Читать книгу Confessions of a Duchess - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 12

DEXTER WAS HOLDING in his hand a letter from the Dowager Duchess of Cole. It reminded him of the Laura Cole he had known four years before, who had been the perfect duchess, elegant and gracious.

Dear Mr. Anstruther, it read, thank you very much for the service rendered to me earlier today when you rescued me from the river…

Dexter sighed. Laura Cole was, as ever, presenting the perfect facade of propriety. But what had he expected it to say?

Dear Mr. Anstruther, thank you very much for your offer to be my lover on the basis of mutual convenience and pleasure. Having given the matter my consideration, I fear I must decline. Although I took you to my bed in the past, I no longer have any romantic interest in you…

On calm and mature reflection, Dexter felt that trying to seduce Laura had not been the most intelligent thing that he could have done. He needed to remember that he was in Fortune’s Folly to work first and foremost, and also to find a rich wife. Laura Cole was a penniless widow and unsuitable to boot. The fact that he wanted her in his bed now as much as ever was distracting and irrational and he needed to ignore it, particularly since she had made her disdain for him so very clear. Even so, the urge to seek her out again, the need to see her, speak to her, simply be near her, plagued him and would not go away. It felt like a burr against his skin. He shrugged irritably.

“Are we to go to the assembly or not?” Miles Vickery drawled, lounging back in the chair. “Or are you to sit here rereading that note all evening?”

Miles had arrived an hour before with fresh instructions from Lord Liverpool and the express intention of finding himself an heiress as swiftly as possible. News of Sir Montague’s dastardly plan to reinstate the Dames’ Tax had spread like wildfire around the town even as the place filled up with adventurers from London.

With a sigh, Dexter folded Laura’s note and placed it in his inside pocket. “I beg your pardon. I had no notion you were in such a hurry.”

“Need to find myself a rich wife,” Miles pointed out. “Thought you were in the market for a bride, too.”

“Since the ladies have just heard that they are to lose half their fortunes if they do not enter wedlock within a year, I doubt we’ll get a very warm welcome,” Dexter said dryly.

“We’ll persuade them,” Miles said. “Seduce them to our point of view if we must. Compromising a lady is a very effective way to secure her fortune.”

“And a very dishonorable one,” Dexter said. Sometimes he thought that where women were concerned, Miles had neither scruples nor principles.

Not that he could afford the scruples and principles that beset him. Miles had also brought with him a letter from Dexter’s sister Annabelle. Written in Belle’s loopy,extravagant hand, it had reminded Dexter of all the reasons why he needed to marry money—if reminder was needed.

Belle had written,

Mama was in her cups last night, and she let slip to us that you had gone to Yorkshire not only for the fishing, dear Dexter, but also to offer yourself on the Altar of Matrimony for all our sakes! Such Noble Sacrifice! You are indeed the Best of Brothers!

There was much more in the same vein about how much Belle was looking forward to her come-out ball the following year and how Charley and Roland had lost their shirts at the gambling tables the previous night, and how Mama had an utterly beautiful new peacock-blue morning gown. Dexter shuddered to read the list of all their extravagances.

There was also a short note from his father’s ward, Caroline Wakefield, whom everyone knew to be another of the Anstruther Collection masquerading under the false respectability of wardship.

Caro had written crossly,

Dear Dexter, pray do not regard Belle’s nonsense. The truth is that if we have no money we shall all have to economize and in the last resort find employment. Belle will not expire over the loss of a season, and your mama would have more to spend on gowns if she did not spend so much on gin. If you choose to marry for money for our sakes then you are a fool.

Dexter smiled ruefully and put the letters in his case. Caro had grown up with no illusions about her place in the world and a far more practical approach to financial matters than his other siblings. He tried to imagine blond featherbrained Belle going out to earn a living—and failed miserably.

“I should stay here and work,” he said, gesturing to Lord Liverpool’s letter, “and so should you. Liverpool mentions that there is someone who may be able to help us in the matter of Warren Sampson and that you will effect an introduction—”

“Later,” Miles said, grabbing his arm and hustling him out of the room. “Anyway, this is work, Dexter. You need to listen to the gossip and to meet the suspects. What better way than by mingling with all the fortune hunters and heiresses at the assembly?”

They went out into the market square. It was a blustery night with the wind rising and the moon dodging behind ragged clouds. The Morris Clown Inn, a sprawling coaching inn that dated back to medieval times, was on the southern corner of the square, opposite the town’s small but nicely appointed assembly rooms. Fortune’s Folly had been little more than a hamlet until fifty years before when Sir Monty’s grandfather had taken advantage of the fact that the natural springs around the village were thought to be medicinal. He had created a spa, laid out a small park, built an assembly room and a circulating library and had watched Fortune’s Folly grow into an exclusive watering place. There were new houses and shops, and in the summer the town attracted visitors from Harrogate and York. Now that it was the marriage mart of England it attracted a fair amount of riffraff, as well.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Argyle, the master of ceremonies, said unhappily, on seeing them. “Not two more gentlemen. Disastrous!”

He threw open the doors to the assembly rooms and Dexter immediately saw the problem. The place was packed with men in evening dress and there was scarcely a lady to be seen.

“All the respectable visitors have left town,” Mr. Argyle said. “They say that Fortune’s Folly is full of fortune-hunting rogues who lower the tone of the place.”

“They’re not mistaken,” Miles said. He caught Dexter’s arm. “Look, there’s that dashed libertine Jasper Deech. He’s been hanging out for a rich wife for years.”

“So have you,” Dexter pointed out. “So have I.”

“That’s different.” Miles looked affronted. “Deech is very unsavory.” He paused. “It’s not impossible that Deech could be the one engaged in criminal activities. I have often wondered where his money comes from. And that is Warren Sampson over there—” He gestured toward a middle-aged, florid-looking man who was rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the room. “I cannot believe that he seeks a wife here. He is not in need of a fortune.”

“Men like that always want to increase their capital,” Dexter said dryly. “I thought he was already married?”

“He buried his second wife last year so perhaps he is looking for a replacement,” Miles said. “Speaking of disagreeable characters, is that not Stephen Armitage over there, as well, fawning over Laura Cole? It certainly isn’t marriage he’s after there! He tried to fix his interest with her in London before she was even out of mourning. Frightfully bad form.”

Dexter spun around so quickly that he almost dislodged three glasses of lemonade from a tray carried by one of the servants. He apologized and tried to right the drinks before they splashed all over his and Miles’s shoes. It had not occurred to him that Laura would be present that evening but now he wondered why he had made that assumption. The main purpose of the assemblies might be for the young ladies of the neighborhood to meet eligible men, but it was also an opportunity for everyone in the community to meet and mingle and talk, and tonight there was much to talk about.

“Laura is in looks tonight,” Miles said, still watching the dowager duchess with deep appreciation. “I always thought she was far prettier than anyone gave credit and now that she is rid of that louse of a husband she positively blooms—” He broke off on a splutter as Dexter took him by the neck cloth and pulled tight.

“You are mighty familiar, bandying about her grace’s name with such ease,” Dexter said through his teeth. The unbearable thought that Miles might be another of Laura’s lovers took hold in his mind and could not be dislodged, no matter how he tried. Miles was a rake of the first order and his conquests were legendary. Dexter knew that it should not matter to him if Laura Cole was simply another name on the list but the fury that clouded his mind was as sudden and uncontrollable as it was unexpected and illogical. Miles, Stephen Armitage, and no doubt a dozen or more others…

“Steady, old fellow,” Miles protested, flailing his arms about and wheezing for breath, “Laura is my cousin! Known her since we were children. Why shouldn’t I use her name?”

Cousin. The word pierced the rage that seemed to envelope Dexter’s mind like a blanketing fog. Laura was Miles’s cousin, not his mistress. His grip eased slightly.

“Your cousin?”

Miles’s eyes bulged. “That’s what I said. Remember when we were in London I told you that I had a cousin living here? And what is it to you, anyway, Dexter?”

Dexter released him slowly. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought that the Duchess of Devonshire was your cousin.”

“She is.” Miles looked affronted. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Dexter? No reason why you should know all the ramifications of my family tree, is there? I have cousins all over the Ton, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Good evening, Miles. Mr. Anstruther…”

Dexter and Miles both jumped. Laura was standing before them in a glorious dark blue silk dress embroidered with tiny diamonds. It was cut discreetly low over the swell of her breasts yet it seemed to Dexter that the very modesty of the design and the tight swathing of the material served only to emphasize the sheer sensuousness of Laura’s curves. Whenever she moved, whenever she breathed, the gown shimmered with the radiance of a thousand tiny stars. She looked exquisite. He felt hot just looking at her.

Laura’s hair was swept up into a matching diamond clip. It shone with rich golden and chestnut lights and it seemed to beg to be unpinned and touched. Dexter felt his breathing constrict as though all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He stood still and looked at her and absorbed what felt like a physical blow. His habitual cool rationality had never seemed so far away. He could not move. He could not speak.

“Is there some kind of problem?” Laura asked, looking pointedly at where Dexter’s hands were still resting on Miles’s shoulders.

“Not at all,” Dexter said, coming to himself and smoothing Miles’s jacket down hastily. “Lord Vickery merely had a small malfunction with his wardrobe.”

“Next time you can call my tailor rather than attempting to assist yourself,” Miles said, glaring at him. He adjusted the set of his jacket and bowed to Laura, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on it.

“How are you, Laura?” he asked, sounding suspiciously to Dexter as though he was putting extra emphasis on his use of her name. “It is good to see you again. You look divine tonight. That must be one of Madame Hortense’s creations, I think.”

“I thought,” Dexter said sharply, unable to help himself, “that her grace was a relative of yours, Miles?”

“Not a close one,” Miles said, smiling wolfishly at Laura.

“Thank you for the compliment, Miles.” Laura’s smile held a sparkle of mischief. “But you need not waste your time on me when there are other richer and more susceptible ladies about.” She stood gracefully on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Even so, it is a pleasure to see you, too.”

“You are as proper as always,” Miles said, smiling at her.

“And as impervious to your flattery,” Laura responded, her lips tilting into an irresistible answering smile. “Pray remember I am a dowager duchess, Miles, not a green girl to fall for your compliments.”

Miles released her hand with every sign of reluctance. Dexter felt his temper bristle. “You are the most seductive dowager I have ever known,” Miles said, “and trust me, I have known many and in every way imaginable.”

“Enough, Miles,” Laura said, her strict tone giving Dexter a most inappropriate frisson of sexual excitement. “I do not wish to know about your conquests, nor do I have any intention of joining their ranks.”

“Oh very well…” Miles sighed. “I hope Hattie is doing well,” he said, reverting to a more cousinly tone. “I have brought some gifts for her from Mama. If I might call tomorrow…”

Dexter smiled. The image of an utter rake like Miles traveling from London with a child’s toys in his luggage was irresistible. Miles shot him a dark look.

“Of course,” Laura said. Dexter felt rather than saw her cast a quick look in his direction. Her tone was slightly strained. “Hattie will be delighted to see you.”

“Capital,” Miles said.

Laura turned to Dexter and her smile was several degrees cooler than the one she had given her cousin. It felt as though she was only addressing him because socially she had to. Dexter felt excluded. He did not like it. The urge to make her take notice of him, to force a response from her, was strong. This ice maiden could not have been more different from the sensuous woman he had held in his arms only a few hours before.

He caught her eye and for a second the awareness shimmered between them again. The noise from the crowd faded and it was just him and Laura looking at one another. He tried to force his gaze away from her and failed signally to do so.

Miles cleared his throat loudly and they both jumped.

“I wondered what had brought you to Fortune’s Folly, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said icily, covering her embarrassment with an arctic chill that Dexter thought might freeze him to the marrow. “I assume that both you and Miles are here because of Sir Montague’s outrageous edict? It is the only thing that I can think of that would bring two such ineligible gentlemen as yourselves to the north.”

“A man has to do what he must,” Miles said gloomily, “no matter how repugnant it may seem.”

“What an admirable approach to marriage, Miles,” Laura said. She was laughing. “And you, Mr. Anstruther—” Once again her tone had chilled as she turned to Dexter. “Do you hold the same sentiments? Your mama has made no secret of the fact that she wishes you to seek a rich and conformable wife.” She sounded derisive, as though Dexter were tied to his mother’s apron strings.

“Dexter needs to try harder to find a girl to suit him,” Miles said, grinning maliciously at Dexter. “He’s too damned—sorry, dashed—particular.”

“Possibly you cannot find a suitable bride because most young ladies have the wit not to be conformable these days,” Laura said. She threw Dexter a mocking look. “Is that what you want, Mr. Anstruther? A henwit?”

What Dexter wanted was to respond to Laura Cole’s provocation by shaking her—or possibly kissing her senseless. He felt alarmingly heated, as though his clothes were too tight and were smothering him. He wanted to break out of their restrictions with a roar and grab Laura and carry her off. He wanted to forget that his life was governed by sense and order these days and be decidedly disordered and irrational.

“And what of your own matrimonial prospects, your grace?” he inquired smoothly, clamping down on instincts that were becoming more ungovernable by the moment. “You are, after all, a single woman and a resident of Fortune’s Folly. As such you fulfill all the criteria for Sir Montague’s tax. Are you resigned to handing over half of your fortune to him?”

Laura laughed. “I most certainly am not, Mr. Anstruther! I have no intention of doing so. But with so small a fortune of my own I imagine that I am a negligible part of Sir Montague’s plan.”

“I doubt,” Dexter said, “that Sir Montague sees any sum of money as negligible, your grace.”

“Well, he won’t get his hands on mine,” Laura snapped.

“Then you will marry to avoid the tax?” Dexter enjoyed the flash of anger he had provoked in Laura’s eyes.

“That is even less likely than that I would willingly hand over my minuscule fortune, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “I have had one husband and have no wish for a second.”

Dexter could well believe that having finally got rid of the ghastly Charles, Laura would not wish to compromise her freedom again. And why should she, when widows could manage their lovers as they pleased as long as they showed a little discretion? The thought did nothing to soothe his aggravation.

“I am fascinated to know how you plan to solve this dilemma,” he said. “It is marry or pay, is it not?” He raised his brows. “Are you not trapped, your grace? Sir Montague’s edict has the weight of the law behind it, distasteful as it may be. Surely you cannot intend to break that law? You, a dowager duchess and pillar of the community?”

For a moment he thought he saw a hint of amusement in Laura’s face before she veiled her expression again.

“The law can be opposed in the courts,” she said frostily.

“Ah, I see.” Dexter’s smile broadened. “You intend to spend a fortune you do not possess on lawyers to thwart Sir Montague?”

“It is the principle of the matter that counts,” Laura said.

“And you are such a principled person.” Dexter felt a stab of anger at her hypocrisy.

“As are you, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said, her contemptuous gaze sweeping the room full of debutantes and making her meaning explicitly clear. “An excellent way to save time—combining your search for a bride and a mistress in one place!”

As the intensity of their exchange had increased so had they drawn closer together and now Dexter realized that they were almost touching. He could see all the little flecks of gold in Laura’s hazel eyes and the shadow of each individual eyelash against her skin. The curve of her cheek would fit so neatly into the caress of his palm, just as her lips had fitted his as though they had been made for that very purpose. He wanted to kiss her again with all the abandonment he had felt earlier. As soon as he thought it he ached for it.

Both of them had forgotten Miles, who was watching this interchange with eyebrows raised.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, “I can see that you do not need me here. I think I shall seek out the card room.”

Dexter saw the shock in Laura’s eyes as she realized how far she had let their exchange go. She wrenched her attention from him. One of her gloved hands crept up to her throat. He could see that she was shaking slightly. The diamonds on her bodice shimmered with each unsteady breath she took and he felt the same shocking uncertainty sweep through him. He had lost himself, forgotten everything in the potency of that moment with her.

A crash and the babble of voices cut across the hum of noise in the room and both of them turned with relief to see that Sir Montague Fortune had come into the ballroom with his brother, Tom, and had been the immediate recipient of a glass of lemonade full in the face. The perpetrator of this outrage was an extremely pretty young lady who looked barely out of the schoolroom. Tom Fortune, a wicked-looking young man who possessed all the humor that his brother lacked, was laughing as he shook the stray drops of liquid from his coat.

“Monty!” the debutante shrieked. “How dare you plot to steal my money, you great oaf? I’ll see you pay for this!”

“Have you met Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, Sir Montague’s half sister?” Laura inquired. “Her mother was married first to Sir Montague’s father and then after his death to the Earl of Scarlet. Lizzie is Sir Montague’s ward now that her parents are both dead. He has, naturally enough, upset her with his money-grabbing plan. They have a somewhat volatile relationship.”

“I would never have guessed,” Dexter said. He shook his head disapprovingly. “I should think Sir Montague deserves half her fortune in return for having to put up with such a hoyden as a sister.”

Laura tutted. “What a stuffed shirt you sound, Mr. Anstruther, six and twenty going on six and seventy. Clearly Lady Elizabeth is one you will need to cross off your list of eligible females. I see what Miles means when he claims you are too particular.”

Dexter looked at her suspiciously. “What makes you think that I would have a list, your grace?” he asked.

Laura’s hazel eyes sparkled with malicious amusement. “It is the sort of thing you would do. Groundwork, preparation, research…” She waved a dismissive hand. “Those are your trademarks, are they not, Mr. Anstruther? Of course you would have a list. You are the sort of man who thinks he has everything organized only to see it spiral spectacularly and inexplicably out of control.”

Her appraisal was so uncannily accurate that Dexter was silenced for a moment.

They both watched as a servant rushed out with a cloth for Sir Montague to mop his face and another to clean up the pools of lemonade on the floor.

“Surely you cannot condone Lady Elizabeth’s actions?” Dexter said. “They hardly accord with the idea of public propriety that you yourself pretend to embrace so heartily.”

Laura gave him an unfriendly look. “You are correct, of course,” she said. “I do not condone the throwing of lemonade. It can stain wooden floors very badly.” She watched Sir Montague retire from the room, dabbing ineffectually at his face and clothing with the large white napkin, and sighed.

“Retreating in disarray,” she remarked. “If only the war could be won as easily as this first battle.”

Suddenly she turned fully to face him.

“If you think to find your innocent little bride here in Fortune’s Folly, you should think again, Mr. Anstruther,” Laura said. She tapped her closed fan in the palm of her gloved hand in a gesture that betrayed her irritation. “It would be a mistake.”

Dexter moved closer to her. She seemed uncomfortable with his proximity and tried to move away but the press of the crowd in the assembly rooms was great now, pushing them together. Her body brushed his, the rub of her skirts sensuous against his thigh. Dexter could feel the heat of her through the thin silk and feel also the tiny quiver that racked her as their bodies touched. It incited a jolt of lust straight through him, a molten hunger sufficient to banish all thoughts of logic and sense and conjure visions of tangled drapes and of Laura’s pale nakedness in the moonlight.

“I am fascinated to discover that you take such an interest in my wedding plans, your grace,” he said softly.

The pink color stained Laura’s cheeks with both anger and reluctant arousal.

“I have no interest in either you or your plans,” she said sharply, stepping back as the crowd shifted a little. “I speak only to warn you, Mr. Anstruther. We want no fortune hunters here.”

“And you are certain,” Dexter said, “that you have no personal concern in my case?”

Laura laughed shortly. “You have a remarkably good opinion of yourself, Mr. Anstruther. Why should I care? I did not seek you out this evening. I do not look for the company of a man hypocritical enough to censure me for my behavior and then adhere to a double standard himself.” She flicked her fan angrily. “You are just like all the rest, are you not, Mr. Anstruther? As I said earlier, you seek a biddable wife and a complaisant mistress simultaneously.”

Dexter laughed. “No one,” he said politely, “could call you complaisant, your grace.”

“No one will call me your mistress, either!” Laura snapped, her hazel eyes narrowing disdainfully. “And as for the biddable wife, I suggest you forget her, too, and leave Yorkshire at once. I am persuaded that you are far better suited to London. Besides—” she gave her fan another angry swish “—you will have a deal of trouble finding a lady willing to entertain your suit if you put fishing before your bride, as you seem inclined to do. Surely you are aware that real men do not fish?”

Dexter gave her a look that brought the hot blood surging back into her face. “I have had no complaints, madam,” he said. “You were the one who rejected a real man earlier because you could not deal with him.”

He saw her eyes widen with shock at this outrageous and deliberate provocation. “Why, you—”

She raised her hand and his fingers closed tightly about her wrist.

“Surely you would not strike me in public?” His tone was soft and mocking. He drew her resisting body closer to his, feeling the heat in her and the tension and the anger. His own body was taut; the need for her pounding in his veins, destroying all good sense or cool thought.

“What scandalous behavior that would be from the perfect Dowager Duchess of Cole,” he said. “Are you willing to smash that public facade, your grace, or shall I do it for you?”

For a moment they stared deep into each other’s eyes and he saw the fury in the depths of hers, and also the shadow of fear that he might just do as he threatened and kiss her here, now, in front of the assembled crowds. He imagined what it would be like to bend her back like a bow against his encircling arm, to take that tempting mouth with his, to drink from her until he was finally sated. Not the actions of a man seeking a conformable wife, perhaps, but very definitely those of a man driven mad with lust by a wanton.

Laura wrenched her wrist from his grasp and took a step back. Her face was flushed as pink as a blown rose and her eyes were bright.

“You forget yourself, Mr. Anstruther,” she said. “Where is your self-control?” She smoothed her skirts down with a quick, nervous gesture and Dexter felt a savage satisfaction to see her hands shaking slightly.

“I came over in the first place only to see Miles,” she said quietly. “Next time I find you standing beside him, I shall move on.”

“So you say,” Dexter said, “but your cousin is long gone—” he nodded across the room to where Miles could be seen in the doorway to the refreshment room, engaging Alice Lister in conversation “—yet you are still here with me in spite of your suggestion that we avoid one another.”

Laura chewed her lush lower lip. “That can be easily remedied. Good evening, Mr. Anstruther. I hope you will return home soon. You belong in London where your feckless, libertine habits will be more appreciated.”

She turned sharply on her heel and walked away from him and Dexter took a deep breath and allowed the tension to ease from his body. The blood still drummed through his veins with an insistent lustful beat but he felt chilled, as well.

“Your feckless libertine habits…”

He was more like his father than he had thought, more like him than he wanted to be. He barely recognized himself when he was with Laura. He lost control and his need for her seemed to distort all else.

He watched as Sir Jasper Deech slithered across to ambush Laura on her way to the door. Lord Armitage hovered in the wings, waiting for an opportunity to cut in on the pair of them. Tom Fortune actually blew her a kiss across the ballroom. Dexter’s temper tightened to think that all those men probably viewed Laura as a widow who might provide the sort of amatory entertainments that would ease the tedium of courting a virginal heiress. Perhaps they imagined that they might woo a debutante during the day and sport with a widow at night. Perhaps she might welcome their advances. The fact that he knew it should not matter to him just made it matter all the more.

“Feckless libertine…”

Laura’s voice was like a mocking whisper in Dexter’s mind. He clenched his fists. Hell and the devil. He had come to Fortune’s Folly with the simple aim of investigating a case for Lord Liverpool and finding an heiress bride if he could. How had matters become so complicated so quickly? He had no desire for any of the insipid misses who flocked the ballroom and an all-too-strong desire for the Dowager Duchess of Cole. But indulging in a liaison with Laura was impossible. Besides, it was the type of thing that he, Dexter Anstruther, simply did not do these days. Losing his head, kissing Laura, burning to make love to her—these were the actions of a previous life. They were not the behavior of the responsible, principled man who sought nothing more than a well-ordered existence and a biddable bride.

He saw Lord Armitage lean close to leer down Laura’s gown under the guise of kissing her hand. He felt a primal and possessive fury almost swallow him whole. Was he to call out every last libertine in Fortune’s Folly? Because if they laid a finger on Laura Cole, that was exactly what he was afraid he would do and that would not be the action of a rational man.

He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, trying to loosen it a little. He had no idea what was making him think like this. It was utterly out of character. Hell, he was out of control already. And for a man who prided himself on his sound judgment it was inexplicable. He had no idea where it would end.

LAURA SURREPTITIOUSLY PRESSED her hands together as she walked away across the ballroom. Her palms felt hot within her evening gloves. Her whole body felt strangely sensitive, her skin prickling and a curl of excitement as well as a barb of anger still deep in her stomach. The impulse to turn round and look back at Dexter Anstruther was so strong that she could barely resist it.

What on earth was wrong with her? As Duchess of Cole she had entertained princes and dignitaries. She had not enjoyed it but the point was that she had fulfilled her role with grace and charm. She had never allowed any man to shake her composure.

Dexter could get under her skin with the slightest word, undermine her with the smallest touch. His presence was like a prickle in the blood, aggravating, provocative, impossible to ignore. She could not bear it. It tormented her. She had sworn to keep away from him and yet he had been right—she had sought his company deliberately and there was no point in pretending otherwise. It was foolish, it was dangerous and it felt irresistible.

She rubbed her wrist where he had held her. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her skin and felt an echo of that touch in the hot silken coil of desire in her belly. She wanted to turn around and grab Dexter. She wanted to drag him from the ballroom and take him to her bed and make love to him until they were both exhausted and the torment was soothed at last. She had felt like that from the very first moment she had seen him that evening. She had pretended barely to notice him but it had been precisely that—a pretense. He had looked very smooth and elegant in his black evening coat and pristine white linen, his tawny fair hair cut in a Brutus crop—she imagined that a longer style would demonstrate too little order and restraint—and the planes of his face harder and leaner than she remembered. And yet despite the outward control there was something about Dexter that she recognized instinctively because it was in her, too. It was the wildness beneath the surface, the danger and the power that no amount of elegant black superfine could subdue. Dexter might be determined to impose discipline on his life because of the chaos of his family background but there was a passion in him strong enough to shatter any barriers. He was denying his true self.

She understood him, and that made her feel a treacherous affinity with him. But that affinity was illusory. He thought her heartless for the way she had treated him in the past and she would allow him to continue to believe it because it enabled her to keep her secrets safe from him. She needed to remember Hattie and that it was essential to protect her. She could not risk exposure of her daughter’s secret. Keeping Dexter out of her life was an absolute necessity. She should be finding eligible females for him and throwing them at his feet so that she would be free of his troubling presence in her life. But the idea of Dexter finding a conformable wife turned a knife in her. She felt damnably bad-tempered to imagine it.

It did nothing to raise her spirits when she saw the new Duke of Cole, her cousin by marriage, and his wife, Faye, shepherding their daughter Lydia through the crowds in the ballroom. Faye Cole had the unfortunate appearance of a farmer presenting a prize heifer at market, encouraging her daughter along with little shooing motions of her hands, smiling flirtatiously at every gentleman in sight and pushing Lydia forward to meet them. Lydia was two and twenty now, and very definitely considered an old maid, and Laura realized that Faye must be taking advantage of the Dames’ Tax to find her daughter a husband at last. The new duke and duchess did not live in Fortune’s Folly, but Cole Court was certainly close enough to take advantage of all the suitors flocking to the village. And Lydia, tricked out in unbecoming pink satin, looked as miserable as sin at the prospect.

Laura watched as the Coles paused to return the greetings of Warren Sampson, an occurrence that struck her as odd since Faye Cole was the sort of snob who would normally cut a cit dead. Sampson was fulsomely flattering to Lydia, which made the poor girl blush even more uncomfortably. Then Henry Cole’s eye fell on Laura herself and he hailed her with surprising enthusiasm.

“Cousin Laura!” Henry kissed her hand with heavy gallantry. Faye was a great deal less affectionate and gave her a tight little nod. Her cold gaze itemized Laura’s appearance with pursed lips and narrowed gaze, assessing the gown and jewels as though placing a cost on each. Laura suspected that Faye already knew the gems were paste and was merely judging how good a counterfeit they were.

“I trust we shall see plenty of you, cousin, during our stay in Fortune’s Folly,” Henry said, and Faye’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“Thank you, cousin Henry, but I do not go much into society,” Laura said.

“Which is quite as it should be,” Faye snapped.

“Dowagers should neither be seen nor heard?” Laura inquired sweetly, and saw Miss Lydia Cole stifle a smile. Then Lydia’s gaze fell on Dexter Anstruther and her face lit up, making her look pretty and animated. Laura felt a pang of raw jealousy spike her inside. Dexter and Lydia had met four years before at Cole Court and had seemed to enjoy one another’s company. Laura knew that if Dexter genuinely wished to find a conformable bride he could do a lot worse than Lydia Cole. And Henry and Faye were so desperate to see her settled now that they would probably accept a man with an old family name but no fortune. Laura knew it would be a good match for both of them. The fact that she felt sick with envy to think of Lydia and Dexter together was something she would have to keep to herself. Her ungovernable feelings were her own problem.

A tide of panic rose within her as she realized that if Dexter and Lydia married it would bring him into the Cole family and therefore closer to his own daughter. Except that she seldom saw Faye and Henry socially, of course, and they had never showed any interest whatsoever in Hattie. That was the way it would have to stay, Laura thought. But it was damnably awkward for in the small world of the Ton people were always falling over distant relations and it was most unlikely she could hide Hattie from Charles’s family forever. She sighed as she felt the web of deceit weave a little tighter about her. It was starting to be a tangled web indeed and one that taunted her with a lifetime of emptiness.

“I will leave you to renew your acquaintance with Mr. Anstruther,” she said wearily. She had seen how Faye’s face had sharpened into interest to have an eligible gentleman in her sights. “I am sure that he will be delighted to see you again.”

“He is extremely handsome, but he has no money, has he?” Faye said thoughtfully, sizing Dexter up like a horse trader. “Still, that should make him grateful to secure a duke’s daughter in marriage.”

“Mama!” Lydia gasped, turning bright red at her mother’s barefaced gall.

“What?” Faye looked impatient. “There is no need to be missish, Lyddy. We all know why we are here, so you had better give him some encouragement.”

Laura shot Lydia a sympathetic glance as the poor girl looked as though she was about to bolt from the ballroom.

“Yes, Mama,” Lydia said, in a stifled whisper.

As Laura went out Faye was already dragging Lydia across to accost Dexter whilst Henry watched with the calculating expression of a man working out how much the wedding was going to cost him. Laura saw Dexter take Lydia’s hand and bow over it and the same shocking spear of jealousy pierced her to the core like a physical pain.

When she reached the door she could not prevent herself from looking back. Dexter was leading Lydia into the set that was forming for a country-dance. He did not look at Laura. It seemed he had already forgotten her.

LYDIA COLE WAS an observant girl. She had already noticed that Dexter Anstruther, though pretending to be utterly indifferent to Laura, had watched her covertly all the way out of the ballroom. She had felt the tension in his body as he led her into the country-dance. She had even noticed that although Dexter was making perfectly pleasant conversation with her, part of his mind was preoccupied with something—or someone—completely different. She was not the main focus of his attention. In truth, she barely had his attention at all.

She was hugely relieved. Dexter Anstruther, with his tawny golden hair, his deep blue eyes, his commanding physique and authoritative presence, scared her to death. He was far too handsome, far too clever and generally far too overwhelming for her.

Lydia understood her mother’s absolute determination to marry her off. She also knew that Dexter was looking for a rich wife. It should have been the perfect, convenient combination. Except that it was not, for she was sure that Dexter’s feelings were already engaged elsewhere and she…Well, she had formed a tendre for a totally unsuitable man. She was almost certain that she had fallen in love at first sight.

She glanced over at Faye and sighed. The duchess had the instinct of a major predator where her daughter’s marriage prospects were concerned and was watching Lydia with a mixture of smugness and vague threat as though she was about to pounce on Dexter and carry him off to announce the banns immediately. Matters, Lydia thought, might well become complicated. She had to ensure that she did not end up being bullied into marrying Dexter and she had to try to cure herself of her hopeless passion for another gentleman. She hoped she had sufficient will to succeed. She was not sure that she did.