Lady Hope and the Duke of Darkness: The Baxendale Sisters Book 3 (9 page)

“No, I…” She pressed her full lips together. “I believe you are teasing me.”

There was some truth in what he’d said, but voicing it was unpardonable. He wasn’t sure why he had. Did he feel time was slipping away with that weary hawk, Winslow, circling?

He turned her in the dance, liking too much the way she felt in his arms as she shyly met his gaze.

He smiled down at her and then took himself to task. What about his own plans? Had he forgotten them entirely? It wasn’t as though he could marry her himself. A husband needed to believe in the future and offer his wife everything: his love, his protection, a life of contentment. He’d hardly be a better bet than Winslow. He really should return to France forthwith. He was losing a sense of himself here in these perfumed ballrooms. In France, he could protect those shattered pieces of himself he’d so carefully reconstructed. Ride over his estate lands, visit his horse Tonnerre in the stables, play cards with his neighbor. If he didn’t relish the thought now, it was because he was in attractive company. That was all.

****

Hope caught the regretful expression flitting across the duke’s handsome face.

“Are you eager to return to France, Your Grace?”

The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “Not at this moment when I’m dancing with a pretty lady.”

He was devastating when he smiled. She couldn’t help smiling back. “Thank you for the charming compliment.”

“It is extremely easy to be charming with you, Lady Hope. Words could trip off my tongue.”

She dropped her gaze from the amusement in his dark eyes. Was he toying with her? But his words had forced her to see things differently, and now, heaven help her, she’d begun to think seriously about Winslow, what marriage to him might mean. What might be denied her! Biting her bottom lip in consternation, she tried to resist the pull of attraction she felt for this man. Mother said Frenchmen were dangerous charmers, although, until now, he’d shown little evidence of it.
Winslow
, she told herself firmly. He was the one. Safety, England, family. Somehow, the prospect of marrying Winslow lost any shred of allure when this man looked at her so.

Aware of the warmth of his hand at the small of her back, the virile strength in his lithe body guiding her, it seemed as if some sort of thread bound them together, which made her grow hot and uncertain. He led, and she followed, far too willingly for comfort.

The dance ended, and while Hope couldn’t admit to being relieved precisely, at least the hammering of her heart eased as he led her from the dance floor.

“I’ll return with Lady Sophie,” he said before walking away.

Her mother fidgeted in her seat. “I hope the Duke of Winslow doesn’t disapprove of du Ténèbres’ attentions. We wouldn’t want to put him off. You’re doing so splendidly, Hope. Your father has always said you would be the daughter who reached the very pinnacle of society.” She employed her fan briskly. “But really, it’s become like an embarrassment of riches.”

“Aren’t you pleased, Mama?”

“Of course I am. How could I not be? But I would prefer you to marry an Englishman.”

“You need have no worry on that score,” Hope said. “I fully intend to.”

Her mother sighed. “I am relieved to hear it.”

“But du Ténèbres has expressed the desire to present me to his half-sister.”

“Why?” Her mother’s voice sounded strangled.

“He seeks my advice on a matter.”

Her mother employed her fan again, more vigorously. “I can’t image what about. Rumors are sweeping the ballroom about this lady.”

“What is being said?”

“That she is not his half-sister at all,” her mother said in a high-pitched tone. “There’s never been any mention of a sibling before. Where did she come from? I believe she has a Yorkshire accent!” She reached for her shawl and reticule. “I shall have the carriage brought around. We will leave before he returns.”

“That would be rude, Mama.”

“Yes, it would be.” Her mother settled back into her seat again with an annoyed prod at her turban. “The French!”

Chapter Eight

Her mother sat ramrod straight when the duke approached them with his dark-haired, half-sister.

He swept a bow. “Lady Baxendale, Lady Hope, may I present Lady Sophie.”

During the introductions, Hope studied the lady. She was petite with dark eyes and a cloud of black hair like many of the French. A little younger than Honor, perhaps, not yet thirty. She curtseyed prettily with a guarded expression in her brown eyes. Mama’s sources seemed correct on one point at least—Lady Sophie’s voice bore no trace of a French accent.

Mama was expressing polite interest, but she faltered when the Duke of Winslow walked past them with Pamela on his arm. While Winslow paused to bow, Pamela’s sharp gaze took in Lady Sophie then she raised her fan and turned her head away. Noting the cut direct, Lady Sophie gave a small, indifferent shrug. Hope felt unexpectedly protective of her, although she sensed Lady Sophie was not as delicate as she appeared and could take care of herself.

Winslow had moved on without addressing her. Hope was annoyed with herself; she must focus on her plan to capture his interest. Was he slipping away? She would make a more concerted effort.

“Sophie has spent most of her life in York.” The duke directed his conversation to Hope, and she was helpless to ignore his entreaty. “She has no friends in London. I wondered if you might draw her into your circle, Lady Hope.”

“But of course, I should be delighted.”

When his dark, earnest eyes sought hers, Hope wanted nothing more than to please him. She had to agree with her mother, though, there appeared to be some unspoken secret between him and his half-sister. The gossip doing the rounds was more than a little imaginative. She’d overheard comments while moving through the crush, but they were merely cruel conjecture. She didn’t believe the gossip. This man, who had gently held her injured foot, seemed too honorable to be embroiled in some distasteful scandal.

Her mother had run out of polite conversation and cast her a look of appeal. “I plan to ride with friends tomorrow in the park,” Hope said. “Would you care to join us, Lady Sophie?”

Lady Sophie drew her dark eyebrows together with a quick glance at the duke. “Thank you. But I’m afraid I must refuse.”

Hope was surprised. “You don’t ride?”

A ridge of color formed on her high cheekbones. “I do, but I have no riding clothes with me.”

His Grace raked his hands through his black hair with a helpless gesture. It was all Hope could do not to smile. “I have a sister about your size,” she said to Sophie. “Charity prefers her art and seldom rides. Would you care to borrow her riding habit? I’m sure the outfit will fit, although she is taller. It might serve until you have a new one made.”

Lady Sophie’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t think…”

“But of course, Sophie, you must,” the duke said. “As it’s an oversight on my part, I shall escort you to collect it myself.” His eyes softened with gratitude. “
Merci beaucoup,
Lady Hope.”

With a smile, he addressed her mother. “Lady Baxendale, I plan to hold a small party on Saturday, the 24th. I should be delighted if you and his lordship, and Lady Hope, would come.”

For the briefest moment, her mother hesitated. Hope suspected she tried to come up with a prior engagement. Having failed, she accepted graciously.

When the duke and Lady Sophie left them, after promising to call the next day, her mother gave a gusty sigh. “I am most annoyed, Hope. As if the duke cannot procure a riding habit with a snap of his fingers. He would have couturiers lining up at his door! Why on God’s earth doesn’t she have one? Where has she been? Her accent is deplorable! And see how Winslow becomes more enamored of Lady Pamela by the minute. It is most disappointing.” Mama gathered up her things and rose. “We shall leave.”

Hope followed her mother from the ballroom. Although there were certainly questions to answer, it pricked her at how rude Pamela had been. Hope could understand if she was driven by a fear of failing yet another Season, but there was no reason to be so unkind to those she considered her competition.

Men were so impractical. She dismissed a small leap of pleasure at the prospect of assisting the duke, pushing it down firmly. It was a small gesture on her part, but he did seem unsure of how best to deal with his half-sister, who was a veritable fish out of water in London society. A very odd business. She knew she’d hear more from her mother on the way home for she would have heard the talk about the mysterious Lady Sophie. Hope would have to be patient; she would learn the truth of it soon enough.

The sleepy footman admitted them to the quiet, slumbering house. Charity was awake when Hope entered their bedroom.

“Did you dance the soles off your slippers?”

“Just about.” She glanced down ruefully. She would need a new pair.

After their maid assisted Hope out of her clothes and left the room, Hope explained about Lady Sophie.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Charity said. “Of course, I don’t mind lending her my habit. But it’s very strange that she doesn’t have one, I must say.”

Hope snuggled beneath the blankets. “It’s a strange business. I can’t wait to hear what lies in her past and her sudden appearance amongst us.”

The next morning, Hope was pleased to see a blue sky beyond the window absent of clouds. It had been a long, cold winter, and the spring was still very cool.

“They’re here.” Charity peered from behind the curtain as the duke and his sister arrived in his carriage. “I can see why you think he’s handsome, Hope.”

“Englishmen are better looking,” her mother snapped. “Come away from the window, Charity.”

Charity let the curtain drop, and shortly after, their butler, Graves, ushered the duke and Lady Sophie into the drawing room.

Daniel accepted her mother’s offer of tea. He was sitting on the sofa, with one booted foot resting on his other knee, discussing art with Charity when Hope took Lady Sophie up to her bedroom.

Lady Sophie smiled. “Daniel hates tea,” she whispered on the stairs.

“I hope he likes art,” Hope said as they reached her bedroom, “for my sister talks of little else.”

“Daniel has a wonderful art collection. I haven’t yet learned about his tastes, however.”

Again, Hope got the impression of a new relationship. “You didn’t grow up together, did you?”

Lady Sophie strolled restlessly over to pick up a book and glance at the title. “No. We had different mothers.” She spun around. “My mother was English, and Daniel’s died in France.”

“Oh I see,” Hope said politely. She picked up the habit the maid had laid out on the bed. That small piece of information made her only more curious, and she tamped down an impatience to learn the rest.

Lady Sophie came over with a small smile. “I’m sure you do not see, but you have beautiful manners.”

Hope smiled. “Thank you, Lady Sophie.”

“Please, call me Sophie. May I call you Hope?”

“Oh, please do.”

“I shall tell you the whole story, Hope,” Sophie said. “But first I must ask Daniel’s permission.”

Even more curious. Hope hid her surprise as she held up Charity’s forest green wool habit. “My sister never cared for this color, but I suspect it will be perfect for you. It may not be as good a fit as one might wish, however. We shall have to pin up the hem.”

Sophie took the habit from her and held the floods of material against her before the mirror. “It’s very stylish. I believe it will suit me perfectly.”

“I’ll leave you to change. Our maid will assist you.”

When Hope entered the room again, Sophie was dressed. She gathered up the long skirts and twirled around. Hope had to admit it did look wonderful on her. “It’s a trifle long-waisted. I see Sarah has tacked up the hem. It certainly suits your coloring better than Charity’s. You’ll need the accessories.” She picked up the stovepipe hat from the bureau.

“Oh, I do like the veil,” Sophie said with a flush of pleasure.

An hour later, Hope and Sophie came downstairs dressed for riding. Daniel looked slightly dazed as he rose to his feet. Hope wondered how he’d endured the discussion about art, along with numerous cups of tea. She was sure he’d prefer to be somewhere else. It was good of him to put up with all this for his sister.

He nodded. “
Très
à la
mode
, Sophie.”

Charity replaced the art book she’d been showing to Daniel on the shelf. “It suits you far better than me,” she said. “Please keep it. I need a new habit. I rather fancy a fuchsia one.”

“Yes, please do keep the outfit, Lady Sophie,” Lady Baxendale said. “My daughter does require a new habit. I believe she’s grown even taller since that was made.” She glanced at Charity. “We shall purchase another, in a good
serviceable
color.”

Charity made some effort to show her disappointment, but Hope knew riding didn’t particularly interest her.

Feeling for Daniel, who must be restless and feel out of place, Hope drew on her leather riding gloves. “Shall we go?”

****

Daniel rode a little behind the ladies along Rotten Row. Lady Hope and Sophie walked their horses. Their heads were close together, and they laughed at something which didn’t include him. Sophie appeared to be enjoying herself. Hope had been generous, as he’d anticipated. Mrs. Crisp had failed in her duty, omitting a habit when she’d organized Sophie’s wardrobe, an appalling oversight. He’d come to suspect the woman was inclined to jealousy.