The Confessions of a Duchess (17 page)

She also looked more than a little tipsy by now with her tousled curls and her flushed skin and her sparkling eyes. It was a tempting combination and Dexter felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to take advantage of her. It was not a course of action he would normally contemplate, of course. The idea of seducing a woman in a wine cellar was dishonorable and immoral, the sort of thing that Miles Vickery would do. Even during the period of his worst excesses, when his disillusion over Laura’s betrayal had seared his soul and sent him spiraling into libertinism, Dexter would never have behaved so badly, at least not often. And it was particularly ironic that it should be Laura he was trapped with, Laura who was so damnably appealing that it made him furious with himself that he had such an inexplicable weakness for her. Laura, who was surely so experienced, that for him to have any scruples about seducing her seemed a ridiculous contradiction.

“We can both rely on our self-control…”

He set his jaw firmly. It was going to be a long, long night.

“I think,” he said abruptly, “that you have had too much champagne already.” Laura’s hazel gaze mocked him. “I suppose that you disapprove of women drinking alone—or perhaps even of them drinking alcohol at all, Mr. Anstruther? I noticed that you did not touch a drop of brandy that night at Half Moon Inn.”

“Drinking alone is certainly not advisable for either men or women,” Dexter said, a little stiffly. “And drinking alcohol at all only suitable in moderation. The female capacity for drink being so much lesser than the male, it would perhaps be a sound idea for women not to drink at all.”

“Of course.” Laura inclined her head. “It sounds as though you have studied this phenomenon in depth, Mr. Anstruther.”

“Only in my work,” Dexter said.

“Of course,” Laura said again. “I imagine you are far too self-disciplined ever to become intoxicated, Mr. Anstruther.” She waved the bottle of champagne at him. “I do think, though, that you had better have some of this to save me from drinking alone.” Dexter looked at her. “You are taking it directly from the bottle?”

“How else? There are no glasses.” Laura laughed. “I suppose you think it unbecoming in a dowager duchess to do so?”

Dexter did not think it unbecoming, quite the reverse. He watched as she tilted the bottle to her lips, closed her eyes and drank deeply. A small trickle of the golden liquid ran from the corner of her mouth and she licked it up with her tongue. It was astonishingly arousing to watch. As she tilted her head back her honey-brown hair brushed the velvet of her cloak with a soft swishing noise that sounded extremely sensuous. Each curl seemed to gleam with gold in the lamplight. Dexter wanted to touch them. He wanted to run his hands into her hair and tilt her head up to his and kiss her on that wide, beautiful mouth until she was sighing against his lips and her body was soft and willing beneath his hands….

Laura held the bottle out to him. “Your turn.”

Dexter took the bottle from her and put his lips where hers had been, feeling the lust kick through his body again at the mere thought. Hell, it did not seem to matter what she did. She could probably be mucking out her stables and he would still want to ravish her.

Everything she did only served to stir his feelings up even more.

“It is very warming,” he said, surprised, as the liquid ran down his throat. “A recipe of your own?”

“Something else I inherited from my grandmother,” Laura agreed. “You may wonder why I keep my wines down here rather than in The Old Palace, Mr. Anstruther. Indeed, I am surprised you have not asked already since it would seem a most irrational place to store them.”

“I did wonder,” Dexter admitted.

“There are several reasons,” Laura said. “The first is that the cellars at the house are prone to flooding from the river and the steps are worn and dangerous. But the main reason is that my grandmother moved their cellars down here and I did not trouble to move them back again. She was trying to keep the wine away from my grandfather. By the end of his life he was a terrible toper.”

“I am sorry,” Dexter said. “You mentioned that he was a libertine. I did not realize that he was a drunkard, as well.”

“Oh, he was prodigious on both counts, I fear,” Laura said. “But my grandmother realized that if she made it difficult for
him
to get to the wine then he would not drink it. It was quite a cunning plan, I think. He was a very lazy man, you see, and could not be bothered to walk over here every time he wished for a drink.”

“Is that why the door is designed as it is? To lock him in if he tried to creep in here unnoticed?”

Laura laughed. “No indeed, that is the original medieval door and I have often thought I should have it changed. Though I do wonder whether the prior who had it designed did so in order to trap any monks who tried to raid the wine.” Dexter took another swig from the bottle. The champagne fizzed against his tongue and sent bubbles effervescing through his blood. He was dimly aware that as an abstainer he should be careful not to take too much as he had no head for drink. Another mouthful would surely not do any harm, however.

“This tastes delightful,” he said, handing the half-empty bottle back to Laura.

“Yes, thank you. The recipe is very good.” She turned her head and looked at him thoughtfully. “So, Mr. Anstruther, now that we have established that we are definitely trapped in here, is there any likelihood of you being missed and of someone coming to look for you?”

Dexter thought of the paucity of his emotional life. There really was no one to care whether he returned home or not. He did not even have a valet, as he could not afford to pay one. Previously his lack of ties had seemed a blessing. He had his mother and his brothers and sisters and that was all he required. And when he found his conformable wife she, too, would fit neatly into the pattern and cause no difficulties whatsoever. Except that he did not wish to think of a rich debutante bride when he was sitting here with Laura Cole.

It was impossible.

“It is unlikely, I fear,” he said. “The guests at the Morris Clown Inn come and go very much as they please. Not that I make a habit of staying out all night, you understand, unless it is in the pursuit of my work.”

“Of course,” Laura said. “Whatever your past reputation, I would scarcely expect you to be so immoderate these days, Mr. Anstruther. Staying out all night with other women is scarcely the way to win your innocent heiress, is it?” Looking at Laura as she raised the champagne bottle delicately to her lips again, Dexter felt an almost overwhelming urge to be immoderate with her, there and then, on the wine cellar floor. The heiresses could go hang. He cleared his throat and clamped down ruthlessly on his immoderate lust.

“And what about you, your grace?” he asked. “Are the servants likely to notice your absence?”

“Perhaps,” Laura said. “Rachel will certainly be surprised that I have failed to return in time to put Hattie to bed, although I suppose she will merely think that I have been delayed. And Carrington and Mrs. Carrington are probably already abed themselves. They retire very early. It will not be until the morning that anyone will concern themselves over my whereabouts.”

“How frustrating,” Dexter commented. “Had you thought of employing servants who were a little more active and might notice things sooner? Living on your own as you do, it might be beneficial to have someone you can rely upon.” Scarcely were the words out and he was regretting them, or more specifically the impulse that made him take an interest in Laura Cole’s welfare. Perhaps she preferred having servants who seemed deaf and blind to everything that went on. She might be smuggling her lovers up a back stair every night for all he knew, and would not want curious servants with their ears pressed to the keyhole. He did not like to think of it. No, that was too pale a description. He
hated
to think of it.

Laura had flushed pink with indignation at his words. “I do not need anyone else. I know that everyone thinks Mr. and Mrs. Carrington incompetent—”

“Which they are,” Dexter interrupted.

“Only because Faye Cole drove them almost to madness with her demands when she became duchess!” Laura protested. “She was appalling to work for. Why, poor Carrington broke down under the strain and Mrs. Carrington’s health has never been very strong. It was my fault—I had left the servants at Faye’s mercy…” Laura stopped, looked at the champagne bottle and took a deep breath. “I beg your pardon. It is most inappropriate of me to criticize the Duchess of Cole to you.”

Dexter knew she meant that it was inappropriate because Faye Cole might become his mother-in-law in the near future, but he was actually more interested in the rest of Laura’s champagne-induced outburst. Once again it seemed she was championing the underdog, taking in the Carringtons even though they were unemployable in order to rescue them from illness and poverty. It was kind, generous and utterly impractical, but those were the very qualities that Miles had praised in her. Dexter thought of Carrington failing to hear the bell and staggering down the steps to the kitchen and of Mrs. Carrington so ill she could not even boil a kettle, and he felt a stirring of tenderness for Laura that he could not avoid.

“Anyway,” Laura said, and he could hear the defensive tone in her voice, “I rather enjoy doing things for myself. I have never been permitted to do so before.” Dexter looked at her, startled. “How so? Surely the position of duchess gives enormous privileges?”

“You would think so, would you not?” Laura said. She fidgeted with the material of her cloak, avoiding his eyes. “And in some ways you are quite right, Mr. Anstruther. But in others, I would say that being a duchess in the most frustrating business.” She paused, sighed. “When I was a child it was an understood thing that I would be a duchess and so my mother trained me from the earliest age. I never went anywhere without at least one servant on each side in case I needed something. It was monstrous inconvenient always to have someone hanging around me.”

Dexter was shocked. Even though Miles had said that Lord and Lady Burlington had wanted to banish Laura’s wild spirit he had not really imagined what that would entail.

“You were
trained
to be a duchess? Schooled for it?”

“Of course. Charles and I were promised from the cradle.” A hint of reserve came into Laura’s voice. “Then, of course, I
was
a duchess and so I had to behave in a suitable manner.”

Dexter realized that he was appalled. His childhood had been a mad helter-skelter affair with parents who could not have cared less what their offspring were doing. He had thought this lack of concern deplorable, but on the other hand Laura’s upbringing sounded absolutely dire, with all a child’s natural ebullience stifled by protocol and instruction.

“Your mother must have been pleased that everything worked out according to her plans,” he said. “Imagine how disappointed she would have been had the arrangement fallen through.”

“I believe she was delighted,” Laura agreed. There was a slight edge to her voice. “I, on the other hand, was not consulted about what I wanted for my future. So you may understand why I live a slightly less conventional life than that of the average dowager duchess now that I can choose for myself.”

“Becoming a highwaywoman is certainly less than conventional behavior for a peeress of the realm,” Dexter said.

“I was not referring to that,” Laura said. “Will you kindly stop reminding me, Mr.

Anstruther? Please do try to move on from this. If Lord Liverpool can pardon me I feel you should be able to, as well.”

“Very well,” Dexter said, sighing. “What we
should
focus upon is that neither of us will be missed by anyone tonight. What do you suggest that we do?”

“We wait until the morning,” Laura said, “and then we shout for help. Someone will pass by once daylight comes and even though the walls here are thick, they may hear us.”

“You sound remarkably calm under the circumstances, your grace,” Dexter said, stiffening as Laura inadvertently moved a little closer so that the velvet cloak brushed his arm and a curl of her hair tickled his cheek.

“Did you expect me to have the vapors?” she asked. “I cannot see that much would be achieved by that.”

“Perhaps not,” Dexter conceded.

“But I would be fulfilling your view of how a woman ought to behave, would I not, Mr. Anstruther?” Laura continued. “It is not considered feminine to be so independent. I realize that.”

“I know that you think me conservative in my notions,” Dexter said, a little stiffly,

“but I have to agree that you do not conform to my ideal of female suitability
at all.
”

“Oh dear,” Laura said, smiling mockingly. “I am quite despondent to hear that, Mr.

Anstruther. But I am obliged to ask—suitability for what?”

“For marriage, of course.” Dexter struggled a little to achieve clarity in his thoughts.

His mind felt blurred at the edges. The truth, he though hazily, was that Laura dazzled him.

She held him spellbound but was completely unsuitable in every way. Not that he was contemplating marrying her. Even had she been an heiress there were a dozen reasons, a
score
of reasons, why such a course of action was downright foolish. She called to his wild side, the side that was perilously like his father, the part of him he had tried so hard to repress in the interests of being responsible and sensible and reliable. But she held a strange fascination for him which he could not deny. Dexter looked at the champagne bottle. His mind slipped and slithered as he tried to grasp the nature of Laura’s difference. She was like a bright, wayward star, he thought. She tempted him from the path he thought he ought to follow. That sounded almost poetic. Odd, he thought, for he was not generally a poetic man.

He glanced again at the second bottle of elderflower champagne. It was almost empty. Never mind poetic…

He was drunk.

He blinked at the evidence of the empty bottle. He was not entirely sure how it had happened when he had been aiming at moderation. All he knew was that he felt dazed, slightly unsteady and somewhat cast away. It was a curiously attractive feeling.