Page 3 of The Duke of Desire
Ivy waved her hand. “It’s quite all right. In my profession, I’ve heard that and much worse.” At seven and twenty, she was also no green girl. “I’m quite aware that the primary function of house parties is matchmaking—both for marital purposes and other less…respectable activities.”
“Just so.” Lady Dunn reached for the door and frowned. “I just realized I didn’t use my cane. I guess I’m feeling quite well today.” She looked up at Ivy, who had a good five inches over the petite woman.
“I’ll run down and fetch it,” Ivy said.
Lady Dunn gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. Do you still plan to visit the library after that?”
“I do.”
“Excellent. I’m so pleased you’ll be able to enjoy Wendover’s collection.” She went into the bedchamber, and Ivy knew she was in the capable hands of her lady’s maid, Barkley.
Ivy hurried downstairs and made her way across the hall to the drawing room, which was the center room at the back of the house. The group had started to thin—either to take part in some activity or rest before dinner.
But because Ivy had the luck of the devil, she found Lady Dunn’s cane in a most inopportune place: the clutches of the Duke of Clare.
He stood near the chair Lady Dunn had vacated, her cane in his hand. His dark gaze swept toward Ivy. “It’s you.”
She resisted the urge to snatch the cane from his grasp and flee. “Yes.” She flicked a glance at his fingers. They were long and rather slender. Almost elegant. “I came for Lady Dunn’s cane.”
“You arehercompanion, then.” It wasn’t a question. He’d deduced the answer, and they both knew it. There was a cool confidence about him that was just shy of arrogance. His gaze raked over her, and she decided he wasn’t shy of anything.
“Yes. May I have it, please?” She held out her gloved hand.
“How about I offer it in trade for your name?”
She scowled at him. “How about you just give it to me and cease this preposterousness?” She kept her voice low, and the end of that word rushed from her mouth in an angry hiss.
He exhaled but didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. “I don’t know why you find my amiability preposterous.”
Because you’re a degenerate scoundrel.Instead of voicing what was in her mind, she forced a smile. “I am merely in a hurry. I am Miss Breckenridge. The cane, please?”
He set it in her hand but brushed his fingertips along the edge of her palm.
Ivy closed her fist around the cane and yanked her hand back.
He arched a dark brow at her. “You’re a bit touchy, aren’t you?”
“And you’re more than a bit unseemly. Good afternoon.” She turned and marched from the drawing room, paying no attention to anyone who might’ve witnessed their conversation. She hadn’t noticed if anyone was close enough to hear them. No, she’d been too intent onhim.
She hurried back upstairs to deliver the cane to Lady Dunn’s bedchamber.
He’d called her touchy. The word made her want to laugh, but there was no humor in it. She hated to be touched by a member of the opposite sex. She hated to speak to them. She hated to treat them with deference. She hated them in general.
And she hated men like Clare most of all. Men who exuded power and influence and who used those things to serve their basest urges. He probably thought her some calf-eyed idiot who’d fall under his spell. Still, she was outside his typical fare, which was married women. Since he was apparently between affairs, perhaps he sought to fill the boredom at this party with someone like Ivy.
Well, he was grossly mistaken. If he approached her again, perhaps she’d offer him a list of women who might be more open to his attentions. Because Ivy wanted nothing to do with him.
Sebastian Westgate, Duke of Clare watched the beauty flee the drawing room and tried not to stare at her swaying backside. With her drab, simply constructed gown and her light copper hair pulled into a severe hairstyle, she seemed unremarkable. However, West had seen the intelligence burning in the depths of her bright green eyes and been instantly intrigued. Then she’d lashed out at him with her tongue, and he’d been smitten.
There was nothing West liked more than a challenge. It was precisely why he was who he was—someone who pushed people, who led them to challenge themselves.
Wendover strolled up to West. “We’re headed to the gentlemen’s parlor, Your Grace, if you’d care to join us. Or you’re welcome to go for a ride.”
West nodded, thinking a glass of whiskey would not come amiss after his long journey. He’d come from Stour’s Edge, his estate in Suffolk, and the rainy weather had stretched the trip to three days. He gestured toward the door. “After you.”
The earl led him to the parlor, which was situated toward the west corner of the house. Footmen were on hand to dispense glasses of spirits for everyone in attendance, and there were quite a few gentlemen, most of whom West recognized. His friend, the Marquess of Axbridge, was already swilling whiskey and chatting with another fellow. He caught sight of West and inclined his head. “Join us, West, er, Clare.” He shook his head.
Their friendship dated back to when West had been Viscount Westgate. He’d grown up with the name “West,” and occasionally people still used it. He did, in fact, ask his closest friends and intimates to call him that. Clare would always be his father.
