Page 10 of Dukes All Night Long

U nlit balconies and a half-dressed duke—this was calamity. Gregory, Eighth Duke of Hawkland, paced the flagstone, a caged man. His once-perfect cravat was a mess, the loose ends fluttering, exposing an alarming three inches of male neck.

Susan hesitated in the shadows.

Three inches! Didn’t His Grace understand? Reputations had been ruined by less.

Her fan open, she prepared for battle. The evening could still be a success, celebratory by any measure, considering that tiresome Frenchman, Napoleon, finally got his comeuppance, and London was at last meeting the war’s elusive Pirate Duke .

If only she could persuade him to dance.

To be fair, His Grace had been clear about his wish to avoid Society and lavish balls in particular.

She smiled—as if a duke in need of a duchess could really do that.

Square-jawed and over-tall, the Duke of Hawkland cut an imposing figure. When he spied her, his greeting was clipped.

“Miss Pryce.”

“Your Grace.” A regal nod and she strolled forward. “Your cravat has somehow gone askew.”

Of course, cravats didn’t go askew on their own. But one must be cautious in matters of dress—especially since the duke was in the act of removing his coat.

She sucked in a fast breath. “Your Grace…”

“I’m sure you’ll have something to say about this,” he said.

Her eyes popped wide as cerulean silk sailed rebelliously through the air.

“Promise me your waistcoat isn’t next.”

“I should give it the heave ho. What a blasted hot night.” The duke planted himself on the stone rail, his fingers releasing his waistcoat’s top two buttons. “I could do with a frosty pint.”

“Shall I fetch a footman?”

Eyes the shade of a fathomless sea challenged her. “I meant my ale, Miss Pryce, served from my cellar in my home.”

Her shoulders sank. He was going to leave. Without even a single dance? This required new tactics.

A slight breeze stirred, and she leaned into it, her red curls tapping hot, sticky skin. Overhead, faint stars glimmered. Nose to the sky, she breathed tepid air. How had her life come to this? Her, a shepherdess of important gentlemen.

“It is nearly midnight, Your Grace, and you’ve not taken a turn about the ballroom. Please,” she coaxed, “consider one dance. After all, you are the guest of honor.”

Shifting his way, she found his stony profile. A breeze riffled his hair, and his mouth was a grim line.

“Me and dancing is a bad idea, and we both know why.”

Her senses pitched. His lament gripped her. The duke longed for his old life, the one that made his voice deep and graveled from bellowing orders over wind and waves. An oddly elegant sound, his smoke-timbred baritone. She could never grow tired of it.

Arms crossed, legs lounging, he was large and immovable. Ironic, considering the duke’s stated wish to go home. She’d not mention the obvious contradiction. The first commandment for daughters of government officials was Always be agreeable .

“I’m here for one reason and one reason only,” he said at last.

She fanned herself with an indolent wrist. Of course, his debut as duke.

“Duty, it’s a cross to bear, Your Grace.”

He snorted softly and looked away. She reached for him, but stopped midway. Touching him would be inappropriate. But how did one lure a former privateer into the only battle ground he resisted? Especially when the dark balcony was cooler…and cozy.

With her hip against the rail, she leaned close. “Look at that…” she gave him a flirtatious side-eye “…even your coat wants to flee.”

Venetian silk sprawled over a tree branch as though caught mid-escape. She’d do the same except her father—a chief clerk at Whitehall—had given her the daunting assignment of preparing the newly minted rough-around-the-edges Duke of Hawkland for Society.

“Gentle wit, Miss Pryce.” The duke’s smile cracked the dark. “You never disappoint.”

Pleasing him gave her a warm-honeyed feeling.

Alone with him in the dark, she had to be careful.

Beguiling thoughts of her and the duke were a fire, growing day by day.

Befuddled, she retrieved his coat, snapped it clean of leaves, and draped it over her arm.

Aromas of nutmeg and brandy surrounded her.

His scent. His warmth. She smoothed the fabric and almost dipped her nose to the silk.

At his keen interest in her coat-stroking hand, she explained, “Wrinkles can be quite scandalous. Unkempt gentlemen emerging from balconies late at night…” her throat dried the more intensely he studied her “…well, it—it hints at a possible assignation.”

“Only hints?” he teased.

Her lungs squeezed. Breathing became difficult when she was the center of his attention, rather like a butterfly pinned in place.

And they were alone.

“It bodes strongly of private activities done in secret places,” she managed to say.

“Passionate activities, I’m sure.” Mouth tugging sideways, he tipped near her, filling the night.

“Miss Pryce, we both know the Crown wants me to find the future Duchess of Hawkland. An assignation, even the appearance of one, would be mission accomplished.” He paused before delivering the final salvo in a low, intimate voice.

“At the very least, the public buys more consols when Fleet Street prints new stories about the Pirate Duke.” He winked. “Or so I’ve heard.”

She stilled like a small animal nose-to-nose with an enormous predator. The duke’s indigo eyes—the only beautiful part on the iron-hewn man—glittered with knowing.

A frisson warned her— never underestimate him .

“Yes, the consols,” she admitted. “They do pay the war debts.”

On occasion, at her father’s request, she’d assist awkward gentlemen through the treacherous landscape of Polite Society, which often resulted in political gain for her father—a letter of commendation, a prime post. He’d always landed well when she assisted him.

Get Hawkland shipshape , he’d said, amused by his wordplay.

She’d done the same last year for a shy man of science who’d been knighted.

Then, there’d been a plump son of a foreign envoy. Harmless men in need of polish.

But there was nothing harmless or awkward about the new Duke of Hawkland.

The day they’d met, the word barbarian escaped her mouth. Chest scarred and hair overlong, he’d finished clashing swords with a brute in an empty ballroom. His weapon down, he’d faced her, dragging a towel across his sweat-slick torso.

“You must be Miss Pryce—the poor soul tasked with making me presentable.”

She’d been agog. “Wearing a shirt is an excellent start, Your Grace.”

He’d laughed. She’d been unflappable. Thus, their month together had begun. By equal measure, the duke pleased and exasperated. Excellent attire was easily achieved. Comportment at tea and dinners was another success for a man long away from Society. Yet no scissors touched his sun-streaked hair.

Dancing lessons, however, had been incendiary. His hand near her waist, guiding her around an empty ballroom to the drone of the dance master’s instructions. She didn’t care about his imperfect dancing. Faltering steps and mishaps ended in laughter. It was all wonderful…as long as he touched her.

Her pulse quick, she straightened her spine. She had a job to do.

“We must get you back inside, but this…”—she waggled a finger at his bare neck—“…won’t do.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss Pryce. Tell me what I need to hear.”

She handed over his coat. He donned it, and chin up, he gestured to his open shirt.

“Do you mind? Can’t do it myself.”

She hesitated. Hadn’t she fixed her father’s cravats? Hundreds of times. But this was not the same. Blood jumped in her veins and her head could be stuffed with wool.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The duke spread his knees, making himself accessible. Tentative, she positioned herself and lifted the white strips dangling on his chest. If they were caught…

A delicate shudder and she willed herself into the V of his legs.

“All those years at sea,” she said, a little breathless “and you never tied your own cravat?”

“Captain Higgs never required it.”

Tension spiraled in her abdomen. Yearning stirred.

Starched cotton slipped back and forth in her hands.

His face to the sky, the duke was inscrutable, a skill no doubt honed while playing cat-and-mouse at sea with the enemy.

His story was an exciting one. He’d run away from home at fifteen and signed on as a cabin boy on a merchant’s ship.

Rising through the ranks, the young sailor found a place at the captain’s table when Letters of Marque arrived, turning the Jolly Meg into a privateering vessel—anything to harass Napoleon’s Marine Impériale and her maritime supporters.

The booty made him wealthy. The recent death of a childless uncle made him a duke.

This was the tale Fleet Street published, and people gobbled it up.

His cravat done, she stepped back. Taut from head to toe, she motioned to the open doors. Through them was gaiety and light.

“Please, go ahead, Your Grace.”

Once the duke was inside, people would forget about her. A good thing, that. The second commandment for daughters of government officials was Always be invisible .

“You wish me to go inside and let all in attendance take their fill of the Pirate Duke.” He was fixing his waistcoat buttons.

She opened her mouth, only to shut it when his head tipped a subtle protest.

“I’ve read the papers, Miss Pryce. And I’ve seen your father’s reports to Whitehall.” The duke eased off the stone rail, shoulders bunching and stretching. “I’ll do as you ask and dance…if you satisfy two conditions for me.”

“And they are…?”

“Take off your gloves.”

She startled as if horns had blared near her head.

Light limned the silk-garbed duke, a formidable man.

Her focus drifted to the doorway, a frame for what was inside.

Bunting draped the walls. Chatter poured everywhere.

The musicians must’ve taken a respite because no music played save the buzzing in her head.

She touched her temple. Gloves were part of the genteel woman’s uniform.

She traced an embroidered flourish on the back of her hand. Ivory silk, her finest pair.

“You know, the third commandment for daughters of government officials is Always be presentable ,” she said, wistful.

“Rules for your unpaid position?”

His stare pierced her. Looking at him was akin to basking in a hot, hot sun. She needed a moment to gather herself.

A wan smile grew. “Rules. Commandments. They guide my life, Your Grace. I take great pleasure in assisting my father.” She reached behind her elbow, relenting. “I suppose gloves off is not uncalled for with the heat and all. Other ladies have shed theirs.”

“If only cravats received the same consideration,” he said, amused.

Damp cloth hugged her arm. She peeled her glove downward, the air refreshing.

She almost groaned in pleasure. But her hand was troublesome.

Cloth banded at her wrist. Perspiration had glued the silk in place.

Impatient, she nipped three cloth-covered fingertips with her teeth until her glove slid free.

Her freckled arm bare, she exhaled contentment and bit the fingertips of her second glove.

Mid-bite, she checked the duke. Sparks tingled under her skin.

His brows slashed downward.

He was tense, even primal, focusing on her mouth.

The second glove off, she tried to be lighthearted. “Well, isn’t this refreshing?”

“Give them to me.”

Keeping her distance, she tossed both gloves.

The duke caught them handily and draped one over his shoulder.

Knife-nicked fingers folded her glove’s silken thumb over the palm.

She watched, fascinated. Meticulous with each silk finger, he arranged them, one at a time over the palm.

Not once did he look at her, such was his devotion to creating a straight ivory line.

She had a maid. Never had her gloves received such treatment.

His Grace tenderly folded her glove, end over end.

Slow. Deliberate…sensual. Until he finished with a neat silk square.

She touched her collarbone. “Oh…”

Strong hands, brown from the sun, took delicate care with her second glove until two pretty ivory squares nestled in his palm. Her hand dropped to her side. She was soft and liquid when a forbidden thought crept in.

She angled her face to his. “This is not the first time you’ve folded a woman’s gloves.”

“Indeed, not.” His thumb caressed his finished work.

His smile held her captive. Flint-sharp edges faded. He was endearing. Flirtatious. Yet, every inch a gentleman, and what he did next nearly defeated her.

The duke tucked her gloves in his waistcoat pocket—over his heart.

Lips parting, she rested against the door lest she float away. Her gaze heavy, she could look no higher than his chin. They stood in a halo of candlelight. A private oasis. Magnetism was a force.

Were they on the edge of…a kiss?

No. That couldn’t be. Daughters of government officials didn’t kiss dukes; they served them.

The door pressing her spine, she turned her head to the ballroom.

Bit by bit, glaring candlelight melted her sense of wonder.

Festivities blustered. Footmen ran to and fro.

Lords and ladies gossiped as per usual. Strangers, all of them.

His Grace had but one friend here tonight, the Jolly Meg’s third mate, lost somewhere in the crowd.

A tiny sigh and she reached for what was comfortable.

Service to others, of course. The evening was about the duke, and by extension, this included his friend.

“Do you wish me to dance with your friend?” she asked.

“Mr. Gladstone?” The duke squinted at her as though she’d gone daft.

“Yes. He’s the shy sort, isn’t he? That’s why he ran off to the card room.”

“Gladstone? Shy?” The duke laughed and lines rayed from the corners of his eyes. “He’s in the card room because gambling is in his blood.”

She tried to stay put, but the Duke of Hawkland walked into the ballroom and did the most terrifying thing. He offered his arm. When she didn’t respond, he raised it a formidable inch.

“My other condition, Miss Pryce—you must dance with me.”