The Trouble With Being a Duke (5 page)

“I never said they wouldn’t notice, merely that they would be less inclined. Besides, I don’t believe my mother invited any of Almack’s patronesses, so nobody will be the wiser until they happen upon them in another week or two, at which point our dance will be quite forgotten.”

“You are certain of this?”

The duke sighed. “Miss Smith, if I were you, I’d concentrate a bit more on enjoying the dance rather than worrying about everyone else’s opinion of you. Besides, it’s unlikely that anyone in Flemmington will care.”

Isabella gasped. Not only had she not realized she’d been twirling around the dance floor with the duke holding her firmly in place (how this was possible, she couldn’t imagine) but she also thought it a bit harsh of him to suggest that her family and friends wouldn’t care if they discovered she’d participated in an unauthorized waltz—even though they did come from Moxley instead of Flemmington, but that was beside the point.

“I can see that I’ve offended you, for which I’m sorry.” He tightened his hold on her. “I only meant that as strict as the rules of Society are, they do tend to be a bit more lax and forgiving in the country.”

“I see.” Isabella tried to relax. After all, she might as well, because it really was unlikely that her mother and Mr. Roberts would ever find out. She was there to enjoy herself, and she’d been given the opportunity to do so in the company of a duke. Surely she had to be the envy of all the other ladies present, and that thought alone was enough to make her worries slip away. Tilting her head back a little so she could look up at the duke, Isabella said, “What’s the Hampstead move?”

A slow smile snuck its way across his face while his eyes brightened with boyish mischief. “It’s a means of distraction that my very good friend Mr. Goodard performed for the first time five years ago at the Hampstead Ball—hence the name.”

“And what does it entail, if you don’t mind my asking.”

Kingsborough’s smile widened as he swept her past the orchestra. “I’m not so sure it would be wise to tell you.”

“Why ever not?”

He dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “Because it would disclose far more about my intentions toward you than I am prepared to at this point.”

A shiver raced down Isabella’s spine, all the way to the tips of her toes. The man was speaking of intentions now—toward her, no less. The sentiment was certainly flattering, not only because he was a duke but also because she liked him. She couldn’t help herself, really—not just because of his looks, which were so elementally delicious that Isabella wished she could feast her eyes on him forever, but because he didn’t seem aloof or arrogant but rather grounded instead. It was refreshing—
he
was refreshing—and the carefree way in which he carried himself only served to make Mr. Roberts’s neatly folded handkerchiefs and perfectly groomed hair look so much more ridiculous.

Isabella bit back a groan. She was meant to marry Mr. Roberts one day. Even if he had yet to propose, the point was clear. He was much too proper to allow himself to become a permanent fixture in her parents’ parlor without eventually doing what everyone had come to expect. All of this—the glistening ballroom and the man whose company she was presently enjoying—would have to end the instant she returned home. She was dancing with a duke, for heaven’s sake! A man so far above her on the social ladder that there was no point at all in making the wish that was starting to form in her mind.

If only . . .

“Are you all right?”

Isabella blinked. How long had she been woolgathering? “Forgive me,” she said, “my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share them with me?” The smile he gave her as he spoke was of the more crooked variety, dimpling his cheeks in a way that made him look terribly roguish.

For just about the millionth time since making his acquaintance only ten minutes earlier, Isabella felt her heart flutter in her chest.

Trouble
was the word that came to mind.

She knew that whatever dreams she dared entertain of a man like Kingsborough courting her would remain exactly that—a dream. As regrettable as it was, she would have to be honest if she wished to avoid heartache, or at least as honest as she could be under the circumstances. “Actually, I was wondering what my fiancé would say if he were to discover that I danced with a dashing duke this evening.” There, she’d told him about Mr. Roberts and would now be able to enjoy the rest of the evening with a clear conscience and without worrying that the duke might show more interest in her than he already had. He would do the honorable thing and walk away—she was certain of this.

But the dance had not yet ended, and rather than let her go, the duke tightened his hold on her and frowned. “Fiancé?”

“Yes.” The tone of his voice did not fill her with the confidence she’d hoped for but rather with despair. “I thought it best to inform you that I am practically engaged to a very respectable gentleman—an entrepreneur, to be exact.”

The crooked smile returned to Kingsborough’s lips. “ ‘Practically’?” Isabella had recognized her error the instant she’d spoken, but it was too late for her to take that one word back now. “Then you’re really not engaged at all, are you?”

Swallowing hard, she tried to think of something else to say that might deter him. She could of course tell him the absolute truth about her identity. She’d surely find herself escorted off the premises without further ado, but at least it would save her from the risk of getting to know the duke further, from becoming more fascinated than she already was and, most importantly, from the prospect of falling in love with a man she could never, ever hope to marry.

It was the wise thing to do, and yet she found herself doing quite the opposite. “I suppose not—not yet, that is.” Oh, how she wished she could give herself a good whack. Was she a complete idiot? And the way it sounded to her own ears . . . good heavens, but Kingsborough would have every right to think she was flirting with him. It was likely her most embarrassing moment to date.

The duke raised an eyebrow as the music faded and they glided to a stop. “Not yet,” he murmured, his smile turning into something of a wolfish grin. Was he laughing at her or pondering the thought of devouring her whole? Neither prospect was in the least bit reassuring.

Dropping a curtsy in response to his bow, Isabella accepted the arm he offered her and allowed him to lead her off to the side. She was desperately wracking her brain for an excuse to escape his company and had just considered telling him she needed to visit the ladies’ retirement room when he leaned a bit closer to her and said, “It’s a lovely evening outside. Would you care to join me for a stroll on the terrace?”

Isabella knew she ought to refuse, make her excuse and leave his company immediately. There was just one massive flaw to her plan—the lack of will to do so as he stood there, gazing into her eyes and waiting for her response as if the stability of the planet hinged on her agreement. If only he knew that her agreement might actually cause it to fall off its axis.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to ignore her better judgment and do what she wanted to do instead—however temporary it might be and however much she might regret it later. This was her chance to experience the fairy-tale magic she’d wanted for so long, and with the Duke of Kingsborough unwittingly playing the part of her own Prince Charming. “Yes,” she said, her stomach working itself into a tight knot in response to the look of pleasure that swept over his handsome face. “I would like that very much.”

And as he guided her out of the ballroom to the drone of music and laughter, Isabella couldn’t help but imagine that it was the sound of the fates mocking her.

Chapter 5

I
t was warmer than usual for that time of year, and with not even as much as a breeze to speak of, it was downright pleasant being outside—especially when compared to the stifling heat of the ballroom. In fact, Anthony had to admit that his cravat and his jacket didn’t bother him nearly as much now as they had earlier. He eyed his companion, realizing that she might have been finding it chillier than he, what with her flimsy evening gown and no shawl to speak of. “If it’s too cold for you . . . ,” he began, but he stopped when she shook her head.

“Not at all—it’s quite a relief actually.” She nodded toward the ballroom. “As spectacular as it is in there, I’m happy to be able to get a bit of fresh air.”

“All the same, I do hope you’ll let me know as soon as you wish to venture back inside.”

She smiled brightly and Anthony felt his spirits soar. “I shall do so without hesitation,” she promised. “You have my word on it.”

It was Anthony’s turn to smile as he turned toward the far end of the terrace and began leading her forward at a leisurely pace.

Who was this woman he was talking to, and what was it about her exactly that captivated him so? He pondered the question for a moment, but, truth was, he had no idea. What he
did
know, however, was who she wasn’t. She was not Miss Smith—or at least he didn’t believe her to be—and she did not herald from a town by the name of Flemmington. He could easily drive himself mad speculating about the matter for the remainder of the evening, but he decided to opt for a much easier solution instead.

Anthony stopped in his tracks, bringing her to a standstill as well. He turned his head just enough to gaze down at her. “Tell me, Miss Smith, who are you really?”

He’d never seen anyone pale so quickly before. “It’s quite all right—there’s no need for alarm,” he felt compelled to say for fear that she might actually collapse in a dead faint. “It’s just that there was nobody on the guest list by the name of Smith, and with Flemmington being a fictitious location conjured by my brother’s overactive imagination, the fact that you readily agreed that this was where you were from only suggests that you’ve no desire for anyone to know your true identity. Am I correct?”

She stared back at him for what must surely have been a full minute before her mouth eventually closed. She looked up at him from beneath her long lashes and gave an ever so slight, almost imperceptible nod. “What will you do?” she asked.

“I shan’t have you evicted,” he said, realizing from her heavy sigh of relief that this was what she’d feared most. “After all, with your attire taken into consideration, you must at the very least be gentry—no lowborn person would ever be able to afford such a costly garment.”

“I . . . er . . . ah . . .”

“Oh, I see,” he continued, feeling the urge to tease her a little with the hopeful prospect of easing the tension that had descended upon them. “You are a noblewoman’s stepdaughter, locked away for countless years and forced to tend to your stepsisters’ every demand. But when you heard of the Kingsborough Ball, you stole one of their gowns and snuck away to attend. Am I right?”

“Right enough,” she whispered, smiling just enough to encourage him to continue.

Anthony felt his heart quicken. He wasn’t sure why, but her willingness to play along with this game sparked his interest in her even more. Of course he wondered who she really was—it was impossible for him not to—but for some curious reason, it didn’t seem like the most important thing at the moment. Especially not if she had her own personal reasons for keeping her identity secret. After all, she had mentioned an
almost
fiancé. What if she simply didn’t want the man to discover she’d come to the ball? It was a possibility.

They started down the steps. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Why am I still here? You know that I’m an imposter, so why have you not decided to have me escorted off the property? Why, even your brother and mother know the truth, and yet none of you have acted as I would have expected.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Anthony turned to look at her. It was difficult for him to discern her expression with the mask she was wearing, but he could see her eyes, and there was something so honest, yet desperate, hidden there that he found it impossible to look away. She was mesmerizing, and whatever reason she had for being there, he knew that it was vitally important to her, that attending the ball was not without risk. “You intrigue me,” he said, for it was the truth.

“And yet I’ve just told you that I have a fiancé.”

“An
almost
fiancé, I believe you said.”

The spark in her eyes dwindled. “Nevertheless—I will marry him. This . . .” She swept her arm in a wide circle to indicate their extravagant surroundings. “It cannot possibly last.”

Her voice held such a degree of sadness that Anthony felt his heart break for this lovely woman before him. Instinct told him to put his arms around her and hug her against him. He wanted to keep her safe, to prevent her from marrying someone she so obviously had no desire to marry. It must have been something her parents had arranged—a match that would serve all parties most favorably, except of course for Miss Smith. “Have you told your parents that the prospect of marrying this man makes you unhappy?”

She looked at him, wide-eyed. “How did you—”

With a gentle tug, he began leading her toward the pumpkin carriage, the gravel from the walkway crunching ever so softly beneath their feet as they approached the grass. “You may not have said, but it is clear in both your voice and the expression upon your face—your eyes especially.”

She shook her head a little. “It’s a very fortuitous match actually—one that will benefit my family greatly.” She gave him an awkward smile and a shrug before adding, “We do what we must.”

The idea of it made him sick to his stomach. Nobody deserved to marry out of obligation. A thought struck him. What if
he
courted her? He was a duke, so her parents should have no qualms about approving the match, and besides, he
was
looking for a bride. Of course, there was no way of knowing if Miss Smith would not just be going from one undesirable fiancé to another. They’d only just met, and there was no way of knowing that he stood a chance of making her any happier than the man she was currently attached to.

And of course there was the slight detail of not knowing who she was. If she was prepared to sacrifice herself on the marriage altar, then perhaps there was something severely wrong with her—something this other gentleman was prepared to overlook, or worse, something he was not yet aware of.

Anthony cast a sideways glance in Miss Smith’s direction. Surely a woman with such delicate features, such clear blue eyes and such a delectable figure had to be perfect in every other regard. It was damn near impossible to imagine otherwise.

Sensing Miss Smith’s desire to avoid any further discussion of the matter, Anthony suggested they have their portraits drawn by the sketch artist instead, and with an eager nod of approval from the lady, he helped her up into the pumpkin carriage after Lord Shelby and a woman who was
not
his wife had vacated it. Anthony wasn’t usually one to judge (especially given his own history of rakish tendencies), but as it happened, he rather liked Lady Shelby and was therefore unable to keep himself from saying, “Ah, there you are, Shelby.” He eyed the woman Shelby was with—a widow who was notorious for sleeping her way into gentlemen’s pockets. “I say, is your wife aware of the company you keep, old chap?”

“No . . . er . . . I . . . that is . . . ,” Lord Shelby sputtered.

Anthony served him a strict frown. “I suggest you part ways with one another here, and none shall be the wiser—I’ve no desire for a scandal to ruin an otherwise pleasant evening.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Your Grace,” Shelby replied, abandoning the widow posthaste and hurrying off toward the house.

The widow gave Anthony a spiteful glare. “Was that really necessary?”

“I apologize for ruining your fun, Lady Trapleigh, but I suggest you keep your talons away from the married gentlemen this evening, or I shall have you removed from the property.”

She gave him a condescending smirk—her eyes darting toward Miss Smith in a predatory fashion as she took a step toward him, reached out and ran a long finger down his chest. Miss Smith gasped and Lady Trapleigh chuckled. “Perhaps I should offer my services to you instead?”

Years ago he would probably have accepted her proposal with a wicked smile to boot, but things were different now—
he
was different—and he wanted to do whatever he could to honor the memory of his father. Additionally, he did not want Miss Smith to think poorly of him. Lowering his voice to a near whisper he said, “That you would even imagine I might be interested in whatever it is you have to offer is only a testament to your own poor judgment.” Leaning toward her he added, “We both know that the only reason you were even invited here this evening is entirely out of respect to the friendship your late husband shared with my father.”

Lady Trapleigh opened her mouth as if to speak but wisely closed it again before storming off, her anger evident in every aspect of her being. Anthony watched her go before turning back to Miss Smith. “My apologies,” he said. He felt like an ass for administering such a set down in her presence, especially knowing that his father would have handled the situation with more class. “But I cannot abide people like that.”

Miss Smith smiled as he sat down next to her across from the sketch artist. “Really, Your Grace? Judging from your tone, I was under the impression that you were quite fond of her.”

Sarcasm, eh?
A rare commodity in a young lady and one that Anthony definitely approved of. It was impossible for him not to laugh as he leaned back against the seat, only to discover that whoever had designed this vehicle must have done so with much smaller people in mind. It was practically impossible for him not to touch the entire length of Miss Smith’s body as they sat there, squashed together. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you move your arm, my lord?” said the artist as he waved his piece of charcoal in the general direction of Anthony’s left appendage. “Lift if up a bit . . . just like that . . . yes, there you go, that’s much better.”

Anthony could have sworn he heard Miss Smith gulp as he raised his arm and placed it against the top of the seat, but he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that their thighs were touching and that the curve of her breast was much too close for comfort. Dear Lord, but it was impossible for him to relax—especially when Miss Smith kept shifting from side to side and adding to the friction between them.

It was the closest he’d been to her since they’d met, and he found that it stirred to life an awareness of her that he couldn’t possibly ignore. Her scent was sweet—as if she’d recently bathed in the nectar of honeysuckles. Anthony winced. The thought of her bathing was probably one he should avoid at the moment. Dropping his gaze to her naked arm, he marveled at how unblemished it was—not as much as a freckle marred the milky whiteness of it. Unfortunately, said arm was directly perpendicular to her breasts. Anthony tried to do the right thing and stop his gaze from wandering, but his eyes were apparently less noble and refused to listen, which in turn led to a rather uncomfortable situation a mere second later.

Anthony hastily crossed his legs and looked back up at the artist, only to find the annoying little man grinning right back at him. Thankfully he held his tongue and returned his attention to his work, finishing the sketch with merciful rapidity so that Anthony could finally distance himself from Miss Smith. But in his eagerness to prevent any further inappropriate contact with the woman, he shot to his feet so quickly that he bumped his head on the roof of the carriage, lost his balance and landed right back in his seat. This alone might not have been such a disaster had he not placed his hand upon Miss Smith’s right thigh in an attempt to stop his fall.

Anthony learned a number of interesting facts about Miss Smith in the moment that followed. First, she was not too easily startled, for although she’d emitted a squeak of surprise at the moment of initial contact, she’d refrained from yelling or hitting him (for which he was very much obliged). Second, she possessed the ability to remain calm when faced with unusual circumstances. Third, and perhaps most memorable of all, was the way she felt. Anthony had never considered himself the shallow sort, and he was well aware that the first two elements were of equal, if not greater, importance because they pertained to her character, but he also knew that he could never deny the way his body responded to the softness of her. It was as if molten hot lava had surged up his arm, filling his entire body with a pulsing heat unlike any he’d ever felt before.

It confounded him to such a degree that he found himself at a complete loss for words. After all, it wasn’t as if he had no prior experience with the female sex. Truthfully, he had ample, for until his father’s health had begun to decline, he’d led the same life of debauchery as every other young and unattached gentleman. Casper could attest to this. In fact, it was probably the only cause for tension between them, because while circumstance had forced Anthony to grow up and become the responsible adult he was destined to be, Casper refused to abandon his roguish ways, declaring that it would be wrong to meddle with nature’s intent.