Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea (6 page)

The houseguests from town were trickling in at an alarming rate. Roxanne could hear the soft-spoken curses of each of the guests’ servants as they carted up the endless series of trunks and possessions along the treacherous winding path to the castle, for no carriage could make the trip.

Roxanne glanced down at the list of names the personal maid of the comtesse had drawn up for her. Names, an impossibly long list of names, along with a few descriptions of some.

There were so many lofty people on the list that she grew almost faint. There were three dukes, one duchess, and half a dozen lords and their ladies. But the largest contingent was the names of all the eligible daughters and sisters. She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

She refused to pay any attention to the tiny voice that said she did not feel sorry for him at all. She was feeling something entirely else. What it was, she could not say. Oh, perhaps she had a warm spot for him.

How could she not? He had saved her. He had put her up; and perhaps most lovely of all, he had said just the right things to her arse of a husband at the funeral for her blue fanned-lace bonnet.

She felt her hands meld into fists, her nails biting into her tender palms. She was not going to feel anything more than admiration for him.

She knew very well where the other could lead. She was not going to make a fool of herself twice over. She would feel gratitude toward him. But that was where she would draw the line.

And besides, there were plenty of reasons why she could never feel anything more than appreciation toward him . . .

1. She was too old for him. Indeed, she was older than him by two years.

2. He was a duke—a dyed-in-the-wool, outrageously virile, classically handsome
duke
.

3. She was a tin miner’s daughter.

4. He was under orders to marry a nobleman’s daughter with impeccable lineage and great fortune.

5. She would never give up her fortune.

6. Oh, yes. The most important thing: She was legally dead. Or married. Or, perhaps, both. Yes, she was both.

7. He liked Town, she, the country (not that she’d ever been to London. Why, she’d never been north of Falmouth.)

8. Most importantly, she would see to her own happiness, thank you very much. And not entrust it to someone who was most likely a secretly tortured soul unable to give his heart to anyone—even if he did seem to like her dog.

9. And, she was . . . utterly ridiculous. She was after all, above all, #6, which discounted everything else on this blasted—

A knock sounded at the door. She stumbled to her feet from her hiding perch near the window.

It was he.

“You know, you could show just a little appreciation by at least attending to my great-aunt’s request. I understand your inability to obey any gentleman, at this point—especially after that nauseating display by your darling husband. But really, is it too much to ask you to meet the hordes who seek my hand in marriage? I mean, if I can do it, surely you can, too.” His brown eyes sparkled with wit.

She tried not to notice it. “Did you bring back my dog?”

“What? You didn’t stay for the grand finale?”

“I dared not.”

“Well, you owe me a new coat.”

She raised an inquiring brow.

“Edward is partial to buttons.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And Weston’s finest worsted wool. He at least had the propriety to stop at the buttons of my pantaloons, but it was a near thing.”

“My dog prefers to be addressed as Eddie.”

“That was made clear in your husband’s presence.”

“Did he bite him?”

“No. But it was obvious each wanted to tear the other’s throat out.”

“Good. Well, I thank you for bringing him back to me.”

“I know how to play my part. It’s just too bad you refuse to play yours.”

“And that would be?”

“That of my mysterious step great-grandmother’s great-grandchild. My cousin many times removed. That hanger-on relation who will help me keep the more impertinent misses at bay.”

“So that you have enough time to make your own choice.”

“Precisely. Before one of them takes things into her own devices and makes it for me.”

“All right. I can do that for you.”

“Thank you.” He extended his forearm toward her, and she had no choice but to place her arm along the top of it. The fabric of his fine coat was warm to her bare cold arm.

Without another word, they descended the two long staircases toward the salon.

She could do this. No one would know her here. She could pretend to be the impoverished noble relation instead of the rich tin miner’s dead daughter. She could fawn.

Well, perhaps not the last part.

She could do this for the man who had most probably scared her husband out of at least one good night’s sleep.

Just before they rounded the last corner toward the two French doors guarded by the hulking Cossack, he pulled her to a stop.

“Be careful of Candover,” he murmured.

“The duke?”

“Yes.”

“Why do I need to be careful of him?”

“And also of Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry.”

“He’s the Lord Lieutenant in Wellington’s army, correct?”

“You’ve studied the list I see,” he said. “And, stay away completely from Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t think it would be a good idea to spend any amount of time with him. He has a reputation for wearing ladies’ jewelry.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“And he has a certain look about him.” He paused.

“And what look is that?”

“That wolfish, I-like-all-females look.”

“Ah, I see. You mean kind of like the same look you sport?”

“Precisely.”

Chapter 5

“C
andover,” Alex said with the slightest of bows, carefully conducted to show neither deference nor offense. The other duke’s icy expression, just short of glacial, suggested that forgiveness for instigating the debacle in London was not in Alex’s near future.

Candover glanced about the opulent salon, which had been quickly turned out for the august gathering. The upper echelon of London aristocracy graced the room in studied poses. Alex nudged Roxanne Vanderhaven toward Candover. “I should like to present to you my third cousin four times removed, Tatiana Harriet Barclay. Taty, James Fitzroy, the Duke of Candover.”

Roxanne curtseyed very prettily in a made-over pale blue walking gown, Alex noticed. She appeared far more slender in the fine silk. And the delicate bones of her face accentuated her natural elegance.

“Your Grace,” she said in a cultured, well-modulated voice, “I am honored to meet you.”

Candover fondled his gold looking glass and raised it to his eye to peer down at her from his great height. “Delighted,” he said, without an ounce of delight in his tone.

“I didn’t know your eyesight was failing,” Isabelle Tremont said to Candover, with a warm laugh. She stepped around the cool-eyed duke and curtsied in front of Roxanne. “I am the Duchess of March, but please, you must call me Isabelle. Allow me to escort you about, and introduce you to everyone here. There are far too many of us for you to remember all at once, while many of us have the advantage of knowing each other since we were in leading strings.” Isabelle paused. “Except for Candover, of course. I cannot imagine him ever in leading strings.”

A lady who looked remarkably like a shorter version of the Duke of Candover in a gown laughed. “Isabelle, you’re altogether right. Mother always said my brother had such a tantrum the first time they were attached that the governess resigned her post on the spot.”

“I’m certain Miss Barclay has very little interest in such things, Faith,” the duke replied with a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, I’m certain she does,” another lady said who also looked like Candover. The same prominent nose, dark hair, dark flashing eyes. She, just like her sister, had
character
—that dreadful term that bespoke of little beauty but high intelligence. She continued, “I am Hope, by the way. And those,” she nodded toward two other young ladies who obviously had the same parents, “are our other two sisters, Charity and Chastity. Our middle sister, Verity, is . . .”—she paused uneasily, when Candover made an impatient sound—“detained at the estate.”

The two youngest sisters curtsied.

Roxanne gained her ease with all the ladies. Very much so—if her smile was any indicator.

Alex had always liked the lovely Duchess of March, but he did not particularly like what she said next.

“You must also meet Sussex.”

The charismatic second Duke of Sussex, Edward Godwin, crossed to the mantel and grasped Roxanne’s hand to brush his lips against the back of her palm. Alex could see the man looking sideways up into Roxanne’s face with a devilish grin.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Barclay. I do hope I am not being presumptuous in asking if you would do me the honor of a tour of the Mount before someone else stakes a claim?”

Roxanne’s smile widened, and Kress sighed inwardly.
Blast the charmer
. He had the same effect on every damned female—milkmaid and duchess alike. And the opposite effect on every man in possession of a sister, lover, or a wife. Kress had always liked him, until he watched the Englishman’s eyes rake down Roxanne’s form.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she simpered.

Where was the female whom he had had to coax from her room a mere quarter of an hour ago?

“And”—Isabelle marched onward, as if she knew not to give Sussex too much more time to bedazzle and coo—“then, of course, there is Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry. Barry? Miss Barclay.”

The other duke’s cockade-styled hat was tucked in the crook of one elbow as he bowed over her hand. The harsh, spare dark green of his military uniform left Alex ill at ease. He had seen too many of them during the war. The 95th Rifle Regiment had always been pointing weapons toward, not away, from him. For some peculiar reason, the other man must have sensed the French dirt under Alex’s nails for he was more aloof with him than he was with the other dukes.

Kress wondered who Barry had shot the night of Candover’s botched bachelor evening. He’d been unable to discover more details since he had been the first to be booted from Carleton House the morning after. The English officer and duke was far too serious, and far too silent, since the event. However, this did not seem to bother the females overmuch in the salon. Each of them looked at the lord lieutenant’s even features with something akin to reverence in their silly countenances.

“Miss Barclay,” the Duke of Barry said quietly.

“Your Grace,” Roxanne replied a little breathlessly.

“Now then, everyone,” Kress inserted before she could say another word. “We can’t have all of you standing about while Tatiana makes her curtsies. It will take all night. I say, Isabelle, won’t you be so kind as to oversee the tea tray while Taty meets the other guests?”

With that, a small horde of females in the salon gathered about Roxanne to quickly do their duty before concentrating on the main task of prioritizing their efforts to snag one of the four dukes in the room. Their parents followed suit.

Of course there were far too many young ladies present. Alex’s gaze bounced to Lady Pamela Hopkins who he had heard was a hardened gambler in a dainty package. At least her fortune was such that it would take at least a decade for her to run through it. Then there was Lady Katherine Leigh, who apparently liked horses more than gentlemen. Her red-haired sister, Lady Judith Leigh, was all giggles and no conversation, according to his great-aunt. Lady Susan Moore was very pretty, just like a doll. She would do if it were not for the lisp, which he understood she affected on purpose in the odd style of the last century.

The only real danger in the salon was in the form of Lady Christine Saveron. There appeared not to be a single defect in her form or in her manner. And his great aunt had spent no less than a quarter of an hour privately detailing all the reasons she was perfect for him, including her parents who appeared equally refined and gracious. Indeed, her mother was French, and her father, English. Mémé had already besieged him with a seating chart that foisted the girl on him at almost every occasion.

Candover sidled up beside him, still fingering his looking glass. “Your third cousin, four times removed, eh?”

“Yes. Great-grandmother Mildred’s great-granddaughter.”

Candover removed a handkerchief and rubbed his looking glass. “Just assure me she is not your
great
mistress.”

“I take offense at your suggestion,” Alex replied. “I should call you out. I should—” He made a halfhearted motion to remove a glove in the age-old tradition of slapping it on another gentleman’s face.

Candover put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Oh, give over. Look, she shouldn’t be here. There should be no distractions from our primary purpose. She’s not high enough in the instep nor are her pockets deep enough—even if she is the most intriguing lady present.”

“You were much more entertaining in London.”

“And you were far less. Now, see here. Just do your duty, and choose one of these rich chits as soon as decently possible.”

“Easy for you to say,” Alex said, under his breath, “since Prinny let you off the hook to mourn your furious fiancée.”

Candover’s face turned to granite, but he refused to rise to the bait. “Look at Sussex and Barry. They know their duty.”

Sure enough, the two other dukes had allowed the buzzing horde of young ladies and their smiling parents to besiege them.

And Roxanne? She was near the tea tray with Mémé and Isabelle, who Kress caught staring intently at Candover.

Hmmm. He had always wondered about Isabelle. She was the only female who was a duchess in her own right. The unusual Letters Patent granting the duchy allowed for a female to inherit the title should the Duke of March have no male heirs. And Isabelle had had no siblings. She also had no eyes for anyone except Candover. He glanced at the infamously cool duke and wondered if the man realized the state of affairs. It was worth a test.

“You’re absolutely right,” Alex murmured. “I know I can confide in you, Candover, since we’re both on the same wrong side of the Prince Regent’s graces. I’ve actually been thinking the matter over quite a bit. Do you think the Duchess of March would have me? It would be killing two birds with one stone, don’t you think?”

Candover nearly scorched him with a disdainful glare. “I should have guessed you’d try to nick a cradle.”

“Oh, come, come. She’s of age, is she not?”

“Isabelle was seven and ten last summer.”

“Yes, but now it’s
this
summer and she is eighteen, no?”

“She is far too young. Look elsewhere. You are old enough to be her—”

“Brother?” Alex threw back his head and laughed. He wondered how long it would be before Candover owned up to his sensibilities. It might just take an ice age.

“I was going to say
father
. And stay away from my sisters.”

“I thought it was a well-established fact that you would happily part with any one of your sisters along with a fifty-thousand-pound dowry.”

“Any man capable of orchestrating the sort of debacle you did to ruin my marriage cannot be considered suitable in any form for one of my sisters.”

“Says the man who swam with swans in the Serpentine.”

Annoyance radiated through the other man’s stature.

“Oh, come now. No need to be so thin-skinned. I must have been bobbing along with you if the state of my boots the next morning was any indication. Must have been utterly delightful,” Alex said with a hint of a smile. “And one day, you might just thank me.”

“In your dreams, Kress.”

“No. In yours. Oh, and by the by?”

“Yes, you imbecile?”

“Stay away from Harriet.”

“You mean Tatiana.”

“Yes, Tatiana Harriet,” Kress said, examining his fingernails. “I will not approve the suit of any man who has a well-established partiality for frolicking with fowl.”

Well, that had gone spectacularly well, Kress thought as he strode across the room toward the tea tray.

Tea
. The beverage designed for negotiating the treacherous course of females with marriage on their minds. The only safe place in the entire castle was here with Isabelle, Roxanne, and Mémé. These were the only three females who would not have him trussed like a pheasant in church before the archbishop, who was to arrive very soon too, since he was equally in disfavor in Town.

“It’s too bad, you and Candover don’t get on,” Isabelle said sweetly.

“I get on very well with him,” Alex ground out.

“He’s very handsome,” Roxanne remarked to Isabelle.

“Handsome as long as you are partial to boorish gentlemen as lifeless as a fishmonger’s day-old cod,” Kress continued.

“There is that,” Isabelle conceded. “But he is a very good man. You just don’t know him well.”

Kress laughed. “Yes, I must agree. Someone who leaves his future wife cooling her heels at the altar could be considered the best of men.”

Isabelle smiled. “It was your fault.”

“Forgive me for saying it,” Alex said to the duchess, “but you don’t seem all that put out about the state of affairs.”

“Actually, I enjoy watching gentlemen receive their comeuppance. Don’t you, Taty?”

“Always. Well, now that that is settled, would you care for some tea, cousin?” Roxanne asked with a sly smile.

“No,” Alex replied.

“You know,” Roxanne murmured, forcing a dish of lukewarm tea into his hands, “if you just play up to a person’s vanity, you might have far more success.”

“Are you speaking about Kress’s chances with the eligible ladies or with Candover?” Isabelle giggled.

“I refuse to toady,” Alex stated. “Flattery, of course, but no toadying.”

I
t had not been as bad as Roxanne had expected once she had gotten over the fear that someone might recognize her. The ordeal had lasted one hour, and she had kept her wits about her enough to match almost all the names and faces of the four and twenty houseguests.

Dinner had been far more interesting. She’d been placed in the potter’s field position at table, between the mother of the girl who lisped and another mother, possibly of the girl who only liked to talk about horses’ lineages. There were too many females to even out the numbers. On the bright side, she had an excellent view of the Duke of Sussex, who was seated opposite her.

“My dear,” the large lady on one side said, “I do believe my grandmother was the best of friends with your great-grandmother Mildred.”

“Was she?” Roxanne managed without choking on the asparagus spear. “Do tell.”