The Doxy and the Duke by Caroline Lee

Chapter 7

This collar was stifling,but Cash shouldn’t be surprised. He’d endured more than a few of these excruciating evenings since the Fangfoss house party had begun, each one more boring than the last. Not for the first time, he damned himself for agreeing to Matthew’s demand to find a new wife.

He didn’t want a new wife. He wanted Raina.

No. Thinking of her this evening will not help you.

Even though she was the one making him so miserable. If he hadn’t spent the afternoon naked in her arms, showing her with his body exactly how much she’d come to mean to him, then perhaps this blasted formal attire wouldn’t seem quite so confining.

The memory of her laugh, her smile…it was going to be all he could think of as he danced with whatever young miss the Countess of Fangfoss threw at him this evening.

Why in damnation had he agreed to this? Surely the countess would understand if he bowed out one week and sent his regrets. Of course she would; the woman was almost comical in her attempts to impress him. She wanted the bragging rights associated with the local duke making a marriage match at her party.

But rather than encouraging him, this summer had taught Cash he didn’t want one of the ladies at the Fangfoss party. He wanted a woman who could laugh easily and accepted his son as her own. One who made him want to forget his duties, rather than hide in them.

You’re thinking of her again, aren’t you?

Well, why not?

Grimacing, Cash resisted the urge to tug at his collar again and tried to focus on whatever his host was saying to the third man in their little group. Luckily, Dorset—Ambrose Montgomery, Marquess of Dorset—was offering up all the necessary responses, which covered Cash’s abysmal lack of manners.

You’re going to have to tell Matthew you don’t want to marry.

That actually wasn’t entirely true. The last month had just helped him remember what he did want in a companion, wife or not.

He should’ve asked Raina to be his mistress when he had the chance.

Tomorrow.

He’d meet her and Ewan at the river tomorrow, and he’d ask her then. He’d have his cook pack a special picnic—he’d learned over the weeks that Raina had a sweet tooth—and he’d wait until the lads were in the water, and he’d ask her then.

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Most men considered jewels and townhomes when planning to engage a new mistress, but here he was thinking of sweet cream and pastries and the summer sun.

But first, he had to get through this evening. Oh well. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d danced one dance with a debutante then bid his farewells to the hostess, would it?

Honestly, not all of the young ladies were bores. There were a few that were too…bubbly for his tastes, which made him feel ancient. A few were pleasant enough but were far too interested in other male guests for Cash to assume they were actually interested in him, which bothered him not one whit. Now that he considered it, Dorset—the man he was supposed to be listening to, damnation—was currently engaged to one of those young ladies.

One lady had admitted an interest in travel, which would never do for a wife of his; duchess-hood notwithstanding, he had no intention of leaving Cashingham for any length of time, not even for London. Mother and Carlotta were ensconced in his London townhome, and he was happy here in York. He was a country duke and planned to stay that way.

One young lady, as he recalled, seemed to meet most of his criteria, but she hadn’t seemed to care a bit about him. It had been a new experience to be dismissed as unimportant. His title alone made him interesting, so he’d never bothered to care what people thought of his personality.

Of course, that young lady had a bit of scandal attached to her name, but after consideration, Cash decided a scandal wouldn’t bother him too much. It wasn’t as if he left Yorkshire too frequently, and he agreed with Raina that most of Society had their heads stuck up their—

You’re thinking of her again.

Blast!

It was likely bad form to be thinking of one’s soon-to-be-doxy while impassively eyeing the buffet of marriage-minded young misses spread out on the dance floor.

I thought you decided not to marry?

Scowling once more, Cash didn’t even bother to curtail his movement as he lifted his hand to rub at his temples. Did he care if his host thought him rude? No. He was oftenthought of as rude, but dukes were allowed to be rude.

“What do you say, Cashingham?”

Dorset’s question, asked with a faint smirk, jerked Cash’s attention back to the conversation, and let him know the other man knew he wasn’t paying attention. Luckily, the marquess had better manners than he did; enough to take pity on Cash and re-frame the query.

“I was just commenting to Fangfoss that his wife has put together a stellar crop of young offerings, eh? And as near as I can tell, the house party has been a success.”

“That’s right,” grunted the Earl of Fangfoss. “Almost all the girls have found themselves fiancés, thank the good Lord. Perhaps this blasted party can finish sooner rather than later.”

Although Cash didn’t respond, Dorset chuckled dutifully. “Seeing as how I was lucky enough to be one of the first ‘found fiancés,’ I cannot say I complain. I will be forever grateful the countess put on such an affair.”

“She’s been talking about little else since we married,” Fangfoss admitted. “The woman’s sole goal, all those years of running that finishing school, was seeing her charges married off to the right men.” He leaned closer and winked over the rim of his champagne flute. “Where ‘the right men’ means men with funds and titles, of course.”

“Of course,” murmured Cash, his gaze sweeping the room, wondering how quickly he could make his excuses.

Dorset didn’t seem to be in a hurry, however. Why should he, when the lovely young woman he was engaged to—that was her, over there in the red, chatting happily with the bespectacled wallflower, although Cash would be damned if he could recall either of their names—was sending Dorset flirtatious smiles?

“I am just pleased my Clementine had a reason not to go hunting for ‘the right man’ before she found me,” Dorset chuckled. “Although, as I understand it, all the young ladies here have reasons for not marrying.”

Fangfoss harrumphed. “Some of them just claimed marriage didn’t suit them, and some hadn’t found the right chaps. There was a bit of a scandal for one of ‘em, but she hasn’t attended too many of Julia’s fêtes, so I can’t say much about her. My Julia’s been at her wit’s end with that one.”

“I can imagine.” Dorset was smirking, and Cash wondered if the man knew more than he was supposed to, thanks to his fiancée’s gossip, or if he was just humoring the older man.

“I think that’s the one you’re supposed to dance with tonight, Cashingham.”

Being addressed directly by the earl made Cash’s eyes narrow as he tried to pick back through the previous minutes’ conversation. Something about a scandal, wasn’t it?

“Really?” he murmured noncommittally, then turned to place his almost-untouched flute on the tray of a passing footman. “How delightful.”

While Dorset snorted quietly, Fangfoss turned toward the large double doors. “Julia told me the girl was being stubborn, but she’d force her to— Ah, here they are!”

Cash glanced once across the room at the gaggle of females who’d just entered. Gaggle? Herd? Flock?

A flock of women?

A swarm? A horde of women? A brood?

No, a murder of women.

Cash straightened, tugging on his waistcoat, although he knew he looked impeccable. Best to get this over with…

Slowly, as if his mind couldn’t quite accept what his eyes had glimpsed, his gaze was dragged back across the ballroom to where the flock-gaggle-horde-murder was pulling a reluctant member toward him.

She was wearing orange, which really wasn’t the most ideal color for a woman with hair her shade, was it?

Strangely, that was the only thought Cash’s mind seemed capable of producing at that moment.

She was lovely, and she was wearing orange, which didn’t make sense. No red-head should have the right to look lovely in orange, but she did. She looked lovely in that dress.

She looked even better out of that dress, Cash knew.

Hell, she looked remarkable in one of those ridiculous swimming costumes, and in a simple blouse and skirt, and in—

He blew out a breath, seeing the exact moment she looked up and realized who he was.

“Your Grace, may I present Lady Raina Prince, daughter of the Earl of Elephant.” The Countess of Fangfoss became flustered, and leaned closer to her charge. “Is that right, dear? I confess I get all those Highland titles confused.”

Still holding Cash’s gaze, Raina murmured, “He’s Laird Oliphant, but aye, an earl as well.”

“Oh, excellent!” The older woman bustled back into position. “Raina, dearest, this is the Duke of Cashingham— Blast, no. I did that wrong, didn’t I? Oh, do forgive me, Your Grace. You’d think I’d have this introduction business down after so many times, wouldn’t you?” She clucked her tongue and shook her head, tugging Raina closer with her hold on the younger woman’s arm. “Lady Raina, His Grace the Duke of Cashingham.”

Would the woman ever cease prattling?

Judging from Raina’s wide-eyed, slightly panicked stare, she was as surprised as he was at finally learning one another’s full names and titles, and he decided to put them both out of their misery.

With a perfunctory bow, he murmured, “My lady,” and offered her his arm.

As the countess bustled off happily to stand beside her husband, Raina carefully lifted her hand to rest against his forearm. Her touch was so slight, he barely felt it, and knew she was poised to flee. But even under her gloves, and the layers of fine wool he wore, he could feel her warmth.

Hadfelt her warmth. That very afternoon when she’d been wrapped around him.

When he’d been inside her.

The orchestra started, and of course, it was a waltz. It was never not a waltz, although to be fair, he suspected the countess planned it accordingly so he’d have the most time to spend touching her eligible young misses.

But Raina stood stiffly in his arms; her hand barely brushing his shoulder and her hazel gaze locked past his left ear. He could see the sparks in her eyes and knew she was angry.

As angry as he was shocked?

His movements mechanical, he began to dance. This was a far cry from a proper waltz, and Cash wouldn’t be surprised if he began to trip over his own feet. Or her ridiculous gown.

It wasn’t until after their first turn that she finally broke the silence, still not looking at him. “Cashingham,” she hissed accusingly.

And he understood her complaint. “If I were to have friends, they would call me Cash.”

“No’ Adolphus?” Her angry eyes flicked once to his, then away. “I assumed ‘Cash’ was yer last name.”

“No.” Normally, that would’ve been enough, but the need to explain himself to this woman, any woman, was a new sensation, and it dragged the explanation from his lips. “I told you it was part of my name.”

Her reply was as stiff as his had been. “Aye, and a last name Cassius could understandably be shortened to Cash.”

Ah. He remembered now, their first meeting, when she’d told him Adolphus Cassius was a truly terrible name. He’d agreed with her, but before he could ask her what made her think it was his name, she had nudged him with her shoulder.

And that casual touch had completely distracted him, making him think all sorts of delightfully improper thoughts. And completely distracting him from the entire name conversation, now that he thought about it.

They were still waltzing woodenly around the room, in an impression of a set of disinterested—and possibly broken—marionettes. Cash supposed the least he could do was make an attempt at correcting her misunderstanding.

“I’m Adolphus Merritt. My son is Matthew Merritt.”

“Merritt,” she repeated in a whisper, and then snorted softly. “A bloody duke.”

“Cash is simply short for Cashingham.” He didn’t know what he was trying to do. Explain? Ease her pique? Defend himself? “My estate borders Fangfoss’s.”

“And the river? The oak?”

“On my property. I thought you knew.”

She sniffed lightly, her gaze now resting on the hair above his temple. “I never bothered learning the local gentry, nor the name of the bloody duke Miss Julia was determined to throw at us.”

Throw at them? He rather felt they’d been thrown at him.

Dear Lord, Raina was a lady. She was one of the countess’s finishing school students—a lady. His brain kept circling back to that fact, apparently unable to come to terms with it. She was the daughter of an earl.

And only a few hours ago, his cock had been in her mouth.

Just the memory caused an improper stirring in his trousers, and he tightened his jaw to try to keep himself from revealing the way she affected him.

Why? You never cared before.

That’s because “before” was just the two of them, or them and their sons, stretched out in the shade on a summer afternoon. Not waltzing mechanically around a ballroom for all to see.

She was a lady, and she’d been acting like a doxy. He’d been about to make her his doxy.

Damnation.

The rest of the waltz was just as rigid and awkward as the first moments, and Cash couldn’t help but compare the woman in his arms now to the woman he’d held that afternoon. Although this dance barely counted, since she was doing everything in her power not to touch him, and he found himself disappointed by how stiff she was.

Even stiffer than him, if that were possible.

The thought did little to cheer him, and as soon as the musicians began their final flourish, he pulled her to a stop. Even though he stepped away from her, she was still staring resolutely at his left ear. Her cheeks were flushed—not with desire or excitement, he guessed, but with anger—but her breathing was measured, as if she were trying to maintain control.

She hadn’t been trying to maintain control at The Sword and Sheath—

Stop it. It’ll do no good to relive.

Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help but study the way her hair was swept up in some kind of fancy coiffure Amanda used to prefer. It made Raina seem very ladylike, very proper.

Not at all like the woman he’d come to appreciate.

He much preferred her with that glorious red hair down around her shoulders.

As if she could sense his thoughts, her angry gaze snapped to his, then away once more. “Yer Grace,” she said rigidly, reaching for her skirts as if she might offer him a curtsey.

But he couldn’t let her leave now. He couldn’t walk away from this ballroom, from Fangfoss, as he’d intended. Not with all the things left unsaid between them.

“Lady Raina,” he blurted, much too loudly. “Would you consent to a walk?”

He offered his arm before she could think of an excuse, and he saw her glance to the edge of the room where the earl and countess were watching. The older woman looked positively giddy with delight, and Cash assumed it was because he—as the duke—had never expressed an interest in any of her young ladies beyond the perfunctory dance.

But there was nothing perfunctory about this offer.

Too bad it wasn’t the offer he’d planned on making.

Raina hesitated, then placed her hand atop his arm once more. And once more, her touch was as light as a butterfly’s, making it clear she had no interest in physical contact with him.

She’d very much wanted physical contact before she’d known his full name, hadn’t she?

“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” he said blandly, planning to use that as an opening to invite her out to the garden.

Of course she understood.

“Aye,” she agreed stiffly. “Yer Grace.”

That title had been tacked on, almost flippantly, and reminded him of the way she’d screamed his name only a few hours before.

“A turn about the gardens, perhaps, my lady?” He tried to keep his tone mild, hoping she understood he wanted to go someplace private for the discussion they were sure to require.

“The gardens boast some interesting statuary.” It wasn’t exactly an agreement, but he took it as such.

“Shall I meet you there?”

“Why bother?” When he glanced at her, Raina’s head was held high, her jaw tight. “Everyone here already thinks me a doxy. They’ll assume I’m off for a private rendezvous with a handsome, eligible man, and—”

“Think less of you?” he murmured.

Her eyes flashed with surprise as she glanced at him, then away. “I doubt that is possible, Yer Grace.”

Well, to hell with them. He was the bloody Duke of Cashingham, and tonight, he had the arm—and attention—of a beautiful woman. Let them say whatever the hell they wanted to say.

Head held high, he marched Raina right out of that ballroom, and he swore he felt her relax just the tiniest bit.

Until they stepped out onto the balcony.

She led the way toward the marble steps. “Miss Julia’s gardens are this way.”

The gardens. The perfect place for a private rendezvous with a very eligible young lady. Or, in this case, what Cash was certain would turn into a fight he wasn’t sure he wanted to win.

He focused on her response. “Miss Julia?”

“Apologies.” In the soft light from the ballroom windows, he saw her roll her eyes. “Lady Fangfoss. The ex-Miss Julia Twittingham, founder of the Twittingham Academy.” With a sigh, she folded her arms across her chest. “That’s where we met. I was one of her Twits.”

Cash’s lips tugged at the irreverent name. “Our host briefly explained her efforts to see you all married.”

“Aye, we were the misTwits, the unmarriageable ones.” With a huff, she lifted her hands and began to tick off fingers as she spoke. “Clementine lost her fiancé right out of school, and was in mourning for five years until she met Dorset. Angeline returned to Ireland to nurse her ill father, and so didnae attend any of Society’s fêtes to find a husband. Olive never had any intention of marrying, which was why—of course—I had to introduce her to my brother, Phin. They are absolutely perfect for one another.”

Cash had settled on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back during her recitation. “The anthropologist?”

“Archaeologist,” she corrected. “And Olive is just as obsessed as he is, bless her. Then there’s Charity, who saw nae need to marry, when there was so much fun to be had.” She ticked off her fifth finger. “Finally, there’s Melanie, who is American and whose parents sent her here to snag a titled husband, but she’s been much more interested in starting her own business.”

As Raina wiggled all five fingers at him, almost in challenge, Cash cocked his head at her. He remembered all of those women, but… “Not finally. You forgot yourself.”

With a huff, she tossed up her hands and turned away from him. She was facing a statue—a classical rendering of a mother and child, which Cash thought was appropriate—but he doubted she was seeing it.

“And then there’s me. I learned all about the pleasures of the flesh and chose to bear a son out of wedlock, therefore completely ruining me in the eyes of Society, which are—of course—the ones that matter.” She said the words as if by rote, before whirling back around and piercing him with a dark glare. “I’m the most unmarriageable one of all.”

She wasn’t wrong. Even he had assumed the worst about her before he’d come to know her.

Of course, after he’d come to know her, he’d realized Raina was as perfectly unfettered and unconcerned as he’d hoped she’d be.

Lady Raina Prince, you idiot.

Something must’ve showed on his face, because she made a little noise of disgust and looked away. “Ye cannae even argue, Yer Grace.”

“What do you expect me to say?” he burst out, suddenly as angry as she. Angry at Raina for not telling him the whole truth, and angry at himself for not asking. For letting himself believe it didn’t matter. “You are a lady.”

“Nay, I was a lady!” She snapped back, her hands falling to her hips. “Now I’m a doxy!”

The silence after her proud—bold—impossible—declaration fell hard, slamming around the inside of his head, echoing mockingly.

With a sigh, he reached up to rub at his temples, the irritation pounding behind them. “Your father is an earl.”

“Aye, and my brother’s a viscount. I have all the best education, all the best breeding, and I’m still ruined. Why? Because I had the audacity to—”

“Love your son,” he finished quietly.

The reminder caused her to gape at him.

“Why are you so angry, Raina?”

“You’re a duke, Yer Grease,” she spat out. “Ye didnae think to mention that to me?”

He vowed not to be distracted by her attempt at insulting him.

“Well, you’re a lady,” he barked in return. “And you never mentioned it to me. I thought you—” He hesitated. “I thought titles didn’t matter to you.”

She threw an arm out scornfully, gesturing at him. “They seem to matter an awful lot to ye, DisGrace.”

He struggled to find his calm. “Are you trying to rile me?”

“Is it working?” she snapped. Then she threw up her hands and turned back to the statue. “Of course titles matter to ye— Ye’re here searching for a wife, aye?”

So she remembered what he’d told her that afternoon, when they’d been basking in the aftermath of their ecstasy? “So what if I am?”

A small voice suddenly whispered in his mind: An earl’s daughter would be a suitable duchess.

But not one who’d been so thoroughly ruined. Who’d allowed him to ruin her!

She scoffed as if she could hear his thoughts.

“Oh, ye’ll get nae arguments from me! A minor country baron might be able to enjoy life, but a duke needs heirs, aye?” She turned just enough to glare over her shoulder at him, her hazel eyes spitting golden fire, and he couldn’t recall ever wanting to kiss her more.

“I told you that,” he barked in agreement. “But I thought you didn’t care about titles.” He thought she’d cared about—about him. As a man.

“Ye’re the one who seems obsessed with titles, Duke! What does it matter who my father is?”

Because I can’t make an earl’s daughter my mistress, no matter how ruined she is!

And because she was ruined, he couldn’t make her his wife.

Dukes did not marry their doxies.

“Because…” He swallowed, trying to make sense of this sense of loss. “Because what we’ve been doing is entirely inappropriate—”

“For an earl’s daughter, but it was fine for a woman just looking to enjoy life?”

Which was what he thought her. Of course, that’s what she thought of him as well.

With a growl, he threw up his hands. “I spent so much time planning.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I was going to seduce you with sweets and desserts and laughter and all the things I knew you liked.”

“You didnae have to,” she shot back, icily, as she slowly turned to face him once more. But he saw the pain etched in her expression.

And that pain, the knowledge he’d somehow hurt her, although he didn’t know how, caused his heart to thump in anger. Anger at himself.

“I can’t believe I was going to ask you to be my mistress,” he spat out in disgust.

Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was his words.

Either way, Raina flinched, her chin coming up in the dim light as she stepped back. He saw her nostrils flex as if she were trying to calm herself, and his palms itched to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, to apologize, although he didn’t know for what.

Finally, she sucked in a breath and haughtily turned away, holding herself regally as she strode toward the marble steps in that hideously wonderful orange gown.

But when she reached the top, she stopped, silhouetted in the lights coming from the large windows behind her. Her hand was on the banister as she turned to look over her shoulder, but he could only make out her profile in the light from the ballroom.

“I would’ve agreed, Cash.”

She would’ve become his mistress.

Which is why she couldn’t be his wife.

And then she was gone.

Damnation.