Chapter Six #2
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and propped her up against the column they were standing near. The hunter had yet to navigate through the crush standing at the edge of the dance floor. He might just escape in time. “I’ll ask for the carriage to be brought around.”
Escape was a matter of making no eye contact with anyone and slipping quickly around the clusters of people wanting something from him, like water slips through fingers.
Occasionally, he caught a half syllable as people called for his attention, but he feigned deafness and continued moving.
In no time, he was striding down the hall toward the foyer, with only footmen to watch him pass, and the odd lord or lady too preoccupied with the fresh air to pay him much mind.
When he entered the foyer, the butler snapped to attention. “Your Grace. How might I be of service?”
“Please have the carriage brought around. My sister is feeling poorly.”
“At once, Your Grace.” The butler spoke with a footman, who then hurried off. Then he returned to his post by the door.
Peter should go back inside and gather his sisters, but it was nice to escape the hundreds of bodies pressed close together and the weight of all those stares.
Damn his foolishness last year. He’d always attracted attention, but the scandal of his failed “betrothal” to Lady Cordelia had intensified it.
Not only did all of London now know he was considering marriage, they wanted particulars about the debacle, details that only his family and Cordelia knew.
She, at least, had remained mum. Though rumors of a fake engagement, secret identity, and an unconscious duke had swirled almost as soon as Rhett’s unexpected marriage had been announced.
The only thing protecting Peter from a grisly interrogation by the masses was his icy reputation.
It was widely known that personal questions would be met with a curt dismissal.
He might allow his peers near him—he had to work with them, after all—but he would not allow them close, no matter how hard they angled for an invitation into his inner sanctum, where only his family were welcome.
There was a swoosh as the butler opened the front door and a wave of cool air crashed over him. On impulse, he turned to face it. As he did, he caught sight of someone utterly unexpected and his stomach flip-flopped.
“Eleanor. Miss Wright.”
The woman he’d met at the zoo a week earlier looked at him in surprise.
She had a black shawl draped over one arm, a stark contrast to her light blue dress with tangerine lace trimmings that flounced high enough to cover her collarbone but were fine enough to lead his imagination down a salacious path.
“Peter,” she replied, oblivious to the effect she had on him. The butler’s eyes widened at her familiarity, but she didn’t see it. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” Lord. She had been beautiful at the zoo.
She was jaw-dropping now. Her green eyes snapped with intelligence and there was the smallest crease between her brows that his fingers itched to smooth.
Her hair had been pulled and twisted into a bouffant top knot, with small glass beads tucked between the dark strands.
It would take but a moment to release it.
How far would her hair fall? To her shoulder blades? To the small of her back?
Regaining his composure, he continued. “Not that it isn’t a delight to see you again. I simply wouldn’t have thought the Duchess of Wakefield’s ball would be a usual haunt for a woman of your talents.”
“A woman who works?” Her tone was tart but her smile was teasing, and he relaxed.
“No, it is not my usual haunt, and the experience is somewhat surreal. But Lady Wharton needed a companion”—she lifted the arm that held the shawl—“and I had no choice in the matter.” Her gaze was direct, frank, with no fear or sign that she was concealing anything from him. It was refreshing.
“Lady Wharton is known for her ability to break a person. What crime did you commit that you must indenture yourself to the dragon?”
Behind Eleanor, the butler’s poise faltered, his surprise evident. He could hear every word, clearly, and bantering was not a trait Peter was known for.
Eleanor smiled. Something inside of him stirred as he discovered that she had dimples. “There’s been no crime. Her Ladyship has something my friend needs, and my company is the price.”
There was a joyful thread woven through her tone, one that matched her demeanor, if such a thing was possible.
It was clear and light and seemed to knit the space between them.
Instead of brushing the strange notion aside, he took her arm and drew her out of the butler’s earshot.
For a moment, at least, the joyful thread would be all his.
She didn’t pull away. For that, he was unduly happy. “She must be a good friend. Is the thing she wants worth the cost?”
Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “The cost itself feels like a prize. What other opportunity will I have to experience aristocrats in their natural environment?”
She was frank, at least. “First the zoo and now a London ball. You are quite the naturalist.” She was the second woman this week to show interest in firsthand discovery. Perhaps Eleanor and Booklover would be friends if they met.
“A ball is its own form of zoo, isn’t it? Surely you agree that the aristocracy is a completely different species to ours.” She cocked her head. “What are you doing here? You’re not a minister, are you? I thought you were a secretary or some such.”
Damn. He should tell her the truth. She’d mistaken him for a parliamentary employee, and he hadn’t corrected her because he hadn’t wanted to. It was rather liberating to be “Peter” and not “Your Grace” or “Duke.” That would change once she found out who he was.
“I’m something like that,” he answered, deliberately vague. “My work requires maintaining relationships with those who make decisions.”
She was not satisfied with the response, but just as her lips pursed to ask another question, he heard the nasal resonance of Lady Cecilia Pullman, the huntress he’d been avoiding. There were no depths that woman wouldn’t stoop to in order to become the next Duchess of Strafford.
He grabbed Eleanor and tugged her behind a potted palm. She tripped and he steadied her, his throat catching as his fingers wrapped around her waist and he realized that he liked them there.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. She nudged a frond aside so she could peer past the tree and he released her.
He ducked his head over her shoulder so that he, too, had a view of the room.
Eleanor was close enough that he could smell her perfume—orange blossoms, maybe—and his groin roused.
Only now, with just inches between them, did he realize how disappointed he’d been when she’d walked away a week ago, leaving no way to see her again.
Of course, if she was going to move in his circle for any length of time, she would quickly learn who he was and then the easy conversation they had would shift. If she learned that the Linotype existed and that he was responsible for it, he doubted she’d speak with him again.
Peter flexed his hands and then clasped them firmly to keep himself from grazing his thumb across her side or putting a hand on the small of her back.
His body’s response to her was unexpected.
He rarely hungered for a woman. He rarely had the time.
That he was attracted to her—a woman whose perception of him would change the moment she discovered his true identity—was decidedly inconvenient.
He drew in a deep breath anyway and let the scent of her permeate him.
Lady Cecilia entered the foyer with two friends in tow. The scowl she bore was a stark contrast to the angelic facade she’d presented when she’d forced him into a dance.
“I saw him come this way,” said one of her sentinels.
Cecilia dug her fingers into her gloves. “You were supposed to be monitoring, Abigail.”
“I was. I only looked away for a moment.”
“Who was he last seen speaking to? Do we know where she is?”
“He was speaking with his sister. She is still in the ballroom.”
“Do you think that he left?” the other girl said. “Perhaps he’s chosen his duchess already. He hasn’t danced with anyone since Lady Josephine. They say he is quite determined to find a bride quickly, given what happened last season.”
Cecilia snapped her head about to shoot daggers at her companion. “Which is precisely why you were supposed to have eyes on him the entire time.”
“Sorry.”
Cecilia took a deep, frustrated breath. “He is still here somewhere. He would not have left his sisters behind.”
Eleanor turned to Peter, a sparkle in those captivating eyes. Her cheeks flushed, and her kissable lips curved into a grin. “This is fascinating. It is just like a zoo.”
“And they are truly hyenas,” he murmured as her attention returned to the women in the foyer. “Or wolves.” And he was their prey. The muscles around his rib cage tightened.
Cecilia stood with her hands on her hips. Her lips pressed together as she studied her lackeys. “Do we know where he’s going to be tomorrow night?”
“He’s friends with the Earl of Symonston. There’s a very real chance that he’ll be there.”
“But then, Lady Winston is also hosting a ball. She is a good friend of his sisters.”
Cecilia stamped her foot. “What we need is inside intelligence, but there has been no luck finding someone within his household willing to help. The duke’s staff is loyal. Ugh.”
Eleanor turned, grimacing. Her eyes were wide. “These women are awful. I feel so sorry for whoever it is they’re targeting.”
As the man in the crosshairs, Peter could only grunt. His fists clenched. Nothing about this conversation was surprising. Over the years, many women had sought to “bag” him, but he’d never been forced to listen to their machinations. It was enraging.
“The Duke of Strafford will be mine,” Cecilia snapped.
Eleanor’s shoulders stiffened.
Cecilia put her hands on her hips. “No matter what we have to do to make it so.” She spun and stormed back to the ballroom.
Eleanor pushed past the palm fronds.
As he followed, he saw her cheeks redden. The sympathy she’d just shown morphed into fury. “I retract my previous statement. The Duke of Strafford deserves everything he has coming to him.”
Her words cut. She knew, then. Damn.