My Daring Duchess Page 2

  “Careful, old boy,” Rutledge said in a low tone as he strolled up to Simon. “You need to keep your wits about you with this set. Too much champagne and you’ll find yourself alone in a garden or library where some debutante followed you, so she could cry foul and demand marriage.”

  The comment was spoken in an offhanded manner, but the tic in Rutledge’s jaw betrayed the man’s tension. Things must not have been going as Rutledge hoped in his effort to meet a potential wife. Rutledge was Simon’s one true friend, and only friend, here in England. Simon refrained from asking the extent of the damage caused last week by Lady Fanny, the debutante who had falsely accused Rutledge of trying to seduce her. His friend would tell him when he was ready.

  Instead, Simon chose levity. “It would take a whole barrel of the weak champagne ye serve here in England to make my thoughts even a wee bit fuzzy. If ye will recall, I grew up on Scottish whisky. And if ye will further recall, when I first made yer acquaintance in Edinburgh, it was ye who was sodded on Scottish whisky, and I saved ye from being robbed.”

  “I’ll never forget,” Rutledge vowed. “You did not even know me; you risked your life for a stranger. I knew right away that you were a man of honor, despite what your grandfather and the Duke of Rowan believed.”

  It had been many years since Rutledge had mentioned the secret Simon had confessed to him one night when Simon had imbibed too much whisky and Rutledge had pressed as to why Simon always refused to come to England for a visit. Simon did not wish to speak of it any more now than he had the next day when Rutledge had told him he’d help Simon get vengeance. He’d wanted revenge, and had most definitely planned to achieve it one day, but alone. He had not wanted to draw Rutledge into his problems, and now… Well, now revenge seemed out of reach with his grandfather gone.

  “Kilmartin, are your thoughts with the past?”

  Simon nodded. “Aye, but I don’t wish to speak of it.”

  “As you wish,” Rutledge said, “but—”

  “No,” Simon asserted. “Now back to the topic of whisky. I’d venture to say one wee dram of the lovely golden liquid would put even the hardiest of men here on their arses.” When Rutledge scowled at him, Simon chuckled. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Rutledge winked. “Of course. And might I suggest you exclude the host Scarsdale, as well. I’ve seen the man imbibe, and I’d wager he could stand dram to dram with you without so much as slurring a word.”

  “A bold claim,” Simon teased, looking forward to meeting the Duke of Scarsdale. He’d encountered the man’s wife, Sophia, three days ago on the road in front of his estate. Surprisingly, she’d asked him to call on her. He’d helped her dislodge her carriage wheel from the mud. He suspected that meeting was why he’d received an invitation to this ball tonight, as he’d only been their new neighbor for a week and had not had time to introduce himself.

  The smile that had been on Rutledge’s face disappeared. “That is the second time in ten minutes I’ve been told I make bold claims.” He relieved Simon of the champagne glass he’d been holding and downed the contents in one gulp.

  “I take it things are not proceeding as ye had hoped,” Simon said.

  “Only if my hope was to be left with no prospects for a wealthy bride,” Rutledge grumbled, his voice heavy with misery.

  “I must say,” Simon replied, “I’m surprised how quickly and how widely word spread from London to the country about ye and Lady Fanny being found in the library by the matrons with the wagging tongues. You only just arrived today and told me of it.”

  “News travels fast when you are the most interesting scandal of the week,” Rutledge snapped.

  Simon ignored his friend’s prickly tone, knowing full well it was brought on by worry. The enormous debt Rutledge’s father had left to his family upon shooting himself after losing everything clearly plagued Rutledge. “What am I going to do?” Rutledge asked, but he launched into the next sentence before Simon could even form an answer. “My mother is in constant hysterics, as are my sisters! I cannot fail to secure an appropriate match, as much as I detest the task before me. I never wanted to marry! I should have joined the army as I’d wanted to, despite my father’s adamant refusal.”

  Curious gazes turned their way. Simon clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder and chuckled as if Rutledge had just made a joke. Once people seemed satisfied that nothing scandalous was about to occur and turned their attention back to whatever salacious bit of gossip they’d been discussing, Simon whispered, “Take a steadying breath and remember there are many prying eyes here. No one knows of yer family’s misfortune, and ye wish to keep it that way. All they know is that a nearly dowerless debutante claims ye stole a kiss and then refused to marry her, but those that truly know ye will not believe ye would do such a thing.”

  Simon’s friend raked a hand through his hair and inclined his head to the right ever so slightly. “Very discreetly glance toward the terrace doors,” he said in a hushed tone.

  Simon nodded and pretended to cough while looking toward the two large French windows that led out onto the terrace. “At whom am I looking?” he asked, passing his gaze over the back of a lord with silver hair and then the several ladies gathered around him.

  Simon paused on one woman’s profile. She had just tilted her head back slightly in hearty laughter, and her creamy white shoulders, which were bared by her gown, shook with her mirth. His gaze traveled up over her delicate shoulders to her long, slender neck, and finally to her head. Her hair was not piled in an artless creation as most women’s hair was at the ball. Instead, she wore her thick, pale locks down. Her hair shimmered in the light of the chandelier above her, especially twinkling at her crown, where a diamond headband captured her hair and pulled it away from her face. He would have noticed her eventually, even if Rutledge had not tasked him with glancing in her direction.

  She was astonishingly beautiful in profile. Her bone structure was ideal—high cheekbones, slender nose, and full lips—and her modestly cut bodice hinted at just enough of her charms to allow a man to know she had generous breasts only her husband would ever see. The deep-ruby color of her gown was in stark contrast to the white gowns of the debutantes around her, and it led Simon to believe she was either married or widowed. But she was certainly no debutante.

  “Do you see the woman in the red gown?” Rutledge asked in a hushed voice.

  Simon nodded, meaning to look at Rutledge, but just then, a man tapped the woman on the shoulder and she turned toward him. Simon could not tear his gaze from her. She had been lovely in profile, but she was exquisite to look at directly. Large and luminous eyes focused on the man before her. Her bearing was proud with her tilted chin and straight shoulders. Of course, she would be a woman of great pride. She was not only a rare gem of a lady, but judging by the jewels in her hair and what looked to be more diamonds dangling from her ears, she was obviously part of the haut ton. He imagined she was the sort of woman men fought duels over and wrote sonnets for, if they were so inclined, which he was not and had never been. Whatever the man standing before her was saying to her, she shook her head and the man’s shoulders dropped slightly before he turned on his heel and departed.

  “That woman you are studying just informed me she has made it her personal mission to ensure all eligible debutantes know what sort of rake I truly am,” Rutledge said, his voice now barely a threadbare whisper.

  Simon snapped his gaze to his friend, noting his worried eyes and his tightly drawn mouth. It was Rutledge’s responsibility to keep the family’s secret shame from coming to light by marrying a woman whose dowry would provide for his mother and five sisters.

  “Do ye mean to tell me that vision in red is Lady Fanny?”

  “God, no!” Rutledge groaned. “Lady Fanny has long, dark hair and is not here, as far as I’ve seen. The woman you are looking at is Miss Anne Adair.”

  Simon frowned. “Who is Miss Adair?”

  An uneasy look crossed Rutledge’s
face. “She’s the granddaughter of the Duke of Rowan.”

  At the mention of the Duke of Rowan, memories of his grandfather’s friend who had been part of the reason his grandfather had turned him away flooded Simon at once. “I see,” Simon said, unable to keep the rancor he felt for the duke from spilling out in his tone.

  “I had no notion she’d be here, Kilmartin. I’m sorry.”

  Simon waved a dismissive hand. “Do not be. The disgust you hear is not for her. I don’t even know the lass. She’s nothing to do with my past with her grandfather. Though her warning to ye does indicate she may be inclined to destroy an innocent person just like her grandfather was.”

  “Yes, it would seem so. She’s friends with Lady Fanny and has decided I’m the devil, despite the fact that I explained my innocence to her. I wish I had never allowed my father to talk me into coming back from Scotland. Things were so much simpler there.”

  Simon wasn’t going to mention that Rutledge had not thought his life simple while he’d been there, as his strife with his father had plagued him. Instead, he said, “In my experience, England is beset with people who thrive on hurting others.” Simon was thinking of his own disastrous experience many years ago. His incident had remained a secret, though, unlike news of Rutledge, which apparently was spreading like wildfire, thanks to the Duke of Rowan’s granddaughter.

  Rowan.

  The name of his grandfather’s old friend—and equally rancid cohort—naturally made Simon think upon his grandfather once more. Simon had been forced to leave Town under threat of imprisonment by his own grandfather and the Duke of Rowan. The long dormant desire for revenge stirred deep in his soul. He’d set it aside for a time, waiting until he had the power and plan to crush both men. It was too late to attain vengeance against his grandfather, but Rowan was still very much alive and an altogether different story.

  Simon had the means to destroy Rowan, yet he had no plan. He could cripple many of Rowan’s financial holdings, but it hardly seemed enough for the man’s role in ultimately causing the death of Simon’s mother. The best way would be to hurt someone Rowan loved, yet Simon doubted the man cared that much for another. Simon recalled vividly how Rowan had told him he detested his own ward, Lady Mary, who’d claimed Simon had fooled her into thinking he loved her, so that she would give him her innocence. Simon had explained he had done nothing of the sort and never even touched the woman, but Rowan had dismissed the explanation and threatened to have Simon prosecuted for ravishment. Rowan had told the lies to Simon’s grandfather, who was only too eager to believe them. In truth, Simon refused to take Lady Mary’s innocence as she’d demanded. She’d wanted to avoid marriage to an ancient marquess her grandfather had insisted she wed and apparently had thought the best way to do so was to marry Simon instead.

  Simon glanced down at his hands, thinking on how he could strike at Rowan now that the time seemed at hand.

  “Are you listening?” Rutledge asked, interrupting Simon’s thoughts. “My honor is being impugned! The debutantes here who may not have heard the rumors now know, and Miss Adair is painting me as a villainous rake! I overheard her telling a lady about my ‘ill intentions.’ I tell you—” Rutledge groaned as his mouth twisted wryly “—the damnable thing of it is, I argued with my mother again last night about being honor bound to marry Lady Fanny, despite the fact that the woman followed me into the library without my knowledge, threw herself into my arms, and kissed me. I have been racked with guilt over Lady Fanny’s ruined reputation, though she caused it herself.”

  Rutledge snorted. “My mother made it clear that if I marry Lady Fanny, we will all be destitute and my sisters will have no future. I’m damned no matter what I do! I might have stood a decent chance at securing a match here in the country, but now…” His words trailed off, and he looked toward the terrace doors once more.

  Simon followed suit, his chest tightening at the sight of Miss Adair still standing there holding court among a bevy of suitors and one older gentleman, who—damnation, could that be Rowan?—still had their backs turned to Simon. His shoulders knotted as he stared at the silver-haired man.

  “Miss Adair has made it her personal mission to ruin my name in the eyes of all debutantes,” Rutledge said with a sigh.

  Simon narrowed his eyes on the lady who was so very lovely in appearance but apparently ugly on the inside. “Why would others hang on what she tells them?”

  Rutledge turned to Simon. “She’s Rowan’s granddaughter, for one, and an heiress for another. The men all want her.” Rutledge looked pointedly at her. “A beautiful and wealthy lady is a potently enticing combination for wealthy and poor men alike.”

  Simon had never cared whether a person had wealth or not. He supposed that came from being raised by a father who’d left his wealth and all its trappings behind when his father—Simon’s grandfather—had demanded he not marry Simon’s mother, who’d been a simple Scottish lass of no great consequence.

  Simon had viewed wealth as a means for survival, a means for revenge, and, currently, a means to ensure his sisters lived in the comfort they deserved and that they made good matches, if they so wished it. He’d used his money as a tool of persuasion to attain what he needed for his company and for the good of others, but that had been coin he had made by his own wits, sweat, and determination as he built his timber empire. He’d never thought to have any wealth but that for which he worked, but then the letter had come from his grandfather’s solicitor informing Simon that the man had died and that Simon was the new Duke of Kilmartin.

  Rich beyond anything you could imagine, the solicitor had so crassly written. The man was a fool. Simon could imagine a great deal, and he’d dismissed the old solicitor the moment he’d arrived in London.

  Simon found his gaze drawn toward Miss Adair once more. She was shaking her head at yet another suitor, and Simon watched the man’s face show dejection and then frustration before he turned to a lady who had just strolled up to the group, said something, and then the two of them moved to the dance floor. Simon frowned, thinking back to the man who’d spoken to Miss Adair earlier. Had that gentleman been asking her to dance, as well? Even as he pondered the question, another lord approached her, bowed over her hand, and spoke. Again, she gave a firm shake of her head, and when the lord turned away, he caught Miss Adair give an exaggerated roll of her eyes to her friend, who giggled.

  “What shall I do?” Rutledge asked Simon when Miss Adair turned toward him and pointed. The eyes of the woman standing beside her widened with surprise.

  An idea came to Simon, and just as it did, the silver-haired man turned so that Simon saw his face. All the helpless rage he’d felt when he’d last seen the Duke of Rowan so many years ago resurfaced in a surge. His hands curled into fists, which he forced himself to immediately unfurl. Thirteen years had passed. Thirteen years! The man looked close to the same—arrogant and unfriendly—except now his face held more wrinkles and his hair no longer had a slight trace of brown strands. Frankly, it would not have mattered if Rowan had changed greatly. Simon would have known him anywhere. He wouldn’t forget the man who’d been behind convincing his grandfather of Simon’s guilt in ravishing Lady Mary. Not that it had taken much convincing, and neither man had been willing to believe Simon’s plea of innocence.

  “Tell me, Rutledge,” Simon asked, turning an idea over in his head, “is there any chance that Rowan has a heart for his granddaughter?”

  Rutledge gave him a quizzical look. “As a matter of fact, he adores her.”

  A burning started low in his gut and spread like fire through his veins. He recognized the searing need for revenge because it was what he had survived on when he had been turned from his grandfather’s door. He’d made his fortune driven by the need to prove himself and to become so powerful that he could exact revenge.

  He locked his gaze on Miss Adair once more. So far every indication was that she was a spoiled heiress, spiteful debutante, remorseless purveyor of lies, and she likely pa
tterned her behavior after her esteemed—Simon wanted to laugh—grandfather. The certainty that he could now attain his vengeance sank into his very bones. Not an eye for an eye but a blow that would hurt Rowan nonetheless. Here, wrapped in ruby silk and spite, was his granddaughter, eager to do the same sort of damage to another innocent man.

  If she was as purposely cruel as she seemed, he would seduce the delectable Miss Adair and take her to the edge of scandal, only revealing himself to Rowan, who would know damn well why he’d done what he did, once it was a fait accompli.

  The first thing he needed to ascertain was the true nature of the lady, and he could only do that by becoming acquainted with her. “I’ll deal with the lady,” Simon said, quickly telling Rutledge of his plan.

  Rutledge nodded. “On any other day I would feel guilty allowing what you propose, but in the face of the lady’s campaign to ruin me…” He gave a shrug. “And you did say you intended to seek more knowledge of her before proceeding, yes?”

  “Aye,” Simon replied. The lady herself would set the rules of this game. He would simply play by them.

  Three

  Anne glanced across the crowded ballroom at the horrid Lord Rutledge, who she had purposely warned of her intention to let all innocent debutantes know he was an unrepentant rake. The man should have had the decency to depart in shame, but there he stood, champagne coupe in hand, talking with a man to his right. She couldn’t get a glimpse of Rutledge’s companion, undoubtedly a fellow rogue, as the man had turned his back in the precise moment that she endeavored to see his face. She swept her gaze over the guests near Lord Rutledge. Which poor debutante might he have his sights set upon? Just as she was considering the ladies present who might need to be informed of Lord Rutledge’s character an odd hissing came from her grandfather, and then he grabbed her arm.