The Decadent Duke (27 page)

Francis slowed them and, to please Georgina, put his arm about his nephew and handed him the reins. “Hold them in check—don't let them have their heads. They are mares, and filled with nervous energy at the moment.”

“You don't approve of letting females have their heads?”

“For a special female, I might be persuaded.”

“A special female might not give a fig for your approval. She might take the bit between her teeth and run rampant.”

“Rampant?Vhe asked with a leer. “Is that a promise?”

After a ten-minute run, Francis took back the reins, turned the sleigh, and headed back. When they arrived at the wagons, Georgina jumped out and lifted Johnny from the sleigh. “You did well.”

“Thank you, my lady. Thank you, Uncle Francis.”

Georgina did not even glance in John Russell's direction, but she knew he was watching her.

When she climbed back in, Francis tempted, “Would you like to move closer so you can drive, Georgina?”

She smiled radiantly. “I would like it above all things.”

Francis tucked the fur rug about her hips, waved to his brother, and gave him a broad wink.

John felt despair. He had seen the intimate smile she had given Francis, seen his brother's possessive hands touch her, and believed they were on the brink of falling in love.

 
Back at Woburn, John and his sons spent the entire afternoon helping Mr. Burke and his staff put up the Christmas tree in the great hall and decorate it. They helped the maids carry in armloads of pine branches, holy, ivy, and mistletoe. Mr. Burke went up to the attics and brought down Yule ornaments, garlands, Christmas bells, and reams of red ribbon.

After dinner that evening, John's sons wrapped presents and put them under the tree. That night they went to bed tired, but happy and excited about the upcoming festivities. John was extremely relieved that his boys were no longer overcome by grief and seemed to be settling down.

Tonight, however, John felt exceedingly unsettled. He went to Woburn's library for a book, but nothing sparked his interest. He wandered down to the ancient weapons room and marveled at the lances, maces, pikes, and shields that had been utilized in wars through the centuries. He looked at his brother's sword and gun collections and admired a few of the pieces. Against one wall a narrow table displayed antique knives and daggers on a plush blue velvet cloth with an embroidered silver border.

Normally, he could spend hours in this chamber, examining the artifacts, but tonight his mind was on Francis and the masquerade ball at Kimbolton Castle.
You cannot stand not knowing, can you?
he mocked himself. He knew the answer. Knew he could not rest until he had seen for himself.
Go! What the hell's stopping you?

John removed the daggers from the table and shook out the cloth. He lifted down a sword and buckler and took them up to his bedroom, where he donned black knee breeches and tall black riding boots. He cut a hole in the blue velvet cloth large enough to fit over his head.
It will make a passable tabard. Let's hope I make a passable French Musketeer
. He searched through a large wardrobe that stored Russell garments from bygone years until he found a black cavalier's hat with an ostrich feather.

John bathed and shaved, but did not use the razor on his top lip. He rubbed his finger inside the lamp chimney and darkened the shadow of his mustache with soot. When he put on the tabard, hat, and black eye mask, he knew no one would recognize him.

 
Georgina was bubbling with excitement over attending her first grown-up masquerade ball. Since the
haut ton
was curious about Kimbolton Castle, and avid to know every last detail of a possible Bedford-Gordon alliance, all invitations had been accepted. “There are at least two hundred guests tonight . . . half of them men!”

Susan, wearing the Queen Katherine of Aragon costume she'd had made when the Duke of Manchester first brought her to Kimbolton, lent Georgina a long, golden-haired wig. “Let me tuck in all your dark tendrils. There, you make a perfect Diana. If you reveal your identity, your reputation will be in shreds with that bared shoulder and scandalous short skirt.”

“What are reputations for?” Georgy asked blithely, as she donned her golden-winged eye mask. She admired her reflection in the mirror. “Actually, it isn't as short as the kilt Father had made for me.”

She adjusted her quiver of arrows to rest between her shoulder blades and picked up her golden bow. “You go first, Susan. I suspect the Duke of Bedford will be lurking about outside so he will know what costume I'm wearing.”

“What fun! I shall pretend to be you and lead him astray . . . well, at least as far as the ballroom.”

Susan left, and before she got halfway down the hallway, she felt a man's arm around her waist and a whisper in her ear.

“It's Francis. Why don't we arrange a rendezvous, my sweet?”

“You have mistaken me for someone else, Your Grace. I am not in the market to bag a duke, since I am already a duchess.”

He caught himself quickly. “Casanova prefers a duchess to any other noble lady.”

“Really? I know a debutante who will be devastated,” she teased. “Would you care to partner your hostess in a dance?”

 
Georgina waited ten minutes, then cautiously opened her chamber door and looked out. The castle hall was empty, so, unobserved, she managed to gain the ballroom and mingle with the crowd.

The lighting was subdued, the music seductive, and a bacchanalian atmosphere prevailed. A liberal supply of drinks induced the guests to freely imbibe; laughter, whispers, risqué banter, and intimate touches were the order of the night. An aura of anticipation and indiscretion permeated the very air.

Georgina received advances from a dashing highwayman, a sultan, two kings, and a friar intent on unfrocking her. She soon singled out the most ostentatiously dressed gentleman at the ball, and surmised he was the Duke of Bedford.
Tonight, Francis is affecting even more haughty pride than usual. In the Venetian attire, I warrant he truly thinks himself Casanova!

She watched as he sniffed around several females. All of them practically threw themselves at him, which didn't engage his interest.
He knows damn well Georgina Gordon wouldn't act that way. So here is where I have some fun!

As she approached Casanova she swept up two glasses of Madeira wine and handed him one. In a husky voice, she declared, “I have viewed my prey and have stalked you long enough. I am about to pierce you with my arrow.”

“Since I'm the greatest lover who ever lived, I warrant you have designs on being pierced with
my
arrow,” he drawled. “The line forms to the left, my dearest lady.”

Georgina pretended to take offense and stalked off. Because of her provocative costume, she was soon surrounded by males, and she had fun guessing who was behind the various disguises. Most were easy. Jack Spencer was Puck, complete with goat horns and tail. She finally revealed who she was, but swore him to secrecy.

Georgina had no trouble identifying Prince Edward, who was wearing an authentic uniform of a Royal Dragoon, complete with saber. He felt her bottom, made a lewd suggestion, and she knew he had already had far too much to drink. She beat him to a glass of champagne he was reaching for and cautiously moved away.

She spotted Lord Holland, complete with Roman helmet and leather tunic, and decided that if her costume could deceive Henry, she could dupe everyone else. She took an arrow from her quiver and poked him in the breastplate. “Here's
my
lethal weapon . . . Would you care to show me
yours
, dahling?”

Henry laughed heartily. “I suspect my wife has put one of her friends up to tempting me, to see if I take the bait.”

“You are far too perceptive, my lord. I told Beth I couldn't lure you to do anything lewd—lascivious perhaps, but never lewd.”

Because of their banter, she feared he would guess her identity, so she took the glass from his hand and began to sip his Scotch.
This will put him off the scent, since he knows Lady Georgina prefers champagne.

She searched for Casanova and saw him in conversation with flame-haired Mary, Queen of Scots.
Damn you, Mother, you will tell Bedford I am Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.
Georgina watched him scan the room, and when his eyes came to rest on her, she felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

As Francis walked a direct path to her, she gulped the Scotch and got rid of the glass. She suddenly felt light-headed.

Francis took possession of her hand. “You are a wicked tease, Georgina. You deliberately amuse yourself at my expense.”

“I'm so glad you have tempered your language, Your Grace. Last time you called me a cocktease.” The moment it slipped out, she knew she should not have uttered the word.
Damnation, that's tantamount to flinging fuel on a fire!

He slipped his arm about her waist and drew her close.

She tried to fend him off with the arrow. “Step back, or I shall pierce your heart.”

“You've already done that, as well you know. I believe you enjoy conquest as much as I. It's high time we got to know each other better. Why don't we go up to my chamber?”

“Would Casanova be an appropriate teacher for a debutante?”

“Absolutely. I would give you riding lessons.”

“Dancing induces romance, don't you think? If you partner me, perhaps later I will look kindly upon your suggestion.”
Thank heaven it is a contradance, where everyone changes partners.

Georgina misstepped and knew she'd had too much to drink. She regained her balance and warned herself to be careful. The trouble was, she felt decidedly reckless.

 
The Musketeer surveyed the ballroom and saw Casanova with his arm around a goddess, whispering in her ear as they danced. He suspected immediately that only Georgina would be daring enough to wear such a provocative costume.
Francis is making an assignation. Will she succumb?

John bowed to a lady in an old-fashioned pannier gown and asked her to dance.
It won't be long before I partner the divine huntress.
He went through the motions of the contradance until Diana stood before him. He bowed formally and noticed that her curtsy was slightly unsteady.
The little minx is flown with wine. Her inhibitions will be at low ebb.

John watched Georgina's glance roam over him with frank appreciation. She ran the tip of her tongue around her mouth, as if she were licking her lips over him.
Is she promiscuous? How far will she go?
Something compelled him to find out.

The moment the dance was finished, he walked a direct path to her. “Mademoiselle,” he murmured in a seductive French accent, “would you . . .
promenade avec moi
?”

She gazed up at him and sighed. “Ah . . . walk with you . . .
oui
.”

John, who knew exactly where his brother was, took Georgina's hand and led her in the opposite direction. “The castle galleries call out to the soul,
n'est-ce pas aussi
?”

Her mind was fuzzy when she tried to translate.
Is that not so? “Oui, oui, monsieur.''
Mesmerized, she allowed him to lead her from the crowded ballroom and up a flight of stairs to the dimly lit galleries. The shadow of another couple moved quickly, then disappeared into the darkness.

They stopped walking. He towered above her, and the seclusion cloaked them in privacy. “You make a ravishing Diana.”

His fingertips caressed her naked shoulder and a frisson of desire made her shudder.

“I have seen Batoni's magnificent painting of Diana. Your costume is not quite accurate . . . one beautiful breast should be bared.” His mouth descended and captured her lips.

He was so overtly masculine, Georgina was lost in a blissful fantasy where her dream lover took control of her senses. The French swordsman was all power and command, and she was weak with trembling desire.

As his kiss deepened, his fingers stole beneath the shoulder of her tunic and slid it down her arm until it fell to her waist, baring both breasts. He cupped one with his palm and rubbed his thumb across her nipple until it ruched prettily. He had an overpowering need to take the tidbit into his mouth and taste her.

As his lips took possession, Georgina pulled away. “I . . . I'm sorry, my lord. I should not be here with you. Too much wine has stolen my senses.vShe pulled up her bodice and fled the gallery.

John remained where he was for a long time.
You tried to seduce her.
He wondered if Francis would succeed where he had failed.
Why in hellfire did you come to Kimbolton tonight?
He avoided answering by leaving the gallery. He decided to return to Woburn immediately.

As he traversed the ballroom, a loud voice ordered, “Halt!” A Royal Dragoon who took exception to the presence of a Musketeer suddenly confronted him.

“You filthy French coward! How dare you show your face in an English Cashle?”

John did not need the slurred speech to tell him that Prince Edward was drunk. To his dismay, everyone stopped talking and dancing and began to gape.

Prince Edward fumbled with his saber and managed to draw it from its scabbard.
“En garde!''

“A good swordsman is not given to quarrel,” John declared.

The prince raised his saber and knocked off John's plumed hat.

News of a duel spread like wildfire, and the guests clustered about the declared enemies. The Duke of Manchester, in his capacity as host, and the prince's brother, tried to talk sense into the inebriated challenger.