Page 41 of How to Tempt a Duke

“For instance, the Duke of Somersville.”

Chapter Thirteen

If one measured success in such things as multiple callers, and flowers sent with heavy cream-colored note cards, it could be said the following day that Eleanor’s appearance at Lady Covington’s masquerade ball had been victorious.

And most intriguing of all the flowers she received were the brilliantly red tulips sent with a note stating only: An admirer.

The man who had sent the red tulips did not call, and nor did he send a servant so that she might guess who he might be.

The butterfly of hope in Eleanor’s chest fluttered about. Surely it had been Charles.

While she ought to be simply pleased with her newfound suitors, she could not help but place him above others in her mind.

There were several others who did call—including the much sought-after Marquess of Bastionbury, whom she’d danced with later in the evening. Though following the magic of dancing with the Duke of Somersville, the Marquess of Bastionbury’s appeal had regrettably been thin.

The Earl of Devonington called too, and took a short lifetime to finally depart, with the Countess of Westix practically tugging him back in.

The day trudged on, taking an eternity, until the sun finally began to sink behind the clouds. Most of it had been a blur—a background to the thoughts at the forefront of her mind: an admirer. The Duke of Somersville. And that kiss.

Surely he had sent those vividly red tulips which proudly spoke the love of their sender?

Finally night descended on London, and at long last Eleanor was finally able to slip into the domino and blonde wig with her black mask.

Amelia winked in the mirror at her mistress. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you beam so, my lady. Is it...?” She paused for a long moment before speaking. “Is it the Earl of Devonington?”

Eleanor’s mouth fell open in horror. “Most certainly not!”

Amelia pressed her hand to her chest. “Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but I’m glad it isn’t him who has you in a whirl.”

“Am I in a whirl?”

“Your cheeks have been flushed all day and you’ve had a dreamy smile on your face, like you’re floating through the world while the rest of us simply walk.” The maid grinned down at her. “Are you going to confess to your trusted maid who it is?”

Eleanor’s stomach clenched. As much as she loved Amelia, she couldn’t bring herself to say the Duke’s name aloud. Not when her mother’s ears managed to extend through the entire house.

And a good thing too, for no sooner had Eleanor decided to keep quiet on the topic her mother strolled into the room in a glittering evening gown. Eleanor got to her feet and met the Countess’s lifted brow as she regarded her daughter’s masked appearance.

“What are you doing, Eleanor?”

Amelia bobbed a curtsey and left the room, silent as a mouse, the way a good servant ought to be. Oh, how Eleanor wished her maid was still there to share secret confessions with, rather than the Countess of Westix. Eleanor knew too well the determined glint in her mother’s eye.

“We’re going to Almack’s tonight.” The Countess spoke in a voice brooking no refusal.

The brilliance of Eleanor’s excitement wilted into an ache of crushing disappointment. “I thought I was to go to Lottie’s?”

Her mother waved her fan dismissively. “You needn’t go there anymore. What she’s taught you has evidently paid off. Several gentlemen are quite taken with you. Most especially the Earl of Devonington. He’s asked to take you to supper later this week at Vauxhall Gardens.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with him.” Eleanor spoke the obstinate words levelly.

The Countess narrowed her eyes. “You are lucky to have his attentions, Eleanor. He’s one of the wealthiest peers in London and would keep you in the lifestyle to which you are accustomed. Beyond it, really. While the others have merely flirted, he has spoken to me directly about his intentions to court you.”

Eleanor said nothing. How could she? Her mother was right, of course. The Earl of Devonington was impossibly rich, and high in the instep as a result. He was clearly very interested in Eleanor, and he had the means to let her live even better than she did now. Her life would be just as the Duke of Somersville had predicted: an endless blur of soirees and luncheons until they were all strung together in a life without purpose.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of being wife to a man like the Earl of Devonington, with his pompous sneer and devastatingly painful little feet. While several months prior she would have been pleased with Devonington’s interest, she understood now that she wanted more. Needed more. A suitor who matched wits with her—one who would turn her blood molten in her veins and make her melt with desire for intimacy.

“Nothing to say?” asked her mother.

Eleanor had much to say, but she had never given herself leave to allow her mother to see the depth of her feelings, to hear the truth of her opinions. Her blood rushed with such fervor through her veins it roared in her ears.