Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

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

  They played on, and now the luck was on the side of Linton and Nick. “Almost even,” Linton said, adding up the score. “It’s getting late, but we should play one more hand. What do you say to fifty guineas, win or lose?”

  Nick and Speck, who had drunk a lot of brandy, agreed. The evening had taken on a fantastic character, and Althea felt reckless as well as confused. Her husband remained calm and unusually cordial, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was up to something. Was he trying to provoke her so that he could berate her later as an irresponsible gamester?

  “Fifty guineas it is,” she said, tilting her chin defiantly. “Your deal.”

  The cards lay evenly, and it came down to her at the penultimate trick. With all the trumps out, her discard was crucial. She stared at the two cards in her hand, trying to remember what had been played. Her partner, whose courtesy had slipped badly once they started losing again, almost snarled at her. Heart or club? Which should it be? The clock ticked away the seconds, and she couldn’t remember. About to throw down a card at random, she looked up and found Linton regarding her intently. Hoping for her to get it wrong.

  Then he smiled, not an unkind, mocking smile, but one of reassurance and encouragement. Her mind cleared, and she remembered. She set down the knave of clubs, and her queen of hearts took the final trick and the hand.

  She barely registered a crow of triumph from Speck and one of despair from Nick. Linton grinned broadly. “Very well done, Althea,” he said, and she flushed. Although she didn’t understand why, she had won his approval for something.

  Linton turned to Nick. “Don’t worry, Nicholas. I’ll cover your loss. It’s worth it.”

  *

  Five years ago, Linton had at first been pleased that Althea had her brother to escort her around town. Parliamentary duties had pressed, and he really should have postponed the wedding, but he hadn’t wished to. Back in London, he had little time to spare for his new bride. Paying heed with half his mind, he gathered they indulged in such benign youthful activities as visits to Astley’s Amphitheatre and feeding the ducks in Hyde Park. He had a rude awakening one evening when Althea came downstairs to meet Nicholas attired in a costume borrowed from her maid. They were off, she told him blithely, to dine at an inn near the East India docks. Strictly forbidding Nicholas to expose his sister to such an ungenteel and dangerous place, he’d left for an evening debate in the House of Lords. They went anyway, and of course someone saw them, and the party of worthless bucks who made up the party. He’d had to listen to a lecture from his sister Mary about how she was right and his wife had caused a scandal.

  The incident resulted in the first huge quarrel with his wife, with Althea defending Nicholas and dismissing the peril that made Linton cold with fear. It was a miracle she hadn’t ended up violated and murdered. He blamed Nicholas who should have protected his sister.

  Now he wondered if hadn’t been too hard on Nicholas, who had, after all, been only eighteen, little more than a boy. He resolved to try to be more tolerant. He stood on the bank and watched Nicholas row up and down the lake. Althea was right about her brother being a good oarsman, despite a few problems of technique.

  Nicholas noticed him when he stopped to rest. He sweated profusely, more than he should from exercise alone and far more than the cool day warranted. Too much easy living and hard drinking in town had softened him. He’d have to work hard to get up to full mettle and defeat Lord William Besett, who, according to Sedgemere, was the favorite to win the Dukeries Cup this year.

  “Linton,” Nicholas gasped. “Could you pass me that jug of water, please?”

  Linton handed him the pitcher sitting on the bank and watched Nicholas drink in great gulps. “Hard going, is it?”

  “About as I expected,” the young man replied, on the defensive.

  “You’re dipping the oars too deep. You’ll move more water with a shallower stroke. And you should keep the blades at an angle.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “I was in the Monarch Boat Club at Eton, and rowed at Oxford too.”

  “I doubt the Monarch can teach anything to the Isis Club at Westminster.”

  “If the Westminsters row like you, the Etonians will take you every time.”

  Nicholas’s belligerent look dissolved into a grin. “I seem to recall that we beat Eton last time we met, and mine was the fastest time.” He had recovered his breath and his cheek.

  “And I won the Dukeries Cup, so why don’t you try it my way?”

  Nicholas handed back the water jug and took up his oars. “All right, I’ll give it a go. I haven’t checked with a watch, but I know I’m slow.”

  “Start at the end of the lake, and I’ll time you.”

  Linton was in a good mood. He and Sedgemere had come to satisfactory terms about their tenants, but better still was his triumph the night before. He had established that Nigel Speck cheated at whist. Whenever Speck dealt the cards, he could see their reflections in the shiny surface of his snuffbox, so during every fourth hand he knew exactly who held what and was able to execute extraordinary feats of play. Really, Nicholas and Althea were a pair of babies not to have spotted the oldest trick in the book.

  Better yet, Linton had observed her carefully, and he believed, though he couldn’t be entirely certain, that Speck made Althea uncomfortable. At first, during that dismal dinner, he’d been sure her embarrassment at Speck’s unctuous compliments were caused by her husband’s unwelcome presence. Yet, not once in the whole evening had he intercepted a look between them that indicated any intimacy. Quite the opposite. If he was right, Althea was as displeased by Speck’s visit as he was, and the only question was why she allowed it. Indulging Nicholas as usual, he supposed. It also occurred to him, given her obvious indifference to card playing and discomfort with high stakes, that her previous losses were, in fact, her brother’s.

  The latter was ready. Linton took out his watch and shouted for him to start. After an impetuous beginning, Nicholas was immediately in trouble. With the oars at the new angle, he lost his rhythm, dug too deep, and caught a crab, landing on his back in the rocking scull.

  “Damn it,” he shouted. “This isn’t working.”

  “Keep trying. Better still, I’ll show you.” Linton stripped off his coat and waistcoat and loped to the boathouse to launch the other scull.

  Well over a decade after he’d last set foot in a boat, it was instantly familiar: the sway as he lowered himself onto the bench, the creak of wood in the rowlocks, the resisting water when he first dipped the oars. He lined up his hands, bent at the waist, and pulled. Too deep, just like Nicholas. An adjustment, another pull, and he moved forward. Taking it slowly, listening to his oars lapping through the rippling lake, he lined up with Nicholas in the middle.

  “Do you see how my blades are set?”

  Nicholas adjusted his position under Linton’s direction, and they surged forward side by side, Linton calling the strokes. Once they found their rhythm, he increased the pace. God, he’d missed this. There was nothing like the power of muscle over water. He went smoothly now, enjoying the burn of arms and shoulders, stomach and legs. Some muscles he hadn’t used in years protested, but he rowed through the ache, turning smoothly at the end to glide the full length of the lake. After three lengths, he pulled up and waited for his companion, who had fallen behind, to join him. Nicholas had mastered the new stroke, dipping his oars at just the right depth. As he continued to train, his speed would improve. For the first time, Linton thought the lad might be capable of winning, if only he could keep at it, not let his fickle, frivolous interest wander.

  Nicholas looked discouraged. “You beat me.”

  “You did well.”

  “You’re years older. I should be able to beat you easily.”

  “Youth isn’t everything. I’m stronger than you, and I drink less.”

  “I was sober as a judge last night.” Linton raised his eyebrows. “Almost as sober. I suppose I could do w
ith a glass or two less.”

  “If you’re wise, you’ll give up brandy until after the race. And take only one glass of wine with dinner.”

  “How will I keep my strength up?”

  “By eating more. Talk to your sister about beefsteak for every meal. You need lots of bread, not too many sweets and other rich foods, and absolutely no strong spirits. Now let’s talk about rowing. Speed and endurance aren’t enough. You need brains too, if you’re capable of exercising them. The Dukeries Cup requires strategy.” Linton warmed to his subject, and Nicholas looked interested, even hungry for information. “Above all, it’s won or lost on the turns, and yours are too slow and too wide. The lake at Teversault is three-quarters of a mile long, and the course is four full lengths. It’s narrow at each end, so the oarsmen have to turn around in little more than the length of the boat, and they have to do it quickly. You need to practice turning until you can do it neatly and in seconds.”

  Nicholas nodded without a trace of the sulkiness he sometimes displayed when offered any kind of advice. “Show me.”

  *

  With Linton calling on the Duke of Sedgemere and Nick at the lake, Althea needed to get out of the house before Nigel Speck found her, so she went to see how Nick was getting on. His brandy consumption during the whist game had worried her, and she feared his drive to compete would be short-lived. He’d left early, before she came downstairs, and she was proud of him for getting out of bed and going to work, even with a pounding head. He could use some sisterly encouragement.

  A strange sight greeted her as she descended the gentle hill to the lake. There were two boats on the water, turning in tight circles like a pair of deranged insects. Coming closer, she saw that one of them was propelled by her husband.

  She sat on a hummock above the bank and watched, unnoticed by a pair of men engrossed in their aquatic twirling. After a while, they stopped to chat, a little way from the shore. Without making out every word of a discussion about rowing and racing, she could hear Nick’s enthusiasm and Linton’s deeper, measured tones. They seemed on the best of terms, something that had not happened since the eve of her wedding, when eighteen-year-old Nick, just out of school, had been awed by his about-to-be brother-in-law and proclaimed him a great gun. Linton had proven more of a rapier, constantly pricking at Nick for extravagance and slashing him for perceived poor behavior. Over the following months, Linton grew more censorious, Nick more defiant. By the time Linton and Althea made the final break, it was much, much better not to have them in the same room.

  Look at them now, enjoying one another’s company, the way she’d hoped when the magnificent Duke of Linton, the biggest catch on the marriage mart in decades, had offered for the humble Miss Maxfield. Geoffrey had warned her not to expect much by way of a husband; the most she’d aimed for was a man who wasn’t actually cruel. Nick and she, it must be admitted, had gone a little mad when the delights of London first beckoned, and they were free from the restrictions and malice of their half brother. With Nick, in recent months, it had gone beyond youthful glee. He was in danger of becoming truly dissipated.

  He had more color in his cheeks than she’d seen in months, and Linton, well, Linton was just as underdressed and even more disheveled than when he’d entered her room two days ago.

  Having apparently come to an agreement, the oarsmen were ready to move again. Linton pushed his damp locks from his forehead and, in one sweep, removed his shirt and tossed it onto the floor of the boat. Whether he heard her gasp, or happened to look her way, he noticed his audience.

  “I beg your pardon, Althea. I didn’t see you there,” he called, and reached for his discarded garment.

  “Don’t worry,” she called back, standing up. “I’m enjoying the view.” She fanned herself. “It is awfully hot.”

  He gave her a look she couldn’t read and, thankfully, left his shirt where it lay. “Do you have a watch?”

  “No.”

  “Mine is in my coat. Could you find it and time us?”

  Going through Linton’s pockets made her self-conscious. The coat smelled of him, and rifling through the contents—coins, a slender pencil, some papers—seemed intimate and… wifely. She found the watch and took up position on firm ground above the marshy edges of the lake.

  “Wait until the second hand reaches twelve and call the start,” Linton ordered. “We’ll do two lengths of the lake. Ready, Nick?”

  The sight of a pair of well-formed gentlemen plying the oars was delightful. To be honest, she paid only cursory attention to Nick. It was Linton who riveted her: the smooth play of his muscles as he worked the oars, his chest moving to and fro as he rowed away from her, and then, as he made the turn and approached again, his bare back and broad shoulders. The sight of such exertions made her feel quite warm and distracted her from her duty. Not wanting to bungle the task and add or subtract minutes, she kept her eyes on the watch face and let her eyes stray to the lake only once every half minute.

  One minute twenty-nine, thirty. She looked up as the two boats streaked past, Nick in the lead by a nose. Both boats made the turn neatly—now she understood what they’d been practicing before—and they raced back toward her, backs straining as the pace increased. She couldn’t tell who was ahead, but she thought Linton might have edged out Nick when they passed her at an invisible finish line.

  They laughed and panted as they pulled up. “How long?” Nick called.

  “Two minutes forty-three seconds.”

  “Not bad for the first day,” Linton said. “You’ll have to be faster at Teversault, and more important, you’ll have to keep it up for almost twenty times longer.”

  “That sounds like a lot,” Althea said.

  “The lake at Teversault is a monster to row. It’s what makes the Dukeries Cup a great contest.”

  “What was the time when you won?” Nick asked.

  “Twenty-six minutes and seventeen seconds.”

  “You won it?” Why had her husband never mentioned it? “When was that?”

  “In my distant youth.”

  “You didn’t look like a poor toothless old man on the water just now.”

  “I was twenty years old, but there’s life in me yet. I doubt I could keep going for three miles, however.”

  “But you’ll keep training with me, won’t you?” Nick asked. “You helped me a lot today, and you know the Teversault course. You’re staying until the race, aren’t you? Please say yes.”

  That meant another three weeks of Linton around the house and in the next bedchamber. Another three weeks of awkward dinners and unwanted card games. Also piano duets and bare chests and the occasional encouraging smile. Her husband’s presence was fraught with problems and possibly even more dangerous to her state of mind.

  “I think I can spare the time.” He spoke to Nick, but he was looking at her.

  Chapter Five

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  “I hear the Duke’s Arms at Hopewell-on-Lyft is a decent place to raise a jar of ale and cast the dice.” Speck, obviously bored, was looking for livelier entertainment than he found in the drawing room at The Chimneys.

  “Don’t fleece the rustics,” Linton said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Speck asked casually. He was an expert at deception, but Linton detected his tension. The man was clearly worried that Linton had rumbled his game with the snuffbox. Linton merely raised his brows. One of the advantages of being a duke was that he never had to answer a question if he didn’t want to.

  “Which duke is it, of the Duke’s Arms, I mean?” Nick asked. “There are so many in these parts.”

  “Oxthorpe. Hopewell is his village.”

  “So are you coming, Nick?”

  “You can take my curricle, but I’m for bed.” He yawned. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately, but tonight I’m tired.”

  Linton knew something troubled Althea’s brother, but several hours at the oars had a way of making other worries recede. True to his word, Nicholas had confined
his indulgence to a single glass of claret, and his state of exhaustion had a healthy cause. Linton was pleasantly tired too.

  Speck left to deprive the local farmers of their hard-earned pay—Linton hoped he’d be caught cheating and beaten to a pulp—and Nicholas excused himself with more yawns, a kiss for Althea, and a handshake for Linton, who expected Althea to follow her brother.

  She sat down again, hands folded in her lap. He leaned back on a sofa, working his stiff shoulders and admiring his wife, pretty in pale green. She had a quality of stillness, he realized, unexpected in such an animated woman. Most ladies in his experience occupied their hands with some kind of needlework or fiddled with their shawls.

  “Thank you for helping Nick,” she said after a pause.

  “It’s nothing. He needs something to do besides running around London causing havoc and drinking too much.” Not wanting to reopen the old quarrel, he softened his voice. “Why does your older brother let him run wild, Althea? He should set him up in a profession.”

  “Geoffrey doesn’t like Nick. He won’t help him.” She stared down at her lap. “Because of our mother.”

  The subject of the second Lady Maxfield had never been raised between them, although he’d heard plenty from his sisters. The sorry tale of the baronet’s wife who’d run off with her husband’s steward had been hushed up, but Lady Mary Poole had a peerless ability to nose out scandal. He’d sworn to himself before his marriage that he would never discuss the distressing past with his bride.

  “It was hardly his fault.”

  Her head jerked up, eyes glistening like polished jade. “Do you blame me? Do you think I am like her?”

  “Of course not. It happened when you were mere infants. What were you, two years old?”

  “Three. We were three. My father said we had inherited a fatal flaw.”

  “Nonsense. Our faults are our own, not those of our parents. Do you even remember her?”

  “No.”

  “It must have been hard for a young girl without a mother. I miss mine too. The Chimneys was her favorite house, you know, which was why we always came here for a month or two in the summer after my father died. He preferred Longworth.”