Duke Ever After (Dukes' Club Book 5) (12 page)

The smile was so beautiful, so seductive, even she who felt generally immune to such things, melted a little. My goodness. Who was this man?

Not only did this strange man beam down at her, he gazed at her with a sort of hunger which was almost disconcerting. It wasn’t frightening. It simply made her feel as if she were the center of the universe.

Truly, who was he?

As he spun her beneath his arm then helped her to turn and do a series of elaborate hops meant to show off her flowing gown, each touch seemed reverent.

She snuck another glance towards Astonsn direction. His hellfire glower had gone from fiery to a look so cold she shivered.

“Is he watching?” Mr. Basingstoke asked but then he laughed softly again. “Of course he is.”

When the music came to an end, her partner bowed over her hand. “So, what poor mortal man are you trying to drive mad, oh goddess divine?”

“The Duke of Aston,” she replied.

Mr. Basingstoke coughed then laughed again, a long, deep, rather beautiful laugh. “I wish you luck. Now, you seem the sort who can take care of herself, just the sort of lady I like, but since your heart clearly belongs—“

“My heart does
not
—“

“
Clearly
, belongs to the duke, I shall lead you his way and let’s see if we can cause him a bit more distress.”

She was about to suggest they walk in a different direction but then she realized that, no, she did wish to walk by Aston. She wished to show him how popular she was, how happy. How his rejection hadn’t sent her running home to the quiet hills of Scotland.

“Mr. Basingstoke, I know nothing about you,” she said at last as they edged to the lords and ladies packed about the dance floor.

“I’m the Duchess of Hunt’s brother and I enjoy a lovely young woman,” he replied factually.

“That’s not saying terribly much,” she replied as they made their way towards the other end of the room. Towards
him
.

“I spend most of my time digging in the dirt.”

She was beginning to feel her nerves tingle as they approached Aston, so she blurted, “That explains your hands.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She cleared her throat. “Very strong.”

“I’m an archaeologist.”

She shook her head. “I’m unfamiliar—“

“It’s a new field,” he informed with a sudden note of enthusiasm. “I travel abroad. I spent most of life in the East and I discover things from the past.”

That gave her pause and she stared up at the strange man. “You don’t read about them?”

“No,” he replied.

It was astonishing. Discovering history through practical means? “You use your hands?”

“What does Basingstoke do with his hands?” The Duke of Aston demanded.

She jumped. How the devil had he snuck up behind them? He’d been in front just a moment ago.

“Ah!” she said with a bit too much forced pleasure. “You know each other.”

Aston’s lip curled. “We’ve met.”

“Aston is friends with my sister and her husband.”

“What a small world this is,” she proclaimed. Was she over doing it? She didn’t want Aston to think she’d been moping about since they’d last met. Nor did she wish him to think she’d turned into a mindless sheep.

“Far too small at this moment,” drawled Aston.

Basingstoke merely smiled.

Aston narrowed his eyes. “Lady Rosamund, may I have this dance.”

There it was. He wanted her. He wanted to dance with her. He wanted to hold her in his arms. Even if it seemed like it might be to give her a scolding. But he’d rejected her. He’d sent her away. And he didn’t get to just pick her up like a stone and drop her and pick her up again when he felt like it.

So, she gathered a strength which she wasn’t entirely certain she possessed. It came from somewhere deep inside. Some place which demanded she be proud of herself. “Your Grace, you do me great honor to ask. But I fear for my reputation.”

Aston’s eyes bulged. “Your
reputation
?”

She widened her eyes then batted her lashes with faux innocence. “Ladies are ruined by your mere presence, Your Grace. Or have you not heard.”

Basingstoke made a choking sound, which barely hid another laugh.

“Lady Rosamund,” Aston hissed. “If you worry so vastly for your reputation, perhaps you should pull up your gown. Or are you wearing a skirt?”

Her mouth dropped at his blatant insult.

She didn’t look down. She knew it would please him.

She’d forgotten to tug up her frock after Tony had mentioned it. And yes, she knew she was showing a good deal of cleavage but no more than was still acceptable. For goodness sake, some young ladies had actually dampened the linen of their gowns so the fabric was translucent and clung to one’s body! She hadn’t gone that far. And he was going to take umbrage with her gown?

Him?

A man with a reputation as high as a cesspit?

She cleared her throat. “Your Grace, you forget yourself. I am not your sister, your daughter, or your friend. We are but acquaintances and you have no right to censure me.”

“Your chaperone has failed to do so,” he replied dryly. “Someone must.”

She squared her shoulders. To her dismay, tears stung her eyes. He was being so bloody cold. And in absolute truth, she was doing no more than was allowed to her. She hadn’t engaged in behavior she should be ashamed of and, even if she had, he had no right to say a single word. He’d given that up when he’d shown what he thought of their budding friendship.

“You sir, are the devil,” she said. Aloud.

Several heads turned towards her.

“I do not deny it,” Aston countered.

“Then I best away from you,” she fumed. “More so since my reputation seems so important to you.”

A dark-haired man suddenly appeared behind Aston and he whispered in the duke’s ear.

Aston tensed then, suddenly, he gave a tight nod. “Forgive me, Lady Rosamund. I don’t know what overcame me.”

“What man can resist Lady Rosamund?” Mr. Basingstoke suddenly said as he, too, was aware of the sudden onlookers. “We are all worshippers from afar, are we not? Like stars gazing upon the sun?”

It hit her then that the entire ball seemed transfixed by what was happening between her and Aston.

In a few moments, in a few exchanges of words. . . She was being ruined. Oh God.

The floor seemed to rush out from under her.

Just Aston’s attention and her clear verbal dueling with him had drawn the attention of the room and Mr. Basingstoke and Aston’s companion were attempting to diffuse the damage.

A laugh ripped from her throat. “Am I a goddess then?”

Aston stared then finally said, “Without doubt, my lady. And I release you to your admirers.”

But as soon as he turned and walked away, a titter of gossip went up around them.

Basingstoke stood by her. “You should have danced with him,” he said softly.

“Should I?”

“A man like that doesn’t like to be rejected.”

“Why not?” she asked softly. “He rejected me.”

Basingstoke said nothing for a long moment then took her hand in his. “He’s a duke, Lady Rosamund.”

The words were so factual. So simple. Aston was a duke and he could do and say whatever he wished.

And she? She’d simply refused to dance with him. She didn’t think he’d meant to cause this scene. Nor had she. Not really. But then again, how could it have ended differently?

Was she simply supposed to let him treat her so casually? As if she had no feelings? No heart? No soul? Was she supposed to follow his whim?

She allowed Mr. Basingstoke to escort her back to the Dowager Duchess of Hunt who was standing with Lady Gemma and Tony.

Tony looked flummoxed.

Lady Gemma’s bright eyes were as large as twin saucers. She glanced from Mr. Basingstoke to Rosamund and grinned. “He comes in handy, does he not?”

Mr. Basingstoke simply released her hand. “I’m going to slip away. I’d hate to add any more to the night’s gossip.”

“Too late,” the dowager duchess said from behind her massive silk and gold fan. “But you’re a dear boy and we thank you.”

As Mr. Basingstoke wound his way into the crowd, Rosamund asked, “That’s Cordelia’s brother?”

Lady Gemma nodded. “Oh yes. Quite the thing, is he not?”

She hadn’t even met Cordelia yet but if her brother was any indication, the new Duchess of Hunt was going to be quite singular.

“He’s certainly unique.”

“He stared at your bosoms,” Tony said sotto voce, his forehead as wrinkled as a disapproving old man.

Rosamund leaned in. “Most men do. Remember what you told me about Tom Jones and all that? I’m sure it’s something to do with urges.”

Tony let out a pained sound. “I feel like I should murder them all.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you’re too good for all of them.”

Rosamund felt tears sting her eyes. Tony hadn’t run after his father and he hadn’t castigated her for poor behavior. He was being her friend and she couldn’t appreciate it more. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Rosamund inched closer to the dowager who had showed her much attention and kindness. “Should we leave? That scene—“

“Is why we shall stay until dawn and you shall dance every dance you are asked,” the dowager cut in. “You’ve done nothing and if we run? Well, tomorrow you’ll be ruined goods, my dear. And unless you’re entirely done with polite society, I don’t think you wish that.”

Done entirely? No. She found she quite liked aspects of
ton
life. The rules? No. But she loved the energy and excitement of the whirlwind that the Hunt family had included her in.

She wasn’t about to throw that away. So, she lifted her chin and pasted a smile.

“Rosamund,” Tony gritted.

“Yes?”

“You still haven’t fixed your gown. Not a criticism, merely an observation.”

She let out a beleaguered sigh. “It’s devilish annoying being a woman, Tony. Be grateful you’re a man.”

“Oh, I am. Every day.”

“Glad to hear it.” With that, Rosamund grabbed Lady Gemma’s hand and headed for the cloak room. She wasn’t taking the risk of another encounter with the Duke of Aston.

As they laced their way through the hot room, she felt the stares. Hundreds of stares all trained on her. There was a low murmur of gossip.

With each step, she felt her confidence dissipate. She’d been having such a splendid time until he’d treated her so horribly. True, she’d meant to make him jealous. . . But he’d been horrible and loud.

Her eyes burned. Burned with tears of humiliation.

How had he done that? How had he made her feel so small? She’d never thought he could do such a thing. That anyone could.

She drew in a slow breath, head still high, and squeezed Lady Gemma’s hand. She’d be damned if she let them all hurt her.

She was made of stronger stuff than that. She was a Scot, after all.

Chapter 12

“Well, that was a bloody disaster,” announced Charles from the elaborate Oriental carpet. He lifted his head and groaned then dropped it back down.

Dawn spilled in through the curtains of his London drawing room and Aston winced.

His head pounded. He and Charles had headed to the East End, drank like bloody fish, and contemplated entertaining ladies, but Derek hadn’t been able to face it.

He loved women. He’d always loved women. As did Charles. And he’d never been one to deny himself. Much like Charles.

He gloried in their variety.

Last night, he’d felt sick at the very idea. He kept seeing Rosamund, her eyes flashing with pain and her usually rosy cream skin going very white at his words.

“How did you think it was going to go?” Derek demanded. He’d managed to throw himself onto a few cushions before the fire before succumbing to Morpheus just before dawn.

Charles shoved himself into a sitting position, crawled onto all fours, and went over to the bell pull beside the fire. Though it wasn’t his house, he didn’t seem deterred. He tugged firmly before he twisted and sat back down with a thud. “I assumed you were going to seduce her.”

“I was.”

Charles gaped then rubbed a hand over his face. “That was not a seduction, old boy. That was a death sentence. For you. For her. For any bed play between you.”

“There will be no bed play and I wouldn’t go so far as a death sentence. It was a trifle awkward perhaps.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You called her a whore in front of everyone.”

Derek sat up now, defensive. “I didn’t.”

Charles pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it from a long, slim piece of wood kept by the fire which still glowed. “You questioned her reputation. Same thing. You. The worst rake of rakes. Why?”

Derek shifted again, trying to recall the exact details. “She wouldn’t dance with me.”

Charles blew a puff of smoke into the air. “I beg your pardon, but what is your age again?”

Derek arched a brow. “Old enough.”

“Well, you acted like a babe in the nursery. You’re a master with women, Aston. What the hell happened?”

Derek didn’t like sharing intimate details of his inner workings. But he had to speak about it, he supposed, if he’d really made such a muck of it. “She happened.”

“I don’t follow.”

“She does things to me. . .”

“Are you in love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It seems to be going around.” Charles shuddered with mock horror. “Damned frightening. My brother, his friend. I’m going to have to start drinking tonics and carrying a posset to ward off the disease.”

Derek snorted. “I have not fallen in love. I do not succumb to such things.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t afford to.

“I just admire her. Very much.”

“You’ve a damned odd way of showing it.”

The sound of the townhouse door opening had Derek glancing at the drawing room door. It was damned early for a caller.

The murmur of voices suggested that Benson, the butler, was about to enter with whoever had arrived.

The door swung open and Tony strode in, his usually affable face dark as thunder.

The lad was still in his evening kit.

As always, his heart swelled with pleasure at the sight of the young man who’d given his life meaning. Derek bounded up from the floor, despite his pounding head, and went to embrace his son.