A Duke in Danger by Barbara Cartland

Gerald said. “What you want is someone of distinction who is respected by all the best hostesses. Surely there is one of your relations who can fit that bill?”
    “I have actually been considering who could present her,” the Duke said.
    “You need someone to do a great deal more than that,” Gerald answered, “and it must naturally be someone with an impeccable reputation.”
    The Duke knew quite well that Gerald was subtly warning him against Lady Isobel, and when he thought about it he knew she was one person whom he had no wish for Alvina to meet.
    He had put her at the back of his mind while he was in the country and had deliberately refrained from asking Gerald whether she was back in England.
    Now, as if there was no need to ask the question, his friend said:
    “Isobel arrived from Paris yesterday. She is staying at her father’s house in Piccadilly and is expecting you to dine with her tonight.”
    “Why did you tell her I was back?” the Duke asked sharply.
    “I did not have to tell her, she knew.”
    “How could she have known?”
    “She sent a servant, I gather, to call here to enquire when you were expected, and since you did not tell your Butler to keep it a secret, he naturally gave the answer.”
    “Dammit!” the Duke said beneath his breath. “I really do not have time for Isobel at the moment.”
    “You will find that Isobel has very different ideas.”
    “She will be disappointed.”
    That, however, was easier said than done.
    Before the Duke had time to send a note to her father’s house to say he was unavoidably prevented from dining with her that evening, it was too late.
    When he returned to Berkeley Square, having spent the afternoon visiting the Prince Regent and being enthusiastically received at Carlton House, he saw a carriage outside his house.
    It was emblazoned with a very impressive coat-of-arms, and he knew that Isobel was waiting for him.
    There was nothing he could do, because he was well aware that Isobel would continue to wait however long he remained away.
    Bateson told him she had been in the house for over an hour, and he went into the Drawing-Room.
    As the door closed behind him she rose from the chair in which she was sitting by the fireplace.
    He had to admit she looked very lovely. She had discarded her thin cloak and also her bonnet, which was trimmed with a dozen small ostrich-feathers.
    H er fashionable gown was almost transparent and revealed the perfection of her figure.
    The Duke had only a glimpse of it before she ran down the room, her arms outstretched.
    She threw herself against him and lifting her face to his looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with an expression of desire which he knew only too well.
    Then, before he could even speak, her lips were on his.
    She kissed him as he should have kissed her, passionately, demandingly, insistently.
    As he felt her soft body press closer and closer to him, it was impossible for him not to put his arms round her.
    It was only when she set him free that he managed to say:
    “I did not expect you to arrive from France so soon.”
    “But you are glad I am here. Tell me, dearest, that you are glad to see me!”
    He was aware that the seductive note in Isobel’s voice was somewhat contrived, but, at the same time, as her arms tightened round his neck he was aware that she was genuinely excited by his closeness and the kisses she had given him.
    “Oh, Ivar,” she went on before he could speak. “I have missed you. Paris was ghastly without you, despite the fact that the Prince de Conde paid me extravagant compliments and I had a dozen invitations for dinner every night.”
    With difficulty the Duke managed to extricate himself from her clinging arms, and walked towards the fireplace, saying as he did so:
    “I am not surprised, Isobel. You are certainly in very good looks.”
    “Every man I meet tells me that,” she said a little pettishly. “I want you to say that you have been dying without me.”
    “I