The Duke's Dilemma

by Nadine Miller

  Their next stop was the duke’s library—an impressive collection of first editions that made Emily’s mouth water just gazing at them. From there, they moved on to the games room, where they lost several members of the party to the billiard table—all except the besotted young earl, who remained glued to Lucinda’s side while Mr. Rankin and the remaining members of his tour examined the manor’s many other salons, including the green salon, the blue salon, the Grecian salon and the pretentious Chinese salon, which the last duchess had furnished with a plethora of authentic Fourteenth Century red lacquer furniture and exquisite hand painted screens depicting the development of the arts during the Ming Dynasty.

  Lucinda pronounced this replica of the emperor’s throne room “very pretty and cozy,” and the earl fervently agreed, declaring it his favorite room at Brynhaven. Then, since Lucinda complained she was exhausted from the strenuous tour, he tucked her slender arm into his and led her through a convenient set of French windows to a bench in the Duchess’s rose garden. Emily watched them go with her blessing. With twenty-four guests and two hundred servants roaming about the house and grounds, she could see no impropriety in two starry-eyed young people sitting together in the spring sunshine.

  “You are obviously a patient woman, Miss Haliburton, as well as one with a forgiving disposition.” Mr. Rankin ‘s dark eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. “It is all too apparent I have bored the rest of our little group to flinders.”

  “I cannot imagine why,” Emily declared. “I found both your discourse and your delivery quite fascinating.”

  “Why thank you, Miss Haliburton.” An appreciative smile brightened Mr. Rankin ‘s thin face. “Would I be assuming too much then to hope you might wish to see more of the house?”

  Emily stared at him, dumbfounded. “Surely, sir, you cannot mean you would conduct a tour just for me.”

  “I cannot think of anything I would rather do,” he said earnestly. “The perceptive questions you’ve asked have shown you to be a highly intelligent young woman—something I rarely meet in my line of work.” He studied her closely. “You would not by any chance be related to the noted scholar, Sir Farley Haliburton, would you?”

  “He was my papa,” Emily said, flushing with pleasure. “You know his work?”

  “The duke and I have followed his research with great interest. In fact, two of his publications are in the library of the duke’s London townhouse.” He frowned. “But you referred to your father in the past tense. Could it be that the academic world has lost one of its most devoted researchers of ancient myths and legends?”

  “Papa died three months ago,” Emily managed in a choked voice. She looked away, avoiding Mr. Rankin ‘s perceptive gaze, lest he see the sudden tears misting her eyes.

  “My deepest sympathy, Miss Haliburton,” he said gravely. “We are all the poorer for his passing.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “With your permission, I will forego showing you the kitchens, the bakery and the orangery, unless you particularly wish to see them.”

  Emily shook her head, still too moved by this stranger’s sympathy to trust her voice.

  “And I doubt you would find the shops which headquarter the carpenters, painters, roofers, and masons of much interest. Suffice it to say, it takes a small army of such people to maintain a place this size.” He pulled a thin gold watch from his vest pocket. “I have an appointment with the duke in one hour, so we shall have to put off the stables until another day. Do you ride, Miss Haliburton?”

  “I rode a great deal in the Cotswolds. The squire whose land adjoined my father ‘s was happy to have someone take his nags for a gallop.” Emily managed a smile. “But I haven’ t ridden in the two months I’ve spent in London.”

  “Ah! Then we shall have to do something about that.” He offered her his arm. “But in the meantime, we have just enough time to see one of Brynhaven ‘s most interesting rooms—the family portrait gallery. Unfortunately it is located in another wing of the house, but if you have no objections to a bit of a walk.”

  “I don’t mind a walk in the least.”

  “Capital! Then if you would care to take my arm, Miss Haliburton, we shall wend our way through the labyrinthine halls of Brynhaven and hopefully become better acquainted in the process.”

  Emily couldn’t remember when she’d met anyone as kind or as easy to converse with as the duke’s mild-mannered man-of-affairs. One thing led to another and before they reached their destination, she found herself telling him about the disquisition on ancient Mesopotamian legends which her father had been working on at his death. She was in the process of confessing her intention to complete it for publication in his name when the footman who accompanied them opened the door to the vast, hall-like gallery. The words froze on her tongue when she found herself staring at a life-sized portrait of the first Duke of Montford.

  “Handsome fellow,” Mr. Rankin remarked. “And the present duke looks exactly like him. In fact, as you’ll see as we progress from one generation to another, all the Dukes of Montford bear a striking resemblance to one another.”

  Emily nodded. The frenzied thumping of her heart made speech impossible. She had recognized a similarity between the present Duke of Montford and her morning’s tormenter, but this portrait made her realize just how similar the two of them were. Her heart skipped a beat. If indeed there were two of them!

  The inscrutable silver eyes staring down at her from the wall of the gallery looked frighteningly familiar, as did the raven hair and sensuous mouth, the powerful shoulders and lean hips. Except for his ninth century costume, this haughty aristocrat who had originated the Montford dynasty could easily have been the mysterious stranger she’d encountered on her morning walk.

  She closed her eyes and willed her heart to stop its thunderous pounding. But her mind flooded with memories—of a rich, cultured voice and strong, tapered fingers grasping her about the waist. And something else she hadn’t registered at the time A heavy, gold signet ring on the third finger of the stranger ‘s left hand.

  She opened her eyes and stared in horror at the heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of the left hand of the first Duke of Montford.

  Emily dressed for her first—and possibly last—dinner at Brynhaven with special care—as special as a limited wardrobe of ill-fitting, hand-me-down gowns would allow, that is. None of them were actually suitable for a paid companion, but Lady Hargrave had waved Emily’s objections aside, declaring she would have to make do, as family finances were at too low tide to worry about outfitting someone with no social status and no hope of gaining any.

  The dress Emily chose was a cream-colored silk with long sleeves to which Maggie Hawkes had added a burgundy overskirt. The color combination and fabric were more suited to December than May and the décolletage, which had been modest on Lucinda’ s diminutive bosom barely managed to cover Emily’s more generous endowments. The only thing to be said for Lucinda’s cast-offs was that they were of a more recent vintage than the threadbare garments she herself had brought from the West Country.

  All things considered, Emily had fervently prayed she would not be expected to dine with the invited guests, but Mr. Rankin had insisted she was expected to join the duke’s table. Interpreting her reluctance as dismay at being thrust into a level of society far above the one she normally moved in, he had assured her, “You have no need to be nervous, Miss Haliburton. I shall instruct the housekeeper to seat you next to me so we may continue this fascinating discussion on Mesopotamian legends.”

  Now, waiting for her aunt and cousin to complete their toilettes, she found herself hoping that Mr. Rankin would not be put in an embarrassing situation by befriending her if the handsome brigand she’d crossed swords with that morning did indeed turn out to be the Duke of Montford playing at being one of the common folk.

  She could just imagine the cut direct such a man would give a little nobody who had dared call him a…looby for heaven’s sake.

 
Her pulse was still fluttering wildly when thirty minutes later a footman led them to the Grecian salon where the guests had gathered before dinner. Emily immediately espied Mr. Rankin conversing with the Earl of Chillingham, a veritable peacock in orange and blue satin, and a handsome man in elegant black, whom she recognized as Beau Brummell—the commoner whose caustic wit and flair for fashion had made him a favorite of both the ton and the Prince Regent.

  The three blond ladies who aspired to the duke’s hand were dressed, like Lucinda, in virginal white. As a result, Lady Sudsley’s red-haired daughter, in pale pink with tiny pink roses threaded through her auburn tresses, looked entirely unique. Lady Hargrave’ s ponderous bosom heaved with agitation. “We are undone by that shrew, Lady Sudsley, and her brazen off-spring,” she moaned to the earl.

  “Never so, madam.” The earl’s eyes held a malicious gleam. “The chit has no chin. She may be appealing straight on; from the side, she looks like a chipmunk. Not at all the thing for a fellow as particular as Montford.”

  Emily barely had time to digest this enlightening bit of information when a footman opened the door and the Duke of Montford, flanked by his two elderly maiden aunts, made his entrance. Like Mr. Brummell, he was resplendent in black satin with pristine white linen, but even the elegant Beau paled before the imposing splendor of the tall, regal duke.

  All conversation instantly ceased.

  “Good evening. I trust you are all settled comfortably in your respective chambers.” The duke’s rich voice echoed in the silent room, and a chorus of eager assents rose from the people ringing its perimeter. How clever to hold this first reception here, Emily thought, noting the huge circular divan in the center of the room which forced the guests to line up along the walls for the duke’s inspection.

  She watched him progress from one group to the next, chatting briefly with each and raising his quizzing glass to peruse each of the young ladies offered up to him with the same concentration she’d seen potential buyers inspect the horses for sale at a country fair. Any moment now, she expected the arrogant coxcomb to ask to see their teeth.

  She was so incensed by this display of autocratic insensitivity she forgot her nervousness and before she knew it, the duke was approaching the Earl of Hargrave’s party.

  “I am going to faint, Mama,” Lucinda protested in a strangled whisper.

  “Do so and you will answer to me, miss,” the earl hissed, as Emily made a grab for, one of Lucinda’s arms, Lady Hargrave the other. Lucinda’ s eyes glazed over and her head rolled forward to her chest but between the two of them, they managed to keep her upright.

  “May I present the Earl and Countess of Hargrave, your grace,” Lady Cloris cooed, “and their dear little daughter, Lady Lucinda.” In concert, Emily and Lady Hargrave dipped Lucinda into a semblance of a curtsy.

  “Charmed,” the duke said in an apathetic monotone, and never blinking an eye, raised Lucinda’s limp hand to his lips. “And…” His gaze swept Emily.

  “My niece, Miss Emily Haliburton,” Lady Hargrave supplied, wagging her eyebrows at Emily to signal her to curtsy. Emily curtsied, or at least came as close to it as her hold on Lucinda would permit.

  “Charmed,” the duke repeated, raising her left hand to his lips since her right was busy supporting Lucinda. Emily studied him closely, but not a sign of recognition did she see in his cold, silver eyes.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced at his left hand. A massive signet ring adorned the third finger, but it was nothing like the plain gold ring the stranger had worn. This one was far more ornate and heavily encrusted with gemstones—exactly the sort of ostentatious ornament she would expect a foppish duke to wear.

  She released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Praise God. There were two of them! They might look as alike as two fleas on a dog, but there the resemblance ended. She could no more imagine this icy-eyed duke teasing a simple country girl or hooting with laughter than she could imagine that wicked-tongued country fellow disporting himself in polite society. She was so relieved, she favored the duke with a brilliant smile, which caused him to raise his quizzing glass and give her a disapproving stare before he moved on to inspect the pretty but vapid daughter of the Earl of Pembroke.

  Her first dinner at Brynhaven was an unqualified success as far as Emily was concerned. Never mind that she was pointedly snubbed by the young ladies and treated as if she didn’t exist by their mamas—or that she was generally ignored by the dashing Corinthians.

  True to his word, Mr. Rankin had arranged to have her seated next to him and they had such a marvelous conversation about Greek myths and Mesopotamian legends, she almost forgot to devote part of her time to the Earl of Sudsley, who sat on her other side. But it scarcely mattered, since he had imbibed so freely of the duke’ s excellent Madeira at the reception, he was already well and truly foxed by the time the soup course was removed.

  She didn’t even have to worry about Lucinda, who had recovered nicely from her swoon. She was seated next to the Earl of Chillingham, who looked so pleased with himself Emily was certain he, too, had effected some last minute changes in the seating arrangements.

  Except for one dreadful moment when the lamb was served and she found herself thinking it could well be the poor little nipper she had rescued early that morning, she thoroughly enjoyed every bite of the most delicious meal she had ever consumed and every sip of the wines which accompanied each of the seven courses.

  The balance of the evening was just as successful, albeit a bit more nerve-racking. Each of the young ladies, in turn, performed for the duke and his guests. Two of the young blond ladies sang quite prettily, one of them played a simple piece on the pianoforte and Lady Sudsley’s daughter, staring directly into the duke’s eyes all the while, recited a long and soulful rendition of Sir Walter Scott’s popular poem, The Lady of the Lake.

  “Lud, I hope she don’t swoon,” Lady Hargrave whispered when it came Lucinda’s turn to perform. For one moment it looked as if that was exactly what she was going to do.

  After handing her music to Lady Sudsley, who had volunteered to accompany the young singers, Lucinda clutched the edge of the pianoforte in abject terror. But the Earl of Chillingham, his face a mask of concern, rushed forward to stand behind Lady Sudsley and turn the sheet music whilst he gazed at Lucinda with adoring eyes—and surprisingly enough, she sang her simple little country song in a clear, sweet voice that brought enthusiastic applause from all but the disgruntled mothers of the other two singers.

  When the applause subsided, there was a brief moment of silence until the duke said, in that chilling way of his, “Your turn, I believe, Miss Haliburton.”

  “My niece does not perform,” Lady Hargrave said quickly.

  The duke scowled. “How odd. I was given to understand all well-bred young ladies performed.” He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed Emily with a look of profound distaste, as if her very presence insulted his tender sensibilities.

  Emily felt her hackles rise and ignoring her aunt’s frown, returned the duke’s haughty stare. “As a matter of fact, I do play the pianoforte…a bit,” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Any little thing will suffice,” Mr. Rankin murmured, taking her hand to lead her to the pianoforte. “It won’t do to refuse the duke, you know.”

  Settling onto the bench already warmed by Lady Sudsley’s ample posterior, Emily contemplated what she should play. She was tempted to perform an excerpt from Mr. Ludwig von Beethoven ‘s wonderful Eroica symphony. One of papa’s academic friends had brought the sheet music back from the Continent, along with a case of French brandy he’d smuggled past the excisemen. But she decided it was a bit heavy for an informal occasion. Instead, she decided on a little-known piece by Mr. Mozart, which had been one of papa’s favorites.

  As always, once she began to play, she lost herself in the music and when the last note died away and the room burst into applause, she looked up in surprise and straight into the eyes of the duke. This time, t
hey were not cold; they fairly glowed with appreciation for Mr. Mozart’ s unique genius—but only for a brief instant. Then once again, like a lake in winter, a film of ice hid the tiny fragment of human warmth she had glimpsed in their depths.

  Mr. Rankin was not so loath to show his enthusiasm. He praised her effusively, and wonder of wonders, that notorious cynic, Mr. Brummell, did the same.

  All in all, she decided as she discarded the despised dress and prepared for bed, it had been a remarkable day.

  As was their habit, whenever circumstances brought the two of them together under one roof, the Duke of Montford and Edgar Rankin ended their day’s activities with a quiet brandy in the library of whichever of the duke’s houses they happened to be at the time.

  Tonight they were joined by George Brummell, which meant that Edgar, proper fellow that he was, would adhere to the rigid protocol which was commonly observed between a duke and his amanuensis.

  The duke sighed. After an evening of being “your graced” to death by the pack of ninny-hammers his aunts had inflicted on him, he was in no mood to listen to Edgar do the same. Edgar Rankin was the one man he counted as a true and trusted friend. When they were alone, they slipped into the easy camaraderie they’d formed as boys growing up together and it was “Edgar” and “Jared.” There would be none of that tonight, and he found himself regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision to invite the charming Beau to join them in their nightcap.

  On the other hand, Brummell’s presence would save him from one of Edgar’ s confounded lectures. The scurvy fellow had already managed an aside in the Grecian salon. “Doing the ducal thing up a bit brown aren’t you, your grace?” he’d whispered as he’d passed on his way to escort Miss Emily Haliburton in to dinner.