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CHAPTER TWO

Arthur took an unexpected amount of pleasure in his friend’s curses as he spluttered and choked on his whiskey.

“You—” Andrew Wellbrooke, Earl of Prestwich, coughed. “You are going to call upon a debutante at her home?”

“Tomorrow, yes.” He’d quit the ball shortly after Miss Beatrice and her harpy-esque mother took their leave; the fete had felt dimmer without her presence. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he needed to follow his gut when it came to this chit; it had never steered him wrong before.

“But why ?” Prestwich rasped as he pounded on his chest.

“You’re a married man,” Arthur replied sardonically. “You of all people should know.”

“This coming from the very same mouth that preached marriage was a slow-acting plague.”

“I am not proposing to her tomorrow.”

“Ah!” His friend leveled a finger at him. “But you did not say you would never propose to her.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Your analysis of semantics is exhausting.”

“The world really must be ending,” Prestwich said with exaggerated awe. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that Arthur Cliff, the bloody Duke of Foxton, formally called upon a woman, let alone a debutante—let alone one who might actually be considered a respectable match!”

Arthur made to stand. “I believe it is time we admit our friendship has reached its inevitable end. We’ve had a fair run these last three decades, but our time has come to an end?—”

“Oh, sod off, Foxton,” Prestwich waved off his grousing. “We both know we’ll tolerate one another until the very end. Now sit your arse back in that chair and tell me what about this chit has gotten you so addlepated.”

That was the root of the problem, wasn’t it? Arthur couldn’t place his finger on what about this girl made him ache to see her again—what made him want to toss aside all of his long-held beliefs and sink into her in more ways than just physically.

“She is… That is… I…” He attempted and failed several times to form a coherent thought.

There was no explaining how beautiful she appeared to him, how charming he found her laughter and the glitter in her eyes.

He’d hardly spoken a word to her and his soul already knew he’d never grow tired of hearing her voice.

He wanted to be the reason she laughed, the catalyst for her joy, to learn every soft curve and hollow of her body and memorize it until his dying day.

Not only was she beautiful, but her very presence charged the air with all the potential of lightning.

He’d weathered a storm or three and could tell the difference between volatility and attraction.

After all, he’d spent his entire life avoiding the possibility of an attachment any firmer than that of a temporary paramour.

“Feeling eloquent, are we?” chuckled his friend, who quickly held up his hands in mock defense when Arthur aimed a powerful glare at him.

“I like her. I wish to know her better. It’s as simple as that.”

“Is it? Simple?”

Arthur chose to ignore the knowing grin splitting Prestwich’s face. “Perfectly,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief when she closed the gate to the back garden.

Her escape from her home had been without incident, but she still needed to shake the wrinkles from her grey woolen skirts and starched white apron.

She’d borrowed the kit from one of the upstairs maids, feigned lingering ill-effects from her fainting spell the prior evening, used pillows to create a rather lifelike form beneath her coverlet, and escaped to meet her dearest friend, Clara Poole, at the appointed time.

A sharp hiss made her snap to attention. She whipped her head from side to side until she spotted Clara peering out from the alley. Her friend proceeded to wave in a none-too-subtle fashion and Beatrice barely suppressed a bubbling giggle of excitement. She dashed over and ran into Clara’s arms.

“Did you escape without incident?” Clara asked, looking Beatrice up and down before nodding approvingly at her outfit.

“I did! I told Mama I was still weak from last night. And you?”

“Dori is at his club,” Clara explained, using her nickname for her elder brother, Dorian, Marquess of Kempton, everyone knew he despised.

The marquess doted upon his much younger sibling, so she could commit just about any infraction and be forgiven.

Their planned adventure for that day, however, might set him over the edge…

“I should be free for at least several hours.”

Beatrice slipped Clara’s arm through hers. “Then let us be off.”

Arthur was handing coins to the market vendor in exchange for his order when he heard a sound that made each of his muscles tense in anticipation.

It wasn’t lost on him that he’d have missed it had he visited one of his usual flower shops.

That morning, he’d opted instead for a long walk and encountered the market overflowing with people and stalls brimming with goods.

Curious to see if the distraction would help him clear his head, he’d begun to meander through the crush…

ignoring curious stares all the while. It wasn’t often that men as well-dressed as he were seen in this environment, and he kept a hand on his coin purse to prevent enterprising pickpockets from making off with it.

He was an obvious target as he browsed the wares.

Eventually, he chose the most promising stall peddling a wide array of flowers and selected a variety that would have rivaled even his usual shops.

That was when he heard the sound.

Her.

He’d only witnessed her laughter a time or two and yet it was already branded upon his memory.

His head whipped from side to side as he attempted to track the joyful, unabashedly boisterous sound, but he saw no well-dressed young women attended by chaperones. No pastel gowns. No coiffured heads.

He heard it again and his eyes were drawn to a girl in drab maid’s attire; his mind warred with what his eyes saw.

Miss Beatrice, dressed as a servant , was chatting with another girl as they admired wooden carvings offered at one of the stalls.

“My lord?” the vendor questioned, holding out his forgotten bouquet.

Accepting it, he immediately began cutting a swath through the crowd like a knight on a battlefield.

The closer he grew, the more he realized that his eyes and his mind had not deceived him.

An irrational well of anger and…fear?...

bubbled up inside of his chest. Had she no notion of what could happen to her?

The world was dangerous enough for a woman who was familiar with the streets, but, for a sheltered chit, there were any number of threats lurking about. What if she were hurt? Or worse?

He came up behind the pair of troublemaking girls, loomed over them like an angel of vengeance, and said, “You seem to have recovered quite well from your spell last evening, Miss Beatrice.”

Her spine snapped ramrod straight; his ears were so in tune with her that the slight catch in her breathing ran like nails down his abdomen, causing the muscles to clench in delicious anticipation. How could she make him half-hard with just a breath?

What irrational hold did she have over him?

And why did he enjoy it?

She whirled around to look up into his face and, though they were already standing indecently close for a public market, he had to fight the urge to close what little gap remained between them. Her eyes were wide as saucers when they met his.

He wanted to drown in them. He wanted to?—

“Your Grace!” she gasped and bumped into her companion. The motion drew his eyes to the other girl. He knew instantly that the girl with the ice-blue eyes and ebony hair was another debutante, the younger sister of the Marquess of Kempton. He looked back at Miss Beatrice.

“Were you the instigator of this little outing, or is Miss Poole an equal partner in this foolish venture?” Both girls blanched. He cocked a brow as he waited to see how this would play out.

What he hadn’t expected was for Miss Beatrice to step forward and wrap her small hands around his forearm in a touch that seared the flesh beneath the sleeve of his coat. It was everything he could do to not pull away as if she’d been a licking flame of fire.

“Please, Your Grace,” she breathed desperately…

and he knew immediately he wanted to hear her say “please” as often as possible.

“Please say nothing. We merely wanted to explore the market on our own.” They were beginning to draw notice, so he gestured for them to step aside to the mouth of a nearby alleyway.

Miss Poole followed closely behind, her expressive features making her look for all the world like a girl being led to the gallows.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for two young ladies to wander around unaccompanied?” he murmured low enough to evade eavesdroppers.

“We had each other,” replied Miss Beatrice obstinately. “And we wore disguises.”

He snorted. “Disguises even less convincing than those worn to a masquerade. It takes more than borrowing your maids’ clothing to create a disguise. No one with half a brain in his head would look at you and believe you were maids.”

“And whyever not?” she demanded, a scowl on her beautiful brow and her dainty fists propped on her hips. She seemed to forget to whom she spoke, and he liked it immensely. His heated gaze swept her from head to toe and back up again.

“Because no one would believe a woman with your carriage and fire would be in service.”

Those luscious lips of hers parted at his words.

What he wouldn’t give to taste them.

Trying to regain some of his composure, he cleared his throat. The sound seemed to break the spell cast between them; her eyes trailed down to the paper-wrapped bouquet forgotten in his hand.

“Flowers?” Miss Beatrice asked with a tilt of her head.

“Well, yes. They were actually for you.” Why did his cheeks feel warm? He might have been mortified had every inch of her exposed flesh not blushed so prettily.

“F—For me?” she stammered.

“I did say I planned to call on you, did I not?” He cocked an imperious brow, attempting to affect more confidence.

She wouldn’t have refused to see him had he called upon her at her home—no one ever turned him away—but there, in the street, unchaperoned, she might laugh him off.

At his words, her friend bounced a little on the balls of her feet until Miss Beatrice shot her a quelling glance.

Miss Poole froze and affected a chastened demeanor—or she would have had she not so obviously been masking a grin.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Beatrice whispered barely loudly enough to be heard over the din of the market.

“They are beautiful.” His pleasure at his gesture having been received so well was quickly overshadowed by the realization that a duke could not very well gift a large bouquet to a woman dressed as a maid without attracting some attention.

“Right.” He sniffed and glanced around for a solution, his eyes dancing from one vendor to the next before landing upon a small girl staring in wonder at the flowers.

Her dishwater brown hair was barely held in check by lopsided plaits; her pale skin spoke of little time spent in healthful sunshine.

Like many children of her class, she’d likely never spent a day outside of London and had probably never ventured anywhere she might see such blooms. Her dark eyes were round with awe.

He offered the child and her mother a disarming smile.

“D’you like the flowers, little one?” She glanced up at her mother as if asking for permission before nodding vigorously.

He grinned and held the flowers out to her.

“Go on. Take them.” The girl’s mouth fell open, revealing gap-toothed shock.

“Go on,” he repeated. She opened her arms for the bundle and then cradled the flowers to her chest as if she held the most precious thing in creation.

A bit of beauty to color her otherwise plain world. “Enjoy them.”

The purest, most honest form of joy shone from the girl’s eyes as she and her mother walked off.

“You made her so happy,” Miss Beatrice murmured as she watched the girl skip away.

He replied with a thoughtful sound, then said, “Now, where else might I escort you?”

“You needn’t do that, Your Grace,” Miss Poole jumped to say.

He cocked a brow at her. “Both of us know your brother would have a great deal to say if he discovered that I found the two of you in this situation and did nothing to ensure your safety.” He could read her displeasure on her face, but she stopped protesting.

At least she had some brains in that head of hers.

“I’ve no intention of allowing any ills to befall either of you.

The way I see it, the sooner I take you around this market, the sooner I can have you deposited safely back with your families, your guardians none the wiser.

All I ask in return is that you do not do anything so foolish ever again.

” He speared the two of them with a deadly look.

“If I catch so much as a hint that you’ve snuck out to put your lives at risk again, then I shall be forced to take action.

” Like tossing Miss Beatrice over his knee and tanning her bottom until it was pinker than her cheeks.

He liked the thought of that a little too much and had to steer his mind to safer waters.

Icy baths. Spiders. “Is that understood?”

The young ladies nodded.