Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

S arah, Lady Pierce's daughter, struck a sour note on the pianoforte, and Hazel winced. What an assault to the ears. The girl would be better off sticking to archery, for which she'd shown great aptitude earlier today. Hazel had clapped wildly when Sarah's arrow had landed so close to August's bullseye.

Coraline hadn't done nearly so well. Her arrows had flown far afield of the target.

Dinner had been a more casual affair than the previous evening, given that most of the guests had spent the day outside in athletic pursuits. A buffet, served al fresco on the terrace, had included a great deal of chilled champagne, of which Hazel took full advantage. Her emotions were quite muddled, thank you. She had never disliked a man while still spending the entire day considering him unclothed.

Hazel steadfastly kept her gaze averted from August the entire meal, a task proving ever more difficult.

Turning away from Sarah's pounding on the pianoforte, Hazel studied the marble bust of King George set in front the windows. Closing her eyes, she gave a sigh of satisfaction as the cooler air, laced with salt from the ocean, floated over her face and arms. She wasn't so much interested in the bust as she was in not feeling the drip of perspiration between her breasts.

Hazel trailed a finger over George's nose, musing at how strange this house party had become.

"Not at all pleasing." Lime and clean linen surrounded her in an instant. Sharp and masculine. A shame the scent belonged to the Duke of Courtland.

"Your Grace." Hazel spun, her skirts brushing against his legs. He was far closer than she'd anticipated. Her pulse jumped about, refusing to settle. Her skin heated despite the cool breeze.

Stop that.

Why couldn't he have remained short and round? It would be far easier to ignore him.

"Not you, Miss Dartmont." His eyes glided over her with a brush of heat. "The bust." He leaned over her to inspect the marble. "Whom do you suppose it is?"

"Obviously." She cleared her throat, demanding her body stop… reaching in his direction. "King George." She turned back to the bust and pointed. "Clearly."

"No, it isn't."

His chest brushed along the back of her head and neck as he circled the bust, sending bits of heat down her spine. Hazel tried to summon up an image of him as a fat little troll and failed.

"Charles the Second, I think." August nodded slowly. "Or Queen Elizabeth, perhaps."

Hazel made a disgusted sound. "That is not the bust of a female, Your Grace."

He moved to stand beside her, eyes dipping to her bosom. "I've experience in female busts, Miss Dartmont. You should take my word for it."

Hazel was rendered momentarily speechless. Then she laughed. "I would expect a reformed rake to say such a thing."

"Happy not to disappoint." August walked around the bust once more, taking all that wonderful smelling male heat with him as he pretended to study the marble in earnest. "Upon further examination," he said, his eyes lingering on her. "It is like no bust I've ever seen."

Her breasts tightened at his blatant regard. "Do the ladies of society usually welcome such innuendo, Your Grace?"

"Oh, you misunderstand, Miss Dartmont." An innocent look crossed his handsome features. "I meant this bust. How improper."

Hazel's mid-section twisted pleasurably, charmed despite her best intentions. Whenever she thought of August, which, granted, she hadn't done much of until his appearance at this house party, Hazel had never considered he would possess wit or humor.

Or be so bloody seductive.

"It is definitely King George," she said firmly.

"Are you certain?" August flicked the nose. "The features hardly look human." He cocked his head. "Canine, perhaps? When was the last time you saw a nose of this proportion, Miss Dartmont?"

"An elephant," Hazel countered.

"Oh, now, you are just showing off." Candlelight brushed the nearly white strands of his hair, giving the illusion of a halo. Like some archangel. Which he assuredly was not. A thick wave of that moonlit hair fell over his forehead, and he absently brushed it aside.

Enormous fingers. Large palms.

Hazel immediately summoned the memory of him tossing a clod of mud at her one day while she walked from the apothecary shop. He'd ruined her best dress. Papa had saved that bolt of cloth especially for her.

August looked up, his turquoise gaze washing over her, pressing into all the hollows of Hazel's body, stroking her in places and lingering over others. The air around them warmed. Sparked. It was entirely intoxicating to have the full force of August's attention on her alone. Though she didn't want it.

Not in the least.

Leaning over her once more, breath fanning the side of her neck, he purred, "I demand satisfaction , Miss Dartmont."

"Satisfaction?" Hazel choked, trying to keep her body from arching against him.

"For the shuttlecock." The brush of his fingertips ran along the fold of her skirts, the movement vibrating along the skin of her thighs.

Goodness . He was really quite good at this. Her previous lovers had been butchers. Grooms. Tradesmen. Barristers. A physician. Not one of them had been so artful in their pursuit of bedding her.

"I didn't even so much as bruise the skin, Your Grace," she replied tartly. "I assumed dukes to be made of stronger stuff. Impenetrable in their arrogance. Absolutely full of hardened superiority."

"Oh, we are hardened to be sure." At Hazel's gasp, his eyes widened. "In our self-importance, of course, Miss Dartmont." He waved a large finger in chastisement. "I'm not certain what you were thinking."

"You—"

"But an apt description of a duke," August interrupted with a grin. "Which brings me to my next point. You lobbed a shuttlecock at me. Carelessly, I might add. Honor compels me to demand…" He paused. " Satisfaction ."

The way he said the word, in such a deliberate, wicked manner, had Hazel's insides waffling about.

"You can't be serious." But she couldn't stop smiling back at him. The entire conversation was so absurd. "You've come to…challenge me to shuttlecocks at dawn? Walk ten paces and wave our racquets at each other?"

"Something like that."

"Must I choose a second?" she asked in a cheeky manner.

"I'm afraid you must." The grin widened. "Perhaps Lady Talbot."

An insistent buzzing sensation trailed up and down her spine as if he were dragging his fingers along her skin.

Stop thinking about his hands.

"What about a physician, Your Grace?"

"I hadn't thought of that. You might injure me." He seemed distressed by the thought.

"I don't believe I can, Your Grace. Not with a shuttlecock." Hazel's gaze traveled over his massive shoulders before she could look away. Courtland didn't pad his coats. Her fingers stretched just thinking of exploring all those sculpted hollows and?—

Good lord. He is the terrible troll .

"Searching for a weak spot, Miss Dartmont?" A low chuckle erupted from his chest. A bubbling brook on a late summer day, and far more enticing.

It seemed August didn't mind Hazel's perusal one bit. He was likely accustomed to salivating females who were only too happy to jump into bed with what was probably the only well-made, not-gout-ridden duke in all of England. And he was about to make Hazel, who should bloody know better, into one of those nitwits.

"Do you even know how to play shuttlecock, Your Grace?" she said mildly. "Hardly seems the sort of amusement a duke might enjoy. It is a game played by children and young ladies."

"You play, Miss Dartmont," he drawled in that flirtatious tone. "And you are neither."

Had Hazel not already been disgusted at herself for enjoying his interest in her, had she not been so attracted to August or had a history with him, she might have seen his reply as more teasing. But her mind latched onto the insult because it blotted out everything else.

"I must decline the generous offer to humiliate you as you prance about with a shuttlecock. Though the idea of beating you with a racquet holds some merit."

He tilted his head to the side, surprised at her heated response. "It was only a jest, Miss Dartmont. Merely teasing. I look forward to my humiliation, as you so aptly put it."

"I decline," she bit out, knowing she was overreacting and not caring.

"Tomorrow." He sounded more ducal now. And irritated. "Ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock? Do you even rise from bed before noon, Your Grace?"

August's fingers brushed lightly along her forearm, frowning when she jerked away. The careless smile disappeared. "Unless something else keeps me abed longer."

More innuendo. Hazel ignored it. "I must once more decline."

"I'm a duke. You can't refuse. I think you're afraid I'll win. Best you. In a simple child's game. I thought you braver than that, Miss Dartmont. I've misjudged you."

Hazel's hands curled into fists at her sides. August's smug tone reminded Hazel so very much of the atrocious child he'd once been. Full of superiority. Better than her. Well, when she won his stupid challenge—and she would—Hazel would take great pleasure in informing August of their previous acquaintance. Toss the racquet at his feet in triumph. Strike a blow for drapers' daughters everywhere. It would be a pleasure to humiliate him.

Toad.

"Fine."

A tiny smile toyed at his lips. "Ten o'clock."

"I look forward to winning our match and announcing my victory to the entire house party." Hazel spun on her heel and strode away. She would beat him soundly.

"We'll see about that, Miss Dartmont," he said to her retreating back. "Don't be late."