Page 50 of A Bride for the Rakish Duke

“Stop looking,” a voice commanded as something was placed in her hand.

Lydia stared down to find her fingers wrapped around the stem of a punch glass and a familiar face at her side. “Mary! Goodness, you startled me.”

“The flush in your cheeks will be useful,” was all Mary said by way of apology. “Do not show any gentleman that you are eager, dearie. Not even my son.”

“Why? Rather, why not?” Lydia fumbled, for she had thought she wassupposedto appear eager.

In truth, the rules of seduction appeared to be a never-ending list of contradictions that was on the verge of making her head explode—be coy but not too coy, be flirtatious but not too flirtatious, be available to him but always be distant, show your figure but conceal everything, touch him often but do not let him touch you.

Mary shook her head like a disappointed governess. “My sweet girl, I had such high hopes for you.” She paused. “If he has chosen to arrive late,youmust show that you do not care in the slightest. Barely acknowledge him. Make him come to you. And no matter what you do, never let him win. If you let him win even once, he will take it all and leave.”

“Take it all? Take all of what?” Lydia fidgeted with her capped sleeves, feeling rather like someone who had been hurled into the sea, with no notion of how to swim.

Mary shook her head again, but rather than answer in any useful fashion, she took that moment to wander off, heading toward an older gentleman like a magpie to silver. As she was making her way in his direction, attempting to catch his eye, another gentleman stepped into her path.

“Your Grace,” the man said, dipping his head, “it has been a long while since I have seen you. If I may, I should like to have a word with you.”

Mary glared at him. “I think not.”

Before he could say anything more, she had moved on, leaving him staring after her like a forlorn puppy.

“Who is that?” Lydia asked, looking at Joanna and Emma. “A spurned lover or a lover who did the spurning?”

To her surprise, it was Silas who answered. “The Viscount Whiston. A widower. Never remarried. He has not been seen in Society for some time. A year or so, if I am not mistaken. Perhaps less. Has excellent vineyards and is a sage man of business.”

“Silas, how on earth do you know all of that?” Emma chuckled. “You are not becoming a gossipmonger, are you?”

Silas smiled. “I am afraid it is nothing as salacious as that. There are many gentlemen who wish to have him join them as an investor, but they have not been able to correspond with him. One or two even went to his country seat, but he would not open the gates to them.”

“How peculiar,” Joanna remarked, glancing at Lydia. “You do not think your mother-in-law threatened him, do you?”

Lydia shrugged. “At this point, I believe my mother-in-law is capable of anything. She is… rather impressive, really.”

Even now, Mary was drawing the gaze of many a gentleman, young and old alike. It was the way she held herself and the way she moved through a crowd as if she knew everyone else wouldpart for her. Not to mention the provocative gown she wore—garnet red with a scandalous neckline, a ribbon tied too low to highlight her narrow waist, and a frill of red lace instead of sleeves—with a confidence that Lydia was struggling to emulate. People simply could not look away from the Dowager, as if they were looking upon something truly special.

At that moment, a gentleman approached. Lydia had already forgotten his name, but according to her dance card, he was the Earl of Gorsley.

He bowed low and elegantly, his hair fair where Will’s was dark. And his eyes, when he raised them to her, were a crystalline blue. “I have come to claim my dance, Your Grace,” he said in a rich, pleasant voice.

“Let us hope it is a lively one,” Lydia replied, putting her hand in his.

As her dance partner led her to the dance floor, she could feel everyone staring, and for a moment, she wondered if she was not about to make a very grave mistake.

CHAPTER 20

“Ithought Bruxton Hall was supposed to be a grim lump of gray in the midst of equally dismal moors?” Anthony said, his head hanging out of the carriage window.

William stifled a yawn. “That was years ago before Edwin’s marriage made him respectable again.”

“Ah, so this is what all of you dukes do, is it? Your estates begin to crumble, you marry well, then suddenly your manors are transformed?” Anthony waved a hand. “Youhaveto see this, Brother!”

William nodded. “What else would dukes with crumbling manors do? It is a centuries-long tradition.”

He peered out of the opposite window to see what all of the fuss was about. He had not expected to see much, but with it being summer, the nights were lighter. Even if they had notbeen, every window of Bruxton Hall blazed with candlelight, illuminating what appeared to be a very pretty manor indeed.

Well-kept lawns flanked a driveway of white gravel, where young cypress trees and full-canopied hawthorns stood guard. The manor itself was a fine thing of sleek, dark gray stone and a slate roof, the walls naturally decorated with swathes of ivy. Wisteria grew over and around the colonnaded front terrace, where large stone pots of various bright flowers were in full bloom.

It makes Stonebridge look like a grim lump of gray…

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