The Duke's Stolen Heart (London Scandals Book 4) Page 15

  “We lost our practice space today. The director was irate. He cursed me out soundly for turning his studio into a bawdy house.”

  Antonia clicked her tongue. “Hardly. Dens of iniquity usually involve far more than mere kissing.”

  The thought of more than kissing made the front of his trousers uncomfortably tight. “How would you know anything on the subject?”

  “The kind of woman who starts life as a servant and winds up a jewel thief doesn’t enjoy the same protections from men's baser instincts that the ladies in this room receive.”

  “I wasn’t speaking in generalities,” he seethed as they careened a little too close to another couple. “I was asking about you.” He tightened his grip on her waist. Antonia resisted and trod on his shoe. Malcolm grimaced.

  “I am not prepared to discuss my past in the middle of the dance floor,” Antonia sniped. “How would you like it if I asked you for an accounting of where and with whom you first experienced the pleasures of the bedroom?”

  Her voice rang too loud in his ears. Someone would overhear them; it would be a scandal. A dark, possessive thrill whipped through him. It would be the excuse he needed to make Antonia his duchess. The thought doused his lust long enough for his good sense to reassert itself.

  Antonia could not be a duchess. No matter how well she looked the part this evening, there were protocols to being a duke, which he dared not defy. One married for connections. Marrying for love cost opportunities to increase one’s fortune and hardly guaranteed happiness anyway. Look at how his parents’ marriage had turned out.

  “A discussion for another time,” he muttered. “I wanted to let you know not to come for dancing lessons tomorrow. That's all.”

  “Done.” She pulled out of arms so quickly that Malcolm couldn’t prevent it. Antonia’s bosom rose and fell in distracting rhythm.

  “You can't stop dancing,” he ordered. “It isn’t done.”

  “Watch me.”

  Unbelievably, Antonia Lowry darted around a shocked couple and away from him. Malcolm ducked his chin briefly in apology to a couple forced to break step to avoid her. First his awful sketches, now this. If he didn’t find a way to pry out the hook Antonia had set deep into his flesh, and soon, he was liable to ruin everything. His mother’s portrait would grace the Havencrest halls once again, even if it was the last thing he ever accomplished in this lifetime. All he needed were the two halves of the necklace to recreate his memory of that night. The details of her features would return to him—and Malcolm could finally put his mother’s memory to rest.

  Malcolm wove his way to Lady Evendaw and claimed Margaret’s hand without acknowledging Antonia’s turned back.

  “What happened—Oh.” Margaret permitted him to sweep her into his arms. She moved, pliant and responsive, twirling easily about the room without a hint of protest.

  “Nothing. Your friend and I had an argument. It will blow over.”

  “Is this about your secret project?” Margaret asked a little breathlessly. Malcolm forced himself to slow down. The waltz ended, but he maneuvered her into position for the next dance without returning his rumored soon-to-be bride to her friends. It isn’t done.

  “Yes,” he confirmed, though his mind was elsewhere. A gentleman did not risk his dance partner’s reputation by dancing twice in a row. Yet, he had done it. Breaking the rules did not cause the roof to collapse. No hellfire rained down on his head. Malcolm stood silent, waiting for the opening strains of the song to finish while Margaret glanced uncertainly around. How liberating it was to defy expectations and live to tell the tale.

  Over his dance partner’s shoulder, Malcolm spied his grandmother in a fawn gown with gold accents. A younger woman whispered in her ear. The Dowager Duchess of Summervale glanced his way. Her nose wrinkled as if she had stepped in a pile of offal in the street. She swept onward. A ripple of voices around the room told him that his behavior had started yet another round of Awful Havencrest rumors. He wanted not to care. Defiance would come so much easier if he didn’t care what a lot of silver-haired women and their fancy, turbaned friends thought of him.

  Malcolm had always tried to please, and it cut him to the quick when he couldn’t. He was too much like his mother. Forever wishing for more love than he could get. Here he was, angling for the approval of his grandmother, Princess Esterhazy and Lady Jersey, for something as ridiculous as access to a fusty dance hall with mediocre refreshments and a lot of rules that served no purpose other than to impress upon others their failures.

  Antonia played along enough to get what she wanted and thumbed her nose their approval. Malcolm admired her sheer bravado. He envied her self-reliance even more. All it would take for him to bring her around to his side was for him to let her go.

  * * *

  Antonia strode away from the dance floor, feeling very much like the fraud she was. No pot-scrubbing of her youth had ever scalded as badly as her poor performance this evening.

  She had overreacted, and she knew it.

  Antonia was not opposed to kissing as a general concept. She quite liked the idea of kissing Malcolm—Havencrest—again. But not if he held her to the standard of protected young ladies like Margaret. That was simply ridiculous. He had no right to expect that from her.

  I was asking about you.

  Her few relationships had been undermined by the lies Antonia habitually told. Were she possessed of a more biddable temperament, she might be married by now, with children clinging to her legs. If not content, she’d have at least been too tired to complain about her lot in life. But no, when she had sought pleasure in a man’s arms, there had been a lambskin barrier to prevent closer ties than she wanted. Antonia was not ashamed. She also did not appreciate being asked directly about it. Not even by Malcolm. If she wanted to tell him, she would.

  “Young lady.”

  Antonia stopped short. Her skirts swung forward and settled around her knees in a swish of fabric so soft and delicate that a sigh settled in her chest. She adored that sensation. The feeling of judgmental eyes pinning her in place, however, was far less enjoyable.

  “Your Grace.” Antonia dropped into a neat curtsey.

  “Impertinent,” the Dowager Duchess of Summervale scowled. “I must ask—no, I insist—that any lady who deigns to dance with my grandson do him the honor of not abandoning him in the middle of the song.”

  “You hardly speak with the man. What does it matter to you?” It was not the right tone, not by a long shot. Antonia cringed inwardly.

  “He is still a duke and representative of the Havencrest family name. Despite his many flaws, the Duke of Havencrest deserves your respect and admiration.” The duchess struck her silver-headed cane against the scarred wooden floor. “Even an upstart American must understand and observe our customs.”

  Her gown had done its work. In choosing it, she had declared herself a force of change that threatened the old guard. Lady Summervale understood her silent challenge and responded exactly as Antonia had hoped. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. Antonia’s unyielding attitude had probably helped, too. “Why, I do regret having given offense, my lady.”

  There was not a trace of regret in her posture. Antonia made certain of it.

  “We upstart Americans have our own customs. Primarily the belief that all men are created equal.” Gauntlet thrown.

  Lady Summervale’s forehead wrinkled deeply in surprise as she reassessed the intruder in their midst. Antonia held herself regally, willing this woman to see her as a challenge. Young. Rich. Unburdened by the formalities of the past. “Youth and their newfangled ideas. As though change ever brings anyone happiness,” Lady Summervale chided after a long moment.

  Antonia laughed. “Do I seem unhappy to you, Lady Summervale?”

  The old woman’s rheumy eyes went wide. Her nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge a matador.

  Perfect, thought Antonia with satisfaction. Her mark had taken the bait. This was the biggest gamble she had
ever taken, and it felt immensely gratifying to know she had figured out precisely which velvet rope to pull to summon Lady Summervale’s ruthless competitiveness. She would have no choice but to accept Antonia’s challenge once she issued it.

  “You seem unmarried.” The woman sniffed. “It is the same thing.”

  Antonia’s jaw slackened. “I cannot see much opportunity for happiness in a loveless marriage,” she shot back pointedly. Two seconds before, she had been certain she’d set the duchess on her back foot.

  “You should see how the loving ones turn out. Nothing but hard feelings, in the end.” She banged her cane upon the floor again and shuffled off in the direction of the card room.

  “Did you imagine you could best my grandmother so easily?” a voice rumbled in her ear.

  Warmth liquefied Antonia’s innards. “I see where you get your arrogance,” Antonia replied ruefully. She had not forgiven him for his earlier effrontery. “It must be a family trait.”

  He was silent. Margaret, beside him, was not. “You speak as if to insult my poor Havencrest.” She giggled and patted his arm. Missing the subtext, as usual. Antonia let her friend take her by the arm.

  “Your beau is capable of managing himself,” she commented acidly. Yet meeting his gaze felt like swords clashing. Perhaps he could manage himself, but she was having a devil of a time controlling her temper around him. Antonia liked cold, hard objects, not the soft and deceptive landscape of emotional attachments.

  How would Margaret feel if she knew Antonia and Malcolm had kissed?

  Margaret and Havencrest’s engagement was a farce. Yet the game Antonia and Malcolm were playing had real consequences if they were discovered. Margaret must not pay the price for their conspiracy. If it came to it, Antonia vowed to marry Malcolm herself.

  Ugh. She also couldn’t leave Malcolm in limbo, married to a wife who had abandoned him. One more entanglement holding her back from the wisest thing she could do—run. She’d have to fake her own death, again.

  She’d make sure to enjoy their wedding night, though.

  “Miss Lowry.” Havencrest’s tone whiplashed. Margaret’s eyes widened. The two women froze midstep, arm-in-arm, facing away from him. Antonia inclined her head toward her friend and peered over her shoulder.

  “Your Grace?”

  “I shall call upon Lady Evendaw tomorrow morning,” Havencrest declared tightly.

  “Very well.” Her tone was as cold as a winter wind off the river. Antonia shuddered to think of that night.

  “I will bring the metronome.” He bowed, bade them good evening and left them.

  “What on earth does he mean by that?” asked Margaret, agape.

  Antonia’s cheeks turned hot. Her friend knew about the required dancing lessons, but not that Havencrest had been her instructor. Antonia carried so many secrets locked away inside her, and tonight she felt the burden keenly.

  “He wants to practice a dance. So that I can be granted a voucher to Almack’s.”

  “If I may be so honest, you could use it—”

  “Thank you, Margaret, your observation is correct,” Antonia declared through gritted teeth. “Now, which way to the card room? I am of a mind to practice my hand at whist.”

  Chapter 17

  “What are you doing here?” Malcolm took in Antonia’s fine gown. It skimmed over her curves in a whisper of mulberry silk with a low scoop neck that revealed a modest hint of her fine bosoms. White bands of tiny puffed sleeves clung to her shoulders for dear life. Pale yellow-and-green ornaments winked from her earlobes and around her neck. The fact that they were paste did nothing to detract from the effect of effortless wealth.

  This evening at Almack’s had revealed a hard truth. Malcolm could no longer bear the tension of letting Antonia free to twist and twine her way up the social ladders. All he could do was stand back and watch her—until even that had become too much to bear. He had stayed long enough to partner Margaret for the requisite two waltzes, and then come home to wait.

  “I find myself out of a home.” Antonia regarded the contents of his library with curiosity. “The Evendaws believe I have had an unduly poor influence on Lady Margaret.”

  “Have you?” he asked mildly. Malcolm set out a pair of cut-glass cups and filled them from a decanter of brown liquid.

  “I certainly hope so.” Antonia accepted the drink and raised it to eye level. “Cheers.”

  He clinked her glass with his. The sweet burn of brandy steadied his pulse. Antonia was here. In his library. Needing him. He ached to keep her here with him. “If I may offer my opinion, you have had an encouraging effect on her. Margaret is nowhere near as biddable as she once was.”

  “Which is precisely why I find myself in abrupt need of lodgings.” Antonia smirked and wandered closer to the fire in the grate. He ought to offer her the shawl draped casually over the arm of one dark leather chair. Malcolm would far rather warm her in his embrace, though. He might have the opportunity tonight…

  No. Only a selfish scoundrel would approach a woman who had come to him for help. This was not the time. “You do not appear overly put out by being, uh, put out.”

  “I’m not,” Antonia replied with disdain-inflected candor.

  He brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “You would make an excellent duchess.”

  She laughed, but there was a brittle undertone to it. “Yes, with my inborn sense of superiority and little interest in deferring to anyone, I suppose you have a point. Are you asking me to marry you, Malcolm?”

  Antonia was teasing. She had to be. Why, then, did the desperate note of longing underneath her sharp words slice so deeply into his heart? “Yes.”

  The woman he would make his bride, if she let him, froze midstep. She said nothing in response for a long moment. “No.”

  Relief washed over him. “Wise.”

  “How so?” she asked sharply, resuming her stride and circling him warily.

  “I offer nothing but a lot of big, empty houses and an equally empty title. You are far too intelligent to want less than everything you deserve.”

  “What is it you think I am entitled to, Malcolm?”

  “A love as durable as your own. A man to warm your bed every evening. One who can satisfy your physical desires. But one who would worship you outside of the bedroom as well as within it. That is what you deserve, princess.”

  She stopped to peer up at him with wide, wary dark eyes, as though he had said something wrong. No more pet names, then. He cupped her cheek. Antonia nuzzled her face in his palm. Malcolm’s cock hardened as he traced her lower lip with his thumb. She looked him square in the eye. “What makes you think you could not be that person, Malcolm?”

  He froze. Antonia pushed his chest. The edge of the leather divan hit the back of his knees. He collapsed into it. Malcolm gazed up at her, as worshipful as a supplicant at the feet of a goddess.

  Silk shuffled. Soft wine-red fabric bunched and rustled as she settled herself over his thighs. Weight and woman loosened his grip on the control Malcolm tried to exercise over the world. He gave himself over to her ministrations. Antonia plucked his red diamond stickpin from the nest of his snowy-white cravat. Instead of pocketing it, she set it carefully aside. He moved to let her unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat, then remove the shirt studs.

  “I would hurt you,” he whispered as he kissed the tops of her breasts. There was a painful tightness in his throat. No sound but the crackle of firewood in the hearth and the shuffle of clothing as they undressed one another, unhurriedly, piece by piece.

  “You think you could wound my feelings?” Antonia laughed softly. Her hair tumbled in thick, shiny waves around her shoulders. The earbobs and necklace remained in place, winking in the firelight. He worked his hands up her bare thighs. Even blind, he knew his way around the laces and ties of a woman’s clothing. Deftly, he unfastened layer after layer until, with a smirk on her sensuous lips, Antonia lifted the gown over her head in a whoosh. Her petticoats and
chemise followed. He’d be sketching and painting the way light played over her body for years to come.

  “It’s different when you’re married. If there are children.” His hands were on her full breasts. Their shape and heft imprinted on his memory. His cock twitched, rigid with need.

  “There needn’t be children.” Antonia held up a tiny paper square. “You know what this is?”

  He stilled. “A French letter.”

  “Correct. Although I usually call it a sheath.” Antonia expertly unrolled the lambskin from its case and sat back between his legs. She opened the flaps of his trousers and extracted his length from the confining nest of his smallclothes. “My mother worked as a prostitute for a time. It was that or starve. She gave it up when she married. She taught me how to protect myself when I wanted companionship. As you know, I am no saint.”

  “Nor am I,” he groaned. “I am not a monk, but I use these whenever I sought comfort. Your history is irrelevant to us being here together.”

  His servants undoubtedly thought they had admitted one of his occasional companions. This would not be the first time a woman had appeared in his library after dark. Malcolm vowed tonight would be the last, though.

  “It isn’t,” she insisted. She licked the head of his cock. He grunted. Malcolm dug his fingers into the soft mass of her hair as she worked her hot mouth over his hard length. Wet, warm heat smoothed the way for her to work the thin barrier over his cock in firm strokes. “My history is the reason we met,” she whispered against his earlobe.

  Malcolm’s arms skimmed up her back to draw her close. Antonia nibbled his earlobe. Her teeth scraped down his jaw line to his throat. Lush lips closed around his jugular. A nip sent a dart of heat straight to his cock. Malcolm grunted. “Fuck, Toni.” It wasn’t true. His history had played just as large a role in bringing them together, but desire had stormed his body and stolen his words. Malcolm was left with incoherent scraps of thought.