When the Duke Found Love

by Isabella Bradford

  “You’d probably be charged a good deal more for your ignorance,” Diana said wryly. She swiftly selected a dark purple silk moiré that was neither too wide nor too narrow, and requested that it be used for the ties as well as for the edging that bordered and bound the brim. Next she chose several small clusters of silk violets as trimmings, to be sprinkled with hand-sewn glass beads like dewdrops.

  “I want this hat dressed with elegant taste,” she explained to the assistant. “Nothing gaudy or coarse, to be sure. The lady for whom it is intended wishes to present a handsome appearance without being a slave to fashion.”

  “Yes, my lady, we can make it so,” the assistant said. “Will you return for it tomorrow, my lady, or shall I have it sent?”

  “We’ll wait,” Sheffield said. “I wish Lady Diana to approve the finished hat before it is sent.”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but that could take several hours,” the assistant said anxiously. “A hat is not like a gown. Only one milliner may work on it at a time, and to maintain the quality—”

  “Why don’t you pin things in place and then show it to me?” Diana suggested. “I’ll be able to judge well enough from that to assure His Grace.”

  The assistant made a quick curtsey before she left and took the hat to the workroom upstairs to be dressed.

  “I cannot wait until it’s finished,” Diana said, coiling one of the ribbons left on the counter around her fingers to give herself something to do that wasn’t staring at Sheffield. “When Charlotte leaves, I must go with her in her carriage.”

  “You could come with me in mine,” he said. “I wouldn’t object.”

  She frowned at him. “I could not,” she said firmly. “That would not be proper, as you know perfectly, perfectly well.”

  He sighed, and shook his head. “True enough. You might be tempted to throw yourself upon me and kiss me again.”

  “Hush!” she whispered fiercely, glancing around to make sure no one else had heard him. “What has possessed you to speak so?”

  “No one is paying any attention to us at all,” he said. “Look around you. They’re all far too engrossed in the breathless pursuit of beribboned folly to listen to our tedious conversation.”

  He was right, blast him. Once the sensation of the arrival of the Duke of Sheffield had faded, the women had returned intently to their own business and conversations, and while the shop remained crowded, she and Sheffield might have been alone in an empty field for all that anyone else was eavesdropping. Absently she released the end of the ribbon wrapped around her finger and watched it spiral wildly free before it dropped to the counter.

  A warning, a caution: She must stay tightly wrapped and not slip, not even for a moment, or she, too, would unravel and fall.

  “No one will listen so long as you do nothing foolish to draw attention to yourself,” she warned, shifting back on her stool as far from him as she dared. Because they were in a crowded shop, he was sitting much closer to her than he ever would in a drawing room, his knees touching her skirts. No one else thought anything of it, but she was almost painfully aware of his proximity, the peril of all that potent maleness simmering beside her. “You must not draw attention to me, either.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” he assured her. “I’ve given my word to your sister that I would be on my best behavior, and I couldn’t possibly break my word to March’s wife.”

  The way he was smiling did not put her at ease. She’d forgotten (or tried to forget) his eyes, their gray-blue color made the more striking by his dark lashes. Whenever he smiled, the warmth showed in his eyes, too, and made it almost impossible not to smile in return.

  “If you vex Charlotte,” she warned, “then they’ll all know. March, and Mama, and Aunt Sophronia, and Brecon, too. She’d probably even let Hawke and my other sister Lizzie know, clear in Naples, so they could be unhappy, too. You know how such things happen in families.”

  “I don’t, actually,” he said. “I have no brothers or sisters, and both my parents are dead. Except for Brecon, I’ve been my own family for so long that I have no grounds for knowledge.”

  She could tell he was trying to keep his voice light, to match the rest of their bantering conversation, but he couldn’t quite do it. His smile had faded and his eyes had become less teasing, and she sensed that, despite making a jest of it, he would much prefer to have a family than not.

  “I’m sorry, Sheffield,” she said softly, unable to imagine her own life without her sisters or mother, and she longed to place her hand on his arm, or make some other little gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he asked, instantly retreating from the confidence. “It’s not your fault. It’s simply how things are.”

  “It is,” she said, “but you needn’t be so—so fateful about it. My father died before I was born, yet I will always regret not having him in my life, to love and guide me as a father should.”

  He was watching her closely, carefully, as if waiting for her to say something that would wound. “You have your sisters and mother still.”

  “I do, and now you have us Wylders for family as well.” Why should he be so defensive? She knew better than to pity men, but she hadn’t thought there’d be harm or shame in saying she was sorry. She’d simply shown sympathy for his lack of family, that was all. “Whether you wish it or not, you’re bound to us now, too, through Charlotte and Lizzie.”

  “So I have noticed.” He relaxed, his charming smile once again firmly in place. “I dally in France for a few years, and when I return, there are Wylders sprouting everywhere, like mushrooms after a rainy night.”

  “Mushrooms?” she repeated, laughing in spite of herself. While it was not very flattering to be compared to a mushroom, his observation was so outlandish that she couldn’t help but be amused, imagining her mother and her sisters with pale, spreading mushroom hats on their heads. “Is that how you think of us?”

  “In a way,” he said, clearly teasing now. “It’s rather apt, considering how quickly your sisters have sprouted on our family tree, and adding children willy-nilly, too. Worst of all, once you marry, we’ll have Crump there, too, bobbing away like a sour apple from one of the farthest branches. Faith, to think I’d ever be related to that man, however distantly!”

  Now Diana was the one who grew guarded, wishing for all the world that Sheffield had not introduced Lord Crump into what had been a wonderfully silly conversation.

  “You will be linked to his lordship only by marriage,” she said, “and most distantly at that. And where is the shame in being connected to such a good and honorable gentleman?”

  “Because he hated your hat,” Sheffield said. “That’s reason enough.”

  Her hands flew up to her hat, as if to protect every silk flower and bow from disparaging men, especially in a milliner’s shop.

  “His lordship did not exactly say he hated my hat,” she said. “Rather he asked if I liked it, and I said I did, and then he said he liked it, too.”

  “Which is to say he hated it,” Sheffield said with relish. “Despised it outright, and wished it straight to the devil, never to be seen on your head again.”

  Diana gasped, her eyes wide.

  “Do not put words into his lordship’s mouth!” she exclaimed, doubting that Lord Crump ever wished so much as a flea straight to the devil. “I don’t recall you praising my hat, either.”

  His gaze rose at once from her face to the hat. “But I do like it. I like it very much. Why else would I have wanted its twin made for Lady Enid?”

  “Why indeed?” Perplexed, she lowered her voice and leaned closer to him, so close that likely the most exuberant bows on the hat in question were somewhere over his own head. “Pray recall who I am, Sheffield, and, more important, what I know. Why would you insist on giving Lady Enid such a hat—or any hat, for that matter—when in truth she won’t give a fig about any of your gifts unless they come from—from another?”

  He frowned and did not answer beyond
heaving a monumental sigh. Then he shook his head and stared down at the counter, lightly drumming his fingers on the polished wood.

  It all seemed overly dramatic to Diana. “So is it another secret, Sheffield? A secret so heinous you cannot share it?”

  He raised only his glance to look at her, leaving his face turned down in a doleful manner.

  “It’s not a secret,” he said. “It’s more of a confession.”

  “A confession?” she said uneasily. She could scarcely imagine the kinds of confessions Sheffield might make. “Are you certain Mrs. Hartley’s shop is the best place for confessing?”

  “You asked earlier if I meant to provoke you,” he said, “and I did. I called at Marchbourne House, and when the footman told me you and Charlotte were here, I followed.”

  “You asked for me?” she repeated, startled. The footman naturally would have told Mama, and Mama would have not been pleased to hear of it.

  “I asked for Charlotte,” he said. “I guessed you’d be together, and you were. The hat is no more than an excuse, a reason for me to enter this shop. There seemed no other way to see you, considering how you’ve been avoiding me these last days.”

  “I haven’t been avoiding you,” she said. “That is, I have been going about my own life, without thought of you one way or the other.”

  That wasn’t true, not when she’d spent the last nights awake and thinking of him. But that was what she should have done, however, so there could be no real harm in saying so. Besides, he was the one determined to confess, not her.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said, more moody than confessional. “After the park, I’d have thought you wanted to see me as well.”

  Now she frowned, too, wishing he didn’t sound so much like a spoiled boy—albeit a handsome and virile one—who wasn’t getting his way. Of course, dukes were spoiled boys who generally did get their way; she’d seen that often enough with March and Charlotte. But in this case, Sheffield wasn’t going to.

  “What I want, and what you want, doesn’t matter,” she said, as patiently as if she were addressing one of her nephews. “Your betrothal may be a sham, but mine is not. I belong to Lord Crump. You have no right to see me, and it will be much better for us both if you don’t.”

  “It’s your fault,” he said mournfully. “If you hadn’t kissed me that first time, none of this would have happened. Now you have bewitched me, and it’s your obligation to help me recover.”

  “Sheffield, please. You are not serious, are you?” she asked, incredulous and overwhelmed, too. At first she’d thought this was more of his flirtatious teasing, but now she wasn’t as sure. Yet she couldn’t believe he was saying such things with such conviction, especially not in this shop with a score of other women around them.

  “Or are you simply mad?”

  “If I am mad,” he said sadly, “then that is your fault, too.”

  She had to pause for a moment to control herself, to be sure she did not raise her voice with frustration. The more he talked like this, the more confused and uncertain and unhappy she became herself.

  And, heaven save her, a mournful, melancholy Sheffield was ten times as devastating as a jolly one.

  “It can’t be my fault, Sheffield,” she said at last. “At least not how you paint it.”

  He nodded gravely, letting her believe he agreed.

  “Another confession, then,” he said. “And I will agree that it wasn’t your kiss that bewitched me.”

  “I am thankful for that,” she said, rubbing her fingers nervously over her beaded bracelet. “I’d not wish myself to be such a—a demon as that.”

  “No demon kiss,” he agreed. He sat upright on the stool and reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, the one where gentlemen kept their valuables. “You recall that first afternoon, when Fantôme found you amongst the trees?”

  “You’re supposed to have forgotten that day, as should I,” she said softly. She couldn’t guess what he’d drawn from his pocket. Hidden by his fingers, it looked like a small scrap of linen, wrapped around something else.

  “But you haven’t, have you?” he said. “Nor have I. Look. Here’s the proof. I’ve carried it with me ever since.”

  He put the little linen bundle in his palm and opened it. There in his hand lay the silk flower he’d plucked from her hat that first day, a perfect match to the ones that were still blooming on her crown now. She could not believe that he’d kept it. Most gentlemen who claimed tokens like that didn’t, especially from women whose names they did not know.

  But Sheffield had. And he’d done it because the flower had belonged to her.

  Stunned, she looked from the flower to his face. His expression was an odd mixture of sheepishness and pride, with a measure of defiance, too.

  “You’re going to laugh,” he predicted grimly. “You think me a great sentimental oaf, don’t you?”

  “Here is the hat, my lady, as you requested,” the assistant said, returning with the newly trimmed hat for Lady Enid. “To be sure, it is not finished, my lady, not as we like our hats to be here at Hartley’s, but her ladyship can consider the placement of the flowers.”

  At once Sheffield covered the flower in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. He turned away from Diana to greet the assistant, visibly composing his face into a charming smile for her sake.

  “Truly you have wrought a miracle,” he declared, his smile warming as he saw her smile. “Lady Diana, do you approve?”

  “Yes—yes,” stammered Diana, not yet adept at making such a swift transition. She stared down at the hat, striving to make a coherent comment. “The color of the ribbon is as handsome against the straw as I’d hoped, and the flowers are most cunningly arranged. But perhaps another bow behind them, as a frame?”

  “An excellent suggestion, my lady,” the assistant said, nodding. “Does her ladyship wish to review the hat again?”

  “I’m sure it will be acceptable,” Sheffield said. “As soon as it is completed, have it sent to Lady Enid Lattimore.”

  “I am finished, Diana,” Charlotte announced cheerfully, standing to go. She glanced down at the small gold watch at her waist. “My, look at the hour! Come, we must be off.”

  “Yes, Charlotte,” Diana murmured, sliding from her stool. She wished Sheffield would look at her again, just her, the way he had before. Now she almost wondered if she’d imagined the little flower in his hand.

  “Sheffield, good day,” Charlotte was saying, giving him her hand to kiss. “I trust we shall be seeing you again soon. Pray bring Lady Enid to me, too. Diana has sung her praises so highly that I cannot wait to meet her.”

  “I should be honored,” he said, bowing over her hand, “and so shall Lady Enid, I’m sure.”

  “And her ring!” Charlotte said. “I do so wish to see her betrothal ring. Diana told me it was quite magnificent. I pray that Lord Crump will soon give her one to equal it.”

  Diana winced. Doubtless Sheffield had noticed she’d yet no ring on her finger, but still she wished Charlotte hadn’t called his attention to it so obviously.

  “I’m sure his lordship will soon, Charlotte,” she said. “You know how his affairs occupy his time.”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte agreed, and with obvious approval, too. “It’s the price a gentleman must pay if he wishes to accomplish grand things in this world.”

  “I’m certain Lady Diana understands,” Sheffield said, taking her hand in farewell. “The wife of such a gentleman pays a similar price. Good day, Lady Diana, and thank you again for your opinions.”

  She smiled at him, but his smile in return was the same one he’d granted to Mrs. Hartley and her assistants, the smile of perfunctory charm that came to him without thinking. As delightful as it was, there was nothing in that smile that spoke of shared secrets or confidences, or of kisses stolen and given. There was certainly none of the vulnerability that he’d dared to let her glimpse when he’d shown her the silk flower from her hat.

  Was Sheffie
ld protecting her by treating her like all the others, without any special respect or regard? Or were his earlier confidences—“confessions,” he’d called them—only the guile of a worldly gentleman too practiced in pleasing ladies?

  She did not begin to know, and as she joined Charlotte in their carriage, her thoughts were in almost as great a confusion as her emotions.

  “Sheffield looks well,” Charlotte said as the carriage drew away from the shop. “There’s a new purpose and direction to his manner that is most pleasing. Clearly he has finally found the one woman to make him forget all the others, exactly as Brecon and March had hoped for him. Though who can truly know the heart of a gentleman like Sheffield?”

  She chuckled, but Diana did not join her. Who indeed truly knew the heart of the handsome, charming Duke of Sheffield?

  Not I, she thought miserably, not I.

  A blithering, babbling idiot.

  Nearly two weeks had passed since Sheffield had watched Diana leave the milliner’s shop, yet he still could not recall that afternoon without coming to the same judgment regarding himself. She’d told him she did not want to be alone with him, she’d defended her betrothed, she’d told him to forget they had ever kissed. He’d responded by behaving like a mooncalf, telling her how he was bewitched and befuddled by her, how he could not put her from his mind, how he was desperate to see her alone again. He’d confessed it all, even used that very word, confession, as if he needed to grovel for her approval and absolution.

  Then, as if that had not been enough, he’d showed her the silk flower that he’d plucked from her hat the first day he’d seen her, before he’d even known who she was, the flower he’d kept like a talisman ever since. No wonder she’d been left speechless by that. What could any lady say?

  Nothing. Except that the Duke of Sheffield, famous for his charm and the ease with which he could seduce the most worldly of women, had been undone by a country-bred virgin who’d promised to wed the dullest man in all Britain.

  Oh, yes, he was a blithering, babbling idiot, and no one was going to persuade him otherwise.