The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables Book 2) Read online

  She tamped down a scowl, suddenly annoyed anew at her predicament, which was silly since she’d abandoned the idea of marriage. A choice she didn’t regret in the slightest.

  She gestured to her costume and the sideburns stuck to her face, currently making her itch. “Would I be doing this if it were?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it is possible, but you don’t wish to marry, so you choose this instead.”

  That actually summed up her current attitude quite accurately. She would choose this over marriage. “As it happens, I don’t wish to marry.”

  “Indeed?” He cocked his head to the side. “How surprising. We are alike, then, because I don’t wish to marry either. Some distant cousin will need to inherit the title.”

  She wanted to ask why but didn’t. That would encourage him to ask her the same, and she had no intention of explaining that to him. Besides, it was best if they didn’t become too…close. This was a necessary partnership, but they weren’t going to be lifelong friends.

  “Are those comfortable?” He reached out with his fingertips and brushed the sideburn glued along her right jawline.

  She ignored the frisson of delight that sparked down her neck. “Not particularly. In fact, I’d like a few days to recover from wearing them.”

  “I should like to see you without them.” His dark gaze penetrated through her carefully constructed wall, and his deep voice shot straight into her chest, stirring the inconvenient attraction she felt toward him.

  Her breath caught. “I doubt you ever will.”

  His mouth ticked up in a half smile. “Don’t tease me. Please. Not when I’ve been so helpful. Think of all you won tonight.”

  All she’d won. It wasn’t just the money. Not to her. She’d won respect with her shooting, even if she couldn’t tell them she was a woman.

  She took a step back, determined to put space between herself and this suddenly dangerous man. “I appreciate your help, but I won’t share credit for my winnings. They are mine alone.”

  He gave a slight bow. “My apologies,” he murmured.

  “I’ll see you in a few days.” She turned from him.

  “Not if I see you first,” he said.

  She looked back over her shoulder to see him smiling. “Don’t forget my hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “I would never. I’ll be looking for you, Miss Parnell. Good evening.” He touched the brim of his hat and strolled away down the street.

  Lucy hurried down the servants’ stairs into the scullery, where her maid was waiting. She doubted she’d see him—she’d gone five years in London without encountering him before. And yet, a small part of her couldn’t help but anticipate the possibility.

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, Andrew drove his barouche west from London. He carried three other gentlemen: Charles, Beaumont, and Lord Thursby.

  “Faster!” Charles called from the rear of the vehicle as soon as they left the traffic of the city.

  Andrew grinned, more than happy to oblige. He urged the horses to a greater speed, their hooves pounding the road on the way to Westbourne. The day was cool but dry. The feel of the brisk air against his face was exhilarating. It was moments like these that made his life palatable. Worthwhile, even.

  The memory of the first time he’d ridden so fast that he’d nearly lost control assaulted him. Sometimes that happened when he drove—he’d relax and the old thoughts and dark emotions swelled inside him until he could feel the loss of his family anew. Especially the most agonizing—the last one to die, his beloved brother. After weeks of harrowing illness during which each one had been stricken and taken from him, Andrew hadn’t had any tears left to shed. So he’d climbed on his horse and ridden as fast as he could. He’d ridden as if he could overtake death and bring Bertie back. But he couldn’t.

  Realizing his hold on the reins was far too tight, Andrew forced himself to release the tension burrowing through him. He shoved the bitter memories to the recesses of his soul, to where they festered and ate at him, but where he could ignore them for the most part.

  He drove the team faster, aware that a corner was coming. He didn’t slow. He heard an intake of breath behind him. Beaumont probably. He didn’t like to go quite as fast as the rest of them. Thursby was a member of the Four Horse Club along with Andrew, while Charles was hoping to gain membership. That was, in fact, the purpose of their endeavor today. Charles was going to practice so that he might finally be invited to join.

  Andrew took the corner without slowing. The barouche tilted, but the wheels never left the ground, and the horses were confident, eager even, under Andrew’s hand.

  “Hell’s teeth, man!” Beaumont exclaimed. “Are you trying to kill us all?”

  Thursby, a convivial gent nearly ten years older than Andrew’s twenty-nine years, laughed and looked back over his shoulder. “You’re in excellent hands with Dart.”

  Andrew slowed the horses as they reached Westbourne. “It’s time for Charles to take his turn anyway.”

  “Heaven help me,” Beaumont said. “He’s nowhere near as skilled as you.”

  “There’s no call to be an arse,” Charles said. “I’ve become quite good.”

  Andrew wasn’t certain he’d term Charles’s abilities as “quite good,” but they were more than adequate. The question was whether he’d be good enough for the Four Horse Club, and it would be up to him and Thursby to recommend him. So far, they hadn’t felt comfortable doing so. It was a select and prestigious group, and its members had to demonstrate superior skill.

  Andrew pulled into the park and drew the team to a halt.

  “I thought you might invite your new friend, Smitty,” Beaumont observed.

  Andrew turned his head. “And where would s—he have sat?” Damn, he’d almost referred to her as a she.

  “I heard he’s quite the sharpshooter,” Charles said to Andrew. “We should meet at Manton’s one day. I’ll wager you can hit more targets than him.”

  A thought occurred to Andrew. If Miss Parnell came along with him to a few events such as a phaeton race or shooting practice, she could wager without the danger of the hells. There was still a risk that her identity would be exposed, but she was awfully good at her disguise. It was something to consider. He’d ask her about it at their next appointment or perhaps earlier if he managed to see her.

  He hoped it was the latter. The desire to see her dressed as a woman had become a fascination. Last night, he’d dreamt of her without the sideburns. He envisioned her with dark blonde hair, rich and thick like honey. She possessed a trim waist with a supple curve to her hips. In the dream, he’d started to remove her clothing, but he’d awakened before he could see what was underneath.

  “Are you ready to switch?” Charles asked, jolting Andrew from his reverie.

  “Yes.” He leapt out of the barouche to check the horses while Charles moved to the driver’s seat. Thursby climbed to the backseat, which Charles had vacated. After surveying his team, Andrew took Thursby’s place beside Charles. “I think I shall attend Lady Colne’s ball tonight. Anyone else going?”

  Charles turned his head and stared at him. “You’re going to a ball? Why?”

  Beaumont sat forward, his fair brows drawn into a knot. “Yes, why?”

  Thursby, the only married one among them, chuckled. “Perhaps Dart has decided it’s time to do his duty. We all get there eventually.” He’d wed just three years ago, so he spoke from experience.

  Andrew shuddered. “Marriage is not my plan, gents, rest assured. It’s just been a while, and you know me, I like to do a little bit of everything.” In truth, he hoped to encounter Miss Parnell. His curiosity was quite simply getting the best of him.

  “This is true,” Charles said, nodding. “How goes your plan for ballooning?”

  Flying was Andrew’s newest scheme. That distant memory assailed him again. Bertie’s feeble voice telling Andrew not to worry, that he would soon get to fly—with the angels. Bertie had been obsessed wit
h flying, saying he longed to be a bird and soar high above the trees. Andrew meant to do it for him.

  “I’ve corresponded with Sadler, and we’re finalizing plans for his ascension next week.” James Sadler was the leading aeronaut in England, a brilliant fellow who was as much an inventor as a balloonist. He had an exhibition scheduled from Burlington House and had agreed to take Andrew with him for a fee, which Andrew had willingly paid. He looked up at the sky, clotted with gray-white clouds, and imagined the sensation of being up there, of looking down at everything in miniature detail.

  “Damn me,” Beaumont said, whistling. “You couldn’t pay me to do that, and I certainly wouldn’t pay for the chance!”

  “I don’t know. It might be fun.” Charles grinned at his passengers and rubbed his hands together. “Everyone ready?”

  “Remember to focus on the corners,” Andrew said. “And watch your grip. My team is sensitive. They won’t like it if you’re too heavy-handed.”

  Charles nodded. “I appreciate you allowing me to practice with them.”

  They started out slowly, with Charles steadily increasing their speed. His skill had improved, and Andrew began to think they could perhaps finally recommend him. The breeze whipped over them, bringing that sense of freedom and abandon that Andrew loved. The first turn approached.

  “Lean into the curve,” Andrew said. “Keep your grip firm.”

  Charles drove faster, and Andrew’s assessment faltered. “Careful,” he warned.

  But Charles didn’t slow, and when they reached the turn, the barouche tilted.

  Andrew grabbed the side of the vehicle and prayed it wouldn’t overturn. With his other hand, he reached out and grabbed at the reins. “Charles!”

  Charles dipped to the side but didn’t relinquish the reins. Andrew lurched forward and snatched them from his friend, whose grip was hard and fast.

  “Charles, the horses!” Andrew called.

  Charles let go at last, then tumbled from the side of the barouche.

  “Bloody hell!” Beaumont cried.

  Andrew steered the horses to slow and finally stop. “I need to check the team,” he said, climbing down. “You see about Charles.”

  Thursby jumped down. “He looks to be standing up.” He and Beaumont hurried to Charles, while Andrew spoke softly to his horses. They were a magnificent team and seemed none the worse for Charles’s carelessness.

  The trio returned to the barouche before Andrew could make his way to them.

  Charles’s coat was torn, and there was a hole in his breeches. His head hung at a sheepish angle, and his face was bright red, probably as much from embarrassment as exertion. “My apologies, Dart. I thought I had it.”

  “You did well until the turn.”

  “I’m afraid I became cocky.” He winced. “Are the horses all right?”

  Andrew buried his annoyance since there was no lasting harm done. “They’re fine. I’m sorry to say you’re going to need a little more practice. You need to work on your turning technique before you add in the speed.”

  Charles nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

  Andrew glanced down at Charles’s rumpled form. “You all right?”

  “I am. Knee’s a bit beaten up, I think.” He gestured to the hole above his boot, where blood trickled over the fabric of his breeches.

  Andrew gave one of the horses a final pat. “Let’s get back to town, then. I’ll drive,” he said wryly, provoking laughter from Thursby and Beaumont and even a smile from Charles.

  Once they were on their way, Thursby turned his head toward Andrew. “I’ll be at Lady Colne’s this evening. It will be a pleasure to see you there. Perhaps you’ll join me at hazard.”

  Mention of gaming brought Miss Parnell to mind once more. But then it seemed she was never terribly far away. This was a new sensation, this interest in a woman, but then he enjoyed her company as much as any of his acquaintances’. She was a welcome change to his routine, another adventure he could claim.

  Going back to Thursby’s invitation, if Miss Parnell wasn’t there, gambling would be his only interest. “I may just do that.”

  If she were there, however, would he dance with her or merely satisfy his desperate curiosity?

  Thursby looked at him askance. “If you change your mind about venturing onto the Marriage Mart, there’s quite a good crop this year. Holborn’s daughter is lovely but seems a bit fast.”

  This aroused laughter from everyone.

  Beaumont leaned forward from the back. “Said a reformed rake for whom ‘fast’ was merely his behavior before sundown.”

  “Yes, well, reformation happens to all of us at some point, if we’re lucky,” Thursby said tersely. “As I was saying, there are young ladies that may be worth your time to know. Miss Emmaline Forth-Hodges is bound to make an excellent match, or so my wife says.”

  “Sutton’s interested in her,” Charles said.

  Beaumont snorted. “Bah, that won’t go anywhere. Sutton doesn’t really want to marry.”

  “Or perhaps he’s just exceptionally selective.”

  Andrew smiled at their banter. He knew Sutton vaguely. He had a bit of a reputation for disappointing young women. He showed interest, but when it seemed a formal courtship was imminent, he backed away. One might expect that young ladies would stop showing him favor, but he was still a wealthy earl with multiple estates. Women would be drawn to him until he ceased to draw breath.

  Which was why Andrew generally avoided things like balls, for he was also a wealthy earl—although he had just one estate. “You can stop suggesting marriageable women, Thursby. As I said, I’ve no plans to take a wife.”

  Just as he had no plans to reform. Not that he was a rake as Thursby had been, but he liked his carefree lifestyle and had no desire to alter it. Especially for a wife or a family. The mere thought of those things summoned those torturous memories he preferred to keep buried. Families meant love. Love meant pain. And he’d endured enough pain for his entire lifetime, however long it lasted.

  Lucy walked into Lady Satterfield’s drawing room that afternoon at her grandmother’s side. Grandmama’s hip was bothering her today, so she’d decided to use her cane, which she did from time to time.

  “I’ll find you a chair, Grandmama,” Lucy said, glancing around the room. She’d been to Satterfield House on several occasions, but this was only her second visit this Season. The first had been Lady Satterfield’s annual ball, which was the first grand event each Season. That was when Lucy’s dearest friend, Aquilla Knox, had become Lady Satterfield’s ward.

  “Over there will be just fine.” Grandmama indicated a pale blue settee that would afford a view of the door to see who came and went as well as the tall windows that faced the street.

  Lady Satterfield sailed toward them. She was tall, her hair still dark though she was in her fifties. She smiled warmly. “Lady Parnell, it’s a pleasure to see you. And Miss Parnell, you look lovely. I’m delighted you could both join us today.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I appreciate all the kindness you’ve shown Aquilla.” Lucy wanted to ask where she was but didn’t wish to appear rude.

  “Oh, I adore Aquilla. It’s been a joy having her here with us this Season.”

  Lucy knew Aquilla felt the same way—they corresponded nearly every day. Aquilla had only come to London to visit Lucy for a short time. Her parents weren’t giving her any more Seasons, since her last four had been utter failures.

  Fortunately, however, Lucy, Aquilla, and their friend Ivy had met Lady Satterfield’s stepdaughter-in-law, the Duchess of Kendal, at the ball, and she’d taken an instant liking to them. Upon hearing that Aquilla had to return to the country with her parents, the Duchess of Kendal had invited her to spend the Season with her. Five years ago, Lady Satterfield had sponsored her in just such a fashion, and she’d wanted to perform the same kindness for someone else. As it happened, however, Lady Satterfield had ended up being Aquilla’s sponsor, an arrangement that suited everyone mar
velously.

  “I just need to see Grandmama to the settee,” Lucy said to the countess.

  “Of course.” Lady Satterfield stepped aside so that Lucy and her grandmother could move farther into the room.

  Lucy took her grandmother’s cane once she was seated and rested it against the edge of the settee. When she looked up, Aquilla was coming toward her, a bright smile lighting her face. But then Aquilla was usually smiling. Lucy believed it was her God-given mission to bring light and grace to those who needed it most.

  “Lucy!” Aquilla took her hand and squeezed it, then dropped down next to Lucy’s grandmother. “Grandmama, you look lovely in that shade of blue.” She pressed a kiss to the older woman’s cheek. She’d spent enough time with Lucy over the past five years to count herself as a member of their tiny family.

  Grandmama patted Aquilla’s knee. “You’re such a good girl, my dear. How are you enjoying being Lady Satterfield’s ward?”

  “It’s ever so wonderful.” She beamed at them. “I’ve never been to so many balls, and Lady Satterfield loves to shop. I must admit I’ve developed quite a fondness for it.”

  Lucy was glad. Aquilla deserved to be happy.

  Grandmama’s gaze focused near the doorway. One of her friends had just arrived. “Agatha is here. You two take yourselves off and talk of fripperies and dance partners.” She waved them away.

  Aquilla laughed softly. “Yes, Grandmama.” She stood and linked her arm with Lucy’s, and they walked toward the windows.

  Lucy eyed her friend’s yellow frock. “Is that another new gown?”

  Aquilla smoothed her hand over the top of her skirt. “Yes, do you like it? Lady Satterfield has been far too generous. My mother would suffer an apoplectic fit.” Because she’d never wanted to invest too much in Aquilla, particularly after her first Season had been such a disappointment. Aquilla was very pretty, with dark, curly hair and vivid blue eyes, but she liked to talk—so much so that by the middle of that first Season, she’d become a wallflower. Right alongside Lucy, who had developed a similar reputation. Not for the quantity of her speech, but for the brashness of it. Lucy had learned to curb her tongue—somewhat—in the intervening years, but the damage had been done. As a result, both she and Aquilla were firmly on the shelf.