A Duke's Temptation (4 page)

But a man who dressed as Don Quixote at a masquerade
must
harbor a keen sense of humor. A disguise like that mocked beauty rather than enhanced it. Unless, like Lily, he was only wearing the costume that a sharper wit had suggested.

She was afraid that her runaway imagination had gotten the better of her again. It was entirely possible that the duke was no more a misguided knight than Jonathan was a tragic king.

S
amuel straightened as he recognized the white-bearded, heavily built gentleman who had just barreled through the group. Most of the ton knew that Samuel and Lord Philbert were friends and political allies. Few guessed, however, that there was a stronger bond between them. Lord Philbert published Samuel’s books, and Samuel held a share of the business. He gratefully allowed Philbert to draw him apart from the gathering.

“Your Grace,” he announced in his blustery, authoritarian voice, “I have a distinguished personage in the private gallery who would like to make your acquaintance. If your audience would excuse us for a few moments . . .”

Samuel smiled faintly, blew a kiss to the ensemble in general, and followed the larger man toward the door. “Wait a minute. Is this a rescue or is there really someone I ought to meet? I’m not a blasted marionette, after all.”

“You looked cornered, Gravenhurst, and rather dangerous with that lance at your side. I thought you would appreciate a few minutes of solitude to soothe your nerves.”

“There is nothing wrong with my nerves.”

“I think there is. Your book was due last Monday, and you manage to change the subject every time I mention it. I am tearing out my hair by the tuft.”

Samuel pivoted, refusing to take another step toward the door. “I see someone in this room whose acquaintance I
would
like to make.”

“There you go again, changing—”

“In private. I would like to meet this lady in private. But I’m aware that such an arrangement would be considered bad manners, so I’ll settle for a correct introduction.”

“I worry about you, Samuel. What is wrong with the novel? Do not try to deceive me. I recognize the signs. You haven’t written a word, have you? I knew it would happen one day. I—”

“I am unhappy with the last chapter. I need an extension.”

Philbert looked as if he would collapse with relief. “Fine, but let me read it and be the judge. I have told you that I can write the ending myself.”

Samuel gave a snort. “I told you that we should have bought the copyright of the
Encyclopædia Britannica
when it was offered. We could have both retired on the revenues.”

“That is a sore point,” Philbert admitted. “The Scots won the day, no doubt. It is that James and John Harper in New York I’d like to buy. You cannot trust the colonials.”

Samuel smiled. “Knowing their origins, I’m inclined to agree.”

Philbert let a moment pass. “We should be editing your next book.”

“Remember how I feel about discussing an unfinished work.”

“I shouldn’t tell you this—God forbid it go to your head—but I’ve just had a request from Ennis Desmond to write the new stage version of the series.”

Samuel turned to look at him. “Absolutely not. Desmond has a hand like a mallet.”

“
Your
version only ran for a week.”

“Nine performances.”

“At least he understands stage direction.”

Samuel stared back into the crush of costumed guests. He had momentarily lost sight of his pretty flirt when Philbert had arrived. But he quickly found her curvaceous form, sheathed from creamy shoulder to high-slippered heel in soft white plumes. A cluster of coppery brown curls fell demurely down her back against an intricate ladder of golden laces. His throat went dry. She struck him as unbearably vulnerable in that dress.

“She’s just asking to be plucked,” he said without thinking.

Philbert lifted his head in alarm. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is your wine deceptively strong or is that young lady in white impossibly lovely?”

Lord Philbert finally relented and traced the direction of the duke’s intense scrutiny. He heaved a sigh. “Offhand, I’d say both.”

“That’s what I thought.” Samuel handed Philbert his helmet and readjusted his mask. “This room is overcrowded. Where did all these people come from, anyway?”

“Someone told me that tickets were being passed out free in Piccadilly,” was the droll reply. “You would not believe the riffraff we’ve had to turn away.”

Samuel blinked in convincing innocence. “But aren’t the riffraff encouraged to read?”

“Don’t bring politics to my party, Gravenhurst. If you are that devoted to your readers, I suggest you give them the next book in the series. When,” he demanded, “are you going to finish the bloody thing?”

“Three weeks.”

“Damnation, man—”

“Two days if you introduce me to her before she loses any more of those feathers.”

Lord Philbert shook his head. “I don’t even know who she is myself.”

“Someone must.”

“Perhaps she’s one of the random shopgirls you so liberally invited out of the goodness of my pocketbook.”

“If that’s true,” Samuel said, never perturbed by the mention of money, “then it’s fate that I meet her. And if she is as intriguing as she looks, I’ll be indebted to you for a long time.”

“You are indebted to me now, you rascal. I will not advance you another shilling until I have the next
Wickbury
in my possession.”

“I’m only asking for an introduction,” Samuel said, staring straight past Philbert with a determined smile. “I wouldn’t have come to London if I hadn’t almost finished the book. I’d have been hiding somewhere you’d never find me.”

“Your readers are not the only ones left hanging in your imagination. Let me make this clear, Samuel. Book Seven is overdue.”

“I have rewritten the ending almost fifty times.”

“Good heavens, what is the matter?”

“My characters are pitching a rebellion against my plot. I feel they are trying to tell me something, and I don’t know what.”

“Perhaps they are telling you to give them one of your rousing endings. And soon.”

Samuel reluctantly turned to meet the older man’s concerned stare. “This party was
your
idea. The garden tour, the erudite and the shallow minded, where the beau monde meets the world of books, and so forth. I don’t think either of us is here for our health.”

“Speaking of which—”

“Let’s not,” Samuel said. “Did you notice her smiling at me?”

The veins that crisscrossed Lord Philbert’s cheeks met in several vivid crimson splotches. “I can’t say that I did.”

“At
me
, Philbert, of all the wrong gentlemen at the party. White feathers of purity with a blush of wickedness waiting to be revealed.”

“Dear God. Not another one.”

“Someone has to protect her from scoundrels like me.”

“I’ve lost count. You mustn’t do this again. How many of them can be trusted with your secret?”

“Calm down, Philbert, before you give one of us a fit of apoplexy. You needn’t make me sound like—”

“A deluded knight? You and your dangerous ideas of chivalry.”

Samuel paused as his beleaguered publisher and friend raised his quizzing glass to examine the lady who had sparked this clash.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. How can you find her intriguing when all one can see of her is feathers? Nicely adorned, I’ll agree. A lovely face. But not the sort of blatant temptress you typically choose. She looks more like a baby owl than a mistress in the making.”

Samuel laughed in delight. “Sometimes I think you believe the lies we perpetuate. But it doesn’t matter. She’s the Goose-Girl, by the way. And underneath that disguise, I’ll wager there is a golden princess waiting for the right man to see her worth.”

“Another fairy tale,” Lord Philbert said with a deep sigh of resignation. “I should have guessed. Your dreams will be the death of us yet.”

“Y
ou aren’t going to ruin this party for me,” Lily stated with conviction. “Nothing is.”

“It’s your ruination that is at stake,” Chloe said crossly. “Flirting with a man of Gravenhurst’s repute. You, who look so demure and who—”

They glanced at each other, both attempting not to smile. “. . . shall be the envy of London tomorrow,” Chloe concluded grudgingly. “We’ll clip out all the articles about you in the papers and put them away for your old age.”

“It’s a good thing Jonathan doesn’t read.”

“It’s a good thing he wasn’t here to witness your friendly exchange with Gravenhurst. There would be breakfast for one tomorrow instead of for this entire assembly.”

“What else has the duke done that is so forbidding?” Lily asked in a low voice. “Quickly, quickly. He’s looking this way again. I think he might be reading my lips.”

Chloe snorted lightly. “If the duke is staring at your mouth, I doubt that reading has anything to do with it.”

“But what has he done?” Lily persisted.

“Everything.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, Lily. Nothing. Everything. It depends on what you believe. It’s probably all baseless rumors. The Boscastle family has been accused of every manner of misdeed. You should have heard the things said of me.”

Lily held back a laugh. “Then why let the rumors of his reputation influence your opinions?”

Chloe cast her a woeful look. “A few of the things said of me were true. And do not ask me which. I don’t feel compelled to confess every single one of my sins. It wouldn’t discourage you as much as it would give you ideas. And—Dear heaven, he’s coming over here. Hide behind me. No. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t even blink.”

Lily hazarded a glance in the duke’s direction. It was true. He seemed to be blazing a trail straight toward her. And
blazing
was not an exaggeration. The air smoldered as he strolled across the room. She couldn’t bring herself to stare into his face again, but the nearer he drew, the harder her heart seemed to race with hideous excitement. “He’s coming to meet you, Chloe,” she said with absolute certainty.

“Nobody knows whether the stories about him are true,” Chloe murmured.

“Then there isn’t any harm in meeting him.”

“Nobody knows that they
aren’t
true,” Chloe countered. A frown creased her forehead. “But there was something else I heard. Something dark and . . . I wish I could remember it.”

“Whatever he has done cannot be as bad as the acts of depravity I’m beginning to imagine.”

“You are a country mouse,” Chloe said after a rueful silence. “You understand only enough to land yourself in trouble. I daresay the duke would lead you there without a second thought.”

“But your bouts of mischief ended well, didn’t they?”

Chloe gave a half smile. “If you are referring to my husband, mischief is a nightly affair.”

“Go on.”

“I will not.”

“You are cruel, cousin,” Lily whispered, “to speak of your many delicious misdeeds and deprive me of a single one.”

“Better to deprive you now than to sanction a life of . . . depravity.”

“You sound like a fusty old governess.”

Chloe bit her lip. “I know. Who would have dreamt it? The young lady who was exiled to a duck pond for letting herself be kissed by a stranger in the park.”

“A stranger?”

“He had a name,” Chloe said, laughter welling in her voice. “I just neglected to ask it before I let him kiss me.”

“Hypocrite,” Lily said more loudly than she intended.

“Innocent,” Chloe replied, as if daring Lily to cross an invisible line.

“You are worse than wicked,” Lily said. “You have become . . . uninspired.”

Chloe raised her hand to her breast. “I have not.”

“I have been told,” Lily said in an undertone, “that you hid Dominic in your dressing closet before you were married.”

A dead silence enshrouded them.

Chloe looked at Lily without expression.

“I’m sorry,” Lily said in a heart-stricken voice. “I should never have repeated such a hideous piece of gossip.”

“Why not?” Chloe broke into a pleasant grin. “It is the wonderful truth.”

The two of them dipped together in a curtsy, the duke so close that Lily suddenly found herself swallowed up in his shadow. Chloe captured Lily’s hand again as they rose gracefully together, composed enough to whisper one remark in her charge’s ear, “By the look of him, your mischief is about to begin.”

S
amuel resisted looking directly at her. For one thing her companion had already sent him a lethal stare. For another, he had revealed enough of his intentions for a first impression. A mask could disguise a man’s outward appearance. It tended, however, to accentuate his true nature. And Samuel was struggling to keep his instincts under control. He bowed, his downcast gaze covertly studying the lady dressed in white.

He managed to affect his usual detached but courteous manner as Philbert mumbled through the introductions, presenting Samuel to the dark-haired woman first. Viscountess Stratfield. The title stirred a memory Samuel could not grasp until she, and not Philbert, revealed the other young lady’s identity.

Boscastle. That was a surname he recognized.
Miss
Lily Boscastle, cousin of the former Chloe Boscastle. He began to understand.

No wonder the viscountess viewed him with overt suspicion. It took a sinner to recognize one. Lady Stratfield’s family escapades rivaled his. But then, he was only one, and the Boscastles formed an entire clan. Still, it wasn’t Lady Stratfield who attracted him. It was the younger lady beside her, in her white-feathered mask and matching cloak. The lady who had given him a beguiling smile.

Lily. The name suited her, evoking a purity that implored protection. He wondered if she was of the imported belladonna variety or the blood hybrid that had withered in his hothouse. Would she flare like a torch lily with a bolder touch?