A Duke's Temptation (8 page)

“They weren’t there before,” she remarked over her shoulder to the duke.

He smiled knowingly.

Chloe broke formation at the courtyard garden to take stock of Lily in the moonlight. “Well, aside from a few bedraggled feathers, you’re none the worse for your walk.”

The duke grinned at her, again the guileless chevalier. “And me?”

Chloe laughed. “You can take care of yourself. Now stay with me, Lily. We will enter from the direction of the cloakroom together.” She curtsied as an afterthought. “Good luck with your charities, Your Grace.”

His gaze followed Lily’s retreating figure. “The same to you.”

 

 

 

He lost sight of Lily when she entered the gold salon for the midnight unmasking. A gentleman wearing a papier-mâché crown had already greeted her and brought her a glass of lemonade, chatting with his head to hers as if he knew her well. Samuel suppressed a flare of resentment. Lily and the other man seemed warm toward each other, but not like a pair of lovers. Samuel could not imagine a gentleman escorting her to a party and leaving her alone for even a minute with the viscountess as guard. A brother or another cousin? Samuel debated staying for the official tour of the garden to find out. But suddenly he changed his mind.

He was a man who followed his instincts, and instinct presented a new plan that he decided couldn’t wait. The gentleman hovering over Lily had risen unexpectedly, crossed the salon, and was barreling through the hall, knocking his shoulder against Samuel’s lance.

“My pardon.” Samuel nodded. “I trust I didn’t hurt you.”

The man gave an unkingly grunt. “I’m tougher than that. Mind you, you could have taken out my eyes.”

“King Lear?”

“Who?”

“Your costume?”

“Yes, but please don’t ask me to quote any lines.”

Samuel smiled inwardly, staring past the friendly gentleman into the salon. Lily had turned to glance into the hall. When she noticed the two men talking, she hastily looked away. Maybe she was afraid Samuel would reveal her garden escapade to her relation.

“I tell you what,” Samuel said in a confidential tone. “There is a lady I am suddenly enamored of, and I might lose her if I don’t take action tonight to state my intentions.”

The huskier man grinned. “You’ll lose her if you poke her with your lance. And that shield—ye gods. You might have cleaned it up for the party. Take my advice and hand them off to a footman. You’ll never win any prizes dressed like a shabby knight.”

“Aren’t you competing in the midnight unmasking?” Not that Samuel gave a damn, but it never hurt to make an ally when one could.

“I have a card game going, and I might lose my throne if I can’t find a friend to borrow a little cash from. I wasn’t prepared to bet this heavily.”

“A card game.”

There was a country gullibility about this man, an innocence that evil would feed on and consume. A gentleman with any guile or romantic understanding would have never left Lily alone with the wolves of London—predators as dangerous to maidenly virtue as their fairy-tale prototypes.

He brought out Samuel’s ever-present desire to protect, to enlighten before it was too late. “Do you cheat when you play?”

“Good heavens, sir, I would die before taking a crooked pence.”

“But you do know that there are professional players who do?”

“Not in a house like this.”

His naïveté pained Samuel. “Why not?”

“Everyone invited is well-off, or has family who is. There’s no need to cheat.”

Samuel stared at him, feeling his familiar obligation to warn the uninitiated of what lay ahead. “You can’t trust everyone, especially at a party like this.”

“But these are the cream of the crop, educated ladies and gentlemen, refined—”

Samuel could not bear it. “Certain sensibilities are refined. Others are barbaric. And if I may I point out, most guests are in disguise.”

“It’s a masquerade,” the man said, shaking his head as if Samuel were the person in need of instruction.

“Just remember that.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve a good heart to point out pitfalls that I could indeed have missed.”

Samuel didn’t have the patience for gambling himself, but if this genial enough fellow was related to Lily, it was to Samuel’s benefit to do him a favor. “I have to leave the party earlier than expected, but since I almost ran you through with my lance, I want to make amends.”

“It’s all right. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Please, allow me.” Samuel held out the lance to him like a peace offering. The taller man took it, looking puzzled. “Take this to Lord Philbert. He is our host, in case you do not know him personally. Instruct him that you are to play the night away, on my account.”

The gentleman broke into an appreciative grin. “I am Captain Jonathan Grace. May I have the honor of your name, sir?”

“Don Quixote, the Ingenious.” Samuel nodded cordially. “Do watch your hand. There are some players in London who will do anything to win. You really have to be careful about the company you keep. As I said, not everyone is as trustworthy as you and me.”

 

 

 

Lily had lost sight of her duke through the opened doors. It wasn’t bad enough of her to have let him kiss her once or twice. Now that their little indiscretion was definitely over, she was still hoping for another look at him. And then Jonathan walked right into the duke’s lance. She had giggled so openly as she watched the two men disengage that Chloe had abandoned her husband abruptly and returned to Lily’s side. She was worse than wicked.

“I think someone has enjoyed herself far too much for one evening.”

“Does it show?” Lily whispered, her eyes dancing in delight.

“It’s a good thing you’re getting married in a month,” Chloe said good-naturedly. “Your Boscastle instincts for trouble are beginning to bloom.”

Lily feigned an indignant laugh. “Next you’ll be warning the duke about me.”

“I wonder.” Chloe glanced at the guests drifting into the salon. “Was your curiosity satisfied? Or merely whetted?”

“I assume you’re referring to
Wickbury
.”

“I assume the duke kissed you.”

Lily lifted her fan to hide a guilty smile. A kiss as potent as the duke’s would last her a lifetime. Of course, it would have to. She didn’t imagine her future with Jonathan held the promise of that much passion. They were both so practical, but then perhaps those kinds of feelings would come for them with time. The duke had either been born with a natural talent for seduction or he had worked to perfect his skill.

Either way, she had savored every sinful moment of his company. And it was more than his kisses that had unbalanced her, she realized in surprise, now that the spell was starting to wear off.

Chloe gave her an impulsive hug. “I would be a liar if I told you that I don’t understand. And, from the look on Gravenhurst’s face when I found you both in the garden, I think that this attraction is more than mutual. It’s a very good thing that you are going to be married to your captain soon.”

Lily pursed her lips. “Do you think the duke might abduct me before then?”

Chloe sighed, pulling a face. “I suppose that we could hope. And don’t you dare tell your parents I said that. Where is your captain, anyway? He’s going to miss your transformation.”

Lily smiled, only half listening. Footmen were discreetly snuffing out the brightest candles to dramatize the contest. The smoky glow enhanced the anticipation mounting in the salon. Lily wondered whether the winners had been chosen in advance. It didn’t matter, she realized guiltily. She’d been given a private tour of
Wickbury
. And . . . was the duke escorting another lady through the garden while she stood here, her feathers wilting? It was highly likely.

“I asked you where he was,” Chloe said in distress.

Lily shook off her wayward thoughts. “You saw him the last time—Oh, you mean Jonathan. He’s playing cards.”

“My goodness, Lily, no wonder you let the duke lure you astray. I had no idea you were marrying a gambler.”

“He’s no more a gambler than I am impure,” Lily said defensively. “He made a few friends I do not care for—”

“And you did the same.” Chloe slipped her arm around Lily’s waist. “Everyone deserves at least one wicked evening in London. As long as it ends here, no one will ever be the wiser.”

B
y eleven thirty that evening both the Duke of Gravenhurst and his bestselling counterpart, that corrupter of morality, had entered into a pact to join forces for one purpose: to plot out and enact the perfect courtship, marriage, and seduction of the woman who had captured their hearts.

Their merged identities had recognized the ideal match when they found her.

Of course, choosing a wife wasn’t exactly like writing one of the dark books that Lily Boscastle and other astute readers like her devoured. A duke and his true-life bride could be wildly in love one day and despise each other the next. They might come to a civilized arrangement to lead separate lives, meeting amicably on holidays if there were children involved. But Samuel would never be able to resort to any literary devices that Lord Anonymous employed to end their union.

The duke would never take a vow he could not keep. Lord Anonymous’s characters broke their word as it suited their plot. But neither of them had found a happy ending when it came to any lasting romance. The duke was said to favor wellborn ladies who understood their proper place. According to what little was reported of him, the author of
The Wickbury Tales
was partial to earthy women of all classes who understood that impropriety should take place whenever both parties felt the urge.

The truth as Samuel perceived it fell somewhere in the center of these speculations. This was, in fact, the first time that nobleman and novelist had agreed on a desirable bride. A lady of wit, sensuality, and the perfect touch of wicked imperfection. The duke and Lord Anonymous wanted Lily Boscastle very much.

And while the Boscastle family was notorious for scandal, its ancient bloodlines were superior and undisputed. A duke could make a worse choice for a wife.

Was there any harm in initiating a courtship? Would Lily’s parents refuse a peer as a serious suitor? Unfortunately, there
was
the matter of Samuel’s alarming reputation. How the hell was he to undo the damage he had carefully inflicted on his own name? And do so before another gentleman took Lily Boscastle off the market?

She had proved she wasn’t as innocent as she looked. But she wasn’t as sophisticated as she thought she was, either. A flirtation in the garden did not make her a fallen woman. But with the right man, or the wrong one, which understandably her family would consider Samuel to be, her potential to play the temptress was intriguing to contemplate.

He had been enraged the first time he had come upon one of the pamphlets bearing his name that littered the streets. Really, the bedroom acts attributed to him were impossible. He was sure he had never sired a son and daughter in two counties on the same night, and all this nonsense might have been merely amusing had a particularly salubrious piece not been printed on the day he was to address the House of Lords concerning the rising cost of bread. To his astonishment that measure received more support than any of his prior efforts. Apparently, even the members of Parliament listened more attentively to a legendary scoundrel who could swive several wenches at a time than a person who gave a thoughtful speech.

Samuel could have protested his notoriety and attempted to protect his name. But he soon perceived that the false scandals he generated in London diverted attention from his private life. For some odd reason a duke who slept with dozens of women commanded the respect of his peers. And while he may not have been physically capable of pleasuring as many ladies as the papers reported, the few who had enjoyed his company had yet to utter any complaints.

So it was that he discovered the value of sensation and began instructing his secretary to submit regular tidbits of gossip to Fleet Street, which, he let slip, came from a member of the duke’s household.

He could only hope that Lily’s country family did not keep up with the popular press.

 

 

 

He returned to his Curzon Street residence in Mayfair and sent for his solicitor, Mr. Benjamin Thurber, before bothering to remove his costume. Mr. Thurber arrived within the hour, his thick white hair ruffled as if he’d just pulled off his nightcap.

��Good evening to you, Gravenhurst,” he said in obvious annoyance. “Do you have any notion what time it is?”

Samuel looked up at the clock on the mantel. “One thirty in the morning.”

“That is when those of us who keep proper hours are sound asleep. I hope there is a good reason for dragging me out of bed. I am due in court in the morning. What is so blasted important that it cannot wait?”

“I met a woman.”

Mr. Thurber clapped his gnarled hands to his eyes. “What have you done to her? Does she have counsel in London? Who is it?”

“I haven’t done anything to her,” Samuel said in irritation. “You know me better than that.”

“Is she another harlot claiming a paternity case?”

“Her name is Lily Boscastle, and I want to ask permission to formally court her with marriage in mind. And you, of all people, know that my fictional indiscretions outnumber those in which I’ve actually indulged.”

The solicitor lowered his hands. “How long have you known her?”

“It might have been years. We were at ease the instant that we—”

“You didn’t share your secret with her, did you?” the solicitor broke in, business now foremost on his mind.

“I am infatuated, not insane.”