In Bed with the Duke (2 page)

Most especially, thank you to all the readers who, like me, love a rollicking historical romance. Here’s to you!

 

T
he four-piece ensemble ceased playing, and with exquisite timing, Comte Cloutier delivered the line sure to command the attention of all the guests within earshot. “Have you heard, Lady Lettice, of the ghost who rides in the night?”

Certainly he commanded the attention of the Englishman Michael Durant, heir apparent to the Duke of Nevitt. There had been little to interest him at Lord and Lady Thibault’s exclusive ball. It was an exact clone of every English ball he had ever attended, and indeed of every Prussian ball, every French ball, every Venetian ball. . . . He had made the Grand Tour, and discovered that the wealthy imitated one another to the point of boredom.

Now, tonight, the musicians played, the guests danced, the food was fashionable, and the gambling room was full. Prince Sandre and his henchmen circulated, lending the patina of royalty to the gathering.

But of useful reports, there had been nothing . . . until now. And now, Michael knew, only because Cloutier failed to comprehend the seriousness of his faux pas. He failed to realize that by tomorrow he would be gone, thrown out of Moricadia and traveling back to France while cursing his own penchant for gossip.

With every evidence of interest, Michael strolled closer, to stand near the group of suitors surrounding Lady Lettice Surtees.

“A ghost?” Lady Lettice gave a tiny, high-pitched scream worthy of a young girl’s alarm. “No! Pray tell, what does this ghost do?” Before Cloutier could answer she swung around to her paid companion, a girl of perhaps twenty, and snapped, “Make yourself useful, girl! Fan me! Dancing with so many admirers is quite fatiguing.”

The girl—a poor, downtrodden wisp of a thing with a lace cap set over dull brown hair—nodded mutely. From the large reticule she wore attached to her waist, she withdrew an ivory-and-lace fan, took her place at Lady Lettice’s right shoulder, and fanned her abruptly flushed and sweating mistress.

Lady Lettice complained, “It’s too warm in here. Don’t you agree it’s warm in here, Lord Escobar?”

Escobar hovered at her left elbow. “Indeed, you are right, señorita, an unseasonably warm summer evening.”

It was a gross flattery to call Lady Lettice “señorita”—she was a widow, in her early forties, with the beginnings of the jowls that would plague her old age. But her bosoms were impressive and displayed to advantage by her immodestly low-cut, ruffled bodice, and her waist was made tiny by her stays, which had been tightened enough to impede her breathing and make the dancing, as she said, fatiguing.

None of that really mattered, because Lady Lettice was wealthy, and the half dozen men around her knew it. They jockeyed for position beside her gilded chair, offering cool goblets of champagne, smiling toothily, and, behind her back, examining the debutantes lined up along the wall, girls who were prettier and far younger, but without the necessary riches to make a good match.

“So, Cloutier, tell me about this ghost.” Lady Lettice withdrew a white cotton handkerchief from between her breasts and blotted her damp upper lip.

“This ghost—he is called the Reaper. He rides at night, in utter silence, a massive white figure in fluttering rags atop a giant white horse. His skin is death, his clothes are rags, and where his eyes should be, there are only black holes. A terrifying apparition, yet the peasants whisper of him fondly, claiming he is the specter of Reynaldo, dead two hundred years and the last king of Moricadian blood.”

“Peasants,” Lady Lettice said contemptuously. “Peasants know nothing.”

“I would not argue with you there,” Cloutier agreed. “But not only peasants have seen this ghost. Others who have come to this fair city to take the waters and enjoy the gaming tables have seen him, too. The rumor claims that if you’re not Moricadian, and if you are unlucky enough to see the Reaper, you should flee at once, for this fearsome phantom”—Cloutier lowered his voice in pitch and volume—“is a sign of impending doom.”

Michael snorted, the sound breaking the shocked silence.

At once, Lady Lettice fixed him with her gaze. “You’re impertinent. Do you know who this man is?” She gestured to Cloutier.

Her paid companion might be a mouse, but she was an intelligent, observant mouse, for she squeaked a small warning and flapped the fan harder.

Lady Lettice paid no heed. “He is Comte Cloutier, of one of the finest noble families in France. One does not snort when he speaks.”

“One does if one is Michael Durant, the heir to the Nevitt dukedom.” Cloutier bowed to Michael.

“Oh.” Lady Lettice didn’t bother to be embarrassed by her discourtesy. She was too enthralled by her newest prospect of a suitor. “My lord. Your grace.” She fumbled, not knowing quite what to call him.

Cloutier met Michael’s gaze and, knowing Lady Lettice aimed too high, did the honors. “Lady Lettice Surtees, this is Lord—”

“Please.” Michael held up a hand. “In England, my name is old and honored. In Moricadia, I am nothing but a political prisoner, a nonentity, a man who has vanished from the world I knew due to the oppression of the ruling family and Prince Sandre. Call me Durant. It is the only decent title for a disgrace such as me . . . and I confess, I should be ashamed to use my family name so shabbily.” His voice was a low rasp.

Lady Lettice looked appalled. “A political prisoner? I am shocked, gentlemen. Shocked! How is this possible?”

“The only ghost in Moricadia is me, my lady, for until I was allowed out for this one night, my existence has been no more than a rumor.” Michael bowed and walked away, projecting tragedy with a surety that would have commanded the admiration of the stage actor Edmund Kean.

“The poor man.” Lady Lettice spoke in a whisper so high as to pierce the ears. “What did he do?”

Michael paused behind a marble pillar to hear the answer.

No one replied at first; then Escobar reluctantly said, “Durant fell foul of the de Guignards. They own this country. They rule this country. The first de Guignards deposed King Reynaldo—murdered him—and now the de Guignards crush the native Moricadians beneath their jeweled heels.” He lowered his voice even more. “There are rumors of rebellion and that the true king is returning to claim his throne.”

“How romantic!” Lady Lettice clutched her hands at her bosom.

“Yes, except that the de Guignards accused Durant of assisting the rebels, and for these two years, it has been generally believed he was dead. Only recently has it come to light that Lord and Lady Fanchere, trusted allies of Prince Sandre, are holding him under house arrest.” In a mere whisper, Escobar added, “It is rumored he spent most of that two years in the medieval dungeon below the royal palace.”

A silence fell as the little crowd observed Sandre. He stood across the ballroom near the dais where the ensemble played, suave and trim in his ceremonial uniform covered with medals. Sycophants surrounded him, and he played the role of noble prince with a sure hand, charming the wealthy who came to Moricadia to visit, to gamble, and to rub shoulders with easily accessible royalty.

Michael despised Sandre for what he was, and for what he pretended to be.

“But I don’t understand,” Lady Lettice insisted. “How do the de Guignards dare to hold an English nobleman against his will?”

“The de Guignards have always dared, and gambled.” Cloutier was bitter; his family hadn’t come through the last two hundred years nearly as well.

“In the case of Moricadia, they won, exterminating King Reynaldo’s line . . . or so they claim, although the rebels claim differently. But for that, they seized”—Escobar waved his hands toward the window, where brightly lit villas, gambling houses, and lavish spas sprinkled the Pyrenees—“all this. But we dare not talk of it.”

“Why not?” Lady Lettice’s eyes grew round with excitement.

“Because Prince Sandre has spies everywhere, and he does not tolerate dissention in his country.” Escobar bowed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I see an old friend I must greet.”

Michael stepped out from behind the column and nodded to the man as he hurried past. Wise Escobar. He would seek another wealthy widow, one not at the epicenter of a possible upheaval.

Mr. Graf, a well-dressed youth of twenty-two with golden curls styled across his forehead, stepped into his place.

Mr. Graf had had a run of bad luck at the gaming tables last night; he needed a wealthy bride, and quickly, before his father in Germany discovered the extent of the damage.

Of course, he granted no attention to the paid companion, still vigorously fanning Lady Lettice’s neck. Nor did any of the other suitors.

Fools. The girl was nervous as a rabbit. The drab gray wool of her plain dress did nothing to complement her pale complexion, and the cut completely obscured what might have been a shapely figure, but she was thin to the point of frailty. She had typically English features, and might have been pretty, but she kept her chin down, her eyes down, her shoulders hunched as if expecting at any moment a slap across the cheek.

In Michael’s opinion, any of the lords and gentlemen who hoped to capture Lady Lettice in wedded bliss would be well-advised to look to her cowed servant. Michael didn’t know if the girl had always been timid, but he would wager Lady Lettice had completely broken her spirit. The girl looked as if Lady Lettice kept her on the verge of starvation. Certainly she was frightened half to death.

Yes, Lady Lettice might hide the whip from her suitors, but once wed, she would never relinquish its control.

The unlucky Mr. Graf jockeyed for position with the ambitious Count Rambaudi of Piedmont and the English Lord Bedingfield, and the result was disaster—for the companion. They bumped her arm. The fan smacked the back of Lady Lettice’s head, making the curls over her ears bounce. And she turned on the girl like a rabid wolf. “You vexsome girl. How dare you hit me?”

“I didn’t mean . . .” The girl’s voice matched her demeanor, low and fearful, and it trembled now.

In a flurry, Lady Lettice adjusted her hairpins, and when the girl tried to help, she slapped at her hands. “Go away, you stupid thing. I should throw you out on the street right now. I should!”

“No, ma’am, please. It won’t happen again.” The girl looked around at the men, seeking help where there was none. None of the impoverished aristocrats and gentlemen, certainly not the ones who had caused her problem, could be bothered to care about the fate of a servant. “I beg you. Let me stay in your service.”

“She isn’t really sorry,” Lady Lettice told the others. “She says that only because she’s an orphan with no family, and she would starve without my kindness. Wouldn’t you, Emma?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma adjusted Lady Lettice’s shawl across her shoulders, then took the handkerchief Lady Lettice clutched and dabbed at her cheek.

“All right, fine, stop.” Lady Lettice pushed her away. “You’re annoying me. I’ll keep you on, but if you ever hit me again—”

“I won’t! Thank you!” Emma curtsied, and curtsied again.

“Actually . . .” Lady Lettice took back the handkerchief and stared at it. Michael could almost see the spark of some dreadful mischief start in her brain. “I’d like this dampened. Go to the ladies’ convenience and do so.”

“As you wish, Lady Lettice.” Emma took the handkerchief and scurried away.

“Watch, gentlemen,” Lady Lettice said. “Here’s entertainment. The stupid girl has no sense of direction. She turns right when she should turn left, goes north when she should go south. The ladies’ convenience is to the right, so she’ll turn left.”

The men around watched as Emma walked to the door, hesitated.

Michael silently urged her to the right.

But as promised, she turned left.

The little circle of sycophants guffawed.

Michael winced.

Lady Lettice tittered. “Would you gentlemen care to wager how long it will take my stupid companion to find her way back to me?”

“Good sport,” said Bedingfield. “And I wager your handkerchief will still be dry!”

The little group clustered together, making fun of a girl who had done them no wrong.

Michael, ever the fool for the underdog, quietly went to rescue the poor companion from her own folly.

E
mma was lost. She wandered up and down well- lit corridors, stumbled into darkened rooms where couples strained to make love, then stumbled out as quickly, mumbling apologies and wishing she were back in England, where mating rituals were more restrained and less animal.

Finally she found a door to the garden, stepped out on the terrace, and looked back at the château. From here, she could hear the music from the ballroom, see the light spilling from the windows. Surely, if she studied the location, she could find her way back there and start her search again.

But then what? She still wouldn’t have accomplished her mission, and she knew very well the price of disobeying Lady Lettice’s commands.

Moricadia was a gorgeous little gem of a country, set high in the Pyrenees and blessed with spectacular views, bucolic meadows, and hot springs reputed to heal the sick. But Emma stood there under the stars, staring at the splashing fountain, wishing she were rich, noble, and beautiful instead of poor, common, and well educated. What good did common sense and a sharp intelligence do for a woman when her main duty was to fan a perspiring beast and, at night, to massage the beast’s corn-laden feet? And if God answered no other prayer, she would think He’d at least give her some means by which to find her way from point A to point B without getting lost so that she could dampen the beastly handkerchief.

As her father had always said, she might be a timid child, but she had an analytical brain, and that was a gift from God that she should utilize to make her life, and the lives of others, better and more fruitful.