Dukes and Devilry

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Of course I am.’ Henry silently swore to himself that even if every single bone in his body were broken, he would spring to his feet as elegantly as he could. Unfortunately, given how clumsily he had fallen, any elegant springing would require a moment of tortoise-like waving of his legs and arms—and that was absolutely out of the question. ‘Who isn’t occasionally taken by the idea of having a sudden nap in one’s garden?’

  ‘I am very glad you are not hurt.’ Anne’s mouth twitched; Henry saw the immense effort she was making not to laugh. ‘It was quite a hit. And quite a fall.’

  The irrepressible humour in her eyes was charming enough to dull Henry’s embarrassment a little. ‘I suppose calling it a dignified fall would be too much to ask for?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Anne held a hand to her mouth; Henry heard a short, breathless gasp of laughter. ‘Decidedly too much to ask for.’

  An aching head, lying flat on his back in his own garden, and being laughed at by a beautiful woman in breeches. Henry knew that one of these things occurring didn’t necessarily lead to a loss of dignity on his part, but all of them together was a force he could not even attempt to suppress.

  He began to laugh, swept up in the absurdity of the moment, laughing all the harder when Anne began to laugh as well. The soft, strangely intimate feel of it—the smell of the earth, the faint wisps of cloud overhead, her happy face—felt like a threshold of some kind; a doorway, however obscure, to a better world.

  Something had happened. A small but complex part of him, a part that had stuck painfully to his soul for goodness knew how long, had begun to move decisively into place. Henry couldn’t quite define it, let alone name it aloud—but he knew that Anne Hereford’s face, staring down at him with an abundance of good humour in her eyes, had to be the key to the whole business.

  ‘Do you know…’ He felt oddly humble saying it; words that he had never said to a woman before, despite having spent a thousand nights in almost as many bed-chambers. ‘I feel I could stay here, exactly and precisely here, for a very long time indeed.’

  ‘I see.’ Henry could tell from Anne’s slight intake of breath that she was shocked by his words—but not shocked enough to move away. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘You can, but I am sure you already know.’ Henry hoped that she felt it too; the sense of something unfolding, flowering. ‘Don’t you?’

  Anne didn’t answer. Henry waited with baited breath, sun in his eyes, until she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Do you know… you are terribly silly.’ She smiled down at him, hair blowing slightly in the breeze, and Henry wondered if he’d died and gone to heaven. ‘Quite the silliest man I have met.’

  Henry could do nothing but nod. He would agree with anything this glorious creature said or did, up to and including murder. He knew it had to be a combination of a night of drinking, too much sun, the surprise and novelty of the moment… but oh, how exquisite everything was.

  He would stay lying in the soil forever, then. How nice that the overwhelming issue of his life, namely how to fill each day, had been solved. He would sit happily in the earth, like a rosebush, and flower whenever Anne Hereford called him silly.

  He hoped she would say other things to him as well. Not the usual nonsense about how handsome he was, or how overcome with delight she was at his mere presence—although a little of that wouldn’t go amiss. He wanted to know everything; Anne’s first memories, her small irritations, her exact reasons for surreptitiously putting on breeches and planting roses. How her friendship with Susan had begun, who the rest of her friends were… if she was married, or going to be.

  No. He didn’t want to hear anything about marriage; it would ruin the splendid world he had created lying in the earth. A world in which it seemed entirely possible—nay, probable—that he could reach up, just a little, just enough to press his lips to Anne Hereford’s own with an air of sweet, fitting finality. Just a little longer here, and he would manage it…

  ‘Anne!’ The unmistakeable voice of his sister floated across the gardens; Anne moved away quickly, her face showing unmistakeable guilt as Henry hurriedly clambered to his feet. ‘The lilies will not wait!’

  ‘If anything will wait, it is a lily. Famously patient flowers.’ Henry knew that he was grumbling in an unbecoming fashion, but he felt robbed; robbed of the moment, of potential kiss, of the opportunity to look and listen to Anne. ‘I cannot imagine a lily harrying someone along.’

  Anne held a hand to her mouth as she giggled. Henry felt various parts of himself come to life; his heart, his lips, the tips of his fingers, as well as a part he fiercely warned to keep slumbering until he was safely alone. ‘Susan’s lilies are as singular as she is. I have no doubt that they can speak if they choose.’

  ‘And I have no doubt that we will meet again.’ Henry risked a step forward. ‘Am I being foolish?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Anne’s tone was serious, but her eyes were deliciously mocking. ‘To be doubtful is to be reasonable.’

  ‘But I have no desire to be reasonable, when I look at you.’ Henry sighed openly, his heart beating faster than he could ever remember. ‘None at all.’

  Anne turned away without a word. Henry, his stomach aching from the spade, felt abandoned—until she turned back, with a half-smile on her lips.

  ‘Well, then. Perhaps you will be unreasonable, the next time we meet.’

  Henry mulled over the exact meaning of Anne’s words for quite some time. Mulled over them all night, in fact, both before sleep and during it—his mind providing deliciously creative definitions of unreasonable in the depths of unconsciousness. When he woke with the word still on his lips, still hot despite splash after splash of water from the basin, he knew that desperate measures were called for.

  Desperate measures, in Henry’s case, were rather simple. Whether on the Continent or in England, town of country, dyspeptic or feverish, he required three things to restore calm; his favourite blue dressing gown, hot coffee, and the Earl of Conbarr. Fortunately all three of those things were readily available in Longwater of a spring morning; the dressing-gown hung on a hook, the coffee in the pot, and the Earl of Conbarr painting wildflowers in one of the Longwater meadows—or sipping coffee, amused and disbelieving.

  ‘Anne Hereford? Really?’ Andrew Balfour, Earl of Conbarr, looked at Henry with an expression of mild incredulity as he took another gulp of coffee. ‘I cannot imagine hitting oneself with a spade in front of Anne Hereford, and having her laugh about it. Not that I know her well, of course—the Herefords aren’t exactly part of the Conbarr circle—but she’s considered something of a stickler for manners. Unlike at least one of her sisters.’

  ‘She was provoked. Well—not provoked, but certainly somewhat exercised. Who wouldn’t be, after a sight like that.’ Henry took a dazed sip of coffee, still not quite believing the events of the previous day had occurred the way they had. ‘At first I thought she was a man.’

  ‘Well, she was wearing breeches.’ Andrew looked down at his cup, a small smile hovering at the corner of his mouth. ‘I assume Providence itself decided to hit you with a spade, because you were rude enough to tell a woman that she looked like a man. We are much uglier creatures.’

  ‘I thought she was a man. In no way whatsoever did she resemble a man, once she turned to face me, and I certainly didn’t tell her of my suspicions.’

  ‘But what on earth was she doing in your garden?’

  ‘I could say the same for you, Andrew.’

  ‘I have told you a thousand times, Henry—if you do not wish to stumble across me painting bluebells at Longwater, throw me out on my ear.’ Andrew smiled. ‘But I rather think you enjoy your flowers being in all of the Royal Society folios. They would be in more of them, if your sister didn’t consider me a worthless weed.’

  ‘It turns out Anne and Susan are quite particular friends.’ Henry held up his hands with a sigh. ‘Lord knows I never would have found out, if I hadn’t questioned Susan directly. She certai
nly hadn’t informed Anne that I had returned from the Continent. Sometimes I worry that I’ll find a lion in one of the bedrooms, only to be informed that it’s been there for weeks. She never tells me anything important.’

  ‘I cannot recall Anne Hereford being particularly important to you until this morning.’ Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would Susan have told you? You’ve only been talking about the mysterious woman in your garden continuously for about four hours. I’m sure she would have caught on by the fifth.’

  ‘True.’ Henry rubbed his chin, musing. ‘I can’t help but feel as if she’s been important for ever so much longer, though… oh, listen to me.’

  ‘I have been listening to you. At length.’ Andrew concealed a smile behind his hand.

  ‘Forgive me. My mind is completely full of her.’ Henry shrugged. ‘It is damnably confounding. I have to meet her again, Andrew.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Yes, but how? Susan is hardly going to allow me to trail behind her as she and Anne discuss border arrangements.’ Henry sighed. ‘She doesn’t even allow the gardeners to do so.’

  ‘Invite her to the Spring Ball, then. Her and her sisters—even the loud one. I remember her from an ill-advised sojourn to the winter fair.’ Andrew’s expression briefly clouded; Henry could only assume he was thinking of the loud sister. ‘There’s just enough time to send them an invitation—it would be the easiest way to meet her in an environment approaching respectability. But won’t Susan already have invited the Herefords, given she and Anne’s association?’

  ‘It appears to be a somewhat private association—and the list of guests never changes. One of Susan’s quirks… but I could have her change it. The Spring Ball.’ Henry snapped his fingers. ‘The perfect solution.’

  ‘Yes… a small point, though.’ Andrew lowered his voice a little. ‘If you are going to invite the Hereford patriarch, keep him away from the whist tables. The gossip as to his habits is in danger of becoming unmanageable.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. His poor daughters.’ Henry’s face clouded. ‘Poor Anne.’

  ‘Miss Hereford, until you’ve made your introductions.’ Andrew’s voice hovered between humour and concern. ‘Please, Henry—an excess of chivalry in you always worries me.’

  ‘Do not worry yourself.’ Henry smiled. ‘And what are you to do? Spend all day sketching in my grounds again? I’ll have the new gardener boot you out.’

  ‘You will not be booting me anywhere.’ Andrew folded his arms. ‘Not until I have correctly captured the love-in-a-mist you have growing in patches all over the autumn lawn.’

  ‘How comforting that I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Henry took another sip of coffee. ‘I know I haven’t taken complete leave of my senses.’

  As he swallowed the scalding coffee, he reflected that he was hanging onto his senses by the skin of his teeth. The thought of Anne Hereford at the seasonal Longwater ball inflamed him; he was alive at the thought of seeing her again, speaking to her again. Leading her back into the gardens again, lying down on the damp earth, and asking her to smile at him…

  Yes. He sighed, oblivious to Andrew’s chatter. He would rescue Anne Hereford, no matter how many times she called him silly.

  Two weeks later, a hired carriage clattered down the long, imposing drive that led through the Longwater Estate. The faces of the four Hereford sisters were visible from the windows as the carriage finally stopped in front of the vast, ivy-wreathed expanse of Longwater House, each sister showing a different expression on their face.

  ‘If I had known that such an invitation was to arrive, Anne, I would have gleefully disobeyed your advice regarding gowns when we went to LeClerc.’ Lydia, looking with wide, frightened eyes at the assembled throng of laughing, chattering guests outside the enormous house, absent-mindedly tugged at a loose thread on her bodice. ‘My beautiful day-dress is of little use to me here.’

  ‘I had no idea that Susan wished to invite us.’ Anne gently pulled away Lydia’s loose thread, noting the sly look on Henrietta’s face. ‘Is something troubling you, Henrietta?’

  ‘Two things.’ Henrietta looked down at her gloves. ‘Father will find out about this.’

  ‘No he will not.’ Lydia looked at Anne, who nodded gently. ‘He has kept to his bed all day, calling for poor Grace to give him champagne. We may need a new maid by day’s end, but we will not need to explain this little excursion. He will not know that we are absent.’

  ‘You are probably right.’ Henrietta sighed. ‘Then in that case, my only worry is the atrocious state of this evening gown. I’ll never managed to snare someone with this type of sleeve.’

  Anne looked immediately at Agnes, who seemed thoroughly alarmed. Her youngest sister already found balls desperately uncomfortable; she certainly didn’t need to be reminded that social events of this kind were meant to be used for husband-hunting.

  ‘Oh, Agnes—don’t jump so. Our choices are somewhat stark. Either we marry well, or begin taking in linen to wash and darn.’ Lydia looked at Anne with a smile. ‘One should consider balls a very laborious way of avoiding darning. I do so hate to darn.’

  ‘Do not listen to your sister.’ Anne smiled at Agnes, who looked more terrified than ever. ‘Our only objective tonight is to behave in ways that honour our hosts.’

  ‘It will have to be our behaviour. Goodness knows our gowns don’t do much honouring.’ Henrietta held a fold of her skirt between one thumb and forefinger, her voice dripping disdain. ‘What I would give for a good, rich stripe on this old cloth.’

  ‘Behave well, dear one, and who knows?’ Lydia smiled evilly. ‘Perhaps an extremely old earl will buy you all the gowns you ever want. And perhaps Lord Wakely will be with us tonight—Anne can ask him for any gown she wants.’

  ‘Enough.’ Anne looked sternly at both Lydia and Henrietta as the carriage door opened. ‘Please… enough.’

  The sisters, perhaps noting the strained look in Anne’s eyes, kept silent. They stepped down from the carriage one by one, shoulders back—Agnes’s cheeks already a deep, flaming red.

  Enough. Anne silently reprimanded herself as she looked up at the glittering, candlelit mass of Longwater House. Please. Enough.

  Enough was Anne’s rock, her certainty, as she moved her sisters through the ballroom. Taking care not to let her gaze linger on the faces of the crowd, her face and form carefully arranged into an attitude of the most rigid respectability, she walked through the glittering Longwater ballroom as invisibly as humanly possible. How strange it was to be inside the house; to move around the splendid, high-ceilinged space as if she belonged there.

  She knew that she didn’t belong. In name, perhaps—her father was one disastrous bet away from ruining them decisively—but not in spirit. Her spirit was somewhere in the lily house with Susan, enthusiastically pulling duckweed from the a pond. Or in the rose garden with Henry Colborne, him lying beside her, telling her that he wanted to stay with her forever…

  Her body shivered at the memory. How on earth had she survived the days since the invitation came; wondering, fearing, fantasising to an unhealthy degree? How had she managed to keep away from Longwater until this very night, in a gown past its best, head full of possibilities that she knew were more distant than stars?

  She had to find something to anchor her to the normal, to the ordinary. Her sisters would be no help; they were already spiralling into their preferred ballroom positions—Lydia by the champagne, Henrietta glowering next to a group of oblivious young bucks, and Agnes to the nearest corridor she could hide in. Anne risked looking at the assembled guests; she had casual acquaintances, she knew it, but her father’s antics had considerably dwindled her social circle…

  … Perhaps Henry would see her in the crowd. Perhaps he would seek her out, bow to her in front of the ton, and make his preference clear. If he had a preference, of course—and that could not be said, not really, not given his reputation—

  ‘Miss Hereford?’

  Ah. A
different voice, but a familiar one. Anne slowly turned, looking at Eustace Wakely with a blank, embarrassed smile.

  Why hadn’t she told Eustace she would be attending the Spring Ball? It was clear from the shock in his eyes that he hadn’t been expecting to see her. She could have sent a letter, or had him at the house for tea… oh, Lord, she hadn’t said a word.

  Eustace had slipped her mind. The man she would need to marry in order to keep her family from ruin had slipped her mind. Anne, still smiling, cursed Henry Colborne to the very depths of hell.

  Eustace bowed, kissing her hand with the precise amount of subtly displayed preference; Anne fought the urge to pull her hand away as his cold lips touched it. ‘You look wonderful, Miss Hereford.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Wakely. You are most kind.’ Anne smiled, attempting to make her thoughts kindlier ones. ‘What a pity the Hereford invitation arrived a little late! We could have shared a carriage.’

  ‘Well quite.’ Eustace spoke glibly, even as his tone still betrayed surprise. ‘I would have sent mine. You—my goodness, how wonderful you look.’

  This wasn’t up to the usual standard of Eustace’s conversation; he seemed somewhat distracted. Perhaps it was simply because he hadn’t been expecting to see her? Anne smiled a little more brightly as she replied.

  ‘Thank you. Apparently I am doubly wonderful.’

  Eustace clearly hadn’t heard her, his eyes trained on something over her left shoulder. Anne half-turned, opening her mouth, ready to repeat what she had said, until she saw what Eustace was staring at.

  Or rather, who.

  Laeticia Cartwright.

  Laeticia Cartwright, a woman who Anne knew only by sight, who had been engaged to Lord Whipperly before the nobleman’s scandal with an actress had emerged. A newly-unattached Laeticia Cartwright, radiant in purple, her eyes bright with joy as she spoke to all of her similarly finely-clad friends… and once, then twice, alighting on Eustace Wakely with enough love in them to set every one of the Longwater candles ablaze.