by Sophia James
And now he was baiting her.
Papa always cautioned that she count to ten before responding to an incendiary comment, and she made a valiant attempt at heeding his sage advice—before outrage overwhelmed her shortly after the count of three.
‘Probably because I am irritated, Your Grace!’
If she was going to be tossed out on her ear, she might as well go with her trademark honesty. Skulking off with her tail between her legs had never been her style. Being a shrinking violet felt wrong too, when Eliza usually exited all confrontation in a blaze of glory as a matter of principle.
‘Whilst I will admit my earlier comments were, for want of better words, ill-considered, narrow-minded and grossly misplaced, I think it mean of you to have made it your business to come here tonight simply to make me suffer. Because believe me, I have suffered enough all afternoon, reliving every painful flippant comment in my mind and nervously awaiting your censure—or your mother’s, or my pretentious aunt Penelope’s. It is no fun at all waiting for the axe to fall, I can assure you. And, as justified as my punishment undoubtedly is, gloating is unbecoming. Frankly, considering your rank, you should be above seeking such petty satisfaction. If you want to chastise me for my insolence, and my complete lack of thought and decorum, the decent thing to do is to send me packing with the minimum of fuss. Not prolong the torture simply to prove a point.’
He made no secret of the fact he found her anger amusing, even pausing with his spoon midway between his bowl and his upturned lips as he listened to her subtle, whispered yet impassioned rant in its entirety.
‘I promise you—I am not gloating.’
‘You look as if you are gloating.’ For some bizarre reason she couldn’t seem to stop herself speaking her mind now that the hounds had been unleashed—even though that same mind was simultaneously screaming at her to shut up. ‘You are openly laughing at me.’
‘I am smiling, Miss Harkstead. Because—although for the life of me I cannot think why—I rather enjoy talking to you.’
That took the wind out of her sails. ‘You do?’
She felt her eyebrows knit together in confusion and was sorely tempted to give in to the urge to gape at him dumbfounded, but didn’t.
‘I do...’
In fairness, he appeared as bewildered as she by this bizarre turn of events.
‘I find your forthrightness and honesty strangely...refreshing.’
He took a thoughtful sip of his wine while they studied one another, like two territorial tom cats sizing each other up as they decided whether or not to fight.
He broke the peculiarly loaded stare first, with a befuddled shrug. ‘You are the first person in a very long time who has actually spoken to me rather than the Dukedom—outside of my immediate family, of course. And I have to confess... I liked it.’
‘You liked being insulted?’
‘You weren’t really insulting me. You were passing comment based on your particular experiences. I wasn’t the least bit offended by it at all.’ He frowned again and sighed, then shook his head. ‘Not strictly true. Being accused of “lording it” over people stung, I cannot deny. But after I had had a cold, hard look at myself I realised my absence at the gathering earlier could be construed as lording. As, too, could the differentiated seating arrangements for dinner and breakfast. I don’t usually trouble myself regarding mealtimes and menus and such—but, thanks to your insights, I have decided some alterations to this gathering are necessary. Therefore, starting tomorrow morning the allocations will be more ad hoc and everyone will be mixed up. Including the hosts. It bothers me immensely to think I have unintentionally used rank to put people in their place and that will cease henceforth, Miss Harkstead.’
Eliza did gape then. Because she couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d suddenly jumped on the table and danced a Highland jig.
He toasted her stunned expression with his glass. ‘I can see that this Duke has surprised you, Miss Harkstead.’
‘You have, Your Grace. I am...’ decidedly off-kilter and ever so slightly impressed ‘...all astonishment.’
‘Then my next request should startle you more. I have a proposition.’
Instantly her pleasant surprise turned to disappointment. She’d had quite a few propositions from titled men in the last few years. All of them quite improper.
‘You do?’
Her disgust must have shown either on her face or in her tone because he laughed out loud. ‘Do not panic, Miss Harkstead—what I am about to propose is neither illegal nor immoral. Although your complete lack of faith is both hilarious as well as insulting. I can only imagine all the previous dukes you encountered before me were beasts. Which of them gave you such a high opinion of the breed?’
As she did not know nor have any experience of dukes personally, and as his question had caught her on the hop, the truth leaked out before she could stop it. ‘It’s not so much dukes, per se, as titled gentlemen who consider themselves in such high regard they assume any untitled woman is fair game, and should be grateful for their unsolicited and unseemly attentions.’
He seemed genuinely appalled. ‘That’s dreadful! And such men have made overtures towards you?’
‘On more than one occasion, Your Grace—which makes me predisposed to be suspicious of sudden propositions.’
‘Then allow me to put your mind at rest about mine. What I am proposing is perhaps a tad revolutionary, but I am a progressive by nature so I hope you will find it in your heart to indulge me.’
Experience meant she wasn’t entirely placated. ‘Go on...’
He leaned closer, sending a delicious waft of spicy cologne her way, and lowered his deep voice to a silky whisper which, much to her chagrin, caused excited goosebumps to bloom on the sensitive skin of her neck and back.
‘It cannot have escaped your notice, Miss Harkstead, that I—or rather my title—bring out the worst in some people...young ladies in particular.’
‘You are referring to all the eyelash-fluttering and simpering?’
‘All the fawning and deferring, yes.’
He looked delightfully awkward as he dropped his voice another octave to prevent those closest from eavesdropping. Something they had been doing with varying degrees of unsubtlety since their conversation had begun. Hardly a surprise, really. Dukes and companions usually did not mix, let alone have intensely private discussions which excluded the rest of the table.
‘I loathe it. To such an extent I was rather hoping we could make a pact, Miss Harkstead, whereby I give you my word that I shall not behave in the least bit duke-like if you faithfully promise not to fawn or defer to me under any circumstances and remain at all times the forthright, pithy and entertaining person you quite obviously are.’
He found her pithy forthrightness entertaining? Such a novelty when so few did.
‘I cannot tell you what a relief it would be to me to have at least one guest under my roof with whom I can have a decent and honest conversation. Like you, I hate this sort of society party. If my mother hadn’t thrust it upon me, I confess I would have moved heaven and earth to be anywhere else.’
Chapter Four
Marcus awoke feeling surprisingly enthusiastic about the long day ahead, entirely because he knew Miss Harkstead would be in it.
They had talked non-stop throughout last night’s dinner, about absolutely everything and nothing, and they had laughed constantly. So much so, it had been with great regret that he’d left her when his mother had dragged him away to take port with the other gentlemen in attendance, as expected. Something about her made him feel lighter and less burdened with responsibility.
He had been left in such good spirits that in an unguarded moment of weakness he had happily agreed to accompany the whole party on an excursion to the village for shopping, which he loathed, followed by wassailing, which he also loathed.
Why anybody thought it enjoyable to knock on some poor, unsuspecting neighbour’s door and inflict upon them tipsy, unrehearsed, out of time and tuneless singing was beyond him.
It was an irritation when, as lord of the manor, it was inflicted upon him, and nothing short of abject humiliation when he was forced to take part in it. To make matters worse, as the Duke he was also expected to participate at the front and centre of the rag-tag choir, rather than hide at the back as he preferred. Hiding at the back, according to his mother, was apparently a slight upon the villagers, so not only must he be at the front, he also had to muster up the strength to appear enthusiastic as well.
No mean feat when all one’s muscles and sinews were contracting in cringing protest.
Regardless, he had still agreed to it, and he rather looked forward to hearing Miss Harkstead’s pithy but insightful observations of the inevitable debacle as they wandered from door to unsuspecting door, demanding figgy pudding for their woefully inadequate efforts.
‘Well, you’ve certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons.’
Never one to stand on ceremony, his brother Julius wandered into his bedchamber without knocking.
‘Certain people are outraged by the breakfast arrangements—our dear mother included—for how can anyone possibly know precisely where the two most eligible bachelors in Essex are without a seating plan set in stone and cast in iron?’
‘Allowing everyone to choose their own seat, and indeed their own dining room, merely struck me as a nicer, less formal way to begin the day. This is the season of goodwill, after all—what better way to spread goodwill than to dispense with the stuffy and unnecessary restrictions of rank?’
His brother eyed him dubiously while Marcus finished shaving. ‘And you came up with this radical idea all by yourself, did you?’ He stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with the chestnut-haired vixen you were glued to all evening?’
It had everything to do with her. Not that he would admit it to his brother. Of all the people he knew best, Julius was the one who would tease him mercilessly for his sudden interest in a woman. Especially a woman at one of their mother’s hideous duke-snaring, husband-hunting house parties.
‘I was hardly glued to her. I conversed with Miss Harkstead over dinner, that’s all.’
‘After you suddenly decided on a whim not to take your allotted seat as host in the main dining room and unashamedly abdicating all those responsibilities—which then forced me to shoulder the burden of the unpleasant task.’
‘I am aware I owe you for that.’
‘Good. Because I flatly refuse to traipse around the village today with all those young ladies. It’s my turn to hide from mother’s rampaging army during daylight hours, and I intend to claim every single one of them from breakfast to dinner. Especially after you left me to the vultures alone again last night.’
Marcus owed his brother for that too. Instead of joining them all in the drawing room, as he had been supposed to, he had dallied in the Oriental Room with Miss Harkstead until the last possible moment.
‘Is there someone in particular you are avoiding, big brother? Because I have to say Mama has invited a tenacious bunch this time. Several of the young ladies are significantly bolder than usual—which, after the last party, I didn’t think possible—and a couple of the mothers are, frankly, for want of a better word, terrifying.’ He shuddered while pulling a face. ‘I’ve never encountered house guests like it.’
‘They do seem a bit more forceful this year. Or are we simply more jaded?’
‘It’s hard not to be jaded about it when their ulterior motive is so obvious.’
There was no arguing with that. A hopeless romantic at heart, their mother was convinced neither of her sons could be happy unless they were wed.
‘If I had my way, like you, I’d avoid them all. But it’s Christmas...’ The third without their father.
‘Indeed it is. If only our dear mother wasn’t an expert in laying on the guilt.’
She claimed to find Christmas the hardest time of all, because she had met their father at a yuletide house party, fallen head over heels in love with him at first sight, realised he was ‘the one’ after their first rashly stolen kiss and married him within the month.
To celebrate their whirlwind romance, the devoted couple always held a festive house party here at Manningtree, to mark the occasion, and in honour of her dead husband their mother had insisted they continue with the tradition.
And then she used it ruthlessly to fill the house with unwelcome guests, banishing her grief by completely occupying herself with fervent matchmaking instead. All because she was a hopeless romantic who believed in fate, fairy tales and Christmas miracles, and fervently hoped history would repeat itself for her sons.
Marcus and Julius simultaneously shrugged miserably, accepting there was nothing to be done about it except continue to be the good sons they were, while divvying up the workload as most eligible bachelor in the room for the sake of their own sanity.
‘Have you collided with Lady Broadstairs yet?’
His brother’s tone was cautionary as he mentioned Eliza’s pretentious aunt. She had cornered him briefly last night, when he had finally graced the drawing room with his presence, before Gibson had practically frog-marched him into the billiard room, where he’d been late to take port with the gentlemen.
‘She’s the worst of the bunch, so avoid her like the plague. Absolutely shameless! While you were missing in action I was thrust opposite her at dinner and forced to listen to an hour-long liturgy on the many attributes of her silly daughter, whose blasted name escapes me.’
‘Honoria.’
‘You’ve met her, then?’ Julius pulled a face.
‘Not yet. But she was mentioned in my conversation with Miss Harkstead. They are cousins.’
‘Are they? Then I hope for both your sake your Miss Harkstead is nothing like the other branch of the family. That would have made your dinner very tedious. But if they are related, why wasn’t she seated with them?’
‘Because she is companion to Lady Trumble—also from the scandalously impoverished side of the family—and Lady Broadstairs likes to pretend there is no blood connection between them.’
‘Ah...’ His brother rested his behind on the dressing table and, arms crossed, watched Marcus splash on some cologne. ‘That explains it, then.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Your newly democratic approach to mealtimes. It’s nice to see you finally taking my advice about seizing the day, big brother.’
Julius winked. He was all about ‘seizing the day’, like their mother, whereas Marcus was predictably calm and measured, as their father had been.
‘If everyone sits where they want, you get to sit with her. She must be very nice indeed for you to abandon your usual tendency towards tortured staidness and painful good manners. You’ve become very dull since you became the Duke. Too sensible. Or at least you were till you found a distraction. Perhaps Mama is right after all? Perhaps there is a magical spark when you find the right one which encourages you to throw caution to the wind? It would certainly explain your uncharacteristic behaviour...’
‘Idiot.’ Marcus rolled his eyes, deciding not to dignify such fanciful nonsense with more of a response, and hoped to divert him by gesturing to the bed. ‘On a sensible note—which of those two waistcoats goes best with that coat?’
As everyone in the family knew he couldn’t discern colours, it was a run-of-the-mill question.
‘They are both typically plain and boring, as you are so tediously prone to be nowadays, so go with either. Whichever you choose, you will look like a dreary accountant or a dull solicitor. Old beyond your years.’
Not at all the effect he had been aiming for. ‘Which would you wear?’
His brother stared at him thoug
htfully. ‘That depends...’
‘On what?’
‘On what my motive was. If, for example, I was trying to appear impressively ducal but devoid of all humour I would choose this insipid green one.’ He pointed to the left waistcoat, which looked as brown as the right one to Marcus’s odd eyes, and frowned. ‘It screams staid and suitably boring. But if I wanted to be sensibly ducal still, but with a vague nod to the cheerfulness of the season, I would choose the mustard.’ He pointed to the other, looking thoroughly disgusted with the valet’s choices.
Julius suddenly strode to the wardrobe and flung it open, his fingertips skimming the neat line of waistcoats quickly until he found one which appeared to Marcus as brown as the other two and held it aloft, grinning.
‘But if I forgot, for one blessed and reckless moment, my mountains of ducal work and responsibilities, and had my mind set on impressing Lady Trumble’s devilishly attractive but scandalously impoverished companion, I would choose this.’
He presented the garment like a French sommelier, delivering the rarest and finest of wines.
‘Being burgundy, rather than red, it subtly speaks of confidence, with just a hint of flirty mischief, while still exuding the necessary gravitas one expects of a duke in the midst of his vigorous prime.’
The word vigorous was accompanied by a salacious wiggle of his incorrigible brother’s eyebrows.
‘I am not trying to impress Miss Harkstead.’
A flagrant lie, when he had practically jumped out of bed in his eagerness to linger over his toilette after contemplating her all night and wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
‘And I certainly don’t have the time for flirting.’
Not that he had ever been any good at it anyway. More was the pity—because she was exactly the sort of woman he would be inclined to flirt with, if he’d possessed Julius’s enviable talent for flirting.
Marcus could hold his own in a conversation, could even be amusing and witty, but if he tried to flirt he came over as awkward and ultimately made a hash of it. Ergo: flirting and flirty waistcoats were probably best avoided.
