Free How the Duke Was Won by Lenora Bell

straight between Lady Augusta’s perfectly proportioned breasts.
    Instead, she smiled sweetly. “How could I forget? But wasn’t that also the night you were found on the balcony with a certain someone ? You’d lost a button as I recall? Had it gone down your bodice?”
    Lady Augusta’s cheeks flamed scarlet. “I never!” she exclaimed. “I declare, what has come over you? You never used to put more than two words together.”
    â€œLadies, please,” warned the marchioness. “This is most unbecoming.” She fixed each of them with a censorious stare.
    The duke stared as well. His hot gaze made Charlene conscious of every movement she made, every breath she took.
    â€œLord Dalton, I hear you plan to race in the Gold Cup next June,” said Lady Vivienne. “Will it be Anticipation or Sir Marmalade?”
    The conversation turned to racehorses, a subject of which Charlene knew nothing, thereby leaving her to her thoughts.
    The duke didn’t seem to be swallowing Lady Augusta’s half-­naïve, half-­temptress bait. And Miss Doom and Gloom Tombs didn’t appear to be employing any strategy whatsoever. It was strange how she sounded quite normal until she said anything to the duke, and then words like warts and loathsome rot erupted.
    Maybe she had nervous attacks, like Lady Dorothea.
    Lady Vivienne played her cards to her chest, gambling on the appeal of the alluring lady of mystery.
    None of these girls needed him the way she did. They battled for prestige, glory, the thrill of being called “Her Grace.” Charlene was fighting for freedom, her sister’s innocence, her mother’s health. She couldn’t fail.
    Before tonight, she’d thought there was only one kind of nobleman. The domineering, imperious kind, who made the whole world dance to his whims with a firm hand on the reins.
    But this duke was far more complicated.
    His hands were large, with ragged nails and visible calluses on the fingertips and palms, as if he gripped his reins without gloves. She pictured those hands gripping her . Urging her to a gallop.
    Now where had that thought come from?
    It had to be the wine. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking anything stronger than an occasional sip of watered-­down cordial.
    He was unconventional. He didn’t follow any of the rules the countess had enumerated. He had his elbows on the table, and he’d introduced a servant to them at dinner.
    That had been rather sweet, actually.
    Although sweet wasn’t the word that usually came to mind when she thought of him.
    Formidable.
    Elemental.
    The outdoors followed him inside in the pine-­needle green of his eyes, the strong oak of his shoulders.
    He was ill at ease crammed into a chair in a dining hall. He kept drumming his fingers on the tabletop and tapping his foot on the carpet, restless and ready to be in motion again.
    So different from his languid friend, Lord Dalton, who exuded the allure of a choirboy gone astray, with his golden hair, classical profile, and wolfish grin.
    Lord Dalton didn’t make her think about being gripped, though.
    The duke slid his wineglass slowly over the sharp contours of his jaw and stared at Charlene with feral intensity.
    She lifted her chin, held his gaze, and wriggled her shoulders the tiniest little bit. Her bodice shifted dangerously lower.
    A muscle twitched in his jaw.
    Kyuzo had taught her that all adversaries had weaknesses. He’d also taught her not to let fear control her mind.
    Feminine voices rose and fell, exclaimed and giggled.
    Charlene tilted her head, imagining how she would seduce this duke when they were finally alone.
    Unknot the cravat, undo the buttons, slide off the coat. Taut flesh beneath her questing fingers. Tightly leashed power. A man in complete control of his body, so aware of his own appeal he expected women to fight over him.
    Her breath quickened.
    She lifted her wineglass, took a small