The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(84)
‘It almost sounds as though you enjoy crossing them all off, Soph. Don’t you want a husband?’ There was a screech of tuning violins. ‘Oh hell’s teeth they are going out for the next set and I’m promised to that Harrison beanpole. At least she’s yearning after Adrian Haye, so I’m safe.’ Toby fled towards the stairs and emerged just below her a minute later, running a hand through his unruly curls as he made his way to his partner.
She should go down soon herself. Lord Heaton had claimed the supper dance set and she was almost certain he was a WWIGG, although she had doubts about his sense of humour. But he might just be on his best behaviour which was making him somewhat solemn. But was he any better than Ralph Thorne, her exceptionally reticent leading candidate?
‘Tell me, Sophie,’ enquired a deep voice from the shadows behind her. ‘Do you want to cross them all off the list?’
She spun round, staggered, grasped the balcony rail. A complete stranger. A tall, dark stranger who had heard all of that. Even the well-endowed wedding-tackle part. ‘Oh, my Lord.’
‘Oh, Your Grace, actually,’ he remarked, emerging fully into the light cast by the great central chandelier.
‘You are a duke?’
Good looking, well bred, certain to be rich. Tick, tick, tick went an out-of-control internal scorekeeper. Pull yourself together, her brain snapped. You are unchaperoned in a deserted gallery with a strange man and you have just been overheard in an outrageously improper conversation. He might very well be making assumptions and intending to act on them. Which might be wickedly wonderful… Stop it, Sophie!
‘I am.’
‘You can’t be. I know all the dukes and you are not one of them.’ He looked like dukes ought to look according to fairy tales and, disappointingly, never did. Twenty seven? Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, patrician nose, grey, beautiful eyes, exquisitely cut evening suit, flat stomach. Her gaze began to shift downwards and she wrenched it back with an effort and met an amused smile. He wasn’t a mind reader, was he? ‘They are all too old. Unless you are the Lost Duke.’
‘I am not at all lost,’ he said. ‘I know exactly where I am. In the gallery at Lady Radlett’s May Ball.’
Oh yes, her internal scorekeeper added, that voice. Deep, warm, drawling. You should have added SS for Staggeringly Sexy.
‘You are the Duke of Calderbrook?’ He nodded. ‘Well, you might not be lost now, but why did you go away for so long? You’ve been gone for almost more years than I’ve been out.’ Not lost exactly. Apparently he had written letters home from time to time, but all those did was track where the errant nobleman had been, never where he was going. Or what he was doing, come to that. Or why.
‘Away, not lost. My nearest and… dearest knew where I was all the time. More or less.’ He strolled forward until he could put his hands on the rail beside her and look down. The hooded eyes scanned the dance floor, but Sophie noticed he took care not to lean so far forward as to be seen himself. ‘You’ve been out that long?’
‘You have been eavesdropping.’ He might at least have had the gallantry to observe that she didn’t look old enough for what his calculations told him. ‘And I came out when I was seventeen.’ Seven years ago.
‘You and your young friend intruded into my eyrie. Naturally, expecting that an amorous encounter was about to ensue, I retreated discretely into the shadows.’
‘But neither closed your eyes nor put your fingers in your ears, apparently.’
‘No, not that,’ he admitted. ‘It was potentially entertaining.’ Shameless man. ‘I congratulate you on finding this hideaway.’
‘We came up from the door near the library and locked it behind us, so I suppose you used the rear corridor entrance.’
‘Do you know every trysting place in every ballroom in London, Sophie?’
‘As you so ungallantly reminded me, Your Grace, I have been out for years and years so yes, I know every nook and corner that rakes use to lure their victims into their webs, usually so I can take care to avoid them. And it is Miss Wilmott, if you please.’
‘Gareth Thorne, Duke of Calderbrook. At your service, Miss Wilmott.’ He lifted her hand in his own ungloved one and kissed her fingertips, then carefully replaced her hand on the rail. Sophie stared at the fine embroidery on the backs of her gloves and attempted to get her breathing under control.
‘I am not spinning webs for innocents this evening, rest assured. No, not for innocents,’ he added, almost under his breath.
Which is a good thing, under the circumstances, given that every iota of common sense I possess appears to be lying on its back, wagging its tail and asking for its tummy to be tickled. Her nostrils flared, catching a clean, faintly spicy, sharp note over the muddle of scents and smells rising in the heat from the ballroom. ‘What are you doing, Your Grace, all alone up here? There has been no whisper of your return. Ralph… I mean, your cousin Mr Thorne, told me nothing of it and last time he mentioned you it was to say you were in the South Seas.’
His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Ralph’s name, but he said nothing about him. ‘I am carrying out a reconnoitre of the battlefield, Miss Wilmott.’ He turned from his contemplation of the dancers and leaned back against the balcony rail to study her face. Sophie stiffened her spine and gave him back stare for stare. She was not going to blush and get into a flutter. ‘You are Arthur Wilmott’s daughter, are you not?’