The Duke in Disguise

by Gayle Callen

  "Of course, Your Grace," she said stiffly.

  He smiled, and she realized with shock that he was no longer staring into her eyes, but at her mouth. She'd allowed herself to be kissed several times, and she knew what that look from a man meant.

  Long ago, when she was still the center of attention among her own class in London, she had responded with anticipation— from curiosity's standpoint, of course. She had been kissed, and though it had been pleasant, the experience had been disappointing.

  Now, as she looked at the duke, all she could do was be stunned by the pure feeling of anticipation that swept over her, through her, even though she still burned from his mockery. Appalled, she realized she wanted to taste him.

  She backed away quickly. She would not let this happen. A man like the duke would take advantage of her and then release her from his employ.

  "Will Stephen be joining you for luncheon, Your Grace?" She prided herself on how normal her voice sounded.

  "I have an engagement elsewhere," he said.

  His lazy smile was gone, and she could not allow herself to be stared at a moment longer.

  "Then I wish you a good afternoon," she said, then escaped.

  * * *

  All afternoon, Meriel was torn between pride that she'd stood up for Stephen, and anger directed at herself for not realizing what having dinner with the duke every night would mean for her. She would have to suffer his attention and devise ways to distract him without jeopardizing her employment.

  Dressing for dinner was an exercise in futility— what was she to wear? Her best gowns were far too lovely for a governess to wear— especially a governess who was trying to stay unnoticed. She certainly would not allow the duke to think she was deliberately attracting his attention.

  She finally chose a black silk gown that she had worn to her father's funeral and dressed it up with a simple cameo at her throat. From now on, this would be her only evening gown. The few beautiful gowns she hadn't wanted to part with remained concealed at the back of her wardrobe. She wore her hair in the plain, severe style she now favored, pulled back off her face, with not a curl showing.

  Beatrice the maid had stopped by earlier to tell Meriel when the duke expected her for dinner. Her attitude had remained cool, and Meriel hadn't bother to ask why. How could the servants be upset that Stephen needed to have dinner with his own father?

  When she finally collected Stephen— looking adorable in his miniature frock coat and trousers— and went down to the dining room for dinner, the duke was being waited on by his footmen. The first course was already being taken away. Every click of silverware echoed in the cavernous room that could easily seat fifty. Beatrice the serving maid was bent near the duke, wiping crumbs from the tablecloth. The girl didn't meet Meriel's gaze.

  The duke finished chewing and regarded Meriel with amusement. "So punctuality is not one of Stephen's lessons?"

  Stephen, uncomprehending, stared between them.

  Meriel felt her face redden. "Your Grace, we are five minutes early."

  "You are almost a half hour late, Miss Shelby."

  He did not seem angry, which was even more frustrating, because she was angry— angry with herself for believing the innocent-looking Beatrice, whose pretty face was flushed with excitement as she hovered near the duke.

  Meriel bit her lip. So now was she in some sort of contest with a maid for the duke's attention? Shouldn't Beatrice care that it was Stephen she hurt more?

  Stephen gripped her hand tighter, his happy face collapsing slowly into worry. "Father, did I do something wrong?"

  "Of course not, Stephen," the duke said. "Miss Shelby did."

  She flinched.

  "But you have missed only the first course. Come eat with me."

  For the first time, Meriel wanted to flee a room because of embarrassment. She'd always prided herself on being punctual and prepared for any situation. She refused to let a jealous maid control her actions.

  Chapter 5

  As Stephen sat at his elbow, and Miss Shelby sat on the other side of the boy, Richard watched her consternation fade into a quiet resolve. He had seen the governess glance at the maid, and knew that his dinner instructions must have been deliberately altered. He wanted to just let the whole thing go— but he was Cecil now.

  He forced a smile. "Beatrice, have you been naughty today?"

  The girl blushed and smothered a giggle behind her hand. Her triumphant gaze landed openly on Miss Shelby. The governess ignored her, nodding to Robert the footman, who set a plate before her. Miss Shelby then turned to Stephen, reminding him of the proper utensil and guiding the placement of his napkin.

  She was a cool one, Miss Shelby. And so obviously intelligent that for a moment this afternoon, looking so closely into her deep blue eyes, he had considered telling her that a duke's heir might always be in danger— from the next heir. But that was his secret for the moment, his and Cecil's. He could not have an inquisitive, worried governess nosing into where she didn't belong.

  And then during their private meeting in the study, he'd really lost his mind. He'd wanted to kiss her. Her lips had become all he could think about. And she had sensed it, he knew. Which was maybe a good thing. She should be on her guard with him. He wanted to tease her, occasionally humiliate her, but he did not want to care for her. There was too much at stake.

  "So what did Miss Shelby teach you today?" Richard asked Stephen.

  The little boy at first started talking with his mouth full, but with only a glance, the governess was able to remind him of his manners.

  "I learned about India, Father," he said after swallowing. "Miss Shelby even has a scarf from there!"

  Richard glanced at Miss Shelby.

  She continued to watch her pupil with fondness. "My father used to travel when I was young," she explained. "That was one of the gifts he brought me."

  "Are you well traveled, Miss Shelby?"

  "London is such a big city, Your Grace. Though I explored, there is still so much left to see."

  "So you are not well traveled," he said, driving the point home in a way that made him want to wince.

  A faint blush colored her cheeks. "No, Your Grace."

  "But my guess is that you had always planned to."

  She looked directly at him with her clear gaze.

  "Before your unfortunate financial difficulties," he continued, hating himself for hurting her.

  "Of course, Your Grace," she said. "Every woman has plans for how she'll live her life."

  He smiled. "With her husband, of course."

  Stephen looked between them uncertainly. "Are you married, Miss Shelby? Then why are you a miss?"

  She gave her pupil a fond smile. "No, my lord, I am not married. The duke was simply teasing me as a way to pass the time. Witty dinner conversation can make a simple dinner so much more interesting."

  To Richard, her tone subtly conveyed the fact that his conversational skills were wanting. He was amused and impressed by her daring. Bantering with the lovely Miss Shelby could be far too distracting.

  Hargraves the butler opened the double doors from the corridor and stepped inside. "Your Grace, you have unexpected guests."

  The resigned tone of his voice let Richard know this was not an unusual event.

  "The visitors are Lord Yardley and his sister, Lady Parthenope Dean, and Lady Lawton. Shall I have them wait in the blue drawing room until you have finished dinner?"

  Richard wanted to tell them all to go home. He vaguely remembered Yardley, and that he had a sister, but Lady Lawton was a stranger. He'd hoped that the need for Cecil to recuperate would have kept people away for a while yet. But then Cecil's friends were hardly the type to respect rules— unwritten or otherwise.

  Richard waved a languid hand. "Tell them I'll be there when I'm finished with dinner, Hargraves. They won't mind waiting. Provide them with whatever refreshments they'd like."

  But as they were finishing the main course, loud voices erupted in
the corridor, and the doors were thrown open by a red-faced, laughing man. It had been at least five years since Richard had seen Yardley, and it was obvious that a life of dissipation had not been good for him, as evidenced by his too-tight waistcoat and his bloodshot eyes.

  "Thanet!" Yardley called, then stumbled and grabbed the door handle for support.

  Hargraves pushed past him. "Your Grace, forgive this interruption. Lord Yardley would not wait any longer to see you."

  "Been waiting too long," Yardley said, slurring his words together. "The brandy's fine, but me poor sister needs someone to entertain her."

  The two women giggled from where they gathered behind him, and Richard forced himself to smile as if he were pleased by the interruption.

  Yardley swung an arm around the neck of a plump woman. "This is Lady Lawton, Thanet."

  "Your Grace." She managed a passable curtsy.

  "We been spending time together," Yardley said. "Poor thing's husband up and died on her last year."

  Richard watched with disgust as Yardley waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner, as if Miss Shelby wouldn't understand his vague sexual references. The governess was speaking in a soft voice to Stephen, who looked bewildered, but resigned.

  As if his father routinely abandoned him.

  Richard would have to do the same thing.

  Yardley grabbed his sister's elbow and tugged her forward. She was obviously embarrassed and tipsy and hopeful, all at once.

  "Thanet, you remember me sister, Parthenope? Finally out of the schoolroom, she is."

  Richard felt strangely old looking at the young girl. But of course he was five years older than Cecil. Inwardly he sighed even as he grinned.

  The footmen waited with dessert. Richard motioned them forward, and as they began to serve, he said, "Miss Shelby, you and Stephen enjoy your custard." He looked at the boy. "I promise we'll have a longer dinner tomorrow night."

  Stephen shrugged and dug into his dessert. Miss Shelby left hers untouched, her eyes downcast and her face devoid of expression.

  "Why don't you bring your pretty friend," Yardley said, eyeing Miss Shelby lasciviously.

  The other two women pouted.

  Miss Shelby's formidable gaze took in Yardley, and before Richard could speak, she said, "I am Lord Ramsgate's governess, my lord."

  "You don't say?" Yardley said. "Means you need a night off, I think."

  She drew in a deep breath, but said nothing else.

  Richard grinned at her. "Nurse Weston could escort Stephen to bed, Miss Shelby. You seldom get a chance to converse with adults. We'd be happy to have you join us."

  Meriel wondered if her skin was as fiery red as she imagined, from both anger and humiliation. She could not believe that the duke would ask her to socialize with him— in front of his own son, no less! It was one thing to be invited to a family event, since she was a member of the household. But this was going too far. Luckily, Stephen was too young to realize the lewdness of Lord Yardley and his friends.

  But deep inside, a restless, dark part of her soul imagined being with the duke as she used to be, a young woman of potential, of fortune, whom men had wanted for a bride— not a conquest. "You are kind to offer an invitation, Your Grace," she said, "but I must decline. I had already promised Lord Ramsgate a tour of the portrait gallery."

  "Won't it be too dark to see much?"

  Stephen grinned. "Miss Shelby promised a lesson on my ance— ancest— "

  "Ancestry," she corrected.

  "Ancestry," the boy repeated dutifully. "But I'm looking for ghosts."

  The three uninvited visitors hooted with laughter at that, but Meriel noticed that the duke only smiled.

  "Let me know if you find any," he said to his son.

  He looked back at Meriel and gave her a short bow that provided even more amusement to his friends.

  "Have a good evening, Miss Shelby," he said.

  "Thank you, Your Grace."

  * * *

  Meriel had done her research before attempting to speak with Stephen about his ancestors. In the library, she had studied several history books written about the centuries-old Thanet dukedom, and even questioned Mrs. Theobald about the most recent duke, the grandfather who'd died before Stephen was born. All it proved to Meriel was that such power and wealth could corrupt easily. It was up to her to help Stephen be a better man.

  Not that she thought the present duke was exactly corrupt, she realized as she escorted Stephen through the immense house to the portrait gallery. The duke treated his servants— especially the women, she thought dryly— well enough, and she had yet to hear any complaints about him. He was seldom in residence for more than a few days at a time, so the household usually moved through each day undisturbed. But she sensed an eagerness connected to his visit that she didn't quite understand, especially among the maids, if Beatrice was any example.

  She tried to examine her feelings. Would Meriel herself be eager to see him again after his inevitable departure? He brought uncertainty and arrogance— and sometimes amusement, she admitted reluctantly. Tonight she imagined him with those rude, drunken people who disgusted her.

  But he didn't. Was she beginning to think of him as above the everyday sins he committed? Maybe that made her no better than the lovesick Beatrice. A man was surely the sum of his actions, not what Meriel hoped he could be. She didn't know why she wished he were a better man— except for Stephen's sake, of course.

  They reached the portrait gallery, which stretched the length of the house on the first floor. There were windows on either side, overlooking the front drive, as well as the inner courtyard to the rear. But the windows were dark now except on the courtyard side, where the lights of the far wing of the house glittered. Mrs. Theobald had seen to the candles being lit, but Meriel also carried an oil lamp to hold up near each portrait.

  Between the windows were several dozen portraits, some ten feet tall (mostly the dukes themselves). Others were of a more moderate size of three or four feet— duchesses and children, and even the occasional wolfhound. Sadly, Stephen's mother had died young, before she'd had a chance to pose. Meriel would have to see if her family could provide Stephen with a portrait of her.

  She took Mrs. Theobald's advice and started two-thirds of the way down the gallery with Stephen's great-grandfather, who'd commanded a battalion in the colonies. As Stephen grew older, she would eventually work their way back through his older ancestors. It was a good way to study history.

  And of course, look for ghosts. Stephen was still hopeful, and it was difficult to keep his focus on her voice, when he kept peering behind each drapery or statue.

  She had begun to discuss Stephen's grandfather when the duke appeared out of the shadows near their end of the gallery. Meriel gave a little start, and inside her heart kicked into this new rhythm that seemed only inspired by him. Why was she so drawn to him, a man she should have no respect for?

  Stephen broke into a smile and ran toward his father. Then he stopped awkwardly to bow. But Meriel knew he'd wanted to throw himself into his father's arms. Even after only a few days and some meager attention, the boy thought the duke could be more to him.

  She glanced behind the duke, but there was no sign of his visitors.

  "Hello, Father."

  "Hello, Stephen," the duke said. He smoothed back his son's unruly hair. "Are you paying attention to Miss Shelby?"

  "Oh yes! I learned about soldiers and battles. Did you know my grandfather fought against the French? And my great-grandfather against the Americans?"

  The duke smiled at Meriel. "You certainly picked the correct history to hold a young boy's attention. No discussion of the fever that wiped out half the household two hundred years ago? Or the younger son who fled to the colonies and became an American?"

  "I thought we would start small, Your Grace," she murmured.

  "Did you see any ghosts?" the duke asked his son.

  Stephen's shoulders slumped. "None. I thought the da
rkness would help, but it doesn't. Have you ever seen a ghost here, Father?"

  Meriel watched the duke lift his head and gaze down the length of the gallery. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

  "When I was your age, I used to wonder if there were ghosts in Thanet Court," he said softly, his deep voice containing an unexpected rumble. "I kept thinking I saw one out of the corner of my eye, but I never really did."

  There was an awkward silence, and she realized that the duke wasn't even looking at the portraits. Of course, he'd spent his life looking at them.