Chapter 4
The evening had certainly taken a turn that the Duke of Westfort had not expected, and sometimes he enjoyed unexpected things, but his main question now, as he stared at the delightful confection of a human being who kept trilling on about optimism and happiness while her skirts swished about her delicious ankles, was…
Could he turn a debutante into a mistress, a young lady who had not had her first Season?
He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. It was a terrible thought to think, indeed. But good God, he wanted to.
He supposed he could go to the girl’s father and offer an absurd amount of money, but since she was the daughter of a baron, she was expecting a decent match, and could he take that away from her?
No, he most definitely couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, and yet he could offer her quite a wild and very, very wealthy life as his mistress.
More than she could likely ever hope for even in marriage.
Yes, it was tempting, but no. No, he wasn’t a scoundrel. He wasn’t that sort of fellow… Was he?
He’d had many mistresses. All dukes did.
It was part and parcel of his lot in life, to have women about him who were there for his entertainment, his enjoyment, and his pleasure.
She seemed as if she would be magnificent at all three, but perhaps there was a touch of insanity in her family, because, frankly, all the things she kept saying were completely mad.
He should turn on his heel and leave her be, but he couldn’t.
No, he really couldn’t. He had absolutely loved the way her skirts had swayed about her limbs.
He had loved the way she had romped up and down the halls like someone who did not care about the rest of the world, as if she had lost herself entirely in the notes of Herr Mozart.
He had met Herr Mozart. And despite what Adam had said, he had been moved, but he would not let people know that. It was very dangerous to let people know one’s true emotions, thoughts, and feelings, because they might use them against one.
When one was a duke, one had to be more careful than most. He would not have anyone use anything against him. No, he was the one who did the using, the manipulating, the maneuvering, the putting others into whatever position he wished.
Including Miss Allen?
She was something to behold. Her pink cheeks, her eyes, bright and blue, her golden hair piled atop her head—she was everything that a young man might desire.
Yes, she was heaven, perfection, bliss, and absolutely and utterly not for him. It was sad. It was a bloody tragedy.
It was like being at a table laden with the most perfect of desserts and having to turn away and choose a bit of bread and butter instead, but desserts did not sustain one. Bread and butter did, and that was what his future wife would do.
He stopped, shocked, stunned that he had even put the word wife and this young woman in the same set of thoughts. Oh dear. He really did need to leave, even if his heart… His blasted heart was doing the strangest thing, a thing it had never done before. It yearned.
But he wasn’t bloody Romeo.
She waggled her brows at him. Again! “Come on then. Are you afraid to dance, to romp, to frolic?” she teased.
“Afraid is not the right word. I have no desire to feel out of sorts,” he stated.
“Are you old?” she demanded with surprising seriousness. “You don’t look old.”
“Well, perhaps you might think I’m old. I’m on my way to thirty.”
“Yes, positively ancient,” she said with a nod as her eyes danced, as her body wished to do. “Decrepit. Soon you shall need to be in a chair, wheeled about. You have no sense of adventure about you, do you?”
“I don’t need a sense of adventure,” he pointed out. “I’m a duke. I fund other people’s senses of adventure.”
She gaped up at him. “How terribly sad. You live through others?”
He blinked.
He’d never really thought of it like that, but perhaps she was correct.
He did live through others. He paid for the lives of painters and singers.
He paid for the lives of sculptors, writers, scientists, other politicians, and he did fund adventurers.
Every year he gave vast sums of money to people to go around the world and discover things. He did not need to do it himself.
He could get letters from those under his patronage about their great finds, and Adam reveled in them.
As a matter of fact, he often framed the letters, or put them in special books, took them out, and reread them. His work was far more important than any one particular adventurer.
He made all those adventures happen.
“Come on then,” she urged, holding out her gloved hand to him.
“You do realize that, with every word, you are shoving yourself closer to ruin.”
“No, I’m not,” she said.
“Why do you think not?” he asked.
“Because you said you’re not going to ruin me.”
He rolled his eyes. “What if someone walks in?”
“I shall faint, and then we will pretend that you caught me, and you were being a very good fellow indeed.”
“That won’t work,” he said.
“It works in a novel,” she said.
He laughed then. How could he not? “This is not fiction, my dear, and you best wrap your mind around that, or you’ll end up married to a terrible fellow, and there shall be no love for you. Life is absent happy endings.”
“Oh, there shall be a happy ending for me!” she insisted, completely undaunted by his warnings. “I’m determined, and when I’m determined, it always works out.”
“How nice for you,” he drawled. “I am determined too, but things work out because I orchestrate them to. I do not allow chance to take me by the hand.”
“Are you comparing me to chance?” she asked as she lifted her hand further, and another song by Mozart began to play.
He stared at that delicate, gloved hand for a very long moment. He wanted to dance with her, frolic without predetermined steps.
By God, he wanted to take her hand, but he took one look at her bright, hopeful cheeks, her pink, sensual lips, and, knowing exactly what he wanted to actually do with her, he did the only thing he could do, the only good thing he could do.
He gave her a deep bow, a rueful smile, and then said, “I wish you all the best of luck in your pursuit of optimism, in your pursuit of love, in your pursuit of happiness, but know that if you go about it like this, it isn’t going to work out.”
Then, he turned on his heel and left her.
She was gaping at his back. He knew that, and he, dear God, felt the strangest feeling that he’d ever felt.
It was a loss so vicious, so entire, that he almost stopped.
He almost turned on his booted heel. He almost whirled around, returned to her with a few short strides, and seized her in his arms.
Yes, he almost took her in his embrace. He almost pulled her against him, and he almost took her lips in a kiss that would burn the world down, destroy everything, and be one of perfect fire.
Oh yes, almost, but he did not. He could not. He had other plans, and he had never, despite the recent rebellions of his heart, deviated from his plans.
So, without looking back, Adam crossed out of the room, headed down the hall, determined to do what he had come here to do, and that was to meet his future wife.
He tugged at his waistcoat, his head spinning, rapt with thoughts of her.
She was headier than any wine.
The buzz of conversation filled the air as did the arrival of coaches outside.
The ballroom was already beginning to fill.
Soon Lady Hortense would be here.
“You look flushed, my dear! Are you ill?”
He spotted his mother, who was coming out of another room, no doubt where she’d been having tea with the Dowager Duchess of Rivers.
They had arrived early, as, so it seemed, had several other select guests.
Something was odd. Rivers seemed to be up to something. Rivers was always up to something. It was the nature of the man.
“It was particularly hot in the other room,” he lied quickly.
His mother frowned, her beautiful but usually immovable face concerned as her lace-edged gown fluttered before she stopped before him. “Are you certain, my dear? You look almost disturbed.”
“I am not disturbed at all,” he said, more to convince himself than her. “Everything is fine. Lady Hortense is prepared to dance with me?” he asked, needing to hear the affirmation.
The concern faded from her face and her silver-streaked red curls bounced under the weight of her emeralds.
“Oh, yes. Her mother has arranged it. You will dance the first minuet with her.” His mother clapped her hands together, her jewels dripping from her wrists.
“It will be perfection. Lady Hortense has been practicing all week, and then you may ask her to dance a second dance, and that will let the young lady know that you are genuinely interested. Of course, society will begin to speculate. It will be exactly as it should be.”
Exactly as it should be.
That should have been the family motto.
His mother was good at arranging perfection.
His entire life had been perfect. Well, he had made it so too. Lady Hortense would be perfect—perfect for him and perfect for his dukedom.
And yet… His thoughts trailed to bright cheeks and ankles covered in embroidered silk stockings.
No, he would not let himself think and yet. There were thoughts about a delicious bonbon of a girl, who loved to dance to Mozart and talk in a way that should not be allowed.