Lady Saves the Duke Page 3

  Marriage could wait for now.

  The earl presented the spinsters along with another gentleman for what he declared to be the most romantic of opportunities. Alex vaguely took note of the names: Lord Hawthorne, Miss Crone, and Miss Wright.

  Ignoring the spinsters, he bowed and offered his arm to his host’s decorative daughter. He did not need to invite her onto the lake with him. Her father had already done that.

  “Er…Thank you, Your Grace.” Was she as reluctant as himself?

  Alex supposed he ought to make an attempt at conversation, but what did one say to a child, practically fresh from the nursery? He could make some trivial comment about the weather, but refused to default to such banality.

  “This summer promises to be a warm one,” she commented beside him.

  But that he could complete this little jaunt as quickly as possible.

  Stepping into the recently cleaned craft, Alex steadied it and reached out his hand to assist his passenger aboard.

  “I need my parasol!” She gasped in protest and pulled out of his grip. Perhaps she was as unwilling as he to be managed by her father.

  Without notice, she shoved the spinster with the large eyes toward him and dashed off in the opposite direction.

  The plump one. The—God help him—smiling one.

  Miss Wright.

  It seemed he was to partner a different lady altogether than he had originally thought. Wonderful.

  Except that in order to prevent the woman from falling into the water, his arms reached out to grasp her about the waist leading him to inadvertently spread one hand over the surprisingly sweet fullness of her derriere. Unable to stop her momentum, she had fallen forward and pressed herself up against the front of him. His own traitorous body took that moment to take notice of the softness of her womanly curves and the clean floral scent of her soap.

  Chapter 2

  Completely of its own volition, his left hand gave a discreet and oh-so-subtle squeeze. His right hand, much better behaved, grasped her shoulder and steadied the lady so she could pull herself away and stand on her own. Her large eyes opened even wider for just a moment before a rush of words let loose from her mouth. Quite a full mouth at that; her lips looked soft and plump just as…

  “Oh, my lord! I am so sorry. I nearly knocked you into the lake!” And then she laughed. “More likely, I nearly fell in myself! I most definitely have your quick reflexes to thank that I am not this moment taking an afternoon swim!” She smiled as she found her seat and settled herself into the boat. He grudgingly admitted to himself that her smile transformed her plain features. Hopefully she wasn’t a giggler. He did not wish to spend the next thirty minutes or so having to suffer girlish tittering.

  But she wasn’t quite a girl. She was, he guessed, closer to thirty than twenty.

  “Thank you, my lord, er…Your Grace? Oh, I know I ought to know better, but would you prefer me to call you my lord or Your Grace? I am not really a servant, you know, but I am also barely considered gentry.”

  Oh, good God! Was she truly as rustic as this? “You may call me Duke, or Monfort. It is of no matter.” At her confused expression, he clarified, “Your Grace is fine.”

  “It’s just that it has been quite some time since I spent any time in polite society,” she jabbered along, sounding unrefined and more than a little sheepish. Why was that, he wondered? He would not ask.

  “It has been nearly nine years since my come-out…” She trailed off.

  He took hold of the oars and expertly steered them away from the shoreline. The lake wrapped around a small island. He would make one circle and then deposit this chit back on the lawn. He would more than have done his duty for the afternoon and then might feel better justified for leaving the house party a week early.

  She looked up at him, seemingly surprised by her utter lack of discretion. “I was eighteen at the time. I am now nearly twenty-eight. It is startling to imagine that I have not been to London since then. And in the village where my parents live, well, there is not really any nobility in the area. A few vacant estates—well, not vacant, and not abandoned, really, but the owners do not ever visit their homes. It always seems like such a waste to me. These grand manors, cared for by servants with nobody enjoying them.”

  The girl was a chatterer. He was not surprised. She relaxed as they floated along and allowed one hand to drift into the water. She had removed one of her gloves and was now clutching it in the same hand that held tightly to her shawl. Why was she wearing a shawl? It was damnably hot today.

  “Not that I am one to judge, mind you.” She must have come to the conclusion that perhaps he himself had an estate or two that went unlived in. “I believe, however, with so many people in want, the owners ought to at least make something of an effort to be a part of the community they preside over.” And then she jumped slightly and pulled her hand out of the water quickly. “A fish!” She leaned over and peered into the water. “A fish swam right by my hand!” She had absentmindedly let go of her shawl and was holding both hands up in the air to illustrate the size of the fish. “It was this long! It nearly touched me! I have never before seen such a large fish, alive, so very close! And what gorgeous colors, silvery blues and greens! Oh, I knew a boat ride would be lovely today. I looked out at this lake and thought to myself what a lovely treat it would be to ride out on top of the lake in a boat.”

  She continued speaking about nature and whatnot, but Alex’s attention had been completely lost when she dropped her shawl. For there before him, and he did not think he was exaggerating, were the most glorious breasts he had ever been afforded the privilege to gaze upon. They were creamy white, round, and plump, and he could just make out dusky rose tips pushed up by her stays.

  Her dress was apparently experiencing some sort of a malfunction.

  She was also quite oblivious to her present circumstances as she continued reaching into the water and swirling her fingertips in its refreshing coolness. Leaning forward, she thrust herself into an even more provocative pose, causing the duke to clutch the oars tightly to stop himself from reaching out to touch her. And, as though he were a raunchy schoolboy, he unbelievably found himself growing hard. It was not as though he had not seen numerous sets of breasts, but there was something incredibly arousing about seeing them in such an inappropriate setting being displayed by such an unlikely woman. And they were, in truth, really quite exceptional.

  He cleared his throat and pulled at his cravat. Unfortunately, he could not make his eyes look away from her. “Er…madam.”

  “It really has been a delightful summer, thus far, would you not agree?” she continued conversing cheerfully. And then, finally realizing that she had been chattering quite unrelentingly, she paused. With a bit of a perplexed look, she tilted her head slightly. “Is there something the matter, Your Grace?”

  The duke finally dragged his eyes down to look at the oars where his hands gripped them. “Madam, you must…Er…Please forgive me but…ah…” Oh, good lord, he hadn’t been at a loss for words since before he’d gone off to school. “Your dress, madam.”

  He met her gaze again just before she glanced down at herself. And in that instant, all of the light and joy which had been bubbling out of her just moments before were completely extinguished as her face crumpled in upon itself. She looked around frantically for her shawl, he presumed, but could not locate it. Especially while attempting to cover herself with distraught hands. The shawl had fallen to the bottom of the boat beneath her seat and was somewhat hidden.

  The duke locked the oars in place and reached forward to retrieve it for her. As he did so, however, she squealed and jumped back, falling off her seat and landing in an inelegant heap on the bottom of the boat. Alex slowed his movements and picked up the shawl. Meeting her frightened eyes, he gently tossed it to her.

  She wrapped herself quickly and turned her face away from him. Pulling her knees up in front of herself, she continued to lie on the floor of the boat in a curle
d up ball. She was quite motionless but chanted to herself in a hoarse whisper, “Oh my God, oh my God,” over and over again.

  For the thousandth time, Abigail wished she had never come. And for the ten-thousandth time, she wished her mother to perdition.

  She did not know how she could ever face the very handsome, if cold and distant, duke again. And if she could not ever face him again, how would she be able to get out of the boat and go back into the house? Surely she could not complete the trip around the island curled up on the floor like this? Oh, it would have been better had she fallen into the lake initially, when Lady Natalie had pushed her into the boat.

  Even better still, she ought to have cried off the garden party altogether so she could alter the dresses. It had been utterly, completely, moronically stupid of her to wear a gown that was so obviously not capable of modestly restraining her…her…well, the bane of her existence.

  Oh, and she had been enjoying herself so completely, too. The wonder of having a fish swim right alongside her hand, with the sun shining down through the trees and sparkling on the deep green of the water. Why did it all have to be ruined? What was she to do now? Oh God, oh God, oh God…

  “You shall not see any more fish that way, Miss Wright.” A bored-sounding masculine voice interrupted her extreme bout of self-pity. And then the voice sounded closer. His hand touched her shoulder. “Come now, let me help you back up so you may enjoy the rest of your boat ride.” His hand squeezed her shoulder slightly, as though he could impart some courage to her so she might sit up and turn around once again.

  Could she do this? Could she pretend that nothing, absolutely nothing had happened? How much had he seen? Oh, she knew, he had seen everything. The seam must have given way when she’d stumbled onto the boat. She must have dropped her shawl when the fish touched her hand. Oh, he’d seen everything.

  “Come, now, give me your hand, Miss Wright.”

  Abigail took a deep breath and tried to turn her body without allowing either of her hands to lose grasp of her shawl. It was quite awkward. The duke had one foot planted on the bottom of the boat and the other on the seat she had vacated. He must be very confident in his own balance, she thought abstractly.

  And apparently realizing that she was not going to give him a hand so he could assist her, he reached down, grabbed her under the arms, and pulled her onto the seat.

  With barely any effort at all, he had her once again firmly planted upon the wooden bench where she’d been a few moments earlier. This time, however, she faced away from him. The boat rocked as he found his own seat again as well. “You are not injured, are you, Miss Wright? From falling?”

  She forced herself to shake her head. “I am not,” she spoke in a trembling voice coming out barely more than a wisp of air. “Thank you.” At an utter loss as to what to do next, Abigail closed her eyes and attempted to breathe evenly.

  So now, was she to keep her back to him for the next twenty or so minutes as they traveled about the island? Was she that much of a coward? The longer she hid her face from him, the more impossible it would be to ever face the man again.

  She hated the thought of herself as a coward.

  Not giving in to the desire to bury her head in her hands, yet still clutching the shawl tightly about her, Abigail took a deep breath, lifted her knees, and spun about to face him.

  Well, she did not actually face him. She kept her head bent forward and watched his hands and legs as he smoothly pulled on the old wooden oars. His tan breeches were tight, and his muscles contracted as he pulled and lifted in an unhurried rhythm. How long since she’d last been alone with an unmarried man?

  Abigail dragged her gaze away from his breeches and settled it somewhere more appropriate.

  Hands. Oars. Whereas his thighs appeared almost brutish, he gripped the handles of the oars easily with elegant, long-fingered hands.

  His hands did not look like those of a typical nobleman. Although manicured, they looked capable and strong. He wore one ring on each hand, and they sparkled intermittently as the sun caught either one or the other. Since he had not removed his jacket as the other gentlemen had, she could not see past his wrists.

  “My late wife made her come-out nine years ago as well,” he said out of nowhere, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. “She was Lady Hyacinth Glenmore as a girl,” he mused, almost as though he were alone. “It does not really seem so long ago, and yet, it is like another life.”

  His words pulled her gaze back up to his face. He stroked the water with the oars steadily, occasionally looking over his shoulder to be certain of his direction. Abigail took the moment to view him as more the person he was and less the legend. His dark hair was not as perfect as it had been earlier. The wind had lifted a few dark strands so that one dangled roguishly across his forehead. His lips were tight and his nose a bit hawkish. He looked more relaxed than he had earlier, though. Hysterical laughter threatened to overcome her when she determined that all it had required for the Duke of Ice to melt was for her to expose her bosoms to him.

  She could not dwell on that right now. If she did, she’d possibly burst into tears.

  So instead, she considered his words.

  Lady Hyacinth Glenmore. Yes, she remembered the lady. Abigail had never spoken with her, but no one who had been present that year would have missed knowing who Lady Hyacinth was. The war had just ended. The season was crowded with newly returned officers and decorated soldiers. One lady stood out among the hundreds of debutantes.

  She was a true beauty. Tall and slim, with an aristocratic bearing, she outshone the rest of them without even trying. She portrayed a cool and remote image. And, Abigail remembered, the girl had quite quickly become engaged to a duke.

  This duke, apparently.

  And now, she was no longer of this earth. Even though she had not really ever met the lady, Abigail’s throat tightened to now perceive that the beautiful girl she had watched from afar had died—in such tragic circumstances, no less.

  Abigail licked her lips and somehow brought herself to speak. “I knew of her. I did not know her, of course. She was, well…” Her voice trailed off. And then, after a pause, she asked, “That is when you met her?”

  The duke swung his eyes back toward hers. When truly focused on her, they were a bit disconcerting. They were a light gray—no—silver, the color of the moon. Abigail shivered slightly, in spite of the warmth of the day and her shawl.

  “Yes.” He did not expound on his answer. He stared away from her once again.

  Suddenly, Abigail imagined him with a wife and two children. She imagined the terror he must have suffered when he had not been able to save any of them. She barely knew him. She had not known Lady Hyacinth.

  But she had an incredibly soft spot in her heart for the children. She would not need to have known them to feel grief upon their passing. “I am so sorry for your loss, Your Grace. Nothing anybody says, I know, can ease the pain of losing them, but I cannot keep myself from telling you how sorry I am that they are no longer with you.” She looked down at her hands and tied and retied the loose ends of her shawl nervously. He truly was not an easy man to converse with. He had such a coldness about him.

  She was grateful for his change of subject, although she wondered at it, as he had not since been forthcoming in any way.

  She wished she could reach into the water again and watch for a daring fish to swim by. That simple pleasure was over, however. No longer did the air feel inviting and the water, magical. Now she only felt the discomfort of her stays, the stifling heat of her shawl, and a stinging embarrassment from earlier.

  The duke was unusually uncomfortable. They had journeyed only halfway around the island, and he could not abandon her on shore for another fifteen minutes at least.

  He pulled harder on the oars in an attempt to move things along more quickly.

  He did not know why he had brought up the subject of Hyacinth. Perhaps it had been Miss Wright’s mention of her co
me-out being nine years ago. This summer would have been his ninth wedding anniversary. Elijah would have been six and Marigold, eight.

  And yes, Miss Wright had remembered his wife as a debutante. Likely, no one would not have remembered her. She had garnered attention wherever she went, a diamond of the first water. Arrogant and overly confident, Alex had decided he must have her for his own. And he had.

  “You only had the one season, then?” he asked her. Not that he wished to know anything more about this rural-minded spinster, but he wished to move the subject away from himself. He did not speak of the accident. With anybody.

  Ever.

  She looked up from her hands with those large eyes of hers. “Oh…yes.” She seemed as uninclined to speak of that time as he was.

  “You did not care for London? You wished to return to the country, to your parents?”

  “I…” She sighed heavily. “Not all of us have such choices. I did not find a husband that year as my father had hoped. He could not afford a second season.” She went to emphasize her words with her hands, but stopped, thinking better of it, and then continued. “I am content. I must be. When choices are removed, shouldn’t one make the most of one’s situation?” It was her turn to look away. She bit down on her bottom lip as though she would stop herself from saying more.

  “There are no marriageable gentlemen in your village? Surely you have a beau waiting for you in this place of rural comfort?” A part of him, a small part, did not wish to think of this bundle of femininity shriveling up as an old maid. It would be something of an abomination, he thought, that there never be a husband to appreciate those breasts.

  At that, he pulled himself up short. He did not need to conjure up such images again. It had been difficult enough to cool his ardor earlier, and he did not wish to have to do so again. She clutched at that shawl for dear life now. He made note of that fact with a twinge of regret.