What Would a Duke Do? Read online

  Never had a woman and her mouth held such allure. Or made him incapable of resisting the temptation of being in her presence. Toward that end, he donned his evening finery. Even taking particular care with his appearance and choosing a paisley waistcoat, because the fabric’s colors reminded him of her fascinating eyes.

  If Max had been prudent, he’d have secured a seat in the back row too. Much easier to make a subtle escape should Gabriella not attend after all. But then, he’d have endured his valet’s disapproval over his choice of waistcoat for no good reason.

  He finished the superb wine and after combing the room in search of a certain spitfire with dark honey-tinted hair and ever-changing eye color, placed his glass atop the tray carried by a passing hunter green-and-black liveried footman. When offered another flute, he gave a decisive nod. Although truth to tell, it would take three or four or eight more to make him less inclined to grimace or yawn during the tedious recitals he anticipated.

  A derisive grin quirking his mouth, Ansley, Earl of Scarborough lifted his glass in a silent salute from where he’d positioned himself beside a tall plant. Another member of Bon Chance. Unfortunate for Scarborough that he’d chosen this weekend to visit his boyhood home. Since inheriting the earldom from his uncle two years ago, he’d done an admirable job of avoiding social gatherings, and his biting cynicism when forced to appear had earned him the unflattering moniker, the Earl of Sarcasm.

  Max returned the gesture, recognizing a kindred soul. Obligation and duty made men do all manner of things they’d prefer not to. Sometimes things which teetered on the precipice of decency and muted their self-respect. Whereas Max more easily controlled his responses to unwanted social interactions, the tic twitching near Scarborough’s left eye gave his unease away.

  Scarborough’s stunning sister, Nicolette Twistleton glided near her brother. She stretched up on her toes, tilted her raven curls toward his equally midnight head, and whispered something in his ear. With a casual shrug, he downed the last of his champagne. Appearing very much like he wished he might indulge in something far stronger, he allowed her to tow him to a front row chair. Poor, miserable bastard.

  Few people knew Max played the violin, or no doubt, he’d have been imposed upon to entertain this evening as well. He intended to keep that knowledge a secret. He played on a regular basis, but never for others. Not since he’d been fourteen years of age, and he’d eagerly set bow to string for his father whom he hadn’t seen in six months. As he was wont to do, the seventh Duke of Pennington had ridiculed rather than praised him before dismissing Max with the aloofness he might’ve directed toward a tax collector.

  Or a clap-ridden whore.

  Another casual swallow and with an equally deceptive indifferent scan of the room, Max pulled his mouth taut. A glance to the mantel clock revealed five minutes past eight; the time this grand misadventure was scheduled to have begun. He’d wasted his damned evening, it seemed, for a predictably unpredictable woman. Was there ever a more frustratingly enticing vixen?

  Did he dare escape now?

  No sense dithering any more of the evening away when his time was better spent perfecting the details of the plan he intended to put into effect soon. Mayhap as shortly as tomorrow, if Gabriella didn’t come tonight. And it certainly seemed she wouldn’t.

  After Max’s encounter with her cantankerous grandfather a week ago, his man of business had paid a call at Chartworth Hall. Struthers brought information quite welcome to Max, but assuredly wouldn’t be to that bastard Breckensole. And Gabriella, an unwitting pawn, was paramount to his success.

  Actually, she was essential to his preferred plan. The one which showed a degree of mercy and which helped temper his fury with no small amount of sympathy for hers, her twin’s, and Mrs. Breckensole’s plight. His alternative strategy wasn’t as compassionate, and he’d rather not resort to those extremes but would if all else failed.

  If she failed to cooperate.

  He dragged his gaze over the rows of chairs. Thirty in all. It was to be an intimate affair tonight then. At least, according to any society matron worth her salt’s standard. He snorted, drawing a curious look from Jessica Brentwood, the Duchess of Sutcliffe’s younger sister.

  The single woman he’d hope to see, had counted on seeing, had yet to arrive. Another inspection of the clock revealed nearly half past the hour. Much too late to be considered fashionable. She wasn’t coming after all.

  Certainly, it wasn’t disappointment pinging round and round in his chest much like pebbles shaken in a jar. No, by God. It was annoyance at his own stupidity for having accepted an invitation he oughtn’t to have done. And for getting his hopes up after the amazing interlude in the arbor.

  And damn his eyes, he couldn’t very well leave before the first person performed and still remain in his influential hostess’s good graces. Invitations must keep coming, and he must know which functions Gabriella would also attend.

  When another discreet inspection of the assembled guests failed to locate the attractive female he sought, he brushed his fingers along his jaw. Sutcliffe’s gaze met his, and Max raised a questioning eyebrow. Where is she?

  Sutcliffe hitched a shoulder before bending his ear to his wife once more. He was of no help whatsoever, besotted fool.

  Had Mrs. Breckensole’s health taken a turn for the worse again, keeping her granddaughters at home? Max had spoken with Dr. Spratt two days ago, and the capable physician had assured him that Mrs. Breckensole recovered nicely.

  Why he should be so anxious for Gabriella’s presence, he refused to examine. He would have Hartfordshire Court, one way or another. Her cooperation simply lessened the hardship for her sister and grandmother. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn about lessening Breckensole’s shock.

  It hadn’t escaped Max that Gabriella had avoided answering his question the other night. It also hadn’t escaped him that she’d been appalled at her grandfather’s frothing antagonism. Her reaction only confirmed what he’d suspected all along. None of the Breckensole women had any notion what Harold Breckensole had done. What the scapegrace continued to do.

  An unfamiliar sensation constricted Max’s chest and burned the back of his throat. If he were a better man, a kinder more forgiving man, he’d let the issue of Hartfordshire Court’s ownership go. After all, the Breckensoles had resided there for decades. Surely the comfortable house was the only home Gabriella and her sister could remember.

  Didn’t she—they—deserve clemency? Their grandfather’s sins weren’t theirs. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of his reprehensible decisions.

  Max’s eyes drifted shut for a blink, and the gaunt, haunted features of his opium-addicted grandfather burst into his mind. An image straight from the bowels of hell. No, dammit. Breckensole had done that to Grandfather. He may not have tipped the laudanum-laced whisky into a glass every day, but he’d stolen the one thing that meant the most to the old man.

  Grandmother.

  And the repercussions had been far reaching. Grandfather had become a man incapable of loving, or perhaps afraid to show affection to his only child. It had also made him powerless to resist the alcohol and opium that numbed his senses and blotted unbearable memories from his mind. As a result of his lack of love and approval by his sire, Max’s father’s soul had warped and twisted as well, and Max had been the recipient of his cruelty.

  But what of Mrs. Breckensole? What of the twins? That common sense voice prodded his conscience for at least the hundredth time. Until he wanted to shout every foul oath he knew, and the incessant nagging still didn’t stop. They are innocent in this. Must they suffer in order for me to dole out vengeance? Especially as the offense wasn’t against me?

  He quaffed back the rest of his champagne and soundly quashed his ruminations. Sometimes, when righting wrongs, other blameless parties had to suffer. That was just the way of it. Lest he forget, he reminded himself severely, Grandmother and the babe she’d carried had been innocents too.

 
; “What has you looking so Friday-faced, Pennington? Downright glum, I might add.”

  Max slid Crispin, Duke of Bainbridge a quizzical glance then looked pointedly at the punch cup he held—no doubt liberally dosed with brandy or whisky from the flask always in Bainbridge’s pocket.

  “I never look Friday-faced, Bainbridge. I’m simply hoping tonight’s entertainment proves more enjoyable than the last musical I attended.” That had proved so dreadful, he’d abstained for five years. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear Amelia Johnson’s off-key—very, very off-key—trilling and see her bursting into tears and fleeing the room when an insensitive, foxed-to-his-fleshy-gills clod pate tottered inside, snickered loudly, and asked where he might view the atrociously singing parrots.

  “Of course you don’t,” Bainbridge put forth drolly. “So that downturned mouth and your gaze straying to the entrance every few seconds, not to mention the two glasses of champagne you’ve consumed already, means you’re a cheerful chap?” he quipped as he slapped Max’s shoulder.

  “Stubble it, Bainbridge. You are no keener on these sorts of husband-hunting assemblies than I am. In fact, I’m surprised to see so many of our set here. I’d have thought they’d all be in London by now preparing for the Season.” However, since Max had determined who his duchess would be for all of the wrong reasons, he needn’t concern himself with the marriage-minded mamas here or in Town.

  Bainbridge drew his sober attention from his study of the lovely Jessica Brentwood and offered another wry smile. “No small amount of truth there. But one has to have something to do on these tediously endless days until Parliament is in session and the Season officially begins. I’m not given to stalking and fishing, and even I grow a trifle bored with my horse breeding venture. I dare say, once the mare is impregnated, it’s just a matter of waiting, is it not?”

  “You’re babbling, Bainbridge.”

  “Not a bit of it. If you’re looking for the Breckensoles, I have it on good authority that they’ll be arriving with Rayne Wellbrook and Justine Farthington. Miss Farthington’s dragon of an aunt, Emmeline Grenville will likely play chaperone to the foursome for the evening.” Bainbridge cocked his head, running a long finger the length of his champagne glass. “You do know Breckensole’s coach was wrecked and villains stole his team. And Gabriella was only spared because she most prudently hid in the woods?”

  Max closed his eyes until they were mere slits. Since when did Bainbridge address Gabriella by her first name? Christ on the Sabbath. Did he have a tendre for her?

  What a distasteful notion. That one of the gentlemen he called friends might have a romantic interest in her galled. Except the way Bainbridge’s regard kept straying to the fair Jessica Brentwood suggested his interest lay in another direction.

  Good.

  Max couldn’t very well play his hand just yet and announce he intended to leg shackle himself to Gabriella. Thank God he found her attractive—too deucedly luscious—and keen of intellect. But even if she’d resembled a goose’s hind end, had the protruding teeth of a buck-toothed hare, and possessed the acumen of a turnip, it would’ve changed nothing.

  Well, the begetting an heir might have proven more of challenge had that been the case. Even dosed with spirits and in a pitch-black bedchamber, one needed a strong constitution to even consider that tedious task if the female weren’t desirable. He needn’t worry on that account, by God.

  No, bedding Gabriella Breckensole wouldn’t be a chore he forced himself to perform for the duchy’s sake. He’d enjoy it as a man very much drawn to her softly rounded curves would. As a man who’d wanted her almost from the first minute he’d met her. Contemplating her warming his bed, desire tingled through his veins, a mellow, burgeoning warmth.

  His body responded predictably, most inconveniently—damned his erotic musings. With deliberate intent, he turned his thoughts to her despicable grandsire and succeeded in curbing his arousal quite handily.

  Gabriella wouldn’t like what Max was about. In fact, he could all but guarantee her outrage, but wed him she would. And be glad for the opportunity when he explained the alternative.

  “Pennington? Did you hear me? Wreck? Villains? Woods?” From the sardonic smirk twisting Bainbridge’s mouth, he well knew Max had.

  “Yes, I’m aware,” Max admitted, giving him a moody smile. “I’m the one who saw her home. Rescued her driver too.”

  Except for the slightest lifting of one eyebrow, Bainbridge did a remarkable job of keeping his surprise contained.

  A commotion at the door announced the onset of more guests.

  “The Breckensole twins have arrived at last,” Bainbridge offered needlessly.

  The five late-comers burst in amid apologies, laughs, and heartfelt greetings.

  At once, Gabriella’s inquisitive gaze met Max’s, almost as if she’d searched for him upon entering as he had for her this half hour past. He lifted his glass and brows simultaneously in a silent salute.

  Resplendent in a chaste white gown adorned with cherry-colored ribbons and an embroidered overskirt, she outshone every other woman present. The candlelight caught the whispers of golden-bronze threading her hair and made her skin gleam with a pearly effervescence. Her berry red lips parted slightly in the tiniest of hesitant smiles, tipping those rosebud lips upward, before she drew her regard away. Nevertheless, wariness and distrust yet tinged her thick-lashed eyes when she regarded him.

  Disappointment stabbed, chinking at his pride. For God’s sake. What had he expected? That she’d suddenly welcome his company after months of avoiding him?

  Yes, dammit. That’s precisely what he’d expected.

  At the very least a slight warming after he’d rescued her and helped her injured coachman. Most assuredly after he’d inconvenienced himself and ridden to Colechester to fetch the doctor. He’d gone so far as to make sure Mrs. Breckensole’s every medical need was met at his expense.

  Not that the Breckensoles were aware of that last bit. He wouldn’t put it past Breckensole to refuse out of pride and spite. Max felt obligated to pay the fees after a lengthy, enlightening chat with Mr. Armstrong Edgeman, the brother of this evening’s hostess, had revealed Breckensole’s finances were in dun territory.

  But mainly, he’d anticipated a favorable response because of the stirring kisses he’d shared with Gabriella.

  Oh, she’d done the pretty in her feminine and flowing handwriting. She’d sent ’round a politely worded note thanking him for his assistance. It hadn’t escaped him that she made the gesture and not her grandfather. Her perfectly worded missive held no hint of the sensual vixen he’d kissed more than once.

  Her twin, also wearing a frothy white gown, only Miss Ophelia’s bore lavender-toned accents, immediately swept to Miss Twistleton’s side.

  “May I have your attention, please?” Beaming, Mary Twistleton stood at the front of the room and clapped her hands twice drawing everyone’s attention. “Please do have a seat. Now that everyone is here, we may begin the evening’s entertainment. I’m sure you will be well-pleased.” She swept a gloved hand toward the Breckensoles. “Ophelia and Gabriella have kindly agreed to lead off with a rendition of Sonata for Violin and Piano in B Minor by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  Ah, they were part of the evening’s entertainment. No wonder the party hadn’t begun on time. Heaven forbid the order of performances be changed to accommodate late arrivals. Max took in Scarborough’s stiff mien and realization struck. For his sake, his mother couldn’t adjust the agenda. To do so would completely disconcert the earl, a man who held to rigid routines and schedules. Sympathy again washed him for the other man’s plight.

  “My son, the Earl of Scarborough and my daughter Nicolette will follow with Mozart’s Sonata in C.” Her proud, but fond gaze rested on her children for an instant before she flicked her elderly father a rather strict warning glance and then motioned expectantly to the guests still standing. Her brother, the banker, was noticeably absent. “Plenty of seats remain
. Please find one.”

  Not exactly plenty.

  Max waited as the others obediently filed to their places. All except the Breckensole twins. After bussing their hostess’s cheek and exchanging swift hugs with her, they made their way to the pianoforte.

  Other than their attire, the women appeared identical, and it never ceased to flummox him that while he appreciated Ophelia’s loveliness, he’d never felt the slightest jot of attraction to her. Her sister on the other hand, had him in a constant state of arousal. That truth irritated as much as confounded.

  He didn’t hail from a family given to emotion or impulse, although he’d always had a devil of a time reining in his sense of humor. Nonetheless, he didn’t like or appreciate his unfettered responses to Gabriella. They fogged his mind, muddled his intentions, and that he could not permit.

  Ophelia settled gracefully onto the bench before the grand instrument, and his jaw loosened the slightest in astonishment when Gabriella collected the violin from atop the polished mahogany.

  She played the violin? A pleased smile ticked his mouth upward. By Jove. They had something in common after all. Ridiculous that he should be so delighted at something so inconsequential. At once he desired to play Bach’s Concerto for Two Violins with her. Perchance after they were wed…

  Eyes narrowed slightly, he took note of the remaining seats. Another small, satisfied grin curving his mouth at his good fortune, he made his way to three unoccupied chairs in the front row. One was undoubtedly intended for their bubbly hostess. The others…

  Without a pang of compunction, he claimed the pair for himself and Gabriella.

  Her eyes rounded the merest bit as she shifted her gaze between him, the empty seat to his right, and the only two other unoccupied chairs in the room. Her mouth, a sweet, prim line of reproach, she looked pointedly to those vacant chairs.

  Her expressive gaze fairly screamed, “Move!”

  Not on his life. He gave a slight shake of his head.