The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  After church, she overrode her aunt’s plan to spend the remainder of the day at Millicent’s, saying she intended keep to her usual custom and have Sunday-afternoon tea in Little Russell Street.

  Her richly appointed brougham, open to the fine spring day, drew some interested stares from passersby as it stopped in front of the lodging house and her driver rolled out the steps for her. Prudence exited the carriage and paused on the sidewalk for a moment, studying the prim brick lodging house with its green door and lace curtains, and she felt overcome by a wave of homesickness. The Savoy was a luxurious place, to be sure, but it wasn’t Little Russell Street.

  Only a week had passed since she’d last been here, and yet her entire life had changed. For the better, she’d thought, but now, staring at the building that had been her home for eleven years, still a bit raw from the heart-bruising events of last night, she was not so sure.

  She didn’t ring the bell. Though she might not live here any longer, she wasn’t going to stand on ceremony with her friends. She opened the door and walked right in. “Hullo, everyone,” she called out with forced cheerfulness as she stepped over the threshold. “Kettle’s on, I hope?”

  A round of delighted cries answered her from the parlor, and within moments her friends were pouring into the foyer.

  Mrs. Morris was the first to greet her. “Prudence, dear, what a lovely surprise!” the landlady cried, giving her a wide smile. “We didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “I can’t imagine why not,” she answered as she unbuttoned her cloak and hung it up. “You know I never miss Sunday tea.”

  “We didn’t think you’d want to associate with our lot anymore,” Maria told her with a breezy offhandedness Prudence knew was a pose. “You being an heiress now and all, you might be too grand for the likes of us.”

  Prudence looked at the smiling faces around her, and her heart tightened at the sight of all her friends. Dear, silly Mrs. Morris, who began fluttering and fussing, sure that afternoon tea at the Savoy must be far superior to anything served here. Rotund, cheery Mrs. Inkberry, Mrs. Morris’s oldest friend, who hadn’t lived in the lodging house since her marriage over two decades earlier but still came for tea every Sunday. And her fellow girl-bachelors—Miranda, Daisy, Lucy, and, of course, Maria, who gave her a warm hug and a cheeky grin and asked if she was engaged yet.

  At that question, Prudence’s smile faltered. Her reaction did not go unnoticed. Questions were immediately asked, and moments later she found herself ensconced in her usual place on the horsehair settee, pouring out the humiliating events of last night to a very sympathetic audience.

  “Oh, my dear, how awful,” Mrs. Inkberry murmured when she had finished, patting her shoulder in a comforting way and handing her a handkerchief. “What you need is a cup of tea, hot and strong, and a bite to eat.” She looked across the tea table. “Abigail?”

  “Tea?” Mrs. Morris shook her head and rose from her chair. “Oh, no, Josephine, tea’s of no use at all to a girl at a time like this. A small glass of my damson gin’s what she needs to put her right again.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence and a surreptitious exchange of glances around the room. No one had ever had the heart to tell Mrs. Morris that her damson gin was vile.

  “No, no, please,” Prudence demurred. “I’d prefer not to drink spirits during the day, even for medicinal purposes. Tea would be ever so lovely, thank you.”

  Mrs. Morris looked a bit doubtful, but resumed her seat. Prudence’s cup of tea was duly poured and passed around to her, a fragrant, steaming cup of Earl Grey, the tea most favored by the Queen, and therefore the only tea served on Sunday afternoons in Little Russell Street.

  Mrs. Inkberry gave her shoulder another motherly pat. “Now, you down that, Prudence, and you’ll feel much better.”

  Prudence took several sips and found that her mood was lighter, though she suspected pouring out her feeling to her friends had more to do with it than Earl Grey.

  “He did not even speak to you?” Lucy asked, returning to the subject as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Not once? Not after spending an entire afternoon in your company the day before?”

  Prudence shook her head and took another gulp of tea. “Not even once.”

  “Mind you, Prudence, you never should have spent an afternoon alone with him,” Mrs. Inkberry pointed out with gentle, motherly censure.

  Prudence shifted guiltily in her seat. “I know, I know,” she mumbled, “and I suppose you’ll say I deserve what I got after such a lack of propriety, but—”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Inkberry interrupted. “You are a good girl, Prudence, and your romantic impulsiveness does not excuse his rudeness. For him to cut you directly—”

  “No, no,” Prudence hastened to correct her, “he was not so rude as that. He did acknowledge me. He bowed to me most politely.”

  “Well, now that’s not so bad, then, is it?” Miranda asked with a cheerfulness that sounded terribly forced. “At least he did acknowledge you.”

  “He bowed from the other side of the room,” Prudence told her. “With Lady Alberta standing right beside him, looking like a cat swimming in cream.”

  Lucy set down her cup and saucer with a decisive clatter. “I cannot believe he snubbed our Prudence to waste his affections on someone like this Lady Alberta. She sounds a horrible person.”

  “I agree,” Daisy put in, “and I think if this Lady Alberta is the sort of woman he wants, then he’s too dim for words and not worth crying over. And he’s certainly not worthy of you, duke or not.”

  There was hearty agreement on that point, but somehow Prudence didn’t find this collective opinion of much consolation.

  Miranda spoke again. “Perhaps there was a reason for his actions,” she said with her usual hopeful optimism. “Something that we know nothing of.”

  There was a round of groans over such a naive assumption, but Lucy, usually one to assume the worst, actually agreed with it. “That might be true. Prudence, you mentioned that he danced with this Lady Alberta, but perhaps he felt obligated to do so. You know how these things happen. Well-meaning friends shove two people together and suggest they have a go, and there you are, feeling you must dance with someone you’re not the least bit interested in.”

  As much as Prudence wanted to believe that explanation, she knew it wasn’t viable. “They danced three times,” she clarified glumly. “Three waltzes.”

  “Ohhhhhh,” came the chorus of dismay that followed this news, for all of them understood the implications of it.

  “The oddest part,” she said, “is that I hardly know him, and yet from the first I felt such a strong attraction to him. I know it was foolish of me to entertain hope he returned my affections, but—”

  “It wasn’t foolish at all!” Maria burst out. “He invited you out that day because he wanted to be with you, that’s what I say. I saw how he helped you that night at the ball. Men don’t do things like that just to be kind. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you that night. From the start, it was plain as a pikestaff he wanted you.”

  “I thought so, too. I was wrong, it seems.” Prudence stared down at her teacup, watching the pink roses of the Royal Doulton pattern on the saucer blend and blur. She dabbed savagely at her eyes before any tears could fall. “It doesn’t matter,” she lied, and shoved the handkerchief in her pocket. “I don’t care.”

  Feeling in need of some gastronomic fortification, she reached for one of the tiny chocolate éclairs on the tea tray as her loyal and indignant friends pronounced their opinions of the Duke of St. Cyres.

  He was a cad.

  He was a brute.

  He might simply be dense. Men so often were.

  Or perhaps he was in love with Lady Alberta.

  That made him a cad with bad taste.

  Prudence ate another éclair, and then another, as her friends continued their attempts to interpret the inexplicable actions of gentlemen in general and the duke in particular.


  Just as consensus had been reached that gentlemen could not be relied upon for anything remotely approaching good sense, and that their behavior often proved a test of even the keenest feminine intellect, the doorbell rang. As Dorcas bustled past the parlor to the front of the lodging house, conversation turned to speculation about who the new arrival might be. Prudence wasn’t much interested, but when the sound of a well-bred, distinctly masculine voice floated through the parlor doorway, she gave a gasp of astonishment.

  “It’s him,” she whispered, feeling a wave of panic. “The duke is here.”

  Surprised murmurs rippled through the room at this announcement, but Prudence scarcely heard. Struggling to be calm, she set aside her tea, brushed crumbs from her skirt, verified with a hasty touch of her fingers that she had no sticky trace of chocolate icing on her face. “Do I look like I spent the night crying?” she asked Maria, who could always be counted upon for an honest opinion.

  “Yes,” her friend answered, and Prudence wished she’d asked Miranda instead.

  “The Duke of St. Cyres,” Dorcas announced.

  All the women in the parlor stood up as he entered. He paused just inside the door, and even though she was still stinging from the snub he’d given her the night before, she couldn’t help feeling that quixotic rush of pleasure and longing at the sight of him.

  No other woman alive could blame her for that. Standing in this wholly feminine enclave of cabbage-rose wallpaper, bobbin lace curtains, and shabby gentility, his powerful masculine presence dominated. He seemed larger than life.

  Prudence was not the only woman in the room feeling the heady affects of his presence, for there was a rustling of petticoats and a great deal of furtive primping going on. The duke didn’t seem to notice all these feminine flutterings, however, for his gaze was riveted on Prudence alone.

  “Miss Bosworth,” he said, removing his hat with a bow.

  Prudence curtsied in deference to his rank, but she did it grudgingly, and when he started toward her, she lifted her chin, determined to be self-possessed and aloof, despite a puffy face and a tummy full of éclairs. “Your Grace.”

  She must have succeeded to some extent, for he came to a halt halfway across the room, and a hint of what might have been guilt shadowed his face. “Miss Bosworth, I know you must think me the most callous of men, but I beg you to believe I had reasons for my actions last night, reasons which I feel impelled to explain to you, if only you will be so good as to allow me the oppor—” He stopped and looked around, suddenly seeming to realize they were not alone. “Forgive me. I fear I have interrupted a party.”

  Mrs. Morris gestured to the tea things. “No, no, just afternoon tea as usual. Prudence, shall you introduce us to your friend?”

  She complied, but as she performed introductions, her thoughts were preoccupied with the crucial effort to appear unimpressed by his surprising arrival. She was so engaged in this attempt at indifference, in fact, that it took her a moment to realize the room had gone completely silent and everyone was looking at her.

  She forced herself to speak. “Will you take tea with us, Your Grace?” she found herself saying, and then wanted to bite her tongue off, for what she should have done was ordered him to leave, told him to save his explanations and go take tea with Lady Alberta.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Morris put in, “please do take tea with us.” She picked up the teapot, gave it a little shake, then laughed. “Oh, dear, I don’t believe we’ve any tea left. I shall have to make a fresh pot.”

  “I do not wish to give any trouble,” the duke said, but the landlady overrode this polite protest with an airy wave of her hand.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him, and bustled toward the door. “We could all do with a second cuppa, I daresay, and a few more sandwiches. And some nice hot scones would be lovely, too, I think. Oh, but—” She paused at the door. “I fear I cannot manage all of that by myself. Will some of you ladies assist me?”

  Prudence felt her panic rising as the other women in the room immediately volunteered to help, rose to their feet and began moving toward the door.

  “Prudence, you stay here,” Mrs. Morris ordered as she ushered the other ladies out of the room, “and converse with your friend. We will return in ten minutes. Forgive us, Your Grace?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she followed the other women out of the room, and in the wake of their departure, the silence seemed deafening. Prudence felt compelled to say something. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I called at Madame Marceau’s to gain your address. She wasn’t in, but a certain Miss Clark asked me to give you her best regards.”

  “I see.”

  There was another long, awkward pause. She wondered if she should talk about the weather.

  “Miss Bosworth,” he said, saving her from a mention of the lovely day, “I must speak candidly to you.”

  As if his arrival wasn’t enough cause for surprise, he proceeded to surprise her further by closing the door, a shocking action, the sort of thing only done when a man intended to propose marriage, and since he was for all intents and purposes engaged to Lady Alberta, the possibility that he was about to propose to her seemed as likely as Jules Verne’s rocket ships to the moon. He turned toward her, flattening his back against the door. “Miss Bosworth, that day in the National Gallery, you said you believed in marrying for love.”

  The introduction of the topic of marriage might have been cause for hope, she supposed, but she suspected those words were simply a prelude to giving her the news about his engagement to Alberta. Prudence swallowed hard. “You said the same, I believe,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, quite. I—” He stopped and shifted his weight, then gave an awkward laugh. “This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

  With those words, he proceeded to increase her suspense even further by walking to the window. Seconds passed that seemed like hours as she waited, watching him. The afternoon sunlight poured over him, glinting off the silver stick pin in his lapel and making his hair seem like burnished gold. Finally, she could stand it no longer, and gave a little cough.

  He glanced at her, then away. “I also believe marrying for love is the most desirable course,” he said. “To choose a partner for marital life who is also one’s true love would be a happy thing indeed.” He turned toward her, his wide shoulders square, his jaw set. “For me, such a choice has never been possible.”

  Her spirits sank another notch. “I don’t quite understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. How could you understand the sordid realities of the aristocracy? For those of my class, love is never a consideration in choosing one’s spouse.” He drew a deep breath, his gaze locked with hers. “I am a duke. Position and duty, not love, must dictate my course.”

  She swallowed painfully, well aware of the difference in station between them. “You mean that in choosing a wife, it is her background and breeding you must consider?”

  “Breeding? God, no. That doesn’t signify at all nowadays. In these times of agricultural depression, it is money that matters, Miss Bosworth. Yes,” he added, making a sound of disdain through his teeth, “as crude as it is, I must marry a woman with a dowry. A very substantial dowry, for a dukedom is an expensive responsibility. I simply haven’t the blunt to maintain it all myself. Believe me when I say I wish it were otherwise.”

  “So, Lady Alberta…”

  “Has money. It is as simple as that. She has an enormous dowry.”

  “You do not love her?”

  “I’ve known her since she was a child, our families have long been connected through friendship. It would be a perfect alliance.”

  Prudence persisted. “But do you love her?”

  His lips pressed together, and for a moment she thought he was not going to answer her question. “No,” he finally said. “I do not love her. If I could follow my own inclinations in matrimony, I would never consider making Lady Alberta my duchess and the m
other of my children.” He paused, and his expression softened as he looked at her. “If I were free to love, I would make a different choice.”

  Pleasure bloomed inside her with those words, and hope rekindled. “Then—”

  “But I am not free!” He raked a hand through his hair. “The day of our picnic, I forgot that fact. For one day I chose to forget my situation and my responsibilities. I thought only of my own yearnings and desires. And though it was one of the most pleasurable afternoons of my life, I fear it led you to believe I could offer you more than mere friendship, led you to hope for more than I can give. Indeed, I can see by your face today that my selfish actions have wounded you, and I deeply regret that.”

  Despite this confirmation of her puffy face, her spirits were soaring higher with each word he spoke, and she knew she had to tell him about her inheritance. “Your Grace—”

  “Please indulge me a moment longer,” he interrupted. “I must say these things now, for I fear there will never be another opportunity. I come from a family of ne’er-do-wells and spendthrifts, Miss Bosworth, and I confess, to my shame, that I am no exception. When I went abroad, I was young, wild, and damnably irresponsible. I spent my inheritance in the pursuit of my own pleasure, and when that was gone I accumulated debts, never caring about the future, or even thinking about it. But when I came home, when I assumed the title, I finally appreciated just what an enormous burden it is to be the duke. I also found that I was not the only one in my family with debts. My uncle was bankrupt when he died. They called his death a hunting accident, but it was suicide, for his creditors were about to take what little there was. My mother is nearly destitute, for he hadn’t paid her jointure for years. I have aunts, uncles, cousins, all in the same situation, and they are all looking to me. I am the duke, the head of the family, I must take care of them.”