Page 1 of Starlight and the Duke
Chapter One
London, England
June 1818
“Bollocks, not again,”Robert, Duke of Durham, muttered to no one but himself as he stood in the shadows of Lady Forster’s terrace, inhaling the scent of lilac in the crisp night air and staring at Lady Fiona Shoreham while she made a cake of herself. He would need to step in and rescue her soon, because even though widowed, she did not know the first thing about men.
Ironic that he was fleeing from entanglements while Fiona was hurling herself back in the marriage game, all because of that betting book at White’s that had been started onhim. The wagers were not on her, for she was a respectable widow with no hint of scandal ever attached to her name. For this reason, no one was particularly interested in her prospects despite the fact that she was charming and beautiful.
“Oh, Lord Dexter,” Fiona said with a tense laugh, “mind your step and try not to stumble into me. We are only out here for a moment of fresh air.”
Dexter, that sot, chortled. “My apologies, my little dove.”
Rob’s stomach churned, for Fiona should not be out in this moonlit garden with anyone but him.Hewas the one thetonwas wagering on, for the sole reason they needed somethingto relieve their boredom. After the downfall of the latest Silver Duke—Jonas, Duke of Ramsdale—they had turned their attention toward the man they considered London’s next most eligible bachelor, and that honor happened to fall onhim.
Bets were now being taken on when he would marry, and which fortunate lady he would choose, even though he did not quite meet the qualifications of a Silver Duke.
But he was a duke and unmarried, hence the frenzy.
He also had a dusting of silver at his temples now that he had turned two and thirty, and this added to the unwarranted attention heaped on him. Apparently, mere flecks of silver in one’s hair was enough to qualify one for that elevated status.
The irony of it all was too bitter to swallow, and he did not want to think beyond the need to step in and protect Fiona from a drunken Lord Dexter when he proved to be no gentleman. “Gad, Fiona. Move away from that clot,” he said in a whisper, watching as Dexter began to make a move on her.
Good thing Robert had ensconced himself in this darkened spot to escape the crush of Lady Forster’s ever-popular Midsummer Ball. What he was really escaping were the hunters, those predatory debutantes one might mistake for charming innocents clad in finest silks and lacy gloves, dripping pearls from their ears and delicate throats. But they were lethal predators who sought him out bearing coquettish smiles, their eagle eyes trained on him to mark him as their next prey.
The only reason they now hunted him down was because he had inherited one of the most respected and powerful dukedoms in England, becoming the twelfth Duke of Durham as of a month ago. This was proving to be a bloody nuisance. Why did he have to be thetwelfthin the proud and venerable line? The title came with a ridiculous amount of wealth along with the power that he could wield as irresponsibly as he wished, short of treasonous actions against the Crown, and no one would stop him.
Which also led him to another reason he stood apart from the overly perfumed, sweating bodies in the ballroom. Being a duke also meant he could no longer put off the inevitable and seek a wife.
This was a problem because Fiona was the only woman he had ever wanted…and the only woman who refused to have him.
Which explained why she was at this moment seated on a bench beside the garden fountain fluttering her fan and eyelashes at that sotted goat, the Earl of Dexter, laughing inanely at his dull conversation.
“Stop, Fiona,” he muttered, recognizing the dangerous leer on Dexter’s face and knowing it meant trouble.
Robert had to save Fiona, of course.
They had been friends all of his life, even before he was old enough to retain memories, which happened for him at around the age of three. There she was, from his earliest recollections, smiling at him with her sparkling aquamarine eyes, and those dark, springy curls that surrounded her sweet face seeming to take on a life of their own as they bounced around her ears.
To this day, her smile was so radiant, one might believe she had swallowed the sun.
What a bloody fool he was.
He started down the terrace steps toward her the moment he noticed Dexter’s hand begin to slide to her pert, rounded bottom.
Fiona realized it at the same moment and playfully slapped Dexter’s hand away with her fan. “Now, now, my lord,” she said, emitting a nervous trill of laughter. “You mustn’t.”
But, of course, Dexter was going to try again, and a little slap on the wrist was not going to deter him.
Fiona had never understood men and their baser urges.
Robert hurried his pace, for he knew where Dexter’s desires were aimed next, and he would have to kill the man if he set a hand on Fiona’s body. “Is there a problem, Lady Shoreham?”
“Mind your own business,” an obviously foxed Lord Dexter growled, his face distorted by the golden flames of torchlight that surrounded the fountain and cast his features in a menacing glow.
“I suggest you keep your hands to yourself,” Robert growled back, his own curling into fists at his sides.
He saw relief wash over Fiona’s face as she broke away from the drunken lord and fled to his side. “I would like to go back inside now,” she said in a strained whisper that was almost drowned out by the lilting chords of a waltz filtering into the garden from the ballroom.
