The Duke Can Go to the Devil (5 page)

Luckily for William, it only ever made him weak of stomach.

She stopped less than a foot away and reached for his glass. He readily surrendered it, unwilling to allow her fingers—or any part of her—to brush his skin. Lifting the tumbler to her lips, she took a small sip, her eyes never leaving his. “Wine?” she said, one auburn brow lifting. “Your father preferred brandy.”

He was not in the mood to discuss anything with her, especially his father. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I heard you had arrived, and thought perhaps you would wish to see me.” She ran a finger along the rim of the cup, then licked the moisture from her fingertip. She was beautiful in the way a panther was, sleek and graceful, but with a danger to her that meant he could never let his guard down around her.

Again,
he silently amended. Never let his guard down around her
again
.

Casually, he took the glass from her and stepped over to the sideboard. It was more an excuse to put distance between them than anything else. He exchanged the used tumbler for a fresh goblet and filled it with red wine. Without looking up from his task, he said, “And why would I wish to see you?”

She gave a little chuckle. “Because you always wish to see me when you leave Clifton House.”

He replaced the crystal stopper on the decanter and swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the way it smoothly coated the sides. “Indeed. So let us dispense with the needless subtleties. You've gotten my attention, as I'm sure was your intention. Once again, I'm forced to implore you to show some discretion, both in your activities and your choice of companions.”

“A bit jealous, are we?”

His lip lifted in disgust. “I won't justify that with a response.”

“So you haven't changed your mind?” There was the ever-present invitation in her pouty voice, but no real hope, thank God.

“There is a better chance of me moving to France than there is of me changing my mind.”

He looked up in enough time to catch the tiny flare of her nostrils in the oval mirror on the wall over the sideboard. Good. His barb had hit its mark. Still, there was no way Vivian was going to give up that easily. She met his eyes in the mirror and fingered the Radcliffe rubies at her neck. “You would like France. The weather is so much more pleasant than England, especially in the south.”

It was more than he could ever remember her saying about her homeland, but he was too preoccupied with her necklace to care. He hated that she wore his mother's jewels. His father had given her the few pieces that weren't entailed, in addition to showering her with new jewelry. She seemed to prefer the old ones, however. The ones William remembered catching glimpses of in his childhood on the rare occasions he'd seen his mother dressed for parties before she had died when he was six. Turning abruptly, he settled his unamused gaze directly on her. “It's late. You don't have to go home, but I don't want you here.”

She smiled then, not her real smile, but the angelic one she always reserved for those who didn't know any better. “But I wish to see my children. Surely you didn't leave them in the country like so much cattle?”

If William was a man given to dramatics, he would
have rolled his eyes. “They are at Clifton House with their nurse and governess. Bath is no place for children.”

“Mmm,” Vivian murmured, nodding. “I suppose I can ride back with you when you return after the festival. When should I be ready?”

She was attempting to manipulate him, of course. But he would never punish the children by keeping them from their mother whenever she decided they were convenient.

“Why not go now? They'll be delighted to see you.”

She gave a dismissive flip of her hand. “Too many engagements between now and then. I wouldn't want to back out on my word.”

Yes, he could just imagine how much she'd hate that. “I'll send word next week,” he said, taking solace in the fact that he would at least be riding on horseback while she rode in his carriage. Her pleased smile grated, but he refused to let it show. “Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the night.”

Her hazel eyes seemed to suddenly smolder in the low firelight. The flickering shadows served to highlight the lush swell of her bosom and the small waist beneath her sheer gown as she clasped her hands behind her back. “Would you like some company?”

For the space of a single breath, the image of Miss Bradford flashed in his mind, her eyes sparkling with passion and her exquisite figure only inches away. When he blinked, it was gone, and only his stepmother remained. “Go home, Vivian. I'll let you know if your company is ever desired.”

If she counted on that, she'd spend the rest of her life waiting.

W
illiam had been to Bath enough times to know that his early-morning rides were unlikely to be interrupted. It was one of the things he liked about the city. If, by chance, he did happen to see another person about, it was almost certainly a servant or business owner, rushing on to his duties with head down and brisk, no-nonsense strides.

So when he happened upon the figure in the park before the sun had even crested the horizon, it brought him up short. For a brief moment, he thought it might be an apparition; some sort of beautiful, ghostly presence gliding along the mist-cloaked shores of the River Avon. But as he'd drawn closer, he'd realized it was no specter—it was the spectacularly rude chit from last night.

Immediately his jaw tightened, displeasure turning down the corners of his mouth. With the possible exception of Vivian, Miss Bradford was the last person he wanted to see this morning. And what a sight she was, outfitted in the most bizarre, scandalous ensemble he had ever laid eyes on. What did she think she was doing,
traipsing about in the park this time of day, dressed like that?

Her long, lean legs were on full display, encased in some sort of silky, loose-fitting trousers. The matching tunic was high-collared but only just covered her bottom. Scratch that—it
almost
covered her bottom. The curve of it was visible as she moved from one position to the next.

And that wasn't the only curve he could see.

As she moved, the fabric of the tunic momentarily pulled taut across her chest, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of the swell of her breasts before she transitioned to a different stance.

He swallowed, remembering the moment she had flashed through his mind the night before.
Would you like some company?
Almost as quickly as that thought surfaced, the memory of her sharp tongue and appalling manners crowded it out. And really, the woman must have some sort of death wish. What kind of mad fool must she be to be out here looking the way she did, completely vulnerable and alone?

Sliding from his saddle, he flicked the reins around a nearby branch and marched toward the clearing. He might hardily dislike the girl, but he was too much of a gentleman to allow her own folly to cause her harm. Her aunt couldn't possibly know she was here. What if some blackguard set upon her? Not only was she vulnerable, she was practically bait.

He stalked toward her, waiting for the moment that she looked up and realized she was no longer alone.

Only she didn't look up.

It was as though she was lost in her own world, totally focused on her odd, seemingly pointless movements. A sweep of her hands here, the slide of her foot there—
each move seemed to segue directly into another with such slow, deliberate movements, it was like watching time at half its normal speed.

It was strangely mesmerizing.

Almost against his will, he slowed and watched her. She kept her body low, with her knees bent even as she stepped forward and back, then side to side as though creeping through an invisible labyrinth. With each step, her arms moved in a different way: reaching for the ground, sweeping along her sides, extending straight out in front of her. The silky fabric of her clothing responded to each step, slithering up and down the delicate length of her forearms and sliding along her long, slender legs.

His eye naturally followed the line of her calf, and when he reached her ankle, his brows rose in surprise. She wasn't wearing any shoes. That realization snapped him from his trance. A grown woman, barefoot in a city park, was beyond the pale. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped a few feet closer and cleared his throat.

She started violently, snapping upright and turning her wide and incredibly blue eyes toward him. He stared straight at her, allowing the full force of his disapproval to saturate his gaze and weigh the corners of his mouth. Miss Bradford stared right back at him, her own gaze frosting over with displeasure.

At the very least, it was safe to say she recognized him.

*   *   *

A hundred questions darted through May's mind as she glared at the disapproving duke. How had he found her? Had he been looking for her? An even worse thought assailed her: Did her aunt break her normal routine and know that she was missing? She valiantly worked to
keep her expression even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered.

With deliberate insolence, she straightened to her full height and put her hands to her hips. “See something of interest?”

His dark eyes were cool and calculating as he raked his gaze up and down her silk-clad form. In that moment, despite being covered much more thoroughly than she would have been in a normal gown, she felt practically naked beneath his scathing inspection. Exactly as he intended, no doubt. When he'd completed the inspection, he met her eyes and shook his head. “Not in the least.”

Liar.
She'd been around men her entire life. She certainly knew interest when she saw it. She also knew when she wanted nothing to do with it. Still, with her pride smarting, she couldn't stop herself from responding. “And yet here you are, intruding on my private time.”

The sharp, arrogant slant of his cheekbones hardened as he flexed his jaw. “You are in
public
, Miss Bradford, where any poor soul may be subjected to your presence. I strongly suggest you dress and act accordingly next time.”

Subjected
to her presence? She wasn't a leper, for heaven's sake. “I shall always act as myself, whether I am in private or public. Just as you, I suspect, shall always act the overbearing ass.”

Apparently the duke wasn't accustomed to hearing the truth. His nostrils flared with affront, but he kept a tight rein on the flash of anger she saw in his eyes. “Such a pity you were never taught proper respect for your betters. Resorting to name-calling only serves to highlight your own ignorance and lack of decorum. As does
this exceedingly inappropriate . . . ensemble.” He nodded toward her as though she wore rags instead of the world's finest silk. “What is it that you were doing, dressed like that?”

There was that interest again. Disdain, yes, but it was clear he was also intrigued.

“Ever heard of martial arts? Or is that too base for your civilized English sensibilities?”

A light gust of wind blew up from the river, daring to ruffle the hair that flipped out from beneath the rim of his hat. That made at least two things he held no power over: her and the elements. The thought almost made her smile. Once upon a time, her mother had likened her to a force of nature.

He took a slow step toward her, his expression dubious. “I am aware of martial arts. They are techniques used in combat or defense, and in no way resemble what you were doing just now.”

Because he was obviously such an authority. He'd likely never even rolled up his sleeves before, let alone engaged in combat of any sort in the whole of his pampered life.

“Martial arts is more than fighting. It's communing with one's body, mind, and soul. There are the hard versions—the ones that concentrate on defensive and offensive moves intended for protection. But some forms also have a soft version, like what I engage in. The purpose is to focus the mind solely on the movements in order to bring about calmness and clarity.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Had she surprised him? For a moment, something dangerously close to respect hinted in his eyes, but then it was as though a shade was dropped, and once again he was regarding her as though she'd just claimed to have been to the moon. “Calmness
and clarity?” he scoffed, amusement lightening his words. “Keep practicing. It's fair to say the point of the exercise has been lost on you.”

Yes, of course. Far be it from him to acknowledge that she might actually know what she was talking about. The level of condescension that he exuded must have taken a lifetime to develop. Did they give lessons for that sort of thing? In between world history and literature lessons, perhaps? She could just imagine him as a six-year-old practicing his patronizing stares in the mirror with a tutor nodding approvingly behind him.

“I would, but
someone
decided to interject himself into my practice. Might I suggest you take yourself somewhere you're actually welcome? I'm sure there are dozens of young ladies around who would simply love to bask in the glow of your magnificent ego.”

His dour expression remained intact as he said, “I sympathize for your poor aunt. Attempting to mold a person of such advanced age and stunted manners into something respectable must be an incredibly thankless pursuit.”

Crossing her arms, she glared at him. “Of course you sympathize. You and your ilk are always threatened by that which you cannot control. It threatens your perceived superiority that I do as I want, how I want, without bowing to your opinions or dictates.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I do believe it is your
aunt's
sensibilities that you should be worrying about. For I am absolutely certain that she knows nothing of this little rebellion of yours. I hate to imagine how such a shock would affect the poor woman.” The implication was clear.

May's brows shot up. “Is that a threat? Do you plan to run and tattle on me as though we were children?”

He pursed his lips as though considering it. “No, I think not. However, once again there is clearly a matter of safety here. Since you show so little regard for your own well-being, I see no choice but to take up the task myself.” She could practically see the smugness rolling off him in waves. He knew he had the upper hand here.

The silk of her sleeve slipped across her skin as she jabbed a finger at her own chest. “The task is mine, and mine alone. Your only task is to leave me be.”

He shook his head slowly, as though regretful, but she knew full well he was enjoying this. “The choice is yours, Miss Bradford. Either I escort you home, or I send word to your aunt that it is necessary for her to provide an escort.”

The spleeny rats-bane. Why the devil did he care? There was absolutely no reason he should be taunting her like this, other than the fact that he could. Was he happy only when he was compelling others to bend to his will?

“Your choices are absurd,” she bit out. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh?” he said, tilting his head disdainfully. “You think yourself capable of withstanding an attack on your person?”

“Absolutely. I was raised among sailors, my lord; I know a thing or two about how to look after myself.” In fact, she could fight both dirty and fair, depending on the situation. Hopefully, he would consider himself warned.

He stepped closer, far too close for her state of mind, but she refused to retreat. “It's ‘Your Grace,'” he corrected, his warm breath licking faintly across her cheek. “And I think you vastly overstate your abilities. You may be tall for a woman, but you are still dwarfed by a man of my size.”

God, but he smelled good. Even through her frustration, even though she could have happily smacked the smug grin from his perfect lips, some part of her recognized the elemental maleness of him. He smelled of strength and barely leashed power, like a racehorse poised at the starting line.

The fact that something inside of her responded to him made her want to rebel only that much more. She lifted her chin, never so thankful in all her life for her height as she was at that moment. “If you are asking for a demonstration, I will happily oblige.”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes still locked with hers. “Your bravado would be impressive, Miss Bradford, if it weren't so clearly just that: bravado. As it is, you are no match for a man who—”

And just like that, the lofty Duke of Radcliffe went over her shoulder.