The Duchess of Love (3 page)

At the moment, the thought was more exciting than dismaying. In fact, a prominent part of him was very excited indeed—thank God for the hat. “And so what is your proposal?”

“My older sister, Aphrodite—”

“What?” Her parents had named both their daughters after the goddess of love?

She flushed. “Papa and Mama are classical scholars.”

He laughed. “I hope you don't have a brother.”

“Why?”

Miss Collingswood—Venus—was staring at his chest again. A pity she'd put her clothes back on; he'd very much like to study
her
chest, and with more than his eyes. If she was going to carry the goddess of love's name, she should learn a little of love's mysteries, after all.

“Because a boy with the name of Eros or Cupid would be beaten to a pulp in short order.”

“Oh.” She tore her eyes away from his shoulders to meet his gaze. “I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am. I take it
you
are not a classical scholar?”

She raised her chin. “I can read Greek and Latin as well as anyone, but I am more interested in modern events.” She let out a long breath and her shoulders slumped slightly. “If there were any modern events of interest in Little Huffington.”

He grinned. “Things here a bit dull?”

“Not if you find tales of sheep and crop-eating insects and rheumatism interesting.”

His grin widened. “Oh, well, if anyone decides to stroll by the pond now, Little Huffington would have much more to talk about than animals and ailments. I
am
still naked, you know.”

Miss Collingswood jumped and looked around wildly.

“I thought you'd noticed. You did seem to be examining my—”

“Oh, shush! No one ever comes this way.”

“So you are here daily?”

“Of course not. What do you take me for?”

He shrugged. “Then this may be an extremely popular spot, for all you know.”

She almost hissed at him. “It's on Mr. Blant's—now the duke's—land. Anyone here would be trespassing.”

He inclined his head. “True. And that would make you …?”

“You are impossible.” She glanced around again. “Do you really think someone will come by?”

“I have no idea, but perhaps you'd best get to your proposal.” He fluttered her hat slightly. “Or I could suggest one of my own.”

She glared at him. “As I was trying to say earlier—before you interrupted—Aphrodite, my older sister, is very beautiful.”

“More beautiful than you?”

Her jaw dropped, and then she frowned. “Don't be silly.”

“I wasn't.”

“Oh.” Her frown turned to a puzzled, almost wary look. “Well, then, yes, she is far more beautiful than I. She has golden blonde hair and the bluest eyes … I'm sure she'd be considered a toast in London.”

“I see. And how is that a problem? Can she not make up her mind whom to marry? She must have men falling over themselves to offer for her.”

“But she doesn't.” Miss Collingswood stepped closer to him, her warm brown eyes earnest. “She is twenty-three and, as far as I know, has never had more than a passing conversation with a gentleman. If a man doesn't appear within the pages of a Greek or Roman text, she won't notice him. Mama and Papa seem completely willing to let her live with them forever.”

She was close enough to touch now.

He gripped her hat firmly with both hands. No touching. He must keep his hands to himself, damn it.

“And why is that a problem, if your parents and your sister are content?” He wished the mamas in London would be equally uninterested in throwing their female offspring at his head.

Miss Collingswood's frown returned. She looked exceedingly frustrated. “But Ditee is so lovely. It's a sin to have her spend her life tucked away in this out-of-the-way village.”

“Why?”

“Because she is meant for greater things, of course. She could be a … a duchess!”

Damn. A duchess meant a poor, sacrificial duke, and he was the only duke in sight. He'd have another damsel to dodge, even here in boring Little Huffington.

“Not that I would—or could—compel her to consider the Duke of Greycliffe,” Miss Collingswood was saying, “but I thought, since he was in the neighborhood, it would be a shame for them not to meet.”

His
jaw dropped. He snapped it shut. That's right, she thought he was Nigel.

“Mrs. Edgemoor thought—but I suppose she might have been mistaken …” She looked at him hopefully. “The duke isn't married, is he?”

“No.” He had a sudden, very inappropriate urge to laugh. He bit the inside of his cheek to restrain himself. “He's not.”

She nodded. “That's good, then. And I know you're a man and his cousin, so perhaps you're not the best judge, but is he at least presentable looking? He needn't be handsome, but it would be best if he weren't, well …”

“Ugly?” Damn it, he
was
going to laugh. “Hideous? Nightmare-inducing?”

“Oh, stop it. Now you are poking fun.” She paused and looked at him sideways. “He isn't, is he?”

“I believe the ladies of the
ton
don't flee in horror when they see him.”

“And it would also help if he were intelligent, perhaps even scholarly?”

“Well …” He'd excelled in mathematics, but he'd been only an adequate classics student. Nigel, however, might be almost as mad for Greek and Latin texts as Miss Aphrodite Collingswood.

“Does he at least have many books? I think an impressive library would woo Ditee more than anything else.”

“Oh, yes, he has a spectacular library.” Which was also true of Nigel. This match Miss Collingswood was suggesting—not the match between him and her sister, but between her sister and Nigel—might work very well.

Miss Venus Collingswood beamed at him. “Splendid. Then do you think you might persuade the duke to invite us to Hyndon House? I'm afraid I can't get Mama and Papa to bestir themselves enough to have you to the vicarage, and you can be sure any invitation Mrs. Higgins, the squire's wife, extends will not include us.”

“Mrs. Higgins has a daughter of her own to marry off, does she?”

“Yes, Esmeralda. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “It cannot be easy to have her chick always cast in the shade by the beautiful Miss Venus.”

“You mean Aphrodite.”

“Do I?”

She looked disconcerted once more and then frowned. “Of course you do. You are being silly again.”

“Hmm.” He really would have to kiss her. “Right, then. Unfortunately I do foresee a problem. We are a bachelor household; we can't just have you and your sister to tea.”

“Oh. I see your point.” Venus chewed on her bottom lip.

“And it might cause comment if we were to single your family out; I suspect this Mrs. Higgins, for one, would take offense.”

Venus nodded. “I'm afraid you are right. What are we to do?”

What he should do was tell her who he was, but the temptation to further their acquaintance when she still thought him merely Mr. Valentine was too strong to resist.

“Perhaps an open house for the neighborhood.” Something with a number of people where there might be some way to avoid announcing himself immediately. “Or a garden party. Though I'm a little concerned Mrs. Edgemoor will have my—er, the duke's head. We descended on her early with no warning and now propose to entertain the countryside.”

“Don't worry. There are not many families to invite. I'll speak to Mrs. Shipley, our housekeeper. She and Mrs. Edgemoor are friends. I'm certain she'll be happy to help.”

“Very well. Then I will see what I can do.”

“You think you'll be able to persuade the duke?” Venus looked so hopeful and eager.

“I'm sure of it. Now close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes? Why?”

“Because now that you are dressed, I should leave, and I need to give you back your stylish hat.” He grinned and leaned a little toward her. “Unless you'd like to see once more what it's been hiding?”

She sucked in her breath and turned red again. “N-no. Of course not.”

Did she sound just the slightest bit indecisive? If so, she mastered whatever momentary temptation she'd felt and squeezed her eyes closed.

Could he master his disreputable urges, however? He studied her face.

One of her eyes cracked open. “Come on, then.” She held out her hand, careful not to hold it too close to his person. “Give me my hat.”

“So impatient. I won't do anything while you are peeking.”

“Oh, for God's sake. Very well.” She shut her eyes again.

He didn't trust her to be patient. He smiled as he put the hat on her head. He would have to teach her patience. He tied her ribbon beneath her chin, and then leaned forward to brush her lips gently with his before placing a kiss on her cheek.

She sucked in her breath, but he forced himself to turn and run down to the pond without looking back.

Drew found Nigel reading in the study.

“You were gone rather longer than I expected,” Nigel said, peering at Drew over his glasses. One of Nigel's brows flew up. “Is it storming out?”

“No.” Drew dropped into the leather chair facing Nigel's and slung his leg over an arm.

“I didn't think I'd heard rain on the windows.” Nigel laid his spectacles and his book on the table by his elbow, picked up his brandy glass, and regarded Drew. “Are you going to tell me why your hair is wet or do I have to guess?”

Making Nigel guess might be fun, but he needed his cousin's cooperation. “I'll tell you. I went for a swim.”

“Oh, really? You've never struck me as the sort to dive into the nearest body of water, especially water you've never seen before. In fact, I seem to remember you had strong opinions on swimming alone after Bentley drowned.”

Damn Nigel, he was far too knowing. “I wasn't alone.”

Nigel choked on the sip of brandy he'd just taken. “Ah.”

Drew swung his foot back and forth. How could he tell Nigel about Miss Collingswood? Saying she'd been swimming naked would give a false impression of her character. At least he thought it would be a false impression. He must remember he didn't know her well, even though it felt as if they'd been friends forever.

They
weren't
friends. They were barely acquaintances, but still …

He'd always thought tales of love at first sight were complete rubbish, but now he wasn't so certain. He'd felt strangely more alive with Miss Venus Collingswood. Colors had been brighter; smells, fresher; and—damn, now he sounded like a bloody poet. But there was definitely an energy, an enthusiasm about her that was very seductive—almost as seductive as her lovely face and form.

He glanced at Nigel again. Spirits might inspire him. “Are you going to offer me something to drink?”

“It's your brandy.” Nigel cocked his head toward a cabinet against the wall. “Help yourself—and bring the bottle over. I have a feeling I'll need some fortification.”

Having his cousin in a mellow mood—or, better, slightly inebriated—might be just the thing. Drew got the brandy and handed it to Nigel after pouring himself a glass. “Are you hiding from Mrs. Edgemoor?”

“Of course I'm hiding from the good woman, though hiding is not exactly the proper term,” Nigel said, refilling his glass. “I'm merely trying to reduce the number of times she has to encounter me while under the mistaken impression I'm you. I assume—I hope—you've come to your senses and will stop this ridiculous charade.”

Drew grunted and looked around the room. “Is Blant's library everything you'd hoped?”

“Yes.” Nigel's eyes gleamed, and he leaned forward. “The fellow has an amazing collection of—” He caught himself. “Oh, no, you're not going to distract me. When are you going to tell Mrs. Edgemoor you are Greycliffe? She's put me in the master bedroom, by the by.”

“Excellent.”

Nigel fixed him with his best older cousin glare. “Drew, you have to tell her who you are.”

“I don't see why.” Drew sat down again. “In fact, it's rather important Mrs. Edgemoor not know my identity.”

“I see.” Nigel's eyes narrowed. “Or rather, I don't see. I thought this masquerade was a spur of the moment lark.”

“It was.” Drew grinned. “But it's a bit more now.”

Nigel stared at him, obviously working through the puzzle; it didn't take him long to come up with a solution. “This has something to do with the person—I assume from your lack of candor, a female—you went swimming with.”

“I didn't go swimming with her; I rescued her. I thought she'd fallen into the pond.”

“All right, but that still doesn't explain why I need to keep being the duke.”

Drew stared at the fire. “She knew we were coming, though of course she thought we'd arrive next week.”

“As we would have if you hadn't taken it into your head to flee London.”

Drew laughed, meeting Nigel's gaze again. “I didn't see you dragging your feet. You wanted to get away from the Widow Blackburn as much as I wanted to escape Lady Mary.”

Nigel conceded the point. “True. Damnation, but the woman is mad. Why she thinks I'd marry her—”

“Perhaps because she's respectable, and you've been enjoying her bed?”

Nigel snorted. “She's hardly respectable, and you know I wasn't the first nor will I be the last male of the
ton
to slip between her sheets.”

“But you're the richest, and you did seem a bit besotted.”

“Besotted? Hardly. Oh, I'll admit I was dazzled by her remarkable”—Nigel made a rounded motion with his hands—“attributes, and she
is
creative in the bedroom, but she has the depth of understanding and the conversational skills of a turnip. I am finished with her.” He raised his glass in mock toast and took a long swallow.

“Well, that's good. I can't say I was eager to welcome her into the family.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Nor am I eager to welcome Lady Mary.”

“There's no chance of that.”

“I don't know. Her most recent plot almost worked. If Sherrington hadn't been with you when you found her in your carriage, you might have found yourself standing at the altar.”

Drew scowled and slid deeper into his chair. “There's no way in hell I'd marry that harpy, even if she managed to sneak naked into my bed. There are some benefits to being a duke.”

“Cranmore is a duke as well.”

Damn it, Nigel was right, of course. Lady Mary's father was a dirty dish, but one with a ducal crest. It had been a near thing that night at Vauxhall—which was why he'd fled to this remote section of the country.

He needed some foolproof way to escape the woman's grasping claws …

Marriage. Bigamy was against the law, so if he was already married—or at least betrothed—when next he encountered Lady Mary, he'd be safe.

Another good reason to pursue Miss Venus Collingswood.

“To get back to your swimming companion,” Nigel said. “So the girl knew we were coming. That's no surprise. This is a small village; news must travel like the wind. When she saw you, a well-dressed stranger—” Nigel stopped, mouth slightly ajar, and then put one hand over his eyes. “Oh, God, you were in the water. Please don't tell me you were naked.”

Drew had no intention of telling his cousin anything.

“I
hope
she saw a well-dressed stranger,” Nigel said. “In any event, she must have made the obvious deduction that you are the duke. I would say it's rather late to pretend to be me, unless … Oh.” He sighed. “I see it now. She thought you
were
me.”

“Exactly. Apparently I don't look particularly ducal na—” Drew coughed. “Wet.”

Nigel frowned, but thankfully didn't comment on his slip. “Why the hell didn't you correct her?”

“Because I wanted her to think I was you.”

Nigel's eyes widened. “Good God, have you lost your mind?”

“Of course not.” Drew put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Don't you see? One of the curses of being a duke is I can never tell if women are attracted to me or to my title.”

“Does it matter? Most men would be happy to have all the Season's beauties—respectable and not—vying for their attention.”

“It's not
my
attention they want; it's the Duke of Greycliffe's.”

Nigel frowned. “I suppose it wouldn't help to point out you
are
the Duke of Greycliffe?”

“No.”

Nigel looked at him a moment longer and then shook his head and sighed. “All right, I'll try to keep this charade going, but you must know it will likely have unpleasant repercussions. I cannot imagine Mrs. Edgemoor will be pleased to have been hoodwinked.”

Drew sat back and grinned. Thank God Nigel was willing to play along. And perhaps if Aphrodite was as beautiful and bookish as Venus said, Drew might not be the only one stepping into parson's mousetrap as a result of this visit. “Don't worry. I'll apologize to Mrs. Edgemoor most sincerely if we're discovered.”

“Hmm. And you do realize, don't you, that this girl you seem so eager to fool won't be happy with you either when she discovers you're actually Greycliffe? Who is she, by the by? Someone moderately respectable, I hope.”

“She's the local vicar's daughter, Miss Venus Collingswood.” He hadn't focused on Venus's reaction to his ruse, but he wasn't about to worry. If events proceeded as he hoped, he'd be in a delightful position to soothe her anger. He quite looked forward to it.

Nigel was frowning as if he were trying to remember something. “Collingswood. Venus Collingswood,” he muttered. “Now why the devil does that name sound familiar?”

“I can't imagine you've met her. I understood she and her family never leave Little Huffington.”

Nigel was still frowning. “I swear I've heard the name before—or at least the last name. Does she have a brother, perhaps?”

“No, only a sister.”

“And her name is?”

“Aphrodite, though how you could—”

“That's it!” Nigel snapped his fingers. “Aphrodite Collingswood.”

“You know Miss Collingswood?” Damn. There would be no way Nigel could pretend to be Greycliffe if he was acquainted with Venus's sister.

“No. Now I remember. I corresponded with her father concerning a short treatise he'd written in
The Classical Gazette
. In his reply, he mentioned his daughter Aphrodite had helped him. Aphrodite is not a name one forgets easily.”

Venus had said her sister was a scholar, but Drew had thought she'd overstated the case. Perhaps not. “It sounds as if the woman is extremely intelligent.”

“Her father certainly thinks so.”

“What, was he trying to interest you in a wife?”

Nigel had just taken a sip of brandy; he sprayed it back into his glass. “He was not.”

Drew had long suspected Nigel took no interest in the marriageable women of the
ton
because he found them all feather-headed nincompoops. Venus's sister might be just what his cousin needed. “Venus says Aphrodite is also very beautiful.”

“It seems the young lady is a veritable paragon.” Nigel pulled out his watch and checked the time. “I suppose I've hidden here long enough. I'll go hide in my bedchamber for a while—are you certain you won't take the master bedroom?”

“Of course I won't. I'm determined to play the part of Mr. Valentine as long as I can. And Aphrodite is not so young; she's twenty-three.”

“And still unwed?” Nigel laughed. “She must have some fatal flaw, then, since I cannot believe all the local men are blind.” He stood.

Drew rose as well. “I suspect none have interested her enough to tempt her to put aside her books.” He grinned. “You should understand that.”

Nigel's eyebrows shot up. “You can't be saying I spend too much time in my study! I'm here because I'm avoiding the Widow Blackburn, remember?”

“Right. I should probably warn you that Venus is a bit of a matchmaker. She's hoping our arrival in the neighborhood will brighten Aphrodite's matrimonial outlook.” Drew headed for the door—best to have a clear path of retreat. “I believe she thinks her sister would make a splendid duchess.”

Nigel laughed. “You'd best be on your toes then, Drew.”

“Not I. Remember, Venus thinks
you
are the duke.”

Drew closed the door on Nigel's impressively imaginative curses.

 

“Ow!” Venus pricked her finger for the third time. She watched a red bead of blood ooze out of her abused flesh and then stuck her finger into her mouth. At this rate, the handkerchief she was embroidering would be more red than white.

“Did you say something, dear?” Mama looked up from her book; even Ditee glanced up briefly.

Papa was in the study, writing Sunday's sermon. Sermons were not his forte. He called on the devil a shocking number of times while trying to wrestle a moderately uplifting message onto the page, so the women had retreated to the morning room.

“No, Mama. I merely stuck my finger with the needle.”

Mama frowned and then returned to her reading. “Perhaps you should go for a walk. You seem oddly agitated.”

Venus swallowed a slightly hysterical giggle. Go for a walk? Dear God! Yesterday's walk was the source of her agitation. Not the walk itself, of course, but what had happened at her destination.

She closed her eyes in mortification, but popped them open immediately.

The vision of a naked Mr. Valentine must be burned into the back of her eyelids, because whenever she shut them, she saw him in exquisite detail. It had been almost impossible to sleep last night.

She pressed her lips together, but didn't quite muffle her moan. Mama gave her a concerned—and slightly annoyed—look, but thankfully forbore to comment.

And it wasn't just Mr. Valentine's image that tortured her: her body remembered all too well the feel of his naked arm around her waist, of his naked chest against her back, of his hands moving over her skin—and the light touch of his kiss.

She shifted on her chair. She must be sickening. She ached all over. Her breasts and her—She flushed. She wouldn't think of it.

The only way she'd found to control the fever eating at her was to consider how she must have appeared to him—and then a different kind of heat flooded her.

She'd been swimming naked! No woman of gentle birth—likely no female of any sort—did such a shocking thing.

And he'd been
looking
at her. He'd seen parts of her
she
didn't examine closely.

“Venus, please. If you don't wish to walk, perhaps you could find some other activity to do—somewhere else,” Mama said. “Your sighing and twitching are most distracting.”