The Duchess of Love

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Oh, that’s easy. I wasn’t thinking about your father.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Oh, dear, perhaps that was a bad question to ask. If Mr. Valentine’s expression had been warm before, it was scorching now.

  “I was thinking how beautiful you were with your long, chestnut-colored hair and lovely creamy skin”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a hot, deep whisper—“all your creamy skin.”

  Her knees felt as if they might give out. She put her hands on his chest to steady herself, and his fingers came up to cover them.

  “And when most women would have been terrified, you were so full of spirit.” He gripped her hands tightly. “You took an outrageous risk, you know.”

  “No.” She wanted to argue, but her brain and voice weren’t functioning properly. She stared up at him; his face stilled, and his eyes focused on her mouth again. Oh. He was going to kiss her here on High Street in front of Mr. Fenwick’s shop where the entire village could see them.

  She should stop him.

  She’d never been kissed. Not really. The brief brush of his lips at the pond did not count. That had just been a tease … perhaps a promise?

  She tilted her face up, let her eyes drift closed …

  And heard Ditee’s voice behind her.

  “Venus, Mr. Fenwick has—what are you doing?”

  “You weren’t going to kiss Miss Venus in the middle of High Street, were you?” Nigel asked as they rode back to Hyndon House.

  “Of course not.” It hadn’t been the middle of High Street …

  Damn it, he had almost kissed Venus in full view of any passerby. What was the matter with him? He’d never before lost awareness of his surroundings so completely, except perhaps when he’d been standing naked at that pond.

  It was all Venus’s fault. There was something about her that made his good sense shut down. It wasn’t just her beauty; he’d seen plenty of beautiful women in London. It was her spirit, her determination, her sharp tongue. He felt so alive when he was with her, as if something exciting—likely disastrous—was about to happen at any moment.

  But the oddest thing was he also felt very comfortable with her, as if they’d been friends forever.

  His mother had died when he was four; his father when he was thirteen. As duke, he had countless dependents, but he hadn’t had a family in a long, long time. Yes, he had Nigel. Nigel was like a brother, but Nigel was seven years older than he. There had always been that distance—and Nigel would eventually marry and have his own family.

  Drew had always felt deeply alone—but not when he was with Venus.

  “This is only a small, rural village miles from London,” Nigel was saying, “but I’ll wager my yearly income that gossip flourishes here, too, and rumors that the Duke of Greycliffe is showing a marked interest in a certain country miss will be flying back to Town faster than the wind.”

  Blast it, Nigel was probably right. Hell, London’s biggest gossips could have been standing at his elbow and he likely wouldn’t have noticed. But Nigel did have one crucial detail wrong.

  “The gossips won’t be saying the duke is dallying with Venus; no one here knows I’m Greycliffe. They’ll say you were the one misbehaving.”

  The ton wouldn’t know what to make of staid Nigel Valentine, so discreet—before Widow Blackburn, that is—acting in such a publicly scandalous way. Not that they’d know what to make of Drew either if the truth got out, but it seemed dukes were expected to behave as if society’s rules did not apply to them.

  Nigel gaped at him—and then favored him with a long, rather imaginative string of curses.

  “I’m sorry,” Drew said. “What was that one about the witch’s teat? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Bloody hell, Drew, I’m going to kill you.”

  “You can’t. Murdering a peer is a capital offense. You don’t want to hang, do you?”

  Drew could almost hear Nigel’s teeth grinding.

  “I might risk it.”

  “Not a good idea.” They turned through the gates to Hyndon House and started up the drive. “Don’t worry. I’m sure things will sort themselves out.” Drew shot Nigel a look. “Perhaps the gossip will give the widow a disgust of you.”

  “Not likely. I—”

  “Good God!” Drew reined his horse in so abruptly the animal tossed its head and sidestepped. They’d just come around a bend, and he could see the front door—and a carriage with the Duke of Cranmore’s crest on the side.

  “What is it? Oh.”

  Nigel’s words came from behind him; Drew hadn’t waited to discuss the matter. Acting on instinct and a touch of panic, he’d kicked his horse down a side path into the trees.

  Nigel followed. “You can’t hide in the woods forever.”

  Drew swung off his horse and led it deeper into the shadows. “I can hide until she leaves—and she has to leave. Even a disreputable baggage like Lady Mary knows that she can’t stay overnight in a bachelor household.” He looped his horse’s reins over a low-hanging tree limb and edged up to peer around a large bush. There was no movement either from the carriage or the house.

  “After the way she lay in wait for you at Vauxhall, I wouldn’t be so certain. And chances are Mrs. Edgemoor hasn’t the mettle to stand up to her.”

  “We can only hope the good woman has a deep well of moral outrage. Sometimes—no, here’s Lady Mary now.”

  Nigel hurried up to look around the other side of the bush. “And another female. It looks like—oh, damn.”

  “It’s the Widow Blackburn.” Drew gave a low whistle and looked at Nigel. “I didn’t know they were bosom friends.”

  Nigel was not amused. “How the bloody hell could Cranmore have countenanced his daughter traveling down from London with that woman? Doesn’t he care for his daughter’s reputation?”

  Drew shrugged and looked back at the house. “It’s a little late for that; his precious daughter’s reputation is almost as black as the widow’s. Hey now, who’s this?”

  A fubsy woman with an enormous hat and an equally fat and squat younger woman climbed into the carriage after the widow and Lady Mary.

  “They appear made from the same mold,” Nigel said. “They must be mother and daughter.”

  “Quite likely. The older one looks rather pompous. I’ll wager she’s Mrs. Higgins, the squire’s wife.”

  Drew watched the coach rumble off. He and Nigel went to their horses to keep them quiet; the foliage was dense enough that unless the women knew where to look, they wouldn’t discover them.

  Mrs. Edgemoor had a lot to say when they finally entered the house.

  “Oh, your grace,” she said to Nigel, “we had visitors while you and Mr. Valentine were in the village.” Mrs. Edgemoor’s face was pinched into an expression of disapproval. “Squire Higgins’s wife and their daughter, Esmeralda; a Mrs. Blackburn who, if you’ll pardon me saying so, is no better than she should be; and Lady Mary Detluck, the Duke of Cranmore’s daughter.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something bad. “Lady Mary was very high in the instep, your grace, not at all like you. She and Mrs. Blackburn said they were”—Mrs. Edgemoor flushed and seemed to have difficulty getting the words out—“special friends of yours.”

  “Oh, no,” Nigel said. “They are definitely not that.”

  “We came down early, Mrs. Edgemoor,” Drew said, “to get away from them.”

  Mrs. Edgemoor so forgot herself as to grin, clearly relieved, and nodded vigorously. “That’s just what I thought. Those London women were trying to suggest they were betrothed to you and said I should tell them where you were and what you’d been doing while you were here, which of course I never would—not that you’ve done anything scandalous, of course. Why, two quieter, better behaved gentlemen I’ve not had the pleasure to meet, and that’s the truth.”

  Drew was careful not to meet Nigel’s eye; Mrs. Edgemoor might not consider having a naked tête-à-tête with the vicar’s daughter precisel
y well-behaved.

  “Did they say how long they intended to be in the area?” Drew asked.

  “No, but they did say they would see you at the garden party. Mrs. Blackburn has a friend who’s a friend of Mrs. Higgins, so they are staying at the squire’s house.”

  “I see,” Drew said. At least they had a little longer before they had to face those harpies. “Is everything coming along well for the party? We’re so sorry to put you to all this trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, sir. Mrs. Shipley is helping, and I’ve got some girls in from the village, too. It’s not as if there are many people who will come—Little Huffington is, well, little.” She frowned, twisting her hands together. “I do hope those London ladies won’t look down their noses at us.”

  “If they do, that is their problem, isn’t it?” Nigel said.

  “Yes, your grace. That’s right.” Mrs. Edgemoor gave them another wide smile before curtsying and hurrying off, likely to attend to more party details.

  They went into the study. Drew sprawled in a chair and let out a long breath. “Things are going to get complicated.”

  Nigel snorted. “Quite.”

  “It will be hard to keep this charade going with the widow and Lady Mary here.”

  “Hard? It will be impossible.” Nigel poured two glasses of brandy and handed Drew one before taking the chair across from his. “You have to tell Venus who you are.”

  Drew wanted to put that off as long as he could. “I’ll get to it.”

  Nigel stared at him. Damn, he was looking as unbending as the Dover cliffs now. “Do what you wish, but I will not continue with this masquerade any longer.”

  “But …”

  “No. We have not precisely—not explicitly—lied to anyone yet, but we are sailing very close to the wind. I decided in the village I was done with it. Widow Blackburn’s and Lady Mary’s arrival on the scene just reinforces my decision.”

  This wasn’t a surprise, but … “What happened in the village?”

  Nigel frowned. “What do you mean, what happened in the village?”

  “What happened to make you suddenly decide you couldn’t pretend to be me any longer?”

  Were the tips of Nigel’s ears red?

  “My good sense simply reassured itself,” Nigel said, not meeting Drew’s eyes.

  “And you met Aphrodite.” It appeared that Venus’s matchmaking efforts were bearing fruit. “She is very beautiful.”

  “And very intelligent.” Nigel looked Drew in the eye then, his cheeks definitely flushed. “I do not care to deceive her.”

  “We aren’t exactly deceiving her.”

  “You are splitting hairs. If she thinks I’m you, she’s operating under a mistaken assumption, one I could clarify. If I don’t do so, that’s deception in my book.” He grinned suddenly. “I don’t want to think her feelings for me—whatever they are—are influenced by her misperception of my rank. You should be sympathetic to that sentiment.”

  Blast it, of course he was. Drew took a long swallow of brandy. It looked as if he would definitely have to tell Venus he was Greycliffe sooner rather than later.

  Chapter 5

  “What were you doing with Mr. Valentine, Venus?” Ditee asked as they studied lengths of ribbon in Mr. Fenwick’s shop. The duke and Mr. Valentine had left a few moments ago. “You looked most peculiar.”

  “Talking about the classics,” Venus said. That wasn’t a complete lie. She had mentioned the man’s letter to Papa.

  “Oh. But you had your eyes closed.”

  “I’m sure I must have been on the verge of falling asleep. You know how much I hate that subject.” Venus plucked a ribbon from the display and held it up to Ditee’s face. “This shade of blue would look very nice on your dress. It matches your eyes.”

  “It does?” Ditee ran the fabric through her fingers. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Venus pretended to study the other ribbons. “I thought the duke seemed like a pleasant gentleman. Did you?”

  “Oh, yes!” Ditee’s face lit up again. “He’s extremely knowledgeable. He answered my question about Horace most thoroughly. I was very impressed.”

  This sounded promising, especially as Ditee’s cheeks were quite pink. “He’s rather handsome, too.”

  Ditee’s color deepened. “Perhaps.”

  Venus bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Her bookish sister was finally showing some interest in the opposite sex. “Perhaps you should get a new comb for your hair as well.” She held up one that sparkled even in the dim light of Mr. Fenwick’s store. “Something like this.”

  “That is very pretty.”

  In the end, Ditee got two combs, the blue ribbon, and a length of deep rose ribbon for her walking dress. Venus was delighted with the way things were progressing, until she bumped into Mrs. Fedderly on the street outside Mr. Fenwick’s shop.

  “Oh, Miss Venus—and Miss Aphrodite. I was so hoping to run into you.” Old Mrs. Fedderly was the village gossip, but since her eyesight wasn’t very good any longer, people generally took her stories with a large grain of salt. “I saw you chatting with our illustrious new neighbors.” She winked at Venus. “Finally doing a little matchmaking for yourself, eh?”

  Venus felt herself flush. “No, I—”

  “They seemed quite taken with both of you.” The woman’s thin eyebrows did a little jig. “Perhaps they’ll be staying in Little Huffington longer than expected.”

  “Have you met the duke and Mr. Valentine, Mrs. Fedderly?” Aphrodite asked.

  “No, but I am very much looking forward to their garden party. It will be so nice to have social activity at Hyndon House again. You know Mr. Blant used to entertain all the time when he was young.” Mrs. Fedderly batted her short, white lashes. “He was quite the rogue.”

  The thought of Mr. Blant entertaining more than a side of beef was stupefying in itself, but to consider him a rogue of any stripe was beyond Venus’s powers of imagination.

  The rattle of a carriage approaching filled the stunned silence. They all turned to regard the impressive equipage bearing down on them.

  “Now who could this be?” Mrs. Fedderly rubbed her hands in apparent glee. “I swear things haven’t been this exciting since Farmer Isley’s goat ate Miss Wardley’s favorite bonnet.”

  The coach creaked to a stop, and Mrs. Higgins lumbered out, followed by her daughter and two elegant ladies.

  Mrs. Higgins hurried over to them—she could move surprisingly quickly when sufficiently motivated. “Mrs. Fedderly, have you seen the Duke of Greycliffe and his cousin, Mr. Valentine?” she asked, completely ignoring Venus and Ditee.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Fedderly said with a small, sly smile, obviously delighted to be one step ahead of Mrs. Higgins with village gossip. “But you might better ask the Misses Collingswood. They were actually conversing with the gentlemen.”

  Venus was surprised Mrs. Fedderly didn’t literally crow. The only thing better than beating Mrs. Higgins to some juicy gossip was forcing her to apply to the Collingswood girls for elucidation.

  Mrs. Higgins’s mouth pursed as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.

  “Have you found them, Mama?” Esmeralda asked, coming up.

  “No, but apparently the Collingswood girls know where they are.”

  “Oh?” Esmeralda glanced at Venus’s green dress and turned up her bulbous nose. “Why would the duke and his cousin speak to someone so … dowdy?”

  Venus clenched her teeth. True, her dress was a shade of green popular last year—well, perhaps the year before last—but it was still serviceable. And Esmeralda was hardly a pattern card of fashion. Her insipid pink gown was so covered with knots of ribbons and bits of lace, she looked like a walking haberdashery. She would just tell her—

  “Who are these people, Mrs. Higgins?” The older of the two stylish women peered disapprovingly at Venus through her lorgnette. Venus had an almost overwhelming urge to grab the dratted spectacles
out of her hand and ram them through her ridiculously elaborate hairstyle.

  “Just Mrs. Fedderly and the vicar’s daughters, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  Venus was quite, quite tired of being talked about as if she were deaf and dumb. “Yes, I am Venus Collingswood. This is my sister, Aphrodite. And you are …?”

  “Mrs. Blackburn,” the woman said, “and Lady Mary Detluck”—she indicated the younger woman—“the Duke of Cranmore’s daughter.”

  Lady Mary sniffed. “So tell me where my betrothed is, if you will. I came all the way from London to see him.”

  “Your betrothed?” Venus bit her lip. Damn it, she hadn’t meant to say that, but shock had got the better of her. Mr. Valentine had said nothing of a betrothed lurking about. Surely he would have said something if the duke … But would he have mentioned a betrothal of his own?

  Her stomach dropped to her toes.

  “Betrothed?” Mrs. Fedderly laughed. “I didn’t see any men who looked betrothed.”

  Lady Mary scowled. “Perhaps your vision is defective. I assure you Greycliffe is promised to me, and Mr. Valentine is affianced to Mrs. Blackburn.”

  “My vision is fine,” Mrs. Fedderly lied, “and I assure you the duke and his cousin looked quite smitten when they were walking and talking with Miss Aphrodite and Miss Venus.”

  Mrs. Blackburn’s eyes were as hard as stones. “Oh, well, a little flirting is to be expected. They are men, after all.” She looked from Venus to Aphrodite and back. “I hope no one misunderstood their intentions.”

  Lady Mary snorted. “Really, can you imagine Greycliffe or Mr. Valentine showing any serious interest in such rustics?”

  Mrs. Higgins and Esmeralda sniggered, but Venus would wager all her pin money Lady Mary considered them just as rustic as her and Ditee.

  Mrs. Fedderly sniffed. “Mr. Fedderly, God rest his soul, used to say the air—and the women—were cleaner in the country.”

  The ensuing shocked silence gave Venus her opening. “I believe the duke and Mr. Valentine returned to Hyndon House, ladies. At least, that seemed to be their intention; I can’t claim to be in their confidence.” Ha! She was most obviously not in their confidence. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve been gone far longer than we intended. Are you ready to leave, Ditee?”