He leaned down to find a pair of wide blue eyes staring back at him, framed by mussed blonde curls. At first he thought a child had escaped the nursery, but a glance at her bodice dispelled that notion. She was a woman—a beautiful woman—inexplicably crouching at his feet. “What are you doing under there?” His voice sounded sharp. Since the shock of Gwen’s jilting, he’d come to abhor surprises.
“I’m hoping you will leave,” she said in an earnest whisper.
“I would rather not leave until I know why you’re hiding under Lord Darlington’s desk. Are you in some sort of danger?”
“I—I might be.” From the shadows beneath the desk he could see her shapely bosom rise and fall. She peered out at him, one long curl falling over an eye. “Are you, by any chance, going to leave directly?”
“No.”
“Oh. I wish you would.”
He could see a couple of books clutched in her hand. “What have you there? A pair of romantic novels?”
“No, sir. Not romantic novels exactly. Might I ask who you are?”
“I will tell you who I am if you will show me your books.” He didn’t know why he pestered her. Because it amused him. Because it had discomfited him so to find her hiding there, and he wanted to discomfit her also. She pursed her lips, then looked down to read from the spines.
“A History of English Political Thought in the Sixteenth Century.” She handed it up to him. “And Genghis Khan and the Great Mongol Empire.”
Not romantic novels. Not even close. Court placed the books on Lord Darlington’s desk, feeling unwelcome curiosity about the creature. “Will you come out so I may introduce myself properly?”
“I would rather not.”
“Because you prefer to read under there, or because you’re embarrassed?”
“I am deeply humiliated and wish you would forget this encounter completely.”
He frowned. “I doubt I shall manage that. However, since I am a gentleman and you have asked me twice to leave, I will comply with your wishes.”
As he stood to go, he heard a soft sound from beneath the desk. “Please…”
“Yes?”
“Will you give back the books?”
“Of course.” He passed them down, pressing them into the small hand that emerged. “I wish you good day.”
Court walked out, thinking the house party was not off to the most auspicious start, when one was obliged to converse with a strange woman huddled under the host’s desk. He walked the halls for a half hour or so, until he felt less rattled and more relaxed again. Back in his private parlor, he found his mother and Mrs. Lyndon returned from tea, trading captious gossip on the sofa.
“Did you find Lady Emberley’s bonnet quite out of fashion?” his mother appealed to Mrs. Lyndon. “I was shocked at how dilapidated it was. That rose silk—I daresay it was from two seasons ago.”
Mrs. Lyndon tut-tutted and agreed that she found it quite out of style for the wife of an earl, particularly the rose silk.
His mother looked up at him and indicated the chair to her right. “Come and sit with us, dear. Have you toured the house? Did you find it pleasing? And did you happen to glimpse Lady Emberley’s bonnet?”
“The house is exemplary. And no, I did not see this bonnet.” He strained to sound pleasant as he seated himself near the pair. “I’m sure, despite her bonnet’s dilapidation, that the lady herself is all that is proper and kind.”
His mother’s eyes widened at his subtle reprimand. “She would have been kinder had she worn a nicer bonnet. It hurt my eyes.”
“What of Mrs. Dawson’s hair?” Mrs. Lyndon asked. Both ladies tittered.
“Perhaps it is the style in Yorkshire,” said his mother. “But I found it so very…ugly. Yes, I cannot think of a milder word.”
“Hideous,” Mrs. Lyndon offered.
“Hideous is less mild,” the duchess chided her friend. “But called for in this case.”
Court sighed, almost wishing himself back in conversation with the chit beneath the desk. At least then he had been repeatedly asked to leave, whereas now, since he’d seated himself, he was stuck by courtesy for at least ten minutes.
“Honestly, Courtland, I wish you would not look so sour.” His mother leaned forward to tap at his knee. “You will have your hunting on the morrow, and many esteemed gentlemen to smoke and play cards with. And there are so many lovely ladies in attendance, all of them eager to meet a dashing and distinguished duke.”
“Are there?” he asked in a bored tone. “Too bad they are stuck with me.”
Her sharp hazel eyes snapped. “For Lady Darlington’s sake, you must make an effort to engage with her guests. Particularly the ladies. It is high time you settled on a bride.” His mother puffed up like a hen ruffling its feathers. “Perhaps gossip of your unfortunate proclivities will not have reached these remote moors.”
Court grimaced and considered, just for a moment, flinging himself from the nearby window. “Do not be offensive, mother.”
“Oh,” the duchess exclaimed. “Speaking of offensive, you will never guess who is here. Lord Morrow’s children! Do you remember the viscount? He was one of your father’s odder friends.”
“I never made his acquaintance.” He knew of him, although Viscount Morrow had retired from society in recent years. He remembered him as a studious, serious fellow, forthright in manners, which Court respected. His son, Mr. Barrett, was a few years younger than Court and not a member of his set.
His mother pounced on this lack of knowledge, eager to share what she’d learned. “Apparently Stephen Barrett is not the best sort. He is given to vice and leisure as are so many young men these days, and his sister is five seasons out now, poor dear. The ladies say she is woefully strange in manners. She must be tiresome to all the gentlemen,” she said in an aside to Mrs. Lyndon, who sighed appropriately.
Court arched a brow. “I thought Lady Darlington’s parties only had the quality.”
“Oh, you are very rude today.” His mother scowled and fluttered her fan. “Now, you see, Viscount Morrow was a particular friend of Lord Darlington in their younger days, and so they must be civil to his son and daughter. The son, at least, is engaged to the Earl of Needham’s daughter. Mr. Barrett must be dashing to win an earl’s daughter, or perhaps it’s the Morrow fortune.”
“What is left of it,” Mrs. Lyndon intoned.
“But you shall have to avoid the sister,” his mother said. “I heard at the Bettlemans’ ball in London last season, Lord Bettleman took pity on Miss Barrett and offered her a dance, and she spoke to him nearly the entire set on the topic of Mongol hordes.” His mother whispered the latter words as if they were not fit to utter aloud. “Can you imagine his chagrin?”
Mongol hordes? It could not be coincidence. Nothing in Court’s blasé expression revealed that he had already met this young woman—or that he had spent the last half hour trying to forget the image of her peering up from between his legs.
“And there was some debacle at Almack’s,” his mother continued, “so traumatizing to those in attendance that the ladies will not speak of it.”
The old women clucked at one another behind their fans. Miss Barrett seemed to have created significant mayhem across her five unsuccessful seasons, which wasn’t surprising considering what he knew of her thus far.
His mother’s lips went tight. “Suffice it to say, no one would associate with her after that. What a sorry situation for Lord Morrow,” she said to Mrs. Lyndon, who nodded in mournful agreement. “An odd daughter and a son who does not understand responsibility and couth. It is heartbreaking when sons disappoint, is it not, Mrs. Lyndon? Although, at least, Mr. Barrett has managed a fine match for himself.”
His mother gave him a speaking glance. Court ignored her and studied the floral pattern on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps Miss Barrett and I would make a good match. Perhaps I shall court her here in the north and bring home a bride. What do you think, mother? Might we suit?”
; The duchess gasped and feigned a fit of vapors while Mrs. Lyndon shook her head, her loose chin skin wiggling like a turkey’s wattle.
“You will do no such thing, Benedict Thomas William Hawthorne,” his mother cried. “Imagine, the Duke of Courtland paying his addresses to the daughter of a viscount. A peculiar daughter at that!”
Court glanced out the window at the late-summer moors. “I might like a wife with whom I can discuss Mongol hordes.”
His mother gave a beleaguered sigh and whispered viciously to Mrs. Lyndon. In truth, she had nothing to fear. He hadn’t the heart to court any woman at Sedgefield, peculiar or not. He was for cards and a little hunting. Otherwise, he would make himself scarce.
He would survive this house party just as he survived all the others he was compelled to attend.
Chapter Two: Magic
Every night after dinner, the entire company retired to Lady Darlington’s largest drawing room to socialize and make merry, and every night Harmony lagged behind, dreading the proceedings. There were refreshments and punch, and pleasant music provided by the more talented guests. The gentlemen asked all the ladies to dance, except for Harmony, who had not yet been invited to dance by anyone. She hid within the protective circle of her acquaintances, perfectly happy not to reveal her two left feet.
At least Stephen was having fun mucking about with Lady Smythe-Dorsey and Mrs. Waring every chance he got. When Harmony had confronted him about being unfaithful to his fiancée, he’d laughed at her. “You don’t understand the ways of society. These flirtations are perfectly acceptable. In fact, they’re expected at parties like these. It is better to be a jovial, sociable guest than a prim stuck-up like you.”
A prim stuck-up. Apparently this was the gentlemen’s assessment of her, along with the other usual descriptors, “strange” and “odd.” At least there was no gossip of her hiding under desks in libraries, even though three days had passed since her encounter with the Duke of Courtland. Something so horrifically embarrassing could only happen to her. She wondered why he did not tell tales about their meeting when he could so easily amuse his friends.
As for her friends’ staunch intentions to snub His Grace—every topic of conversation now revolved around him.
The duke did not appear anything like the villain they’d expected. His teeth were white and straight and his eyes intelligent, set off by dark eyebrows. His face was neither broad nor narrow, but just right, with a masculine nose and fine, well-shaped lips. His chin was strong without seeming pointy or prominent. Taken together, the duke was indeed dangerously handsome, though not in a classical sense. It was more that when one looked at the Duke of Courtland, one wished to keep looking.
But Harmony dared not. The duke had noticed her at dinner the very first night, his eyes glinting in wary recognition. His arch expression left no doubt he remembered how they’d met. Since then, she had kept her gaze on her lap or the carpet, leaving her friends to comment upon his every expression and movement from the corner where they spied on him.
“He is so tall,” Viola said breathlessly. “Each time I see him I am shocked by his height.”
Mirabel fingered her fan. “Look how he stares about at everyone without smiling. He is too severe.”
“His hair is disordered,” said another girl.
“I thought he would look older,” said Juliette. “He is old, is he not?”
“He does not dance with anyone,” sniffed Sybil. “How rude. He probably doesn’t know how.”
They fell silent, peeking at him from behind their fans. Harmony allowed herself a long look too, now that he was occupied talking to his friends. The duke was in evening black with a neatly tied cravat and elegant jewelry glittering at his neck and hands. Nothing too ostentatious. No, the ostentatious thing was the air of power and hauteur he wore as easily as his fine clothes. His expression was carefully neutral, yes, almost severe. His handsome features were framed by dark hair worn slightly longer than was the fashion. He did not smile, not even once, in the course of his conversations.
“I believe he can dance very well.” Mirabel’s voice sounded slow, almost predatory. She looked over her shoulder at Harmony. “You are the one who was willing to dance with him. Go stand near him and see if he’ll ask you.”
The girls tittered. Harmony set her chin. “I never said I was willing. I dislike dancing.”
Sybil’s lips curled. “I can’t imagine why. Come, ladies, let us rejoin the company of our young gentlemen. As for the Duke of Courtland, he may stand and glower all he likes but he shall not impress me.”
Harmony stayed behind, as they doubtless intended her to. The girls massed in the center of the drawing room, arranging themselves with their favored beaux for the next set as an old matron plinked doggedly at the piano. Harmony shouldn’t be jealous that her friends had such fun, that they enjoyed flirtation and the attentions of their suitors. She wished she wasn’t jealous, but in quiet, weak moments, she desperately wanted to be like them. She wanted gentlemen to shoulder each other out of the way for her attention, to hang on her every word, however vapid those words would have to be. She wished a gentleman, just one gentleman, would notice her.
But then she remembered that she didn’t like to be vapid, and she didn’t wish her entire life to revolve around the attention of men.
There was only one man among the guests who interested her anyway, and that was the mysterious, worse-than-a-rake duke. What were his uncomfortable habits? How many mistresses did he have and what awful things did he do to them, that Lady Sybil’s papa must strike the duke from his list of acceptable candidates for her hand? The duke did not seem at all perverse in his manners. In fact, he had been quite civil to her when she’d surprised him under Lord Darlington’s desk.
Harmony watched as the wealthy peer drifted into the card room and out again, then went to the punch bowl for a drink. His hair was slightly unconventional, perhaps due to a mild case of curls. One dubious aspect of an otherwise very sedate person. Harmony dropped her gaze from his hair and stared at his gloved hands. Even across the room she could tell the duke’s gloves were impeccably fitted, of utmost quality. Everything about him screamed quality and propriety, and nothing uncomfortable at all. She rubbed her eyebrows and forced herself to stop staring. She was no better than her friends, speculating endlessly about him.
“Miss Barrett. Must you hide your beauty back here in this corner? It is not fair.” The booming voice of elderly Lord Monmouth startled her, along with the noisy creaking of his stays. Behind him, her brother gave her an urgent look. “Might I have the next dance, madam?” the old earl asked.
Harmony schooled her face to careful blankness even though she was quailing inside. Lord Monmouth was a kind man but his teeth were decaying and his figure was very…round. She forgot all about the sleek dark duke as she stared in horror at the earl’s extended arm.
“Lord Monmouth, forgive me, but I’m not feeling my best at the moment. I’m really too…”
Her brother caught her eye and glared a threat at her.
“I’m really too…bloated from dinner to…dance yet…” she finished weakly, eyeing Lord Monmouth’s rotund belly straining above his breeches.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Lord Monmouth grunted, his expression hardening. “I pray you feel better soon. Good evening to you.” Without further ado, he stalked past her brother and disappeared into the adjoining salon to join the other gentlemen at cards.
“Harmony!” Her brother vibrated with frustration. “Lord Monmouth is a widower. A rich widower, you twit. What of finding a match?”
“You cannot think I’d wish to marry that ancient gentleman?”
“What do your wishes have to do with anything?” Stephen pulled her up, wrenching her arm in the process. “I had to play nice with the man for nearly an hour, regaling him with tales of how sweet and misunderstood you are only to get him to come over here. And you—” He pinched her elbow painfully. “You tell him you are too bloated to da
nce with him? I am sure he’s even now sharing that entertaining tidbit with his card partners, and they are all having a great laugh at your expense.”
“Let go of me.” If they pulled at each other any harder, they would draw attention to themselves. “Release me,” she hissed. “You are hurting me.”
“It’s what you deserve. And if you are feeling so bloated, you can very well retire to your room for the evening. It embarrasses me, the way you skulk about. You won’t be happy until we’re both utter laughingstocks.”
He grasped her arm and forced her forward so she had no choice but to trip across the room under his simmering control. They were nearly to the door when a sudden hush descended on the company. The Duke of Courtland stepped right in front of them, his face a polite but rigid mask. He nodded to her brother and then waited for Harmony to acknowledge him—which she did with a shocked stare. He bowed slightly.
“Madam, I am sorry to have not made your acquaintance before now.”
*** *** ***
Court wondered what had come over him.
Well, any polite guest owed it to the hostess to participate at least marginally in the entertainments. Or become one, if circumstances called for it. He wasn’t about to let Barrett drag off his sister before the whole group. The unfortunate young miss gawked at him. An offer of her hand would have been the appropriate way to proceed, but her brother still had her by the arm. Court glared at him so fiercely he released her and took a step back.
“Your Grace, I am d—deeply honored to introduce my sister, Miss Harmony Barrett.”
Court nearly lost his composure over her name. Harmony? “Chaos” would have been more fitting. “Miss Barrett,” he said, taking her now-proffered hand and raising it to his lips. “The honor is mine. Would you care to dance the next set?” He looked back at the massing couples, all of whom were staring at them. “It begins shortly.”
Her pale blue eyes widened as her fingertips fluttered in his grasp. “Dance it…with you?”
He looked around. “Who else?”
Disciplining the Duchess Page 2
