Daring To Love The Duke's Heir
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‘I do not know her.’ Officially, her visit to Beauchamp House had never taken place and Dominic had never met either Liberty or her sister. Their transgression of the rules would not become common knowledge through him. ‘I know her identity because my brother is friendly with Wendover.’
‘I see.’ Caroline folded her hands on her lap. ‘I wonder what she wanted to speak to you about.’
‘I doubt very much she wanted to speak to me. I am certain you are mistaken.’
‘Yes, of course. That must be it.’
As luck would have it, two of the other ladies whose names were on Dominic’s list—Lady Amelia Carstairs and Lady Georgiana Buckleigh—were promenading that afternoon so, after delivering Caroline back to her mother, he endured two further circuits of the Park. Not one of the three put a foot wrong or spoke a word out of place. He should be thrilled. Any one of them would be the perfect wife for him. There was little to distinguish between them so far and once he had also renewed his acquaintance with Lady Sarah Patcham and Lady Sybilla Gratton, he would decide which one of them to concentrate on. Then, as soon as his father arrived in London, Dominic would make his offer.
* * *
Two days later Liberty stood to one side of the Trents’ crowded salon with Mrs Mount, and plied her fan, sipping from the wine glass in her other hand. Although the weather was chilly the number of people packed into the modestly sized room for the rout party, combined with the heat from dozens of candles, made the room insufferably hot and stuffy. And the tightness of her corset wasn’t helping, she silently admitted. When she had dressed for the rout in the least outmoded of her evening gowns, it had proved a touch too snug across the bosom, and so she had donned her sturdiest corset and ordered Lizzie—the maid she shared with Hope and Verity—to lace it as tightly as she possibly could in order to ease the fit of the dress. Now the disadvantage of that was becoming clear as her breathing grew shallower.
To distract herself from her increasing discomfort, she focused her attention on her sisters—so charming and pretty, their golden hair shining with health—and she watched with pleasure as young gentlemen vied with one another for their attention. They weren’t bad girls, just a little thoughtless at times, and she knew her tendency to take charge made it easy for them to leave any difficult or awkward matters to her.
Gideon, of course, had declined to escort them and his valet, Rudge, had confirmed his master’s intention to visit the Sans Pareil Theatre once again, causing dismay to ripple through Liberty. She feared she knew the attraction of that particular theatre, recalling how Gideon had waxed lyrical over a certain actress called Camilla Trace.
She leaned towards their chaperon.
‘I am hopeful the girls will both attract offers before the Season is out, Mrs Mount.’
‘Dear Hope and Verity...their popularity is unmistakable,’ said Mrs Mount, ‘but I must implore you not to risk a scandal with any more ill-advised visits, Liberty. I saw Lord Avon a few minutes ago and it seemed to me that, when he noticed you, he deliberately avoided this area of the room.’
‘Avon is here?’
Her pulse kicked—surely just at the prospect of finding out if he had kept his promise? She’d spied him only once since her visit to Beauchamp House, in Hyde Park. She’d tried to catch his eye but, although he acknowledged her, he had driven his curricle straight past her.
‘I wonder if he has spoken to his brother yet?’ She craned her neck to try to see over the throng of people, but it was impossible. ‘I shall go and ask—’
‘No!’ Mrs Mount caught hold of Liberty’s hand, restraining her. ‘Did you not hear what I said? Or perhaps you misunderstand the meaning of his action? He turned away when he saw you. You cannot approach him. He is the most eligible bachelor in the ton. Eyes follow him wherever he goes and tongues will always find stories to spread about him. Merely to approach him is unthinkable and if he were to cut you...oh, my dear, the tales would spread like wildfire and they would scorch your sisters’ reputations in the telling. The gossip columns in the newssheets would not spare your blushes—the upstart twin of the new Earl of Wendover making an overt play for the Marquess of Avon...oh, heavens!’ She plied her own fan vigorously to ruddy cheeks. ‘Do you not understand? Your situation renders it even more imperative that your conduct is above reproach.’
Anger smouldered inside Liberty, heating her still further, and she felt as though she had a furnace inside her. She drank more wine and then tugged discreetly at her neckline in a vain attempt to allow some cooling air to reach her skin. Each breath she drew seemed shallower than the one before.
‘But I am not interested in Lord Avon in the way you imply,’ she said. ‘You know I am not. I am concerned only about Gideon and I wish to know if Avon has spoken to his rascally brother yet.’
‘I know, my dear.’ Mrs Mount patted Liberty’s hand without loosening her grip upon it. ‘But you can do nothing about it until he decides to tell you. And he will not do so here—he will no more risk awakening speculation by singling out an unattached female than he would strip off his jacket and cavort about in his shirtsleeves. Proper conduct is everything to His Lordship, particularly this Season, if that rumour is true.’
‘Rumour? What rumour?’ Despite her dire need for fresh air, or a chair to sit on, or both, Liberty was distracted by this titbit.
‘It is said that he has compiled a shortlist of eligible young ladies who meet the standards he has set—breeding, upbringing, ladylike conduct—and that he will make his selection before the end of the Season.’
The hushed awe of Mrs Mount’s words stirred resentment inside Liberty. No wonder Avon was so top-lofty with people hanging upon his every word and treating him like some kind of god.
‘A shortlist? I presume you mean for a wife. Why on earth does he need a shortlist?’
‘Avon’s bride must possess the very best bloodlines, perfect manners and be of exemplary character. Only the best will do for a man in his position and to be the mother of a future duke.’
The suppressed excitement in Mrs Mount’s voice irritated Liberty even more.
‘You make the poor girl sound like a glorified brood mare,’ she muttered.
Really! Had people nothing more to worry about? What about all the poverty in London? Children in rags living on the street while their so-called betters lived in luxury. People like Avon were in a position to help and yet, instead of helping those worse off than him, he put his time and effort into making pathetic lists in order that any bride he might choose was worthy of him.
‘So you do see why it is imperative that you do not put a foot wrong in any further contact with His Lordship, do you not, Liberty?’ Mrs Mount’s anxious enquiry brought Liberty’s attention back to her. ‘Not so much for your sake, but for Hope and for Verity.’
‘You are not suggesting that His Lordship might consider—’
‘It is unlikely, my dear, but...one never can tell what might happen when a pretty girl catches a gentleman’s eye. Avon is expected to look much higher for his bride—at the very least the daughter of an earl—and she will be a young lady who has been properly prepared from childhood for her role as the wife of a peer of the realm. But your sisters, especially dear Verity, are so very pretty—one never knows what might happen. A list may always be added to.’
Mrs Mount’s voice appeared to fade. Goodness, it was so hot. Liberty plied her fan with renewed vigour as she stared at her chaperon’s mouth, concentrating fiercely in order to make out her words.
‘And the lucky young lady of his choice will be a future duchess. It is worth keeping our hopes alive for such high stakes.’
Liberty put a hand to her forehead. The room seemed to sway and she was aware of Mrs Mount staring anxiously at her.
‘Liberty? My dear? Are you quite well? Oh, dear.’ Mrs Mount clutched at Liberty’s arm. ‘Are you sickening for something? Do you need to leave? Only, it would be such a shame...’
Liberty gritted her teeth in a desperate attempt to remain upright. She thrust her empty wine glass at Mrs Mount. ‘I am not sickening for anything. I need air. Watch the girls, will you, Mrs Mount?’ Desperate now to get out of the room, she headed in the direction of the door, weaving in and out of the chattering groups of strangers, until her way was blocked by a tall figure with a pair of wide shoulders in a dark blue swallowtail coat. To either side of those shoulders were people, pressed closely, clearly hanging on every word uttered by the gentleman. Liberty screwed her eyes shut, wafted her fan over her heated skin, sucked desperately at the stale air, then opened her eyes and prepared to negotiate her way around the group, for it was obvious she could not barge through the middle of them. She shuffled sideways until she spied a gap. Perspiration now dampened her forehead and she could feel it gather on her chest and trickle into the valley between her breasts. She frowned, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other as she edged through that gap. She was close to the door now—she could see it above people’s heads—and she blindly aimed for it, desperate now to get away from this crush of people.
‘Well! Of all the—’
‘I say! That was my foot!’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words came on a gasp. ‘I cannot—’ Horror filled her as her knees buckled.
A strong arm encircled her waist from behind. A deep voice barked, ‘Stand aside. She’s swooned.’
She desperately wanted to deny it—she had never swooned in her life—but all she could manage was to turn into that embrace, her head tipping forward until her forehead rested against a solid chest. She breathed in a clean smell of soap and starch, mixed with a pleasing masculine scent.
Then she knew no more.
Chapter Five
Dominic stared in disbelief at the swooning woman in his arms, her head tipped into his chest. How in hell had this happened? He tightened his hold around her as she sagged. There was no other word for it—her head lolled back on her neck and he was certain her legs were no longer supporting her. He tightened his arms again, instinctively taking note of her womanly curves and her soft flesh.
He peered down into her face and recognition speared him. Miss Liberty Lovejoy. Her eyes were closed, her golden lashes a feathery fan against her creamy skin; her cheeks were flushed pink; her lips...plump and rosy...parted to reveal small, white, even teeth. And the urge to press his mouth to hers took him completely by surprise.
He tore his gaze away and scanned the faces that surrounded the two of them, noting the various expressions.
Eager—they were the gossips! Disgruntled—the young ladies who aspired to his hand. Envious—the rakes and...well, more or less every male within touching distance, damn them. As if he would relinquish her to their tender mercies. Speculative—he would soon put a stop to that! And concerned...
He focused on the nearest of those faces. Lady Jane Colebrooke, whom Dominic had known since childhood. Jane’s family were neighbours of the Beauchamps in Devonshire—she was a kind girl with not a spiteful bone in her body.
‘Lady Jane, would you come with me, please? I shall need your assistance.’
He bent down and slid one arm behind Miss Lovejoy’s knees and hefted her up into his arms, cradling her like a baby. He felt something inside his chest shift as her rose scent curled through his senses and his exasperation melted away. However much she had defied the conventions when she had called on him, he knew it was from love for her brother. His own family were large and loving and he could not condemn a woman who put her family first.
‘Yes, of course, my lord.’ Jane bent to scoop Liberty’s reticule and fan from the floor.
Dominic headed for the door, slicing through the crowd which parted before him—like the Red Sea before Moses, he thought sardonically. Through the door and out on to the landing—the fingers of his left hand curving possessively around the soft warmth of her thigh. Jane kept pace with him and thankfully refrained from bombarding him with inane comments or pointless conjectures. Then the pitter-patter of footsteps behind them prompted a glance over his shoulder.
Just perfect!
Not the lady—presumably the Lovejoy girls’ chaperon—he had seen Liberty with earlier, nor either of her sisters. Any one of those would be welcome at this moment. No, they were being pursued by two determined-looking young ladies, both of whom happened to be in Dominic’s final five. He had little doubt that their reasons for following him had everything to do with currying his favour and absolutely nothing to do with a desire to help a stricken fellow guest. In fact, he had overheard Lady Amelia being particularly scathing about ‘those common Lovejoy girls’ earlier that evening.
At least with them here as well as Jane, I cannot be accused of compromising anyone.
A servant directed them to a small parlour.
‘Send a maid to assist, if you please,’ said Dominic, ‘and tell her to bring a glass of water and smelling salts.’
He gently deposited Liberty on a sofa and Jane snatched an embroidered cushion from a nearby chair to tuck under her head while the other two hung back and stared, doing absolutely nothing to help.
‘Lady Sarah!’
The Earl’s daughter started. ‘Y-yes, my lord?’
‘If you have come to assist us, be so good as to fan Miss Lovejoy’s face. She appears to have been overcome by the heat.’
Lady Sarah moved forward, but thrust her fan into Jane’s hand. With a wry flick of her eyebrows at Dominic, Jane wafted the fan, the breeze lifting the curls on Liberty’s forehead. Her colour was already less hectic, but Dominic’s hand still twitched with the urge to touch her forehead and check her temperature. He curled his fingers into his palm and stepped back, yet he could not tear his gaze from her luscious figure. The fabric of her gown—the colour of spring leaves—moulded softly to every curve and hollow, revealing far more than it should: her rounded thighs; the soft swell of her belly; the narrow waist above generous hips; and above that...good Lord...those gorgeous, bountiful breasts...
Dominic quickly shifted his gaze to Liberty’s face, uncomfortably aware of both Lady Sarah and Lady Amelia watching him closely.
Liberty’s lashes fluttered and her lids slowly lifted to reveal two dazed eyes that gazed in confusion into his before flying open in horror. She struggled to sit and Dominic instinctively pressed her back down. Her skin was like warm silk, smooth and baby soft and he longed to caress...to explore...to taste... The hairs on his arms stirred as his nerve endings tingled and saliva flooded his mouth. Good God...how he wanted to—he buried that thought before it could surface.
‘Lie still!’
She collapsed back at his barked command, eyes wide, and he snatched his hands away.
‘Who should I request to attend to you, Miss Lovejoy?’
‘Mrs Mount.’ Their eyes met and his heart thudded in his chest as his throat constricted. ‘She is our chaperon. Thank you.’
She half-raised her hand and he began to reach for it before recalling their surroundings. Their witnesses.
‘My Lord Avon, you may safely leave Miss Lovejoy in our care.’ Lady Amelia inserted herself gracefully between Dominic and the sofa. ‘This is no place for a gentleman.’
Our care?
He controlled his snort of derision—he’d seen precious little care from either Amelia or Sarah—but he knew she was right. This was no place for him and Liberty would be safe in Jane’s hands, he knew. Jane, still gently fanning, caught his eye and again flicked her brows at him, clearly sharing his cynical reaction.
‘I have hartshorn here.’ Lady Sarah, on his other side, reached into her reticule.
‘Good. Good,’ he said, retreating. ‘Make sure she remains lying down. I shall send a footman to alert Mrs Mount. Jane, is there anything else you need?’
Both Amelia and Sarah shot resentful glances at Jane. Mentally, he scratched their names from his list although he would still pay them some attention, if only to divert the gossips from identifying the three names that remained.
‘No, thank you,’ said Jane. ‘I am sure Miss Lovejoy will soon recover.’
Dominic strode for the door, every step between himself and all that temptation lifting a weight from his shoulders. He had purposely avoided her tonight. He had seen her across the room with a spare-framed woman in her mid-forties and he’d taken care to keep his distance—partly for propriety’s sake, when they had not, officially, been introduced, and partly through guilt because he still had not fulfilled his promise to speak to Alex. And the reason for that, he knew, was because his innate cautiousness was screaming at him to keep his distance from Liberty Lovejoy. But, try as he might, he had been unable to entirely banish her from his thoughts and he knew he must remedy his failure as soon as possible.
For the first time he wondered if she had seen him, too, and had purposely swooned to force him to catch her. He cast a look over his shoulder. Eyes like midnight-blue velvet followed his progress from the room. No. He did not believe her swoon was faked—she hadn’t even glanced his way as she stumbled blindly through the group that surrounded him and, if he was absolutely honest with himself, there had been half-a-dozen fellows closer to her than him, any one of whom could have caught her when she swooned.
Except... His jaw clenched as he reviewed his actions. He might not have consciously recognised her but, by the time she collapsed, his feet had already moved him to her side, putting him in the perfect position to catch her.
He paused outside the room, still thinking. His head began to throb. Good grief...he rubbed his temples. He hadn’t even known she existed three days ago, but she’d been on his mind ever since and now here he was—the instant he saw her again—playing the hero like an eager young pup in the throes of first love. He scowled as he scanned the landing. All his life he had avoided any behaviour that might give rise to gossip or speculation. He had always been far too conscious of his position as his father’s heir and the expectations he placed on himself.
He beckoned to the same footman he had spoken to before.
‘Please find Mrs Mount and ask her to attend Miss Lovejoy in the parlour at her earliest convenience.’
He was damned if he’d take the message himself—the more distance he kept between himself and the Lovejoys the better.
The sooner I make good my promise and speak to Alex about her dratted brother, the better.
His enquiry as to Alex’s whereabouts had elicited not only the information that his younger brother had taken a set of rooms at Albany, St James’s, but also that he often frequented the Sans Pareil Theatre, on the Strand, in the company of a group of young noblemen, the new Earl of Wendover among them. He felt a twinge of envy at Alex’s ability to make friends so easily—a trait that had somehow always eluded Dominic.
He returned to the salon. He had no particular urge to rejoin his earlier companions, but he must—he could not allow the other guests’ last sight of him to be of him carrying a swooning female from the room. He made polite conversation for twenty minutes or so and, once he was confident enough people had noted his return, he took his leave.
Too restless to go home and prompted by the events of the evening, he headed for Sans Pareil in search of Alex, determined to discharge his promise to Liberty as soon as he possibly could. From the floor of the theatre he scanned the boxes, finally spotting his father’s close friend, Lord Stanton and his wife, Felicity, Dominic’s second cousin. He ran up the stairs and slid into a vacant seat behind them.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Felicity’s head whipped round and a huge smile lit her face. ‘Dominic! Of course. We’re delighted to see you. But you have missed the play, you know. There is only the farce left.’ Her eyes twinkled. She knew very well that most people preferred the farce to the serious drama, which was why the theatres always showed the farce last in the programme.
‘I’m not here to watch either—I’m looking for Alex. Have you seen him?’
Stanton leant forward, searching the pit below. He pointed. ‘There he is,’ he said, ‘with Wolfe and Wendover.’
Felicity also leant forward. ‘Wendover? Is that the new Earl? Oh, yes. I see—the man with the golden hair? I’ve never seen him before, although I have, of course, heard the gossip.’ She settled back into her seat. ‘Such a dreadful thing to happen—the previous Lord Wendover and his entire family perishing in that fire.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s frightening.’
Stanton took her hand. ‘Try not to think about it, Felicity Joy. You mustn’t upset yourself.’ Then he twisted in his seat to face Dominic and lowered his voice. ‘The entire house was gutted, I hear. It is beyond repair. Wendover will have to rebuild.’
Was that why Liberty was so anxious about money? The knowledge that the family seat would need to be completely rebuilt?
‘Have you heard how the fire started?’
‘The bed hangings in the main bedchamber caught fire. Wendover and his lady were in bed. They didn’t stand a chance—the house went up like a rocket, with all those dry old timbers to feed the flames.’
Dominic suppressed his own shudder. Fire...it was a terrifying prospect, and an ever-present danger with candles and lanterns supplying light and with open fires where an unwary soul might find their clothes catching alight and going up in flames. There were new innovations, with gas lighting now more common in London streets, but there was widespread distrust at the idea of employing the new technology in private homes.
Felicity looked at them, frowning. ‘What are you two whispering about?’ She narrowed her eyes at Stanton and shook her head. ‘You should know better than to try to hide unpalatable truths from me, Richard.’
Her husband laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said, with a wink at Dominic. ‘But this is not hiding. It is protecting. You know the tragedy that occurred, but you do not need to know the details, my sweet.’
Felicity pouted, then smiled. ‘You are right. As you so often are, my darling husband.’
A laugh rumbled in Richard’s chest. ‘If you believe that last remark, Dom, my boy, you do not know women. Or, more particularly, wives. We men might hold the titles, property and wealth, but, in a marriage, it is the wife who holds the power.’ He captured Felicity’s hands and kissed first one palm, then the other. ‘My heart. Your hands.’
His smile confirmed his happiness at being in such thrall to Felicity and Dominic was happy for them. He was very fond of Felicity—they had worked together closely for years, supporting and funding Westfield, a school and asylum for orphans and destitute children—and he remembered only too well the traumas of the early months of Richard and Felicity’s arranged marriage. Would he be so fortunate in his marriage of convenience? He mentally ran through his shortlist and doubts erupted. Not one of them, from his observations, had Felicity’s kind heart and sincerity. He shifted uneasily in his seat and tried to quash those doubts.
I’m not looking for love. Nor for a comfortable wife. I want a lady suited to the position of a marchioness; someone with the perfect qualities to be a duchess in the future and capable of raising a son who will one day be a duke. Someone of whom my mother would approve and a daughter-in-law to make my father proud.
That had always been his destiny. From a young age, his mother had drummed into him his responsibility as his father’s heir and his duty to marry a lady worthy of the future position as the Duchess of Cheriton. It was the price one paid when one was firstborn.