The Day of the Duchess Page 4

  Half the men of the aristocracy waited until their thirties to marry. Many until their late thirties. Haven wasn’t a fool—he knew his bachelorhood was on borrowed time. He’d require a marriage and an heir soon enough, but Lord knew he wasn’t interested in balls and long walks through Hyde Park to find it.

  The idea was ridiculous. How many times had Haven heard Mayweather himself claim that heirs could be whelped any time? Unless . . .

  “Christ,” Haven said softly in the darkness. “You’re caught.” Was that a blush? “Someone has her pretty hooks in you.”

  The marquess looked away. “You needn’t make it sound so mercenary.”

  “You said yourself that our titles make us meat.”

  “She doesn’t think of it that way.”

  Haven would wager everything he had that the woman did just that. He raised a brow. “No, I’m sure not. I’m sure yours is a proper love match.”

  Mayweather scowled. “You needn’t make it sound so improbable.”

  Not improbable. Impossible. Perhaps it was reasonable for others to assume their wives came to them with feeling. With desire. With more. But if that were true at all, it was for luckier men. For men born beyond the yoke of title and fortune and responsibility. Hackney drivers and street sweepers and sailors could marry for passion and even love. But men such as he and Mayweather? Dukes and marquesses, young and rich and titled? There was no such thing as love.

  There was only duty, which required marriage, but if Haven knew anything, it was this: that men must enter marriage eyes wide open, aware of the disappointment the institution would no doubt set upon them.

  Malcolm, Duke of Haven, knew it without doubt, as he was the product of that disappointment. How many times had his father looked past him, failure and something worse in his gaze? Not regret, though that was there as well. Something like loathing, as though he’d happily erase his son from time and space if it would give him back the life he’d once had. Haven had always imagined his father had been grateful when death came, and with it, freedom from the horrid reality with which he’d been saddled.

  And then there had been the woman with whom the duke had been saddled. Haven’s mother. Born without title or fortune, climbed to the highest rank in the land. Duchess. And the way she looked at her son, cool and aloof, with a hint of pride—not for the child she’d borne or the way he’d grown, but for her great deception, her legendary triumph. The title she’d thieved.

  So, no. Haven knew his own life too well to believe that others might have it differently. And he faced his future knowing that if one expected disappointment, one could not be disappointed.

  He approached his friend, putting his back to the balustrade and watching the golden light in the building beyond. “I’m simply saying that love is a great fallacy,” he said. “Women are after certainty and comfort and nothing else. And if one is chasing after you, she is after your title, friend. Do not doubt it.”

  Mayweather turned to look at him. “It’s true what they say about you, you know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a coldhearted bastard.”

  Haven nodded and drank deep. “It doesn’t make me wrong.”

  “No, but it does make you an ass.” The words came from the dark stone staircase leading down to the gardens, clear and certain, as though the woman who spoke them made a practice of lying in wait for aristocratic men to say something for which she might chastise them.

  Mayweather couldn’t contain his surprised laugh. “From darkness, truth.”

  She replied to the Marquess. “If one of my friends said such things to me, my lord, I should make myself another friend. One with better manners.”

  Mayweather smirked at Haven. “It’s not a terrible idea.”

  Haven squinted into the shadows, barely able to make out the female form there, paused halfway up the stairs, leaning against the exterior of the house. How long had she been listening? “Considering you’re skulking about and eavesdropping on conversations to which you are not invited, I’m not sure your assessment of the state of my manners can be trusted.”

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

  “No?”

  “No. I was listening. And I wasn’t skulking. I was standing. The fact that you selected this precise moment to take refuge and deliver your—unsolicited, I might add—lecture on the wickedness of woman is a matter of my own terrible luck. I assure you, sir, I am witness to enough maligning of the female half of the population by virtue of being a living human. I did not need to eavesdrop for it.”

  Haven had to work to keep his jaw from dropping. When was the last time a woman had spoken to him like this? When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like this?

  Mayweather laughed. “Whoever you are, you’ve rendered him speechless. And I’ll be the first to say I thought that was an impossibility.”

  “A pity,” she drawled from the shadows. “I had hoped he would continue his edifying dissertation: Mercenary Manipulators, A Meditation on the Role of Women in the World. It’s positively Wollstonecraftian.”

  Finally, Haven found his tongue. “The men of London would be better off if they paid closer attention to my views on this particular issue.”

  “No doubt that’s true,” she teased, and he found he liked the warmth that flooded him at her words. “Do tell, good sir, how is it that you are such an expert on women’s—what did you call them—pretty hooks?”

  For a moment, he considered the idea of this woman’s pretty hooks . . . of nails on skin. Teeth on lips. He pushed the thoughts away. He had not even seen her. He had no need of fantasy for a woman in the darkness. He shot his most disdainful look in her direction. “Experience.”

  She laughed, the sound licking over him like sin. He straightened. Who was she? “You are so very desired, are you? That you can spot a title thief at thirty paces?”

  She moved as she spoke, ascending the steps. Coming closer. She wasn’t near thirty paces away. She was ten paces away at best. Five, if he lengthened his stride.

  His heart raced.

  And that was before she stepped into the light, gleaming like a damn goddess.

  He came off the balustrade without thinking, like a slavering dog on a lead. He did not recognize her, which seemed impossible, as she was dark-haired and pale-skinned, with eyes like sapphires. It was difficult to believe a woman this perfect—and this smart-mouthed—would go beneath Society’s notice.

  The mystery female hovered there, in the golden pool of candlelight, her gaze falling on Mayweather, making Haven wish his friend gone.

  Making him jealous as hell.

  “My lord, if I may, you should not listen to your callous friend. If the lady says she cares for you, believe her.”

  Mayweather forgot his brandy on the edge of the balcony and moved toward her. “She does say so.”

  “And do you care for her?”

  “I do,” he said, so earnestly, Haven wondered if his friend had ingested something poisonous.

  She nodded with conviction. “Well then. Love is all that is required.” And then she smiled, and Haven had trouble breathing.

  Mayweather did not seem to have the same trouble with breath. Instead, he exhaled, long and dramatic and ridiculous. “That’s what they say.”

  “Not everyone. Your friend believes that all women are in the market to steal a title.”

  Mayweather smirked. “He does have a particularly desirable title.”

  That cerulean gaze fell to Haven, curious and lacking in recognition, and so honest that it seemed as though he had been seen for the first time. “Does he? Well, then it shall be a lucky young fisherwoman who hooks him so prettily.”

  With that, she turned her back on him, as though he did not exist, and made her way for the door, as though she did not care a bit about him. As though she did not recognize him.

  It was impossible, of course. It was some kind of game that she was playing, to tempt him. And despite knowing it, he foun
d himself tempted nonetheless. “I’m to believe you don’t know me?”

  She stilled and turned back, humor underscoring her words, setting him off-balance. “At the risk of sounding rude, my lord, I don’t particularly care what you believe. As we’ve never met, I don’t know how I would know you.”

  Mayweather barked a laugh, and Haven had the distinct urge to push his friend right over the balcony into the hedge below. “She has you there.”

  She did not have him. He was not to be had. “Your Grace,” he said.

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You called me ‘my lord.’ It’s ‘Your Grace.’”

  She smirked. “How did you know how thoroughly women adore being corrected by men? And over forms of address, especially. It is a great wonder that none of us have ever fallen in love with you.” She dropped a little curtsy, the movement making him feel like a horse’s ass. “Farewell, gentlemen.”

  And still, he could not stop himself. “Wait.”

  She turned back, beautiful and poised. “Be careful, Duke; I’ll begin to think you’re the one trying to get your pretty hooks in me.”

  The idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it? “Your friends.”

  She raised her brows. “What of them?”

  “You’ve never discussed me with them?” Was it honestly possible she had no idea who he was?

  Her lips twitched with amusement. She was making a fool of him. No, he was making one of himself. For her. Like an imbecile. “I don’t have friends; I have sisters. And I remain unclear on why they should know or care about you?”

  Mayweather snorted at that, clearly enjoying watching him make a fool of himself. And still, Haven couldn’t seem to stop it. He spread his arms wide. “I’m Haven.”

  She did laugh then. “Well, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself, Heaven.”

  Mayweather laughed and Malcolm became annoyed. “Haven. As in, Duke of.”

  There wasn’t an ounce of recognition in her reply. “Fair enough. Then I take it all back. No doubt as a young and fairly handsome male specimen who happens to hold what sounds a proper title, you must be careful. The women, they must positively flock.”

  There. She finally understood. Wait. He blinked. Fairly handsome?

  Who was she? Aside from being the single most maddening woman in all of Christendom, that was. She had turned her attention to Mayweather once more, dismissing Malcolm. “Good night, my lord. And may I say good luck?”

  The marquess bowed low. “Thank you, Miss . . .” He trailed off, and it occurred to Haven that Mayweather was not so bad after all—if he discovered the girl’s name, that was.

  A grin spread wide and welcome across her face, and Malcolm felt the heat of it like the sun. “What a shock. It seems that you don’t know who I am, either.”

  He blinked. “Should we?”

  “No,” she retorted, “I’m not heaven, after all . . .” Except she damn well seemed like heaven. But she was turning the door handle. She was leaving him.

  “Stop!” he said, loathing the desperation in his voice. He could practically hear Mayweather’s head snap around to stare at him, and suddenly, Haven didn’t care a bit. Because she’d stopped, and that was all that mattered. “You can’t leave without telling us who you are.”

  Her gaze glittered in the candlelight. “Oh, I think I can.”

  “You’re wrong,” he insisted. “How else will sad-sack Mayweather find you if everything goes pear-shaped with Heloise?”

  “Helen,” Mayweather interjected.

  Haven waved a hand. “Right. She sounds lovely. Far too good for this imbecile. He’s going to need your advice if he’s to keep her.”

  “I beg your pardon!” the marquess protested, but it didn’t matter. Because the woman laughed, bright and bold and beautiful, and all Malcolm wanted to do was to bask in the sound. In the warmth of it.

  Instead, he offered her his most charming smile and said, “We shall begin anew. I’m Malcolm.”

  For the life of him he had no idea why he thought it necessary to offer his given name, which no one had used in twenty years.

  Her brows rose. “I don’t know why you should think I care about your given name, Your Grace, as I am female, and therefore already in possession of all relevant information pertaining to you.” She switched into an awed whisper. “You’re a duke.”

  The teasing was back, and he loved it. She was remarkable. “Nevertheless, it is customary for women to introduce themselves to the men they intend to land.”

  She tilted her head. “I admit, I have not always moved in such high circles, but I am fairly certain that it is not at all customary for a woman to introduce herself to two strange men on an abandoned balcony.”

  “Not strange at all,” he said. “Well, maybe Mayweather is. What with his obsession with Hester.”

  “Helen!” Mayweather interjected, drawing another small smile from the beauty.

  “It seems we have an equal disinterest in given names,” she said.

  “If you wish it, I shall remember everything about her,” he replied. “Mayweather, tell me something else about your Helen.”

  “She has cats.”

  He turned to his friend. “In the plural?”

  Mayweather nodded. “Six of them.”

  “Good God. I don’t imagine I shall forget that.”

  “I like cats,” the angel said. “I find them intelligent and comforting.”

  Mayweather smiled. “As does Helen.”

  She matched his friend’s expression. “She sounds lovely.”

  “She is. In fact—”

  No. No more Helen. “In fact, you should go to her and tell her so,” Haven interrupted, grasping at the music that drifted from the ballroom to the private balcony. Clinging to it. “And dance with her. Women like dancing.” The angel’s brows rose in amusement as he insisted. “Go, Mayweather.”

  For the first time in his life, the Marquess of Mayweather understood subtext. And he left the two of them alone, finally. Cloaked in darkness and chill, and somehow she made him warm as the sun.

  Haven moved toward her. Wanting nothing but to be close to her. “Are you cold?” He let his voice go low, wanting to tempt her as she’d tempted him. Wanting her to desire him as he desired her.

  But mostly, wanting her to stay.

  She swallowed, and he could see the movement in her throat, his mouth watering with desire to press his lips there, to feel if her pulse raced as his did. To taste her skin, salty and sweet. When he raised his gaze to hers, he could see that she might allow it. That she was not unmoved. “It is time for my departure,” she whispered.

  The idea that she would leave, that he might never see her again, that he might never know her . . . it did things to him that he did not appreciate. So, instead, he said softly, “Do you?”

  She tilted her head. “Do I like dancing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Would you like to? With me?”

  Perfect white teeth flashed. Of course her teeth were perfect. Everything about her was perfect. “We can’t dance. We haven’t been introduced.”

  “Then dance with me here. In secret.”

  “No.”

  It was a game. He could feel it in his chest, the breathlessness of it. “Why?”

  “It could ruin me. If we were found.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that he could pull her into his arms. “I would never ruin you.”

  It should have been a flirt. An empty, teasing trifle. Something men said to women to lure them into danger. But it wasn’t. It was a promise. And more than that, it was the truth. He would never ruin her. It wouldn’t be ruin when he married her.

  He stilled. Christ. He would marry her.

  He was going to marry this woman.

  The realization should have filled him with terror. Not ten minutes earlier, he had decried the entire institution of marriage, suggesting that all women were gameste
rs and all men who thought otherwise lacked sense. But now, he was not filled with terror. He was filled with something entirely different. Something like joy. Like hope.

  And, in the wake of that realization, he did pull her into his arms, this woman whose name he still did not know. She gasped, and he basked in the pleasure of the sound, which matched his own as he discovered what it was to hold the woman for whom he was destined.

  They began to move to the music, quiet and distant, cloaking them in privacy. “I recall refusing to dance, Duke.”

  “Malcolm,” he said, soft at her ear, loving her shiver at his name. “Tell me again, now that you’re in my arms. Now that I’m in yours. And I’ll stop.”

  He wasn’t sure how, but he would.

  She sighed, her lips curving into a little, lovely smile. “You’re very difficult.”

  He could live in that smile. “I’ve been told that.”

  “I thought aristocrats were supposed to be accommodating.”

  “Not dukes. Haven’t you heard that we’re the worst of the lot?”

  “And they let anyone become a duke nowadays, do they?”

  He turned her toward the light, revealing her beautiful face. “If you think dukes are bad, Angel, imagine what they accept from duchesses?”

  Her eyes went wide at the words, her lips pulling into a smile, full and lovely, all secrets and sin. “Imagine indeed.” And he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t wish to. He was going to marry her, after all. They would spend a lifetime kissing, so why not begin now? Just a taste.

  She sighed as he closed the distance, and he heard his thoughts on her lips. “Just a taste.”

  She was perfect.

  He set his lips to hers, fire spreading through him as she caught her breath, then sighed, low and sweet, as he gently licked over that full bottom lip, soft and sweet enough to make him ache. “Just a taste,” he promised himself. Her. “Open for me, love.”

  And she did, letting him in, her lips soft and her mouth warm and welcome, tongue meeting his, tasting, tempting, teasing perfectly, as though they were meant for this. As though they had lived their whole lives to meet here, on this dark balcony, and set each other aflame.