The Trouble With Being a Duke (29 page)

From what little she’d shared with Rebecca, it was clear that Lady Trapleigh’s marriage had been an unhappy one. Her husband had been fifty years her senior, so when she’d heard of Rebecca’s situation, she’d immediately offered her sympathy, and the two had formed an acquaintance. She’d been the only person, aside from her maid, in whom Rebecca had confided her plan to escape marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather, not because they’d been close friends, but rather because the challenge ahead had seemed so overwhelming that Rebecca had needed the encouragement she’d known Lady Trapleigh would give her.

Rebecca had not been disappointed in that regard, for the widow had not only voiced her admiration but had also promised to help in whatever way she could. She’d visited Rebecca regularly over the last two years, aiding in Rebecca’s pretense and doing whatever possible to keep the Griftons in the dark.

When Rebecca had seen the red gown, she’d known that she shouldn’t have expected her confidante to be in possession of anything more demure and that she had probably lent her the most reserved gown she owned. At least her breasts would be properly covered, for which she could only have been thankful. Knowing Lady Trapleigh, it could have been worse—far worse.

Rebecca returned her attention to the gentleman before her. “This is a masquerade, Mr. Neville, is it not?” she asked, deciding to keep his company a little while longer. Oh, how pleasant it was to be in the presence of a young and handsome gentleman for a change, rather than suffer the attentions of men who coughed, croaked and hobbled their way through what remained of their lives, as was the case with the suitors her aunt and uncle kept pressing upon her.

“It is,” Mr. Neville said, dragging out the last word with a touch of wariness.

“Then part of the amusement, I suppose, comes from the mystery of not always knowing the identity of the person with whom you’re speaking. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She watched as Mr. Neville’s eyes brightened and his smile turned to one of mischief. “Tell me honestly,” he said, ignoring her question, “are you married?”

“Certainly not,” she said, attempting to sound as affronted as possible, which in turn made him laugh. Surrendering, she allowed the smile that threatened to take control of her lips. “If I were, I would have ignored you completely and rudely walked away.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite.”

“Well, then I suppose I should inquire if you have any brothers that I ought to live in fear of.”

She grinned this time and shook her head with amusement. “You are incorrigible.”

“I’ve been called much worse, I assure you.”

“I do not doubt it for a second.” And it was the truth, though she had no intention of sharing any of the adjectives that were presently coursing through her own mind, like
magnificent
and
delicious
. Her cheeks grew instantly hot and she cringed inwardly, praying he wouldn’t notice her blush. Heaven forbid if either word ever crossed her lips—the embarrassment of it would likely be impossible to survive, particularly since her mind had now decided to turn those two words into one singular descriptive, namely
magnificently delicious
. Her cheeks grew hotter still, though she hadn’t thought such a thing possible, but apparently it was.

“Would you care for some air? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

Oh dear
.

She’d rather hoped he wouldn’t have been able to tell. Looking over her shoulder, she considered the escape the French doors offered. She wouldn’t mind the cooler outdoors right now, particularly since it would probably be the very thing, not only to cure her overheated reaction to Mr. Neville but also to avoid for just a little while longer the task she’d set herself. Looking the way she did, how on earth was she to make a good impression on any of the young gentlemen present? She wasn’t sure, though she knew she’d have to figure it out before the evening ended and she lost her chance altogether.

Her eyes met Mr. Neville’s, and the promise of trouble in them only compounded her instinct to dismiss him as a possible candidate. But instinct could be wrong, couldn’t it? So far, he was the only person she’d spoken to, the only man who’d asked her to dance. Granted, hiding behind a pillar probably hadn’t helped her much in that regard. Still, despite her better judgment, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that when Mr. Neville looked at her in that particular way, she lost all interest in the other gentlemen present. Perhaps she ought to consider him after all.

Deciding that accepting his offer to go outside with him so soon after they’d just met would probably give him the wrong impression, but intent on having a bit of fun, she looked him squarely in the eye and said, “It’s very kind of you to offer, but I must consider my reputation. Why, you look precisely like the sort of man who’d happily kiss me in some secluded corner without a second thought for the consequences.”

Mr. Neville’s mouth quite literally dropped open. She knew her words were bold and inappropriate and that she probably ought to have been mortified by what she’d just said. But she wasn’t. Mr. Neville’s reaction was entirely too satisfying to allow for any measure of regret. Folding her hands neatly in front of her, she stared back at him instead, challenging him to respond while doing her best to maintain a serious demeanor.

“I . . . er . . . assure you that I would do no such thing,” he blustered, glancing sideways as if to assure himself that nobody else had heard what she’d just said.

It was all too much, and Rebecca quickly covered her mouth with one hand in a hopeless attempt to contain the laughter that bubbled forth. “My apologies, but I was merely having a bit of sport at your expense. I hope you’ll forgive me—and my rather peculiar sense of humor.”

He leaned closer to her then—so close in fact that she could smell him, the rich scent of sandalwood enveloping her senses until she found herself leaning toward him. She stopped herself and pulled back.

“Of course . . .
Nuit
.” His eyes twinkled. “I must call you something, and considering the color of your hair, I cannot help but be reminded of the night sky. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she said, attempting a nonchalant sound to her voice, though her heart had picked up its pace as he’d said it, the endearment feeling like a gentle caress of her soul.

Who was this man? Could she really have been so fortunate to have stumbled upon the man of her dreams? A man who might potentially agree to marry her once she confessed to him the true nature of her situation? She dismissed the hope, for it was far too naïve and unrealistic to have any merit. Besides, Mr. Neville’s suave demeanor screamed rake and scoundrel rather than incurable romantic, which was what she would need. In fact, he was probably precisely the sort of man she should try to avoid, although . . . she made an attempt to look beyond the debonair smile and the lure of his eyes. Could he be genuine? Surely, if he really was a rake, he wouldn’t have been so shocked by her suggestion that he might try to compromise her. Would he? She wasn’t sure and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt instead.

The edge of her lips curled upward into a smile. “How about a refreshment instead,” she suggested. “A glass of champagne, perhaps? And then I believe I’d like to take you up on that offer of yours to dance.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Neville said as he glanced sideways, undoubtedly trying to locate the nearest footman. There was none close by at present. “If you will please wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Rebecca followed him with her eyes as he walked away, his confident stride reflecting his purpose. She was not unaware of the looks of reproach he received from those he passed, though, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her instincts about him had been correct after all. Was she wasting her time on a scoundrel whose only interest was in something that she had no intention of offering? She hoped not, for she’d quite enjoyed their conversation. It had been comfortable and unpretentious, spiced with a sense of humor.

As he vanished from sight, she gave her attention to the rest of the guests, watching with interest as the gentlemen approached the ladies. One gentleman, she noticed, was making his way toward a cluster of young ladies with quick determination. She watched him go, wondering which of the women had caught his interest. But right before he reached them, another gentleman cut in front of him and offered his hand to one of them—a lovely brunette dressed in a dusty pink gown. Placing her hand upon his arm, the pair walked off without as much as acknowledging the presence of the first gentleman. Rebecca wondered if they’d even seen him. Perhaps not, she decided, except that the second gentleman suddenly looked back, grinning with victory at the first gentleman.

What cheek!

She was just about to turn her attention elsewhere when a man’s voice said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

Turning her head, she was forced to look up until her eyes settled upon a handsome face, but where there was something playful about Mr. Neville’s features, this man looked almost menacing—as though he was not the sort who was used to having his wishes denied. “I really wouldn’t know,” Rebecca told him, feigning boredom as she did her best to still her quaking nerves. Whoever he was, he was huge—the sort of man who could easily fling her over his shoulder and carry her off without anyone being able to stop him. “Perhaps if you told me your name . . .”

He smirked. “Lord Starkly at your service. And you are?”

She offered him a tight smile in return. She was not about to play the same coy game with this man as she’d done with Mr. Neville. That would only lead to trouble. But she could hardly give her real name either, so she said, “Lady Nuit.”

Lord Starkly frowned. “I don’t believe I—”

“This is a masquerade, my lord, is it not?” She heard the impatience in her voice but didn’t bother to change it. “Where would the fun be if there were not a little bit of mystery attached to each person present? Let’s just say that I’d rather not give away my real name for personal reasons.”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Starkly said, his features relaxing a little. The predatory glimmer returned to his eyes and he said, “I understand completely why a woman such as yourself would prefer to remain incognito, though I—”

“A woman such as myself?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep the blunt tone of indignation from seeping into her voice. She shouldn’t have been shocked, considering her gown, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop herself.

“Come now,
Lady Nuit
. There’s no need for you to keep up your charade for my benefit. I mean, what other reason would a woman possibly have for engaging in conversation with Mr. Neville unless she was already a fallen angel? Not to mention that your attire is rather indicative of your . . . ah . . . experience in certain areas.” He paused, leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I trust that you are his mistress or perhaps hoping to become so, which is why I decided to hurry over here and proposition you myself.”

Rebecca could only stare at him, agog. What was it with this man that he felt he could so blatantly insult a woman as if she’d been nothing more than bothersome dirt tainting his boots? She so desperately wanted to hit him that she could barely contain her enthusiasm to do so, her fingers already curling into a tight fist at her side. And what was it he’d said about Mr. Neville? That keeping his company was what had led him to believe that she was a doxy in the first place? Disappointment washed over her. She should have known. Mr. Neville had only his own interests in mind as far as she went, and they would not include marriage. He might have more charm than Lord Starkly, but when it came to it, they were cut from the same cloth—libertines through and through. Neither man would do. Rebecca needed the permanence and security of marriage, not to a relic, but to a man of her own choosing if she was to escape the future her aunt and uncle had in mind for her, and for that, she would have to look elsewhere. Deciding she’d had enough of Lord Starkly’s presence and hoping to be gone before Mr. Neville returned, she resolved to walk away and find someone else entirely.

With a swift “If you’ll please excuse me,” she spun on her heel, only to barrel straight into Mr. Neville, who’d just come up behind her with two champagne flutes in hand, the bubbly liquid spilling onto both of them in the process.

About the Author

Born in Denmark, SOPHIE BARNES spent her youth traveling with her parents to wonderful places all around the world. She’s lived in five different countries, on three different continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish, and Romanian. But, most impressive of all, she’s been married to the same man three times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.

When she’s not busy dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.

Visit Sophie Barnes at
www.sophiebarnes.com
.

You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter
@BarnesSophie
.

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