The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Even if their frocks did come from a department store, why did they not have them altered by their maid when they bought them? A good lady’s maid can make even a ready-made dress fit properly. And she can press out the wrinkles, too.”

  “My dear Sarah, that’s just it! They don’t have a maid, or if they do, they didn’t bring her with them.”

  “What of it?” an unfamiliar male voice asked. “Many people come to stay without bringing a personal servant along.”

  “Ladies don’t, David,” the girl called Sarah replied, “not during the season.”

  “David may not understand what it means not to have one’s maid,” his wife went on, “but we do, don’t we, sisters? It shall put all of us to great inconvenience, but I doubt these girls have any idea how much trouble their lack of a maid shall cause the rest of us.”

  Irene failed to see how refusing a maid and dressing herself would be inconvenient to anybody. Unfortunately, that thought only served to send more of the duke’s words ricocheting through her mind.

  I should like you to consider what impact your decisions may have on the lives of other people.

  Really, that man’s voice playing inside her head was becoming quite exasperating. She shoved it out again and kept her attention on the conversation at hand.

  “I don’t mind a little inconvenience,” Lady Sarah said, her voice once again intruding on Irene’s thoughts. “But I don’t see how they can possibly manage. Why, here in town, we change our clothes at least three or four times a day. What young lady would ever attempt to do the season without a proper lady’s maid to help her?”

  “You’ve answered your own question, my dear,” Lady David replied. “No young lady would.”

  Lady David’s acidic comment snuffed out any pangs of Irene’s conscience. A little inconvenience, she couldn’t help but feel, would do these people a world of good. She wanted to fling open the door and inform that odious woman that, unlike the ladies of the upper crust, women of the middle class didn’t change clothes at the ridiculous rate of four times a day, and they certainly had the ability to put them on and take them off without a servant to help. The duchess’s maid would not be needed and no inconvenience would be suffered by anyone, thank you very much. But a third woman spoke, and curiosity kept Irene where she was.

  “I think you’re being terribly unfair. Torquil already explained that they hadn’t intended to do the season. It was all a last-minute surprise from their father, and men never understand these things. And anyway, the department stores sell plenty of frocks every day, so how bad could the clothes of the Miss Deverills be?”

  “You weren’t there, Angela,” Lady David replied. “You didn’t see them when they arrived. I can really think of no words to describe how they appeared!”

  “Then I should advise you not to try,” Torquil’s voice cut in, and for once, Irene was grateful to hear its cool, incisive cadence. The sound of it acted on her like a splash of water, banishing any embarrassment about her clothes and reinvigorating her fighting spirit. With deliberate care, she opened the door and pushed it wide, her cheeks still flaming, but her chin high.

  The duke was seated at a writing desk that faced the doorway, and at the sight of her, he put aside his pen and rose to his feet. He started to bow, but then paused, frowning a little as he looked into her flushed face. He lifted his gaze a fraction, but if the open transom above her head made him realize she’d overheard their conversation, he gave no sign of it, for when he looked at her again, his countenance was as inscrutable as ever. “Miss Deverill,” he greeted her and resumed offering a bow. “Join us, please.”

  Chapter 7

  A gentleman, Henry’s father had taught him as a boy, never allowed his inner thoughts and feelings to show in his outward expression, and though his mother may have deemed the influence of his father upon his upbringing as too rigid, when Irene Deverill walked into his drawing room, Henry was glad the late duke had been such a strict disciplinarian.

  Even if he had not noticed the open transom above her head, the flush of color in her cheeks and the proud lift of her chin made it clear that she’d overheard what had been said, and the sight touched off in him myriad emotions—anger at Carlotta for being such a cat, frustration with himself for not checking her malicious tongue sooner than he had, and—worst of all—embarrassment, a hot, painful sensation Henry seldom had cause to experience.

  Displaying any of what he felt, however, was not only an unthinkable prospect, it would only serve to worsen an already awkward situation, and as he came around his desk, he was grateful for the sangfroid instilled in him during his childhood.

  Carlotta gave a shamefaced giggle, and the sound was like paraffin on flames, flaring up his protective instincts and impelling him to move between the spiteful woman on the settee nearby and the proud woman by the door.

  “Miss Deverill,” he greeted as he halted before her. “It is a pleasure to have you in my home. You are very welcome.”

  Her brows lifted, her countenance understandably skeptical, but if she was tempted to take issue with his words, Fate deprived her of the opportunity. Her sister appeared in the doorway behind her, and much to Henry’s relief, the younger girl’s cherubic countenance showed no hint of the bristling resentment displayed by her sibling. She, at least, did not seem to know what had just occurred. “And your sister, too,” he went on, offering the girl a bow. “Good evening, Miss Clara.”

  “Duke,” she answered, giving him a quick, nervous bow that caused her sister to move closer to her, and he perceived that he was not the only one with protective instincts. “I hope I am not late?”

  “Not at all,” he answered her. “It is well before eight. And my mother is not yet down, nor is my brother-in-law. But come,” he added, turning to offer the elder Miss Deverill his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of my family.”

  As he performed introductions, he began to once again feel in control of the situation, but when they came to Carlotta, he was reminded that any control he thought he had over Miss Deverill was nothing but an illusion.

  “I must thank you for your making us feel so welcome upon our arrival this afternoon,” she gushed to his sister-in-law. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard so much warmth and consideration expressed for one’s guests.”

  Carlotta’s face flushed crimson, and though Henry couldn’t help but feel such a set-down no more than his brother’s wife deserved, Miss Deverill’s impudence also made him appreciate that the next fourteen days were not going to be a stroll in the park, especially since his mother was still in an intractable frame of mind.

  He’d taken her aside directly upon her return this afternoon and explained the situation, framing things just as he’d told Miss Deverill he would do, and though Mama had expressed a willingness to introduce the two young ladies into society during the coming two weeks without any indication she’d guessed he had a deeper interest in the Deverill family, Henry felt as transparent as glass. Mama’s manner toward him was still cool and a bit wary, and he knew he would be ineffective in any attempts he might make to dissuade her. He could only hope Miss Deverill could do better, though it was perhaps a faint hope. She seemed unable to dissemble, and he knew from personal experience she had no difficulty offering her opinions, most of which flew directly in the face of convention. She was also the most strong-willed and independent woman he’d ever come across, qualities that did not seem conducive to her purpose here. What would result from all this, he could not begin to imagine, and not for the first time he wondered why he could never seem to achieve the well-ordered life he longed for.

  He had little time for that sort of wishful thinking, however, for at that moment, his mother entered the room on Jamie’s arm. She made straight for them, but though her countenance was restored to the warm and affectionate one he was used to, Henry feared this display of friendliness was not for his benefit.

  “Mama,” he greeted her and beckoned to his guests, who
were standing nearby. “Miss Irene Deverill, Miss Clara Deverill, may I present my mother, the Duchess of Torquil, and my brother-in-law, Lord James St. Clair.”

  “Duchess,” the Miss Deverills murmured together as they curtsied. “Lord James.”

  Jamie bowed, offered to bring sherry for the ladies, and moved away toward the liquor cabinet as Mama turned to their guests.

  “I am delighted to meet you both,” she said, “but especially you, Miss Deverill. I so enjoy reading your newspaper.”

  That, Henry was relieved to note, softened Miss Deverill’s defensive stance at once. “Thank you, Duchess. You are very kind to say so.”

  “I say it because it’s true. I particularly enjoy reading Lady Truelove’s column. It is the high point of my afternoon, much to my eldest son’s disapproval. I do believe he would be more comfortable if the ladies of his house limited their reading to the Court Circular.”

  Henry stirred. “Really, Mama—”

  “Torquil hates being teased, Miss Deverill.” She cut him off with an airy wave in his direction. “But I do it anyway, for his own good. Without a bit of teasing now and again to bring him down a peg, he can become somewhat autocratic.”

  “I quite agree, but—” Miss Deverill broke off to cast a considering glance in his direction. “I fear you have not been teasing him enough, Duchess.”

  This pert reply earned her a delighted laugh from his mother. “You may be right, my dear, and I suspect you could be of great assistance in that regard, if you chose. Now, Miss Clara,” she went on before Henry could remind them that he was actually in the room and there was no need to talk about him as if he weren’t, “I do hope you will be comfortable with us during your stay and enjoy yourself. Have you any fixed engagements?”

  The girl, who had impressed Henry upon his visits to the newspaper’s office as being somewhat tongue-tied, now seemed wholly mute, for though she opened her mouth to reply, no sound came out.

  Her elder sister moved as if to come to her aid, but Mama, an excellent hostess, preempted her. “Ah, I see that my son-in-law has been waylaid by Sarah on his way to the sherry. Miss Clara, you and I shall have to remind him of his responsibilities as a gentleman. Come, my dear. Lord James, as you may know, is the second son of the Marquess of Rolleston, whose grandfather . . .”

  Her voice faded as she moved out of earshot, Miss Clara in tow, and though Miss Deverill started to follow them, Henry stopped her. “Let them go,” he advised. “If your sister is to move in society,” he added as she seemed inclined to protest, “you can’t be forever dogging her heels, even if it proves to be for only two weeks.”

  Some of her earlier resentment returned to her countenance. “If I feel impelled to watch over her in this particular company, could you blame me for it, given what I heard a short time ago?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Your sister did not hear it, too, I trust?”

  “Thankfully, no. To her, this visit is the most exciting, glorious, terrifying thing that’s happened in years, and if she had heard what I heard, it would have devastated her.”

  “You need not worry on that score, for once I have spoken with the members of my family on the subject, any talk such as you heard will not occur again in this house, I promise you. Until then,” he added as she took another glance past him, “my mother will watch over your sister. You need not worry.”

  She nodded, seeming satisfied. “The duchess is very kind, but then, I had already guessed that she would be. In appearance, though, she’s not at all what I imagined.”

  “I suppose that’s to be expected. When you have a preconceived idea of what someone looks like, the reality rarely matches it. I, for instance, imagined Lady Truelove as stout, red-haired, and swathed in jet beads.” He slid his gaze down, a move that reminded him again just how wrong his imagined picture of her had been. The sight of Miss Deverill in an evening frock was a fetching one indeed, and fired his imagination even more strongly than her suffragist shirtwaists and neckties had done. As his gaze slid over the creamy skin of her bosom and caught on the shadowy cleft in the deep V of her neckline, his fancy of her in sheer chiffon flashed across his mind more vividly than ever. His body responded at once, desire flickering up inside him and underscoring the fact that when it came to Irene Deverill, control might be a difficult thing to maintain.

  Henry forced his gaze back to her face. “I don’t think my imagined picture of you could have been more wrong.”

  The words were innocuous enough, but he feared his voice may have betrayed a hint of what he was feeling, for her eyes widened a fraction. “But tell me,” he hastened on, desperate for a safer topic, “just what did you imagine my mother to look like?”

  “Stout, red-haired, and swathed in jet beads.”

  He smiled at that. “You’ve taken my mother’s words to heart, I see.”

  That actually earned him a smile. It was a mere curve of the lips, but he’d take what he could get. “As she pointed out, someone has to do it. And if the goal is to bring you down a notch or two, I am happy to make the attempt.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.”

  “But to answer your question honestly, I pictured your mother as tall, languorous, and very elegant, not as a petite and lively dynamo. So as you said, one’s preconceived ideas about a person can often be wrong. Other than her appearance, however, she is much as I imagined. Of course, we shared a correspondence of letters over a period of several weeks.”

  “And in these letters—” He broke off, astonished at himself. “Forgive me. Your correspondence with my mother is no longer my business. It would now be quite uncivil of me to inquire.”

  “And you are never uncivil,” she said, her voice suspiciously bland.

  “I try not to be. Although,” he added, trying not to smile, for such a response would only serve to encourage her, “sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

  “Rank having its privileges?”

  Impertinent minx, to quote his own somewhat arrogant words back at him. “Quite so,” he said, refusing to be drawn. “But my rank has tremendous responsibilities as well as privileges, Miss Deverill. My primary one is my family, whom I would give my life to protect. That,” he added, watching her closely, “gives me at least one trait you can appreciate, I think?”

  She made a rueful face. “Had anyone told me this morning that you and I had a thing in common, I’d have recommended that person for a stay in Bedlam.”

  “I suspect I would have done the same.”

  The discovery that they had a shred of common ground was one both of them clearly needed time to digest, for in its wake, neither of them seemed able to think of a thing to say.

  It took several seconds before he was able to break the silence. “I hope you find your room comfortable?” he asked, deciding that small talk might be best to preserve what seemed the beginnings of a truce.

  “Quite comfortable, thank you. But my bedroom can’t hold a candle to that bathroom. I was so impressed by the bathtub, in fact, that I had to have a bathe straightaway.”

  Henry tensed, those words conjuring more provocative images of her and shredding any notion that there might be safety in small talk. Bathing, he reminded himself, was not a suitable topic to discuss with a young lady. He ought to steer the conversation toward something more appropriate—the weather, perhaps, or someone’s health.

  “And did you enjoy your bathe?” he asked instead, demonstrating that the erotic pictures of his imagination were impervious to the dictates of good manners.

  If she suspected any of this, she gave no sign. “How could I not?” she answered, seeming to take his question at face value. “Soaking in an enormous bathtub, lathering up with French milled soap, drying off with Turkish towels the size of lap blankets—that’s heavenly.”

  She might be thinking about an earthly version of paradise, but Henry’s thoughts were much less reverent. The arousal inside him was deepening and spreading, despite his best efforts to check it. “Indoor p
lumbing,” he managed, “is most convenient.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “In fact, we have”—he paused, taking a deep breath and several blessed moments to count—“four bathrooms in this house. And . . . seven—I think—at our estate in Dorset. One at our hunting lodge in Scotland, and five at our seaside villa at Torquay. I had all of them installed four or five years ago.”

  “Seventeen bathrooms?” She gave a laugh. “How deliciously decadent of you. It seems, if I may say so, uncharacteristic. I’d have thought you to be a man of much more ascetic tastes.”

  If she knew what he was feeling just now, she would hardly liken him to a puritan. Still, despite the chaos in his body, Henry couldn’t help taking a bit of satisfaction in her reaction. “I seem to have managed to impress you at last, Miss Deverill. My family, unfortunately, did not have the same favorable reaction to the installation of bathrooms that you have displayed. Everyone kicked up the devil of a fuss.”

  “But why? With our cold and dreary winters, who could object to soaking—”

  “We’re an old family.” Interrupting was rude, but he was desperate. “Old families don’t tend to embrace modern ideas. Hot and cold laid on at the turn of a tap is a very modern idea.”

  Unexpectedly, she gave him a wide smile. “I begin to think I am wrong and you are a hedonist at heart, Duke.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. Her smile—the first full and genuine one he’d seen from her, was a dazzling sight that only made what he felt more difficult to hide. Frantic, Henry glanced around, and when he spied Edward nearby with sherry, he was so relieved that he didn’t even excuse himself before turning to snag two glasses off the tray.

  “Ah, sherry. Thank you, Edward. Your timing,” he added under his breath, “is impeccable.”

  Ignoring the footman’s quizzical glance, he returned his attention to Miss Deverill and held out one of the glasses to her. “Would you care for a sherry?”