Chapter 5

Lady Marion hummed.

Constantly.

She had managed a few words at the beginning of their dance, but then she'd grown nervous and the humming had set in. She found her voice once again after the dance finished, but only enough for a barely perceptible thank-you. Perhaps Patience had been correct, and finding a wife may take a bit more time than he thought. It was a pity. And it was also regretful that Lady Marion's mother had noticed his interest. Nicholas bowed with a smile and put his arm out to escort her back to her mother. Lady Redding's face was split into an almost aggressive grin. Whatever her family had paid for that dress, they were obviously now hopeful it had been an investment well spent, as it had caught the notice of a duke.

Whispers followed them across the ballroom, the typically low murmur of the ballroom transforming into a continuous rumble of voices. He should have known that asking for his first introduction to a young lady would cause a stir. It was as if all of London had awoken to the fact that he was unattached and finally ready to wed.

After trying not to meet Lady Marion's mother's eye more than absolutely necessary, he extracted himself from her family's presence and strode away from the ballroom. His first attempt at finding a wife, and he had already failed. His usual pastime would be to play a few cards, but he knew exactly what would happen the moment he set foot in the room. Every man with an eligible daughter would be attached to him like a... well, like a calculating parent with an eligible duke in the room.

Perhaps he should have found himself a less public place to start implementing his plan to marry. Gone about it quietly somehow. But it was too late now.

He reached the doorway of the cardroom and stopped. The muffled voices of the men floated out from the room, and he caught a few snippets of conversation. His name was on almost everyone's lips...

What had he done? Why hadn't Ottersby foreseen this? For all of their planning and list making, how had neither of them realized the stir Nicholas would make once the slightest inkling of his intentions were known?

"What are they saying in there?" A soft voice behind him made him jump backward and spin around. A young lady in a lavender gown with impressive amounts of jewelry stood behind him. Her eyes flashed toward the cardroom. "Business?"

Nicholas glanced left and right down the corridor. What was she doing here alone, without any sort of a companion? Her dress was well cut and showed off her slender waist. The neckline of her gown was not low to the point of using her decolletage to attract attention, but low enough to allow the double-layered emerald necklace to lie on her chest without cluttering her gown. A few whisps of her hair had escaped, and she seemed slightly out of breath, as if she had come from a vigorous dance. What was she doing here? Had she been pushed by her mother to follow him?

But the spark of interest in her eye was directed at the cardroom. It didn't seem to have anything to do with him or being alone. She leaned forward, an ear toward the door. Nicholas seemed forgotten as she concentrated on the men's voices. "No, not business," he replied. If it were business the men spoke of, he wouldn't have stopped outside the door; he would have joined them. "Gossip," he said.

"Is there much of a difference?"

Nicholas tipped his head to one side. Something about her was familiar. Where had he seen her before? "Certainly. Business is... well... business. It is important workings of Society. Gossip, on the other hand, is complete—" He shook his head. "Drivel."

She stepped closer, but not to him or, rather, not for the purpose of getting closer to him. She was trying to get closer to the door. He slid aside. "And what kind of drivel are the men spewing out tonight?"

He tried to control a growl that threatened to escape, but he was only half successful. "Some nonsense about a duke."

She stepped next to the wall and placed her ear upon it. "A duke?" She paused to listen. Now that she had usurped his position by the door, he could only see the back of her head. Her hair was as ornate as her necklace, filled with medium brown or, rather, dark blonde—blast, he wasn't certain what to call that particular color of hair—curls that had been expertly tucked with jewel-studded hair pins. She must be the daughter of someone significant. Which of the wealthy ladies on Ottersby's list did he not know? Basically, all of them. She could be anyone. But he must know her a little. She had spoken to him as if they had been introduced, and he had seen her face somewhere before. Sometime long ago.

She pushed away from the wall, turned around, and caught his eye. Hers were a vibrant green. No wonder she wore emeralds. Beneath her eyes, a smattering of freckles increased her look of playful camaraderie. They were close enough that even in the dim lighting, he could also see an abundance of freckles against the pale skin of her chest, though they were mostly covered by her necklace. He leaned forward, trying to make out the patterns there more clearly. Some of the spots were light, barely discernible, while others were like a splash of spice smattered on cream.

One of her graceful hands went to the emeralds around her throat, and he froze.

What the devil was he doing? Memorizing the location and saturation of the woman's freckles? What was he planning to do with that information? Draw a map? He shouldn't have even noticed them. His eyes should have remained on hers like a gentleman. He raised his gaze, but the glint in hers didn't make him feel any more gentlemanly. He swallowed hard, stepped backward, and tucked his hands behind his back. Meeting a woman in a corridor was not part of his plan. And for good reason. He was not to be trusted. He should not be alone with a woman. Or, more to the point, she should not be alone with him .

"You shouldn't be here. Not alone. Where is your chaperone?"

A disarming pout rose to her lips, and she raised her eyes to the ceiling, obviously unconcerned about his admonition. "I can barely hear them," she said, ignoring him. "They weren't speaking about rushed marriages or getting rid of children or anything of that sort?"

He blinked at her, then muffled a surprised laugh, grateful to have her say something that got his mind off her skin. Getting rid of children and rushed marriages? Is that what she thought men spoke of? "No. Do you know someone looking to get rid of children?"

She tipped her head to one side. "I don't know, perhaps," she said, and then pursed her pert rose-colored lips together, turned back around and brought her ear to the wall again.

He stood behind her, not certain what to do. He shifted from one foot to the other. Her hand shot out, and she turned around again, waving him forward. What did she expect him to do? Listen at the wall like she was doing? If he wanted to hear what the men were talking about, he would simply walk into the room. The Duke of Harrington didn't listen at walls.

Her eyebrows raised, and she leaned toward him. "They are speaking of your duke."

He cursed softly under his breath, stepped to the wall, and leaned his head down just as she had. But he didn't touch his ear to the wall. Not quite. He did have some restraint.

A voice rang out clear, as if the man behind the wall was hoping everyone in the room would hear him. "I've got three daughters ranging from fifteen to twenty-one. Should I ask him to take his pick of them?" Laughter erupted in the room, and Nicholas pushed his head away from the wall in disgust. He knew that voice. It was Lord Rayleigh. He wasn't interested in Nicholas's ideas, but he would be happy to have any of his three daughters become his wife? He clenched his teeth together. "It sounds as though they are speaking of getting rid of children, after all."

"Well, of course they are. Apparently there is an eligible duke running around London. Harrington—I've heard of him. He is young and a duke. Who wouldn't want that for their daughters?"

So, she didn't know him. Or she was a very good actress. How did he know her? "But what of those daughters? How would their parents know he is what they would want?"

She laughed. "Everyone wants a duke."

"Even if the duke is an ingrate?"

"If he were young, rich, and an ingrate, I suppose only three-quarters of the ton would be lining up to marry him."

Nicholas clenched his jaw. This was the kind of reasoning that had gotten him in trouble when he was younger. Being a duke should not negate his need for a moral compass. It should increase it. He should be an example, not someone who took advantage of others.

Unfortunately the talk in the cardroom only supported this woman's claims. Anyone. He could marry practically anyone. Even this young lady. At least she could talk to him; that was an improvement on Lady Marion.

Of course, she didn't know who he was, and that most likely made conversation easier. But a woman who spoke so freely to a man in an empty corridor would likely also speak freely to a duke. Patience's reminder that he should find a woman he liked rang in his ears. Perhaps Ottersby's list wasn't the best idea.

There was a beautiful, intriguing woman right in front of him. Her eyes, skin, and smile were like magnets, drawing him. He could step closer, lean in, and see how she responded. Father wasn't here anymore to judge him.

He swayed forward, only slightly. The woman didn't even seem to notice, but the infinitesimal loss of space between them sent a wave of panic through him. His chest tightened. His right hand fisted and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from slamming it into the wall. This is why he had avoided searching for a wife. It had been only one measly day, one evening of opening himself up to the idea of a relationship with a woman, and already his devotion to his father was wavering. Had he truly learned nothing in the army? Was the only reason he'd managed to stay respectable where women were concerned because he'd avoided them altogether? Had it actually made him a better man than he had been with Lady Plymton?

He needed to find a wife, and it couldn't happen soon enough. Some men had the self-control to manage long courtships, but Nicholas was not one of them. He cleared his throat, determined to stay calm. "Surely not three-quarters."

"Do you think more? Being a duchess would be a lot of work, and if the duke was also an ingrate..." She turned, and her eyes were bright, even in the dimly lit corridor. "I think at least a quarter of the women would rather settle for a well-mannered earl." She raised her eyebrows in a cheerful way he had never seen anyone do before—first one and then the other, as if they were dancers following each other's steps. "Or even a baron."

"Ah, settling for a baron. Every young woman's dream."

Her face fell slightly. "It wasn't my dream when I was a girl. I was much more interested in soldiers."

Her eyes dipped low, and her face turned, and suddenly he knew exactly who she was.