Chapter Four
Henry Rafe Chandler, the newly minted Duke of Arrinton, considered himself a logical man. A practical man. But as he stood at the foot of the staircase watching Nell Blake ascend the steps at a breathless pace, he knew beyond all doubt he’d been a bloody fool.
By thunder, she was beautiful. He’d thought her lovely when he’d first laid eyes upon her in a Parisian café, with her upswept golden curls, pert nose, and eyes that rivaled the color of the ocean on a sunny day.
But on this evening, so many endless days and nights after he’d kissed her for what he’d thought would be the last time, he had stood in the midst of a wedding reception at a grand old house, watching her from across the room… absolutely bloody thunderstruck.
In the time they’d been apart, Nell’s beauty had grown more striking.
Her gown, the color of cornsilk in summer, displayed the perfection of her hourglass figure, and when she smiled, she beamed with a genuine inner glow.
Her eyes flashed with an enthusiasm for life; she was vibrant and curious and thrilled with each new adventure.
She possessed an undefinable mystique, a loveliness all her own.
He certainly was no poet, but he had never found himself at a loss for words. Not until tonight. At the very sight of her, he’d gone nearly tongue-tied. A rare thing, indeed.
He’d expected Nell would attend the wedding. During their time together, she’d spoken of her dear friends in London, including his cousin’s new bride. And she’d made no secret of her enthusiasm for nuptials in all their forms.
If he’d had the sense of a donkey, he would’ve placed a ring on her finger and swept her away during those heady days and nights in France. But he’d convinced himself to put duty—or what he’d foolishly perceived as his duty—first. And in the process, he’d made a mistake that might never be undone.
But damned if he wasn’t going to try.
Nell might have erected shields around her heart, but they were not impenetrable. He’d seen the look in her eyes. A quiet fury had darkened her irises to the color of a storm-tossed sea—a fury she had every right to feel. But her warmth had broken through.
No, she had not gone cold toward him. He preferred her anger to ice. In his heart, he hoped and prayed that he was right. He still had a chance.
And he fully intended to take it.
*
Gazing from the window of her guest room in Bennington Manor, Nell stared up at the crescent moon over Big Ben.
Through a light haze, the stars and planets seemed iridescent, striking against the night sky.
She had always been partial to the study of constellations.
Perhaps the canvas of a dark night sky in the countryside was what she missed most about home.
As a girl, she’d spent many an evening lying on a blanket, staring up at the twinkling stars.
Her father had even obtained a telescope they used to identify the astronomical configurations.
An unfamiliar wave of nostalgia washed over her. It was normal to miss one’s parents, she supposed. Perhaps it had been a bit too long since she’d taken the train to visit them. She’d make the journey soon. She did so love her family’s country home.
But always, London called her back. She relished the hustle and bustle of the city and the vibrant experience of soirees and literary salons and masquerades.
Though she was not an heiress, Papa was a merchant of great success.
He’d been willing and able to provide her the funds to enjoy life in the city.
Of course, that had been contingent upon her rooming with a respectable female.
For some time, that respectable female was her dearest friend, Macie.
But Macie was now a married woman and a mother.
Nell was always welcome at Bennington Manor. It seemed a second home.
Her time in the peace and quiet of this spacious, comfortably appointed chamber had seemed a tonic.
The low throb in her temples had eased, but now, the steady tick-tock of the clock upon the bedtable urged her not to dilly-dally.
If she was going to give Penelope a quick hug before she departed the reception with her newly minted husband, she hadn’t any time to waste.
After smoothing out her skirts and re-pinning a few unruly curls of her hair into place, she decided she was ready. At least now she had two shoes on her feet. Thank goodness she had another pair of slippers that suited her gown.
With any luck, he would not be there.
The thought tugged a smile to her lips. When she’d known him, Rafe had displayed a distinct impatience regarding formality and ceremony.
Events that required starched shirts and immaculately pressed trousers had left him cold.
Perhaps he had given in to his distaste and departed the reception before the final moments.
How very ironic that a man she’d known to be a bohemian at heart was now a stuffy duke. Fate truly did have a twisted sense of humor.
Still, she could not help but wonder what had happened to enact this change.
All this time, she’d had no idea of his ties to nobility.
Of course, even in Paris, she’d realized he did not fill the image of a starving artist. She was not so na?ve as that.
But he seemed a free spirit. A romantic.
Quite the opposite of a stuffed-shirt duke.
It was easier to think of him that way, she admitted to herself. Easier than picturing the heated emotion in his hazel-green eyes in the moments before she’d walked away. Easier than remembering the delicious tenderness in his touch and the passion in his kiss.
Easier than longing for him with a need that had pierced bone-deep.
She gave her head a little shake, as if that might clear away the images she certainly did not want floating about in her mind. Taking one last peek at the looking glass, she pinched a bit of color into her cheeks and proceeded to rejoin the festivities.
*
“Oh, there she is.” Penelope’s cheerful exclamation cut through the chatter of the guests. Beaming with genuine joy, she wove through the crush and enfolded Nell in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I was getting a bit worried.”
“I am fine now,” Nell replied. “A bit of quiet worked wonders.”
“I understand you’ve spoken with Bradley’s cousin, Henry… I mean, the duke. I still cannot get used to referring to his title.”
“Indeed.” Nell might’ve added that she was not at all used to referring to the man by a name other than Rafe, but she bit her tongue.
“As I recall, it has been nearly a year since he came into the title… shortly after his uncle’s death.”
“His uncle?” Nell repeated for clarification.
“The man had no sons. No children at all, as a matter of fact. The assumption was that his brother—His Grace’s father—would hold the title. But unfortunately, the brothers died within a week of each other.”
“And so, it passed to Henry.”
To Rafe.
“Precisely. I believe you were traveling with Lady Tilly at the time,” Penelope said. “Macie tells me you have a prior acquaintance with His Grace.”
“You might say that,” Nell replied after a long moment. “We met some time ago.”
Penelope gave a nod, her expression hinting that she knew more than she was letting on. Nell resisted the urge to sigh. Perhaps she would’ve been better off staying in her chambers for the remainder of the night.
“He is an exceedingly talented artist,” her friend went on. “A painter in the Impressionist school.”
“I am acquainted with his work.”
Nell nearly grinned at her understatement. She was not only acquainted with the duke’s talent. She had actually posed for a sketch. Thank goodness she’d had the good sense to keep at least some of her clothes on.
Penelope’s eyes brightened as her husband strolled up to them. Bradley was classically handsome, looking rather like a Greek statue, and it was evident in his every glance at Penelope that he utterly adored her.
Unfortunately, he was not alone. His cousin, the brand-new Duke of Arrinton, stood at his side.
As they approached, Penelope flashed her husband a little grin. Nell leaned close to her friend and whispered pointedly, “Surely you do not think to match me with this rogue.”
“Of course not.” Penelope’s murmured reply was far too quick to be genuine.
“You’d be better advised to spend this time dancing with your groom.”
“Oh, I intend to do just that,” she said with a soft laugh as her husband came to stand by her side.
After a brief change of pleasantries and idle conversation between the four of them, Penelope’s husband edged closer, taking her hand.
“Would you think me rude if I stole my wife away?” Bradley spoke with his usual charm. Turning to Penelope, he brushed a kiss over the back of her hand. “The musicians have returned from their break. Shall we dance, Mrs. Radburn?”
“I should love to, Mr. Radburn.”
And with that, Penelope joined her husband on the dance floor. Alone with Rafe by the corner table where they’d gathered, Nell glanced about the room. Noticing a few pairs of eyes strategically focused upon them, she reached for her champagne flute and took a sip.
“At least I am not holding anything with frosting this time,” she said with a lightness she did not feel.
His mouth lifted at one corner, far more appealing than it had any right to be. “I shudder to think about another harmless slice of cake going to its demise.”
“Indeed,” she said, allowing the faintest of smiles. “I’ve never been known for my grace.”
“No grace?” He crooked a dark brow. “I beg to differ.”
“I do believe my frosting-caked shoe proved my point.”
“Not at all.” A slight grin played on his full mouth. “How many ladies of your acquaintance can claim to have danced the waltz at the Moulin Rouge?”
Memories flooded over her. The excitement of Paris. The joy of the vibrant city. The pleasure of moving gracefully across the ballroom, held lightly in his arms as the orchestra played. Her breath caught. “That was a wonderful night, wasn’t it?”
“I could not take my eyes off you.” His gravel-edged voice seemed a caress.
“That was a lifetime ago.”
“And so it was,” he said. “But we are here now. And the orchestra is playing. Shall we give it a go?”
She blinked. “What are you saying?”
Gently, he caught her hand in his. The feel of his slightly roughened skin against her fingertips stirred awareness she had not felt in such a very long time. A slow smile brightened his features.
“Shall we dance?”