Page 13 of The Duke Decides

“Never mind.” She looked away.

He drew her closer. Their bodies brushed together as he pressed her into a turn. Her steps were graceful, light, practiced. She was a woman who had danced often, if not recently.

All he knew from Rutland and Hervey, who had played the messenger, was that the woman he was to aid was a friend of their family, a pet of the Duchess, who would be distressed if she were taken advantage of. Gabe, with his recent elevation and his time spent before that in the most dissipated circles, was chosen because it was expected that, given his exposure to all types of company, he might be positioned to catch wind of a plot or its perpetrator. That was the hope, at least.

As if he might be any good to anyone. As a babe he hadn’t been lure enough for his father to leave his post and stay with his mother to raise a family. He’d been rare use to Powlett as the man tried to establish his trade; Gabe was more often in trouble, scrapping with boys older and bigger, the ones who made fun of his dark hair and skin and his presumed bastardy, since he was not Powlett’s get.

At school, between sessions of being hauled out on the carpet for lectures about his mischief and being hauled out for a caning in consequence of his stupidity at lessons, he’d cultivated one useful set of skills: being a wayward young gentleman of the town, adept at holding his drink, acting rowdy in public spaces, pursuing chorus girls who made the rounds of the rowdier young men, and placing bets on every imaginable condition it was possible to make on a bet on, watching the money in his purse ebb and flow in relation to the outrageous of his dares and the ineptitude of the other bettors.

Gabe was absolutely the last person any sane man, or woman, would rely upon, unless it were to generate a cunningly good prank, hold his drink throughout a night of debauchery, and be the last man standing, knuckles bloody, when the debauchery degenerated into a brawl.

But she didn’t know that about him. He found himself wanting to shield her from the knowledge for as long as possible.

To be, as long as the masquerade would hold, the kind of protector and guard that she thought him. That she needed.

“So.” Gabe bent his head to speak near her ear, in part to ensure their conversation could not be overheard by other dancers about them, and in part to judge the effect of his breath falling on her neck. “If I am to foil this plot, and thwart your blackmailer, I should be with you when he makes his next approach.”

She shivered. The ripple of skin passed along her shoulders, and tiny bumps of gooseflesh appeared across her décolletage. The tops of her breasts, pushed up toward his gaze by her stomacher, blushed rosy.

She desired him. Gabe wanted to let loose a howl of masculine pride. His siren responded to his contact, and unless he was badly mistaken, she was as alive to his nearness as he was to hers.

Which presented any number of intriguing possibilities.

“I do not think that is the only possible strategy.” Her voice was breathy, not the firm command she had issued earlier. “Moreover, I do not see how to arrange our proximity, since I do not know how or when the thief, or his agent, will make his next demand.”

Gabe shrugged as if it were obvious, as if he were following a logical conclusion to its end. “There is only one solution. I must become your lover.”

The blush this time climbed from her breasts up her beautiful neck to the high arched bones of her cheeks. No, his siren was not immune to him. Not immune at all.

For the first time in his life, a woman wanted and needed him.

For the first time in his life, Gabe wanted to be the man a woman like this would turn to. Not the man who would bollocks everything up.

Chapter Five

I must become your lover. He made it sound so simple.

When she had not touched a man—had not looked at a man—in the last fifteen years.

Louisa slid her hand along his arm as he pressed her into another turn. A warm, firm arm, clad in dark blue velvet, the fabric soft beneath her touch, the muscle beneath as hard as a cushion stuffed with horsehair. The hoop of her skirt pulled at her hips, making her feel womanly and seductive. She noticed his gaze kept falling to her breasts. After years of swathing herself to appear matronly and respectable, she’d almost forgotten she had breasts. Certainly, she’d forgotten the way they could bewitch a man if put on proper display.

“Do you often go about parties inviting strange women to become your lover?” she asked, striving to keep her voice light. Once she had known the art of small talk, of being scintillating and coquettish at the same time. It had won her invitations to the best salons across Paris, to the best drawings rooms of the best patronesses, and any amusement was preferred to her husband’s company.

With this man, she felt every art had deserted her. She trembled in his arms like the flame in the oil lamp when a draught swept by.

“Do I?” He pretended to give her question thought. She noticed the subtle way he drew her closer, closer. Her skirt brushed his thigh, clad in a dark velveteen that matched his coat. The fabric clung to the muscles of his thigh as his silk stockings clung to his calves. He wore his clothing like a caress.

If they were lovers, she would be at liberty to caress him.

“Not often. Hardly ever,” he said finally, in response to her question. “Do I invite strange women to my bed. Now. If you ask me how often I invite bewitching, alluring women to my bed.” He moved them in another wide turn, and she felt off balance, dizzy.

“Women with skin like liquid gold, who smell of cinnamon and honeysuckle.” He bent his head close, and his warm breath gusted over her neck and shoulders, bold as a touch on her skin. How could he smell the honeysuckle? It had been morning when she bathed her face in her favorite toilet water.

“Those kinds of women I invite to my bed whenever I can find them,” he said.

“One a ball, I suppose,” she answered, trying to pretend his lips near her neck did not give her shivers. “Perhaps two.”

“Alas for me, such woman are rarer than I could wish.”