Scandalous Love Read Free Page B

glimpse the
illustrious guest of honor. She discerned only a tall, powerful figure in ebony
tails, a black cloak swirling about his shoulders, lined in crimson, as he
alighted. He had chosen not to come in costume, she noted, and there was no
Duchess in tow.
    She was helped from the
carriage and hurried up the steps toward the bright lights of the mansion. The
front doors were open, and a liveried servant took her cloak, not blinking once
at her attire. She followed a footman to the entrance of the ballroom, her
heart beginning to pound. When he asked for her name, she gave it
automatically.
    For just a moment, she
recalled too many soirees, and too many failures. For just a moment, the daring
side of her retreated, and she felt frightened.
    She paused behind the
Duke while he was announced. He was even taller than she had guessed, nearly
half a foot taller than she, with massively broad shoulders. His hair was too
long to be fashionable, as if he were too busy to bother with a barber. It was
a dark, tawny color, and even in the interior lighting, she could see that it
was heavily sun-streaked, as if he spent most of his time out of doors.
    "Hadrian
Braxton-Lowell, the ninth Duke of Clayborough," the butler intoned. A long
string of the Duke's various other titles followed.
    The Duke paused, his
posture impatient and careless, but the butler had barely finished the
introduction before he was striding down the steps into the ballroom. Nicole
moved forward, watching him as a splendidly attired woman, clearly the hostess,
greeted him.
    "Lady Nicole Bragg
Shelton," the butler was saying.
    Nicole did not hear him.
Her heart was in her throat. She was suddenly overwhelmingly conscious of her
bare legs and bare feet. She felt as if the entire crowd was staring at her,
which they were, of course, because she had just been announced and, that,
right after the Duke. A hush fell upon the crowd, and she prayed it was because
of the Duke and not because of her appearance at this masque.
    But he, too, turned and
stared at her.
    Nicole held her head
high. Barefoot, as a true gypsy would be, bangles on her arms, her hair flowing
to her waist, her skirts swirling above her calves, she gracefully descended
the stairs. People started to whisper. Nicole had an awful feeling that they
were talking about her.
    She had been right, she
should never have come. No one had forgotten, and her costume was too daring
even for a masque.
    Unfortunately she
glimpsed Stacy Worthington standing in front of the crowd, clad in a white
Regency gown, a perfectly proper kind of costume. Stacy wasn't on her ear. She
was smirking.
    Nicole forgot all about
Stacy Worthington. The Duke was staring at her. He took her breath away.
Somehow, she moved toward her hostess without falling dead away into a faint.
"Lady Adderly," she murmured, curtsying.
    The Viscountess blinked
at her. Nicole felt the Duke's eyes burning on her. "Oh, yes, Lady
Shelton, how good of you to come. And what a ... charming ... costume."
    Nicole could not smile,
she still could not breathe. But she was not sure whether it was because she
was still being gawked at by a hundred guests, or whether it was because he
stood so close beside her she fantasized she could feel the heat of his powerful
body. "Thank you," she murmured.
    "A magnificent
costume," the Duke said, his voice carrying without any apparent effort on
his behalf.
    Nicole whirled and met
his eyes. The floor seemed to drop out from under her feet.
    He was handsome.
Devastatingly handsome, devastatingly male. He nearly dwarfed her. His dark
eyes seemed to command hers, and she was held enthralled in his power.
"You are unique, Lady Shelton," he said abruptly, his gaze slipping
down her body. "And I, for one, find it refreshing."
    Just as abruptly, he
turned his back on her, n odded
to his hostess and strode off, leaving the two women standing there alone.
    "Unique," Lady
Adderly said, as if she could not believe it.
    Nicole's heart started
to