Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

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

  She blushed, and that was charming. The dimple in her chin ought to be a flaw, along with her strong nose, but neither were. In some ways they were a better match now, as unacceptable matches went, now than they had been before she met Lark. Time and her marriage had given her the confidence of maturity and experience. She was no longer too young for him. “I oughtn’t have said anything this morning.”

  “You would have expired of hunger if you hadn’t.” He led Neptune toward the path. With her, Stoke could keep a decent walking pace, and even so, she often ran ahead two or three yards. Did she ever stop moving? During one of the interludes when they were walking side by side she clasped her hands behind her back and said, “What was it like growing up here? I can’t imagine it at all.”

  “Pleasant.”

  “You would say that. You’ve never known any other way of living.”

  “Nor do you know any way of living but as you have.”

  “Lord William says you have been solemn since the day you were born, but I don’t see how that could be.”

  “I have always had duties that admit of little leisure or lightness of spirit.”

  “Yes. I can see how that would be so.” She skipped ahead and walked backward for several feet so that she faced him. It wasn’t, he thought, as if she was so very different from other women. He knew her better than most women of his acquaintance because he had spent long hours in contemplation of his feelings for her and in whether it would be appropriate for him to act on those feelings. His answer to that had come too late. “I counted nine hundred and ninety-seven lime trees.”

  “There are one thousand forty-two.”

  “No.”

  He speared her with a look. “I have documents that prove you wrong.”

  “I’ll have to walk this way tomorrow and recount them. Again the day after that.” She extended her arms and turned in a circle, head tilted toward the dome of trees. “I adore this tree tunnel. The light is so lovely filtered through the leaves.”

  He joined her on the path, leading his horse. “Tree tunnel.”

  She stopped turning. “Yes. A tunnel made of trees. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “You seem quite cheerful in the face of such sorrow.”

  “Everything beautiful is heartbreaking. I had rather embrace beauty and be brought to tears than turn away.”

  “These trees make you cry. Have I understood you?” By some miracle he had not yet offended her.

  “Yes.” She fell back in step with him. “You say that as if you mean, ‘oh, that woman. She is incurable.’”

  “Best be less relentlessly cheerful if you wish a different reaction from me.”

  “Who wouldn’t be cheerful on such a day as this? It’s July, and I have no responsibilities at all but to look after Kitty, and I’ve discovered your cook is a genius.” She leaned toward him and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I’m going to talk him into betraying all his secrets to me and give them all to the cook at Uplyft Hall. Then, when Hugh comes home, he’ll never think to ask what I’ve done with the property in his absence. So, you see, I have good reason for cheer.” They kept walking. “Why, even you are cheerful today.”

  “Never.”

  She lifted a hand, one finger pointing skyward. “I have observed you, Your Grace. I know the nuances of your expressions. The subtle movement of an eyebrow. The darkening of a glance. The hint of movement at the edge of your mouth. The twitch of an eyelash. You, sir, teased me.”

  “I deny any such thing took place.”

  She pretended to study his eyebrows, which meant they stopped walking. “I see much in the curl of your lip.”

  “There is no nuance to me.”

  She clasped her hands behind her back once more and rocked back on her heels. “On the contrary. You are by nature stern and proper, but now we’ve spent enough time together that I have learned you as I expect few others have.”

  “How have my eyebrows edified you?”

  Her smile softened. “I have learned that duty matters to you more than most anything.”

  “One needs no special insight for that observation, I hope.” They stood too close for his comfort. He could lose his head. Was on the verge of it again. Part of him wished to fall. Perhaps she did read his expressions, for he was thinking about his hands on her naked skin. Her cheeks pinked up. She was no innocent. No longer.

  She glanced away, then back. “Have I ever thanked you for all you did for me when my husband died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not properly.” She swallowed. He had discomfited her, as he so often did with everyone who spent time with him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what I would have done. You came to my aid, and gave me comfort. You think I don’t know of the hours and hours you spent seeing to details. I know you intervened with his family and his father.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you got on with him.”

  “I don’t recall.” He hadn’t at all. He still remembered his fury at the discovery that Lark’s father was determined to leave her with nothing.

  “What I mean to say, just this once, with the god of the ocean as our witness, you terrified me too until then. You never did much care for me, yet you came to Hampstead Heath, and I was both grateful and humbled.”

  “Mrs. Lark.” He held himself quite still. “I have never disliked you.”

  She drew a breath and let it out. “Couldn’t be bothered to, is that it?”

  “You allow others to call you George.”

  “Your brother started that. As a jest. And then it stuck.”

  “Did your husband?” He was jealous of a dead man. This was unacceptable, that he should be so disordered. “Surely Lark did better by you than that.”

  “He got the habit from Lord William.” She frowned. “I like it. It’s amusing. It makes me smile to think people are fond enough of me to call me George. They say it affectionately, you know.”

  “A lady ought not be called by a man’s name.”

  Her eyes lit up with a smile, and God help him, he could not breathe for wanting her. “Lord William calls you Stoke. Do you feel that’s unseemly?”

  “He is my brother. And the Dukes of Stoke Teversault have been called Stoke by their intimates for five generations.”

  “I have been called George for five years.”

  “Mrs. Lark—”

  She peered into his face.

  “Kindly leave my eyebrows and lashes out of this discussion.”

  “You can’t say it, can you?”

  “What?”

  “George. You cannot say George when it would refer to me.”

  “Certainly not.” In his most reprehensible imaginings he whispered that name, low and soft. “We are not on terms that would permit me the liberty of calling you George or Georgina or any other name that is not Mrs. Lark.”

  She waved him off. “I give you permission to call me Georgina.”

  More than anything, he wanted to call her George. The intimacy dizzied him. He was aware that his course was obvious. He ought to lance her with a glare and say nothing. He was capable of stopping conversation dead with a single look. He’d done so several times, hundreds of times. The mere fact of him walking into a room could bring every soul inside to silence.

  “Say Georgina.” She grinned. “You’ve earned that right. Whisper it if you cannot bring yourself to speak the word. I won’t take a similar liberty. I’d never.”

  “I thank you, but no.”

  “I’m sorry for that. But I can’t stop others from calling me George. Besides, it’s only Lord William and my family.” She looped her arm around his, and they resumed walking. “And now Lord Revers.”

  “Lord Revers?”

  “He’s a charming man. I like him a great deal.”

  “The last time one of William’s friends began calling you George, you were married to him a month later.”

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  Stoke would rather walk through fire than leave his pr
ivate office. He stared at his watch-face but was unable to make the time anything but half past two and advancing. Half past two meant he ought to have left an hour ago. Thirty-one minutes past two meant he could no longer delay his obligations to his guests, be they strangers, relations, or acquaintances.

  A gentleman of rank did not shirk his responsibilities, even when there were a dozen pressing tasks that required his attention. He snapped the watch closed and brushed his thumb over the falcon engraved on the cover before he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

  There could be no regrets for doing one’s duty. One did. No more could be said on the subject. He rang for his valet and moments later, Daniels glided into the anteroom Stoke used as an unofficial office. He did not meet callers here, nor his secretary, nor the chief household servants, for that matter. Nevertheless, he preferred this room in his wing of the house for managing his personal correspondence and reading.

  On coming in, Daniels frowned to see Stoke in his shirt-sleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned, coat tossed over the back of his chair. “Will you be joining the festivities, Your Grace?”

  He sighed. “Make me presentable, if you would.”

  Stoke came around to the front of the desk so that Daniels could have at him. He valued the servant’s stoicism about events such as this. He was indeed in some sartorial disrepair. Daniels set a small leather case on Stoke’s desk and reached for his coat. Daniels was never in disrepair. Stoke trusted his valet’s discernment in all things related to a gentleman’s proper attire.

  His valet of the last five years had not lost the brawn of his fighting days. He’d come to England fifteen years ago, a free black man eager to prove his mettle in the ring. Which he had done. After modest successes culminating in retirement from the art, he’d declined to return to America. Instead, he went into service, hired by an acquaintance of Stoke’s. Upon seeing the improvement in the man’s appearance and in need of a new valet, Stoke had hired Daniels away by offering both the step up in employer and a doubled salary.

  He held out his left arm. Daniels unrolled Stoke’s sleeve and refastened the cuff. Same with the other. He’d only to stand there while his servant put his clothes to rights and helped him into his coat. Again from his leather case, Daniels produced hairbrush and comb and smoothed the imperfections of Stoke’s hair. Stoke insisted his hair be cut short to prevent the appearance of unruly curls. The next process involved a lint brush put to thorough use.

  With his American manner of speaking not the least affected by his years in England, Daniels said, “Sit, and I’ll polish your shoes.”

  Stoke looked down. “Not necessary, I shouldn’t think.”

  There was a moment of deep silence that, when it happened over incidents like this, never failed to make Stoke worry that Daniels would resign his position if he didn’t cooperate. Daniels pursed his lips. “There’s a crowd downstairs.”

  He shuddered at the thought. “Your point?”

  “It’s an ill reflection on me if you look anything but perfect.”

  “Oh, very well.” He sat, aware that Daniels was a master of managing Stoke’s moods. Thank God there was someone who tolerated him.

  With swift, sure strokes, Daniels buffed Stoke’s shoes. He did not care for anything gaudy, but Daniels had convinced him that silver buckles did not go too far. In truth, Stoke had become used to the improvement in his appearance since he’d hired the man. Satisfied with the result, Daniels gestured for Stoke to stand. The valet straightened his cravat again and readjusted his coat sleeves. “There. Now you may be seen and no one will think you ought to find a new man to do for you.”

  He and Daniels shared a lean, dry humor, so neither of them spoiled the moment with a smile or laughter. “You are quite welcome.”

  “Your Grace.”

  Stoke nodded and headed for the door. Daniels arrived first and opened it for him. The most direct route to his destination was to his left into the west wing of the house, down a short flight of stairs, to the right along another corridor and to the grand entrance hall with its view of the driveway, the banisters carved by Belgian craftsmen in 1432 and walnut panels from a French villa taken as the spoils of war by one of the hawk Besetts the century before the carving of the banisters.

  Stoke, offended by the crowds of people he did not know who presumed unwarranted intimacies by their presence here, and weary because he’d been up since before six in the morning, soon stood at the edge of the side lawn where there were more guests today than yesterday. The fortnight of merriment moved from estate to estate to estate, and there were times when Stoke was convinced the Dukes of Oxthorpe, Sedgemere, and Linton conspired to send everyone here.

  He had envisioned today’s picnic as a sedate interlude in which the invited guests of the four dukes would consume an excellent repast and then stroll the grounds to view his newly constructed orangery, admire the gardens or, for the ambitious, follow a portion of the lime-tree-bordered path beside the driveway.

  Most of his visitors remained on blankets painstakingly laid out by his staff. Footmen had delivered each group its own wicker basket of delicacies prepared by his chef and a kitchen staff of thirty, half of whom had been hired for this summer series of entertainments.

  For those who preferred a less natural setting in which to dine, there were tables close to the house with canvas umbrellas as protection from the sun. This year’s boisterous and over-represented contingent of the young and the unmarried had eaten quickly, if at all, and were now gathered on a portion of the lawn farther from those still picnicking.

  This group of young ladies and gentlemen had previously included William. William had left the field of play to join him for reasons he trusted would soon be made clear. “Are you in training for the Dukeries Cup?” Lord Ingleforth asked William. “I’ve money on you.” He shook his finger at William. “Oxthorpe has laid down a packet on Mr. Fletcher. I expect you to win. We shall have words if you don’t.”

  “I’m looking for a fourth victory this year.”

  Years ago, at one of these infernal parties, Stoke’s father had organized a single scull race on the serpentine. Some wag had called it the Dukeries Cup, and with that the race became a tradition. As had the betting. A good deal of money was wagered on the contestants. He always put a hundred pounds on William, a strategy that had, three years running, been quite profitable.

  “I’ll go out on the water tomorrow.” William pretended to row a stroke, using the tennis racket he held in one hand as if it were an oar. Green stained the top of the racket, and two blades of grass were stuck in the upper strings. This was due to William having involved himself in the game being played on his lawns. William continued to propel an invisible scull across invisible water. His brother had rowed at university and had rarely lost. “I could race the course with my eyes closed. I’m not worried about the competition.”

  Stoke did not care to see tennis rackets being used as if they were oars or shovels, and it was all he could do to keep himself from snatching away William’s racket and striding out to the field to demand everyone stop abusing equipment that did not belong to them. Laughter rose up from the lawns—male and female, for they had included ladies in the game. He told himself the inclusion of both genders made sense. There would be opportunities to exchange looks and impress others with one’s agility, grace, and prowess. Quite likely some of the participants would one day trace their marriages to this day.

  Their travesty of a game involved tennis rackets and balls, a wicket, and metal hoops from an ancient set of pall-mall. He doubted whether anyone had touched the pall-mall equipment since the previous century. He had but the vaguest recollection of his father allowing him to swing a mallet as tall as he was. Which was the truth, seeing as he’d been no more than two or three at the time.

  There was a great deal of unsedate dashing about and much laughter. He told himself young people had a right to their high spirits, though he had never been such a youth. The game reminded him of a med
ieval melee, with knights fighting for their lives. It appeared the rules were being made up on the spot. Further, and more to the point of his disquiet, George was in the thick of it. Could one fault so young a widow for her play? She was twenty-three. Younger than Lord Revers, William, and Miss Paltree. Young enough that if she had never been married at all, no one would think twice of it. She wore a light blue frock and, at the moment, was sprinting after a ball with such speed the long ribbons tied at her back streamed behind her.

  What others called her, if not Mrs. Lark, was none of his affair. There was no reason for him to care in the least. George waved her tennis racket, laughing joyously as she reached the ball and whacked it in the direction of one of the metal hoops. She was happy. Since the night he’d held her, inconsolable, he’d hoped she would recover, in some scant degree, from the heartbreak of her husband’s death.

  Ingleforth cleared his throat. “There’s a lively female. Who is she again?”

  “Which?”

  “The one Revers keeps chasing.”

  He shaded his eyes and examined the field of play. Ingleforth meant George. “That is Mrs. Lark. Her brother is Hugh Hunter of Uplyft Hall.”

  “Hunter. Hunter.”

  “From Hopewell-on-Lyft.”

  “I knew a Charles Hunter. Is that his girl?”

  “Yes.”

  Ingleforth shaded his eyes, too, and peered across the lawn. “Can’t make head nor tails of what they’re doing.”

  “Through no defect of yours, my lord. There is no logic to their game.”

  “It seems the ones with the rackets are attempting to drive the balls through the hoops.”

  Someone else asked, “Why do only some of them touch the wicket?”

  Stoke sent the man a withering look. “For pity’s sake, at least ask why a wicket at all.”

  “I assumed because it was necessary.”

  Stoke ceased paying attention to their speculation. George’s bonnet had flown off during a far too vigorous run, a full-out sprint that involved her touching the wicket and swatting a ball in the direction of a player who did not have a racket. She clapped a hand to the top of her head—too late to do any good—and whirled. Her hair was too long for the current fashion and coming loose from its pins. She darted after her hat and then, in hoydenish fashion, lunged and used her tennis racket to pin it to the ground.