The Duke's Dilemma

by Nadine Miller

  “My future duchess,” Jared said grimly, “who I am expected to choose from the five vapid creatures my aunts have decreed the most eligible candidates for the title.”

  Edgar raised a questioning eyebrow. “Need I remind you the method of choice was of your own devising?”

  “In other words, I am getting exactly what I deserve.” Jared sighed deeply. “You are probably right, Edgar; you usually are. Certainly, this time you are on the side of the gods.”

  “The gods?” Edgar echoed with a puzzled frown.

  Jared made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the luxurious room in which they stood. “Quite a clever balance actually. It appears they deem it only just that a man who enjoys such an embarrassment of riches should suffer a poverty of spirit.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Are you certain you are quite well, Miss Haliburton?” With Emily’s permission, Mr. Rankin had joined her on the small divan in the blue salon where a late afternoon tea was being served the duke’s guests. He adjusted his spectacles and peered at her through the thick lenses. “You are very pale.”

  “It is nothing more than a slight headache, I assure you,” Emily lied, squirming uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny.

  “Another headache, ma’am? You have certainly been plagued with them this past sen’night.”

  In reality, what she had been plagued with in the six days since her emotional parting from that scoundrel, Jared, was a deplorable tendency to moon over a man she should be grateful to never see again. Emily was thoroughly disgusted with herself. It was beyond her how any woman in her right mind could ache with longing for a man who had blackmailed her into allowing him to kiss her in a most improper fashion and then promptly dismissed her as if she were just another local dolly-mop he had tumbled behind a hedgerow.

  Yet, ache she did and it didn’t help that she must sit down to dinner each night with a man who looked enough like the cause of her insanity to be his twin. She could scarcely bear to look at the icy duke, yet she couldn’t stop casting furtive glances at him—an added embarrassment since he invariably rewarded her with a scowl as black as the dreary rain clouds which darkened the skies above Brynhaven.

  Of course, Mr. Rankin had noticed she had fallen into the doldrums. The man was entirely too perceptive, and too kind to be believed. He had even gone so far as to have a pianoforte moved into a small salon on the third floor so she could practice her music whenever Lucinda had no need of her services.

  The duke’s man-of-affairs was everything she could admire in a gentleman, guilty of neither the contemptuous, full-of-himself attitude of the stiff-necked duke nor the vulgarity of his baseborn half-brother. As true a middle-of-the-road man as she was a middle-of-the-road woman. The solid backbone of England on which king and country had depended throughout the nation ‘s history.

  Why couldn’t she have developed a tendre for such a man as this? He made no secret of his admiration for her, and she half believed that given the least bit of encouragement, he might even declare himself.

  “Might I suggest a quiet lie-down before dinner?” Mr. Rankin’s soothing voice cut into her ruminations. “And I shall instruct cook to prepare one of her excellent tisanes.”

  Emily smiled her gratitude for his concern. “I do believe a lie-down is exactly what I need.”

  “Just so. You will want to be at your best for the ball tonight.” Mr. Rankin made his selection from the dainty cakes on the tea tray and placed two of the most delectable looking on her plate. “The staff have been working round the clock and it is bound to be the social event of the season in these parts. Dare I hope you will save me the supper dance? It is, I believe, a waltz. “

  “Thank you for your kind offer, sir, but I have never learned to dance the waltz. It is still frowned upon outside London, you know. “

  “Then perhaps we could take a stroll on the terrace before supper.”

  “I should like that above all, but I cannot promise I shall be free. Lady Hargrave has instructed me to stay close by Lady Lucinda all evening, and I am at her command as long as I am in her employ.”

  “In other words, she has instructed you to keep the girl away from the Earl of Chillingham while there is still a chance to make a higher connection.”

  Emily flushed hotly, embarrassed that her aunt’s deviousness should be so transparent.

  Mr. Rankin pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose—a gesture Emily was beginning to realize he often made when he had something on his mind. “Will you think me completely out of hand if I offer you some advice, Miss Haliburton?”

  “Of course not, sir, I would welcome anything you have to say.”

  “Do not be too assiduous in your guarding of Lady Lucinda. She could do far worse than young Percival in choosing a husband. He may be an awkward colt right now, but he has the makings of a fine man—and an extremely rich one once he comes into his full inheritance.”

  “My observation exactly.” Emily hesitated, wishing she could confide in this kindly gentleman, but she would only jeopardize Lucinda’s chance for happiness if she let slip the fact that the Earl of Hargrave was so deep in dun territory, he had to sell his only daughter to keep out of debtors’ prison. “I take it you feel as I do, that the earl much more suitable parti for Lady Lucinda than the duke,” she said finally.

  Mr. Rankin nodded his agreement. “And she would appear to be the perfect wife for him. The earl’s requirements for his future countess are relatively simple—a pretty face, a sweet nature and a willingness to listen to an endless discourse on the merits of his prime cattle. The lad has, I am afraid, spent a great deal more of his young life with horses than with people…or books.”

  He made another minor adjustment to his spectacles and surveyed her with what could only be termed intense scrutiny. “The Duke of Montford, on the other hand, is endowed with both an exceptional intelligence and a depth of feeling. It will take a very special woman to make him a proper wife.”

  Emily choked on her tea. She found it difficult to believe a man of such obvious acuity could utter this drivel with a straight face. She had no way of measuring the arrogant duke’s intelligence, but his method of choosing his duchess gave the lie to any pretense of depth of feeling. She could only assume the duke’s man-of-affairs was blinded by his loyalty to his employer.

  Mr. Rankin removed his spectacles, polished them on a linen handkerchief he drew from his waistcoat pocket and returned them to his nose. “I can see by the expression on your face that you cannot envision the duke as anything but the haughty, inaccessible aristocrat he purports to be. I’m not surprised; it is a part he plays to perfection in his dealings with the beau monde. Why, I am not certain. Though I suspect it is a defense against the swarms of toad-eaters who court him because of his title and wealth.”

  “I suppose that is possible,” Emily said, though privately she considered the duke’s standoffish ways a bit too convincing to be merely an act.

  “In actual fact,” Mr. Rankin continued, “his grace is one of England’s most dedicated

  statesmen—was instrumental in the movement in Parliament to abolish the slave trade and since the beginning of this fracas with Bonaparte has served both the War Office and the Board of Governors of The Duke of York Military Hospital.” He paused thoughtfully. “Granted, he does tend to deal more easily with people en masse than with individuals, but many a man more reclusive than he has been drawn out of his shell by the right woman.”

  “It is plain to see you hold your employer in great respect,” Emily remarked, for lack of anything better to say. She found this idealistic portrayal of the duke almost as difficult to credit as the concept that one of the five empty-headed beauties who vied for his hand could be that “right woman” who would warm his frigid nature.

  Mr. Rankin scowled, as if reading her thoughts. “The duke is more than my employer, Miss Haliburton,” he said quietly. “He is, by blood, my second cousin, but we were raised like brothers from the time
we were small boys. I owe him my life—but that is a story best told at another time. Suffice it to say, I would gladly give my life for him, should the need arise.”

  Emily gaped in astonishment. She felt certain Mr. Rankin was not a man given to idle chatter, but she found his amazing revelation about the powerful duke beyond belief. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked warily. “My opinion of the duke can scarcely matter a whit, and I cannot believe he would approve the telling.”

  “He would most likely be vexed all out of reason,” Mr. Rankin agreed.” And I am undoubtedly the world’s greatest fool for sinking my own ship before it ever leaves the harbor. But I have come to realize in the past few days that these are facts you should know, Miss Haliburton, and I am certain you will never hear them from the duke himself.”

  Her baffling conversation with the duke’s man-of-affairs had left Emily so confused she’d lost all interest in a quiet lie-down. Now, just minutes before the gala pre-ball dinner was to begin, she found herself wishing she had rested when she’d had the opportunity. The prospects for a peaceful evening ahead were not auspicious.

  In a rare show of defiance toward her tyrannical parents, Lucinda had declared, while dressing for dinner, that she would rather die than dance with the “horrible duke” at the ball. This heresy immediately prompted Lady Hargrave to threaten Emily with the withdrawal of her yet unpaid stipend unless she made certain Lucinda behaved herself exactly as she ought.

  Through no fault of her own, Emily found herself in the unenviable position of having to choose between promoting Lucinda’s future happiness or insuring her own survival for the next few months. Her mind was in a turmoil, and the headache, which had originally been a convenient figment of her imagination, started throbbing in earnest.

  She stared about her at the vast state dining room to which a footman had directed the earl’ s party. It was the first time she had seen this particular room and her initial glimpse of it was almost as overwhelming as her initial glimpse of the great entry hall had been.

  The walls were covered with stretched-silk the color of rich cream, topped by an intricately carved rococo ceiling. A series of high, narrow windows draped in rich, green velvet filled one entire wall, and the opposite wall was adorned with paintings which she recognized as the works of Holbein, Reynolds, and Constable, and even one she felt certain was by the great Dutch painter, Rembrandt.

  Masses of pale yellow and snowy white roses from the duke’s orangery filled the series of tall silver epergnes marching down the center of the huge table—their fragrance almost overpowering in its sweetness. The service plates, goblets and flatware, in the same beaten silver as the epergnes, bore the duke’s coat of arms, and after her initial awe, Emily found herself contemplating the endless hours of polishing needed to present the dazzling display. Small wonder the Brynhaven staff had been working round the clock.

  A number of strangers mingled with the houseguests waiting to take their seats at the table. “Who are all these people’?” she asked Mr. Brummell when he stopped to pay his respects.

  “The duke’s neighbors, so I’ve been told. Twenty of them to be exact, and a more dowdy-looking lot of provincials I have never seen.”

  He raised his quizzing glass to study a stout silver haired matron in a many-hued gown, which gave her the appearance of a well-fed peacock. Beside her stood an equally stout gentleman in a long-tailed jacket of watered silk and purple satin knee britches. “Heaven help us, I do believe the fellow is wearing a bagwig,” the Beau exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “The ridiculous things went out of fashion fifty years ago.”

  He shuddered. “And these people are the cream of the local gentry. God only knows what we may expect from the sixty who ‘ve been invited for the ball and midnight supper. I begin to understand why Montford rarely visits this particular estate.”

  Emily was duly seated near the foot of the table between the Earl of Sudsley and Squire Bosley, neither of whom was the most inspiring of dinner companions. The earl, as usual, was so castaway he ended up face dawn in a plate of roast venison and currant sauce, and was quietly carried to his chambers by two brawny young footmen.

  The squire, on the other hand, belched his way through all nine courses, simultaneously reciting the pedigrees of the thirty-odd foxhounds, setters, and pointers that made up his excellent kennel. By the time dessert was served, Emily felt certain that if she never learned another thing about the breeding of hunting dogs, she would still know far more than she cared to.

  Meanwhile across the table, Lady Lucinda flirted openly with the Earl of Chillingham despite her mama’s fulminating looks and Lady Sudsley’s pointed remarks that a certain young lady was obviously no better than she should be. Emily cringed, her premonition of impending disaster so strong, she patted her hair to make certain it wasn’t standing on end.

  Lady Hargrave’s whispered comment as the ladies adjourned to the gold salon, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, only added to her presentiment. “Don’t you dare let Lucinda out of your sight for one minute tonight, or so help me, my girl, you’ll have more than your penury to worry about,” she hissed in Emily’s ear. “This is no time for the featherhead to cut up smart. I have it on good authority the duke is planning to select his duchess tonight and I can tell, from the warm way he looks at her, Lucinda leads the pack. “

  Emily’s blood ran cold at the thought, but she felt certain Lady Hargrave was simply indulging in her usual wishful thinking. As far as she could see, the duke’s handsome £ace was still frozen in the same look of unremitting boredom he had worn since he’d arrived at Brynhaven.

  Exactly thirty minutes from the time the ladies withdrew, the gentlemen joined them to repair to the ballroom. To Emily’s surprise, Mr. Brummell offered her his arm. “Ah, Miss Haliburton, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured in his rich, cultured accents as they strolled the perimeter of the vast ballroom.

  “Don’t you mean a sight to make eyes sore, Mr. Brummell?” Emily asked with a smile, glancing down at the only gown she owned which approximated a ball gown—the despised red and white.

  Mr. Brummell laughed. “True, my dear, you do imbue one with a desire to hang mistletoe and light the Yule log in the merry month of May, but your sparkling wit blinds me to the incongruity of your attire. I look forward to your conversation with the same eagerness a starving man yearns for a loaf of fresh baked bread. I have just endured two of the most dismal hours of my life listening to Lady Sudsley’s chatter. I swear, that appalling pea-goose could talk the hide off an Indian rhinoceros.”

  Emily couldn’t help but smile at the ill-humored analogy, but she withheld comment. “You have traveled to India, Mr. Brummell?” she asked innocently.

  “Not yet, but I may well be driven to such extremes before this deadly fortnight is over.” Brummell inclined his head in a brief nod of recognition as they passed Squire Bosley and his lady. “Were it not for my devotion to the duke,” he whispered once they were out of earshot, “and my deep appreciation for his cook, I should have instructed my valet to pack my bags days ago.”

  “You are a close friend of the duke?” Emily found the relationship difficult to fathom. The duke did not strike her as a man who inspired affection, and Mr. Brummell was noted more for his caustic wit than his fidelity. Even his much-publicized friendship with the Prince Regent was reported to be a simple matter of social expediency on his part.

  “No man is truly close to Montford,” Brummell said, “except Edgar Rankin, of course. But we enjoy a mutual respect.” He paused. “Outstanding fellow, the duke. Brilliant mind and an infallible sense of style, though God knows he puts that to little use. Attends an occasional race at Newmarket and a mill now and then, but for the most part he tends to be something of a hermit.” He shook his head. “How such a man could consider marrying one of the five pretty flea-brains his aunts have put forth is more than I can grasp.”

  Brummel sidestepped a group of local squires who had gath
ered at the edge of the dance floor, then led Emily to the row of chairs set up for the mothers and chaperons. “Too bad the poor devil is forced to choose his duchess from the daughters of the aristocracy. You would suit him most admirably, my dear. “

  “Me?” Emily laughed. “You are jesting, of course.”

  “My dear lady, I never jest about something as dangerous as marriage.”

  Emily relinquished her hold on the Beau’s arm and searched his face, expecting to encounter one of his famous cynical smiles. To her surprise, she found his expression strangely sober.

  “Forgive my impertinence, sir, but I fear you must be mad,” she declared. “I can think of no one in the entire world less suited to be a duchess.”

  Brummell nodded. “My point exactly. I sometimes think the last thing Montford would be, had he the choice, is a duke. But more to the point, that clever tongue of yours might make him laugh—something he rarely does now and may never do again once he is leg-shackled.”

  His gaze shifted to the duke, who stood a short distance away, surrounded by a clutch of chattering females. “Look at the poor fellow. Have you ever seen a man more morose?”

  Emily looked and found herself staring directly into the duke’s stormy silver eyes. For one instant, their gazes locked, then he scowled darkly and turned away, leaving Emily to grit her teeth in anger. If this surly aristocrat was indeed Mr. Rankin’s caring philanthropist and Mr.

  Brummell’s brilliant paragon, he was certainly adept at concealing his true nature.

  Brummell raised Emily’s hand briefly to his lips before taking his leave of her.” I see Lord Hargrave has inveigled one of the local landowners into a ‘friendly’ game of hazard,” he murmured. “Quite a Captain Sharp, your uncle. He has already parted most of the duke’s unsuspecting houseguests from their pocket money—which does make one wonder how he has managed to get so deeply in debt. Ah well, for lack of something better to do, I think I shall join the game and see if I can bend a few of the spokes in the ratchety fellow’s wheels.”