Jillian Hunter: The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife

“Which one of you wants to dance with me first?”

Drake, dark and cynical at heart, nudged his older brother in the ribs. “Heath has always been lighter on his feet. And he’s a perfect gentleman.”

Devon, devil-may-care and friendly, said, “He’s more graceful, too. And he can whisper Egyptian endearments in your ear.”

“But Drake is more rugged,” Heath protested. “A man’s man. I know I’d feel safe prowling an alley with him at my side. Just don’t let him lure you out onto the terrace.”

“I have a brilliant suggestion.” Devon threw his arm over Griffin’s shoulders. “We could form our own set, and share you.”

“That seems a rather drastic way to take myself off the market,” Griffin said with a faint grimace.

Heath lifted his brow. “Anyone in particular on your list you’re hoping to avoid? Or capture?”

“I’ve only been in London a few days.”

“That long?” Drake gave him a skeptical grin. “And you haven’t found a woman to pursue yet? This might call for a family cabal.”

Odd. Griffin thought suddenly of Harriet Gardner. She was the first woman he’d met in London. And even though he had been introduced to quite a few others since, she was the only one who had come close to setting him on fire. He smiled inwardly. He had wondered quite a few times since what would have happened if they’d been alone a little while longer.

“My wife mentioned something in the papers about Lady Constance Chatterton,” said Devon, who was not the most discreet member of the family. “Fact or fiction?”

Griffin frowned. That was a woman he hadn’t thought about at all. “We made a brief acquaintance in Venice when our families were visiting.”

“Ah.” Heath, who was discreet, nodded. “And this was the start of what the papers are calling the Season’s most heart-stirring romance?”

“I don’t think I would go that far,” Griffin said quickly. “Our gondolas passed in the same canal. We looked at each other. Or perhaps I looked at her. I believe she had her eye on Liam. I was only the duke’s brother then. Liam may have seen her afterward. I wasn’t interested in her enough to ask.”

There was a silence. He was relieved they made no attempt to offer maudlin sympathy for Liam’s death. But then, they had lost a brother, too, in a vicious ambush, and Brandon Boscastle’s body had never even been recovered.

Devon withdrew his arm from Griffin’s shoulder as the band assembled on the dais to play. “I don’t mean to break your heart, but we’re going to have to find another time to dance. I’ve a wife and little daughter waiting for me at home. Come and meet them, won’t you, before the ton takes over your life?”

Griff laughed. “Believe me, I’d rather stand on a scaffold than stand out in Society.”

Drake slapped him on the back. “Too late. You’re a duke. Society has already claimed you as its next victim. Do call on us if you need help. We have all of us been in your place before.”

Harriet drank her lemonade, perfectly content with her position between Lady Powlis and the assembly of wallflowers and chaperones observing the guests who gathered at the edge of the ballroom floor. A ruddy-cheeked young gentleman, who had been waiting for a quiet moment to approach, had just asked Edlyn to dance.

The girl looked stunned at the offer, glancing at Lady Powlis for advice. “What should I do?” she whispered behind her fan.

“Dance with him,” her aunt replied, nodding encouragingly at the gentleman.

“But I don’t want to. I’m in mourning.”

Lady Powlis released a long-suffering sigh. The official mourning period had long since passed. “Then refuse him nicely.”

“Fine,” Edlyn muttered with a mutinous look. “I shall dance with him.”

Harriet took another long sip of lemonade.

Lady Powlis frowned, tapping her closed fan on her knee. “Stop slurping, Miss Gardner.”

“Pardon me, madam.”

“No, pardon me,” the older woman said.

“For what?”

“For snapping at you.”

“That’s all right, Lady Powlis. I understand.”

Lady Powlis stopped tapping her fan and searched Harriet’s face. “Do you, indeed?”

“I might,” Harriet said evasively, and hoped she wouldn’t be asked to explain what she understood. Or thought she did. She sensed that the old lady deeply loved both the duke and Miss Edlyn, and it made Harriet a little sad to see all of them so miserable. Of course, it would be unseemly to admit any of this. So, as to seem agreeable, she settled for a banal smile and said, “Would your ladyship like another glass of lemonade?”

“I’ve had three already,” her ladyship replied ill-humoredly.

“If we’re counting, you’ve had four,” Harriet said before she could stop herself.

That might have been the end of her right then and there. Lady Powlis could have insisted the academy dismiss Harriet for impertinence, had the duke not sauntered up to her chair. Her ladyship brightened, and Harriet breathed a sigh of relief.

Saved. By the rake. At least, if what the gossips like Miss Peppertree said was true. He had not revealed himself as such in the short time Harriet had known him. The entire collection of wilted-looking wallflowers cheered up as he honored them with an elegant bow. As he straightened, his eyes lingered on Harriet.

Elegant beast , she thought in grudging pleasure. All the ladies around her were sighing, smiling, or murmuring vapid remarks, which he gallantly acknowledged with a few evasive nods. There was an uninhibited honesty about females who for various reasons had abandoned all hope of snaring a catch. Having discarded their illusions, they could appreciate a stunning man for what he was.

The duke, however, seemed a little at a loss over the fuss afforded him. Suddenly the thought occurred to Harriet-no, it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be shy. He knew the value of his masculine appeal. And he certainly had not been shy with her the day they met.

Still, his haunting beauty, his tragic past, the identity of the woman he would marry, would be discussed by this audience for many weeks to come. Harriet realized that her own status had suddenly risen simply because she could claim his acquaintance. And even though she doubted he would ever have reason to confide in her, she felt an obligation to protect his secrets, whatever they were, from the world.

The Boscastles had favored her. Heaven knew she might even learn to care for the snippy old tartar sitting beside her.

And then, right before Harriet could go floating away on a cloud of sentiment, Lady Powlis said to the duke, “You look elegant in black, dear. Be a good boy and dance with Miss Gardner here.”

Harriet willed herself not to react. If she had obeyed impulse, she might have emptied her lemonade glass on her ladyship’s head for making such a preposterous suggestion.

The duke’s silence only intensified her annoyance. Another woman might have been mortified. Having shed her pretensions early in life, Harriet wondered why she felt the slightest humiliation. Lady Powlis, she decided, was not a woman to be pitied. She was a double-faced harridan who bedeviled others to alleviate her boredom. The duke, one assumed, had developed tactics to elude his aunt’s traps. Still, he was taking his sweet time to employ one if he had.

“Did you hear me?” Lady Powlis asked in a voice that rang across the room like a cathedral bell.

Harriet couldn’t bear it. She said, “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you by yourself, Lady Powlis.”