Whatever confusion Eleanor had felt on seeing Mr. Knight dissipated. He despised her…no, Madeline…and Madeline hadn’t given her instructions on how to handle him. Madeline had only said that they should switch places, that Eleanor should masquerade as the duchess, and that Eleanor should stall him until Madeline could arrive and straighten out this infernal mess her father, the duke, had created.
At the time, Eleanor had thought it a foolish idea. Now she knew it was, for she hadn’t the slightest idea how to handle Mr. Knight.
Picking up the book, he looked at the title. “Robinson Crusoe. One of my favorite books, also. In fact, this is my copy.” He ran his long finger down the leather spine. “It’s good to know we have something in common.”
She wanted nothing in common with this man.
And she worried that he knew it, for he observed her, a cool and handsome man with far too much poise.
Finally, she clasped her hands together at her waist, and by some effort of will managed not to nervously twist her fingers. “I don’t believe that you’ve looked forward to meeting me for a long time. You didn’t even know of my existence a month ago.”
“But I did. I’ve known of your existence for over eight years, ever since my man of business returned to Boston from England and told me that the duke of Magnus had been blessed with a daughter. A most beautiful daughter.” He placed the book back on the shelf, and he didn’t need the stool. “My man of business did not exaggerate.”
Disconcerted, Eleanor said, “Well…thank you.” Although he was speaking of Madeline, he was looking at her. She knew, without conceit, that she was attractive. One less-than-honorable Englishman, who’d seen an opportunity to seduce a pretty girl, had told her she was more handsome than her cousin. But when Mr. Knight gazed at her, that tiny flame his touch had ignited spread through her veins.
That flame, and the attendant warmth, were bad things. Very bad things.
Then he took her arm, cupping her elbow and leading her inexorably toward the small sofa.
How did such a small contact make her feel that this man would sweep everything before him in his determination to possess her?
He seated her, and as he withdrew his hand, she was relieved—and worried. Because if Mr. Knight was as ruthless as she suspected, Madeline had no chance against him.
But Madeline had given Eleanor some advice. She had said, Whenever you are in doubt, think, What would Madeline do in this situation? And do it.
Madeline would attempt to take charge. So would Eleanor. “Why would you investigate my family?”
“Because I need a wife.”
And there it was. The crux of the matter, the reason Madeline had determined to come to London. Because her father, the duke of Magnus, an inveterate gambler, careless and charming, had wagered Madeline’s hand in marriage against Mr. Knight’s fortune, and His Grace had lost.
“I imagine you were quite surprised when your father told you you were betrothed.” Mr. Knight circled the sofa like a panther circling for the kill.
“To me.”
Eleanor weighed her words carefully. “I had not imagined a betrothal of any kind.”
“Why not?” Mr. Knight purred like a huge cat as it toyed with its prey. “You’re a wealthy young woman with an exalted title. Surely it must have occurred to you you would have to wed.”
“The duchess does not have to wed,” Eleanor said with an echo of Madeline’s haughtiness. “She makes her own decisions.”
“Not any more.” That smile, the one that made him look like a dark angel, hovered on his lips. “The duchess has me to make those decisions for her.”
No. No, this match would never do. This man would make Madeline miserable with his cool assumption of authority and that scorn, which underlay his every word. And Madeline, Eleanor knew, loved another. Mr. Knight would not tolerate that misplaced affection lightly.
“I can imagine how you feel, coming into my house under such circumstances.” Mr. Knight’s gaze flicked about the room. “I had expected your father would travel with you.”
“No, the duke is off on his own errands.” Or so Eleanor suspected. And if those errands included gambling away the last precious remnant of his daughter’s inheritance, what did he care? The duke of Magnus was a careless man, inconsiderate of his own daughter’s health and well-being—and that was why Eleanor found herself here, in Mr. Knight’s possession, pretending to be someone she was not.
Glancing up at the prowling Mr. Knight, she wanted to be anywhere but here. When she’d traveled the Continent with Madeline, she’d occasionally found herself in difficult situations. French soldiers had threatened them. Avalanches had almost sent them careening down the Alps. Worst of all, there had been that imprisonment in the harem in Turkey, surrounded by eunuchs and concubines and every sort of dissipation, while she’d wondered if they would ever escape. They had done better than that; Madeline had made so much trouble they’d been escorted out of the country.
But none of those situations had held the terrors that being here, alone, with Mr. Knight, held for Eleanor.
“Why…the duchess?” she asked. “Why this family, specifically? What were you thinking?”
“The future duchess has holdings all over Britain, and a great personal fortune. What was I thinking? I was thinking I would win her. I was thinking I would wed her. I would control her vast fortune and be the father of her large brood of children.” Mr. Knight smiled, a slight upturn of his lips, but his eyes warmed not at all. “Who wouldn’t covet the position of husband to one of England’s richest women?”
He sounded absolutely reasonable, and of course men wanted to marry Madeline for just those reasons. But there was something about Mr. Knight…the glint in his eyes, the insolent way he stood, the faint half-smile…that made Eleanor think he was lying.
In a tone that ridiculed, he asked, “Yet I must ask why we’re speaking of the duchess in third person, as if you aren’t here.”
She swallowed. Had she, in her ineptitude, divulged the truth already?
But if she had, he gave no real indication. At the rap on the door, he said, “I believe Bridgeport has brought our tea.”
Followed by a maid, the butler walked in, as proper and unobtrusive as he had been before. He placed the tea tray before her.
“Thank you, Bridgeport,” she murmured.
The maid placed a tray of cakes and sandwiches beside that.
“Thank you,” Eleanor said again.
The girl was an adolescent, new and raw, and wanted to know what Mr. Knight’s future bride looked like, so she ogled Eleanor as if she had never before seen an aristocrat. Eleanor had witnessed that kind of open examination before, but only toward Madeline. Eleanor had always before been hidden in the corner, the invisible companion.
Bridgeport was about to remonstrate when, with crushing authority, Mr. Knight said, “Milly, that will do.”
The maid jumped, cast him a frightened glance, curtsied and scurried from the room.
Bridgeport bowed, then in ponderous steps left and shut the door behind them. Shut Eleanor in with Mr. Knight.
Eleanor’s gaze lingered on the closed door. “You didn’t need to frighten her.”
He stood on the fringe of the carpet, a tall, broad gentleman who dominated the room without effort. “She was making you uncomfortable.”
That startled Eleanor. Of course it was true, but how had he pierced her serene facade?
More important, why had he taken the trouble to do so?
“I take sugar, no cream,” Mr. Knight advised.
Eleanor considered the plump china pot, decorated with porcelain blue flowers, a faint gasp of steam slipping from its spout. Two matching cups with their saucers had been placed on doilies beside the pot. The tray was everything that was civilized and normal. Furthermore, she poured tea on a regular basis. Madeline didn’t care to, while Eleanor found comfort in the scent, the warmth, the routine. But right now, with all of Mr. Knight’s attention focused on her, the task became an ordeal. The pot seemed to weigh too much. The cup rattled in the saucer as she picked it up. She tilted the pot, aimed the spout toward the cup—
And in that same, smiling, deceptively pleasant voice, Mr. Knight said, “I like having a duchess wait on me.”
Both of Eleanor’s hands shook. The hot liquid splashed on her fingers. She dropped the cup. As she reached for it, it shattered against the table. A shard jabbed into her palm.
She yanked her hand back and closed her fingers.
In a rush, he came and knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She was embarrassed. She cultivated the graceful moves of a lady for a reason. She hated making a spectacle of herself—and now her nerves had betrayed her. “Please, Mr. Knight, stand up.”
For all the notice he took of her, she might not have spoken. Turning her hand to the light, he at once detected the slight cut beneath her little finger, oozing a sullen drop of scarlet blood. “You’ve cut yourself.”
“Only a little.” She tried to tug her hand back. “I was clumsy. I broke your beautiful cup.”
“To hell with the cup.” He pressed his finger lightly on the cut.
She winced.
“You’re lucky. There’s nothing in there.” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he sucked the small wound.
Shocked, she stared at him. His head bent over her hand, his chiseled features were intent, serious. His mouth was warm, wet, and the suction he used made her feel…odd. More animal than human, pain and intimacy mixing…never, ever had a man’s mouth touched her on any part, in any way. How, after so short a time, with all the accoutrements of culture around her, had she come to such a pass in Mr. Knight’s drawing room?
Glancing up, he caught her looking at him. “What? Do I scandalize you?”
Did he really not realize? Was she expected to explain the matter to him? But no. She couldn’t do that. So she grasped at the least of his sins. “Hell.”
His frozen blue eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You said hell. You said, ‘To hell with the cup.’ You’re an American. You’re ignorant. Here in England, one doesn’t swear in mixed company.”
He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. More of a snort or a bark, unwilling and involuntary. But it was genuine, and for the first time, his eyes warmed. “I shall teach you to swear.”
“No, sir, you will not!” But she didn’t know if she was replying to his words or his actions. “If you continue to curse in society, you’ll find you’re welcome in none of the best homes.”
“There you’re wrong.” Pulling out his pristine white handkerchief, he wound it around her hand and tied it securely. “As long as I am well dressed, wealthy, and betrothed to the future duchess of Magnus, I’m welcome everywhere. Even sought after. I am, in fact, an original.”
“Oh…no.”
“You sound dismayed. Don’t you want me to be acceptable?”
Naturally, she didn’t want him to be acceptable, to know that the English hostesses were unable to see beneath the surface of his handsome features and wealth to the dangerous beast beneath. But she couldn’t admit to such unkind contemplations, so without looking him in the eye, she said, “It’s not that. It’s that when the best hostesses pluck someone to be their new original, they can sometimes drop him as swiftly.”
“I hold in my palm a guarantee they will not.” Lifting her hand to his again, he pressed his lips to the back of her fingers.
This was awful! Awful that he flirted with her. Awful that she relished his attentions. “I wish you wouldn’t…court me. It makes me uncomfortable.”
Taking no notice of her appeal, he remained on his knees before her. In a voice both low and curious, he said, “You’re not what I expected.”
“No,” she whispered. “I suppose I’m not.”
Time seemed to slow and stretch. He observed her with intensity, as if she were a songbird he had trapped and would cage forever.
Yet she wasn’t the duchess, she was a poor relation who lived in the shadow of her strong-willed cousin and was happy there.
His tone was seductive, his words prosaic. “I had my men bring your luggage in.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Then, desperate to get away from him, she scooted back along the seat. “In? Here? Into your house?” He retained her hand, and because he did, it seemed as if she dragged him onto the sofa beside her.
Nothing was further from the truth, of course. She could never budge this man without his assent.
“Of course, into my house.” He sounded mildly surprised.
“Why?” Merciful heavens, why? What was he expecting of her? Or, more precisely, what was he expecting to do to her?
“Where else would you stay?”
“I…we have a town house in Chesterfield Street.”
“You misunderstand. Now that you’re here, you cannot leave.” He leaned close and whispered, “My future wife stays in my house—with me.”