Duchess For A Day - Nan Ryan

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Olivia could say for it.

      “Long sleeves in July? A throat-high yoke? A choking collar right up to your chin?” Olivia shook her head. “You look more a schoolmarm than a wealthy duchess.”

      Claire sighed heavily. “I know, but this is the best I can do until I go shopping. I have nothing suitable for evening wear.”

      “How long before you leave for the dinner party?”

      “Mrs. Titus said they’d send a carriage round for me. Eight sharp.”

      Olivia glanced at the tall grandfather clock standing in the foyer. “Then I’ve got an hour. You’re in luck, Duchess. I once worked in a gentlemen’s tailor shop on Savile Row. I get a needle in me hand and I can alter just about anything. Take off the dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

      She threw herself into her task.

      Within the hour, a lovely, lively Claire stood waiting in a shimmering dress of deep lavender faille. The gorgeous gown now had stylish short puff sleeves that appealingly caressed Claire’s ivory shoulders. Gone were the yoke and collar.

      The hastily remodeled gown’s bodice was cut so low and Claire’s full breasts were pushed so high by a tight corset, the pale swell of her bosom was generously exposed.

      “I believe I hear the carriage coming up the drive, Your Grace,” Olivia announced with a smile.

      “How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at her low-cut bodice, 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 over-weight, 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. My late husband was a good, kind man, but ours was never a love match and there was no real ardor.” Claire shrugged bare ivory shoulders, smiled slyly and declared, “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.”

      Eight

      The most sought-after man in Saratoga was the good-looking, fun-loving Nevadan, Hank Cassidy. The wealthy young Silver King whose mines produced more than ten thousand dollars a day. A man so darkly handsome and blatantly male he awakened intense romantic longings in females from sixteen to sixty.

      Hank’s afternoon arrival at the resort had caused as much of a stir as that of the Duchess of Beaumont. News quickly spread that he was back and had checked into one of the coveted cottages at the United States Hotel. Within an hour of his arrival, it was whispered that he had accepted an invitation to Lillian Titus’s dinner party. It was further whispered that the flamboyant duchess would be in attendance, as well.

      Those who had not been invited to Lillian’s gathering felt slighted. Competing hostesses were disappointed that Lillian had snagged both the Silver King and the Duchess of Beaumont.

      Hank’s intent was to put in a short, obligatory appearance at the dinner party where the stellar guest list would include the likes of Morgans and Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers. And, according to his talkative hotel valet, a beautiful widowed duchess.

      He’d paid little attention to the gossip. Titles did not impress him. He wouldn’t have cared if the Old Queen herself showed up at the Springs unless she brought along a string of racehorses. Let the other guests fawn over the visiting duchess, making fools of themselves.

      Not him.

      It was five minutes of eight when Hank, impeccably dressed in dark tuxedo, snowy white shirt and black tie, arrived at the Tituses’ mansion with a promise to himself that he would stay for one short hour, no more. As soon as dinner was over, he would make his excuses and leave.

      “My dear Hank,” Lillian Titus gushed, gazing up at him as a young, impressionable girl might. “Horace and I are delighted that you could join us this evening.”

      “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Titus,” Hank replied.

      The plump, happy hostess wrapped a possessive arm around Hank’s and maneuvered him about the drawing room, introducing him to those he didn’t know, reuniting him with old acquaintances from summers past.

      When finally she released her death grip on his arm, Hank exhaled with relief and milled about. He hardly noticed the longing looks he drew from the ladies. He was used to such frank appraisals. Unfortunately, he saw no one here with whom he’d like to get better acquainted. He hoped dinner would soon be announced.

      It was coming up on 8:30. What were they waiting on?

      A glass of port in his hand, Hank was standing across the large parlor, his back to the room, when the last guest finally arrived. He paid no attention to the buzz of excitement that swept through the crowd. He was talking to a fellow Thoroughbred owner when Lillian Titus stepped up and interrupted him in midsentence.

      “Excuse me, Hank,” Lillian said with a smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

      Hank slowly turned.

      And found himself face-to-face with the elusive golden-haired woman he had not been able to get out of his mind. His heart skipped two beats. Then began pounding furiously. She was even lovelier than he had thought. Those luxurious golden locks were dressed appealingly atop her head. Her beautiful, unblemished skin appeared to glow in the soft light.

      Her eyes, an incredible violet hue and seductively shaded by long, thick lashes, were large and luminously expressive. Her half-petulant lips looked soft and sweet. He immediately wanted to kiss them along with her beautiful bare shoulders and elegant throat.

      She was tall and willowy, at least five-eight or nine, with hips that were lush, feminine and gently rounded. Her violet-hued gown was so tight it thrust her rounded breasts blatantly upward. The pale swell of her bosom made his mouth water and his knees grow weak.

      She stood there looking cool, unruffled, totally serene. Yet he would have bet every Thoroughbred he owned that she was fiery, tempestuous and passionate. Without so much as moving or saying a word, she exuded a healthy sexuality and wholesome sense of herself as a desirable woman.

      Hank wanted her instantly.

      “Hank, dear,” Lillian Titus was saying, “may I present the Duchess of Beaumont. She just arrived this afternoon and will be with us through the season.” She turned to Claire, “Your Grace, Mr. Hank Cassidy of Nevada.”

      Claire took one look at Hank and recognized him as the man she’d seen going into the hotel cottages this afternoon. She knew she had found the man she was going to seduce. The mere sight of him caused a fluttering sensation in her stomach and an aching tightness in her breasts.

      He 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

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