How to Dazzle a Duke Page 10

  “I am no witch, Mr. Grey,” she said. “England has quite done with witches. We have none.”

  “Or none we will admit to,” her brother said cheerfully.

  “And I do believe we’ve come to pronounce it differently,” Iveston said, looking at her, of all people. Whatever was that supposed to mean? As Lord Dalby was grinning awkwardly and as Lord Cranleigh was shaking his head in mild admonishment, she could only suppose it was something entirely dreadful.

  “We should go,” Lord Cranleigh said to his distinctly peculiar brother. “It’s gone quite late.”

  Penelope perked up at the words. Two less men in the room would make it so much easier to corner Edenham, who was still talking to Sophia and Lord Ruan. Whatever could they have to talk about for so long?

  “It is, isn’t it?” Lord Iveston said, looking at her in a most intent and highly unwelcome fashion. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in Chinese porcelain, Miss Prestwick? My brother knows quite a bit about it, having traveled to China once or twice.”

  “Once,” Lord Cranleigh said.

  “I think it very pretty, of course, Lord Iveston,” she said. “If I have any further need for information, I shall certainly find my way to Lord Cranleigh and have all my questions answered. But don’t let me keep you. I have no pressing questions about Chinese porcelain at the moment.”

  “You know a good deal about Chinese porcelain, Cranleigh?” Edenham asked, leaving Sophia and Ruan by the fire and coming over to their rather large circle. Penelope straightened her shoulders a bit and stiffened her spine. She had quite a nice bosom, quite full and without any droop at all. Men, by every account available, did enjoy a nice bosom on a woman. “Quite a lovely piece here. Intriguing shade of green.”

  “Celadon,” Cranleigh answered. “A gift from my brother, Henry. I have just gifted Lady Dalby this blue vase.”

  “It’s quite exceptional,” Edenham said, admiring it. “Is there some reason the Blakesleys are giving Lady Dalby expensive porcelain? I haven’t forgotten an important anniversary, have I?”

  As they were talking, Penelope, still shoulders back and bosom nicely lifted, felt Lord Iveston’s eyes upon her. It was most distracting. Couldn’t he see that he was blocking her view of the Duke of Edenham?

  “No, I shouldn’t think so,” Cranleigh answered.

  The Indians and Lord Dalby had moved off a bit, talking amongst themselves, which was a relief. She was down to four men, if she included George, which she did not. If only she could urge Iveston and Cranleigh out of Dalby House she might be able to manage five minutes of near solitude with Edenham. They wouldn’t be actually alone, because that would be too forward by half, but if she could just speak to him and impress him with her pleasant demeanor and her cleavage, and she did not care a whit which impressed him more, then this entire afternoon would have been worth every inconvenience, even the dreary Lord Iveston.

  “It’s only that we’ve each just got married, you see,” Cranleigh continued.

  “And you’re giving Sophia a wedding gift?” Edenham asked.

  Actually, that was a bit odd, wasn’t it? Why were men giving Sophia gifts, beyond the fact that she was Sophia Dalby and she required gifts, which was perfectly lovely as habits went and certainly Penelope was not at all put off by it. Once she was a duchess, she would think of some very good reason why she should be given perfectly extravagant gifts all the time.

  George moved closer to Cranleigh and Edenham as they examined the vases, and Lord Iveston, before Penelope could do a thing about it, distracted as she was in planning all her future gifts, found herself in a corner of the white salon with him by a door leading to she knew not where.

  The candles had been lit, but not well in this corner, and because of the rain, it had gone quite dark even if the room was done up entirely in white. That was the least of it, however. The worst of it was that it was Lord Iveston who had got her into this little corner and not Edenham, and that was just the sort of thing that Lord Iveston, whom she barely knew, but knew enough to know that she found him entirely peculiar, would do. Why, if she knew him any better, she’d think he was ruining whatever small chance she had at Edenham on purpose.

  “It is very difficult to see the vases from here, Lord Iveston,” she said, trying to peer round his shoulder, which was flatly impossible as he simply towered over her.

  “You don’t truly care about the vases, Miss Prestwick,” he said, which was completely like him as he was so very contrary.

  “I can’t think why you should say such a perfectly ridiculous thing, Lord Iveston,” she said, giving up peering and trying to gracefully accept being trapped within the least interesting corner of the room.

  “Because they were prominently displayed in the center of the room for your entire visit and you did no more than glance at them.”

  “Was I supposed to inspect them? I didn’t want to appear rude.”

  “I don’t believe you, Miss Prestwick. I don’t think you mind appearing rude at all.”

  “What a perfectly horrid thing to say!” she snapped, staring up at him. “And how perfectly like you to say it.”

  “I don’t believe you know me well enough to say that, Miss Prestwick,” he said, giving her the most strange of looks, which made sense as he was a very strange man.

  “Apparently I know you well enough, Lord Iveston. You are not the most cordial of men, which I’m certain you will excuse me from saying because I am equally certain that your disposition can be no surprise to you.”

  Lord Iveston looked very much like he was developing a twitch near his left eye.

  “My disposition … but perhaps I am merely modest, a most private man,” he said.

  “If you were a modest, private man, you would hardly tell me that, would you?”

  “You are probably correct in that,” he said with very obvious reluctance.

  Penelope snorted, delicately. Most assuredly delicately.

  “But I don’t believe,” he continued, “that you can possibly know me well enough to dislike me, Miss Prestwick. I am most unaccustomed to being disliked.”

  “I should think so,” she said. “As you rarely leave your home, it is equally true that no one can know you well enough to dislike you and that no one whom you do see would dislike you. It’s a very safe existence you’ve made for yourself, Lord Iveston. I don’t say it’s unattractive, but it is unusual.”

  There. How much more conciliatory could she be?

  “But are you not also unusual, Miss Prestwick?” he said, proving most neatly her premise. What sort of man made a comment of that sort? “I don’t say it’s unattractive of you to be outspoken and given to making awkward remarks, but it is unusual.”

  “Awkward remarks?” she said in quite a curt manner, which he would likely think proved her outspoken nature, as if that were a flaw. “I do not make awkward remarks, Lord Iveston. It is only that I am unusually observant and proceed logically when all others stumble into emotional hedgerows.”

  “Emotional hedgerows?” Lord Iveston said softly, his mouth softening into a tepid smile. “That’s quite good.”

  “Thank you,” she said with rather more sarcasm than was likely wise. “Is that all you wished to discuss? Your private nature and my forthright manner? The topic has been adequately covered, don’t you think?”

  “Miss Prestwick,” he said softly, taking a half step nearer to her when he was already quite close enough. More than quite close. Very nearly hovering, if she wanted to be outspoken about it, which she did. “Miss Prestwick,” he said again, very nearly whispering. His voice, and his nearness, sent a most unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I do think we’ve started on the wrong foot somehow. Can we not start again, this time with more courtesy and warm civility between us?”

  It was a thought. Surely, if she were to follow Sophia’s counsel at all, and she would be a fool if she did not, she was supposed to be using Iveston as a prompt to get Edenham to notice her. She’d not d
one at all well at that, though she couldn’t quite reason out why. It must have something to do with Lord Iveston. He wasn’t at all what she expected and her reaction to him wasn’t at all convenient, which quite naturally resulted in her somewhat, but only somewhat, unpleasantly warm responses to him. She couldn’t think why he should annoy her more than say, George, but he did. He was just so very peculiar. That was likely it. She had never been comfortable around peculiar people who behaved in ways she did not either approve of or understand.

  And she did not understand Lord Iveston at all.

  But far worse, she did not understand her reaction to him, which was reason enough to be uncomfortable in his presence, wasn’t it? Of course it was.

  There now. Having reasoned it all out and having determined that their initial wrong-footedness, surely a most apt word, was due to his peculiarity and her most reasonable reaction to it, she would and could proceed on better, firmer footing. Edenham was the goal, after all, and if Iveston could serve her purposes there, well then, he should be encouraged to do so.

  “I find I agree with you, Lord Iveston, which I do fear will shock you,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. He did have the most brilliantly blue eyes. “I am more than delighted to begin again. How shall we accomplish it?”

  Iveston smiled softly. It did quite nice things to his face. She found herself smiling in return when she had had no plan to do so. How perfectly extraordinary.

  “Miss Prestwick, I think the wisest course and the most time tested is the surest policy in diplomatic negotiations such as ours.”

  “And the wisest course, Lord Iveston?”

  “Compliments, Miss Prestwick. Every ambassador of every nation begins with compliments, which are quickly followed by gifts.”

  “Which are less quickly followed by one nation or the other giving something up which they had no plan to give up,” she said, smiling again.

  “Ah, but you stray too far ahead, Miss Prestwick. Let us begin with compliments and see where that takes us.”

  “I must warn you, Lord Iveston,” she said, still staring boldly into his eyes, which might have been a mistake as she could feel a thread of heat wrap itself around her throat, “that I cannot be complimented into giving anything up that I have determined I want.”

  “How can you know, Miss Prestwick? I have yet to tender even the first compliment. Perhaps it is possible to have what you want altered.”

  “By compliments? Impossible.”

  “By gifts?”

  “What sort of gifts?”

  “What sort of gifts would tempt you?”

  “No, Lord Iveston, if you seek to tempt me, you must find your own way. I will not aid you in this hostile negotiation.”

  “Not hostile, Miss Prestwick, merely heated,” Iveston said, his blue eyes looking quite as hot as flame. The thread of heat around her throat thickened into a cord and tightened, sending waves of awareness up her spine and down beneath her bodice ties.

  How completely and perfectly extraordinary.

  Nine

  “YOUR work, I assume?” Lord Ruan asked Sophia.

  He had not followed the Duke of Edenham over to inspect the porcelain, as indeed she had not expected he would. No, the Marquis of Ruan had not come to Dalby House to look at anything other than its mistress, which was so lovely of him, truly, and she did enjoy it, deeply, but there always seemed to be so much going on and, worse, Lord Ruan always seemed to be so aware of it.

  If there was one trait a man should absolutely not possess, it was being observant. Being clever and observant was even worse. Lord Ruan, as much as she wished otherwise, was both.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked, staring up at him. He had quite rugged features and very green eyes. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, a very handsome man. And he knew it. There was that bit about being both clever and observant again. Such a strain, really, to keep a man like Ruan on such a tight rein. One could not but wonder what he would do, what he was capable of, if given even a nod of encouragement.

  Of course, it was folly to even think such a thought with Markham in the room. She was his mother and she did try to keep things comfortable for him, darling boy, and truly, she rarely had any trouble at all. Ruan was something else again. Ruan, she was very much afraid, was going to prove hard to resist.

  “That,” Ruan said with a shift of his head, indicating the very shadowy corner where Penelope and Iveston stood in what looked to be very pleasant conversation. How nice. Things were going quite well there and with hardly any effort at all on her part.

  “I can’t think what you mean, Lord Ruan,” she said. “As you must be perfectly aware, I have not actually invited any of my guests today. You all just appeared from out of the mist and seem quite determined never to leave my house again. Of course, that might be due more to the rain than my charms.”

  “Which not even you believe,” he said with a lopsided smile. It looked quite devilish on him.

  “But one is required to make such remarks, Lord Ruan,” she said, moving toward the front windows, Ruan trailing her like a trained hound.

  “I can’t believe that you answer to any requirements but your own, Lady Dalby,” he said, “which is why you have, from your first day in London to this, turned the Town on its head.”

  “What do you know of my first day in London, Lord Ruan?” she asked, all thoughts of flirtation buried in suspicion. Too clever, too observant, that was this man’s entire problem. Or at least it was a problem for her. “I’m certain I should remember you if you were here. Where were you if not in Town?”

  “Out and about in the world, Lady Dalby,” he answered. “Having the sorts of adventures that are very nearly required of a man at that particular age. Your own son is soon to be on an adventure, isn’t he?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From his own mouth, Lady Dalby, whilst we were chatting at Aldreth House on that delightful day that Lord Cranleigh finally claimed Lady Amelia for his own. The day of the satire.”

  There was something so very purposeful about the way Ruan had said the word satire that Sophia knew without question he was going to do something very awkward, something like prowl into the shadows of her very shadowy past. Oh, most people in London of a certain age were quite convinced they knew everything there was to know, of interest, that is, about her, but there was much she did not want known and Lord Ruan was just the sort to want to know those precise things. If he continued on in such manner, she would be required to drop him before she had even picked him up.

  And she had decided to pick him up, just yesterday, in fact.

  She was slightly bored, what with Caro married and Markham leaving with John and the boys for a lengthy visit to America. A lover was such pleasant way to pass the time, but only if the lover were pleasant and not given to looking in places he had no need to look.

  “The day of the satire, Lord Ruan? Satires come out nearly every day.”

  “But so rarely to such quick effect.”

  “Only if they are not very good. Good satires create a very quick response.”

  “How are satires judged to be good, Lady Dalby? By their art? By their timeliness? By their cleverness?”

  “By the response they provoke, Lord Ruan. I thought I had made that clear.”

  Lord Ruan smiled fractionally, his green eyes studying her most carefully. Let him study her. She could withstand a bit of study and not wilt. No, quite the opposite in fact.

  “You have had a satire done of you, I suppose?” he asked.

  “You suppose? You are not certain?” she prodded.

  He smiled and then nodded, “All right. I am certain. You have had a satire done of you. It was not a pleasant experience for you.”

  “Is that a question, Lord Ruan? I think it must be because I always find satires to be enjoyable, particularly when they are done of me. Doesn’t everyone? But darling,” she said, laying a hand upon his arm, “haven’t you ever had a satire don
e of you? How could a man of such esteem and … adventure been so overlooked?”

  “I’ve been slighted, have I?” he said, very nearly grinning.

  “Only you can decide that,” she said, “but do something wonderful, something scandalous, something just beyond the pale and you shall have your satire, I assure you.”

  She was playing with him and he liked it, as well he should, but then his gaze strayed across the room to where Markham and John and the boys were standing, looking quite serious, she was sure, and Ruan’s gaze slid back to her and all the playfulness had been bled out of him. Pity.

  “He knows of it, Sophia. Did you know?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring into his eyes, showing him that she was not bothered, that nothing in her world had gone wrong.

  Ruan nodded and looked down at the floor between them, wooden planks stained almost black and shining like a moonlit pond. “I saw it. The satire of you, of Westlin, of Dutton, of Melverley.” His lashes lifted, dark lashes, thick and short beneath straight dark brows. “I saw what was done to you by them. It is an old satire. You were very young.”

  Was it … why, it was pity in his eyes. Pity? She needed no man’s pity.

  “It is an old satire, Lord Ruan, and I was old enough then and am young enough now, wouldn’t you agree?” She held his gaze, smiling into his pity, refusing it, rejecting him if he forced it. She had outgrown the need for pity, indeed, she was nearly certain she had never needed it.

  “What they did to you—”

  “Darling Ruan,” she interrupted, “what we did, we did together.”

  “You don’t want my pity, do you?” he said softly.

  “Not yours. Not anyone’s,” she replied instantly, though nearly in a whisper. She did not know why, and then she did. She whispered because this thing, this conversation, was the most intimate act they had between them and it deserved the delicacy of a whisper.