Chapter 10
Ten
The Comfort Ball and House Party
“Let us enjoy the pleasurable diversion of life”
Lady Phoebe Drake requests the honour of the company of
Nashford Xavier Harding, 8th Duke of Ross,
at the Comfort Ball and House Party to be held at Drake Manor,
on the seventh of February 1811
Dearest Ross,
After our latest meeting, I have found myself thinking of you often— it is a predilection I find myself powerless to deny. With bated breath I await your response.
Phoebe
—A most personal invitation from Lady Phoebe Drake to Nashford Xavier Harding, Duke of Ross, January 1810
T here was only one reason he was here … to find her sisters. With his glass to his lips, Nash watched Lady Drake glide across the room, the sway of her hips entrancing the men in her wake. The cut of her gown a pure invitation to any man … or woman … or both who wanted to indulge in her curvaceous body. It was as if she were telling the entire world she was back on the market. That market, however, did not appear to be the marriage mart. No, by the coy smile she tossed at several gentleman, Lady Drake was ready to take a lucky person, or persons, to her bed.
There was a time he would have jumped at the chance. This evening, he found himself comparing her to another. A woman with very similar features who captivated him more, and if he believed Lady Drake’s story, a cousin she knew rather intimately.
Lady Drake’s gaze fell upon him, and for a moment he could have sworn she froze, despite her still moving in his direction. It was something about the way her eyes glistened, yet lost their light. The way her demeanor softened, yet her body stiffened. But mostly, how responsive she became to his attention, while her own desire appeared tempered. She was nervous, not excited.
She looked like a woman headed to the guillotine with the decorum of a queen in heeled slippers that were hurting her feet. How very interesting.
She stopped in front of him and he bowed, reached for her gloved hand, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. He should have been flattered by the tremor his touch inspired, except he suspected it was due more to apprehension than arousal, and he couldn’t help but test his theory.
His eyes traveled up her body and held on her breasts longer than what was acceptable. “Lady Drake, you look absolutely delectable in that gown.”
A blush started at her cheeks and reached the mounds of her breast he’d openly admired. Yet despite her embarrassment, she pushed through her nervous state and leaned in closer, requiring him to bend over for her to whisper in his ear. “I have found that I very much like to be a man’s dessert.”
Something in her gaze flickered, almost as if guilt lay behind her guileless smile.
Lady Drake was the person he needed to find the five remaining Blair sisters. He wasn’t deflowering her. Corrupting her. Or taking away her innocence.
The back of his hand grazed down Lady Drake’s arm, his brazen act causing her to flinch and a couple of the ladies next to them to gasp. He may as well have branded her a whore.
She took a step back and smacked his hand with her fan. “You grow too bold, Your Grace.”
For a moment, he thought he’d misjudged her, then she winked and licked her lips in a practice as old as time. One she was very good at, but not quite comfortable performing. Was the gesture a newly acquired talent?
“Meet me in the garden at half past the hour,” she purred. With her invitation delivered in a soft husky voice, he watched as she glided across the room to a group of ladies standing by the fire.
So that was how she wanted to approach their liaison. He would keep her at bay—for now. When he was through, however, he would have the Blair girls’ location in hand.
He watched as the ladies turned in unison to gaze in his direction, their expressions full of an array of fascinating expressions. Scorn. Disdain. Ridicule … and interest. Leave it to the ladies of the Ton to regard him with censure, at the same time relishing the diversion he could offer to their otherwise dull marriages. Nash raised his glass to let them know he deserved their disparagement, and their favor.
A rake was a rake after all.
He walked out onto the balcony and into the garden. Each step feeling as if he was sealing his fate. He ignored his lack of interest in the sexual liaison he was about to experience. He had a way of life to return to, past sins to forget, and a beautiful lady willing to be used.
What more could he ask for?
* * *
“I can’t do it,” Iseabail said to the woman who’d become her best and only friend in a matter of months.
“You must.” Phoebe insisted.
“It’s one thing to talk about switching places or even plan it. It’s quite another to go through with it.”
Phoebe shook her head in a manner that looked very much like pity. “You don’t have a choice.”
She didn’t want pity. Iseabail held her head high. “Of course I do. I’m a duchess.”
“For the next eight months, and then without an heir, all you’ll have is the title and pin money.”
“That will keep me in the dowager cottage with enough left over to afford a Season for my sisters.”
“The amount of pin money you receive will be determined by the next Duke of Nithesdale. Mr. Jarvis does not strike me as the generous sort. It may not be enough to feed and clothe you, let alone your sisters.”
Iseabail closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at her image in the mirror any longer. The gown was stunning and completely unacceptable in society. How Phoebe had been able to act in that manner was … well it was beyond Iseabail’s ability to fathom, let alone carry out.
“I can’t act the harlot. I can’t.”
Phoebe’s voice softened. “We’ve practiced this over and over. Mr. Forrester believes you’re ready. Is he the reason you can’t?”
“No!”
“Are you certain?”
Iseabail smoothed down the front of her gown as she stood in front the mirror. For the past fortnight she’d practiced her flirtations with Mr. Forester and found it very easy. They’d laughed and made sport of her trips and bobbles. With Mr. Forester it was easy, whereas to the Duke of Ross she’d been painfully inadequate. She caught Phoebe’s gaze in the looking glass as she patiently waited for an answer.
She shook her head, unable to voice what she had hoped would occur. Mr. Forrester had been the most wonderful man she had ever met. His attention had been comfortable. His touch had not caused her body to stir, but her heart had longed for something more from him. She didn’t need to be a duchess. She could be Mrs. Forrester and make a good life for herself and her sisters—but Mr. Forrester deserved more.
Phoebe sensed her thoughts. “The Ton would destroy him.”
Phoebe’s argument was strong, and true. Iseabail paled at the thought. She wouldn’t inflict her father’s fate on Mr. Forrester.
“You’re right, of course. I’m just being a ninny again.”
Phoebe laughed. “You are being cautious. A better duchess could not have been born.” She fluffed the curls to Iseabail’s coiffure and peeked around Iseabail’s shoulder to meet her gaze in the mirror. “It truly is amazing how similar our features are.”
“Uncanny, really.”
“Remind me to never wear my hair the way you have for the past fortnight.” Phoebe shuddered. “I could not bear to wear my hair pulled tightly against my scalp in such a hideous manner.”
Iseabail laughed. “Did you just tell me I looked hideous?”
Phoebe tucked her chin and shook her head in denial. “That would be like saying I looked dreadful with my hair pulled back and no ringlets around my face.” They laughed together and tossed their ringlets back and forth as they gazed in the mirror.
“These curls give me a sense of freedom I do not have.” Iseabail smiled wistfully at the image looking back at her.
“They give every woman a sense of freedom we do not have. Do you want to know my definition of liberty?” Phoebe asked.
“What?”
“Not wearing those blasted heels I’ve been forced to wear all evening until Ross finally arrived. It is a crime to make my feet suffer in such a manner in order for us to look similar in height.” Phoebe plopped down on the settee and wiggled her bare feet. “I will be happy to stay in this room all night long resting these poor things.”
“Lady Drake, I’m scandalized by your vulgar language and actions,” Iseabail scolded in her best impression of a matron.
“Then I will not tell you what I plan to do with the wrappings around my chest when you leave. They are worse than any corset. I cannot breathe!”
Iseabail couldn’t help but laugh once more. The entire scheme was ridiculous. “Do not tell me about the pain you are experiencing. My chest was not meant to look so … so …” She waved her hand in front of her breasts, unable to come up with a word that would describe the rather obscene display.
“Sensual?” Phoebe asked.
Iseabail blushed. She supposed she would look sensual in the right circumstances.
“I still think you should wear padding on your derriere.”
Iseabail’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not. That is something I refuse to do.”
“You must have the same sway as I do, darling.”
“If the Duke reached under my gown and got a handful of nothing but pads, he’d probably be so repulsed, he’d call the whole thing off. Which would leave my womb empty while he marched over to White’s for a couple drinks and spilled every last tidbit about my boyish figure.” Iseabail lowered her voice to imitate the Duke of Ross. “‘I expected a handful of lush flesh and ended up with my fingers embedded in a seat cushion from a settee.’”
Phoebe giggled. “Yet it would be my figure they would be discussing.”
Iseabail found herself giggling along with Phoebe once more, despite the entire situation being one of the least humorous experiences of her entire life. Her tone sobered. “I can’t do it.”
Phoebe stood up and moved next to her so Iseabail could see their similarities in the mirror. “You must see this through. If not for your own future, then for mine and your sisters’.”
“I don’t see how labeling yourself a whore has helped you find a future husband.”
“You let me worry about my future after this is done. Right now, I need you to make certain this tryst is carried out. The Duke of Ross must believe he and I had a passionate rendezvous in my gardens.”
“What if I don’t get pregnant?”
“That’s why you must make him want you again.”
Her gowns swished as she swirled around toward Phoebe. “What? You said nothing of this occurring again. You said one night. One odious night with that wretch.”
Phoebe laughed, pure amusement shining in her eyes as she grasped Iseabail’s hands in hers. “I don’t think I would ever describe a night with the Duke of Ross as odious . Dreamy, passionate, or even magical, but never odious.”
“Believe what you may. I do not expect anything but a painful nightmare I want to forget.”
Phoebe frowned. “And if his seed produces a child, will you blame the babe? Resent its very existence when its black hair shimmers blue in the moonlight?”
“Don’t be absurd. A child isn’t at fault for poor parentage. Look at my mother and father. They were in such an awful rush to get away from my grandparents they didn’t even know they weren’t legally wed. Then they had six children out of wedlock. They were the most loving parents any child could have, but in the end, they were as irresponsible with their children’s future as the Duke of Ross will be with his.
“No. I will make certain my child is raised in a loving home, with a parent who is very aware of how precarious wealth and position can be.”
“Then I suggest you make your way to the garden, or you won’t have the opportunity for wealth or position.”
Iseabail nodded slowly, kissed Phoebe on the cheek and whispered. “Thank you.” When she pulled away, she thought she caught a glimpse of tears in Phoebe’s eyes, but she didn’t dare examine them further lest she break down and sob. Instead, she stiffened her spine and slipped into the darkened hallway leading to the stairwell used by the servants. She had a future to secure, a night to endure, and all of it involved an assignation with a man she loathed.
What more could she ask for?