The Duke’s Absolutely Saucy Spinster (The Notorious Briarwoods #21)

Chapter 1

London

The Season

“What the blue blazes is wrong with these people?” thundered a shockingly handsome man as he stormed across the library and headed straight for the grog tray.

Sitting in the comfort of a most excellent reading nook, Miss Celia Briarwood’s lips twitched.

She was not frightened. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. Though she was in shadow, with summer moonlight spilling through the towering glass windows, being alone with such a large man who crackled with a sort of feral energy was neither here nor there to her.

Though she confessed, if only to herself in that moment, that he did elicit a certain note of fascination, what with all his rippling energy and bulging masculinity under his fine clothes.

Like all Briarwood women, Celia was accustomed, of course, to large handsome men. Her family was full of them. So, his presence and looks proved no real surprise. But she was amazed by his opinion that something was wrong with the people in the ballroom.

Then Celia did the only reasonable thing a person could do in such a situation. She cleared her throat.

“I often ask the same thing,” she said quite loudly, wanting to alert him to her presence.

She did not think it good form to watch him without him being aware. Some might have enjoyed it and allowed him to continue on, oblivious, but she rather thought such a thing would be quite rude, especially since he seemed so terribly out of sorts.

His hand was on the brandy decanter. He had whipped out the stopper and now he turned to her quite quickly, the brandy sloshing in the bottle.

Her brows rose ever so slightly, and her fingers pressed just a bit harder into her book as she assessed him.

Oh my, he was perfection.

His long dark hair tumbled about his rugged face, stroking his shoulders. His face? It did not have the practiced veneer that so many ton aristocrats had.

Yes, his face had certain aquiline features, but it also looked as if it had been exposed to wind and weather. There were lines at his eyes and at the corners of his mouth that she was not entirely certain were from smiling, but it was hard to tell given his current disposition.

His shoulders were beautifully broad and wide.

He looked as if he was a man ready for labor, not for dancing.

And his hands, well, his hands were covered in gloves, so it was entirely impossible to see if they were weathered as well, but they did seem to have a certain strength that most gentlemen’s hands did not.

“Who the blazers are you?” he boomed, neither accusatory nor angry. Curiosity softened his harshness. But there was definitely a hint of wariness there.

She smiled reassuringly. “Who the blazers are you?” she teased.

“You first,” he growled, ever so slightly.

Oh, she did like that growl. She did a little shimmy on her cushioned seat.

Before she could even answer, his eyes darted to the book in her lap, and he arched a brow.

“What are you reading?” he asked, as if he was so restless he couldn’t wait for the answer to his first question.

She glanced down to her book and then lifted it without consideration.

He took a few steps towards her, his long, powerful legs easily covering the good distance between them. His brows shot upward, and he let out a guffaw as he took in the title. “Are you some man’s mistress then? To read such radical material?”

She tsked. “How very narrow-minded of you to believe that only a mistress should read such material.”

He cocked his head to the side, the moonlight falling over him, kissing his sculpted features as if it loved him well.

“In my experience, though it gives me no pleasure, treatises on Shakespeare and the interpretations of his heroines in the context of their desires is not the sort of book that most gentlemen permit their daughters to read.”

She smiled. “I will not argue with that. Much to my good fortune, my father is a singular man. He values such adventurous forays into literature. Do you?”

“Whether for good or ill, my life has been one long adventure,” he said, before he swung an irritated glance to the doors. “Much to the exasperation and fascination of the people out there.”

She pursed her lips. “Hence you thinking something is wrong with them,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “For a young lady of the ton, you are quite bold.”

“How very interesting that you call me a young lady of the ton,” she returned.

“I am certainly a lady of the ton, but I am a spinster, having surpassed thirty years. Some might find me positively ancient. However, with such age and status, I am more than capable of choosing my own reading material. The judgements of others do not bother me.”

His dark eyes widened as he took in her words, then admiration warmed them. His irritation seemed to fade as he studied her further, and that warmth in him was utterly compelling.

“My goodness,” he said. “What a declaration. How could a lady of such fire and spirit and clear intelligence be a spinster?”

“That’s none of your business,” she replied, though the truth was it was strictly of her own choosing. She’d had offers, but her life was driven by other wishes. And she had no necessity to marry, unlike most ladies in the ton. She was quite fortunate.

“Touché,” he said, lifting the bottle, then turning back to the grog tray.

Much to her astonishment, he poured out two glasses.

He thumped the bottle down on the silver tray that perched on the polished cherry wood table, took up the snifters, and walked towards her, his polished dancing shoes moving easily over woven Axminster carpet.

“Join me,” he said. “It seems rude to drink alone.”

“I’m not overly fond of brandy,” she replied honestly.

He shrugged his muscled shoulders, covered in his elegant black evening coat. “Well, then I shall have to drink both.”

She gave a faux disapproving look and put her beloved book aside. “That would be terrible for your health, so give me one.”

All the frustration that permeated him faded away, and a slow, delicious smile curved his lips. He stretched that glass out towards her, and the moment her hand touched his, she was astonished to find a spark between them.

Their eyes met then, both of them holding each other’s gaze a tad longer than necessary, as if they were both astonished.

She had known the spark of a gentleman’s touch before.

She was no innocent miss. Why should she be?

She was now over thirty years of age. She had known the world as much as someone of her class who had not left the country could, and she was a Briarwood.

She knew a great deal about life. Even so, she suddenly found that she wanted to know a great deal more about this fellow.

As if he deeply regretted having to do so, he withdrew his hand and took a long drink. A very long drink.

She eyed him. “That bad out there, is it?”

He let out a growl of frustration.

“Your accent,” she said. “I cannot quite place it.”

“That’s because I was raised exposed to a veritable cacophony of accents,” he replied.

She frowned, trying to make sense of that. “You were not raised in England? I suppose that explains why I’ve never seen you before.”

He laughed. “I am a stranger to these shores, it is true, though my heritage is firmly ensconced here.”

“And since you find the people of the ton so dismaying, were you raised in some utopia?”

He laughed again. “It was supposed to be, but its failure in becoming one made it especially cruel.”

She tsked. “Alas, this life is quite cruel. Location does not change that. It is no different here, though it is garnished with lace and feathers.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You’re quite self-aware.”

She groaned, always slightly annoyed when gentlemen were surprised by her critical thinking skills. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because everyone in that damn room is not self-aware,” he said. “You’re the first that I have found.”

“Oh,” she gasped, amazed. He wasn’t surprised because she was a woman. He was surprised because she was a member of the ton. It was an excellent lesson in assumptions.

She bit her lower lip, then ventured, “Who are you exactly?”

He drew in a long breath, then gave her a most elaborate bow, one which would have pleased the theatrical members of her family.

“I am Dominic Longfield,” he said. “Duke of Roseford.”

“The Duke of Roseford,” she blurted, astonished. The new Duke of Roseford had been in the gossip sheets for weeks, though no one had met him. She gave little credence to such papers, but even she was aware of the man who had been raised abroad and only recently returned to claim his dukedom.

She waggled her brows at him. “How very exciting.”

He snorted. “I don’t know if it’s so terribly exciting. My life heretofore has been largely free, but now it feels as if I have joined some terrible prison.”

“To be a duke is to be a prisoner?” she said playfully. “Oh, my heart, you poor thing,” she drawled. “It must have been very difficult when you got the news that you were to be a duke.”

He grinned. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes, I’m glad you can tell.”

“The English sense of humor,” he said, “is quite interesting.”

“Well, your father must have been English,” she said, “so you are English too.”

“I am English by inheritance,” he countered. “I was born in a small cabin in the mountains.”

“Where?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “I spent all of my childhood wandering about. For years, my mother followed my father, trying to heal his heart. It nearly broke her. It broke her enough that she brought me back to this cold island. And I swear the damp killed her.”

“You did not stay?” she breathed, stunned by his casual conveyance of such a painful life.

“Why would I?” he asked easily with a strange smile.

“My father was right. My grandfather was a veritable monster, one who made my mother worse. And once she died—Well, I returned to my father. I have spent years in Canada, the United States, Mexico, and parts of South America. Searching. Always searching, with my father, for a better life.”

“How fascinating,” she said, meaning it, though she could not ignore the ache in his voice. That better life had clearly proved elusive.

“It was a good childhood,” he said, “and my father was a good man. And, yes, he was English, but he was not overly fond of this country.”

“Hence the traveling about,” she supplied.

“Yes.” He winked, as if he could pretend that he hadn’t just told her a tragic tale. “Again, you prove yourself most aware.”

“It isn’t that difficult” she said. “You simply listen to a person, and once you understand what they’re saying, you can make certain deductions.”

His eyes sparkled with enjoyment. “You really aren’t like the others.”

“Oh, dear,” she groaned. “You’re not going to say that I’m not like all the other girls, are you, like that somehow makes me special? Because when someone says something like that, it’s really a terrible curse to all women. Women are quite lovely, you know?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I am aware that women are quite lovely.”

Something warm bloomed in her then. As if he was actually saying he found her quite lovely. And that he wanted to show her just how lovely she was.

She drew in a slow, steadying breath, even as her skin seemed to tingle to life at his nearness. “What exactly are you looking for in this conversation with me?”

“I wasn’t looking for your conversation at all,” he pointed out gently. “I came in here to drink brandy and lament the stupidity of the English aristocracy, and the fact that I am now a part of it. But you are a rather surprising reward.”

She shook her head, but couldn’t look away from him. “I am not a reward at all, sir.”

“I disagree,” he replied, his gaze falling to her lips.

“Fine, then,” she said, determined to match him. “If I am to be your reward for a frustrating evening, then you must tell me what brought you back to England. If you disdain this country so, why return? Or is the power of a dukedom impossible to turn down?”

He tsked. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you my secrets.”

“You have them then. How wonderful.”

“You don’t have any secrets?” he asked, taking a step forward, his dancing shoes kissing the hem of her skirts as he towered over her.

“No, not a one,” she said, leaning back to better hold his gaze.

“You mean I could ask you anything?”

“You could,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I have to answer you. I don’t know you at all. That would be unwise of me to tell you everything about me.”

“But it would be interesting,” he pointed out.

“You may ask me one question,” she said softly.

“All right then.” He studied her, his gaze traveling over her form as if she was a subject he wished to study and master.

“If you’re not a gentleman’s mistress, what are you doing in this room adjacent to a ballroom reading a book exploring the desires of Shakespeare’s ladies?

You are clearly an interesting and beautiful woman, and you have no husband,” he said, looking down to her ring finger.

“Is that a question?” she asked.

“I suppose,” he rumbled.

“It is unclear,” she returned, her breath hitching in her throat.

“Then here it is: How can no one have made you his?”

Made her…

The very idea should have enraged her. Usually, it would have. But somehow, the idea of him making her his…was delicious.

Still, she wasn’t about to let him know that. Not just yet.

She let out a long, dramatic sigh. “All right, since that is the question you have chosen, which is really quite a boring question, I shall answer it. Why shouldn’t a wealthy, attractive, interesting young woman choose herself, her own company, and excellent books about most interesting things rather than the other room?

Wasn’t it you who asked what the blue blazes was wrong with them? ”

He contemplated her for a moment, then lifted his snifter. “Touché. Perhaps we are two peas in a pod.”

“Oh, I doubt that very, very much.”

He arched a brow at her. “Why?” he asked.

“Because you are clearly discontent, sir, and I could not possibly be happier.”

And with that, she snapped her book shut, drank the full contents of her snifter in one go, and stood, which left but a few inches between them. Despite his nearness, his scent of brandy and spices, and how she wished to lean in towards him, she said, “Now I shall leave you to your frustrations.”