by Jane Goodger
“Your Grace,” a man intoned. “Welcome to Brown’s Hotel. I am Jonathan Humstead, manager of this fine establishment. I do hope your stay will be satisfactory. Please do not hesitate to let me know if anything is not to your standards.”
A lovely speech. Oliver hoped Mr. Winters appreciated it.
“I am the Duke of Kendal, and this is my duchess,” Oliver said with good humor to the manager, who was warmly addressing Mr. Winters.
“Oh, my deepest apologies, Your Grace. I was under the impression you were a much older man,” the manager said smoothly, bowing sharply. “The lift will take you to the fifth floor and your suite of rooms, Your Grace.” The manager snapped his fingers and a uniformed bellboy stepped forward to lead the way.
“Have you ever been on a lift?” Oliver asked Rebecca.
“No.” She looked longingly at the curving staircase, then dubiously at the cage they were to squeeze into. “Will we all fit?”
“Another adventure, Rebecca.”
She looked up at him, smiling, and it really was the most difficult thing not to kiss her. Only Mrs. Habershaw’s presence prevented him, so when the lady turned her back to them for a moment, he took the chance to kissed his wife’s upturned lips. “You are a daring fellow, aren’t you?” Rebecca asked playfully.
The four of them, plus the lift operator, squeezed inside the cage, which shuddered and swayed a bit before lurching upward. Rebecca clutched his arm almost painfully, while Oliver marveled at the mechanics of it. The lift was the first ever hydraulic apparatus installed in London, and though it had been in place for more than two decades, it was still a novelty to him and his wife.
“I’ll have to have one of these installed at Horncliffe, don’t you think, Your Grace?”
“I prefer to exercise,” Rebecca said, letting out a small sound when the elevator jerked to a halt, far above the hard marble floor of the lobby.
“That was jolly fun,” Oliver said, earning a frown from Mrs. Habershaw.
The entire floor was theirs. Once a series of townhomes, the rooms were joined by narrow, wood-lined hallways that dipped and curved and contained small steps between the now-connected buildings. It rather reminded Oliver of Horncliffe’s hidden passages, but where he was comfortable traversing those hallways, this was a bit of a challenge. He needed both his walking stick and a reassuring grasp on Rebecca’s arm.
“Your rooms, Your Grace,” the bellboy said solemnly, opening the door to a painfully bright, expansive room. Given how narrow and dark the hallway was, Oliver was surprised to find the room so large. A sitting room with a fire cheerfully burning in the grate adjoined a large bedroom with a massive bed that rivaled the one back home. “Her Grace’s rooms—”
“Are here,” Oliver said firmly. Piled off to one side was the luggage, waiting to be unpacked by the servants. That meant the room would soon be invaded by his valet and Rebecca’s maid. “Mr. Winters, you may tell the servants to settle in. They may come and unpack in an hour. No, two. And please take care of this gentleman.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Winters said, and Oliver could tell he was displeased. He didn’t care. He wanted to make love to his wife as he’d been unable to do during their travels.
When they were alone, Oliver prepared himself to seduce his wife, but the door had hardly clicked closed when she was in his arms, her lips pressed against his.
“I thought we would never be alone,” she said, tugging at his cravat. Oliver laughed, so filled with joy he could hardly contain it inside his body. All his life, he’d wondered what it would be like to feel loved, to be the one cherished person in someone’s life, and now he knew. It was intoxicating and far beyond what he’d imagined.
In a matter of minutes, they were naked on the massive bed, entangled with each other and the sheets, madly trying to please one another. Her hand grasped his manhood, her thumb teasing the sensitive tip, and he let out a low moan of pure pleasure. And when he felt her hot mouth taking him deep, he arched his back, thrusting mindlessly, on the very edge of release.
“You have decided to kill me,” he managed to say, and he heard her giggle. “Come here, wife, before this ends far sooner than I intend.”
Rebecca moved up his body, leaving a path of kisses, creating an exquisite friction on his exposed skin. When the apex of her thighs met his erection, she straightened, and looking down at him like a seductress, impaled herself, closing her eyes and letting out a sound of satisfaction. She swallowed, then opened her eyes to gaze down at him as his hands found her taut hips and slowly eased her up, guiding her, creating an unimaginable need inside him. Gritting his teeth, he tried to think of something other than her hot tightness around him, her muscles contracting, squeezing him. He hardly recognized his harsh breathing or the sounds coming from deep within him. When he lifted his hands to caress her breasts, to lightly pull on her hard nipples, she hissed in a breath and let out a small keening sound as she quickened her pace. And when he touched her slick center, erect and sensitive beneath his thumb, the rhythm increased, her flat stomach tensing, and he knew she was close. Together they rose and together they crashed down on wave after wave of release, until she collapsed on top of him, still pulsing around his member.
It was quiet but for their breaths and beating hearts. She draped herself atop him, all loose limbs and satisfied woman, a smile on her face that matched his own.
“I do not believe we should go so long without one another again,” he said, chuckling. Rebecca nuzzled her lips against his neck and nodded. At that moment, Oliver wondered how it was possible his heart could remain in his chest, for it felt overlarge. He loved her so much his heart ached from it. “I am the most fortunate of men.”
“I have always thought so.”
Morrison’s Fine Jewelry and Gifts was a tiny store tucked between two much larger establishments on a busy thoroughfare that was congested with carriages and pedestrians. Its proprietor, a diminutive man with a nose that would have been better suited to a man twice his size, reluctantly withdrew his gaze from whatever he’d been working on to greet his customers. His eyes widened, as so many people’s did when they saw Oliver, but instead of looking wary, the man smiled as if he were seeing an old friend. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice stunningly low for a man so small. Indeed, when he jumped from the stool he’d been sitting on, he was a full head shorter than Rebecca.
Oliver looked at her, silently wondering how the man knew who he was, and she gave her head a subtle shake.
“When last I saw you, Your Grace, you were with your father. You had the most remarkable eyes I had ever seen. He stopped by, inquiring about a pair of spectacles.” He dashed to a large cabinet, opened the door and rummaged about for a time before producing an object with a flourish. “These. Your father never came back for them and I hadn’t thought to ask for an address, else I would have certainly sent them to you. I thought perhaps he had changed his mind.”
Mr. Morrison stepped to a glass counter and placed a small pair of odd spectacles atop it. Rebecca and Oliver bent and peered at them.
“I fear they won’t fit you now, Your Grace, but be assured I can create another adult-sized pair for you.”
Rebecca picked them up, marveling at the design and intricacy of the glasses. The rims were round and made of a thin metal surrounding an extraordinarily thick bit of glass. The truly marvelous thing was that two more lenses, made of dark-tinted glass, could be arranged to cover the clear lenses. It was very much like a hinged door that gently snapped in place, covering the clear lenses with the tinted. And when they were not needed, one could merely fold them back where they snapped against the stems.
Oliver took them from Rebecca’s hand and held the pair close to his face, his eyes taking in the design. “I am sorry, I do not recall being here. I was quite young, you see, and my father died shortly after that visit. I’m sure he intended to return.” Despite the fac
t the glasses were far too small for his face, Oliver put them on. His beautiful eyes were magnified to a rather comical extent, but when he turned and looked at Rebecca, she could see his eyes had filled with tears.
“My God, man, these are miraculous.”
Mr. Morrison beamed a toothy smile. “I was rather proud of this pair. Now, your eyesight may have changed over the years. I’ll no doubt have to make some adjustments. I see that the movement in your eyes has decreased since you were a lad.”
“Yes, I believe it has,” Oliver said, pulling the spectacles off. “How long will it take you to create another pair?”
Mr. Morrison propped a hand beneath his chin in thought. “No more than a week. The lenses must be special ordered to my precise specifications, but I happen to know just the man to create them for you. He’s the same gentleman who creates most of the lenses for Britain’s lighthouses. I’m certain a job this small will be a treat for him.” The shopkeeper stared at Oliver with an almost paternal look. “You know, you’ve caused quite a stir. How long have you been in London?”
“Only two days.” Oliver gave him a sheepish grin. “I do tend to cause a stir wherever I go.”
“The Ghost Duke and all that. A ridiculous moniker but one that is proving to increase interest in your visit.”
“The Ghost Duke?” Rebecca asked, wondering how the name had followed them to London. “Where did you hear that?” She had not read the gossip columns since leaving St. Ives and her friends. The five of them would pore over the scandal sheets often, trying to determine whom the writer was referring to. They would spend hours discussing the gossip, all the while pretending to be knitting for one charity or another. At least, the other girls had. Rebecca had knitted and sold her creations for a bit of extra pin money to hold the family over when her father had been gone overlong.
“In The Tattler.” He reached beneath the counter and brought out the scandal sheet. “‘The Ghost Duke has all of London abuzz,” he read, “having lived a life of seclusion for nearly twenty years. His duchess is unknown among the higher circles and speculation about who she is and where she comes from is rampant. Will the pair attend Lady G’s ball?’” Mr. Morrison looked up, a questioning look on his face. “Will you?”
Rebecca looked at Oliver, who seemed as flummoxed as she felt. “I don’t believe we have been invited. Was that piece in today’s edition?”
“Indeed it was. Lady G is most certainly Lady Greenwich, who will most certainly send you an invitation now that this has run. It will be quite the coup to be the first in the ton to have His Grace attend an entertainment. I shall make certain your spectacles are completed by then.”
Oliver shook his head and frowned. “I have no intention of attending Lady Greenwich’s ball or any other ball for that matter. Such events are tedious and difficult for me.”
“They were difficult for you,” Rebecca said, picking up the glasses. “I believe it will be far better if you can see.”
“Or worse. I am not immune to the stares, Your Grace, and if I can see those around me better, it could very well be disconcerting,” Oliver said, his voice gone cold.
Rebecca had been aware of the stares but had not realized Oliver was. How awful for him to feel like such an oddity whenever he went out. While most were simply curious, others had appeared almost hostile. She’d said nothing, not wanting to upset Oliver.
“I do believe once the novelty wears thin, they will simply see a man. Or rather, a duke,” Mr. Morrison said kindly. “I recall as a boy gray squirrels were a rare sighting in London. Every time someone saw one, people would gather and exclaim. But as their numbers increased, people simply accepted their existence. The novelty was gone.”
Oliver smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Morrison. You are kind.”
The older man’s face reddened, and the tip of his overlarge nose nearly glowed. “It is not kindness, but only the truth. Now, let us determine the strength of your lenses, shall we? If you do attend the ball, you will want to look your best. And see your best.” He chuckled at his own humor.
For the next hour, Mr. Morrison carefully held lenses up to Oliver while he attempted to read letters on a chart placed ten feet away. Without the lenses, Oliver could not discern a single letter, not even the largest one, and Rebecca felt her eyes prick with tears, for she could see each line clearly. Her husband was blind. She’d known this, of course, but for some reason, seeing his frustration at being unable to even recognize there was a chart with letters struck her hard.
Slowly, Mr. Morrison tested his eyes and each time, Oliver’s grim expression grew more relaxed. Finally, Mr. Morrison pronounced them finished. “Even with the spectacles, you will not be able to see as well as most people, Your Grace. But I am convinced your eyesight will be vastly improved and allow you to navigate this world a bit more comfortably.”
“It is quite exciting,” Oliver said. “I have become rather isolated over the years and was not aware anything could be done.”
“I do hope you do not plan to become a social butterfly. I like our isolated life,” Rebecca said. She said the words lightly but she couldn’t stop the trepidation that filled her at the thought of attending balls and suppers and all the other things the aristocracy did to fill their time. Oliver insisted he did not care that her diction marked her as a commoner, but he had not faced the scrutiny of the ton. One of her dearest friends, Harriet Anderson, had obtained all the polish that Rebecca had not, but her dealings with the ton were still fraught with censor and distrust. Harriet’s background was even more common than Rebecca’s, yet she had married an earl. Harriet’s mother, however, had prepared her daughters well, despite their low birth, for both girls looked and sounded as if they were born into the aristocracy they were now a part of. How would Rebecca fare when she not only looked like a commoner, but also sounded like one?
“If we are invited to the ball, do you think we should decline?” she asked.
“Oh, you cannot do that,” Mr. Morrison exclaimed, as if he had particular interest in whether they went or not.
“And why can we not?” Oliver asked, his tone slightly amused.
“You have a chance to erase every rumor that has ever been spoken about you in a single night. One appearance could change your life,” Mr. Morrison said. “Everyone of importance will be at the ball, Your Grace. If you are invited and do not attend, why, it would only increase the rumors surrounding you.”
Rebecca felt slightly queasy, for what the jeweler said rang true. “He is right, Your Grace,” she said. “If we are invited to the ball, we shall attend and you shall show everyone that you are a great man worthy of your title.” I just pray the invitation does not come.
The next day, a thick envelope with expensive stationery arrived at the Brown Hotel for the Duke and Duchess of Kendal. The only person in their group who did not seem distressed was, oddly enough, Mr. Winters. Mrs. Habershaw looked as though she might faint.
“You must go,” she said, then closed her eyes. “She will humiliate you the moment she opens her mouth.”
“Mrs. Habershaw, I have been patient with your assessment of Her Grace’s readiness for society but that is about to end. You will cease your criticisms and from this moment on, only provide constructive suggestions and praise.”
The older woman’s face flushed scarlet, but Rebecca could not tell whether it was rage or shame that caused the blush. “Of course, Your Grace.” The words, said tightly, did little to assuage Oliver’s worries.
“Entering society will be difficult for both of us. Perhaps it has escaped your notice,” he said, “but I have not been to a social event for nearly a decade. While my diction might pass muster with you, my social skills are rusty at best. We shall muddle through, she and I, and I do wish you would keep your mouth closed unless you are saying something pleasant.”
Rebecca wanted to shout hurrah, but felt at that moment a bit of d
ignity might serve her better after her husband’s wonderful defense. For her part, Mrs. Habershaw pressed her mouth together, looking as if she was eating something unpleasant. “Your Grace, you brought me to Horncliffe for a reason and I have done my best to fulfill my obligation. I fear I have done all I can to assist Her Grace. Perhaps another can succeed where I have failed.” The lady looked completely affronted.
“I was a rather difficult student,” Rebecca said, not wanting Oliver to become estranged from one of his few remaining relatives. As caustic as the woman was, Rebecca had to believe she was doing her best. “I shall make every endeavor, Mrs. Habershaw, not to bring embarrassment or shame to His Grace. I dare say, I shall be so nervous I will not be able to speak at all, never mind carry on a conversation.”
“Perhaps she can claim laryngitis,” Mr. Winters said, displaying a rare bit of humor. Rebecca gave him a quelling look, but Oliver chuckled.
“Between my appearance and Rebecca’s lack of polish, we shall be a curiosity,” Oliver said with what sounded like forced cheer. “I wonder if it is a mistake all around to attend. Our formal clothes may not even be ready in time. I can hardly wear anything in my current wardrobe and Her Grace is in a similar situation.”
“I’m to see the seamstress today,” Rebecca said. “I shall make certain she is aware of the date of the ball.” In spite of her trepidation, the thought of attending a ball and wearing a gown she would never have dreamed of owning was a bit of a thrill. She looked down at the invitation. Nine days. She had nine days to improve her diction and lose every bit of St. Ives that clung to her.
“Mrs. Habershaw, I would like to work on my diction, but I pray you exhibit a bit more patience with me and know that I am trying my best.”
Mrs. Habershaw looked at her with what Rebecca hoped was a bit of admiration. It was difficult to tell whether she felt any emotion other than disappointment. “Very well. We shall meet each morning at ten for a lesson. That should give you enough time to study other matters.”
