Page 3 of The Taming of the Duke
“I don’t understand.”
“Dax is the answer to your problem. He’d have no scruples about pretending to court the Spinster Shrew. In fact, he’d delight in the challenge and would likely do it for sport rather than coin. Of course, it would be bad form not to offer him a little stipend for his trouble.”
“You know him well?” Lucian asked.
“We were at Oxford together. Dax was the year above me at Christchurch College. He won the boxing match against Cambridge three years in succession. In his third year, he flattened his opponent less than a minute into the first round. And, he’d be perfect to assist you in your time of need.”
“In what way?” Lucian asked. “Unless you’re expecting him to flatten Catherine in the ring in order to clear the way to Blanche.”
Horatio chuckled. “Of course not. But, in addition to boxing, Dax excels in many forms of sport—especially the one which all men seek to perfect.”
Lucian glanced toward the duke. The man carried an air about him—not merely the self-assurance which came with being the handsomest man in the room or with having a title of such distinction. But the very atmosphere seemed to bend around him, as if the world—and everyone in it—acknowledged his mastery.
A man like him would have the pick of every woman in the room—and, most likely, had bedded many of them already, given the sidelong glances of the ladies as he walked past. And while Lucian, like most men of his acquaintance, had indulged in a mistress or two, he was not so naïve as to be unaware of the difference between a novice and a master of the sport in which all men indulged.
The sport of seduction.
“Dax’s reputation is unsurpassed,” Horatio whispered. “He’s perfected the skill of removing a woman’s undergarments with one hand, while downing a brandy with the other. If any man has a chance of persuading the Spinster Shrew into a courtship long enough for her father to give you leave to court Miss Blanche Parville—it’s Dax.”
At that moment, Blanche walked by on Lord Gremshaw’s arm. She glanced at Lucian and their gazes met. He smiled and his heart fluttered as she returned the smile. She lowered her gaze, a delicate bloom spreading across her cheeks, then she lifted her gaze again, her eyes sparkling, and his heart was lost.
She was exquisite!
There was nothing he wouldn’t do to have the opportunity to court her. And, if Daxton Hawke had the ability to help him, then he could name his price, and Lucian would empty his coffers.
Provided that the duke was willing to suffer the company of the Spinster Shrew.
Chapter Two
Catherine sipped herchampagne in the hope that the cool liquid might temper her headache. But, if anything, the pain increased, magnified by the amorphous haze of noise in the ballroom.
She glanced about in search of her sister. The dance had finished—the penultimate dance of the evening. The rhythm of music and footsteps had been replaced by the harshness of chatter and gossip as the dancers congratulated each other on their prowess. The ladies returned to their mamas to be quizzed on the eligibility of their partners, and the gentlemen returned to their friends—fellow predators—to compare notes on their prey and how best to net them.
You’ve had too much champagne again, Cat.
The ballroom was overly hot, and she longed for a glass of water. But there was only punch to be had—which she loathed—or champagne, which was only marginally less loathsome.
Why was it that the hostesses of balls supplied so much liquor for their guests? Perhaps they wanted them to fall into a drunken stupor, to forget the dreariness of the evening and the ridiculous charade of tiptoeing around the opposite sex in order to secure a partner for life. Most gentlemen seemed to think their ability to consume as much liquor as possible without collapsing signified their virility. Or worse, they understood that liquor rendered a woman less able to resist their advances.
Careful, Cat, you’re sounding like a bitter spinster.
She glanced around the room and noticed a pair of young ladies watching her. They leaned toward each other, exchanged a few remarks, then giggled and looked away.
Society debutantes—creatures whose only function was to look pretty on the arm of a man. But, beneath the vacuous appearance lay a predatory nature to rival that of the men. Most women viewed the rest of their sex as rivals for a man’s affection. And that rivalry often took a dangerous turn. A woman was not above leading her opponent to ruination if it paved the way for her own success.
And, for a woman, there was only one measure of success.
Marriage.
Too often, women believed they possessed the power—by their ability to use their beauty and fortunes like bait, to lure men into their traps. But a man could never be enslaved. He merely devoured the bait, and, along with it, the woman’s freedom.
Men such as the pair who’d been staring at Blanche all evening—Lucian, seventh Viscount Horton, and his friend, the ridiculously wealthy Mr. Bond. Lord Horton was just the sort of man to devour an innocent female. He’d been introduced to Catherine and her sister earlier in the Season, and had showed a very marked attraction to Blanche—an attraction that Catherine feared was reciprocated.
But Papa would never permit a courtship—not until Catherine had found a suitor. Papa had made his desperation for a man to take Catherine off his hands plain. And, given that Catherine had no intention of submitting herself to a man’s ownership, Blanche was, at least for the moment, protected from such a fate. Catherine feared her sister would hate her for it, but she was protecting Blanche out of love—saving her from the fate that both her mother and Blanche’s mother had succumbed to.
With a sigh, she set her glass aside. An excess of champagne always brought on a bout of melancholy, and she was on her third glass.
Then, a couple approached—Blanche, on the arm of the silver-haired Lord Gremshaw—and Catherine’s melancholy fell away.
