was tall, a couple of inches over six feet. He was also tanned, muscular and fit. His hair was coal black, thick and gleaming with blue highlights under the glow of the chandelier. She had the strongest urge to reach up and run her hands through those silky raven locks.
His face was beautiful, but strong. Hooded eyes of striking summer blue were focused on her and deep in their depths flashed unmistakable sensual fire and unspoken challenge. His nose was straight and proud. His mouth was wide, generous, with warm, sensual lips that likely knew the art of kissing.
He was staring at her and Claire caught the slight dilating of his eyes and the little smile that began to play around the corners of his mouth as if he knew something she didn’t. It made her uneasy. It made her curious.
He wore an elegant tuxedo with satin lapels and cummerbund that fitted his tall, lean body perfectly. The whiteness of his pleated shirt was striking against the darkness of his skin. He held a glass of port in his right hand and she noted that his fingers were long and tapered, the nails clean and cut short. She found herself wondering how it would feel to have that tanned hand touching her. Caressing her face. Stroking her shoulders.
Without so much as moving a muscle, his raw sexual power was obvious, almost tangible. There was absolutely no doubt in Claire’s mind that this was the man who could invoke a feverish passion in her.
Ah, yes here was her unsuspecting target. But she wouldn’t let him know it.
Not yet.
Smiling down at her, Hank was already counting the minutes until they could take their leave and he could take her in his arms. He saw no obstacle in his path. Like everyone else, he had heard the stories of the uninhibited duchess’s affairs. That she was a libertine suited him fine. He preferred women of experience. His only regret was that the two of them had to endure the boring dinner party when they could be back at her place or at the hotel cottages getting properly acquainted.
Hank took the soft hand the duchess offered and acknowledged her. She spoke his name and it sent tingles up his spine. But all too soon she freed her hand from his.
“You’ll excuse us, Hank,” said Lillian Titus. “The others are anxious to pay their respects to the duchess.”
Hank nodded. But he was surprised and oddly disappointed that the duchess turned away without a parting glance. All at once he had the uneasy feeling that she was not particularly interested in him.
Taken aback, he watched as she swept regally around the room, smiling at guests as she was introduced, warmly greeting those she had known from summer seasons past.
Hank never took his eyes off the vision in violet. His body tensed. Teeth clamped down, he silently willed her to turn and look at him. To give him some subtle sign. To let him know that she was aware of him.
It never happened. Not once did she so much as glance back in his direction.
Nonplussed, Hank was relieved when finally a smartly uniformed butler stepped into the open double doors of the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served.”
Hank felt a hand on his arm. “You’re the Silver King!” trilled a feminine voice and Hank reluctantly took his eyes off the duchess. A winsome redhead in a figure-hugging gown of emerald-green satin was smiling seductively at him. “You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Cassidy?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Well, you should be,” she teased and her eyes sparkled. “I’m Caroline Whit. We met three years ago. I was here with my husband, Rodney. Ring a bell? Rodney Whit from Vermont.”
“Rodney Whit? Sure. Is he here this evening?”
“I hope not,” she said with a laugh. “I divorced him last winter. And please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not.” She leaned closer and whispered, “The only good thing I got from dear old Rodney was a love of racehorses. I understand they’re your passion, as well.”
“That’s why I’m in Saratoga,” he said.
“We have a lot in common, Hank. We’d better go in to dinner,” she said. “I hope you’re seated next to me.”
Hank gave no reply, but graciously escorted Caroline Whit into the candlelit dining room where the long, linen-draped table was set for fifty guests.
“Caroline, you’re at the far end of the table, to the right of my Horace,” said Lillian Titus, stepping forward to direct Caroline to her seat. “Horace finds you so entertaining, he insisted you be seated close to him.” Caroline Whit made an unsuccessful attempt to hide her disappointment.
“And you, Hank, I’ve placed you here next to the Duchess of Beaumont.” Lillian leaned close and whispered, “I’m counting on you to charm Her Grace so that she’ll enjoy herself this evening.”
Hank smiled. Nobody wanted the duchess to enjoy herself this evening more than he did.
Claire was enjoying herself.
Everyone had greeted her and accepted her as the Duchess of Beaumont. There had been no looks of doubt or probing questions or whispers behind raised hands. She could hardly keep from laughing out loud. She had—for now—been successful in her duplicity. She hoped Olivia was as successful bucking the tables as she was playing the belle of the ball.
Claire had also succeeded in concealing her fierce attraction to the handsome Hank Cassidy.
When Hank took his seat next to her, she didn’t turn and smile at him. Nor did she acknowledge his presence. Instead she pretended to be totally engrossed in conversation with the gentleman on her right, Parker Lawson of New York City. Lillian Titus had whispered in Claire’s ear that the blondly handsome Lawson, an eligible bachelor, was one of the heirs to the late Jay Gould’s vast fortune. Upon Gould’s death in ’92, Parker Lawson had become a very wealthy man.
But as she talked with him, Claire was vitally aware of Hank Cassidy. There was no doubt in her mind that this big, handsome Westerner knew how to please a lady. The prospect of making love to him made her wish that there was no need to wait. She wished that their heated, but impersonal affair could begin that very evening.
But she was too clever to let that happen. She could not let him know that she fully intended to entice him into her bed. Not yet. She would wait a week or two. And while she waited she would arouse his interest by feigning indifference.
Hank scowled when the duchess laughed merrily at something Lawson whispered to her. When finally Lawson was distracted by a lady seated on his right, Hank seized the opportunity.
“You’ll be here for the entire season?” he asked.
“That is my intention, Mr. Cassidy,” she said, then turned her attention to the bowl of vichyssoise before her.
“Call me Hank,” he coaxed. “And what do I call you?”
“Your Grace,” she said coolly.
She had set the tone and it did not change throughout the dinner. Hank broached every subject he thought might interest her. None did. He got clipped yes or no answers to any and all questions. And barely a nod of her golden head to any amusing story he shared. Nothing he said seemed to engage her. He tossed her many a signal. She swatted each one down without batting an eyelash.
Never had he tried so hard to charm a woman and failed so miserably. His ego was totally deflated. Damn her. He should dislike her for treating him badly. She was cold and rude and a terrible snob.
And he was captivated.
Claire knew her plan was working. And she was pleased.
She pretended, throughout dinner, to take little interest in him. In truth she clung to his every word, was amused by his entertaining tales, was warmed by his every smile and dreamed of the moment when he would come into her arms.
But she wouldn’t let it happen tonight. It was too soon. She’d make him wait.
When the seventh and final course