Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  Four hours later, he was jostled awake. “Edward? What time is it?”

  “Half-past one.”

  The duke straightened in the leather armchair and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “In the bloody morning?”

  His brother laughed as he walked over to the trio of crystal decanters on the side table. Pouring a glass of brandy, he held the decanter out to Jared who declined. “The ball turned into a rout the moment you left Lady Persephone staring after you with tears in her eyes.”

  The duke shot to his feet. “Never say she did!”

  His brother drank deeply, sat across from his brother and sighed. “No, she probably didn’t cry over the fact that the most eligible bachelor this Season singled her out, caressed her face and left her to weep over the loss of his company.”

  Jared stalked over to the side table and poured a glass of whiskey from the middle decanter. Downing a healthy sip, he set the glass down. “I did not caress her face, I—”

  “Not the point and, by now, who would believe you?”

  Jared paced in front of the fireplace.

  “You’re making me dizzy,” his brother complained.

  Jared didn’t stop, but as he walked past his brother, he replied, “Close your eyes.”

  After a half a dozen trips, he stopped in front of his brother. “Had she been crying? Did I completely compromise her by touching the rim of her spectacles?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve done that and more down at the Crown and Thistle.”

  Edward chuckled into his glass. “And more, if what I’ve heard from the lovely fiery-haired Beatrice is true.”

  Jared’s mouth gaped open.

  “Did you think word wouldn’t travel back to the estate with Mrs. O’Toole, our cook, after she’d purchased the day’s supplies?”

  “I knew she preferred fresh-picked herbs from the garden by the summer kitchen, but—”

  “Give it up, Brother,” Edward advised. “You’re a babe-in-arms where women of society are concerned—both servant and lady.”

  Jared’s hands fisted at his sides. The need to let loose some of the tension and frustration building inside of him these last months was growing stronger every day. How in the blazes would he be able to keep a lid on his temper? How did one go about in society if one was angry all the time?

  The hand on his shoulder jerked the duke back from his morose thoughts. “I said I’d help you,” Edward told him. “I’ll not go back on my word.”

  Jared nodded and Edward walked over to the side table, picked up Jared’s unfinished whiskey and handed it to him. “Drink up, we have much to discuss.”

  Jared downed it in one swallow, set his glass on the desktop and sank into one of the armchairs next to the fireplace. “I’m not all that coherent after ten o’clock at night.”

  Edward grinned at him. “I know. You’ll get used to it, Brother. A duke must make weekly appearances at various entertainments about town if society is to believe him to be the pillar of said society and not up to anything untoward, nefarious, or illegal.”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate your assistance, but I’m bloody well exhausted and have no idea what I’m about…if tonight is any indication.”

  Edward studied his brother over a second glass of brandy. “Do you have appointments scheduled for the morning?”

  Jared sighed. “From ten o’clock until noon.”

  “I’ll meet you back here at half past twelve and will have Mrs. O’Toole prepare a cold luncheon for you—a full breakfast for me.”

  Jared rose and held out his hand. “My thanks, Edward. I doubt I’ll be able to fill Father’s shoes without your help.”

  Their gazes met and held. Were Edward’s thoughts similar to his own? Did the youngest brother wonder, as did he, if living up to the stellar reputation of the Fourth Duke of Wyndmere had pushed their older brother to the brink and down a path of self-destruction?

  Before he could voice his thoughts, Edward motioned for him to leave. “Best get your rest now. By the time we meet tomorrow afternoon, you will no doubt be driven to distraction, ready and willing to accompany me to Gentleman Jackson’s establishment.”

  Jared paused in the doorway. “Never been there.”

  His brother got up to refill his brandy glass. “First time’s the hardest,” his brother told him. “You’ve got good form. You shouldn’t end up with a black eye or broken nose your first time out.”

  Jared’s laughter lightened his heart and carried him up the stairs. Truth be told, he’d much rather have slept in the armchair. But his brother no doubt planned to spend the few hours before dawn emptying the half-full decanter of brandy. The worry he was too late to keep Edward from following in Oliver’s footsteps haunted his thoughts. Then there was the worry he would not be able to repair the damage to their family name. Would he be able to right this most recent wrong with his younger brother’s assistance?

  He slowly walked toward the bedchamber the last three dukes had occupied, his worries weighing him down.

  Sleep would not be possible.

  *

  Persephone dreaded facing her mother in the morning. Like her father, she needed to have matters settled in order to sleep at night. Her mother’s grim pronouncement at the ball lingered in the back of her mind. Would her mother truly go through with her declaration to marry Persephone to the highest bidder?

  Tossing the coverlet aside, she got out of bed, poured tepid water from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl and splashed her face, cooling it. The soft lavender-scented linen towel soothed the rest of the worry away. “Mother is not without reason.”

  Gathering her courage, she slipped from her room and moved down the hall to her mother’s. Light flickered beneath the closed door. Good, Mother was awake. She knocked and her mother bade her enter.

  “Can’t sleep either?” her mother asked.

  Persephone walked toward her mother, hands outstretched. “I really am sorry, Mother.”

  Her mother raised one eyebrow as if in question. “Ah, so it’s only Mamma when you’re confident or you’re planning to manipulate me.”

  Persephone had no idea how to respond. Her mother had been in an odd and difficult mood since the ball. Despite her words, her mother grasped her daughter’s hands and squeezed them once before letting go to walk back to the window and stare out into the darkness of pre-dawn.

  “Mother, I—”

  “Persephone, dear. You know that I love you.”

  She sighed. Whenever her mother used that phrase, whatever followed was never what she wanted to hear. Drawing in a deep breath, she let it go and inclined her head. “Yes, Mamma.”

  Her mother’s lips lifted slowly into a soft smile, signaling the end of her anger. “Child, I know—”

  Persephone’s back straightened. “I’m hardly a child.”

  Lady Farnsworth spun around, her back to the window. “Aren’t you? Didn’t you act as one, scheming to coerce me into agreement so you could wear that horrid gown to my good friend Lady Hollister’s ball? Embarrassing me—and yourself—with your conduct unbecoming a lady of good breeding and consequence.”

  Digging deep, Persephone attempted to lighten her mother’s mood and deflect her anger. “The color may have been a bit off-putting, but it was the latest style and a confection worthy of Madame Beaudoine’s reputation.”

  Her mother sighed and walked over to where Persephone stood in the middle of the room. “You drive me to drink, Daughter.”

  When her mother reached for her hand, Persephone grabbed hold of it. “I could heat the tea kettle and make a delightfully weak cup of tea for you.”

  Her mother smiled and pulled Persephone into her arms. “You do try my patience, dearest.”

  “I do not plan it, Mamma.”

  “I know. Oft times it simply happens.”

  When her mother sighed and let go, Persephone felt the chill. She wished there was something she could do or say to repair the breach and convince her mother she hadn’t intend
ed to embarrass her. Lady Hollister had been a true friend and staunch supporter when Persephone’s father took ill and lingered.

  When he died, she and her mother clung to one another, retreating to their country home, receiving no one save Lady Hollister.

  “Mamma…I didn’t know Phyllida would become vexed with me when I didn’t agree with her opinion of the Duke of Wyndmere.”

  “Ahhh,” her mother said, “the helpful peer of the realm.”

  Persephone detected the odd note in her mother’s voice again and wondered if it was a result of the embarrassment, or something deeper. “I didn’t know he was standing behind me.”

  “How could you?” her mother agreed. “You and Phyllida were making absolute cakes of yourselves.”

  Persephone put a hand to her mouth to cover the giggles erupting inside of her at her mother’s expression. She cleared her throat. “Sorry…couldn’t help it.”

  Her mother’s smile reached her eyes this time. The only feature she’d inherited from her dear mother…her warm brown eyes. The rest was all from her father, her hair color, her height, and her personality—heaven help her.

  Sighing, Lady Farnsworth walked to the fainting couch and donned the wrap she’d left there. “Let’s go have that tea. We may as well discuss your future since neither one of us is tired enough to seek our beds.”

  Persephone let herself be led down the servants’ staircase. When they passed by their cook’s room, her mother raised a hand to her lips. Persephone nodded.

  In the vast kitchen her mother reminded her, “Mrs. Hughes and her staff will be getting up shortly. Let them sleep.”

  “You’re not like anyone else either, Mamma,” Persephone said, while she checked the banked embers in their new cookstove. Striking the flint, she was able to light a spark to coax the embers back to life.

  “Mayhap I should insist you spend more time in London, Daughter.”

  Their gazes met and held. “Why?”

  “The fact that you know how to light our new cookstove being one of the reasons. No lady should have to depend on such knowledge.”

  While they waited for the stove to heat, Persephone continued, “As I was saying, Phyllida’s mother wouldn’t step foot in the kitchens—or the servants’ stairway for that matter.”

  “And you know this as fact because?” her mother prompted.

  “Phyllida and I have spent some time belowstairs whenever their cook is preparing Phyllida’s favorite sweets: berry tarts and cream scones with brambleberry jam.”

  Before her mother could lift the tea kettle, Persephone was by her side. “Let me.”

  With a nod, her mother walked over to large kitchen table and sat down. “I must be getting older,” she confessed, “I never used to be so tired after a ball.”

  Persephone got down two cups and saucers—the serviceable ones used in the kitchens—and a pair of teaspoons. “Mamma, can you credit the number of late arrivals coming in droves after the duke bade our host and hostess goodnight? The Hollisters’ ball will be touted as a rout before dawn.”

  When the water was heated, she looked at her mother and asked, “Did you happen to bring the key to the tea chest with you?”

  Mother and daughter were laughing when their cook bustled into the room. “’Ere now, yer ladyship. I’ve got the key.”

  “Mrs. Hughes, we didn’t want to wake you,” her mother said.

  Their cook waved the comment aside. “I ’eard two large mice on the stairs…woke up and says to meself, ’er ladyship and Miss Persephone be wantin’ a cuppa tea’s wot.”

  Persephone watched the ever-efficient Mrs. Hughes measure out the proper amount of tea and relock the tea chest. Faster than either Lady Farnsworth or her daughter could have prepared the tea, they were settled at the table while Mrs. Hughes bustled about putting together a light repast for them.

  “Is it somethin’ sweet ye fancy, or a bit of kippers and eggs?”

  Persephone made a face and Mrs. Hughes laughed.

  “You’re the heartbeat of our kitchens, Mrs. Hughes.”

  Persephone silently agreed with her mother. Their cook’s smile did, indeed, light the room.

  “’Ere now, someone’s got to take care of yer ladyship and ye, Miss Persephone.”

  “You do it well, Mrs. Hughes,” Lady Farnsworth told her.

  Their cook tilted her head to one side and asked, “May I speak plain?”

  Lady Farnsworth nodded. “Of course, it’s just us.”

  “Never worked in an ’ouse like this ’afore. Treatin’ us plain servantfolk like we’s somebody.”

  Persephone got up and walked over to reach down a third cup. When she filled it with tea, she set it at the table and gestured for Mrs. Hughes to join them. “You are somebody and we appreciate the extra care you always give us.”

  Her mother echoed her words, urging their stout cook to take tea with them, but she just smiled and shook her head. “Not proper. Can’t ’ave that kind of talk. Sure as the sun will rise, there’d be talk, ’specially if I didn’t get meself out of bed and come see wot’s wot out ’ere.”

  Mrs. Hughes thanked them for the tea and placed it on the sideboard well within reach while she prepared a tray of tea cakes and scones, jam, and butter. “’Ave a bite and be on yer way to bed. After all the excitement at the ball, ye need yer rest.”

  Persephone’s eyes shifted from Mrs. Hughes to her mother and back. “I suppose you’ve heard about the Hollisters’ ball.”

  She nodded and continued to move about the kitchen preparing for the day. Setting out pots, pans, and skillets. “Quite a commotion as I ’eard it from the downstairs maid when she come in from ’er night off, visiting with ’er mum. None of me business, mind, but there’s more than a bit of talk. Not all of it kind.”

  Lady Farnsworth sipped her tea and spread butter and jam on another scone. “These scones are delicious. What is your secret?”

  Mrs. Hughes acknowledged the change in subject and smiled. “Well now, me mum showed me the way to add in the butter—bit by bit…and fresh cream.”

  “Cream?”

  “Aye, the thicker the better.”

  “You are a treasure, Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Thank ye, yer ladyship. Ye two best be off to bed now. I’ll send me Bessie with yer breakfast trays after eleven o’clock.”

  “Best make it ten, if you please,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “Persephone and I are going to have a busy day going over the numerous offers for her hand.”

  Mrs. Hughes’ eyes widened but, wisely, she held her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself, saying instead, “As ye wish, yer ladyship. Do ye need a ’ot water bottle to take the chill off yer linens?”

  “No but thank you for thinking of it. I know how busy you’ll be preparing the kitchens for the day. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

  “Night.”

  Mother and daughter bid their cook goodnight and walked through to the main part of the house, leaving Mrs. Hughes fully in charge of her domain.

  “We’re lucky to have her, aren’t we, Mamma?”

  “Indeed, we are. She’s been with us since you were small. I don’t remember my own family’s home running as smoothly as ours has under her watchful eye in the kitchens and Mrs. Peele’s in the rest of the house.”

  “Is there anything I can do to amend this abominable situation I’ve caused?”

  Her mother slipped her arm around Persephone and steered her daughter toward the staircase. “Sleep for one. We’ll discuss the ball in the morning.”

  “I truly am sorry,” Persephone said, guilt lancing through her.

  “Not all of the fault lies at your door, my dear. The duke will have to be held accountable for his questionable actions in regard to you as well. I intend to send word around to him in the morning.”

  With that unwelcome thought, Persephone bid her mother goodnight and closed her door. “Bumblebroth…a complete and utter bumblebroth!”

  Removing her wrap and slipping into bed, she
wished she’d thought before speaking, but it wasn’t habit with her. The memory of the duke’s piercing blue eyes filled her mind. She had never met anyone like him before. He had not acted like his brother—the previous duke. Mother had watched over her like a hawk whenever the Fifth Duke of Wyndmere was in attendance at any of the functions they were invited to—keeping Persephone at a safe distance from his roving eyes.

  “He was arrogant,” she murmured as her thoughts stopped whirling and she closed her eyes. Kind, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  When she dreamed, she dreamed of the handsome duke—and in her dreams, he smiled at her.

  Chapter Four

  Jared wondered what the devil his brother had said to Lord Hollister last evening. The longer he thought about it, the more frustrated he became as the feeling his brother didn’t reveal all nagged at his conscience.

  “Dashed inconvenient,” he mumbled, “mayhap I should rouse him.”

  Their butler had been quite busy in the last hour answering the door, although had yet to interrupt him. He’d risen from behind his desk each time he heard the echo of the knocker on the grand door to their town house, remembering at the last moment he was not in the country and at liberty to answer his own blasted door.

  Curiosity filled him, but he remained in his study, knowing it was expected of him. “If Father were still alive, I would have been able to shadow Jenkins to see who it was on my way out to the stables.”

  But his father was not alive, neither was his older brother. Jared was the Duke of Wyndmere, a fact he abhorred, but would honor until he drew his last breath. Honor was all. He intended to see it restored to their name.

  When the discrete knock on his study door sounded, he bid Jenkins enter. The faithful retainer entered but stood at attention just inside the open door.

  Why hadn’t the man moved? Jared closed his eyes, remembering the number of times he’d watched his father with little interest as he’d motioned to their butler to approach wherever the duke had been seated.