he went.
Her brows were wary as he came to stand in front of her. “From what I have observed, you have been very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”
“I am the prized golden goose on display for hunters near and wide,” she said flatly. “Well, I am afraid their efforts were in vain as my skills in flirtation are altogether abysmal.”
What is he doing here?
The twenty-piece orchestra started the waltz, and many ladies and gentlemen who had hovered watching others play, swept onto the dance floor, moving.
“A man’s own manner and character is what most becomes him,” he said calmly.
“Cicero,” she parroted.
“You are well-read, my lady.”
“I suppose it goes with the title of a spoiled young Miss ,” she said, lips flickering dryly while pointedly ignoring the pointed stares at them. “All we do is read and hope to amass enough arbitrary quotes that when a gentleman mentions them, we can name the speaker. I have it on good authority that it impresses them.”
“I said little .”
“Pardon?”
“I said little, not young.”
“My mistake,” she replied, “I suppose these rose-tinted spectacles of mine do migrate to my ears.”
A smile crept into his eyes and lurked in the corners of his mouth. He was so beautiful, in a uniquely male way. Tension crackled in the space between them, and she could not deny that his strange, magnetic attraction had been there from the moment they met.
What she did question was if he felt it too.
The man’s face was a placid lake; hardly any emotion broke through to the surface. While her heart hammered in her chest, he looked as if he were watching paint dry.
“I believe a waltz will be announced,” the dratted man said calmly, staring at the room.
She cocked her head. “Is that an invitation to dance, Your Grace? Because it sadly lacks in charm.”
“Charm is not a skill I have honed over the years,” he muttered. “But, as for the dance, I would not mind the honor of being your partner.”
“Why, after asking so matter-of-factly, I feel compelled to oblige.”
He noticed the whispers emanating from a gaggle of ladies posted by a nearby potted palm. Their fans beat the air in titillated synchrony, and when the ten-piece orchestra began to assemble and he extended his hand to hers, their damned fans began to stir up a hurricane.
Closing over the top of her hand, his touch had an engrossing warmth, one that made her grow still. The heat of his palm seeped through her satin gloves—the sensation sent off quivers inside her belly.
When the flutes spurred to life, he led flawlessly, and she followed with equal grace. Their bodies swayed together in perfect synchrony, but the space between them was as rigid as the unease she saw in his eyes.
“You do not dance much, do you?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “I am not one to socialize much either.”
“Why? Not one to entertain silly little misses, I presume?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Forgive me for those ill-considered words. I was not being as judicious as I should be when I said them.”
“You were not taught to think before you speak?”
“I was, but you must understand, I am not here for myself,” the duke replied, spinning them. “This is for my sister and her happiness.”
“She seemed pretty fine when she danced with my cousin,” Miranda chimed. “Matter of fact, I think they are two couples away from us.”
His head snapped to the side, then back to her. “I wondered why I recognized that name.”
“It is my aunt’s married name.”
“Relax.”
“I am,” she snapped.
“If this is you being relaxed, I wonder what you are like when you are tense.”
She clamped her lips together and danced. He moved well, light on his feet, the hand on her back warm and steady. “I am trying to right my wrong here, please give me some acknowledgment for it.”
“I acknowledge it,” Miranda replied. “But I do not accept your apology, not yet anyhow.”
His gaze dropped to half-mast. “And why is that?”
“I feel as if you are being sincerely insincere ,” she answered. “Probably just a way to appease my silly little—”
“For God’s sake, stop with that, will you,” his freezing accent cut her off, eyes flashing. The sudden surge of emotion inside them made her heart lurch into her throat. “I had thought you a woman of sound mind; clearly I was wrong.”
“Was your purpose for dancing with me to insult me twice, Your Grace?” Luckily, the music drew to a close on those words. “Because if that is the case, you have succeeded.”
Not even pausing to curtsy, she walked away, chin raised, and left the glowering man standing alone on the dance floor. She didn’t care that this caustic cut would be the talk of the town by morning; with a man like Duke Rochdale, it was best to keep going and never look back.