My Wild Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 8) Read online

  “I promise, the reports are all true,” he drawled.

  She doubted it very much. Still, she hesitated, wondering if she could hurry off without completely losing her dignity. After all, she could not hie off in a sense of pique any longer. Oh, no. Hobbling was her best bet. Something she did not fancy him witnessing. But then she stopped herself. Why should she go? It was her bench.

  “I’m sure you’re wanted inside,” she said, with as much optimism as she could muster, glancing back at the house.

  “Oh, certainly,” he agreed, closing his book. “Aren’t you?”

  “No,” she replied quickly, wondering how the devil to extract herself from this conversation he seemed determined to have.

  “Wanted?” he asked carefully.

  She cringed. Drat. Drat and blast. Why couldn’t he be like Englishmen and avoid any uncomfortable topic with a quick change to the weather?

  “Well, yes they want me,” she corrected.

  He nodded, his hands holding his book as though it were china. “You don’t want them?”

  Beatrix gasped at his accurate summary and, also, she found herself admiring the way he held that tome in his hands. She wondered if he held all such things he valued with such care. “That sounds terrible,” she said.

  Shrugging those immense shoulders, he observed, “It’s either true or not. No terrible about it.”

  What an odd man. If they had met over a year ago, she would not have let him go easily. But now? Now, she really did not wish to explain herself to him. Yet, here she was. “If you must know, I’m not fond of company.”

  “Splendid,” he said brightly. “Neither am I.”

  “I did not mean– I do not want—”

  “My company either?” he supplied. “I see.”

  “Good.” She waited. But he didn’t move. She cleared her throat and made a shooing motion to the house.

  “I’m girding myself,” he said with a beleaguered sigh of martyrdom.

  “For what?” she queried. He was good looking, from a well-to-do family, and he was connected to a duke. Why on earth did he need to gird himself? Was it because he was an American? She doubted he had such insecurities.

  “If you must know, it’s your cousin, Lockhart,” he drawled. “He’s most tiring.”

  “How do you know he’s my cousin,” she demanded more tartly than she’d planned.

  He cocked his head to the side then glanced to her cane.

  She scowled. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”

  He nodded, his sandy hair brushing his sharp cheekbones. “It does.”

  “Wonderful,” she gritted, her cheeks heating. Did everyone know? Did everyone associate her with her injury? If even Americans knew, there really was no hope. She sighed.

  “I’ve heard all sorts of things about you,” he said, his brows waggling.

  “Have you?” she demanded, her temper rising as she glared at him.

  “Oh yes,” he enthused.

  She pursed her lips. “That I’m the pity of the ton?”

  His brows waggled again and he tsked. “That you loathe everyone.”

  That gave her pause. Why wasn’t he pitying her and giving her his condolences? Why was he saying she hated everyone. . . Even if it was the truth? “Well, I—”

  “You don’t,” he said at last, his head cocking the side. His gaze traveled over her slowly, a gaze which could not be avoided and felt as if he were stripping her down to her very soul as he assessed her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she gasped. “You know nothing about me.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, even as he kept that passionate and riveting gaze locked upon her. “I’m being terribly forward.”

  “Indeed, you are,” she agreed, pounding her cane into the ground. “Now hie off. This is my spot.”

  “Is it?” He glanced about as if he had not noticed it at all when he’d chosen it. “It’s quite lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she gritted before she pointed up to the house with her cane. “Now, if you’d just be going.”

  “I will.” His eyes alight, he leaned forward and said, “If you promise me a dance.”

  The shock of his request burned through her and she longed to slap him. She couldn’t. He was too far away. “You, sir, are an arse.”

  He tsked. “Such language from a lady.”

  “I no longer have expectations so I do not expect myself to behave as a lady does,” she snapped. Beatrix was full of fury that he would dare to be so presumptuous and put her in such a terribly awkward position.

  “Though I highly doubt your initial claim to be true, good for you on the latter. Life’s too short not to tell a fellow like me to sod off.”

  She ground her teeth together, trying to cool her temper before demanding, “Are you going to?”

  He blinked, innocent as a lamb. “What?”

  “Sod off?” she gritted.

  There it was again. That wicked, soul-seducing smile. “If you come have a dance with me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t dance.”

  “Don’t dance,” he corrected arrogantly.

  “You’re really insufferable,” she rushed, shocked he would be so rude.

  He grew still and serious. “You made it all the way out to these trees.”

  “With effort,” she said slowly, as if he were a very stupid person.

  “So, dancing will be an effort.” He shrugged then winked. “Surely, I’m worth it.”

  “I ought to bash you over the head with my cane,” she declared, brandishing it. “It might actually improve you.”

  “Never you fear,” he assured her brightly as though their whole conversation was perfectly normal. “I’ve already suffered several blows. No doubt, they’ve made me the man I am.”

  “An arse,” she pronounced.

  His sensual lips twitched and the blasted evening breeze swept in at the moment, sweeping his scandalous hair about his face, giving him a deuced mischievous air. “You’re repeating yourself.”

  Once again, the scent of roses surrounded her on the night breeze. It was intoxicating and impossible to ignore as she readied herself to set him down. “Because you’re very rude and I fear your capacity for understanding is limited due to all those blows you claim you’ve obtained.”

  Slowly, he stood, a shocking display of long, muscled limbs unfolding. “I will go.”

  “Thank you,” she said, fighting a sigh of relief and also the desire to drink in the sight of him standing at what had to be at least six feet and four inches. The man was a giant.

  As he walked, his leather evening shoes made no sound on the manicured grass, despite his size. He paused beside her, gazing down with the wickedest look she’d ever seen.

  She had to crane her head back to match that gaze. Her chest rose and fell quite quickly for some inexplicable reason.

  Then, he leaned down just enough that she could catch the barest hint of his scent, something of the sea. Something delicious. “I dare you,” he whispered.

  She blinked, almost swaying towards him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I dare you to dance with me.”

  “Am I child to be dared?” she challenged, taking hold of herself.

  He merely shrugged then strode off into the growing darkness. His dark coat blended with the shadows until only his sandy hair blazed like a halo in the night.

  “I dare you, indeed,” she huffed.

  What the devil did he take her for? A fool? A child to be teased into doing something they did not want to do?

  She was no infant. Walking was difficult. Dancing impossible. He clearly did not understand how very bad her circumstances were. She started to make her way to the bench, her hand clenching her cane.

  But the way he’d said it. That low rumble. It had sounded like a promise. A promise of something impossibly good.

  As she readied to sit and sweep him from her mind, she realized he’d left his book. On purpose. She had no doubt. A man like that, an
d the way he had held it, would never leave a book behind out of doors. She opened the book to the marked page and nearly gasped.

  It was a poem by John Donne.

  Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

  Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

  For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

  Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

  From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

  Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

  And soonest our best men with thee do go,

  Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

  Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

  And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

  And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

  And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

  One short sleep past, we wake eternally

  And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

  Death, thou shalt die. That phrase repeated again and again in her mind. Had he known it was she when he’d turned to her? Had he somehow chosen this powerful poem knowing she would see it? How absurd. Of course not. Then why was he reading it? Did he, too, know the agony of loss? Yet, the poem decried the power of death. In her experience, death was, indeed, the most powerful thing in all the world.

  He had dared her to come in from the garden. To take up a moment and live. To defy death, so to speak. She shivered despite the warm summer air.

  She glanced after him. Once, she would have taken any dare laid out before her.

  Once. . .

  No, she didn’t take dares now. So, she sat down on the small bench, put his tome aside, and opened her book. Ready to read. Ready to be swept away. Except, now, the music from the house floated towards her as did the sound of chatter and laughter, of people enjoying life to its fullest.

  Was he waiting for her? No. He knew she wouldn’t come. No doubt, he was choosing from the hundreds of ladies who would be more than happy to be swept up in his powerful arms. They would all bat their lashes and display their bosoms, flattering him. A wave of intense anger at the very idea rushed through her.

  It made no sense. Only, she hated the idea of him being fawned over. That was it. Arrogant fellow that he was.

  What would it be like to shock that arrogant smirk off his face?

  She slammed her book shut and grabbed her cane.

  Dare? She’d show him dare.

  Chapter 5

  “You’ve a deuced odd look on your face.”

  Adam Duke did not even turn to Tony. Instead, he lifted his chin and declared, “I’m waiting.”

  Tony stood beside him in the crush of people, wine glass in hand. Their backs were to the wall, large palm fronds on either side. He followed Adam’s line of vision as he prompted, “For?”

  “To see if my rudeness has resulted in reward.”

  Tony stopped, glass aloft, then turned to stare at him agog. “What have you done?”

  Adam still avoided Tony’s gaze. In truth, he was concerned he’d gone too far. And he’d no idea why he’d done it. Adam glanced again to the double doors leading out to the garden which, at this moment, were providing a welcome breath of air in the hot gathering. He willed her to appear. Willed her to take up his gauntlet.

  My God, he’d been surprised by the crackling defiance in her stance. The way she’d gripped that cane, brandishing it at him with great vigor had been the most. . . Glorious thing. She was not a woman to be trifled with. And weren’t those the best kind?

  Still, he’d pushed. Hell, he’d shoved. Demanding she dance with him. What if she couldn’t? What if he’d been cruel? She was a woman who had suffered no uncommon loss, and she’d been of delicate birth, likely having her way all her life. What had he done?

  He winced.

  No. He refused to believe he’d been wrong. Because one couldn’t let hell swallow one up. Only bitterness resulted in that. And Lady Beatrix didn’t deserve a life leached of living. No, she deserved to blossom, like a flower drinking its first drops of rain after a long drought. She owed it to herself.

  So, he stared again at those open doors. Desperately hoping she would come in and teach him a thing or two.

  Adam said from the corner of his mouth, “Let’s just say, I’ve prodded the tiger.”

  “Oh God,” Tony groaned, knocking back his glass of wine then plunking it on a passing tray. “You met her. Didn’t you?”

  He gave a succinct nod. Clearly, being specific about who the her was, was completely unnecessary.

  Tony snatched a glass of champagne from another tray being wielded about by a liveried servant. “Well, at least tonight won’t be boring.”

  With that, as if summoned by his hopes, Lady Beatrix poked her head through the doors, gazed around and blanched. If someone so pale could blanch.

  No one had spotted her yet, but he could see it on her face. The weighing of decisions. Her face tensed, her lips tensed. What would she decide? Would she decide to come and show him or would she retreat to seeming safety? Except there was nothing safe to isolation.

  He knew it all too well.

  Isolation was the death knell of hope. Isolation was the beginning of another sort of internal death.

  “You can do it,” he found himself whispering, longing to cross the room and yank her in. But she had to do this herself.

  “What are you nattering about?” Tony asked. “You didn’t drink that much gin. And I—”

  Tony broke off, as did half the company, as the young man gazed across the room.

  Without fail, the vast majority of the gilded ton turned to the figure of Lady Beatrix entering the long hall. She did not stride but hobbled, her slippers peeking out from under her simple, white muslin gown. However, her stance, her presence? They were as arrogant as a queen.

  It did not matter that she was not in an evening gown. Somehow, in the candlelight, the simplicity of her thin, white gown, with its small capped, embroidered lace sleeves, was stunning and seductive. The light of the candles danced upon her, showing every curve of her beautiful body beneath the light fabric.

  Her icy gaze swept over the hoard of aristocracy as if she thought them all muck beneath her toes. A brow arched as if ready to defy any who might gainsay her or offer her pity.

  He groaned. It was, of course, one way to deal with people who gaped. Disdain was a familiar animal to him. Yet, it would bring her no relief. If anything, it would drive people away which, of course, was what she wanted. But loneliness would eventually creep in and that was a cruel knife.

  Her chin lifted and she searched the bejeweled, silk-wearing crowd.

  Searched for him. So, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he stepped forward and strode across the highly-polished wood floor. His steps seemed to echo in his own ears, impossible of course, at the strange silence of the room. Even the music had fallen silent between the sets of dances.

  Those glorious blue eyes narrowed as she spotted him. She did not move. Beautiful, still, regal. She resembled a living Grecian goddess. Not Aphrodite, but Diana perhaps, goddess of war. Goddess of the moon.

  As soon as he stood before her, he bowed slightly.

  She arched that brow even higher and tilted her head to the side. Her dark, undressed hair was a wild riot of curls against her neck. “Well, here I am. Are you prepared for us to make fools of ourselves.”

  “I’d like nothing better,” he replied and he meant it with every damned fiber of his being.

  “Let’s get on with it,” she said with forced confidence.

  “They need something to talk about, after all.”

  She thrust her cane out. What might have seemed a strange gesture suddenly made sense when a passing servant swept the cane up in his gloved hands as if he did such things every day.

  Adam fought a smile at her determination. But then he spotted it; the slight fear in her eyes, and the ever so slight trembling of her gl
oveless hand as she reached out. He took her small hand in his, steadying it.

  For one brief moment, the world stopped. Time stopped. And there was nothing but them and the feel of her ungloved hand in his gloved one. The shock of her bare hands would, no doubt, be on everyone’s lips tomorrow. But at this moment, he didn’t care about it. Not at all. His mind was consumed by other thoughts. Consumed by her and her courage.

  In all his years, he’d felt nothing like this moment and it was damned tempting to let go of her fingers and end the sensation as quickly as possible. To shake the momentous feeling away. But he’d started this and he wasn’t about to leave her in the breach.

  She made slow progress towards where other couples were waiting to dance, yet watching them. Adam slowed his own long stride, making as if it were the most wonderful thing but to take his time with her.

  Her slippers patted over the polished wood floor. Once she was well onto the area reserved for dancing, she turned towards him.

  The hem of her pale, light gown brushed over his evening shoes. The feel of her skirts brushing against his legs felt memorable, shocking even. Which was absurd because such an innocent gesture should have meant nothing.

  Somehow, it did not.

  Fortuitously, the orchestra began to play a slow, but seductive tune as he faced her squarely.

  Fear. Fear shone in her defiant eyes.

  “Trust me,” he whispered, a barely audible sound.

  “I’d trust the devil first,” she hissed, defiance replacing the fear, but only for a moment.

  Carefully, pointedly, he slid his arm to her waist and he lifted her ever so imperceptibly, leaving nothing but her toes on the floor.

  Her stunning blue eyes flared with shock and then a glimmer of what he’d longed to see. Hope. Hope flashed there. And the triumph he felt in that moment, not for himself, but for her, burned through him like the most delicious wine and he knew without a doubt that he wanted to drink her to her full. And he was about to be in exceptionally dangerous waters.

  Fortunately for himself, he was an excellent swimmer.

  *

  Terror throbbed through her as she headed onto the floor, surrounded by the gazes of the very people she usually avoided at all costs. Each step was slow, deliberate and she could not hide her limp. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, wondering how the devil she’d allowed him to goad her into his.