The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “So,” he said, breaking the agonizing silence and giving a cough, “you’ve now met my infamous nephews, Miss Deverill.”

  After what had just happened, the use of her surname seemed strangely impersonal, almost disappointing, which was absurd. He could refer to her no other way, for it wasn’t proper for a man to address a woman he barely knew by her Christian name, and Torquil was all that was proper.

  Irene dismissed this nonsensical feeling of disappointment from her mind and forced herself to pick up the thread of the conversation. “You do realize Colin climbed the tree to get the kite, then saw the kitten, and used the animal as his excuse for breaking the rule about tree-climbing so he wouldn’t get into trouble?”

  “Of course, but if one intends to issue a reprimand, one has to sound at least somewhat severe.” Torquil laughed again, shaking back his hair as he leaned back with his tea, and Irene felt again that strange, piercing sensation in her chest. “Assuming such a stance at that moment was, I confess, beyond my ability.”

  “What was all the shouting?” asked a voice from the doorway, and they both looked up as Angela came in. “The boys, I suppose? I could hear them all the way upstairs. What are we to do with them?”

  “Don’t worry, Angie,” Torquil replied. “I am hiring a nanny today, as I promised.” He shot Irene a questioning glance, and when she nodded, there was no need for her to guess what he might be thinking. He smiled, and that strange pang once again twisted in Irene’s chest.

  Suddenly, it seemed impossible to sit here. “I should go,” she said, grabbing her handbag from the floor beside her and rising to her feet. “I’m so late already.”

  He rose at once. “Of course. Shall I have one of the footmen hail a taxi for you?”

  “I can easily do that. We’re on Park Lane, after all, taxis everywhere. Besides, you shall have need of all the footmen, I fear, to keep an eye on those boys. Good morning.”

  She bolted, not realizing until she was out of the house that she’d left her gloves behind. She didn’t go back for them. Being in his sights was hard enough when he was being impossible. When he was being nice, it was devastating.

  Chapter 11

  The day before press time, there was always a great deal to do, but when Irene reached her offices and began work, she found it impossible to concentrate on any task for more than a few minutes at a time. At every turn, her mind insisted on going back to Torquil and what she’d witnessed at breakfast.

  She’d already noted how good-looking he was, but that hadn’t served to elevate him much in her opinion, for she’d still found him hopelessly rigid, snobbish, and dictatorial, even ruthless. And yet . . .

  Irene stared down at the pages in front of her, their typewritten lines fading, superseded by his face, lit by suppressed laughter. In that moment, his mask of stone-faced civility had slipped, showing the man underneath, and suddenly, he had become far more than the arrogant, good-looking duke. He had become human.

  Even now, the image of him in her mind was enough to turn her topsy-turvy, and if anyone asked her opinion of his character at this moment, she wouldn’t know what to say.

  He could be so infuriating, so damnably rigid. And yet, she could not deny his love for his family. It was, she now knew, absolute and all-encompassing—the center of his world. Until now, she hadn’t really appreciated how deeply ingrained in him that quality was, or how attractive it could be. In truth, she hadn’t known such men as that existed at all.

  She loved her father, and her brother, too, but neither of them could be described as protective in any way. Jonathan, five years younger than she, was on the other side of the world, and who could blame him? He’d tried to warn their father that the business was headed for queer-street, but Papa had refused to listen and refused to change course, and after many lurid quarrels on the topic, Papa had tossed Jonathan out of the house. Her brother had gone off to make his way in the world as best he could, and though he inquired after them in his letters to her and Clara, neither she nor her sister had ever told him how dire things were. He could have done little about it but come home, which would only have made their father even more irritable and even less inclined to see reason.

  As for her father, he was fixed on one idea for his daughters’ future, and no other. He was convinced—probably rightly—that elevating them into society was the only way he could help them. His wits addled by drink and pain, he had no other solutions to offer, no other abilities to draw upon, no other vision for their lives. And Irene had long ago resigned herself to the fact that, given her father’s love of brandy, she would have to be the one to protect him, not the other way around.

  Torquil was an entirely different sort of man, a man with whom she felt wholly out of her depth. She was used to being the one holding everyone together. It was, as he had pointed out, a trait they shared. To not be the one in charge was a frustrating thing for her. She wasn’t used to it, she didn’t like it, and she resented like hell that Torquil had been able to maneuver her into a situation where she didn’t have it. And yet, now—

  Her door opened, and Josie stuck her dark head into Irene’s office. “Can we run with it?”

  “What?” Irene blinked, roused out of her reverie slowly, like coming out of a dream.

  “My column. Can we run with it?”

  “Oh, right.” Irene straightened in her chair, rustling the pages in front of her with a brisk air. “About that—”

  She broke off, vexed with herself because she couldn’t even remember if she’d read Josie’s latest Delilah Dawlish column, and a glance at the first page told her that even if she had done so, she hadn’t bothered to do any editing. “Give me a few minutes more, Josie,” she mumbled, rubbing four fingers over her forehead. “I haven’t got to your piece yet.”

  The other woman seemed to sense something amiss, and that, of course, sparked her excellent investigative instincts. “You’ve been in a fog all day. What’s wrong?” She gave Irene a knowing look over the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. “Headache from too much champagne? Too much high living and too many late nights without enough sleep?”

  Irene gave her a look of reproof. “It’s only been one night,” she reminded. “And if I find that my stay in the duke’s house has been mentioned in your column, I shall edit it out and give you the sack.”

  “No worries there. We’re all keeping mum, since you’ve ordered us to, though we can’t think why.”

  “I like our paper to talk about other people. Not about me.”

  “Well, it’ll be in all the other society papers by the end of the week. Society Snippets will be the only one not talking about it.”

  That was a nauseating fact she preferred not to dwell on. “In this case, I am happy to have it so.”

  “Very well, but I hope you come back from this sojourn with some juicy tidbits to share with our readers.”

  Am I not entitled to some degree of disdain for a publication that prints gossip and innuendo about my family and friends and calls it news?

  Irene tossed down her pencil in exasperation, and the unexpected gesture caused the other woman to raise an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Josie said. “No need to be so touchy.”

  “It’s not you,” she said, pushing Torquil’s words from the night before out of her mind. “But let’s get this clear. I’m not spying on these people. That’s not why I’m there.”

  “I know it’s for Clara’s sake and family unity, and all that. Though how your father managed to gain any favor from the duke after our Lady Truelove column, I can’t imagine.”

  Irene did not enlighten her.

  “But still,” Josie went on when she didn’t speak, “this stay in the duke’s house would be a perfect opportunity, Irene. Very Robert Burns.” She nodded with a worldly-wise air. “‘A chield’s amang you takin’ notes.’”

  “That will be enough, Josie. I shan’t be ‘takin’ notes,’ as you put it, so stop quoting Robert Burns and do me a f
avor. Read over Elsa and Hazel’s stories and ensure they are ready for tomorrow. I’ve been dithering so much today, I fear I won’t have time, since I have to be back at Upper Brook Street in time to change for dinner, and it’s nearly five o’clock.”

  “Wait.” Josie’s dark eyes widened in shock. “You want me to edit Elsa and Hazel’s stories for you?”

  “Yes, if you think you can do a proper job of it.”

  “You just watch me! Heavens,” she added, still looking amazed, “you are allowing me to edit. Who’d ever have predicted that? I think the planets have stopped moving in their orbits.”

  “Yes,” Irene agreed with a sigh as an image of Torquil’s devastating smile flashed across her mind again, evoking all the same heart-stopping emotions as before. “I rather think they have.”

  It was a quarter to six by the time Irene reached Upper Brook Street. She went straight up to her room, hoping to have time for a long soak in that glorious tub before dinner, but as soon as she entered her room, her plan went straight out the window.

  The doors through to Clara’s room were open, and she’d scarcely tossed her handbag onto a chair and removed her hat before her sister came through from her own room, already changed for dinner in green brocade. “Thank goodness you’re back. I thought you’d have returned long before now.”

  “Everything took forever today. I couldn’t . . . umm . . . I couldn’t concentrate. And then, traffic was beastly. It took me ages to find a taxi, and when I did, it crawled around Trafalgar, absolutely crawled—”

  “Never mind that now,” Clara cut into these explanations. “You’ve got to change straightaway, for the duke’s carriage will be coming around from the mews in less than half an hour to fetch us. We’re going out.” She waved a hand toward the bed. “I’ve had your gown pressed and everything laid out in the hope you’d be home in time to come with us.”

  Irene glanced over her shoulder to find her midnight-blue silk gown spread out on the bed with various undergarments beside it. “In time for what?” she asked, slipping out of her jacket. “Where are we going?”

  “Dinner at the Criterion first, then the theater, then supper at the Savoy. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Irene thought of the Duke, and she wasn’t sure if wonderful was the right word. “Is everyone going?”

  Clara shook her head. “Just the ladies.”

  Irene’s breath escaped in a rush of relief. After last night and this morning, she felt at sixes and sevens, and she welcomed the chance to get her bearings without him around to muddle her thinking. “What play are we seeing?”

  “Oscar Wilde. A Woman of No Importance. Do stop talking, Irene, and hurry up.”

  The next twenty minutes were a mad dash as, with Clara’s assistance, she changed into evening clothes. Silk shawls in hand, they raced down the corridor, encountering Angela and Sarah, who were also late, along the way. All four arrived in the foyer together, out of breath and laughing, just as Boothby announced the arrival of the carriage from the mews.

  The frantic rush that began their evening continued for the next seven hours. The glittering, noisy Criterion, the wicked wit of Oscar Wilde, the excitement of sitting in the duke’s box, and the elegant private dining room at the Savoy—all went by in a dazzling whirl, leaving Irene exhausted, exhilarated, and a bit dazed by the time they returned to Upper Brook Street just before half past one.

  “Oh, my word.” Irene fell back onto her bed with a sigh, as Clara followed her into her room and closed the door. “Was this a preview of things to come?”

  “I think so,” Clara answered, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did, I must confess. Especially the Criterion. Such lovely, lovely food. And the Savoy, too.” She groaned, pressing a hand to her stomach. “I fear I shan’t eat again for days.”

  She turned her head to look at her sister. “You seemed to enjoy yourself. I saw you and Lady Angela with your heads together several times.”

  “We were discussing the charity she wants to start, though we weren’t able to talk very much—the Criterion’s so noisy, and no one wants to talk during a play.”

  Irene groaned again. “Right now, I feel as if I can’t talk at all. I can’t even breathe.” She rolled, working to stand up as Clara moved aside. “You must help me out of this corset before I burst. By the way,” she added, turning around so her sister could undo the buttons at the back of her gown, “I forgot to tell you earlier—we’re to have a maid while we’re here.”

  “Yes, the duchess’s maid. She assisted me to dress three times today. It was most helpful.”

  “I’m sure. That’s why we’ll be engaging a maid of our own, through an agency.”

  “We will? You hired someone? What a splendid idea.”

  “I can’t take the credit, I’m sorry to say. It was the duke’s suggestion.” She paused to pull off her gloves, toss aside her bodice, and step out of her skirt. “I tried to give the duchess’s maid back at breakfast, and he recommended this course instead, so as not to offend her—at least, I think that was the reason.” She frowned, then gave a shrug. “I really don’t understand the aristocracy and what offends them, honestly. Ah,” she added on a sigh of relief as her stays loosened. “That’s better. How do women lace like this every day?”

  Clara laughed, giving her a hug, propping her chin on Irene’s shoulder. “They eat less creamed lobster at dinner.”

  “Did I eat too much? I probably shocked all the ladies at the table.” She sighed and turned around as her sister’s arms fell away. “You’re fortunate to be such a quiet, self-contained person. Even if you tried, I doubt you could offend anyone. Whereas I, alas, seem to give offense at every turn.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Still, the sooner I accomplish my task and return to our old life, the more comfortable I shall feel.”

  “Well, you spent a great deal of time talking with the duchess,” Clara pointed out as Irene unhooked own her corset busk and tossed the offending garment onto the bed. “Are you making any progress?”

  “Unfortunately not. Turn around and I’ll undo you. We couldn’t talk openly about Foscarelli, of course,” she went on as her sister complied, “since we were surrounded by her family.”

  “I suppose he is a bit like the elephant in the drawing room,” Clara said.

  “Yes, exactly.” Irene laughed. “Everyone knowing he’s there, but no one wanting to admit it. Whenever I did have the chance to slip in a word or two of concern about him, all she did was tell me how marvelous he is, or how lovely the house is that she’s bought for them, or how exciting it is to be wanting to marry instead of dreading it. Her first husband, I gather, was not an easy man.” She paused, her hands stilled on her sister’s corset laces. “I’m not sure I can dissuade her. I’m not sure I even want to try. She seems so happy. Oh, Clara what am I to do?”

  Her sister considered for a moment, then said in a small voice, “Must you do . . . anything?”

  “Of course I must. You know what’s at stake for me.”

  “If you don’t succeed,” Clara said, turning around to put a hand on her arm, “would that be so terrible?”

  “Yes! I could lose the paper altogether.”

  “True, but . . .” Clara’s arm slid away and she gestured to their surroundings. “Would a life such as this truly be such a bad alternative?”

  “It wouldn’t be like this, not for us, whatever happens. We won’t be eating at the Criterion and going to the theater all the time. Ellesmere isn’t nearly so rich as the duke. Unless you are clever enough to snag an enormously wealthy peer, we shall never have a life like this.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. But . . .” She paused, trying to find a way to explain her point of view. “A life of engagements and amusements, doing the season and raising funds for charity and giving house parties—it’s a busy life, certainly, but it’s not . . . substantial enough to satisfy me. A year
or two ago, it might have been, but now? No. I love what I do.” She tilted her head, studying her sister’s face. “It’s different for you, I know. You dream of a life like this.”

  Clara bit her lip, telling Irene the truth even before she lied. “I shall be content to return to our life as it has always been.”

  “But not as content as you’d be if you had a place in society.”

  “I’m not sure. I doubt I’d have the nerve for it without you close at hand.” Clara looked pained. “Is it selfish of me to want it for both of us, knowing you don’t want it at all?”

  “Of course not. But I can’t bear the idea that my life would be one of observing rules that seem so trivial, or even downright silly, and obsessing about what dress to wear at this hour and to this ball, and who sits by whom, and watching as conversations come to a stop the moment someone—probably me—says anything controversial. Everything controlled for me, nothing controlled by me. Do you see at all what I mean?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Still,” she added at once, “I will do what I can to see that you do not suffer for my choices. Ellesmere may not like having his eldest granddaughter publishing a newspaper, but if he can be made to overcome that scruple enough to grant you society, I will be delighted. You, dear sister, deserve all the balls and plays and dinners at the Criterion you can stand.”

  Clara laughed. “And water parties, too, I hope? Did the duchess tell you about that?”

  “She mentioned it was being arranged, but that was all.”

  “Torquil is arranging it for five days hence. If it’s a fine day, we shall set sail from Queen’s Wharf at ten o’clock, journey down to Kew Gardens and have a picnic luncheon, then sail back. Do say you’ll take the day and come with us. It’ll be lovely.”

  “Only if we don’t become seasick.” She grinned. “That would put a damper on the party.”