The Duke Who Loved Me

by Jane Ashford

  “The ‘excessive’ attention has been stirred up by the…interest shown by Prince Karl von Osterberg, who is visiting London. And by James. Tereford.” Cecelia felt a degree of awkwardness. She and her aunt never discussed such things.

  “Tereford. Ha. I often wondered if you and he would make a match.”

  “Us?” replied Cecelia inelegantly. Had her aunt guessed at the feelings she’d thought so thoroughly hidden?

  Aunt Valeria nodded. “You are better acquainted than many young people ever get the chance to become and have been through much together.”

  “Much disagreement and contention,” said Cecelia.

  “Disputes are a sign of emotion, are they not? They do not occur where there is no…” She gestured as if searching for a phrase. “Buzzing,” she finished.

  “We are not bees, Aunt.” Yet Cecelia was struck by her aunt’s suggestion. Was there emotion behind James’s prickly manner? What sort precisely? What if he loved her as she did him? No, that was impossible.

  “If only you were,” replied the older woman. “We would have none of this fussing. You would take flight, and the drones—in this case a prince and duke, ha!—would race after you, vying for the right to be your mate. The queen flies as high and far as she can to test her suitors, you know. Only the strongest can be allowed to catch her.”

  “Human females don’t have that power,” said Cecelia. “They must sit and wait to be asked.”

  “That is the convention,” said Aunt Valeria. “But not how it works oftentimes. Look at your mother.”

  “My… What do you mean?”

  “She decided she wanted Nigel. Lord knows why, but she liked him. Loved him, I suppose. Hard to imagine, but there it is.”

  Cecelia pressed her lips together to keep from speaking. It was exceedingly difficult to stay silent. But she didn’t want to interrupt, and perhaps cut off, this unprecedented flow of information. She’d never heard even this much about her family before.

  “Of course Nigel has always been the most indolent creature on earth. Getting him ‘up to scratch’ as they say was not likely. So Eloisa took matters into her own hands.”

  “Do you mean that Mama proposed to Papa?” Cecelia couldn’t stop the question from popping out.

  Her aunt waved a hand. “I was not privy to the details. I didn’t know Eloisa at the time. And I never pay attention to such stuff. But from remarks that Nigel has let drop, it seems that she presented a list of the advantages of marriage, and he conceded.”

  “Conceded,” said Cecelia. It didn’t sound tender or passionate.

  Her aunt, unusually, seemed to notice her concern. “It is rather a significant thing, for Nigel to concede.”

  Cecelia considered. It was true, in the world of ideas her father was a different creature—tenacious, immovable. If he’d agreed with her mother, he must have wanted her as well.

  Aunt Valeria stood. “This is all very tiring. I must get to bed. You will take care with your flying, Cecelia, and not go too high?”

  Though not certain what that might mean, she agreed. They walked upstairs together, Cecelia’s mind full of new thoughts and wild speculations.

  Seven

  This was not a duel, James told himself as he made ready for the public fencing bout. Much as he resented his opponent and wished to teach him a lesson, duels were private matters. Secret even. This was more like…a boxing match. He’d attended many mills in fields or country barns with crowds of observers. But those were not fought by gentlemen or observed by ladies. No, this…performance that Prince Karl had engineered had no precedent.

  James knew he’d been goaded into the match. The prince had chosen words that would enflame him—or any man, he judged. James didn’t care. It might be a vulgar display, but he looked forward to trouncing the German blusterer in front of Cecelia. He enjoyed picturing the admiration that would show in her eyes, her disdain for the loser. She would see who was the better of them. Perhaps he would even go down on one knee and offer for her at that moment. It would be a dramatic finish to this battle. All of society would see him claim his prize.

  The betting books in the clubs were running about even. James was known to be a skilled fencer. Prince Karl had boasted of his prowess, and Germans had a reputation with blades. Some of them saw dueling scars as a badge of honor. James looked forward to administering a sharp setdown to this one.

  He hadn’t expected the event to become quite such a sensation in polite society, though upon consideration he could see why. Novelty always attracted. People were vying for invitations with fierce intensity, guaranteeing that there would be a crowd on hand to see them fight. Prince Karl had persuaded an acquaintance to lend his extensive back garden for the occasion, and James had heard that the man’s wife was in transports of delight. Her invitations to all the leading lights of society would at last be accepted. James wondered what she would have done if the weather had turned rainy? Set up a marquee for this raree-show? Fortunately the day was fine.

  James’s valet ushered in Henry Deeping, who said, “Why do I feel like a second in an affair of honor?”

  “Perhaps you are.”

  “I was joking, James.”

  “I am not.”

  “You don’t think you’re taking this too seriously?”

  James simply shook his head.

  The place was not far away. They chose to walk. James’s valet followed with the case containing his fencing gear.

  They found the garden crammed with gossiping spectators—some seated but most standing—surrounding a square marked out with chalk on the lawn. James looked for Cecelia and found her with her friends on the far side. She met his gaze. He could read nothing in her expression. She might have offered an encouraging smile.

  “You have come,” said the prince from behind him.

  He made it sound as if there had been some doubt, but James refused to react. How often had Angelo the fencing master pointed out that anger did not win matches? In fact, it often lost them.

  James removed his coat and tied on a wire mask often used in bouts at Angelo’s school.

  “Ah, you wish to protect your face,” said Prince Karl. “I am not accustomed to that.” He made it sound like a form of cowardice.

  With a heroic effort, James kept his temper in check. They drew their swords and squared up for the salute.

  Prince Karl was a hair taller, James realized, and he had a slightly longer reach. His arrogant confidence might be partly feigned, but it was convincing.

  And unfortunately, it turned out to be justified. Three minutes into the bout, James knew that he was outmatched. Prince Karl was a superb fencer, and obviously trained by a master. He was faster than James and had a wider repertoire of moves. James might be one of the best at Angelo’s school. Prince Karl was better.

  The points on their weapons were blunted. No one would die here today. But James realized that his winning reputation was in serious danger.

  He fought grimly on, barely evading hit after hit. He grew winded while his opponent showed no signs of flagging. James tried a desperate flurry of strokes. All were parried without visible effort. His lesser ability must be visible to all by this time.

  James waded in again. Prince Karl beat him off and then made a clever twisting motion with his weapon. The flat of it slapped against James’s wrist so hard that the arm went numb for a moment, and he dropped his blade. The prince kicked it away, gave James an odiously triumphant smile that seemed to last for an eternity, and then bowed to the audience, receiving their applause with smug enjoyment.

  James shook his arm to restore feeling.

  “Hurts, does it?” asked Prince Karl, smirking as he straightened.

  The stares of the crowd felt like lashes. His opponent’s smile was insupportable. Cecelia was right there, witness to his humiliation. Shame and fury filled James’s b
rain, sweeping away every other consideration. He stepped forward, swung, and landed a crushing left to the prince’s midsection.

  Prince Karl dropped his sword and folded over, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath.

  There was a blank silence. The cream of society gasped, gaped, began to murmur, and then to chatter. The sound rose to a din that filled the garden.

  James stood frozen. This was not done. The prince had not been ready for a blow. James had flouted the rules of sport. He’d been a poor loser, dishonored himself before everyone. His eyes found Cecelia. She looked shocked.

  Abandoning his sword, James pushed his way through the thinnest part of the crowd. He ignored the stares—avid, gratified, sympathetic. Some people even looked frightened, as if he was going to start raining blows on bystanders as well. Did he seem berserk? Ought he to say something?

  But he could not. Even now, the thought of an apology choked him. He fled. He didn’t even remember to remove his fencing mask until he reached his rooms, explaining the puzzled looks that followed him down the street.

  Once home he threw it aside, shut himself in his bedchamber, and contemplated disaster. He’d lost the fight. Decidedly, definitively. The least knowledgeable observer could have seen that. Prince Karl von Osterberg had shown the polite world not only that he was a better fencer, but also that he was more sporting. Why had he hit the fellow? He might have bowed to a superior athlete, graciously admired his prowess. He was capable of magnanimity.

  Only in victory, a sly inner voice murmured. But it wasn’t true. He had conceded others’ skills. Hadn’t he? He tried to remember an occasion, and could not. Had his hatred of losing driven him mad, James wondered. He’d behaved disgracefully. In the very arena that he had always claimed as his own.

  James put his head in his hands. He didn’t do things he was no good at, he realized. He was wholly unaccustomed to losing. Still less to making a fool of himself before the ton. Worse than a fool. What was he to do now?

  There was a knock on the door. “James?” called Henry Deeping’s voice.

  “Go away!” replied James.

  A brief silence followed.

  “Wouldn’t you like to talk?” Henry asked.

  “No!”

  “I really think…”

  “No!” James repeated, shouting this time.

  “I’ll come back later,” said Henry.

  Listening to his friend’s retreating footsteps, James decided to run.

  ***

  Cecelia watched James stride away from the fencing debacle. He was moving fast; clearly, to her eyes, running away. He disappeared into the house at the front of the garden and was gone.

  The crowd erupted like one of her aunt’s beehives overturned. Exclamations flew back and forth. Eyes gleamed with scandalized delight at this unprecedented happening. Prince Karl stood at the center of a commiserating group, taking full advantage of their sympathy and outrage. He’d recovered from James’s blow quite quickly, but he preened under the attention. A man brought his coat and helped him into it as if it was a privilege.

  Cecelia knew that society was plagued by boredom. The progression of the season tended to be the same, year after year. Any unusual occurrence was avidly welcomed and talked over until every ounce of novelty had been extracted. This public contest had provided such an outlet, and now the outcome was even more thrilling. People would be chattering for weeks. Those who’d seen it would lord it over those who hadn’t. The latter would languish under their pity.

  The prince came toward her, his new entourage trailing after him. He moved like a victor coming for his prize. He was the former, she supposed. But she was not the latter.

  “That was too bad,” he said, claiming a place beside Cecelia as if by right and forcing her friends to step back. “He saw that he could not match my skill, of course. But that is no excuse for dishonorable behavior.” His tone was complacent. He was enjoying this very much.

  “Dishonorable,” said Cecelia. She hadn’t meant to speak, but the word popped out. Because it seemed unfair. Gentlemen were always hitting each other at their boxing club. James and the prince had been exchanging blows with actual weapons, though blunted. Should one punch make such a difference? The prince had hurt James, too. She’d seen the blow to his wrist and his flinch. No one seemed to be mentioning that.

  “We had set rules for this encounter,” Prince Karl replied, speaking as if to a simpleton. “He broke them.”

  It was true. Cecelia understood rules. She also understood how much James hated losing. Loathed it, despised it.

  “He should have conceded defeat like a gentleman,” said the prince.

  Cecelia wasn’t sure James knew how. He was so accustomed to winning. She looked around at the chattering crowd. They were used to seeing James best his rivals at everything he tried. James was a nonpareil. But now, all at once, he’d been beaten and then exposed, his humiliation made obvious when he’d snapped and hit the prince. A number of people here were delighted at his fall from grace. She could see them. Certainly James knew that, and she could imagine his chagrin. The terrible depth of it made her cringe.

  That didn’t mean James was right. It was only a sporting contest. He should have been gracious. Winning was not everything. Except that it had been, to a youngster who had no other power.

  She saw Henry Deeping depart and hoped he might be going to James. A male friend was probably what he needed now.

  “I require refreshment after my efforts. Shall we explore the buffet?” Prince Karl’s tone was lofty. He offered his arm as if there could be no question that she would take it.

  Cecelia felt a spark of anger. She wasn’t a bauble to be acquired in some mock battle—not by him or anyone else. “I’m not used to witnessing violence. I think I shall go.” Let him think her missish. She didn’t care.

  “Go? You cannot go.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You must help me celebrate my victory.”

  “Must?” He could not miss the edge in her voice. Cecelia did not understand why it made him smile, however. The prince’s hazel eyes positively sparkled. “You must excuse me,” she said. He bowed. She turned and walked away. Many eyes followed her. She didn’t care.

  “That was unusual,” said Charlotte Deeping.

  Cecelia realized that her four friends were with her. They’d moved up to help her make a way through the crowd. It was rather like being a small vessel cresting the waves. People gave way slowly, with stares and whispers. The company was a comfort.

  “The prince is an outstanding swordsman,” said Sarah.

  “He did make it look rather easy,” replied Ada.

  “One can see why the duke wished to hit him,” said Harriet quietly.

  “Harriet!” exclaimed the others.

  “I didn’t say he was right to do it,” Harriet replied. “Of course he was not. I simply said I understood. Prince Karl was so very smug about his victory.”

  They reached the house and traversed the hallway toward the front door.

  “The prince comes here, a foreigner, and makes him look foolish before his friends and acquaintances,” Harriet continued. “Anyone would resent that.” She had been more sympathetic toward James since the conversation about her grandfather.

  “Did you think he looked foolish?” Cecelia asked. A footman held the door for them. Cecelia was conscious of sidelong looks from her friends as they went out.

  “Overmatched certainly,” said Ada.

  “Henry said that Tereford always wins his fights,” added Charlotte.

  “Yes.” A surge of impatience mixed with the sympathy running through Cecelia. “Well, perhaps it will be good for him not to, for once.”

  The next day it seemed that society could talk of nothing but the fencing match. During a walk in the park with Sarah and Harriet, Cecelia h
eard the story recounted over and over, with wildly varying degrees of accuracy. She grew heartily sick of the tale, but the sly questions and sidelong looks that went with it were worse. “Do people actually imagine that a few minutes of flailing about with swords decided something about my future?” she asked.

  “It is silly,” replied Sarah. “Did you see Mrs. Landry’s expression when she asked when we could ‘anticipate an interesting announcement’? I thought she was going to slaver like a bloodhound.”

  “‘Slaver,’ what a word!” exclaimed Harriet.

  “Well, I did.”

  Cecelia nodded. This was the other side of the attention she’d been receiving this season. Now the eyes on her were sharper. “Why should they think it has anything to do with me?”

  “Don’t you understand how they see us?” asked Harriet in an oddly distant tone. “We young women are commodities. Set out on display—as attractively as possible, of course—to be picked over before being acquired by an attractive prospect. We must take great care about the picking over—showing enough but never becoming shopworn. A fate worse than death! Look at a girl whose engagement has been broken off for some reason. Acquisition rejected! Where is the flaw? Sometimes, when we are all five together at a party, I can almost hear how they are ranking us. Pedigree, fortune, manner, physical attributes. Like goods on a shelf. Or horses in a race, to mix my metaphors.”

  “I think that’s a bit harsh,” said Cecelia. She was surprised, and a little impressed, by her friend’s long speech.

  Harriet nodded. “No doubt. But you’ve never experienced a radical change in your ‘value,’ Cecelia. I have gone from being worthless to a prize in the course of a year, through no actions of my own.”

  “You were never worthless!” exclaimed Sarah.

  Harriet’s expression relaxed. “Not to my friends. And I am grateful. But to society, yes. I was. And the alteration has been…unsettling.”

  “You’ve changed since we’ve come to London.” Sarah sounded distressed.