by Darcy,Regina
Her heart beating wildly, Hermione closed her eyes shut and prayed for salvation as she silently wished herself invisible.
THREE
Anthony Sunderland, the Duke of Brentford, apparently oblivious to the noise, directed his manservant in laying out his wardrobe for the day, all the while levying comments of a suggestive nature to the recumbent woman in his bed. Hermione felt as if her heart were beating so fast that it could surely be audible but she remained unmoving under the covers, recognising than her rescuer was shrewd in his decision to hide where Mr Wilder would not expect her to be.
“Hermione I warn you I’ll come in there and dress you myself if you don’t come out!” Mr Wilder shouted in the hallway.
“Frightfully ill bred,” murmured the Duke. “The blue waistcoat, Michaels, I’m feeling—sir, you are intruding into my private quarters!”
Hermione realised that Mr Wilder must have entered the room through the door she had forgotten to shut when she fled her own chamber.
“I’m looking for a girl—” began Mr Wilder.
“Ah, well, I can’t help you. I have a luscious one of my own and I’m disinclined to share. Go fetch your own bit of muslin and leave mine to her beauty sleep.”
“Have you seen a girl?”
“Countless girls,” the Duke admitted cheerfully, “and I’ve enjoyed the sights very much, but I regret to inform you that, as I am well provided for, as you can see—darling, you lazy, lovely thing, you must get up, you know—I have no interest in another man’s possessions. Now you will leave, sir, so that my lovely companion, who is dressed as nature designed and Eve emulated, may rise from her sleep without undue embarrassment.”
“Pardon,” Mr Wilder said, his voice tight. “If you come upon a girl, I beg you to let me know. My card, sir.”
“Donald Wilder of Fitzgerald Manor,” the Duke read, his voice projecting strongly so that Hermione could easily hear. “Would you be a relative of His Lordship the Baron who passed away last week?’
“I’m due to become his son-in-law.”
“Bad bit of business, marrying a girl and enjoying the favours of a rented romance in an inn,” the Duke chided. “What will the girl think?”
“There is no other girl, you fool, there is only Miss Lang, my intended.
“Fool, sir? Have a care. I’m a dead shot with pistols and I rather like being up at dawn.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Mr Wilder replied quickly, apparently deterred by the threat of a duel. “My fiancée is in a fragile state of emotions owing to her father’s death and I am concerned for her wellbeing. She is young and inexperienced and vulnerable.”
“Perhaps too early for wedding bliss,” the Duke suggested gently.
“She needs a protector,” snapped Mr Wilder. “Otherwise she is a girl on her own with no guidance. She is, as I said, fragile. She could easily get herself into a dilemma with no way of extricating herself.”
“So you say,” the Duke commented. “But you must concede that, as you have given me no reason to credit your explanation; my sympathies must be with the young lady in mourning. She is unlikely, at such a time, to welcome the intrusiveness of a husband who is so intent on procuring her hand in marriage that he pounds upon her bedchamber door as if he were a constable seeking to arrest a common thief. Therefore, sir, you will leave my room and cease bothering me.”
“”You dare—”
“I do,” the Duke replied with deadly softness. “And my sword and pistols dare as well.
There was a very brief silence, followed by the sound of footsteps and a door slamming with force.
“Michaels, pray lock the door so that we will not be interrupted again. Miss Lang, you may emerge from my bed.”
Hermione threw off the coves and stepped from the bed, her blond hair no longer tidy in its chignon but somewhat mussed. The effect, thought the Duke, was rather enticing in an unleashed manner. As was her dress, slightly rumpled from the time spent under the sheets.
“A sweet disorder in the dress,” quoted the Duke, “kindles in clothes a wantonness. Are you a fan of Robert Herrick, Miss Lang? I beg your pardon: Miss Hermione Lang.”
“I—am fond of poetry,”
“As am I. We shall amuse one another with matching quotations.”
“I thank you, sir, for your help. I shall trouble you no more,” she edged toward the door.
“I do not think your swain has left the inn yet. I would not leave until you are sure that he is no longer present to force you to his side. And besides. . . ” the Duke came closer to her. “ I did warn you about the dangers of seeking aid from a stranger without knowing what he will require in return.”
Hermione’s large grey eyes showed alarm. The Duke noticed how very pretty she was, with those dark grey eyes luminous and watchful like a sky filled with portentous clouds.
“I cannot possibly assist you, sir, with my own situation so uncertain.”
“Michaels, pray order breakfast, a bountiful one that we all can share. As your reputation is already compromised by having spent time in my bed you will not, I think, quibble over partaking of breakfast in my bedchamber without benefit of a chaperone.”
“No one knows that I am here,” she stammered.
“It’s true that I have not yet had the opportunity to acquaint anyone with the remarkable story which I have just been party to,” he said. “But I have a proposition for you. One that will doubtless go better over toast and tea. Michaels, will you release yourself from what I have no doubt is ravening curiosity and do my bidding? Have breakfast brought up. If Mr Wilder is yet among the inn’s clientele, you may claim the breakfast quantities as my usual portion after having spent a night in the lascivious pursuits of a man’s baser instincts. I will remember my gentlemanly manners and explain my situation to our guest.”
Michaels closed the door behind him. “Now then Miss Lang, I have as I said a proposition for you. What say you to marriage?’
“I already told you, sir, I am not planning to marry,” Hermione replied perplexed.
“To an overbearing thug, no, I quite agree,” he said pleasantly, pulling out a chair and indicating with a wave of his hand that she was to sit down in it. “But what about to a younger man, of not insignificant means, who admittedly has somewhat of a reputation as a libertine but is regarded by the haute monde as someone who pays his gambling debts, holds his drink, and is, if not temperate, at least not ill-tempered.”
“I am not in the humour for nonsense, sir,” Hermione snapped. “I have explained my situation to you and yet you make light of it.”
“No,” he disagreed, suddenly serious. “I do not make light of it, I assure you. But I have need of you and I believe that Providence, which I have long observed plays a clever hand, may have placed you in my path. You would not, surely, thwart Providence?”
“Your Grace,” she said, stranded between exasperation and bewilderment, ‘I believe that you are making a mockery of me and I assure you that I am no fit subject for your scorn. You have seen my guardian—”
“Marriage to me for a year,” he interrupted, his merry dark eyes all of a sudden intense. “One year. I will not presume to press upon you the traditional rights of a husband. You will be my wife in name only, but as you will be the Duchess of Brentford, it is not such a bad name to acquire. You will be provided with all that a woman of your station could expect and when the year is ended, you may seek your freedom. A divorce is not unattainable.”
“Divorce!” Hermione exclaimed, with all the horror the word held for her. One did not expect divorce to be part of a marriage proposal.
“You have just told me that you have no wish to marry. Why, then, would the prospect of divorce dismay you? You may travel to the Continent and live a life of complete holiness and purity or you may travel with a score of lovers. You will have the means to do whatever you wish.”
“I have the means now,” she replied with dignity. “At least, I would have if Mr Wilder were not my gua
rdian.”
“There you have it! What do you say? Marry me for a year and you shall be in sufficient funds at the end of the year to take the blackguard to court to claim your rightful inheritance. You will be outrageously wealthy and even though you will have divorced me, you will be the most sought after woman in London. Men will long to get their hands on your inheritance and of course, no one can be immune to the allure of a beautiful woman formerly married to a titled, wealthy ne’er-do-well.”
He leaned over her in the chair, his face close to hers. Through the opening panels of his dressing gown, she saw muscled flesh and chest hair, revealing that he was shirtless. His dark eyes were alight with what she took to be mirth and urgency, a most unusual combination.
“Are you a ne’er-do-well?” she asked confused.
“I have been accounted so by some,” he shrugged, standing up and helping himself to his snuffbox. “It’s the result of a young man coming too soon into his inheritance, you see,” he said, trying to look penitent but owing to the gleam of reminiscences too vivid to be contrite in his eyes, utterly failing.
“I do not think that ne’er-do-wells suddenly become so,” Hermione answered tartly. “I think they begin much earlier.”
She was starting to wonder if she had escape from the frying pan just to land straight into the fire.
FOUR
“Then reform me. Ne’er-do-wells are always in need of reformation, preferably at the hands of a beautiful and blameless young woman,” he suggested brightly as the door opened. “Ah Michaels, excellently done! A magnificent repast. Has our belligerent neighbour taken himself off yet?”
Michaels entered the room bearing a large round tray that was amply supplied with a meal that reminded Hermione that she had not eaten since the morning before. So distraught had she been over her prospects at the hands of Mr Wilder.
“No, he’s inquiring of all the guests whether they’ve seen a beautiful young woman with golden hair and eyes like polished pewter, dressed—”
“Mr Wilder did not, I assure you,” the Duke said to Hermione who was staring wide-eyed as Michaels laconically spoke, “speak of anyone with eyes like polished pewter, although it’s a very apt description of your orbs; there, you see, Michaels? I too can display a poetic penchant. Now, Miss Lang, you have discovered where my fondness for poetry comes from. I have a most scholarly manservant.”
Michaels placed the tray on the table. “I was obliged to explain that His Grace must have a multitude of eating utensils owing to his utter disdain for those who partake of their potatoes with the same fork as was used for their eggs. Only the vulgar, I explained, dine so. In return, there are forks a-plenty for us all.”
“Michaels is most resourceful,” the Duke explained as he sat down on his chair. “Come now, Michaels, let’s not stand on ceremony. In fact, let us not stand at all. Pull up a chair or stool and join us. I’ve just proposed marriage to Miss Lang; pray do nothing to dissuade her.”
Michaels, who seemed to have no expressions at all to indicate emotion, merely lifted the lids from the platters and began to serve the food.
“Quite right, ladies first,” the Duke said approvingly when Michaels first placed the plate in front of Hermione. “Now, Miss Lang, you must eat up. We’ve plenty to do if we’re going to be married.”
“I haven’t said that I will marry you,” she protested. The food was hot and smelled delicious as her empty stomach reminded her that hunger, which had seemed the best recourse when addressing the quandary of Mr Wilder, was now no longer wise, given that she was concealed from him. Her situation was still rather uncertain but she no longer felt fettered by the constraints of obedience to a man who intended to possess her.
The Duke of Brentford was a trifle unorthodox and certainly, she was not used to such manners in a gentleman, but he seemed kind. She realised that she had very little acquaintance with gentlemen at all. She had been schooled at home, the vicar coming to Fitzgerald Manor thrice weekly to instruct her in literature, the Bible, mathematics and geography; his wife had instructed her in piano lessons.
Mrs Kinsey herself had taught Hermione how to sew and embroider. She had taught herself to sketch. It was not a disciplined education but she had learned, during her father’s previous illnesses, how to manage the household accounts, so what she knew had served their needs. She had been to various county balls and local gatherings, but her father had lived simply and quietly and she had been content to spend her time with him rather than in Society.
“Why do you require a wife for only one year?” she asked, taking a long sip of coffee. Her Papa and she had preferred tea as their drink but she was surprised to find that the hot coffee was bracing. Perhaps she would drink it more often.
“There are those of my acquaintance who have found that a year is rather more than enough,” he said airily.
“That is not an answer,” she reproved.
The Duke sighed. He had pleasant features; handsome, really, she noticed. His dark eyes were forever lit with a secret source of mirth that alerted his full, well-shaped lips that a smile should be making itself ready to appear. His dark brown hair was very thick and doubtless fashionably coiffed when he was at a social engagement, but as he was still in his dressing gown, no comb had been used upon the wealth of dark curls. Comparably, he was much more appealing than Mr Wilder. That said, he was not a boy; there was a look of experience in his features.
“May I not experiment with marriage and allow myself a clause to abjure it when a year ends?” he asked.
“If I were to entertain your proposal—if,” she cautioned, seeing the look of eagerness in his expression. “My own reputation as a divorced woman would be quite poor.”
“Perhaps not. After all, what do you plan to do with your reputation?”
He was asking her a genuine question. She had never heard someone speak so cavalierly, of what she had always been taught was a gentlewoman’s most prised possession.
“Your reputation heretofore is undoubtedly unblemished,” he went on, “and all it’s done for you is to land you in the clutches of a blackguard who would force you to marry him for his own ends. Why not try to live your life on your own terms? I do, and I assure you that it’s much more satisfactory.”
He still hadn’t answered her question. Why did he seek a wife? As she continued to eat her breakfast, listening all the while to any noises that would indicate that Mr Wilder was preparing to take his leave, she considered what he had said. Marriage and freedom with the Duke of Brentford, who was charming and attractive, versus matrimonial imprisonment with Mr Wilder, who was a boor and not at all handsome. What were her options? Could she, a lone girl, make her case against her father’s dying instructions, which plainly placed her in the care and authority of Mr Wilder?
A door slammed shut, breaking into her thoughts. She tensed.
“Michaels barred the door,” the Duke replied as he continued to eat his breakfast. “If that is your Mr Wilder—how aptly named—then he is no doubt leaving in high dudgeon and considerable choler. But he will not dare intrude upon my chamber again.”
“Excuse me,” Michaels said, rising in order to take up position by the window where he could view the inn yard below.
“So then,” the Duke said, swallowing the last of his bacon and drinking deeply from his cup of coffee. “What say you to my proposal?”
“I do owe you for rescuing me,” Hermione said, speaking thoughtfully as she considered her response. “Otherwise I would be preparing to board the carriage to London where Mr Wilder would force me to marry him so that he could lay claim to my inheritance.”
“Whereas I have my own inheritance to frolic with and have no designs on anyone else’s. Inheritances are complicated, you know,” he said, refilling her cup and his own with coffee. “The money is of course rather fun, but there’s such a lot of responsibility. Tenants and stables and the harvest. Then there is the Master of the Hounds, and occasionally inviting the vicar to dine, and the
village doings and – well, it’s an enormous burden. You’re far better off leaving Mr Wilder to struggle with the slow grindings of the mills of the English courts and marrying me. We will be quite the talk of the town, you know, as a daring couple who married in secret a year ago and are only now emerging form nuptial bliss to take our place in Society.”
“We have been married for a year?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But my father, I have been tending to him for the past year; I have not been out. Indeed, I have not come out.”
“Yes, of course,” he repeated. “We were wed, but owing to the gravity of your father’s illness, we chose not to announce it. How old are you, by the way?’
“Eighteen. Nearly nineteen.”
“Excellent we were married on your eighteenth birthday, which was . . .,” he prompted.
“May 1st.”
“We will announce our marriage before your nineteenth birthday, which allows us very little time for all of London to be properly astound, scandalised and entertain. That is my role in Society, Miss Lang.”
“I can think of a number of obstacles to this scheme of yours.”
“Trust me, I’ve thought of them all and this is the best plan. Michaels, I’ll need you to have a message sent to the Most Reverend so that we can move forward post-haste. I’ll write a note; please procure foolscap and a quill for me, will you?”
“I will, sir, as soon as the carriage takes its leave.”
“Is Mr Wilder departing? You are a good fellow, Michaels. As you can see, Miss Lang, I am entirely dependent upon Michaels for everything.”
“The carriage is leaving, milady, with Mr Wilder in it. None too happy, either.” Michaels returned the curtain to its proper placement and with a bow, took up the breakfast tray. “I shall come back with your writing materials, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Michaels,” the Duke said as his manservant placed the items in front of him. “Such an awkward note to write, but one must take advantage of having a bishop in the family, must one not? That, too, must be Providence, and he will be able to marry us in secret and make us quite legal and binding.”
