The Confessions of a Duchess (9 page)

“The law can be opposed in the courts,” she said frostily.

“Ah, I see.” Dexter’s smile broadened. “You intend to spend a fortune you do not possess on lawyers to thwart Sir Montague?”

“It is the principle of the matter that counts,” Laura said.

“And you are such a principled person.” Dexter felt a stab of anger at her hypocrisy.

“As are you, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said, her contemptuous gaze sweeping the room full of debutantes and making her meaning explicitly clear. “An excellent way to save time—combining your search for a bride and a mistress in one place!” As the intensity of their exchange had increased so had they drawn closer together and now Dexter realized that they were almost touching. He could see all the little flecks of gold in Laura’s hazel eyes and the shadow of each individual eyelash against her skin. The curve of her cheek would fit so neatly into the caress of his palm, just as her lips had fitted his as though they had been made for that very purpose. He wanted to kiss her again with all the abandonment he had felt earlier. As soon as he thought it he ached for it.

Both of them had forgotten Miles, who was watching this interchange with eyebrows raised.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, “I can see that you do not need me here. I think I shall seek out the card room.”

Dexter saw the shock in Laura’s eyes as she realized how far she had let their exchange go. She wrenched her attention from him. One of her gloved hands crept up to her throat. He could see that she was shaking slightly. The diamonds on her bodice shimmered with each unsteady breath she took and he felt the same shocking uncertainty sweep through him. He had lost himself, forgotten everything in the potency of that moment with her.

A crash and the babble of voices cut across the hum of noise in the room and both of them turned with relief to see that Sir Montague Fortune had come into the ballroom with his brother, Tom, and had been the immediate recipient of a glass of lemonade full in the face. The perpetrator of this outrage was an extremely pretty young lady who looked barely out of the schoolroom. Tom Fortune, a wicked-looking young man who possessed all the humor that his brother lacked, was laughing as he shook the stray drops of liquid from his coat.

“Monty!” the debutante shrieked. “How
dare
you plot to steal my money, you great oaf? I’ll see you pay for this!”

“Have you met Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, Sir Montague’s half sister?” Laura inquired.

“Her mother was married first to Sir Montague’s father and then after his death to the Earl of Scarlet. Lizzie is Sir Montague’s ward now that her parents are both dead. He has, naturally enough, upset her with his money-grabbing plan. They have a somewhat volatile relationship.”

“I would never have guessed,” Dexter said. He shook his head disapprovingly. “I should think Sir Montague
deserves
half her fortune in return for having to put up with such a hoyden as a sister.”

Laura tutted. “What a stuffed shirt you sound, Mr. Anstruther, six and twenty going on six and seventy. Clearly Lady Elizabeth is one you will need to cross off your list of eligible females. I see what Miles means when he claims you are too particular.” Dexter looked at her suspiciously. “What makes you think that I would have a list, your grace?” he asked.

Laura’s hazel eyes sparkled with malicious amusement. “It is the sort of thing you would do. Groundwork, preparation, research…” She waved a dismissive hand. “Those are your trademarks, are they not, Mr. Anstruther? Of course you would have a list. You are the sort of man who thinks he has everything organized only to see it spiral spectacularly and inexplicably out of control.”

Her appraisal was so uncannily accurate that Dexter was silenced for a moment.

They both watched as a servant rushed out with a cloth for Sir Montague to mop his face and another to clean up the pools of lemonade on the floor.

“Surely you cannot condone Lady Elizabeth’s actions?” Dexter said. “They hardly accord with the idea of public propriety that you yourself pretend to embrace so heartily.” Laura gave him an unfriendly look. “You are correct, of course,” she said. “I do not condone the throwing of lemonade. It can stain wooden floors very badly.” She watched Sir Montague retire from the room, dabbing ineffectually at his face and clothing with the large white napkin, and sighed.

“Retreating in disarray,” she remarked. “If only the war could be won as easily as this first battle.”

Suddenly she turned fully to face him.

“If you think to find your innocent little bride here in Fortune’s Folly, you should think again, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said. She tapped her closed fan in the palm of her gloved hand in a gesture that betrayed her irritation. “It would be a mistake.” Dexter moved closer to her. She seemed uncomfortable with his proximity and tried to move away but the press of the crowd in the assembly rooms was great now, pushing them together. Her body brushed his, the rub of her skirts sensuous against his thigh.

Dexter could feel the heat of her through the thin silk and feel also the tiny quiver that racked her as their bodies touched. It incited a jolt of lust straight through him, a molten hunger sufficient to banish all thoughts of logic and sense and conjure visions of tangled drapes and of Laura’s pale nakedness in the moonlight.

“I am fascinated to discover that you take such an interest in my wedding plans, your grace,” he said softly.

The pink color stained Laura’s cheeks with both anger and reluctant arousal.

“I have no interest in either you or your plans,” she said sharply, stepping back as the crowd shifted a little. “I speak only to warn you, Mr. Anstruther. We want no fortune hunters here.”

“And you are certain,” Dexter said, “that you have no personal concern in my case?” Laura laughed shortly. “You have a remarkably good opinion of yourself, Mr.

Anstruther. Why should I care? I did not seek you out this evening. I do not look for the company of a man hypocritical enough to censure
me
for my behavior and then adhere to a double standard himself.” She flicked her fan angrily. “You are just like all the rest, are you not, Mr. Anstruther? As I said earlier, you seek a biddable wife and a complaisant mistress simultaneously.”

Dexter laughed. “No one,” he said politely, “could call you complaisant, your grace.”

“No one will call me your mistress, either!” Laura snapped, her hazel eyes narrowing disdainfully. “And as for the biddable wife, I suggest you forget her, too, and leave Yorkshire at once. I am persuaded that you are far better suited to London. Besides—” she gave her fan another angry swish “—you will have a deal of trouble finding a lady willing to entertain your suit if you put fishing before your bride, as you seem inclined to do.

Surely you are aware that real men do not fish?”

Dexter gave her a look that brought the hot blood surging back into her face. “I have had no complaints, madam,” he said. “You were the one who rejected a real man earlier because you could not deal with him.”

He saw her eyes widen with shock at this outrageous and deliberate provocation.

“Why, you—”

She raised her hand and his fingers closed tightly about her wrist.

“Surely you would not strike me in public?” His tone was soft and mocking. He drew her resisting body closer to his, feeling the heat in her and the tension and the anger. His own body was taut; the need for her pounding in his veins, destroying all good sense or cool thought.

“What scandalous behavior that would be from the perfect Dowager Duchess of Cole,” he said. “Are you willing to smash that public facade, your grace, or shall I do it for you?”

For a moment they stared deep into each other’s eyes and he saw the fury in the depths of hers, and also the shadow of fear that he might just do as he threatened and kiss her here, now, in front of the assembled crowds. He imagined what it would be like to bend her back like a bow against his encircling arm, to take that tempting mouth with his, to drink from her until he was finally sated. Not the actions of a man seeking a conformable wife, perhaps, but very definitely those of a man driven mad with lust by a wanton.

Laura wrenched her wrist from his grasp and took a step back. Her face was flushed as pink as a blown rose and her eyes were bright.

“You forget yourself, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “Where is your self-control?” She smoothed her skirts down with a quick, nervous gesture and Dexter felt a savage satisfaction to see her hands shaking slightly.

“I came over in the first place only to see Miles,” she said quietly. “Next time I find you standing beside him, I shall move on.”

“So you say,” Dexter said, “but your cousin is long gone—” he nodded across the room to where Miles could be seen in the doorway to the refreshment room, engaging Alice Lister in conversation “—yet you are still here with me in spite of your suggestion that we avoid one another.”

Laura chewed her lush lower lip. “That can be easily remedied. Good evening, Mr.

Anstruther. I hope you will return home soon. You belong in London where your feckless, libertine habits will be more appreciated.”

She turned sharply on her heel and walked away from him and Dexter took a deep breath and allowed the tension to ease from his body. The blood still drummed through his veins with an insistent lustful beat but he felt chilled, as well.

“Your feckless libertine habits…”

He was more like his father than he had thought, more like him than he wanted to be.

He barely recognized himself when he was with Laura. He lost control and his need for her seemed to distort all else.

He watched as Sir Jasper Deech slithered across to ambush Laura on her way to the door. Lord Armitage hovered in the wings, waiting for an opportunity to cut in on the pair of them. Tom Fortune actually blew her a kiss across the ballroom. Dexter’s temper tightened to think that all those men probably viewed Laura as a widow who might provide the sort of amatory entertainments that would ease the tedium of courting a virginal heiress.

Perhaps they imagined that they might woo a debutante during the day and sport with a widow at night. Perhaps she might welcome their advances. The fact that he knew it should not matter to him just made it matter all the more.

“Feckless libertine…”

Laura’s voice was like a mocking whisper in Dexter’s mind. He clenched his fists.

Hell and the devil. He had come to Fortune’s Folly with the simple aim of investigating a case for Lord Liverpool and finding an heiress bride if he could. How had matters become so complicated so quickly? He had no desire for any of the insipid misses who flocked the ballroom and an all-too-strong desire for the Dowager Duchess of Cole. But indulging in a liaison with Laura was impossible. Besides, it was the type of thing that he, Dexter Anstruther, simply did not do these days. Losing his head, kissing Laura, burning to make love to her—these were the actions of a previous life. They were not the behavior of the responsible, principled man who sought nothing more than a well-ordered existence and a biddable bride.

He saw Lord Armitage lean close to leer down Laura’s gown under the guise of kissing her hand. He felt a primal and possessive fury almost swallow him whole. Was he to call out every last libertine in Fortune’s Folly? Because if they laid a finger on Laura Cole, that was exactly what he was afraid he would do and that would not be the action of a rational man.

He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, trying to loosen it a little. He had no idea what was making him think like this. It was utterly out of character. Hell, he was out of control already. And for a man who prided himself on his sound judgment it was inexplicable. He had no idea where it would end.

LAURA SURREPTITIOUSLY PRESSED her hands together as she walked away across the ballroom. Her palms felt hot within her evening gloves. Her whole body felt strangely sensitive, her skin prickling and a curl of excitement as well as a barb of anger still deep in her stomach. The impulse to turn round and look back at Dexter Anstruther was so strong that she could barely resist it.

What on earth was wrong with her? As Duchess of Cole she had entertained princes and dignitaries. She had not enjoyed it but the point was that she had fulfilled her role with grace and charm. She had never allowed any man to shake her composure.

Dexter could get under her skin with the slightest word, undermine her with the smallest touch. His presence was like a prickle in the blood, aggravating, provocative, impossible to ignore. She could not bear it. It tormented her. She had sworn to keep away from him and yet he had been right—she had sought his company deliberately and there was no point in pretending otherwise. It was foolish, it was dangerous and it felt irresistible.

She rubbed her wrist where he had held her. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin and felt an echo of that touch in the hot silken coil of desire in her belly.

She wanted to turn around and grab Dexter. She wanted to drag him from the ballroom and take him to her bed and make love to him until they were both exhausted and the torment was soothed at last. She had felt like that from the very first moment she had seen him that evening. She had pretended barely to notice him but it had been precisely that—a pretense.

He had looked very smooth and elegant in his black evening coat and pristine white linen, his tawny fair hair cut in a Brutus crop—she imagined that a longer style would demonstrate too little order and restraint—and the planes of his face harder and leaner than she remembered. And yet despite the outward control there was something about Dexter that she recognized instinctively because it was in her, too. It was the wildness beneath the surface, the danger and the power that no amount of elegant black superfine could subdue.

Dexter might be determined to impose discipline on his life because of the chaos of his family background but there was a passion in him strong enough to shatter any barriers. He was denying his true self.

She understood him, and that made her feel a treacherous affinity with him. But that affinity was illusory. He thought her heartless for the way she had treated him in the past and she would allow him to continue to believe it because it enabled her to keep her secrets safe from him. She needed to remember Hattie and that it was essential to protect her. She could not risk exposure of her daughter’s secret. Keeping Dexter out of her life was an absolute necessity. She should be finding eligible females for him and throwing them at his feet so that she would be free of his troubling presence in her life. But the idea of Dexter finding a conformable wife turned a knife in her. She felt damnably bad-tempered to imagine it.