On the morrow, the papers would ask where the Duke of Salcombe had gone off to in the middle of a ball. What beauty had captured his attention? There was one correspondent who seemed to delight in asking, “Whom did the Dragon have in his lair?”
Oliver hated the nickname.
Hewaschanging, he told himself. Liverpool might dismiss him as lacking intellectual depth, but he was wrong. Oliver just needed the opportunity to prove his mettle.
So, why was he standing in his host’s library, waiting for some lovely to reveal herself? He’d stopped clandestine assignations a month or so ago.
It was her scent.
He lifted the note to his nose. The perfume had caught him by surprise. It was not a cloying floral scent as was the fashion. No, it was light with promise. Cherries, a hint of almond, the barest whiff of rose. He could breathe this scent forever. It beckoned him. It stirred his jaded curiosity. He pictured the writer tucking this note into the décolleté of her gown. Letting it rest against her breast.
Oliver lowered the note. Now, he was being ridiculously romantic, and he was not a romantic man.
The door handle turned. She had arrived.
Despite being curiously anxious to meet his mysterious admirer, he stepped back against the curtains instead of moving forward. A crack of light from the hallway slid across the walls as the door opened…but instead of a tall, willowycreature, a petite figure slid into the room. He had the impression of a full, buxom chest and the very feminine curve of hips. The hearth’s fire highlighted artfully arranged, ale-colored curls. As she quietly closed the door, he experienced a stab of disappointment. He was a tall man and liked a woman to be of a certain height. This miss merely came up to his chest.
She looked around the room for him. Her eyes were wide, and he could almost hear the excited beating of her heart as if struck by her own audacity. In that moment, he knew she wasn’t some practiced seductress, but an innocent. The scent’s promise had betrayed him. He’d expected someone more alluring.
The chit didn’t notice him immediately. Probably because his dark evening clothes helped him fit into the shadows. So, he let her know he was there.
“If your intent was a bit of debauchery,” he said, enjoying how his deep voice startled her as she whirled to face him, “I am sorry to disappoint you. I don’t seduce virgins.”
Instead of blushing or being ashamed of her brazen behavior, she answered, “That is good to know. I shall let down my guard. Then again, I am no miss just out of the school room. Perhaps you fear being compromised by me? Or ‘debauched?’ Such a silly word. I don’t even like the sound of it.”
And in that moment, just that easily, Oliver was charmed. What an interesting, courageous little mouse she was. Soft and round and buxom with the most extraordinary eyes. Their large, almond shape reflected the firelight like twin flames. Seconds before, he’d been cataloguing her faults. He now noticed her assets. Beyond her obvious endowments, her skin was perfect,with just a hint of rosy blush, as if she were far too aware of how forward she was being and could not help herself.
She was also very well dressed in her soft green silk. Her gloves were of good kidskin and the hairpins holding her curls in place had jeweled tips.
Then, from across the room, he caught a hint of her scent, the same as that of the notepaper. His blood quickened. Perhaps hewasready for a little debauchery…
But first, “Who are you, little mouse?”
Her nose scrunched with distaste as if she didn’t like nicknames either. “I am Lady Celeste Harrington. My brother is the Duke of Kenbrooks.”
“I don’t know Kenbrooks. I’ve heard of him, but our paths have never crossed. However, I am certain he would not be happy to know I am alone in our host’s library with his sister.”
“Being a rake must be very tiresome.”
She was right. Still, he couldn’t admit it. “The ladies like it,” he replied.
Lady Celeste hummed a noncommittal sound that snapped Oliver out of his good humor, especially on the heels of Liverpool’s dismissal. “If you aren’t interested in an assignation, thenwhydid you summon me here?”
“Because I have been observing you, Your Grace.” She clasped her gloved hands in front of her like a soprano preparing to warble. “I think I know what you need.”
He folded his arms. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
“A chance to reform.”
2
Celeste didn’t know how she had expected the duke to receive her offer, but it was not to tilt back his head and have a good, long laugh.
The strong, masculine sound filled the room. She waited for him to finish, her back tight.
At last, he regained control over himself, and the room fell silent. His sharp gaze reassessed her. She felt there wasn’t a hair or thread he didn’t notice. Here was the Dragon, the man women whispered about. She recognized his power even before he said in a voice as smooth as syrup and just as thick with promise, “What if I don’t wish to reform, Lady Celeste?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry while other parts of her tightened in anticipation. He walked toward her, stopping when they were almost toe to toe. She fought the urge to step back. She had to look up to meet his eye.
