What a Duke Wants (30 page)

Bella’s hand was in Wimberley’s and he was raising it to his lips, welcoming her to his home. Lord Peter stood beside her, stiff as a fireplace poker.

Where was her sister? Where was Masters? Not enough was being done.

And then she smiled.

S
he was dying inside. Isabella felt each breath fill her chest and knew that it would be her last. She could no longer force herself to pull in another. It felt as if the very air was filled with the spite she could hear flitting about the room. Each whisper seemed a dart aimed directly at her heart.

Lord Peter’s fingers squeezed her hand, trying to give her strength. It was not enough.

Wimberley strode over, ready to take control.

The whispers went on. If it had not been for Lord Peter’s firm grip she would have turned and fled back up the stairs to Violet. This was a disaster. There was nothing to win and so much to lose.

And then she saw him. Mark stood across the room attired in full ducal finery. If she had thought him grand before, now he robbed that last remaining breath from her body.

Their eyes met. She could not read his from such a distance. If only it were he beside her instead of Lord Peter. His touch had always given her the strength she so desperately needed now.

Her eyes called to him, begged him to help her. She didn’t know what she expected, but something.

She didn’t know why she should expect something now, when he had never been there for her before. She stood, not breathing, waiting—let him come, let him save her.

He took a step.

She pulled air into her lungs, felt herself begin to draw strength.

And then he stopped. A hand held his arm, a strong male hand, the wrist surrounded in lace edged in palest mauve.

Hargrove.

Why did he have to appear now?

Now, when she was a single breath away from fainting to the floor in front of all society.

Now, when she was a single breath away from running from the room, never to be seen again.

Now, when she wanted to yell Mark’s name, to call him to her, to demand he recognize her for what she was to him.

She wanted to shout at the fates as Hargrove leaned forward and whispered to Mark. Mark glanced at him, and then at Isabella, his eyes full of question.

Her eyes flitted back to Hargrove. His gaze spoke for him. He was not done with her.

Wimberley said something, welcomed her to his home, gave her his approval—and it didn’t matter. She could see her path clearly now and she was ready to run down it.

She raised her eyes to Mark, expecting disgust. She saw only concern.

A smile trembled upon her lips.

She glanced back at Hargrove, but he was gone.

Chapter 30

M
ark watched her smile catch. It had started out full of strength, but now the doubt leaked in.

It sliced at him like a saber slash against his chest.

“I’ll cut her direct if she even tries to speak with me. And she’d better not try to renew her friendship with my daughter. They are much of the same age, you know?” It was Mrs. Thompson again and Mark found himself almost baring his teeth at her. He’d never felt such animal impulse course through him.

“I can’t believe she’ll have the chance. Even Wimberley can’t save her now. I doubt we’ll ever be forced to see her again. Surely her family will send her back to the country—this time for the duration. I can’t imagine there’s even a chance a man would take her now.”

“Oh, they’ll take her, just not in the way she wishes.” Mrs. Thompson spoke in an undertone, but a very loud one. Clearly she wanted her cleverness to be heard.

Bella’s hand transferred from Lord Peter’s arm to Wimberley’s. She took that step forward. Her smile was back, firm and strong, but her eyes were still afraid.

He doubted any but he could read that fear, but he saw it all too well.

She took a step, Wimberley leading her forward.

He could sense the indecision in the crowd. Did they dare turn from her with Wimberley at her side?

“They will not accept her, not young and unmarried. Their worries over how she will influence their own daughters, how she will lure their own sons, will win out.” When had Brisbane returned to his side? There was no mistaking that cool, arrogant tone.

“How can they not, with Wimberley at her side?” Mark asked.

“They will manage. Fright will always win over reason.”

Mark looked at Bella. The desire to run was back in her gaze. Yes, fright could win over reason—or fright could convince one that it was reason.

Damnation. Brisbane was right. He could see it in every face, see everyone worry that they would be approached first.

“Do you want me to save her?” Brisbane asked. “A duke and a marquess together might do the trick. Or was Hargrove right? Do you wish to give her no choice but to return to you? She might not take you anyway, you know.”

It was the single beat of a heart. It could not have been longer. There was not time for an eyelash to flutter or a breath to be pulled in. There was certainly not long enough for a look of scorn to form or a head to turn away.

Mark stepped forward. No, he strode forward.

He cut through the crowd, straight and direct, unmindful of those he brushed past.

He’d had the chance to put her first once before—and failed.

Twenty feet.

This time he would not fail.

Ten feet.

He would think only of her.

Five feet. Never in battle had each bit of distance been so painfully won.

Only of her.

Her head came up. Their eyes met again. He saw shock. Then fear. Then—could that be relief?

Did she trust him to save her? Did she finally trust him?

“Miss Masters,” he called, the new name strange on his lips.

Wimberley turned to him. And then Lord Peter. The sister, Violet, was halfway down the stairs, Wimberley’s marchioness just in front. He did not see the brother, Masters, anywhere, but it did not matter. He knew what he needed to do.

He watched the words form slowly on Bella’s lips. “Your Grace, I did not expect you here.”

Wimberley’s shoulders were back, it was clear he was ready to protect Bella by whatever means necessary.

Did he not realize that was Mark’s job?

Mark stopped a foot away, only just observing the boundaries of propriety. “What nonsense is that, my dear? Not expecting me?” He had raised his voice, to make sure everyone in the room would hear him. “How are we supposed to give your family our news if I am not here? I had hoped to speak to your brother first, but I will not risk losing my claim to any other man.”

Yet his tone told that there could be no true competition, he was a man who did not lose—and beyond that he was a duke, a duke who was not to be questioned.

“I am not sure what—” Bella began.

“I do not know what you—” Wimberley was taking no chances.

Mark stood straight, for the first time feeling like the duke he was.

“My dear Miss Masters,” he cut them both off. “It is not normally done in such a public manner, but as my future duchess you can do what you wish. I merely thought that we would tell your family of our engagement before the rest of the guests.”

H
e had not just said those words. He had not. Isabella fought to understand.

For a moment it felt like a dream come true. The tone of the crowd’s whispers changed. One did not risk the displeasure of the future Duchess of Strattington. They would back off for now—and wait.

But how would they react when they realized it was all a farce? Mark could not possibly mean to marry her.

She focused on Mark’s face, trying to understand what she saw there. Anger marked the crease in his forehead. The firm line of his lip bespoke determination. His fingers twitched with barely controlled violence. He was ready to fight, to take on any challenge.

She could feel Wimberley draw tight beside her, the muscles of his arm flexing beneath her touch. Lord Peter had come up behind, his large body prepared to charge to her defense.

Three big, strong men ready to tear one another apart on the dance floor—over her. She ran her fingers across Wimberley’s jacket, seeking to reassure. Then she dropped her hand, stepping away from him and toward Mark.

Searching his face, she sought the clue of what she should do next, what she should say. How could she avoid trapping them further, avoid trapping him?

“Do not poke fun at me, Your Grace,” she said quietly, seeking to give him an out. “They will all take you seriously.”

He dropped his voice to match hers. “And what if I am serious? What if I think it is time we let our intentions be known?”

“You cannot be.”

Isabella glanced about the room. Every head was turned in their direction. There was not even the polite pretense that they were not the center of attention. Even the orchestra was stilled, turned to see what would happen next.

Mark spoke loud and clear. “I intend to marry you, Miss Isabella Masters. I want you—no one else. And I have been recently informed that what a duke wants—a duke gets. Questions?” His tone did not invite answer.

I
sabella had thought she could feel no more pain. She’d been wrong. The impossibility of Mark’s proposal felt like the final straw, that little bit of extra weight that would send her crashing to the floor.

She dropped her eyes, staring at the buttons of his coat. “But you do not know everything about me.”

“We must talk further. I know more than you think.” He spoke softly, hardly louder than a whisper, but his voice brooked no argument.

“You do?”

“Yes.” Mark glanced at Wimberley and then back to her. “I know about Foxworthy. Where can we have some privacy?”

“Perhaps . . .” Wimberley spoke from beside her, letting the word draw long as if he sought what to say next. “Perhaps, Strattington, you would care to dance with Miss Masters? I had planned to open the affair by leading her in a waltz, but now that you have gotten ahead of me and announced your engagement I can think of nothing more fitting.”

She looked out over the empty dance floor. Once the orchestra began it would be much harder for everyone to hear what was being said, and after the first minute other couples would need to take to the floor, granting them some privacy—as much privacy as you could have in a ballroom.

Everyone would still stare at them, but they would at least be pretending not to.

Mark bowed his head to her, the perfect angle for a question one was sure of the answer to. “Miss Masters, would you care for my escort to the floor?” He offered his arm.

It was her last chance to run. She could crash through the crowd, make it to the street. The ring Mark had given her at the masquerade hung on a chain about her neck. It could supply any funds she needed. She could be free—as free as she had ever been. No need to hold her head up, no need to pretend.

Or she could take Mark’s hand, dance with him in public, be claimed by him before all society. She did not know his game, could not believe he truly meant marriage, but she did trust he meant well.

She trusted him. She had avoided giving in to her feelings, giving in to her desires, for so long, but she could no longer.

She did trust him.

She lifted her hand, watched it move toward Mark, watched the fingers take his sleeve. She did not feel the thick silk of his coat, although she could see its softness. She did not perceive the warmth of his body, although she well knew his heat. Her hand moved as if by itself, controlled by unseen forces.

They turned as one toward the dance floor. The crowd parted before them. Wimberley gestured and the waltz began.

Mark placed his hand low on her back, brought the other out before him. Her own shaking fingers gripped his waist.

He swept her out onto the floor.

The crowd still did not react, did not indicate what society’s decision was.

Once around the floor. Twice.

The first couple joined them. Wimberley and his marchioness. Then Violet and Lord Peter. Masters and Clara. And then finally others. A decision might not have been reached, society might be waiting to know the truth of the situation, but good manners would prevail.

And then she saw him. Just as the swirling dancers filled her view, Isabella saw the Duke of Hargrove again, standing at the side, scowling.

T
he dance floor was not a good place to talk, but he had little choice. Mark kept his voice quiet, speaking to Bella and only to Bella. “I am going to go right to the heart of the matter. Foxworthy.”

“You know I killed him?” Her voice trembled only a little as she whispered, her eyes darting nervously to the edge of the dance floor.

“If we are quiet enough nobody can hear us—and yes, or at least almost yes. After some investigation I assumed it was him you had spoken of at the masquerade.”

“I am glad that you know. I have wished so often that I could confide in you, share my troubles.”

“You always could have.”

“It did not seem that way.”

He glanced back at the ballroom. “I cannot claim that my actions this evening demonstrate that I will do anything to protect you. It was only a room full of busybodies that I took on. But Bella, I would slay dragons for you.”

She closed her eyes, but he could see her careful consideration in the gentle movement of muscles upon her brow. She opened her eyes and stared at him. “I know. I didn’t before, but I do now.” She glanced toward the ballroom herself. “And yet I think they are worse than any dragon.”

“So speak. Tell me about Foxworthy, tell me why you fled.”

She swallowed, looking over his shoulder at the dancers beyond.

He drew her closer, blocking her from all others. “I will protect you, no matter what. Just tell me everything.”

She shuddered and he saw her debate, then she leaned forward, whispering the whole sordid story to him, telling him of her family’s scandals, of Foxworthy, the man in blue, her other pursuers. She paused, as if wishing to say no more, and then told him of Hargrove and Lord William.

He knew his eyes widened for a moment as she spoke of his cousin, but he kept his face calm. Only when she spoke of Hargrove’s continued threats did he allow his lips to draw tight.

He drew her closer, closer than propriety would allow. He would focus only on what was important. “But it was an accident, Foxworthy’s death. Surely you do not hold yourself responsible for that?”

She closed her eyes. “During the daylight hours I do not. I know there is nothing else I could have done, but at night, at night I see his face as he lay there on the floor. I cannot forget the blankness of his gaze. He was not a nice man. He may even have been an awful one, if all I have heard is true, but no one deserves that. No one deserves to lie there on the floor like that.”

“I do understand. I have killed men—in the war. Each and every time it was justified, I had no choice, and yet it is impossible to forget their faces. It is a burden I carry with me always.”

She dropped her head, looking down at her feet. “I have been running from that burden. I did not realize it until this moment. I thought I was running from fear and scandal, but I have been running from what I did. I know there is nothing else I could have done, but at night, at night I see his face as he lay there on the floor. That is when the bad dreams come.”

“I would protect you even from those if I could, but if you are like me, you may not forget but you do learn to live with it. You will find new dreams, perhaps a home with children and a meowing kitten. Duchess has not forgiven you for deserting her.”

“I did not mean to. I wanted to bring her with me. I hated to leave her, but I could not see how to manage it. I knew you would care for her.”

“So you do trust me?”

The music ended before she could reply and their shoes clicked on the marble as they left the floor. The sound was not one she was familiar with. When had a ball ever been so silent?

Mark squeezed her arm in a gesture of reassurance. “Trust me,” he whispered.

Before she could answer the yes that was ringing through her mind another voice interrupted. “How touching, Miss Masters,” Hargrove said. “What a pity it is not to be. I happen to know the new Duke of Strattington has no intention of marrying you. Shall I tell them why, Strattington?” He spoke loudly so the whole room could hear.

M
ark had never felt such violence course through him. “Do you really wish to do this now, here? I would have thought that dawn and pistols were a more appropriate forum.”

“Do not overestimate your power, pup.” Hargrove pulled his shoulders back. “I have been playing this game far longer than you.”

Mark stepped forward. “And look where it has gotten you, arguing over pieces of paper with a mere chit.” He sent Bella a look full of apology. “You have them now. Leave her, leave us, alone. I think your time would be far better spent looking over your estate books and counting up the seats you control in Commons. Foxworthy is dead. Let the matter rest.”