Page 7 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
“You don’t understand, Grace. Men don’t find me appealing in that way. They don’t have improper thoughts or consider me alluring. If a man even hinted that he fancied me, I’d marry him.”
“You’ve had marriage proposals.”
“From impoverished gents, and it became quite clear, quite quickly that they yearned to hold near my dowry, not me. Your advice helped me identify the fortune hunters, and thus far—to my everlasting disappointment—they’ve all been fortune hunters.”
“Perhaps you took my words too much to heart.”
“No one looks at me the way my brother looks at you. Even before he professed his love, it was obvious that he wanted you in the worst sort of way.”
Unable to deny the words, Grace blushed. Minerva stood and began to pace. She was striving so hard not to show how nervous she was about this decision. It was the correct one for her. She wanted to know what it was to be with a man, and she’d grown weary of waiting. “The anonymity appeals to me. If I botch it all up, no one is going to know.”
“You won’t botch it. But I do worry that you’ll be hurt.”
Kneeling before her dear friend, Minerva took her hands, squeezed. “How can I be hurt when, for a little while, I shall feel as though I am desired? Grace, I have never once in my life felt as though a man desired me. And while I know that he won’t know it is me, that all he truly wants is my body, it will bemybody that he touches,mybody in which he takes pleasure,mybody that receives pleasure in return. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.”
“It’s rather rash when there are alternatives. You could proposition a man to be your lover.”
“And how do I deal with the embarrassment when he says no?”
“He might say yes.”
“Six Seasons, Grace, and I’ve never been kissed. Never been ushered into a shadowy garden. My dance partners are becoming fewer and farther between. I am recognized for what I am: a spinster. It is time for me to acknowledge that I shall never experience a grand love, and I won’t saddle myself with a man who can’t love me as deeply as my father loves my mother. Or my brother loves you. If I’m going to be with him for the remainder of my life, I want a gentleman who is besotted. And if I can’t have that, I want to know at least once what it is to be with a man without the barriers of societal mores. Maybe then, I can move on and find happiness elsewhere.”
With a sigh, Grace worked her hands free of Minerva’s clasp, reached into the pocket of her skirt, and withdrew a folded slip of paper. Minerva wanted to snatch it up, but she feared she would tear it because Grace’s fingers were turning white with her death grip on the frail parchment.
“Along with the address,” Grace began, “I have included a list of gentlemen to avoid should they cross your path. Lovingdon assures me that they are selfish lovers—not that he knew why I was asking, but it seems that in the privacy of their clubs, men are prone to boasting about their conquests.” Pursing her lips together, she extended the paper. “Please be very careful.”
Minerva closed her steady fingers around the answer to her dreams. The time for being careful was long past. She yearned for a night to remember. “Don’t suppose you have a list of whom I should consider?”
Grace released a forced laugh. “Afraid not. I just wished a gentleman could see you for your true worth, something that has nothing at all to do with your dowry.”
“Not every gentleman can be as wise as my half brother.”
“Pity that.”
Pity indeed. But then, Minerva wasn’t one to languish on the negative. She’d had no luck with the marriage market. It was time to move into the realm of pleasure.
THE Duke of Ashebury was on the hunt for a pair of long, shapely legs. Standing casually with a shoulder pressed to a wall in the front parlor of the Nightingale Club, he observed with a jaundiced eye those who entered. The ladies wore flowing silk that caressed their skin as a lover might before the night was done. The shimmering fabric seductively outlined the body, hinted at dips and swells. Arms were bared. Necklines were low, the silk gathering just below a tasteful showing of cleavage designed to entice. People murmured and sipped their champagne, while exchanging heavy-lidded gazes and come-hither smiles.
The flirtation that occurred within these walls was very different from that found in a ballroom. No one here was searching for a dance partner. Rather, they wanted a bedding partner. He appreciated the honesty on display, which was the reason that he often stopped by when he was in London. No pretense, no ruses, no duplicity.
He had already claimed a bedchamber, the key nestled in his jacket pocket, as he wanted no one to disturb what he had so painstakingly set up. His needs were unique, and he knew that within these walls, they would be kept secret. People did not discuss what occurred at the Nightingale Club. For most of London, its existence was something spoken about in longing whispers by those who knew it only as myth. But for those familiar with it, it served as a sanctuary, liberator, confidant. It was whatever one needed it to be.
For him, it was salvation, bringing him back from the brink of darkness. Twenty years had gone by since his parents’ deaths, yet still he dreamed of mangled and charred remains. Still, he heard his mother’s terrorized screams and his father’s fruitless cries. Still, his behavior when he’d last seen them taunted him. Had he known that he’d never look upon them again—
With resolve, he shook off the haunting musings that sent a chill down his spine. Here, he could forget, at least for a few hours. Here, the regrets didn’t gnaw unmercifully at him. Here, he could become lost striving for perfection, for the ultimate in pleasure.
He had merely to determine which lady would best suit his purposes, which would be willing to concede to his unusual request without protest. It bothered him not at all that the ladies wore domino masks. He cared little for their faces, understood their need for anonymity. Their concealment worked to his advantage as he’d discovered that ladies were more comfortable with his request when they were assured it would remain their secret—and his not knowing their identity made them bolder than they might have been otherwise. They liked being a little naughty as long as they weren’t caught. He couldn’t catch them if he didn’t know who they were.
Still, he had one cardinal rule he always observed: never the same lady twice.
The ladies brought their own masks, seldom changed them, as the façade became their calling cards, as effective at identifying them as the ones handed over to butlers in the early afternoon when they were making proper visits. The woman in the black mask decorated with peacock feathers had a scar just above her left knee from a tumble she’d taken from a pony as a child. The blue mask, black feathers had two delightful dimples in the small of her back. The green mask outlined in yellow lace possessed bony hips that had proven a challenge, but he’d been pleased with the results when their time together was finished. But then he’d always embraced the challenge of discovering the perfection in imperfection.
The three glasses of scotch that he’d enjoyed were thrumming through his veins. The din of intimacy was calming. The muscles that had been so tense earlier were relaxed. He was in his element here, or he would be in short order. As soon as he found that for which he was searching. He wouldn’t settle for less than what he wanted; he never did. If one sure thing could be said about the Duke of Ashebury, it was that he knew his own mind. That he was stubborn when it came to acquiring what he needed—or wanted. Tonight’s endeavors straddled the line of both what he needed and what he wanted. All needs would be met before dawn. Then, perhaps, he could be glad to be back in London.
Lifting his glass for another sip, he watched a woman wearing draping white silk and a white mask with short white feathers walk hesitantly into the room as though she expected the floor to drop out from beneath her at any moment. She wasn’t particularly tall, but based on the way the silk moved over her flesh with each graceful step, it was obvious that she possessed long, slender legs. He wondered if she was meeting someone, already had an arranged assignation. Some ladies did—it was one of the reasons that the men didn’t wear masks. So they were easily identifiable if their paramours wanted to meet them here. Another reason was that men simply didn’t bloody well care if anyone knew that they were in the mood for a good tupping. Even the married ones were brazen with their presence.
The woman in white appeared to have dark hair, gathered up in an elaborate style that no doubt required an abundance of pins. He couldn’t be absolutely certain of the exact shade because the lighting in the room—only flickering candles—enhanced the mood of secrecy as well as creating an ambiance for intimacy while providing a gossamer disguise for some distinguishing characteristics that were easily identifiable by color: hair, eyes, even the fairness of skin. Perhaps she moved slowly because her eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Gentlemen not yet spoken for did not swarm to her side. But then that was the rule here. Seduction happened slowly. Ladies needed to hint at an interest.
