A SECRET KISS
“So here we are, the pair of us, out here hiding in the dark. Two people who don’t wish to marry”—he gave a sly wink—“anyone in that ballroom.”
Exasperated, she shook her head slightly and grinned at him. “You won’t give my secret away, will you, Mr. Woodward?”
“If you promise to call me Alex and I can call you…Caroline, was it?”
“Caroline,” she repeated.
“Well, Caroline, since we know some secrets about each other, we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
“I think, Alex, that we have a deal then,” she agreed with a teasing smile, looking up at him. He reached for her, gently taking hold of both her small hands. She let out a little gasp of surprise, but she did not pull away.
Tiny tingling sensations began to build inside her as his hands held hers. Oh, she definitely should have left her gloves on! For now she could feel his warm skin and his strong yet soft fingers that held her gently but with a firm pressure. It was difficult to breathe because her heart was beating so rapidly. She had the oddest feeling that something very special was happening. She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, those dark eyes, and had the sensation that she was suddenly falling off a very, very steep cliff.
His voice was a whisper. “Shall we seal our secrets with a kiss?”
Without a second’s hesitation, he pulled her closer lowering his mouth over hers…
SECRETS OF A DUCHESS
KAITLIN O’RILEY
For my mother, Joan.
I miss you more than you know.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my sisters, Jane, Maureen, Janet, and Jennifer.
I couldn’t have done this without all of you.
Note to Riley: You are the angel of my life.
CHAPTER 1
London, England
May 1865
Lord and Lady Maxwell’s ballroom was decorated with colorful garlands of fresh flowers perfuming the air and countless flickering candles lighting the room. Long oak tables, draped with the finest linen cloths trimmed in Belgian lace, were laden with shining sterling silver platters piled with delicacies and refreshments of all sorts and sparkling Irish crystal champagne flutes arranged artfully along the side, ready for toasting. A myriad of obliging servants were there to accommodate the slightest need of the hundreds of invited guests, the crème de la crème of London society, arriving in their most formal attire. The full orchestra, hidden behind a delicate Chinese screen, played melodiously at the end of the room near the dance floor. The steady buzz of voices in animated conversation was punctuated with bursts of merry laughter echoing through the elegant crowd of young debutantes, hopeful parents, eligible bachelors, social climbers, and society matrons. For the first grand ball of the Season, a general feeling of excitement and expectation was in the air, and everyone was in high spirits.
Olivia Fairchild, the Dowager Countess of Glenwood, had wasted no time in introducing her two granddaughters to the sons and grandsons of her aristocratic friends, and soon both Emma’s and Caroline’s dance cards were filled.
“Now, girls, try to remember everything your Aunt Jane and I taught you,” Olivia intoned in an encouraging whisper.
At her insistence, both granddaughters had been dressed painstakingly for their debut. The preparations had taken nearly all day. As young girls traditionally did at their first ball, Caroline, although considered somewhat old at twenty-two, wore a gown of soft white satin with small, capped sleeves, which accentuated her fair skin and slender figure. Her long, honey-colored hair was pinned up loosely on her head, and tiny white rosebuds were arranged there, forming a delicate crown, while stray tendrils of hair curled softly around her face. The effect was casually elegant, but it had taken what seemed like hours to get it just right. Arm-length white gloves and white satin slippers completed the ethereal ensemble.
As Caroline Armstrong twirled the white satin ribbon that held her card, she dreaded the part she knew she had to play when the first gentleman came to claim his dance. In spite of her grandmother’s hopeful predictions for her, a brilliant Season with scores of promising gentlemen vying for her hand in marriage was not in Caroline’s future. She would make sure of that. She had to.
When Sir Edward Winslow extended his arm to her, Caroline gave him a half-hearted smile and lowered her eyes demurely as he escorted her to the dance floor. He was a nice-looking young man of average height with a shy grin. Within a matter of minutes, she was thanking heaven for every dance lesson she had endured, because she needed all her resources to follow Sir Edward Winslow’s jerky, erratic movements. Too enthusiastic a dancer to simply waltz, Edward marched her awkwardly about the floor, pulling on her arms with a determined look of concentration on his long face. As she struggled to stay in step with his clumsy gait, she wondered if the boy had ever had a dance lesson in his life.
“It is a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Armstrong,” he declared while panting with exertion. “You are like dancing with an angel from heaven.”
“Thank you.” She looked down at her poor, trod-upon feet in their brand-new dainty slippers, and she bit her lip. The experience was quite the opposite of heavenly! Yet Lord Winslow seemed very kind, and feeling somewhat sorry for him, she hadn’t the heart to put her secret plan into effect and simply let him fall under the impression that she was extremely shy. Not daring to engage him in any conversation, she did not speak again, only nodded her head in answer to his polite questions and marched the remainder of the waltz with him.
Her next partner, however, was fairly begging to be set down a notch or two and appeared to be an apt subject upon which to implement her untested method of deterring suitors. Caroline became much more blatant in her discouragement of him, if only to save herself from ever having to be near the man again. Oily was the only word she could think of to describe Lord Arthur Kingston. Maybe a snake, she thought, as he eased her to the dance floor. His hard fingers pressed tightly against her arms, and his too-bright smile seemed avaricious. Some women might have found him handsome enough in a slick