The Debutante and the Duke: A Regency Romance (Seductive Scoundrels Book 11) Page 5

  Ophelia continued fussing with her ensemble, which wasn’t like her at all. Once she’d dealt with the stray thread on her cuff, she turned her attention to the minuscule flecks of lint on the sleeves of her lavender spencer.

  Not once did she lift her gaze above the horses’ elbows or look directly at the impressive ducal trio. Quite the most peculiar thing, truth be told.

  “Aye, he’s a brilliant high stepper. Kincade outbid me at Tattersall’s,” San Sebastian, another Scot, grumbled good-naturedly.

  “Kincade also outbid George Slater and the Duke of Waycross, both of whom breed horses professionally,” Asherford put in with a wide grin and another long glance toward Ophelia’s pert profile. “They were both quite vexed at the turn of events, I might add. Though what need they might have for a gelding, I’m not certain.”

  Rayne narrowed her eyes the merest bit.

  Was something going on between Asherford and Ophelia?

  Or was something not going on?

  He couldn’t seem to stop sending her swift little glances. And Ophelia quite intentionally, Rayne concluded, wasn’t giving him the slightest notice.

  “Waycross much more so when Slater’s daughter bought that remarkable broodmare out from under him,” San Sebastian said. “He’d been waitin’ impatiently for two years for Beville to sell her so he might add the mare to his breedin’ stables. He was most incensed that an upstart American lass—his words, no’ mine—should interfere with his well-laid plans.”

  With a slight canting of his head, Kincade addressed Everleigh. “I regret, Your Grace, I havena been introduced to yer niece.”

  Why…why the crafty bounder had disregarded the talk of horseflesh and neatly brought the conversation full circle. Bold as polished brass. Directly—the sly devil—back to the introductions.

  Rayne couldn’t help but be impressed, even if she felt a trifle manipulated.

  In short order, Everleigh performed the introduction. She laughed afterward. “Though I suppose, Kincade, when you join us for supper tonight, the niceties might’ve been conducted then.”

  Rayne’s gaze careened to her aunt.

  Supper? Tonight?

  He was invited?

  A ragged groan climbed up her throat, but she stifled it by biting the inside of her cheek again. She didn’t know how to behave with a man she found attractive. It was a first for her, and she felt as gauche and awkward as a miss fresh from the schoolroom.

  But of course, his grace would be invited.

  Not only was the Duke of Kincade one of Griffin’s business associates, but now he was also their neighbor at 19 Bedford Square. Rayne was aware Griffin and Everleigh had plans to entertain tonight, and she’d hoped to cry off and take a tray in her room as she often did.

  It wasn’t likely she’d be permitted that reprieve now.

  With a forced smile, she brought her attention back to the dukes, taking care not to linger her focus too long on a certain raven-haired Scottish devil.

  “I look forward to seeing all of Your Graces this evening,” Everleigh said, artfully bringing an end to the conversation.

  They murmured their agreements.

  Botheration.

  It was to be a large supper party then.

  Naturally, the women present, as well as the husbands of those who were wed, would also be invited. Had Rayne really been so distracted these past few days that she’d failed to realize what Everleigh had arranged for tonight?

  “Until tonight, gentlemen,” Gabriella said before giving her sister a troubled glance.

  Ah, she’d noticed Ophelia’s preoccupation too. Thus far, Ophelia hadn’t uttered a single word to the gentlemen. Highly irregular for her. Ophelia Breckensole was never at a loss for witticism or clever remarks, nor was she bashful.

  Touching the brims of their hats, the dukes dipped their heads and murmured appropriate parting comments. However, as the Duke of Kincade reined his sleek mount around, he gave Rayne a covert wink.

  Oh, he was a sly devil.

  Had he arranged this whole charade?

  If so, however had he talked Asherford into acting on his behalf?

  Lord, what must Asherford think if it were true?

  “We’d best hurry if we are to arrive at Nicolette’s on time,” Theadosia announced with her usual efficiency.

  Happily discussing Nicolette’s betrothal, the women advanced toward the entrance.

  Once again entwining her hand in the crook of Rayne’s elbow, Ophelia slowed her pace, holding them back a few steps.

  Rayne sent her friend a questioning glance. They would be late, and given their close friendship with Nicolette and her exciting news, it would be the height of rudeness.

  “I vow, Rayne Wellbrook, the Duke of Kincade winked at you.” Eyes slightly narrowed, Ophelia stared at Rayne, a distinct discerning sparkle in her hazel gaze. “Do you dare deny it?”

  Momentarily speechless, Rayne frantically muddled around in her mind for a feasible explanation. She seized upon the first thing certain to distract Ophelia. “Why were you ignoring Asherford?”

  17 Bedford Square

  That evening

  Cutting into the perfectly cooked pancetta partridge in wine sauce, Fletcher veered a furtive glance toward Rayne, who was seated across and down two chairs from him. The seating arrangement made it impossible to speak with her and still observe dining propriety.

  More inconvenient society rules.

  Never speak across the table.

  They did so at Levensyde House—at every meal, in point of fact. But then again, the Scots had never been as stodgy and formal as the English.

  Which, he reluctantly admitted, was a good thing since he shouldn’t indulge his wayward fascination with the vixen. Nothing could come of such a fixation. He wasn’t such an unconscionable cad as to lead Rayne to believe there could be something between them, only to crush her hopes, as he surely must.

  After all, he knew first hand that fragile English ladies and Scotland’s demanding climate and pragmatic people did not blend well.

  Oil and water.

  Sawdust and ink.

  Milk and tea.

  What?

  Nae, no’ damned milk and tea.

  Yer aff yer bloody heid.

  Rayne could not be his. He’d never subject her or himself to such misery.

  Toward that end, Fletcher had avoided her and even forbid himself to venture into his newly tidied gardens for fear he’d find himself peering over the wall like a moon-eyed swain.

  The area near the folly remained more naturalized, but he refused to admit he’d ordered it kept so for her. For if he admitted that—even if only to himself—then he’d have to acknowledge he felt something more than casual appreciation for the beautiful young woman.

  Why then had he counted it his great good fortune that when he was on his way to Rotten Row with Asherford and San Sebastian earlier today, they’d come upon the women? More on point, why had Fletcher been inordinately pleased when Asherford had assumed he’d already been introduced to Rayne?

  Because he knew full well that Asherford’s presumption saved him from having to ask for the introduction as he’d stupidly told her he would do. Which was to say, he’d allowed himself an indulgence he could not afford. Which was to say, he could not pursue his burgeoning interest, even if Rayne Wellbrook was the most provocative, enticing, captivating, enthralling woman he’d met in…well, ever.

  It is her damn enticing perfume.

  Gardenia and carnation.

  That was what had compelled him to vow he’d arrange an introduction. The scent had muddled his reasoning.

  And that is a colossal load of horse shite.

  With her sable, bronze-and-gold-tinted hair caught up in an intricate design, a few glossy curls left to tease her ears, and wearing a mazarine blue satin gown accented with ivory lace and black velvet, Rayne was quite simply exquisite.

  A single sapphire dangled from a black velvet ribbon tied at her neck. The
hollow of her creamy throat tenderly nestled the sparkling gem. He was jealous as hell of the jewel.

  Sapphire and pearl earrings hung from her dainty earlobes and swayed as she spoke or nodded. Each movement of the earbobs drew his attention to that delectable, perfumed juncture just below her ear that he’d almost tasted that day in his gardens.

  Four times so far during the meal—but who was counting?—Fletcher caught Rayne studying him from beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes. However, upon each occurrence, she swiftly dropped her gaze to her plate. Not before adorable color had tinted her cheeks, causing the few equally adorable freckles to stand out.

  His masculine pride swelled with primal satisfaction each time. He mercilessly deflated it with sordid memories of his mother’s cold, cruel behavior and her venomous words.

  If ever there were a perfect means to shrivel a partial cockstand—other than a good dousing in icy loch water—thoughts of his mother swiftly, succinctly, and thoroughly accomplished the task.

  Regardless, Fletcher had slid so many brief, what he mistakenly believed were secretive, glances in Rayne’s direction that Asherford had raised his noble brow and quirked his mouth up on one side into a mocking grin no less than five—nae, there he goes again—make that six times.

  Slashing his brows together into a sod-off-and-go-bugger-yourself glare, Fletcher stabbed at a butter and herb covered carrot. And missed. One fat baby carrot rolled away while another skidded onto the edge of the plate, balanced for a blink, and then silently plopped onto the tablecloth.

  His fork made a loud, grating noise as it scraped across the gold-rimmed, pale moss-green china. The sound echoed loudly, and several guests turned curious gazes in his direction.

  Heat billowed from Fletcher’s waist to his hairline. With a low growl, he finally speared another runaway vegetable and stuffed it into his mouth whole. Honestly, he didn’t even like carrots all that much, and he most especially didn’t like the vegetable when it made him a fool.

  Silent and stealthily as a ghost, a footman collected the runaway carrot. Nevertheless, an oily, herb-speckled stain marred the tablecloth.

  Dammit.

  Sheffield’s shoulders shook with ill-concealed mirth, and his duchess, always the consummate hostess, opened and closed her mouth twice. As if she thought she should inquire after Fletcher but eschewed doing so as not to draw unwanted attention to him.

  In the end, she offered an encouraging upward sweep of her mouth and speared her own carrot with superb ease. Without so much as the tiniest sound or sending a single tiny orange missile across the table, she cut a dainty bite-sized piece.

  Egads, he felt as if he’d just been given a silent lesson in dining etiquette.

  Hot humiliation stung Fletcher’s cheeks, and another guttural noise echoed in his throat as he chewed. Bloody damn. He sounded like a primitive barbarian.

  Hell, he felt like a primitive barbarian.

  A barbarian who wanted to say to hell with reason and sensibleness, shove back his chair, sweep Rayne into his arms, and bundle her off to someplace secluded and private to explore whatever this burgeoning thing was between them.

  Was it between them, or did he imagine her interest?

  That galling thought settled like a glob of rancid bacon fat in his belly, and his fork hung limply in his hand as he reviewed their few interactions in his mind.

  No, there had been a spark of interest in the magnificent depths of her coppery eyes. He hadn’t imagined it.

  “Your Grace?” Her pale blue eyes brimming with kindness and concern, Jemmah, the lovely, strawberry-blonde Duchess of Dandridge, seated on his left asked, “Is something amiss?”

  She pointed her gaze at his fork, hovering an inch above his plate.

  “Nae. I simply slipped earlier.”

  What inane drivel.

  A man who wielded a sword and a dirk with the skill Fletcher possessed did not slip with his fork. Until now, that was. Never had a woman distracted him as Rayne did.

  Asherford coughed behind his serviette, and Sutcliffe and Sheffield, their mouths twitching, exchanged hilarity-filled glances before attending to the delicious meal once more.

  Bloody idiots.

  Fletcher attempted to remind himself precisely why they were friends, but at the moment, he couldn’t summon a solitary reason why he’d been so buffleheaded as to befriend British dukes.

  Puzzled frowns marred the usually smooth foreheads of several of the ladies as if they sensed the peculiar undercurrent but couldn’t quite put their manicured fingers on what went on. However, they were astute women. If Fletcher wasn’t more vigilant, he’d give himself away entirely.

  Given the merriment and perceptive looks the married men at the table shared, he might’ve done so already.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  At this rate, the entire assemblage would be onto Fletcher’s inconvenient infatuation. And that presented a prickly situation he didn’t want to explain. Nor did he wish Sheffield to approach him with questions he had no answers to. Well, not satisfactory answers that wouldn’t have Sheffield calling him out for a cad and a bounder.

  Therefore, for the remainder of the meal, Fletcher resolutely determined to keep his regard focused on his food, the Duchess of Dandridge on his left, and Ophelia Breckensole to his right.

  He would not look across the table again.

  Not even once.

  What about after dinner when the gentleman had finished with their cigars and brandy? When everyone came together in the drawing room, and there was not a table as a buffer between him and Rayne?

  Fletcher would cross that milestone when he came to it.

  Mayhap, he’d claim an early meeting or a forgotten issue that demanded his attention and depart directly after dining.

  Poltroon. Coward.

  No, he would not.

  Fletcher would simply have to treat Rayne as he would any other debutante on the marriage mart.

  Avoid her.

  Remain coolly polite, detached, and unaffected.

  He very much feared it was already far, far too late for any of that logic.

  “Was I mistaken, Your Grace, or did you not wink at Rayne in Hyde Park earlier today?”

  Miss Breckensole’s barely audible inquiry meant for his ears alone sucked the air from his lungs.

  Fletcher choked on the mouthful of wine he’d sipped to wash the taste of carrot from his palate and nearly spewed the contents onto the snowy white tablecloth. Stinging tears burned his eyes as he forced the fermented liquid down his constricted, convulsing throat.

  Shite.

  He’d never be asked to dine in Polite Society again.

  Another thought—this one filled with abject dismay—came swiftly on the heels of the first.

  She saw me.

  Jesus.

  Ye werena so verra suave after all, were ye?

  Miss Ophelia Breckensole gazed at him, her face a mask of benign innocence. Yet behind her politesse, there was a glint of something else in the shrewd hazel eyes that she leveled at him. Something steely and relentless and unforgiving, despite the placid, demure countenance she presented.

  How to answer her?

  Christ, save me.

  Salvation came from a wholly unforeseen source.

  Asherford, seated on Miss Breckensole’s other side, unexpectantly queried, “Miss Breckensole, will you be attending the Gravenstones’ masked ball next week? I’m going as a…a...”

  Visibly struggling to summon a believable costume from thin air, his sharp gaze roved the room and settled jubilantly on the silk peacock-themed wallpaper.

  “I’m going as a peacock,” he blurted.

  A…?

  What the hell?

  A peacock?

  Peacock?

  The hoot of laughter that jolted to Fletcher’s throat damned near strangled him. He swiftly covered his mouth, but a muffled sound very much like a dying squirrel emerged nonetheless.

  Flying vegetables. Screechin
g forks. Choking on wine. Making peculiar sounds?

  Aye, just what every hostess desired at a dinner party.

  For certain, he’d never be invited to dine by anyone in the ton again.

  He didn’t give a hog’s grunt.

  “Peacocks are quite intelligent,” Asherford improvised.

  Like hell, they were. Every peafowl Fletcher had ever encountered had been noisy, aggressive, and dull-witted as a turnip.

  Miss Breckensole speared Asherford with what could only be called an impatient—perhaps even annoyed if she weren’t so well-mannered—half-glance.

  Asherford had effortlessly drawn Miss Breckensole’s attention from Fletcher, and, in doing so, had handily entrapped himself. God Almighty, the incongruity was nothing short of hilarious. He now understood the mirth enjoyed by his friends at his expense earlier.

  For the truth of it was that Asherford did not blurt anything. The man was as sparing with his carefully articulated words as a miser was with a shilling. He also loathed—absolutely abhorred—masquerade balls. He’d voiced his contempt for the ridiculous assemblages numerous times.

  And to save Fletcher further awkwardness—likely Rayne as well, if Asherford had also seen Fletcher’s wink earlier today—he’d committed to attending the Gravenstones’ ball. The most garish and absurdly decorated gathering hosted every Season. What was more, Asherford had declared he’d go as a flamboyant fowl.

  By God, Fletcher might also have to put in an appearance just to see Asherford’s tall, somber form strutting about as a peafowl.

  Priceless. That was going to be bloody priceless.

  Another snicker threatened, but Fletcher squelched it. Instead, schooling his expression into what he hoped was one of appreciation, he sent his friend a grateful smile and mouthed a silent thank you over the top of Miss Breckensole’s head.

  “So is Kincade,” Asherford continued with a wickedly skewed eyebrow and sly sideways grin. “Attending as a peacock, that is.”

  Not so bloody damned noble or sacrificial after all. If Asherford must endure the most godawful ball of the Season, then so would Fletcher. One for all and all for one. Down with the ship and all that courageous rot.