The Duke Can Go to the Devil (8 page)

“So, apologize to the big-headed duke and be free. A sting to the pride is perhaps better than no nose?”

“No nose?” May asked before realizing what she was saying. “Oh! Cutting off my nose to spite my face. Yes, of
course you are right, but in this case, I don't have a choice. I already offered to apologize, and he looked down his long, aristocratic nose at me and declined.”

At least that's what she imagined him doing when he'd decided to ignore her aunt's letter. Sighing, she threw a halfhearted smirk to her companion. “It is a good thing that expression isn't literal. I would have gone through half a dozen noses by now at least.”

“Is that all?” Suyin's innocent expression made May laugh all over again.

She was right. May was stubborn, and it didn't always work out in her favor. Her mother once had told her that she used to dread punishing May whenever she needed correction. She'd talk back so much, before all was said and done, the final punishment would have been ten times as bad as the original. Her mother had admitted that she had sometimes cried afterward, feeling the worst sort of brute, but she'd known she had to hold firm if May was to ever grow up to be a reasonable and respectful adult. Looking back, May conceded that her mother had been right, but that didn't stop that stubborn streak from rearing its ugly head from time to time.

And look where it had gotten her. If she could just learn to walk away from situations that got under her skin, she wouldn't be in this predicament.

Groaning aloud, she faced Suyin with her nose wrinkled in displeasure. “Fine, fine. I'll write the man directly. Hopefully by now he feels that I've learned my lesson.”

Delicate raven brows arched ever so slightly. “Have you?”

May gave a soft snort. “The only lesson I have learned in all of this is to avoid arrogant noblemen like the plague.” Although, it wasn't exactly a
new
lesson. Still, it had certainly been reinforced since she'd met him.

Humor glinted in Suyin's dark eyes. “Remember, a little groveling goes very far in a man's heart.” Flashing a quick grin, she stood and retreated back inside. Her feet were soundless on the thin rug as she walked with short but graceful strides.

She had once explained that her name meant “plain or simple sound,” which seemed completely ill fitting. To May, she was the epitome of a strong and purpose-filled woman. With her many talents, she could have taken any position she wished, but she chose to stay with May after Mama had died. And thank God for it. Without the meditation techniques Suyin had taught her to deal with her mother's illness and death, it was hard to say what state May would be in now.

Never one to procrastinate, she headed inside to her escritoire and pulled out the necessary writing implements. She had actually expected him to come to the park this morning just to be contrary, but she'd seen neither hide nor hair of him or the big gray beast he rode. Having given it some thought, she decided that his
not
showing up was actually more contrary. He had to know that she'd be waiting to argue her case, as well as to give him a piece of her mind for ignoring her aunt's request.

Dear Radcliffe,

It would appear that my aunt's missive may not have been to your standards. Perhaps you require an engraved invitation? Given my cloistered state, I haven't the means to provide one at the moment, but do take note of how very careful my calligraphy is. See? Crossed T's and elegantly dotted I's fit for even the most discerning duke. If you had seen my normal penmanship, you would know what an
impressive effort this is for me. Now then, I beg you: Please have mercy on my humble self so that I may be set free. Lesson learned, et cetera, et cetera.

Awaiting your response with bated breath,
MB

Three long hours later, a tap at the door preceded Aunt Victoria, who swept into the room in a cloud of mulberry bombazine and overly aromatic perfume. “The duke sent round a note,” she announced without prelude, her stern features showing none of the satisfaction that May would have expected. “He spoke of his intention to attend the Ackerman's farewell soiree, and indicated his hope that he would see us there.”

Relief washed through May as she blew out a pent-up breath. “I'm glad to hear it. I'm eager to speak with him again.” The sooner she met with him, the sooner she could be done with this nonsense. Best of all, she was certain Charity and Sophie had planned to attend the ball, so she would have support.

Her aunt pursed her lips. “I'll warn you now, young lady, that you'd better be on your very best behavior. I am in no way exaggerating when I say you will spend the rest of the summer in this room if you offend the duke further.”

Biting her tongue, May smiled tightly and nodded. She would treat him so sweetly his teeth would ache. It would be at least another month or so until her father returned, and she refused to spend that time withering away in a dungeon. Besides the fact she wanted to make the most of the time she had left before her friends went their separate ways, May was simply a social person. She thrived on the company of others.

Depending on the “others,” of course.

Aunt Victoria tilted her head as she inspected May's appearance. “Wear one of the dresses I had made for you, and we'll have Upton do your hair. I hate to give up my own lady's maid, but I won't have that maid of yours doing you up exotic.”

Little bursts of pain in her tongue told her she was biting too hard, but May didn't relent. Again, she nodded.

“Don't speak unless spoken to,” The Warden continued, her chin raised in that special way of hers that allowed her to look down upon those who were taller than she. “When you do converse, stay to acceptable parlor talk: the weather, the festival, music. Do
not
refer to that
thing
you call an instrument. Before he departs, apologize sincerely and concisely. Your freedom to interact with your friends is directly dependent on his favorable response.

“If, by the time you finish conversing, I do not feel the incident at the Assembly Rooms has been forgiven and forgotten, well,” she said, offering a cold smile, “you may forget showing yourself in public again for the duration of the festival.”

So many words longed to come forth, threatening to break free of May's attempts to keep them in check. She forced a nod one more time.

Without another word, her aunt turned and swept from the room, leaving nothing but the cloying scent of her perfume behind. Wrinkling her nose, May moved to the divan and let out a long, frustrated breath. She was not meant for this life. She was going to rupture something if she kept holding words in like that.

Closing her eyes, she laid her head back against the uncomfortable cushions. Thank God the duke had
responded favorably to her note. She could only hope it meant he was ready to relent. And if he didn't accept her apology?

May dismissed the thought out of hand. This time, she wouldn't let the man out of her sight until she got what she wanted.

W
ith its brightly burning candles, low roar of conversation, and finely dressed attendees, the Ackerman ball was not unlike any other ball William had attended that year. Servants served, musicians played, and gossips had their heads together, their keen eyes sweeping the room in hopes of catching some fresh bit of scandal.

There was, however, a subtle difference in tone here when compared to similar events of the London Season. It was . . . lighter. Less jaded, even. Despite the gossips and occasional sour-faced matron, the attendees appeared to be genuinely enjoying themselves. With the end of the festival only days away, people seemed anxious to squeeze every drop of enjoyment from their time here.

Even though his arrival had caused the usual stir—nothing made heads turn quite like the word
duke
—he felt substantially less hunted here, which was a relief. As he'd made his way through the room, greeting friends and nodding to acquaintances, he'd found himself scanning the women in attendance, searching for the tall blonde who would inevitably hunt him down the moment she saw him.

Her note had made him laugh, almost against his will. It was obviously impossible for her to show him any real
respect, but her words hadn't been sharp, at least. Odd, but not sharp.

Lord Wexley spotted him then, and quickly parted from his companion and made his way over. “Good evening, Duke,” he said, the words crisp as he offered a short nod. “How fortuitous that you were able to join the festival after all. I hope that means all is well with your little venture.” His lips stretched into a thin line that could be interpreted as either a pained smile or uncommitted sneer.

The viscount had never done anything to call into question his integrity, but William still didn't particularly like the man. He had a disingenuous air about him that made every word he said suspect. The fact that Wexley referred to it as his
little
venture irritated him, but it wasn't worth allowing the man to get beneath his skin.

“I am more than satisfied with the project.” William wasn't about to share more than that about the implementation of his years-long plan to build a textile mill on his estate. They had encountered several issues early in the summer, but things were running sufficiently well now that he felt comfortable leaving it behind for a fortnight or so.

“Excellent. Ah,” he said, raising a hand and lifting his brows. “I see my daughter has returned from the terrace.”

William automatically turned, but instead of Wexley's daughter, Miss Harmon, he saw Miss Sophie Wembley blink in surprise, then raise her hand and wave in return. Behind her, a blonde approached, but unfortunately it was only Miss Harmon.

“Oh, for God's sake,” the viscount said, his voice sharp and loud enough to carry. “She can't possibly imagine that I would ever address her. Evansleigh may
have been duped into marrying the chit, but everyone here knows she's little more than a glorified adventuress.”

Anger pierced straight through William's chest, especially when he saw Sophie's face drain of color and her bright smile go brittle as glass. He had spoken with her only a few times before this, but she had always been very sweet, if a bit loquacious. She possessed the kindness of spirit that was impossible to counterfeit. If Evansleigh had chosen her for his wife, it wasn't because he'd been tricked or fleeced into it. William wasn't any great friend of the man, but he knew the earl well enough to be sure of that much.

Straightening slowly, he turned cold, hard eyes on Wexley, pouring every ounce of his contempt into his expression. The other man shrank back, uncertainly lowering his brow. After several beats of pointed silence, William turned his back on the viscount and walked straight to the new countess.

Her eyes were perilously large, her nostrils flared, but she had the good manners to remember to curtsy. “Your Grace,” she croaked, clearly flustered.

“I have just discovered your happy news, Lady Evansleigh. Please allow me to extend my most heartfelt felicitations to you and your new husband. And please,” he said, forcing a gentle smile to his lips as he leaned the slightest bit forward, “you must call me
Duke
or
Radcliffe
.”

Her relief was palpable as she breathed out a slow breath and nodded. “Thank you, Duke. I'm . . . I'm exceedingly grateful you are here.”

“I'm delighted to be here. Tell me, is your husband also in attendance?” He had no doubt the man would be keen to know what had just transpired.

“He is, indeed. I only just left him to, um, have a moment's respite from the crowd.” She sounded somewhat uncomfortable, but William's attention had been momentarily diverted when he had caught Miss Harmon's censorious expression out of the corner of his eye. He purposely didn't acknowledge her, despite the fact she was only a handful of feet away.

The sooner he could get Sophie away from these people, the better. “May I escort you to your destination, Lady Evansleigh?”

Color infused her pale face and she smiled hugely. “I'm afraid I may have been a smidge too tactful, which truly is rather unusual for me. To be completely honest, I was headed toward the ladies' retiring room, and while I certainly don't mind the escort, you very well might. Fear not, however, you shall still be my hero should you choose to rescind the offer.”

He bit back an unexpected grin. She was honest to a fault, which was a trait he rather admired in a person. If he hadn't been distracted by Miss Harmon, he would have realized what she had been trying to say. Extending his arm with the elegance that had been drilled into him since he was in leading strings, he said, “A gentleman never goes back on his word. Shall we?”

Her dark eyes danced with humor and delight as she very purposefully laid her gloved hand upon his sleeve. “By all means, lead the way.”

*   *   *

May stood arrested several feet away, hardly able to believe her eyes. Surely this was not the same man who had purposely left her languishing in her gilded prison for a day and a half. Or who had looked down his nose at her from the very moment he had first laid eyes on her. Or
who had attempted to reprimand her in the park, before ending up flat on the ground at her feet.

Having arrived only minutes earlier, she had been following in Sophie's wake, attempting to catch up to her when she'd seen the exchange. She hadn't been close enough to hear Lord Wexley's words, but the look on Sophie's face had told her all she needed to know. She'd struggled to push through the crush to reach her friend, but the duke had beaten her to it.

It had been . . . incredible. Based on the way Sophie had spoken of him, he was a passing acquaintance at best, and yet, he had defended her. May would have never, ever thought to use the words
Radcliffe
and
gallant
in the same sentence, but the proof was right there before her and the roughly three hundred other souls filling the ball to capacity. She swallowed, attempting to reconcile his kindness with the way he had behaved during their previous encounters.

It was all very vexing.

Regardless, any enemy of Lord Wexley and his daughter couldn't be that bad. Drawing a fortifying breath, she struck out after them, weaving her way through the jovial people conversing around her. By the time she caught up to them, Sophie had curtsied and disappeared into the room designated for the ladies' retiring room. The duke turned and stepped forward just as she approached, and suddenly they were face-to-face, much closer than she had intended.

His clear, tea-colored eyes registered a moment of surprise before he efficiently wiped his expression to neutral. She hastily took a step back. It wouldn't do for him to think she was stalking him.

Pasting a smile on her lips, she tilted her head. “Do I know you?” she asked, coloring the words with perfect
innocence. It was best to be on the offensive in these sorts of situations.

His eyebrows lowered as he regarded her cautiously, obviously suspicious of her intentions. “How I wish I could reply in the negative.”

“Ah, yes. It
is
you. I thought for a moment I was witnessing the chivalrous actions of the Duke of Radcliffe's lesser known but much more agreeable twin brother.” She kept her tone light with just a hint of teasing. It was an admittedly backhanded compliment, but it would be a lie to say she didn't enjoy the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he decided whether to be offended or flattered.

“Might I suggest, Miss Bradford, that since you were the one who requested an audience with me not more than a handful of hours ago, you might have a care how you speak to me.” Even though he sounded as imperious as a king, there was definitely a seed of humor nestled between the stern words.

She was entirely at his mercy and he knew it. Even so, and in spite of the fact she had been determined to be as complacent as possible in order to gain her freedom, she found it almost impossible to ignore the desire to spar with the man.

The orchestra, which was situated in a small alcove twenty paces away, signaled the start of the next dance, and men and women all around them started for the dance floor. Within moments, the two of them were left stranded like seaweed on the shore of an outgoing tide. “Remarkable,” she said, lifting a single brow. “No one can clear an area quite like your ego.”

He came as close to rolling his eyes as she imagined he ever had. “Or this is a ball, and people wish to dance.”

“Is that an invitation? How positively unexpected.
Peasant girl that I am, I never expected to be asked to waltz by the great duke himself.” Her smile was both teasing and wicked, meant to show that she wasn't intimidated by him in the least, despite the fact that she needed him. She had seen the kindness he had shown Sophie. He might have little regard for May's pride, but he had protected someone she loved. It made him that much more interesting, and even more appealing than he had a right to be.

Something very much like determination flickered in his eyes. Or was it exasperation? Whatever it was, she didn't have time to examine it before he thrust out his hand, palm up. “Absolutely.”

She blinked, then stared down at the supple leather encasing his outstretched fingers. “I beg your pardon?” He couldn't truly wish to dance with her. She had only been needling him.

Leaning close enough that she could smell the crisp, classic sandalwood scent of his shaving soap, he looked her dead in the eye. “I'm calling your bluff.”

Without waiting for her response, he clasped her hand in his and towed her toward the dance floor. She was so surprised, she didn't even protest. Her heart stirred with anticipation as she contemplated the feeling of her hand tucked firmly within his. If she was honest—and she always was—it wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation.

“You think to shock me, but it won't work.” His voice was even, controlled to a fault. Nothing in his manner would have tipped off a casual observer to the battle of wills that was brewing. “If you can make it through this dance without causing a scene, I shall escort you to your aunt afterward and proclaim your apology accepted. This is your one and only chance, Miss Bradford, so I suggest you be on your very best behavior.”

Her very best behavior, indeed. Did he think she would fall on her face? Embarrass herself before their peers? Did he
want
her to? By now he should know better than to try to put her in her place.

Increasing her pace, she pulled ahead of him, effectively taking the lead. She led him to the very center of the ballroom before abruptly coming to a halt. Turning to face him fully, she arched a brow in challenge. “You do realize that by dancing the first waltz with me, you are effectively showing your approval for me, yes?”

The music cued, and he snapped her into position, holding her not a single inch closer or farther than society demanded. It was almost as if an invisible box was placed between them. “Don't underestimate the power of a cut direct. Now behave yourself. If you attempt to lead, I will gladly allow you to carry on without me.”

He stepped forward then, propelling her along with him in time with the music. He was a competent dancer, sure-footed and graceful, yet wholly masculine.
Too
masculine, really. The way he was holding her, her feet hardly even touched the floor.

She wiggled a bit in his grasp. “I am capable of dancing, you know. My mother was adamant I learn the ways of English courting, though God knows why.”

Though his posture never changed, he allowed his gaze to meet hers. “Forgive me if I don't believe you. I heard what you did to Mozart, after all.”

Oh, he thought himself clever, did he?

“Glorious, wasn't it? So refreshing not to hear it played as boring as written.”

“Boring? His work is art,” he exclaimed. Then his eyes narrowed, and she knew he'd realized she was baiting him. Lifting his chin an inch, he said, “Although
personally I prefer England's own Thomas Linley, the younger. His talent transcends the generations.”

“Oh, rubbish. You only say that because he's English. I imagine you prefer black pudding over curry soup, because congealed pig's blood is so deliciously English,” she said, wrinkling her nose despite the fact she didn't really mind black pudding. “But the fact is, Linley is known as the English Mozart, yet Mozart has never been called the German Linley. Food for thought,” she said, flashing a knowing smile.

Pleased with having parried his point, she redoubled her effort not to allow him to control her movements. His strides were long, but thanks to her height, she had no trouble keeping up. They swooped past couple after couple, spinning and turning with exactly the precision she would have expected from the man. The other couples whirled past them in a blur of brightly colored gowns and jackets. With her dreadfully dull pale pink gown and his dour charcoal jacket, they must have looked like an inkblot in comparison.