Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(8)

Yet somehow, here he was, separated from her by a scant few feet and some lords and ladies in between. Looking at her as though he could see inside her, straight to the heart of her. She never wanted to be gazed upon in any other way for the rest of her life. He made her feel as though her entire body was a string pulled taut, waiting for the loving caress of a bow.

Some wicked part of her thought that if she must entrap any man, surely there was no harm in selecting a man as beautiful as he to be her dupe. A man who could make wanton thoughts consume her before a crowded ballroom of people as she stood there in her silk and diamonds.

Yes, let it be him.

At last, she severed the contact, turning to continue her retreat from the ballroom and its noisy crush. She felt his stare on her back like a touch, stinging her shoulder blades. Daisy fanned herself as she stepped into the calming night. It was unseasonably warm for late February, and several others slowly promenaded about the main terrace.

She skirted the perimeter and stole away into the shadows, farther from the din of the ball and prying eyes, farther away from reason and sanity, and deeper into unfamiliar, dangerous territory. For if she intended to carry out her plan to the fullest, she would require privacy.

She stopped when she reached a statue that loomed over her, tall and eerie in the silvery night. Zeus perhaps? In the darkness, she couldn’t be sure. She was far enough that she could no longer hear the conversations of the guests on the terrace. Far enough for what she intended.

A pang of guilt struck her then, for entrapping any man into marriage, let alone the insufferable duke, was the last thing she wanted to do. But when her only other option was accepting the grim fate her father had selected for her, she knew what she needed to do.

Save herself.

“I confess, I’m quite curious to hear why you have such a peculiar fondness for disappearing at balls, Miss Vanreid.”

The voice, low and clipped in perfect born-in-the-purple English, sent a fresh wave of longing through her. She knew without bothering to turn that it was him. How neatly he’d fallen into her trap.

She searched for the bravado that seemed to have suddenly fled her as she slowly spun about. He stood a scant few steps away, gorgeous even in the dim light. Daisy offered him a full, perfect curtsy, for she could behave whenever the need arose. It was simply that she didn’t prefer to behave, having spent her life forced into doing it. “Your Grace. You seem to have a similar, peculiar fondness for following me at balls. Perhaps I too should inquire as to the reason?”

“Inquire all you like, darling.”

There was something about the way he uttered the term of endearment that made the otherwise ordinary word “darling” into a caress that she felt all over her body. Especially in her belly and… lower.

She could play the role of flirt quite well by now, but he had a patent way of disarming her, throwing her off-kilter. Daisy took a step toward him, willing herself to keep her goal foremost in her mind. The urge to trade wits and verbally spar with him was strong. But clashing with the Duke of Trent would not compromise her, and so she needed to resort to different tactics.

“If I ask, will you answer?” She took another step until she was near enough that she could smell him, and his scent began a steady ache deep within her. A need for something she didn’t understand.

He still hadn’t moved, his large body illuminated by the moon’s sheen. “That depends.”

Another step. “Upon?”

“Upon whether or not I’m to expect one of your suitors.”

She smiled despite herself, enjoying this game, and unable to resist baiting him after all. “Do you refer to the Earl of Bolton? Or perhaps to Wilford? Prestley? Tell me, Your Grace, do you keep a ledger of them all?”

“I doubt any ledger of mine would contain enough pages.” His tone was grim.

She flinched at the insult, but forced herself to take another step. She’d earned her reputation after all, even if it was in the name of a good cause: her own rescue. Little space separated them at all now, and in spite of his singular lack of charm, she was still determined to win her escape from Lord Breckly’s officious clutches.

“One must wonder, Your Grace, why you followed me at all if your opinion of me is so poor,” she said then, careful to keep her tone flippant and unaffected.

At long last, he moved, and with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise as he brought their bodies flush together. His hands settled on her waist when she would’ve lost her footing, anchoring her to him. Her breasts pressed to his chest. His breath coasted over her lips.

“I never said my opinion of you was poor, Miss Vanreid,” he said slowly. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Forgive me if I doubt that.” The breathlessness of her own voice alarmed her.

Indecision threatened her suddenly, making her feel skittish. In the darkness, the duke was a force of nature, tall and large and potent. She couldn’t shake the odd notion that beneath his polished exterior lay a feral beast, waiting to lunge. To claim.

There was more, far more, to the Duke of Trent than she had ever supposed. But she could sense it now, in the heat and strength of him, in the barely leashed savagery of the way he’d so neatly caught her in his trap.

And all this time, she’d been fancying she’d trapped him. It suddenly seemed quite the opposite. But she wasn’t frightened. Rather, he intrigued her.