Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(27)

“What? What?”

Artemis leaned closer to Phoebe, for Mrs. Jellett had cocked her head in front of them as if trying to hear their murmured conversation. “Mr. Barclay nearly took off one of the footmen’s noses with his sword.”

Phoebe giggled, the sound sweet and girlish, and Wakefield glanced over, his dark, cold eyes meeting Artemis’s so suddenly it was almost like plunging her hand into snow. His gaze flicked to his sister beside her and the lines that bracketed his firm lips softened. Strange that here and now they were hardly acquaintances, yet in the woods they were something very close to friends.

The duelists raised their swords.

The match was utterly without surprises. All gentlemen were taught from a young age how to duel—to use swords with elegance and grace, more a dance than any real fighting. Artemis knew that there were schools in London where aristocrats went to perfect their form, exercise, and learn the rules of sword fighting. They were all trained, either well or not, and they all used the same regimented movements. She couldn’t help comparing the two males’ lunging in precise steps that probably had flowery French names with the Ghost’s moving with deadly intent. The two gentlemen in front of her wouldn’t last a minute with the Ghost, she realized. The thought sent an elated thrill of triumph through her. She really ought to be ashamed of such a bloody bias.

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t.

The duel ended with the courteous touch of a blunted sword tip to Lord Noakes’s embroidered waistcoat, just over his heart.

Phoebe discreetly yawned behind her palm when Artemis related the scene.

Lord Oddershaw and Mr. Watts were next. By the time the Duke of Scarborough took off his coat for the third demonstration, Artemis was watching the back of Wakefield’s head as he bent politely once more to hear Penelope’s chatter and wondering if he was as bored as she was. He was attentive to her cousin, but Artemis had a hard time believing he really found her conversation very interesting.

She grimaced and looked away. What a sour woman she was becoming! She had a sudden awful vision of herself as a crabby old lady, shuffling along in whatever house she landed in as her cousin’s companion, faded, dusty, and forgotten.

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

Artemis looked up at Phoebe’s soft exclamation. “What?”

“You said it was the Duke of Scarborough in front of Maximus and Penelope?” Phoebe nodded discreetly to where the older man stood in front of her brother and Penelope. Scarborough was grinning and bending over Penelope’s hand. “He isn’t used to that.”

“What?” Artemis jerked her gaze away to stare at her companion. “Who?”

“Maximus.” Phoebe had a fond smile on her face—an expression that Artemis had a hard time reconciling with the autocratic iceberg that was Wakefield. “With a rival. He usually just indicates what he wants and others rush to see that he gets it.”

Artemis bit her lip, stifling a smile at the image of servants, family, and friends scurrying to fulfill the duke’s every whim as he strode by, oblivious.

As if somehow he was aware of her amusement, Wakefield turned at that moment and glanced at her.

She inhaled, lifting her head, as she met his dark eyes.

Penelope placed her hand on his sleeve and he turned back.

Artemis looked down and only then realized her hands were trembling. She grasped them together. “Do you really think Scarborough any sort of competition for your brother?”

“Well…” Phoebe tilted her head, considering, as Artemis watched Scarborough somehow persuade the gentleman sitting on the other side of Penelope to vacate his seat. The duke promptly sat down himself. “In the normal way of things I wouldn’t think his chances very good at all. Maximus is young and handsome, rich and powerful. And I’ve always thought he had a certain compelling air about him, don’t you?”

Oh, yes.

“But,” Phoebe continued, “the Duke of Scarborough seems quite taken with Lady Penelope, and really I think that might make all the difference.”

Artemis frowned. “What do you mean?”

Phoebe’s plump lips folded inward, her large brown eyes looking sad. “Well, Scarborough cares, doesn’t he? Maximus doesn’t—not really. No doubt he’s a bit compelled by the chase, but if he doesn’t win”—she shrugged her shoulders—“he’ll simply find another suitable heiress. She—Lady Penelope herself—doesn’t really matter to him. And if it comes right down to it, wouldn’t you chose passion—however old—over dispassion?”

“Yes.” Her agreement wasn’t even considered. What woman wouldn’t want interest—real interest—in her and her alone, no matter the physical attributes of the suitor? If Penelope ever stopped to consider the matter, the Duke of Scarborough would instantly win. Poor Wakefield didn’t stand a chance.

Except… he wasn’t poor, was he? He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and a man personally to be wary of, if not downright feared.

She watched him, his broad shoulders fitted in fine dark green silk, his profile turned as he examined the woman he was courting as she flirted with another man. He might as well be observing a pair of beetles in a primitive mating dance. One would never know by looking at him that he wanted Penelope for himself.

What would it be like to garner this man’s passion?