Chapter 9

… Of course, Lady Jersey, my brother the duke and his wife are eager to continue their patronage of Almack's. But you must know that my brother takes a personal interest in His Grace, the Duke of Stanhope. I forbear to suggest that my brother will not attend if Stanhope's voucher is withdrawn—and yet…

—from Lady Selina Ravenscroft to Lady Jersey, patroness of Almack's

"Don't tell me there's another one."

Aunt Judith raised one silver brow and then deposited the newspaper onto the breakfast table. It slumped in front of Selina's plate of buttered brioche.

Selina dropped her forehead to the table with a groan. "I simply cannot look at it."

Daphne reached out from several seats away to pluck at the paper. "I can."

"I'll admit to some interest myself," Nicholas said. "What's Stanhope done this time?"

Selina raised her head from the table to peer at Daphne while she perused the paper.

"It's quite a good likeness," Aunt Judith said drily. "No doubt whom the engraving is meant to represent."

"Hmm," said Daphne. "Well, it's not as bad as the time he climbed the exterior wall at the Cleeves' townhouse—"

"Please do not remind me," Selina moaned.

"And certainly less exciting than when he rescued Lydia from a runaway horse—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, you know as well as I do that Lydia was riding away —"

"But it's pretty bad."

Selina pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just get it over with."

"It seems he took Iris Duggleby to an art exhibition yesterday—all appropriately chaperoned, no need to worry, Selina—and he started a fistfight."

Selina dropped her head back into her arms. "I don't understand."

Daphne's voice was muffled when it reached Selina's ears. "Honestly, I don't think this gossip columnist was even there. Really, why Lord Ambrose would take issue with Stanhope's aspersions on the portraitist is not entirely clear to me."

"I believe"—that was her brother's cautious interjection—"that Lord Ambrose and the portraitist are quite close."

"Is that right?" This was Aunt Judith, who never turned up her nose at ton gossip.

"Well, one can hardly blame Stanhope for not being aware of that," said Daphne.

"I can blame him." Selina lifted her head and glanced around the table at her arrayed family members. "I can absolutely blame him."

It had been two weeks since the Strattons' ball, and Stanhope had applied himself to the project of courting Georgiana Cleeve, Lydia Hope-Wallace, and Iris Duggleby with purpose. With disastrous purpose.

He'd taken Georgiana Cleeve for a ride in his curricle, which—according to Lydia's extremely capable maid, Nora, who had a cousin in the Cleeve household—had gone reasonably well. Then, when he'd returned Georgiana to the Cleeve residence, she had left her hat in the conveyance.

It had, Selina supposed, probably been some kind of flirtatious offering on Georgiana's part. An invitation to Stanhope to come back to call on her another time. But Stanhope had taken the accessory as some kind of a challenge, and had decided to return the thing to Georgiana directly.

By climbing the clematis on the side of the house while carrying the hat between his teeth, according to the print that was now being sold at several Bond Street news stalls.

The scandal was just beginning to break when he'd dropped by Rowland House to describe his progress to Selina. He'd seemed flabbergasted that she knew about the hat. And the climbing.

"I didn't want her reputation to be damaged if her damned clothing were to be seen in my curricle," he'd protested. "I know what it's like to be the subject of all that icy English disdain. I thought I could get it back to her before anyone saw me. I went up through the blasted back garden!"

"Peter," she'd found herself saying, the shock of his Christian name on her lips like a little warm spark, "you cannot have thought that no one would notice your climbing their house like Romeo at the Capulets' garden wall."

"Wasn't that a balcony?"

"You—what?"

An errant curl fell over one dark eyebrow. "Doesn't Romeo climb a balcony?"

"I— That's not at all the point, but no, it is a garden wall."

"I really think it is a balcony."

She wanted to smack him, but she restrained herself for fear she'd end up brushing his stupid hair back into place. "Peter! You probably have a First Folio in the Stanhope residence. Check when you get home. Don't climb anything else."

He hadn't. He'd been all decorum for at least a day. He'd gone to Almack's—Selina had had to apply to Lady Jersey directly to ensure that his voucher to the exclusive social club wasn't revoked after the climbing incident—and danced quite nicely with everyone.

He'd walked with Iris in the park. He'd called on Lydia at the Hope-Wallaces' house, and Selina had dashed down the street to confer with Lydia as soon as she'd seen the Stanhope carriage trundle away.

It had, according to Lydia, been fine.

"Fine?" Selina had demanded. "That's all you have to say?"

Lydia had shrugged. "It was fine. He talked. I listened. Everyone left satisfied."

Everyone, that was, except Selina, who found herself decidedly unsatisfied by the whole affair. Of all the ways she'd ever thought to describe Peter Kent, the ninth Duke of Stanhope, fine certainly would not have made the list.

In fact, the list of words she might use to describe Peter Kent had taken something of a turn.

It had started with the dream. She had been reviewing several texts for inclusion in the Venus catalog and had fallen asleep after reading one particularly salacious memoir.

That was all. She had simply been reading. And reading had translated to dreaming. It had nothing to do with the man himself.

But whenever she thought about Peter Kent—and she seemed to be thinking of him quite a lot—she could not help but recall it.

It had been hot in the dream, so hot . That was what came back to her the most strongly. He'd been smiling, that sharp pleased grin, as he'd slipped her frock from her shoulders. Sweat had beaded between her breasts, and he'd pressed his mouth to her skin and licked her there.

His hand had burned as he'd slid the fabric down her torso. She could not have said where they were. Somewhere dark and fragrant, the air heavy. His mouth on her skin made her feel boneless, her body drifting, need rising in a long, slow crest.

Her dress was gone. She could see the long, muscled expanse of his body. His mouth was between her legs, her fingers tangled in his hair. She had no thoughts but desire, her body a conflagration that began and ended with Peter's touch.

When she'd woken, she'd been damp with perspiration, her body sensitive and achy, and now every time she tried to organize Peter's courtship, her mind tumbled her back into that strange, hot dark.

Infuriating , she might have described him. Impossible.

Not for her.

Not for her to dream about. Not for her to think on as she flipped the pages of a Belvoir's book, and most especially not when desire tangled in her belly, and images—of his dark curls between her thighs, of his mouth, of the bare skin of his throat—rose in her mind.

She swallowed and tried to turn her mind back to his marital endeavors. That was what she needed to think on. His marriage. To someone else.

He hadn't even made half a week of sedate courting. There had been the incident with Lydia's horse in Rotten Row, and then another memorable outing with his brother and sister that had involved Lucinda, ices, and a large wolfhound she'd enticed into Gunter's Tea Shop. Selina and Lydia had been able to hear the shrieking from down the street at the millinery.

Stanhope was, in truth, a walking scandal. He'd made no inroads thus far in appearing to be swept away by romance and—if her conversations with Lydia were any indication—rather little progress in securing a wife besides.

"He needs help," Selina said now, drumming her bare fingers on the table beside her plate.

"Mm." Her brother somehow made this wordless grunt sound deadpan. "And you know just what kind of help to offer him?"

Selina pushed back from the table. "First, I need to find him."

"And second you need to tell him where he's gone wrong?"

She had a lifetime of ignoring the teasing of brothers, so rather than respond, she tugged her gloves on wordlessly.

"I rather think," said Aunt Judith, a half smile on her lips, "that Selina is prepared to tell him how to get it right."

Peter still didn't know if Georgiana Cleeve was faking it.

It had happened once more, when he'd said that eggs were the roundest animal. The downcast eyes, the shiver at the corner of her mouth as though she was ruthlessly biting her cheek. He'd been nearly certain she was trying not to laugh.

But only once! In two weeks of his attempts to out-ludicrous her. When he told her that he'd hired a valet for each of the fine grays that pulled his curricle, she'd merely blinked rapidly at him and said, "I'd have thought the cattle needed two each, at least."

Several times now he'd considered demanding whether or not she meant one-quarter of the things she said—and if not, why in the world she said them. But there was something peculiar and fragile in that bizarre brand of defiance, something that reminded him strangely of Lu. So he took her for walks, and said whatever absurd thought came into his head, and decided that there was no way he could marry this woman, but he'd do what he could to see that she didn't get hurt.

"I say," Georgiana said, pulling to a stop from where they were walking on the banks of the Serpentine. "Is that a dog?" She lifted a hand to shade her eyes, though Peter couldn't possibly imagine why, given that she was also wearing a substantial bonnet.

He peered out in the direction of her gaze. "In the water? Maybe a duck."

"I rather think it's a dog. On sort of a log?"

He couldn't help but laugh, but when he glanced down at her, Georgiana's blue eyes were a little impatient.

"Look there," she said. "Isn't that a dog?" She pointed a long, doeskin-clad finger out at the Serpentine.

He looked, and looked again, and by God, Georgiana Cleeve had incredibly sharp eyes to go with her perfect teeth. He could just pick out the little white clump of fur she was pointing to, a wet, miserable-looking thing afloat on a tangle of branches. It didn't seem to be in imminent peril. It did, however, look decidedly pathetic.

"Whatever it is, it's certainly not a duck."

"I really think it's a dog," she said, her tone edging toward insistent. "I think it's stuck."

"All right," he said. "Can you hold my hat?"

She looked up at him, her blue eyes so startled that he was almost certain it wasn't feigned. "I… yes?"

He gave her his hat and started to tug at his boots. Cursed English fashions—he wasn't sure he could get the damned things off unless he sat down. He needed an armchair. Perhaps a valet, lowering as that was.

He looked again at the little dog, or kitten, or possibly loosed piece of knitting. Hopped on one foot as he yanked at his heel and wished pathetically for a flat rock.

And then a familiar cool female voice met his ears, and he stopped hopping.

"Do not tell me you are going for a swim in the Serpentine in front of half the ton ?"

Peter realized he was still standing on one foot like an overdressed flamingo, and so he put his foot down. Tried to squelch his sheer delight at the sound of her voice as he turned.

Selina stood on the bank behind them. Her face was a little flushed, her breath coming quickly. He meant not to look at the way her breasts rose and fell, pressed taut against the lace-edged neckline of her thin blue walking dress. Meant not to, and then did anyway.

He blinked at her. "Did you run here?"

She scowled at him, and he liked it far more than he had any rational reason to. "That is entirely beside the point."

"Surely," he protested, "if you can sprint through Hyde Park, then I can take a casual afternoon swim."

She stalked closer. He took a step back.

"I," she hissed in an undervoice, " I am not the one who cannot keep himself out of the scandal sheets for two days running. I am not the one who is attempting to improve his reputation in English society."

She was so damned lovely with those hectic spots of color on her cheeks, her eyes as ferocious as her tone, and for once in his life Peter managed to control his unruly mouth and not tell her so.

"There's a dog," he said instead, "in the Serpentine. There's a little dog on a branch, and I'm just going to retrieve it. No one will see."

Selina threw out a hand at their surroundings. "Peter! I understand your concern. I'm sure it will float free, or someone else will secure it. But it cannot be you ! Everyone in the Park will see. There are a hundred people within eyeshot right now, and another thousand who will hear about it in the papers tomorrow."

"Surely the circulation is higher than—"

"Peter!"

He liked the way she could shout in a whisper. He liked his name on her lips, and he liked her lips, and he needed to throw himself into the river before his physical reaction to her proximity became any more obvious.

"I'll be quick," he said, backing another step away. "No one will notice. Maybe you can make a distraction across the Park. Sing a ballad. Do you know ‘Rosemary Lane'?"

She launched herself at him and caught his arm, the warmth of her fingers palpable through her gloves and his coat sleeve. "Peter, for heaven's sake. You are not taking this seriously! Do you not want the guardianship? Is that what this is about? You want Lord Eldon to dismiss your suit?"

He tugged his arm back, and she came with it, pulling their bodies within inches.

He couldn't have made himself step away from her for all the world. Instead, he reached up and closed his hand around her shoulder. Her lips parted, and she took a quick, gasping breath. Her gaze fell to his mouth. His groin tightened in response, and so did his fingers on her arm.

"I'm taking this seriously," he said. "You have no idea how seriously I am taking this or what I would do for my brother and sister."

She licked her lips. He felt the inches between them like a physical thing.

"Then why"—her voice was soft and he fought the desire to lean into her words, into her —"then why do you do this? Do you not think before you act—about what others will do? What they will say?"

Reckless. He could hear his father's voice in his mind as clearly as if the man were not six years dead. Selfish. Thoughtless.

Damn his father, and damn him , for hearing the words so many times and never backing down. It had become almost a badge of honor—to be precisely what his father accused him of being.

He was reckless. He took the things he wanted, and he wanted his brother and sister. He would take Freddie and Lu because he damned well knew he could protect them better than a stranger the courts had given them to. And if when he thought about them, he also thought about Morgan, and Louisiana, and the way Morgan had looked before he got sick, swimming like a silver-limned dolphin in the bayou—well. Peter already knew he was a selfish bastard. He'd known that for a long time.

A thousand words boiled in him as he stared at Selina. He did want the children. He did mean to get the lord chancellor on his side.

He wanted too much.

"There's a dog," he said finally. "I'm not going to leave the dog in the water."

He watched her throat bob as she swallowed, and he realized he was still gripping her shoulder. He pulled back his hand, let it fall to his side.

"All right," she said, and then she started to pluck at the fingers of her gloves. "All right. You walk with Georgiana. I'll get the dog."

Christ! Georgiana. He'd forgotten her completely. He looked back to where she'd been standing and saw that she'd wandered closer to the bank with her maid. Her gaze was still on the river—presumably on the scrap of wet fluff gently meandering down the Serpentine.

He turned back to Selina, who had pulled off her gloves and crouched, at work on her half boots.

"For God's sake, Selina, you don't mean to—"

She raised challenging eyes to his. "What? Go into the water?"

"In a word, yes."

He could see her jaw tighten. "I mean to stop you from hurling yourself into scandal once again."

"By hurling yourself into a river instead?"

She had one boot off. "Yes, if that's what it takes! I don't have anyone I need to impress. I don't have"—her voice shook—"anyone who needs me. Freddie and Lu don't need you to rescue a wet puppy, they need you to act like the ninth Duke of Stanhope."

"Well, I need you not to drown in the Serpentine," he heard himself bite out. He could barely recognize his tone, barely recognize the anger swirling inside him. He knew she was right. He knew, in the stretched-thin part of himself that was so damned tired of trying to be what he was supposed to be, that her counsel was sound.

But this goddamned society—this goddamned country —cared more for the state of his hat and his boots than a living animal.

He didn't know where to aim the frustration and resentment that twisted in his gut. At England? At himself?

Not at her. He forced it back.

"You say you're willing to do anything for Freddie and Lu?" she asked. She was in her stocking feet now, and she seemed smaller, her head tilted farther back to meet his eyes. "Then do this. Take Georgiana's arm. Walk away. I'll get the dog."

He gave her a short nod, not trusting himself to open his mouth.

God only knew what he would say. I want you or Don't drown or I can't be who you want me to be .

He watched her go to the bank, watched her quick precise fingers spreading tall grasses, tugging apart some kind of reed.

He made himself walk over to Georgiana.

"Is Lady Selina going after the dog?" she said without preamble.

"Yes," he said. "She wants us to walk away. So we don't draw a crowd, presumably." So he didn't get caught up in any more gossip.

"Not bloody likely," murmured Georgiana.

Peter felt his brows lift as he stared down at her.

"I'm not moving," she said, "until I see that she's gotten the dog. I'd be out there myself if I thought I could manage it."

Where was the blinking? Those brilliant smiles and acres of white teeth? She seemed a different person entirely with the pre tense of absurdity dropped. Crisp, business-like, perhaps a little stubborn.

"I… see." His voice came out faint.

"And Your Grace?" She looked up at him. Gave him two rapid flutters of her thick gold eyelashes.

"Yes?"

"I think it best if you cease your attentions toward me after today."

Surprise caught him with her words, but somehow it made sense. Without that brittle shell of hers, she was a different woman. And now that he'd seen that woman, she wanted distance. From him? Or from the truth of who she was?

He watched Selina, her head dark with damp as she waded into the water toward the dog, which had drifted close enough now for Peter to make out slightly bulging eyes in a head too large for its small body.

"Lady Georgiana," he said finally. "Do you need some kind of help?"

He felt the sudden press of her fingers squeezing his. "No," she said. "I just need to make sure this dog is all right."

So they watched. In a minute or two Selina had gotten close enough to tug at the little raft of branches upon which the dog was perched. She angled her body back toward the bank and towed the dog behind her with ruthless efficiency.

Peter made himself look around as she made for dry land. There were people in all directions—she'd been entirely right about that. She'd probably been seen swimming through the water, but with nothing except her head visible, she likely hadn't been recognized.

"Lady Georgiana," he said, eyes tracking back to Selina as she approached the water's edge. "Do you know where they rent the rowboats?"

"I do."

"How quickly do you think you could get there?" He chanced a glance away from Selina's progress to find Georgiana's face, bright but somehow steadier than he'd ever seen her.

One corner of her mouth kicked up. No visible teeth. "Ten minutes, if I walk fast. Shall I hire a boat for you?"

"Tell them to bill it to Stanhope—" He hesitated. Devil take it, how did he get Selina out of this and still manage to avoid having his name in the scandal sheets? Absurd, how much he didn't want to let her down.

"I'll pay," said Georgiana. "If you promise to bring me the dog. I want him."

"I'll bring you the dog with a giant velvet bow on its minuscule neck if you can get someone to row a boat to this exact spot in less than a quarter hour."

"Done," she said. "And Your Grace?"

He'd turned back to Selina, but he dragged his gaze away to look at Georgiana again.

"Thank you. Now go make sure she stays hidden in the bulrushes."

Selina had done quite a bit of mental swearing since she'd started swimming—and thanks to Belvoir's, her mental vocabulary was extensive.

She'd cursed Peter Kent thoroughly, and with several words she wasn't entirely sure how to pronounce.

She'd cursed the dog, whose fur was so plastered to its small white body that it barely looked canine, all huge eyes and mouse tail.

She'd saved the largest vocabulary of vulgarities for herself. Why had she insisted on tracking Peter down in Hyde Park? Why did she let him goad her into recklessness that she normally reserved for Belvoir's and nothing else in her life? Why was she always so certain she knew what was best for everyone else?

Why, why, why had she kept her stockings on? She had liked these stockings.

Now she was going to be in the scandal sheets and she was going to have to throw away her favorite stockings.

Bloody. Larking. Bollocks.

She pulled the dog on its makeshift raft into a small copse of reeds and pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes. "I hope you're grateful. I'm bloody certain you could swim if you gave it a try."

"Selina!"

Peter's voice was a drawling, lightly accented whisper, and she jumped so high she nearly fell on her backside and had to grab a fistful of bulrushes to remain upright.

"Keep your head down," Peter's voice went on. "Stay in these grasses. You're practically invisible from the footpath. I checked."

"What on earth—Peter, where are you? What are you doing?"

His dark head popped out from within the rushes. "Going for a row," he hissed. "Stay here until I can come around with the boat. Ten minutes." And then he vanished.

She wasn't sure whether to curse more or sit down and cry. Surely he wouldn't throw himself into scandal anyway, would he? After she'd swum straight into the current of public humiliation for him, and ruined her favorite stockings besides?

She picked up the dog, which whined and nuzzled its face into the sodden fabric of her bodice. "Poor thing," she whispered. "You're rather chilly."

In answer, it licked the wet, ruined lace and sighed pathetically, relaxing into her body. It made a small damp weight against her chest.

"I've got you," she said. "You're all right."

She had no way to tell the time, but before long she could see a rowboat making its way toward her, Peter alone at the oars, his head bare and his dark curls burnished red in the sun. She stayed crouched in the rushes, and he maneuvered the craft up into the copse in moments.

"Come on," he whispered. "Can you get in? Stay low, if you can."

She waded into the water and handed him the dog. It gave a little moan of dismay, but Peter soothed it with gentle hands before placing it on the wooden seat beside him.

Selina eyed the boat warily, trying to think how she could get in without tipping them both. She hiked up her dripping skirts, grateful she'd worn her lightest muslin, and tossed one leg over the side of the boat.

Wordlessly, Peter reached out a hand, and she locked her arm with his at the elbow. In one quick pull she was over the side and in the boat, water splashing and pooling into the bottom.

"Sorry about this," Peter said, "but I think you'll have to lie down if you don't want to be seen once I row away."

She glanced up at him, but he was staring seriously down at the craft as though wondering how she might fit.

"Oh bloody fine," she mumbled, and wedged herself in between the two wooden benches, curling her body into a tight C and tucking her head onto her arm. She had an excellent view of Peter's right calf, tightly encased in his leather Prussians. Water slopped into her ear as he started to row away.

"Wait," she said abruptly, and he paused mid-stroke, lifting the oars out of the water. She could see the muscles of his shoulder bunch beneath the close-fitting fabric of his coat. It rose in her mind—her dream, the planes and angles of his body, his bare skin all pressed to hers in the humid dark—and she bit her lip for focus. "My gloves. My boots. They're still on the bank."

"Georgiana got them," he said. "And this boat, and my carriage too, which she's hopefully sent down to the dam to meet us."

Selina squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. "Lady Georgiana Cleeve? Arranged this?"

One side of his mouth lifted in a crooked version of his usual grin. "Sometimes I suspect there's more to her than meets the eye. Or ear, as it were."

Selina puffed a breath between her lips and turned her gaze from his shoulders and his infuriating curls to the water puddled in the bottom of the boat, sluicing back and forth as he started to row once more.

Lady Georgiana had fixed things. She had saved Selina from unwanted attention from half the ton . Peter thought there was more to her.

That was delightful. This was all delightful. Better than she could have hoped for.

Absolutely bloody stupendous.

Water splashed up into her nose and she coughed and snorted out the most indelicate, un-lady-like, un-Georgianan series of noises that she had ever heard in her life.

"Christ, Selina, are you well?" Peter was peering down at her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze from her spot curled up at his feet.

Like a dog. She was the half-drowned dog in this scenario.

"Stupendous," she mumbled. "Just great."

"I don't think anyone saw you," he offered. "And you… aren't very recognizable right now anyway."

Something occurred to her, and she struggled up onto one elbow. "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't you get a boat and row out to the dog?"

The powerful rhythm of his arms at the oars stuttered for a moment, then restarted as smoothly as before. "Sorry?"

"If you knew the boats were close by. Why didn't you just row to the dog?"

"Honestly? I didn't even think of it."

She slumped back down onto her arm in the puddle, water saturating her hair. "Neither did I."

The silence between them was broken only by the splashing of Peter's oars. And then, very quietly, by the laugh that bubbled up in Selina's throat and slipped out from between her lips.

She couldn't help herself. She couldn't squelch the sudden hilarity. He was ridiculous. She was ridiculous, and maybe running Belvoir's should have been enough outrageous behavior for one lifetime, but she found suddenly that she couldn't be angry. She'd swum in the Serpentine. She'd rescued a dog, and she'd prevented Peter from ruining his reputation further, and, drat her foolish adventure-loving heart, she'd had fun.

She curled herself even more tightly around his legs and laughed so hard tears came to her eyes. She wiped them away with damp wrinkled fingertips, and when she glanced up at Peter, he was staring down at her, absolutely boggled.

"I'm sorry," she wheezed. "I'm not really weeping. I just—can't stop—"

And then he pulled the oars into the boat, leaned over his lap and fairly roared with laughter.

His brown eyes crinkled at the corners—she could see that even through the wash of moisture in her eyes. He caught her cold wet fingers between his hands as he bent at the waist, laughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the sound of his unfettered amusement ringing alongside her muffled giggles.

His hands held hers.

He warmed her. Her fingers. Elsewhere. A hot rush that began in her belly and curled up into her chest. Need stirred in her. Need and the memories of her dream.

Amusement shifted in her to something else, something dark and sweet. She tried to catch her breath, tried to pull herself free from the tangle of his eyes and hands.

"Peter?" It came out a rasp.

He tried to stop laughing before he responded, but little choked sounds kept bursting free. "Yes?"

"Have you thought about how I'm going to get from the boat to your carriage without being seen?"

He dropped her hands to wrestle with the oars and came up holding something long and covered in green silk.

A parasol, she realized. Lady Georgiana's parasol.

He grinned at her, and this time it was the real thing, that shiny impossible Kent grin. "You're going to stand in between me and this very large decorative object. I told Georgiana to instruct my driver to pull up as close to the dam as he can. And if we walk very fast, no one is going to suspect a thing."