The Duke of Deception Read online

  Because he was an earl and a wealthy one at that. Someday, one of them would be his countess, unless he really never planned to marry at all. What a cruel joke he was playing, then. She suddenly wanted to ask him. Not that she would. And even if she did, she didn’t expect him to tell her the truth.

  It suddenly occurred to Aquilla that she could very well be called the Duchess of Deception since she’d spent four and a half Seasons seeking a husband with no intent to actually marry. She really had no right to judge Sutton at all.

  With everyone settled in their seats, the footmen began serving, starting with the ladies of highest rank. Lord Lindsell looked toward Aquilla. “I missed seeing you the past few nights. I hope nothing was amiss?”

  Oh dear, he’d been looking for her. At least he wasn’t calling on her. Not yet, anyway. “No, nothing.” She exaggerated a pout for a moment. “Actually, that’s not quite true. I was feeling a bit poorly. Ghastly green mucus coming from my nose and a rather productive cough.” She made a show of coughing. “My apologies, my lord. Perhaps I should’ve stayed home tonight as well.”

  He stared at her a moment, and she silently congratulated herself on provoking his disgust. Hopefully, it would stick. He gave her a smile that seemed a trifle laborious. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Oh, me too. I get dreadfully bored without people to talk to. Not that Lady Satterfield isn’t delightful to converse with, but perhaps you understand what I mean. I do so like to talk, don’t you?” She smiled brightly.

  He chuckled. “I suppose so. Yes.”

  Aquilla continued her assault. “Tell me what I missed. Any good gossip or scandal?”

  The footman arrived and gave her a serving of soup. It was turtle—not Aquilla’s favorite—so she took only a few small spoonfuls.

  Lindsell looked a little nonplussed. “I daresay I wouldn’t know about any of that. You find that sort of thing diverting?”

  “Oh yes. You would too. Have you tried it?” She kept her tone light and airy.

  Lindsell blinked at her, his spoon momentarily suspended above his bowl. “Tried what?”

  She tipped her head to the side and widened her eyes. “Gossiping.”

  He stared at her a moment longer before wordlessly turning his attention to his soup.

  Satisfied that she was making progress with her sabotage, she gleefully focused on her own soup, pretending to eat several spoonfuls. In reality, she tilted the spoon just slightly so that it wasn’t obvious that she was simply returning the soup to the bowl.

  Thankfully, the young woman on Lindsell’s other side was speaking now. Hopefully, Aquilla had won a small reprieve from his interest.

  “You don’t care for turtle soup?” The quiet question came from her right. From Sutton.

  From his perspective, it would be quite obvious that she wasn’t actually eating. Provided he was looking. And he was, apparently, looking.

  “No.” She glanced over at his bowl, which remained quite full. “Nor do you, it seems.”

  “No. I detest turtle soup.” He didn’t even summon a pretense—his spoon sat unused next to his bowl.

  Her lips tugged into a small, brief smile. “I tolerate it, but if I’d had the opportunity for hatred, I might well have done.”

  Her mother had been militant about Aquilla’s and her brothers’ eating habits. The nurse had always made them eat some of everything they were served. Mother’s excuse was that they needed to learn to like everything lest they embarrass themselves at an event just like this one. Aquilla had since learned that was balderdash. People ate whatever they damn well pleased—or not, as Sutton currently demonstrated—and no one lifted an eyebrow.

  “Is there something hindering you now?” he asked, again keeping his voice rather quiet. “Why not give in to your hate?”

  She wanted to giggle at his question—it sounded like something a five-year-old might do. But really, why couldn’t she just stop eating turtle soup? Particularly since her parents weren’t here to scrutinize her every action. “That’s not terrible advice,” she said, keeping her voice low as well. “I shall take it under advisement.” Pretending to eat did, however, offer an opportunity to stall an unwanted conversation, not that this was one.

  He leaned infinitesimally closer. “Did I hear you say you were ill? I tried to ascertain your health following your…unfortunate situation, but all I could discern was that you were not out and about.”

  She turned her head abruptly toward him at his use of “unfortunate situation.” Again, she wanted to laugh, but only smiled. “I prefer to think of it as an unfortunate interlude.” She looked back toward her bowl and set her spoon down, more than happy to be done with turtle soup for the evening and perhaps forever.

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I see. I should like to withdraw my use of the word unfortunate, for I found our interlude most diverting.”

  “Isn’t that right, Lord Sutton?” The query came from his right, forcing him to turn his head away from Aquilla.

  Aquilla might have tried to listen to the ensuing conversation, but the footman removed her soup at that moment, and Lindsell took the opportunity to regale her with a tale of being caught in a downpour while out riding the other day. Aquilla inwardly stiffened, wondering if he somehow knew she’d been in the same predicament. But how could he know? No one did—not even Lord and Lady Middlegrove. Lady Satterfield had secreted Aquilla from the house quite swiftly via the backstairs and the servants’ entrance. Aquilla supposed there was a servant or two who’d seen them, and retainers did gossip, but so far nothing had come to light. And even if it did, it wouldn’t be of interest to anyone. She was, after all, a nobody, a wallflower, and nearly a spinster. Now, if anyone knew she’d been closeted with Lord Sutton, well, that would be a different matter entirely.

  Thankfully, no one did.

  “Miss Knox?”

  Lindsell’s use of her name jarred Aquilla from her thoughts. She hadn’t heard much of anything he’d said. But rather than ask him to repeat himself, she simply smiled and nodded. “Oh yes, of course.”

  His eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and she knew she’d responded nonsensically. Brilliant.

  “Tell me, my lord, what do you think of butterflies?” she asked. “I like them immensely, but with the weather so cold this spring, I haven’t seen a one. They aren’t terribly abundant in London—not nearly as much as at home—but I still tend to see them from time to time. I particularly like the yellow ones.”

  “Butterflies? Yes.” His brows dipped over his eyes as the footman served him mutton and vegetables. “Yellow ones are quite nice. I’m not sure I’ve seen many of them in Essex.” His country seat was approximately fifty miles southeast of Aquilla’s father’s house in Bedfordshire.

  She fluttered her eyelashes and adopted a scolding tone. “You can’t possibly be looking close enough. I’m certain you have thousands of yellow butterflies at Chelmer Green.”

  “I suppose you’ll have to visit, with your family or the Satterfields, of course, and point them out.”

  Blast, she’d fallen right into that one. It did seem as though Lindsell was interested in her for the long term. “Do you have goats, my lord?”

  He froze in bringing a piece of mutton to his mouth. “Goats?”

  “Yes. I particularly love baby goats.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper as if she were imparting a dire secret. “Do you know, I like to dress them up like little people. It’s such fun!”

  He chuckled as he chewed his food. After swallowing, he said, “I imagine that got you into trouble in your youth.”

  “In my youth? Why, I still do it. In fact, when I’m here in Town, I always pick up a few items for my collection. Just yesterday, I bought the most cunning little hat. Those can be tricky to keep on the goat’s head, but I’ve an extensive stock of ribbon for just that purpose.” She continued for a few minutes, describing the aspects of the new hat before outlining her favorite goat outfit—which didn’t even exist
—in exacting detail.

  By the time the course was cleared and the salad set before them, Lindsell was once again occupied with the young lady to his left. Aquilla turned her attention to her dish and congratulated herself on her performance. She’d drive him to distraction yet.

  “I didn’t have the chance to ask how you’re feeling,” Sutton said, once again employing the quiet tone he’d used earlier. She noted they didn’t turn toward each other or really look at each other either, at least not at the same time. It was as though they were continuing their private tête-à-tête from the other night. “Have you truly been ill?”

  “I’m afraid I did have a touch of a cold.”

  He frowned. “I shouldn’t have spent so much time talking with you. I beg your forgiveness.”

  She heard the genuine regret in his voice and wanted to alleviate his guilt. “There’s nothing to forgive. If not for you, I might still be on that terrace.” She injected the last with a humorous tone.

  He looked toward her, and their gazes connected for a brief moment. She felt a jolt, not unlike the buzz of electricity she got in the winter when she walked across a carpet. “Then it’s a good thing I was standing by the terrace door.”

  “Indeed.” She tried to imagine what she might have done if it had been someone else—say Lindsell. She inwardly shuddered at the thought. As she’d stood on that terrace, she’d spent several minutes weighing whether to address Sutton. He’d been talking to someone, an older woman—his aunt, she thought. Aquilla’s gaze traversed the table until it landed on the woman in question. Yes, his aunt. Aquilla hadn’t wanted to interrupt them and had hoped he would be the one to walk away so that she could ask the kind-looking older woman for help instead. When she’d left, however, Aquilla, quickly growing chilled to the very bone, had thrown caution to the increasingly cold wind and asked for his assistance.

  It had been a risky thing, but fortunately for her, he’d turned out to be quite a gentleman. She suddenly felt bad for labeling him the Duke of Deception.

  But then her mother’s admonition pealed in her head: Trust no man. Ever. Their true nature will always reveal itself. And that true nature was dark and terrible—from her mother’s account and from everything Aquilla had seen.

  A footman noted Aquilla’s empty wineglass and refilled it with the Madeira.

  Lindsell turned to her once more, his lips pursed. “A second glass?”

  Aquilla blinked. She hadn’t asked for it, but neither did it come amiss. Did Lindsell have a problem with women drinking more than a single glass of wine? She noted that he was nearly finished with his second. She reached for her glass and took a sip. “It’s quite delicious.” She took another longer drink for added effect before setting it back on the table. Lowering her voice, she looked at him intently. “I do love wine. Almost as much as talking. In fact, if I had to choose, I’m not sure I could.” She lifted her gaze to the ceiling as if she were considering this very important matter.

  “I should hope you are jesting. If you drink as much as you talk—”

  He cut himself off, but Aquilla snapped her gaze back to his, widening her eyes. Then she giggled, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Oh, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it? All right then, I’ll have to concede the wine is a very close second.” She tittered again and took another sip of wine for good measure.

  Lindsell winced as he watched her drink, and she could see that he was uncomfortable. “Might I advise you to drink less wine, particularly in polite company.”

  Since imbibing wasn’t something she cared to do, especially in polite company, she nodded effusively. “Of course. I only overindulge at home. In fact, I also enjoy sweets. One might even say I’m a glutton.” She whispered the last word and adopted a horrified look before giggling again.

  His gaze flicked ever so quickly to her middle, but she caught it. “I’m shocked to hear it. You’ve gone too long without a husband. Perhaps that will change in the near future.” He smiled meaningfully at her, his eyes twinkling in the light of the candles hanging above them.

  Aquilla clenched her teeth. Of course. A husband—perhaps even him, if he was hinting at that—would cure her of her faults. She gave him her sweetest, falsest smile. “Going without a husband isn’t such a terrible thing.”

  His eyes rounded briefly, and his mouth turned down into a subtle frown. “Spoken like someone who merely needs a loving yoke.”

  Aquilla nearly sputtered. Thankfully, the footman arrived to remove their plates and set the next course. She took the opportunity to engross herself in her food. She also revised her opinion of Lindsell—he was distasteful.

  “Pheasant is more to your liking?” Sutton asked.

  “Yes.” Though she would’ve eaten anything on her plate to keep from talking to the infuriating Lindsell. Perhaps learning to eat everything hadn’t been such a worthless endeavor.

  “How do you find your other dinner companion?” He inclined his head toward Lindsell.

  She bit back her true answer. “Fine.”

  “Is he courting you?”

  She turned her head and blinked at him. People didn’t typically speak quite that directly. She didn’t dislike it. “Not formally, no.” She tipped her head to the side. “What of Miss Forth-Hodges? Are you enjoying her company?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, instead pressing his lips together. “It’s fine.”

  Aquilla nearly laughed at his identical assessment. “And are you courting her?” She lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Do I need to warn her that you’re the Duke of Deception?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  She could tell that she’d upset him. “Of course not. It’s not as if she isn’t aware of your reputation anyway.” Unless she was a complete dunderhead, in which case she hoped he would steer clear of her. “My apologies, my lord. I was teasing.”

  He exhaled, his features relaxing into a serene expression. “I should have realized.”

  “Why? We don’t know each other well.”

  He forked a bit of asparagus. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Did his voice carry a hint of disappointment? Did he wish to know her better? That was absurd. He was likely courting Miss Forth-Hodges, and he was an Untouchable—in other words, there was absolutely no reason he might wish to deepen their acquaintance. He was only speaking with her because it was the polite thing to do given their proximity.

  Lindsell leaned toward her slightly. “Miss Knox, isn’t the veal delightful?”

  Chapter Three

  Dinner drew to a merciful end at last. Ned was more than eager to withdraw. He’d felt trapped next to Miss Forth-Hodges and had been grateful for Miss Knox’s presence.

  He darted a glance toward the latter young woman. Dark curls brushed her temple, and one fell behind the pale, delicate shell of her ear. The line of her jaw was graceful yet strong. He’d spent far too much time studying her tonight. He hoped no one noticed.

  His gaze traveled to his aunt across the table and up a few seats. She was watching him with interest. So much for his hope that no one had noticed.

  The women departed the dining room, leaving the men to their port. Ned didn’t particularly want to stay, but he also couldn’t very well leave. He needed to spend time talking with Mr. Forth-Hodges, just as Aunt Susannah would spend time with his wife and daughter in the drawing room. This was the second to last test. If Miss Forth-Hodges’s family met his expectations, she could move on to the final obstacle. Only one other woman had made it that far, and by that point, Ned had formed a fairly good idea of whether she would pass the final task. She hadn’t, and really, he hadn’t expected her to. In retrospect, he supposed it had been cruel to subject her to it, but it was necessary. Marriage to him would not be for the weak-willed or easily distraught.

  Before Ned could move closer to Mr. Forth-Hodges, the man stood and took the seat his daughter had vacated. A footman delivered port around the table.

  “Good
evening, my lord,” Mr. Forth-Hodges said. “I trust you had a pleasant meal. Emmaline looked to be enjoying herself.” He smiled, his jowls pulling.

  Ned picked up his glass and sipped his port. “I particularly liked the pheasant.”

  Mr. Forth-Hodges took a drink of his port and set it back on the table, though he kept his hand curled around the base of his glass. “I did too, I did too.” With his free hand, he patted his rather round midsection. “But then I’ve never met a pheasant—or cod or mutton—I didn’t like.” He laughed but quickly sobered when Ned didn’t join him. “You’re more of an athletic sort, I gather.”

  Ned inclined his head. “Yes.”

  Mr. Forth-Hodges nodded in response. “Emmaline has an excellent seat. Been riding since she was four years old. Fell off and broke her arm when she was eight. I thought her mother was going to have a fit of apoplexy.”

  Ned smiled. “Falling is part of learning to ride. I fell many times, though I was lucky not to break anything.”

  “Didn’t stop our girl, though. She got right back on her horse a few months later.” He beamed with pride.

  Ned was glad to hear that she possessed such mettle. Perhaps she would satisfy his criteria. Why then was he feeling a trifle disappointed? Because he wasn’t very enthusiastic about her, he realized. He liked her fine, but to take her to wife…to take her to bed… He didn’t feel an attraction toward her.

  “Are your other daughters as intrepid?” Ned asked. Mr. Forth-Hodges had three daughters and one son, all of whom were older than Emmaline and already married. Aunt Susannah had gathered a good deal of information at the meeting she’d attended with Mrs. Forth-Hodges earlier.

  Mr. Forth-Hodges shook his head. “No, no. Emmaline came late to us as a bit of a surprise, so she’s a good deal younger than her siblings. She’s quite independent.” He flicked Ned a worried glance, as if he might find that trait off-putting. He didn’t. In fact, he preferred a woman who would stand free of her family and would devote herself entirely to her new role as his countess. He couldn’t chance a wife whose primary fealty wasn’t to him. His life was far too complicated, and there was simply too much at risk.