Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

  This consideration, this proof that Hardcastle would make no claim on Ellen’s future, brought all the misery and loss to the fore, worse than ever because now, she knew what she’d be missing.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, shifting off of her and tenting the covers over her middle. Water splashed against porcelain, shadows moved beyond the slivers of moonlight. Ellen bestirred herself to find her handkerchief on the night table and deal with Hardcastle’s spent seed.

  Already, practical reality intruded, though the temptation to cry would not leave her.

  “Shall I fetch you a flannel?” Hardcastle asked from across the room.

  “I used my handkerchief.”

  Then he was beside the bed, a looming presence. “This is clean.” He put a damp cloth in her hand, then he waited by the bed, clearly expecting her to use the cloth and pass it back to him.

  Intimacy upon intimacy, but Ellen liked that Hardcastle wasn’t pulling on his breeches and preparing to leave her.

  “Move over,” he said, when the ablutions had been tended to all around. “Now comes the part where you talk to me, in which activity you have been woefully deficient thus far, Miss MacHugh.”

  Ellen shifted to the side, unsure if she was being scolded or teased. Hardcastle’s embrace left no doubt that she was being held though. He cuddled himself around her from the back, his arm at her waist, his fingers linked with hers.

  “What shall I talk about?” Ellen asked, despite the lump in her throat.

  If he wanted to gossip about the house party guests, she’d muster some string of insightful observations. If he wanted to talk about Christopher, she’d manage that. They’d likely have to face each other over breakfast, after all. Small talk would be required then too.

  “Tell me about home,” he said, “about Derbyshire, for that’s where you’ll go in two weeks. It must be lovely, to call to you so strongly even after five years.”

  Ellen had been back in those five years. A governess was given leave, while a duke was not.

  “Derbyshire is home, Hardcastle. My only sibling is there, my parents, my girlhood memories. I was happy there.”

  Also lonely, bewildered, and frequently invisible when Emily was in the room.

  “Tell me your earliest memory. Mine was of my cat, Henry, bringing a mouse into the nursery. I thought it was capital of him to decimate the wildlife. The nursery maid climbed on a table and shrieked down the rafters.”

  Ellen couldn’t tell Hardcastle her earliest memory, of Mama explaining that sisters always looked out for each other. She instead told him of the day she’d got her first book, a storybook with woodcuts of giants, dragons, unicorns, and princesses.

  Every decent fairy tale had at least one princess. Governesses did not feature prominently in fairy tales, however.

  Hardcastle excelled at cuddling, and the dratted man also had a way with a backrub, kneading Ellen’s shoulders, then her hip, with a slow, confident touch that made her eyes heavy and her words difficult to find.

  “Go to sleep, love,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder. “You’ve had a long day, and we’ve many days yet ahead of us.”

  No, they didn’t. They were down to twelve days now, and most of that time would be spent in polite company. Ellen closed her eyes, despite wanting to argue with her lover, and lost a final round of the color game.

  She appointed herself the task of describing this encounter with Hardcastle, the tenderness and surprise of it, the pleasure and heartache. Colors would not come to her, descriptions eluded her, for no matter which way she viewed the past hour, or what aspect she focused on, all that Ellen could see was a single deep, abiding shade of love.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  Hardcastle woke early, his body imbued with a sense of well-being in which his heart did not join. He’d left Ellen’s bedroom deep in the night, unwilling to trouble her slumbers with more passion. He’d dreamed of East Anglia, a bleak and cheerless place the few times he’d visited, and he’d dreamed of Christopher.

  Being a swain did not come to Hardcastle naturally, but as the morning wore on, he found that a capacity for stealth learned as a small boy was yet his. The household mail was apparently collected on a sideboard in the library, so—after sending a footman to inspect for unchaperoned females—to the library, Hardcastle did go.

  “What the hell are you doing, going through my mail, Hardcastle?”

  Sedgemere’s question was friendly, for Sedgemere.

  “Looking for a letter I might frank for Miss MacHugh,” Hardcastle replied, seizing on the missive in question. Save for the direction, the epistle had no writing on the outside, much less crossed writing, and was addressed to Miss Emily MacHugh, Hollowell Grange, Swaddledale, Derbyshire.

  “I frank all my guests’ correspondence, as do you, Hardcastle,” Sedgemere said, stalking closer. “Miss MacHugh isn’t writing to a beau, is she?”

  “To her sister.” Even the address was printed in large letters, which made no sense.

  Sedgemere snatched the epistle away. “I won’t let you read her letter, Hardcastle. Not under any circumstances.”

  “I’ve already read enough of it,” Hardcastle replied. Very dear, in his way, indeed. “Why would a woman pass up a tiara for a life of spinsterhood in Swaddledale? Where is Swaddledale, for that matter?”

  Sedgemere put the letter back on top of the correspondence piled on the sideboard. “Not far south of Chesterfield. You could be there and back in less than a day, particularly if you changed horses.”

  “Oh, Your Graces!” Miss Pendleton stood at the library door, upon which she had not knocked. “I do beg your pardon. I thought to borrow a book until the kite flying begins. Perhaps His Grace of Hardcastle would assist me to find something to help a young lady while away a pretty morning?”

  Assist her to find a fiancé, perhaps? Ellen had told Hardcastle exactly what to say in this very circumstance.

  “I confess,” Hardcastle replied, “I am not sufficiently familiar with His Grace’s collection to be of any aid, and I have taken enough of Sedgemere’s time. I wish you good day and successful kite flying.”

  He strode past Miss Pendleton, enjoying the consternation his comment caused.

  The entire day followed the same pattern, with Hardcastle barely dodging enemy fire but for Ellen’s company or guidance, until he was taken captive in the late afternoon by Miss Pendleton and her familiar, Miss Frobisher. They asked his aid choosing a suitable mount for the next day’s outing to admire the lake at the Duke of Stoke Teversault’s nearby estate.

  By the time Hardcastle stole into Ellen’s room that night, he was so hungry for her company he nearly dove straight onto the bed.

  “Madam, good evening.” Hardcastle had let himself into her bedroom and stood for a moment inside the door, beholding his beloved as she stared at a book before the fire. “What are you reading?”

  She brushed a glance over him, and Hardcastle knew without a word being spoken, that something was amiss.

  “Wordsworth,” she said. “My sister Emily likes all the poems about lambs and daffodils, so I’m brushing up. You were very busy today.”

  Hardcastle locked the door and took the second chair facing the hearth. “I have renewed respect for those fellows who gathered intelligence for Wellington. A precarious existence lies behind enemy lines. Shall I kill Greenover for you?”

  “Somebody ought to,” she said, setting old Wordsworth aside. “He’s a menace to the maids. The duchess now has them working in pairs to avoid his attentions.”

  Hardcastle nudged Ellen’s slipper with the toe of his boot. “Were you avoiding my attentions this afternoon, Ellen? You were not gone from my side five minutes before the marital press gang descended.”

  She stared at the fire, which threw out some warmth without being a great blaze. “I cannot avoid you. You are in my every thought. I move to accept a plate from a footman, and my body reminds me of you in places a lady doesn’t have names for
. I brush my hair, and I feel your hands on my person. You have become an affliction for which I fear there is no cure.”

  “An affliction.” Well, damn. He was apparently getting this swaining business all wrong.

  Ellen swiped at her cheek with the backs of her fingers. “You are like the scent of roses on my favorite shawl, a sweet taste in my mouth. I did not anticipate—” She sighed mightily and tucked her foot under her. “Perhaps you’d better go, Your Grace. I seem to be in a lachrymose and difficult mood.”

  “You’re always in a difficult mood. So am I. We like that about each other, but you’re not usually irrational. Last night you called me Gerard, tonight I’m dux non grata?”

  “Your Latin doesn’t strike me—”

  Hardcastle took her hand. “Talk to me, Ellen. Tell me about life as a girl in Upper Swaddlehog. Tell me about your parents, your sister, your first pony, your favorite book.”

  She rose, taking her hand from his grasp. “I am indisposed, Gerard. You needn’t coax and charm me into bed, for it won’t serve. I bid you good night.”

  Indisposed. Hardcastle knew what that meant. He’d been to university, he’d made the acquaintance of the women whose business was the education of the scholars in topics other than Latin or Greek.

  “No charming or coaxing, then,” he said, standing and scooping Ellen off her feet in one lithe move. “I’ll simply deposit you on the bed and join you therein without further bumbling.”

  “Hardcastle! What are you—? Gerard!”

  He was careful with her, settling her gently on the bed though the moment called for a hearty toss.

  “A little insanity in my duchess will enliven the line considerably,” he said, tugging off his boots. “And you have quite taken leave of your senses, madam, if you think my attentions are solely the result of animal spirits. Move over.”

  “Hardcastle, I cannot entertain you tonight,” she groused, scooting an entire three inches toward the far side of the bed.

  “You’re entertaining me quite nicely, also ensuring that I get my exercise,” he said, lifting her into his arms—mostly for the pleasure of holding her—then settling her two-thirds of the way across the bed. “If you need to use the privacy screen, I assure you, my delicate sensibilities won’t be offended.”

  Well, this was amusing. Miss Ellen MacHugh, queen of the Hardcastle schoolroom and terror of twenty footmen, was gaping at him as he undressed. She’d propped herself on her elbows to have a better look, in fact, and hadn’t even mentioned dousing the candles.

  “Hardcastle, you are not paying attention.”

  No, but she was. “As if I could tear my attention from you, Miss MacHugh, when the livelong day I’ve been beset and beleaguered by your inferiors. Hounded from breakfast to brandy. Curls bouncing here, giggles twittering from over there, bosoms jiggling on all sides. Then they come at me in pairs.”

  “Bosoms generally do, Your Grace.”

  “My dear, do not mock a man clinging to reason by the slenderest thread. Get your night robe off, please.”

  Hardcastle pulled his shirt over his head and peeled out of his trousers. In the morning, his valet would cast martyred glances upon the resulting wrinkles, and Hardcastle would not care.

  “Tell me about your indisposition,” he said, taking the proffered night robe and hanging it on a bedpost.

  “Tell me about the jiggling bosoms.”

  Ellen had stopped ordering him from the room, which was progress. Maybe he had potential as a swain after all. Hardcastle climbed naked under the covers.

  “Nobody has used the bed warmer on these sheets,” he observed. “How invigorating, as if present company were not stimulating enough. The bosoms were very pale and tended to quiver at me, like eager puppies straining to escape the bodices imprisoning them. We’re not having daughters. I can assure you of this right now, my dear. My nerves will not endure such a trial.”

  “Hardcastle, calm yourself. We’re having a liaison, or we were—we’re not any longer—and children don’t come into it.”

  Now Miss Ellen MacHugh was ordering matters on behalf of the Almighty, which even a duke knew was tempting fate.

  Hardcastle rolled her to her side and wrapped himself around her. “Do you typically allow men with whom you’re not having a liaison into your bed, madam?”

  “I don’t typically allow men anything, ever. But here you are.”

  Exactly where he wanted to be. “Why the tears, Ellen? Is it your indisposition? Her Grace, my grandmother, has offered a few choice sentiments regarding this indisposition. She doesn’t approve of it.”

  “No woman does. What are you doing here, Hardcastle?”

  “Settling my overwrought nerves, for one thing. A debutante who finishes her first Season without an offer of marriage is a ruthless, resourceful creature. Tomorrow you will do a better job of protecting me from them.” He was settling Ellen’s nerves too, he hoped. Stroking the tension from her neck and shoulders, easing anxiety from her fingers.

  She shifted to her back. “We forgot to blow out the candles. Beeswax is very dear.”

  “So are you.” Hardcastle got off the bed and did the honors, plunging the room into cozy shadows cast by the fire in the hearth. When he climbed back under the covers, he situated himself beside his intended, his cheek pillowed on her breast.

  “What am I to do with you, Hardcastle? I cannot frolic with you, not tonight.”

  He’d mistaken Ellen’s mood for stubborn, but a simpler explanation begged for his notice: She believed he had no use for her beyond the physical.

  “You are to tell me stories, about Miss Ellen MacHugh, soon to be former governess. I’m sure the tales of Greater Goatswaddle are boring enough to put even an overwrought duke to sleep.”

  His arrogance must have been the reassurance she needed, for she launched into a story about picnics in the back garden, and Papa teasing Mama over breakfast, services on Sunday, and longing for a pony of her own.

  Eventually, Ellen fell asleep, and Hardcastle stole from her room, intent on sticking to her side like a well-dressed cocklebur on the morrow. He had returned his clothing to the wardrobe and clothes press, and wedged a chair under his bedroom door when he figured out what about Ellen’s recitation had bothered him.

  Of puppies and kittens there had been numerous mentions, of Mama and Papa and the vicar and Mrs. Trimble, the housekeeper.

  But she hadn’t brought her sister’s name up once.

  *

  For seven nights, Hardcastle had come to Ellen’s room, and he and she had developed a routine. She waited up for him, staring at poetry and wondering how on earth she’d manage when the house party ended.

  He’d arrive, bristling with indignation at the latest attempt by some scheming young lady to compromise him, and Ellen would get him out of his clothes. As he shed waistcoat, cravat, shirt, and stockings, his mood would improve as well.

  The prospect of losing one’s liberty was terrifying. Ellen did not belittle the duke’s worries in that regard at all.

  She, however, had lost her heart, and at the worst possible time.

  “Walk with me, Miss MacHugh,” Hardcastle said, taking her elbow as she cut through the conservatory at midmorning. “Don’t look over your shoulder. Hang on my every word, and I wouldn’t mind if you put a bit of bosom into the conversation too.”

  “I have only a bit of bosom,” Ellen retorted, keeping her attributes to herself. Hardcastle did this to her, made her bold and irritable. He could manage such a demeanor all in a day’s duke-ing. On a governess quitting her post, the same mood came off as simply testy.

  “Your treasures are abundant enough to drive me mad,” Hardcastle said. “Though I’m already half insane. Sedgemere has decided we must go on a ducal progress, and sprinkle duke dust on all the local titles. In truth, Her Grace wants Sedgemere out of her hair for a day or two before the Dukeries Cup. I must oblige Sedgemere, or Anne will kill me. Consider yourself warned: Courtesy among ducal household
s can be a violent undertaking.”

  “You’re leaving?” Ellen asked as they emerged onto the side terrace.

  Hardcastle glanced around, and apparently heedless of who might be looking out of windows or lurking in the garden, kissed her cheek.

  “Terrible timing for this outing, I know, my dear. You’re no longer indisposed?”

  Ellen shook her head. She was permanently disabled with longing for Hardcastle’s company. Her indisposition had departed, however.

  “Death is too good for Sedgemere,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll be back by tomorrow, the day after at the latest, and you will please be here when I return.”

  He’d be back the day before the house party ended. One day—most of that taken up with some silly boat race—followed by one night, after that and then… Derbyshire.

  “I will be here,” Ellen said. “You will lend me the ducal traveling coach for my journey to Derbyshire.”

  “Shall I? I’ve not been accused of generosity by many, Miss MacHugh.”

  Hardcastle was very generous, spending night after night with her, reading her poetry, regaling her with stories from public school and university. His passion was breathtaking, but this other—this simple, friendly intimacy—was devastatingly dear.

  “You’re generous, Hardcastle. Witness, you will not send Sedgemere calling without an ally at his side, so nobody will grasp that his duchess has banished him from his own house party.”

  He peered down at her. “You have the most peculiar notions. We’ll take an earl or two with us, any viscounts sober enough to sit a horse or barons who’ve lost too much at the whist tables. The ladies will get some peace and quiet before the final ball, and the fellows who need to brush up their rowing skills can do that.”

  “I don’t want peace and quiet,” Ellen muttered as Hardcastle escorted her down the steps into the garden. “I want another week, at least, and you here, and—”

  He wrapped her in his embrace, as if she were allowed to resent this parting, as if a part of him already belonged to her.