The Duke of Paris (Tales from the Grand Tour Book 1) Page 2

  She would have spilled right over the railing and into the Seine if Damien hadn’t had such quick reflexes. He caught her around the waist just as Lord Reith bent over to scoop up her runaway parasol. As Damien helped her to straighten, Lord Reith marched their way.

  “I believe this belongs to you, my lady,” he said, closing the frilly parasol and preparing to hand it across the space between the boats.

  “She’s not a lady, she’s a miss,” Miss Sewett blurted behind them.

  Dorothy’s face went hot. She could have murdered Miss Sewett for her awful timing.

  “Is that true?” Lord Reith asked as he extended the parasol toward her.

  “I…I’m afraid so,” Dorothy said, blushing up a storm, not quite able to look the handsome duke in the eyes.

  “Well,” Lord Reith said, continuing to hold his end of her parasol even after she’d grabbed the handle, “there’s nothing wrong with being a miss, especially not when one is as pretty as you are.”

  Dorothy’s gaze jumped up to meet his. “Thank you, my lord,” she stammered, dizzy with delight.

  Behind her, Miss Sewett hissed and sputtered, “It’s ‘your grace’, not ‘my lord’. Honestly, can no one get it right with you lot?”

  Dorothy’s face burned hotter, but more with anger now.

  “You can call me whatever you’d like,” Lord Reith said, then winked.

  He let go of the parasol at last, and Dorothy nearly fell backwards with the wave of lust the moment of near contact left her with. And it was lust, pure and simple. Miss Sewett likely wouldn’t approve, but that didn’t stop her from feeling what was only natural when a gorgeous, titled gentleman was flirting with her.

  “If we’re all staying at the same chateau,” Lord Reith said, striding back to speak with Asher once more, “then we should plan some sort of entertainment for ourselves.”

  “I’m certain Monsieur Corbett has a thousand things planned already,” Asher agreed, glancing briefly down the length of the boat to Dorothy. When he noticed Dorothy was where she should be and had her parasol in hand, he continued to Lord Reith with, “The chateau is famous for providing its guests with all sorts of activities.”

  “I look forward to them, then,” Lord Reith said. He gestured to his brother—who was too busy staring at Damien for a moment to notice right away. As soon as Lord Gregory caught Lord Reith’s look, he turned and marched to the rear of the boat and descended a small staircase. Moments later, the boat moved forward again. “Until then,” Lord Reith said, tipping his hat to Asher. He smiled at the others, but bowed and tipped his hat a second time when his boat came even with Dorothy.

  A moment later, the McGovern boat had started forward once more, and the distance between the two crafts widened. Dorothy let out a breath, then quickly sucked another one in. Lord Reith had taken a shine to her and they were staying at the same chateau.

  “Brilliant, Doro,” Damien said, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around as the rest of the cousins resumed their earlier conversations and activities. “A duke would do splendidly for a husband.”

  Dorothy laughed and smacked his arm with her closed parasol when he put her down. “A duke is far too grand for me,” she said, then stared off at Lord Reith’s retreating boat. “Though he was lovely.”

  And who knew? Stranger things had happened than a lofty duke taking a shine to the daughter of a younger son like her.

  Chapter 2

  Marshall Stone stared at his reflection in the long, oval mirror placed in the corner of his guest room in the Château de Saint-Sottises and frowned. He knew he was attractive, that wasn’t the cause of the seething irritation that sat just below his skin, making him feel as though he didn’t belong in his own body. He had a face that could command armies and a form that left even the most refined misses of London fanning themselves. That fact had been demonstrated for him just that morning when his boat crossed paths with Asher McGovern’s. The appreciative glance of one young woman in particular had made his blood stir and his cock take interest.

  But perhaps that was the problem.

  He sighed, giving up his efforts to tie the formal bowtie over the stiff collar of his dinner suit, and dropped his arms. He’d come to Paris with the specific intent of drowning himself in wine and burying his sorrows in the arms of as many willing ladies as he could find. In the last few months, he’d more or less exhausted the supply of loose women in London, and though debauchery was his aim, he would never stoop so low as to interfere with an innocent or tempt an otherwise upstanding lady into sin.

  Paris had proven perfect for his needs. For the last few days, since arriving, he’d frittered away his time in Montmartre, enjoying the wild side of Paris nights. At least, he had until he remembered his true purpose for traveling.

  “I can’t seem to get it right,” he sighed, glancing past his reflection in the mirror to where his brother, Sebastian, sat finishing up the last of the pre-supper tea that had been brought up for him.

  “Bowties aren’t difficult,” Sebastian said, picking up the last of the biscuit crumbs on the plate in front of him with the pad of his finger and licking it before crossing to Marshall at the mirror. “As long as you remember which side goes over or under first.”

  Marshall turned to his brother so that he could do the honors. As Sebastian raised his hands to quickly and expertly tie the tie, he smiled. “I miss you, you know,” he said, inwardly cursing himself for being so maudlin. Then again, he had every right to miss his only brother when they’d barely been able to see each other for almost five years.

  “I miss you too, Marsh,” Sebastian said. He finished with the tie and thumped Marshall on the arm before stepping back. “And I wish I could have been there when Father died.”

  Marshall’s chest squeezed painfully. Leave it to Sebastian to cut right to the heart of the matter. “I can’t help but believe that the way you were treated brought on his final illness,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Sebastian made a dismissive sound, glancing away. Guilt lined his tired face, but as far as Marshall was concerned, there was no need for it.

  “You were treated shabbily,” Marshall went on, resting a hand on his brother’s arm.

  “The law is the law,” Sebastian shrugged. “I ended up on the wrong side of it.”

  “For doing nothing,” Marshall argued.

  Sebastian glanced frankly at him. “For having a male lover. The law in England is, sadly, clear on what should be done with my sort.”

  “It’s preposterous,” Marshall growled. He shifted his weight, balling his fists as though ready for battle. “And frankly, everyone else thinks so too.” He paused before saying, “It’s time you returned to England.”

  Sebastian laughed and walked back to the table to sip the last of his tea. “I doubt that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s a fine idea,” Marshall argued, crossing the room to him. “No one really cares about the Labouchere Amendment these days. And the scandal involving you calmed down years ago. If you slipped quietly back into London, it’s likely no one would ever know.”

  Sebastian glanced doubtfully at him.

  “Besides,” Marshall went on, hating how vulnerable he sounded. It wasn’t manly, but all the same, he admitted, “I need you by my side right now.”

  “Do you?” Sebastian’s resolve seemed to crack.

  “Yes.” Marshall let out a breath. “There’s been so much to do since Father died. I’ve an estate to run, businesses to manage, and that’s not even including the seat in Parliament. I can’t face it all alone, especially since….” He let his words fade and his shoulders droop.

  Sebastian smiled sadly and reached out to squeeze Marshall’s arm. “You miss him.”

  “I do,” Marshall admitted.

  Sebastian’s expression turned wry. “Which explains all the reports I’ve been getting of you behaving badly.”

  “Not behaving badly,” Marshall insisted, perking up a little. “Enjoying myself and
my new status.”

  Sebastian hummed as though he didn’t believe Marshall for a second and crossed his arms.

  “You would do the same in my place,” Marshall insisted. “What with the finest, eligible ladies in England throwing themselves at me.” When Sebastian raised an eyebrow, Marshall rushed on with, “All right, perhaps you wouldn’t go chasing after the ladies. But I don’t believe for a moment you wouldn’t be pickled to the gills every night or that you wouldn’t find a warm bed to sleep in if it meant you could ease the pain for a moment.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right,” Sebastian said, letting his arms drop. He squeezed Marshall’s arm. “I’m sorry you’re in mourning, brother. We both are.”

  “It’s not a natural state for me,” Marshall insisted, clearing his throat. He walked back to the mirror to give himself one more look. “I refuse to let these feelings overcome me. Therefore, I plan to enjoy my time in Paris to the best of my ability.”

  “By drinking and whoring and causing a ruckus?” Sebastian asked with a laugh.

  “Exactly.” Marshall grinned at him through the mirror. “And as it happens, I believe there are several delicious morsels just waiting for a bite staying under this very roof with us.”

  “What, you mean the McGovern party?” Sebastian’s expression turned serious. “Be careful who you interfere with there, Marshall.”

  “I don’t plan on ruining the reputation of any fine ladies who stand a chance of making a grand name for themselves in society,” Marshall insisted. He turned to face Sebastian with a mischievous grin. “But there were several young women among the party, companions and the like, who looked up for a tumble.”

  Sebastian shook his head, grinning but not entirely approving. “I will admit that the world contains more women, and men, ready for a bit of fun without attachment these days. But Marshall, be careful who you set your sights on. I know you’re desperate for diversion, but make certain you ask the appropriate questions before going on the hunt.”

  “I always ask the right questions,” Marshall said, assuming his brother meant asking permission and making certain seduction was what the woman he set his sights on wanted.

  “As long as you do that,” Sebastian said with a faint sigh, “then I suppose I would be a hypocrite if I lectured you to be good and to think of the future duchess when I have a few ideas for entertainment myself.”

  Marshall chose to ignore the mention of a future duchess—something he knew he’d have to deal with sooner rather than later, though the idea terrified him—to latch onto the suddenly wicked light in Sebastian’s eyes. “Have you seen something you like?” he asked.

  Sebastian shrugged, his cheeks going pink. “An old friend,” he answered, but said no more.

  “In that case,” he started, crossing to loop an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders and to walk with him to the door, “let the games begin.”

  It was somewhat of a relief for Marshall to leave his guest room, and the sadness he could never fully escape, behind him. The Château de Saint-Sottises was massive, and the long walk from the guest wing where he and Sebastian had been given rooms, to the heart of the palace and its dining room gave Marshall plenty of time to think. In spite of Sebastian’s warning, he had every intention of enjoying himself that evening, and he knew exactly whom he planned to enjoy himself with.

  He hadn’t yet discovered her name, but the beautiful woman whose parasol had blown into his boat had instantly sparked his interest on every level. Her bright, blue eyes and her fetching smile had struck him like Cupid’s arrow the moment he noticed her among the others. He wasn’t certain who she was, but if he were a betting man, he would have put money on her being a companion to one of Asher’s sisters or titled cousins. As beautiful as the woman was, her dress was understated and would have led to her being laughed out of any fashionable event. He’d noticed two patches on her parasol as he’d folded it up and prepared to hand it over to her. And as thick and glorious as her honey-blonde locks were, her hairstyle was simple, in the style of a ladies’ maid.

  And if he knew anything about ladies’ maids, it was that they were almost always up for a tumble, particularly with a member of the higher aristocracy. Some of the most memorable nights of his life had been spent with ladies’ maids. They knew things, and they could do things. The beautiful blonde with the parasol had given him exactly the sort of look that whispered of excitement. All he had to do was find wherever she was hiding after supper and his night would be set.

  It was a surprise, then, when he entered the dining room, somewhat late, to find that the object of his desire was seated at the table with everyone else.

  “Ah, Reith, you’re here at last,” Asher said, standing from his place of honor near the center of the impossibly long table. “I’ve saved a seat for you.” He gestured to the place opposite him in the center of the table. As Marshall sat, Asher laughed and went on with, “It seems terribly out of place sitting in the middle, doesn’t it?”

  “We are in France,” a sour-faced woman dressed in an ill-fitting black gown with a high collar said from the far end of the table. “In France, the guests of honor are seated in the center of the table. It is only in England that they are seated with the host at the end and the guest of honor on the host’s right.”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Sewett,” Asher said in a wry voice, taking his seat. He sent Marshall a dubious grin.

  “You have the arrangements this evening all wrong,” Miss Sewett went on. “Lady Evangeline should not be seated next to her brother.”

  “You mean Miss McGovern?” one of the young ladies nearer to the center of the table asked, batting her eyelashes with false innocence at Miss Sewett.

  “And you, Miss Eloise, should not be drawn into naughtiness by your cousins, who should know better themselves,” Miss Sewett snapped, looking every bit the bitter governess, whether she was or not.

  “I’m not Miss Eloise, I’m Lady Eloise,” the young lady in question said as giggles spread to the other young women, and half the men, at the table. “And I always bow to Miss McGovern’s superior wisdom in all things.”

  “Thank you, Lady Eloise,” Evangeline said, barely able to contain a giggle. She turned to her neighbor and said, “Miss Patricia, will you pass the salt?”

  Miss Sewett made a noise rather like a kettle about to boil and muttered, “I will not be made a fool of this way.”

  Marshall would have ignored whatever family drama seemed to be playing out were it not for the fact that the object of his desire was seated directly next to Miss Sewett. She leaned toward the woman, a look of sympathy on her face, and said something Marshall couldn’t hear.

  The warm feelings her kindness inspired in Marshall were abruptly cut short when Miss Sewett nearly exploded with a shriek and smacked the beautiful blonde’s hand away with a tight, “I will not have false pity from the likes of you.”

  Every other conversation at the table stopped as the full company glanced down the table to Miss Sewett and the blonde in shock. The blonde’s cheeks had gone bright pink, and she glanced across to a man with darker hair and similar features with a wary look. Miss Sewett stared at the man as well in disgust.

  “Is something amiss?” Marshall whispered across the table to Asher.

  Asher shook his head. “Miss Sewett is our chaperone. She takes her job and herself devastatingly seriously.” He added a look that said Marshall would do better to leave the whole thing alone.

  Supper continued, but Marshall wasn’t certain he could leave it alone. Not when the woman who had captivated him so deliciously that afternoon looked as though she had been put in her place by force. He wondered why a lady’s maid was sitting at the table with the rest of the family to begin with, or Miss Sewett, for that matter. Try as he did to carry on conversations with Asher and his siblings and cousins seated near him, Marshall’s attention kept drifting to the end of the table. No one within a few seats of Miss Sewett said another word as course after course was p
resented. Not only was Marshall filled with the desire to get the blonde alone so that he could seduce her as she’d never been seduced before, he was desperate to rescue her from the misery she was clearly feeling and to make her feel very good indeed.

  His chance came sooner than he expected.

  “Let’s not bother with the men going off to the smoking room and the ladies sipping tea in the parlor this evening,” Asher said as supper finished and the crowd of cousins around the table stood. A small army of footmen rushed to hold chairs and prepare to clear the table. “Let’s all just retire to that delightful conservatory for the impromptu concert I know my dear sister is plotting.”

  “I think that sounds like a jolly idea,” Evangeline said, taking her brother’s arm.

  Marshall stood, trying to figure out how he could move against the stream of the McGoverns as they headed out of the dining room and across the grand hall of the chateau to the conservatory. He kept an eye on the blonde, who moved away from Miss Sewett and around the table to the man who Marshall hoped to God was her brother and not a more intimate relation, but within seconds, one of the McGovern ladies hooked her arm through his and led him out of the room.

  “Have you been hearing stories about the dastardly Monsieur Lafarge as we have, Lord Reith?” the young lady asked.

  “I have heard bits and pieces, Lady—”

  Instead of giving her name, the lady laughed. “Oh dear. Please, let’s not start that mad business of titles again. Call me Hattie, whether it’s proper or not.”

  Marshall’s lips twitched to a grin. “All right, Hattie. And all I have heard of Monsieur Lafarge is that he is a powerful industrialist here in France who has been systematically ruining what little remains of the French aristocracy.”

  “He has,” Hattie said as they crossed the vast, echoing hall filled with priceless artwork. “They say that he is secretly the owner of Les Ragots.”

  “And what is that?” Marshall asked.

  “Why, only the most titillating and salacious gossip rag in Paris,” Hattie laughed. She leaned closer. “It’s downright wicked. Not only does it dish on every bit of naughtiness on the continent, and sometimes in London, it prints photographs as well.”