The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(22)

Lady Willowby placed a hand on Michael’s sleeve. “Will you escort me through the gardens, Your Grace?”

Michael’s expression was unreadable. The only indication he gave that he heard the beautiful widow was a slight nod of his head.

Henry offered Chloe his arm. “Shall we?”

She placed her gloved fingers on his arm, and the three couples headed for the winding gravel paths. Lamps lit the way, and the scent of fruit bushes and perfumed flowers filled the air. It was the perfect setting for adventure, intrigue, and romance.

An odd twinge of disappointment tightened Chloe’s chest. She should be pleased. There would be opportunity to be isolated in one of the shadowed paths away from the crowd. But that meant Lady Willowby was free to do the same with Michael.

She frowned. What was wrong with her? After two kisses, she couldn’t allow him to ruin her chances of a successful marriage match. He wanted a mistress.

Not a wife.

“I have many fond memories of the pleasure gardens,” Henry said. “My father used to bring me here as a boy. Of course, we visited in the daytime back then.” A look of sadness crossed his face in the lamplight.

“I’m sorry for your loss. You must miss him,” Chloe said.

“I do. He was a good father.”

Chloe’s fingers tensed. Her father had been good. It was only after her mother died—when Chloe was five—that he’d begun to forge priceless works of art. He’d changed then, had become greedy and hadn’t cared about whom he harmed with his schemes—clients or his own children.

Henry must have sensed her discomfort. He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up unwanted memories. I want you to know that your father’s past does not matter to me.”

Not for the first time, she recognized that he was kind and considerate, and a marriage with the Earl of Sefton would be amicable and pleasant.

A trill of laughter up ahead drew her interest. Lady Willowby was clinging to the duke’s arm. She licked her painted lips and leaned forward, her breasts threatening to spill from her low-cut bodice.

Chloe’s blood pounded and heat rose in her face. Henry spoke, but Chloe had difficulty following the conversation. Her eyes kept returning to Michael and the clinging widow. As she watched, Lady Willowby tugged Michael’s arm and urged him to turn down a winding path out of view. Chloe’s step faltered.

Henry noticed their departure from the main path. Huntingdon and Eliza were paces ahead, oblivious to the departure of the third couple.

“Shall we do the same? I see a path to explore,” Henry whispered, and ushered her in a different direction. She followed, determined to stop thinking of the other couple.

Fewer lanterns lit the back paths, and it was darker here. Henry halted beneath a wooden boat that was artfully hung above a branch of an oak tree to pass as an arbor. Tall hedges offered privacy. “I’d like to kiss you, Chloe. May I?”

This was it. A true test. She’d only kissed one man. Would Henry’s lips make her feel dizzy with desire? Would her heart pound, her knees weaken, and her breasts tingle?

Closing her eyes, she raised her mouth to his. The pressure of his lips was light and pleasant. She pressed a hand against his slender chest and felt his heart beat fast beneath his waistcoat. At her touch, he moaned and pulled her closer, and the kiss changed. Sloppy, wet kisses slanted over her mouth and down her throat, leaving a slick path on her skin. She fought the urge to push him away. She felt no spark. No rush of wicked, forbidden longing. His chest wasn’t hard and solid, like another’s, and the touch didn’t make her skin sizzle.

A swooping dread settled in her stomach. There was no comparison with Michael’s seductive kisses that had left her burning with desire and with an aching need for more.

A rustle of skirts sounded close by. They jumped apart just as the duke and Lady Willowby turned the corner and stopped short. Michael’s gaze traveled over Chloe and Henry, and her cheeks grew hot beneath his knowing stare. Chloe’s nervousness grew.

Did he know Henry had led her to the isolated path for a stolen kiss?

Michael glowered, his expression fierce. Lady Willowby appeared out of breath and confused, as if she’d been dragged along the gravel path.

“Time to go,” Michael said, his voice harsh. “The tightrope dancer is about to begin her performance.”

Chloe met Michael’s gaze. A scowl pulled at the corners of his lips…lips that could make her long for dangerous things that a lady should never even think of. Lips that made her feel so much more than Henry’s kisses.

Oh God. Why him? Why the man who wanted her, but only as his mistress? The man who thought her a lying thief who would forever be beneath him? How could this have happened?

The two couples returned to the rotunda and joined Huntingdon and Eliza. A throng of visitors had gathered in the open space. Chloe’s thoughts were of her dilemma and she was slow to comprehend the hushed whispers of the crowed or to notice that all eyes were trained high above.

“Do you see the rope?” Henry pointed to a mast set up at the eastern end of the gardens to another mast half way down one of the main walks.

Chloe looked up. “I do.”

“Don’t look away. She will show shortly.”

Suddenly Madame Saqui appeared on the rope and gave a jaunty wave. A tiny woman with dark hair, her costume was brilliantly spangled and her headdress of colorful feathers reached a considerable height. The orchestra began playing a lively tune, and the crowed burst into cheer. Chloe watched, amazed, as the French ropedancer ran down the inclined rope with grace and an astonishing sense of balance. She twirled and lifted a leg, and the crowd’s gasps of delight echoed throughout the night. Chloe was riveted to the sight and was stunned by the Frenchwoman’s athleticism.