She gave Miss Peppertree a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, you silly goose.”
“You don’t know about him, do you?” Miss Peppertree was edging away, a frown of impending doom settling over her thin, pale face.
“What?” Harriet scoffed. “Are you going to tell me that he’s a rake? That all the ladies fall at his feet? You ought to be used to that sort of nonsense by now. I have never known a Boscastle who was a saint.”
“You have never known one who murdered his brother for a dukedom, either,” Miss Peppertree whispered in a dire voice.
Harriet snorted at the warning.
Duke or darling. In her estimation, his grace’s arrival would prove much ado about nothing. He wouldn’t be the first nobleman to be accused of doing away with his brother for an inheritance. That was actually none of her business. What involved her was that he had chosen to darken the academy’s door on the very afternoon she had meant to distinguish herself. To think she had purchased a new frock for the occasion with her paltry savings. The duke would not care.
No doubt he would blow in and out of the school as swiftly as the present storm. He would drop off his ward as casually as the morning post and expect her to be transformed into a proper miss by his next return.
And it might well happen. But not until everyone stopped oohing and aahing and got back to work.
“One more thing,” Miss Peppertree said at her shoulder. “Do you know what he is named for?”
Lord help her. What a time for a history lesson. “Another duke?”
“Not his title-his given name.”
“I shall hardly be on a first name-” Harriet gave a sigh. Far be it for her to spoil Daphne’s small pleasures in life. “Go on. What is his name?”
“It is Griffin.”
Harriet waited a few moments for further clarification. When none appeared to be forthcoming, she released her breath. “Well, I’m glad you told me. I shall bear that in mind when I bring him in from the storm.”
“You have no idea what a griffin is, do you?”
Harriet hung her head. “You have caught me out again.”
“It is a fabled beast.”
She glanced inadvertently at the window. “And here I thought I was greeting an ordinary duke.”
“There is no such thing,” Miss Peppertree said, sounding oddly pleased.
“As a griffin?”
“A sharp tongue will not protect you from the world, Harriet.”
“I know that better than anyone you have ever met.”
Miss Peppertree sniffed. “I admit that when you first came to the academy, I thought you were a hopeless cause. But I have seen you transformed into a living young lady one could almost admire.”
Harriet smiled. “That is high praise, indeed, coming from your lips. But I have to ask-Do griffins attack young girls in particular?”
Miss Peppertree blinked repeatedly. “I would imagine that they attack anything that attracts their notice. They have a lion’s body, a beaked eagle’s head, and-”
Harriet nodded thoughtfully. “That must make it difficult for him to drink tea, speaking of which-”
“-they have wings!”
Harriet had heard enough. “Then he should have flown here, instead of riding in a coach. Honestly, Daphne, a woman of your age should not believe such nonsense.”
“He is a duke, Harriet. A duke.”
Resigned to the whims of the nobility, Harriet hastened into the entry hall. To her surprise, half of the academy’s staff had already emerged from the bowels of the house to observe the occasion. The portly butler, Ogden, proceeded at a sedate pace to the front door, as was his custom, in order to set a proper example to those who served in lesser positions.
“His Grace the Duke of Glenmorgan has arrived!” the head footman, Trenton, shouted back to the underfootman, Raskin, who was hurriedly tying one of his knee breeches with a trio of maidservants trailing amusedly in his wake. Harriet would have scolded the lot of them had she not suddenly lost her voice.
Chapter Two
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
The Cloud
He stood in the doorway, utterly silent, his presence so imposing that Harriet felt as if time had taken a step back to assess him. Suddenly the butler, the footmen, the maid bringing another platter of sandwiches for tea, seemed at a loss as to how they should proceed. They stared at Harriet, awaiting her direction.
But she was staring at the cloaked duke, who must have wondered whether he’d arrived at a house of eccentrics. Raindrops slid from the brim of his black silk hat and ran into the faint lines carved into his cheeks. He glanced back at the carriage parked in the street. She studied his profile. He had a sharp blade of a nose, a cleft in his chin. When he turned again, his metallic-blue eyes cut straight to Harriet, riveting her to the spot.
He’s young, she thought. And he looks a proper beast.
He wrenched off his sodden top hat. The thunderclap that accompanied this impatient gesture deepened the tension that had gripped his spellbound audience.
“Is this or is this not Lady Lyons’s Academy for Young Ladies?” he demanded.
The butler passed the soggy hat to one of the footmen. A maid ran forth to take the dark one’s cloak, only to realize she was still holding a tray. Her hands trembled. The tray wobbled. Harriet was afraid she would scatter a carpet of her watercress sandwiches at the duke’s feet.
He stepped into the hall. A spray of cold wet air and indescribable energy accompanied his entrance. Harriet noticed that there were raindrops caught in his indecently thick eyelashes.
“This is not Lady Lyons’s Academy for Young Ladies, is it?”
His voice, a rich, melodious lilt, reminded Harriet that it was her duty to give him a proper reception, not to admire the length of his ducal lashes. He had brought his niece all the way from the Welsh-English border to the academy with the assumption that it was well worth the trouble. Harriet had been entrusted with offering him a courteous welcome.
“Your grace,” she said, sinking into a curtsy, “we are called the Scarfield Academy now. And-”
She broke off in embarrassment. The butler was bowing, the two footmen following suit, with the three maids dipping up and down in jerky motions that made her feel dizzy. What had come over everyone? They looked like a collection of windup toys whose springs had gone askew.
“Well, whatever this place is called,” the duke said over Harriet’s head, “I hope that my aunt and niece might be allowed to take refuge from the storm.”
Harriet glanced up from his muddy black Hessian boots and straightened instantly. Through the curtain of rain that shimmered in the open doorway, she could see his coachman conversing with the academy’s stablemaster. From the carriage, a silver-haired lady was waving a lace handkerchief at the house like a naval officer flagging down a ship in distress.
“I do apologize, your grace.” She darted toward the door. “I shall bring them in straightaway.”
He stepped in front of her. “Have a footman attend to the task. With umbrellas if possible.” His disgruntled gaze seemed to absorb every detail of her appearance. “I’m in no mood to hear another lady complain that the wretched rain has ruined her hair.”
A test, Harriet told herself, inhaling quietly.
This was one of those social trials that sooner or later a woman in her position must face. She would remain unmoved by his curt manner. She would stand, in her mentor’s words, as a beacon of civility when battered by a storm of rudeness.
What misfortune that Harriet had loved thunderstorms since her earliest years.
Despite living in the miserable garrets of St. Giles and Seven Dials for most of her life, she associated storms with the few moments of family closeness she had ever known. She and her half brothers had often been forced to huddle together for warmth, sharing g
host stories to distract one another from the perishing cold. On some nights they might hide under a blanket from their father, predictably too drunk to recognize the sniggering dark shape in the corner as his own offspring.
Occasionally, after begging a pie vendor for his unsold wares, she and the boys would sneak into a swell’s carriage or scramble over a garden wall to take shelter in a summerhouse. Harriet would dub herself the Duchess of St. Giles, while her halves would alternately laugh at her or pay her court. When the storm ended, it was every urchin to himself. Weeks would pass without Harriet knowing where they were or what mischief they had followed.
And now here she stood with another storm raging, having no idea what to say to this gorgeous young duke, who apparently wasn’t inclined to make the situation the least bit easier.
The cultured voice of Charlotte Boscastle floated down from the top of the stairs to rescue her. “Griffin!” she exclaimed warmly. “How sad we were to hear of Liam’s passing. And please excuse us for not giving you a proper welcome. We thought you wouldn’t be here until… Thursday next.”
The reluctant smile he gave in answer disappeared before Harriet could recover from its impact. What did she know, anyway? Perhaps grief over his brother’s death had turned him hard. To look at him, it was impossible to judge whether he had committed murder for an inheritance or not. Miss Peppertree often proved to be an unreliable source of gossip. And while Harriet could not envision the well-mannered Charlotte changing into a fancier gown to impress a killer, Harriet had known of stranger reactions.
“I shan’t be long, your grace,” Charlotte added, her disembodied voice fading away. “Have Miss Gardner take you to the red salon for fresh tea.”
Harriet felt a surprising tug of resistance. The two footmen crept around her, umbrellas sprouting open like giant mushrooms. She gazed up at the staircase, calling out like a coward, “Perhaps I should stay with the girls and ask Miss Peppertree to do the honors.”
The duke’s voice mocked her attempt to elude her duty. “What’s wrong with you? You are here. She is not.”
She pressed her lips together. His imperious stare irritated her. So did the giggling whispers that escaped the drawing room where she had been about to make her own debut. She turned to see Miss Peppertree peering around the door at the duke with the intensity of a barn owl. Twelve students twittered in the background.
“That is Miss Peppertree in the doorway,” Harriet said, lowering her gaze. “I assure you, she will be able to satisfy your grace far better than will I.”
“I doubt it,” he said in unconcealed amusement, his gaze flickering to the figure in the door.
Harriet felt her face heat. Duke or not, he deserved to be taken down a notch for that. The butler edged to her side, whispering, “You don’t want to tangle words with a man like him, miss.”
No, but she might want to strangle him.
“Whispering to a guest is common, Miss Gardner.” The duke peeled off his black gloves and unfastened his coat. “Furthermore, I dislike tea. I am, however, in grave desire of a brandy and a moment’s solace. And you, in my estimation, appear more than capable of meeting those needs.”
Chapter Three
My first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.
MARY SHELLEY
Frankenstein
“As you wish, your grace,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “The salon is not far. Walk this way.”
“I assume there won’t be another coven of schoolgirls lying in wait for me there,” he said as he followed her hurried steps through the hall.
She drew a deep breath through her nostrils. It must be hard on the poor fellow, having women hiding behind doors wherever he went. “I apologize if the girls have embarrassed your grace. I shall guard you against any such further intrusions on your privacy.”
“You shall guard me?” he asked, looking her up and down in interest. “You won’t need a shield or teaspoon to defend us?”
“I have other weapons at my disposal.”
He smiled. “Do you, indeed?”
She marched her fastest to lead him into the room at the end of the hall reserved for special guests. He outpaced her with ease, his manner infuriating. “And what is my guardian’s name again, if you don’t mind refreshing my memory?”
“Miss Gardner. Harriet Gardner.”
He stared at her. “And do you have a guardian? Or are your hidden weapons enough?”
Heat stole into Harriet’s cheeks. Had he just asked her if she had an arrangement as a mistress to another man? Who did he think he was, asking her such an improper question? Did being a peer give him the right to pry into her personal affairs? And on the first day they’d met, too. She bristled to think what he’d want to know next week.
“It was a joke, Miss Gardner,” he said, shaking his head with the rue of a man accustomed to being misunderstood. “I was trying to put you at ease.”
“At ease,” she echoed.
He frowned. “It appears that I make a fearsome first impression. I don’t know how I do it. It isn’t intentional. But… I do.”
She nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“And I am hard to please.”
She swallowed. “Well, I do hope our brandy meets your standards.” She flung open the door to the private salon, which she had previously visited only as part of her academy training. She had never entertained an important visitor by herself before. However, as the daughter of a drunkard, she knew how to pour a measure of liquor when it was demanded. And she could bluff her way through most situations. “Does your grace-”
“Dear God!” he shouted, in a voice that took a year off her life. “The blasted room is on fire!”
Harriet gasped. So it was. She slipped around him to seek out the source of the noxious banks of smoke swirling around his tall form. The duke coughed, rather dramatically, in Harriet’s opinion, and rushed to open a window. Harriet winged to the fireplace, having quickly perceived the problem.
One of the academy’s staff, obviously terrified of displeasing the “Duke of Thunder,” had hurriedly lit a fire to warm the infrequently occupied room. In his or her haste, this well-meaning servant had tossed a wad of newspaper onto the grate as kindling, with disastrous results.
“Nothing to worry about, your grace,” she called over his discordant gasps for breath. “I’ll have it put out before you know it.” And she waited until his back was turned before falling to her knees to beat down the inferno with a brass shovel.
Horrible idea.
The smoke not only billowed, it blew soot everywhere, including into the unfairly beautiful face of the man who was suddenly bending over her in an apparent effort to help.
His voice thundered in her ear. “How could anyone possibly be so inept?”
That was it. Thus tested for the first time, she failed. She dropped the shovel onto the hearth, muttering, “Well, I beg your stinkin’ pardon.”
He picked up the shovel, leaning around her to smother the rest of the flames. He completed the task with an efficiency that made her efforts look like a pantomime. He laid the shovel down on the hearth. Then he settled onto his knees beside her.
Silence then.
Foul smoke and silence.
She sank onto her heels. Her eyes burned like… hot coals. Could she hope he hadn’t heard her impolite outburst? Should she distract him by pointing out that rain was splashing through the window he had opened and was saturating the wool peacocks that were woven into the elegant Brussels carpet? How was she going to land a position as a governess or stay on at the academy if she couldn’t hold her tongue?
She knew the rules. They had been drummed into her head often enough. If the duke wanted to admonish her, she was supposed to listen meekly and think of… well, of anything except how handsome he was or that, if he kissed her, she would at least have a plausible reason to accuse him of ruining her debut.
He turned his head. It w
as obvious by his expression that kissing her was the last thing on his mind.
He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say to me?” he asked, looking like Lucifer in the dissolving drifts of smoke.
She lifted her gloved hand to her heart, replying steadily, “I said that I beg your pardon for your grace having to breathe in such a… stink.”
A glimmer of understanding lit his face. The transformation reminded Harriet of that deceptive lull during a storm when the sun glances out through the thunderheads and gives false hope.
False proved that hope, indeed.
In the next moment she was staring into inscrutable darkness. His gaze dropped in slow deliberation.
She glanced down and immediately discerned the source of his enrapt scrutiny. Her battle with the fire had left an ugly smudge on her lavender bodice. The forget-me-nots that had sweetly adorned her bosoms stared up at her sadly with filthy, accusing faces. Their disgraced state dealt her the final blow. She had spent a pretty penny for this dress to celebrate her debut as a reformed member of Society. What a waste. She couldn’t let the girls see her like this. With a sigh, she pulled off her gloves and balled them up in her fist.
“I suppose it could have been worse,” he said, examining the rest of the room.
Harriet did not see how, at least not from her perspective. “Let me make sure that there’s a clean spot for you to sit,” she said quietly. “The smoke tends to settle everywhere. I do hate coal.”
“I should probably close the window.” He grasped her hand, an act she was too flustered to protest, and lifted her from the hearth. “And I shall take that brandy now, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded, staring past him to the marble-topped sideboard. If the glasses were dusty, she’d have to wait again until he wasn’t looking to give one a quick swipe with her sleeve. A drink would not help her dress, but it might put him in a better mood.
The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife Page 2
