Anna Campbell - What a Duke Dares

She stared at him as if she’d never seen a man. “I should go.”

He chanced a step nearer and felt a surge of triumph when she didn’t retreat, although even in the uncertain light, he saw her wariness. Not quite as innocent as all that, apparently. “You don’t want to go back into the ballroom with red eyes.”

“Nobody would notice.”

His laugh was short. “This is your first season, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then take advice from someone older and wiser—the old tabbies notice everything. And they pass it on. If you don’t want the world to know that you’ve been crying, you’ll enter that room utterly composed.”

Her lush lips turned down. “I don’t like London.”

“You will.”

Daringly he reached for one of her gloved hands. She started, but even through two layers of fabric, he felt her warmth. The urge to strip away both gloves and test the softness of her skin beat like a war drum in his head. But one false move and she’d scarper for the ballroom, red eyes or not.

“I’m not so green that I don’t know a stranger shouldn’t hold a lady’s hand,” she said drily.

“Yes, remiss of you not to tell me your name.”

To his surprise, she laughed. He was glad to see her regain her cheerfulness. “It’s better that you don’t know who I am.”

“Won’t you tell me why you’re crying?”

She raised shining eyes to his and he suffered another blow from an invisible assailant. “You’ve just told me I can’t trust anyone.”

Hoist by his own petard. “You can trust me.”

An unimpressed look crossed her face. “I’m sure every untrustworthy person in the world says that.”

Good Lord, she was sweet. “Where does that leave us?”

“With plans to return to the ballroom?”

“Are you deserting me?”

Another faint smile. He had a delicious sense that she tested her power. “Yes.”

He fleetingly wondered whether perhaps he’d dipped too deeply into the punch. But when her smile widened and his heart lurched like a drunken sailor, he recognized that this intoxication reached far beyond lowly alcohol’s power. “Cruel beauty.”

“How can I be cruel when you’ve been so very kind?”

He groaned. “That makes me sound like an aged uncle.”

This time when she tried to withdraw, he let her. “Nevertheless, it’s true.”

“Will you save me a dance?”

Her poise revived with every second. “My card is full.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

“We mightn’t be at the same party.”

It was his turn to smile. “Oh, that we will, my mysterious miss.”

The moonlight was bright enough to reveal the flash of unhappiness that crossed her face. “There’s no point flirting with me.”

“There’s every point.”

She shook her head and he wished he believed that she teased him. “I’m spoken for.”

Spoken for? “You’re not married?”

Thick sheets of lead coated the heart that had been lighter than air. Something had happened to him tonight in this garden, something momentous.

“Not yet.”

Not yet? What the hell did that mean?

Before he could question her, she turned and hared off through an opening in the hedge that he’d missed. And bugger it, he still didn’t know her name.

Something in him insisted that she’d seen him as clearly as he’d seen her. That she’d felt the immediate connection. Stronger than attraction. Affinity, and an odd recognition, as though their encounter was preordained.

He sighed and sank onto the seat. Could a man’s world change in an instant?

When Harry rejoined the party, he immediately located the girl. He’d wondered whether to blame the moonlight for his enchantment. Now that he saw her clearly, she still took his breath away. Candlelight revealed details that he’d missed. The precise shade of her gold hair. The creamy skin. The pink flush on her cheeks.

A pink flush that heightened when she cast one nervous glance to where he stood near the doors.

Satisfaction that she’d sought him out flooded him. His eyes followed her as she twirled around the room, graceful as a flying bird in her white dress. She was dancing with the Marquess of Leath. Could his rival be James Fairbrother? The man was filthy rich and from a powerful family.

Across the crowded room, Lady Vera scowled at him as if she’d like to skin him alive. He shrugged and sent her a regretful smile. How could he explain that after a chance meeting, he was no longer the same man?

“Who is that pretty girl with Leath?” he asked with studied nonchalance when his friend Beswick sidled up.

Beswick took a few moments to locate her. The man must be blind. She outshone every woman here the way the sun outshone the moon. “The blonde?”

The goddess. “Yes.”

“That’s Sophie Fairbrother.” Beswick regarded him in disbelief. “That’s setting your sights too high for a penniless younger son with no prospects, chum. She’s Leath’s sister. Word is that she’s promised to Desborough, although nothing official’s been announced.”

Another punch in the guts. Was that why his beauty had been crying? Her family forced her into an unwanted match? “Earl Desborough?”

Beswick laughed derisively. “Is there another? He and Leath are political pals and this will unite the two great fortunes. The chit comes with a fat dowry. Surprised you haven’t heard talk of her.”

“Does she love Desborough?” Harry asked, then cursed himself for the betraying question.

Another scoffing laugh from Beswick. “Who cares when she brings all that gold? Good God, I’d make a play for her myself if Leath didn’t know that my pockets are to let. Wish he’d forget about fortune hunters and concentrate on his spat with Sedgemoor.”

Without shifting his attention from Sophie Fairbrother, Harry asked, “What spat?”

“Have you been living under a rock?”

Harry cast his friend a look of cordial dislike. “No, just attending Peter’s funeral and helping Elias settle into his role as the new Lord Wilmott.”

Dismay filled Beswick’s good-natured face. “Beg pardon, old man. I forgot. Blame it on my frustration at seeing such a fat pigeon fly to someone who already has a full dovecote.”

Reluctantly Harry smiled. Beswick’s financial woes were long-standing. “Buck up, Beswick. It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

“Especially if you can’t afford candles,” his friend replied glumly. “You must have heard about Richard Harmsworth and Sedgemoor exposing Neville Fairbrother, Leath’s uncle, as a thief? Fairbrother shot himself before charges were laid, but the investigation has filled the papers. Jonas Merrick gathered most of the evidence—as you’d expect with his contacts. That man knows before a mouse farts in the wainscoting, I vow.”

Perhaps Harry had been living under a rock. “The uncle’s doings have tainted all the Fairbrothers?”

“Pretty much. The word is that Leath hopes this spectacular marriage will restore the family prestige.”

“So she’s a sacrificial lamb.” Poor Sophie. The dance finished and her brother returned her to a group of grandees including, he noticed, Desborough.

“Sacrificial virgin, more like.” Beswick’s voice lowered. “Desborough’s a lucky dog. Brass doesn’t usually come in such an appealing package.”

“Watch your mouth, Beswick,” Harry snarled.

Even without looking, Harry knew his friend regarded him like he was going mad. The way he felt, perhaps his friend was right. “Steady on, man. She’s a pretty girl who’s completely out of reach. We’ve admired plenty of those in our time.”

The Thornes were inclined to sudden, but lasting passions. Sophie Fairbrother had no idea what she’d sparked tonight. As if she sensed his thoughts, Sophie looked up sharply and immediately found him. Even across the room, he saw the hectic color in her alabaster cheeks. Dear Lord, she was a peach.

Harry held her eyes. He meant to make her his. Let the rest of the world go hang.

Val d’Aosta, February 1828

Very carefully, Pen inched open the door from her chamber on the upper floor. Despite exhaustion, roiling turmoil had stopped her sleeping. Grief for Peter. Anger that he hadn’t confided in her about his illness. Resentment at Cam’s arrogance. Impatience with herself for finding Cam as compelling as ever, even when she burned to crown him with the nearest stewpot.

Just seeing Cam confirmed that agonizing truth. She hated to admit that she was still that most pathetic creature, the lovelorn female yearning after a man who would never love her back.

Since refusing his proposal, she’d done her damnedest to forget Camden Rothermere. Her aunt had led an active and interesting life, mixing with people who found English manners too restrictive. In the past nine years, Pen had met poets and painters and musicians, wandering aristocrats and antiquarians, travelers and scientists.

She’d learned that her idiosyncratic character, too individual to meet approval at home, appealed to those who appreciated intelligence and spirit. Her broken heart had found some small solace in the admiration of brilliant, sophisticated men. Cam didn’t want her, but that didn’t mean she was undesirable.

Occasionally she’d wondered if someone might usurp Cam’s place in her affections. But to her despair, she was a true Thorne. She loved once and she loved deeply.

Which meant she couldn’t bear to spend the next weeks cooped up with Cam. Last night, she’d told Giuseppe and Maria to be waiting at five, whatever the weather. Luckily, the storm had died overnight and when she checked out her narrow bedroom window, the road from the village looked passable. Even if it wasn’t, she’d damn well walk rather than suffer Cam’s company all the way back to England.

Now that Peter wouldn’t meet her in Paris—she stifled a pang, she’d grieve once she was out of this pickle—she’d go south as Cam suggested. Then she’d make her way to London.

The corridor outside her room was black as a cave in Hades. She edged forward. Once she made it downstairs and outside to the stables, she was on her way.

“Going somewhere?”

She jumped and dropped her bag to the wooden floor. Gasping, she whirled toward the shadows near the door. “You scared me.”

“Not enough, apparently,” Cam said drily.

She ignored the remark. “What are you doing outside my room?”

“What are you doing dressed for travel?”

“How do you know I’m dressed for travel?”

“Aren’t you?” he asked coolly. “Shall we continue this discussion in private?”

“We have nothing to say to each other,” she said crisply, marching past.

“After so long? You wound me.” He caught her arm and bustled her into her room.

“You have no right.” She struggled to break free. He’d touched her too often since he’d saved her. And every time he set her pulse racing.

“Perhaps not. Will you stay and listen?”

“You’re such a bully,” she said sullenly.

“Sticks and stones. Do I release you?”

She wanted to kick him. “Yes.”

Cam let her go and moved past. He paused before the window, his tall, lean shape silhouetted against the light reflected from the snow outside. After some clicks and scrapes, the candle on her nightstand bloomed into light.

“I hate to mention your dignity again, but isn’t it degrading for a duke of the realm to sleep across a lady’s threshold like a servant?” she asked with pointed sweetness.

He glanced up with a faint smile. Despite her irritation, her heart lurched. How she wished he wasn’t so beautiful with his narrow, intense face and his glinting green eyes and his level dark brows. After nearly ten years without him, he still dazzled her. It just wasn’t fair.

“I didn’t have to prostrate myself on your doorstep.” He paused. “Giuseppe told me your plans.”

Blast Giuseppe and his flapping gums.

She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Cam laughed. “You should give him his marching orders. He’s worse than useless.”

“Perhaps you should offer him a place in your household,” she asked with more of that dangerous sweetness.

“Not on your life. I value loyalty too much to employ that weasel. Pen, do you really want me trailing you all the way back to Dover?”

He made her sound absurd. “You’d do that?”

“I would.”

Of course he would. He’d accepted the obligation of her safety and he wouldn’t relinquish the burden short of death. Cam’s principles were a deuced nuisance. She released a long-suffering sigh. “Were you always this annoying?”