©Jillian Hunter
(Signet Select, February 2012)
Devon walked Gideon around the ballroom, inundating him
with so many last-minute instructions that he wasn’t surprised Charlotte lacked
admirers. Who would be brave enough to break the Boscastle guard to approach
her? Who could remember the endless rules?
“One more
word,” he muttered. “One more warning, and I am going to do you a violent
injury.”
“You are
trustworthy, Wynfield, aren’t you?”
“I’m a man.”
“What does that
mean?”
“It means that
I am human. I have failings like any other man. If you’re afraid that I will do
or say anything to dishonor your cousin, then come out and say it. Or do not
introduce us.”
“The thought
never entered my mind,” Devon said, then hesitated. “Did it enter yours?”
Gideon laughed.
Devon
scrutinized him in silence. “On second thought, maybe this isn’t one of my
brighter ideas. I’ll find someone harmless, instead. There might be an earl
hiding in here somewhere who isn’t a walking scandal.”
“Look—”
Devon held up a
hand. “It’s all right. I understand. You don’t want to do me the only favor I
have ever asked of you in the all years of our friendship.”
Gideon glanced
at Charlotte’s willowy figure. From where he stood she looked as if she were
captured in the candlelight prisms. “Oh, hell, fine. I suppose it won’t kill
me. But if this is one of your pranks, I promise you, I will pay you back in
spades.”
“Me, a model of
dignity and reform? Would I play a trick on a duke who has studied under a
swordmaster such as Fenton?”
“What do you
expect me to say to her?”
“Haven’t you
paid court to enough women to write a book on the subject?”
“Only when I
was hoping for something in return.”
Devon’s eyes
darkened. “Can I give you one suggestion?”
“Damn you.”
“Try not to use
language like that in front of the young ladies or you’re liable to be slapped
witless by a dozen or so fans.”
Charlotte’s
throat constricted. She couldn’t swallow as she observed the swath the duke cut
through the ballroom. She glanced about, seeking a reasonable means of escape,
a group of guests to hide her, any excuse not to face the man whom her cousin
had clearly sent to bedevil her.
And yet she
waited. She hoped. What would she do for the chance to know him as she had
imagined in her diary? What if when he reached her he announced in a masterful
voice, “This ball is a waste of our time. You belong with me. Alone. In my
arms. I am taking you again, and this time I will not let you elude me.”
She shivered
with forbidden, foolish anticipation. How wicked she could be in her thoughts.
Then, suddenly, the duke stood before her. She lifted her gaze.
Thought ceased
to matter.
Her mind went
into anarchy.
Sensation
reigned, wild and undisciplined.
She’d only
caught a few glimpses of him about town. His profile in a passing carriage. A
stolen look at his broad-shouldered figure at an exhibition. It wouldn’t have
been appropriate to stare down the duke in the emporium. Heaven forbid that one
of his strumpets had made a snide remark that the younger girls of the academy
had overheard.
Or that
Charlotte herself had broken her perfect record of propriety and given the tart
a piece of her mind. One glance at him that day had been sufficient to confirm
her prior beliefs. He was an insufferably attractive man who radiated the charm
of an authentic rogue.
And she was
only asking for trouble by allowing her infatuation to grow.
Perhaps this
meeting would dampen her interest in him once and for all. Perhaps he would
reveal how crude and conceited he was at heart. She would be content to prove
to herself that he was handsome on the outside and hollow within.
“May I
introduce myself?” he asked.
She nodded her
head in the affirmative.
He said
something.
For the life of
her she could not force her mind to function.
Had he just
asked her to dance?
“I’m sorry. I
can’t.”
Good for her.
Her manners, her good sense, came to her rescue when it seemed mayhem had won.
“Are you
enjoying the party, Your Grace?”
His dark
saturnine smile swept her into another panic. “Not particularly.”
“I’m glad to
hear—”
What had he
said?
This initial
meeting was not unfolding as it had in her fantasies. She wasn’t supposed to
become tongue-tied in his presence. She was supposed to charm him with her wit,
with the dialogue that flowed effortlessly when written, but words abandoned
her now that she needed to voice them.
This was
humiliation.
How awful of
Devon, leaning against the wall to watch her embarrassment deepen.
The duke did
not appear pleased about the situation, either.
He stood beside
her as they made a few more attempts at polite conversation until finally
something inside her gave up. The Duke of Wynfield might be the man of her
dreams, but it was obvious he had been dragged unwillingly into her company.
And that he did not share her hope for a romance between them.
Unfortunately
that dismal fact did not subdue her attraction to him at all. Under different
circumstances she could have stared at his beautifully sculpted face for hours.
But she couldn’t keep chattering on forever.
“Devon made you
ask me to dance, didn’t he?” she asked, refusing to embarrass either of them
any longer. “I understand. He’s done this before.”
“Not to me.”
His dark eyes suddenly connected with hers, and she felt her heart give a
wistful flutter for what might have been.
But there
wasn’t a reason to keep pretending that he had any romantic motives in mind.
“I saw your
handsome heads together. I know you were discussing me. And I know Devon and
his antics too.”
“Nonsense,”
Gideon said firmly. “We were talking about political events.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing I
could repeat in refined company. Distressful subjects and . . .
such.”
“I see.” What
she really saw was that he wielded a charm as deftly as she did her fan. “I
never knew that Devon took an interest in politics.”
“He might not
have wanted to offend delicate ears with . . .”
“Distressful
subjects and such?”
“Exactly.” And
then to her surprise he edged in a little closer to her instead of running off
gratefully into the night as he had every right to do. “I’m curious about
something. Do you typically put other gentlemen through a grueling
interrogation before you agree to a dance?”
“Only the ones
I suspect are paying me court because my cousins have talked them into it.”
“Don’t you want
to dance with me?” he asked with a disarming smile.
She smiled
back, stealing another look at him over her laced-edged fan. “Are you trying to
corrupt me?
“No. Corruption
comes after the dance, which will apparently be over before this conversation
is.”
She closed her
fan, sighing deeply. “I think I should pay attention to the young ladies who
are graduating. This is their night, not mine.”
He bowed. “Then
I am disappointed.”
“You are not
disappointed, and we both know it. It’s a relief. Tell Devon you did your duty,
and I released you from it. He can be quite persuasive.”
“So can I when
given the chance.”
“I hope he
didn’t hold some dire threat over your head. If so, I apologize. He’s
incorrigible.”
“I beg your
pardon, Miss Boscastle, but I never do anything unless it pleases me. If you
knew more about me, you would understand that.”
And if you knew
more about me, Charlotte thought, you would understand that—that what? That she
was infatuated with a man who had to be threatened into talking to her? She
turned her face toward the dancers weaving like ribbons across the floor. Why
did he have to be so persistent? Why didn’t he leave her alone to feel sorry
for herself? The diabolical man was determined to wear her down.
“Will you—?”
“No, I’m
dreadfully sorry. I have to keep my eye on my girls.”
“It must be a
difficult job.”
“It is,” she
replied in a clipped voice, not looking at him. “Especially at times like
this.”
“Why are they
called the ‘Lionesses of London’ after they graduate?” he asked, and she could
feel him staring through her skin. “Do you teach them to catch gentlemen
between their jaws?”
She glanced up
at him again, caught unaware by the unbridled sensuality of his smile. “The
reference has nothing to do with our predatory skills.”
“Oh. What a
shame.”
“It refers to
the academy’s original foundress, Viscountess Lyons.”
“So there’s no
truth at all to the nickname?” he asked in an undertone.
“If there was,”
she said, biting off each word, “this would certainly be the time to prove it.”
“Are you—”
She swung
around. “The dance is over, you— It is intermission, Your Grace.” she managed
in a dignified voice.
He looked up.
“Well, so it is.” He gave her a gallant nod. “I was so engrossed in our
conversation I didn’t notice.”
Charlotte
groaned inwardly, too exhausted to argue. She could only imagine how difficult
he would be to resist in a private setting. Or if he truly had his heart set on
seduction.
Not that she
would ever have to worry about such a scandalous fate befalling her. They were
complete opposites. He was a raging bonfire to her timid flame. A
devil-may-care challenge to her conscientious soul. It wasn’t his fault that
she’d built a romance between them that had never existed. Or that he was so
gorgeous she could weep on his wonderfully masculine chest.
But at least he
had tried to be kind. Charlotte had to admire him for that, even if she was
going to pinch Devon’s head off for making her an object of pity.
“Miss
Boscastle?” the duke said in a deep, irresistible voice. “Am I forgiven?”
She stirred.
“For what?”
He looked at
her for a long time. “I was rather obvious, wasn’t I?”
“Painfully so.”
“Well, now that the truth is out, would you
give me the next dance?”
She shook her
head. “No.”
“Perhaps in the
future?”
“Yes, yes,
yes.” She forced herself to turn away.
She felt him
withdraw a step. And not a moment too soon. From the corner of her eye she
glimpsed two of her students drifting toward the French doors. Three young
gentlemen were following in their wake. She gripped her rose-scented fan,
steeling herself to thwart a scandal in the making. Duke of her secret desires
or not, she would not tolerate any mischief under her guard. Nor would she give
Lady Clipstone any tidbits to feed the gossipmongers.
“Another time,
Your Grace,” she murmured, dismissing him with finality.
“I look forward
to it.”
He bowed again.
She gave him credit for hiding his relief. She had no doubt he would forget her
the moment they parted company. And she would force herself to forget him too,
until the moment she sat at her desk and poured out her thoughts in her diary.
She decided
that it would be the last reference she ever made about the duke. Her imaginary
affair with him had to come to an end . . . even if he were more
desirable in person than she had dreamed.
One night alone
in his company would ruin her forever. Would the memories be worth disgrace?
She was afraid to admit to herself that they might be. And that was sufficient
evidence that she had allowed herself to go too far with the silly fantasies
about the charismatic duke. Still, any chance of a romance between them seemed as
remote as the planet Venus.
success: the re-release of my first three books, BRAZEN ANGEL, BRAZEN HEIRESS and BRAZEN TEMPTRESS, as digital books. Hurrah for ebooks, they are giving new life to stories long out of print. Not only did I bring out all three individually, but they can also be had in a boxed set edition. You can find these on Kindle, Nook and Smashwords. The iBook edition is coming.
with a quick trip down to Huntington Beach, California, where I spoke at a Reader's Tea for the Friends of the Huntington Beach Library. Lovely group of women, truly delightful company and tea! Okay, I am such a sucker for a tea. But it was a chance to get some sunshine--Seattle winters are GRAY and DARK--and meet some lovely readers. And I have to admit, I love speaking to groups. After spending most of my time working alone, the chance to get out and talk to real live people who are not in my head keeps me from living in my sweats and muttering too much to myself. 
