Page 4 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

If it wasn’t all too good to be true.

Nonsense.

It didn’t matter why the Duke had asked her to dance. What mattered was what she did with the opportunity.

He twirled her under his arm and brought her around to face him.

The expression on his face remained cold.

Had he wanted to dance with her? Or was something else going on behind the mask?

Other people on the floor were looking at them askance. As were those looking on from the sidelines. Was this duke about to embarrass her in some way?

Whatever it was, she had the feeling it boded her no good.

Which might well serve her purpose.

He bowed. She curtsied. They moved into each other’s arms. A sense of being enveloped within a fortress, protected from the outside world, almost shattered her composure.

She neither needed nor wanted anyone’s protection. She had learned early to look after herself. Relying on anyone else for anything only led to heartache.

She was tired of heartache.

Within the circle of his arms, she drew closer than she should. Glanced up and challenged him with a knowing smile. Dared him to accept.

Seeming not to notice, he somehow managed to keep her at an almost proper distance. Almost.

Not close enough to be scandalous. Not quite far enough apart to be completely proper.

Challenge accepted.

The large, gloved hand enclosing hers was satisfyingly warm. His height and breadth a definite advantage as they travelled around the floor, twirling and gliding in and around other couples as if they did not exist.

No one existed, beyond him and his powerful presence. And her.

The intensity was nigh overwhelming.

For such a big man, he moved with elegance and grace. She had noticed that before, hadn’t she? He seemed to have no difficulty matching his steps to hers and yet he made it seem perfectly natural.

‘What has brought you to London in such a chilly season?’ he asked after a few moments.

‘My father,’ she said, hoping she sounded as nonchalant as he.

‘And yet there is no sign of him in London.’

‘As yet,’ she agreed. ‘But as Aunt Lenore said, he is expected any day now.’

‘He was in Paris, I gather.’

Her heart stilled. Was? ‘So far as I know he is still there. ’

‘No. He is in Lisbon.’

How would he know? And why?

‘Oh, dearest Papa,’ she said gaily, hiding the hurt that once more her papa had jaunted off without a word to her.

‘Forever dashing off to some place or another on behalf of this country of ours. No doubt I shall hear from him that he has been commanded to meet some potentate or other at a moment’s notice. ’

Hearing anything from Father would be little short of a miracle. Unless there was some instruction or other he wanted to give her. His last round of instructions was clear and, as far as she knew, completely unchanged.

‘Find a husband from among the British nobility.’

Pah!

The composure of the woman Xavier held in his arms was surprising and pleasant.

Most of the young ladies he had danced with this evening had been nervous, which meant they’d danced stiffly and giggled at everything he said.

Except Miss Simon, of course.

She had been shy, true, and somewhat stilted in response to his conversation, but had been generally agreeable, even if her nose was too large and her chin a little receding. She was clearly not the sort of girl to be going off on mad starts. A well-brought-up English young lady from a good family.

Ideal wife material.

And as boring as a pet fish. The thought came into his mind from nowhere.

Completely irrational .

Everything would be fine once they got to know each other better. With that in mind, he had asked her to drive out with him later in the week.

She’d been charmingly grateful.

This woman, this countess, was a horse of a different colour. A bold hussy. An exotic orchid, compared to a daisy. A short-lived comet, compared to a star’s steady pinprick of light. A flash in the pan.

Possibly out to catch herself a duke.

Who would soon discover she should have stayed in Paris.

Passing beneath his arm and joining her hands with his in the promenade, she once more closed the distance between them, an inch closer than was acceptable, while catching his eye with a sly glance. Goading him?

His hip grazed hers. A sensual slide of gossamer fabric again the satin of his breeches. To say he felt her touch through his clothes would be ridiculous, but he did sense the whisper-soft brush, the slight drag of air and fabric.

As did she, from the gleam of mischief in her gaze.

Playing with fire.

Was she a tease who would recoil from the heat or was she really prepared to go up in flames?

Based on the way her gown barely clung to her full breasts, tormenting every man in the room with imminent disaster, he thought she would brave the inferno—if she thought it might get her what she wanted.

He had been the target of ambitious women for too many years to be taken in at this point in his life.

Rather than let her rule the roost, he made sure to maintain a proper distance, resisting any attempt she made to get closer. ‘You normally travel with your father, the Ambassador, I understand?’ he said to fill the weighty silence.

‘It is kind of Your Grace to take such an interest in my habits, but you are right. I have visited most of the capitals of Europe with my father.’

Take an interest? Was that how she interpreted a casual enquiry? Or was she being sarcastic? He decided to ignore the comment.

‘And with your late husbands, I assume?’

‘My first husband never left his estate. His health kept him at home. My second was a soldier assigned to Metternich. We travelled a little but were mostly in Vienna.’ A brilliant smile curved her lips and held him mesmerised for a second.

‘While there, I believe I was of some assistance to the cause.’

So, she would take credit for saving Europe? Incorrigible.

‘I am sorry for your untimely losses.’

‘No need for sorrow, Your Grace. My first husband was at death’s door when we wed. My second, no great loss. To me, at any rate.’

Startled by her flippancy, he gazed at her. ‘I see.’ He could not keep the stiffness from his voice or his disapproval.

She laughed. ‘You are shocked. You should not be. I believe in calling a spade a spade, don’t you? And now I seek a third. Do you know any good prospects?’

She twirled away, and they were arms’ lengths apart, making conversation impossible. When they came together again, he had recovered from his surprise.

‘Your prospects are limited,’ he said, intending to repress any sort of idea she might have in his regard.

She gave him an arch look. ‘Indeed? I believe my dowry will pass muster.’

‘Is that what you desire? A fortune hunter?’

‘Desire?’ Her voice caressed the word, gave it lascivious meaning.

His pulse tripped. This woman was dangerous indeed.

‘Should desire enter into it?’ she asked.

‘One should have goals, certainly.’

‘Are they the same? Desires and goals?’

Again, his gut tightened at the way she spoke of desire. Such boldness.

She was a widow, he reminded himself. Knowledgeable with regard to matters of the flesh. A widow twice over, in truth.

‘Desires are ephemeral, changing with the wind, today you desire a hat, tomorrow a necklace. Goals, being more logical, and more important, ought to be achievable, measurable. So, no. Not the same.’

‘To me, desires have a more physical connotation, somehow.’

He gritted his teeth at her obvious ploy to continue to shock him. ‘It depends on the object of the desire.’

‘Indeed.’

Her agreement gave him no pleasure, no sense of having won the argument, since it was more of a challenge than an acquiescence. She was sparring with him. Testing for weakness. She need not bother.

As they traversed the width of the dance floor, he noticed her aunt watching them with an anxious expression.

‘Your aunt worries about you.’

‘No. Aunt Lenore worries.’

‘Isn’t she concerned for your reputation? I understand you are the subject of speculation at White’s.’

She laughed. A low, husky chuckle that sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine. Quite deliberate, of course.

‘London must be terribly boring if people have nothing better to do than speculate about me.’

‘Speculation is a pastime here. Apparently, they are betting how long number three will last beyond the wedding.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I heard they call me the black widow—after a rather unpleasant spider. Apparently, after mating, the female kills the male. To me, it sounds like an excellent arrangement.’ She seemed quite pleased with the idea.

Shocked, his jaw dropped. ‘Is that a warning?’

A sly little smile touched her lips. ‘That would be telling.’

The woman was reckless in the extreme. To admit to liking the idea of doing away with a husband, having already…

Well, not done away with them. He was certain there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for their deaths or she would have been arrested.

But to be pleased that they were dead, and admit to it, was rash in the extreme.

As the dance drew to a close, he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or sorry.

He was definitely intrigued.

Clearly, this widowed countess was to be avoided in future.