by Erica Ridley
“I’m here for the other one,” Cole said. The woman he suspected was the real master in this house.
He thought he’d entered into a game of chess, only to discover she’d begun the match years ago and had always been several moves ahead.
“Act of 1815,” Cole muttered beneath his breath. “Minx.”
The butler’s eyes widened. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”
Cole affected a placid smile. “Miss Middleton, if you please.”
“Very well.” The butler motioned him to the front parlor. “I’ll see if she’s receiving.”
Cole settled himself on the couch, then sprang to his feet and hurried to a wingback chair. When it came to Miss Middleton, he did not trust himself anywhere near a couch. Even if she swept into the room dressed in a mobcap and apron.
She entered wearing a gown of dusky rose with white-striped gauze, and her blond hair was pinned in soft, golden loops. She had never looked more stunning.
And her maid… was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s your chaperone?” he demanded.
She batted her eyelashes innocently. “Do we need one?”
“We need seven or eight,” he said. “At this point, iron manacles wouldn’t hurt.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “We’ll have to settle for Betty.”
She tugged a bell pull, then perched on the edge of a narrow chair opposite him, also avoiding the couch. “I hope you haven’t come to apologize for last night. I quite enjoyed it.”
“I’d like to do it again,” he said honestly. “But that’s a terrible idea. Most likely, so is this.” He handed her the package.
“Oof.” She settled the heavy cylinder between her thighs. “What is this?”
“A quarter gallon of refined libation,” he said with a straight face. “Using the same methodology for liquid measure as the half peck for dry.”
“Horrid scamp,” she scolded him. “Now I’m more interested in weighing it than unwrapping it.”
A maid appeared in the doorway.
“Thank God.” Cole motioned her over. “You must chaperone us.”
Diana lifted a finger to stall the maid. “But first, fetch me my basket of scales, Betty.”
“Wait—what?” Cole stammered, but the chit was already gone.
Diana grinned at him. “She’ll be back, don’t worry. Besides, I’m rubbish at waiting to open presents.”
She pulled the twine off the package and slid the contents from its brown paper wrapping. Her laughing eyes met his. “A miniature beer barrel?”
He attached the tap. “A beer barrel full of—”
“Shh,” she scolded. “You’ll ruin the surprise.”
As she reached for a bell pull, a footman arrived with a small tea tray.
“You are a prince among men,” Diana informed the footman, then ignored the kettle in order to pour ale into two of the teacups.
Cole cleared his throat. “I have a plethora of personalized mugs out in the carriage.”
She placed a frothy teacup and a small cake upon a saucer and handed the set to Cole.
He accepted the offering.
“If this is meant to dissuade me from taking advantage of handsome dukes in empty gardens, you’re doing a terrible job,” she warned him.
“Perhaps it’s meant to dissuade you from other dukes,” he suggested. “Has any of those henwits brought you ale he brewed himself?”
“Your ale?” she exclaimed in delight. “Fresh from the Wicked Duke?”
“Scandalously so,” he assured her. “Do feel free to comment upon the flavor balance’s obvious superiority to the swill offered in every other tavern.”
She lowered her head to the teacup and inhaled deeply. “I hope your kitchen staff took my suggestion on barley.”
“You’ve spoken to my staff? Wait—you’ve been in my tavern?” He gaped at her in disbelief. “Have you already tried my new beer?”
“It’s a fine gift,” she assured him. “And exceptional beer. I had not had the pleasure, and am thrilled indeed to rectify that lack.”
“Good,” he said. “It’s the spoonful of sugar to sweeten what I came here to say.”
She added another dollop of ale to her teacup. “I’m listening. I promise.”
“I do not regret last night,” he began.
“Thank heavens.” She glanced up. “I would hate to waste such good beer by tossing it in your face.”
“But,” he pressed on, “I believe honesty is the only policy, so I must be clear about my intentions.”
“You haven’t any. Neither do I.” She took a sip of ale. “I thought we covered this last night.”
“That was before your hand was on my—”
“Your basket of scales, ma’am,” announced the out-of-breath maid.
“Thank you, Betty.” Diana arched a brow toward Cole. “Should she chaperone us for this conversation, or should I let her have a rest in the next room?”
“Have a rest and this shilling” He tossed a coin to the maid. “Whatever you’re paid, it isn’t enough.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and slipped the coin in a hidden pocket.
“Come barging in if this parlor gets suspiciously quiet,” Cole warned her.
“Or don’t,” Diana suggested as she tossed the girl a matching coin. “Perhaps you’ll sleep so deeply, you’ll forget this visit entirely by the time my cousin wakes up.”
The maid turned back toward Cole with an expectant expression.
It took only a moment to realize what she was waiting for.
“What the…” He sent a disbelieving glance toward Diana. “Is this what you and Thaddeus do all day? Take turns bribing your own servants?”
She didn’t glance up from her tiny teacup of beer. “Hmm?”
Cole tossed the maid a half-crown. “Chaperone us. I’m a conscienceless scoundrel. Anything could happen.”
“He’s a duke,” Diana mouthed toward her maid.
The chit made an aggravatingly sympathetic expression, then abandoned them to do as they would.
“Impressive,” Cole said. “I brought you beer because entering my tavern would ruin your reputation, but I’m starting to fear what spending an hour in this parlor is going to do to mine.”
“Mum’s the word,” she reminded him. “It’ll be like it never happened. Now, take off your clothes.”
A startled laugh burst from his throat. He held out his hands. “Give me that barrel. Two ounces of ale is clearly more than you can handle.”
“A gift’s a gift,” she said with a chiding wave of her finger. “Why are you really here?”
Because he wished there was a way.
He liked her and he wanted her to like him. She brought a fresh perspective to things he thought he knew inside and out. He desired her, and well knew she desired him right back.
Yet he didn’t know how to make it something more. Something she would agree to.
“Is it true that one out of every four women never marries?” he asked.
At this, she did glance up from her beer in surprise. “I wouldn’t cite a number if I wasn’t certain of my facts.”
“That right there,” Cole told her. “That’s why I’m here. I believe you. You got the numbers from somewhere—”
“Several somewheres,” she assured him. “I have at least a dozen journals dedicated to the composition of England’s continuously changing population, with sources clearly notated beneath every fact.”
She would, he realized. She probably had a journal dedicated to highhanded dukes who gave unsolicited advice and repeatedly stole kisses. He decided not to ask.
“Most girls collect Ackermann’s fashion plates,” he teased, using a voice as priggish as possible to indicate his deep disappointment at this flaw in her character.
“Like many women,” she countered, “I own the complete collections of both Ackermann and Costumes Parisien. Research is research.”
He blinked. “Then why are you always…”
“Outrageously frumpish?” she asked with a smirk. “How polite of you to point that out.”
“I’m helplessly attracted to the outrageously frumpish,” he reminded her. “You may recall a certain moment last night, when my fingers—”
“Misdirection,” she interrupted as her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. “My freedoms multiply exponentially when I’m all but invisible to the naked eye.”
He suspected she’d used the word naked to distract him from this line of talk, but her words had sparked a glimmer of an idea.
Obviously he could not court Diana as she currently was. The moment her double life was revealed, the scandal would ruin her as well as destroy the reputation he was trying to build in Parliament. But talking her out of conducting her covert investigations would take some time.
Superficially, on the other hand… If Diana knew half as much about fashion as she did weights and measures, she could look the part of a duchess within the space of a single afternoon.
Or a single morning. He glanced at the clock upon the mantel. Half past nine. Had he really brought ale to a young lady’s doorstep at half past nine in the morning?
“What time will Thaddeus awake?” he asked instead.
“Noon, on occasion.” She tilted her head. “Closer to one o’clock, most of the time. Why?”
He rose to his feet. “Summon your coat. We’re going shopping.”
In fact, this was the perfect time to do so. Like Thaddeus, most of the ton would be fast asleep. They could be to the linen draper and back without anyone the wiser.
All the same, he fetched the maid from the neighboring parlor. He probably wouldn’t maul Diana Middleton with kisses in the middle of a draper’s shop, but chaperonage was never a bad idea.
“Broomall’s on Bond Street,” he instructed his driver.
He could have let the ladies have the forward-facing seat while he rode backward, but since no one could see inside the coach—and they were properly chaperoned this time—sitting hip-to-hip for a short mile wasn’t bending much of a rule.
“I thought you hated shopping,” Diana said once the carriage was underway.
Cole blinked in surprise. “I do hate shopping.”
But this was different. It wasn’t for him. At least, only indirectly. The only way he could remain respectable and keep seeing Diana was to make her equally respectable. Or at least look the part. He didn’t face such an outing with dread, but rather with excitement.
How would she look, when clothed in the latest fashions? Who cared about fashion—how would she look with colorful flourishes, instead of unrelenting gray or dull fabrics that blended with the wallpaper?
Cole belatedly realized Diana must have an entire journal dedicated to the wall-coverings of the members of the ton, in order to disappear into the background everywhere she went.
“What color are the walls in the Riddings’ drawing room?” he asked.
“Blue-gray damask coupled with oak wainscoting in the primary parlor, pale green paper flocked with olive in the side parlor.” She frowned. “Are we shopping for wallpaper?”
“Never again,” he assured her as the coach drew to a stop.
The coachman swung open the door and handed the women out of the carriage.
Cole bounded out behind them.
He didn’t know much about fabrics and fripperies, but his sister was always going on about Broomall’s, so he imagined that was as good a place as any to start. Endless rows of rolled cloths filled the labyrinthine interior.
A bright-eyed attendant rushed over to greet them.
Alarmed, Cole dropped his head to Diana’s ear. “You weren’t just here dressed as a measures maid, were you?”
“No consumables in this shop,” she whispered back. “My current focus is products sold by wet or dry weight.”
They were safe. In relief, Cole handed a card to the attendant. “We’ll take anything the lady wants.”
The attendant pressed the card to his chest. “Anything the lady wants?”
“Anything at all?” Diana echoed, her eyes suspiciously merry.
“Provided it’s not grey in color or easily mistaken for wallpaper,” Cole amended hurriedly. “Anything attractive and fashionable that the lady wants. Anything attractive and fashionable even if the lady doesn’t want it. There are no limits. Just—” He waved his hands in the direction of the rows of fabric. “—perform some magic.”
The attendant nodded sagely. “All the fashionable magic that the lady wants.”
“In that case…” Diana edged next to the attendant and pointed a gloved finger toward Cole’s midsection. “Something to replace that waistcoat, don’t you think? And that jacket! Look at the curve on the cutaway hem, and the length of the sleeves. The whole ensemble seems like it came from 1812.”
“1812 was a fine year,” Cole protested. “We passed the Infant Suitors in Equity Entitled to Stock Act, celebrated the fifth anniversary of the Wicked Duke… and besides, we’re not here for me.”
“Aren’t we?” she asked, her blue eyes batting in feigned innocence. “You said ‘anything the lady wants,’ and what I want is for you to unquestionably be the finest-attired duke that London has ever seen.”
Cole shook his head. “None of your trickery, Diana. You know very well what I meant to say.”
“Irrelevant.” She patted his arm as though to console him. “As a legislator, you must know that what is said outranks what is meant. I shall fully comply with the letter of the law and spend your money exactly how I want, as requested. If you now regret this order, perhaps you will think of it the next time Parliament discusses clarification and simplification of the—”
“Yes, yes,” he assured her. “Weights and measures. Loan me your relevant journals when we return to your town house and I will read them. In the meantime, we are not leaving this shop until you have selected enough fabrics to commission a morning gown and an evening gown for every single day of the season.”
The attendant looked as though he might swoon on the spot.
“My unmemorable manner of dress is by design,” Diana reminded him. “I have more pressing concerns than being picked as a dance partner. I’m not one of those flighty chits with nothing between her ears but embroidered rosebuds and net lace.”
“The presence of lace isn’t an indisputable sign of vapidity,” he pointed out. “Pretty gowns won’t stop you from being the cleverest woman in the room.”
Vulnerability softened her face. “You think I’m the cleverest woman in the room?”
“You’re often the cleverest person in the room.” He let her see the honesty in his gaze. “If you think fashionable clothing blinds others to that truth, then ostrich feathers and seed pearls are no less as powerful a disguise as mud-brown muslin.”
Eyes narrowed in thought, Diana touched a finger to her chin as if scouring a chessboard for the best path to counter a checkmate.
“Very well,” she said as if today’s visit had been her idea. “So long as for every gown I select for myself, we also commission something new for you.”
A handful of women draped in measuring tape and armed with pins and shears materialized out of nowhere.
Cole took a step back. “Gentleman do not require all-new attire twice a day for the length of the season. Buckskins were chosen for their durability precisely because they will be reused time and again. Gossips don’t whisper if a man wears the same cravat twice in one week.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and waited.
“For the love of…” He raked a hand through his hair. “You’re just like my sister.”
Diana arched a brow. “You don’t like your sister?”
“I love my sister!” Cole snapped, only to immediately regret his outburst when the obvious implication blanketed the shop in awkward silence. He quickly changed direction, all but tripping over the words. “As many gowns as can possibly be made for the lady, and… a dozen jackets and waistcoats for me. No fu
rther discussion.”
Although this result was not the one-to-one ratio she had cheekily demanded, the smug twinkle in Diana’s eye indicated she counted herself the victor of today’s battle of wills.
Cole tended to agree.
Parliament could do much worse than have a force of nature like Diana Middleton leading its committees. Come to think of it, Diana could do much more than run circles about the House of Lords. If she put her mind to it, she could become a grand society dame on par with Lady Jersey without blinking an eye.
In fact, that was how he’d explain today’s expenditure to Thaddeus. He wanted his ward wed, did he not? Cole was facilitating the process. Not by transforming Diana into someone else, but by revealing her as the strong, capable, beautiful, indomitable woman she already was. The next time she stepped into a ballroom, no one would overlook her.
The image stole his breath away as he watched the seamstresses coo over Diana’s choices in fabric. Her apparent encyclopedic knowledge of fashion and design had them falling over each other to present the best materials and debate the latest elements à la mode in Paris.
“You will be this year’s Original,” one of the seamstresses gushed.
Diana gave a doubtful shake of her head. “I’m seven years too long on the shelf to become society’s darling, I’m afraid.”
But was she?
Cole had no doubt Diana knew as much about society and the players within it as she knew about Rumford corn gallons and the proper gauze overlay for figured muslin. Had he believed she would not be able to cope with the role of duchess? Overnight, Diana would make centuries of previous duchesses look like novices.
Felicity currently managed their homes, but of course would not be there forever. While nothing could replace his sister, Cole was certain Diana would make quick work of taking over a household. In fact, hadn’t Thaddeus said that Diana’s first act upon becoming his ward had been to reorganize his home in order to maximize efficiency?
Cole could not imagine a more Diana-ish reaction.
As for her secret life… what if it didn’t have to be secret? The Duchess of Colehaven would command more deference than the mousy under-secretary of an imaginary barrister. Perhaps they could even go on such missions together.
