To Capture a Duke's Heart (10 page)

Philip was right!  With that one waltz he’d likely worsened his existing plight tenfold, he realized in escalating horror.  And if he didn’t announce his engagement to
someone
before the start of the Season, he’d likely have to flee the country to avoid the inevitable onslaught.  “Bloody hell, man!  What the devil was I thinking?” 

“Oh you were thinking alright,” Philip chortled, “just not with your head, I’m guessing.”

Reentering the ballroom some fifteen minutes later, Gabriel skirted the edge of the crowd as he cast his gaze in search of Eugenia Cunningham.  Knowing that Philip wouldn’t mind, he thought that perhaps a second waltz, only with Eugenia this time, might serve to deflect at least a small portion of attention from his waltz with the Earl of Beckford’s daughter.  His attention was abruptly diverted a few seconds later, however, as he caught sight of Lady Penelope exiting the dance floor on Lord Wexley’s arm for the second time that evening. Slowing his progression he followed them with his eyes, frowning slightly when she said something to the handsome young viscount that caused him to flash a brilliant smile and then toss his head back with a hearty laugh. 

So focused was his attention upon Wexley and Lady Penelope that he nearly failed to notice the individual who’d just stepped forward into his path.  Fortunately, however, he avoided colliding with the poor woman, drawing to an abrupt halt a few short steps before the Dowager Duchess of Lyndon.

“Well, well,” she said, regarding him with a slight, knowing smile, “it appears as if you may have already found her.”

Gabriel eyed the duchess curiously.  “I’m sorry, but who is it that you are referring to?”

“Why the girl for you, my dear boy.  Who else?”

Ah hell!
  “Oh, and who might that be?” he queried, his tone deliberately blasé.

Agatha harrumphed.  “You know quite well to whom I am referring, Ainsworth. Lady Penelope, of course, the young woman you were watching just moments ago when you very nearly bowled me over,” she proclaimed.  “The
same
young woman you have scarce taken your eyes off of throughout the evening.”

Gabriel didn’t respond, instead turning his attention to the passing footman as he plucked a glass of champagne from the attendant’s silver tray.  Although he would have preferred something stronger at that particular moment,
much
stronger in fact, the sparkling wine would have to do he supposed, raising the chilled glass to his lips. 
First Philip and now Agatha; was his interest in Penelope Houghton that apparent?
 

“She’s a delightful girl and I daresay would make you a much better wife than the Penworthy chit.”

He turned back to her with a mildly inquiring expression, maintaining his dispassionate tone.  “I wasn’t aware that you and Lady Penelope were well-acquainted.”

The duchess gave a nearly imperceptible shrug.  “We spoke this afternoon.”

“Ah.”  Gabriel nodded in understanding.  “And based upon that singular conversation you have determined that she would make me a fitting wife?”

“I happen to be an excellent judge of character as you very well know,” the dowager asserted in her haughtiest tone.

“Well, I certainly cannot disagree with that, Your Grace,” Gabriel acknowledged with a nod.  “So then, shall I ask Beckford for his daughter’s hand this very night or do you think that I should wait until morning?”

“Impertinent,” the duchess muttered with a shake of her head.  “I can only imagine what a trial you must have been to your poor parents.”

Gabriel chuckled.  “I’ve no doubt my father may have considered me such a time or two,” he conceded. “However, I am entirely confident that my mother would proclaim me the most amenable of sons.”

“Yes, I expect that she would, for mothers are notoriously blind to the faults of their sons.”

“They are indeed,” Gabriel allowed with an unabashed grin, “and ‘tis a circumstance for which their sons are assuredly grateful.”

“Speaking of your mother,” Agatha said then, content it seemed to let the matter of Lady Penelope rest for the time being, “how is Victoria?  Still married to the
American
, I presume?” 

“Mother is doing quite well, thank you,” Gabriel replied.  “And yes,” he continued with a benevolent smile, “she and Edgar are still blissfully wed. In fact, we received a letter from her just last week recounting the highlights of their post-wedding holiday in Spain and subsequent arrival in Boston.” Though his mother’s recent marriage to the wealthy American businessman had sent shock waves rippling through the
ton’s
elitist ranks, he and his brothers had witnessed firsthand the true measure of joy and contentment the affable, self-made shipping magnate had brought to her life and thus had fully supported her decision to become Mrs. Edgar Van Warren. 

“Boston,” she uttered the name with a disdainful sniff.  “While I daresay your mother will find American society to be woefully lacking in both culture and sophistication, I suppose that if anyone has the wherewithal to muddle through it is Victoria.”

Gabriel did his best to hide his amusement at the condescension reflected in Agatha’s tone, for he hadn’t a doubt that she was one amongst the few people who were genuinely pleased to know that his mother had found true happiness at last, even if it was with one of those dreadfully unrefined Americans that the aristocracy so delighted in turning up their noses at.  “Yes, I’m confident that Mother will make do somehow.”

“When next you write to her, you may send her my regards.”

“I shall.”  Thankful that their conversation had reached its end without further discussion of Lady Penelope, he breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.  Unfortunately, however, his seeming good fortune took an immediate about face upon the duchess’ next words.

“Now, back to the matter of your future bride.”

Across the room as she and Lord Wexley continued the conversation they’d begun on the dance floor a short while earlier, Penny noted her father approaching from the rear of the ballroom, a somewhat discomfited expression clouding his features.

“Papa?” she queried, regarding him inquiringly as he neared.  “Is something amiss?”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” the earl stated with an apologetic smile, “but if you wouldn’t mind, Wexley, I’d like to speak privately with my daughter.”

“Yes, of course my lord,” the viscount nodded agreeably.  “Lady Penelope, thank you for the dance, as well as the delightful conversation.”

“And the same to you, my lord.”

The earl waited until Lord Wexley was out of earshot and then asked, “Penelope, dear, have you seen your stepmother?”

“No, Papa, not recently,” she answered, watching as her father’s brow furrowed.  “Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing of significance.  It’s merely that I have been searching the room for the past quarter-hour with nary a glimpse of her.”

Penny studied her father’s expression curiously, for it wasn’t like him to concern himself about his wife’s whereabouts.  Was it possible that he had noted Maryanne’s flirtation with the Duke of Ainsworth the night before or with some other gentleman perhaps?  Oh dear, did he suspect that her stepmother might have left the ballroom to engage in some sort of illicit rendezvous, she wondered?  “Mayhap she is merely visiting the ladies retiring room,” she suggested optimistically.

The earl nodded absently.  “Yes, I imagine that’s it.”

“Would you like me to go and see if I can find her?” Penny offered. 

“No, no.  That won’t be necessary, as I’m sure you are correct, my dear.  Like as not she is attending to her appearance,” he replied reassuringly, “for as you and I both know, your stepmother considers it a catastrophe of monumental proportion if her gloves should become soiled or so much as a single hairpin dislodges itself from her coiffure before the evening’s end,” he continued with a conspiratorial wink.

Penny couldn’t help but grin, for her father wasn’t exaggerating Maryanne’s mindset in the least.  Nonetheless, as she surreptitiously scanned the room a few moments later she was relieved to see that while her stepmother was nowhere to be seen, the Duke of Ainsworth
was
present and stood conversing with the Dowager Duchess of Lyndon across the room.

Entering into his bedchamber at a half past twelve, still early by Town standards, Gabriel pushed the door closed behind him and then slowly began the unfastening of his cufflinks as he made his way to the large chest of drawers positioned against the room’s east wall.  Having left his manservant in London he was tasked with undressing himself, a relatively simple undertaking that he was more than capable of, however, and one he performed himself more often than not much to his exacting valet’s unending consternation.  And so, removing the thick gold squares from his shirt cuffs, he deposited them into the small, enameled box engraved with his initials that he’d sat atop the dresser and then lifted his hands to his throat and set about the unloosening of the silk pongee neck scarf tied around his throat.  Pulling it free of his shirt collar, he tossed it alongside the box and then shrugged free of his evening jacket, hanging it upon the back of the nearby wooden valet stand before starting upon the gold buttons of his embroidered waistcoat. 

Tugging his shirttail from the waistband of his breeches a few moments later, he reached for the pearl shirt buttons, unfastening the top three as he continued toward the nightstand that sat next to the bed.  Eyeing the crystal decanter that sat upon its top, he hesitated for only a second before lifting it, loosening its top and pouring himself a healthy measure of the dark amber liquid into a heavy, cut-glass snifter.  Then, walking in the direction of the windows that overlooked the rear garden he took a long, leisurely swallow, savoring the pleasing flavor and satisfying warmth as the brandy slid smoothly down the back of his throat.

Staring silently into the moonlit darkness he stood unmoving for several long minutes, content to merely gaze upon the clear night sky as he sipped his brandy and reflected upon the events of the past several hours.  His waltz with Lady Penelope, as well as his conversations with both Philip and Agatha, had given him a great deal to ponder and a myriad of thoughts had been whirling within his head for much of the evening, just as they were now. Sighing, he doubted that he would enjoy a restful slumber that night with so much weighing on his mind, despite his desire to push them aside, at least for the time being anyhow.

Perhaps the brandy would help serve to dull his mind and quiet this thoughts, he mused, gazing pensively upon the contents of the glass as he raised it to his lips once again.  Hell, it certainly couldn’t hurt, he supposed. And so, downing the remaining liquid in a single swallow, he turned away from the window and moved purposefully across the room.   Reaching the nightstand he lifted the decanter, refilled the snifter, took another lengthy swallow and then dropped heavily into a nearby chair.  Leaning his head against the back of the chair he rested the glass upon his knee, closed his eyes and waited for the brandy’s soothing influence to take effect.

_____

Slowly turning the smooth brass knob beneath her hand, the Countess of Beckford cracked open the door to the guest chamber just two doors down from the one she and her husband had been assigned, listened intently for several, long seconds and then slipped silently into the room.  She lingered for a moment just inside the door, standing perfectly still, on alert for the smallest sound or the slightest movement as she scanned the darkened room. 

Then, taking several cautious steps forward, she focused upon the bed and the figure lying motionless upon it.  “Your Grace?” she whispered, watching closely for any sign of wakefulness.  When he remained unmoving she shuffled a few steps closer, shifting her gaze to the crystal decanter that sat atop the nightstand next to the bed, noting with a pleased expression that only a small portion of the drug-laced brandy remained within.  “Your Grace?”  Her voice was slightly louder this time as she turned back to the bed.  Still, he didn’t move. 

Bolder now, Maryanne approached the side of the bed, her eyes intent upon the duke’s face.  “Your Grace?”  Reaching out she touched her hand to his naked shoulder, pressing lightly at first and then with significantly more force; but despite her efforts to rouse him, his eyes remained closed, his breathing slow and steady.  Satisfied he wouldn’t wake, she removed an empty glass from the pocket of her dressing gown and quickly poured the remaining brandy into it, leaving only a trace amount of liquid in the bottom of the decanter as she set it back upon the nightstand.   Then, with glass in hand, she turned back toward the door and hastened from the room.

“Are you certain about this, my lady?” Mavis questioned, clearly ill at ease as she cast an apprehensive glance between her mistress and Penelope’s sleeping form.

“Of course I’m certain,” Maryanne asserted as she pulled back the covers of Penelope’s bed and tossed them aside. 

“But if someone should find out that we-”

“As I told you before,
no one
is going to find out,” Maryanne hissed.  “It is the perfect plan, I tell you; and as long as we do exactly as I have instructed, it shall appear to the duke, as well as to my husband, that
she
devised the entire thing.  And so,” she continued, “as I explained to you before, even though my husband will assuredly try to persuade Ainsworth to marry the girl, the duke, assuming that Penelope deliberately set out to trap him, will never agree to it. Beckford will be outraged of course and His Grace shall be made to suffer the consequences of treating me in such a cruel and callous manner by not only being forced to endure the inevitable scandal, but by gaining a powerful new enemy in my husband.  And to make matters even better, my troublesome stepdaughter will undoubtedly be packed off to France in disgrace; and all with none being the wiser,” she concluded with an air of malevolent satisfaction.  “Now cease your prevaricating and help me get her up.”

Though her expression remained anxious, Mavis did as her mistress ordered and took a hesitant step forward.

“Penelope.  Penelope, wake up!” Maryanne directed as she leaned over the bed, tugging upon Penelope’s arm as she tried to coax her into an upright position.

Penny gave a faint whimper of protest, resisting the pull on her arm as she turned her cheek to rest against the pillow.

“Perhaps we gave her too much,” Mavis worried, her eyes darting anxiously to the empty porcelain teacup that sat on the night table next to the bed.

“We had no choice,” Maryanne insisted.  “We have to be absolutely certain that she won’t be able to recall any of this or my plan goes to ruin.” 

“Penelope,” Maryanne said then, louder this time.  “Do you hear me?  You need to get up this instant.”

“Too tired,” Penny mumbled in response, her garbled words nearly indecipherable.

Maryanne huffed in irritation.  “Mavis, slide your arm beneath her back and when I pull you try and sit her up.”

“Yes, my lady,” the maid replied as she did her mistress’ bidding, sliding her bony arm beneath Penelope’s shoulder blades.

“Alright, now lift,” Maryann commanded as she grasped both of Penelope’s wrists and pulled her forward.  Working together they managed to haul Penelope into a sitting position, though her head lolled limply to the side, her eyes still shut.  “Now get behind her and prop her up.”

Mavis did as instructed, positioning herself on the edge of the bed behind Penelope so that she couldn’t fall back onto the mattress.  “Now what?” Mavis asked in a hushed voice.  “We cannot move her like this.  She’s naught but dead weight.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Maryanne replied with a scowl.  Hesitating for a moment she narrowed her eyes and then raised her hand, slapping Penny sharply across the face.

Penelope flinched at the sharp, stinging pain, her eyes fluttering open in confusion.

“Penelope,” Maryanne demanded, giving her a firm shake, “wake up!  You’ve fallen asleep on the chaise and you must help Mavis and I get you into bed.”

Penny blinked and attempted to focus, but it seemed a nearly impossible feat. 

“Come on, Mavis, get her onto her feet,” Maryanne ordered as she stood up, holding onto one of Penelope’s forearms as she wrapped her free arm around Penelope’s legs, dragging them to the side of the mattress.  “Now lift her up.”

Placing her hands beneath Penelope’s arms, Mavis rose to her feet, hauling Penelope upward with Maryanne’s help. 

Penny swayed, struggling to keep her eyes open as the room seemed to spin around her. 
How very odd
, she mused, the thought sparking briefly within her clouded mind.

“Put her arm around your neck, Mavis,” Maryanne huffed as she maneuvered Penelope’s other arm around her own neck.  “Penelope, you need to walk now,” she directed once they had her anchored between them.

Oddly enough Penny couldn’t seem to feel her legs.  In fact, it seemed as if her entire body had gone strangely numb.  “Can’t,” she mumbled.

“Yes you can.  We need to get you into bed,” Maryanne insisted.  “Come now, here we go, on your feet.”

Half carrying and half dragging her, Maryanne and Mavis managed to get Penelope across the room and to the partially-opened door. 

Then once they’d determined that the dark, narrow passageway was empty, they maneuvered her across the threshold and made their way to the duke’s chamber on the opposite side of the hall.  Using her slippered foot, Maryanne nudged the door open and then quickly pushed it shut with her heel once they were safely inside. 

During her brief absence the duke hadn’t moved, lying exactly as he’d been when she’d snuck into his chamber just a few minutes earlier, his breathing still slow and even.

“Alright, almost there,” Maryanne huffed, struggling for breath as she and Mavis hauled Penelope, whose eyes were now closed once again, across the carpeted floor to the bed and then sat her down upon the edge of the mattress, pushing the bedsheets aside.  Releasing her arms they eased her back upon the bed, positioning her head on the pillow and then lifting her legs up onto the mattress while the duke remained utterly motionless on the other side of the bed.

“Now, go and check the hall,” Maryanne whispered to Mavis as she straightened, pulling the sheet over Penelope’s inert frame. 

Mavis nodded and scurried toward the door, cracking it open just far enough so that she could see out into the dark hall.  “It’s all clear,” she uttered softly, turning back toward her mistress.

Maryanne moved toward the window then, pulling the heavy velvet drapes more tightly closed, plunging the darkened chamber even further into inky blackness before making her way back across the floor.  She stopped for a moment near the foot of the bed, her expression undeniably smug as she glanced between Penelope and the duke, the pair nearly indiscernible now in the heavy shroud of darkness.  Then, with a wicked little smile lingering upon her lips, she turned and joined Mavis at the door before slipping quietly from the room.

At some point during the night Gabriel rolled onto his side and in doing so came into contact with the lush, female form lying next to him.  The discovery scarcely penetrated his sleep-befuddled mind, however, as the presence of a woman in his bed wasn’t a particularly unusual occurrence.  Nor, due to the dense fog within his head, did it trigger the warning that it should have.  Thus, it was due more to reflex than conscious thought that he draped his arm across the woman’s waist and pulled her closer, nuzzling his face against the side of her neck.  Breathing in, it wasn’t long, however, before the faint, tantalizing aroma of lavender and vanilla gradually began to rouse his muddled senses; and despite the sluggish haze that engulfed him, his body reacted.

Skimming his nose lightly along the line of her throat, Gabriel’s shaft began to stir, growing longer and harder as the hand at her waist moved slowly upward until it encountered the lush, full curve of her breast.  With his actions controlled more by instinct than conscious thought, his fingers began to explore the fleshy mound through the thin layer of fabric that covered it, gently massaging the soft, pliant flesh as his thumb moved to flick across her nipple.  She let out a breathy moan then, as his thumb began to move in slow, leisurely circles around the now rigid peak.  Encouraged, he allowed his hand to drift downward a few moments later, his fingers skimming along the flat plane of her stomach and then lower to the folds of the nightdress that lay bunched around her thighs.  Grasping the fabric he drew it upward until his fingers brushed the soft tangle of curls between her thighs.  Lightly stroking her delicate folds, he was rewarded with another soft, breathy moan as she grew moist and slick beneath his practiced touch. 

For Penny, the dream was unlike any other she’d had before, for there were no colorful visions or vivid tableaus dancing about within her head, only strange, unfamiliar sensations that felt shockingly
undreamlike
though not altogether unpleasant
as foreign hands explored her naked flesh, touching and caressing her in the most startlingly intimate fashion and in ways that she’d never imagined possible.

They were large hands, undoubtedly a man’s hands, moving with bold purpose and unerring determination it seemed, heightening and intensifying those mystifying, yet astonishingly enjoyable sensations with each additional stroke and caress.  She sucked in a surprised breath then as a long, slender finger slipped inside of her and the weight of a heavy palm pressed down upon her pelvis, exerting the slightest of pressure.  Her hips arched reflexively, pressing upward against his hand as his finger slid further into her soft, yielding flesh.  She moaned softly as he began to move it in and out of her delicate folds, establishing a rhythm that soon had her breathing in quick, panting little breaths.  Dear lord what was happening to her she wondered as her befuddled mind struggled to make sense of the strange, decidedly wicked and increasingly pleasurable dream.