The Devil In Disguise (7 page)

The blasted woman dancing, smiling as she turned so easily in his arms, nearly coming undone at his touch. His imagination took flight. He wondered if she dabbed the faint lemon scent on her slender wrists, the soft skin just behind her knees, and lastly, between her breasts.

Will grimaced, frowning. Height, weight—these were familiar factors to remember in his line of work. But the feel of her as they danced, conjuring up a vision of her unclothed? Will couldn’t quite convince himself as to the relevance of such things.

This was not beginning well. He needed emotional distance from his charge—anything less could result in a slip in his concentration and thus danger to Lady Lucinda.

True, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the mid-morning sun, never before had a woman been so intimately involved in Corinthian business, at least not to his knowledge.

Also true, his fondness for the fairer sex was no secret. News of his liaisons had found their way into the gossip rags, the legend of Iron Will growing with each report.

But this was different. Lady Lucinda was different. And it had to stop. It was distracting and, even worse, dangerous.

Will slowed the bays and brought them to a dancing stop, noting the movement of the sun behind the stone façade of de Bohun House. Carmichael had mentioned on more than one occasion that Will’s mental strength was rivaled only by his physical prowess. He would test that theory thoroughly with this mission, his wits sure to be put to the test by both Garenee and Lady Lucinda.

He would perform his duty to the best of his ability. But his fascination with this woman would end at her doorstep.

It would not be simple, but it would be done.

His tiger leapt down from his perch and ran to the bays, grasping a halter strap with both small hands.

Will stepped down, handed the reins to a waiting groom, and strode up the steps to the front door.

“Where the devil did he disappear to?” Bessie asked, attempting to discreetly poke her head around the gold damask curtains and peer out the spotless windowpane at the street below.

“Remove yourself from view at once,” Victoria hissed. She rapped her sister’s arm with her fan, the audible thwack earning a startled squeak from Bessie.

Charlotte tsked gently, sighing as Victoria nearly toppled over as she leaned toward Bessie in an attempt to peer outside. “Really, ladies, do you think your curiosity will hasten the gentleman to our door?”

“He has lovely dark hair, that much I saw before he disappeared,” Bessie continued dramatically, ignoring Charlotte’s mild chastening.

“Are you speaking of the horse or the man?” Victoria asked. And she was so utterly serious that the rest of them could not help but giggle.

“His Grace, The Duke of Clairemont is in the foyer and wishes to join you, my lady,” Stanford interrupted in a flat voice.

The aunts immediately ceased their laughter, but not Lucinda. She couldn’t stop giggling, no matter how long she looked at Stanford’s morose visage.

“Lucinda, dear, are you quite all right?” Charlotte asked.

She nodded at her aunt and smoothed the skirt of her manila brown morning dress. In truth, she’d been asking herself that same question since waking. A night spent tossing and turning was never a good thing, but when the restlessness was caused by dreams the likes of Lucinda’s, well, it was a wonder she’d managed to appear for breakfast. The dreams had started out respectably enough, with Lucinda and the duke hammering out the details of their courtship. But it had ended with his mouth seeking hers in a breathtaking kiss, then an embrace and the loss of clothing and … Lucinda would not think on what came next.

Knowing she would see him today had done little to calm her nerves over breakfast. If the man had invaded her dreams and sent her into such a state, what would happen once he was within arm’s reach?

“Enough!” Lucinda ground out, belatedly realizing that all three of her aunts and Stanford were staring at her, confusion clearly written upon each of their faces.

These women were the reason she’d agreed to the courtship, she reminded herself. Her aunts meant the world to her. All three had happily stepped in to care for her upon her parents’ death—to teach her, love her, nurture her in a way that only family could. So really, allowing His Grace to court her was nothing in comparison. Easy. Beyond easy.

Or at least it should be.

Lucinda steeled herself with newfound resolution. “Enough,” she repeated firmly, anxious to show all that she was perfectly in control. “Aunts, do choose a seat. And Stanford, please show the duke in.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed.

Lucinda tucked an errant curl into place, pinched her cheeks for color, and sat in a patterned armchair.

“A chair? Really, Lucinda, after your years of experience in society and dealing with men, surely you know better!” Bessie exclaimed in a hushed tone, rising from the window seat. She pattered quickly across the room and tugged Lucinda to her feet.

“The settee, at once,” she demanded, pointing to the cream silk sofa that, in theory, fit two full-grown individuals.

In reality, Lucinda had always thought it was best suited to duos of considerably smaller stature than the average couple.

“Aunt Bessie, the man is a giant,” she protested. “I’m not sure that he alone would fit on that particular piece of furniture, and certainly not the two of us.”

Victoria plied her fan in a most vigorous manner. “What, exactly, is wrong with the chair?”

“This is a courtship, not a trial. I’m sure even you remember the purpose of such meetings—to converse, to flirt, to establish a connection of a physical—”

Victoria’s fan moved faster, her grip threatening to snap the delicate, hand-painted sticks. “This is not at all about conversing or flirting or … or …”

“I believe her words were ‘establishing a physical—’ ” Charlotte offered with the merest hint of a smile quirking her lips.

“Stop!” Victoria hissed vehemently, clearly not enjoying the joke at her expense. “A horse,” she reminded them sternly. “We are here to gain a horse. Now, do sit down before Stanford returns.”

Bessie pulled a chair nearer and quickly sat, adjusting her skirts.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway just outside the room. Lucinda could not allow the duke to see her ill of ease. The courtship must begin on her terms, and must remain entirely within her control.

In a decidedly unladylike but necessary move, Lucinda gained a few precious moments by nimbly hopping over the footstool in her path and throwing herself onto the nearest seat—the slight settee.

“Brava,” Bessie whispered loudly.

“Hush, he’ll hear you,” Charlotte warned from her corner of the room, giving Lucinda a small smile of reassurance before schooling her features into a proper expression of serenity.

Lucinda smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath just as the door opened.

“His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

Will had lied, cheated, stolen, maimed, and killed in the line of duty. In turn, he’d been shot at, pummeled within an inch of his life, stabbed repeatedly, and nearly drowned—all for King and Country.

One look at the women ensconced within the beautifully appointed sitting room and Will knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it had all been child’s play up to this point.

By the time the introductions were made, he had shrewdly assessed and identified which sister would most willingly be finessed (the brazen one), which one would prefer to see him run down by wild horses rather than extend him one ounce of graciousness (the dower one), and finally, which one was clearly undecided, her quiet demeanor showing nothing of her leanings (the reasonable).

“Do sit down, over there,” the brazen one had urged, pointing to the ridiculously tiny settee where Lady Lucinda was seated.

He’d complied, having to practically fold himself in half to fit. Being so near Lady Lucinda was hardly in keeping with his plan to remain cool and detached, but Will knew better than to argue with a determined aunt.

“I hope the morning finds you well,” Will said to Lady Lucinda, aware her aunts were listening to each word. He had to twist his neck in a wholly unnatural way to look at her, due to the damned doll-sized seat.

“Where are the flowers?”

Will turned to the dower one. Her pinched mouth looked as if the effort of speaking to him was leaving a sour taste on her tongue.

“Flowers?”

She rolled her eyes, obviously finding him lacking, and pressed on. “Yes, the flowers. Perhaps you’re unaware of the workings of a respectable courtship, Your Grace. It is customary to bring a bouquet when calling upon a young woman.”

“Aunt Victoria,” Lady Lucinda protested, clearly uncomfortable with the woman’s bluntness.

Will had never cared a farthing for what people thought of his actions and he wasn’t about to start now. Nevertheless, the woman was Lady Lucinda’s aunt. “My apologies. I had forgotten.”

“If I find myself in need of flowers all I’ve to do is walk into the back garden,” Lady Lucinda answered with calm practicality. “And there I’ll find more than twenty varieties—”

Will pried himself from the settee and strode toward the door. “A moment,” he said, then exited the room, finding his way quickly to the rear of the town house. He walked the length of it, peering into each room before finding a set of doors that led to the small garden.

He let himself out onto the neat flagstone terrace, the surrounding flower beds fragrant in the sunshine.

And he began to pick one of each flower he could find, until there were an even twenty blooms with long stems neatly tucked into the crook of his arm.

He returned to the drawing room, and the ladies gasped in unison.

“With my sincere apologies, Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering the flowers to her with a deep bow.

Her smile nearly had Will searching for a seat on the far side of the room. Her blue eyes glowed with delight. She was clearly surprised, which was charming enough, but also pleased, which made Will’s chest tighten with … with what? Pride? Joy? He couldn’t quite name it, but whatever the emotion was, it wasn’t good.

The sour aunt who had brought up his lack of flowers apparently thought he’d acted to mock her. Her fan beat an annoyed tattoo on the arm of the Windsor chair where she sat.

In truth, he’d forgotten the custom. His last visit to a woman that could have in any way been considered proper had been too long ago. The women he associated with wanted neither flowers nor ridiculous little gifts. They wanted an occasional very expensive gift—but mostly, they wanted him.

This would take some getting used to, this gentleman business, he realized. The problem was, he didn’t have time to relearn his manners. Garenne was somewhere out there, close at hand, and he wasn’t a patient man.

Will made a mental note to question Smithers regarding the requirements of a gentleman before turning to sit.

He’d only just settled himself on the settee when the sour one barked at him yet again.

“And the horse, Your Grace. Just where
is
King Solomon’s Mine?”

Will was inclined to answer “In my pocket, my dear, along with a suit of armor and the crown jewels, of course,” but thought better of it. “He should be taking a mid-morning rest in preparation for our afternoon ride.”

“A mid-morning rest? Really, Your Grace, what sort of training regimen do you have for this horse that allows a mid-morning—”

“I assure you that he is—”

“An afternoon ride, how delightful!” the brazen one said with a gleam in her eye, successfully cutting off both her sister and Will.

“Yes, I prefer an afternoon ride, though—”

“I believe it’s time for tea,” the reasonable one interrupted Will, crossing to tug the bellpull.

Will didn’t bother to address her concerning the tea. He felt a headache coming on. He hated tea. And he’d yet to get a word in edgewise, so best to sit back and plan at this point. He’d be damned if he’d let three unruly women get the best of him, even ones referred to as “the Furies”—though now that he’d spent some time in their company, the title made much more sense.

Lady Lucinda leaned toward him. “I suppose I should have warned you to gird your loins prior to dancing attendance on me,” she whispered, a wry smile accompanying her comment.

Will suppressed a laugh but returned the smile, her dimple wreaking havoc on his concentration. “I’m not a regular at Gentleman John Jackson’s boxing academy for the masculine company alone. Your aunts may think they have the upper hand, but just you wait.”

Lady Lucinda arched an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Now this I must see,” she said conspiratorially.

A footman appeared with the tea, placing it on the table then disappearing.

“Milk, Your Grace?” the reasonable one asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you. The blacker, the better,” Will answered.

He stretched to take cup and saucer from her and his thigh brushed Lady Lucinda’s. He murmured a polite thank you for the tea and tried to remember what they’d been discussing before he’d been distracted.
Ah, yes—King Solomon’s Mine
.

“Despite his prowess, Sol is a sensitive soul, which is why he’s allowed the luxury of a mid-morning rest,” he said before downing his tea.

The dower one’s lips pursed as if she’d just bit into something tart. “Really, Your Grace, a horse of his lineage, sensitive?”

“How kind of you, Your Grace,” the reasonable one interrupted, “your attentiveness is truly inspiring.”

“Oh, now really, Bessie. ‘Inspiring’? Do you take the man—”

“I was just pondering a walk in the park,” the brazen one began in a completely different direction. “Though walking by oneself is lonely, wouldn’t you agree?” she finished, batting her eyelashes at Will.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact I’m in complete agreement,” Will answered, still not quite sure of what the aging coquette was playing at.

“Excellent. Lucinda, do don your pelisse, my dear.”

“But—” the dower one began.

The brazen one rose from her chair and walked toward the pair. “Oh, did I fail to mention that I’d been thinking on a walk not for myself, but for Lucinda? Silly me.”