The Duke's Secret Wager (London Season Matchmaker 4)

The duke did not immediately answer, telling the servants that he would take port in the drawing room and that a tea tray was to be brought there also for his guest.

“Might we walk to the drawing room, Lady Wells?” he asked, rising from his chair and coming over to hers, where he waited with proffered arm as she rose. “I do hope you enjoyed your meal.”

“It was delicious,” she replied, getting up as quickly as she could and wondering why he had not answered her. “I thank you for your invitation to dine this evening, Your Grace. It was quite lovely.”

“Good.” He waited until she had accepted his arm and Catherine had to pray that he was not aware of the flood of heat that seemed to run from her hand, all the way up her arm and then into her cheeks as they began to walk together. The duke’s house was grand indeed—although the sight of the various ornaments and expensive tapestries did not detract Catherine from her original question.

“The Gold Cup, Your Grace,” she said again, as he led her into the dining room. “What is it that makes you so very eager to be the victor?”

A small sigh left the duke’s lips as she let go of his arm and stepped away from him, looking all about the room as she did so. It was quite lovely, with a large mirror above the fireplace which held a crackling fire to take away the chill of a summer’s evening. “You are eager to win, are you not?”

“I am,” the duke admitted heavily. “It has long been my greatest wish.”

“But it cannot be for the wealth that comes with winning the race,” Catherine said pointedly, not shying away from the truth of things. “The prestige you have mentioned before, as I recall, but you are a duke of the realm! What more prestige could you seek?”

The Duke of Blackwell hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose it must seem quite foolish to you, Lady Wells – and mayhap I am being so, but the desire to win the Gold Cup comes from an eagerness within me to prove to those that know me and those that know of me that I am not merely a duke.” His expression twisted, as if he knew that he was not explaining himself particularly well. “If I step into a room, then all and sundry know who I am, even if I have not been introduced to another one of them there. They know me because of my title and nothing else. I would not have it be so. I wish to appear as flesh and blood, Lady Wells, with hopes, desires, and achievements all of my own.” A wry smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, as one hand swept through his hair. “Although I do not jockey the horse myself.”

“No, but you purchase the horse and hire the jockey,” she replied, beginning to understand what he meant. “You wish for people to see you as you are, not just as your title.”

He nodded, the smile fading as his gaze darted away. “That is it precisely, Lady Wells,” he replied, a tad grimly. “In winning the Gold Cup, I wish to prove to the beau monde that I have my own abilities, my own strengths and achievements aside from being so titled.” Shrugging, he threw another glance towards her. “But you must think me foolish to do so when I am so blessed to already be so well thought of within society.”

Catherine shook her head, surprised that she felt a good deal of sympathy rising up within her. “I quite understand, Your Grace,” she replied, with a small smile in his direction. “In a way, we are both trying to pull away from the mold that society has placed us in—although I suspect that you shall be a good deal more successful than I.”

“Why should you say that?” the duke asked, swinging his gaze back to her and then taking a few steps closer. “You are doing as you have always dreamed, are you not?”

She gave him a small, sad smile, feeling the weight of her sorrow in her heart. “For a time, yes,” she admitted, wishing that she could only feel joy within her but realizing that there was pain also. “I shall always be grateful for what you have given me, Your Grace, for there are not many gentlemen who would have behaved as you have done. However, the truth is that, once the Gold Cup is over, I shall leave Ascot Heath and return home, where my mother shall, no doubt, curb my activities all the more.” Wincing, she spread her arms. “My riding might be curtailed, for all I know. My mother will be quite determined that I am to marry for fear that I shall turn out quite wild if I do not. How am I ever to find a suitable gentleman who will allow me to be as I truly am?” A quiet yet harsh laugh left her lips, making her shake her head. “It is for a time, Your Grace, and I shall always be glad for the time I have spent here. You, however, shall be able to go on and continue on as you have done for some time yet. For as long as you wish, in fact! If I do not win the Gold Cup for you, then I have no doubt that someone else shall be able to do so without any difficulty.” Looking up at him, Catherine spoke from her heart. “I do hope that you will be able to achieve all that you desire, Your Grace. Truly.”

The duke held her gaze steadily for some moments before he turned away, running another hand through his hair and upsetting it completely.

“The more I consider matters, Lady Wells, the more I think that your sex is often unfairly treated,” he

admitted, his words slow and careful as though he were being deliberate with each one. “I had not given the matter any consideration until I met you, Lady Wells, and now that I know that not only can you ride well but better than many others, my mind struggles with the difficulties that you face.” His hand dropped to his side as he looked at her, appearing a little lost. “If only I could be of further assistance to you, Lady Wells.”

Catherine’s heart leapt up into her throat, her mind filling with the one and only idea that would save her from either a life of spinsterhood or a life pushed down by her husband, battling against him to retain a sense of self. Shaking her head, Catherine let out a heavy sigh and forced those thoughts from her head. She could never be a duchess. The Duke of Blackwell had responsibilities and certainly had to ensure that he behaved with decorum and propriety. To even think that he would marry someone such as she, who wanted to throw aside her gowns and be able to ride astride whenever she wished, who desired to ride in the races and fight against the standards and rigors of her sex…no, such a thing was quite impossible.

“You are sad, Lady Wells.”

His voice was filled with a soft tenderness that she had not heard before, and Catherine felt herself respond to it at once. She could not look away as she turned her head to see him coming closer to her, one hand outstretched. The urge to reach out and take it, to grasp it and hold onto him grew so strong within her that she was forced to catch her breath and steel her determination.

“I am sad, yes, Your Grace, but it is an emotion that often plagues me,” she told him honestly, seeing how he stood only two steps away from her now, his hand still out towards her. All she had to do was reach out and take it and then…then, she did not know what would happen.

“You know that I would do all I could to remove such an emotion from your shoulders.”

Her eyes closed and, without warning, she felt his fingers touch hers. He had not waited for her any longer. He had reached out to her when she would not reach out to him.

“I am not the sort of young lady that anyone with such a high title as yours should have anything to do with, Your Grace,” she whispered, her heart thundering like Beauchamp’s hooves as he galloped across the duke’s gardens. “I am not a refined young lady.”

“But what if such a thing does not matter?” he asked, his voice still holding that tenderness that sent an ache into Catherine’s heart. “What if I do not care?”

She could not answer. Her throat was filled with sand, her mouth with dust, as her fingers twined with his. Looking at their joined hands, Catherine felt such confusion clouding her mind that it was all she could do to simply keep her eyes open. She wanted to back away, wanted to turn around and run from the room and return to her own quarters where she might be freed from such whirling thoughts, but at the same time, Catherine could not bear to separate her hand from his.

“Lady Wells, I know that we have a good deal to each contend with, but I will confess that the thought of bringing our acquaintance – our friendship — to an end is something that brings with it a good deal of pain,” the duke continued, when she said nothing. “I do not think I can bear it.”

“But you must,” Catherine replied harshly, the awareness of what he was offering her slamming into her with an almost bodily force. “I am not the sort of young lady that you should be considering, Your Grace.” Looking up at him, she held his gaze and tried to steady herself. “The night of the ball, I told you that I would step out once I had found my courage.” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she saw him blink in surprise, evidently recalling their first meeting with a new, sudden awareness. “I have found that courage now, thanks to your generosity, Your Grace. I have stepped out, albeit in a most strange and unfamiliar manner. I have taken on the guise of another in order to fulfill my heart’s desire, and for that, I shall always hold gratitude for you in my heart.” Her eyes began to burn with tears, but she did nothing to dash them away. Instead, Catherine continued to allow herself to speak openly to the duke, knowing that she had to be honest with him. “But I am aware that your mother, the Dowager Blackwell, has expectations of the lady you will one day marry. Society has expectations also. You yourself, in your own way, will have expectations.” A tear slid from her cheek. “And I can fulfill none of them.”

The duke shook his head, his fingers tightening on hers, but Catherine held up one hand, silently pleading with him not to say anything more. “You are much too generous, Your Grace,” she told him, her voice barely breaking a whisper. “Your consideration of me is more wonderous than anything I have ever experienced before, but yet I would refuse you in the knowledge that I am not the sort of young lady that would bring you any sort of happiness.” She shrugged and pulled her fingers from his. “I am much too headstrong, much too determined, and have none of the qualities that would be required as the Duchess of Blackwell.” Turning away, she hurried towards the door, ignoring the tea tray that had been left for her. “I must bid you good evening, Your Grace.”

She did not look at him again but scurried from the room, knowing that she would have to find a way back to her room without being seen by any of the other staff. Her breathing was ragged, and she swallowed sobs, not wanting to make a single sound.