“She makes an excellent hostess.” Roberta cast him a heated look from beneath lowered lashes. “But that is not the reason I am attending, I confess. The true reason is you. I have missed you in my bed.”
Roberta knew how to tantalize. Knew what he liked. She made no claims upon him, asked him for nothing but pleasure, and gave him everything he wanted in return. She was the perfect lover. He should feel something more now, and it nettled him to realize the reason why his interest remained tepid.
The golden-haired dragon who had invaded his study that morning.
His cock twitched at the memory of creamy skin and black silk and the deliciously pinched frown on her lips. Another image rose within his mind then, one most unwelcome in the midst of a crowded ballroom: Miss Isabella Hilgrove in his bed, writhing in ecstasy as he spread her thighs wide and licked her center.
He cleared his throat. “I have missed you as well, my dear. Forgive me my lapse in attentiveness, if you please. My only excuse is that I have been inundated with Special League matters.”
“Dreadful news about the London Bridge,” Roberta said, a frown marring the otherwise flawless beauty of her face. “Thank heavens the miscreants presumably blew themselves up instead.”
“Yes,” he agreed, though he could not suppress the ill feeling rising within him at the remembrance of the reports he had so recently suffered. “Roberta, I must have a word with my sister now. I will return to you later.”
“Must you go?” She pouted, which was most unlike her. “You have only just arrived. I find myself desperately unwilling to relinquish you with such haste.”
He cast another glance in Callie’s direction. She was drinking from a fresh glass of champagne, laughing at something one of the throng of gentlemen surrounding her had said. He knew his sister well enough by now to know when she was about to mire herself quite firmly in trouble.
“I am afraid you must,” he told Roberta mildly. “Duty calls.”
“Duty has been calling with disagreeable frequency these days,” she told him, her blue eyes telling him what her words did not directly state.
She grew weary of his infrequent appearances in her bedchamber. Roberta had a voracious carnal appetite, but lately, he had been having the devil of a time summoning up sufficient interest in bedding any female, let alone her.
Until Miss Hilgrove, taunted a voice deep within.
“Forgive me, dearest,” he said, lifting Roberta’s hand to his lips for a kiss as he bowed formally. “I promise I will return.”
“See that you do, darling,” she called after him.
He stalked toward his sister, wondering what was wrong with him, that he had a voluptuous, gorgeous woman all but begging him to bed her. And all he could think about was one stubborn female in a prim black-and-gray dress with buttons up to her throat.
Isabella reported forduty the next morning at Westmorland House, five minutes before the appointed time of half past eight, wearing a gown black as a raven’s wing. It was joyless and prim, and it buttoned up her neck. She had chosen it specifically to defy the duke, it was true.
The same butler who had denied her access to Westmorland the day before—until she had grown weary of his protests and stormed past him—greeted her. His countenance was carefully expressionless as he took her pelisse and hat.
“His Grace is expecting you, Miss Hilgrove,” the servant intoned. “If you will follow me?”
He led her through the massive house, taking her in a different direction than they had traveled the day before. This time, up a flight of stairs.
“Where are you taking me, sir?” she asked as they neared the top.
If the Duke of Westmorland thought to further mock her by having her delivered to his personal apartments, she would give in to the desire to box his ears, which had been plaguing her ever since she had left him yesterday morning. The arrogant devil.
“His Grace has requested your presence in the grand library this morning, madam,” the butler announced.
They reached a sumptuously decorated hall, lined with marble busts and a gallery of paintings she could only guess must be priceless works of old masters. Westmorland House was the largest single edifice she had ever entered in her life. A veritable Mayfair palace.
The library seemed an odd choice indeed for him to wish to conduct work, but a safer space than that which she had feared. She hummed noncommittally and followed in the butler’s wake.
A flurry of color and movement caught her eye, then, as a lady glided into view, descending another ornate staircase in the picture gallery. She was stunningly beautiful, Isabella noted instantly, her dark tresses styled elegantly at her crown, with a braid worked around them and a waterfall of loose ringlets. Most shocking of all, however, was not her loveliness but her choice of dress. Her bodice was a brilliant vermilion, paired with flowing tan, divided skirts.
“You must be Miss Hilgrove,” she said with a welcoming smile that suggested she not only expected Isabella’s presence but approved.
Of course Westmorland must have a duchess. A man that handsome would not remain unattached long. Supposing she was making the acquaintance of his wife, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Oh, no.” The ravishing creature before her laughed delightedly. “My dear Miss Hilgrove, you have it all wrong. Westmorland is my brother. I am Callie, and quite pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Isabella flushed at her error, thinking herself horridly gauche. It had been a long time since she had associated with members of the peerage. Memories of that long-ago summer still lingered, some more painful than others.
