The Duke's Undoing (Three Rogues and Their Ladies)

by Vandagriff, G. G.

  Once inside, Lady Clarice excused herself and bustled out to the garden to get her unusual plant. Ruisdell put his fingers to her face again.

  “Little blisters are starting to form all over. Believe me, that’s better than large blisters. There is a good chance you won’t be scarred, my darling.”

  “Don’t call me that, please.” She was trembling again, her wet clothes sticking to her.

  “Sorry, my love. If you give me your doctor’s name, I will fetch him for you.”

  “Dr. Finch. Sixty-four Harley Street.”

  “I will love you even when your poor face is peeling and the new skin looks raw.”

  He left her. She went upstairs to change into her wrapper and go to bed. Would her limbs never stop trembling?

  Elise felt as though the duke were drowning her in velvet caresses. How long could she resist this treatment? Taking the news clipping out of her dresser drawer, she set it out where she could see it every time she sat at her vanity table.

  By the time the doctor arrived, her aunt had already spread the soothing salve from the aloe vera plant over her skin.

  Dr. Finch greeted her in his normal astringent manner. “The duke tells me that some miscreant threw a bowl of steaming hot soup in your face! That will teach you not to fancy yourself Lady Bountiful, my dear Miss Edwards.”

  She wanted to tell the fat doctor with the liver lips that she was not his dear. Most likely he was a hardened Tory.

  “I am not familiar with aloe vera, your ladyship,” he said to Aunt Clarice. “It is rather a sticky substance. Have you used it before?”

  “Yes. Cook told me about it. Once she spilled boiling water on her feet. The nurse at her place of employment had a little plant growing in her room. It is good for diaper rash as well. Cook said it was as soothing as the dew from heaven. And she showed me her scars. You will find this hard to believe, but they had almost disappeared.”

  “Well! I see I shall have to plant myself some aloe vera. How does your face feel, my dear?”

  “Amazingly cool,” Elise told him. “And I begin to think that my eyes are fine. They burn a little, but I can see clearly.”

  “Well, you will probably not want to go out into society for a few weeks. You have got a crop of blisters. They’ll dry up in a few days and then the first few layers of your skin are going to peel. The epidermis underneath will be quite red. But do not put powder on it. That could cause an infection. You want to keep it as clean as possible. Be certain your hands are clean when you apply the aloe vera. If that does not work, buttermilk is said to be healing.”

  “Will I be scarred?” Elise asked with dread.

  “It’s too early to tell. I can give you a better answer when we see how many layers of your skin peel off. Are you in any pain?”

  “No. I was, but the aloe vera took it away.”

  “Good. Then I won’t leave you anything to take. It’s better not, you know.”

  When the doctor had left, Elise said, “I think I just want to take a nap. Suddenly, I feel quite exhausted.”

  When the curtains were drawn and everyone had left her, Elise closed her eyes and tried to compose herself for sleep. The trembling would not stop, however. Every time she shut her eyes, she winced as she saw the malevolent face of her attacker and the bowl of soup flying toward her.

  Eventually, she found a way to deal with the horrid replay of the event. She concentrated instead on the tenderness in the duke’s eyes as he touched her face ever so lightly with his fingers. Would he really still love her if her face turned bright red and stayed that way for the rest of her life?

  Of course not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IN WHICH THE DUKE OF RUISDELL SEEKS TO PROVE HIS LOVE

  On his way home to Shearings, the duke repeated to himself over and over again, “Thank the Lord I was there!” Though he would not have had such a horrid thing happen, he had been able to use knowledge gained on the battlefield to lessen the effects of Elise’s calamity. And she had not been in any state to send him about his business, as he no doubt deserved.

  What should he do next? Flowers, of course. Once home, he gave the matter some thought. Which variety would show his appreciation of her to the greatest extent? How did he think of Elise in terms of flowers?

  As Richards drew off his topcoat and removed his boots, he considered this question. When he thought of the woman he loved, he first thought of her eyes—those midnight blue windows into her thoughts. They could crackle in anger, twinkle in amusement, and soften in sympathy. Deep blue gentians. Descending to his library, he looked for his grandmother’s book on the meaning of flowers.

  Suddenly, he broke into laughter. Look at me! The worst rogue in England studying up on the language of flowers, trying to match my sentiments! And what are those sentiments? Nothing less than complete, utter surrender to this foreign emotion called love. It appears to be turning me into a man with all the backbone of a sponge!

  Despite her very appropriate anger at him over his long ago bet, he had never been so happy. All the clichés about love were true. I would give her the moon if I could, though heaven knows what she would do with it.

  Ah! There it was. The Language of Flowers. He looked up gentians and was delighted to discover that two of its meanings were supremely applicable: “You are unjust.” “Intrinsic worth.” Perfect.

  When Richards returned with a large bouquet of the flowers that were actually in full bloom in September, he attached his card, which said, “Though gentians have many meanings, I chose them first for your eyes which taught me to love you. Their meaning is “intrinsic worth” which tells you that I adore you for the beauty of your soul, which will never change but only become more beautiful. R.”

  He sent the footman off to Blossom House with the flowers and card immediately, his heart warm inside his breast. Thank you, God, for sending Elise into my life.

  The vision that had haunted him since his return to London resurfaced, and he gave himself over to it: Elise in her bedroom in Yorkshire in dishabille, her eyes sparking fire at him, her glorious hair curling against her face and down her back, and her figure dressed in that delightful silk wrapper. He wished he had a portrait of her at that moment. She had been magnificent! Though virtuous, his love was no milk-and-water miss. Perhaps when they were married, he could convince her to have her portrait painted with her hair down, wearing midnight blue. Maybe he would even have to anger her, just to get the eyes right.

  He sat up late into the night, indulging his fantasies with the brandy bottle at his elbow. Imagine that hair, curling over her naked bosom! Imagine that long, lithe body in his arms. Only a passionate woman would have thrown that inkwell at him. And today, she had cuddled against him in her pain with all the willingness of a woman in love. He swallowed a mouthful of brandy and commanded his body to cool off and think of something less arousing. Surely, he was a rake to think such thoughts when poor Elise was suffering so.

  At the canteen, he had taken notes regarding the skills of each of the soldiers, their service, and their desires for work. Now he considered the problem of how to be an intermediary between the unemployed soldiers and those members of the ton who might employ them at least as part-time or one-time workers. He would have to be subtle. Men of his class did not like to be reminded that there were people going hungry while they gambled and rode to hounds. He briefly considered deserting his own party and becoming a Whig, whose consciences were marginally more sensitive. But, after more thought, he determined to stay a Tory and work change within his own party. He would consult that noted Whig hostess, Lady Susannah Braithwaite, about his idea. She would guide him, he was certain. Plus she was close to Devonshire, the most devout Whig in the House of Lords.

  The following day, he breakfasted at ten o’clock, and then, turned out in his burgundy colored coat, black pantaloons, and waistcoat, with white linen shirt and cravat, he felt himself ready to storm Elise’s dwelling in order to see how she did.

&n
bsp; Lady Clarice and Lady Susannah welcomed him in the navy sitting room. Henry Five was there, evidently indulging in a nap inside his shell underneath a table.

  He asked, “How is Elise today, Lady Clarice?”

  She sighed. “Abed still. She had a bad night last night. The shock set her trembling, as you no doubt noticed, and she did not settle until the wee hours. As you would expect, she kept reliving that awful moment. She is such a gracious, giving soul that it was all terribly unexpected and bewildering.”

  He asked, “Has she received her bouquet?”

  “I sent it up this morning when she woke. It was certainly was lovely, Your Grace. I am afraid her spirits are very low.”

  “Confound that beggar! I would not have had Elise or anyone suffer what she did, but the fact is that many men became a bit unhinged by the effects of war. And, of course, it is compounded by their inability to find work now.”

  He explained his idea and the problem he faced putting it into action, seeking their advice. Lady Susannah, her head to one side, mused, “It is all in the presentation. Do you have the resources to hold rather a grand ball?”

  Taken aback, he answered, “Well, I have a ballroom. And adequate funds. But I have no hostess and would be hopeless at planning something of that nature.”

  Lady Clarice said, “I would gladly act as hostess. Sukey, what do you have in mind? People at a ball are not likely to want to hear about our soldiers’ dilemma.”

  “Like I said, it’s all in the presentation. We must contrive to make the ball la denier cri. We must have people vying for invitations.”

  The duke followed this line of reasoning. “How do you propose to effect that?”

  “First, you will allow your intention, as a single gentleman—a duke, no less—to throw a ball to make its rounds of the ton. That alone will be a novelty,” Sukey said. “Then begin the rumor that it is to be a benefit ball and that certain key gentlemen will be attending. Like the Duke of Devonshire, for instance. I can guarantee his presence and that of other noted Whigs. Speaking of which, you’re in a fair way to becoming a Whig yourself!”

  “I think I can do far better in the Tory camp, stirring up some sympathy in grateful hearts. There are many ex-military men in my party, you know. Only a military man can realize exactly what service these men have given fighting Bonaparte.”

  “You are undoubtedly correct,” Sukey said. She looked admiringly at her tortoise who had stuck his head out, obviously intending to join the party. “I think we must then appeal to the gentlemen’s gaming instincts. Offer a prize. A week’s hunting from your hunting box, if you have one. Or a monetary prize. The only people who can participate in this lottery will be men who have undertaken to place one of our soldiers in the way of work.”

  “I told Sukey about the notes you took at the canteen,” Lady Clarice said, excitement penetrating her voice. “You could have a piece of vellum for each man with his skills and needs. Anyone who wanted to enter the lottery would have to take the vellum and pledge to help one soldier!”

  “Yes!” the duke responded enthusiastically. “Splendid! I think it would be best if I offered a cash prize. A thousand guineas?”

  “Oh, surely that is too dear,” Lady Clarice exclaimed.

  “I don’t think they would do it for less. All right. This is a magnificent plan. Thank you, ladies. Perhaps we should put our heads together to come up with an initial guest list. I shall get Somerset to start the gossip at White’s that I mean to hold a ball with a benefit lottery. I’ll even let the amount of the prize slip. And the fact that it is to be an exclusive ball.”

  “Yes,” Sukey said. “That’s right. But no mention of wounded soldiers.”

  “Right you are!”

  Lady Clarice said, “The initial guest list is very important. Sukey and I know the right people that would take to this sort of thing. We will come up with a list. You do the same, Your Grace. Then we’ll need to decide on a date and work from there.”

  For the next hour, the duke and his two new lieutenants decided on these matters of importance. At the end of their discussion, they had a guest list and a date, one month hence. The duke assigned the ladies the task of hiring the best caterer, florist, and orchestra. He promised to bring over cards embossed with his ducal crest for them to address the very next day, as well as starting the rumor mill grinding at White’s via Somerset.

  Finally, he said, “I really think it would be a good idea for me to see Elise, Lady Clarice. She needs to know that her physical appearance is not permanent, that I can bear to see it, and that my affections are unchanged.”

  “You are right. I think that would do her a world of good. I will see if she has dressed.”

  As soon as Elise’s aunt had left the room, Lady Susannah fixed him with a gimlet eye. “What exactly are your intentions toward Lady Clarice’s niece?”

  “Honorable,” he said. “Believe me. I know my reputation. I am doing my best to change my ways.”

  “I think you can hardly have any idea of the depth of the hurt you have caused Elise to suffer. Lady Clarice is far too careful of Elise’s privacy to mention it, but I think you need to know. My friend has confided much of what happened to me, in order to get my counsel on how best to cope for Elise’s sake.”

  Pausing, she held out a stick of celery to her pet, which had been slowly crawling toward her during the last hour. “Good man!” she exclaimed when he took it between his jaws. Then she turned back to Ruisdell.

  “Elise went through a terribly dark time when she thought you were dead. And then, not only did she find you were alive but received that horrible piece of gossip showing your callousness. Since that time, she’s been like Henry Five, totally withdrawn, spilling out her emotions only in her writing. I hate to think what kind of book she has written. I imagine it is horridly caustic.”

  Again, Ruisdell was smitten with deep remorse for the egregious bet. “I know I do not deserve anyone’s forgiveness, but Elise has a beautiful soul. I will persevere, trying to prove my regard for her. If anyone can ever forgive me, I feel sure that she can.”

  At that moment, Lady Clarice returned to the sitting room. “I am dreadfully sorry, Your Grace. Elise feels herself unable to see you today.”

  He nodded but felt his hopes flag. “What can I do to help her?”

  “She asked for you to ‘please not plague her.’”

  “She did not like my floral tribute?”

  “Perhaps more than she will admit. She is engaged in rebuilding her wall against your charm, I’m afraid.”

  “Confound it! It’s not charm. I have ever been the least charming of men.” He stood and paced the room. “It is sincere regard. The war left me drained of compassion. But she has quite restored me.”

  “Whereas you have wounded her severely. She feels you used your relationship with Sir Joshua to blind her to your attempts at dalliance.”

  Her words came as a blow. Sitting, he clutched his forehead and scalp with his hands. Why had he thought that a little bouquet of flowers and one generous gesture would undo the pain that he had given her?

  “What can I do?” he asked in agony.

  Lady Susannah said, “Take a lesson from Henry Five. No doubt you have wondered why I have such a pet. It is to remind me that movement and change are not always fast. Permanent change requires patience with yourself and others. You are going to have to tempt Elise out of her shell with constant and sustained regard, proving to her that you are a different man from the one she thinks you are.”

  He looked at the tortoise, who was contentedly ingesting the celery stick. “Who would have thought I could learn something that important from a reptile?”

  “Lowering, is it not? But Henry Five does manage to get from place to place, eventually.”

  “I have wanted to know, why did you name him after King Hal?”

  “Because he is heroic in his way. He proceeds to his goal and never gives up. I always want to have things happen in a flash. I am v
ery impatient.”

  Ruidsdell reflected on his own expectations of Elise. “I will take counsel, then, from Henry Five.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  OUR HEROINE HEALS

  Underneath her fear, Elise knew that she was lucky. The aloe vera that her aunt was applying several times a day to her blistered face was working to ease the pain, and her blisters were only the size of large pinheads. For this, she was grateful. However, she knew that she owed her greatest debt of gratitude to the duke for immediately treating her with the splashes of cold water before the burns could penetrate more deeply. If he had not been present, she had no idea of what she would look like now.

  The picture she presented was not a pleasing one. After a couple of days, the redness had departed and she was left with a face covered in breaking white blisters. After a week, her entire face was peeling, revealing a red epidermal layer. Dr. Finch was very pleased at her progress.

  Ruisdell sent fresh flowers every day—deep blue hydrangeas, violets, white roses, and ranunculi, a rare variety of gentians—and most recently a posy of pink rosebuds, including a note that said they reminded him of seeing her at the opera that first time. She would probably never admit it, but the constant remembrance and the thoughtful notes in the language of flowers did much to comfort her. She had still not seen him. Nonetheless, she had taken on the task of writing the invitations to the ball, as she wished to keep to her room until she healed.

  How did she feel toward the duke? She searched her heart. Was it only hurt pride that kept her stubbornly opposed to him? Had not the disability that came upon him when he remembered Joshua’s death been truly genuine? Did it not argue against her recent idea that he had used the memories of her first love to ingratiate himself with her? Before he had even met her, he had been amazingly kind in his personalized letter of condolence. A complete rogue would never have been able to say those things.

  And she had studied the newspaper scrap with the account of the infamous bet. She discounted Gregory’s account of the bet entirely. It had been Somerset’s bet, not the duke’s. Somerset had set up the scenario, but the duke, had, after all bet against it. And she had his explanation that it had all occurred before he even met her for the first time. He had never connected the bet with Joshua’s fiancée.