The Duke's Refuge

by Lorri Dudley

“Don’t move.” Her eyes dared them to disobey her command as she shook out another dress and folded it over her arm. Ocean water splashed around her ankles and re-soaked her shoes. Wet garments weighed heavily on her arm, which she held out to keep from ruining her walking dress. With her other hand, she lifted her skirts so they wouldn’t get drenched.

  “Take that off right now, young man,” she demanded of a boy dressed in her gown of chiffon and lace. He glanced at his friend, who had a pair of her pink unmentionables on top of his head like a nightcap.

  Instead of answering, they grinned at each other and burst into loud fits of laughter.

  Clenching her fists in frustration, she turned to another boy wearing her bonnet. “Put them back.” She gestured wildly toward the trunk. “Put them all back.”

  One boy shrugged, pulled the bonnet off his head, and tossed it into the trunk. The one wearing her dress snatched the bonnet back up, put it on his own head, and giggled as he batted his eyes. Georgia tried to yank it off him, but he got it off first and held it away from her. She lunged, but he tossed it to his other friend, and they all started to laugh.

  In a plea for help, she scowled back at Harrison. He stood a good ten feet behind her, his arms crossed over his chest, and his mouth twisted up in a half-smile.

  She would strangle the man with her petticoat. Her hands shook with a fresh surge of ire. She would stuff him into her trunk and toss him out with the surf. “How dare you stand there and laugh? Any gentlemen would understand the seriousness of the matter, but you, sir, are no gentleman. You stand there while gowns that easily cost more than a year’s wages are ruined. These are my things—the only clothes I have to wear on this horrific island. They’re ruined, and you think it’s funny. You’re as bad as these boys.” She jabbed a finger behind her, where the lads stood. “No, I take that back. You’re worse because you should know better.” She impaled him with a look that should have iced his veins, and she reveled in a small spark of satisfaction when his smile faded.

  He started toward her, but curved to protect his boots as a wave licked at them. A mass tumbled nearby in the surf, and he bent down to pick up the swirl of pink fabric left at his feet. Wringing the water out of it, he held it up for all to see. His face paled, and the material slipped, almost landing back in the water. Beneath his tanned face, he turned a vivid scarlet. His fingers clutched her silky chemise undergarment.

  Clearing his throat, he crumpled it into a ball and thrust it into her chest as he neared. She opened her mouth to issue a scathing remark, but he stopped her with one questioning eyebrow. Instead, she pinched her lips into a tight line.

  “Boys, listen up. You might think you’ve found lost treasure, but these things are Miss Lennox’s. Put them back right now, and I’ll make certain your mamas don’t learn you’ve been snickering over ladies’ unmentionables.”

  All four boys straightened at once and started pulling the clothes off. They placed them back into the trunk, and three of the lads took off running as soon as Harrison paid them a nod.

  One boy lingered, however. She noted the redness of tears brimming in the child’s large brown eyes. He still clutched one of her evening gowns of soft superfine to his chest and gently stroked it as if it were a baby doll.

  “Please hand over my gown.” She held her open palm out. His hand stilled, and tears slid down his cheeks.

  Harrison’s fingers touched her shoulder. “Booker, my friend, you don’t want to give up the dress?”

  The boy shook his head and his face crumpled. He cried into her gown.

  Harrison stepped around her and wrapped the boy in his embrace. When the child’s sobbing began to diminish, Harrison crouched down until his face was level with Booker’s. “What’s the matter?”

  The boy gazed up a Georgia, and her heart clenched at the depth of sorrow etched in his face. His gaze flicked back to Harrison, and he sucked in a shaky breath.

  “Mista Wells, I don’t mean any harm. I wanna put the dress back, but my hand won’t let me. I thought we found it, so it was ours and…and…” Tears sprang to his eyes once more. “And my mama has been awfully sick of late…awfully sick.” He let out a choked sob. “I wanted to give it to my mama, so she’d have somethin’ nice”—he inhaled a stuttered breath—“for them to bury her in.”

  A gasp escaped Georgia’s lips. The poor boy.

  Harrison’s head jerked around. His eyes narrowed on her, suggesting that he misconstrued her reaction. He turned back and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, son, but the dress is Miss Lennox’s, and her things mean a lot to her. You’ll have to give it back.”

  The boy nodded and, with another sob, dropped the dress into the trunk.

  “Wait.” She reached into the trunk and pulled out the luxurious material that, in itself, could have purchased food for the child’s family for a month. She held the dress in her hands. It was the one she’d worn the night Julien almost proposed. She bit her lower lip and slowly held it out toward Booker. “Please, give it to your mama.”

  The child’s face brightened, but then his brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “It’s yer dress. Grandmamma says we don’t take nothin’ from nobody.”

  “How tall is your mama?” she asked.

  “She’s ‘bout up to yer chin.”

  “Oh, well then, you must take the dress.”

  He crossed his hands over his chest.

  “You see, the dressmaker cut the dress too short.” She held the gown up to the length of her body but folded the material in the middle to make it appear shorter. “It will never fit me. I was going to pass it on to my maid, but maybe we could trade for it?”

  The child’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t got nothin’ ta trade.”

  “Oh, but you do. I collect shells. I’ve only read about conch shells, and I’ve always wanted one for my collection. Find me a nice big conch shell, and the dress is yours.”

  Booker’s smile was all teeth, and he scurried off on his mission.

  Harrison crossed his arms over his chest and sent her a sideways glance, but she didn’t miss the relief in his eyes. “You have a seashell collection?”

  Georgia straightened her shoulders. “I do now.”

  A smile flashed across his face, but it was gone as fast as it came.

  Harrison nodded toward the trunk. “Let’s see what we can salvage from this mess. When Booker comes back, he can help me move the trunk to the wagon.”

  Though her gowns were wet and soiled, such finery should hardly be called a mess. Did he have no regard for nicer things? Though his clothes were worn, at one point, they were finery. One would think he’d appreciate their value.

  But then she glanced around and released a rush of air. Most of her dresses were torn or ruined beyond repair, and the ocean continued to beat them upon the sand and rocks. A low moan escaped her lips, and her shoulders drooped. He was right. It was a mess.

  Harrison bent over and tucked another soggy dress into the crook of his arm. Georgia followed suit, gleaning what could be saved. Now and then, Harrison would clear his throat, wave his hand at an item, then turn and walk away. She glared at him through narrowed eyes, but after several instances, she gasped and lurched forward to snatch up the material. He’d been saving her further embarrassment by allowing her the privacy to pick up her undergarments. Despite his thoughtfulness, she flushed every time he signaled her.

  “Do you pack your suitcases by color?” Harrison wrung out the last garment, a rosy pink day dress. “Should I expect tomorrow to find your green apparel littering the shoreline?”

  Georgia righted herself after folding a damp gown and placing it into the trunk. She speared him with a look which she hoped said, We are on fragile ground, don’t irritate me further, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  “It’s either that or you only wear the color pink?” He wrung the sea-water out of another day gown and held it out toward her.

  She snatched it from his fingers. “I fancy th
e color pink. It’s a feminine color.”

  He raised a single eyebrow. “Doesn’t that get boring, wearing the same color day in and out?”

  She cradled the gown like a doll. It was the walking dress she’d worn the day in Hyde Park when Julien first spotted her. The zephyr material matched the same pink color of the foxglove flowers that grew along the path they’d strolled.

  Georgia stroked the soft material. A man couldn’t understand the importance of pink—especially not the likes of Mr. Wells. Pink had transformed her from a ruffian child into a sophisticated woman. The color gave her the confidence to face society. Whereas others may see the world in black and white, she saw her world in blues and pinks. Her tomboy childhood spent with her father was blue—calming, safe, and peaceful, but disillusioned. Her present was pink—feminine, accepted, and sanctioned, but contrived.

  “I’ve got one,” shouted Booker as he ran toward them carrying a large conch shell over his head. He skidded to a halt at her side and held the shell, pink side up, to show her. “It’s in perfect condition, and listen.” He raised the object to his ear, and his grin encompassed his entire face. “You can hear da ocean. Clear as day.”

  He held it up to her ear, but she couldn’t tell whether the sound came from the shell or the waves crashing behind her.

  “It’s perfect. You have earned the gown.” She accepted the shell and passed him the dress. “I hope to one day see your mother wearing it—about town,” she clarified.

  The boy’s eyes clouded. “I dunno how to thank you. Mama’s gonna laugh with joy.”

  She gestured to the trunk. “Before you run off. Do you mind giving Mr. Wells a hand carrying this?”

  The boy nodded.

  She held his treasured dress while he and Mr. Wells carried the waterlogged trunk and placed it in the back of the wagon. Harrison thanked Booker and off the child ran, all smiles, in the direction of home. Wet pink superfine waved like a flag from his arm.

  Georgia and Harrison exchanged smiles, and he gestured toward the wagon. His warm hand slid under her elbow to assist her up.

  “Ho there!”

  Harrison froze and released Miss Lennox. His jaw clenched, but he turned around and tipped his hat. “Mr. Rousseau.”

  Edward Rousseau approached with long strides as his eyes surveyed Miss Lennox from under inverted V-shaped brows. His lips twisted up into a smile like a rat catcher’s ferret, ready for a merry rodent chase.

  “Good day, Wells. Fancy seeing you in this part of town. Aren’t you supposed to be teaching lessons?” Rousseau tipped his hat.

  “We break on Saturdays.”

  Mr. Rousseau didn’t acknowledge his response. His eyes met Georgia’s with an eager glint. “Wells, I believe an introduction is in order.”

  A surge of heat burned Harrison’s ears and around his collar at the subtle insinuation that he’d forgotten his manners.

  God, help me see him the way You see him, because my fingers are itching to plant Rousseau a facer.

  With a tight smile, Harrison offered a stiff bow. “Miss Lennox, let me formally introduce you to Mr. Edward Rousseau, the owner of the Artesian Hotel.” His eyes leveled on the other man. “Mr. Rousseau, may I introduce Fredrick Lennox’s daughter, Miss Georgia Lennox.”

  Rousseau encased her hand in his and bowed. “It’s always a pleasure to have a refined lady of the Quality in our midst, especially one so fair. I would love to hear of your voyage and the happenings in London. Island folk must live off bits and scraps of news to quench our appetite for word from our beloved homeland.”

  A knot formed in Harrison’s stomach as the man poured out his platitudes. Georgia withdrew her hand and subjected him to one of her dazzling smiles. Harrison’s lips twitched as Rousseau’s eyes glazed over, lost in her charms.

  He almost—almost—felt pity for the man.

  Chapter 8

  …Indeed, our exports of sugar and sugar products did not meet expectations last quarter. However, I shall expend every effort to drive my slaves harder to account for the difference within the next shipment.

  —From Mr. Edward Rousseau to Mr. Alexander Allan, Director of the British East India Company

  Mr. Rousseau’s lips lingered over Georgia’s hand exceedingly long, as if he was considering kissing the top of it. She pulled her fingers away and issued him the same smile she’d used to gain a gentleman’s favor during her second season.

  The man carried himself well and dressed impeccably, with well-polished boots gleaming. He wore close-fitted buckskins and an olive-green waistcoat of kerseymere—both well-tailored. They had much in common—Quality knew quality. Mr. Rousseau donned clothes in the height of fashion, not from a couple of season’s hence like Mr. Wells.

  Although, Mr. Wells carried an air about him that was more than the clothes he wore. His wide stance held authority, despite being among someone from a higher social rank. Standing next to Mr. Wells’ broad frame, Mr. Rousseau appeared—well—less. Even still, Mr. Rousseau could be a beneficial acquaintance.

  She took a half step closer. “I would be delighted to satisfy your appetite for news, Mr. Rousseau. I’m certain my father could arrange an engagement for us to talk further.”

  His neck extended and his eyes locked on her like a fox on its prey, but she was ready for a chase.

  “The last bit of news we received was that the Prince Regent had given the Duke of Linton an ultimatum. Either he comes out of hiding, or his title and all his lands will be transferred to Lord Edmund Daulton, the Viscount of Ashburnham. Has the disappearing duke materialized, or shall I be sending Lord Ashburnham a sizable Christmas gift this year?” His eyes flashed, and his voice grew husky. “I find lavish presents a remarkable way to get into someone’s good graces.”

  Georgia fought to keep the wariness from her smile at the mere mention of Lord Ashburnham. Mother had thought Ashburnham to be Georgia’s best marital option and pressured her to accept his suit. Georgia’s inability to secure a match in her previous seasons only cemented her mother’s belief that she needed to marry the viscount as soon as possible.

  If this voyage cost her the Earl of Claremont’s affections, if Claremont didn’t come up to scratch, then Ashburnham would be her fate. After all the energy she’d expended convincing Mama for another season to give Claremont time to propose, she may still end up chained to the shuddersome viscount for life.

  A tremor ran through her body as she remembered the way Ashburnham grasped her arm at the Hopkins ball. His long nails, through the silk cloth of his gloves, had possessively dug into her upper arm. The man eyed her as if she were a prize to be stuffed and mounted on his wall. If Ashburnham inherited a dukedom, she’d never find someone of a higher rank to satisfy her mother. Perhaps, Mr. Rousseau might introduce her to some of his prestigious guests. Maybe her future wasn’t doomed to be Lady Ashburnham. She couldn’t abandon the hope.

  “Indeed,” she forced a light tone, “His Grace has not yet resurfaced. It may be wise to add the viscount to your gifting list.”

  “Ah, it is done then. In appreciation of your counsel, may I bestow upon you an invitation to come to the Artesian Hotel for a grand house party next weekend?” He wet his lips. “I shall send over a servant with a formal invitation this afternoon.” He glanced at Mr. Wells, then cleared his throat. “To you as well, of course.”

  Harrison’s amber eyes fixed on Rousseau and hardened into granite. A tense muscle in his jaw flexed, and a tight jerk of his head was the only acknowledgment he gave. It seemed Mr. Wells and Mr. Rousseau were not on agreeable terms. Due to social inequality, perhaps? Was Mr. Wells jealous of Mr. Rousseau’s elevated status?

  “I will be delighted to show you our elite hotel,” Rousseau said. “Women of the Peerage often sail across the Atlantic to enjoy the healing qualities of our hot springs and stay at my hotel. In fact, Lady Wentworth,”—his chest puffed—“a close cousin to the Queen, is a frequent guest. But, I must admit, none hold a candle to your beauty, Miss Len
nox.”

  Georgia smiled to produce a dimple in her right cheek. “Mr. Rousseau, you are too kind. I would very much enjoy seeing your hotel. Its reputation precedes itself, even all the way to London.”

  He straightened and tilted his head with a pleased grin.

  She mirrored his movements. “I must admit, the rustic nature of the island has taken some adjustment. It would be splendid to enjoy a bit of home.” She splayed her fingers across her chest and offered her coquettish grin, practiced in a way that emphasized her slender cheekbones. “Especially in such good company.”

  Harrison’s gaze veered off to inspect the shoreline as if he’d grown bored. Perhaps she’d laid on the charm a bit thick, but it never hurt to start an acquaintance by gaining the upper hand.

  Rousseau soaked her in with a wolfish grin before he cleared his throat. “I must be going.” He tipped his hat with his thumb and index finger. “But I look forward to bettering our acquaintance.” He backed away a few steps, his eyes never straying from her, before he turned on his heel and headed into the nearby brightly painted general store.

  She stifled a giggle at his brazen swagger. Besides the mention of the Viscount of Ashburnham, Mr. Rousseau’s brief visit comforted her. Maybe not everything here was strange. He reminded her of the dandies with whom she mingled in London, predictable and willing to bend over backward for a practiced coy smile.

  One thing she’d learned from Papa before he left was how to outwit the smartest fish, which, after one botched season, she transferred to outsmarting the Quality. She used last season to study the Ladies of the ton as they floated around a ballroom like pretty fish in a pond, every coy gesture, practiced smile, and method of flirtation.

  Then, she’d baited the biggest fish, the Earl of Claremont. It was her chance to show her mother and sisters she did belong—that she wasn’t a pathetic embarrassment to the Lennox name. Her sisters may have married well, but she would marry better. She had merely needed to reel him in.