Blushing in Blue
by Felicia Greene
The Pembroke townhouse, widely regarded as one of the most lavishly ostentatious temples to new money ever erected on its otherwise blameless Mayfair street, hummed with evening activity. Servants clustered outside the tradesmen’s entrance, anxiously poking vast slabs of salmon while ascertaining the freshness of the milk and cheese being hurried into the vast kitchens, where irascible cooks shouted at anyone within screaming distance.
In the large, well-appointed ballroom, tastefully papered in the latest colours and sporting two Venetian chandeliers, nearly one hundred guests drank champagne and made coarse comments about the level of wealth on display. Upstairs in the wood-panelled study, with the clock threatening to strike nine at any moment, Miss Charlotte Pembroke stared worriedly at her father.
He had the accounts ledger open on his desk. That was never a good sign. Horace Pembroke usually kept a very absent-minded eye on exactly how much money his precious children spent—unless, of course, he was alerted to a particularly outlandish purchase. Then the accounts ledger was opened, Charlotte was summoned from whatever activity, party or event she happened to be attending, and A Discussion was had in loud, remonstrative detail.
The last time, a horse had been involved. A considerably more costly horse than the one she had told her father she would purchase—but really, was she to blame for falling in love with Skipjack at first glance? And Benson could hardly have refused her piteous pleas; no groom worth his salt could go directly against the daughter of the master, after all…
‘Father.’ It was important to sound appropriately penitent. ‘If we’re going to discuss the dress—’
‘Seven hundred pounds.’ Her father’s voice came faster than a whip-crack. ‘Seven hundred pounds on a piece of cloth, Charlotte. Did you honestly believe that such a shockingly extravagant purchase wouldn’t attract comment? A monstrous sum, truly monstrous!’
It was difficult to remember to be penitent when he looked at her like this. As if she were still a babe in arms, rather than a nineteen-year-old woman who had her own part to play in the promotion of the family name. ‘My court clothes cost at least a thousand, all told. And I didn’t buy shoes this time.’
‘Your court clothes cost thousands because they were for court, you—you fool!’ Horace slammed his fist down on the table; Charlotte jumped. ‘What on earth possessed you, thinking that you could spend such a ridiculous amount of money on something you’ll only wear once?’
Because we’re one of the wealthiest families in the country? Because you never stop acquiring land or property? Because William spent an equivalent amount at the gaming table a month ago, and you didn’t bat an eyelid? Such thoughts were useless, but Charlotte let herself think them all the same. It was the only way to avoid stamping her foot, answering back, or screaming.
‘I know that look, Charlotte. You’re thinking something loudly at me. Do I want to know what it is?
No answer was perfect, but one would have to do. ‘William spends much more than that in the gaming hells, and you never—’
‘William is a young man, and can conduct himself as he sees fit as long as he’s increasing profits year on year in land yield.’ Her father’s famous bluntness made for a formidably effective weapon. ‘The rules have never been the same for you, Charlotte, and you know it.’
‘You always treated us equally as children.’ She was losing ground, but couldn’t stop herself. ‘No matter what we did.’
‘And I would do so still if the stakes weren’t so very different for William as opposed to you.’ Her father’s brief bursts of staggeringly accurate honesty were more hurtful than his anger. ‘William will make a good marriage whatever he does. Accusations of profligacy will damage a woman’s name in an entirely different way, and you know it.’
‘And this is the moment I learn that you have ceased to see me as a daughter, and instead have begun to view me as a—a pawn to be moved on a board, with a profitable marriage as the prize?’ Dash it, she had lost her temper with no signs of getting it back. ‘Are humiliating meetings like this to become routine? Will I be made to stand with books on my head, and give appropriate subjects to discuss when I’m finally allowed to attend the ball that’s taking place right now, at this very moment?’
‘No. I have no desire to spend my declining years attempting to teach you what should have been naturally bred into you.’ The old man paused; Charlotte knew she was thinking of her late mother, and a shared moment of pain passed between them without a word being spoken. ‘Instead, I’m going to make it much simpler. Investment requires evidence of future profit, yes?’
Charlotte nodded warily. ‘Yes?’
‘Then consider the gown an investment, and courtship evidence of future profits.’ Her father closed the ledger with a nod, a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Until I see you with a consistent suitor, Charlotte, not a penny of my money goes to you apart from what is used for the barest of essentials.’
No. No, no, no.
‘Food, water, the carriage to go to church, and that will be—’
‘A suitor.’ Charlotte was thinking very rapidly indeed. The enormity of what she was about to lose—the luxurious, gilded freedom with which she lived her life—had forced her mind to work as hard as it possibly could. That was extremely fast, despite what spiteful tongues in the ton said. ‘If I have a suitor, I continue to receive funds?’
‘Well… yes. That would be the size of it.’ Her father frowned, clearly suspicious of her sudden acquiescence. ‘But of course, there would be—’
‘No no, father.’ Charlotte stood abruptly, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. ‘You said that you didn’t want to spend too much time teaching me what should come naturally. A suitor is what is required—and as a matter of fact, a suitor has already presented itself.’
‘What?’ The look of astonishment on her father’s face was almost comic. ‘When were you going to—’
‘Tonight.’ Once a lie had been told, it was imperative to keep moving ahead of it. ‘There—you see? This little talk was all for nothing. But let’s not waste time now. Follow me, and I’ll point him out for you.’
She walked away as quickly as she could. Certain that her father would need at least a little time to collect his bearings before following her in earnest, she made sure to keep thinking as she walked down the corridor. The skirts of her gown, another Anne Fletcher masterpiece in the softest of rose pinks, rustled gently against the gleaming parquet floors as she considered her position.
A suitor. A suitor could be found in the blink of an eye, if necessary—and things were certainly necessary, given the steely look in her father’s eye. There were dozens of gentlemen willing to swear away any number of lands and titles for merely a bat of her eyelashes and a throwaway compliment. At least… well, that was what she had always assumed from the way the gentlemen in question spoke to her.
Did she really have enough time to ascertain a potential candidate’s true intentions before her father walked into the ballroom and caught her plotting? No. A gentleman who had already shown preference wasn’t a good idea. Not least because the poor soul would be terribly sad when she told him that the courtship was all a sham—and really, for all her many flaws, she took no pleasure at all in hurting people. Whoever she picked needed to be someone with a thick skin, or someone that she didn’t mind hurting.
As she stood hidden at the far end of the landing, inches away from the small but elegant staircase that would lead her into the heart of the ballroom, a name flashed through her mind. She dismissed it with a reflexive curl of her lip, almost l
aughing… but the name returned again, presenting itself with strange, seductive stubbornness.
Him. It would certainly annoy her father—and even better, he couldn’t do anything about his annoyance. William was fast friends with the whole pack of them, and Dorothea had married the eldest one—her father looked almost as kindly upon Miss Radcliffe, now Mrs. Duke, as she did. Yes, the Duke brothers irked her father tremendously… and as for what she thought of her chosen target…
She stared at Robert Duke from a safe distance. She was high above him, fully concealed in the shadows—but even then he turned, his bright blue eyes as piercing as if he were standing directly in front of her. Charlotte bit her lip, her heart racing as she struggled to maintain her composure.
Robert Damned Duke. He’d irritated her ever since the Duke brothers had begun their difficult, perilous journey into high society, and her only reward was knowing how much she irritated him in turn. They’d been staring and sniping for so many interminable months by now—and it had only intensified since Dorothea, her best friend in all the world, had taken it upon herself to marry Thomas Duke. She was ludicrously happy, of course, as was Thomas—but it meant that Charlotte had to spend an inordinate, unpleasant amount of time in Robert’s presence, rolling her eyes at his louche, devil-may-care charm.
Charm? Where had that word come from? Robert wasn’t charming in the slightest; his face and smile were always pleasant, but with his speech he was an unrepentant viper. She’s heard his sighs of annoyance or murmurs of disbelief at her conduct when her back was turned—oh, the hours she’d spent dreaming up retorts to him, alone in bed when she should have been sleeping.
Well. This would be the ultimate retort. Not one that he could ignore, either—if he reacted badly to what she was about to do, he would earn the displeasure of his brother and the condemnation of the ton at large. Not good for a family whose status was still precarious, after all.
Imagining the look on his face was almost reward enough, Charlotte held the image in her mind for a moment, relishing it, before her father’s footsteps sounded on the landing.
No time to consider the implications now, or the consequences. Arranging her skirts in a becoming fashion, holding her head high, she began her descent into the ballroom in what she knew to be a thoroughly stunning manner.
The effect was immediate, as it always was. None of the smiling, gossiping people below knew her secret—that she looked for her best friend Dorothea and held her gaze for the entire descent, not daring to look around the rest of the room. Dorothea’s eyes always held such patient, friendly tenderness that she had no need to look anywhere else.
Tonight was different. Charlotte smiled gently at her friend’s distant figure, giving a small wave, before fixing her magnetic gaze on Robert Duke. Robert Duke, who had the good sense to look as if he’d been hit with an iron bar.
The crowd parted naturally as soon as her toes touched the parquet. Pausing for a moment, waiting until she was sure every gentleman and lady in the room knew exactly who she was looking at, Charlotte moved towards Robert with her most winning smile.
As if on cue, the music started. Charlotte always liked to begin a ball with a faintly scandalous dance, to encourage interesting stories the next day. The waltz, a new dance with a most intriguing way of remaining with a single person for the duration of the music, had felt like just the thing three days ago—and now it was even more apt.
Soon she was standing in front of Robert. The entire ballroom seemed to inhale at the same time as Charlotte opened her mouth. The words were there on the tip of her tongue, and all she had to do was… was say them…
Lord, he was handsome. Why, of all the moments to choose from, did she have to notice such a discouraging fact in this exact instant?
‘Miss Pembroke.’ His voice was exactly as she had hoped it would be, confused and on the verge of anger. Deeper than she remembered, but that could be ignored. ‘What do you think you’re—’
‘Mr. Duke.’ Charlotte held out her hand, a scandalised squeal from an elderly dowager behind her almost drowning out the violins. ‘Please. I can bear secrecy no longer. Let us dance together in front of everyone who matters.’
The Duke townhouse, situated in one of the more fashionable parts of London, nevertheless carried a faintly disreputable air. Unlike the houses of their neighbours, solid tradesmen in search of a way into high society, the loose roof tiles and straggling weeds growing between the paving stones spoke of gentlemen with too many other concerns to consider household management.
It was rare indeed that every Duke brother could be found in the house at the same time. With Thomas’s new wife, John’s painting studio in an unfashionable part of Whitechapel, Edward’s frequent parties and Henry’s absent-minded genius leading him goodness knows where, the house was often home to no-one other than servants and mice. But after the Pembroke Ball, with Charlotte Pembroke’s scandalous waltz request the absolute talk of the town, there was no other possible place to go but home.
There would need to be A Talk. After a few hours of restorative sleep, judicious use of coffee, eggs and bacon and as much washing as the mirror could countenance, the Duke brothers gathered in the study with metaphorically rolled-up sleeves. They were ready to interrogate Robert to the fullest extent of their capabilities.
‘Right.’ Edward leaned back in his armchair, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. ‘I want every note, every coin—everything. How long have I been telling everyone that our Robert’s open loathing for Miss Pembroke concealed the most violent sort of attraction?’
‘Forever, and no. You don’t get a penny.’ John turned to Robert, who was sitting in his chair in uncharacteristic silence. ‘We never actually placed bets.’
‘I bloody should have. I’d be able to fund the next land purchase myself.’
‘Edward, shut up.’ Thomas, the oldest in the family, rarely suffered fools gladly. ‘But explanations are required, Robert.’
‘Explanations? I want a full narrative, complete with the time and date of your first coy glances!’
‘Edward, I’m not going to warn you again.’ Thomas turned back to Robert, his brow furrowed with concern. ‘Come on. Tell us what on earth’s been going on with you and Miss Pembroke, before Edward explodes.’
Robert opened his mouth, then shut it again. Normally filled with an abundance of charm, good talk and the ability to make a statue laugh, he realised that he had no idea what to say. Not least because, when it came to what on earth was going on between himself and Charlotte Pembroke, he had about as much idea as his brothers did.
A part of him desperately wanted to dissect the whole affair with Thomas and the rest. Only they would be able to fully appreciate the sheer strangeness of it—the sudden, astonishing attention of one of the ton’s most talked-about women. The way she had skilfully commanded dance after dance, speaking so brightly of every piece of nonsensical gossip she had heard that there was no time or place to ask her what the hell she was doing, why had she chosen him, why was she looking at him like that…
… but that would lead to him talking about the way she felt in his arms. The way his heart had constricted when she had looked at him—not the usual jolt of irritation, but something else. Something that he was frightened to analyse alone, but was determined not to do within a hundred feet of Thomas, Edward, Henry and John.
Well. Maybe John. John was the gentlest of all of them. But it would still lead Robert down a path that he had very little desire to explore, given the certainties that would inevitably be revealed for the flimsy constructs they actually were.
He had been certain that Charlotte Pembroke, although regarded as beautiful by all and sundry, wasn’t beautiful at all in his eyes. Wrong.
He had been sure that he would never ask Charlotte Pembroke to dance, let alone accept a dance she offered. Wrong.
He had always known that he would never, ever lie awake in bed and think about Charlotte Pembroke, except with extreme annoya
nce. Very, very wrong.
There was a more prosaic reason for his unwillingness to tell his brothers just why he was so confused. If he knew anything about Charlotte Pembroke—and he did, given just how often they were forced to associate thanks to Thomas’s marriage—there was some sort of scheme behind her deliberate, scandalous courting. A grand plan, no doubt designed to finish in his humiliation… but she hadn’t humiliated him last night. After the initial shocking boldness of her invitation, she had behaved with utmost correctness.
She had created intrigue. Mystery. And although Robert knew he shouldn’t care just what she was planning or why, he wanted to know more. Wanted to know every intimate detail.
His brothers would have to be deceived, at least for a little while. Enough time to arrange a meeting with the bright-eyed, silken-haired minx and work out just what the bloody hell was going on.
‘Well?’ Any explanation at all?’ Thomas paused, his tone changing to one of concern. ‘You don’t normally drift off into the ether like this.’
‘Well of course he won’t do what he normally does—he’s become a perfect sop over the woman!’
‘Edward, I’ll send you out. I’ll do it, no matter how old you are.’
Robert sighed. He chose his words carefully, affecting his usual tone of slightly louche arrogance. ‘Do I really need to say anything? Don’t the events of the previous evening make abundantly clear what’s been happening?’
‘They make one or two things clear, but throw everything else into the most abominable mystery. Dorothea is utterly shocked. She spent all night trying to work it out, as if it’s a damned puzzle.’ Thomas folded his arms. ‘If you and Charlotte Pembroke have been illicitly courting, where and when have you been managing to do it? You’re never out from under our feet!’
‘Thank you for expressing such unrestrained delight at being in good company so very often.’ Robert raised an eyebrow, desperately searching for an answer. He was no novice when it came to women, but courtship was a different matter entirely. ‘Without wishing to cast aspersions on Miss Pembroke’s character, one finds a way. One always does.’
Blushing in Blue: The Brothers Duke: Book Two Page 1
