How to Lose a Duke in Ten Days

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “I’m afraid you can’t. He is a cousin of the Queen, you know,” she added, adopting a hint of Ponsonby’s lofty tone.

  Stuart made a sound of derision. “The relation is so distant, it’s hardly creditable. I’m more closely related to Her Majesty than he is.”

  “Still, there are some things that just aren’t done, and sacking the vicar is one of them. You’ll have to put up with him, I’m afraid. That’s the way things are.”

  He grinned at that. “So you’ve learned some battles against tradition aren’t worth fighting, have you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I have. Fighting centuries of tradition all the time rather wears one out.”

  He chuckled. “Wellesley gave me the impression he’s gone a few rounds with you.”

  “We’ve had our fair share,” she said with a sigh. “He told you all about it, I suppose?”

  “No. He’s trained too well to be that indiscreet. But he mentioned that you have a rather—­how did he put it?—­American way of doing things.”

  “The ultimate insult!” she said, sounding amused. “Still, we’re all right now, he and I. We’ve come to a sort of compromise about the way things are done. I tell him what I want, he advises me on how it’s been done in the past, and I tell him thank you very much, now do it my way.”

  Stuart gave a shout of laughter. “That’s your idea of compromise, is it?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, laughing with him. “I am the duchess, after all. It’s not easy, though. Running a large estate like this is an exhausting business.”

  “It is tiring.” He slid a sideways glance at her. “Which is why it’s best to have a partner.”

  “Then I fear you shall be perpetually exhausted in future.”

  Stuart laughed at the tart reply. “You’re so stubborn, Edie. But then, I’ve always known that. So tell me, what’s your plan for us tomorrow?”

  “I thought we’d go over the account books with Mr. Robson. It’s necessary,” she added, as he gave a groan.

  “We shall meet with him if you insist, but I’d hardly call it necessary.”

  “You need to be ready to take things over again after . . . after I’m gone.”

  He wondered if there was a hint of wistfulness in those last few words. He hoped so. “I refuse to contemplate the possibility of your leaving me. I’d much rather think about the two of us running things together as man and wife.”

  “And you call me stubborn?”

  He made a face. “I fear ours is rather a situation of pot meeting kettle. Still, Edie, a meeting with the steward is what you want to do tomorrow? Really?”

  “You did say I have my choice.”

  “Well, you could at least choose things that are fun,” he grumbled.

  “You didn’t have fun today? What a shame.” She looked away, but not before he caught the mischievous smile that curved the corners of her mouth. “I did.”

  EDIE’S ENJOYMENT OF the day, however, proved far too short-­lived. Since yesterday, she’d willed herself to not think about their conversation in the garden and what he expected her to do, but as the house came into view, she could no longer avoid thinking about it. With each step closer to the house, her apprehension grew.

  She tried to tell herself his request was hardly something to get worked up about. He seemed to think her participation in these exercises would somehow inspire her to want him. That might work, she supposed, if she were a normal woman with a normal woman’s desires. But she wasn’t, and a few exercises and a bit of massage weren’t going to change that.

  Massage. She’d have to massage him. Touch him. Edie’s uneasiness deepened, and though she tried to will it away by reminding herself of Stuart’s assurance that she would be in complete control, that didn’t help, for she knew how quickly and easily a woman’s control could be taken away.

  Stuart wasn’t Frederick, she reminded herself. Nothing like him at all, and yet, that perfectly reasonable point didn’t reassure her. But then, if fear could be assuaged with reason, she’d have been free of fear a long time ago.

  By the time they reached the house, dread was like a stone in her stomach, and when they entered the library, she could no longer stand the suspense.

  “All right then,” she said and stopped, turning to face him. “Let’s get on with this. Show me what it is you want me to do.”

  Her abruptness took him back a bit, she could tell. “Well, I can hardly show you in here.” He pointed to the French doors along the wall, all of which were wide open to let in as much air as possible on the sultry summer afternoon. “We’ve no privacy here.”

  Oh, God. He wanted privacy. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, for her throat seemed dry as dust. She gave a little cough. “I fail to see why privacy is needed,” she managed at last.

  “Because I prefer not to reveal my weaknesses where anyone could walk in and see them, particularly servants.”

  Edie bit her lip. She couldn’t fault him for that. She knew all about wanting to hide pain and weakness. “I see.”

  “I’m glad you understand. So, do you prefer my bedroom or yours?”

  Appalled, Edie cast aside any inclination to empathy. “I am not going to your bedroom!”

  “Very well, yours it is, then. I shall see you there in fifteen minutes.” He turned away, ignoring her spluttering protest, and started for the door to the corridor. “Wear comfortable clothes,” he added over his shoulder.

  She didn’t move to follow. Instead, she glared at his retreating back. “The sooner these ten days are over, the better,” she muttered.

  “I agree.” He paused in the doorway and turned to give her a provoking grin. “The sooner you kiss me, the sooner we can move on to things that are even more fun.”

  “Fun” wasn’t the word Edie would have used. At this moment, “agony” seemed a more appropriate description. She waited several minutes to be sure she wouldn’t encounter him on the stairs, then went up to her own room and changed into a tea gown of blue silk with a high neck and a wrapper of ecru lace. She might have to help him stretch and exercise, but wearing a tea gown and a loosened corset were as comfortable as she intended to get.

  Her maid had barely done up the buttons at her back when there was a rap on her door. Edie took a deep breath, then nodded to Reeves. When the maid opened the door, however, the sight of Stuart almost had her order Reeves to close the door again.

  He had changed into a pair of loose-­fitting gray flannel trousers, a plain linen shirt, and black smoking jacket. The shirt had no collar or stud, he wore no waistcoat, and the smoking jacket wasn’t even properly tied, and the sight of him in this partial state of undress made her even more nervous than before.

  She didn’t know if she could do this. He’d promised he would not make advances, but even if he kept his word, just the idea of being in such intimate circumstances with him, of touching him and . . . and massaging him seemed impossible.

  Her apprehension only increased when he came inside, pulled the door wide, and told her maid, “You may go down, Reeves, and have your tea. You shan’t be needed for at least an hour.”

  Edie watched her maid go out and close the door behind her, and the soft sound of the latch clicking into place seemed as loud as a gunshot. In the silence that followed, she could hear her own shallow breathing, and when he cast a long glance over her, Edie had to fight the impulse to bolt for the dressing room and lock the door.

  The air in the room seemed oppressive despite the open windows, and his first words did nothing to relieve the tension. “Are you wearing a corset?”

  She colored up at once, and he sighed. “Edie, I told you to wear comfortable clothes.”

  “I am!” She grasped a handful of blue silk and ecru lace. “This is a tea gown.”

  “Even under a tea gown, I don’t see how a corset could be considered comfor
table, but I suppose it’s up to you.”

  He kicked off his house slippers and crossed the room toward where she stood near the foot of the bed, reaching into the pocket of his smoking jacket. “Here,” he said, pulling out a pocket watch and small, green glass bottle. “Hold these.”

  “I appreciate the purpose of the liniment, of course,” she said as she took the items from his hands, “but what is the watch for?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” he said as he untied the sash of his smoking jacket and slid it off his shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, a ridiculous question, since the answer was plain as day. “You can’t undress in my room!”

  He stilled, the garment caught behind him at the wrists. “I’m only taking off my jacket,” he said, a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow at the violence of her reaction. “I can’t really move about if I’m wearing it. I would have left it off altogether,” he added as he took it up and draped it over the footboard, “but I didn’t want to shock the servants. Wellesley would see me wandering the corridors in nothing but a shirt and trousers and keel over from the shock. To say nothing of the housemaids.”

  Edie got hold of herself with the reminder that this was no time to be missish. “Well, don’t take off anything else,” she muttered, and turned to put the liniment on her dressing table. “What do I have to do?”

  “I’ll show you.” He cupped his hand over the side of his right leg. “When the lioness sprang, she caught me here and here,” he said, demonstrating with the tips of his fingers where the animal’s teeth had gone into the front and back of his thigh. “The injury tore my hamstring and quadriceps muscles.”

  “Ouch.” Edie grimaced. “The pain must have been excruciating.”

  “The pain didn’t last long—­not then, at least. The wound was bleeding pretty badly, and it only took a few minutes before I passed out from loss of blood. Luckily—­”

  He broke off abruptly and his hand formed a fist at his side.

  Edie looked up, and the frown on his face gave her a bit of a turn. “Stuart? Are you all right?”

  “Sorry,” he said and pressed his fist to his mouth with a cough. “It’s just that this is harder to talk about than I thought it would be.” His brow cleared and he lowered his hand. “Luckily, we’d driven the lions off by then, and my men managed to stop the bleeding. But that night, infection and fever set in.”

  “You told me you nearly died. So it was the infection, rather than the wound itself, that almost killed you?”

  “Yes. For three days, it was touch and go. On the third night, I was so far gone, my men were making preparations to bury me. I felt my life going, I knew I was dying, and I can’t explain why I didn’t. I just . . . refused to do it. Sheer stubbornness on my part, I suppose. The fever finally broke, and when I was strong enough to be moved, two of my men took me back to Nairobi. I thought I was all right, then, but in hospital, I got another infection. Odd when you think about it, for I’d never caught anything before. I don’t even have malaria, and in Africa, that’s saying something.”

  “Well, obviously, when you decided to get sick, you did it thoroughly.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did,” he said with a bit of a laugh, and though it sounded a bit forced, Edie was glad to hear it. “But the fever broke again, and I made it through all right.”

  “Thank heaven you didn’t develop gangrene. Or rabies. Or . . .” She stopped, pressing a hand to her chest at all the ghastly possibilities. “God, Stuart.”

  “The doctor was worried about both, but thankfully neither happened. I did have muscle damage, though. I was bedridden for three weeks, and even after I was on my feet, it was another two months before I could use my leg at all. And by then, atrophy had set in, and I was as wobbly as a newborn colt. Slowly, I got better, but the doctors said I’d probably never walk right again.”

  She nodded, striving to keep her face from showing any twinge of pity, for she could tell he hated that. “And did Dr. Cahill agree with their assessment?”

  “Not completely, no. He’s uncertain if my leg will ever be quite right, but he believes a regimen of walking and stretching the muscles of my leg will increase my mobility, break up the scar tissue, and help alleviate the pain. But I shall have to do this sort of regimen every day for the rest of my life.”

  “I see.” Edie fell silent, studying his face for a moment. It was the same dark, handsome face she’d seen at the Hanford ball, and yet it was different. It wasn’t, she realized, a reckless face anymore. “Stuart, what happened to Jones?”

  He swallowed and looked away. “I’d rather not talk about that, Edie, if you don’t mind.”

  She nodded, for if anyone knew what it meant to not want to discuss painful subjects, it was she. “Right,” she said, forcing a brisk note into her voice. “So what would you like me to do?”

  “Just stand there for a moment.” Using the footboard, he lowered himself to the floor until he was in a prone position at her feet. It hurt, she could tell by his face, and she couldn’t help thinking of the man she’d first met, a man who had moved through a crowded ballroom with the grace of a leopard. He must hate this, she thought. After the life he’s led.

  “Hand me the watch.” His request interrupted her thoughts, and Edie complied, banishing any melancholy about the man he had been. At least he was alive. “Dr. Cahill gave me two stretches to start with,” he went on. “I’m to do three of each.”

  “But what is the watch for?”

  “I have to hold each stretch for thirty seconds, and gradually increase the time to a full minute.” He lifted his injured leg until it was perpendicular to the floor. “Come closer, Edie, and wrap your arm around my leg. Closer,” he added as she moved a step forward. “Your body should be flush against the back of my thigh.”

  Edie complied, feeling terribly awkward. She’d never done any nursing in her life, and what she knew of that particular skill could fit in a thimble. And she was fully aware of his leg pressed against her torso.

  “Yes. Now, we’re going to stretch my hamstring. Put your free hand on the ball of my foot and slowly press my toes toward my chest. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  She started to do as he asked, but the moment she did, he inhaled sharply, and she slacked her hold, stricken. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said. “It pulls, but it doesn’t hurt. Do it again, only this time, don’t stop until I tell you. There,” he said, as she complied. “Now, don’t let go for thirty seconds. And keep your arm tight around my leg so my knee stays locked.”

  Edie would never have thought a mere thirty seconds could seem so long. The room was warm, the air still, and their position shockingly intimate. She could feel the heat of Stuart’s body all along hers—­his heel beneath her breasts, his taut thigh against her abdomen, his hip against the side of her foot. This was beyond anything in her experience; with the exception of Frederick, she knew nothing of men, or intimacy either.

  “All right,” Stuart said at last, and the sound of his voice thankfully pushed thoughts of Frederick out of her mind. Edie let out her breath in a rush of relief and lowered her arms to her sides.

  Stuart shook his leg a bit, then nodded. “Do it again, and go a bit farther this time.”

  The second stretch was easier for her. The intimacy of it wasn’t quite as shocking, and her apprehension eased. For him, though, it was harder. She discerned that by his breathing, for it was deeper, more forced than before. “Do you want me to ease back?” she asked.

  He shook his head, and on the third stretch, he instructed her to take it even farther.

  “Are you certain? I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t. I’m aware of how far I can push my body, believe me. Besides, even if it did hurt, I wouldn’t mind.” His gaze skimmed over her face, and his eyes seemed to darken to the color of smoke. “Not w
ith the view I’ve got, anyway.”

  Edie could feel the heat of his gaze as if she were standing by a fire. She stirred, but that move only made her more acutely aware of his leg pressed against her body, so she stilled and looked away. She was afraid, suddenly, but it was an entirely different sort of fear than she was used to.

  “Not susceptible to my blatant attempts at flirtation, I see.” When she didn’t answer, he moved against her, and she let go of his leg. “Oh, very well, if you won’t flirt back, I suppose I shall have to show you the next exercise.”

  “That might be best. I don’t flirt.” She didn’t say she had no talent for it. He probably already knew that.

  He rolled onto his stomach. “Kneel down behind me,” he said as he turned his head to the side and bent his injured leg. “You’re going to stretch my front thigh muscle,” he said as he held the watch beside his face to mark the time. “So you’ll wrap your hand around my shin with your right hand and press my heel toward my bum.”

  It was a good thing he wasn’t able to see her face, she thought as she complied with these instructions, for she knew she was blushing like mad. “How’s this?”

  “Yes, but harder. Use your weight. Rest your left forearm on my spine and brace your shoulder against the back of my foot. Good. Now lean in. More. A little more. Ssst,” he hissed as she hit the tension point. “Hold it there.”

  This was a far more intimate exercise than the previous one. Even through a corset and three other layers of fabric, Edie was acutely aware of the tip of her breast touching his buttock and the side of her other breast pressed against his calf. Never had thirty seconds seemed so long.

  When he finally called the time, she was so relieved that she couldn’t help a heavy sigh.

  He heard it. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she assured him at once although she feared the breathless quality of her voice might not have made her reply very convincing.

  But if he noticed, he didn’t tease her about it. “Good,” he said. “Do it again.”