Page 9 of The Disgraceful Duchess

West didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion he turned, ripped a curtain from the window, leapt over the settee and began beating at the flames. Pomona seized a pillow and used it to pound out the embers that scattered across the carpet. In seconds the air was dense with smoke and the foul, sulfurous stench of burnt silk.

“Pomona. Pomona.” She turned. “Stop. Stop. The fire is out.”

She looked around, confused. “What?”

“The fire is out.” West’s hands were on her arms. He gazed into her eyes and frowned. “You have had a shock. Please. Sit down.”

She couldn’t move. She stared up at him. For two years, she’d tried to believe that he couldn’t be as handsome as her memory claimed. But she’d been lying to herself. His hair was dark and fell in a wave over his forehead, exactly as she’d remembered it. His dark eyes held the same gleam of mischief—or even rebellion—that had been her first hint that they were kindred spirits. His jawline was sharp and his lips were sculpted and sensual.

And he was here. Right in front of her. And she hadn’t even known that he was in London. And...

“Pomona?” He was still frowning. “Please. Sit.” He tried to turn her gently toward the settee, but her feet wouldn’t move.

Someone flung the door of the library open. A torrent of people rushed into the room—footmen, housemaids, and what seemed to be all the guests of the musicale. “Smoke!” shrieked someone.

“Please.” West held up his hands. “Everyone remain calm. The fire is already out.”

“Fire?” cried a lady.

“The fire is out,” repeated West, but whether anyone heard him above the shrieks and cries of alarm was doubtful. Footmen hurried to open windows and light candles. Pomona glimpsed Lady Theodosia and wished that she could rush to her, but though the cold winter air was dissipating the smoke, the dreamlike feeling persisted. Everything began to go dark around the edges.

Lady Beaufort—a huge diamond clip ablaze in her gray hair—swept through the crowd. A hush fell as she surveyed the crisped and charred remains of the tablecloth. “Ah well--I never cared for that drapery anyway.”

“Very good!” Sir Simon, in the front of the crowd, began laughing and applauding. “Oh, a matchless wit indeed!"

There was a ringing noise in Pomona’ ears. She sat down on a wooden chair. The candle was still lying a foot or so from Townley’s outstretched hand. When he’d tripped and fallen, the candle flames had ignited the cloth. "Pomona?" West was the only one who seemed to notice, and his voice seemed to be coming from far away. "Pomona, are you..."

“Thank you for your efforts, your grace. I trust that you are unscorched?”

Who was Lady Beaufort talking to?

Townley’s eyes opened. They focused on Pomona. “You!” He sat up, coughed, and lurched to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at her. “You! You came here for a liaison with this—this Jacobin! Well, I shall tell everyone exactly what…”

“Before you go any farther, sir, there is a fact of which I must make you aware.” West’s voice was calm. He took Pomona’s limp hand in his, and held his other hand up for silence. “Ladies? Gentlemen? I beg your indulgence, but I must make an announcement. Miss Pomona Keynsham has done me the very great honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

Chapter Four

“No. I will not marry Gabriel West! Or the Duke of March. Or whatever he is now.”

Charles, who’d just arrived and seemed to be filling half the breakfast room with his broad shoulders and the icy air that he’d brought in on his clothes, cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. It is a shock. But there are several points that make it impossible to simply back out of the engagement. For one, there is no question that you were caught with him—and by half the ton, too, it seems.”

“But"—

“For another, there is Townley. A loathsome insect of a man, yes. But a man who has accumulated a great deal of political power, and who is impossible to silence. And for a third point”—annoyingly enough, Charles was actually ticking these points off on his fingers— “there is the fact that West is the new Duke of March, which makes him an object of great interest. In fact, the announcement that he made last night has already become public.”

Pomona had scarcely slept. It took her a moment to realize what her brother had said. “Become public? What do you mean?”

Charles exchanged a glance with Lady Theodosia. “A gossip item about your engagement is in one of the morning newspapers.”

“The morning newspapers?”

“Just one.”

“You have seen it?” She looked between them. “Please. Give it to me.”

“Perhaps you ought not to read it, dear.” But after exchanging a glance with Charles, Lady Theodosia handed it over. Most of the ton in attendance were less dumbfounded by the fire than by the unexpected announcement of a certain bluestocking’s engagement to the new D. of M.

Pomona rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. Very witty.” She dropped the paper onto the breakfast table, her face burning.