In Bed with the Duke (13 page)

At that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler came in with a tea tray.

‘Better bring a decanter of something stronger,' suggested Hugo as the butler deposited the tray on a table beside Prudence's sofa. ‘Tea may suffice for this wench, but my poor old cousin looks decidedly in need of something more restorative.'

So did she.

‘Ale,' said Gregory to the butler. ‘If this young scapegrace must start drinking at such an early hour I would rather keep him away from anything too strong. Since I have good reason to know he does not have the head for it.'

‘That was uncalled for,' said Hugo sulkily once the butler had gone off on his errand. ‘Raking me down in front of the servants.'

‘Would you kindly pour the tea, Lady Mixby?' said Gregory, ignoring Hugo. He'd been studiously ignoring her, too. He must know she was shocked, and felt betrayed and insecure. But he was explaining himself to the others. His family. As if he suspected them of thinking she was some terrible catastrophe that had befallen him and he needed to reassure them that he hadn't lost his mind.

Though if he gave her an opportunity to express any opinion at all she'd prove that she was, and he had.

‘I feel sure we would all benefit from a cup.'

‘I know I certainly would,' Lady Mixby muttered as she lifted the lid to examine the state of the brew in the teapot. ‘Milk and sugar?'

Lady Mixby plunged into the ritual of the tea tray with such determination that Prudence could only follow her lead. Though she felt rather like a marionette having her strings pulled as she responded mechanically to the familiar routine.

The one good thing to come out of it was that as Lady Mixby held out the cup of tea she'd poured, milked and sugared for her, it gave her the perfect excuse for wresting her hand from Gregory's. Though her hand was trembling so much that the cup rattled in its saucer with a sound like chattering teeth.

‘Miss Carstairs,' said Gregory, reaching out to take the cup and saucer from her trembling fingers. ‘I fear this has all been rather too much for you. I think you should go to a guest room and have a lie-down. A bath. A change of clothes. And something to eat and drink in peace.'

‘Oh, what a good idea,' said Lady Mixby, leaping to her feet.

That did it. He might have said all the right things, but deep down he was ashamed of her. Just as Aunt Charity had felt shamed by having to house her, the product of a runaway match. Aunt Charity had spent years failing to make her acceptable to her congregation and the community of Stoketown. And in the end had just kept her out of sight as much as possible.

And this was how it had started. By sending Prudence to her room whenever there was company she wanted to impress.

‘If you think for one moment,' said Prudence, snatching the teaspoon from the saucer as he took it away, so she could use it to emphasise her point, ‘that I am going to let you shuffle me out of the way so that you can explain your behaviour over the last two days to everyone else and leave me in the dark, then you have another think coming!'

Gregory reached out and confiscated the teaspoon, then tossed it to the tea tray, where it landed with a tinkle amongst the china.

‘You are overwrought,' he said repressively.

‘Is that so surprising? I
trusted
you! I thought you were a decent, hard-working man. A man who'd set out to right wrongs and defend the helpless. Instead you are the kind of man who makes the kind of wagers that result in fist fights and falling into bed with strange women! I trusted you with my virtue, and with my money—'

Lady Mixby gasped and fell back to the sofa, her hands clasped to her bosom.

But Prudence was beyond caring. She'd sat there listening to him account for himself with growing resentment. She couldn't hold it in any longer.

‘And now I find out that I don't even know your name!'

‘Well, that at least is easily rectified. My name is Charles Gregory Jamison Willingale, Seventh Duke of Halstead. I think we can gloss over the lesser titles for now.'

‘Oh, you do, do you?'

How could he sit there and calmly reel off a list of names whilst completely sidestepping the real issue? Which was that he'd deceived her.
Deliberately
deceived her.

‘And as for explaining myself to everyone else...' He glanced from Hugo to Bodkin with a sort of chilling hauteur that made him look even more like a stranger than ever. ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing.'

‘Oh, I say—that is dashed unfair!'

Gregory held up his hand to silence the outburst from his indignant young cousin. ‘No,' he said. ‘What would be unfair would be to divulge anything to anyone before I have done so to my fiancée. She, of course, must take precedence over anything you feel I owe you, Hugo. Or indeed you, Lady Mixby.'

‘Of course, of course,' said Lady Mixby, nodding her head whilst clasping and unclasping her hands.

‘We will all adjourn until dinner.' He got to his feet. ‘Which will give Miss Carstairs and I a chance to bathe and change and generally refresh ourselves.'

Hugo wrinkled his nose. ‘Come to mention it, you
do
smell rather ripe.'

When she made no move from the sofa, His Grace the Seventh Duke of Wherever-it-was extended his hand to urge her to her feet. But she had finally reached the stage where, had she been a bottle of ginger beer, her top would have popped off under the pressure building up inside from constant shaking.

‘Will you
stop
,' said Prudence, batting away his hand, ‘calling me Miss Carstairs? And telling everyone I am your fiancée. When obviously I can never be anything of the sort!'

Dukes didn't marry nobodies. Especially not nobodies they'd only known five minutes.

He didn't even have the grace to flinch. Clearly all the grace he had was in his inherited title.

‘Overwrought,' said the man who had first appeared to be a villain, had then for a few magical hours looked to her like the answer to all her prayers, but who now turned out to be a duke. ‘I can understand that the discovery you are about to become a duchess has come as a shock. But once you have had a lie-down and composed yourself you will see that—'

‘Don't talk to me in that beastly manner. And
don't
—' she swatted his hand away again ‘—order me about.'

She was just taking a breath to unburden herself in regard to her sense of injustice when there came another knock at the door. This time it was a plain, practical-looking woman dressed all in black who came in.

‘Excellent timing, Mrs Hoskins,' said Gregory smoothly, taking Prudence's elbow in a vice-like grip and lifting her to her feet. ‘Miss Carstairs, as you can see, is in dire need of a change of clothes and a bath. As am I,' he said with a grimace of distaste. ‘Miss Carstairs,' he said, giving her a level look. ‘I will speak with you again at dinner.'

‘
Dinner!
You intend to leave me in this state until dinner?'

‘We keep country hours at Bramley Park,' he said. ‘You will only have to wait until four of the clock. It will take you at least that long to bathe and change and,' he said, in the same steely tone he'd used on Hugo, ‘to calm down.'

Calm down?
Calm down!
She'd give him ‘calm down'. How dared he talk to her in that insufferably arrogant way? As though she was in need of a set-down?

‘You can take your hands off me,' she hissed, wrenching her arm out of his grip. ‘And think yourself lucky I am too well-bred to slap your face for your...impertinence!'

Lady Mixby gasped. Pressed both hands to her flushed face this time.

Prudence stuck her nose in the air and stalked from the room.

Chapter Thirteen

P
rudence was well on her way up the stairs before realising she had no idea where she was going. She would have to slow down and wait for Mrs Hoskins, or she'd risk looking like an idiot.

As well as feeling like one.

For what kind of idiot proposed to a man she'd only known for two days? A man she'd met, moreover, in bed? And stark naked at that.

Her feet stumbled and slowed of their own accord, which gave Mrs Hoskins a chance to catch up with her.

‘It's just along this way, miss,' she panted, indicating the left branch of the upper landing. ‘I hope it's to your liking.'

Prudence hoped she'd made an appropriate response, because it certainly wouldn't be this woman's fault if it wasn't. But in the event, when she saw the room, it was almost enough to make her burst into tears. Because it was simply magnificent. The most beautifully decorated, perfectly proportioned room she'd ever had for her sole use.

To start with, everything matched. There were velvet curtains in various shades of green all over the place, chairs with spindly gilt legs upholstered in toning shades of satin, and a mostly green carpet that looked as soft as moss. Clearly each item of furniture, each square yard of velvet and satin, had been purchased specifically to enhance the beauty of this one room.

It cast her own little room in her aunt's house in Stoketown completely in the shade. And
that
room had totally intimidated her when she'd first seen it. It had made all the rough-and-ready billets in which her parents had lived seem like hovels.

‘Is something amiss? Would you prefer to have a room at the back of the house? It will not have such a fine view, but it would get less sunlight,' said Mrs Hoskins.

The housekeeper looked so concerned Prudence made a determined effort to pull herself together. She
could
step into this room. They wouldn't have had the carpet put on the floor if they weren't prepared to let people walk on it. True, they couldn't have imagined anyone with such mucky shoes ever setting foot up here, but she could remove them. She was at least wearing stockings today, even if they were borrowed and rather too large. So her feet wouldn't leave a trail of bloodstains behind.

‘Oh, no—no need to prepare another room. Thank you,' she said, toeing off her shoes.

The chances were that all the rooms in this house were equally grand. Apart from perhaps the servants' quarters. And it would look extremely odd if she asked to have a look at
them
.

‘This room is lovely. It is just a bit...' Her lower lip quivered. The truth was, the way Gregory had ordered her up here had reminded her far too much of the way Aunt Charity had always sent her to her room. When she'd ‘answered back'. When she'd been supposed to ‘think about what she'd done'. When her aunt had wanted some peace and quiet. When visitors had come. He'd told her to calm down and tidy herself up, as though he didn't think she was fit to stay in the same room as a duke's family. Not that she was going to admit that to Mrs Hoskins.

‘I mean, after all that has happened this last few days, I...' Her breath hitched in her throat. It was as if her self-esteem was being crushed by a velvet brocade fist. How could a girl like her have had the temerity to propose marriage to a duke? Even the curtains were sneering.

A
duke
!

She wrapped her arms round her middle, where a peculiar swirling sensation had started up. Not only had she proposed to him, but she'd thrown a rock at him. Knocked him right down and made him bleed.

That had to be against the law—assaulting a duke. Might it even count as treason?

Her hand stole to her throat as she thought of the punishment meted out for treason. Which she deserved, didn't she? Since she'd been so adamant that her aunt and uncle should be brought to justice for merely drugging him!

‘Oh, you poor lass,' said Mrs Hoskins, slipping a firm hand under her elbow. ‘You look nigh to fainting away. What a terrible time you've had, to be sure. And you such a fine lady, I'll be bound—else His Grace would never be making you his duchess.'

Fine lady? She wasn't
any
kind of lady. She was an army brat. That was what Aunt Charity had called her. The disgraceful result of a runaway match. And if she wasn't good enough for Aunt Charity how could she be good enough for a duke?

‘You'll feel better for a warm bath and a nice lie-down,' said the housekeeper as she drew her into the terrifyingly opulent room. ‘Milly and Sam will be bringing up the bath and some hot water, and then Milly will stay to help you bathe,' she said, steering Prudence towards the bed.

‘No!' Prudence recoiled from the smooth satin coverlet and the starched white lacy pillows in horror. ‘I mean, I don't think I should sit on the bed to wait, do you?' She indicated her clothes. ‘I slept in a barn last night. I shouldn't want to dirty the coverlets.'

‘A barn, was it?' Mrs Hoskins's eyebrows shot up her forehead and almost disappeared under the rim of her cap.

Oh, no. Now it would be all over the servants' hall that their duke had spent the night in a barn. He'd be livid with her. If he wasn't already. It was hard to tell now he'd taken to wearing that wooden mask instead of his normal face.

‘Well, then, how about you come along over to the window seat and rest yourself there while your bath is made ready? The covers wash well if so be that you do make a mark on them,' she said soothingly. ‘Not that I think it is at all likely,' she added.

‘Yes, very well,' said Prudence, feeling like the worst sort of impostor as Mrs Hoskins led her across the room.

No wonder he'd been so angry to find her next to him in bed that first night. No wonder he'd raved about plots and schemes and kept on asking if Hugo had put her up to it. She sank down shakily onto the seat and buried her face in her hands.
That
was why he'd taken her up in his gig. He'd been trying to find out whether Hugo was cheating.

She knew the lengths to which men would go in order to win wagers. Over the most ridiculous stakes, too. It made no difference whether they'd staked the services of a beautiful mistress or a tin whistle—it was proving that they were ‘better', in some ridiculous manner, than the man with whom they'd made the wager, and that was what counted. That was why he'd asked all those questions. It hadn't been chivalry. It hadn't been concern for her at all. No, it had been indignation at what he had perceived as an attempt to make him lose.

If they hadn't lost his purse he would no doubt have dropped her off somewhere once he'd satisfied himself that she really didn't know either who he was or anything at all about Hugo. Only he
had
lost his purse. And his horse and gig.

And then, to cap it all, she'd asked him to marry her.

A bustle in the room made her drop her hands and look up. A male servant had deposited a hip bath on a towel before the fireplace, and a maid was pouring water into it from a can of steaming water.

‘Now, Milly,' Mrs Hoskins was saying sternly. ‘You are not to pepper His Grace's intended with a lot of impertinent questions. She's been through a terrible ordeal, as anyone can see.'

Both Milly and Sam darted a glance to where she was sitting, trembling and probably ashen-faced because she'd realised what she'd done, and adopted similarly sympathetic expressions.

Which made her cringe. If they only knew how outrageously she'd behaved they'd be sorely tempted to eject her from the property. As swiftly as possible. Which made her wish she wasn't sitting quite so close to the convenient mode of exit a window might afford a brace of scandalised servants.

‘I'll leave you with Milly now,' said Mrs Hoskins. ‘She's not what you're used to, I'm sure, but she's a good girl.' Mrs Hoskins shot the blushing maid a stern, meaningful look before bustling out of the room, taking the male servant with her.

Milly dropped a curtsey. ‘Sam will be bringing up some more hot water shortly,' she said. ‘But don't you worry he'll come in here a-gawping at you, for I shan't let him. He'll leave it at the door. So if you want to get started...?'

She must look dreadful for everyone to be so insistent on getting her into a bath. And she probably smelled dreadful, too, since she'd not had an opportunity to bathe or change her clothes for a couple of days.

‘I would like to get out of this dress and get clean,' she admitted. Though no amount of bathing and tidying was going to change who she was underneath. ‘But I don't have anything to change into.'

‘Oh, Mrs Hoskins explained about your luggage getting stolen. It must have been that frightening!' Milly's eyes were round, in a mix of horror and fascination. ‘Thank goodness His Grace was at hand to rescue you and bring you here.'

Was
that
the story circulating around the servants' hall? Typical! Men would do anything to save face. He'd rather let people think he'd been doing something akin to rescuing a damsel in distress than for anyone to suspect that what he'd really been doing was...was...going to any lengths to win some stupid wager.

‘Mrs Hoskins will be bringing you my Sunday best, miss,' said Milly as she unlaced Prudence's gown and helped her out of her chemise.

The girl said nothing about her lack of corset, or the coarse weave of her stockings, though she couldn't help wrinkling her nose as she rolled the whole lot into a bundle and took it over to the door, where she dropped it on the one patch of board that wasn't covered by expensive carpet. She wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn they were going straight to the bonfire, rather than the laundry.

Prudence stepped into the bath and sat down, hugging her knees to her chest.

‘I do hope you like the gown,' said Milly. ‘I know it won't be what you're used to, but Mrs Hoskins insisted, since I'm nearer to you in size than anyone else here.'

Prudence had a short but horrible vision of trying to make do with one of Lady Mixby's gowns.

‘I'm very grateful to you for lending it to me,' said Prudence with complete honesty. Even a servant's Sunday best was far better than what she'd been wearing.

‘Oh, I ain't lending it! His Grace is going to buy it off me. For five guineas—can you imagine? Why, I'll be able to get three new gowns, a bonnet and gloves for that. I mean,' she added, going red in the face, ‘I beg pardon, my lady. I forgot I'm not supposed to gabble on. Mrs Hoskins said as how you're used to having a properly trained ladies' maid, and how I was to mind my tongue, but as usual it's run away with me. There I go again!'

Why was it that everyone kept talking about what she was ‘used to'? How did they
know
what she was used to? Nobody had asked. They just kept assuming she must be a fine lady, because only a fine lady would be entitled to marry a duke.

And she'd done nothing to correct their assumptions, had she? Because she didn't want anyone thinking she was a designing hussy who'd got her claws into their duke while he was travelling about the country under the name of Willingale, dressed like some kind of tradesman.

‘His Grace is going to have Mrs Bennet—that's our village dressmaker—come and bring you some fresh things in the morning, and measure you up for whatever else you may need,' said Milly, vigorously soaping a washcloth. ‘Shall I do your back first, my lady? Or your hair?'

‘Oh, my hair,' she said. If she could make her hair look tidy she might feel more able to go downstairs when it was time to face all those titled people again. Aunt Charity had always said it made her look as wild and immodest as her mother had actually been. She'd always made her braid it and cover it under caps and bonnets. ‘I can manage the rest myself, but my hair has always been a bit wild,' she said as Milly handed over the washcloth. ‘Do you have a really strong comb you can lend me? Or perhaps we should just cut out the worst of the tangles.'

‘If we do then you need not worry that it will show. I might be a bit of a gabster, but I'm good with hair. Done all my sisters' in my time, I have.'

‘Well, that's good to know.'

And it was good to have the help of a maid again, too. A maid who didn't seem to mind being a maid, at that. Milly was taking her time massaging her scalp, and it felt absolutely wonderful.

So wonderful that she actually closed her eyes and started to relax. And as she did so her spirit began to revive. Just as it always had whenever she'd been sent to her room to ‘think about what she'd done'. She'd never managed to stay cowed and guilty for long after one of her aunt's rebukes. Because as she'd thought about whatever it was that was supposed to be unforgivably immodest, or vulgar, or sinful, she'd remembered how often her mother or father had done or said the very same thing. And she had refused to betray them by being ashamed of behaviour they would consider perfectly normal.

She didn't fit in with Aunt Charity and her circle—that was what it amounted to. Any more than she'd fit in with a duke and
his
circle.

So there was no point in allowing herself to be intimidated by the luxurious surroundings, or the titles his family bore. Any more than she'd allowed herself to be beaten down by Aunt Charity's pious homilies. She'd soon learned that no matter how hard she tried to fit in, she'd never measure up. Because of who her parents were. And so she'd stopped trying.

And she wasn't going to start tying herself up in knots trying to fit in here, either. She was done with being intimidated. Gregory had no right to make her feel foolish, or guilty, or out of her depth. If dukes didn't want people to assume they were ordinary men, then they had no business going around under false identities.

They had no right making out they were heroes, either. Why, if there had been any rescuing going on, she'd done her fair share. Who'd had the idea of singing for food money so that he hadn't needed to pawn his watch, which was probably a priceless family heirloom? And whose quick thinking had saved him from being hauled up before the local magistrate by Mr Grumpy Farmer?