Author's note: Hello my darling (and sadly neglected readers)! I give my deepest apologies for the wait for this chapter. I am a terrible updater! Please forgive me, my life is in wild disarry. I work for a department store and believe me when I say the winter holiday season is not conducive to free flow of imagination. Tell me what you think, I live for your thoughts!

xoxo

As is the case with any season, competition is paramount. The hostesses are in a frenzy to attract the crème de la crème. Their husbands are most certainly cringing at their lightened purses in consequence, for the decadence of the entertainments is readily obvious. The attendees are not unaffected in the pursuit of victory by any means. The modistes are in alt, as every lady is desperate to out do the opposition. The gentlemen are not getting off lightly either. All want to be seen with the Season's most popular beauties. The exotic Miss Penelope Shafai has many a man fancying himself a poet, rhapsodizing on her fine eyes…

But the sensational Lady Blair is swiftly becoming the success of the year. Her crowd of admirers grows steadily and boasts three charming earls, two well funded viscounts, a handsome collection of his Majesty's finest and, most notably, one wicked duke. All that is missing is a prince in a pear tree.

This lady author has begun to speculate, dear readers, over the exact cause of such a flurry of attention. To be quite fair, the lady is not without her charms and being worth a staggering sum never impairs. However, competition is a heady thing. And wanting to capture a prize valued by many is far more desirable than one wanted by few. As always, to the victor go the spoils. Happy hunting, gentlemen.

Society Pages 4 April 1817

The next few weeks flew by in a mad rush. Amusements varied: garden parties, picnics, routs, balls. The weather was unpredictable, as April in England often can be; blustering winds tempered with mild temperatures, icy fog hovering over cobbled streets until the slow burn off at midmorning. One never knew what the next day would bring, rain or shine?

There were a few things that remained the same however. The parties and activities twisted into a blur. One was never sure if they heard that piece of gossip at Lady Glossup's rout or the Hamilton ball, but it could have been just as easily at the Rotherstone's tea. The mass of expensively clad bodies steadily expanded as the Season hit its stride.

And much in line with everyone's expectations, but not to say her own, Blair seemed to turn into an overnight sensation. Gentlemen lined up to plead for a dance, to fetch her a lemonade or to take her driving in the park.

Inevitably, some men made more of an impression than others.

Lt. Baizen had become a regular companion, always available and solicitous. He had a good humored wit and a likeable personality. He made her feel like the lady she was and treated her with the utmost respect, nearly an equal.

And then, there was the duke. He was a phantom, appearing and dissolving with impeccable timing. He always anticipated where and when she would arrive. With his shocking sense of humor, he made her smile against her better judgment. He made her feel nothing like a lady- with him she turned into a full-blooded woman with opinions, intelligence and passion.

Whenever the two men interacted, they reverted to some woefully primitive condition that Blair could not help but find slightly entertaining. At times, they would all but bare their teeth to stake a claim. Each would covertly mark his territory, that is to say Blair herself, by usurping her attentions. By means of a cordiality that neither of them felt, they would continually tear strips off each other hidden behind expressions of impassivity. With another set of men, it could have been written off as good-natured ribbing. But, with these two, the obvious lack of love loss between them discarded that illusion.

Charles would poke fun at Carter's profession, sometimes the very fact that he had one. Carter, in turn, would bring the duke's wild exploits to the fore at every opportunity. Blair tried to ignore them, under the guise of being far above such behavior, but sometimes they were so outrageous, she couldn't bite back her smiles.

However, sometimes she distinctly felt like a mare between two pawing, snorting stallions. Since the analogy was not flattering to her in any regard, she would let her annoyance show through. She was not a prize to be won (no matter what it said in the society papers), she was a person. Whenever they strayed into danger of forgetting that, she would remind them rather peevishly, not to mention bluntly.

On one such occasion, she had just returned to her small circle of admirers after a dance with Lord Grandville. Carter nestled up to her left side while Charles took her right, effectively blocking off the others. They both regarded her warmly, but refused to acknowledge each other. She fought against rolling her eyes skyward and requesting divine intervention.

"Would you honor me with the next dance, my lady?" Carter offered his hand and a courtly bow.

"Lieutenant, I believe you know that his grace has requested the next waltz this evening." She recapped softly.

"I must have forgotten, my lady, your presence tends to overshadow everyone else in attendance."

Charles made a perceptible sound of derision at Carter's overblown flattery.

"Did you say something, your grace?" Blair questioned, her manufactured serenity cracking along the edges.

"I was just clearing my throat, love. There seems to be some sycophantic drivel in the air making it hard to respire." The duke nettled mercilessly, using a wave of his hand to mimic ventilating the room.

Carter stiffened, but before he could form his rebuttal, Blair cut in.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I believe I will adjourn to less waspish company." She turned to dismiss them, but they both blocked her way.

"Except my regrets, my lady. I did not wish to upset you so." Carter declared repentantly.

"Indeed, I think your aura is the only thing that can transform me from a wasp to something much sweeter." The duke put in, along with a charming flash of straight white teeth.

"If you cannot be civil to one another, I will happily find other companions." She warned, harkening a face her mother used to employ when she misbehaved.

Both bowed to her in response then turned to one another and greeted the other with a curt inclination of the head.

"Bass."

"Baizen."

"Men." Blair lamented, "Why do you refer to each other in such a manner? I do not just mean you, but men in general. I have seen the best of friends call each other by their last names or titles. As if you have no Christian names."

The pair looked at her in speculation then turned to eye each other. As if by tact agreement, Charles admitted the truth.

"Honestly, I have no idea. We simply do it." Charles heard the opening bars of the waltz, praising whatever deity saw fit to deliver him from the conversation. "My dance, sweet."

Carter always seemed to give way with good grace, even if she could sense a tautness about him. He look as if he were a nice enough fellow, but there was a niggle in her mind that never fully resolved itself. Blair wrote it off to the duke's remarks about Carter's true motives behind his attentions. He had planted a giant seed of doubt, one she could never reconcile enough to just brush off. Duke Bass had an uncanny aptitude for saying outright what she secretly held in discomfort.

Something even more alluring about the duke was at every opportunity, which with the duke was with astonishing frequency, he would sweep her into his arms and kiss away her sanity. He was suspiciously well acquainted with darkened parlors, alcoves and additional obscure spots conducive to seduction. She put up all the pretenses of maidenly virtue, but when she was caught in his hold reason took an extended holiday and desire sunk in its claws. She could no more break their kisses than she could attempt to fly.

But even better than the clandestine moments of heated passion, were the, by now ritual, sparring matches they engaged in every morning. Each daybreak found the duke atop his stallion, whose name she had learned was Iago, at the entrance of the park.

After the Covington Soiree, she was definitely in no mood to see him. Nonetheless, there he sat, boldly masculine, astride his mount patiently awaiting her arrival. His muscled thighs poured into tight, buff buckskins that disappeared into lovingly polished Hessians. A black greatcoat was filled out by his admirable shoulders. An expertly and elaborately tied cravat peaking out of his coat completed the picture of manly, everyday elegance. Blair called upon all her emotional resources to not let her appreciation show.

Inside she was drooling.

She remembered how that body moved through a waltz, all power and confidence and grace. It was the work of a moment to recall how many women had 'appreciated' the figure he cut. He was a cad. He was a scoundrel. He was sin personified.

Alas, he was not for her.

"Good day, my lady." He offered, reading her scantily concealed disgruntlement and giving a smirk in turn.

Dispensing with any mock politeness, Blair spoke decisively, "Are you hard of hearing, Your Grace?"

Charles' smirk turned into a grin, "My hearing is quite sound, sweeting."

"Then why, I ask, do you insist on forcing your unwanted presence on me?" With the haughtier of a queen, she fixed him with a stony glare.

He gave an elegant shrug, "It is my stubborn nature, not my hearing, that is to blame, I fear. 'Man is a goal seeking animal. His life only has meaning if he is reaching out and striving for his goals.'"

"Aristotle?" Blair questioned with due disbelief, "You surprise me, Your Grace."

The wind kicked up for a moment, loosening a recalcitrant lock of hair from her coiffure. She untangled it from the collar of her riding blouse with impatient fingers.

Her voice was no less impatient than her gesture when she continued, "Notwithstanding, I do hope your nature, stubborn or otherwise, asserts itself in another direction."

He chuckled lightly at her riposte, as his eyes lingered on the delicate lace collar caressing her throat, "Doubtful, but I will allow you to hope."

"'Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is, but always to be blest.'" She countered, trying to hide her sudden liking of their game.

"My turn to be impressed it appears. Pope, if I am not misguided, my lady? 'I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope.'" He nodded provokingly.

Blair surveyed him evenly, letting him think he had the upper hand. Then, after a hesitation, she let her lips curve condescendingly, "I have no great liking for the Greeks, though Aeschylus did have his moments."

Another wind whistled through the budding trees, this time ruffling the duke's raven locks. Blair watched as the air upset then smoothed his hair, leaving it with an attractive tousled look.

She double blinked, bringing her mind back into focus, as Charles' raised a brow and dipped his head in admiration. She cleared her throat and added, "I do have a liking for the prospect he raised however. Dreams, such as mine, sometimes do come true."

"But then we rarely get a choice in which dreams come to fruition. For if I possessed such an ability, we would be in a very different setting at such an early hour."

"La, save your roguish descriptions, Your Grace." She brushed off with contrived boredom, when in truth their exchange had stirred her blood thoroughly. "I, for one, know of no morning pastime more fulfilling than a good, hard ride."

She thought she heard him choke before he commented, "Oh, on that, darling we are in full agreement."

She blushed at his tone, one overflowing with suppressed laughter and dark desire, even if she did not truly understand the source.

With obvious effort he wiped his face free of the expression realizing her incomprehension.

"Shall we race, love? If you find yourself the champion, I would be delighted to grant you a boon."

She notched her chin higher, "You mean when I come out the champion?"

He let out a full gust of laughter, a sound that made her alarmingly smitten, his smile lingering as he accused, "Full of arrogance this morn I see."

"Confidence, your grace." She corrected proudly, "I simply know how to play to my strengths."

Charles nodded, "Two peas in a pod we are then. For I cannot help but do the same."

"Pretty words, sir, I hope for your sake you can back up your conceit with aptitude." She turned Hepburn to the track with a nearly imperceptible flick of the wrist.

"Never fear, I am well skilled at riding, no matter the mount or the venue." His rascal half smile was in full effect as he followed suit and righted Iago along side her mare.

Blair was slightly confused again by the undertones, suddenly wishing she could decipher his meaning. She didn't like being at a disadvantage in any field. Genteel ladies were not supposed to understand certain things, it was not proper. Not for the first time, Blair yearned to be completely improper.

Well not completely improper, just enough to grasp the hidden meanings of rakish conversations. And maybe improper enough to have experienced some of the activities he had hinted at in the past as well. If that made her a shameless jezebel, she mused with an internal shrug, so be it.

As she caught sight of his twinkling eyes, exasperation caught her, "Your Grace?" she paused.

"Hmm?" He muttered, lost in his own thoughts.

"Go!" She shouted, urging Hepburn into a jolting gallop.

"Minx!" Charles called out as he gave the stallion his head.

Blair's light feminine laugher trailed behind her.

Now, more than three weeks later, she whirled in the duke's capable arms in the Parkerton's ballroom. It was the supper waltz, the dance that proceeded the sumptuous midnight buffet. The duke's friend Marquess Archibald had waxed lyrical about the delicacies to be found at the table. Charles had wryly informed her that Nate could give a running commentary on any hostess's offerings from tea cakes to turbot. She liked the pair of them together. They were very much themselves with each other, a boyishness peaked through that otherwise lie dormant. It made her ache to further experience that side of him. The three of them had had a lovely conversation at the refreshment table where the duke had claimed the supper dance straight off.

Blair had long ago quit attempting to dissuade his advances. Firstly, it never turned in her favor, he had the devil's own luck and timing. Secondly, he had no qualms about embarrassing them both in public, which would do no damage to him, naturally, but could be disaster for her. And thirdly, and most lamentably, she no longer wanted to fend him off. She wanted to be precisely where she was, firmly within his embrace. There was no greater felicity than synchronizing her steps with his, following where he led, allowing her body to brush his as he pulled her closer through the turns. She regularly berated herself for her weakness. But, it never felt like weakness while she was with him. It felt like soothing salve to a burn or the elusive answer to a vexing riddle.

It felt… right.

Yet, alone in her bedroom as Dorota divested her of her night finery, she would start with the self lectures.

He is a no good rogue.

He is not the man you need.

He will never give you what you want.

Then he would materialize at her side the next night, whisper something rakish or endearing in her ear and she'd be lost. That night the process would undoubtedly start all over again, like some mocking litany.

In the deepest part of her heart she knew why she allowed it. She thought, or more accurately feared, his interest was basically temporary. No one ensnared the dashing duke and held him captive forever. He was a wanderer, fickle and worldly. Even if they married, he would never be hers, not really. He was not a man a woman managed, control was his drug of choice. Regrettably, it was hers as well. So, she let herself fantasize and hold on to the moments that she, Blair Cornelia Waldorf, held the Duke of Bass' notice. When she was older and settled with the right kind of gentleman, the steady kind that would adore her without limits, she would look back and remember when a rakish duke danced lavish attention on her.

She did not underestimate herself, she knew she was deserving of courting, wooing and love. It was the duke she judged to be lacking in this capacity. Moving on to her true direction would come, but for the moment she would revel in seductive glances and impertinent touches he bestowed.

"I don't know how you manage it." Charles abruptly stated, as they performed a perfect revolution to the music.

"Quite easily, I simply put one foot in front of the other and follow the melody." She smiled knowingly during her cheeky response.

"Very amusing, minx." He grinned back, "But you know that waltzing was not what I meant."

"Then you must be much more specific in your utterances, Your Grace. I've been informed that vagueness is a sign of old age." She stated with an expression of false concern.

Blair could never help calling awareness to the near decade that lie between their ages.

"Always you bait me." He shook his head in mock reproof. "It is said that a man my age is in his prime." His eyes turned intent and his fingers flexed on her back as if he was battling to not pull her closer, "I think a demonstration is in order… To clear up any vagueness on my account."

He looked as though he would be all too happy to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away to prove his virility. Blair bit her lip and tamped down on a welling surge of excitement at the notion.

"Straying off the topic, Your Grace? You are making a poor case for your mental clarity."

The corners of his mouth lifted, a shadow of a rogue's smile, "Some topics prove more distracting than others."

Very distracting. Blair concurred inwardly.

"None of that!" She admonished, to herself or him she wasn't certain, "Now back to your original thought… If you can brush off the cobwebs and recall it."

He gave a beleaguered sigh, "If you insist. I was wondering how you manage to look increasingly tempting every time I see you." He gave her as complete a head to toe perusal as their positions would allow, his voice a husky murmur "Every color and shade make you more desirable. Every flounce and feather, more delectable."

He met her eyes, deep brown locking with light, "That shade of yellow for instance would prove tragedy on the majority of ladies present. And yet… on you… it makes me wonder if you taste as tart as lemons or if your skin is as warm as sunshine. Just viewing you makes me hungry."

The music chose than moment to come to a ending, he reluctantly released her waist, dropping into a bow. She curtsied in return.

Blair snapped open her fan, employing it on her suddenly heated cheeks, gratified to have the excuse of the dance for her rapid temperature flux.

"Perfect timing. Dinner, it appears, is served. It will give you ample opportunity to assuage your hunger."

"Wrong appetite." He growled into her ear and she shuddered.

She had his full attention now, but how long would it last?

A more disconcerting thought took center stage in her head, would her heart be intact at the end?