Outwitting the Duke

by Deb Marlowe

  “While trying to stay invisible,” he said softly.

  “In a nutshell,” she said cheerily. “Now, what are your interests, my lord? What do you do when you are not hiring a fiancé off of the streets?”

  Laughing a little, he rubbed his brow. “Oddly enough, I spend my time in a somewhat similar fashion. At least, trying to make several estates pay for themselves instead of draining the family coffers often feels like scrambling to make rent.”

  She doubted he’d ever gone hungry in search of his goal, but she refrained from saying so.

  He raised his voice again, then, and pointed out Charing Cross, the parks and other points of interest. Emily sat, nodding, murmuring and enjoying the timbre of his voice. They moved into the west end of town and several times he nodded to acquaintances in passing vehicles. She also caught pedestrians staring as they rode by.

  He seemed well pleased by it. “Word will start going around right away. Not even home yet, and we’ve made a good start.” He leaned in. “While I have the chance, I wish to thank you, and tell you I’ll do what I can to help. Are you feeling confident about all of this?

  She was feeling that her mother was right; she was going to have to be careful. Even knowing his solicitous attention was false, she was still enjoying it.

  “Honestly, it seems little enough for me to do,” she admitted. “This must be a change for you, though, to be courting attention, instead of avoiding it.”

  He shrugged. “It feels damned good to think of putting gossip to work for me, for once.” He frowned. “Do not mistake me, though. Your existence as my betrothed is all the notoriety I need. Ideally, we need to strike a balance. Make you known, without calling too much attention to us.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “It should be simple enough. All you need to do is be quiet and polite and follow my mother’s lead.”

  She tried to shrug off a wave of irritation. “I know how to behave, my lord,” she said sourly. “My mother had a lady’s education—and she saw me taught as well. I won’t be tossing my skirts over my head, running down St. James’ or chasing the young bucks of the ton.”

  “Of course not. I apologize.” But he sounded relieved rather than sorry. “Ah, here we go,” he said as they turned into Portman Square.

  She sighed audibly at the sight of the wide streets, the grand houses and the oval garden in the center.

  “Here’s Herrington House.” The landau pulled to a stop. He smiled as she gazed up, drinking in the sight. “It really is a lovely home—one of the best things to come with the title, in my opinion.” He climbed down and turned to hold out a hand to assist her. “Of course, it isn’t the jeweled crown that is Hartsworth . . .

  She took his hand, her gaze fixed on the house. She was intimidated just by all of the windows sparkling at her—all four stories of them. Could she convince the world that she belonged here? “A jeweled crown,” she shuddered, trying not to let her nerves show. “Do tell me I won’t have to wear it.”

  “Wear it?” He sounded confused. “Wear what?”

  “The jeweled crown. What did you call it?” She shivered again and climbed down. “Is it so important that it has its own name?”

  “Hartsworth.” His grip tightened suddenly, crushing her fingers.

  She tried to retrieve her hand, but he held on. “Truly, sir, I’ve no wish for you to haul out the family jewels for my sake. It’s too much responsibility.”

  He still had not let her go. “Is it so important, then?” she asked. “Must I be seen in it?”

  He looked dazed. “No.”

  She tugged again and he realized what he was doing. Abruptly, he let her go.

  “Good.” She rubbed at her hand.

  He stared at her again, but something about the way he looked at her had changed. It was a look full of assessment . . . and warmth. The air prickled between them again.

  She thought, suddenly, that it was a very good thing that they weren’t going to see much of each other during this masquerade.

  “Let’s go in,” he said suddenly. “Are you ready?”

  She swallowed. And nodded. “Ready.”

  Chapter 4

  He’d been feeling so fine and full of himself. He’d done it. Or Hestia Wright had. She’d found the girl who was going to save him from the nightmare of constant pursuit.

  He’d thought the hard part over. The rest would be easy. All he had to do now was to let his mother take over, pay not-too-much attention to the girl and go about his business.

  Except . . .

  He hadn’t expected her to look so . . . different. She’d stepped toward him out of the gloom of that office this morning—and it had been like the sun coming up. She’d looked so tall and slender—and unexpectedly curvy. He’d swallowed. No wonder she’d worn that sack-like gown before. Without it, she’d be prey to random men in the streets and their eye for a voluptuous figure.

  Hell—she’d be subject to the same from the men of the ton, without his protection. Especially with the way that pelisse hugged her curves and how the misty blue of it made her eyes look like the sky after a rain.

  She hadn’t been self-conscious about the change, either. Rather, she’d been easy in his company. Honest and funny and not awed by the difference in their circumstances.

  And she’d never heard of Hartsworth.

  The shock of it still held him in sway. The prospect was so fresh and new and entirely unexpected that he felt the need to express it again.

  She’d never heard of Hartsworth.

  Since his earliest memory it seemed as if he’d been defined by the notoriety of his home and family. When he met someone, even as a boy, he’d seen the knowledge in their eyes, felt the weight of their expectations. He was a Herrington. He’d grown up in a castle, for heaven’s sake. Everyone looked at him and thought his life would be charmed. His path would be easy. His pockets would be full and his marriage would be a grand love match, blissful in every way.

  And ever since he’d first realized that this was his heritage, this was what people saw when they looked at him; he’d half-worried, half-wondered.

  What would happen if he bollixed it all up?

  “The Countess is in the parlor, my lord,” the butler intoned.

  “Thank you, Bridges.”

  Hart waited while Emily was divested of her outerwear. He nearly cursed when he saw that the day gown beneath showcased her figure even more than the fitted pelisse. He tore his eyes away and looked up instead as she lifted off her bonnet. Her hair was ebony, as he’d glimpsed yesterday, and gathered up into a neat and elegant twist. Why then, must he fight off an image of his fingers picking it apart, pin by pin? Would it curl when it fell or would it fall straight and heavy to her—

  He shook his head. She was smiling at someone. He turned his head and saw one of the maids peeking from the library, hoping for a glimpse of the next countess, no doubt. The girl caught him watching, gasped, and ducked back inside.

  Emily pursed her lips.

  “There you are, darling.” His mother beckoned him from the parlor.

  He moved away to greet her, kissed her on the cheek and put his lips near her ear. “She’s never heard of Hartsworth, Mother.”

  She drew back and glanced over at Emily, who hung back a little, and then back at him.

  “I haven’t told her,” he continued. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

  Conflicting emotions crossed her face. Disbelief. Speculation. “She’ll find out, Hart. It won’t take long.”

  He nodded. “I know. But I’ll enjoy it in the meanwhile.”

  She pressed her lips together and turned away. “Emmaline, my dear! I’m so glad you’ve arrived safely! Come in! Goodness, you were but a girl the last time I saw you.” She ushered them toward a grouping of chairs. “Bridges, we are not to be disturbed,” she called over her shoulder. “Except for the tea tray. Please tell cook that our guest has arrived.”

  Hart stepped forward as the ser
vant withdrew. “My cousin has undoubtedly grown, Mother, but she has shortened her name. She’s asked that we call her Emily now.”

  “Have you, my dear?” His mother raised a brow at the pair of them. She paused then, just before she took her seat and raised a finger. Crossing quickly to the door, she opened it. Hart gaped at the butler, standing close and clearly eavesdropping.

  “I need you to stand at the front window, Bridges,” she told him pleasantly. “I’ll need a report on the parasols that pass by this morning, and a count by color.”

  “Very good, madam.” Without the slightest loss of dignity he bowed and moved away.

  His mother closed the door again. “Nosey servants can be quite useful,” she said to Emily, “or an utter nuisance. The trick is to know which . . . and when.”

  Emily’s eyes sparkled, but she merely nodded. “I shall take your word for it, ma’am.”

  He judged they were safe enough for true introductions, now. “Mother, may I present Miss Emily Spencer? Emily, my mother, the Countess of Hartford.”

  Curtsies all around, and they sat.

  “So, we are truly taking this path?” his mother asked, looking between them.

  “It’s already begun.” He told her of the attention they’d sparked.

  She sighed. “Very well, then.” She pulled a folded bit of paper from her sleeve. “It’s as well that I heard from your uncle, then. We need not fear your cousin changing her mind. She’s truly married—to a Quaker. They intend to go to the American frontier to spread the Light to the heathens.”

  “How noble of her,” he murmured. But he had to admit he was relieved.

  The countess turned a measuring gaze upon Emily, then.

  His false betrothed lifted her chin.

  Hart hoped he would not be called to take sides.

  A knock sounded and the tea tray came in. He muffled his sigh of relief. The maid set the tray nearby and he noticed that Emily watched her closely. He also noticed his mother noticed—and didn’t look approving. Were they going to start off with a lecture already?

  When the girl had gone, Emily met his mother’s gaze directly. “Would you like me to pour and set your mind at ease?”

  The countess raised a brow and waved permission—and then thawed when Emily must have performed the task to some unknown feminine standard.

  “Very well, my dear, let us call truce. It is clear you’ve been trained.”

  It was clear she awaited an explanation.

  Emily took a small sandwich. “As I told his lordship, my mother received a lady’s education.”

  “Is she a lady?” his mother asked sharply.

  “No. My grandparents were merchants. They started a successful linen draper’s shop and turned it into a large import enterprise.” She cleared her throat. “They were not blessed with children of their own, though, after years of marriage.”

  “Ah.” His mother sat back. “They raised a gentleman’s child?”

  Emily nodded. “My mother. She was educated and she saw me taught as well.”

  “Whose child is she?”

  Emily’s chin shot up again. “I have not shared that information with his lordship. It is not my secret to tell.”

  “It will not interfere in your playing this role?”

  “I do not believe so, my lady.”

  “Very well,” his mother relented. Hart thought he caught a glimpse of approval in her eye.

  “Word has spread regarding our arrival,” his mother said, turning to him. “No more girls falling on the walk, but the invitations are stacked on my desk.” She quirked a corner of her mouth at Emily. “When word of you gets out, I expect they’ll double. We must get you ready.”

  “I’ll engage a dancing instructor,” Hart told her. “Just to make sure Emily is current.”

  They both nodded and the conversation devolved into a discussion of wardrobe, modistes and shopping plans to start as soon as the next day. Hart considered taking his leave, but he delayed when the maid came back for the tray, and kept an eye trained on Emily.

  She didn’t stare this time, but instead reached out and touched the maid’s arm.

  His mother made a sound of distress.

  The girl gasped and jumped back as if she’d been burned.

  “Hello,” Emily said in the friendliest fashion. “What is your name?”

  The maid cast a frantic look at the countess, then bobbed a curtsy. “I’m Molly, Miss. If you please.”

  “Please don’t look so frightened. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other over the next few weeks, but for now I must say that I noticed the swelling of your jaw. Have you a bad tooth?”

  Hart gaped as the girl clapped a hand over her face. “Oh! I swear, I haven’t complained too much, Miss, nor let it interfere—”

  “Of course you haven’t,” Emily soothed. “I only ask because a friend of mine recently dealt with the same situation. Have you an appointment to have it seen? I assure you, the sooner you have it dealt with, the better.”

  “Oh, no, Miss. I’m using the cloves that Cook give me. I’ve only the half day off on Wednesday, you see.”

  Hart looked closely. He could see the swelling now. It must hurt like the devil. He hadn’t noticed before. Would he have? “Of course, you must have it seen to.” He looked at his mother. “Surely she could be spared . . .”

  His mother wasn’t examining the girl, but instead was giving Emily a good, long look. Then she slid her gaze over the maid and smiled gently. “I’m very sorry I didn’t notice your distress, Molly. Miss Latham is right, however. The sooner you see to such a problem, the soon you will feel better and the fewer lasting effects you will suffer.” She nodded a dismissal. “Take the tray to Cook, then run along to Mrs. Hanshaw. She’ll make you an appointment and will be sure someone will go along with you, too.”

  The girl dipped once, twice. “Oh, thank you, my lady.” She shot Emily a look of adoration. “And thank you, Miss Latham.”

  Emily nodded cheerfully. “My friend was as right as rain as soon as he had it out. I’m sure you will be, too.”

  When the maid had gone, Hart watched the two women sizing each other up again.

  “I gather that was not what I should have done?” Emily straightened her shoulders. “I apologize, but I did not wish to see the girl suffer—”

  “It was well done,” his mother interrupted. “I’m only ashamed I did not notice, myself.” Unexpectedly, she raised her cup in a mock toast. “To our enterprise,” she said with a smile. “I think we will do very well.”

  Emily visibly relaxed. She raised her own cup and shot him a challenging look. “What of you, sir? Do you feel we’ll pull it off to your satisfaction?”

  He stared. Earlier he had felt every confidence. But he realized now it was because he’d only been thinking of himself. But this girl—she made it impossible to forget she was part of the equation. More than that. She had spirit, and abundant curves and a kind heart—and an ignorance of Hartsworth—and she held his fate in his hands.

  He’d taken too long to answer. Her smile faded and concern and consternation invaded. “If you have doubts,” she began.

  “No. Forgive me.” He raised his cup as well. “I was just thinking that you are unlike any young woman of my acquaintance.”

  Her shoulders lowered and she tossed him a grin. “I believe that’s why you hired me, Hart.”

  God help him, she was right.

  They were definitely not living in each other’s pockets. Emily’s last several days had been filled with shopping and planning. She’d grown more comfortable with the earl’s mother and managed to sneak in a few moments with her own at Madame Lalbert’s shop. But she scarcely caught a glimpse of Hart.

  She told herself that she didn’t mind. This was the arrangement she’d agreed to. But she found herself listening for his arrival and eagerly anticipating the start of their masquerade.

  “Our first foray will be to call on the Marchioness of Feltham,” the countes
s informed her at last. “She’s my sister. We haven’t seen each other in months, and she’s just arrived in Town, so we’ll spend the afternoon catching up and receiving callers with her, instead of limiting ourselves to the usual fifteen minutes.”

  “Will the earl be joining us?” It was just a casual question. She repeated the thought to herself in hopes of believing it this time.

  “No. This is exactly the sort of thing he’s hoping to avoid,” his mother said.

  Emily nodded. She was not disappointed, merely nervous.

  Perhaps she’d better repeat that one too.

  But all went well. The marchioness was kind and welcomed her as if a relation of her sister’s husband was a relation of hers. No one questioned her identity for a moment. She smiled and nodded and took tea and pretended interest as Lady Hartsford and her sister gossiped.

  Her day brightened when Mrs. Carmichael and her daughter Mary came to call. Emily invited the girl to sit next to her. They had a delightful time getting to know one another and discussing London’s public parks and gardens.

  “You seem so knowledgeable about the city, Miss Latham,” Miss Carmichael remarked. “But didn’t you say you’d only just arrived?”

  “I spent time here as a child,” Emily fibbed. Well, technically it wasn’t a lie. She did tell the manufactured tale of her lost wardrobe and described in detail the ball gown that Madame Lalbert and her mother were laboring over—and she invited the girl to come along for her first fitting. She would get the girl into a more flattering wardrobe yet.

  The Carmichaels departed, however, and Emily grew bored. An old acquaintance had arrived next and the sisters were busy reminiscing with her. Unnoticed, Emily stood and walked about the room. She stopped at the set of French doors that led to a small terrace. The Marquess’ home was one of London’s few freestanding mansions, which meant it had a substantial garden by city standards. Emily gazed out upon the beauty of it and marveled at the luxury.

  It took her a few minutes to notice him. A young gentleman, barely more than a boy, sat in the shade. He looked pale and wan. He held a book in his lap, but stared dejectedly out at the garden instead of reading.