The Wicked Ways of a Duke

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  The other man gave a wordless nod.

  “Excellent. You may go. By the by,” he added as Feathergill stood up, “I shall be dining with you tonight. The Savoy’s very best private dining room will do quite well, I think. That, along with the congenial company of you and your wife, should make for a most pleasant evening.” He paused, helping himself to Feathergill’s port. “The company will be congenial, won’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent. Then I suggest you go home to break the happy news to your wife.” Rhys tucked the letter from his steward about the drains at St. Cyres Castle back in his jacket as he watched the other man leave, and he laughed to himself. He’d love to be a fly on the wall for Feathergill’s explanations to his wife.

  There was nothing more enjoyable than a stroll on a fine spring afternoon. Especially when a girl was escorted by a man as handsome as Mr. Fane.

  Nancy Woddell cast a sideways glance at the tall, brown-haired man beside her as they walked along the Strand, and as she always did when looking at him, she felt a little thrill of pleasure. He was a well-set-up fellow, with fine blue eyes and a strong chin. When he’d asked if he might escort her to second service this morning, she wasn’t sure about it, for she hadn’t wanted him to gain the wrong impression. She’d had chaps enough in her life thinking a walk alone together entitled them to get fresh. But Mr. Fane was so polite and elegant, very much the gentleman. And he was valet to the husband of a princess. Though he would have to give up that position if he married, Nancy couldn’t help being impressed. And he hadn’t cut up rough at all when she made it plain to him that she was a respectable girl, brought up right, the sort who expected marriage. In fact, he almost seemed offended by that statement, as if the idea that she could be anything but a respectable, marriage-minded girl had never occurred to him.

  “Would you like a dish of tea?” he asked, gesturing to the tea shop at the corner.

  “I would, yes,” she answered. “Thank you, Mr. Fane.”

  She smiled as he escorted her inside and pulled out a chair at one of the tables for her. Such attentive manners he had. He knew how to look after a girl, she thought, watching him as he crossed the room to the counter and ordered tea for two. A man like Mr. Fane would make a good husband.

  She settled her skirts and did a bit of furtive primping in a pocket glass as she waited for his return, sighing as she studied her reflection. She wished she had a complexion like her mistress’s, she thought, aggrieved, as she tucked a few stray tendrils of carroty hair beneath her straw boater and bit her lips to add some color to their pale pink tint. Miss Abernathy’s skin was creamy white, not covered with freckles.

  “You’ve no need to do that.”

  The masculine voice of Mr. Fane interrupted these feminine disparagements, and she looked up to find that he was standing beside her chair, a tray of tea and cakes in his hands. “Do what?” she asked, pretending not to understand as she lowered her hands to hide the tiny mirror beneath the table.

  “Worry about how you look.”

  She tossed her head with a show of bravado. “I’m not worried,” she lied, shoving the pocket glass back into her skirt pocket.

  “Good.” He set the tray on the table and sat down opposite her. “You’re the prettiest girl I know.”

  Heavens, this man was a dream come true. “Thank you.”

  “I am very happy you came out with me today,” he said as she poured tea for both of them. “I’ve some news to give you, and I don’t know if you’ll take kindly to it or not.”

  A flicker of uneasiness marred the pleasure she felt. When a chap said something like that, the news could not be good. But she didn’t show her worry. “It sounds like something important,” she said, and took a sip of her tea.

  “It is. I’ve changed my situation. I am no longer valet to Count Roselli.”

  “Oh.” She felt a dizzying throb of hope at this news. Since a valet couldn’t marry, perhaps he had changed his post to one that would allow him to wed.

  Nancy crossed her fingers. “What is your situation now?”

  “I’m now valet to a different gentleman.”

  Disappointment crashed down over her, replacing the elated hope of a moment before. “I see,” she murmured, working to conceal her feelings. “Who is your new employer?”

  “The Duke of St. Cyres.”

  Once again Nancy’s emotions ricocheted, swinging toward relief. The duke was the man her mistress liked so much, and that would offer her far more opportunities to see Mr. Fane. An Italian count and an Austrian princess were all very well, but they were foreigners who would one day go home. “Being valet to a duke is a perfectly acceptable position, and very impressive, Mr. Fane. Why would you think I wouldn’t like your new situation?”

  “Well, now that your mistress, Miss Abernathy, and my new master are engaged to be married—”

  “They are?” Nancy interrupted with a delighted cry of surprise. “How lovely!”

  “They agreed on things this afternoon. You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head. “Sunday’s always my day out, and I’ve not seen my mistress since I helped her dress for church this morning.” Nancy laughed, truly glad. Miss Abernathy, she knew, was well gone in love with the duke, and since she was a generous and thoughtful employer, Nancy couldn’t be happier.

  “They’re to be married in June, my master tells me,” Mr. Fane went on.

  “But I still don’t understand why you think I’d be upset by this news?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “My master is taking your mistress to view his estates. No doubt we’ll be thrown much together over the coming weeks—traveling on the trains, being belowstairs together, and such. Our proximity will be even greater after they wed, and if you don’t feel…” His voice trailed off and he looked away, jerking at his tie. “That is, if you don’t enjoy my company…I mean to say…bound to be awkward, you know, if you don’t reciprocate my…um…feelings.”

  Nancy’s heart warmed at this awkward blunder of words from a man who was usually so self-possessed. She leaned closer to him and, under the table, dared to brush his knee with hers. “I like you, too, Mr. Fane,” she said softly.

  Rhys lifted his chin a notch so Fane could properly form the bow of his black silk tie. “So, Miss Woddell wasn’t able to tell you how any of Miss Abernathy’s family took the news of our engagement?”

  “No. She didn’t know herself that things had been decided between you and her mistress until I told her.”

  “A pity. I would have enjoyed hearing what Mrs. Feathergill’s reaction was to the news.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Fane gave the ends of the bow a tug to tighten the knot, brushed a speck of lint from Rhys’s black evening suit, and stepped back. “In the coming weeks, I hope I shall hear other things from Miss Woddell you will find valuable.”

  “Is Miss Woddell a pretty girl?”

  “I think she’s very pretty, sir.”

  “I’m glad. I should hate to see you forced to do your duty to me by paying your attentions to a plain girl.”

  “I shouldn’t raise much objection to that either, sir.”

  Rhys laughed. “You’re the answer to a maidservant’s prayers, Fane.”

  The valet looked rather alarmed. “Only if I actually had to marry one, sir.”

  Chapter 12

  The marriage of the Duke of St. Cyres to Miss Prudence Abernathy shall take place June 17. This date is one fortnight before peers all over Britain must make their quarterly interest payments. What fortuitous timing.

  —The Social Gazette, 1894

  Dinner that evening went far better than Prudence had expected. Aunt Edith had been told the news by her husband before Prudence returned from Little Russell Street, and she was uncharacteristically silent throughout the meal—for Prudence, a welcome change. Uncle Stephen, on the other hand, was quite jovial, emphasizing at repeated intervals how pleased he was to have the Duke of St. Cyres as part of the fa
mily. Millicent and Robert were absent altogether, Millicent pleading a sick headache and Robert choosing to remain by his mother’s side at home. Rhys was as charming as ever to her aunt and uncle, smoothing over any awkward moments with such ease that despite Edith’s resentful silence, the meal proceeded without incident, much to Prudence’s relief.

  Within two days the papers were filled with news of the engagement, but Prudence chose to ignore them, for she found the snide insinuations made by the journalists insulting. Not only did they put the worst possible connotation on Rhys’s motives, they did the same to her, accusing her of being a common social climber trying to buy her way into the aristocracy. Faced with such drivel in every publication she saw, she stopped reading the newspapers.

  During those two days, the marriage settlements were negotiated, and though her uncle’s portion was generous, twenty thousand pounds per year did not seem to satisfy Edith, for dear, dear Robert received only five thousand, an amount she deemed a pittance. Her manner toward the duke remained icy, though out of necessity, she was forced to be scrupulously polite to his relations and acquaintances when they began calling at the Savoy to congratulate the bride-to-be. Much social damage could result from snubbing the relations of a duke, and though Edith disapproved of the match, it did not stop her from taking advantage of the opportunities afforded by the connection. Though Rhys’s mother was not in London, other members of his family and many of his friends showered them with invitations to dinner parties, afternoon-at-homes, and receptions. Edith could not refuse them, for they came from people in a much higher social sphere than her own, but Prudence was amused to note that she managed to finagle invitations to many of the same events for Robert and Millicent, assisting them to rise in social status as well.

  A wedding date of June 17 was set, and that added even more activities to Prudence’s daily routine. When a girl married a duke, planning the wedding was a rigorous job. She found Woddell of great assistance, for the girl had been educated under the 1870 Education Act and could read, write, and do sums. Within days Woddell ceased to be simply her maid and became her social secretary as well.

  Despite Woddell’s assistance, there were so many activities—luncheons, balls, parties—that by the time a month had passed, Prudence was exhausted. Rhys assured her that the pace would slow down once they were wed, but those frenzied weeks gave her an inkling of the rigorous social demands of being a duchess.

  Prudence noticed that Woddell handled the ever-expanding social calendar quite cheerfully, now that her own young man, Mr. Fane, had managed to secure a post as Rhys’s valet—a delightful coincidence that gave Woddell plenty of reasons to smile.

  For Prudence, however, life was not a bed of roses. Though she was happy, she found her new life strangely lonely. Despite all the people she met each day, she saw little of her own friends, for the girl-bachelors of Little Russell Street hadn’t the leisure time to pay calls, visit the shops, and go to parties. She also saw little of her fiancé, who was occupied with the responsibilities of his title and other matters of business. There was no opportunity for quiet time and private conversation.

  When the time came to depart on the tour of ducal estates Rhys had promised, Prudence was heartily glad to put the exhausting pace of London behind her.

  They traveled on their own private train, a luxurious affair of nine carriages that included a dining car, a drawing room, a library, a smoking room, servants’ quarters, a kitchen, and three sleeping carriages, each of which was a private suite comprised of a sitting room, bedroom, and bath. Prudence had one sleeping carriage just for herself, Rhys had another, and her aunt and uncle the third.

  She and her maid looked around her compartment as the train pulled out of Victoria Station, awestruck by the luxury of it. There was a thick carpet, a bath of Italian marble and gilt fixtures, and furnishings of burled oak. Draperies of green velvet had been drawn across the windows of her sleeping berth. “Heavens, Woddell,” she murmured as she tossed her hat onto the matching velvet counterpane of her bed, “it’s the Savoy on rails.”

  A low chuckle sounded from the doorway, and she turned as Rhys entered her bedroom compartment from the sitting room. “It is rather like a hotel,” he agreed, moving to stand before her. “Do you like it?”

  “Like it?” She laughed, lifting her hand in a sweeping gesture of her surroundings. “Who wouldn’t like traveling about the countryside in this manner?”

  “I’m glad you like it, because it’s yours.”

  “What?”

  “Consider it a wedding present.” He put his hands on her shoulders, bent his head and kissed her.

  “Your Grace,” she admonished, glancing at her maid. The girl seemed fully occupied with sorting through the trunks the porter had brought in, but Prudence still felt self-conscious. When she looked at him again, he was smiling, laugh lines marking the corners of his green eyes.

  “Did I say something amusing?” she asked.

  “We’re engaged, Prudence. You are allowed to use my name. And,” he added, his lips brushing hers, “because we are engaged, I am allowed to kiss you.” He tilted his head the other way and kissed her again.

  Warmth began spreading through her at the touch of his mouth, the same sensation she’d experienced when he’d kissed her that afternoon a month earlier in Little Russell Street, a sensation that made her feel as if warm honey was being poured over her. Delicious as that feeling was, Prudence was still acutely aware of the third person in the room. She stirred in his hold. “Rhys,” she admonished, hotly embarrassed, and yet liking the intimacy of saying his name. “We’re not alone.”

  He ignored that. “We’re allowed to kiss in front of the servants.”

  “People don’t, surely!”

  He kissed her nose. “You, my sweet, are a prude.”

  “I’m not!” she felt compelled to protest, though she did it in a whisper. “I am just…discreet.”

  “Woddell,” he said without taking his gaze from her face, “Mr. Fane wishes to show you the laundry facilities. Go find him.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The girl was out the door in less than three seconds.

  “Alone at last,” he murmured. “You see how simple that was? Order servants to leave, and they go.” He bent his head again, this time pressing his lips to the side of her neck just above the high collar of her shirtwaist. “As my duchess, you’ll have to learn to order servants about, you know.”

  The feel of his lips on her skin was so intoxicating, Prudence felt dizzy, but she attempted to keep her wits about her. “Aunt Edith could walk in at any moment,” she pointed out, flattening her hands against his chest with the vague notion of pushing him away, but she must not have been all that forceful about it for he paid no heed.

  Instead, he cupped her face in his hands. “Your aunt’s maid is keeping her fully occupied with unpacking her things,” he explained, and began pressing kisses all over her face—her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, her jaw. “I’m assured that task will take at least an hour. Your uncle is in the smoking car, discussing the train with the steward and the barkeep, who between them will keep him busy for that same hour. It’s amazing,” he added as he trailed kisses along her jawline to her ear, “how much one can get done with a few well-placed quid.”

  “You bribed people to keep my aunt and uncle away?” she asked, her words coming out in a breathless rush at the feel of his lips against the sensitive skin of her ear.

  “Absolutely.” He pulled her earlobe into his mouth, scoring her skin ever so softly with his teeth, and all the strength seemed to ebb out of her. He caught her as her knees buckled, wrapping one arm around her waist. “You like it when I kiss your ear, don’t you?” he murmured.

  “I think—” She broke off, finding it hard to breathe in her tight stays and impossible to think while he nibbled on her earlobe. “I think you got what you wanted.”

  “What I wanted?” His voice was low and thick, his warm breath was making her shiver.


  “That night at the opera, you said you’d like to see me tipsy.” She moaned as he pressed kisses along her throat. “I think I’m tipsy now.”

  He laughed softly and slid his free hand into her hair, tilting her head back. “Then kiss me, tipsy girl.”

  Prudence stood on her toes and twined her arms around his neck. Her lips parted willingly beneath his, but when he deepened the kiss and his tongue touched hers, she stirred in involuntary surprise. She started to pull back, but his hand tightened in her hair to keep her where she was, and his mouth tasted hers in a lush, openmouthed kiss that was so sensual, so blatantly carnal, she knew he must have learned it from those French cancan dancers. She feared she was equally carnal, however, for when he withdrew, she followed his move, pressing her tongue into his mouth.

  That seemed to ignite something inside him, for he made a rough sound against her mouth and leaned into her, using his body to maneuver her backward. Before she could guess his intent, Prudence felt herself sinking into the softness of her sleeping berth.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, shocked by the masculine strength of his body as he followed her down, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

  “You’re already tipsy. I’m going to make you drunk.” His mouth opened over hers and he began to fulfill that pledge, kissing her again and again—soft, slow, deep kisses that spread aching warmth through her from her head to her toes, making her feel as if she had indeed been drinking spirits.