“Lord Pemberton would want to see you settled,”Ridgely had claimed at their first meeting.
As if her father had cared what she had done with her past or present when he’d been alive, let alone her future now that he was gone.
Indeed, the Marquess of Pemberton may have engaged in the requisite bedding to beget her, but he had thereafter done his utmost to forget her existence. Virtue’s mother had died of childbed fever. Virtue’s father had chosen to pretend she had never been born. Until he had inexplicably made the decision to entrust her future to the whims of the Duke of Ridgely.
“But of course you must find a husband,”Lady Deering insisted over every objection Virtue issued to the contrary.
It was often accompanied by a raised brow and stern expression of disapproval as her ladyship proclaimed,“Every unmarried lady wishes to wed.”
“Not every unmarried lady,” Virtue muttered to herself, her breath dancing over the window and creating more fog.
Quite likely, it was not well done of her to smear His Grace’s otherwise spotless windows. She had no doubt she’d leave a mark. But she was rather in a dismal mood, for Ridgely had discovered the day before that she had been sneaking into the mews and indulging in early-morning rides without a groom when he had expressly forbidden it.
Virtue’s chaperone possessed an indefatigable constitution when it came to spending her brother’s coin. The lady had been entirely unwearied by hours spent in the finest shops, ordering gowns and millinery and slippers. Lady Deering had taken her to task as they had gone on another dizzying shopping trip that had left Virtue with an aching head and acute longing to return to her garden at Greycote Abbey. A warning had been issued.“His Grace will have an interview with you on the morrow,”Lady Deering had pronounced.
Apparently, one of His Grace’s grooms had seen Virtue yesterday morning when she had returned with Hera, and the enterprising fellow had gone directly to the duke. The duke’s pressing engagements—more than likely a romp with one of his ladybirds, Virtue thought grimly—had meant that he could not take her to task until a full day later. And which also had meant that she’d spent the night in a fitful state, tossing and turning in her bed, unable to sleep for wondering what punishment Ridgely would mete out.
He had threatened her before. They had matched wits before. But she had never previously defied him so brazenly. She’d been more than aware of the risk she’d taken. However, it had been worth it for the exercise, the chill air, the blissful solitude of Hyde Park devoid of its preening lords and ladies, the chance to ride such an excellent horse.
Still, she had no notion of what to expect. The duke had certainly never summoned her to him before, then forced her to wait in the hall until he was ready to see her. She had no mantel clock to consult for the time, but Virtue would wager that at least half an hour had passed whilst she had paced the hall before finally surrendering and crossing to the temptation of the massive windows. The cool of the glass was calming in much the same sense that taking the air and defying Ridgely was.
She would continue to circumvent his plans for her at every turn.
Anything to escape the future he intended for her.
The click of a door and the sound of footsteps approaching told her that her ruminations were at an end.
She turned away from the window to find Mr. Spencer, Ridgely’s secretary, with his customary stern expression. He was all sharp angles and weathered planes, his hair powdered in a fashion even Virtue recognized as outmoded. Quite a wonder how a man as serious as he could find himself at the behest of an unscrupulous rake such as the duke.
“Lady Virtue.” Mr. Spencer offered a solemn bow. “His Grace will see you now.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Mr. Spencer.”
Virtue crossed the hall to the door which had been left ajar in anticipation of her entry. She had a moment to collect herself in preparation—being alone with Ridgely never failed to affect her, despite her dislike of him—and then she was over the threshold, in the lair of the devil himself.
Ridgely stood at the fireplace, his back to her, his attention centered upon something on the mantel which was obscured by his broad shoulders. She found herself grateful for the additional respite from the force of his magnetism. He may have been a cynical ne’er-do-well who didn’t have a care what happened to her or what she wanted for her own future, and she may dislike him strongly, but not even Virtue could deny his stark masculine beauty. Looking upon him always created an initial shock, quite as if she had inadvertently touched a hot surface, her breath arresting in her lungs, until the ferocity of her reaction subsided.
He was tall, broad, and strong, with a body that belied the profligate lifestyle he was rumored to lead. Since she had first learned Ridgely, a man previously unknown to her, was to be her guardian, she had read every scrap of gossip about him. His exploits were well-known and widely written about, particularly in the pages ofTales About Town.
And yet, curse her wandering gaze, for it traveled down his firm posterior. In the absence of a coat, his bottom was on full display in his well-fitted buff trousers, as were his long legs and muscled horseman’s thighs. There was something sinfully intimate about his informal dress, his arms encased in a white shirt beneath a striped piqué waistcoat.
Cease gawking at him, she ordered herself firmly.You do not even like the man.
Virtue cleared her throat to indicate her presence. “You required an audience with me, Your Grace.”
“Mmm,” he said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that sent awareness sliding over her like warm honey. “I did indeed, infant.”
Infant.
How she loathed his casual insistence upon reminding her that she was younger than he. A mere babe of only twenty to his superior and advanced thirty. Ten years was not a vast chasm of time in her estimation.
And still, he had not deigned to face her in the customary fashion, toying with whatever it was upon the mantel that so distracted him, his hands out of view.
She chose to ignore his rudeness and the unwanted sobriquet both, straightening her shoulders and preparing for yet another clash. “If you intend to punish me, you needn’t delay.”
“Punish you, yes.” Again, the timbre of his voice, coupled with the innuendo laced through those words, filled her with heat. “I do intend to do so, but the question remains how?”
Virtue pressed her lips together, telling herself it mattered not what he chose. For there would be no fate worse than marriage.
