The Third Duke's the Charm (9 page)

His father nodded brusquely. “He and Vivian will be married in two weeks. The engagement has been announced and wedding plans are set.”

That took a moment to sink in. Charles blinked, his first reaction an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Not because he felt for Vivian the sort of passion he did for his wife, but because she was his best friend and he wasn’t used to sharing her. He’d always wondered how he’d feel when she married. That was part of why he had agreed to the engagement.

The second realization was that for whatever reason, he wasn’t as surprised as he should be.

Lucien. Marrying? Of course, he was thirty-two, so it was time he set up his nursery, but choosing someone like Vivian who was nothing like the glamorous
ton
beauties who vied for his attention was going to shock society. Charles
,
who knew them both so well, should be . . . astonished.

But he wasn’t.

Casting back, he recalled with sudden clarity more than one conversation he’d had with his older brother where her name had been brought up, and an oblique line of questioning about the nature of his relationship with her, which had been uncharacteristic on Lucien’s part, for he never discussed his lovers. At the time, Charles had followed the same course and not elaborated on whether or not their friendship was physical as well as emotional, thinking he was playing the gentleman.

No wonder Lucien wanted to know if they were lovers. Why hadn’t he seen it before? He wanted Vivian for himself and he certainly hadn’t wasted any time the moment the opportunity arose, had he?
Once again
, Charles couldn’t help but think ironically,
Lucien is the hero to my villain
.

He hoped to hell Vivian was happy about the switch in bridegrooms. He couldn’t imagine her mother allowing her to refuse an offer from a marquess, but if she didn’t wish to marry Lucien . . .

Charles would interfere on her behalf. She had certainly put
his
happiness first. It was the least he could do, though he wasn’t sure just how he could help.

Did Lucien realize that Vivian wanted to marry for love? In their society it was an idealistic concept, but then again, Charles had done so.

“That is,” he murmured, “interesting news.”

Chapter
Nine

It was quite a grand entrance. A long staircase, glittering guests, and a full orchestra . . .

The last thing she wanted.

And the gown . . . well, Vivian had to admit that at least it was a triumph of sorts, a deep emerald green that she found when she looked in the mirror exactly matched her eyes as the duchess had claimed it would. It also had a lower décolletage than any garment she’d ever worn and made her waist look impossibly small, emphasizing her bosom. How the duchess had managed to arrange for it be ready so quickly was a salute to her influence and the power of wealth, no doubt.

“That gown suits you.” Lucien guided her into the room after they had been announced, his hand cupping her elbow. He looked vaguely bored, which was an aristocratic skill she needed to cultivate but had never accomplished. The crowd made her nervous as she had never particularly liked close spaces. Not that the room wasn’t huge, but the milling people made it feel inadequate in size.

“I must confess I didn’t choose it.”

“That, I have already gathered,” he said with a hint of humor. “Now that you are under the wing of the infinitely intimidating, brow-beating, and otherwise immovable force known as the Dowager Duchess of Eddington, you will no doubt become immensely fashionable overnight. She will have it no other way. And I must admit, though my impression is that you would rather wear something unobtrusive, she is going to prevail. And as an admiring male, I am on her side.”

“It appears to be so,” she muttered. She had never been good at accepting compliments, but his words did cause a slight flush to her skin. “When did you and she join forces to bedevil my life?”

He laughed. It was low, and the husky timbre was intimate as he had to lean closer to answer. “There was no collusion, trust me. She came to me and suggested in a way that brooked no refusal that she could step in and make you a very fashionable future marchioness. I’ve been hoping you would forgive me. Please remember, I liked you quite well just the way you were.”

It was odd, Vivian thought, how comfortable she was in his presence. She had met many men during her four unendurable seasons and not one of them stirred her interest in a romantic sense. He was not just dazzlingly handsome, but also refreshingly not like the fawning fops, or even worse, the coldly intent men who simply wanted a dowered wife from a good family.

It might be an illusion, but she felt he was interested in
her
.

Not with the same sense of companionship she had with Charles, but more of a strange flutter in the pit of her stomach when he looked at her like he was now, his gaze intent.

“Considering there is currently no swath of lace across my chest,” she said without thinking, “you are forgiven.”

“No, there isn’t.” He inspected the exposed upper curves of her breasts as if they were not in a crowded ballroom, the perusal leisurely. “I approve of the duchess’s taste very much.”

His impudent smile hinted at flirtation, and she was on uncertain ground once again, but it was nice to realize that he didn’t actually expect her to come back with a clever, arch comment.

Instead she said lamely, “Thank you.”

“Take no notice of anyone watching us.” He leaned in close to say the words, an intimate moment in the least of intimate surroundings, his breath warm against her ear. “Otherwise, they’ll eat you alive. You knew the evening would be this way since our engagement has been announced, so smile at me now and then, rest safe in the knowledge I will not make you dance if you don’t wish it, drink some tepid champagne, and enjoy yourself.”

If only he knew. “I can try,” she muttered. She’d never, ever enjoyed herself at one of these events, but she had to admit that it was nice to see the gentlemen sending startled, admiring glances her way, and though she wasn’t sure it said much for her character, to notice the ladies gazing at her with a trace of envy for a change. No doubt, she realized with an inner cynicism that had been honed by four unsuccessful seasons, Lucien Caverleigh was the reason.

Had anyone in the dark days of her worst failure as a debutante told her that one day London’s most eligible—and gorgeously handsome—bachelor would escort her into a ball as his fiancée, she would have collapsed in incredulous laughter.

She had to admit he was rather splendid in full evening kit, his dark hair curling at his collar, his cravat tied in an intricate knot, the stark black and white of his attire accentuating his elegant good looks. Taller than most of the men in the room, he did draw the eye, and it wasn’t just the fine bone structure of his face or the flash of his smile, but he was every inch the ducal heir in public, she was beginning to realize. Assured, confident, magnetic.

Then why the devil had he chosen her of all the dazzling women in the room to be his bride?

She didn’t understand it. It had been that way from the very beginning, but this evening, she decided as she squared her shoulders and prepared to take his advice, was not the time to worry over it.

Perhaps, for the first time, she might just enjoy a ball. After all, she wasn’t under her mother’s critical eye and expected to win a suitor, she wasn’t forced to try to politely turn down every invitation to dance, and she wasn’t even obliged to smile and pretend she was having a good time when in fact, she was nothing less than miserable.

Oddly enough, with Lucien at her side, she wasn’t miserable at all.

“I adore tepid champagne,” she added, raising her brows. “If you would care to get me a glass.”

Lucien laughed, his face lighting. “That’s the spirit I was trying to revive. When we crossed the threshold, you were all too quiet.”

“I am not as good at this as you.”

“As good at what as me?”

“Your feigned indifference to all the attention.”

He’d turned, but he stopped dead, and since the orchestra had just struck up a tune, it was difficult to hear the words when he asked, “What makes you think it is feigned?”

Why had she said it? She wasn’t even sure, but through Charles she maybe knew more about him than he realized. “Is it?”

For a moment he studied her, and then he merely quirked a brow. “Let me get you that glass. I’ll return in a moment.”

An enigmatic answer to be sure, but then again, it had been a somewhat naïve question. Vivian stood there, hoping that Lillian was in attendance, which meant at least one friendly face.

“May I offer my congratulations on your engagement, Miss Lacrosse?”

She turned, recognized the woman addressing her as Lady Vickers, who was not only opulently beautiful this evening in a deep blue gown with a daring neckline, but an incorrigible gossip, and braced herself. She’d been beneath notice before this evening, but everything had changed, hadn’t it?

“Thank you.” Vivian knew she wasn’t a match for the countess when it came to verbal sparring, but then again, she had never aspired to be.

Cool blue eyes regarded her with an unmistakable level of assessment. “What a lovely gown. Did Lucien choose it for you?”

The use of his first name was calculated, of that she had no doubt, but she refused to let the shimmer of dismay show if possible. “Actually, no.”

“Ah, I just wondered. He has,”—there was a calculated pause—“such exquisite taste.”

It wasn’t a compliment and Vivian was at least experienced enough to recognize that hint of malice. “Usually, you mean,” she countered with dry humor.

The affected shock was balanced by what might be a gleam of respect in Lady Vickers’s eyes. “There was no implied insult.”

“I agree.” Implied didn’t do the insult justice. Vivian adjusted her glove on her upper arm, trying to summon even a smidgen of Lucien’s indifference. One hundredth maybe, was all she achieved. Luckily, at that moment, a deep voice interrupted the conversation.

“I found a footman with a tray close by. This is for you, my dear.” A glass of champagne was pressed into her hand and Vivian welcomed it as a distraction, taking a satisfying and no doubt unladylike gulp.

He said coolly, “Good evening, Cat. Are the claws out or are you just curious? If it is the latter, we’ve already had the conversation.”

***

It was unusual for him.

He felt . . . different.

Protective. Maybe even a little possessive as well because Vivian looked stunning in her new gown, her glossy dark hair dressed sleekly for once, the emerald green accentuating not only her unusual eyes, but the flawless purity of her fair skin. Though he wasn’t quite sure what the duchess’s motives were, he was very much in favor of her interference.

And just as wary of Catherine’s swift descent, rather like a hawk circling a dove.

She wasn’t alone either in noticing Vivian’s transformation. To his annoyance, he’d noted more than one male glance directed at his fiancée.

Catherine looked at him with a mixture of amusement and defiance. “Both. I hope you don’t mind, darling.”

“You are, as ever, shameless, so I don’t know if I don’t mind so much as I am resigned.” He smiled, but he hoped there was adequate warning in his eyes.

As usual, her good behavior couldn’t be assured. Catherine merely reached out and took his glass of champagne from his hand, her smile as mischievous as always. “It is only natural I’d want to be the one to greet the happy couple first, isn’t it? After all, we are
old
friends.”

“
Very
old friends,” he countered, surrendering the glass rather than wrestling over it, which might be exactly what she wanted. He’d rather have a stiff brandy anyway if this was what the evening was going to be like.

“Are you commenting on my age?”

“Not at all.”

Vivian watched the byplay, he saw, with interest, her green eyes narrowed slightly over the rim of her glass.

This was the time, if she were any other woman, that he would simply excuse them to the dance floor. But she didn’t dance, and he’d given his word he wouldn’t ask . . .
and why the hell couldn’t this be a bit more simple
?

Instead he found a marvelous excuse, the inspiration coming from the delicate pattern of leaves—a nice touch he would have to tell the duchess—embroidered on Vivian’s dress. He said smoothly, “It is always lovely to see you, Cat, but there is a specific flower Vivian must see in the gardens here. It is part of the reason she wanted to attend.”

The botanist approach was actually effective, for Catherine blinked as if unsure as to how to respond, and he took the opportunity to guide Vivian away, flagging down another footman who conveniently crossed their path with a tray. “It seems to me I might need this on this particular occasion. Shall we step outside as she hastens to spread the word on the reason why? I warn you, now you must find some unusual blossom to gape over.”

To her credit, when any other woman might be affronted by Catherine’s boldness and the allusion to their previous relationship, Vivian laughed. It was a light, musical sound, and he found her resilience to be as attractive as her person, for any other woman might have been—and perhaps even should have been—outraged.

“Gaping sounds unladylike, my lord, but I shall strive to do so. What shall I select? A petunia? A daisy? Perhaps there is a particularly fetching piece of moss on a rock. That one we know absolutely we can get away with, for no one else here will have the slightest inkling of what it might be if we declare it to be something unusual.”

It was impossible not to laugh. “You are remarkably inventive, Miss Lacrosse.”

Remarkable in general, he thought. He wanted to say so, to tell her as much but he had to admit to a newfound insecurity. Love should never be one-sided and he was having trouble separating his sexual desire for her from his intellectual fascination. Did she in the slightest feel the same way? There was no doubt whatsoever that her parents thought he was an excellent catch. Is that why she had agreed to marry him?

Vivian might have some uncertainties but evidently so did he, and he’d never, ever thought of himself in that light.

He
wanted
her to want him. In fact, he needed to know she did.

“I’ve been avoiding crushes like this one for years on one pretense or another,” she said with a pragmatic shrug.

He declined to comment, though he knew it to be true. “I prefer a less crowded venue myself.”

“Then why are we here?”

It was a valid question. “A bow to conventionality, I suppose.” He ushered her through the French doors to the terrace overlooking the gardens, admiring the graceful nape of her neck. “It is what we’ve been told our entire lives we are supposed to do. It is hardly endemic to our class only. In the countryside they have fairs and dances and gather in much the same way. Human beings are social creatures.”

“I prefer plants myself.” She stopped at the balustrade and gazed out over the shadowed recesses of the formal gardens. “For living things, they are so . . . peaceful to me. Though I admit they do battle with another. Some grow and multiply quickly to choke out the others, some climb and cling until they suffocate, some have thorns or other poisons. Did you know there is supposed to be a plant in the wilds of the southern Americas that produces a noxious smell of decay to lure in insects and actually devours them?”

Hardly romantic flirtation, but then again, Lucien found her enthusiasm amusing and her lack of artifice as charming as usual. “I do not think I have ever heard of such a thing, no. You are apparently more widely read on the subject than myself.”

“It’s quite fascinating.”

So was she. In fact, he found himself studying with great anticipation the soft curve of her lips. Would she show as much passion in bed as she did for her precious hobby? If it proved to be true, he was a very lucky man.

“Shall we walk? We are supposed to be looking at some sort of special vegetation, so we should explore the gardens.”

“A very sound idea, my lord.”

The sound idea was to get her alone on the shadowed paths. Her inexperience, of course, was to his advantage, for she didn’t seem to realize his interest in the gardens was minimal. “I think so,” he murmured as they went down the wide steps. “This way.”