The Duke Who Loved Me Page 7

  “Well, it translates as reason and experience, but that is all I know,” Cecelia admitted. “Perhaps you wish to meet some of the other guests? Who are better informed?”

  “I do not. I came to see you.” James stood. He held out his arm.

  Very aware of the interested gazes of her four friends, Cecelia rose and took it. He led her toward the least populated corner of the large room. “You don’t think it’s rude not to join the discussion?” she asked.

  “I’d be more likely to offend if I did,” James answered. “Because I should tell them they are speaking utter drivel.”

  “And they would observe that you reject what you don’t begin to comprehend.”

  “It isn’t worth comprehending. The ‘standpoint of nowhere’ indeed!”

  Cecelia shrugged. If she had wanted to argue ideas, she would be on the other side of the drawing room. Seeing James sputter was far more enjoyable.

  “You are not usually surrounded by chattering chits.” He still sounded annoyed.

  Had he forgotten the girls who had come out with her and supported each other through a first season? Those now married and gone? Yes, no doubt he had. “Should I not make new friends?”

  “Like this prince? You are not really going to take him about town, I hope?”

  “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Hope that?”

  “Are you trying to annoy me?”

  “I never have to try very hard.”

  “Cecelia!”

  “Yes, what is it? You have been strange and prickly since you arrived tonight. I don’t know why you came.” The proposal lay between them, but surely he would not mention that here before all these people. She trusted that he would not. And at the same time she longed to know what he felt now that he’d had time to reflect on his impulsive offer.

  “I came to—” He bit off the words. He was silent for a moment, then said, “I made a mistake.”

  Cecelia blinked at this unusual admission. James rarely admitted to being wrong about anything. Ah. Her spirits sank. He had come to regret his proposal. Had he altered his habits just to come and tell her that? Surely he could see that was unnecessary?

  “Do you attend the Yelverton party on Thursday?”

  “I mean to,” she answered, bewildered. “Along with my new friends.”

  James sighed. “It promises to be a pleasant occasion.”

  Platitudes now, Cecelia marveled. What was he up to? “Music rather than philosophy,” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  “And you are so fond of music.”

  “I like it.”

  “You endure it, James. With varying degrees of… One can’t really call it patience. Grim toleration rather.”

  “That is not true. I appreciate a fine performance. But so often at these occasions we are subjected to a troop of amateur warblers. Or females pounding the pianoforte like half-trained apes.”

  “You are a font of complaints,” Cecelia replied. “I would add ‘tonight,’ but your grumbling is habitual.”

  “What? No, it is not.”

  “Really? Make a statement of unalloyed praise. About anything you wish.”

  “I…” The most curious expression came over his face. “I am fond of a good claret.”

  “Oh dear, is that the best you can manage? Fi, James. Paltry. Not praise at all, in fact.” Cecelia wanted to laugh at him, but the bewilderment in his blue eyes stopped her. And then she remembered that he had offered no warmth for her when he proposed, and levity dissolved.

  “I should be going,” he said.

  And he went, leaving Cecelia thoroughly unsettled.

  Five

  James could see that Mrs. Yelverton was surprised when he arrived in good time at her musical evening. He’d been invited, of course. He was invited everywhere. But it was not the sort of party he usually attended. “How very good to see you, Your Grace,” she said.

  As he made his bow, he remembered that she had a hopeful daughter.

  “I do hope you will enjoy Beatrice’s performance,” she added, confirming his recollection.

  He couldn’t call the girl to mind. Which suggested that he probably would not. But as he moved on into the drawing room, he murmured, “A pleasure.” And wished Cecelia might have heard. He’d been brooding over her accusation since he’d left her at the philosophical evening. She was quite wrong. He did not complain. The very word was distasteful; it smacked of whining brats or fussy old women. He discriminated. He appreciated wit and cleverness. But that was entirely different. And he was full of praise for many things. He’d thought of a whole list. Too late. But tonight he would show her.

  James scanned the crowd, searching for her golden hair. He spotted her at the far side of the room in a group that included her four new friends and Prince Karl. James set his jaw. The fellow was leaning over Cecelia as if she belonged to him, or at least as if she was his for the taking. And she was smiling up at him and laughing. A startling surge of anger ran through James. He’d seen men flirt with Cecelia, of course, and he knew she’d had offers of marriage. But none of those had seemed serious, and none had occurred after he’d made up his mind to marry her. The playing field had altered. He would triumph.

  “Of course the best music is Teutonic,” the prince was saying when James joined the group. “There is no one to match us in that area—Bach, Handel, Telemann, Beethoven, Mozart.”

  “Wasn’t Mozart Austrian?” James asked.

  “A similar sensibility,” replied the other man smoothly.

  “It is good that you think so, since Austria is the head of your German Confederation.”

  The prince stiffened. He started to speak, paused, then said, “I do not care to discuss politics. My tour is a pleasure trip only.” He looked at Cecelia, smiled. “And it is becoming a greater pleasure each day.”

  James refrained from gritting his teeth, barely. “Didn’t Handel spend most of his life in London?” he said. “He was practically an Englishman.”

  “But actually from Saxony,” replied the prince. His hazel eyes were those of a wily fencer. With word or blade, James concluded.

  “We English have Purcell,” said one of the young ladies—the smallest one, with the sandy hair.

  “Indeed,” said James, though he’d never heard the name. He held Prince Karl’s gaze, putting a wealth of resolve into the look. Silently, a challenge was proffered and accepted.

  “Oh, there’s Henry,” said another of the young ladies. She waved.

  Henry Deeping came to join them. He shot James a quizzical look when he made his bow, as if to ask what he was doing here. The greeting he exchanged with the prince showed they’d already met.

  “Miss Vainsmede,” said Prince Karl. “May I ask you a favor? Would you present me to Miss Yelverton? I should like to ask what she means to play. I am most interested.”

  “Oh. Certainly.”

  The prince offered his arm and walked off with Cecelia.

  James was violently irritated. He didn’t believe the man cared one whit about the music. He’d simply wanted to snatch Cecelia from under James’s nose. At that moment, Prince Karl looked back over his shoulder, caught James’s angry look, and smiled—a provocative display of strong white teeth that confirmed every suspicion.

  James saw red. Cecelia belonged to him! That is, she didn’t yet. He hadn’t had the chance to persuade her. But he would! They’d worked side by side for years. They’d talked of intimate, private matters. They’d struggled to solve problems together. Obviously she would never prefer some foreigner to him.

  But this foreigner was a prince, commented a dry inner voice. Romantic tales were full of princes. Rescuing damsels, breaking curses, vanquishing monsters. They were the heroes of all the stories. Where were the dukes? He recalled several who played rather ambi
guous roles in Shakespeare. Had Bluebeard been a duke? No! What the deuce was he thinking? Cecelia was too sensible to be swayed by a title from some insignificant little country, held by a sneaking, self-satisfied…buffoon.

  Princess, whispered that inner voice. Could any woman spurn that title?

  James watched her, standing beside Prince Karl, talking to a younger lady near the pianoforte. Cecelia was smiling, animated, lovely in her rose-colored gown. James had never seen her look more desirable. Had she done something new with her hair or style of dress recently? Perhaps. Very likely. Something had certainly drawn his notice.

  The prince glanced over at him with another brief, sly grin. The wretch was enjoying himself at James’s expense. Apparently, he was one of those men who had to contend, to win. And he obviously thought that he was.

  This meant war.

  James turned and found that Cecelia’s four young friends, and Henry Deeping, were all gazing at him. For an instant, he felt exposed. Which was silly. They couldn’t know his thoughts. He might have frowned, but they didn’t know why. He returned their looks, appraising now. A war went better with allies. Might these be his?

  Henry would be on his side, should it come to…anything. The young ladies’ loyalties were less certain. Cecelia liked them; she’d said so. That meant they must have some redeeming qualities. She didn’t befriend just anyone. It also meant that she would care about their opinions. He should enlist them to his cause. If only he could remember their names.

  James had never bothered to learn how to converse with debutantes. His chief aim in life up to now had been to avoid doing so, to discourage any false hopes. Was it possible to make friends with quite young ladies while not rousing wrongheaded expectations? How would one go about that?

  “What do you make of Prince Karl?” asked the dark, spiky one.

  Henry’s sister, James knew her last name at least. And he’d been assured that she was not romantically interested in him. Her satirical tone seemed to confirm this. “Make of him, Miss Deeping?”

  “Think, judge, evaluate.”

  “Charlotte,” said the one with the ferocious eyebrows. She really was a fierce-looking girl. But she’d provided one name, which James appreciated.

  “Well, it wasn’t a difficult question,” replied Miss Charlotte Deeping. “There is no arcane philosophy involved tonight.” The glance she shot James suggested that she remembered his remarks at Lady Tate’s.

  “You’ll never attract a beau if you snap at people, Char,” said Henry Deeping.

  Precisely what James had been thinking.

  “Isn’t it fortunate, then, that I had no such intention? There is no one here I wish to attract.”

  The red-haired girl choked on a laugh. Her name was lost to James.

  Henry’s sister frowned. “It is just…if he is to be pursuing Cecelia, I think we should investigate him.”

  Pursuing—the word vibrated in James’s brain, making him think of hares and hounds, deer and thundering hooves. He had never disliked a word before. Now suddenly he despised one.

  “He does seem to be,” said the short, sandy-haired one. “Don’t you think so, my lord duke?”

  These were unlike any young ladies James had encountered in society up to now. He threw Henry Deeping an imperative look. Clearly amused, his friend said, “Is that your view, Miss Moran?”

  “I just said it was,” she replied, puzzled.

  “We shouldn’t talk about such things in present company,” said the redhead.

  “Oh, don’t mind us, Miss Finch,” said Henry. “I am only a brother, and Tereford has been acquainted with Miss Vainsmede for half his life.”

  “Half his life,” repeated the girl with the fearsome eyebrows.

  “Yes indeed, Miss Grandison,” replied Henry.

  His sister wrinkled her nose at him. James suspected that she knew Henry had been identifying the ladies for him. This time, he committed their names to memory.

  “I wish Peter had come tonight,” said Miss Grandison.

  “Peter is Miss Grandison’s intended, the Duke of Compton,” Henry explained to James.

  “They are to be married in May,” said his sister, speaking to James as if he had no brains at all.

  James had never heard of this fellow duke. He tried to imagine the man who had chosen to live with those eyebrows for the rest of his life. And then forgot all about him as Cecelia returned. Without Prince Karl, thankfully. “The music is about to begin,” she said.

  “May I find you a chair?” James answered. He offered his arm.

  “We should all sit tog—” began Miss Moran. But James pulled Cecelia away before she could finish her sentence. He looked for the prince and saw that he had been accorded a place in the front ranks of the gilt chairs set out for the audience. Triumphantly, he led Cecelia to a pair of seats near the very back.

  “I had intended to remain with my friends,” she said.

  “Surely you see enough of them? They seem to be constantly about these days.”

  Cecelia sighed. “Will you complain about them now?”

  “I do not complain! That was, and is, an unfair accusation.”

  “I don’t want another argument, James. Let us listen to the music.”

  “There is no music.”

  “When it begins, in a moment,” said Cecelia, exasperated.

  He started to reply, stopped, started again, stopped.

  Cecelia waited through this uncharacteristic wavering, puzzled.

  “You are right,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon? Did you actually say…?” She gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Could you repeat that? I cannot have heard you correctly.”

  He brushed aside her teasing. “You are right that we shouldn’t argue. I don’t wish to do so. I came tonight only to spend time with you. I am determined to show you that we are an ideal match.”

  “James, you must abandon this idea of marriage. I have told you…”

  “Because of Prince Karl?”

  “Ah,” said Cecelia. Much suddenly became clear.

  “Is it?” he demanded. If she said yes, he didn’t know what he would do. Something extreme.

  “I see now,” she said.

  “See? What is that supposed to mean?”

  She knew him so well. She had watched him grow from fifteen to manhood. She knew he had taken to sport because he was an instinctive fighter. Perhaps due to his dictatorial father, he saw life as a series of battles to be waged, opponents to be vanquished. “It means, I understand,” she said. “You had this silly notion of marrying me. I’m sure you would have dropped it quite soon, even though my refusal goaded you. But now another man has shown some slight interest. And so you’ve turned this into a contest. As you are so prone to do. And you will not give up until you ‘win.’ But this is no boxing match, James.”

  “Of course not. The prince prefers swords.”

  “I’m not joking.” In fact, Cecelia was experiencing a sinking sensation. She’d thought James was jealous, but he didn’t care for her. Only for victory. She did not wish to made a prize in some sort of male game. Indeed, she would not be!

  “Neither am I. You get nothing in life unless you fight for it.”

  His blue eyes seemed to burn. Perhaps with more than pugnacity? Cecelia didn’t know. It was certainly not the soft light of love. She turned away and watched Beatrice Yelverton sit down at the pianoforte. Miss Yelverton took her time arranging her skirts and placing her hands. Clearly, she had a sense of drama, which Cecelia rather admired. “I don’t agree,” she began.

  Miss Yelverton let her hands fall. A crashing chord startled the room.

  “Good lord,” James said.

  It was followed by a ripple of quieter notes.

  “I wonder,” Cecelia said.

  Once again a chord crashe
d through the room, vibrating with both volume and emotion. Softer notes chimed in behind.

  “We are not to hear the usual insipid ballads, it seems,” James said.

  “Is that Beethoven?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “It is certainly—”

  Another dramatic chord cut him off.

  “Striking,” James finished. He mimed pounding on a keyboard.

  A woman nearby frowned at them.

  “We shouldn’t talk while she’s playing,” said Cecelia.

  “She is making it impossible to do so,” he answered over another raging trill of music. “My luck seems to be quite out.”

  Feeling something similar, Cecelia set herself to listen. The alternation of crashing sounds and softer trills continued. It was the signature of the first piece, it seemed. Cecelia tried to accustom herself, but the loud bits kept making her start. Perhaps that was the idea. Or perhaps Miss Yelverton simply enjoyed rattling her audience.

  She played for an hour, a series of pieces all at a high pitch of feeling. Oddly though, her passion seemed to reside only in her hands. Her expression remained distant, her body stiff, throughout the performance. When she finished, she rose and dropped a perfunctory curtsy in response to the applause, which was enthusiastic in some parts of the room and merely polite in others. Then she stepped away from the instrument.

  “Beatrice Yelverton is a talented musician,” said Cecelia. Her ears were ringing. The music had been better suited to a large concert hall than a private drawing room.

  “Indeed,” replied James.

  “You cannot complain…criticize her skill.”

  “Did I make a peep of complaint? On the contrary, I commend her…ferocity.”

  The word was actually quite apt. The girl had played as if the music was an enemy she must subdue. “I can see why some people speak of attacking a piece,” Cecelia said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You would admire that.”

  “I do. I approve of people who seize what they want.” He bent closer to her with a suddenly searing gaze.

  Cecelia blinked, startled. She’d never seen him look that way before. Not at her. Demanding, possessive. As if he wanted to sweep her up and carry her off, right now. And damn the consequences. A sharp response leapt in her, ran through her like a flame. She wanted…had wanted so much. She’d resigned herself to a narrower life, but his gaze promised all she’d imagined and more. It made her reel. She was leaning toward James, she realized. His lips were mere inches away.