Duke of Havoc

by Blake, Whitney

  Caroline allowed the matter to die a quick death by retiring to bed.

  But another dispute was soon to follow.

  The next morning, Caroline declared the weather too excellent to be confined indoors. She asked Edgar to order a carriage to be drawn for herself and the girls so that they could go to town. Perhaps they could buy a few items like trinkets, but nothing enormous, while seeing the sights. She did not think this overstepped her bounds, or that Lord Malliston, who was still away but had corresponded with Edgar briefly during his absence, would disapprove.

  The girls were utterly delighted.

  “We have never been to town to purchase anything,” said Sophie.

  One girl at each of her sides, both smiling in anticipation of their first trip to town together, Caroline found – much to her surprise, for Edgar was always reliable – that no carriage waited for them at the front of the manor.

  “What is this, Edgar?” she asked him. He remained stationed at the front door behind them. “I distinctly remember standing here thirty minutes ago and asking that the barouche be drawn out for our trip to town.”

  Caroline had chosen the barouche in deference to the girls. It was her thought that they might be able to best enjoy the sights of Easingwold with the retractable roof. At the same time, should they become too timid under the eyes of the townsfolk, they could always pull the roof down again.

  Edgar appeared to be blessing himself and muttering a prayer as if in preparation for some odious occurrence.

  “Forgive me,” the butler said. “You were gone not more than a moment, but Mrs. Humphrey appeared and announced that you had changed your mind and would no longer be in need of a carriage. This was not the case?”

  Edgar, though, had a weary expression. He seemed to sense it was, indeed, not the case. At this, Caroline could only sigh. Determined not to be flustered, Caroline smiled reassuringly at the girls, and then at the butler.

  “Mrs. Humphrey must have misconstrued something I had said.”

  The witch.

  “Oh?” said Edgar. He knew better than to trust Mrs. Humphrey or her sister, Caroline was certain, but he would not want to cross either of them.

  “I believe so. Would you be so kind as to see that the carriage is brought back, Edgar? The girls and I have dressed in our fineries. It will be such a shame to let it all go to waste, don’t you think?”

  Edgar went ashen. “You don’t understand. Mrs. Humphrey had the carriage taken up for her own use. She and Miss Ball have gone to town. A few minutes ago, now.”

  Of all the nerve, thought Caroline.

  She could see the look of disappointment on the girls’ faces at this news, but she still remained unfazed.

  “Then, we will simply have another carriage prepared,” she said, knowing that the manor only boasted of two barouches. The duke had taken the other on his mysteriously long trip. “It truly will be a waste of fine clothes and fine weather if we were to be indoors all day.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Edgar.

  He was gazing at her in something akin to admiration. She had not spoken to the butler about the matter as she had Duckie, but the cook told Caroline that Edgar cared little for either sister and had, in fact, already been a member of the duke’s household before his marriage.

  Smartly, the old man called for one of the stable boys and sent him with word to the stables. The ladies had to wait only a short while before a carriage was drawn up before them. It was not the barouche, and the girls would have to sit close to the windows to gaze into the streets, but Caroline would not be deterred from their excursion by some old woman’s petty trick.

  Their expedition was every bit as gratifying as Caroline anticipated it would be. Phoebe in particular enjoyed the sights of people going about their business much more than Caroline expected. The little girl pointed and exclaimed at nearly everyone on Fleming Street selling and displaying their wares. For a reason known only to her, she was most taken by a man who was selling cast iron pans.

  Sophie absolutely insisted that Caroline sit for a cheap portrait, and Caroline felt too happy to refute her. So she made a good bargain, arranged her skirts primly, and sat. After they arranged for the portrait to be brought back to The Thornlands, they proceeded to a sweetshop for some treats to reward the girls for their patient dispositions through the rather long course of drawing.

  It would be neither an expensive nor thorough likeness, but Caroline was interested to see how it looked once it was finished.

  They returned to a steaming, ready late luncheon and Duckie fussed over them, exclaiming delightedly at the pretty new hat that they bought for her.

  “Oh my, Miss Sedgwyck, you shouldn’t have bothered – not for old me,” she said, though her smile was endearingly gratifying.

  “Oh, you have the girls to thank for their thoughtfulness,” said Caroline. “Phoebe was the one who mentioned that she would like us to bring you a souvenir of our expedition, and Sophie mentioned how your old hat got itself hinged on the door at mass last Sunday. She said it snagged dreadfully.”

  The cook beamed her gratitude at the little ones and gathered them in her large skirts for a hug. “You just made Duckie cry,” she sniffed happily.

  “Why are you crying, Mrs. Breem?” Phoebe asked in befuddlement, her voice muffled in the cook’s thick skirts. “How could you cry and laugh both at the same time?”

  At this innocent remark, the adult occupants of the room burst into laughter.

  And it was in this happy mood that the Witch Sisters found Miss Sedgwyck, Phoebe, Sophie and Duckie. Miss Ball was the first to enter the room. Hearing the laughter, she paused at the doorway, causing her sister to crash into her. Bothered by this situation, Mrs. Humphrey regained her feet and promptly turned herself around the way she came.

  Her sister, ever complacent, followed on her heels.

  *

  Caroline had written to her father every week since she arrived at The Thornlands. In her missives, she elaborated on the many activities in which she had engaged herself. Above all, she wrote of her delightful wards – she spoke highly of Sophie’s assertiveness and will of mind, and wrote paragraphs about Phoebe’s sweetness and charm. She described the manor in grand details and related Duckie’s kindnesses to her.

  Only briefly did she mention the duke, and just to say he was away on private business almost invariably since her arrival at the manor.

  She sought to reassure her father that all was well and, indeed, it was. But should she write a word about the positively bacchanalian gambling party, Father would be very much worried.

  Heaven forbid she mention finding Lord Malliston in a compromising position outdoors in a garden.

  In all likelihood, her father would then prevail upon her to return to York, lest her reputation be harmed while she remained under the duke’s roof.

  She knew that her father still hoped she would one day get married to a man worthy of her. Caroline had endeavored in all her capacity to discourage him from this notion. Marriage held little sway for her either way. But her father was stubborn; he would not budge on the desire. Caroline relented in her outspoken refusals over time, and her father dreamed that she might have a family of her own one day.

  Now that she was in the employ of the Duke of Nidderdale, Caroline finally admitted that, despite not thinking much about becoming a wife, she had not made allowances for any event other than marriage removing her from her father.

  She could not have known that for two engaging girls without a mother, she would be willing to change her plans. Once she realized this was the case, Caroline had no regrets about it. She did not tell Father that she would be happy carrying on this way for quite some time, but she did impress upon him how much she was enjoying her role.

  The Witch Sisters were given no word of praise in Caroline’s letters. Indeed, Caroline did not even discuss them. She saw little point in being so negative.

  Her father’s replies, in conjunction with
her aunt’s well wishes, always warmed Caroline’s heart, until Arthur wrote in one of his letters, “Perhaps you might find a good recommendation from the duke to marry one of his friends.” She knew he was not serious because, at best, she could expect to marry one of the duke’s friend’s staff. A valet, perhaps, or a steward.

  In her next letter, Caroline made no effort to reply that should any of the duke’s friends, such as they were, come near her, she might swoon in embarrassment at the indignity of such a proposal.

  Instead, she commented on the mild weather and the beauty of The Thornlands.

  Some things were much better left unsaid.

  Still, she awaited the duke’s return earnestly and could not fathom why she was being so silly. He was aloof, indisputably debased, and deeply troubled by his memories of war. The longer she had been here, the more obvious it became. Whereas her father withdrew into silence, she found that Lord Malliston was liable to explode. He was not loud or violent when displeased or troubled, like some other men, but he did have an unexpected core of steel.

  Turning her pillow over to the cool side, she thought back to the day she had a few moments to herself and decided to play the pianoforte. She had never been very good, it was true, but it was still enjoyable.

  The Witch Sisters were in town visiting with some friends, though Caroline found it a feat that they possessed friends among any of the people who knew them, and Sophie and Phoebe were napping. The duke was seeing to an errand and had been away from The Thornlands for several hours already. Given his past tendency to be absent for much longer than he vaguely said he would be, Caroline assumed she would have the house to herself well into the evening.

  It was not to be, and she was shown the extent of the duke’s temper. It was perhaps deeply buried beneath his aloofness, but it could flare unexpectedly.

  She had just finished a simple song her father used to practice with his intermediate pupils.

  It was only in the space between the final note and her next breath that she caught Lord Malliston’s footfalls behind her. He strode into the room and she stood hastily.

  Mentally, she cursed, thinking back to what the Witch Sisters told her about never playing the pianoforte. No doubt, Lord Malliston was not going to be pleased with her. Recalcitrant, she prepared her explanations. There was so little to do in The Thornlands that she must do something with herself or go mad.

  They faced one another and she waited for him to speak first. He did not for some moments, simply staring at her, seething.

  His mouth was pressed into a tight line, and rage lurked in his brown eyes. She could not help but note that sadness lingered there, too.

  “Miss Sedgwyck,” he said. “I was not given to understand that you were a musician.”

  “I am not, my lord,” she replied evenly. “Not in the same manner as my father, at least.”

  “Yet, I did just hear music coming from this instrument, did I not?”

  “You did.”

  He moved closer to her, and all Caroline could think of was a panther, not that she had ever seen one in the flesh. He was all coiled power, ready to strike. She still did not back down.

  He said, with his body scant inches from hers and his face bent down to compensate for her stature, “It is not yours to play.”

  Stunned, Caroline said, “My lord, the house is empty except for the servants, Duckie, and Edgar, who have their duties… and the young ladies are taking a rest. I was simply—”

  Lord Malliston cut her off. “Getting above yourself, I believe.”

  He was not shouting. He had simply raised his normally melodious voice. But he did not need to shout for the venom in his tone to be unmistakable.

  Hurt, for she would never knowingly do such a thing, she tried again. “No—”

  “Surely someone has told you that no one in this house ever plays the pianoforte.”

  She did not explain that Miss Ball and Mrs. Humphrey had done so. She searched his angular, handsome face, trying to understand why he was so incensed.

  “It just sits here. Day after day, it would seem. Why on earth does it—”

  He shook his head, giving a mirthless laugh. “Because, Miss Sedgwyck.”

  “Is it not better to play it once in a while? I am not an expert, but I assume that they need to be used or they degrade.”

  Lord Malliston’s nostrils flared. “As I said, you are getting above yourself.”

  Feeling a stab of anger herself, she demanded, “Why? Because I am not as cowed as the rest of your household? My lord, Mrs. Humphrey and Miss Ball do not seem particularly deferential.”

  He brought back his fist and, for a fleeting instant, she thought he was going to strike her. She had never been hit by anyone in her life.

  Flinching, Caroline waited for the impact.

  But the duke pushed down his left sleeve and brandished his ruined hand in her face. “This is why,” he said. She blinked and focused on the destroyed fingers, which had healed cleanly, but left nothing but meager stumps that ended before the first knuckle and were covered in scar tissue. “I cannot play, so neither can anyone else. You’ll notice I have never mentioned either Sophie or Phoebe learning.”

  She wanted to protest, to say that was absurd, but she felt such an acute stab of empathy that she could not. Her fury deflated, and she could do nothing but look into his eyes and hope her own did not reveal too much pity.

  He would hate that, she knew.

  He moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue and let his hand fall back to his side. His gaze searched hers.

  There was just a moment when Caroline foolishly thought they might kiss, but it passed.

  He backed away from her with his eyes narrowed, and said, “Never play my pianoforte, again.”

  Although the words were uttered softly, they were laced with a sharp threat. Without even a backward glance, he quit the room and left her standing by the pianoforte with her heart beating hard in her chest. The insinuation was clear. He did not have to watch her for his order to be understood and abided by.

  Father had never acted in such a way, but she could see that the same irrationality bred by combat and violence and loss drove both men.

  No, thought Caroline. Lord Malliston is a powder keg of ill thoughts, and instead of meeting them head on, he fetters his time away with bad habits.

  Her observations of and experiences with the duke had not, however, shifted her regrettable interests in him.

  Though she would never admit it to anyone, she dreamed almost each night of being strewn over his lap in that overgrown garden. And when she awoke, it was with flushed cheeks, aching core, and a yearning heart, all of which she worked to calm before looking after her young charges.

  Chapter Seven

  “Your chances of winning at the tables today are worse than that of an old spinster getting a marriage proposal.”

  The gentlemen around the table laughed uproariously at their friend’s comment. Reeve joined in the laughter, but his heart was not in it. He didn’t take well to being teased and never had.

  The speaker was none other than the Duke of Pierceton, Bellamy Bingham. He was Reeve’s friend, but the good-looking rake would be nothing but pleased at Reeve’s bad luck. He was his opponent on the gaming tables and had been winning Reeve’s money all night.

  Again, Reeve tossed the dice and threw up his hands in surrender when the odds went against him.

  “I give up!” he groaned at last, his surrender giving way to another round of laughter from the spectators.

  Bellamy gathered his winnings in his arms and grinned at his friend. “Blessed be the day I won against you in a game of dice!”

  “Amen!” chorused many of the gentlemen about.

  Reeve’s reputation for luck was unblemished at the gaming tables. Until now, he had never found himself so soundly defeated. It’s a night of firsts, he decided. Smiling only a little, he removed himself from his position at the table and went in the direction of th
e bar where libations were being served. I need a drink.

  His three best friends and drinking partners, Jonathan Polk, Ashton Coldwell and the undefeated winner of the night’s gambling activities, Bingham, followed in his wake, stationing themselves all around him.

  “You seem to have amassed all the luck as well as the winnings tonight, Bingham,” he said without rancor as he grabbed a pitcher of ale.

  His friend, however, was quick to disclaim any extraordinary stroke of fortune. “No, Reeve… at least, not where you are concerned,” he said. “It is my opinion that I could only have won against you in one case. It seems as though your heart is somewhere other than in the games tonight.”

  “And there, Bellamy, are my thoughts exactly,” announced Polk. He nodded sagely.

  “Yes, I have seen an old bluestocking with a better hand at the tables,” replied the Count of Aberdare, Ashton Coldwell.

  “What ails you, my friend?” Bellamy slapped his shoulder. “It is the grandest crime to possess any troubles in my abode while I celebrate, and I must insist that you regale your friends with your woes immediately.”

  The others heartily agreed, looking into Reeve’s face eagerly. All three were on their way to roaring drunk because they had been drinking and gambling all night. Only Reeve remained less drunk, for once in his life.

  So they can teach an old dog new tricks, he thought.

  All four gentlemen maintained a steady friendship based on their dubiously ethical leisure activities. Where one could be seen making merry, the others were not far behind. Titled, wealthy, and fairly young, the friends lived lives filled with leisure. They generally could not find it within themselves to care when society judged them harshly. Reeve was the single exception to that, but even he found that the fun outweighed the censure.

  Tonight, it was a party at Salisbury Castle. Bellamy only recently came into his inheritance by virtue of his uncle, who had died without an heir. This announcement had been made most exuberantly at The Thornlands, where Bellamy had arrived late as a consequence of the events leading to his exciting news. The new duke had explained that the deed of the title was entailed to go on to the next male in the family, and this was none other than himself.