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emergency, for if it had
been, the Dowager Duchess would be up and waiting for him, pacing restlessly,
no matter how late the hour. Still, the dowager estates were in Derbyshire,
which was no easy drive to make, and if she had come from her home in London,
it would have meant almost a half day's journey. She had not come merely to
chat— something important was on her mind.
    But it would have to
wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow. His body tensed. Would the utterly seductive
Lady Shelton "pass by?" A smile curved his lips, his first real smile
of the evening, revealed only in the privacy of the master bedroom and shared
only with the Borzoi thumping his tail enthusiastically in greeting to his
master.
    Clayborough stripped. He
was still shocked at her admission that she was as original in private as in
public, and again, for the umpteenth time, he imagined her naked in his bed,
astride him, devouring him with her wild gypsy passion. In his imagination he
was somewhat passive, as he had never been in his entire life. The fantasy
aroused him unbearably, and he was not a man who succumbed to daydreams.
    She was more than
original; she was daring, and he guessed she was reckless as well. Of course,
he knew she was somehow related to the Earl of Dragmore, whom he knew, admired,
and respected. Nicholas Shelton was very much like himself: a hard, disciplined
worker and a clever businessman. Was she his daughter-in-law? Some cousin, perhaps?
    Obviously she was
married, for she was no spring miss and her bold manners, especially coming
unescorted in such a costume, confirmed this. The Duke was used to married
women throwing themselves at his feet and doing everything they possibly could
to get into his bed. Although he did not indulge himself in gambling, alcohol,
or other wastrel pursuits, he had never been able to refuse a beautiful woman,
although he rarely bothered to be the pursuer. He always kept a mistress as
well, of course, but he tired quickly in these relationships and was
continually changing liaisons. He was well aware that he had a reputation for
being a ruthless womanizer, but it did not bother him—at least he was no
sodomite like his late father.
    It occurred to him that
Lady Shelton would make a fine mistress. He did not know her well, but he
sensed it. Unfortunately, as she was married, taking her as his mistress was
out of the question and he would have to settle for an affair. Usually his
interludes with married women were even shorter than his relationships with his
mistresses. He rarely had time for the clandestine meetings a married woman
required; usually a tumble or two sufficed. Lady Shelton interested him more
than a bit—he did not think a couple of nights would do either of them justice.
    He sighed, annoyed at
the inconvenience it would cause him.
    The Dowager Duchess was
also an unfashionably early riser. Isobel de Warenne Braxton-Lowell had gotten
into the plebeian habit in the early years of her marriage, when Francis had
first come into his patrimony after the seventh Duke's death. It hadn't taken
her very long to see that Francis had no intention of changing his rakehell
ways. When the bills began to pile up, she had finally hired a chancellor to
attend to them. It had been a rude shock to learn that funds were desperately
scarce and the estates were withering, but nothing like the rude shock her
marriage had been. And that had only been the beginning. Someone had to run the
huge dukedom. Isobel had become that someone, and the more adept at it she
became, the more angry with her Francis grew.
    It was just past six in
the morning and Woodward poured her tea from a silver-plated urn, which pointed
up the plight of the previous owners of Chapman Hall as eloquently as the
run-down grounds and worn oak floors did. No one of the Dowager Duchess'
acquaintances used silver plate, especially not tarnished and dented silver
plate.
    Despite the hour, Isobel
was dressed in an elegant blue day ensemble, the dress