To think he had almost offered for her when she was still climbing trees like a wild lad. Yes, he had been amused by her unbridled ways, but she would never be a duchess, that’s what he had thought then, but now?
He stopped just a few feet from her, gaze roaming freely over her as she sang, her dark hair hanging in loose curls down her back, her powder-blue gown demurely cut to fit her curves but not reveal what was underneath. He breathed in her lavender perfume, loosening his cravat just a hint so he could swallow more easily. She didn’t just cause his pantaloons to tighten, his throat and heart squeezed at him, too!
Damn fate for throwing them together this way. It would have been better if he had never met up with her again, for he had heard how disappointed she had been when he had refused the match those two long years ago. Though he had not refused the girl outright, he had preferred to find a mature woman to take as wife.
He found himself smiling so hard it hurt.
“Your Grace,” he heard Sarah call.
“Yes?” His eyes had never left her, but his thoughts had wandered into the past.
“The song has finished, yet you are staring at me, almost through me.”
The duke searched for Arcadi, but the man was nowhere to be found. “Your master?”
She rolled her eyes. “He is my teacher, sir.”
Yes. “And quite taken with you, I think,” Leonard said.
Her eyes widened. “Y-you think Signor Arcadi is in love with me?”
Jealously pricked Leonard. “I do not recall saying love, Miss Sarah.” Leonard knew Arcadi’s reputation with women across the continent.
“Yes, you said taken with me.”
“That can mean many things.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head and met his gaze. “As you seem taken with me, Your Grace?”
There she was—the brazen girl in the tree! “I will not deny it,” he said, almost challenging her. “But I could say the same about you.”
Her mouth opened and closed again, obviously shocked by his words. “But I hardly know you.”
He took a step closer, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Does it not feel as if we have met before?”
“No,” she rejected immediately. “I have been here for over a year, closed off from Society. Where would we have met, sir? London?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I remind you of someone.”
He laughed, and she shuffled on her feet. “Suddenly I find myself hungry for more of Lady Whitmore’s apple tarts. Would you care to join me, Miss Sarah?” His jesting would stop now, for he did not wish to make her so uncomfortable that she would refuse to perform tomorrow. But once the exhibition was over, he would have his moment with her—for she knew exactly who he was. And he wanted her—for just what he didn’t know at the moment, but it must begin with a kiss.
Those sweet lips, currently pursed with distaste, should be kissed every day, and only by him.
***
Sarah woke the following morning with a knot of excitement in her stomach. And not a little unease caused by Arcadi’s outburst.
She lay for a little, mulling things over. For the first time it struck her that she was not being fair to Arcadi. He had no idea of her birth and clearly assumed he was training her for the stage, instead of the drawing room.
Oh well, it might yet come to the stage if my parents cast me off. For more than a year, she had thought no further than enslaving and rejecting the duke. And delivering a lesson to her parents. But she had to admit the journey had become a pleasure in itself, and her future was unclear. Whatever it holds, I will enjoy it. Secure in the knowledge that I have dealt most justly with Vexen’s slights.
On the other hand, her victory over the duke was not assured. He was…unpredictable, as his strange reaction to Arcadi’s outburst showed. At one moment, he was clearly intrigued, elegantly flirting. The next, he had charged upon her almost like an untamed animal. She forgave his temper, since it appeared to spring from jealousy, but the incident had given her a taste of a whole new side of him—raw and passionate and ungoverned by society’s rules.
A little shiver of excitement ran down her spine. It came to her that she was playing with fire. Poking a lion…
Enough of this silliness! She threw off the covers and went to call to the maid for bath water. She meant to look and feel at her best today.
Accordingly, she donned her new day gown of jonquil yellow, trimmed with white lace, and a very fetching hat with a matching dyed yellow feather, which she wore at a jaunty angle. They had been made in Whitmore’s workshops, but looked as least as good as the best London or even Paris had to offer. And, as she and Hammy entered the crowded assembly rooms, she was aware that several heads turned in their direction and lingered. She did not deign to respond to vulgar stares, merely greeted acquaintances as they made their way through the gallery.
It seemed there were many visitors to Whitmore for the event, including several members of the ton whom she recognized from their visits to her parents’ home. Of course, they did not recognize her, and she pretended not to know them.
But among one group of fashionable strangers, she spotted the Duke of Vexen, his head slightly bent to listen to the beautiful woman beside him. Despite his expression of interest, his gaze lifted and met hers.
He inclined his head. So did she, and passed on toward her friend, an accomplished poet who called herself Miss Smith.
“That’s a dashed beautiful girl,” she overheard one of his companions observe, a shade too loudly for discretion. “You might arrange an introduction, Duke.”
“I might,” he agreed, and she heard no more.
A bell tinkled, quieting the crowd, and everyone, including Sarah, turned to face the little platform. The duke stepped nimbly up, accepting the glass of champagne handed to him. Liveried servants with trays of glasses passed among the crowd as Vexen began to speak.
“It falls to me to welcome you to Whitmore, on behalf of the gracious Lady Whitmore, who has made this day possible.”
Sarah glanced around, but as usual among visitors, her ladyship was nowhere to be seen.
“To be honest,” the duke said humorously, “I always meant to announce that it was my pleasure to open this exhibition. But I did not expect to mean it to quite this degree. You will find, as I did, an astonishing array of fresh talent, beauty, and skill in this room, so please, take the time to truly look at the work on display. You will find it well worth your time—and money, though I shall do my best to outbid you! I give you a toast—to the art of Whitmore.”
His speech surprised Sarah by its simplicity and appreciation. There was no effort to show off among his fine friends or to detract from the artists by his own wit. And what His Grace had endorsed, the rest were eager to view.
Sarah, examining a delightful sculpture between Hammy and Miss Smith, knew a flutter of anticipation as she saw Vexen making his way slowly but inexorably toward them. The fashionable lady she had already noticed drew his attention to the painting she was examining. He smiled and said a few words, but kept walking. Hastily. Sarah returned her attention to the sculpture of a child with a mischievous smile.
“I imagine you were exactly like that,” Miss Smith remarked.
“She was,” Hammy confirmed.
“She was what?” the duke asked mildly. “Good afternoon, ladies.