“I have not, Your Grace.”
She did not disappoint him.
*
Their evening was coming to an end and she could barely recall what she’d done, what she’d seen, yet she had imbibed only a little ale—which she had never had before, sadly, for she liked the stuff—which made her think that she was simply happy and unused to the emotion of happiness. That small of an amount could not have gone to her head. She didn’t think, anyway.
The mix of patrons at the Sans Pareil were varied, but there were many men of the middling classes. She didn’t believe the place was particularly dangerous. It wasn’t even gauche by her standards, though it was, Lord Valencourt said, possibly more heterogeneous than Drury Lane.
Smiling vaguely from her corner, flanked by Bess, she said, “You seem at home here, Your Grace.” She took care to keep her voice down, as it seemed that he was still unused to his new role and didn’t care to be treated as a duke.
“I’ve always loved the stage,” he said. His voice, by contrast, was hard to catch over the slight din that she discovered arose at the intervals between the performances—and sometimes during them. But she knew how to listen to him even after just their short acquaintance.
“Have you?” Teddie asked. “I should think you would make a grand Hamlet.”
An unreadable look passed on his face. “I’m told my mother enjoyed it.”
“Told?”
“She died in childbirth.” Hurriedly, Lord Valencourt added, “I’m sorry; that is such improper talk for a lady to hear.”
“In the midst of all this propriety, you mean?” she said, lightly. Teddie was no great optimist when it came to pregnancy, but it was not as though they were visiting in her parlor, enjoying cake and tea.
And she was enjoying every moment of the acting, the performances, the acts, the din between sets. The smells were a bit much—ale, of course, mingled with innumerable bodies and dust. She wondered if someone else in her place would be unnerved. Emma would. She glanced at Bess, who looked as unflappable as always.
That had been something of a wrench in her plans.
“Miss?” a familiar voice said from the shadows, just as she was unlocking the servants’ entrance for herself.
“Bess,” she said, in more of a growl than a discernible word.
“If you’re going out,” said her maid and oftentimes confidante—it had been Bess who heard about her monthly cycle first, Bess who helped her get the mud out of her dress when Richard Davies had pushed her in the town square because she wouldn’t let him touch her bosom, Bess who listened to her cry about being frightened of marriage. “I’ll ask you to take me along.”
First, Teddie hesitated, wondering what in the world she would tell Lord Valencourt when she showed up with a maid in tow. “No, definitely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because… because it will be easier if there’s only one of me to sneak out.”
“If you don’t allow me to come, Miss, I shall alert Mrs. Driffield.”
Teddie gasped as quietly as one could manage. “You wouldn’t.”
That would be the end of everything.
Well, not everything. She would still be on the marriage mart with her mother redoubling the efforts to win the Duke of Welburn. She shuddered to think of it. If Mother realized who Teddie was trying to abscond with, and this was almost as bad as conducting an assignation—no, at least as bad—the man would be up early tomorrow applying for a special license. He would not have a choice.
“I would, with all due respect.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“No, Miss, but I trust you. I don’t ask this because I think you’re foolish. I just don’t want you to be alone should anything bad happen.”
So it was to be coercion muddled with genuine loyalty, thought Teddie. Bess’ diligence did her credit, in a way.
“Then trust me to go alone!”
“Shall I make a great noise, then?”
Frantically, Teddie took a step toward Bess, who was poised to knock candlesticks off the nearest table. They were in the kitchen, and if there was any noise from this part of the house so late at night, Hilton, the strapping head butler, was bound to assume it was a burglary and come lumbering with a weapon.
It would, without any doubt, wake everyone.
“No! Bess, I hope I shan’t regret this, but you can come. Don’t make a noise. Please.”
Perhaps Teddie was not so subtle at planning her secret outing as she’d thought, because Bess was already dressed to go out of the house. There was just barely enough light to see by.
So it was that Teddie and Bess set out to join Lord Valencourt for an unsanctioned jaunt to the theater.
And suspiciously, Bess looked not only unflappable, but also at home.
Lord Valencourt chuckled. “Yes, in the midst of all this splendor—well, I think it is splendid, in its specific way—and exemplary conduct.”
“Lord Valencourt?”
After a long moment, he said, “Yes?”
“May I ask, if we are in the business of vulgar conversation…”
“Do go on.”
“How did you come by your…” Teddie reflexively touched her own neck, about where a scar would be if she had one like his. “What happened?”
“You noticed it, did you?” A charming smile punctuated his momentary somber expression. “I cannot say I’m surprised, Miss Driffield. You seem exceedingly clever.”
Since most of the men who said anything like that to her generally meant it as an insult, she tested Lord Valencourt. “I am, but does that mean you’re put off?”
“Not at all.” The conviction in his words was final. “I was in the army. At Salamanca, I took shrapnel to the throat.”
There were two questions Teddie wanted to ask first, and she had to choose one. “Your voice?”
“Permanently changed.” She didn’t think she should ask more about how he felt about that. His clipped reply spoke eloquently.
“You were an officer?”
“No.”
A similarly clipped tone.
My goodness, thought Teddie. I wonder why not. She could be mistaken, but she did not think dukes, or the sons of dukes, became anything but. Perhaps he had been an aide-de-camp, then. Her eyes searched his face and she tried not to be distracted by the hazel of his large eyes, the shape of his nose or the outline of his lips.
Clearly, the memory was not a good one for him, though to be fair, there was no way in which it could be. It was a feat, or a miracle, that he even survived.
“Well,” she said. She wanted to be careful, but did not want to come off as patronizing. “I am happy that you came back to London.”
At her back, she felt Bess slip away, probably to get more ale or use the necessary. She thought little of it. But her departure seemed to spur Lord Valencourt closer.
There was a moment when a spark flickered between them, then he closed the distance between their mouths with a soft kiss.
“So am I, Miss Driffield. But that happiness did not begin until I met you.”
*
She experienced no repercussions for her choice until the second day after her adventure. They kept later hours during the season. She and Father were sitting down to breakfast when Mother, all but careening into sight like a child rather than a grown, fairly educated woman, rushed into the room. “You… you vixen,” she spluttered in Teddie’s general direction. “You utter…”
Both Teddie and her father were stunned. They exchanged a look of alarm.
Teddie did not understand what had elicited this response when she and Mother had not even conversed yet. “I beg your pardon, Mother?” she said, with no guile.
Father sat back in his chair and eyed Mother, whose cap was askew. Teddie sympathized with his perplexity. He said, “Whatever is the matter, my dear?”
“Look at this,” she said, shaking the news sheets that she held in her hands in his direction
.
With keen misgiving, Teddie felt this must have been about her sojourn in the garden. Lady Olivia had done her vile work, then. I shall have to stay calm. That is all there is to it. She had a lifetime of practice in being calmer than her mother. That, like her build, was seemingly patrilineal.
It was with an expression of mild interest and no small amount of skepticism that Father readjusted his spectacles and read where Mother had left her finger. As he began to read, she snapped her head up and glared at Teddie.
“I hope you understand how dangerous your actions were!”
It was something of a small surprise to Teddie that Mother was focusing on that, rather than something more abstract, like a reputation or her suitability for marriage. She knew her mother cared for her and even loved her, but the woman was so fixated on the day-to-day logistics of Teddie’s life that it was hard to remember that sometimes.
“It was only a walk in the garden, and—”
“Garden? What garden?” Mother was the picture of confusion. She stopped midstream in her fury, the fire in her eyes damped by doubt.
Teddie did not dare look at Father. He was still reading, or feigning reading. She could not be sure which, as he detested conflict unless it had to do with stocks, trade, or supplies. Family life was not quite for him.
“Never mind,” said Teddie, attempting to make herself seem as meek as possible. She reached for her cup of tea and gulped it, most unladylike, to have something to do. “I was speaking of Emma and me.”
Wordlessly, but with a look of sympathy, Father passed the sheets to Teddie, who had some difficulty in seeing exactly where all the fuss was being made. Once she located the section that had presumably sent her mother into fits, she even had a funny little blip in the cavity of her chest.
“A certain sunset-haired Miss whom we shall call ‘D’ spied walking the Strand with the mysterious Lord V. Well-known for being the scourge of courageous gentlemen in every ball or musicale worth attending, what on Earth might be Miss D’s intentions? More to the point, what are Lord V’s?” She did not realize that she read it aloud until she heard her own voice rise in indignation, ending in a strained squeak.
Blushing brightly, she cleared her throat and added, in a much more genteel tone, “This is balderdash.”
So it hadn’t been Lady Olivia. It had been bad luck, pure and simple. Even worse luck that the Strand had connotations.
She thought, It isn’t fair. She had enjoyed herself so much, and while she could admit that wandering about at night had its pitfalls, she knew that at least while she was with Lord Valencourt, he would never let her come to harm.
Has His Grace seen the papers? Of course he had. What important man wouldn’t, by now?
This kind of thing did not stick to men, so she was not worried about his good name being dragged in the mud. But she knew—if they did not become engaged or pretend to be, at the very, very least, until this died down—hers could be dirtied beyond salvation.
What a ridiculous, biased world.
And she did not know him well enough to say for absolutely certain, but he seemed decent enough that he would propose to save her skin.
The problem posed there was, she knew him well enough to say in absolute certainty that he wanted a love match. He had not said so, but she could read it in his passion for, well, passion.
“It may be poppycock,” agreed her mother. “Even if it is, you will certainly be marrying His Grace.”
Chapter Seven
There was no ill-intent, really, in getting her to come to the Sans Pareil with him.
There had been some manipulation in the way he’d claimed she was the only thing that made him happy since returning home to London. Lee knew that even Teddie, with all of her declared and demonstrated independence, would probably enjoy being told such a thing. He had been right.
Expecting the usual serenity, or at least civility, when he entered White’s, he instead received a pointed, small cough from one of the longstanding butlers who knew him by sight. He had not frequented the place before recently, but it was the man’s job to know who was who.
He glanced at him confusedly, and was handed the news sheets with one sheet folded down as though to earmark it. He opened it impatiently and found what was supposed to command his attention, or so he surmised.
Black print on the crisp page read,
A certain sunset-haired Miss whom we shall call ‘D’ spied walking the Strand with the mysterious Lord V. Well-known for being the scourge of courageous gentlemen in every ball or musicale worth attending, what on Earth might be Miss D’s intentions? More to the point, what are Lord V’s?
Lee smothered a deep sigh and handed the paper back to the butler. It might have been Paul who had forewarned him to waylay the Duke of Welburn.
Either of the Haredens could have arrived here, could be here still. Pity he did not have time to find out. He had not seen the duke for years and they would probably find much common ground.
But he turned heel and went back the way he’d come.
He had to talk to Miss Driffield. Presently.
He forgot that he had a carriage—he still thought of it as Thomas’ carriage, or Father’s carriage—and set out on foot. It was not until he reached Berkeley Street and headed toward Mayfair, that he recalled he did not have to walk. No matter, it was not too warm and that could work for him. He supposed he wouldn’t arrive looking disheveled.
For the sake of the woman herself, he wanted to speak to her. He wouldn’t leave her to suffer for this, but unless he was highly wrong in his estimation of her character, she would be full of rage.
That was fair enough. He’d had the nerve to suggest that she sneak out of her home. You are no gentleman, or if you are, you have forgotten it entirely. He should have remembered there was more at stake than just his whim to spend more time with a woman who seemed to bewitch him.
If he esteemed her, liked her, he should be mindful of the implications of what he tempted her into doing.
For as much as she had impacted him, he also had a pull on her. He’d seen it in her expression. That could be dangerous, and needed to be treated with caution, because the sad fact of the world was that it could burn her far more than him.
Being a duke with a reputation for liking fast women was forgivable, so long as he was not a brute.
Being the fast woman was not forgivable.
He knocked on the door crisply when he reached it, looking around at the space the house occupied. They were not on Berkeley Square, but near to it, and this slice of Mayfair seemed to remain solidly affluent. To either side of the house were just as stately neighbors, each with enough space for respectable gardens and a small mews for the maintenance of animals.
A young footman with a quizzical air, too quizzical for a footman, answered. “Sir?”
Lee didn’t have time for niceties, so he said, rather forcefully and as clearly as he could, “The Duke of Welburn for Miss Driffield.”
Gobsmacked, the footman did not have the sense to usher him inside, much less show him in, and instead turned directly and said over his shoulder, “I’ll get the butler, Your Grace, Mr. Hilton. I mean to say, Mr. Hilton is the butler.”
Finding one crumb of levity on the vast floor of nervousness, Lee stepped after him. He wondered if this was a new appointment, for although he wore the livery well, he did not carry any gravitas as footmen were expected to do.
“If you please, I will show myself to the parlor,” said Lee. “My business really should not be delayed.”
“So it’s Mr. Driffield you require?”
“No—but this is not just a social call, so do not summon Mrs. Driffield, either.”
He admitted that one or both of her parents might very well be present for a discussion he wanted to have privately. That did not mean he wanted to actively seek out Mrs. Driffield right this very moment. He nearly paled at the thought.
The footman stopped in the corridor. He truly looked the part,
being both athletically built and in possession of a face that would have pleased especially the ladies of fashion who chose footmen.
But, bless him, he hadn’t a speck of sense in his head.
Lee took pity upon him.
“If you can please send for Miss Driffield and manage to do so without rousing her mother or father, I would be most grateful.”
Goggling, the footman must have assumed Lee was up to nothing good, but knew better than to contradict a duke when he had a request. “Very good, Your Grace. Right away.”
It was not easy to trust that he would succeed in his goal, but Lee had to hope he knew some way around the house that did not attract attention. Remembering the way to the parlor, he walked himself to it and sat on a settee rather than the delicate chair he’d sat in before.
He only had to wait for a minute or two before his faith was rewarded. Miss Driffield joined him, shutting the door very softly behind her. About to say that she was beyond the point of that being scandalous, now, Lee kept the words to himself.
But she read his mind and said, “I don’t suppose that can cause tongues to run even more than they already are.” She sat in the dainty chair, dwarfing it with her height, and regarded Lee. “I have given this so much thought.”
The day was cloudy and the diffused light suited her perfectly. Lee stared at her. “What have you thought about?”
He knew what his plan said, and he knew what his heart said. The prior said he needed to marry this woman no matter what, and his heart said that he might actually grow to love being married to this woman. He wanted to torch the plan until it was ashes, but could not see a world in which he resolved anything that faced him without going through with this.
And it could be worse. He could have found an heiress who was intolerable, insufferable—instead, he’d found her.
“My parents expect you to propose. I believe everyone else expects you to, as well.”
“What do you expect?”
“That you will, because you feel bound by honor.”
“Is that not acceptable to you?”
She leaned toward him so that her elbows were on her knees and she was looking at him beseechingly. “I watched you while you were watching the play.”
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