The Devil In Disguise (8 page)

“But—” the dower one said more loudly.

“A bit of fresh air would be most welcome,” Lady Lucinda swiftly responded, taking Will’s hand and standing.

“Well, I … that is to say …” the dower one protested, her fan at the ready.

“Dearest Victoria, we’ll send Mary along with her cape and gloves to chaperone,” the brazen one said soothingly.

Will didn’t dare look in “dearest” Victoria’s direction. Instead, he stood aside to let Lady Lucinda walk ahead of him, then bowing to the remaining ladies, hastily gave his thanks, and followed her out of the room.

He attempted to shut the door but encountered resistance.

The brazen one stuck her head out and eyed Will with a hawklike stare. “I believe I see in you what others do not, Your Grace. Please, do not prove me wrong.”

And with that, she disappeared behind the door and firmly shut it.

Lucinda was rather proud of herself. She’d made it nearly across the street before letting out the laugh that had been bubbling in her throat for the last five minutes.

The duke had no more handled her aunts than had anyone else in the history of the world.

His smug smile of success all but melted away at the sound of Lucinda’s laughter. “Lady Lucinda, I can’t imagine what you find so amusing,” he said with mock affront, the flash of amusement in his eyes belying his tone.

Lucinda couldn’t help but find him charming. He was so large, yet so like an adorable little boy at times. She very nearly reached out to caress his cheek, but thought better of it.

“Come now, Your Grace. It really wasn’t that bad.” Despite her best efforts to remain solemn, she couldn’t prevent a smile from curving her lips. “It was your first meeting with them, after all, and there were three of them and only one of you. Perhaps a few more sessions at Gentleman John Jackson’s and you’ll be ready for another round?”

“Impertinent chit,” the duke said under his breath, taking care to escort Lucinda into the central garden area of Grosvenor Square.

Lucinda glanced over her shoulder. Mary had settled into a leisurely pace behind them, slow enough to allow a comfortable conversation, yet fast enough to insure that the duke would not pull Lucinda into the bushes and have his way with her. Or dash behind a tree with her in tow and steal a kiss. Or anything of the kind. Which Lucinda most certainly did not want to happen. Ever. At least not today.

Well, she was fairly certain anyway.

Why had she not refused when Bessie had suggested a stroll? Because she’d been caught up in his charm, in his smile, in his eyes, which changed from cool hazel to heated green depending upon what he was thinking. What he was feeling.

And just what
was
he feeling, Lucinda found herself wondering, not for the first time.

Drat! This was not like her at all. If this were any other man—Lord Cuthbert, for example—she would not be strolling with him. Nor would she have spent one moment wondering whether he’d enjoyed his tea, never mind suffering curiosity as to his thoughts about her.

This was ludicrous. This was madness.

“Lady Lucinda,” the duke said for what was clearly the second or perhaps even third time.

“Hmmm,” Lucinda said belatedly, still struggling to marshal her thoughts.

“I’ve commented on the weather,” he said. “Twice.”

Lucinda abruptly stopped and stepped to one side of the path. She beckoned him closer. “Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve something to ask you.”

He leaned in a bit, his broad shoulders blocking her. “In relation to the weather?”

Lucinda huffed out a breath. “No, not exactly. That is to say, not at all.”

“I see. Well, let me gather my wits first,” he responded, squeezing his eyes shut, visibly bracing himself before opening his eyes. “All right, I believe I am ready.”

Annoyed, Lucinda frowned at him. “This is a serious matter.”

“I can see that,” he said. “I apologize. Now, the question,” he finished, the twinkle in his eyes nearly stopping Lucinda from speaking.

“What are your intentions?” she asked plainly.

She could see that she’d taken him by surprise, all of the humor disappearing from his face.

“With regards to?”

“Me. That is to say,” Lucinda began, somewhat nervously, “us. You and me, and this, this …”

The duke looked amused. “ ‘Courtship,’ I believe is the word you’re searching for.”

“Yes, precisely,” she said, somewhat relieved that he appeared to be blunt as well. “I understand that you’ve nothing to lose—”

“What of King Solomon’s Mine?” he interrupted.

“Oh, well, of course. But I mean of a more personal nature, such as your reputation or, well, your heart, if I may be so bold,” she answered, vaguely shocked by her honesty. Though at this point, she thought, really—what was the point in speaking in circles when she’d broached such a forbidden topic?

He didn’t respond, only stared, his eyes deepening in hue as they searched hers.

“I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” she asked, feeling oddly shy. She looked at the ground, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze as he appeared to consider her question.

“No, not in the least,” he said at last, his deep voice strangely soft. His hand was warm when he cupped her chin, tipping her face up so that she was looking at him once more. “I prefer honesty, but I’ve found it to be a rare quality in a woman.”

She exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath, awaiting his reply.

That his opinion should matter so much made her uncomfortable. It was also unsettling that his disregard for society’s rules governing male behavior seemed to coax her into behaving in ways she could only term improper.

Before this, only Amelia had been aware of Lucinda’s “occasionally unruly nature”. Even as a child, Lucinda had instinctively hidden that part of herself from the world. And though she enjoyed much of her life as Lady Lucinda Grey, she was always aware that beneath the silks, satins, and jewels she wore, there smoldered a hidden desire to be more than the proper lady the world expected.

Amelia would turn pale and quite possibly faint if she were privy to the conversation taking place between Lucinda and Iron Will.

The proper gentlemen of her acquaintance expected her to be above reproach, the perfect lady. What was she to do with a man who expected her to be only herself?

“Now, to answer your question, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said, lowering his hand and taking her arm to turn her back onto the path.

The duke tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, lessening the distance between their bodies as they walked. “It’s no secret that every eldest male Clairemont throughout history has been expected to marry and continue the ducal line.”

He looked out over the well-groomed park, his profile turned to her as he took in the shrubs that lined the walkways, the expanses of clipped grass, the strolling couples and nursemaids with their charges.

“And I like you, Lady Lucinda,” he continued after a long moment. “You have a mind and you use it. You make me laugh, which I enjoy immensely. And though I feel sure that you’ve heard it a thousand times before, you are beautiful.”

He turned his head to look down at her, pinning her with an intense glance. Lucinda couldn’t look away. Tension spun between them, heightening with each moment. The unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability surfaced up yet again.

“I’ve no intent to court you for sport,” he resumed, pulling her from her thoughts. “I may be voracious and varied in my many appetites, Lady Lucinda, but in this I am single-minded and focused. You have my word.”

She knew to the core of her being that she trusted him. After all, his line of reasoning did make perfect sense; a duke must marry, must have a son to carry on the family line. But beyond that, she sensed that William Randall, the Duke of Clairemont, meant what he said.

And though her intent was to walk away with only King Solomon’s Mine after their time together, somehow knowing that he liked her—truly liked her, despite her candor and intelligence—made all the difference.

Lucinda relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the fine spring day. It was early yet, too early, really, for the more sophisticated set to be out and about, which made their walk even more enjoyable. In truth, when in residence at her country estate, Lucinda often walked for miles in the morning, the stillness of a world that had yet to completely awaken providing a stark contrast to her usual routine of social events and obligations.

Though she’d never admitted it to anyone but Amelia, at times Lucinda chafed from all that went with her place in society. She was far too practical a person to suppose that she would be happy as a squire’s wife, but the lure of somehow being free of all of society’s expectations that accompanied being titled, rich, and well-bred could be oh so intoxicating.

Perhaps this, in part, was what she liked so well in the duke. His utter disdain for the ton’s stricture and society in general was—well, to be quite honest, most refreshing. It was something Lucinda secretly admired.

Regardless, she knew that if even a modicum of proper behavior was to be maintained, it clearly would be her place to set the standards.

If she could.

She eased away from His Grace, putting several more inches of space between them—and instantly missed his warmth.

“Now I’ve offended you,” he said in a low tone before tipping his hat and rumbling a greeting to Lady Foxbury as her carriage rolled by in the street. The matron’s eyes widened with shock as she returned the polite gesture.

Lucinda nodded to Lady Foxbury, quickening her pace when her polite greeting was returned. “Not precisely, no,” she answered. “You’ve surprised me, certainly. But this way of speaking one’s mind plainly is something I’m beginning to enjoy.”

And something I could easily become accustomed to
, she thought.

“In that case,” the duke returned, pulling her closer yet again, “let me be perfectly frank and tell you that I much prefer you by my side than several steps distant.”

Lucinda laughed, knowing her rebellious body also enjoyed the nearness of his much taller, broader frame. “Your Grace, though I understand you’ve been out of polite society for some time, I suspect you recall what is considered appropriate behavior while courting a lady. This,” she said, motioning to the distance she was currently putting between them, “is acceptable. I will not have my reputation sullied for the sake of a horse.”

His disgruntled growl should have frightened Lucinda, but she found herself amused and charmed, even when he frowned at her.

“So it’s the horse alone that convinced you to allow me to court you?” he asked.

Lucinda chided herself for the delight she seemed to be finding in every tiny detail about this very large man. Why on earth was she amused when he voiced his displeasure? Why did she not feel threatened by his obvious irritation instead of noticing that his eyes appeared more green than hazel when he wore a green waistcoat?

She shrugged mentally. Surely what she was feeling was a normal reaction to a very handsome man.

“It is King Solomon’s Mine that holds my heart, Your Grace,” she answered, then added, “his is, after all, quite a horse.”

“Quite a horse indeed,” Will muttered, landing a punishing blow on his sparring partner’s jaw and sending him to the mat.

“My apologies, Dinsford.” He pulled the man to his feet and propped him up in the corner.

The young man massaged his jaw and grinned at Will. “It’s me own fault. Shouldn’t’a taught ya the right hook.”

Will smiled, taking a towel hanging on a peg in the wall. He wiped the sweat from his arms and bare chest, the pounding exchange of the last hour beginning to make itself felt.

“Something on your mind?”

Will turned slowly and saw Carmichael seated in the shadows against the wall. “I was just about to ask you the same question, old man.” He bent to shake his wet hair before rubbing his head with the damp towel. “You’ve been sitting there for nearly an hour without a word. That’s quite an accomplishment for you,” he finished, grinning.

Carmichael merely wiped at a bead of moisture that had somehow made its way to his immaculate breeches and stood. “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”

“I hope the ale is to your liking.” Will motioned for his superior to follow him.

Carmichael sidestepped a burly man lifting what looked to be two sacks full of grain tied to a long pole, before answering, “I suppose it will have to.”

The two men moved toward the edge of the shadowy room, where a table was simply laid with pitchers of ale and tin tankards.

“I see the aristocracy has invaded your pugilistic paradise,” Carmichael began, filling a tankard for himself.

Will let out a growl of disgust. “Every ham-fisted idiot with all his teeth wants to lose a few of them here. What was wrong with a bucket and ladle, I’ll never know.”

He filled his tankardand took a swig, swishing it about in his mouth then spitting into the empty pitcher, the ale tinged with his blood.

“You might want to hold on to some of that.”

Will set the container back on the table and joined Carmichael on the raised plank seating built to afford an unobstructed view of where the men boxed. “Didn’t you kow? I’ve an endless supply of blood.”

Carmichael quirked a brow then unobtrusively took in their surroundings, his gaze sharp. Apparently satisfied that they wouldn’t be overheard, he looked at Will. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Does anything happen in London that you are not instantly aware of?” Will asked sarcastically.

“No. That’s the whole point. Now brief me on Lady Lucinda.”

Will waited until the pugilists in the ring resumed their match. The cheers of the men seated on the benches farther down the room, combined with the thuds from fists hitting muscle and grunts of pain provided cover for his answer. “Against her better judgment, she’s agreed to let me court her.”

“I told you she’d fall for your brawny charm.”

Will gave Carmichael a piercing look before taking a drink. “Think again, old man. I had to offer King Solomon’s Mine.”