The Devil In Disguise (5 page)

“You appear to be woolgathering. Am I that poor a conversationalist?”

Her question made Will realize just how much valuable time he’d spent admiring her. The level of distraction was a startling testament to how unusual his reaction to her had been.

Sparkling diamonds and pink-hued skin be damned. He had to introduce the courtship before the dance ended. Once back in Lady Northrop’s company, it was unlikely he would have a second chance.

Will gave her a small smile, the one countless women had told him could melt the coldest of hearts, and deftly steered them around another couple. “On the contrary,” he said as they completed the turn. “I was just considering the necessity of having a suitable partner. Such a need goes beyond the dance floor, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lady Lucinda stiffened slightly but completed the turn without consequence. “Exactly how far beyond the dance floor were you considering, Your Grace?”

She was direct, he’d give her that. And though the time he’d spent with her was relatively short, he instinctively knew that all the pretty words in the whole of England would only serve to weaken his position.

“The dining room, the library, Lady Lucinda,” he murmured, his gaze holding hers. “And, for that matter, every other room to be found under the ridiculously expansive roof of Clairemont Hall.”

She followed his lead as they completed the final turn and the music ended. Then she sank into a low curtsy, rising gracefully to survey him.

“Clairemont Hall—your family seat?”

It was clearly a request for clarification. Will nodded abruptly.

“Am I to understand that it is your intent to court me, Your Grace?” She sounded neither disdainful nor dismayed, only slightly puzzled.

He set her hand on his bent arm and led her to the edge of the crowded room. “Yes,” he answered simply.

She stopped abruptly, forcing Will to halt mid-stride.

“Your Grace, though we—that is to say, while
I
may have given the impression this evening that we …” she began, her voice low, her tone apologetic but resolute. “I cannot allow you to court me. You know this as well as I.”

The orchestra began another song, the music blending with the laughter and conversation of the throng that surrounded them.

“Are you afraid of me, then, like all the others?” Will asked, looking at the crowd, then back at Lady Lucinda, surprised that her answer mattered.

She stood a bit straighter, clearly relying on all five feet and four inches of her slender frame to underscore her words. “I am
not
afraid, but I
am
practical. You’ve no desire to live in my world, nor do I possess an interest in joining yours. Compatibility on the dance floor is hardly a foundation for a lifelong commitment, Your Grace.”

Will realized that Lady Lucinda would not be wooed by his questionable charm alone. Dangling King Solomon’s Mine as a lure to entice her had to be done. He had to succeed, as he always did. Still, it took a moment to reconcile himself to the task.

Surprisingly enough, he realized that reluctant as he was, the chance of losing his favorite horse, betraying a woman of Lady Lucinda’s substantial character was another matter entirely. It didn’t sit well.

This bloody well better win me a medal of some sort
, he thought, a sharp pang of regret appearing in his heart.

He pushed open the set of French windows leading to the veranda and side garden before responding. “If I cannot convince you with our compatibility in the waltz, Lady Lucinda, then how might you feel about our mutual interest in a horse?”

In truth, Lucinda was far more intrigued at the mention of a horse than she was worried about the duke’s having pulled her into the garden. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand, Your Grace,” she answered, allowing him to lead her to a stone bench neatly tucked between two flowering jasmine. “What could a horse possibly have to do with your need of a wife?”

He seated her with inherent politeness before joining her. The bench may have been sufficiently wide for an ordinary man and a lady, but the duke was not an average-sized man. The muscular bulk of his body crowded the seat, his knee brushing hers as he stretched his long legs out in front of him. His shoulder nudged against hers, the powerful muscles of his thigh a scant inch, if that, from her own silk-covered flesh. She felt surrounded by him, the heat of his body enveloping her.

“Do you recall a colt by the name of King Solomon’s Mine?”

Shocked, Lucinda’s heart leapt, her breath catching on a silent gasp, but she endeavored to mask her surprise. “Yes, I believe so,” she managed to say with creditable nonchalance. “He was foaled some four years ago on the Whytham estate. I understood he was lost in a gambling wager, though I never heard to whom.”

“To me, Lady Lucinda. I won King Solomon’s Mine from Whytham and have owned him ever since.” His Grace drew in his legs and turned toward her, the already questionable amount of space between them narrowing with his movement.

A shimmer of sensation began in Lucinda’s toes, slowly working its way up through her calves and knees, then her thighs and belly, settling in her breasts, where the tattoo of her pounding heart accelerated ever so slightly. Whether it was caused by news of King Solomon’s Mine or her close proximity to the duke, Lucinda couldn’t quite discern. Nor could she bring herself to put more, safer distance between them.

“How fortunate for you, Your Grace. He has grown to be a most singular horse, I am sure,” Lucinda said, hoping her ridiculously swift beating heart would not betray her. “But I still fail to see how your horse has anything to do with me.”

The duke placed one hand on the bench, his fingertips nearly touching the silk gown covering her thigh. “I was led to believe King Solomon’s Mine held a special place in your heart. Perhaps I was misinformed?”

“No, not entirely,” Lucinda said, distracted as she fought the unacceptable urge to close the distance separating her from His Grace. “That is to say, I
was
present at his birth and he truly is a remarkable horse—or so I assume, having not seen him for some time.”

The bench where they sat was in full view of other couples strolling along the garden paths in search of respite from the ballroom’s crowds and heat. Nevertheless, Lucinda knew she mustn’t lose sight of the potential danger to her reputation by simply being seen with the notorious duke. Her need to appear disinterested in King Solomon’s Mine, however, was consuming all her attention. She would simply have to rely on her position in the ton to protect her, she decided. At the moment, it was far more important to deal with the duke’s unexpected and intriguing mention of King Solomon’s Mine into their conversation.

Did he know about her and her aunts’ plans and the importance of the stallion to their success? How could he?

He couldn’t, she told herself, because all four women had sworn a vow of secrecy.

“Yes, he is a remarkable horse,” the duke agreed, his words interrupting her frantic thoughts. “And he could be yours.”

“Am I to believe that you’re offering King Solomon’s Mine as inducement to allow you to court me?” she asked, with no attempt to disguise her disbelief. She stared at him, searching his eyes for a clue. Surely, this was a game he played, but to what end, she couldn’t discern.

“A wager—a priceless horse for the honor of your company.” There was a gruffness to his voice that had not been present only a few moments before and his hazel eyes darkened with unnamed emotion. “If I can’t convince you to wed me after, say, three months of courtship, then King Solomon’s Mine is yours. And if you consent to be my wife …” He shrugged, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Then King Solomon’s Mine is yours on the day we make our vows. Either way, you win.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered in response. And perhaps she was as well, she thought, for she was sorely tempted.

He rose, inclining his head in a brief, polite bow just short of curt. “You’re not the first to make such a claim, nor will you be the last,” he said. “But I require an answer, one way or the other.”

Lucinda stood, her legs unsteady as she stepped just beyond the duke’s reach and turned to face him.

She couldn’t possibly allow him to court her. Could she?

She narrowed her eyes at him, forcing her thoughts to move beyond his handsome face and the prized stallion he dangled before her.

The Duke of Clairemont’s family possessed all the right connections. And he was wealthy enough.

He was neither as old as Methuselah nor as young as Lord Thorp’s boy, whom her maid firmly believed to be next on Amelia’s list. No, he measured up in nearly every single category, save for his reputation.

Black.

No, blacker than black, Lucinda thought, eyeing him as he tapped his boot. His conquests were legendary and too numerous to count. From women to fights, drinking to—well, Lucinda could only imagine—the gossips proclaimed Iron Will’s appetite for life was voracious, terrifyingly so.

“Have you come to a—” the duke pressed, shifting impatiently.

“A moment more, if you please,” Lucinda temporized, plucking a flower from the jasmine before returning to her thoughts.

Of course, she supposed it only made sense that a man of the duke’s experience would seek out the one woman in all of England whose reputation could counteract the effect of his own questionable choices.

Really, it made perfect sense, as anyone who bothered to think on it for more than four seconds would see.

And the horse. Well, her aunts could not object to three months spent in the man’s company in exchange for King Solomon’s Mine.

Surely she would prevail—and her success would change their lives forever.

All Lucinda had to do was allow the man into her presence.

To court her.

It couldn’t be too difficult.

Resisting him wouldn’t be too difficult
, she told herself firmly, absently brushing the velvety soft blossom across her lower lip.

He watched her unblinkingly. In desperation, she looked at the heavens, concentrated, and accurately identified Orion, the Hunter. Ironic though it was, Lucinda congratulated herself for completing a task that required her wits. Given that Lord Clairemont’s presence appeared to elicit a physical response she’d never before experienced, she was relieved to learn that the duke held no power over her when held at arm’s length.

Which is where he would remain for the entirety of their courtship, she vowed.
If
she agreed to his proposition. She needed more time to consider whether she should do so.

“I will take your proposal under advisement,” Lucinda answered, pointing the jasmine at him to underline her decision.

He reached for the flower and took hold of Lucinda’s hand. “Of course. Though you should know, I’m not a patient man.”

“Patience is a virtue, Your Grace,” she said, tugging her hand from his. “And one you’d do well to practice should you wish to go forward with this … this …” She halted, unwilling to use the word that even now, seemed implausible when applied to herself and the man known as Iron Will.

“Courtship, Lady Lucinda,” His Grace finished for her with amusement.

Clearly, she thought with annoyance, the idea of such a connection held no trepidation for him.

And God help me
, Lucinda thought as she gave him a curt nod, tilted her chin, and turned toward the ballroom.
God help us all
.

A gentle breeze stirred the crimson silk curtain concealing the half-open window in Lucinda’s bedroom. Her town house in Grosvener Square was an elegant, beautifully appointed home, and usually Lucinda found it wonderfully comfortable.

Not so tonight.

Unfortunately, the air did little to cool her. She stripped off her diamond earbobs, bracelet, and her long gloves, waiting impatiently as Mary freed the clasp of her glittering necklace. The maid deftly unfastened the pale pink gown, retrieving it when Lucinda stepped out of the crumpled silk. Minutes later, Lucinda was free of her undergarments and dressed in a favorite nightgown of pale blue silk, inset with matching lace.

Mary swiftly plucked the pins from Lucinda’s coiffure Lucinda shook her hair free and took the brush, pulling it through the long strands herself as Mary left the room. Normally, she found the rhythmic strokes of brushing soothing, but tonight her nerves wouldn’t be calmed. Restless, she quickly braided the thick mane and paced across the room.

Walking didn’t ease her.

She still felt overly warm.

She crawled onto her bed and drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her bent knees.

Thoughts of the duke’s proposal—and, frustratingly enough, of the duke himself—sent diminutive flames flickering across her too sensitive skin. One touch from him had done more to wreak havoc in her meticulously ordered life than the fumbling, bumbling, fervent pleadings of eligible bachelors from London to Scotland.

And he barely touched me. What have I done?

She vividly remembered the warm weight of his hand at her waist and wondered whether her vow to keep him at arm’s length was sheer bravado on her part.

“Well, my girl, what news have you of the ton?”

Lucinda started at the sound of her aunt’s voice and turned, hand pressed to the silk covering her pounding heart. “Aunt Bessie, you nearly frightened me to death!”

Elizabeth Bradshaw, the Marchioness of Mowbray, sauntered barefoot across the plush cream and scarlet Persian rug toward Lucinda, a delicate Wedgwood plate piled high with macaroons balanced carefully in her right hand. She wore a dressing gown of deep rose, the silk clinging to her curves. It emphasized what Bessie was perhaps most proud of at fifty-and-some-years of age—a shapely figure that had inspired awe in the male gender from the day she’d turned sixteen.

“Hmmm, I suspect that whatever is occupying your mind at the moment has far more to do with your excitable nerves than my sudden appearance,” Bessie answered with her usual shrewd perception, setting the plate on the bedside table before joining Lucinda down to a seat beside her on the bed.