While the Duke Was Sleeping

by Sophie Jordan

  Little else mattered in the minds of most females. In that respect, she was no different from any other chit, easily felled when the man was rich enough, handsome enough, powerful enough.

  Except staring at her, he felt lost in her eerily wise eyes. She didn’t seem like any other chit. She appeared not in the least put off by his stern mien. Not his great size. Not his coarse accent. For God’s sake, she’d pounced on him like an angry mama bear only hours ago.

  He felt lulled, mesmerized. She did not seem like someone to be so caught up in the superficial trappings of an individual. Not a woman with shoes as scuffed as hers, or with a frayed hem peeking out beneath her pinafore.

  “Poppy!”

  At the shrill shout, Miss Fairchurch looked up.

  Poppy. So that was her name. Somehow it suited her.

  He followed Poppy’s gaze. A girl hung out the window, waving wildly at them.

  “Bryony!” she chastised. “Don’t hang out the window! You’ll fall!”

  The girl did look like she might tumble the two stories if she took too great a breath. “Who’s that there with you, Poppy?” she called down excitedly.

  Miss Fairchild sent him a pained look. “My sister,” she explained. “She’s an excitable girl.”

  “I see that,” he murmured.

  “Hello, there!” The girl continued to wave wildly, her reddish hair a halo around her. “Who are you, sir?”

  He lifted his fingers in silent greeting.

  “Are you coming inside?” Bryony called down eagerly as though he were a long-lost relation and not a complete stranger.

  He thought he heard Miss Fairchurch mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, Providence save me.

  “I best hasten before she drops on her head before us.” Her lips twisted wryly. It was the closest thing to a smile he had caught on her face and a small hum burned through him at the sight of it—which was utterly peculiar. She wasn’t to his tastes. Not in the least. “Trust me,” she added. “It could very well happen.”

  Before he could respond, she turned and rushed up the path with quick strides, moving with surprising spryness. There was certainly nothing demure about her. She was a ball of energy.

  He watched as she ascended the last step leading inside. He surveyed the house a final time. It appeared drooping and tired in the winter air—the complete opposite of Miss Fairchurch. As tightly wound as she was, she buzzed with life and vitality. Fire.

  Perhaps this was what Autenberry had seen in her. Clearly there was more to her than one might first perceive. Something had to be there for his brother to have noticed her initially. He was well aware of the type of women his brother was typically drawn to and it wasn’t their inner beauty that attracted him. He liked his women beautiful and with bountiful curves. Not unlike Autenberry’s young stepmother he had just met. Not unlike their father’s taste in women. He cringed and shoved the thought of his father away.

  So what was it about Poppy Fairchurch that had ensnared his brother?

  Shaking his head, he decided that he didn’t know. But he intended to find out.

  Turning, he climbed back up in the hack. Once settled inside, he found himself looking out the coach at the window he knew to be hers. It wasn’t until the carriage started moving that he faced forward again.

  Chapter 7

  She took a bracing breath as she cleared the landing that led to the room she shared with her sister. She knew she was in for a thousand questions and after the day she had it was going to be a struggle to maintain her patience throughout all of them.

  On an average day, Bryony was inquisitive. After spotting Poppy with a strange gentleman, the questions would be endless.

  It turned out she didn’t even need to open the door. As she rounded the corridor, her sister was waiting in the open doorway, bouncing lightly on her bare toes.

  At the sight of Poppy, she rushed out into the corridor, her pretty face flushed with excitement. “Who was that man?”

  “Struan Mackenzie,” she replied, because it was the truth and an answer she could give without disclosing anything too revealing. The last thing she wished to do was chronicle this day’s events for her sister. She could not pinpoint the precise moment when she had erred, but she was certain she had. Greatly. Grievously. Otherwise, the duke’s family wouldn’t believe she was betrothed to Autenberry. She closed her eyes in a long blink and rubbed at the center of her forehead where it was beginning to throb. All whilst the hapless duke was in a coma. It was a blasted nightmare.

  “Struan Mackenzie . . . that sounds Scottish. Is he Scottish?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  Bryony’s lovely chocolate brown eyes bulged in her face. “Did he escort you home?” The way she asked the question signified how scandalized and titillated she was at the very notion.

  Poppy stepped inside their humble room and closed the door behind them. Bryony followed close behind, breathing down her neck as she peppered her with question after question. “Oh. La! Do tell, Poppy!”

  “Very well. Yes. He did.” She lifted the pinafore over her neck and hung it on a peg, brushing out the barely there wrinkles.

  “Poppy!” Bryony shrieked. “Do you have a beau?” She clapped her hands together and bounced again, her auburn curls dancing like gleaming sausages over her shoulders, grazing the tops of her generous bosom. It was a strange sight she was not yet accustomed to seeing. Her baby sister was in possession of breasts twice the size of her own and enviable hair that made her own wheat-colored hair look every bit as plain as it was.

  Strange, yes, but she did not resent it. She admired her sister’s beauty. Much like a parent, she even took pride in it. Not that it was achieved through any great accomplishment. It was a twist of fate, a blessing of birth, but she was still proud of Bryony nonetheless.

  “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve been keeping such a momentous thing from me! The way you moped around after Edmond ended things, I feared there would be no one for you and you would die an old maid!”

  Poppy closed her eyes in a pained blink. Her sister was never one for tact. Hopefully that would come with age and maturity.

  Bryony started hopping on her toes again. She had the energy of a toddler. Heaven knew staying cooped up all day in this house wasn’t good for her, but there was no way Poppy could unleash her pretty sister into the wilds of London. It was a recipe for disaster. This city would gobble her up. She had wrought enough havoc in their tiny village. The vicar’s two sons had engaged in fisticuffs merely to see who would be allowed to walk her home after church. She could not be let loose in this city.

  Thankfully the proprietress of the house was willing to keep an eye on her. Poppy knew Mrs. Gibbons and Bryony spent a good portion of the day doing needlework in front of the fire, and that was hardly the most riveting way for a young girl to pass her days, but there was naught Poppy could do.

  Once a week the harpist that also let rooms from Mrs. Gibbons gave Bryony a lesson in exchange for Poppy giving her day-old flowers. The woman claimed they made her dreary little room feel like a home. Poppy wasn’t certain it was a fair exchange, but she gladly accepted the arrangement. She wanted to provide an education and culture for her sister, as Papa would have wanted. And yet education and culture were no easy feat when they lived on a mere pittance.

  Mrs. Gibbons was also kind enough to take Bryony with her when she went to market, so her sister did step out often for fresh air. Things could be worse. This was what Poppy told herself when she found herself grieving for Papa and feeling sorry for herself and bemoaning her old life when they had a roof over their heads. Food. A garden to tend. Countryside to roam.

  Bryony was fifteen. Poppy would have to do something to start readying her for the future. With any luck, Poppy could find Bryony an apprenticeship or position as a nanny or governess. Perhaps a lady’s companion. Any number of situations Poppy herself could have found if she didn’t have a younger sister to bring up in the world.

 
; She winced as she gazed at Bryony, who was now curling a lock of her hair around her index finger. She hardly seemed ready for the world. Her sister might possess the face and body of a full-grown woman, but she was very much still a little girl.

  “I’m not being courted by anyone. Rest easy, Bry. Nothing as exciting as that.” Stepping forward, she pressed a quick kiss to her sister’s cheek. She smelled of rose talcum. It was Mrs. Gibbons’s scent and proof that she had spent a good deal of her day in the widow’s rooms.

  “Posh!” Bryony crossed her arms and stomped her foot. “Nothing exciting ever happens. If I worked in Mayfair, I would have a score of exciting things to report. You should let me take a position. We could use the funds.”

  The notion of her too-pretty sister in Mayfair made her wince. Even if she wasn’t so dewy-fresh, the shrill volume of her voice alone would draw attention. The purpose of any good employee was to discreetly serve their master without calling attention to oneself. Bryony would never manage that. At least not right now. Perhaps with more maturity, it could be accomplished. One day. That was Poppy’s hope.

  “Did you eat already?” Poppy rubbed again at the center of her forehead where the beginning of a headache was taking root.

  “Yes, with Mrs. Gibbons. She made a stew. Do you want me to fetch you something from the kitchen? While you eat you can regale me with all the details of your day.” She jiggled her eyebrows up and down. “If you’re not being courting by Struan Mackenzie, then who is the man?”

  “I will go downstairs later. For now, I merely want to rest.” She plopped backward on the bed they shared.

  Once upon a time Poppy had a bed all to herself—in her very own bedchamber with a gabled ceiling and window that overlooked a garden. Before Papa died. Granted the chamber had been small, but it had been all hers.

  She hadn’t known that was such a unique thing at the time. It was all she had ever known. As a little girl, she would play with her dolls and look out the window to spy on her mother happily toiling in the garden. She could still hear Papa reciting Latin to his pupils in the library below.

  Now that she realized she might never have that again, she pulled those memories out every day, stroking them and turning them over and loving them so that they would never be lost to her.

  How her life had changed. Now she slept with Bryony, who kicked like a mule and talked in her sleep.

  Her sister dropped beside her on the bed. “Very well. Then tell me . . . who was that man? He was dressed very finely. I’ve never seen a gentleman dressed so well even in Toadston-on-Mersey. Not even Mr. Heppleton or his son and they were the richest family in the village. The lighting was poor, but he looked handsome. And tall. He looked handsome and tall. Is he handsome, Poppy? Tell me! Is he? Is he?” Before Poppy could even answer, Bryony plunged ahead. “Papa was handsome. Maybe the most handsome man in Toadston-on-Mersey. Mama was a beauty, of course. Everyone said so. Even Mrs. Heppleton. Remember when she said that? But then like goes with like. Is that not the saying?” Bryony took a breath.

  Poppy rubbed at her forehead, hoping her sister’s diatribe had finally come to an end. It was too much to hope for. Bryony continued, “Of course, your Edmond had a fine face. You were a worthy match. Not that it should matter, dreadful cad that he is.” Poppy closed her eyes, hoping that would somehow blot out the sound of her sister’s voice.

  Still she chattered on like a magpie. “He’ll not find a future wife with eyes as fine as yours, I daresay. Poppy!” Her voice turned into a full-fledged whine at this point. “Are you sleeping? Why won’t you tell me anything about that man? I’ve a right to know!”

  “Bryony!” Her eyes snapped open. “If you hold your tongue, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Well, most everything. She’d leave out her fabrications. Merely thinking about her deceit made her head pound harder.

  Bryony pressed her lush lips shut—a true challenge, to be sure.

  Sighing, Poppy continued, “Today at Barclay’s, one of our very prominent customers, the Duke of Autenberry—”

  “Gor, a duke! What’s he like? And why have you never told me about him before?”

  Because he was something that Poppy had wanted to keep to herself. A secret dream that she alone knew about. Selfish of her, but there it was.

  Bryony continued, “Was he dressed in gold brocade and dripping in jewels—”

  At Poppy’s quelling look, Bryony fell silent again.

  “Today, upon leaving the shop, he met with an unfortunate accident.”

  “Oh!” Her sister clasped her hands together.

  “He nearly perished before the wheels of a carriage.”

  “No!” Bryony exclaimed, slapping her hands to her apple-round cheeks. Papa always said that Bryony looked like their mother. He never said that about Poppy. It wouldn’t have been true and they both knew it. Poppy wasn’t certain who she looked like. Herself, she supposed. Not that that had won her any prizes. It certainly hadn’t won her Edmond.

  Bryony knotted her hands and bunched them in the folds of her skirts. “No fair.” She pouted. “You get to leave every day and have these adventures whilst I’m stuck with Mrs. Gibbons—”

  “Oh, come now. You like Mrs. Gibbons—”

  “I would like an adventure more.”

  It was going to be difficult to keep her sister contained for much longer. Mrs. Gibbons couldn’t watch Bryony every hour of every day. Sooner or later, she would grow bold enough to sneak out from under Mrs. Gibbons’s care.

  Then what would Poppy do? She couldn’t resign from her position to watch over her sister. They needed a roof over their heads. Food in their bellies. Her sense of helplessness gave way to longing. If she truly were the duke’s fiancée she would have the resources to see Bryony properly brought up. She wouldn’t be another lost soul who fell prey to the vices of London. And Poppy wouldn’t have failed her parents in seeing Bryony well situated in life.

  Why couldn’t it be real? Why couldn’t she truly be the duke’s betrothed? Almost instantly she felt awful for wishing that. Her problems weren’t the duke’s responsibility. He was gravely ill. She only wished him whole again.

  Poppy would be fine. Bryony would be fine. She sniffed and rubbed at the cold tip of her nose. Everything would be fine. They had each other. They were young and healthy and those were the important things. Her silly fantasies and longings were of no account.

  Poppy held up her hand and pointed at a bundle of cracks in the plaster ceiling. “That looks like a basket with loaves of bread.” It was a game they had oft played. Either with clouds or twigs on the ground, Poppy had always turned the shapes of things into familiar objects.

  Bryony giggled until the sound quickly cut off into a snort. Poppy remembered then that Bryony was trying to act more like a sophisticated woman these days. “Oh, Poppy, you are such an odd duck.”

  “I’d rather be an odd duck than like everyone else,” she replied automatically. It was something Papa had always said. Better to be different than the same as everyone else.

  Apparently her sister remembered that about him, too. “You sound so much like Papa when you say that.” For a moment, her baby sister sounded almost grown-up.

  Poppy elbowed her in the side. “Go on. Your turn. What do you see?” She pointed at another intricate pattern of cracks.

  “You know it’s a sad state of affairs when we can make a game out of our dreary living conditions.” Even following that remark, Bryony concentrated on the pattern before finally sighing. “I don’t know. A rabbit? Right there.” She pointed to where the cracks formed a shape that could be construed as a pair of rabbit ears. If one squinted. Evidently she interpreted Poppy’s hesitation to mean disagreement and sighed in defeat. “I don’t know. I’m never any good at these dumb games of yours. You know I’m not smart, Poppy. Not like you.”

  “Stop it,” she chided. “Don’t say that. You are smart.”

  “No. I was an atrocious student. Even Papa said so. But I
don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to marry a gentleman who won’t care about such things.” Her pert little nose shot up.

  Any sympathy she felt for her sister died quickly at that reply. “You think so?” she asked tartly. “And where do you plan on meeting such gentlemen?”

  “I will eventually. Once you let me out of this room and away from that watchdog Mrs. Gibbons.”

  Poppy shuddered and resisted telling her that would never happen.

  “I suppose you’re never going to tell me about this mysterious Struan Mackenzie, then?”

  “I am not. Because there is nothing to tell.”

  Bryony sighed. “So you say.”

  Poppy stifled a smile. Apparently Bryony was not as unclever as she claimed. She knew there was more to tell, and she sensed that Poppy wasn’t telling it.

  After a few moments, she rose to her feet. “I’m going downstairs to get something to eat.”

  “I suppose I’ll join you. I haven’t anything better to do.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “As usual.” Bryony flounced ahead of her out of their room.

  As far as Poppy was concerned, her sister wouldn’t have anything better to do for a good many years. Especially as her sister’s idea of something better involved all manner of activity unfit for a young lady of fifteen.

  It was a healthy reminder. She needed to keep her priorities straight. She needed to stop engaging in silly fantasies. As soon as this matter with the Duke of Autenberry was straightened out, she would forget about him. Her mind flashed to another face. Moss green eyes. Lips tantalizing even when hard and unsmiling. A deep Scottish brogue.

  Yes. She would forget about him, too.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning Poppy arrived early at Barclay’s to make up for missing yesterday afternoon. Not that she feared reprisal for her absence. Mrs. Barclay had, after all, insisted she accompany the duke home and the woman, above all, was always exceedingly fair with Poppy. The one time Bryony had been sick for two days with a terrible ague she hadn’t blinked an eye over Poppy’s absence, insisting she nurse her sister and not become ill herself.