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‘Do you know every trysting place in every ballroom in London, Sophie?’
‘As you so ungallantly reminded me, Your Grace, I have been out for years and years so yes, I know every nook and corner that rakes use to lure their victims into their webs, usually so I can take care to avoid them. And it is Miss Wilmott, if you please.’
‘Gareth Thorne, Duke of Calderbrook. At your service, Miss Wilmott.’ He lifted her hand in his own ungloved one and kissed her fingertips, then carefully replaced her hand on the rail. Sophie stared at the fine embroidery on the backs of her gloves and attempted to get her breathing under control.
‘I am not spinning webs for innocents this evening, rest assured. No, not for innocents,’ he added, almost under his breath.
Which is a good thing, under the circumstances, given that every iota of common sense I possess appears to be lying on its back, wagging its tail and asking for its tummy to be tickled. Her nostrils flared, catching a clean, faintly spicy, sharp note over the muddle of scents and smells rising in the heat from the ballroom. ‘What are you doing, Your Grace, all alone up here? There has been no whisper of your return. Ralph… I mean, your cousin Mr Thorne, told me nothing of it and last time he mentioned you it was to say you were in the South Seas.’
His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Ralph’s name, but he said nothing about him. ‘I am carrying out a reconnoitre of the battlefield, Miss Wilmott.’ He turned from his contemplation of the dancers and leaned back against the balcony rail to study her face. Sophie stiffened her spine and gave him back stare for stare. She was not going to blush and get into a flutter. ‘You are Arthur Wilmott’s daughter, are you not?’
‘I am. My father died some years ago.’
‘Your mother must be a beauty in that case.’ He reached out and tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. His fingers were cold. ‘You did not get your guinea-gold tresses from him. Or those lovely blue eyes.’ He leaned closer. ‘Not sapphire. No, not the hardness of a stone. A flower. Delphinium? Not quite…’
‘Most gentlemen compare them to the summer sky, or forget-me-nots. It becomes rather tiresome,’ she said, knowing she sounded like a spoiled beauty. But at least he moved back a trifle. She did not need to know that his eyes were a light and unsettling silver-grey with a darker ring around the iris. And she did not need to be so close to observe the indecently long eyelashes or that he had a small mole by the corner of his left eye. If, fifty years before, a beau had placed a patch there it would have been called ‘the roguish’, she recalled from her grandmother’s tales.
‘I have inherited my mother’s colouring, yes.’ She did have some air in her lungs after all. ‘She is married to Viscount Elmham now.’ The duke was still altogether too close for comfort, even though he was staring out over the ballroom again, his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled and she shivered. ‘I must go down now. I am engaged for the supper dance. Welcome back to London, Your Grace.’
‘Allow me to escort you to the dance floor, Miss Wilmott.’
‘Thank you.’ Goodness knows why she was thanking him, he obviously intended to leave the gallery anyway, because he had seen what, or who, he was looking for. She was very glad she was not his quarry. That smile had been positively wolfish. Sophie led the way to the left-hand spiral staircase and, when they were out in the corridor, locked the door and slipped the key back into its hiding place. ‘This way to the ballroom.’
‘I must return the key that I used.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and strolled off in the opposite direction.
Struggling was undignified. He would release her once they reached the other door, she told herself. Dukes did not abduct young ladies in the middle of balls. Unfortunately, said the wicked voice in her head. Stop it! common-sense ordered. But when he returned the key to its lock he kept walking in the same direction.
He was a duke but he had spent years living in the most uncivilised places, according to his cousin Ralph. He might have had his brain turned by the tropical sun, or have been indoctrinated into strange rites by some South Pacific tribe. Perhaps she was being abducted…
Sophie kept her voice steady, as much to calm her own wild imaginings as to bring him to order. ‘We need to go back now. This leads only to the head of the stairs and the main entrance.’ His side was hard and warm against the back of her hand. She shifted nervously and felt the silk of his coat lining slide over the silk of his waistcoat. Layers and layers over bare skin…
‘Where better to enter?’
‘But I have already been announced.’
‘I have not.’
So how did you get in?
The receiving line had gone when they reached the famous double staircase with its gilded flambeaux holders, but a footman was still in attendance to announce the late arrivals.
‘The Duke of Calderbrook,’ her abductor said. ‘Miss Wilmott has already been announced.’
The man threw open the double doors, Sophie gave a determined wriggle and found herself swept along regardless.
‘People will think I have been outside with you,’ she hissed between stiff lips.
‘But you have. It is quite all right, you do not have a hair out of place and you certainly do not look as though we have been disporting in some retiring room. Don’t get into a pother, Sophie.’
Disporting indeed! Was he trying to reduce her to strong hysterics? ‘I am not in a pother.’ I am being kidnapped by a man with deliciously strong arms and swept into a scandal and if he was sweeping me anywhere else I would be delighted. Terrified, but delighted. I am obviously in the grip of a brain fever. ‘It is Miss Wilmott and I am exceedingly cross with you. Oh, I could hit you!’ she stormed in a whisper as he took no notice whatsoever.
‘Take first place in the queue, Sophie. I am certain there will be a long tail behind you wanting to do just that in a minute. Now, here we go.’
The music had stopped. The footman cleared his throat. She was going to be late for the next set.
‘His Grace the Duke of Calderbrook!’
