Chapter Five

P arthena had been sitting on this bench for the better part of an hour, watching the other guests through the large drawing room window overlooking the gardens. Laughter filtered through the night air. A game of charades was in process, which Parthena dearly loved but unfortunately, wasn't very good at. No one ever guessed at her clues correctly. Fidelia said the other players were all put off by Parthena's gyrations.

"Gyrations." She made a piffing sound. "I am not a spinning top."

The crunch of a boot on gravel had Parthena turning in the darkness, where a much larger shadow loomed on the path before her.

"Lady Hanson and her gown would disagree," the low tenor brushed her skin sending tiny goosebumps up her arms. "You'll be relieved to know I checked on the footman, whose name is Perse. Nose not broken. He forgives you."

Parthena came to her feet. "Your Grace." The bench was beneath a small tree and in standing, one of the branches above her head became stuck in her coiffure, tugging at the pins in her hair.

Wexham gave a small chuckle. "Stay still, Miss Holm. I will come to your rescue." A moment later, the light touch of his fingers moved along the strands of her hair.

"I—sometimes get into trouble. Unintentionally, Your Grace." She winced at the tug on her hair.

"Lady Baldwin claims you to be a menace." Wexham brought with him that delicious scent of bergamot along with a hint of smoke from a cheroot.

"Not entirely untrue."

"I've been looking for you, but you made my search somewhat difficult," Wexham murmured. "All the trees are still standing. The fountain is in good working order. Nor have you tripped and rolled downhill." His breath followed the curve of her ear while Wexham worked to get her free from the branch. He was so close; the buttons of his coat were pressed into her breasts. If her chin tipped up, just an inch—

The light caress of his fingers disappeared, and the branch snapped back. She clasped her hands, instructing the trembling along her skin to stop. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"I am only teasing, Miss Holm. Though your propensity for catastrophe is exceptional. Lady Belinda related the tale of the capon to me. I'm still trying to work out how it happened."

"Currants, Your Grace. I am overly fond, and the capon was stuffed with them."

"Ah. I will note you adore currants."

The way he said the words had the most delicious sensation wafting across her chest.

"I wanted to show you something." He took off his glove and held up one broad hand. The pinky was twisted at an angle. Crooked. Imperfect. "You weren't completely mistaken in assuming I was disfigured. I broke my finger when I was ten. Never healed correctly. I fear I will never play the violin. Not even adequately."

Parthena gave a small snort. "That makes two of us, Your Grace. I only hope to not embarrass myself." She nodded at his hand. "I do not believe that counts as a deformity. I was hoping you had a peg leg."

Wexham laughed softly. "Or an eye-patch."

"Stay within an arm's length of me for any given amount of time and you might need one," she said ruefully. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

"Please sit, Miss Holm."

She did and Wexham sat beside her on the bench, filling the air around her with the scent of warm bergamot and something deliciously male. There was just enough moonlight to make his eyes glow in the darkness.

"You have lovely eyes, Your Grace," she said without thinking. "Rather like a cat. Or possibly a hawk." Parthena cleared her throat. "That was slightly improper—"

The slide of his forefinger along the top of her hand halted the rest of her words.

"Thank you, Miss Holm. That is a lovely compliment."

The silence lengthened and grew between them while Parthena's heart hammered away in her chest. Wexham was too close. Too delicious. He'd touched her hand. Even now, his palm was splayed, fingers nearly touching her own.

"So," she cleared her throat. "Given your lack of deformity—"

Wexham smiled and wiggled his crooked pinky finger. "Why do I hide in the country?"

Good lord he was handsome .

"It really isn't any of my affair," Parthena stated, realizing how forward she was in asking a duke, one she was barely acquainted with, such a personal question.

"I don't mind telling you, Miss Holm. Society has never been something I've cared about. Balls hold little appeal, which is a pity since I dance quite well. Cards are of little interest, though I play at times. But the air in London is too thick to see the stars," he gestured to the sky. "I realized a long time ago that I am not made for the amusements of town like so many others. I'm also not fond of house parties, but Lady Baldwin is most persistent."

"I think you and Lady Belinda will make a lovely couple, Your Grace."

"Do you?" The tip of his forefinger touched hers.

"So it is only you, moldering about your estate?" She frowned. "No one to keep you company?"

Wexham and she were leaning towards each other, shoulders almost touching as they conversed. There was a curl dangling just near his cheek. Parthena's fingers itched with the need to touch that dark tendril.

"I'm often alone, but rarely lonely, Miss Holm. A duke has many responsibilities, most of which I handle myself rather than delegate to a secretary. I have hobbies. The stars being one. There is Mr. Shore to entertain me," he said. "And his birds."

"My sister tells me you are Mr. Shore's patron. Do you also have an interest in birds?" Wexham was exactly the opposite from what Parthena had imagined a duke to be. Which made him far more appealing.

"Shore and I have been friends for many years. He's always been partial to robins and wrens. Things that nest. When I was only a lad, he coaxed me to rise early in the morning and listen to the chorus at my disposal. Another thing I cannot hear in London. That lovely symphony taking place outside my bedroom window every morning. Such a wonder should not be taken for granted."

The finger trailed down the edge of her own.

Parthena did not pull away. "What a whimsical, unduke like thing to say, Your Grace."

"Can I not be whimsical and a duke?" he asked, observing her with those lovely, amber eyes.

Another raucous burst of laughter sounded from the drawing room, reminding Parthena she should go inside. It was lovely to believe for a time that Wexham was here for her and not Belinda, but it wasn't the case and Parthena needed to remember that. Difficult when he was so close and his scent swirled around her.

What would he do if I kissed him?

"I should go in, Your Grace," she said, stifling the urge. The duke was not the baker's son whom she'd had a schoolgirl crush on.

Wexham nodded. "Yes, of course."

Parthena stood only to find that by some unimaginable poor luck—the only sort she ever seemed to have—that her foot landed upon a pebble, rolling her ankle. She wobbled, reaching out to take hold of the bench but found herself grabbing at the Duke of Wexham instead.

Wexham's arm went immediately around Parthena's waist to steady her.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He did not release her, but instead took the opportunity to pull Parthena more fully against him. He took a deep breath, the motion forcing the tips of her breasts into his chest.

Parthena's fingers curled into the lapels of his coat, tugging him closer. She stood on tiptoe.

Good lord. What am I doing?

Her mouth collided with Wexham's in the most explosive, marvelous way. This kiss was the sort Parthena only read about in the lurid romantic novels she'd kept hidden beneath her mattress so Mama wouldn't find them. The duke, no matter his solitary existence, was vastly more experienced than her. His mouth was gentle but insistent, moving with practiced seduction until she sagged, knees buckling, clinging desperately to his larger form.

Wexham's hand moved down her waist hovering just above her bottom, pushing their hips together.

Oh.

Parthena's mind went blank at the pleasurable sensation of those wonderful ducal hands on her. A whimper escaped her as Wexham's teeth nipped softly at her bottom lip.

They slowly, reluctantly, pulled away from each other.

Good grief. What was that?

"Miss Holm," he whispered against her mouth, but his hand stayed on her bottom. "I apologize."

Wexham did not appear apologetic. Not in the least.

"Your Grace." Parthena stumbled back, unsure how to proceed in this instance. Usually at this point, she'd broken something, toppled a cake, or set something on fire.

Well, that is partially the case. I do feel as if I've been set aflame.

"Parthena."

She nearly swooned at the sound of her name on his lips, which didn't sound all like a Greek column when Wexham said it. Her entire body tingled and ached in places Parthena had never been aware of, and she had to resist the urge to kiss him again.

"I'm—" What does one say after being made senseless by a pair of lips? "I should retire for the evening." Taking a step back, she promptly hit the back of her knees on the bench, winced, and then ungracefully tripped away. "Good night, Your Grace."

"Try to make your way inside without assaulting any more of Lady Baldwin's staff, Miss Holm," he said softly into the moonlight.

"I shall endeavor to do so."

*

Atticus stayed still as Parthena half stumbled and half strolled back into the house as if she were foxed. The feeling was not unknown to him. A hurricane had wrapped itself around Atticus as he kissed Parthena, with the force of a wind strong enough to rip the strongest tree from its roots.

Attraction, yes. But something more, which if given time, would—

As the Duke of Wexham, an ancient and much lauded title, Atticus's duty was to wed an appropriate, well-bred young lady whose lineage equaled his own. Property. Status. Wealth. A marriage meant to strengthen both families.

Parthena Holm met none of those requirements.

Her family was of such little note as to be nonexistent. No wealth to speak of or connections save Lady Baldwin. He doubted Parthena could pour tea without some sort of calamity befalling her and whoever was unfortunate enough to call upon her. After all, Parthena had once gotten her hand stuck in a capon .

A bloody capon.

A sound of amusement escaped him, shattering the silence of the garden.

If Parthena had not had the sense to run back to the safety of the house, there was every chance that the explosive attraction between them might have resulted in ruination among Lady Baldwin's gardens. Mrs. Holm was sure to never be invited back after that.

Atticus finally straightened and looked up at the sky, thinking of how dazzling he found Parthena. Another burst of laughter bubbled out.

And if she were a star, she'd fall from the sky and land directly on Wexham Park.

He walked slowly back to the house, Lady Belinda, and the rest of the house party, uncertain whether he could wed Lady Belinda after all.