Page 6 of The Duke’s Hellion (Duke Dare #3)

I f tea was terrifying, dinner was disastrous. It was one thing for Mimi to approach them and not so subtly vie for Roger’s attention; it was an entirely separate matter for her to waltz into dinner wearing that.

That.

Her dress was a crimson red pulling out the color of her lips, contrasting with the sky in her eyes.

Her blonde tresses were loosely tucked at the back of her head looking as though they could fall free at any moment.

The analogy was not lost on Sam. And…Sam almost spluttered when he saw them, her breasts…

they were on display. He had to convince himself that what he was seeing was in fact not her areola.

But those mounds…those creamy white mounds…of a woman. This was not a child. This was a woman on a mission. Golden earrings framed her face and a small chain rested snuggly just above her decolletage. But that was the nice word for what Sam was witnessing.

Exactly as he had predicted, this woman was on a path to destruction.

Her reputation was hanging in the balance.

It would either go one way or the other.

Society would accept this decision (this dress) as an anomaly, or they would crucify her.

She had the eccentricity that might just lend well to the option of this night being an anomaly.

She also had a brother-in-law who was a duke (thanks to Boudicca) and an impending duke for her second brother-in-law (thanks to Joan).

It was unusual indeed for sisters to all claim a duke, but Sam pushed that thought aside.

Well, more accurately, that thought was pushed aside by Mimi’s flouncing breasts.

They were bouncing so lightly against the ridge of fabric that he was sure one of them was about to pop out and introduce herself.

Wouldn’t that be something? How would he respond? Shock would surely be his one and only response.

Then again…there was always a good handshake in response to an introduction.

After all, he was a man, and those creamy mounds looked delectable.

Not because they were hers…but just because, well, breasts.

They were meant to be licked, nipped, sucked.

His hands would itch to massage them, squeeze them gently to see her reaction—not her reaction, per se.

This was not going well. That dress needed to go. Then she’d be left dressless. Wait. The dress had to stay. She just needed to cover up—dammit.

“Your Grace,” Mimi drawled from Sam’s side, and despite the tone of her voice entwining itself with his breath, momentarily causing a lapse in what should have been an average inhalation, she was in fact not addressing him but Roger.

With little heed paid to ceremonious seating arrangements, Mimi had been placed between Roger and Sam, while Chris and Nobi had been seated further away.

Joan and James were so far down the table that they could hardly be seen, but they were probably enjoying that.

They likely had plans to slip away at some point.

“Isn’t this a lovely house party?” Mimi’s unusually vapid question targeted Roger.

“Indeed,” came the curt reply. Vanic was no more interested in her questions than the extraneous utensils bordering his plate. And that was still less interest than he had paid the woman’s wardrobe, or, all out call for attention. That is to say, the man observed, appreciated, nothing.

Mimi reached for her glass and somehow managed to bump Roger’s arm in the process. “Apologies,” she whispered.

The man didn’t even look at her, just mumbled. “Not to worry.”

A fake trill of a giggle, like none that Sam had witnessed before (and prayed fervently he would never have to be present for again) escaped Mimi’s lips.

Sam couldn’t help himself. He cleared his throat and called for Mimi’s attention. “What are you doing exactly?” he hissed.

She kicked him under the table in reply.

“Ow! What was that for?”

Her head whipped around like a snake sensing its prey, but instead of a slithering tongue, she barely opened her mouth to grit out, “I’m having a conversation.” And then, because he assumed she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Unlike some people.”

“A conversation?” He eyed her body up and down. “Is that what you call this?”

A quick nod and she turned her attention back to Roger. Otherwise known as The Wall. The Bland White Wall Lacking Typical Ducal Discourse. TBBWWLTDD for short. Sam snickered to himself.

“I do hope there will be some archery activities at this house party, don’t you?” Mimi pitched another question at Vanic.

Roger gave her a brief side eye and continued eating. “That would be nice.” Another spellbinding rejoinder from Roger.

“I do love the feel of a bow in my hand.”

Silence.

“To hit the target with such accuracy always gives me a sense of pride. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“If I must.”

Sam choked back a laugh covering it with a cough. He was certain—well, he was almost certain—that Roger hadn’t meant that to be rude.

But this was torturous to watch. The woman had no idea what she was doing.

Was she flirting? This could not be her idea of attracting a man’s attention, could it?

Her attire screamed wanton and her conversation topics vacillated between conveying her as a bore and a hoyden.

Which was it? She needed to present one image to Roger. Herself.

Sam groaned. Apparently aloud. He only knew this because the moment the groan left his mouth, Mimi whipped her head around again and whispered, “Do you mind? Some of us are enjoying a pleasant dinner conversation.”

“Some? You mean you?” The words were out before he could analyze them properly.

Her eyebrows went up while her eyelids went down. With a slight lift of her chin, her eyes fluttered back open and she said, “Not just me.”

If this were Sam attempting to capture a woman’s attention and he was doing what Mimi was doing, he would want someone to say something.

Quickly. To appear incompetent was not an option.

And Mimi…well, she was the epitome of an incompetent flirt.

But did she know it? Was she in denial? Or was she aware of it and proceeding onward valiantly anyway? Was she brave or oblivious?

Ugh.

“Sam, please.” A whispered admonishment along with a kick.

Oh. She wasn’t getting away with it this time. Once her foot landed on the ground, he placed his booted toe on hers.

A muffled grunt expelled from Mimi’s throat. “Stop that,” she said while trying to wiggle her slippered toe free.

“I don’t think so. I can no longer be witness to what you call flirting.” Ah. This was much better. Mimi was struggling with her recent detainment, and he could eat his peas in peace.

He was pretty sure he had a smug look on his face, mostly because Mimi said, “Wipe that smug look off of your face.”

He did no such thing.

But when Mimi turned herself to face her plate head on, he could feel an energy emitted from her body. And he sensed that her attentions had shifted. It was a good thing. He wouldn’t have to witness her cringeworthy attempts at seduction.

Until he felt her misplaced attention on his ankle. Mimi had slipped her toes free from their slipper and was slowly trailing them up his shin. He felt a slight twitch in his cock. But he kept his foot firmly in place over hers.

What the—

“Are you enjoying the meat?”

“Ahem. What…” and he meant to finish that question.

Really, he did. Only her toes were trailing up and down his calf.

With pressure. A light massage to the backs of his legs.

And he almost unwittingly freed her foot, but some sliver of resolve kept his boot in place while she massaged his leg muscle with her toe.

He blinked. Surely it wasn’t a longer than average blink.

And then her hand was on his knee. Daintily. Like a tickle. A tickle that almost made him laugh, or smirk at the least. But he held himself together. But the chit wasn’t done yet. Her hand was drifting up his thigh—

He pushed himself closer to the table and grabbed her hand with his. Her silky soft hand rested in his. Earlier he had arm wrestled this dainty hand when she had been using all her strength against him, but this soft, smooth skin against his was now a weapon of a different kind.

“Stop it.” He glared at her, daring her to make her next move. No, not daring her. That was the last thing he wanted to do. If he dared her…how far would she go? Inwardly he shook his head. He didn’t want to know the answer to that question. But he did.

“Stop acting…like that.”

She batted her eyelashes mockingly. “Like what?”

“Like a—”

“Ah, ah, ah. Be careful, Sam. It’s just”—her eyes darkened in fierce competition—“an innocent little battle of the wills. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Batte? Yes. Wills? Hell, yes. Innocent? Far from it. But the chit wasn’t letting up, and he needed to do something. Quickly.

He changed his tactic. “Please.” It was hardly spoken above a whisper, but he saw the second she registered the cautionary plea in his voice.

He wasn’t begging. He wasn’t making himself vulnerable.

He was making himself proper and asking her to do the same.

Put aside the competition. Whatever it was they were competing for, and be respectful.

Would she acquiesce? He could only hope.

Her brows knitted together and she flew a seething glare at him. Then she extracted her hand from his thigh and her toe from his calf, leaving a line of heat flowing between the two places.

She spent the rest of dinner making the most asinine comments to Roger who answered her with the bare minimum that etiquette required. He didn’t think he would appreciate her attention redirected at Roger, but it was better this way. For now, at least.

Couldn’t she see the disinterest? Why the devil was she trying so hard? She must know that she could have any man in the room. Well, not any man. Not him. Sam wasn’t the marrying type. But any other single man was available for her taking.

The chit needed his help.

And he wanted to help her. If only so he never had to witness such an agonizing interaction again.

“I try to practice every day,” Mimi was still talking.

Finally, Roger looked at her. Not exactly with any admiration, in fact, one would say it was with the opposite of admiration, if bemused curiosity was its opposite.

“You?”

And then Sam realized that Roger hadn’t really been listening at all.

“You consider yourself an archer?” Roger asked. Sam couldn’t interpret if the question was asked with incredulity or derision. But whatever laced his tone caused Mimi to sit a little straighter.

He hoped it was her defensive posture. Or aggressive. That would work just as well. A woman ought to stand up for herself.

But when she spoke, her tone was cheery. As if she were happy to have received even that pathetic amount of attention. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do consider myself an archer. Quite a good one. In fact earlier today, with no—”

“Roger,” Sam interrupted out of desperation, realizing where Mimi was taking the conversation.

Yes, a woman ought to stand up for himself, but not at the cost of his dignity.

“We shall play a game of piquet later this evening.” It was rude to interrupt.

It was more rude to speak over Mimi to a guest that wasn’t to Sam’s immediate left or right, but he didn’t care.

A change of topic was of the essence. Thank God Roger noticed nothing (again) and eased into a new conversation.

One might think Sam acted out of desperation for his pride.

And yes, his dignity was on the line a little bit.

(A lot). But even more urgent than this pride was an instinct to protect.

That might be putting it too strongly. It was more of an instinct to help.

Roger was not the type of man to be interested in a competitive woman.

He liked his women passive. If Mimi wanted Roger—which for some asinine reason she did—then Sam would have to consider helping her.

That, or be witness to her pitiful attempts at seduction.

He could help her get the man she wanted.

Yes. Help. But only if she asked would he help. He wouldn’t just go about offering advice to someone who wouldn’t appreciate it.

He could help. It was instinctual. The exact opposite of his father. And so long as he never married, he would keep his own healthy instincts intact forever.