The Dastardly Duke (11 page)

“You know nothing about such things,” he admonished, appalled.

“Not firsthand, of course,” she agreed. “But I do know that men like to see ladies dressed in beautiful clothing, and you are a man—even if Miss Gregory has failed to notice.”

Julian frowned. “What?”

“Does it chafe so very much to hear that?” Lucy regarded him pityingly. “Poor Julian. Then perhaps there is hope after all.”

“Hope for what? What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded, thankful that Miss Gregory was a few steps ahead of them and blissfully unaware of his sister’s words.

Lucy grinned. “Hope for you and Hannah, of course. Though ’tis a pity you two have gotten off on such testy footing. She told me she called you a turnip. But then you should not have made that tasteless remark about her deafness.”

Julian wondered if his own hearing had somehow been affected. He could not have heard his sister aright. “You cannot think that Miss Gregory and I—”

“Not yet,” Lucy replied calmly. “You scarcely know each other, after all. But she is staying in our house, and that should provide ample opportunity for you to deepen your acquaintance. Gifting him with a look of solemn sincerity, she added, “She is just the bride for you.”

Julian’s mouth fell open. “You cannot be serious!”

“
Hannah
has great strength of character,” Lucy continued. “She is strong, independent, and forthright—just the sort of woman you need to jolt you from that off
-
putting shell of yours.”

She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Just wait until you see the wardrobe I have chosen for her. I have wonderful ideas for her hairstyle. She must wear it down, so that everyone can see how lovely she is.”

If Lucy had not looked so earnest, Julian would have laughed aloud at the irony of his sister’s promoting a prostitute as his bride. Women like Miss Gregory were fit for only one
thing
—and it was not being a duchess. Anyway, marriage for him was out of the question.

“Miss Gregory and I should not suit,” he said tersely, hoping Lucy would be content to leave it at that.

Being Lucy, she was not.

“Nonsense. It is just that you have no experience with virgins.”

Julian emitted a strangled sound that prevented an immediate reply. “This is an exceedingly improper topic to discuss with one’s sister,” he managed at last.

Lucy turned to him with a mischievous grin. “Hiding behind propriety does not suit you in the least, brother. I have seen the sort of women you cavort with, and they are nothing like Hannah.”

“I’ll have no more of this—” Julian began sternly, only to break off as Lucy patted his back sympathetically, as if he were a disgruntled
puppy dog
.

“Hannah must find a husband, and I fear that you will have a great deal of competition if you do not act soon,” Lucy warned. “It is too bad that she has not yet discovered that there is a very devastating man under her own roof.”

“Devil take it! She is Charles’s cousin!” Julian fairly shouted, stung by Lucy’s blithe assumption that Hannah had not found him attractive. Had she not kissed him that time in the hunting box?

Perhaps—now that he thought on it—she had simply suffered his kiss because she had not wanted to offend her new employer. But only yesterday in the garden, something had passed between them, unspoken but powerful. Or had he just imagined the entire thing? Had it been just as elusive as last night’s unsettling dream?

“Yes,” Lucy agreed in a musing tone, “perhaps it will be difficult for her to see you as someone other than her cousin’s best friend—especially since you have had words.” She sighed. “You have always been your own worst enemy, Julian. Do you not think you could make yourself more amiable to Hannah? I think you will be happily surprised.”

“A surprise?” Miss Gregory echoed, having turned in time to catch that last. “What are you planning, Lucy?” she asked pleasantly.

“Oh, ’tis nothing.” Lucy waived a dismissive hand. “Nothing at all.”

Julian followed the two women into his carriage, which was instantly filled with Lucy’s gay laughter. He sat stiff and humorless the remainder of the ride, prompting a reproving look from his sister.

He congratulated himself on ignoring it.

Chapter
Ten

Lady Huffington wore a pained expression, but it was impossible to tell whether it was the countess’ usual demeanor or merely the result of seeing Hannah once more. Swathed in
pink
from head to toe, the countess reclined on a chaise longue in a flowing pink dressing gown, matching slippers, and a pink turban. She held a white lace handkerchief to her forehead with a mournful air. Though the woman looked to be in the throes of some dreadful illness, Hannah suspected that self-indulgence rather than genuine discomfort kept her off her feet.

For two days the countess had stayed in her rooms, refusing visitors. When Higgins informed Hannah that his employer had condescended to hear her apology, providing it could be accomplished in fewer than five minutes, Hannah had swallowed her pride and entered the lioness’ den.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lady Huffington,” she began.

Higgins hovered at the countess’ elbow, pouring tea which Lady Huffington waved weakly away. “I am far too ill for tea at the moment,” she murmured.

Hannah looked questioningly at Higgins, but he merely shrugged, as if to say that he had not promised miracles. Hannah cleared her throat.

“I wish to say how deeply sorry I am for my words of the other night.”

When the countess made no response, Hannah continued. “You stated my obvious shortcomings in realistic terms. Finding a husband for me will be quite a challenge. Please accept my apology for offending you.”

Lady Huffington’s eyes narrowed, and for the briefest moment Hannah was put in mind of the duke’s steely gaze. The countess did not speak for some moments. Then she shifted herself to a sitting position.

“You may leave, Miss Gregory,” she said coolly.

Hannah blinked. She was being dismissed without any acknowledgment of her apology or any indication as to whether the countess would continue to regard her as if she were a bit of offensive lint.

“Lady Huffington—” Hannah protested.

“I said that you may leave, girl,” the countess repeated, eyeing her haughtily. “Do not belie your pretty words by further insolence.”

No wonder the woman wore such a sour expression, Hannah thought. She was a termagant. Decades of dou
rn
ess had ruined what must have been a rather comely face in her younger years. Even now, a smile would go a long way in lifting age from her features—she was probably no older than Hannah’s mother might have been. But Lady Huffington apparently did not know how to smile, only to bully.

A slow bu
rn
crept up the back of Hannah’s neck. Countess or no, the woman had no right to treat her so rudely.

“Lady Huffington, I assure you I do not intend to be a burden to this house,” Hannah said, carefully modulating her voice. The last thing she wanted was to sound shrill. “Nor will my obvious drawbacks detract from Lady Lucille’s season. Your niece has a kind and generous nature that even someone of limited vision must be forced to recognize.”

“
Limited vision
?”
The countess’ brows arched skyward, and she drew herself up like a ruffled hen. “Do you refer to
me,
Miss Gregory?”

Out of the
corner
of her eye, Hannah saw Higgins close his eyes as if in pain. So much for her carefully orchestrated apology. She sighed. If only she could control her wicked tongue.

“I would not be so bold as to do so, ma’am,” she replied, dropping a curtsy. “I believe my five minutes have expired. Good afternoon.”

Rigid with rage, Lady Huffington did not speak until Hannah left the room. Then she turned to Higgins. “Insufferable chit,” she pronounced, rubbing her temples and giving every sign of being on the verge of collapse.

Hig
gins
shoved the rejected teacup into her hand, forcing her to forestall her relapse or risk spilling hot tea into her lap. Lady Huffington eyed him sharply, then took a bracing sip.

“That girl does not know her place,” the countess complained. “Why she is but a poor relation of a mere baronet! How dare she expect to be treated as an equal?”

“Her connection seems respectable enough,” Higgins offered in a neutral tone.

Lady Huffington sniffed. “I suppose you are thinking about your own background. I forget that you were a poor relation yourself.”

Higgins stiffened. “My father was a member of the Commons and a right honorable gentleman.”

“Yes, yes”—Lady Huffington waved one hand impatiently—“but you have always known your place. I would not have kept you on all these years if you had not.”

Higgins did not reply.

“Miss Gregory, on the other hand, seems to think she is entitled to the same privileges as Lucille,” the countess continued.

“Since the duke has given them to her,” Higgins ventured, “perhaps it would be unworthy of you to continue to rebuff her.”

“
Unworthy
?”
The countess’ graying brows rose sharply. Higgins hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Lord Huffington was proud of his reputation as a philanthropist, was he not?”

Lady Huffington grew rigid. The name of her late husband was rarely mentioned in her presence. “My husband had a reputation for many things.”

“Granted, madam,” Higgins acknowledged, reddening, “but generosity was foremost among them.”

“What of it?” Her mouth thinned into a bitter line.

“I have always thought you capable of great generosity, too, my lady,” he said quiet
l
y, “given the right circumstances.”

Lady Huffington stared at him, too stunned to speak. A flush spread over her face. “Truly, Higgins?” she asked in a small voice.

“Truly, madam.”

The countess looked away, then stared wordlessly into the bottom of her teacup. Finally, she handed the cup to him without meeting his gaze. Higgins bowed and silently rolled the tea cart out of the room.

Sir Charles came to dinner that night. While he displayed great warmth toward Hannah—as if they were indeed close relations—his eyes were all for Lucy. Hannah wondered that Lucy could miss what was written in his gaze, but she treated him like a brother, without evincing any flirtatiousness or feminine interest.

Lucy had argued that if passion was to exist between a man and woman, it must be present from the very start. There was certainly nothing of the kind between her and Sir Charles. Poor man. How could he break through that barrier of cordiality without risking the sacrifice of the friendship he treasured with her?

Hannah knew herself no expert in matters of the heart. The encounters she had witnessed in Covent Garden were based entirely on lust. Perhaps passion turned to love if one gave it enough time, but she did not think those sordid meetings her friends had with their customers did. On the other hand, risking a friendship to see if passion might grow must be a terrifying gamble, for the friendship would never be the same. While Lucy remained blissfully ignorant, the baronet must be tormented by his dilemma.

To be sure, Sir Charles did not look tormented. Only an occasional flicker in his clear green eyes hinted of any feeling out of the ordinary. Since Lucy had refused him three times, Hannah assumed that he had long ago disciplined himself to dampen his passions, and she could scarcely blame him. Only a rare man indeed would brave that daunting gaiety and effortless ebullience with which Lucy Pembroke faced the world.

“I have the most wonderful idea,” Lucy exclaimed when the men joined them in the drawing room following their after
-
dinner port. “Since Hannah is to attend her first ball soon, this is a perfect time to teach her the new dances.” She clasped Hannah’s hand and drew her toward the door to the adjacent music room.

Vehemently Hannah shook her head. “I cannot.”

Undaunted, Lucy threw open the door. Hannah froze, for there in the music room was the most exquisite instrument she had ever seen. The case of the grand old clavichord looked to be of fine rosewood, which age had given a burnished patina the color of molten fire. On the open lid, onyx inlay framed a scene of such pastoral beauty that it nearly robbed her of breath.
Fir
trees rose in the foreground, tufts of dark green presiding over a mountain lake’s serene beauty and the majestical peaks miles away. A true artist, one with a keen understanding of natural harmony, had adorned this wonderful instrument
.

Her eyes burned as images of her mother’s old clavichord sprang to mind and with it visions of the mountains of Wales beckoning over low-rise Cheshire hills remarkably like those the artist had painted. Would this clavichord sound as lovely as it looked? She swallowed a bitter taste at the knowledge that she would never know.

Vaguely, she was aware of someone nearby. She looked up, and discovered that the duke was speaking.

“...
admirable notion. Charles is accounted something of an expert on the dance floor. You will find him an able instructor.”

As Lucy seated herself at another instrument, a pianoforte, the duke nudged Sir Charles toward Hannah, then promptly sat on the piano bench next to Lucy. The baronet’s startled gaze filled with disappointment, and Hannah realized that he had hoped to turn the pages for Lucy.

In the face of his honest emotion, Hannah suddenly felt a thorough fraud. For all her fine new clothes, she was nothing more than a fallen women with a shocking amount of worldly experience, a sharp tongue, and not a prayer of winning redemption for this despicable masquerade. Was a chance to regain her hearing worth such deception?

With a rueful gaze, Sir Charles watched the couple at the piano. Gentlemanly politeness quickly covered his disappointment, however, as he turned to smile at Hannah and lead her out for what soon became a disastrous exercise in clumsiness. Trying to follow the figures, Hannah stumbled several times. She eyed him helplessly, but could not seem to do anything right. Finally, he drew her over to a
corner
to walk her slowly through the steps.

“I do not know if I can manage this, Sir Charles,” she said unhappily.

“You must call me Charles,” he admonished. “It would look odd if you did not.”

Hannah flushed, knowing that he was right to remind her, however gently, of her role. “Yes, of course.”

“You must not underestimate yourself,” he continued, smiling encouragingly. “With a little practice and guidance from your partner, you can learn most of the dances.”

“You are a very patient man if you think that,” Hannah said with a sigh.

Involuntarily his gaze flew to the pianoforte, where Lucy was playing happily as the duke turned the pages. “Perhaps I am too patient.”

Hannah regarded him thoughtfully. Though Charles seemed a most gentle and understanding man, there was an edginess about the way he eyed the duke and Lucy. A curious thought assailed her.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn,” she said hesitantly, “but I wondered whether the duke had some reason for maneuvering us into this dance lesson.”

Wariness filled his gaze. “Maneuvering us? Why would he have done that?”

“To keep you from his sister.”

He stilled, then shot her a rueful smile. “You are very perceptive, Miss Gregory.”

“Hannah,” she corrected. “And if I am perceptive, it is because I must be. Tell me: why does the duke oppose your suit?”

“He does not.”

Hannah frowned. “But he maneuvered you away from what would otherwise have been a pleasant time at Lucy’s side.”

Charles’s gaze grew hooded. “It is in Julian’s interest to keep me at bay for the nonce.”

“Why?”

“It pertains to a certain wager between us,” he said, looking very uncomfortable.

“A wager?”

“Let us just say that for the moment it suits him to keep me from bringing Lucy around. Not that there is any chance of that in any case,” he added morosely.

“But you cannot sit idle while the duke keeps you from your heart’s desire,” Hannah protested.

Amusement filled his gaze. “You are quite the fighter, are you not, Hannah? Save your indignation. It is not Julian who holds Lucy from me. It is the young lady herself.”

‘That is nonsense,” Hannah replied with asperity. “She holds you in great regard.”

He grimaced. “Rather like a comfortable old shoe.”

Hannah stared. Charles was truly suffering. Yet, she suspected he would be a devoted husband to Lucy—and a passionate one. It was a pity that Lucy could not see it, a pity that her
co
nni
ving
brother was intent on inflicting such misery on his friend. The Duke of Claridge certainly had no understanding of true friendship.

An intriguing thought popped into her mind. Her own future mig
h
t be bleak, but Charles and Lucy deserved every happiness they could claim. With a little luck, the duke could be persuaded to step out of the way of true love and Lucy could be persuaded to seek her grand passion in the arms of an old friend.

Hannah
smiled. Perhaps redemption was not so foreign a notion after all.

The
ev
ening
had been a splendid success. Miss Gregory’s table manners had not disgraced her at dinner, and she had even managed to learn some of the new dances from Charles. She and Lucy were becoming fast friends. Only Aunt Eleanor’s cooperation was lacking, and Julian had every faith in Higgins. His wager would soon be won.

Tossing off a celebratory glass of brandy, he congratulated himself on the night’s greatest victory—not having to teach Miss Gregory those dances himself.

The memory of waltzing her around his hunting box was all too vivid. He had no desire to repeat the experience—his
matchmakin
g
sister’s schemes notwithstanding. Happily, he had ensconced himself as Lucy’s page-turner, although it meant being the target of Charles’s murderous glare for the rest of the evening.