A Duke’s Distraction Read online

  She managed to keep up a mostly one-sided conversation during the carriage ride to the Davies’ ball. Once they came to a stop, she let out a long exhale of relief.

  The duchess did not seem to notice that they’d arrived, nor that Georgie had stopped talking. The woman was staring into the distance and Georgie was not at all certain the older woman had been aware that she had been talking at all.

  Guilt rose up, shaming her into silence at last. Here she had been prattling on about gowns and gossip when the duchess was facing her first season without her husband. They were waiting in a queue before they could exit the carriage and Georgie acted on impulse, leaning toward the intimidating woman slightly and placing a hand on her arm.

  She may have been breaching protocol but her heart went out to this woman, who was so obviously still grieving. “Are you all right, Your Grace?”

  The woman blinked rapidly before turning a pair of startlingly familiar icy blue eyes in her direction. “Of course,” she snapped. “What makes you ask that?”

  Georgie could lie. Or rather, she supposed she could. She’d never been much good at prevaricating though, and she didn’t see why she should start tonight. “It’s just that this must be difficult for you. I am so sorry for your great loss.”

  The duchess stared for so long, for a moment Georgie thought the older woman had lost the ability to speak. Meanwhile she was growing uncomfortably aware of Roxborough’s cold gaze on her, judging and accusing and overall finding her extremely lacking, of that she was certain.

  But then the older woman’s frosty exterior thawed ever so slightly and she gave Georgie a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Thank you, Georgie. That is kind of you to say.”

  Georgie could practically feel Roxborough’s tension ease along with his mother’s, and that tiny show of humanity made her heart go out to him. It could not be easy to watch one’s mother grieve. She’d lost both parents at once in an accident, but even if they had not died together, she was not certain they would have grieved for one another any more than was necessary in society’s watchful eyes. There was no love lost between her mother and father, though Claire swore that they’d loved each other once. Or at least, she seemed convinced that her mother loved their father.

  No one knew if their father was actually capable of love.

  Heavens, how thoroughly depressing. She brought her attention back to the present when the duchess addressed her son. “Did you have a chance to read the list I left for you?”

  She looked over to see Roxborough give his mother a small nod. “I have.”

  “And? Did you see anything of interest?”

  His gaze darted to her so quickly she blinked and looked away, as though she’d been caught snooping on a private family moment.

  “I have narrowed it down,” he said. “Several will be at tonight’s ball, so I hope to have a better feel for the matter by the end of the night.”

  Georgie gave up pretending that she wasn’t eavesdropping. She was sharing the same confined space, for heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as though she were pressing her ear to a door and trying to listen in.

  What list? She wanted to ask. Narrowed what down? She had to physically press her lips together to keep from asking.

  She nearly didn’t make it. The questions threatened to burst out of her in the silence that followed. Just in time, their door was opened by a footman and then she was being helped down.

  With wide eyes she stared at the entrance to the grand townhouse. Music spilled through the open doors and beautiful people in gorgeous dresses and suits were milling in the entryway.

  This was it, the start of a new season. Last season had seen her sisters married and this would be her year, she was sure of it.

  Roxborough offered his arm again, and she happily took it, not just because her gown and her new slippers were not well-equipped to navigate these cobblestones unaided, but also because…she was arriving on the arm of a duke.

  Of course, his mother graced his other arm, but still. She was being escorted to her first ball of the season by a duke. Surely this boded well for her.

  She just hoped Mary Beaucraft saw them arrive.

  Her gaze sought out her friend and rival as they walked through the entry and into the ballroom, but when she found her, she nearly wished she had not.

  She might have arrived with a duke, but Mary was dancing with her poet. She narrowed her eyes in irritation as she watched her friend giggle as she made eyes at Lord Malcolm.

  “Are you all right, Miss Cleveland?” It was Roxborough addressing her and he sounded far from concerned. If anything, he sounded as irritated as she felt. This was her season, for heaven’s sake. It was she who ought to be smiling up at Lord Malcolm.

  Why had they had arrived so late? If they’d arrived earlier she surely could have claimed this dance. She uncharitably blamed the duchess, even though she and Claire had been the last to arrive in the foyer.

  Oh all right, perhaps she had been the tardy one. But everyone knew that it was not seemly to arrive too early.

  It seemed she had misjudged.

  Roxborough made to remove his arm, which she hadn’t been aware she was still clinging to.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, his voice droll and condescending.

  It was then that she realized the dowager duchess had left his side to join Nicholas and Claire on the other side of the room. They were alone and still standing in the doorway to the entry.

  He arched his brows and gave her hand on his arm a meaningful look. She tightened her grip. Really, there was only one way to regain the upper hand, and as this night would set the tone for the entire season, it was absolutely necessary that it be a success.

  The only way to do that was to be seen arriving on the arm of a duke, nearly related or not, judgmental and stuffy or not, he was still a duke. She forced a smile as she pleaded with him through stiff lips. “Just one moment,” she said, her gaze darting to the left to see if Mary or Lord Malcolm had spotted her yet.

  No, not yet. They looked horrifyingly amused with one another. But then, Lord Malcolm was too charming and pleasant to be anything less than jovial, no matter who his dance partner.

  Roxborough towered over her. Of course he did, most gentlemen did, though none seemed to lord it over her as this duke did. “Are we waiting on something specific before we are allowed to be on our way?”

  It was a struggle to keep her smile in place while also showing that she was not amused by his sarcasm. Which she was not. “Please, just wait one more moment,” she said.

  Surely Mary would feel her stare if she could just look hard enough.

  “Is there a reason you are speaking like that? Like you cannot move your lips?” Roxborough finally sounded amused. For the first time since she’d met him, the great and powerful duke sounded amused…and it was at her expense.

  Lovely.

  She silently willed Mary to look over. Mary was about to take a turn on the dancefloor, so now her friend must surely see her.

  No! Drat.

  “And why exactly are you staring at the dancers like that?” Roxborough continued. He was loud enough that she forced herself to look in his direction. If he did not stop speaking like that, he would attract attention.

  The wrong sort of attention.

  She smiled again, more naturally this time, she hoped. “Of course not,” she said. “I just thought I spotted someone I know.”

  “It is the same crowd as every other ball, is it not?” he asked, his tone no less mocking. “I would certainly hope you recognize someone here.”

  She pursed her lips, forgetting that she was supposed to be smiling lest Mary or Lord Malcolm glance over. “What list was your mother referring to?”

  His irritating smirk faded instantly and she experienced a moment of satisfaction.

  “That conversation was not for your ears,” he said.

  Of course it wasn’t. That was what made it so tempting to tease him with it. A
nd really, she had been right there. The blame surely fell on the duke and his mother for speaking of private matters in front of her.

  He gestured toward the rest of their party, where they stood near the refreshments. Out of sight from the dancers. Two very particular dancers. “Shall we?”

  She resisted, holding firmly to his arm. Drat. This moment would be lost if those two did not cease with their dancing and turn to look.

  “Dance with me,” she said. Or rather, she ordered. She bit her lip in horror the moment the words were out. Not that dancing with Roxborough was all that horrifying. The man might be a stick in the mud, but he wasn’t as frightening as he’d have people believe. Still, that did not mean she wished to dance with him and watch him glare down at her without ceasing.

  More than that, though, she did not suppose he’d often found himself ordered to dance. In fact, it was quite clear by the shock on his face that he’d never been ordered about—to dance or to do anything else.

  And most certainly not by some young lady like herself, with no power, no title, and no fortune to speak of.

  She shifted under his glare. Didn’t he ever tire of that particular look? His tone gave new meaning to the word haughty. “Pardon me?”

  She itched to laugh but she would not. Though she did make a mental note of the precise and insufferable way he’d said those two words. Pardon me? Claire would appreciate the impersonation when she regaled her with this story later.

  Of course, she might leave out just how impertinent she’d been to demand a dance.

  She swallowed down her laughter and sought to appease the situation. “My apologies, Your Grace. What I meant to say was…”

  Oh bother. How was she supposed to nicely order him to dance with her? She couldn’t, she supposed. But couldn’t he see that this was her grand entrance into society? This was her chance to make heads turn and Lord Malcolm take notice and—

  “Bloody hell.” His muttered curse shocked her internal monologue into silence.

  She blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed as he looked down at her, quite obviously exasperated. “Your eyes are quite expressive, were you aware of that?”

  She bit her lip, uncertain whether she ought to laugh or cringe. They are also green, she wanted to point out, but perhaps he would not see the humor in that particular jest.

  She settled for arching her eyebrows. “What exactly did they say?”

  “They were begging,” he said.

  Her brows hitched higher in surprise. “Pardon me?”

  “Pleading, really.”

  She pressed her lips together now to keep from laughing outright at the disdain in his voice. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

  He lifted his elbow by way of proffering his arm, which was unnecessary, really, as she was still holding on to him as though he were about to run off with her jewels. Never had anyone looked so inordinately displeased than he when he glanced down at her. “Shall we?”

  She nibbled on her lower lip. Oh dear. Now she had gone and forced a duke to dance with her. Her mother hadn’t taken as much care teaching her the rules of society as she had Claire, but even she knew that this was not done.

  Her gaze flitted back to the dancefloor where the man who might very well be her love was laughing at something Mary Beaucraft said as the dance came to an end.

  It was decided. She looked up at her unwilling dance partner and donned the sweetest, most gracious tone she could muster. “I would love to dance, thank you.”

  Chapter Three

  What exactly was going on here? Rhys led his dance partner onto the floor but he was fairly certain he’d entered into some sort of bad dream. Why on earth was he dancing? Him? Oh, he occasionally danced when necessity called for it, and he’d been prepared to do so tonight with one of the many ladies of the list who would be here this evening.

  He spotted Lady Regina even now, looking utterly demure and quite fetching.

  Yet it was the little chit on his arm. The one with the wide, pleading eyes who had caught him off guard by demanding a dance. He sniffed as he led her through the crowd, his chin tilted high and his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  He’d never much been one for socializing, but it was an obligation he rarely managed to avoid. It was a necessity and a burden.

  That described most of his life, come to think of it.

  After a moment he realized that he was no longer steering this little twosome. His unwanted dance partner was tugging on his arm as she guided them a little to the left.

  Toward that couple she had been staring at so fervently just a moment ago. He recognized the gentleman—Lord Malcolm Reynolds, second son of the Marquess of Alway. A dandy of the highest order. He hadn’t spoken to the younger man often, but enough to know that there was little substance there. He was all smiles and charm, but no honor, backbone, or character. He glanced down at Georgie’s small but surprisingly strong hand on his arm. Was that who she’d been staring at?

  Surely not. Davenport and Nicholas—hell, even her brother, the renowned gambler—would surely know better than to let her socialize with that preening wastrel. Rhys knew him because it was his duty to know his fellow peers and their families—it was one of the few reasons he went to events such as this one. Though tonight, his aim was not to familiarize himself with the peer but to interview prospective wives.

  He scowled down at the upstart on his arm. A plan that had already been set off course thanks to Georgie. The dancers who had just finished were walking off the floor or finding new partners as the first sounds of the next song started up.

  A waltz.

  He looked down at Georgie in horror. Good God, they were to waltz?

  He had no moral objection to the waltz, but were he to take part in such a dance it would be with a woman he wanted to get close to. A lady who he was seriously considering as a match, one whom he could talk with and form an intimacy with and—ouch. Georgie had jerked him so abruptly he’d nearly lost his footing.

  He stopped suddenly, forcing Georgie to come to a stop as well.

  When she looked up at him expectantly, her impatience was clear. “Is something wrong?”

  Is something wrong? “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I’ve long been under the impression that it is the gentleman who is to lead the dance.”

  He watched as a pretty pink blush crept up her fair cheeks. Her eyes, he noted—those still held a mischievous twinkle. He’d known decorated generals, hardened from combat who were made of less unflinching bravado as this little lady.

  She lowered her head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Somehow she managed to sound like she was teasing even when she was attempting to be proper and demure. Was it possible that she was related to Claire Cleveland?

  Or maybe she wasn’t. He’d heard the rumors about the Cleveland siblings and their alleged illegitimacy. Yes, that would explain quite a lot.

  He led the way, navigating through the crush until they were standing in front of one another as couples gathered around them. He noticed that his dance partner was still looking elsewhere. She was clearly searching for someone in particular. But who? The answer was clear and for some reason he couldn’t explain, it unsettled him.

  No, that was an understatement. It angered him.

  “Is it Lord Malcolm you seek?” He hadn’t meant to say it at all, let alone have it come out as an accusation.

  Her gaze flew up to his and he had his answer in her startlingly honest eyes and the way her cheeks flushed again. “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me.” Lord, was that him? When had he begun to sound so much like his father?

  Her gaze dropped to his chest as they came together for the dance, her body moving into his arms gracefully, naturally.

  As if she were meant to be there.

  Oh rubbish. There was nothing meant to be about any of this.

  Her silence as the music started up was unsettling. He’d never known Georgie to be sil
ent for more than a few seconds, and that was typically when she was eating.

  “Do you not have something to say?” he said, his voice gruff and harsh even to his own ears.

  Hell and damnation. He must sound like that stodgy Haversham to Georgie’s ears. Especially compared to the silver-tongued Lord Malcolm.

  “I was just thinking,” Georgie said softly. Too softly. He’d never heard her sound meek before.

  He didn’t like it. Hell, had he caused this sudden temerity with his accusation? Perhaps he’d been too quick to assume. It wasn’t his place, anyhow, and—

  “I was just thinking about that list your mother mentioned.”

  All charitable thoughts ceased when he caught sight of the wicked twinkle in her eyes. “What about it?”

  Her lips quirked up in a way that was entirely too fetching. Hypnotizing, even. He found it difficult to pull his gaze away.

  “I think I have an idea of what might be on that list.”

  He concentrated on the steps. There was no way he would stumble over the thoughtless words of a silly young lady. She knew not of what she spoke.

  “Or perhaps I should say who. Would you care to hear my guess?”

  He frowned down at her. When their eyes met, he forgot for a moment what he was frowning about.

  Her smile grew. “The ton talks ceaselessly of your need for a wife. Perhaps I could help.”

  That startled a short laugh out of him, humorless and quiet. Yet, he noted, it still caused the dancers around them to look. He did not often laugh in society—humorless or not. “How do you suppose you could help?”

  He hadn’t meant to ask it. In fact, he’d meant to remain quiet and somber through this ridiculous dance. It was bad enough his evening had already been thrown off course by Georgie, he could not let this go any further. Why, he hadn’t even begun to watch the ladies on the list to see how they behaved in public.

  He trusted his mother’s opinion on the matter, of course, but he would still like to see them in action for himself. After all, interacting with society, performing the role of hostess, this was an integral function of a duchess.