Duke of Misfortune

by Blake, Whitney

  He was worried, still, that what Thomas had done to the estate—drained it, namely—had become, or would become, common knowledge.

  Then he could plan all he liked, but it would come to naught.

  “I shall keep an ear to what’s being said. But right now, I truly don’t believe anyone knows. His penchant was for the seedier side of things, and it would be very difficult for most to understand how deeply he bled himself,” said Paul. “So long as you can maintain the appearance of a proper townhouse functioning as it should, I don’t fear you’ll court trouble. The ton is so superficial. They may be nosy, but they love appearances most of all.” He rolled his eyes. “Scratch the surface and you find almost everyone has something they want to hide.”

  “They’re all praying that someone else has captured the attention.”

  “Precisely. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that you shall become the bauble that’s captured it. Make it worth their while and no one will question you. You’re a duke, now.”

  “Wonderful,” said Lee, slinking down in his chair.

  “Don’t look so sad. Chin up. Don’t you want to properly meet your flame-haired lady?”

  Chapter Five

  Though she had hit him, she also couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  It was incredibly vexing to decide how she felt, but she did know that she was savoring the memories of that kiss.

  She supposed the two weren’t mutually exclusive, and that it was possible both to desire a man and want to punch him. Sir Thorn was, without a doubt, the most charismatic and aesthetically appealing man she’d ever seen. The competition wasn’t always lackluster, but there was something about him that made his entire presentation most alluring. Strong-shouldered, muscular but trim—she knew that from how they’d been crushed together at the hips—with a heartbreaking face that would not have looked out of place in a Caravaggio painting. It had been too dark out there in the garden to tell the color of his eyes, but she would wager they were hazel.

  Emma was listening, aghast, to her speak.

  “And when I came to my senses, I pulled us both behind the—” said Teddie, then Emma cut across her words.

  “You didn’t even know his name?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Did you…” seeming to pick her words carefully, Emma said, “who kissed who?”

  “He kissed me. I mean to say, he kissed me; I kissed him back. But he definitely started it.”

  Weakly, Emma said, “And then you hit him.” Teddie was thankful that Emma was not chastising her too much for the situation. Criticism would have been warranted, perhaps. After all, she had allowed herself to be alone with a stranger, and many strangers were not so kind as Sir Thorn appeared to be. Putting that from her mind, Teddie tried to listen to Emma. “I imagine you must have been very startled.” Without even glancing at the stone on the ground before she stepped daintily over it, Emma continued, “Do you think Mama will find out?”

  The garden at home under broad sunlight seemed leagues away from the dark, enchanted garden she’d been in only last evening. It was not that the Driffield townhouse was starkly less than anyone else’s, either. Teddie’s imagination had truly run amok last night. Sir Thorn seemed like a prince, or a beast who is actually a prince, she thought.

  She still wondered about his voice and what had happened to him.

  Most people, she knew, would not have noticed it, but she’d spied the edge of a scar peeking out from behind his cravat. Therefore, it stood to reason that he’d suffered a physical injury. He might have been in a regiment. London was seemingly teeming with soldiers and military men these days.

  “She might,” said Teddie, tightening her grip on her sister’s arm with the nerves that the small admission brought. If Lady Olivia had anything to say about the matter, the whole of the Empire would know not only that Sir Thorn had kissed Teddie, but also what Teddie had eaten for breakfast that morning and how she’d skinned her knee at age eleven.

  How I revile the ton and its tongues.

  “I suppose I shall keep an eye to the papers,” said Emma.

  Now there was a terrifying notion. She had thought the same, too, though. Lady Olivia would delight in tearing Teddie’s name asunder.

  “You don’t think…”

  “I won’t make any assumptions, and I don’t want to frighten you, but if you were seen, it very well may be that someone will write something about it.” Emma’s straight, perfect nose crinkled. “And your coloring… I am sure that it would merit a mention.” Her brown eyes swept Teddie, who felt increasingly more like she was a creature in a zoo for all that everyone kept wanting to comment on her attributes.

  Emma did not mean it in a derogatory way, of course. But not for the first time in her life, Teddie wished she were blonde, or brunette… and smaller. Or at the least, if she could not be slender, then she wanted to be shorter.

  No, that would be worse—then you would see all the gentlemen looking down at your bosom. Now, it’s at least a less exaggerated gesture than that.

  “I shall find a way to dye my hair,” said Teddie.

  “It will all work out, dear heart,” said Emma. “I cannot decide which is worse… that you gave an aristocrat a black eye, or that he kissed you without either of you knowing who the other was.” She glanced back at the house. They were in little danger of being overheard. Neither Mother nor Father was outdoors, and all the same, both sisters were keeping their voices down. “Was it an enjoyable kiss?”

  Emma knew that Teddie had been kissed before. What she was about to find out was that this most recent and mysterious kiss had trumped all of them. Teddie decided not to censor herself overmuch, for Emma was her closest friend in all the world. If she could not tell Emma the truth, she did not believe it would be possible to tell anyone else.

  “It was enlightening,” she began. Emma’s eyebrows rose. “I never knew what anyone went on about when they praised kissing.”

  “And now you do?”

  “I would have kept kissing him even if Armageddon began,” said Teddie, with a smirk directed entirely at herself. The truth was, now that she was not in danger of being discovered, she wished she had taken more advantage of Sir Thorn. “That unnerved me. So naturally, I hit him. Instead of continuing.”

  In the moment, she’d spoken boldly about her desire to be found out and for her reputation to suffer. But it would be more realistic to admit that, although she chafed against the expectations her mother had, she was not ready to ruin her own life. No matter how preposterous the standards upon women were. She would still readily admit to that being the case.

  But there was no need, as their grandmother had been fond of saying, to cut off her own nose to spite her face.

  And if anyone was prone to trying to do it, it was Teddie.

  “Do you think he’ll try to contact you?”

  “How would he?”

  “All he really needs to do is ask after a woman who looks like you, and he will be able to get in touch,” said Emma, pausing to admire an ornate birdbath Father had just purchased from a sculptor who’d trained in Italy. “If he does, what will you do?”

  Teddie didn’t like Emma’s leading tone. “Marry him, of course,” she said, rather snidely, all things considered. “No. I shall… we can socialize. In the done manner. And if he is not an entire loss, I won’t need to hit him again.”

  “Or bait him into being unpleasant,” said Emma, keeping an admirably straight face. The playfulness in her eyes gave her away.

  How Teddie wished she could tell her sister all of the truth. That Sir Thorn did not seem capable of being unpleasant, that he filled her mind’s eye, that for once, she did not wish to drive a man away. She wanted to lure him closer.

  On the brink of disclosing this when a maid swept into the garden and made a beeline for them, Teddie said, “Do you think Mama has decided we’ve seen too much of the sun and I shall freckle too much to be considered enticing? Or…”

  Emma sho
ok her head and greeted the maid when she was within the proper distance. “Yes, Aileen, what is it?”

  Aileen bobbed a curtsy and held a card out toward Teddie. “A message for Miss Theodora, Mrs. Crowley.”

  Taking it, Teddie said, “Thank you, Aileen. What was it?”

  “Miss, the Duke of Welburn wishes to know if he might call on you,” said Aileen, her light brown eyes moving keenly from Emma to Teddie. Aileen had known Emma since her teens—Teddie seemed to recall that the maid and her sister were roughly the same age—and knew Teddie almost as well. Well enough to know that this was a rare occurrence.

  Teddie had never, ever had a gentleman call on her at home. That generally signified interest and an eventual courting, which was a process through which she’d never gone.

  “Did he say when?”

  “Tomorrow, if convenient, Miss.”

  Exchanging a mystified glance with Emma before she spoke, Teddie said to Aileen, “That is fine, yes. I assume he has someone waiting for a reply… and does Mrs. Driffield know?” Teddie tilted her head and Aileen nodded. “Tell them.”

  Could Sir Thorn be a duke? She could not dismiss the coincidence as being a true coincidence. This was so highly irregular that she wasn’t sure if it was actually even happening. But if it was, Mother was going to be a full and insufferable nightmare. This was her wildest dream come true.

  Once Aileen had made her way closer to the house after a murmured reply and another polite curtsy, Teddie asked Emma, “What do you suppose?” Teddie turned the card over in her hand. The crisp, printed letters did not reveal anything, save the Duke of Welburn was called Lord Thomas Valencourt.

  Emma’s mouth parted, then closed, then parted again. “You may be meeting your Sir Thorn earlier than we might have imagined.” When Teddie hardly dared to look excited and instead looked only mildly interested, Emma said, “Oh, come now. I cannot believe that after a season of gaining the reputation that you have, that a random duke would come out of thin air like this.”

  Teddie prayed that their suspicions were correct.

  *

  When Lee saw the Driffield townhouse, he knew immediately that he was looking at the home of a very wealthy family. The thought did not please him nearly as much as it should have.

  Thomas should have been the one undertaking this odious errand, especially when Lee actually liked the lady in question. He knew that almost any man in his position would hardly quibble with the ethics concerning what he was about to do, yet he found himself always circling on the idea that he should at least tell the woman how extensive his debt was.

  As he stared at the townhouse, which must have been purchased from another person and not built recently, judging by the patina on the bricks, he tried to squish the guilt that remained in his chest. Was this really so deceptive? He valiantly attempted to look at things objectively. He would not be hurting Theodora.

  Miss Theodora Driffield, heiress, and terror of the ton, if the rumors were to be heeded.

  He had not yet been to White’s to see them himself, but Paul assured him that the books were full of little wagers about her.

  Lee huffed and resettled his thoughts on what it had been like to kiss her. Decadent.

  When his driver stopped near the front door, he was still idly tracing his own lips. Gathering his nerves and exiting with the help of a footman, Lee reminded himself that in the grand scheme of God’s universe, he was not the worst criminal to behold.

  Certainly, Mrs. Driffield did not think he was. When he was announced and shown into the parlor, the woman could hardly contain her joy at a duke being present in her abode.

  “Your Grace,” she said, almost simpering, “what a delight and an honor.” Lee thought he might have preferred her more forthright and likely more genuine manner, the one he’d witnessed at the ball, to whatever this was. “I should never have expected my daughter to receive a morning call from one such as you.” Her eyes, so bright, searched his eagerly. “And are you in mourning, Your Grace?”

  Mr. Kilgrave had produced an array of garments for him at a very affordable price—he suspected upon the Duke of Bowland and Lord Paul’s express, clandestine orders—for there was no way around it. His only close relative had, indeed, died.

  Almost relieved at her rude bluntness, he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Driffield. For my older brother.”

  While she acclimated to his voice, he studied the room. It was airy and exceedingly clean, as well as overly furnished. The accoutrements were all uncoordinated shades of ochre and green and violet. Perhaps the woman before him had no talent for subtlety in decorating, just as it lacked in her speech.

  “You have my sympathies, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Driffield.” If she was going to use the honorific in every sentence, then he, too, would append her title to everything he said, too. “I assume that Miss Driffield is still home?” He was almost perched on the settee with anticipation, and the horrifying thought that she was actually not present suddenly began to eat at him.

  “Oh, indeed, she is,” said Mrs. Driffield brightly. “She would not have dreamed of missing you.”

  That was a relief. Does she surmise that I’m Sir Thorn? He assumed so, for she was clever and, as unfathomable as it was to him, she had not appeared to have any suitors at all since her come out. If he read Mrs. Driffield correctly, she was also unused to receiving men on social calls for her daughter. Mr. Driffield, apparently, was out.

  Lee wondered if the man might have a sedating effect on his wife.

  This visit could not be long, and most likely would last about half an hour. It was the usual, customary way of things.

  If Miss Driffield wished and Mrs. Driffield consented, he could arrange something else that lasted longer. An outing or the like. But that would signal to the ton and all of its avid observers that his intention was absolutely marriage.

  To do otherwise would be deemed vulgar and, in this case, Lee needed a wife more than a mistress.

  No self-respecting courtesan or widow would lend him that much money, and few had the resources to begin with. Besides, even if he found one to do so, it was considered terrible form to accept money from a woman.

  But marrying a woman means you own all of it, thought Lee, inwardly cringing. The hypocrisy was quite something. No one would fault him for finding a wife, and no one would find out what a predicament he was in.

  When the maid announced Miss Driffield, he sat up a little straighter. He had not counted on the possibility that she might react strongly to his presence and finding out that he was Sir Thorn.

  No, that could not be right. He was certain that she had made the connection. If she had not, she still had a steelier character than his.

  She was a well-bred young lady, too. Even if she wanted to express an unbecoming emotion, she had been taught not to do so. He had not seen her rein herself in, but he had faith that she was intelligent and quick-thinking enough to treat him like any other man who might have made a morning call.

  She was even more beautiful in daylight, under which he could fully appreciate her hair and freckles. The blue of her dress was not so dark as to overpower her features. “Miss Driffield,” said Lee, rising to bow to her. Not that he had to do so.

  She raised one eyebrow, not at all alluding to any surprise, and said, “Good day, Your Grace.”

  There was another one of those infernal curtsies. He could not stop anyone from doing them, he recognized. But he could dislike them. And he disliked them even more coming from this divine being before him.

  A banal gaggle of topics he could discuss in front of her mother came to mind. He decided the opera was not safe enough. One could never tell for certain, but he wanted to make a good impression on this mama, not scare her into thinking he was there to corrupt her daughter. The opera might bring more unsavory talk, even if it was not wholly true. But that was not what he wanted the Duke of Welburn to be known for.

  “Miss Driffield,” Lee said, again, erring i
nto sounding like he was not in command of his own mind.

  “Might I ask, Your Grace, how you and my daughter are acquainted?” Mrs. Driffield was clearly trying to ease the conversation, though little did she realize that she would actually be making it more tense.

  Miss Driffield sat next to her mother and Lee resumed sitting on the graceful, narrow chair that he dwarfed. She looked at Lee as though to say, “Go on, then,” remaining silent.

  “We were introduced by Lady Wilson.” Lee chose the name of the most sedate matriarch he could recall from years ago.

  “Lady Wilson?” Mrs. Driffield sounded flummoxed.

  Miss Driffield shook her head minutely.

  “Yes.” Lee had an inkling that his lie was somehow obvious.

  “Have you not heard about Lady Wilson, Your Grace?” Mrs. Driffield said, remaining polite and honeyed as ever, but with a grain of suspicion to her tone.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken as to who did introduce us. I spoke to so many that evening; you’ll have to forgive me.”

  “What my mother means to say, Your Grace, is that Lady Wilson is no longer with us,” said Miss Driffield, gracefully intercepting his gaffe. That explained Mrs. Driffield’s look of confusion, and Miss Driffield’s desperate, tiny shake of the head. “It happened very recently.”

  Lee wanted to say that all of his memories of the ton were hazy at best, and had been for quite some time. He would be forgiven; he was a duke. But he needed to find a way to say it with finesse, and make his time out of society seem more straightforward than it was.

  “Thank you, Miss Driffield,” said Lee. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “I must confess that I have been rather addled of late.”

  “Oh, of course!” said Mrs. Driffield, almost flapping her hands in emphasis. “Theodora, His Grace has lost his own, dear brother. Of course we mustn’t expect him to recall every person with whom he spoke!”

  Pity flared briefly in Miss Driffield’s beautiful, amber eyes. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”

  Without wanting to sound like an ingrate, and squirming under the pity for what they thought had been a loving, brotherly relationship, Lee offered the only diplomatic response he had. “It was not expected.”