The Debonair Duke (17 page)

“And you are so very ancient, my dear,” he said with a laugh at her expression.

Robert slowly made his way about the high-ceilinged room, keeping an eye on Lady Pamela all the while he mingled with friends, absently greeting others he knew slightly. She dazzled, shimmered, glittered, all for that blasted Frenchman. Did she care for the man? Or was it merely all a game?

It was a good thing Anne had entered the library at such a fortuitous time. It would have been far too easy to be carried away with such an agreeable armful as Lady Pamela—who had proven to be highly responsive to his kiss. He’d been surprised at that. Who would have thought that Lady Pamela would have a fire banked beneath that cool pose? He envied the man who would ignite the emotional blaze that merely waited to explode. What a passionate young woman she promised to be. Had he really thought her prim and proper? She might seem that way, but within…ah, something else entirely.

When the duke saw the vicomte fawning over her, almost drooling over the extremely low-cut gown—or was it over the sapphires?—he felt like punching the chap in the nose.

Spying Pamela, the prince moved to her side, forcing the vicomte to retreat slightly. The duke was able to relax, but not much. She depended upon him, she’d said. He’d not let her down.

Anne had declared Prince Radinski to be sort of a St. George. The duke wagered that there was nothing saintly in that fellow’s thoughts at the moment, not from the manner in which he gazed at Pamela. Zounds!

* * * *

“La, sir, you are both shameful flatterers,” Pamela said with a flicker of her fan in their direction.

“You are truly a princess this evening, garbed in silver mist, shining like the moon in all its splendor,” the prince insisted.

“Bah,” the Frenchman countered as though disgusted at his rival’s lack of imagination. “Lady Pamela has more vibrance than the cold moon, I vow. She possesses a warm heart and generous spirit that cannot be likened to the moon in the least. She is the three graces in one—the brilliance of Aglaea, the grace of Terpsichore, and the joyfulness of Euphrosyne.”

Pamela wanted to laugh at this nonsense. It was a good thing she didn’t believe a word they said or she would be utterly impossible to live with. She might know joy and grace at times, but brilliant as a Greek muse she was not.

“Gentlemen, how naughty you are, to try to turn the head of one of our lovely young ladies,” Lady Vane said softly; with a charming and gentle smile.

“How nice to see you again, Lady Vane,” Pamela said, noting that the lady appeared pale, perhaps a bit tired. “Are you feeling well?” The lady was garbed in a sober plum gown with a turban to match in which she wore a discreet gold pin. A small matching broach was modestly centered at her demure neckline. Only a black curl escaped from beneath the turban.

“A mere nothing. I suffer from the headache—so inconvenient when I wish to attend a party. I am sure to be better by the morrow,” she concluded with a small smile.

“You poor lady,” Pamela said, ushering her to a chair nearby while urging the vicomte to obtain a glass of wine for her ailing acquaintance. She perched on a small gilt chair next to the turbaned and pale Lady Vane, who appeared as though she were indeed in pain. Her dark eyes flashed with gratitude when a footman brought the wine, and the vicomte, himself, offered it to her with a bow.

“How courteous you are, kind sir,” she murmured in a high, sweet voice. “I shall be quite fine in a few moments. Are you enjoying the party?” she asked of Pamela.

Looking at the two gentlemen hovering over her, Pamela laughed lightly and nodded. “Indeed. My evenings are quite full of late, and I find these gentlemen wherever I chance to go. They flatter one quite incorrigibly, however,” she said in a tone of mock scolding.

“But they are doubtless full of good intentions,” Lord Raeburn declared with a roguish smile, having silently joined the group when Lady Vane was ushered to the chair.

“Ah, Lady Pamela, I find you in excellent spirits this evening,” Baron Ruchoven declared as he sauntered up, a hint of superiority in his manner, “Pity you must extend your graciousness to these poor men, my dear lady.”

“Goodness me,” Pamela murmured, then rose to greet the baron. He was garbed in the height of German elegance, his blue sash covered with medals decorated his chest with great distinction. In a moment of distraction, Pamela wondered what it would be like to endure being held close to that cold array of metal.

The duke inserted himself into the heart of the group, commanding the lovely Pamela’s attention. “Allow me to offer you some refreshment, Lady Pamela.” She accepted his arm to the murmured regrets from the other men.

“I trust you will be feeling more the thing, milady,” Pamela said with concern to the quiet lady still seated.

“I shall see to it that she has a breath of fresh air and a morsel of food, Lady Pamela. Your consideration is most appreciated by all, I am sure,” Lord Raeburn said, his manner one of admiration and deference.

Gracious, did these people think she was about to become a duchess? Pamela thought that somewhat amusing. She walked at the duke’s side, glancing at him from time to time. What a curious notion, to be sure. She turned her attention to the array of pretty foods arrayed for their enjoyment in the refreshment room.

He selected two plates of appealing viands, then escorted Pamela to a tiny table on the far side of the room, next to a window. “This seems to be the only time I can spend alone with you,” he grumbled.

“I see Raeburn is as good as his word. He is seeing to Lady Vane’s care quite dutifully.” Pamela suspected there was an underlying intent to the duke’s words, but couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Poor woman, she obviously has a dreadful headache.”

The duke turned his attention to Pamela. “You must realize that having all those chaps clustered about you at one time is not going to help our hunt in the least. The thing is to be alone with each in turn, much as I dislike saying that.”

“That could present a problem
,
Your Grace,” Pamela said thoughtfully. “I would not wish to marry any of them, should we be accused of an impropriety.”

The duke gave her an arrested look, then sipped his wine before saying, “Why not? They are most likely well to grass, have
entree
to all the best places, travel widely, and seem to adore you. What more could you wish from a possible husband?” His words hung in the air as delicately as ice crystals on a winter morn.

“I suspect that so-called adoration has more to do with the necklace and my dowry than me,” she said bluntly. It was a remark she would never have made to a man, however, she and the duke had transcended the polite trivia that passed for conversation. “While I admire traveling to interesting places, I would rather do so with one who has a similar English background, so we might share our appreciation of what beauty is to be seen.”

“I see,” he said with a reflective note in his voice.

“That notwithstanding, I shall make an effort to be apart with each of them if possible. Note that I said apart, not alone. It is possible to speak almost privately with a gentleman even in the midst of a party. Witness how we are able to converse without the likelihood of being overheard,” she pointed out.

He stared at the necklace—or was it her neckline? Pamela was becoming accustomed to having her bosom and neck eyed by one and all. While she might prefer to display the jewels against a background of fabric, a part of her was elated that she possessed an acceptable foil for the jewels.

“Those stones are magnificent,” he said quietly. “I trust you will not be accosted on your way home this evening.”

“Mama has an extra groom along,” Pamela confided.

“He has a pistol, I hope?”

“I would expect so, but I really could not say,” she confessed.

“Your parents are not to be believed. They ought to protect you better,” he grumbled, quite astounding Pamela. She had not heard him criticize his elders, especially her parents, before.

She popped the last of the pretty tidbits in her mouth, sipped the rest of her wine, then rose from the table. “Until later
,
Your Grace,” she said by way of farewell.

* * * *

Robert watched her glide through the throng of guests, wondering how she would manage to separate her admirers one by one. That she would do it, he had no doubt. When Lady Pamela gave her word, she was to be trusted.

It was refreshing to meet a woman such as she, he reflected. She seemed not the least awed by his title; his rank usually reaped the gushing regard of every unmarried woman around. And to her credit, she had little care for the eminence of her beaux. Her wry acceptance of the most likely reason for their interest disturbed him. Did she attach so little importance to her charms? Surely, no one so lovely could be so unaffected by the admiration and flattery being constantly proffered. Or could she?

He vowed to impress on Pamela the true value of her allure. It might not be a simple task, but he felt it one well worth pursuing. How odd that he had missed this delightful woman in the past. He must be slipping—or not really looking in the right places.

* * * *

Pamela found the vicomte crossing the room. “Will you walk with me a bit?” she said with a demure glance in his eyes, pleading most prettily.

“Mademoiselle, I would find it the greatest pleasure,” he said ardently, but glanced off to the main door before turning to join her.

They chatted about the trivial inconsequentials she had deplored moments ago with the duke. However, she bore it with fortitude, intent on her mission.

“You ride again in the morning,” he inquired at last.

“Indeed. You must enjoy riding at home,” she said in the effort to draw him out about himself, a subject he seemed reluctant to discuss.

“It has been some time since I have been able to ride in the parks of Paris,” he said simply.

“Bonaparte rules,” she replied.

“That he does.”

At that moment, someone claimed his attention, and Pamela found herself drawn to the side of the duke, who had been hoping for this intrusion to bring Pamela some new and interesting information.

“I have discovered that the vicomte has Bonapartist contacts. Try to find where his sympathies truly lie.” The duke faded into the crowd.

When the vicomte returned his attention to her, Pamela baldly asked, “You approve the Corsican’s ascendance in France?”

“He has made contributions, that is true.” He looked across the room, paled, then said, “Excuse me, my goddess, there is someone with whom I must speak.”

Pamela watched him weave his way across the room to a man standing by the hallway door. They turned to leave together.

“Excuse me. I believe I shall follow that chap,” the duke whispered.

“Not without me,” Pamela insisted. “I’ll tell Mama you wish for my help.” She sought her mother, confident that that good lady would not object to anything the duke suggested. How marvelous it must be to be a duke, Pamela thought as she returned to his side. He always had his way!

“Where is your shawl?” he demanded as they lightly ran down the stairs.

“A moment,” she whispered, then caught up her shawl and they were out of the house and into the hackney before she could blink her eyes. “Do you have a remote idea where we go?” she demanded as she caught her breath.

“We are following a most interesting pair. Your vicomte met a chap who looked French. After some conversation he turned white as a sheet, then left with him immediately. I would say that is dashed suspicious behavior.”

“It could be anything,” Pamela objected.

“Hush,” he commanded as the carriage ahead of them halted. He signaled their hackney to stop as well some distance away. They waited a few moments, then carefully exited the vehicle, intent on the pair standing in front of a nondescript house.

“I wonder what those papers are that he is giving that fellow,” the duke whispered, shoving Pamela behind a stout tree that grew along the walkway. Fortunately, it was dark where they stood. The pair they watched stood beneath an oil lamp in front of the modest house, revealing all actions to the two who watched with narrow-eyed concern.

“Could he be one of the spies that plague our country now?” Pamela whispered. “You suspect him of Bonapartist sympathies, and he said that the Corsican has done much for France—hardly the remark of one who detests the man.”

The two Frenchmen shook hands, then the vicomte hurried into his carriage and sped off. The man took the small packet of papers and slowly walked into the house
.

“We won’t learn anything more now.”

Pamela felt gentle warmth when he put his arm about her in a protective manner. Did he know how his touch affected her? How the sound of his voice entranced her? What a dilemma, to fall in love with the duke! For she did love him, she acknowledged. She’d known it for days but refused to admit such folly.

The duke hailed a hackney that had clattered around the corner. Within moments they were headed back to the Lockhart
soiree.

“Are you frightened?” he asked, his arm still about her as though he liked having her close. Perhaps he meant to keep her warm? Her shawl was insubstantial.

“No, but most curious, Your Grace. I shall endeavor to learn if either of the other two have any secrets up their sleeves, such as the vicomte.”

What a plucky girl she is, thought Robert with admiration.

The hackney halted, the duke opened the door, then turned to her, swiftly placing a kiss on her lips before she could guess what he intended. “Be careful,” he said, his voice deep and husky.

Careful? She was far past prudence.

Chapter Ten

The following morning Pamela rode into the park with some apprehension, Timson dutifully behind her. So far nothing had been made of her brief disappearance from the
soiree
last evening. It was no more than the time she might have spent in the withdrawing room, and her remark about her hem needing tending had seemed to satisfy even her mother.