Nan Ryan - Duchess For A Day

Hank’s intent was to put in a short, obligatory appearance at the dinner party where the stellar guest list would include the likes of Morgans and Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers. And, according to his talkative hotel valet, a beautiful widowed duchess.

He’d paid little attention to the gossip. Titles did not impress him. He wouldn’t have cared if the Old Queen herself showed up at the Springs unless she brought along a string of racehorses. Let the other guests fawn over the visiting duchess, making fools of themselves.

Not him.

It was five minutes of eight when Hank, impeccably dressed in dark tuxedo, snowy white shirt and black tie, arrived at the Tituses’ mansion with a promise to himself that he would stay for one short hour, no more. As soon as dinner was over, he would make his excuses and leave.

“My dear Hank,” Lillian Titus gushed, gazing up at him as a young, impressionable girl might. “Horace and I are delighted that you could join us this evening.”

“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Titus,” Hank replied.

The plump, happy hostess wrapped a possessive arm around Hank’s and maneuvered him about the drawing room, introducing him to those he didn’t know, reuniting him with old acquaintances from summers past.

When finally she released her death grip on his arm, Hank exhaled with relief and milled about. He hardly noticed the longing looks he drew from the ladies. He was used to such frank appraisals. Unfortunately, he saw no one here with whom he’d like to get better acquainted. He hoped dinner would soon be announced.

It was coming up on 8:30. What were they waiting on?

A glass of port in his hand, Hank was standing across the large parlor, his back to the room, when the last guest finally arrived. He paid no attention to the buzz of excitement that swept through the crowd. He was talking to a fellow Thoroughbred owner when Lillian Titus stepped up and interrupted him in midsentence.

“Excuse me, Hank,” Lillian said with a smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Hank slowly turned.

And found himself face-to-face with the elusive golden-haired woman he had not been able to get out of his mind. His heart skipped two beats. Then began pounding furiously. She was even lovelier than he had thought. Those luxurious golden locks were dressed appealingly atop her head. Her beautiful, unblemished skin appeared to glow in the soft light.

Her eyes, an incredible violet hue and seductively shaded by long, thick lashes, were large and luminously expressive. Her half-petulant lips looked soft and sweet. He immediately wanted to kiss them along with her beautiful bare shoulders and elegant throat.

She was tall and willowy, at least five-eight or nine, with hips that were lush, feminine and gently rounded. Her violet-hued gown was so tight it thrust her rounded breasts blatantly upward. The pale swell of her bosom made his mouth water and his knees grow weak.

She stood there looking cool, unruffled, totally serene. Yet he would have bet every Thoroughbred he owned that she was fiery, tempestuous and passionate. Without so much as moving or saying a word, she exuded a healthy sexuality and wholesome sense of herself as a desirable woman.

Hank wanted her instantly.

“Hank, dear,” Lillian Titus was saying, “may I present the Duchess of Beaumont. She just arrived this afternoon and will be with us through the season.” She turned to Claire, “Your Grace, Mr. Hank Cassidy of Nevada.”

Claire took one look at Hank and recognized him as the man she’d seen going into the hotel cottages this afternoon. She knew she had found the man she was going to seduce. The mere sight of him caused a fluttering sensation in her stomach and an aching tightness in her breasts.

He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet. He was also tanned, muscular and fit. His hair was coal black, thick and gleaming with blue highlights under the glow of the chandelier. She had the strongest urge to reach up and run her hands through those silky raven locks.

His face was beautiful, but strong. Hooded eyes of striking summer blue were focused on her and deep in their depths flashed unmistakable sensual fire and unspoken challenge. His nose was straight and proud. His mouth was wide, generous, with warm, sensual lips that likely knew the art of kissing.

He was staring at her and Claire caught the slight dilating of his eyes and the little smile that began to play around the corners of his mouth as if he knew something she didn’t. It made her uneasy. It made her curious.

He wore an elegant tuxedo with satin lapels and cummerbund that fitted his tall, lean body perfectly. The whiteness of his pleated shirt was striking against the darkness of his skin. He held a glass of port in his right hand and she noted that his fingers were long and tapered, the nails clean and cut short. She found herself wondering how it would feel to have that tanned hand touching her. Caressing her face. Stroking her shoulders.

Without so much as moving a muscle, his raw sexual power was obvious, almost tangible. There was absolutely no doubt in Claire’s mind that this was the man who could invoke a feverish passion in her.

Ah, yes here was her unsuspecting target. But she wouldn’t let him know it.

Not yet.

Smiling down at her, Hank was already counting the minutes until they could take their leave and he could take her in his arms. He saw no obstacle in his path. Like everyone else, he had heard the stories of the uninhibited duchess’s affairs. That she was a libertine suited him fine. He preferred women of experience. His only regret was that the two of them had to endure the boring dinner party when they could be back at her place or at the hotel cottages getting properly acquainted.

Hank took the soft hand the duchess offered and acknowledged her. She spoke his name and it sent tingles up his spine. But all too soon she freed her hand from his.

“You’ll excuse us, Hank,” said Lillian Titus. “The others are anxious to pay their respects to the duchess.”

Hank nodded. But he was surprised and oddly disappointed that the duchess turned away without a parting glance. All at once he had the uneasy feeling that she was not particularly interested in him.

Taken aback, he watched as she swept regally around the room, smiling at guests as she was introduced, warmly greeting those she had known from summer seasons past.

Hank never took his eyes off the vision in violet. His body tensed. Teeth clamped down, he silently willed her to turn and look at him. To give him some subtle sign. To let him know that she was aware of him.

It never happened. Not once did she so much as glance back in his direction.

Nonplussed, Hank was relieved when finally a smartly uniformed butler stepped into the open double doors of the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served.”

Hank felt a hand on his arm. “You’re the Silver King!” trilled a feminine voice and Hank reluctantly took his eyes off the duchess. A winsome redhead in a figure-hugging gown of emerald-green satin was smiling seductively at him. “You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Cassidy?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well, you should be,” she teased and her eyes sparkled. “I’m Caroline Whit. We met three years ago. I was here with my husband, Rodney. Ring a bell? Rodney Whit from Vermont.”

“Rodney Whit? Sure. Is he here this evening?”

“I hope not,” she said with a laugh. “I divorced him last winter. And please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not.” She leaned closer and whispered, “The only good thing I got from dear old Rodney was a love of racehorses. I understand they’re your passion, as well.”

“That’s why I’m in Saratoga,” he said.

“We have a lot in common, Hank. We’d better go in to dinner,” she said. “I hope you’re seated next to me.”