At the Duke’s Pleasure Read Free Page B

That or foolish, since in spite of his admiration for their choices of bride, he didn’t know if he cared for the idea of ever letting himself be so completely vulnerable to another person. Of opening his heart and mind to someone else and giving her that kind of power over him.
    Then too was the unassailable fact that out of the literally hundreds of women he’d met over the years—and the more exclusive number with whom he’d chosen to be intimate—he’d never met a woman he couldn’t walk away from. A woman he couldn’t easily forget.
    No, since his title required him to take a bride, he reasoned she might as well be Lady Claire. It’s what his father had wished. What her father still wished. And what duty demanded.
    As for Claire herself, he didn’t think it was conceit that led him to believe she’d always liked him. Based on her clear affection for him as a child, as well as the rapt glances she’d given him the last time they’d met, she should be ready, even eager, for the long-awaited match.
    Drawing his horses to a stop in front of the earl’s sprawling Tudor mansion, he realized he would very shortly find out.
     

    “He’s here, he’s here!” Claire heard Nan exclaim, as her sister hurried into her bedchamber in a breathless rush. Ella followed at a far more demure pace, although her face shared Nan’s excitement.
    “The duke’s in with Papa now,” Nan continued. “Mama says you’re to come down to the drawing room as soon as may be, so as not to keep him waiting.”
    No , Claire mused wryly, as she returned to gazing out of her window. Heaven forbid we should keep His Grace waiting. After all, he is the only one permitted that particular luxury.
    But she hadn’t needed Nan to inform her of his arrival. She’d been standing at the window when he’d alighted from his curricle. Her pulse had pounded at the sight of him, unable to help but notice, even from a distance, that he looked every inch as tall, dark and urbane as ever. The past five years had done nothing to lessen his devastating good looks. If anything, they appeared to have improved upon them. But she supposed she would have to verify that for herself once the two of them were standing in the same room together again.
    She smoothed a hand over one of her best gowns—a long-sleeved, pale blue velveteen with navy ribbons at the high, empire waist and lace on the cuffs and collar. Then, taking a deep inhalation, she turned from the window. “Wish me luck.”
    Both girls smiled and moved to give her a hug. “Luck!” they called.
    But somehow, as she left her sisters behind and descended the staircase, she didn’t think the nature of their wishes was quite the same as her own.
    Inside the drawing room fifteen minutes later, she was listening with only half an ear to her mother’s harmless chatter when the duke appeared in the doorway. Thankfully, she was already seated, otherwise, she feared her knees might have betrayed her. With her heart beating fast and her stomach quivering, she glanced up and met his intense midnight blue gaze.
    As she had suspected earlier when she’d glimpsed him through her bedroom window, Edward Byron was still the handsomest man she’d ever met. His face appeared as though it had been sculpted by a master’s hand, with a smooth forehead, straight nose and elegant cheekbones that tapered down to a strong, square, almost rugged jawline and chin. His lips were nicely angled as well and utterly masculine—the lower one slightly fuller than the top, with a tilt that was devastating when he smiled.
    His hair grew thick and dark as rich mahogany wood, while his brows lay like heavy slashes over his penetrating eyes—giving him an appearance that was either fierce or kind depending upon his mood. As for his physique, he was blessed with broad shoulders, a strong chest and long, well-muscled arms and legs.
    Yet it was the way he held himself that gave him a distinguished air. It’s what came of being a