Chapter Eleven
Artemis hovered by the towering shelves of Gothic novels in Delaney’s and tried to peruse Selina Davenport’sItalian Vengeance and English Forbearance. According to her pocket watch, it was five minutes to four, and her heart was galloping faster than a runaway horse. Or perhaps, more aptly, a hapless heroine fleeing the clutches of a wickedly handsome but evil libertine.
After she’d spoken with Jane and Lucy yesterday, she’d quite boldly sent a message to Dartmoor House, inviting the duke to meet with her, but he hadn’t responded. Of course, he might not have seen the need to. It might also be the case that the duke’s servants hadn’t passed on her missive. She’d bribed Phoebe’s maid with a half crown to deliver it. Single young women of marriageable age shouldn’t call on dukes, even to impart messages—not unless they wanted to start a scandal.
But perhaps the duke had simply changed his mind about wanting to see her again.
In any event, that meant she could be lingering here in Delaney’s, a tightly knotted bundle of agonized uncertainty, for nothing. Her plan to free herself from Aunt Roberta’s clutches could very well come to naught, a possibility that didn’t bear thinking about.
With a deep sigh, Artemis slid Selina Davenport’s book back into place, then randomly chose another. Whenever the shop’s doorbell tinkled, she jumped and then looked over the railing to see if it was the duke. But so far, the only customers who’d entered had been a somberly suited gentleman who’d asked for an appraisal of a seventeenth-century atlas and a middle-aged woman who’d been picking up a restored family Bible. Jane and Lucy were upstairs in Mr. Delaney’s parlor. As much as they wanted to catch sight of the Duke of Dartmoor, they’d promised they would wait patiently until Artemis joined them.
To wait patiently.Now that was something Artemis had never been able to do. For what seemed like the thousandth time, she glanced at her watch—it was two minutes to four—and then the doorbell rang once more and she heard the duke’s distinctive baritone.
At the sound of the duke’s heavy footfalls on the stairs, Artemis inhaled a calming breath and ran her damp palms down the skirts of her new bronze silk gown. When he appeared, she almost ceased breathing altogether.
Mephistopheles’s member, the Duke of Dartmoor was sinfully, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. His superbly tailored coat and trousers showed off his lean, muscular form to perfection. And the wolfish grin he flashed made her bones as soft as sun-warmed butter. Especially when his gaze wandered over her with frank appreciation. Perhaps shewouldmelt into a puddle at his feet this time.
“Miss Jones,” he murmured as he approached. “You look lovely today.”
Artemis swallowed. “So do you, Your Grace. I mean, you look well. More than well…” She bit her lip to stop herself from blathering. “You look very handsome,” she concluded with a soft smile. There was no point in acting like a coy maiden. It was time to employ her so-called Jezebel wiles. And stroking the duke’s not inconsiderable male pride couldn’t hurt.
“Hmmm.” Drawing near, he removed his top hat and placed it on the shelf above her head. He was so close, Artemis could see bright flecks of silver and pewter in the deep-gray depths of his eyes. Smell his delicious cologne and the starch of his collar. “You think I’m handsome?”
She arched a brow. “You arrogant peacock. You know you are.”
“Arrogant peacock?” Even though his gaze had narrowed and he was regarding her through slitted, heavy lids—rather like a predator about to devour its prey—his voice was laced with sardonic amusement. “Am I supposed to be flattered by that remark?”
“You’re not?” she asked with a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes. “I thought the defining characteristic of a duke was arrogance. And aren’t peacocks the epitome of avian virility?”
His mouth twitched. “You think me virile?”
“Well, now, we’ve only shared a single kiss. You can’t expect me to beentirelycertain based upon that measure alone.”
Something hot and intense like lightning flashed in the duke’s eyes. He placed one hand on the shelf by her head. Leaned in until his mouth hovered just above hers. “I’d be happy to remove any doubt from your mind, Miss Jones. By whatever means you so desire. Just say the word.”
Artemis’s breath quickened, and beneath her corset, her nipples tightened into hard, aching points. She was playing with fire. It was exhilarating. Beyond intoxicating. But she wasn’t ready to set the spark to the tinderjustyet.
“I’m sure you could,” she murmured huskily, then ducked beneath the duke’s arm. As she deliberately sauntered down the narrow aisle between a set of bookcases, heading away from the stairs, she called over her shoulder, “But as you know, Your Grace, I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you first.”
She was certain she heard him mutter, “Minx,” before he followed.
At the end of the sheltered aisle, Artemis spun around and leaned against the bookcase at her back. A soft shaft of late-afternoon sunlight filtered through a high window, highlighting the spiral of dancing dust motes in the air between them. The pleasant scents of beeswax polish and old books enveloped her and the duke as he drew close for a second time.
“I’m listening.” His voice was a low, soft purr. “I will confess, I am more than a little curious.”
She smiled. “I’m pleased to hear it.” And then she willed herself to forge ahead with what needed to be said. “I have a request. A favor to ask that is on the unusual side, to say the least.”
His eyebrows rose, but only for the briefest of moments. A corner of his wide mouth kicked into a smile. “Now I’m thoroughly intrigued.”
“Of course, you are under no obligation to say yes to what I’m about to suggest.” She clasped her hands together, bracing herself to continue. “I want to stage my own ruination so that my aunt, Lady Wagstaff, will stop hounding me to wed. I’m so very tired of being under her thumb and—”
The duke’s brows plunged into a frown. “What the deuce? You want me to ruin you? Surely you don’t mean that.”
Artemis raised her chin. “Actually, I do. But not in a public manner. In a calculated, strategically planned manner so that the damage to my reputation is minimal. Simply being alone in a room with you is all it would take, but to leave my aunt in no doubt at all that I’ve been compromised, she needs to catch us while we’re sharing a passionate kiss or two. Of course, you are under no obligation to offer for my hand. Actually, I’m counting on the fact that you won’t. I just have to convince my aunt that I’m ruined so that she cuts ties with me. No one else need know.”
Dartmoor crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “And how do you propose to manage all this exactly? Specifically, the ‘no one else need know’ part?”
“I have it all worked out,” she said and then proceeded to describe the plan she’d hatched with Lucy and Jane. “Scandal is what my aunt fears most, so even though she’ll disown me, she will never divulge the real reason for our estrangement. Of course, I still need to sort out when and where this staged event will happen. Everyone who is involved—Lucy, Jane, my aunt and sister, myself, and you, if you agree to participate—will need to secure invitations to the same function. A ball perhaps. Unless you don’t wish to participate, Your Grace. I–I would understand if you were opposed to taking part in such an underhanded, potentially risky venture.”