Page 6 of In Scandal with the Duke
Elizabeth’s heart raced when those enigmatic silver eyes swept over her in a swift, thorough appraisal, then flicked away dismissively. The painful duality of her interactions with the duke coalesced into a poignant awareness that she might never fit intotonlife as her mother and aunt anticipated.
“Your Grace,” Brandon said with a warm smile, “allow me to present my aunt, Viscountess Barnaby, my mother, Mrs. Armstrong, and my sister, Miss Elizabeth Armstrong. My sister and mother arrived from New York only two weeks ago.”
As Brandon introduced them, something flickered in the duke’s eyes—a brief, indecipherable spark before his expression settled into detached politeness. Elizabeth’s aunt and mother dipped into graceful curtsies, their voices a soft murmur of pleasantries. Elizabeth stood frozen, her heart thundering so loudly in her ears that their words were lost to her.
“A delight to meet you, Mrs. Armstrong,” the duke said, offering a smile as hollow as the echo of distant laughter.
His eyes, cold and calculating, met Elizabeth’s.
The hypocrite.
Her family stared at her, a palpable sense of expectation hanging in the air.
“Bette,” Brandon chided gently. “I know it is not every day one meets a duke, but you are supposed to curtsy.”
The duke’s slightly raised eyebrow, arching in aristocratic expectation, only fueled her defiance. He appeared so aloof, so supremely arrogant—as if he were an emperor disdainfully regarding an unworthy subject. It ignited a fire within her.
“A curtsy?” Elizabeth was proud of the calmness of her voice. She lifted her chin, her gaze unyielding. “I would offer such a courtesy to those who have earned the honor. I daresay both my admiration and contempt can be earned; it must be my vulgar American manners that allow for the possibility.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
“Elizabeth!” she gasped, her voice a mixture of dismay and disbelief.
Guilt twisted in Elizabeth’s chest as she saw the mortification etched on her family’s faces. Her aunt’s complexion paled as if she might faint. Around them, a few ladies tittered behind their fans, their whispers like the rustling of dry leaves.
Yet, civility demanded some gesture of politeness, however strained. With a tight smile that did not reach her eyes, Elizabeth nodded to the duke, her head bowing slightly but not nearly enough to count as a curtsy. “Your Grace, a pleasure,” she said.
“I can tell that it is anything but a pleasure, Miss Armstrong,” the duke replied, his voice icy with disdain. “Still, I find that honesty suits you far better than flattery ever could. Your lack of manners can be overlooked in this instance, even if it is unpalatable.”
His words, sharp as a blade, left a sting of humiliation.The wretch! Elizabeth turned away, her shoulders stiff. She had to walk past him to leave the ballroom, and she did so without another word, her head held high. Behind her, his soft, mocking laugh followed, kissing over her skin in a warning.
She left the ballroom, the echoes of the duke’s laughter mingling with the murmur of the scandalized crowd, now wishing more than ever that she had not attended.
“Bette!”
She stopped and waited for her brother to catch up with her.
“What was that about?” Brandon demanded tightly. “Do you know what you have done?”
“Is this the friend you have been telling me about? The one you were eager for me to meet?”
“Yes.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I know you are a lady of good sense and manners. I cannot imagine what pushed you to be so provoking and rude with His Grace.”
Elizabeth told him what she had witnessed without explaining why she was on the balcony.
“I am sorry, Bette,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I suspect that lady was the Duchess of Basil, his mother. Her words were terrible, but that does not give you leave to—”
“Do not say it, Brandon,” Elizabeth snapped. “You do not seem angry that our mother was so grossly insulted. I am going home. Please inform mama that I will send back the carriage.”
She walked away and collected her cloak, refusing to stop at the strained call of her brother. As she stepped into the cooler air of the night, the weight of what she had done—and the consequences that might follow—settled heavily upon her. Having a powerful and influential duke as an enemy would be unwise.
“More like catastrophic,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Oh, what have I done?
CHAPTER3
James Chisholm, the Duke of Basil, reclined on a well-padded sofa in one of London’s premier brothels and pleasure palaces, Aphrodite, a venue decadent in its opulence. The low hum of anticipation filled the air of the private room in the pleasure palace as James and his friends awaited the evening’s entertainment. They were ensconced in a comfortably and sensually decorated room, the walls lined with sumptuous tapestries that told tales of ancient conquests and decadent revelry. Above them, the chandelier cast a warm light that flickered like the fire in the hearth, and the gentleclinkof fine whisky glasses punctuated the murmuring voices of the attendants outside.
