Page 2 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke (Romancing a Rake #3)

CHAPTER TWO

“ P enhaligon, old chap. You are slowing down the game. We await your hand with bated breath!” called Reuben Ridlington, the Earl of Colchester, from beneath a thatch of brown hair. An hour into the Chelmsfords’ ball, and his cravat was already draped over a bust with his collar undone.

“Play it for me, would you?” murmured Jeremy Cavendish, Duke of Penhaligon, distractedly.

He had long blonde hair and fierce blue eyes above a hawk's nose and bold mouth.

He looked every inch the Teutonic barbarian, a testament to his Germanic heritage on his paternal grandmother's side.

He leaned on a marble balcony, looking down onto the ballroom of the Chelmsford Manor.

On the index finger of his left hand idly spun a set of keys. His eyes roamed the gathered guests.

This evening must be planned with military efficiency. I must impress the Winchesters, show myself to be the very image of the respectable English gentleman. But then there is Mademoiselle de Rouvroy. How can a man be respectable when confronted with such temptation?

“Are you sure, sport?” Nash Sullivan, Viscount Maldon, asked.

He flipped a coin over his fingers with dexterity, eyeing the pile that had accumulated over the course of the hour.

“There is quite a pot built up,” he noted, “and you will require every penny if you want to go ahead with this pipe dream of owning the Winchester Opera House.”

Jeremy turned from the balcony, then peeled back the corners of the hand of cards that lay face down on the table. He casually tossed forth a couple of coins.

“I’ll take another,” he said, discarding one of his cards.

“And raise the bet? You're feeling confident. Which makes me feel poor. I will fold,” Reuben muttered, turning over his cards with an expression of disgust.

Jeremy grinned, the smile of a rogue.

“Your trouble, Colchester, is that you are too cautious. Even when we were at school.”

“I got whipped half as many times as you,” Reuben pointed out, leaning back in his chair and fetching his wine glass from a precarious perch beside the bust which wore his cravat.

“And I got twice as many girls as you. It was worth the whipping,” Jeremy shrugged. He looked across the table at his other old school friend, who watched him with shrewd, green eyes.

“I will meet your wager and take two!” the fox-haired fellow declared with gusto.

Reuben guffawed at the boldness, clapping his hands together. Jeremy winced, looking back over his shoulder at the gathering guests below.

“Keep it down, would you, drunkard!” he hissed, “I do not wish it to be public knowledge that I am up here gambling with you two reprobates.”

“Which reprobates would you rather be seen with?” Reuben quirked a brow, supping deeply on his glass of ruby red wine.

“None. The Winchesters are Puritanical when it comes to gambling and drinking. Their only liberalism comes in their appreciation for music and theater. I must be as lily white as they if they are to sell to me.”

“Yes, well, you should probably be down there with them instead of up here with us then, old chap,” Nash smirked, “and it is your hand.”

Why am I not down there with the rest of Essex society? I risk everything by indulging in a game of cards. And by meeting with a certain Mademoiselle.

He knew that there was a self-destructive streak in him. An urge to resist anything he saw as compulsion. That included the social rules that a duke was expected to abide by. Rules that he knew he must abide by if he was to achieve his goals.

And match my ancestors. Every one of them has accomplished something, left their mark.

Jeremy returned to the balcony, putting his black wolf mask in place to conceal his identity.

His eyes skimmed across the sea of preening peacocks and women striving to achieve beauty through baubles and glittering precious metals.

His mouth curled in disdain. He could not see the Winchesters yet.

His eyes fell upon a woman who had just entered the room below. His roving gaze froze upon her.

A black dress? Surely not. Who would be so bold? Ah, not black. I see the way the light catches it. Purple and navy blue with a raven mask, unless I miss my guess. And hair the color of rich loam…

She moved into the room with hesitant grace, her eyes flitting constantly. A smile played across her lips. A smile of pleased wonder. A debutante, perhaps? Or at least a young lady unaccustomed to such occasions.

Her shoulders were pale as milk, as was the expanse of bosom which her dress revealed.

Jeremy found himself breathless as he watched her.

The dress was expertly crafted, clinging so that it revealed and hinted at the body beneath without overtly revealing more than was decent.

The way she wore it was even more sensual.

She had grace and femininity but also a naivete that he found alluring.

Jeremy realized that his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, picking up a full wine glass that he had not touched since he had arrived. He took a swallow.

Something made her look up.

Perhaps the movement of his arm reaching for the glass.

Her eyes met his.

It was like an arrow passing through him. It was too far to detect the color of her eyes, but close enough that he could see they were not dark. Jeremy stared back at her, seeing her freeze just as he had.

Then someone passed between them, breaking their connection.

“Who is that?” he asked his two companions.

“Anything to distract from a losing hand,” Nash tutted, pushing his chair back. Reuben drained his glass and joined Jeremy at the balcony too.

“Who?” he asked.

Jeremy turned back to the ballroom, but the raven had been swallowed up by the crowd. He looked around, searching for any hint of black amid the brightly colored ladies and gentlemen. He could not see her.

“She has disappeared, but I will wager my purse that it was my French beauty. So, you two can keep your cards and this vinegar,” he pushed his wine into Reuben’s hand, “and I will go to my adventure. Enjoy your dancing.”

He grinned insolently, tossing a coin onto the table to cover Nash's wager and flipping his cards over.

Nash ground his teeth as he looked back at his own and saw that he had been beaten.

Jeremy didn't care. He laughed. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the raven temptress was indeed Mademoiselle de Rouvroy.

Who else would be so bold as to wear dark colors to a July ball? Only a French woman with all the sense of style and daring that went with that nationality. And were the French not typically dark of hair?

In his coat pocket, something clinked metallically. He tossed the small set of keys on his palm and thought of the use he intended to put the small, metal objects to. There would be time later to show his respectability.

Now was the time for adventure and pleasure.