Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  A little while later, Persephone was being coddled. Wrapped in the softest wool the color of fresh cream, she sipped a bracing cup of tea wondering if she’d be able to forget the dream or the duke.

  Her tea finished, her dress ready to don, she had no choice but to let Martha help her dress and fashion a soft coil on the top of her head. Her hair was long, and the only way to keep it reasonably confined was to coil it before fashioning it into a bun.

  At last, she was pronounced ready. “You look lovely, your ladyship.”

  “Do you think so?” Persephone peered at her reflection in the looking glass.

  “I do. Your hair is so black, it shines blue in the light. I’ve never seen hair your color before.”

  Persephone smiled. “My father always told me I’d inherited his dark hair and height but, fortunately for me, my mother’s smallish nose and brown eyes.”

  Martha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.

  “It’s quite all right to have a normal conversation, you know,” Persephone told her.

  “If you wish,” Martha said.

  “I do. Now, have you heard anything about this Lord So-and-so who is coming for tea shortly?”

  Martha’s eyes twinkled. “I did hear Mrs. Hughes mention the man was a reformed…er…rake.”

  As quickly as Martha had begun, she fell silent. Leaving Persephone with the impression Mrs. Hughes had been her normal self…outspoken. “I take it Mrs. Hughes knew of the gentleman’s reputation before he married.”

  “Yes. That’s it exactly.”

  She smiled. “Did our cook have anything else to add?”

  Martha nodded. “Apparently Lord Yarmouth is rather tall, with a hawkish nose, but pleasant enough.”

  Persephone felt far better, equipped with some bit of knowledge of the gentleman her mother had invited to tea. “Thank you, Martha. You have no idea how relieved I am to have even these small details before meeting Lord…what is his name again?”

  “Yarmouth.”

  “Yes, Lord Yarmouth. Well,” she said with one last glance at her reflection, “I’d best be joining my mother in the salon. Wouldn’t do to arrive after his lordship.”

  Head high, knowing she looked her best, she could not help but wish she’d been wearing one of her bilious-colored gowns. The hideous color had been her armor these last years. Persephone let her mind drift back to those lovely moments when she had been swept into the duke’s arms, held close to his pounding heart as they whirled around a moonlit terrace in three-quarter time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Viscount Hollingford had the odd feeling he was being followed, but every time he looked over his shoulder, no one had been there.

  “Must have been the excess of the energy I expended satisfying my greedy partner,” he mused aloud.

  Thoughts of the lady’s flawless and smooth white skin—from her nose to her toes, gave him pause. But he would not let himself be distracted. He had revenge to exact. He would not succumb to the woman’s wiles or talent pleasuring him with her clever mouth.

  Adept at controlling his desire, he’d mapped out his every move in his head and began to follow it. The tips of his fingers traced a trail from the hollow at the base of her throat to her belly, all the while savoring the feel of her satin-smooth skin. Would he miss the feel and flavor of her skin?

  The delights he’d discovered, and cries of ecstasy he’d wrung from her, had held him in thrall for a moment before he regained control.

  Thinking of Lady Hampton as yet another conquest had been diverting at the beginning of their liaison. But he didn’t plan to spend more time with the lady than it took to exact revenge on the duke, his family, and his rumored lover.

  The viscount’s string of lovers had left him searching for more…something elusive, he could not quite name. The viscount suffered from ennui. Bored, wealthy, and titled, with one small tick in the wrong column…his wife had taken her life rather than live without her lover…the Fifth Duke of Wyndmere. He never thought to accept even a particle of the blame in his wife’s death. Never admitting that had he been more attentive, not been spending his evenings with one lover after another, she might have been more content. She might have come to love him.

  Love was for fools.

  “Damn his eyes!” Hollingford ground out, brushing aside his butler’s offer to dispense with the viscount’s hat, gloves, and walking stick.

  But he and the deceased duke had something in common—they’d both been on the receiving end of Lady Hampton’s…or Lady H. as she preferred to be called as of late…charms. For the moment, he was content to let her think she had him enthralled, when quite the opposite was true. He was, and intended to continue, using the lady until he’d achieved his goal—revenge.

  Satisfied enough to continue with the charade where the lady’s appetites and his own would lead…invariably with her skirts above her waist…he tossed his gloves, top hat and walking stick onto one of the side chairs in front of the fireplace. His hat promptly bounced off the seat and landed brim up on the pale blue and white carpet.

  The servants can see to it later, he thought. Lifting the cut crystal stopper, he poured a healthy dose of brandy and downed half of it before settling in the chair across from the one holding his gloves and walking stick.

  He ruminated about the plans for revenge he and Lady Hampton had discussed. Wyndmere and his brother must be made to pay. Preferably, the duke first. The earl, second.

  The lady had been squeamish about the use of violence but, in the end, agreed. It was his choice how to exact revenge upon the house of Wyndmere. She wanted revenge, too, but cared not how it was achieved. Lady H. simply wanted it done as soon as possible.

  His heart picked up the beat as he thought of the duke lying bruised and battered, at death’s door. He imagined it was himself, not Quincy, who’d done the damage to the peer. But, would revenge be served if the damage was inflicted by the thug he’d hired?

  Shouldn’t the viscount be the one delivering the beating?

  He did not care for the sight of blood and gore. Would a pistol ball be more efficient?

  Mayhap an accident; a carriage wheel loosened on the ducal carriage?

  While the images circled in his head, one thought remained clear. “Our plan must work. Honor demands it.”

  Draining the rest of the glass, he hurled it at the fireplace. Shards of glass hung suspended in the air for a heartbeat before falling to the hearth. “I will not rest until vengeance has been attained.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Persephone.” Lady Farnsworth smiled at the tall lord.

  Lord Yarmouth did, indeed, have a hawkish nose. She’d have to remember to tell Martha her description had been spot on when she had to dress for her outing in the park later.

  “Lady Persephone,” he replied as he bowed over her hand, holding on to it a bit longer than was polite.

  If her mother noticed, Persephone was left to wonder as her mother did not give any indication she had.

  “A pleasure, Lord Yarmouth,” Persephone responded, not sure if it would be or not, but dash it all, she had to remember to be circumspect in all she said and did for the next sennight. Else her mother would no doubt accept some faceless lord’s offer of marriage to be well rid her.

  “While we wait for our tea, Persephone would love to play the pianoforte for you.”

  The bottom nearly fell out of her stomach, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from refusing.

  “That would be most enjoyable.”

  He was a bit too agreeable. She almost wished she could play badly, however, her father’s memory would not let her. He’d been so proud of her talent.

  She rose and slowly walked to the instrument, wondering if her mother would next tell the lord she could sing, too. “Botheration,” she murmured.

  “Is that the name of the tune you intend to play?” Lord Yarmouth’s eyes twinkled a bright green that had her smiling in
return.

  “Yes, actually. It’s a piece one must labor over in order to perfect the timing. Quite a difficult piece.”

  “Never heard of it, however, I’d be delighted to hear you play Botheration.”

  Persephone’s face flamed, and a quick glance out of the corners of her eyes confirmed her mother had, indeed, raised her gaze to the ceiling and was no doubt counting. Her embarrassment, and her mother’s, were soon forgotten as she lost herself in the music. It was indeed a difficult piece, the reason she enjoyed it so.

  As the last notes drifted off, she rose and would have walked back to her seat by her mother, but Lord Yarmouth had risen and extended his hand to her. “Allow me to show you to your seat.”

  She could not very well refuse the courtly manner, however much it she would have liked to. He’d been most agreeable and not shocked when he’d overheard her slip of the tongue. Her mother, however, had been mortified and would no doubt remind her after the gentleman left.

  Instead of releasing her hand when they’d reached the cream and green striped settee where she had been sitting, he continued to the curved back settee and bowed over her hand. What could she do but sit? When she did, he did as well…a bit too close for comfort as his knee practically touched the edge of her gown.

  A pointed look in her mother’s direction did not endear her mother to her at all…the woman looked like a cat who had just lapped up a dish of cream. Obviously, her mother was planning the wedding.

  Not if Persephone had anything to say about the matter. “I do believe mother mentioned you have three children. Boys or girls, or both?”

  Instead of taking offense, as she had hoped, at the too personal question when they’d only just met, he smiled. “Three sons, scamps the lot of them.”

  Now that comment interested her. “How old are they?”

  Completely at ease now, Lord Yarmouth replied, “Thirteen, eleven and nine.”

  Persephone was drawn in by the soft smile on his face. “Are they truly a bit on the gregarious side?”

  He laughed. “Rapscallions one and all. Especially the youngest, he takes after his mother, you know.”

  “Mother says I take after my father.”

  His green eyes showed a depth of emotion, running the gamut from proud, to wistful and, right now, sad. “Indeed. Lord Allwood spoke highly of your father. I had not the pleasure of meeting him before I married. Spent the last fifteen years in the country.”

  “Have you?” she asked. “I love spending time at our family’s home in Sussex.”

  “Lovely place. My home is in the Lake District, quite the opposite end of England from Sussex.”

  “Ah,” Lady Farnsworth said, rising at the knock on the salon door. “That will be our tea.”

  While her mother served, Persephone thought about the reformed rake taking tea in their salon while regaling her and her mother with tales of his sons’ derring-do. He was quite proud of them. But he obviously missed his wife. He must have loved her quite desperately.

  Would the man she married miss her, or dance a jig around her coffin, should she die unexpectedly? She shivered at that last macabre thought.

  “Do you have a wrap with you?” Lord Yarmouth asked, his concern evident.

  “No, but I’m all right, thank you for your concern. Just a bit of an odd thought.”

  They spent another half an hour chatting about a number of topics, all of them dubbed proper by her mother, if the way she continued to smile at Persephone was any indication.

  At last, he rose and took his leave. “Delightful to have made your acquaintance, Lady Persephone.” He bowed over her hand, again, holding it a bit too long for propriety’s sake. Turning, he bowed over her mother’s hand and held her mother’s just a bit too long, if the soft blush gracing her mother’s cheeks was any indication.

  Interestingly, she noted Lord Yarmouth’s gaze skimming the curve of her mother’s face and the high color on her cheeks. “And to have made your acquaintance as well, Lady Farnsworth.”

  “We enjoyed your visit immensely,” Persephone added, when her mother seemed quite incapable of speaking.

  “Er…yes, Lord Yarmouth, thank you for calling.”

  Persephone’s eyes darted from her mother to Lord Yarmouth, who had yet to release her mother’s hand. An uneasy feeling swept up from her toes. It was a combination of happiness that her mother had been on the receiving end of copious compliments by a handsome and eligible gentleman…and irritation for that very same reason. After all he was younger than her mother.

  Life could be quite complicated at times.

  Lady Farnsworth collected her wits about her and graciously bid their caller goodbye. All smiles and felicitations—until she heard the front door close behind him.

  “I will not be accompanying you on your drive through the park this afternoon. Rest assured, Martha will accompany you and will report back to me any inappropriate topics of conversation or gauche remarks from your quarter.”

  “It sounds as if you expect me to drive my next prospective husband away.” Which had been her intention with Lord Yarmouth, but then he’d mentioned living in the country, something she loved above all things. Before she realized what had happened, she’d been caught up in their conversation.

  “You had two very near faux paus, Daughter, first with the title of the piece you chose to play.”

  Persephone swallowed the laughter inside her. “Sorry, Mamma.”

  “Then you asked, simply asked, about his children. One simply does not open a conversation with such a personal topic,” her mother reminded her, “ever.”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “See to it you do nothing to embarrass your father’s good name.”

  Had her mother chosen any other reason, she might have gone on her merry way, dropping hints of rebellious behavior. But Father’s good name meant all to her…and to her mother. “I promise.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows winged upward but, for once, her mother held her tongue.

  Mrs. Peele swept into the salon, followed by one of the serving maids who cleared the remnants of their tea. “Hardly a crumb left behind,” she said with a small smile. “Mrs. Hughes should delight in that.”

  “Please tell her his lordship sends his compliments.”

  Mrs. Peele agreed.

  “Now then, Persephone,” her mother paused to glance at the tiny timepiece pinned to the bodice of her dark blue gown. “You’ve enough time to rest before your escort arrives.”

  Persephone had no intention of resting.

  “Mrs. Peele will ensure you have everything you need.”

  “But I—”

  “Do not forget your promise, Daughter.”

  Persephone’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “No, of course not.” She followed their housekeeper to her bedchamber, wishing she could go out riding alone in the park—simply not done. Besides, no one was ever truly alone in London—so many people all in one place!

  As if Mrs. Peele suspected Persephone would not rest, she closed the drapes, blocking out the late afternoon sunlight.

  With the closing of the door, Persephone walked over to the window facing the street and drew back the drapes—just enough to let in a bit of the sun in her room. Not enough to note from the street…she wouldn’t put it past her mother to have someone spying on her from down below.

  She hated being closed in, having grown up running across the meadows and down the lane into the wooded park surrounding their home.

  “Too many streetlights,” she murmured as she counted them to pass the time, all the while watching people riding in carriages—open and closed—drawn by four horses and two…and those who chose to walk.

  With a heavy sigh, she turned away from the bustling scene below her window. Was this what her life would become once her mother selected a husband for her? Days filled with tedium…an utter sameness that would drive her to the very brink of despair should she be forced to live in the city she detested?

  “Is
there no one who would offer marriage with more thought than increasing their coffers and adding to their nursery?”

  She liked children, quite a lot. When she was in the country accompanying her mother on her rounds to meet with their tenants, she’d often play with the little ones while her mother dropped off necessities and niceties…an extra bolt of cloth for household linens, the dried lavender sachets she helped to stuff and sew, and her mother’s prized cure-all…calves’ foot jelly.

  The smell of it cooking in their kitchens nauseated her, but every single tenant farmer’s wife exclaimed it was just what she needed and so very thankful for her mother’s thoughtfulness.

  “I feel useful in the country,” she whispered. “Useless here.”

  The jarring thought that she had a specific use—at the moment, attracting a titled gentleman with deep pockets—did nothing to cheer her.

  The knock at her door and cheerful voice of her lady’s maid broke through her morose thoughts as she bade her enter.

  “Mrs. Peele said Lord Yarmouth appeared every inch a gentleman. But she said once a rake…always a rake.”

  Persephone laughed. “He has a certain engaging air about him,” she admitted. “But was the perfect gentleman…except for when he wasn’t.”

  Martha’s mouth hung open for a moment until she recovered enough to ask, “I know it’s not my place to ask, but when wasn’t he?”

  Persephone sighed. “When it is just the two of us, I would have you speak freely.”

  Martha smiled. “Thank you, Lady Persephone.” She waited a beat and asked, “Well?”

  Persephone smiled. “His lordship held my hand a bit longer than was proper when greeting me and when taking his leave.”

  Her maid sighed.

  “And I noticed he did the same when he was saying goodbye to my mother. Only he held her hand twice as long as he held mine.”

  Her maid’s eyes rounded. “Truly?”

  Persephone nodded. “Quite distracting. Although I’d like nothing better than to regale you with tales of Lord Yarmouth, mother would be quite vexed with me if I am not ready to go for my drive in the park with Lord Harkwell at the appointed time.”