Thalia had never seen anything more stunning than Vauxhall Gardens—except, perhaps, for the Duke of Westerfield adorned like a foreign king. He had come to her shop dressed in all manner of finery, each garment tailored to fit his tall, athletic form. However, she could never imagine anything like the splendor standing before her. He looked as if he had been born to wear such clothing—which, in a way, he had. The golden coat he wore clung to his chest and shoulders, the intricate beading doing nothing to detract from his potent masculinity. If anything, it was enhanced. His trousers were a loose fit in the hips, but then tapered close toward the ankles, displaying a fine set of calves.
She only briefly took in the matching slippers on his feet before jerking her gaze back upward. There had to be a law against ogling a duke’s calves. He had released her hand, but the skin of her palm still tingled from where he’d touched her. Her knuckles had warmed, as if the phantom touch of his lips had actually landed.
Her heart was lodged in her throat, making speech all but impossible. She had imagined encountering him here, of course, but Thalia hadn’t let herself get her hopes up. There were thousands of people crowding the gardens tonight. What were the chances that she would come face-to-face with him?
Thalia’s question was now answered as she sought out the mysterious dark pools of Westerfield’s eyes through the slits of his mask. Less than a half hour in the gardens, and she had found him. Or, rather, he had found her.
She cleared her throat, realizing he had asked her a question. “I … I beg your pardon?”
“Are you here alone?” he asked, that charming smile curving his lips—which she could not help but notice looked fuller and softer with the upper half of his face covered.
“I am,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “My mother has arthritic joints and would not enjoy a long promenade down these paths, and my sister has been declared too young to attend a masquerade.”
“What a shame,” he said, though his tone implicated he did not think it a shame at all. “One cannot enjoy their first evening in the gardens without a proper guide. I volunteer myself for the honor, if you will have me.”
Thalia couldn’t wipe the look of surprise off her face. “You want to … with me? I mean … I am certain there are many people here you would rather—”
“Miss Ramsey,” he cut in.
“Yes?”
“Accept my offer. I promise you an enjoyable evening.”
Recovering from her surprise, she raised an eyebrow. “Only enjoyable.”
“Fine then,” he conceded with a chuckle. “A spectacular evening.”
“I accept,” she replied.
Thalia felt as if she had fallen into some kind of dream. She was about to enjoy the beautiful and thrilling gardens on the arm of a duke.
No, not just a duke but the man of her dreams.
On any other day she might have chastised herself for such thoughts. They were not like her, and went against the rule she had set for herself. It was a very important rule, one that protected her from certain disappointment. Do Not Long For The Duke.
However, Thalia had already decided to allow herself this one evening of excitement. She’d had so few such occasions in her life. To be free from responsibility and the weight of her family’s livelihood. To enjoy herself without second thought.
Perhaps she could allow herself one night of longing, and nothing more. Whatever happened, she would cherish this night as a fond memory for the rest of her days.
It had to be enough.
“Well, come along, there is much to see.” The duke offered his arm “The first rule of a Vauxhall masquerade … never lower your mask when others can see you. It ruins the mystique of the evening.”
Thalia took his arm with one hand, while quickly raising her lorgnette with the other. She wished she had purchased a mask that tied on with ribbons, but could never wear one comfortably over her spectacles. Theo had suggested she go without them, but Thalia had wanted to enjoy the gardens with the full benefit of her eyesight. Without her glasses, the lanterns would be no more than bright smudges against the splotchy backdrop of the trees.
“Now then,” Westerfield said, deftly guiding her through and around the groups of people strolling along the paths. “First, the Prince’s Pavilion. It was built for the particular use of Fredrick, Prince of Wales.”
The duke led her past the elevated orchestra, skirting the crowd of exuberant dancers. The pavilion in question sat adjacent to the proprietor’s house, through which Thalia had entered the gardens. The white stone appeared to glow in the lamplight, its open, airy portico occupied by small clusters of people inspecting its insides. Two flights of steps faced one another over a stone archway, and Thalia held her skirts as they ascended. The portico was framed by four large columns, and several elegant chandeliers hung from its ceiling. A large door led the way into a wide drawing room, which Thalia could see was lit by a chandelier as large as the three outside fixtures combined.
“The prince and his set spent many an evening here,” Westerfield said as they approached the doors. “He held court in this very drawing room, and those who were in favor with him enjoyed wine, dinner, dancing, and of course, his illustrious company.”
“Is there no Duke’s Pavilion?” she teased.
Westerfield snorted. “No, and it surprises me. I have trouble believing that not a single duke in the history of these gardens was pompous enough to demand such a structure be built in his honor.”
“Perhaps you will be the first.”
The duke glanced at her from the corner of his eye and smirked. “That isn’t altogether a bad idea. My building would feature a library, I think. The grandest in all of London.”
Thalia gave him a quizzical look as they paused in the center of the room. Westerfield faced her, hands folded behind his back.
“Have I shocked you?” he asked.
“No … yes. I do know of your love for books, of course, but—”
“You thought a place constructed in my honor ought to be filled with tributes to my own greatness.”
“It seems the dukely thing to do.”
“Dukely?” he mused, stroking his jaw. “Is that even a word?”
“I am not certain, but it ought to be.”
With one hand hovering at her back, he steered her toward a collection of busts and objects d’art. “I think, Miss Ramsey, that you will find I am not very dukely.”
She fell silent then, uncertain of how to respond. He might not think himself much like the other peers, and Thalia could at least acknowledge that he didn’t look like any of them. But there, the differences ended as far as she was concerned. He had been born of the bluest blood in both England and India, and was as near to royalty as anyone she would ever encounter. He was far too dukely for her.
They perused the prince’s monument in comfortable silence before Westerfield led her back to the Grand Walk. He stopped a passing waiter to procure champagne for them both, and Thalia slowly sipped hers as they walked along a colonnade with pillars draped with climbing ivy and blooming summer flowers. Their perfume wafted up her nostrils, sweet and pleasant.
As they cleared the colonnade, Westerfield paused and pointed upward. “Ah, yes. A performance not to be missed.”
Thalia craned her neck to follow his gaze and gasped. Above them, a woman seemed to walk upon the air. Upon closer inspection, Thalia realized that what she witnessed was tightrope-walker. Her lips parted in wonder as she watched the woman balance on one foot, arms raised as she executed a graceful pirouette.
“Isn’t she magnificent?”
Thalia flinched at the warm current of air against her ear, Westerfield’s deep voice sending a jolt of heated electricity through her veins. She turned to find him standing close—far too close—his head lowered toward hers. Her bosom heaved with labored breath as their eyes met and the musky scent of sandalwood permeated her senses.
God, the man was beautiful … and far too charming for his own good. It was a wonder women weren’t swooning along the path with every step he took.
“Yes,” she whispered, finally finding her voice. “Magnificent.”
He turned his head to gaze up again, as if unaffected by what had just happened. “Her name is Madame Saqui. She rose to fame in France first, but has become quite popular since her Covent Garden Theatre performance last year. Her grand finale will occur when the fireworks are launched—it is quite a feat.”
They stood there for a long while, watching Madame Saqui dance upon the precarious tightrope. She procured small spheres from a pocket in her gown and juggled them while walking backwards. She pivoted without a moment’s hesitation and increased her pace while balancing a feather on her head—sending gasps rippling through the crowd below.
“What do you suppose it is like to be so extraordinarily gifted?” Thalia wondered aloud.
She hadn’t intended to voice the thought, but it had slipped off her tongue.
“Hmm,” Westerfield murmured at her side. “That is quite the question. Perhaps we might seek the lady out after her finale and ask. But, in my experience, extraordinary people rarely think themselves extraordinary. Do you think that is what makes them so special?”
Thalia inclined her head, riveted by the sight of Madame Saqui going up on the toes of one foot, while extending her opposite leg out behind her and bending at the waist until she resembled a bird at flight.
“Or,” the duke went on. “It could be a simple matter of us all being quite ordinary on the surface, with hidden depths of the exceptional inside of us. The difference between we mere mortals and those who seem to walk on air, is untapped potential.”
Thalia stared at his profile until he turned to meet her gaze.
“Too philosophical?” he asked with a wince.
She smiled. “No. It was very well said.”
The duke offered his arm again, and they continued on their way with him insisting that they’d never see it all if they didn’t keep moving. Thalia rested her hand on his sleeve and gave herself over to his guidance and expertise.
A daunting thought occurred to her as he led her to the next attraction, and it made her chest ache.
She had been infatuated with Westerfield from the start, but the chance to be alone with him in such an intimate setting left room for only one eventuality.
By the end of the night, she was destined to fall head over heels in love with the Duke of Westerfield.
She had told herself it couldn’t happen, but he was simply too much. He was too kind and attentive, too handsome and charming. Too perfect.
Thalia stood no chance.
Stephen spent the entirety of his evening delighting in Miss Ramsey’s enjoyment of the gardens. In her eyes, he saw the wonderment and awe that he himself had felt his first time walking these paths. She was so different from every other lady of his acquaintance—but then, they were from two very disparate worlds.
In his circles, women were coy and demure and never smiled with all their teeth. They didn’t laugh as freely or walk with such an ambling, purposeful stride. They were like porcelain marionette dolls, their strings manipulated by the teachings of their mothers and society at large. Thalia was the antithesis of everything he’d been taught a lady ought to be, and yet she was the most dignified, regal creature he’d ever laid eyes upon.
She had been captivated by the Rotunda, which was empty of dancers and musicians because of the fine weather. The columns and painted ceiling enclosed them as Stephen told Miss Ramsey of the circus performances and displays of horsemanship.
“The next time such an event is held, you must attend,” he said. “With a seat in the audience boxes, you can gaze down and see everything.”
Stephen grew silent then, realizing that he would very much like to be the one to escort her to such a performance. It was presumptuous of him to even think such a thing, but once the thought took root, he couldn’t pry it out of his mind. He could too easily imagine her gasping and gripping the arms of her chair as she watched daring feats of acrobatics, her smile bright and genuine.
He was a fool. Upon approaching her, Stephen had never considered that the night would take this turn. He hadn’t imagined he might find himself loath to leave her company, and craving it with an odd sort of need.
Before tonight, they’d barely known one another. After hours of roaming the gardens, Stephen had learned that Miss Ramsey took milk and lots of sugar in her tea, and that she was fond of daffodils. She preferred sunsets over sunrises, and loved a well-made, spicy curry. She had never been outside London and longed for the sights and fresh air of the sprawling country. The bookshop had been an inheritance passed down from a father who’d had no sons. Despite the insistence of her mother and several acquaintances that as a woman she was not up to the task, Miss Ramsey had kept the shop open, and it continued to flourish. Providing for a small family was her responsibility, one she took quite seriously.
At first glance, the weight on her shoulders seemed a pittance compared to all the land and people Stephen was beholden to. Yet, Thalia carried her burden with limited resources and the status of being both a blackamoor and female working against her. She was far stronger and capable than he was, yet her head was always held high and the regal dignity in her posture never diminished.
Stephen threw himself into providing an enjoyable evening for her, as she’d confided that she rarely had time for simple, frivolous fun. He walked her through the Chinese temples and arcade, then the Turkish tent—where they’d rested for a while to sample the best coffee Stephen had ever had, and an array of delectable sweets. They wandered and talked of everything and nothing at all, and Stephen was hard-pressed to remember when he’d enjoyed someone’s company more.
During their explorations, they had paused to watch the hot-air balloon ascend into the night. The gasps and exclamations of the crowd were nearly deafening, but he and Thalia merely watched the spectacle in silence.
But then, Thalia turned to him with a curious look on her face. “Have you ever done it … ascended in a balloon?”
“I have,” he replied. “At an outdoor ball my parents hosted at Westerfield Abbey in Devon years ago.”
Her lips turned up. “What was it like?”
“Bracing. Cold. Exhilarating. I could come up with fifty more adjectives and still never fully encompass the experience. It was like being outside of my body. Being so high in the air with the wind in your face … it’s one of those experiences that can make you feel larger than life, more than human.”
A wistful look overcame her face as she looked back at the floating balloon. “It sounds wonderful.”
Just then, Stephen never wanted anything more than to see Thalia step into the basket of a hot-air balloon. To witness the look on her face as it ascended, bobbing and dipping at the mercy of the wind. Perhaps he could arrange a private ascent for the two of them at the end of the night. If Thalia was going to give herself over to a night of whimsy and wonder, a balloon ascent would be the perfect cap to a lovely evening.
Keeping that thought at the back of his mind, he sought another amusement to point out—desperate to keep her in his company. They had toured most of the biggest attractions of the gardens, but Stephen would have shown her every flower, every pillar, every green leaf if it made her smile.
At last, they came upon a panorama depicting an exotic painting of an Indian temple framed by a lush pleasure garden. Stephen found himself searching for more time—one more second, another minute. He stood still once they circled to the back of the painting, the thin, painted screen shielding them from others ambling along the path. The lantern light shined through the panorama, casting its variegated colors across her face. He trembled with the desire to taste her lips—plump and sensuous and still slightly pink with rouge.
“You’re different,” he blurted aloud before thinking of his words. He had to say something to keep from hauling her into his arms. “Outside of the book shop, I mean.”
A slight smile curved one corner of her mouth as she turned to face him and lowered her mask. “I am a woman as well as a proprietor of a business. When I leave that shop, I am like any other of my sex.”
Of course she was. It was his folly that he hadn’t seen it until tonight. Stephen didn’t think he could ever look at her again without seeing just how magnificent she was.
“You are also different,” she added when he didn’t reply. “You’ve always been genial when you visit to purchase your books on Saturdays, but … tonight you seem less a duke and more a man. I suppose it is the atmosphere of the gardens.”
“No,” he insisted. “It isn’t the gardens, but rather the company. I find you easy to talk to.”
She sighed and turned away, reaching out to gently caress the petals of a flower. A green vine twined around the pillar of a faux ruin, its blossoms the same hue as her gown. “I suppose that’s because I’m not of your world. You needn’t worry about expectations or decorum, or that I might try to trap you into an unwanted marriage. There is no need to act courtly toward a woman beneath your station.”
Something in her words left a hollow feeling in Stephen’s middle. It bothered him to hear her speak that way of herself, but there was only truth in her words.
Stephen approached slowly, not wanting to frighten her. There was too much air between them, a tension created of things unsaid. Things he didn’t understand himself.
He reached over her shoulder to pluck one of the flowers from the vine, before gently gripping her shoulder to turn her back to him. Miss Ramsey’s eyes were wide and fathomless, like still waters in the dark of night. She gazed up at him with parted lips, her bodice straining with each labored breath she took.
He could hardly breathe himself, and felt as if he’d stepped outside his body. He wasn’t the Duke of Westerfield just now, but simply Stephen—a man with longings and needs that he hadn’t realized went unfulfilled.
She drew in a sharp breath when he tucked the flower into her coiffure so that it rested over one ear, just above where her hanging spiral curl fell. The thick, smoothed coils of her hair brushed his knuckles, and he wondered if her skin would feel as soft as those curls.
He couldn’t resist. Stephen smoothed his knuckles over her cheek, his fingers tingling at the revelation that her skin was like satin. He rested his palm at her jaw, unwilling to part from her just yet. It stunned him how right it felt to touch her in such a benign way. It might have been an innocent interaction, but Stephen’s blood was on fire and rushing away from his brain. The primal parts of him were coming alive now, begging for more.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, a desperate plea in her voice.
“Stephen,” he corrected with a smile. “I think it’s time you called me by my Christian name.”
Her eyes flared wide and she shook her head. “I cannot. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you just reminded me that formalities need not exist between us. We are friends of a sort now, I think. We are certainly more than acquaintances.”
And yet, a friend was the least of what he wanted to be to this woman. His head spun as he wrestled with what he felt and what it meant. He hardly knew her, but Stephen had learned enough. He had learned that Miss Ramsey was the sort of woman he felt an unusual comfort around. She was someone he didn’t have to put on airs with. Someone who could come to know the real him—the man buried beneath the necessary facade of a duke.
“You were wrong about one thing, though,” he added. “There is certainly a need to be courtly toward you, Miss Ramsey. You may not have the title of ‘lady’, but you are one in every sense of the word.”
Miss Ramsey met his gaze again, a bit of the unease in her eyes melting away. “You mustn’t toy with me, Your Grace. I am as prone to romantic whimsy as any other woman. I have needs and desires, but with a man like you I cannot allow them to override my better judgment.”
“Stephen,” he insisted, strumming his thumb along the edge of her lower lip. “And I would never toy with you.”
“No, but you could far too easily break my heart,” she murmured. “Then where will you buy your books?”
He chuckled, so thoroughly charmed by her that he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile from his face. “It is not my intention to break your heart.”
“I believe you, but I foresee it happening all the same. There could never be more than this night between us. Do you understand that?”
Stephen’s heart seemed to have stopped. He couldn’t feel his legs. What he did feel was a powerful, all-consuming surge of desire. It raced through him, filling every corner of his being until he was desperate to have her against him, her mouth fitting to his.
“Surely that isn’t true,” he said.
To his surprise, she lifted one hand and laid it on his chest. Through the heavy layers of the fabric covering him, he felt each fingerprint.
“It is,” she argued. “I know I shouldn’t allow myself to be content with that much, yet I find myself wanting it all the same.”
Was she saying what Stephen thought she was saying? There was no reticence in her gaze now; only sheer determination and resolve. He teetered on the line between decency and the urge to give in to what he truly wanted for the first time in his life. Since he’d been old enough to understand what was expected of him, Stephen had pushed all selfish urgings aside. He had thrown himself into his duty, never wanting to let his mother or father down. He lived his life with as much honor and dignity as he could, and though he was not perfect, it wasn’t often that he gave himself over to the selfishness of seizing the moment.
There had been a handful of women over the years—widows and actresses and the like. His affairs with them had been short-lived and free of scandal or complication. Each of them had been treated well, and had entered into such arrangements with an understanding of who he was and what their connection would entail.
This was something entirely different. It was mad and perhaps a bit foolish, but Stephen had never wanted anything more in his life.
“I know how you feel,” he rasped, feeling as if a stone had lodged itself in his throat. “I shouldn’t allow you offer me even that much, but I cannot deny what I want … and what I want is you.”
Miss Ramsey closed her eyes, her free hand resting over the one he held against her cheek. “Then we are agreed. One night only.”
Stephen wanted to insist that they could have more. Perhaps from her perspective that seemed impossible, but Stephen was accustomed to the privilege that allowed him to do whatever he wished. However, somewhere deep inside he knew that if he pressed her, Miss Ramsey would flee. The last thing he wanted was to watch her walk away. Perhaps if he agreed now, he could convince her later that he was willing and able to give her far more than the limits she had imposed.
Stephen lowered his head until his brow rested against hers. He closed his eyes and took in her scent—clean and simple, intertwined with the softest hint of orange blossoms.
“I agree,” he said, tilting her head back so that her mouth was offered to him at the perfect angle. “One night only. But first … you must stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ If we are to have one night, then you will have it with Stephen … not the Duke of Westerfield.”
Her eyelids were lowered and heavy, her mouth a tempting pucker, his for the taking. “Very well.”
Stroking the seam of her lips with his thumb, he smirked. “I’m waiting, Miss Ramsey. And while you’re at it, perhaps you might give me the honor of your given name. I can hardly go on calling you Miss Ramsey for the rest of the evening.”
She grinned. “Thalia … my name is Thalia.”
The perfect name for her. It rang like a heartbeat, steady and beautiful and life-affirming.
“Thalia,” he repeated. “It suits you. Now, it’s your turn. Say my name.”
Her breath hitched as she swayed into him, both hands now seeking support against his chest. “Stephen,” she breathed, with a small sound of surrender from the back of her throat.
Stephen lost what was left of his control at that single utterance of his name. Wrapping one arm around Thalia, he drew her tight against him and took her mouth in a desperate, ravaging kiss.