My Unfair Lady (6 page)

   Maria spread her hands at Summer with a flourish. "What do ya' think, Yore Grace?"

   The Duke of Monchester opened his mouth, then closed it again.

   "Stunned speechless," she whispered into Summer's ear. "If'n yore heart weren't so set on that Monte fellow, I'd swear you could have yoreself a duke."

   Summer flowed down the last three steps and held out her lace-gloved hand. Without a word the duke took it and led her to the door, his eyes never leaving her face. A tingle ran through her hand and up her arm, and heat blossomed where it certainly shouldn't for a man who wasn't her intended.

   Summer's feet planted themselves in sudden alarm. "Maria," she gasped. "Come along."

   Her friend shrugged her shoulders, all the dangling red beads on the purple gown she wore clicking with the movement. She patted her black coiffure, pushing a few beaded hairpins back into place. "I know I'll be bored to tears among all them snooty men and women," she grumbled as she patted India good-bye and fetched her wrap. "Give me the kitchen any day, with a snort of brew and a handsome footman."

   Something in her voice made Summer break her gaze away from His Grace and turn to her friend with a frown of concern. "Maria, we're like sisters. Anything that I have, you can too."

   "No, I can't," she answered, green eyes shadowed with that secret sorrow that Summer had noticed often in the years since they'd become friends as young girls, but which Maria never would share with her.

   "Why not? You know my money is yours as well."

   Maria glanced from the duke back to her. "It ain't the money… Oh, don't worry none about me. I'll just keep my mouth shut and be a proper escort for ya'." And with that said she walked out the door in a swirl of purple and yellow skirts.

   His Grace settled Summer's wrap around her shoul ders, his fingertips lightly grazing her skin, making her forget anything but his presence as he ushered her out the door and into the waiting brougham. She sat across from Maria, and at first felt grateful that the duke didn't sit beside her friend, that she wouldn't have to try to face the charismatic lure of his gaze. But when he sat next to her, he was so close she could feel the heat of his body, infinitely more titillating than the touch of his hand, and tarnation, she could smell him. Some rapturous scent of spice and human male.

   She groaned.

   "You'll be fine," he assured her, misinterpreting her discomfort for dread of the upcoming event.

   "I'll never remember everything," she replied, not wanting to let him know the real direction of her thoughts. Then as soon as she said it, she panicked, her heart pounding so hard she could see her near naked bosom vibrate with the force of it. Her mind had gone completely blank! Was she allowed to speak to anyone without an introduction first? Did a gentleman introduce himself to her, or could she say something to him? Could she walk alone if she was going to the water closet? Unaware that she spoke the words aloud, she began to recite from one of the etiquette books she'd tried to memorize. "A good manner is the best letter of recommendation among strangers. Civility, refinement, and gentleness are passports to—"

   "You're never going to make it," interrupted the duke.

   Maria watched the two of them with a wicked grin on her face.

   Summer glared at him. "What? What! What do you mean I won't make it? If I can learn to run up a mountain, wrestle with a knife, and shoot like a—"

   "You're falling apart. Bloody hell, what did those knickerbockers do to make you this anxious over a trifling ball?"

   "Anxious? I'll have you know that I have nerves of steel. Why, one time back in Tombstone I—"

   He took her hand. The warmth of that contact flowed all the way to her toes, which made her even more confused and nervous. He sighed.

   "Your gown is quite nice. You almost do it justice."

   The litany of etiquette that still spun through Summer's jangled brain came to a screeching halt. She turned to face his handsome profile. "What?"

   "Don't misunderstand me. Worth did a superb job of adorning you. However, one can't expect miracles, now, can one?"

   Every muscle in Summer's body had stilled. "What do you mean by a miracle?"

   The corner of his lip twitched, but he continued to stare rigidly ahead. "One can't expect you to magically transform into a proper Englishwoman, that's all."

   Maria choked on a laugh and quickly turned to look out the window.

   Summer lazily wiggled her foot, feeling the comfortable pressure of her sheathed knife wrapped around her calf. How dare he? She didn't want to turn into a proper Englishwoman; she just wanted to be a lady so that she'd be accepted by society and allowed to marry Monte. And what did Maria think was so funny, anyway? Her friend continued to be a silent chaperone, which was very uncharacteristic of her.

   She glared at Maria and then back at the duke. Who cared what His High-and-Mighty thought about American women anyway? Women who could take care of themselves, shoot and cook their own dinner… women who didn't need the protection of any man? That's probably his problem, that she didn't swoon at his feet and need coddling like some piece of glass that could shatter at any moment. She continued to grumble to herself about the gorgeous, annoying man sitting next to her.

"Miss Lee?"

"What?"

   "We have arrived. Allow me to escort you out of the carriage."

   With a start Summer realized that they had stopped, that His Grace stood outside the open door, his white-gloved hand held out to her. She could just see the elegant house behind him, with lights ablaze and a red carpeted walkway leading to the cavernous doors. Throngs of poor folk, held in check by uniformed officers, crowded the streets to catch a glimpse of the guests in their finery. As she descended from the carriage she caught sight of a woman in plain brown clothes, her eyes dreamy with delight at all the elegantly dressed ladies as they walked up the steps into the four-story mansion.

   Couldn't the woman tell that Summer was just like her? That she was a country girl dressed up and masquerading as a lady? They'd find her out tonight, just like they did in New York. She'd be exposed as a person not fit to wipe their boots. Dadburn it, she couldn't breathe again! And her legs were shaking beneath her ridiculous dress.

   Maria alighted from the carriage and glanced around, looking as if this were all some grand joke. Didn't she realize this was serious? Summer wondered, annoyed as Maria gave saucy winks to any man she thought worthy of them.

   Summer clutched at the duke's arm, and he glanced down at her, sighing again. "I suppose you'll want to know about my stepmother and the rest of my family you'll be meeting."

   She looked at him in surprise. He always refused to answer any of her personal questions, or ask her anything about her own past. They had a strictly business relationship. This sudden capitulation stunned her enough that her knees stopped their shaking and she resumed her normal, graceful walk.

   "My stepmother, the Dowager Duchess of Monchester—that's Her Grace, to you—currently resides in this elegant home in Mayfair along with my half brother, the First Marquis Karlton and his American wife, the Marchioness of Karlton. You will address them as Lord and Lady Karlton."

   They had entered the entry hall of the mansion he called a house, with its gaslights and candles and flowers all reminiscent of Mrs. Astor's New York mansion. A touch of panic started to curl up Summer's insides again, and she blurted the first thought in her head. "But I thought your family had no money."

   "Again, the rudeness of your comments. Remember, madam, just keep your mouth shut and you will do stunningly this evening."

   Summer narrowed her eyes but didn't give up. "But why did you agree to sponsor me if you're not poor?"

   "It goes without saying that just because I am sadly lacking in funds, it's no reason my stepfamily need be so."

   "Huh?"

   Evidently, they had been in a receiving line, for suddenly the duke was introducing her and Maria to a very tall, stately woman: the dowager duchess. She smiled at Summer rather condescendingly but nodded at her with regal acceptance. Maria she ignored entirely, sticking her nose in the air after scanning the girl's gown with distaste. Summer sighed, wishing again that her friend would stop insisting on designing her own wardrobe, but Maria stubbornly allowed that she'd be herself, and blast anyone who didn't like it.

   Then Byron introduced them to a rather smallish man, whose own brownish gold hair had thinned into a few strands across the top of his head, and she remembered to bow and call him Lord Karlton to his leering face. When they approached his wife, his American wife, thought Summer with relief, she expected a warmer greeting. After all, weren't they from the same country?

   "
Brother
dear," said Lady Karlton, "what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" She nodded with disdain at Summer and Maria.

   "Certainly not the same sort that my brother managed to get into," he replied.

   She laughed flirtatiously and eyed him with a lustful gaze that Summer thought surely wasn't appropriate for a sister-in-law. "You had your chance, Monchester, at a real lady. Whatever are you doing with these bumpkins?"

   Byron's face froze into that superiorly scornful mask. "Summer's father is a friend of mine, and I promised to take care of her while she's in London. Careful, sister dear, there are a few amusing stories of your own American background that I haven't quite gotten around to sharing with His Highness yet. Perhaps tonight would be a fortuitous time."

   Lady Karlton's black eyes glittered. "You'd never disgrace the family, I'm sure." She leaned forward and breathed out her next sentence into his face. "Do you really think the prince will attend tonight? Please say you've put in a good word for us."

   "My family loyalty bids me to do so, as always. But you know he goes where a whim takes him."

   Lady Karlton straightened up to her full height and took a half step forward, and Summer realized how exceedingly tall she was, unaware that the lady had been slouching as she talked to Byron. She looked down her nose at her stepbrother-in-law, who had to either tilt his head back to look up at her or speak to her tiny bosom. With a scornful grimace, he chose the latter.

   "If you will excuse us, sister dear, I believe the Grand March is about to begin." And he took Summer's arm and lined up behind another couple, the orchestra beginning a solemn tune that had them soon following the procession around the ballroom, while Maria settled into a comfortable chair and watched them with a calculating eye.

   Summer hugged the duke's arm, amazed that she felt so protected by his nearness and grateful that she'd hired him. She marveled that his family hadn't ignored her, and the thread of panic that had nipped at her heels all night faded away as she took her full first breath since leaving the coach. Her feet slid along the parquet floors as if they had been buttered; she breathed in the mingled scents of perfume and felt, for the first time, as if she might actually belong among these richly clad lords and ladies.

   She leaned toward the duke, noticing the stares that kept drifting in their direction, and although that brief encounter with his family sent a million questions tumbling through her head, she asked again the last one he hadn't answered. "Why did you agree to help me if your family ain't—aren't poor?"

   His chin lifted a bit higher, holding back a golden curl that had threatened to tumble over his forehead since he'd removed his hat. "Do you see everyone staring at us? Speculating with excitement about my partner?"

   Summer nodded.

   "You, my dear, still look every bit of an American. No proper Englishwoman would have a sprinkle of freckles across her nose."

   Summer knew Monte loved her freckles. He'd kissed every one of them. And why did this man have to notice every little detail about her? "So, I'm American. Including your stepsister, I'm sure there are several here."

   "Aah, yes. But not with me. My… repugnance of the American title-hunter is well known, much to the relief of several English heiresses. Therefore, my partnership with you has shocked many of this company, as well as my family. It seems that what one brother did, they fear the other will do as well."

   "So your brother married for money? And that's why they aren't poor?"

   "Partly."

   The procession had ended and the first strains of a
minuet de la cour
, a French version of the waltz, Summer had learned, began to float through the cavernous room. The duke faced her, placed his right arm firmly around her waist, yet properly not holding her too close. His left hand took her right, and he spun her across the floor.

   Summer resisted the urge to lead, something she always tried to do, much to her teacher's dismay, and let herself be swept up in the glory of the dance. The duke had refused to give her dancing lessons, had hired someone else instead, so this was the first time they'd held each other in their arms. He was the perfect height for her; she didn't have to crane her neck or lift her hands too high, and he moved beautifully, with a grace that almost matched her own.