Page 4 of A Duchess Bound (Dukes of Dominance #2)

“ H ow was the first ball of the Season?”

Gerard offered a light shrug. “It was as expected. Lavish, decadent, lively.”

Gerard was seated in his favorite club with his dearest friend, Louis Pontoun, the Duke of St. Claire.

Something about Pontoun—maybe his sharp eyes, pale brown hair, or finely-boned face—had always reminded Gerard of a songbird, perhaps a sparrow.

The impression was made all the more apparent when Pontoun whistled and cast Gerard an amused, sideways look.

“Such high praise,” he said loftily.

“It was not particularly exciting,” Gerard offered by way of explanation. “There were no new scandals, and nothing went awry.”

“Unfortunate that there was no chaos for you to enjoy.”

“I know,” Gerard drawled, gesturing with his glass of brandy. “The least our fine host could have done was arrange some entertainment for me. Because he did not, I was forced to seek it out myself.”

Pontoun took a hearty swallow from his own glass of brandy. “I am unsure that I want to know what manner of entertainment you found.”

Gerard shook his head. “It is a great pity that you were unable to join the clergy. You are as chaste as a vicar.”

Pontoun shook his head. “I never had any interest in being a clergyman. Not even for a second.”

Gerard hummed. Pontoun had been the second-born son and had already decided to become a professor or a barrister. His brother’s death had thrust the title Duke of St. Claire upon him, however, and curtailed any dreams of a scholarly profession.

Gerard had vague recollections of Pontoun, shortly after receiving the title, still trying to pursue his scholarly pursuits.

Managing the dukedom was no simple task, though, and Pontoun had found himself perpetually exhausted.

After a while, he was forced to choose, and there was no question that he must choose the dukedom.

Sometimes, Gerard wondered if his friend still mourned the life that he could have had as a happy scholar.

“But no—I do want to know,” Pontoun said.

“Are you certain, Ponty?” Gerard asked, grinning. “I would not want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities are not delicate. They are like iron.” He smirked. “They must be, having you as a friend.”

“I am touched.”

Pontoun leaned forward, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “I am always conflicted by you. I do think it is far past time for you to cease with your rakish ways, my friend.”

Gerard groaned theatrically. “Do not say it!”

“You are five-and-thirty years old,” Pontoun continued mercilessly. “You are unmarried and without an heir. It is far past time for you to fulfill your duties to the dukedom.”

“Never,” Gerard said.

Eventually, he would have to do precisely that, but he was still young and lively. There would be ample time to find a duchess and bear heirs. Being a duke with a considerable fortune, he did not imagine it would be difficult to find a duchess either.

“So dramatic,” Pontoun said. “A pity that you could not become an actor. You would have been magnificent on the stage.”

“According to Shakespeare, all the world is a stage.”

Pontoun raised his glass in a mock toast. “Well said.”

“Thank you. Now, what is this about you being conflicted by me?”

“I want to chastise you for behaving like you do,” Pontoun said, shaking his head ruefully. “However, I also greatly enjoy your stories. You always find yourself in the strangest situations.”

“This one was not particularly strange.”

Gerard swirled his glass, gazing thoughtfully at the brandy climbing the sides of it. He was thinking, of course, of Lady Dorothy. Ever since their tumultuous meeting, he found her occupying his every waking thought and a large portion of his dreams.

It had only been a week since the ball, but that usually provided him with sufficient time to lose interest in a lady. He found that something about her memory endured, however, and he could not quite decide why.

“Oh?” Pontoun asked. “Do tell.”

“It was an interesting encounter. Do you know Lady Dorothy Leedway? Her brother is the Duke of Reeds.”

Pontoun frowned. “The names are—ah, yes. Her sister married the Duke of Sarsen.”

“Yes.”

“A spinster, isn’t she?” Pontoun asked. “I recall hearing some gossip in that vein. Rather than choosing to wed, she decided to devote her life to ensuring that her siblings were safe and happy. That was quite noble of her.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. Gerard had mostly come to peace with his lonely childhood, but sometimes, the memory of it would sweep over him and catch him unaware. He hoped Leedway and his sisters knew how fortunate they were to have someone looking after them.

After Gerard’s mother died, there had been no one, and anyone who had tried to take care of him had quickly gone from his life.

He had vague memories of a young footman who had indulged him too much, had let him hide from his governess and run like a wild thing throughout the gardens.

Gerard’s father had dismissed that young man when he learned about ithat had the man’s name been?

Gerard realized, with mounting discomfort, that he did not remember.

“A spinster is unusual for you,” Pontoun added, oblivious to the direction in which Gerard’s thoughts had gone.

“I had not intended to speak to Lady Dorothy,” Gerard said. “I had hoped to charm her sister, Lady Bridget. This is her first Season.”

“Ah. That sounds more like you,” Pontoun said. “I assume that you did not succeed?”

“Regrettably, no.” Gerard paused. “Perhaps regrettably is not the right word.”

“Oh?”

“When I asked to dance with Lady Bridget, her sister intervened and insisted that I was a notorious rake.”

“And water is wet,” Pontoun said dryly.

“Most ladies are courteous enough not to make such observations to my face,” Gerard said.

“Most ladies have too much at stake to say what they think.”

Gerard frowned and cast his friend a searching look. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Most young ladies are forced to marry to survive,” Pontoun said, “so they are forced to be dishonest. They must be tactful and careful with everything that they say, but Lady Dorothy’s brother is indulgent.

He has not asked her to wed and has made it apparent that his sister need never marry if she does not wish to do so. ”

“So he has.”

“So Lady Dorothy does not have to hold her tongue for fear of remaining a spinster. That is what she wants .”

“I suppose you are right.”

Gerard sat back in his chair, thinking. When Pontoun said it like that, Gerard realized that it was all so very obvious. He had not really considered the reasons for Lady Dorothy’s actions.

“That does not make her any less interesting,” Gerard said.

“You keep using that word. Interesting .”

“What of it?”

“That is not usually how you refer to your companions.”

Gerard sighed. “It is the word that describes her the best. She is beautiful, of course, but most ladies are. She is quick-witted, but most ladies are. But there is…” he trailed off. “She actually slapped me.”

Pontoun laughed. “Other ladies have slapped you, too.”

“Once or twice.” Gerard downed the rest of his glass, enjoying the burn of the brandy down his throat. “But there is something about Lady Dorothy that evokes particularly strong emotions from me. I am unsure what, precisely, that is.”

Pontoun sighed in exasperation. “You have said that about every woman you have ever fancied.”

“Have I?”

“Yes,” Pontoun said. “Is your thesis that all women are unique, and you want to enjoy all their charms?”

“You say that as if it is some terrible flaw.”

“Some of us want the promises and commitment.”

“ Some being the important word,” Gerard said. “But I do not love her. She is just interesting. Maybe it is as you said; I have never been involved with a woman who has nothing to lose.”

Pontoun nodded slowly. “I suppose I can see the allure. Did she also find you interesting?”

Gerard thought of how she had reacted when he grasped her wrist and covered her mouth. The memory of her soft body, practically melting against his own, burned like firelight inside his mind.

“I think she did. The question is if she will continue to find me interesting.”

“I do not believe anyone could find you boring,” Pontoun offered. “But I imagine that you do not merely mean interesting. ”

“I do not,” Gerard conceded.

“What do you plan to do, then?” Pontoun asked.

Gerard reached for the decanter and poured more brandy into his glass. He offered it to Pontoun, who wordlessly held out his empty glass. “Well,” Gerard said, filling it with brandy, “I intend to seduce her, of course.”

“Of course.”

“There is a challenge in that,” Gerard said. “Seducing the spinster who has resolved never to wed. I would warrant that she has also never experienced the pleasures of the marriage bed.”

“Neither have you, for you have removed marriage from the equation.”

“Do not chastise me again,” Gerard said. “Otherwise, I shall start talking about your marriage prospects. You are eight-and-twenty years of age and still unwed. When are you going to find a duchess and produce an heir?”

“I hope to do precisely that this Season,” Pontoun said. “You might consider following my example.”

“I would rather throw myself into the Thames.”

“Of course, you would. It is unfortunate that I missed the first ball of the Season, though. This will be my first event with the ton with the title Duke of St. Claire. I had hoped that might improve my prospects.”

Gerard softened a little. While he did not care about love or marriage, he knew that Pontoun did. Not only did he want a duchess, he wanted a love-match. He was determined to court all those luminous ladies until he found the one who loved him more than any other man.

Gerard had always found that too idealistic, but admirable in a way. “I wish you luck, Ponty,” he said.

And he meant it. His friend deserved something good in his life.

“Thank you,” Pontoun replied, his expression warm. “I just hope that I find her.”

“You are a good man. I am certain that you shall.”

Pontoun sighed. “You are kind to me. I just cannot help but worry about it. How can you ever really know if you are in love with someone? How do you know that it is not merely a flight of fancy or some fickle passion?”

“You just accused me of loving Lady Dorothy,” Gerard pointed out, laughing. “How can you not know?”

“It seems to involve a great deal of uncertainty,” Pontoun replied with a shrug. “You sounded uncertain.”

“Love is uncertainty.”

“Among other things.”

Gerard shook his head. “You are a rare man. It is a pity that you were unable to become a professor like you wanted. You would have enjoyed spending all your days poring over rare manuscripts, thinking about philosophy and moral quandaries.”

“I suppose I will live the moral quandaries instead,” Pontoun replied.

“We both shall. Well, I would not call mine ‘moral’ exactly. My conscience is far less sensitive than your own.”

“So it is.”

Indeed, Gerard had already begun to consider something rather immoral. That was, he was considering what the best way to seduce Lady Dorothy might be. It was clear that she found him desirable. If they had not been interrupted in the garden, who knew what liberties she might have let him take?

He shivered in delight at the possibility of another heated encounter. She would look so very beautiful tied to his bed, her eyes dark with desire and longing for him.

Lady Dorothy might be on the shelf, but he suspected there were still many things for a lady of her years to learn.