Benefactress. Patroness… Or would a patron do?Could someone like the duke become a sponsor for her college? Artemis considered the idea, turning it over in her mind. She’d never actually thought about approaching a member of the opposite sex before because her school was for women, and it would take a progressive man indeed to embrace her radical philosophies. However, securing the support of a man with the moniker “the Dastardly Duke of Dartmoor” might not do her fledgling cause any favors either. Although, Aunt Roberta had mentioned the duke still retained the support of Queen Victoria…
And then she couldn’t ignore the fact that she was currently engaging in less than ladylike behavior. How could she possibly court the favor of a nobleman like Dominic Winters when she’d quite readily accompanied him out here? She could hardly claim her own character was beyond reproach, could she?
Artemis sighed inwardly. Unfortunately, it seemed her true, passionate, reckless self—the part of her that she kept carefully pinned up and buttoned away most of the time—was also secretly thrilled that she was alone in a dark garden with someone like the Duke of Dartmoor.
The duke quickly located a stone bench in a secluded, shadowy corner near a towering box hedge and a tinkling fountain. The scent of roses from a nearby arbor drifted around them. If seductionwason the Duke of Dartmoor’s mind, it was the perfect spot for a romantic encounter.
To dispel some of the gathering tension—just thinking about what might happen next made Artemis’s stomach flutter wildly—she cast about for something to say as she sank onto the bench. Of course, she’d like to know more about Juliet, the duke’s poor late wife, but that didn’t seem like an appropriate topic at the present moment. Instead, she ventured into safer territory. “Your Grace, I’ve been wondering if your daughter likes the Jane Austen titles you purchased from Delaney’s.”
“Yes, I believe she does.” He shrugged a wide shoulder, then winced. “At least, her governess tells me so. My daughter keeps to herself these days. Well, when she’s not telling me I don’t understand her or making some outrageous demand. To be honest, I had no idea adolescent girls could be so complicated. I hope it’s a passing phase.”
“It’s been my experience—” Artemis broke off, not sure if she wanted to reveal too much about her past. But then, the duke was being surprisingly candid with her, so she added, “Until recently, I was a teacher at a finishing school in Bath. And yes, girls aged between fourteen and sixteen can behave like veritable she-devils on occasion. No doubt, that was why my own late father—he was a vicar—packed me off to boarding school when I was fifteen, and then he supported my aunt Roberta’s wish to send me to a rather strict finishing school after that.” A rueful laugh escaped her. “Like most fathers, I think he rather hoped that I would have grown out of my wicked, wayward ways by the time I graduated.”
The duke flashed her a rakish grin. “And did you?”
She cast him an arch smile in return. “Considering I’m now alone in an isolated arbor with a nobleman I barely know…”
“Good God, I’m done for.” Dartmoor groaned with mock drama and clutched at his chest. “My daughter will be the death of me. She’s already turning me gray.”
Artemis couldn’t help but laugh at his theatrics. “You look healthy enough to me, Your Grace.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He smiled and her heart performed a strange little somersault.
Oh…oh, Beelzebub’s ballocks, and Mephistopheles’s member, and Lucifer’s love truncheon.Why did the Duke of Dartmoor have to be so damned attractiveandcharming with just the right dash of roguishness thrown into the mix? He could be the Prince of Darkness himself, sent to lead her astray. Yes, he was dangerous, but not in the sense everyone else meant. He was exactly the sort of dangerous that should be written in bloodred ink in bold capital letters as a warning to jaded spinsters like her. In fact, the word should be emblazoned upon the back of his practically painted-on evening jacket. Or better yet, tattooed in the middle of his high, noble forehead so it couldn’t be missed.
She’d once been taken in by Guy de Burgh, but of course, this time she wouldn’t be fooled by false declarations of love and lies about happily-ever-afters. She’d have her eyes wide open. Because men like the Duke of Dartmoor didn’t wed women like her—the too-brazen-for-her-own-good bluestocking daughter of a lower-gentry clergyman. Her aunt might possess a title by marriage and considerable wealth, but that hardly signified. Artemis was still lowborn. Not of the right bloodline. Not suitable duchess material at all. She certainly wasn’t stepmother material.
No, the Duke of Dartmoor would only want her for one thing. The only question that really mattered was: Would she be willing to risk everything if Dartmoor did indeed try to seduce her? Was she strong enough to resist her own libidinous impulses?
Of course, as she’d surmised before, simply being caught alone with Dartmoor would be an unmitigated disaster. Her reputation would be mud. Her plans to open a college would become dust.
She should go back inside.
At once.
But she didn’t. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. Ten long years to be exact, and while Guy had burned her, she would be a hypocrite if she didn’t acknowledge the fact that she’d enjoyed lovemaking even if love had little to do with it. Women had needs too, and it seemed like forever since hers had been met by anyone other than herself. Having a little amorous adventure with the Duke of Dartmoor was a tantalizing prospect, despite the danger.
She glanced at the duke who waited nearby at a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to be engrossed in his own thoughts, his storm-cloud gaze cast downward. A pale wash of silvery moonlight and the ambient glow of garden lanterns revealed that his slashing black brows had dipped into a slight frown. His chiseled mouth was set in a serious line. In his evening attire, he was a study in male beauty—all sharp masculine angles and lean, elegant lines. In a word, breathtaking. Or as Aunt Roberta had stated earlier, a man in his prime.
Artemis flicked open her fan. Just imagining what was beneath the duke’s clothing was making her all hot and bothered again. At least the shadows concealed the fact that her cheeks had probably turned the same rosy-red hue as her gown.
At her movement, the duke looked up and his mouth tilted into a smile that was pure sin. “Am I making you swoon again, Miss Jones?”
Artemis didn’t want to give away how actually flustered she was, so she rolled her eyes. The man clearly knew he was attractive and didn’t need any encouragement. “Oh, the conceit of you, Your Grace,” she returned. “It’s my tightly cinched corset and the layers of fabric I’m drowning in that are the problem.”
Even though her last comment was more of a mutter to herself, it seemed Dartmoor had excellent hearing. “I could help you with that,” he said with another wicked grin. “The cinching. Or should I say, uncinching?”
Artemis couldn’t contain a huff of laughter. “I’m sure you could.” Oh, but he was indeed a conceited coxcomb. And for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she liked that about him too. The fact that his innate arrogance was appealing rather than off-putting should terrify her.
“That being said…” She snapped her fan shut and stood. It was time to put the duke in his place and put some distance between them before she did lose her head completely. “It would be remiss of menotto take you to task for making such an entirely improper suggestion. Which also begs the question: Do you say things like that to women often?” Even though she tried to maintain a reproving look, she failed utterly, because the corner of her mouth kept hitching into a smile. “It’s not terribly gentlemanly. Or original.”
With a few swift steps, Dartmoor was standing right in front of her. “But judging by your expression, you’re amused, no? And you’d be surprised how infrequently I make such an offer to anyone, Miss Jones.”
“Oh, so I’m one of the chosen few? I count myself fortunate indeed.”
“Do you know what Iespeciallylike about you? The quality that marks you as different from most of the women I’ve encountered in the past?”
“I have not the slightest idea,” she said. And she truly didn’t.