The Duke's Dilemma

by Nadine Miller

Then, in a hoarse whisper added, “There’s more I could tell you about this fine Duke of Montford, Miss Emily. Much more. Tales I’ve heard in the servants’ hall about goings on at Brynhaven as would fair curl your hair.”

  “And I shall want to hear them, Hawkes,” Emily whispered back. Ordinarily she cared nothing for servants’ gossip, but in this case, it behooved her to learn all she could about the haughty duke. How else could she hope to save her poor cousin from a fate she was now certain would be worse than death for a sensitive little innocent like Lucinda?

  Moments later, with the help of a sleepy young footman, Emily located a set of French windows in a small salon at the rear of the duke’s mammoth country house and stepped through them onto a wide stone terrace overlooking an extensive parterre garden. She stood for a moment, fascinated by the stylized beauty of the colorful display, yet strangely repelled by the way the landscape artist had constricted nature to fit his own narrow concepts. To her way of thinking, the formal pattern of walks and flower beds and neatly clipped hedges more closely resembled one of Aunt Hortense’s Aubusson carpets than a garden.

  For nearly an hour she wandered down one gravel path after another until she came to a collection of topiary shrubs groomed to resemble horses and dogs and sheep and something she suspected, from pictures she’d seen, was meant to be an Indian elephant. This final desecration of nature might suit the “particular” duke; Emily found it an insult to the Creator. She shuddered, feeling a frantic need to escape this artificial world the frivolous Duke of Montford had designed for himself.

  Hurrying down a gravel path, she passed a collection of Greek statuary and circled a miniature replica of the Parthenon; then, to her surprise, she found herself staring across a shallow ha-ha at a grassy meadow which looked amazingly like the one adjoining the cottage in which she had spent the first twenty-four years of her life.

  The fence at the bottom of the depression was just high enough to keep the sheep pastured beyond from dining on the succulent contents of the formal gardens, yet low enough to be hidden from the view of the manor house windows. Without a moment’s hesitation, she scrambled down the rock-strewn bank of the ha-ha, climbed over the fence and up the other side to where nature had been left to her own devices. She breathed a sigh of relief. This was more like it—there was no evidence of the duke’s fine hand here.

  She could see a stand of birch trees at the far end of the meadow, their leaves fluttering in the breeze like a great flock of silver butterflies, and, beyond them, the crystal waters of a small lake sparkled in the early morning sun. Like a child released from a tedious schoolroom, Emily gave a joyous cry, picked up her skirts and ran pell-mell across the open meadow toward the inviting scene.

  Minutes later, warm-cheeked and breathless, she stood on the edge of the lake. For the first time since she’d boarded the London coach in her tiny village in the Cotswolds two months earlier, she felt at peace with the world.

  With a deep breath of the cool morning air, she spread wide her arms and reveled in the blessed silence of this lovely spot. None of the rude noises of the city here. No carriages bumping over cobblestones, no vendors hawking their wares, no babble of voices nor clatter of horses’ hooves along congested streets. Just the sighing of the breeze through the trees and now and then the mournful bleating of a lamb for its ewe mother.

  The bleating grew more insistent, and Emily looked about her to discover the source. It was immediately evident. At a nearby spot where the bank stood level with the lakeshore, a lamb that looked to be but a few days old stood withers deep in the water. From the skid marks at the lake’s edge, it was obvious the tiny creature had lost its footing while trying to drink and slid into the lake and now was too frozen with fear to try for dry land on its own.

  Emily worked her way to within a few feet of the mired lamb, but it was too far out in the water for her to reach it. She tried coaxing it to come to her; but with every word she uttered its eyes grew wilder, its bleating louder.

  Finally, in desperation, she removed her boots and stockings, knotted her skirt between her legs above her knees and waded in after it. She had just managed to get her arms around the noisy, dripping creature when she heard the sound of hoof beats and, looking up, found she had an audience. One glimpse of the black-haired man astride the midnight black horse, and her heart nearly stopped. “The duke,” she gasped, clutching the noisy, wriggling lamb to her chest.

  Then she looked again. This man might have shockingly similar facial features and coloring, but he was a far cry from the fastidious Duke of Montford. With his blue-black hair wildly windblown and his rugged jawline darkly shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, he looked more like a highwayman than a titled aristocrat. Tight fitting black trousers, mud-covered boots and a wide-sleeved homespun shirt open at the throat completed the thatch-gallows look of the handsome stranger.

  He leaned forward in the saddle until he was almost directly above her. “The sights one sees on an early morning ride,” he remarked with a chuckle—further proof he was anyone but the Duke of Montford. Emily was certain that stiff-necked peer of the realm would never be guilty of anything as undignified as chuckling.

  She took a closer look and found another striking difference between the two men. Unlike the chilling disdain she’d seen in the duke’s pale eyes, the eyes staring down at her fairly sparked with laughter.

  “I suppose you must have a reason for bathing that lamb,” he said, surveying her with obvious skepticism, “but I cannot, at the moment, think what it might be.”

  Emily was not in the mood for idle banter—especially from this scruffy example of local manhood. Her feet and legs were turning blue with the cold, her stomach rumbled with hunger, and the smell of wet wool was beginning to make her feel decidedly queasy. “I am not bathing him, you looby,” she stated indignantly. “I am rescuing him. He fell in the water and could not get out by himself.”

  “Looby?” One black eyebrow shot upward. “You have an incautious tongue, miss. I cannot remember when anyone has dared address me so before.”

  Emily raised an eyebrow of her own. “Well how do you expect me to address you, sir, when you sit warm and dry on your fine horse and leave a lady to stand in freezing water? Anyone but a looby would have offered me assistance the moment he rode up.”

  The stranger’s hearty laugh shattered the stillness of the morning. “I beg your pardon, ma’ am. My wits must have temporarily gone begging. I was not aware I was in the presence of a lady. But then one so seldom finds a lady unescorted and knee deep in a lake at this hour of the morning.” So saying, he leaned even farther forward in the saddle, grasped Emily around the waist and hauled her, lamb and all, onto the bank with the same ease as another man might lift a feather.

  Emily set the lamb on its feet, watched it scamper away, and hastily untied her skirts, aware a bold, silver gaze had fastened on her bare legs, then traveled upward to where the bodice of her hand-me-down dress strained across her bosom. A strange, shivery sensation slithered through her. No man had ever before looked at her in such an assessing fashion; whoever this rakish fellow might be, be was certainly no gentleman.

  She picked up her boots and stockings and stared him defiantly in the face. “If you will be so good as to turn your head, sir, I shall finish dressing,” she said peevishly.

  “As you wish, ma’ am.” He shrugged his powerful shoulders negligently. “But I wonder to what avail. I have already seen what you have to offer.”

  Emily gasped, too shocked at this man’s effrontery to think of a ready answer. She quickly pulled on her stockings and boots and stalked away without another look in his direction. Moments later, to her disgust, she heard him ride up behind her. “You are heading in the wrong direction unless you mean to go to the manor house,” he said conversationally.

  Emily plodded ahead. “Not that it is any of your concern, sir, but that is exactly where I mean to go.”

  “You are not from the village then? How odd! You ce
rtainly have the look of a country woman.”

  “And you, sir, look amazingly like the Duke of Montford, which only proves how deceiving appearances can be.”

  “You know the duke?” He cantered forward and turned his horse to block her path.

  ” I do not know him, but I have seen him.”

  “And you can easily tell us apart? Now that is truly remarkable. I have been told we look enough alike to be twins.”

  “Hardly!” Emily took in his disreputable appearance. “Although I suppose, by some accident of birth, you could be a shirttail relation of sorts.”

  He grinned. “As a matter of fact, the duke and I did have the same father.”

  Emily stared at him mouth agape. This rogue was one of the former duke’s by-blows. No wonder he looked so much like the present duke. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she said stiffly. “My remark was most unseemly. Whatever else your shortcomings might be, you cannot be held to blame for the manner of your birth.”

  His grin widened, displaying a multitude of strong white teeth. “Truer words were never spoken, Miss…”

  “Miss Emily Haliburton,” she said automatically, still mortified at the thought of unwittingly casting aspersions on the unfortunate fellow’s lineage. “And you were right in your supposition. I am a country woman. From the Cotswolds, to be precise. I am just at Brynhaven for a fortnight. The duke is hosting a house party.”

  “So I’d heard.” He hesitated. “Of course, I only know the fellow by reputation, but rumor has it he is shopping for a wife.” He stopped short. “Never say you are one of the five…?”

  Emily laughed. “A mudhen amidst the swans? Not likely, sir.”

  “More like a plump little country sparrow, I should say.” His pale eyes raked her with a measuring gaze that noticeably quickened her already erratic heartbeat. “So then, Miss Emily Haliburton, late of the Cotswolds, how come you to be one of the duke’s guests?”

  “I am not a guest—merely a companion to my cousin, Lady Lucinda Hargrave, which explains why I am, as you pointed out, unescorted. A companion scarcely needs a companion, does she? Besides,” she added lamely, “I am no green girl straight from the schoolroom.”

  “I can see that,” he agreed so readily Emily felt certain she must have suddenly developed a full measure of crow’s feet and wrinkles.

  He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I take it Lady Lucinda is one of the five beauties vying for the duke’s hand.”

  “That is correct,” Emily said, cautiously circling the restless black stallion to make her way down the bank of the ha-ha. “I am here to offer the poor child what support I can.”

  “Poor child? One would think your cousin had been sentenced to Tyburn,” he said, sounding a bit taken aback. “From what I’ve heard, Montford has the title and wealth to make him the catch of the season.”

  “If one is looking for a parti so high in the instep he comes close to tripping over his own nose each time he puts one foot in front of the other,” Emily acceded sourly. “It was inevitable that Lucinda should come to the attention of the duke; she is the most beautiful girl to make her come-out this season, but she is entirely too gentle and sensitive to endure life with such a such a man.”

  “Which translates into ‘the chit is a bit of a slow-top’ unless I miss my guess.” The stranger’s lips curled in a nasty smile. “So naturally, as companion to Lady Lucinda, the sharp-tongued Miss Emily Haliburton is expected to supply the brains which the lovely dimwit needs to trap the hapless duke into marriage. How could such a combination fail? I’ve been told the high flyers of the ton are a perverted lot. A ménage à trois may be just the thing to whet the appetite of a roué like Montford.”

  “Why, you insufferable…” Emily sputtered, struggling to keep her temper under control and her skirts in place while she climbed over the low fence at the bottom of the ha-ha. She scrambled up the far bank, made a few quick repairs to her collapsing hairdo and looked back to find her tormenter watching her every move.

  “How dare you address me as if I were one of the tavern doxies with whom your kind associates,” she panted.

  “My kind!” The handsome devil let out a howl of laughter. “And what would a prim little country puss like you know about my kind?”

  To that insolent question, Emily could think of nothing sufficient to express her outrage.

  Under the circumstances, the only prudent move appeared to be immediate retreat. She had already stalked past the Grecian statuary and well into the parterre garden when it occurred to her that for a baseborn ruffian, this annoying fellow she had just traded wits with had had a rather amazing command of English.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The duke had still not made an appearance when Lady Hargrave, Lady Lucinda, and Emily joined the others for breakfast in the cheerful green and white morning room at five minutes before the hour of twelve noon. Lady Sudsley, however, made a point of informing them that their interim host, Mr. Rankin, had advised her personally that his grace had arrived at Brynhaven, but would not join his guests until dinner that evening.

  Lucinda was pale as a ghost. She had complained of a headache and begged to be allowed to remain in bed, but Lady Hargrave would have none of that.

  Emily sympathized with her cousin. She had a headache of her own—one that had started with the worrisome thought that very few low born fellows had the vocabularies of Oxford professors and had accelerated with her discovery that the tapes securing the back of her kerseymere gown had split open during her climb over the fence. No wonder that leering oaf, whoever he might be, had had such a smug expression on his face when she’ d reached the other side of the ditch. He must have gotten an eyeful of “what she had to offer” from his vantage point atop that devil horse of his.

  Lady Hargrave seemed entirely oblivious of the megrims suffered by the two young women accompanying her. She was much too eager to assess the “competition” already enjoying the lavish breakfast laid out on the sideboard to consider anything else.

  “Thank goodness I thought to have Madame Fanchon make up this French-green morning dress for me,” she whispered, when the guests looked up from their plates to cast critical eyes on the newcomers. She fluffed the neck ruffle of the fashionable creation which hugged her portly figure like a celadon sausage casing. “First impressions are so important.”

  Emily assumed it must be the four other anxious mamas she was endeavoring to impress since the duke had chosen to forego the privilege of viewing their daughters in all their morning finery.

  Mr. Rankin, who had leapt to his feet the moment they entered the room, stepped forward to introduce them to the assembled guests, including three passably pretty young blond ladies, Lady Sudsley s daughter (a ravishing redhead), four of London ‘s most dashing young Corinthians who looked enough alike to be brothers , and Percival Seymour Tremayne, the Earl of Chillingham. Emily had heard that the earl was heir presumptive to the Duke of Montford’ s title and estates until such time as the duke produced a son of his own.

  The earl appeared to be no more than twenty, with a thin, anxious-looking face, ears that protruded from the sides of his head like door knobs, and an oversized Adam’s apple which seemed to have a life of its own. He was a true pink of the ton, with collar points that stabbed his cheekbones, gleaming tasseled Hessians and a cutaway coat and breeches in remarkably vivid shade of rose. With his thatch of unruly straw-colored hair and attenuated physique, the heir presumptive closely resembled an upended broom with a pink handle, and Emily was hard put to keep from laughing when she saw his goggle-eyed reaction to her lovely cousin—until she caught Lucinda’s blushing response.

  Emily took another look at the gawky earl. Could this unlikely Galahad be the knight who would rescue the fair Lucinda from the dragon duke? Miracles had come wrapped in stranger packages than this, she told herself, and filed her observations away for future reference.

  Breakfast completed, Mr. Rankin announced that the duke had i
nstructed him to conduct a tour of Brynhaven for any of his guests who were interested. Lady Hargrave declined as her knees were still tender from her abortive curtsy, but she immediately pushed Lucinda forward. “Good way to see what will be yours one day,” she hissed, and since Lucinda had a death grip on Emily’s hand, the two found themselves part of the group of eager young ladies gathered around Mr. Rankin. Lady Sudsley and the other mothers followed close behind, with the male members of the party bringing up the rear—all except the Earl of Chillingham, who declared his intention of taking the tour even though he “knew the manor house as well as the back of his hand”…and promptly attached himself to Lucinda’s side with all the fervor of a honey bee hovering over the perfect flower. Lucinda, whose hitherto pale cheeks had miraculously regained their usual healthy glow, cast him a shy smile, and the earl’s Adam’s apple took such a leap, Emily was not the least surprised his precisely tied cravat ended up slightly askew.

  “We shall begin the tour in the domed entrance hall,” Mr. Rankin said and proceeded to give a brief history of the house and the seven eccentric dukes of Montford who had preceded the present holder of the title. Emily was intrigued by both the colorful stories and the wry humor with which Mr. Rankin related them, but she could see he was drawing nothing but yawns from the rest of the group.

  From there, he led them through the vast ballroom with its banks of crystal teardrop chandeliers and rows of cheval mirrors extending the to ceiling, then into the duchess’s private salon, also known as the gold salon, since the walls were covered with pale green satin embossed with paper-thin gold leaf foil in a floral motif.

  Lady Sudsley plopped her ample frame onto the nearest Hepplewhite chair and announced that she was perfectly content to forego the balance of the tour and spend the next hour in this delightful room. The other ladies immediately decided to join her, and from the avaricious looks cast on the delicate objets d’art with which the room abounded, it was obvious to Emily that each was laying plans for the day when her daughter would be the next duchess to claim ownership of the salon and its priceless contents. For the first time, she found herself feeling a little sorry for the high and mighty Duke of Montford. With all his wealth and power, he would never know the kind of unquestioning devotion her sweet-natured mother had lavished on her impractical father.