The Harlow Hoyden

by Lynn Messina

  The duke left the front parlor quite determined that she would not.

  Alex Keswick arrived at the Bennington ball with Cousin Philip firmly in tow. The young cawker, a slim, gangly awkward boy who had yet to grow accustomed to his sudden height, didn’t take well to the constrictions of formal wear.

  “Stop tugging at your cravat,” said the duke. “It took Stebbens a half hour to get it right, and I will not have you upsetting his work before the first waltz is played.”

  “Devil take it, sir, the damned thing is itchy,” the boy whined before giving the cravat a final pull and lowering his hand.

  Morgan Pearson, an intimate of the duke’s for these ten years, listened to the exchange and smiled. He was not accustomed to seeing the Duke of Trent squiring around clumsy hayseeds and found the whole experience to be enlightening. As far as Morgan was concerned, the duke had the patience of a saint. The entire carriage ride had been given over to Philip’s complaints. He didn’t want to go to the ball. He wanted to seek more manly pursuits like gaming and boxing. It was only after the duke promised to introduce his young cousin to Gentleman Jackson that they had any peace.

  Although Philip was new in town and didn’t have many friends, he instantly spied an acquaintance and excused himself. The duke watched him wander off with a faint smile. “The young cawker can’t even lie with any skill.”

  Morgan, who had been examining the room for familiar faces, looked at his friend. “How so?”

  “He doesn’t know anyone here,” Alex explained. “He just said that to get away from me.”

  “What a novel experience for you, your grace. It’s usually the Duke of Trent who’s trying to get away from the admiring young lads—and admiring women of all ages, for that matter.” Morgan nodded at a beautiful widow his friend was currently pursuing.

  “It’s understandable, of course,” the duke said reasonably. “I suppose if I were nineteen, I wouldn’t want an old man telling me what to do.” Since his father never took an interest, he had no idea what it was like.

  “Old man, Alex? Doing it a bit brown. Thirty is hardly the age of senility. Surely you have three or four good years left.”

  “Try convincing the dowager of that. She’s terribly afraid that I’ll expire before producing an heir. Luckily, I find it infinitely preferable to be valued for one’s potential lineage instead of for oneself,” he said, accepting a glass of wine.

  “I wouldn’t know,” answered Pearson. “No one’s concerned about my decedents. It comes, I suppose, from my not having a title.”

  The duke nodded and tried not to feel envy for his friend. Although Morgan would scarcely credit it, the duke often wished his title to Jericho. Most usually when his mother was talking marriage.

  Thinking of his mother, the duke surveyed the room, searching for that estimable woman. He found her chatting happily among biddies her own age. No doubt she was telling them of Mrs. Parker’s proposed oriental drawing room. He also saw his sister, Louisa. She was talking to Portia Hedgley, and Trent made a mental note to avoid his dear sibling. From her easy familiarity with his perspective bride, he concluded that she was in league with their mother. He walked in the opposite direction and found himself standing two feet away from the Harlow Hoyden. What a lovely circumstance.

  “Miss Harlow,” he said, bowing in a cursory manner, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Miss Harlow looked taken aback by this familiarity, but she smiled in response.

  She was more subdued than yesterday, and Trent marveled at the change. Her cheeks were not so rosy and her eyes didn’t quite sparkle, but it was unmistakably she. One could not forget those golden curls or those ravishing pink lips. He put her reserved behavior down to the fact that she must have learned the truth. No doubt she was embarrassed to have stolen the Duke of Trent’s prize Rhyncholaelia digbyana under the Duke of Trent’s nose. He was about to introduce himself to her companion—a short, round man with no neck—when the orchestra struck up a waltz. “A waltz, you said?” He smiled and offered his hand. Miss Harlow accepted it and went out on the dance floor, leaving her attendant to look on with disgruntled annoyance.

  After they had settled into a comfortable rhythm, Miss Harlow looked him in the eye and said, “You’re not the country cousin.”

  His lips twitched. “No, I am not.”

  “You do not mind the stolen flower?”

  “No, not when the thief is so charming. Tell me, how did your sister like the flower?”

  “She adores it and she thanks you.”

  “Please tell her it was my pleasure.”

  The duke saw the sparkle return to her eyes. “You just did, your grace.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She did not mention that we were twins?”

  The duke started laughing, and several couples turned to see what was amiss. “No, she did not mention that,” he said, genuine amusement shining in his eyes. “But it seems like just the sort of thing the Harlow Hoyden would not mention.” He felt the other Miss Harlow stiffen in his arms, and he rushed to apologize. “I mean no disrespect. Please believe me when I say that I have nothing but the utmost admiration for your sister. She’s enchanting.”

  Lavinia relaxed slightly. Seeking to put her further at ease, the duke asked, “What sort of potting soil did you use for the Rhyncholaelia digbyana? I hope it has a good deal of magnesium in it.” It was an unsuitable topic for a London ballroom, but his partner did not notice.

  “Oh, yes, your grace. And iron, as well.”

  The rest of the dance was given over to a lively discussion of potting techniques, and when the musicians finished, he brought Miss Harlow back to her fiancé.

  “Thank you, your grace, for an enlightening dance.”

  “No, thank you, my dear,” he said. Before taking his leave, he discretely looked around the ballroom.

  “She is, I assume, tucked away in some corner with my sister-in-law, Sarah,” Lavinia said, easily reading the duke. “She doesn’t like crowded places overmuch.”

  He was only momentarily surprised. “No, I don’t imagine she would.” The duke took her hand and laid a gentle kiss on it. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all, your grace.”

  Trent left her there and went in search of the real Emma Harlow but not before hearing Sir Waldo Windbourne take his fiancée to task for being too familiar with a duke.

  By the time Trent found her, Emma was reconciled to the fact that he was a duke and not the country cousin she had previously supposed. Indeed, a plotting miss who always had one scheme or another percolating in her lively mind, she’d already figured out a way to use this information to her advantage.

  “My lord duke,” said Sarah when he approached, “it’s lovely to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

  “Sarah.” Taking her hand and bowing over it, he behaved just as a gentleman ought, but his eyes couldn’t help straying toward Emma. Up close, he could see that she was everything he remembered: the peaches-and-cream complexion, the rosy cheeks, the sparkling eyes, the delightful smile that revealed all her secrets. It seemed inconceivable now that he could ever have mistaken someone else for her.

  “I don’t believe you know my sister-in-law Emma,” Sarah said by way of introduction. “You were dancing with her sister earlier, but no doubt you’ve already drawn that conclusion, given that they’re mirror images of each other.”

  “Actually, I’ve already had the pleasure.” He laid a kiss—a shade more lingering than proper—on her hand, and Sarah, noticing the familiarity, sent a quizzical look Emma’s way. Her young in-law responded with a slight shrug.

  “You have?” asked Sarah archly. She found this development rather curious. The Duke of Trent rarely showed interest in green misses.

  “Yes, we have,” he answered Sarah but kept his gaze on Emma. “Yesterday at my mother’s tea party. Miss Harlow was a guest. I believe she was very taken with my orchids.”

  Emma dimpled. “What he means to
say, Sarah, is that his orchids were taken with me.”

  The duke sketched a bow. “I stand corrected.”

  Sarah watched this exchange with a growing sense of unease. The Duke of Trent was flirting with Emma! Out and out flirting! Sarah had known the duke for years—her brother and he had been at Oxford together—but she had never seen him flirt with an inexperienced chit before. Although his behavior with her had always been circumspect, she knew that his reputation as a rakehell was well earned. There were few peers more handsome—or wealthy—than the duke, and he had been pressing his advantage with widows and courtesans for years. Sarah thought she could trust him not to play fast and loose with her sister-in-law, but nevertheless Emma would do well to stay out of his way. There was no point in playing with fire. She looked at Emma’s shining face. Now, if only she could convince her feckless charge of that.

  “Sarah,” said the duke, remembering his duty, “tell me, how is Andrew?”

  “He’s very well, sir. Much to my surprise, he’s taken to the country like to the vicarage born, which he was, I suppose.” Sarah smiled fondly as she recalled her townish brother tramping around country fields talking about crop rotation.

  “And Martha?”

  “The proud mama of another boy, named Oliver after my father.”

  “He must be pleased.”

  “Both my parents are very happy with how well Andrew turned out. I think they were both worried that he would gamble away the fortune before he was four and twenty.”

  Emma listened to these pleasantries impatiently. She wanted to talk to the duke—alone. She had a plan to put into action.

  “Your grace,” she said, forestalling whatever reply he had been about to make, “don’t I hear the first strains of a waltz?”

  The duke cocked his ear. “No, that is a minuet.”

  “I believe, then, that you promised me a minuet. I left it empty on my dance card specifically for you.” Of course, much was left empty on the Harlow Hoyden’s dance card.

  “I am positive it was a waltz and am happy to wait.”

  Emma made a moue of annoyance and was about to insist on a minuet when Sarah intervened. “Your grace, I’m feeling parched. Perhaps you could get us something to drink?”

  There was no way for Trent to refuse, and he graciously went off in search of refreshments. When he had disappeared amid the crowd, Sarah said, “Explain yourself.”

  Emma pressed her lips together and tried to look innocent. “Explain what?”

  “You know very well. How familiar you are with the duke. What has passed between you?”

  “It’s nothing of note, Sarah dear. Do not tease yourself over it.”

  “He is not a suitable parti for a woman your age.”

  Although Emma was not interested in the duke for herself, she took exception to these words. “Really, Sarah, you speak as though I’m still in leading strings. I’m three and twenty, you know. I do have a little experience.”

  That was what disturbed Sarah the most. A little experience was a dangerous thing. “My dear, you are ill prepared to deal with someone like Trent. He’s a rake.”

  “I know. That is why he’s perfect.”

  Sarah’s alarm escalated. “Perfect for what?”

  “For what I have in mind.”

  “And that is?” There was something like fear in her voice.

  Emma looked at Sarah and realized for the first time that her sister-in-law was indeed worried. She laughed. “Sarah, whatever are you imagining? Whatever I have in my mind, I assure you, it’s not nearly as bad as what you have in yours. Trust me, all will be well.”

  “It’s hard to trust you when you have that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “That look. That Harlow Hoyden look, the one you got in your eyes just before you went tearing down Bond Street in your tilbury.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Only a ninny would go tearing down Bond Street in a tilbury. It was a stanhope, of course.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “That’s very beside the point, Emma. I do wish you would tell me what you’re up to.”

  “I cannot tell you because you will get all disapproving of me and that would only serve to make me cross with you. I don’t feel like being cross tonight.”

  Having dealt with Emma for more than three years, Sarah knew further discussion would bear little fruit. Emma would reveal her plan only when she felt she must, which was usually ten minutes or so before the gossipmongers got ahold of it. “Just promise me you won’t do anything to disgrace the family.”

  “Disgrace the family. The way you talk you’d think I had no sense of propriety whatsoever.”

  “You don’t, my dear.”

  Emma chose to ignore the slight. It was not that she didn’t have a sense of propriety; it was simply that she so rarely heeded it. Doing things the proper way was dreadful dull. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve done your duty and warned me off. You can go home to Roger with a clear conscience.”

  Sarah knew better than to protest. Her concern for Emma was indeed tied to her concern for her husband. “It’s just that we care about you, dear, and want to see you happy. That’s all anybody wants, dear.”

  Emma seriously doubted that. Her mother, Margaret, never concerned herself with her daughters’ happiness. She was too selfish for that. All she wanted was to get her progeny out of her hair, and if the match happened to lead to happiness, well, she hoped her daughters weren’t ninnyhammers enough to believe that it would last. Her own marriage had been a disaster, and for some reason she held everyone but herself responsible. “I am happy,” Emma said, smiling as the duke approached with glasses of ratafia. At least she was now that she had a plan for extricating her sister from that awful Sir Windbag.

  A blond boy with long limbs accompanied Lord Trent and instantly annoyed Emma with his very presence. They seemed embroiled in a conversation and despite the duke’s frequent head shakes, the boy persisted in the unwelcomed topic. Excellent, thought Miss Harlow, now when I get him alone and present my scheme he will be too cross to listen. She sent the young boy a scathing look, but he misinterpreted it as friendly and introduced himself.

  “Miss Harlow, I cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet you. Surely it is,” he said, standing a shade too close and talking loudly into her ear. “I am Philip Keswick, Trent’s cousin.” He didn’t bow or kiss her hand or do anything ingratiating. “I’m from Yorkshire, but I know who you are. You are famous, after all. Three hours and fifty-seven minutes! There is nothing like it and from a woman, no less. I heard Sir Leopold didn’t go out into society for a whole year. Is that true, do you think? ”

  Unable to remember just how long Sir Leopold had sequestered himself—it was more than six months but certainly not as long as a whole year—Emma looked from the duke to young Philip and raised an eyebrow. She was hard pressed not to laugh. To think that she had mistaken the duke for this cawker. One could not compliment this country cousin on his town bronze.

  “I say, Philip, it’s rude not to wait for an introduction,” the duke observed before handing Emma her ratafia.

  “Introduction, bah!” he dismissed. “An out-and-outer like Miss Harlow don’t stand on ceremony.”

  “She may not but I do.”

  His voice was strict, and Emma observed a blush creeping up the boy’s neck. She instantly felt sorry for him. “A thing easily remedied, your grace. Mr. Keswick, allow me to introduce my sister-in-law to you, Sarah Harlow.”

  Philip fell in line reluctantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he muttered before performing a less than graceful bow over her hand. “How d’you do?”

  Sarah’s lips twitched. “I’m well, sir, and yourself?”

  It was clear from the look in the boy’s eyes that there were many answers to that question, but he reined himself in in time and said only, “Enjoying my first season, ma’am.”

  “Are you?” asked Emma, some imp urging her on. “Then you’re very lucky,
Mr. Keswick. I found my first season to be dreadful dull.”

  “Did you? This is my very first ball, and I have to say that it isn’t at all what I was expecting.” He tugged again at his cravat. “To be completely honest, I have found doing the society rounds very constr—” He seemed in the verge of giving spleen to a great many complaints, but the duke interceded.

  “Isn’t that a waltz I hear?” he asked, interrupting his charge.

  “Is it?” Philip cocked an ear. He didn’t know the difference between the tempo of a waltz and a minuet, but he did know that the former was very scandalous and not at all the thing in the wilds of Yorkshire. He turned to Emma. “Miss Harlow, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  Despite the urgency with which she longed to speak with Trent, she didn’t have the heart to turn down this enthusiastic young cub. “I would be—”

  But before she could get the sentence out, the duke interrupted. “Sorry, old fellow, but I’ve already claimed Miss Harlow for the next waltz.” A devilish light suddenly glinted in his eye. “Perhaps Mrs. Harlow could be convinced.”

  Mrs. Harlow was amused but did not accept Philip’s offer, which was fast in coming following his cousin’s words. “I would much rather stand here and drink my ratafia. Perhaps you could tell me about your London adventures while they dance.”

  Laughing, Emma let the duke lead her out to the dance floor. “How dare you mistake me for that ill-mannered urchin!” he said, sounding very much like an offended duke.

  Emma waved him off. “Really, what was I supposed to think? You were reading in the conservatory.”

  They were on the dance floor now, and the duke took her into his arms. Emma felt a shiver run up her spine at his touch and savored the feeling. No one had ever made her shiver before. She closed her eyes, threw herself into the experience and let him twirl her around. It was breathtaking.

  “What does my reading in the conservatory have to do with it?” he asked.

  “What doesn’t it?” she asked teasingly, opening her eyes and watching the room spin around her. The feelings were so exhilarating, it was a wonder she could talk, let alone form coherent sentences. She should have danced the waltz with a handsome duke years ago. “Everyone knows that a town-bred gentleman would not be caught dead reading in his own conservatory. His paramour’s, certainly, while she peels a fig for his pleasure, but not his own conservatory. That’s what the clubs are for, your grace. I’m not so green that I don’t know that.”