Page 12 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

S eeing the Countess standing like an island in an unfriendly sea infuriated Xavier.

London Society was ridiculous at the best of times, but at its worst it was downright destructive.

The Countess was putting a brave face on it, seemingly unconcerned by the cold shoulders pointed her way, but he did not believe for a moment that she did not feel like an outcast.

And for what?

Because she had worn a fashion that was all the rage in Paris?

As North had said, Society was eager to find something, anything, to put someone they considered a beautiful intruder in her place.

Especially one that outshone them all. He cut that thought off. She was lovely, to be sure, but there were many lovely ladies in London. Including the one he was thinking of making his bride. They were lovely in different ways .

The thing was, while he had little sympathy with stupidity, or recklessness, he could not abide injustice.

Purposeful strides brought him to the Countess’s side before his ire had a chance to subside.

Startled brown eyes gazed back at him. He had forgotten how her height meant she only had to raise her gaze a fraction to look him in the eye.

It was an unusual sensation for one as tall as he. Unusual and pleasing.

‘Your Grace,’ she said, sounding slightly breathless.

Beside her, her aunt’s mouth dropped open. ‘I…er… Oh.’ She dipped a curtsey. ‘I—’

‘Good evening, ladies,’ he interjected swiftly. The older woman was gasping like a landed fish. ‘Countess, would you honour me with this next dance?’

Her eyes widened.

‘Yes,’ her aunt said, apparently finding her voice. ‘She will.’

The Countess hesitated for a second then gave a small, smothered chuckle, a low attractive sound that had him wanting to grin. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

He took her hand and walked her onto the dance floor. He felt a surge of pride as she walked by his side, as if he had won the prize of a lifetime.

Why not? Any man would be proud to partner such a lovely woman. He wasn’t made of stone.

She gracefully followed his lead as they joined the dance.

It was as if they were made for each other.

Usually, when he danced, his partners were so much shorter than he, he could see little more than the tops of their heads, except when they strained their necks to look up at him.

He also usually had to be careful with the length of his stride or risk lifting his partner off her feet and unbalancing them both.

Not so with the Countess. Their steps matched perfectly.

It was delightful. He had never enjoyed dancing more.

‘Will your reputation survive partnering with me?’ she asked after a few seconds of twirling and gliding around the floor.

Talk about taking the bull by the horns. ‘Why would it not?’

‘Apparently, I have once more broken one of Society’s silly rules.’

‘You think rules are silly?’ he asked repressively. His stepmother had ignored the rules about not sailing out in a storm and taunted her husband, his father, to do likewise.

Neither had survived.

‘I think silly rules are silly,’ the Countess said in decided tones. ‘Rules intended to keep one safe, or to not hurt others, are worth obeying, but not those imposed for ridiculous reasons.’

Hard to argue with that. ‘And what rule is it that you think you have broken?’

She glanced downward, then frowned. ‘I’m not exactly sure what the rule is, but it has something to do with painting one’s toenails, which I might add was all the rage when I left Paris a few weeks ago.’

‘I am aware it is all the rage in Paris, since I was there not long ago. But might you not have asked whether it was considered acceptable in London?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘To save yourself some embarrassment.’

She looked unconvinced. ‘I do not care a fig for what others think.’

He was both shocked and in awe of her unusual spirit. And therein lay the danger. He feared that he had inherited his father’s lack of judgement when it came to lovely wilful women.

‘You should care.’ He sounded stiff and disapproving when he had wanted to sound wise.

‘Why?’

‘Because being considered beyond the pale is a lonely place when it costs so little to conform to accepted mores.’

‘Do you always conform?’ she asked, and there was an irritating hint of derision in her voice.

‘I adhere to sensible rules, but I do not follow fashion, Society follows me in that regard.’

She glanced around. People were watching them and smiling at them benignly.

Her expression changed. She looked quite put out. ‘Do you mean that now my choice to paint my toenails is considered acceptable simply because you asked me to dance?’

‘I also mentioned to someone that it was a Parisienne fashion that I found quite charming when I was there.’

She showed not the slightest pleasure in his words. ‘I see.’

What an infuriating, paradoxical woman to be sure.

Somehow, he had to make her understand that London Society was quite different than that of Paris or other European courts. It was his duty as a gentleman, if nothing else.

The music ended and he walked her back to her aunt, where there was more than one gentleman waiting to ask her to dance.

There would be no chance to say more, and neither was this the place to have a serious discussion.

‘I will take you driving in the park tomorrow afternoon,’ he said. It was the perfect solution.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘No need,’ he said. ‘I will call for you at four.’

‘Oh, but—’

He bowed. ‘Thank you for the dance, Countess.’ He walked away before she could argue.

Not even the wayward Countess would refuse an invitation to drive with him during the fashionable hour. Not only would it be the perfect opportunity for her to be fully accepted by Society, but it would give him the privacy he needed to explain just why acceptance was important.

And then, having done his duty, he would not need to have any more to do with her.

Which was exactly what he wanted.

Barbara had thought about sending round a note to the Duke’s residence to cancel their drive .

An invitation she had not actually accepted but that he, autocratically, had decided she would not refuse.

Upon reflection, she had decided that it might be the ideal opportunity to ask him to…mind his own business…to stay out of her affairs…to stop interfering and let her make her own mistakes.

However she phrased it in her mind, it sounded churlish.

Clearly her idea that she might use him to turn the ton against her was not working.

Perhaps it was time to come up with a new plan. And quickly, or her dear father would have her married in a trice the moment he arrived.

Running away was an option.

But as yet, she had not found a buyer for the jewels. Therefore she did not have any money.

She could not afford for anyone she knew to learn she was selling them in case Father found out. He would definitely try to stop her.

Nor did she want to let them go for a pittance. She needed someone with wealth who was not a member of the ton .

She could work in the interim, perhaps? There were not many options for a woman with few skills. Perhaps she could become a governess. Or a housemaid. But without references it would be difficult to find a decent employer.

Besides, running away felt like giving up. She wanted her independence, not to swap one unpleasant future for another.

There had to be a better way.

If only she could think of it.

Meanwhile, she had to go driving with the Duke.

She waited patiently while her maid gently eased her hatpin through her coiffure.

‘Does it feel secure, my lady?’ the young woman asked. ‘I noticed that today it is rather breezy.’

Barbara gave her head an experimental shake. ‘Perfectly secure, thank you.’ She picked up her reticule and headed downstairs.

Her aunt looked up from her needlework and eyed her up and down. ‘For once I cannot fault your style.’

She wasn’t foolish enough to try a wardrobe malfunction a third time. ‘Do you like it? I had it made in Paris.’

Her aunt smiled. ‘It is elegant, perfect for someone of your height.’

Hmm. Everyone always mentioned her height. At five feet seven inches, she was as tall if not taller than many Englishmen. Not the Duke though. He was delightfully tall.

She cut off the stray thought.

While many men did not like a woman who towered over them, it was not enough to scare them off should they be attracted by her fortune in jewels.

A knock sounded at the front door. She kissed her aunt and headed down the stairs to where the butler already had the front door open.

His Grace stood upon the step looking magnificent in his redingote of navy blue and silver buttons and his shiny top hat.

He bowed. ‘Good afternoon, Countess. For once, the weather is cooperating. If you are in need of a blanket to cover your legs, please do not hesitate to let me know.’

Always the gentleman, this duke. Did he ever lose his implacable calm? Was it all an act, this chilly exterior? A way of hiding his true feelings? She had an irrational urge to find out.

Irrational and foolhardy.

He escorted her to the open carriage of forest green waiting at the curb and handed her up.

The groom holding the horses’ heads stepped back as soon as His Grace picked up the reins, and they moved out into the late-afternoon traffic.

He was an excellent whip. His driving seemed effortless and yet the traffic was busy, and a lesser man might have struggled to control his horses.

‘I was of a mind to cancel our engagement,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘After all, you did not give me the opportunity to refuse or accept, but simply issued your invitation like an order.’ And she wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘Because I wanted to know what it was that you had to say to me that required us to be alone. Or alone as we can be with a groom behind us.’

He gave a grim smile. ‘You are not one to mince words, are you, my lady?’

‘Why should I be? I’ve told you before, I believe in calling a shovel a shovel.’