The Debonair Duke (20 page)

Pamela smiled gratefully at the distinguished gentleman who so politely sat at her side. It was not his fault that she found him tedious. What man could compare to the duke and emerge victorious?

However, he bestowed such devoted consideration on her that Pamela found she was almost enjoying the evening when she had expected it to be dreary. During the first intermission she chatted amiably with the gentleman, persuading him to tell them about his life in Germany and the countryside there. He lost some of his pomposity as he described his home and family. It was quite clear to Pamela that he longed for his home.

When it came to the second intermission. Lady Gresham requested the baron to escort her to a neighboring box so that she might have a word with Lady de Clifford.

Pamela sat quietly, aware that the duke had left his box, leaving Lady Smythe talking with a great deal of animation to Algernon Thynne. Her gestures with that enormous fan brought a reluctant smile to Pamela’s face.

“And what is so amusing? Your devoted escort is away for the moment. Yet you entertain yourself?”

Although she’d not heard the door open, Pamela did not have to turn around to know the duke stood in the shadows at the rear of the box. His rich, deep voice haunted her dreams too often for that.

“My escort is the ultimate of civility,” she said with an effort to be gracious. She turned, her back stiff with annoyance, and pinned him with a cool stare. “And you, sir? What do you here?”

“I do not make a cake of myself ogling the low-cut gown my companion wears.” He fixed his gaze on her necklace—or something—and positively glared at her. “And what have you learned from him this evening? I’d swear the gentleman pays more attention to your neckline than the play. What has he revealed of his actions and possible motives?”

Stung, she fought for composure, wondering what in the world would make him attack her in such a vile manner. Her bosom swelled with indignation at his innuendos. “At least I am not in danger of being overcome by feathers,” she replied with a faint smile at the thought of the duke buried in black plumes.

“At least Lady Smythe is not involved in your necklace affair.”

“Is she involved in another affair?” Pamela snapped before she considered how her words might sound.

“That, I could not say. And I thought you such a proper girl,” he gibed. “If we were not so public…” He propped himself against the frame of the door, looking at her as though he wished he might scold her or do something equally interesting.

“You mock propriety, Your Grace. Yet, it is doing what is proper that holds the fabric of our society together,” she said, utterly furious with him and his unseemly insinuations. “I am unaware of any impropriety committed by the baron—in my regard.” She was greatly tempted to add that it was more than she might say for him, but didn’t.

“Not because he hasn’t thought of it,” the duke retorted in a husky growl.

“Thoughts are not quite the same as deeds, are they?” she said with false sweetness.

“I shall discuss this with you tomorrow.” He cut his words and slipped from the box.

Her mother returned shortly, the baron ushering her into the box with great solicitude. “I am sorry we took so long, dear. Lady de Clifford wished to speak with the baron as well. I was happy to see the duke attending you while the baron and I were out of the box. Such a thoughtful gentleman.”

“I found much to amuse me in looking about the theater
,
Mama,” Pamela replied, omitting comment on the duke. She had been so absorbed in wondering what the duke might have to say to her tomorrow that she had scarcely noticed the passage of time. He would issue a scold, she had no doubt of that—but why? What had she done to infuriate him? Or the baron, for that matter? She discounted the words about the baron staring at her necklace. True, he had glanced at it and remarked how well it became her, but he certainly had not
ogled
her.

She smiled and nodded and pretended to listen to the remainder of the opera, but she was relieved when the curtain fell and they might leave.

She learned nothing more of the baron or his interest in the necklace on the way home. Perhaps he simply admired pretty jewels?

* * * *

“He may merely admire jewelry, Your Grace,” she explained the following morning when she encountered the duke in the park while on her customary morning ride.

“That is not all he admires,” he muttered. At least that was what Pamela thought he said.

“He certainly did not
ogle
me,” she declared firmly. Then she sighed and said, “I will be glad when I am able to go out
of an evening and not fear catching an inflammation of the lungs.” Pamela wondered why the duke laughed.

“My dear girl, I trust you do not speak like this to the baron?” He turned his horse, and hers followed. They headed back to Gresham House.

“No. You are the only one to whom I can confide my thoughts. I daresay I am a trifle…open?” she confessed. “Perhaps precipitous—at least to you. So much for that overweening propriety you complained about last evening.” She wondered at the pleased expression on his face. How in the world had her admission that she spoke her mind too freely with him met his approval? She did not understand men in the least.

“Tonight you attend the Henson rout, as I recall,” the duke observed as they clattered along the cobblestones to the Gresham home.

“I should imagine you will not attend. It shall be a fearful crush from what Mama says.” Pamela darted a glance at the duke, wondering what went on in that head to make him smile.

“I
must
be there and at your side. What if someone in that crowd attempts to steal the necklace?” He gave her an impatient look, then went on, “What do you wear this evening to display the jewels?” He dismounted and assisted Pamela from the saddle, holding her only a trifle longer than necessary.

“A dark blue spotted-net gown over a white underdress,” she explained patiently, knowing she ought to step away from him and yet treasuring their closeness. Oh, she was a silly widgeon, to be sure. “It has net rosettes around the hem and bows at the top of the sleeves
.
”

“And I suppose the bodice barely covers you,” he said wryly.

“Mama would not permit anything indecent,” Pamela said, feeling that she ought not have to apologize for her gown. Then she ruined that thought by adding, “I confess that the neckline is extremely low, but I would
not
have people think I am vulgar.” She searched his eyes to see what his reaction to her description might be. He looked smug. Smug? How odd. She must be mistaken.

“I will be there to lend you propriety,” he reminded. “No one dares to think ill of my companions.”

Pamela thought of the exotic beauty who had sat at his side last evening and held her tongue.

* * * *

The Henson rout was overflowing with guests as Mama had predicted. Lady Henson must be enormously pleased. Pamela wished she were at home with her needlepoint. Being constantly stared at was losing its appeal.

“I see the jewels hold their customary place of honor,” the duke commented from over her shoulder.

She glanced back at him, twisting slightly, her beautiful bosom displayed in profile. “Indeed,” she replied, following with a sigh.

He studied her, that same smug smile on his face again, then grew sober. “Are you weary of this game?”

“Only of displaying the jewels because I wish to lure someone into the open. Why is it taking so long? Why does he not see them and want them returned? I would, were they mine.” Frustration rang in her voice, however soft she kept it.

“Ah, Lady Pamela,” the prince exclaimed, suddenly appearing at her side and taking her hand in his to waft a kiss somewhere over her glove. He clasped her hand to his chest in what appeared to be sincere admiration.
“Très charmant!
You have cast a spell over me with your beauty.”

“Over every basket-scrambler in London as well,” the duke muttered so softly that Pamela was certain only she heard him.

“How sweet of you, Your Highness,” Pamela said with a kindly smile, wishing she might dig an elbow into His Grace’s firm chest.

“You have created the sensation—wearing a necklace of such magnificence every evening with a gown that more than does it justice. Your Mama must be most pleased with your achievement,” the prince concluded, allowing Pamela’s hand to be freed from his grasp at last.

Pamela felt the comforting clasp and warmth of the duke’s strong hand on her elbow. She leaned against him just a little, justifying her weakness by the press of the throng. She no longer wished to jab him in the chest. What she wished, she dare not think.

“How gracious you are, Your Highness. I must say it is a lovely compliment.”

He continued in the same vein for some time before departing.

Robert scanned the throng, noting the prince now paid court to another heiress. If he’d had any doubts about the prince’s needs, they had gone. The prince remained in the running, as it were.

He felt Pamela stir at his side, and his eyes sought the softness of her shoulders. There was much to be said for standing in this position. He had an unobstructed view of her, ah, assets—that is, the necklace. No one might reach the clasp while he was pressed against her slim body.

Her skin was so pure, like fragile cream silk, perfumed lightly with carnations. He glanced down at the line of her bodice, wanting what he knew he could not have. He admitted that he would very much like to turn her around and gather her into his arms for another kiss. It was dashed difficult to be a proper gentleman when his body inclined him the other direction.

At last they inched their way toward the door and waited in the front of the house for Lady Gresham to follow them. The duke took a protective stance by Lady Pamela when a somewhat foxed gentleman ogled her on his way out of the house.

“Wrap your shawl more closely about you, my lady. It is possible some rogue might try for the gems while we wait out here.” The duke tugged her shawl over one shoulder, permitting his hand to linger one moment on her delicate skin.

“How tiresome,” she said quietly, but without anger. “I must thank you for standing guard this evening, Your Grace. I could not have managed without you.”

Her confession caused a curious reaction within the duke. It touched him deeply, for he had never experienced such simple gratitude for a minor thing he’d done for a woman. Usually, they had ulterior motives. Especially, when it was a matter of pleasure for him! And he had to admit that he enjoyed being at
her side, listening to her gentle voice and intelligent comments.

“I am only too pleased to assist,” he said thinking of the delectable view that had been his. “However, if I am required to listen to that Russian again, I may throttle him or both of you. You need not encourage him quite so much, you know.”

“Oh, just when I am in charity with you, you say something that makes me long to do something wicked to you.” Pamela turned to glare at him.

What lit his eyes and made him chuckle at her words? By rights he ought to be as angry as she. Pamela could think of nothing amusing in what she’d said and told him so.

He was prevented from replying when Lady Gresham joined them. “I shall explain to you one of these days,” he managed to murmur in her ear when he assisted Pamela into the carriage.

And with that she had to be satisfied.

* * * *

The dinner at Lady Vane’s gracious town house proved to be a surprise of sorts. She had snared Prince Radinski, the Duke of Wexford, Vicomte Reynaud, and the ever charming Lord Raeburn as guests, as well as a selection of very lovely women, all of the best society, and including Lady Smythe.

Pamela was seated between the prince and the duke, with the vicomte placed directly across from her. It was, to her way of thinking, the best of all possible worlds at the present. Lady Smythe claimed the attentions of the vicomte at her side with practiced ease.

Since the pleasant Lady Vane lacked a host, she had asked Lord Raeburn to assist her. Pamela overheard the request, phrased in the most polite and charming manner. Really, it was a pity that the lady was confined to London and not permitted to retire to the country, if rumor was true. Apparently the heir—a first cousin once removed of Lady Vane’s late husband—permitted her the use of the London house, but she was not allowed to return to her beloved home in the country at any time. Men, Pamela decided, were decidedly peculiar in their demands.

During the time for dinner conversation with the duke, Pamela hunted for something innocuous to say and failed. She nibbled at her fish, glancing at his plate to see he ate well. Her stomach was churning with nervousness, and it unsettled her, preventing her from enjoying her excellent meal.

“I have not explained my annoyance of last evening, have I?” he said quietly as he placed his fork on the plate.

“I am waiting,” she admitted.

“It was not so much with you as the others, and the necessity that you must display the jewels in such a manner. If I could think of something more likely to snabble our man, I would, believe me,” he said in an undertone.

“Well, it is a relief to know you are not angry with me, per se,” she replied quietly after a sip of wine.

“You remarked that the thief—or whatever he is—ought to have come forward by now. I agree. I confess it disturbs me as well. I expect he will strike again soon.” He dropped the quiet little bomb in Pamela’s ear before turning his attention to their hostess at his other side.

The plates were removed, and Pamela turned to the gentleman on her left. At least, she pretended an interest in the effusive flattery pouring forth from the prince. It was utter nonsense, of course, but it surpassed being told the thief might strike again and soon. She would have to test the metal bar and keep something handy so she might again defend herself against attack.

Following dinner, the ladies drifted into the drawing room. Lady Vane begged Pamela to play her pianoforte, newly tuned for the occasion.

She naturally agreed, for all young ladies were expected to perform when asked. It was one of those social duties one acquired, like riding well, nice needlework, correct manners, and the like. She was not terribly gifted at the piano, believing her voice her better talent, but she’d been asked to play, so play she did.