“How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at the low-cut bodice of her gown, pulling it higher. “I feel naked.”
Olivia laughed, brushed Claire’s hands away and urged the bodice back down. “You look beautiful. And remember, you’re not Claire Orwell—you’re the brazen Duchess of Beaumont.”
“That’s true. I’m sure the duchess has no qualms about displaying her décolletage.”
“None whatsoever.” Olivia’s smile became wicked when she said, “I’ve heard it whispered that since Charmaine Beaumont’s husband—the pompous old duke—died five years ago, she has taken any number of handsome lovers. Are you planning to add a few to her list?”
“Only one,” said Claire without hesitation, the image of the dark stranger she’d caught sight of this afternoon flashing into her mind. She stated the unguarded truth. “I would like—just once in my life—to have a grand passion. To know what it’s like to make love with a man who can sweep me off my feet and dazzle me. I shall do the duchess proud. I assume Her Grace can choose any man she wants. So I fully intend to pick the most sought after man in Saratoga.” She paused and added, “And then seduce him.”
“Seduce him? How?” asked Olivia.
Claire smiled, catlike. “Why, by ignoring him, of course.”
Also by NAN RYAN
CHIEFTAIN
NAUGHTY MARIETTA
THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
Duchess for a Day
Nan Ryan
Contents
One
London, Wednesday June 26, 1895
Newgate Prison
6:00 p.m. British Summertime
At shortly after the hour, a stern-faced turnkey dropped a ladder down from his perch high atop the catwalk. He turned and handed a frightened Claire Orwell down that ladder and into the infamous prison’s crowded Common Cell.
Claire’s presence caused an immediate stir. The criminals snapped to attention. Bloodshot eyes popped open and clung to the blond, willowy young woman.
“Meet yer ’ospitable mates.” The gruff turnkey gave a nasty grin as the curious crowded closer. “Street thieves. Pickpockets. Footpads. Shoplifters. And whores. You’ll fit right in, eh?”
The turnkey kicked a sleeping derelict out of the way. The bony, sweat-soaked felon groaned, rolled over, belched loudly, then fell back to snoring. Sickened by the pungent scent of stale vomit emanating from the prostrate creature, Claire made a face of disgust.
The turnkey laughed again. “Not to fret. T’aint nothin’ ye won’t get used to, Queenie.”
Claire felt her stomach roll.
“’ere, dearie, sit by me.” This from a diseased-looking woman with