The Duke's Downfall by Lynn Michaels Page B

come, that what he had to say was best said in private, perhaps even to the dowager countess rather than her granddaughter. He’d reacted rashly, without thought, purely from emotion. He’d fallen victim to temptation, not champagne.
    But it occurred to Charles, as he watched Lady Elizabeth open her fan, that he could trap her with her own snare. Acting rashly again, and quite forgetting his mother’s caution that he was not as clever as he thought, Charles gave his waistcoat a tug, squared his unpadded shoulders, and stepped boldly forward to join the hunt.
    Having kept the Duke of Braxton in wary view since the flash of breaking glass had caught her attention, Betsy saw him approach her grandmother and felt her pulse quicken. He’d not forgotten her, that much was clear from the unnerving stare he’d kept trained upon her for the last several minutes. The intensity of his gaze had made her shiver and turn away, yet she’d remained aware of his unwavering attention. Had he come seeking restitution for the incident in Oxford Street? Or satisfaction?
    Much as she despised Julian, Betsy had no wish to see him shot or run through by the Duke of Braxton. If she could escape him no other way, she’d wield the pistol or rapier herself, thank you very much. Not that it hadn’t been kind of her new young friend Teddy to offer, but—
    A gasp of recognition caught in Betsy’s throat as she watched the duke bow over her grandmother’s hand and turn to face her. Braxton’s eyes were more blue than green, but the thick dark hair gleaming like a raven’s wing in the candlelight, his straight nose, and square jaw were the same as Teddy’s. Were they cousins or brothers? Betsy wondered, sinking quickly into a curtsey as the duke approached and her suitors gave way.
    “Good evening, Your Grace,” Betsy murmured, rising as he completed his bow to her.
    “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, offering his elbow. “Your grandmother has given me permission for this waltz.”
    At least that’s what Betsy thought he said, for she couldn’t quite hear him, but his proffered arm and a hasty glance at her grandmother’s beaming face seemed to confirm it. Her pulse quickening, Betsy laid her hand on the Duke of Braxton’s wrist. It was trepidation, she told herself, not excitement at being led onto the dance floor by the youngest, handsomest duke in the realm.
    “So, my lady,” Charles began, once he had the little conniver firmly in his grasp. “Are you enjoying London?”
    “Oh, yes, Your Grace,” Betsy returned, striving vainly to hear him. He’d said London, she thought.
    “Have you made many conquests?” Charles asked blandly.
    Was that something about the country? Did she prefer it to the city? “Oh, no, Your Grace.” Betsy smiled dazzlingly, wishing fervently she could make out what he was saying.
    “Really?” Charles queried mildly. The little baggage, he thought contemptuously. “You seemed quite surrounded just now.”
    Had he said round or ground? Betsy cast a frantic look about her for a clue and saw nothing rounder than the plump pink cherubs painted on the frescoed ceiling. Surely not, she thought, flushing to the roots of her hair.
    She colored most becomingly, Charles owned, but cynically. Certain now that he was near to cracking her facade, he pressed bitingly, “How well are you acquainted with my brother, my lady?”
    “Why no, Your Grace,” Betsy assured him, “it’s no bother at all to dance with you.
    Charles came to an abrupt, stone-footed halt fortuitously near the doorway and out of the path of the other dancers. “I beg your pardon?”
    Her eyes, brilliant as the diamonds at her throat, were the only color left in Betsy’s face. Swiftly, as if his touch burned, she withdrew from his arms.
    “My grandmother would have my head if I slapped you,” she returned scathingly, “but someone should, Your Grace, for even thinking I would accompany you to the garden!”
    “I said pardon!” Charles