Four Dukes and a Devil (24 page)

She swayed on her feet, not sure whether to go or fling herself back into his arms.

Whirling, she sprinted away, forcing herself not to look around to catch one last glimpse of him.

Quentin rested a fist against one of the wooden slats that formed the arbor and watched her flee.

The instant he let her go, he wanted her back, his body protesting the decision to release her. But despite his less-than-savory reputation when it came to women, he wasn’t in the habit of ravishing innocent young ladies, however tempting they might be.

Damn and blast, I wanted her though,
he thought, knowing he’d be trapped in the arbor until the most pressing evidence of his arousal cooled. Even then, it would be wise to take his leave. If he returned to the reception and saw her there, who knows what impulses might arise to tempt him—and her—again.

She might be young and inexperienced, but she was passionate—wildly so—the sensation of her fresh, untutored kisses still burning on his lips. Whatever man earned the right to take her to his bed would be a lucky fellow indeed. But such pleasure would only be granted at the expense of a wedding ring—and that was a price he was most unwilling to pay.

No, despite her natural charm and vivacity, he was better off forgetting her. He’d worked the trick numerous times before with other women—the delicious Miss Byron would be no different.

Even so, as he reached into his coat pocket to extract the cheroot he’d earlier planned to smoke, he couldn’t help but be struck by one salient fact.

I’m not the least bit bored anymore.

I
’ve laid out yer favorite white muslin gown with the little green scribbly-things all over it,” her maid informed India two weeks later, as she walked out of the bathing chamber into the well-appointed guest room where she would be staying.

India laughed. “Those are Grecian keys, not
scribbly-things,
” she teased. Crossing to the bed, she removed her dressing gown, then reached for the fresh linen shift lying across the cheery yellow counterpane.

“Well, they looks like scribbly-things to me,” her maid replied. “I’ve set out yer green slippers as well. The rest I’ve yet to unpack and press. A great lot of bother all this traveling to and fro is if ye asks me, just fer a few days’ visit. But I expect ye’ll have a fine time all the same.”

“As will you. Dorset is always delightful in August. I hear there are bathing machines in Lyme Regis, which is only a few miles distant.”

The servant gave a snort. “Bathing machines. Drowning traps is more like. And indecent to boot with the ladies stripped down to their unmentionables.” She bustled across to the open wardrobe to hang a gown. “But I do like a sea breeze, I confess. Here now, enough of such talk. Let me get you dressed and ready so you can join the others. Surely they’re all near arrived by now.”

India herself had arrived only a couple hours ago, having made the journey from London with her aunt Ava—the Dowager Duchess of Clybourne—and cousin Mallory. From the start, she’d been excited about the invitation to attend the Pettigrews’ country party. But now that she was here, she was even more grateful and determined to enjoy herself—hoping the respite would be just what she needed to clear the memories of a certain dark-haired gentleman from her mind.

Each night she dreamed of him—her stranger from the garden—his gravelly voice murmuring in her ear, his kisses sweeping her away into realms of forbidden pleasure where only the two of them dwelled.

But such phantasms were just that—fantasies that were best forgotten, as was the man himself. He’d helped her get rid of Peter, whom she hadn’t seen since the day of the reception. And now she needed to set her stranger aside as well.

Forcing him from her thoughts, she turned and let her maid assist her into her gown.

Twenty minutes later, she went downstairs. She found herself alone, however, the hour apparently too early yet for the others to have left the sanctuary of their own bedchambers.

Deciding to explore a bit, she wandered along the spacious corridors and elegantly furnished rooms, stopping every once in a while to admire a particularly attractive piece of artwork or an interesting architectural element. Eventually she found the library. Strolling inside, she began perusing the books on the shelves.

She’d just taken down a volume of poetry by Wordsworth, when she heard muffled footfalls on the carpet behind her. Eager for the company, she turned with an expectant smile, but her good humor plummeted at sight of the rangy young man who had entered the room. The book she held fell to the floor with a thump.

“Here, allow me to get that for you,” declared an overly earnest voice she’d hoped never to hear again. Her lips tightened as she watched Peter—the Pest—Harte hurry forward to retrieve the book.

Before he could do so, however, she dipped down and snatched up the volume. “No need,” she announced. “I have it.”

He stopped and rocked back on his heels, an injured expression on his long, almost cherubic countenance. “You ought to have let me do that for you, Miss Byron. That’s what gentlemen are for. To aid a lady in her hour of need.”

Willpower and good manners were all that kept her from rolling her eyes.
Hour of need, really!

“Well, lucky me,” she said. “Disaster has been averted.”

He gave her a happy smile, the faintly mocking quality of her retort having apparently escaped him.

Good heavens, I have to get away and get away now!
she thought.

“I’m sorry, but my cousin is waiting for me above stairs,” she said on a quick improvisation. “I was just going to take this…this book to her. I must go immediately.”

“May I say you’re looking splendid,” he declared, as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Do you know it’s been two weeks since last we met?”

Yes, I know. Two wonderful, glorious weeks.

“How I’ve missed you, Miss Byron. I have been bereft without sight of your exquisite beauty. Truly, you are a rare pearl among a vast sea of female oysters.”

Female oysters?

“Inspired by such thoughts, I have written a poem to express my feelings.”

“No, no poems!” she stated, holding up a hand. “This book, you see.” She waved the volume in the air. “I really have no time to spare in its urgent delivery.”

His round chin jutted forward, clearly annoyed that his quest was being met with resistance. “But surely you can remain a bit longer.”

“I am sorry, I cannot.” She moved to depart.

He stepped forward and blocked her path. “But I must be permitted to speak. I shall read only the opening few stanzas. You will see—” He began reaching into his pocket.

“No! Don’t!” she stated. “Do not read that poem.”

For a long moment, he stood silent, then slowly lowered his hand to his side. “Very well, if that is what you wish. Though I must tell you that it’s one of my best,” he said in a clearly petulant voice. “Even so, I insist you hear me out in plain language, since you deny me the right to express my emotions in verse.”

He paced a few steps, then stopped. “Although I am loath to say, I’ve been deuced upset—pardon my language—ever since that day at the reception.” He crossed his arms over his slender chest, his high forehead wrinkling with irritation. “I was most shocked…wounded, and yes, appalled by your brazen behavior. Yet in spite of your…indiscretion, I have decided to forgive you.”

Her mouth fell open. “
What!
”

“Which is why I am here.”

She frowned as a sudden thought occurred. “Now that you mention it, how is it that you
are
here? I didn’t think you were even acquainted with the Pettigrews.”

A sheepish look came over this face. “I’m not, but my aunt is, and I wrangled an invitation through her. Auntie Ethel is a bosom friend of Lady Pettigrew’s, don’t you know.”

No, I didn’t,
she bemoaned silently.
If I had, I would never have come.

“When I told my aunt of my intention to marry you,” he continued, “she was most obliging on my behalf.”

Air whooshed out of her lungs. “
You told her what?”

“Now, don’t ruffle up so, my love. All will be well, you will see.”

Her fingers squeezed so hard against the book she held that her knuckles turned white. “I am not your love, and you had no right to discuss such matters with your aunt, especially since we are
not
engaged.”

Ruddy color crept into his fair cheeks. “I didn’t say we were. Only that I hoped we would be soon.”

She trembled, outraged frustration churning through her like a bad case of dyspepsia. “Mr. Harte—”

“Peter,” he interjected on an optimistic note.

“
Mr. Harte.
I have tried to be understanding and patient over these last weeks. Believe me, I am sensible of the honor of your proposal and have no wish to injure your feelings. However, I must tell you that your suit is not welcome.”

For a moment, he hung his head, shoulders slumping in dejection. “You are only being modest—”

“I assure you, I am not. My recent
indiscretion,
as you called it, certainly ought to have proven that much to you. Now, I bid you good day and hope this is the end of the matter.” Clutching the volume of poetry to her chest, she started toward the door.

“No,” he said.

She halted, turning back. “Pardon?”

His thin shoulders drew straight, his voice gaining volume and strength. “I said no. You are too important to me to simply give up. I refuse to cede the field of romantic conquest without a fight. Providence has placed us here together in this house for the next week—time that will allow me to woo you and prove that I am worthy of your love.”

Horrified shock rippled over her skin, a sick lump dropping to the bottom of her stomach like a wad of old biscuit dough.

“Yes,” he continued, renewed confidence ringing in his tone. “I will demonstrate my affection and win you to my side. By week’s end, you will have forgotten all about that fellow you were kissing in the garden and want only
my
kisses.”

“Believe me, I shall not.”

“What was his name anyway? That
man
,” he asked, practically spitting out the last word.

This cannot be happening,
she thought in near panic. “His name is not important. And you are wrong about the other,” she declared. “The man you saw, he…he…”
Yes? Think quick!
“He is practically my betrothed,” she stated.

“What!”

“Yes,” she went on, scrambling wildly to come up with her next excuse. “He is a friend of the family, and I’ve known him for years. We met again earlier this summer on a visit…b-before you arrived at the house…and he has been mad for me ever since. I expect him to make an offer at any moment.”

His tawny brows drew close, the bridge of his aquiline nose wrinkling in consternation. “Spence didn’t say anything about your being courted by someone else.”

“Of course, he didn’t. I am not yet out, so nothing official can be said at present. And Spencer was away from the house at the time, so even he doesn’t know. But this man…he is very serious about me and
very
jealous. So you see why you must end this futile pursuit. I belong to someone else.”

There!
she thought.
Surely that will send him on his way.

His lower lip quivered, large hands clenched at his sides. “Well, you don’t belong to him yet, and I have this week to prove the superiority of my affection. Anyway, if he’s so in love with you, where is he? This
almost betrothed
of yours?”

She gripped the book more tightly, wishing she could use it to whack Peter over the head. Instead, she forced herself to think fast again. “He…um…he is delayed by business. But he’ll be here. I’m just not sure when.”

Never
was when, but in the meantime, maybe she could use the threat of her stranger’s arrival to hold the Pest at bay. She only hoped her stalling tactics would work. Otherwise, she didn’t like to contemplate the days ahead.

“I need to take this book upstairs, if you’ll recall,” she said.

He gave a sharp, almost pugnacious nod, then thrust his hands into his pockets.

Turning, she hurried to the door. Walking at a clip, she moved down the hall and into the corridor beyond. She turned one corner, then another, head down as she searched for the main staircase. She had nearly reached it, or so she hoped, when she rounded another corner and barreled straight into something.
Or rather someone.

“Oh, good heavens!” she said, as the man with whom she’d collided reached out to steady her. Tipping back her head to issue an apology, she met a pair of warm, coffee brown eyes.

Eyes she’d seen only last night in her dreams.

She drew in a sharp breath, the compelling magnetism of his dark, distinctive features and vital personality even more powerful than she recalled—and even more appealing.

His lips curved into a slow smile. “Well, hello again,” he drawled. “I must say, you and I seem to meet in the most unconventional of ways.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “You’re here,” she marveled.

His smile widened. “I am indeed. Were you expecting me?”

“No,” she said, recovering a measure of her equilibrium. “But I am incredibly glad to see you. We need to talk.”

S
urprised again,
Quentin thought, as he let the incomparable Miss Byron lead him into a nearby drawing room.

And to think I very nearly decided not to come.

He’d accepted the Pettigrews’ invitation to their country party ages ago, but after receiving a rather cryptic note from his friend Jack Byron last week—informing him that he would not be able to attend as planned—Quentin had considered sending his regrets.

But now he was pleased he hadn’t—sensing the boredom that had been creeping back upon him lately melt away like a clump of snow dropped onto a blazing hearth. He could almost feel the sizzle.

What is she up to this time?
he wondered. In spite of the loud peal of several internal warning bells, he knew he had to find out.

He watched as she crossed to a window that overlooked the sprawling green lawn beyond. Stopping, she laid the book she was holding on a nearby chair before turning around. “It would seem I am in need of your assistance again,” she stated, glancing up to meet his gaze.

He strode forward, halting less than a foot away from her. “More kisses, is it?” he said, unable to resist the urge to tease her a bit. He forced back a grin, as a telltale wash of pink stained her cheeks.

“No.” She gave him a look of reproach, followed by another that seemed curiously chagrined. “This time I need you to pretend to be wildly enamored of me and on the verge of proposing marriage.”

His jaw grew slack. Recovering quickly, he gave her a long stare. “Might you care to repeat that?”

“Only if you are hard of hearing, which I can tell you are not. Truly, I apologize in advance for springing this on you so abruptly, but I haven’t much time.”

“You never do,” he remarked with a sardonic twist.

She ignored his comment, and continued, “You see, he’s back!”

“Who is back?”

“Peter Harte. The simpleton who was trailing me at the reception.”

“The wounded puppy, you mean?”

She nodded. “Precisely. He procured an invitation from Lady Pettigrew to attend this party for the sole purpose of seeking me out again. Only minutes ago, he cornered me in the library to say he has forgiven me for kissing you that day in the garden and that he plans to win me away from you.”

“And he believes I am pursuing you because of our kiss?”

Her skin glowed with fresh color. “Well, in part. And also because I may have told him we are very nearly engaged.”

He raised a brow. “Good Lord!”

“Also, you’ve known my immediate family for years,” she said, as she continued reciting her litany of deceits. “And when the two of us met again earlier this summer at my father’s house, the sparks flew.”

She isn’t far wrong about that,
he mused.
Every time we meet, sparks do fly.
Although right now, he was trying to decide which emotion had the upper hand—irritation or amusement. “Anything else we did together that I should know about?”

Her lovely full lips drew tight in concentration. “Not that I can think of.”

“How reassuring.”

Their gazes met, her green eyes beseeching once more. “Oh, do please forgive me. I never meant to involve you, but he simply would not take no for an answer. What else was I to do?”

He could think of several options but decided to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Honestly, he’d never met a more impetuous minx, nor one so brazen.
Why then, do I find her so delightful?

“I realize it’s asking a great deal,” she said, laying a hand on his sleeve. “But couldn’t you court me for a little while? Just until Peter goes away again. I expect once he sees us together, he’ll storm off like he did before, and that will be the end of the matter.”

And if it isn’t?
Quentin considered. Was he willing to spend the next week dancing attendance on her? Devoting his time and risking comment over his supposed pursuit of a girl who was barely out of the schoolroom? Then again, he’d never cared much for other people’s opinions, so why should he start now?

Of course, he could do the easy, straightforward thing and have a chat with the encroaching puppy. He had no doubt a few well-chosen words would convince Peter Harte to leave Miss Byron alone. And if that still wasn’t sufficient, he knew that Lord Pettigrew would be only too happy to kick him out at Quentin’s request.

But where will that leave me for the week?

He’d barely arrived, and already he was feeling vastly entertained by her antics. When he considered the situation, he realized he rather fancied the notion of spending the next week in mock pursuit of the irrepressible Miss Byron. Her suggestion promised to provide a game that was both lively and delicious—as well as the opportunity to flirt with her as much as he wished.

So why not indulge?

There was his earlier vow to keep his distance from her, he admitted, but he could handle himself. Their encounter this week would amount to no more than an innocent, casual dalliance. Once over, the two of them would part with smiles and fond recollections—neither the worse for the experience.

“So,” she asked with a sweetly expectant murmur. “Will you help me?”

“Given all you’ve told me, my dear girl, how can I possibly refuse?”

Her eyes brightened, sparkling with delight as she let out a happy little laugh. The sound went straight through him, leaving in its wake a sudden craving to hear it once again.

He was just about to make the attempt, when another young woman walked into the room. A young woman he knew quite well.

“Quentin!” Lady Mallory Byron exclaimed, her lovely features lighting with undisguised pleasure. “You’ve arrived. Oh, it’s so good to see you. Come here this instant and give me a hug.”

So his name is Quentin,
India thought. A
t least I know that much now.

She watched him go to her cousin, her chest tightening in a strangely uncomfortable way, as he enveloped Mallory in a warm, heartfelt embrace. Moments later she relaxed, however, when it became apparent that his and Mallory’s affection went no deeper than that of platonic friends.

Clearly, the two of them were comfortable with each other, but in a manner that reminded her of the way Mallory behaved around her brothers. Fleetingly, she considered the Banbury tale she’d told about his having been a longtime friend of her own branch of the family. If that were actually true, might the two of them now share the same kind of casual relationship he enjoyed with her cousin?

As soon as the thought crossed her mind though, she dismissed it, knowing she was far too aware of him as a man ever to be able to see him in such a light—not even if she had known him since infancy.

“So you’ve both met, I see,” Mallory said, separating from Quentin before motioning India forward to join them. “Was it just now?”

India was trying to decide how to answer, when he stepped into the breach.

“Actually, Miss Byron and I have not been formally introduced,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to do the honors.”

“Oh, of course. It would be my pleasure, “Mallory said, her eyes brightening. “Your Grace, allow me to present Miss India Byron. India is my first cousin from Uncle Charles’ side of the family, if you didn’t know. India, this inestimable gentleman is Quentin Marlowe, His Grace, the Duke of Weybridge.”

“Weybridge!” India said without thinking. “You’re Weybridge?”

He raised one dark brow. “Indeed. Have you some prior knowledge of me?”
Other than our secret pact and the torrid kisses we shared in the garden of your cousins’ London town house,
his gaze seemed to say.

She swallowed. “No, none really. Only what is said in the Society pages.”

Which, as it happened, was a very great deal indeed. Even as sheltered as she was, she’d read enough about him to fill a book—and a very naughty one at that. His exploits with sword and pistols were legendary, as were his impressive skills at driving horses and playing cards. He was even better known for his liaisons with women—worldly, experienced beauties, who were reported on occasion to swoon at his mere entrance into a room. No wonder she’d melted at his first touch—and his second and third.

Warmth spread through her body, making her wish she’d brought her fan.
To think I’ve been consorting with “Devil Weybridge” himself.

His eyes narrowed, his countenance taking on a sardonic cast. “So, you read the Society pages, do you?”

She shifted her feet. “Well, there isn’t a great deal else to do in the country, Your Grace.”

His features didn’t soften. “And your mother approves of you filling your head full of scandal broth and tawdry gossip?”

Her gaze darted to Mallory, who was looking on with amazed curiosity. She would find no help there, she realized. Straightening her shoulders, she continued. “Actually, Mama and I read the papers together every morning over breakfast. The Society pages are her very favorite.”

His lips tightened.

“Oh, but I am sure what is printed about
you
is nothing but half-truths and lies,” she rushed to assure.

“What those publications claim to be news
is
mainly a collection of half-truths and lies.” His warm brown eyes met hers, something shifting deep in his gaze. “But in my case, you’d be wise to believe every word.”

Then he winked.

Surprise leapt through her, together with the sudden realization that he’d only been teasing her.

While she visibly recovered, he began to laugh. “This gathering may prove memorable yet. Come, Miss Byron, let me procure a libation for you.” He offered his arm. “You will excuse us, will you not, Lady Mallory?”

Mallory blinked, looking from one to the other of them for a long moment. “Of course. In fact, I see Mama and Major Hargreaves have arrived and are talking across the way. I believe I shall join them.”

Only after Mallory left did India notice how many other guests were now assembled in the room. She’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Quentin that she hadn’t even been aware of their entrance. Among their number stood Peter Harte, who was glaring across at her and Quentin with a disapproving frown.

What would Peter think when he learned his competition was none other than Devil Weybridge himself? Considering Quentin’s reputation, she hoped Peter would decide he was beaten before he’d even begun.

Cheered by the thought, she took Quentin’s arm.

“India, hmm?” he said, as they crossed the room together. “It’s a lovely name, but if you don’t mind my saying, a rather unusual one as well.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. And it would be unusual, except for the fact that I’ve always believed it demonstrates a marked lack of originality on my parents’ part.”

“How so?”

“Because my father was stationed with the military in India at the time of my birth, and it’s where I was born. I’ve always been grateful he wasn’t assigned to a post in Egypt or Gibraltar, or just think of the name I’d have now.”

He laughed, his deep brown eyes twinkling with undisguised humor. “The prospect does give one pause. Although I must say you would have made a very pretty Gibraltara, or Egyptia perhaps?”

“Please, don’t even jest,” she said with a mock shudder. “The thought is too dreadful to contemplate. Believe me, I like India just fine.”

Their gazes met. “I like India, too,” he said in a serious tone. “In fact, the more I know of her, the more I am finding to admire.”

Her heart pounded, the smile sliding from her mouth as she lost herself in his beautiful eyes.

“I’ve brought you a lemonade, Miss Byron,” interrupted a defiant, young male voice. “I thought you looked a bit warm and in need of refreshment.”

Turning her head, she saw Peter Harte hovering close by. “Mr. Harte,” she said.

“Here”—he thrust the glass toward her—“this is for you.”

Seeing no other option, she accepted the beverage.

The moment she did, Quentin reached out and gently removed it from her hand, setting it onto a nearby tray. “Miss Byron doesn’t care for lemonade. She told me she is more in the mood for tea.”

Peter bristled, thrusting out his chin. “And who are you to decide what Miss Byron does and does not like?”

“The gentleman she has chosen to procure refreshments for her this evening.” Using a look only a duke could carry off, Quentin stared down his nose with bored hauteur. “And you are, sir?”

Peter shifted, clearly discomfited. “Peter Harte, Esquire.”

“Ah,” Quentin replied. “Come, my dear India. Let us get that tea for you.”

Recovering herself, she moved to obey.

“And who are you, sir?” Peter demanded, obviously not about to be put off.

Quentin stopped and turned back. “I am Weybridge. Anything else you should like to know?”

Wheels turned almost visibly inside Peter’s brain as he pondered the import of Quentin’s reply. His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Mouth agape, he stared.

“I thought not,” Quentin said.

Turning again, he led her away.

“That was amazing,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen him rendered speechless.”

“It was one way of handling him. We’ll see how long it lasts.”

“Surely, that will do the trick, and he will cease this futile pursuit.”

“Perhaps. For now though, my dear, you have some tea to drink.”