Page 2 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

Xavier shoved thoughts of the days before his father died aside. The memories of how they’d gone off sailing without him that summer always churned up the anger he had tried to bury along with memories of his childhood.

No, he definitely did not want a wife like his stepmother.

He wanted a nice quiet female who would give his son, or sons, a warm and comforting upbringing.

Unlike his own.

To be certain, his Great-Uncle Thomas had done his best, but he’d been a bit of a martinet. As old-fashioned and irascible as they came.

His best friend, Julian Pettigrew, nudged him. ‘What the devil are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes, you are. You are glowering. I thought you wanted to meet a few of this Season’s debutantes, not scare them out of their dancing slippers.’

‘Nonsense. I am not glowering.’ At least not any more than usual.

‘You are. At everyone. At least one of those little misses fainted at the sight of that frown of yours.’

The Derbridge frown. His grandfather had been famous for it, so Uncle Thomas had said.

Was it his fault that he had inherited his family’s well-known heavy brow and thick black eyebrows that drew naturally together over shockingly blue eyes and an equally prominent nose?

Certainly, no one had ever accused him of being handsome.

‘If a frown is all it takes to make a girl faint, she is clearly not the woman for me.’ Though, since he had decided this was the year he would wed, one of these delicate debutantes had to be the perfect woman.

Which was why he had come to Almack’s .

‘By the way,’ Julian said. ‘Thank you for your advice on that race at Newmarket. I never would have picked that horse to win. I recouped most of my losses from Epsom.’

‘Which you incurred because you went against my advice and bet on the favourite.’

Despite his renowned expertise on racehorses, Xavier very rarely gave tips on races any more.

He’d done it to gain friends at school, only to realise they were fair-weather friends at best. Now he offered advice only to those closest to him.

And only if pressed. He never advised on races in which he had one of his own horses running, because in the past rumours had spread that he had somehow fixed the results.

‘It was a nice-looking beast. How could it not win?’

‘All show and no go.’

A ripple of interest over by the entrance caught Xavier’s attention.

Like the seas parting, a space opened between him and the door. His jaw dropped. Red. The lady was wearing red.

He snapped his mouth shut.

‘Oh, my word,’ Julian murmured. ‘That has set the cat among the pigeons.’

And an exceedingly exotic feline it was to be sure.

Walking with a sinuous grace, she entered in the room, taking in her surroundings.

Her dark eyes sparkled, her full lips curved in the hint of a smile and her hair was a sleek as a panther’s fur, except on one side where it fell to her shoulder in a riot of ringlets.

And she was wearing the tallest ostrich plumes he had ever seen.

On such a tall woman, they towered above all around her.

Confidence—and something else he could not quite name—exuded from her every pore.

Stunning. Startling. Shocking.

The ennui that had been washing through him a few seconds before dissipated in a heartbeat. ‘Who is she?’

He could not believe he had asked the question. He could not recall the last time he had enquired about a woman.

‘No idea.’ Julian chuckled. ‘Some poor hick from the country I would imagine, if she thought that colour was acceptable.’

Red? Or crimson? Perhaps scarlet? It was brighter than the large exotic-looking rubies in the jewels at her throat and ears.

Whatever the shade it might be called, it was most definitely the most daring gown he had ever seen.

Cut low across her generous bosom, it missed her shoulders altogether; mere wisps of fabric clung to her upper arms, apparently in an attempt to stop the gown sliding to the floor.

At any moment.

Like him, every other gentleman in the room seemed to be holding his breath. Questioning. Hoping. Would the gown slowly slide over those curves to the floor?

Annoying. ‘A veritable country bumpkin,’ Xavier pronounced.

Several bystanders within earshot closed their mouths and turned away from the vision in red.

A hint of his disapproval was all that was needed .

The buzz of conversation picked up again.

Yet for some reason, he could not resist the temptation to look again. A casual glance. His gaze drifting past where she was now engaged in animated conversation with an elderly grey-haired woman wearing a dreary grey gown. The older woman did not look happy.

The woman in red flicked open her fan, a black lacy affair, with feathered edges. She hid the lower half of her face, but there was no mistaking the amusement in those dark eyes. Almost taunting.

A gentleman approached, clearly intent on asking her to dance.

‘You are doing it again,’ Julian said.

Xavier dragged his gaze from the tableau playing out across the other side of the room and glanced down at his friend. At six foot two inches, he looked down on even the tallest of men. ‘If you are unhappy with the way I look, old fellow, perhaps you should find someone else with whom to converse.’

Julian laughed. He knew Xavier too well to take offence. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to play cards?’

‘Only old men play cards at Almack’s.’ He had come here to view candidates for marriage, to identify those suitable to be his bride, if at all possible. He certainly wasn’t about to let some hussy in red distract him from his purpose.

The woman he actually had been seeking was now standing near the orchestra—Lady Cowper, one of Almack’s Lady Patronesses. ‘Lady Cowper promised me some introductions this evening.’

Julian grinned. ‘I bet a shilling to a pound you end up dancing with her.’

He didn’t have to say who the her was that he meant.

‘Nonsense.’ Whoever the woman in red was, she was beyond the pale as far as Xavier was concerned. He didn’t have to meet her to know that she was one of those sorts of women who did anything to get attention.

Like his stepmother.

And look how that had turned out.

‘What on earth were you thinking?’ Lenore’s fingers fluttered at her throat, touching her necklace, then flew to her waist. Like little sparrows, her hands never stilled, and it was worse when she was anxious.

Oh, my. Aunt Lenore was more agitated than Barbara had ever seen her before. She hadn’t actually thought it was possible.

‘What do you mean?’ Barbara asked. She knew, of course, but she could play the innocent with the best of them. When needed.

‘Red. I know I told you to avoid red at all costs.’

‘Red?’ Barbara set her face in a picture of puzzlement.

‘Your gown. It is red.’

‘Nonsense. The dressmaker assured me that this gown is geranium.’

Fingers twisted her fan. ‘Geranium is red,’ Aunt Lenore hissed, her glance darting hither and yon, clearly fearing they would be overheard. ‘Whatever are we to do now? You are quite ruined. Your father will never forgive me for allowing you to make such a spectacle of yourself.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Barbara tried to keep her smile pleasant, but she could not help feeling a little spurt triumph. Goal one, accomplished. She had put herself beyond the pale as far as capital S Society was concerned and could now relax and enjoy London exactly as she pleased. The real world awaited.

The gentleman who had glared at her when he first saw her, a man of imposing height and strong features of around thirty, was once more glancing her way.

Not boldly. Not covertly either. A passing cold stare from icy blue eyes, pausing for little more than a fraction of a second.

A tingle ran across her shoulders. In recognition?

No. For she did not know him. But something about the way he looked at her seemed to cause a visceral reaction on her skin.

He had said something as she entered room that had made people standing near him turn their backs on her.

He clearly did not like what he saw.

Well, she did not think much of him either.

Too stern, in a striking sort of way.

Too judgemental.

Too cold.

Too…attractive?

How could such a stern looking man be attractive? But then given her own lofty height, she did like a man who was tall.

Fluttering fingers curled around Barbara’s wrist, drawing her attention back to her Aunt. There was kindness in those muddy greenish-brown eyes. Sympathy.

Guilt washed through Barbara. Aunt Lenore had tried her best, after all.

She snapped her fan shut, quite happy to make a rapid retreat and save her Aunt from further embarrassment, for this entrance of hers was not about Aunt Lenore.

It was about Father. And his interminable plans.

‘I am sorry. I seem to have made a mess of things. Let us go, and quickly.’

Aunt Lenore’s grip tightened. ‘Certainly not. We Lowells have more gumption than that.’

Barbara stared at her, astonished by the unexpected bravado. And the opportunity was lost. A gentleman in the regulation black tailcoat, starched white neckerchief and satin knee breeches was bowing to her aunt.

‘Miss Lowell. How delightful to see you here at Almack’s. You have not graced us with your presence for some considerable time.’

‘Mr Elton, how kind of you to remember me,’ Aunt Lenore said. ‘May I present you to my great-niece, Dowager Countess of Lipsweiger and Upsal. This is Mr Paul Elton, my dear. A great friend of our Prince Regent.’

That accounted for the little man’s look of self-importance, but not his revoltingly coloured waistcoat, a rather sickly shade of green which emphasised the red in his nose.

Barbara inclined her head as if to a lesser mortal, and she felt her aunt’s hand quiver then drop away.

‘Your great-niece?’ Elton beamed. ‘Then you must be March’s daughter. I heard your arrival was expected imminently.’

Her aunt had been touting her arrival for several months, apparently.

Building expectations as it were. Advertising her attributes.

The main one being her fortune inherited from her late husband, part of which she was currently wearing around her neck.

At least, that was what Father had written in his last letter.

Ugh. She allowed a brilliant smile to cross her lips. ‘Indeed.’

Elton raised his hand to his mouth, leaned in close and lowered his voice. ‘Your gown is magnificent. You carry it off to perfection, but if I may mention the…colour.’

Barbara raised her right eyebrow and looked down her nose at the little fellow. It had taken many months of practice looking in the mirror to achieve a perfect expression of incredulity. As usual, it achieved the desired result.

The gentleman flushed. ‘I am known for my s-sartorial expertise,’ he stuttered.

Barbara did not move a muscle.

‘Red is such a difficult colour,’ he mumbled.

‘It is geranium, not red.’

‘Yes, yes. Geranium.’ He pursed his lips and tilted his head a fraction as if considering her words. A small sly smile curved his lips. ‘Well. I should think geranium will be all the rage within the week.’

Not at all what she intended .

‘How can you say so?’

He waved a deprecating hand. ‘I am told your dowry is vast.’

Dash it all. Surely the ton could not possibly be shallow enough to ignore her faux pas, simply because they thought she had wealth.

‘W-would you care to dance?’ he asked.

Beside her, Aunt Lenore’s smile brightened. ‘Oh, yes. Do dance with Mr Elton, my dear.’

She did not need her aunt’s permission. But dancing with this little fellow, the top of whose head barely came above her ear, would likely serve as yet another cause for ridicule.

And she would be dancing before she had been introduced to one of the Lady Patronesses.

Hah! Sin upon sin.

‘I should be delighted.’ She gathered her skirts, and he escorted her onto the dance floor. A reel. A shame it wasn’t a waltz.

She would have loved for it to have been a waltz.

The tall glowering gentleman was part of their set. He was taller than any other man in the room. Exceedingly tall, up close.

One of the few men in the room she had to look up at to see his expression, she realised as their hands met in the circle of four.

Her fingers tingled at the brush of his fingertips. Perhaps because he so clearly did not approve of her. Did he feel it too? Not if his distant expression was anything to go by.

The pretty young lady with him, a blonde, wore the uniform of a first Season miss. The modest white muslin gown with little pink flowers in her hair, at her bosom and on her hem, identified her as an inveterate follower of the rules.

Her glowering partner was clearly an ogre who would eat the young thing alive. And still be looking for more.

Barbara could not but feel sorry for the child and flashed a smile at the ogre.

His expression remained…disapproving.

Now, who on earth could he be, to be so overtly disapproving of anyone?

They returned to their respective places in the set and moved down the line. She sent him a teasing glance.

His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. She stifled a giggle. He really did not like her.

Of course, she did not look at him again during the dance.

That would have been too obvious. But she was aware of his glance from time to time.

His haughty, disapproving glance was like a physical touch brushing her cheek.

Or her shoulder. A tingle ran down her spine.

Very odd, since obviously he was a man who thought his opinion counted for a great deal.

Perhaps she could find a way to use him to her advantage.

Now, wouldn’t that be perfect?