Awakening The Duchess

He sent the young beauty a silent apology for what he was about to do and hoped that she would not just forgive him, but would also play along.

‘Arabella has probably already told you all about me, but allow me to formally introduce myself,’ he said, still clasping the American’s hand. ‘I’m Oliver Huntsbury, the Duke of Somerfeld.’

‘A duke? Well, well, a duke,’ Mr van Haven purred, his piercing eyes boring into Oliver’s. ‘My daughter really has made a good catch. We’d better be careful to make sure you don’t get off the hook. So, are you going to introduce us to your friends?’

They both looked towards the menacing presence looming at the door.

Friends? That was an exaggeration if ever Oliver had heard one. ‘Yes, of course. May I introduce Lord Bufford and his associates: Joe Butcher, Frank Thugger, Arthur Scarmaker, and Fred Killerman.’

Mr van Haven nodded a greeting, but got a line of scowling black looks in response. Perhaps Lord Bufford’s associates didn’t like the names he had assigned them, but at least they had the decency to hide their weapons behind their backs.

‘Lord Bufford is Lady Bufford’s husband,’ Oliver continued, looking in Arabella’s direction and giving her his most beseeching smile. She might not be Lucy Baker, but he could only hope she was as equally good an actress and would indulge in a bit of improvisation.

‘Lady Bufford and Arabella are the best of friends,’ he continued, turning to Lord Bufford. ‘The two of them have spent many an evening together, gossiping the night away. I’ve felt quite neglected, I must say.’

‘We have?’ the American beauty asked. He sent her another pleading look and tilted his head in the direction of the door.

‘Oh, yes, we have. Your wife is quite a delightful companion,’ she added, giving Lord Bufford a tentative smile.

Oliver smiled with relief. He had his alibi. Hopefully now that would mean the departure of Lord Bufford and his murderous entourage. And his own departure. As much as he would like to get better acquainted with the young, black-haired actress, and as much as he’d like a repeat performance of that kiss, it was a pleasure he would have to forgo. This situation was complicated enough already. It was time to simplify things by exiting, stage right.

‘As we’re all such good friends I’m sure Lord Bufford and his associates would like to join us for a late supper so we can celebrate my daughter’s engagement to the Duke of Somerfeld,’ Mr van Haven said smoothly.

Oliver’s smile faded. It seemed his departure was going to have to be delayed a while longer.

All three turned to look at Lord Bufford, whose lips curled back in a menacing sneer.

‘We’d be delighted,’ he growled, staring straight at Oliver.

Mr van Haven patted Oliver on the back. ‘Right, Lord Bufford, you and I will go and find a couple of carriages to take us all to the Savoy, and while we’re doing that you can tell me all about my future son-in-law.’

The four thugs turned to follow Lord Bufford and Oliver could see an opportunity to escape opening up. A quick apology and maybe a goodbye kiss to the young actress and he’d be off.

Mr van Haven held up his hand to halt the thugs’ progress. ‘Oh, no. You four can wait here. We won’t be long.’ He sent what could only be called a triumphant smirk in Oliver’s direction. ‘You can chaperon my daughter and the Duke while we’re gone.’

Chaperons? More like prison wardens.

With a sinking heart Oliver saw his opportunity to escape close off. It seemed only an unwise man would underestimate Mr van Haven—the man was a veritable mind reader. And he had made sure that Oliver would continue to be engaged to be married to his daughter, at least for a while longer.

Arabella stared at the stranger, this Duke of Somerfeld, her fiancé. He sent her an apologetic smile, a smile that was difficult not to warm to. It lit up his face and drew her eyes to his full, sculptured lips.

She was determined to be angry with him. This man who was obviously trouble with a capital T. But it was hard to maintain that anger while gazing into tawny-brown eyes that sparked with mischief, and a face so handsome that he should be on the stage. Arabella’s appraising gaze took in the small crinkles round his eyes, lines that showed he laughed a lot. She moved to his strong jawline with the hint of stubble, then back up to his lips, those lips that had kissed her into a state of oblivion.

At the time, it had felt as though he was kissing her as if his life depended on it. Now it was apparent that was not far from the truth, if the murderous looks of the four burly brutes still looming at the door were anything to go by.

Arabella gave herself a small shake. There was no point thinking of that kiss now. This was an impossible situation and they had to find a way out of it.

She stepped towards him and his smile changed from apologetic to appreciative. Arabella ignored both that look and the way her heart was beating harder now that she was so close to him. So close she could feel the warmth of his body. So close that his masculine scent was once again filling her senses.

‘So, who are you really and what are you doing in my dressing room?’ she whispered so the ruffians at the door wouldn’t hear.

He raised an amused eyebrow. ‘I really am Oliver Huntsbury, the Duke of Somerfeld, and I apologise for my somewhat unconventional entrance. I was looking for Lucy Baker.’

Arabella’s spine straightened and she tilted up her chin. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ She heard the offended note in her voice and mentally kicked herself. Who cared if it was Lucy Baker he had meant to kiss? He just shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t be in her dressing room and he most certainly should not have agreed to be her fiancé.

‘Believe me, I am not disappointed, anything but.’ He smiled at her again, that heart-stopping, devilish smile that made his eyes dance with amusement. ‘But you do deserve an explanation.’ He nodded in the direction of the door. ‘Lord Bufford and his associates have taken exception to my friendship with Lady Bufford. They were threatening to commit extreme acts of violence on my various body parts, so I was looking for Lucy, who is also a good friend, hoping she would provide me with an alibi to prove my innocence.’

Arabella’s posture became more rigid, her lips more pinched. ‘I take it Lady Bufford and Lucy Baker are actually more than just your good friends.’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so judgemental. After all, this man meant nothing to her, so why should she care who he was or wasn’t good friends with?

He ran his hand along the back of his neck. ‘Well, yes, you could say that.’

Arabella huffed her disapproval. One of her questions had been answered. When he kissed her, she had suspected she was in the arms of an experienced man, a man who knew how to please a woman. And that was quite obviously the case. It explained why she had reacted to him the way she had. It was not her fault. It was simply his technique and experience that had caused her uncharacteristic response.

It also explained the high opinion he appeared to have of himself. His confident countenance was definitely that of a man who knew he could easily seduce any woman he chose. But she wasn’t so easily impressed by a handsome face and a strong, masculine body. Nor would she swoon just because she had been kissed until she almost lost all ability to reason. No, none of those things would deter her from thinking he was just a rake, a man of no substance, to whom no sensible woman would give a second thought.

She placed her hands firmly on her hips and tilted her head to emphasise just how much he was not affecting her. ‘Well, Lucy no longer performs at the Limelight Theatre. But that doesn’t mean you can just burst into the dressing room of any woman you choose and...and...’ She waved her hand in the direction of the place where he had taken her in his arms.

‘And kiss her.’ He sent her another devilish smile. ‘You’re right, that was a terrible affront to your virtue and I apologise if I upset you.’

Good, at least he had the decency to apologise, but that charming smile seemed to make a lie to any claim of regret.

‘Just because I’m an actress doesn’t mean you can treat me disrespectfully. People make all sorts of assumptions about actresses and they’re just plain wrong. Most of us are respectable women who take our art form seriously.’ It was an argument she had also had with her father, but it had fallen on deaf ears.

He nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, I know, and I can see that you are a talented actress. I saw your performance tonight, very impressive.’

Arabella’s hands left her hips. Her body relaxed and she couldn’t help but beam with pleasure as warmth rushed through her. ‘You saw my performance tonight? Really? And you enjoyed it? It’s only a small part, but I do appear in every scene and have lines in most of them.’ She was burbling, but couldn’t stop herself, it was so delightful that he had noticed her on stage.

‘You’re a natural. And you certainly gave a stunning performance here in the dressing room, too. I’ve never been kissed with such conviction by a total stranger.’

The warmth engulfing her turned to a fiery blush, exploding on her cheeks. ‘Well, you...you...caught me off guard. I was still in character. I was still acting. I was continuing to act as if I was still on stage. That was all.’

He gave a mock frown. ‘Didn’t you play a vestal virgin in tonight’s play?’

Arabella shrugged, her cheeks still burning. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t explain why you pretended to be my fiancé,’ she said sharply, hoping to move the conversation away from her overly enthusiastic response to his kiss.

He rubbed the back of his neck again. ‘I’m sorry about that as well. At the time my choices were, become engaged or become the victim of a violent crime. And engagement seemed the less painful option.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘Forgive me, but I have no intention of marrying anyone.’

Arabella flicked her hand to dismiss his excuses. ‘I’m not stupid. I realise that. And I have no interest in getting engaged either and even less interest in being married. It’s all my father’s idea. He wants me off the stage and married before he returns to America. It doesn’t matter who my husband-to-be is, or what he’s like, as long as he’s got a title. It seems you fit the bill.’

He stared at her, his brow furrowed, concern in his eyes. ‘And what of your mother? What does she have to say about this?’

Arabella gave a little shrug and ignored the hard lump that had formed in her chest. ‘My mother is dead.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He placed his hand lightly on her arm.

She shrugged again. ‘It was a long time ago. Twenty-one years.’

He gave her an intense look and she could see him gauging her age and doing the calculations. Yes, she was twenty-one and, yes, her mother had died mere months after she was born, leaving her in the care of a man who had little interest in his daughter. And that lack of interest had continued throughout her life. It was only now that he could see how much use a daughter would be for advancing his position in both English and New York society that she had suddenly become something worth having.

‘That must have been very hard for you,’ he said.

Arabella shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sure if she was alive, she wouldn’t want her daughter married off to just any man. But my father doesn’t care who I marry and he’s not going to relent until I’ve got a title. But that doesn’t have to be your problem.’

He raised his eyebrows and looked towards the door, then back at Arabella and exhaled loudly. His look appeared to be saying that, for now, it was his problem as well.

‘When does your father intend to return to America?’

‘As soon as he gets me married off, which he’s going to want to do as quickly as possible. He’s already been away from his precious bank for over a month. I doubt if he’ll be able to bear to stay away much longer. He’s already starting to pine for the smell of freshly minted dollar bills.’

He tapped a thoughtful finger against his sensual lips. ‘Then leave this to me. I think I can save both of us from an unwanted marriage, while getting your father off your back for the foreseeable future and saving my valuable body parts from dismemberment, all at the same time.’

Chapter Three

The four thugs were starting to look bored. One thug was absentmindedly running his hand back and forth along his knuckleduster, another was tapping his cosh rhythmically against the door jamb. The third was repeatedly cracking the knuckles in his gnarled hands and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, the fourth one had wrapped a feather boa around his thick neck and was running his hands over the satin and silk fabric on the racks of brightly coloured costumes.

Oliver was unsure whether a bored thug was more dangerous than an angry one, but he didn’t appreciate being in the company of either.

He knew that at some stage he could make an escape from Lord Bufford’s henchmen, but that wouldn’t solve the problem of the delightful Arabella van Haven. What her father was planning to do to this talented young actress was inexcusable. It was reprehensible to sell her off in marriage to any passing man, just because he had a title. And now it appeared he was in a position to save this rather enchanting damsel in distress, as well as saving his own skin and preserving Lady Bufford’s reputation. In anyone’s estimation that had to count as a good night’s work.

As long as the thugs didn’t get so bored that they needed a bit of entertainment, in the form of carrying out Lord Bufford’s threat to his precious body part, he would be safe.

The four thugs all looked in his direction, as if reading his thoughts. The rhythm of the cosh thumping against the door jamb increased, accompanied by the sound of a knuckleduster being smacked into a fist and knuckles being cracked. This thumping beat of their weapons was not reassuring. When the fourth thug unwound the feather boa and tugged on it hard, as if testing its use as a garrotte, Oliver knew he was in trouble.

Mr van Haven and Lord Bufford entered the room and he released a surreptitious sigh of relief. He had never been happier to see the husband of one of his mistresses.

‘All right,’ the American said, rubbing his hands together. ‘The cabs are ready and waiting so let’s all depart for the Savoy and a spot of supper.’

Whatever Lord Bufford and Mr van Haven had been discussing during their absence it had obviously pleased the American banker. His wolfish smile had grown even more predatory. Presumably Mr van Haven was now even more certain he had Oliver right where he wanted him. That was heading up the aisle and tying the matrimonial knot with his daughter.

Marriage or a beating by four thugs and the loss of a vital body part—what a choice. Oliver suspected marriage would be the greater torture and both would be a threat to his manhood. But if his plan worked, he would have to suffer neither fate.

He looked around the room. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for his response, and none of the expressions was friendly. Five people wanted to tear him limb from limb and one wanted to use him for his own purposes. Only Arabella meant him no harm. She was the only completely innocent person in the room. He could not see her suffer. No matter what happened tonight, he would make sure he saved her from her father’s outrageous plan of marrying her off to him.

‘Excellent,’ Oliver replied. ‘Supper at the Savoy to celebrate our engagement sounds like a splendid idea. And I couldn’t wish for better company.’ He gave a small bow to the assembled party and received matching scowls of murderous intent from Lord Bufford and his henchmen, a resigned sigh from Arabella and a smug look of satisfaction from Mr van Haven.

He turned to Arabella. ‘Let me help you into your coat, my dear.’ Oliver lifted a jacket from the coat stand and held it open for her, but got a suspicious, narrow-eyed glare in return. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Before tonight I will have saved us both from the unwanted state of matrimony.’

She gave him another distrusting look, but turned her back to him and allowed him to slip the coat up her arms and over her slim shoulders.

He paused for a moment before he let her go so he could take a second to reacquaint himself with the scent of jasmine. It was the perfume he had inhaled when he had kissed her, fresh and youthful, just like the wearer.

Disappointment jolted through him as she broke away and picked up her reticule. After tonight he would not be holding her in his arms again, would not be kissing her, would not inhale her wonderful scent. But it had to be that way. It was the right thing to do.

He offered her his arm. ‘Right, lead the way, Mr van Haven,’ he said in his most cheerful voice as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

The motley group left the dressing room and headed out the back door of the Limelight Theatre, where two carriages were waiting. Oliver helped Arabella into one and Lord Bufford and his angry mob entered the other.

Some jostling ensued between Mr van Haven and Oliver, until it became apparent to Oliver that he was expected to sit in the middle rather than Arabella, as manners would normally dictate. Presumably Mr van Haven was determined to stop Oliver from throwing himself out of the moving carriage and making his escape.

With a tap on the roof from Mr van Haven’s silver-handled walking stick, they were off, winding their way through London’s dark streets. The cab rattled over the broken cobbles, juddering the three occupants, something Oliver could hardly complain about as it caused Miss van Haven’s legs to rub against his in a rather pleasant manner.

The ride became somewhat smoother as they approached the more affluent city centre. Under the modern electric street lights, fashionable men and women were climbing in and out of carriages and cabs, and some couples were walking along the West End streets, taking advantage of the mild summer night-time air.

The Savoy appeared before them, the golden glow of its newly installed electric lighting illuminating the surrounding street, drawing them towards its promise of luxury.

The carriages stopped inside the courtyard and the ill-matched party disembarked and headed towards the doors of the hotel. The thugs for once were looking more ill at ease than Oliver as they adjusted their rough clothing with anxious fingers, straightened their spines and followed Mr van Haven and Lord Bufford inside the foyer.

The maître d’ recognised Mr van Haven and immediately ushered them to an alcove, where they seated themselves on the plush sofas. ‘Champagne all round and keep it flowing,’ the American called, causing the maître d’ to click his fingers at the nearest waiters.

As if by magic, silver champagne buckets arrived and with a flourish the maître d’ poured the wine. When he departed, with much backward bowing, Mr van Haven raised his champagne flute and offered a victorious toast. ‘To the Duke of Somerfeld and the future Duchess of Somerfeld.’

A quiet, unenthusiastic murmur went around the table. It seemed the assembled guests cared as little about the engagement as Oliver and Arabella did.

The four thugs quickly emptied their glasses. A waiter rushed forward and refilled them, which were downed in equal haste. The waiter lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket and almost dropped it when one thug growled for him to leave it.

At least the thugs were making the most of the occasion, Oliver smiled to himself as he sipped his drink.

‘We should make the announcement as soon as possible and hold the engagement party next weekend,’ Mr van Haven said, frowning slightly as the thugs continued to swill his expensive champagne as if it was cheap cider. ‘I’m sure you will be available to host the engagement,’ he added, turning his attention to Oliver. ‘It will give me the opportunity to meet your family and to see your estate.’

His new fiancée rolled her eyes. ‘That’s a bit short notice, isn’t it, Father? One week.’

‘Nonsense. That’s all right with you, isn’t it, Son?’

Oliver smiled at the American’s presumption. He presumably wanted it hosted at his estate so he could make sure that Oliver actually turned up for his own engagement party. ‘Of course it’s all right. Nothing would please me more.’

‘And you are cordially invited, Lord Bufford,’ the American added with a pointed look at Oliver.

Lord Bufford bared his teeth in what was presumably a smile. ‘Nothing will stop me from attending Somerfeld’s engagement party. And I will of course be bringing my wife. I can’t wait to tell her that he’s about to be married.’

He clicked his fingers at the now slightly tipsy thugs and they rose unsteadily to their feet. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mr van Haven,’ Lord Bufford growled. ‘But if you’ll excuse me I’m anxious to return to my wife and tell her the good news.’ With that he bowed to Arabella, sent another angry glare in Oliver’s direction and left the table. The four thugs staggered behind him, but not before one had grabbed a dripping bottle of champagne from the ice bucket.

‘What charming fellows,’ Oliver remarked. ‘It’s a shame they had to leave so early.’

‘And I think we should start organising the wedding immediately, so it can be held as soon as possible,’ Mr van Haven said, grabbing another wine bottle and refilling their glasses.

Oliver adopted his most concerned expression. ‘Oh, no. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Won’t be possible at all.’

The American paused, the bottle suspended in mid-air, Oliver’s glass only half-full. ‘And why not?’ he barked and looked towards the door, as if intending to call back the tipsy thugs.

‘There’s the codicil on my title to consider.’

‘The what?’

‘Yes, the codicil,’ Oliver said, taking the bottle from Mr van Haven’s hand and filling up his glass. ‘It’s a clause in a will that...’

‘I know what a codicil is, man,’ he snapped. ‘But why should it stop you from marrying my daughter?’

Oliver took a sip of his champagne while the older man’s face turned a shade that could only be described as beetroot red. ‘If I get married before I’m thirty-five, I lose my title, the estates, everything. That means, unfortunately, if your daughter is to become my Duchess, she will have to wait for seven years. But at that time I’d be honoured to make your beautiful daughter the Duchess of Somerfeld.’ He raised his glass towards Arabella, smiled and drank it all.

She sent him a delightful, appreciative smile in return and turned to face her father.

Her father glared at her across the linen-covered table, his mouth twitching with anger, a dark flush moving up his face, from his neck to his hairline.

Arabella knew it would be wise to not react so obviously to this victory over her father, but she couldn’t stop her smile from growing larger and larger.

Her so-called fiancé had done what business tycoons, bankers and politicians on both sides of the Atlantic had been unable to do. He had got the better of the ruthless Mr van Haven. And the pleasure of watching someone finally succeed where so many had failed was infinitely satisfying, especially after what had happened with Arnold Emerson back in New York.

In both cases the result had been Arabella not getting married. But this time it was her fiancé who had saved her rather than abandoned her. Oh, yes, this was a victory to celebrate and she raised her glass to Oliver and took a jubilant sip.

Her father continued to scowl. ‘You can’t marry before you’re thirty-five?’ His usual barking voice had taken on an uncharacteristically high pitch.