The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “You are certain the duke will be at the ball, Woddell?” she asked for perhaps the tenth time as the maid bent to adjust the ruched and embroidered hem of her skirt.

  “Yes, miss. My young man is valet to Count Roselli, as I told you already, and he says the count knows His Grace very well. I saw Mr. Fane only this morning in the laundry rooms belowstairs, and he swore to me the duke will be there.”

  “It’s so nice that you have a young man. Is he handsome?”

  “Oh, yes, miss.” The maid straightened and gave a laugh as she began to adjust the gown’s sleeves. “Quite takes my breath away, he does, when he smiles.”

  Prudence laughed with her, a rather shaky laugh as she thought of St. Cyres’s devastating smile. “I know just what you mean, Woddell.”

  At that moment Edith came bustling in, putting an end to their amusement at once. “Prudence, dear, is that as far as you’ve got?” she asked, glancing over her niece in obvious dismay. “Heavens, your hair isn’t even finished yet. Stop dawdling, dear. Robert and Millicent will be arriving at any moment.”

  “We’ve plenty of time,” Prudence pointed out. “Why, most of the aristocrats never even arrive at a fashionable ball before midnight.”

  “I daresay, but we are simple gentry folk when all’s said and done. We hardly need to assume the pretensions of the aristocracy.” She crossed the room to Prudence’s side and gave her a long up-and-down glance. “You look lovely, dear,” she said at last. “Robert will be so pleased to partner you. How many dances have you promised him?”

  “Two. A quadrille and a galop.”

  Edith gave a cry of dismay. “No waltzes?”

  “No.” Prudence turned away as Woddell presented a shallow box of hair ornaments for her inspection, glad of the distraction. “Help me decide how to dress my hair, will you, Aunt?”

  Edith, of course, would not be dismissed so easily. “Robert asked you most particularly to reserve three of your waltzes for him.”

  Prudence pretended to give the aigrette of feathers her maid held up her full consideration, hoping Edith would let the matter drop. “No, Woddell,” she finally said. “I think something simpler would be best. Perhaps just these pearl combs,” she added, removing them from the box, “and a spray of fresh gardenias or lily of the valley from the florist downstairs. That will do nicely.”

  “Prudence?”

  Her aunt’s sharp voice told her that avoidance had not worked, so she tried diplomacy as Woddell returned the other hair ornaments to the dressing room. “I told Robert earlier today which dances on the programme I shall give him,” she said as she walked to her dressing table. “He seemed perfectly amenable to my decision. If he is content, why should you not be?”

  “There are nine waltzes on the programme, and I insist you reserve at least three for the man whose admiration for you is genuine.”

  Prudence already knew which man’s admiration was genuine. “Three waltzes in one evening would imply an engagement. Robert and I are not engaged.” She turned and met her aunt’s resentful stare with a determined one of her own. “Nor do I see us as ever being so.”

  “But—”

  “Besides,” she interrupted, “I do not believe in this idea of reserving waltzes for one particular man before the ball even begins. Such a practice makes men far too complacent. I shall give my waltzes to the men who ask me at the ball.”

  “You mean you are saving them for St. Cyres.”

  Prudence pulled out the chair in front of her dressing table and sat down. “I shall certainly waltz with him if he asks me. How could I refuse a duke?” At those words, anticipation bubbled up in her, but she felt impelled to add, “It is by no means certain he will ask me to dance.”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” Edith snapped, crossing the room to stand beside her chair. “I think it is safe to say he will ask you for at least three waltzes.”

  Recalling their outing the day before, Prudence thought it was a fair certainty he would ask her to waltz at least once. Perhaps twice. And if there were three? She could hardly dare to hope for that.

  “As you said yourself, three waltzes imply engagement,” Edith went on. “Such implications suit him down to the ground, I daresay. And you as well, from the sound of it.”

  Prudence had no intention of allowing Edith to ruin her lovely mood with an argument. “As I said, Aunt, other than the two dances I have already promised Robert, I will reserve the places on my dance card for those men who ask me at the ball.”

  Edith made a sound of utter exasperation. “Time will tell if I’m not right about that man,” she said, and started for the door. “Until then, I wash my hands of it!”

  She walked out, and the moment the door slammed behind her, Prudence forgot about her entirely. Thinking about waltzing with St. Cyres was a much more enjoyable subject for contemplation.

  Lady Amberly was a popular patroness of charities, and her ball was a prominent and fashionable one. The subscription rooms in Mayfair where the ball was held were filled to overflowing by the time Prudence arrived. It was so crowded, in fact, that it took her party an hour to hand over their wraps and accept dance cards at the cloak room, mount the stairs, and be announced into the ballroom.

  The entire time, her gaze searched the crowd for St. Cyres, but as it was barely eleven, she knew such efforts were probably in vain. As she had pointed out to Aunt Edith, aristocrats were always terribly late to the fashionable balls, and St. Cyres, being a duke, was bound to be among the last to arrive.

  Though the duke had not yet made his appearance, Lady Alberta Denville was present. As much as Prudence hated to admit it, the girl was beautiful, tall and slender as a willow, with features of classic, perfect proportion. She also looked quite angelic, with her pale gold hair and ciel-blue satin gown. Prudence, however, couldn’t help indulging in a bit of speculation about which poor seamstress Lady Alberta intended to abuse this evening.

  As she had promised, she gave two dances to Robert, and did not lack for other partners. Many young men approached Robert and Uncle Stephen for introductions to her, and most of those gentlemen asked her to dance, but Prudence had only one man on her mind. She sidestepped the requests of those gentlemen who wanted to reserve waltzes with her for later in the evening, though she tried to do it diplomatically so as not to hurt their feelings. All the while, she could not stop glancing at the door, her tension mounting as each new group of guests appeared.

  She had just finished an exuberant galop with a most enthusiastic partner when his name was announced. Out of breath, flushed and a bit damp, she fussed with the loose tendrils of her hair, smoothed her wrinkled gown, and bemoaned her disheveled appearance as he paused in the doorway and glanced about the room.

  But her efforts proved to be in vain. His gaze skimmed right past her, then he turned and made his way toward the opposite side of the ballroom.

  He must not have seen her. Disappointment shot through Prudence as she watched him make his way across the room, and that disappointment only deepened when she realized who he had seen.

  Lady Alberta’s beautiful face lit up at the sight of him, and within moments the pair were engaged in an animated conversation. Prudence watched them, her disappointment deepening as they smiled and laughed, their heads intimately close together.

  When a certain Lord Weston approached her uncle asking for an introduction to her, she tried to be glad of the distraction. But when a waltz began and he asked her to dance, she hesitated and glanced across the room, only to find that the duke was leading Lady Alberta onto the ballroom floor. Her disappointment settled into a heavy weight in her tummy, but pride enabled her to accept Lord Weston’s invitation. As they waltzed, he attempted to make conversation and she did her best to pay attention, but whenever she glanced at the other couple, it seemed as if St. Cyres was smiling at his partner as if thoroughly enamored, and she couldn’t help the horrid sting of jealousy.

  “I can see I am put in my usual position of playing second fiddle
to my friend.”

  With an effort, Prudence returned her gaze to her partner. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lord Weston inclined his head in the direction of the other couple. “The Duke of St. Cyres is a friend of mine, and I know the ladies are much more inclined to stare at him than at me. I tell myself it’s his superior rank, not my lack of charm and good looks, that garners him more feminine attention.”

  Ashamed, Prudence endeavored to make up for her faux pas. She scanned his face, not a homely countenance by any means, and said, “You should not speak so disparagingly of yourself. You are every bit as handsome as the duke.”

  “Thank you, but since you’ve been staring at him since we began, I know that’s a false opinion on your part. Still, it’s a kind thing to say.”

  She bit her lip, feeling terrible. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Quite all right,” he assured her with a good-natured smile that marked laugh lines at the corners of his blue eyes. “If there’s anything about Rhys you’d like to know, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “You know him well?”

  “I suppose I do, yes. At least, as well as anyone can ever know Rhys.”

  That enigmatic answer only heightened her curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “For all that careless surface charm he displays, he’s a deep one. There’s a bit of a wall around him. Try getting past that wall, and you’ll find the gates slammed in your face.”

  Prudence was struck by the choice of words, for she remembered the day before when she’d had a similar feeling. “I think I know what you mean. Not letting anyone get too close.”

  “Exactly so, yes. I visited him several times when he lived in Paris, and I stayed with him in Florence for a year, but I’ve actually known him since we were boys. Despite all that, every time I see him, I have the odd feeling I’m talking to a stranger. Still, I’d love to tell you anything I do know. Only fair, I say, after all the scrapes he led me into when we were boys.”

  “Did you attend the same schools, then?”

  “No, we went to different schools—he’s Eton and Oxford, I’m Harrow and Cambridge—but both our families possess lands in Derbyshire, and he stayed with my family once or twice during summer holidays. After his brother’s death, he never stayed with any of his own relations, though I don’t know quite why. He and his mother don’t get on, I know that much.”

  “His Grace had a brother?”

  “Thomas, yes. He died when he was twelve. Rhys was thirteen at the time.”

  “How did the boy die?”

  An evasive look came into Weston’s face. “Do you know, I’m not sure,” he murmured, but Prudence was certain he was lying. “Accident of some kind, I expect,” he went on. “It happened when the boy was at school, I remember. Rhys has never spoken of it to me, and I highly doubt he’s spoken of it to anyone else.”

  “It must have hit him very hard.”

  “It shattered him. That I do know. They were very close. Their father had passed away one or two years earlier, and Rhys, being older, felt it was up to him to watch out for his brother. He blamed himself for not being there when Thomas died. But he could hardly be expected to be there. They were at different schools by then. Being thirteen, Rhys was already at Eton when Thomas died.”

  She wanted to ask more questions, but the waltz was coming to an end. When the music stopped, Weston escorted her back to her place beside her family. “I should very much like to linger here, Miss Abernathy, in the hope that my friend would become less interesting and myself more so,” he told her with a rueful smile, “but I promised my sister most faithfully I would make an appearance at the ball of her friend Lady Harbury, and since it’s getting on for midnight, I had best be on my way.”

  “Thank you, and I am sorry if my attentions were engaged elsewhere during our dance.”

  “Pray do not apologize. A waltz with a lovely woman is always a pleasure.” With that, he bowed and departed, exiting the ballroom.

  The moment he was gone, Robert appeared beside her, asking if she would grant him the next dance.

  “Not this one, Robert,” she said, her gaze moving to the other side of the room, and lighting at once on the duke. He had escorted Lady Alberta back to her place and they stood side by side, observing the crowd and talking.

  She told herself perhaps he did not know she was there. Once he saw her, surely he would ask her to dance. She gazed at him, waiting, hoping, almost willing him to find her. And then, just as she was sure she must have inexplicably become invisible, his gaze caught on her.

  He bowed to her in acknowledgment, and Prudence once again felt that delicious sense of anticipation, along with an overwhelming relief. A waltz was next on the programme. Any moment now he would come to her and ask her to dance it with him. Surely he would.

  She smiled at him. He did not smile back. Instead, to her utter astonishment, he returned his attention to the woman beside him.

  She stared at him, unable to believe he had just snubbed her. When the band began to tune for the waltz and St. Cyres once again led Lady Alberta toward the ballroom floor, her disbelief deepened into a bruising, aching hurt. Why? she wondered in bewilderment. Why would he behave this way?

  “Will you grant me at least this one waltz, Prudence?” Robert asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  Pride came to her rescue. “Yes, Robert,” she answered. “I will.”

  She danced with Robert, and though she tried to keep her attention fixed on her partner, she could not resist an occasional glance at the other couples around them. Every time she spied St. Cyres and Lady Alberta, it was like an arrow piercing her heart.

  Only yesterday, they had spent such a wonderful day together.

  I like you best.

  If those words were true, why was he dancing with Lady Alberta and not with her? As often as she asked herself that question, she could find no answer, and by the time Robert escorted her back to her place at the end of the dance, all she wanted was to vanish into the pale gold wallpaper. But despite his actions, she could not abandon all hope. Perhaps he was only fulfilling an obligation to the girl. She knew from the night she’d met him that he had promised Alberta at least one waltz. Perhaps he had also promised her a second one and had to make good on that promise.

  Heartsick, yet hoping for a miracle, Prudence watched him as he hovered by Lady Alberta’s side. She danced with those partners who asked her and kept her head held high. But when she saw him take Lady Alberta out onto the dance floor for a third waltz, her hurt became unbearable. She knew full well what three waltzes meant. An engagement was sure to follow.

  Anger, an emotion Prudence seldom felt toward anyone, began to smolder deep within her as she thought of what he had done. Only yesterday he’d taken her for an outing, acted as if she was the one he wanted, said she was the one he liked best. He had sat beside her, laughed with her, touched her, almost kissed her. Only yesterday he had embraced her, using that transparent excuse about fishing to do so. He had led her on and encouraged her hopes. Clearly he had only been toying with her, because Alberta was the one he intended to marry. Alberta was obviously the one he loved.

  Anger bolstered her pride, smothered any vestige of her hope, and extinguished any tears that might threaten to fall. He wasn’t worth crying over, and she vowed she was never, ever going to waste a tear on him. She lifted her chin, turned away from the pair on the dance floor and walked around Robert to where her aunt and uncle were standing. She informed them that she had a headache and wished to leave. Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and departed from the ballroom.

  Her aunt and uncle seemed quite pleased to go, she noted as they waited downstairs for their carriage to be brought around. They were no doubt relieved that the unwanted duke wouldn’t be conferring his attentions on their niece tonight, or any night in the future now that he had made his intentions clear to all of London society.

  Thinking it over as the carriage took them back to the Savoy,
Prudence decided it was quite a suitable match. The hell Lady Alberta would put him through once they were wed was just what he deserved, the scoundrel.

  As she prepared for bed, her anger stayed at a slow, steady simmer, controlled and contained beneath the smooth surface of her usual placid nature. She was even able to assure Woddell that her evening had been delightful until this beastly headache forced her to leave.

  She refused the maid’s offer to order an ice poultice for her head, assuring the other woman all she needed was a good night’s sleep. After dismissing Woddell, she crawled into bed, but did not sleep.

  Instead, she lay there in the dark, unable to stop thinking of the events of yesterday and today, and as she did so, her anger continued to rise.

  How dare he toy with her? Pay her his attentions and engage her affections to no purpose? He’d been telling her the truth, obviously, when he’d said there was nothing wonderful about him. If Lady Alberta was the one he wanted, why hadn’t he taken her on a picnic?

  Prudence tossed aside the sheets and got out of bed. She crossed to her dressing table, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the card he’d slipped to her that day at the National Gallery, along with the note he’d given her at the opera. She stared at them for a long moment, and then, her hands shaking, she ripped both missives into pieces and tossed them into the wastepaper basket.

  I like you best.

  Suddenly, all the anger went out of her, and Prudence sank down in the chair of her dressing table. She stared at the notes that were now as shredded as all her hopes, and broke her resolution. She burst into tears.

  Chapter 9

  Though he has only been home a fortnight, it appears that Britain’s most scandalous duke has chosen his duchess. We can only commend him as a most expeditious suitor.

  —The Social Gazette, 1894

  By morning Prudence had shed all the tears she ever intended to shed over the Duke of St. Cyres. Assisted by Woddell, she applied compresses of cold tea leaves to her eyes, dabbed a bit of face powder to her nose, and by the time she attended second church service with her aunt and uncle, she was optimistic that her appearance showed none of the ill-effects of a night spent crying. She appreciated full well that her own unrealistic expectations were partly to blame for the hurt she felt now, and she had no intention of allowing herself to be so silly over a man again, even if he was handsome as sin.