An Improper Duchess Read online

  That was dangerous, especially now.

  “Thank you, Lord Grayson,” she said. “But I don’t intend to dance tonight, I think.”

  “And you did promise to dance with Lady Branch’s daughter, don’t forget, my dear,” Lady Sanbourne said quickly. “In fact, we should look for her now...”

  As the Sanbournes turned away, and Melisande was released from the force of Lord Grayson’s smile, she felt her shoulders slump and her smile fade.

  What on earth had just happened?

  * * *

  Melisande. Such an exotic name for such an intriguing woman...

  Grayson took a deep drag on his cheroot, staring out over the dark, cold garden as he hid on the terrace from his mother and her “suitable” debutantes. He needed the quiet moment to take a deep breath and think about her. The duchess.

  She was the first thing that had intrigued him since he came back to England, the first thing that quieted his restlessness. He hadn’t wanted to be at the blasted ball at all. After months of being deeply immersed in his studies, in the wonder and raw truth of the natural world in the West Indies, London Society seemed impossibly brittle and false. He could no longer bear the artificial codes of the world he grew up in, and he couldn’t find his place amid the maze of balls and routs and theaters any longer.

  He tried to go back to his old life, the life he led before the voyage. Women, cards, secretive, naughty house parties—it had all suited him well enough before. But no longer. He had only gone to the ball because his mother needed an escort, and his father and older brother were busy that night.

  And then he saw the duchess there. She stood across the crowded room at the center of a crowd of admirers, making them all laugh as she told a story. It was obviously a lively tale, as her hands gestured in the air and her face lit with merriment. She was so beautiful, but more than that she seemed real. She seemed like a burning beacon of true, pure life amid the chilliness of frozen marble.

  Gray had been wrapped up in his work for so long, he had forgotten what life, real life, felt like. One glimpse of the duchess and he longed all over again for heat and light, for laughter. He’d never felt like that about a woman with just one glimpse. And now—now he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  Suddenly the terrace door swung open behind him. He put out the cheroot in an unused flowerpot and turned around, prepared to be polite—even if it was his mother, clamoring to introduce him to suitable young ladies again.

  But it was not his mother. It was Melisande herself, the candlelight behind her making her red hair glow like a welcoming flame. She stepped out onto the terrace and moved slowly to the railing to stare out at the garden. It was obvious she didn’t yet see him, and he took advantage of the moment to study her. She truly was beautiful, but also strangely sad now that she thought no one watched her.

  And Gray could never bear to leave a lady looking sad.

  * * *

  Melisande felt as if her head were bursting. She’d laughed and chatted and drank champagne until the room spun around her in a dizzying blur. The voices became like an insistent roar. She usually enjoyed parties, but suddenly she had the overwhelming need to be quiet for a moment.

  She put her empty glass down on a passing footman’s tray and stood on tiptoe to scan the crowd. She couldn’t find him, of course. Grayson Sanbourne had vanished after his mother led him away, and Melisande hadn’t seen him after that brief, enticing meeting. But she’d found herself thinking about him all evening. Those blue, blue eyes...

  Melisande shook her head and laughed at herself. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a handsome face and a mysterious smile, not now. Not when she had finally glimpsed a way to escape her life.

  She found one of the half-glass doors to the terrace just off the ballroom and slipped outside. It was much too cold for anyone to be there, and the chilly wind brought goose bumps to her bare arms just above the tops of her gloves, but she gratefully drew in a deep, clear breath of air. At least she could be alone for a moment.

  But suddenly she stiffened as she caught a whiff of sweet-sharp smoke, and she realized she wasn’t actually alone after all.

  She spun around and saw that it was him, Grayson Sanbourne, standing by the marble railing just a few feet away. She was so startled she bumped into a stone vase filled with dead flowers and made it clatter on its loose base.

  Grayson moved so quickly she barely saw it. He was beside her in an instant, reaching up to catch the handle of the vase before it could crush her. He was so close his sleeve brushed her cheek. He was so warm, and he smelled so delicious, of smoke, fine wool and some exotic, light sandalwood cologne. Melisande’s head spun again as she breathed him in.

  He leaned into her slightly as he straightened the vase, his solemn gaze steady on her face. She clutched her hands in the silk folds of her skirts to keep from reaching out to touch him, to make sure he was real and not some beautiful dream.

  “Are you quite all right, Duchess?” he said, his voice deep and brandy smooth.

  “I—yes, of course,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded. “Thanks to your quick actions.”

  A smile flashed across his face, bright in the shadows. “I’m glad I could be of service.”

  Melisande smiled in answer, and turned to lean her gloved palms on the railing. She could feel the marble’s cold through the thin silk, but Grayson still stood close to her, warm and strong.

  She’d flirted with so many men, but she’d never felt the way she did in that quiet, still moment. So confused, so flustered, so—exhilarated.

  Suddenly there was a rustle of cloth, a quick swirl of movement, and Grayson took off his coat. He slid it over her shoulders and she was wrapped in the heat of his body.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  In answer, his hand came up to softly trace the curve of her cheek, the merest light brush that made her shiver.

  “I should have come back to England much sooner, I see,” Grayson said.

  Melisande laughed, and turned her face into his hand to brush her lips over his palm. His fingers were long, elegant and strong, the bases of them strangely callused. Being touched by him felt like a dream, like a moment out of time.

  She reached up to brush her fingertips over the back of his hand. She felt his muscles tense under her touch, and she wondered if he felt it too, that arc of heat flashing between them.

  He turned his fingers to take her hand in his and raised it to his lips. He pressed the softest kiss to the sensitive spot just at the curve of her wrist, his breath warm on her skin through her glove. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if he wanted to savor her very essence.

  Suddenly there was a rattle behind them, as if someone fell against the terrace doors. It snapped the strange, sparkling spell that held Melisande with him, and she jumped back. Her heart was pounding and she couldn’t breathe.

  “I must go,” she gasped. She took his coat from around her shoulders and handed it back to him. She whirled around and hurried to the door.

  As she reached for it, he called after her, “When will I see you again?”

  Melisande shook her head. Surely he wouldn’t want to see her again after she ruined herself at the house party. Not with his family. “I am leaving London very soon.”

  “Duchess—Melisande...” he said, but she hurried away before she could be tempted by him any further.

  Chapter Three

  Blast it all. Had she survived her wretched marriage only to die here on this lonely road?

  Melisande huddled deeper into her fur-lined cloak and stared out the carriage window to the blinding white world beyond. When she had set out from London that morning, the day had been cold but clear. The way seemed clear for her to get to the Brownleys’ house party and start her plan for ruination.

  Until they were too far from London to easily turn back. Then the pale gray skies darkened, and snow drifted down to blanket the hedgerows and fields. As she watched in growing tr
epidation, hoping the storm would pass, it only grew stronger. Soon she could see nothing at all, and the carriage had slowed to a crawl.

  Melisande shivered, trying not to picture what might be happening out there. The carriage lumbering blindly toward a ditch; another vehicle out of control and careening toward them. All of them, she and her poor coachman and her helpless horses, freezing to death in a snowbank.

  Melisande shook her head. She couldn’t regret her actions. Not now.

  Suddenly the carriage shuddered to a halt, and Melisande feared they were caught in a drift. There was a quick knock at the door, and she reached out to push it open with her numb hand.

  It was her footman, bundled up to his eyes in thick scarves crusted with snow. “Coachman says there’s an inn just up ahead, Your Grace,” he said. “Should we stop for the day?”

  Oh, thank the stars, Melisande thought. “Yes, of course. At once.”

  The door slammed closed and slowly, painfully, the coach lumbered into motion again. When it stopped, Melisande peered out to see that they were in an inn yard. The golden light from behind the frosty windows shone on walls peeling dingy brown paint and a rickety wooden staircase. It was not the most luxurious place, but Melisande was sure she’d never seen a lovelier building. Especially when she noticed the smoke curling out of the chimneys, promising warmth and light.

  Tucking her cloak tightly around her, Melisande climbed down from the carriage and hurried into the inn’s main room. It was crowded with other travelers seeking sanctuary in the storm. Every table was full, every chair and bench, and the press of people added to the welcome heat of the fireplace. Maidservants scurried around the close-packed tables, carrying trays overloaded with trays of food and goblets of ale. It was a noisy, bustling scene, cheerful despite the chaos outside.

  Melisande smiled as she took a deep breath of the warm, sticky, ale-and wool-scented air. There was nothing she liked more than a gathering of people laughing and having fun, even if it was in a shabby, storm-bound inn.

  Perhaps this day wasn’t so bad after all.

  Melisande pushed back the hood of her cloak and smoothed the tendrils of her unruly red hair back into their pins and combs. As she studied the crowd, she noticed they were studying her in turn. There were curious glances and a murmur of speculation as to who the tall lady in fine red wool and furs could be.

  But she wasn’t left alone to face those stares for long. A small, round, red-cheeked woman hurried toward her through the crowded room, and she seemed to know who Melisande was. Her eyes were wide, and she dropped a hasty, wobbling curtsy when she reached Melisande’s side.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I am Mrs. James, the innkeeper here. I’m so sorry you were caught in the weather. So nasty and shocking-like, it is.”

  “Indeed, Mrs. James. I’m quite grateful we found your establishment when we did,” Melisande answered. “I take it you have spoken to my servants?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. They are unloading your luggage as we speak, and I have the maids clearing a place for you in our private parlor. Supper can be ready in only a moment, and you can rest there in peace.”

  Melisande swept a regretful glance over the loud, merry gathering in the main room. She would surely rather stay there, talking to everyone and sharing a pitcher of ale, than be alone in a quiet room with only her wretched thoughts for company! But she knew a private parlor would be more respectable.

  “Thank you, Mrs. James,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.”

  Mrs. James glanced around. “Have you a maid with you?”

  Melisande shook her head. “I sent my maid ahead yesterday. I am sure she missed the storm altogether.”

  “Ah, well, one of my girls would be happy to assist you, Your Grace. If you would just care to have a seat by the fire for a moment, the parlor will be ready in a trice.”

  As Melisande trailed behind Mrs. James through the crowded room, a figure standing by the large fireplace caught her eye. He was tall and lean, with strong, broad shoulders covered in perfectly fitted dark blue wool. The muscles across his back shifted and rippled as he raised a goblet to his sensual lips, and the firelight gleamed on glossy dark hair that waved back from a sculpted, handsome face.

  A face she knew. A face she had seen at the Smythe ball only days ago and had tried to forget.

  Her heart suddenly beat faster, and she stopped there in the middle of the room to study him. Surely it could not be him; it was just a trick of the dim light.

  Yet as she peered closer, she saw it really was Lord Grayson Sanbourne, here in an out-of-the-way inn when surely he should be dashing his way across London, breaking women’s hearts.

  She remembered too well standing with him on that moon-washed terrace, so close together. She felt again the brush of his hand over hers as they stood there, side by side, not speaking a word, felt the warmth of his body so close to hers. For just a moment then, the noise and clamor of the world vanished and there was only him and her and the night sky. A moment more intimate than any she had ever known in the bedroom.

  When she opened her eyes, for an instant she was surprised to find herself still in the noisy inn and not on the terrace. And Gray was looking right at her.

  For an instant, she had a startling, intense urge to flee. To run and hide until he no longer watched her with those piercing blue eyes. He was so still and quiet, and yet those eyes seemed able to see past all the careful armor she had spent years constructing, all the glitter and laughter that seemed to fool everyone else. He seemed to just see her, the scared, desperate young self she had tried to kill when she became a duchess. And she hated that.

  But surely she was being foolish, she told herself. Surely that was merely an act he had perfected to draw women to him, that knack for seeing only them. And it seemed to work. Half the young debutantes in London were surely madly in love with Gray Sanbourne. And she could not afford to be one of them. Not when she had her plan to carry out.

  But neither could she afford to run and hide. He pushed himself back from the fireplace and gave her a small bow. If she fled now, she knew he would see that she was too flustered to face him, like a silly schoolgirl, and she didn’t want to give him that. In her experience, men took every bit of power they could over a woman, and only by not letting anyone truly know her could she be safe.

  If only Gray wasn’t so unearthly handsome. So young and yet so solemn...

  Melisande pasted on her brightest, most social smile and hurried across the room. “Lord Grayson,” she said merrily. “Imagine running into you here. You are taking shelter from the beastly weather as well?”

  “Duchess,” he said, his voice quiet and smoothly deep, like a sip of the finest brandy on a cold night. He took her outstretched hand and bowed over it. His fingers held on to hers for an instant too long, warm and strong through her glove.

  Melisande barely managed to hold on to her smile. She turned to the fire, her hand sliding slowly out of his. Her face felt too warm, but surely that was only from the blaze. She could feel him watching her.

  “I was on my way to Lord and Lady Brownley’s house party,” he said. “Perhaps you were as well?”

  “Yes, I was—until my plans were quite upended.” By the storm—and hopefully not by him.

  Grayson glanced around the packed, noisy room. A half smile touched his lips, a mere ripple in his serious watchfulness. “The best-laid plans...”

  Melisande laughed. “I don’t mind so much. This is far preferable to being trapped in a snowdrift. And I do like a party, even an unexpected one.”

  “Yes, you do seem to enjoy them,” he said, almost as if he was talking to himself as he studied her. “And everyone has a better time when you’re there.”

  Slightly discomposed, Melisande answered, “I hope so.”

  Grayson nodded, and Melisande glimpsed the innkeeper hurrying across the room.

  “Your Grace,” the woman said with another bobbing curtsy. “The parlor is ready now, if you�
��d care to come through.”

  “Thank you,” Melisande said. She turned to Grayson, and found he was still smiling as he watched her. But there was no mockery in it, no smirking certainty or false flirtation. It just seemed as if, strangely, he merely liked looking at her—as she did him.

  And she found herself doing what she could not have imagined only a moment before—tossing away her chance to run.

  “Perhaps you would care to join me for some supper, Lord Grayson?” she said. “Mrs. James has kindly offered me her private parlor, and it should be quieter in there.”

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his smile flickering, and Melisande felt a pang as she wondered if she had made a mistake with her impromptu invitation. Somehow she had wanted that silent moment on the terrace again, that instant when she didn’t have to say or be anything and yet she was not alone. But maybe she’d imagined his watchful looks at her and he only wanted her to go away.

  Maybe he only wanted a drink and a pretty, willing young barmaid...

  But then he smiled again, a real, full smile this time, and he nodded. A lock of glossy, wavy dark hair fell across his brow, and Melisande longed to sweep it back, to feel its softness on her fingers.

  “Thank you, Duchess,” he said. “That would be most enjoyable.”

  He offered her his arm, and Melisande slid her hand lightly into the crook of his elbow. He led her across the room behind the innkeeper. It was all so very quiet and correct, and yet somehow Melisande felt as if she had just leaped blindly off a precipice.

  Chapter Four

  Melisande was here.

  Gray could still hardly believe it, even as he looked at her across the small table spread with plates and ewers of wine. The blazing fire in the hearth of the little parlor glowed on her red hair and on the carved ivory angles of her face. She looked like a goddess of the autumn, all burning red and gold, all vibrant laughter and the bright, urgent glow of life.