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“Never to court?” he whispered, lips against her ear, and this time her gooseflesh was not the result of the frosty air. He indulged in another inhalation of her glorious elixir, and she melted against the railing. “Never to marry?” He tickled her cheek with his nose, ever so lightly, and whatever unhappiness he inspired dissipated and transmuted into desire. His ran his nose over to her ear, and rubbed beneath it; he breathed onto her neck, and her hands clutched at the front of his coat.
“Please…” she sighed.
“Tell me what you require,” he murmured.
“It is past time I returned to the ballroom.” She tilted her head so that her nose was a breath away from his.
“I yearn to fulfill your every desire.” He allowed their noses to touch, a paltry contact that nevertheless set his inner beast alight. He stepped back and offered her his arm. “Even those that seek to part you from me. Only allow me to call upon you in the morning as propriety demands, so I may begin to learn every wish of your heart.”
She stared at his mouth. “I—my heart? Every wish?” She swayed forward—an inch, a breath—and it took all of his strength to resist what she unknowingly offered. He laid his hand over hers over his forearm, and his wolf, who had been purring like a kitten, pricked up his ears. His attenuated hearing discerned whispers in the ballroom rising in volume and movement sweeping toward the doors to discover them in what thebeau mondewould deem a scandalous assignation.
Ah, well. There was nothing for it, then.
“My dear Miss Templeton.” He smiled again. “I believe we will soon find ourselves on the sharp end of convention. Though it aligns with my own wishes, I must ask in advance that you pardon me.”
He leaned in and took one more whiff of her ambrosial piquancy. She lowered her lids and licked her lips—minx, there will be time for kissing later—and he threw an arm around her waist and took them both over the marble railing, into the garden, and beyond.
Four
She had been preparing herself to be kissed; while she found herself in his arms, the world blurred past her at a speed that put the swiftest thoroughbred to shame. It was as though they were skimming over the ground, aloft, at a rate that would cause even a horsewoman of her abilities to tingle with apprehension. In less time than it took her to draw a breath to protest, they reached a large, luxurious carriage boasting four horses in harness. The coachman nodded to them as they approached; how he could see them, even with the side lamps lit, was incomprehensible. A door bearing the duke’s arms swung open, and she was deposited onto decadent squabs upholstered in lavish velvet; there was room enough for her long legs, those of His Grace, and the equally lengthy limbs of two more occupants.
The blond, green-eyed, and lean gentleman who sat in the backward-facing seat was the antithesis of the duke not only in aspect but also in effect: of powerful build but less hard in his bearing. His dress was subdued but nowhere near as fine, the outfitting of a well-off younger son or a lesser-titled employee.
Joining him on the bench was a woman wearing trousers.
Despite the events of the last hour—less than an hour, perhaps only three-quarters!—this woman in full male regalia set Felicity back on her heels. The ensemble would give even the daring Jemima pause: not only did this person wear trousers, but also a frock coat and a waistcoat. She stopped short of a cravat, but even so, her scarf was thrown about her neck with masculine élan. Felicity recalled the hat Jemima mentioned; it would be the crowning glory to this rig-out.
The woman was as lean as the man by her side and as tall and as blond as he, except her eyes were a deep brown, limpid, and almost too large for her face. She exuded the same ineffable aura of power as did the men, the same vitality that was both invigorating and intimidating. It was, oddly enough, the same essence that drew her to the horses, what drew her to her stud, the chestnut she’d named Himself: oh, how the established breeders would scoff, but she intuited something about him, something uncommon, something noteworthy, an unknown quantity begging to be discovered, something that went beyond the run-of-the-mill into the extraordinary.
“If I may make known to you my heads of staff. Bates is my steward and O’Mara is my…chamberlain.” Bates secured the door and rapped on the roof, and they were off.
“The difference between the two is so slight as to be negligible,” Felicity said. “But a female chamberlain. How revolutionary. How do you do?”
They murmured and nodded. The duke took a sharp breath, and what followed was akin to the strange vitality that emanated from him in the ballroom and on the terrace, similar to the gathering of energy that might presage a storm, a pressure in the air that produced a tingling on the skin. She thought she had imagined it, and while finding it odd and inexplicable, it had not affected her unduly. His people reacted rather differently—their bodies looked as though paralyzed, their demeanors froze; they were held in suspension until they did something truly bizarre and bared their necks to the duke. The pressure receded somewhat; only when they made what she perceived to be excessive obeisance did the oppressive quality recede completely and allow them to move at will once more.
She turned her head toward the window, the flocked fabric that covered it finer than anything she’d ever worn, much less seen hung in a vehicle. She nudged it aside only to be faced with indecipherable darkness. “Where are you taking me? How dare you carry me off with no respect to my person. Turn this carriage around, this instant!”
“That would be a pointless endeavor,” the duke replied. “You are now ruined. By society’s dictates, you are for all intents and purposes my wife.”
“Your wife! Are you mad?”
“Not mad,” he replied. “Merely intent. Merely determined.”
That voice was like the indecipherable darkness incarnate. Nevertheless, she was not afraid, only frustrated, and if she were being honest, curious. She supposed a man of his station was accustomed to getting his way, but he was going above and beyond the necessary to secure her ruination. It made no sense. He was gorgeous and wealthy and titled and yet… She saw his fist clench, saw it slide down the front of That Chest, and she had the daft notion he was nervous. That he was as oppressed as he was oppressive. She sensed a darkness in his being—what might that darkness yield in the light?
She shook off such ridiculous thoughts. “Determined and intent upon what? I am no one of any account at all. I cannot be ruined.”
Bates cleared his throat. A gentle clearing, she thought, a reluctant one, as though wishing not to offend, but also laced with some impatience and a touch of peevishness. How she knew this was beyond her. She didn’t make a habit of parsing another’s emotions in a heartbeat through the merest sound any more than she was expert in discerning the meaning behind certain people’s flexing of hands.
Bates spoke. “The Honorable Felicity Templeton, daughter of the late Anne and Benjamin, left motherless at the age of sixteen, fatherless at the age of twenty. Ancestral home: Templeton House, which has run on a skeleton staff since the unfortunate demise of the baron, by the order of the lady’s uncle, her mother’s brother. Uncle is Mr. Ezra Purcell, of the City, cousins are Rollo and Cecil. Miss Templeton is in receipt of a minor legacy from her maternal grandmother. Since making a very late bow in society, she has been conveying between the family home and Purcell’s townhouse in Finsbury Square, where she has spent most of the last year. Rumored to have been left undowered by her father’s will, she nevertheless was presented to the Queen and has been escorted these past five seasons by said cousins, who go about society, it is to be presumed, on her coattails. You are, ma’am, very much a lady of theton, and as such, can indeed be ruined.”
“For all you know, it may have been my goal in life to cast aside my reputation. Didn’t find that in your consultation ofDebretts, did you, Mr. Bates? If only one was permitted to enhance some of the biographical information in that tome. Why, it would be as compelling as a Gothic novel.” Felicity turned on the duke—a colossal mistake. He lounged in the corner of the carriage, confident, relaxed, self-satisfied, his gaze warm upon her. “Do not sprawl so, Your Grace. Ruined or not, I demand the respect you would show to any lady in your presence, as I appear to be one, by your man’s account.”
O’Mara took a deep breath. “Ma’am, all will be well,” she soothed. “May I secure you another brick for your feet? We think only of your comfort. It has been rather a shock, and it is understandable that you may be out of sorts—”
“Do not address me as though I were a child, Miss O’Mara.”
Bates looked down at his dancing shoes, and the duke crossed his arms over That Chest, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
