The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne

by Kasey Michaels

  “Sophie,” Bramwell said when she didn’t answer him, didn’t look at him. “You have to remember that your mother wanted you to have a Season. You won’t back down now, will you? Run away?”

  “Never!” she said with some violence, snapping the parasol shut as she turned to look at Selbourne. And then she smiled, remembered to dazzle. “Did you really think I meant to tuck my tail between my legs like some whipped dog and slink back to Wimbledon? Because of what I said to the uncles? Oh, Bramwell, and I thought you’d listened when I’d warned you about me. I only thought it easier if the uncles thought it was their idea that I remain in London. You must admit that they went away happily enough. It is a gift, yes?”

  “Yes, I know. A gift. From Desiree, I imagine. Interesting woman, your maid.”

  Sophie frowned in real confusion. “Desiree? You’ve spoken with her?”

  “Enough to see where you learned your lessons,” he admitted, shaking his head. “It’s all of a single piece, isn’t it? Desiree has, through her own experiences, formed certain notions about life, about people. Gentlemen in particular. You’ve been raised by her—trained by her, actually—to think as she does, to make those around you happy as a way of protecting yourself. You sensed what was needed to make the uncles, as you call them, happy, and you set out to make them happy, at the same time protecting yourself. But what makes you happy, Sophie? Or do you believe that Desiree knows the secrets to your happiness as well as her own? Will you always be so willing to accept her view of life, of people—and never be tempted to do a little looking of your own? Either at your fellow creatures, or within your own heart?”

  She tilted up her chin. “I don’t think I like this conversation,” she said, her brain still foggy from her second nearly sleepless night. The effort to divert the duke’s questions, to dissemble, to gauge her responses in relationship to how best to please him and protect herself, was simply too much for her.

  “No, I doubt that you do, Sophie,” Bramwell responded, carefully maneuvering the curricle past a stopped landau. “But, then again, I find that I don’t much like realizing that your maid raised you to believe in nothing more than the perfidy of men. That she taught you that there is no such thing as love, as honest emotion. In fact, I’m rather disappointed in you.”

  “Disappointed in me? Oh, really?” Sophie countered, angry once more. Honestly, the man had introduced her to anger in a way she’d never known before, never experienced. And if he thought anger was a wonderful emotion, then he had not lived as she had, grown up as she had, surrounded by pleasantry, by laughter. And her mother’s tears.

  But, as Desiree had pointed out, those tears had been Maman’s own fault, and completely unnecessary. “You would rather then that I would believe as my mother did, that a woman can find her only happiness in the happiness of some heartless, fickle man? You would have me a willing slave to a man’s perfidy? But I say oh no, Your Grace. Much better to give everyone what they think they want, even what they cannot see they might need, and be left free to go your own way, yes?”

  “And if you find someone who loves you?”

  Sophie was getting herself back under control. “But I do have many people who love me, Bramwell. Desiree, Aunt Gwendolyn. Many people. And I love them. Yes, I try to please them, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love them, care for them very much. And you know it, too, or you wouldn’t allow me within a continent of your aunt, for one.”

  “Yes, Sophie, I know that you would never hurt my aunt, or Isadora, or any of those you’ve charmed since coming to London—including Lorrie and Wally, who see you as a delightful cross between a beloved younger sister and an untouchable goddess. In a way, I envy you your easy ability to draw people to you, to make them feel at their ease. But that’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. What will you do, Sophie, the day that a man loves you, loves you not as a friend, but in the way a man loves a woman?”

  Sophie couldn’t resist. “You mean, Bram, the way you love Miss Waverley?”

  He hesitated, only for a moment, but it was enough for Sophie. Enough to give her pause, to give her hope. But hope for what? She wouldn’t think about that now, because her head ached, and she was still waiting for him to answer her question. “Yes, of course,” he then said. “The way I love Miss Waverley.”

  “I see.” Sophie smoothed the fingers of her gloves, keeping her eyes averted from Bramwell’s. “I hadn’t thought of you and Miss Waverley in that light, to be honest with you.” She smiled up at him. “Forgive me. You do remember that I occasionally suffer these dreadful bouts of honesty, yes?”

  “I do remember, Sophie,” he countered, heading the matched bays toward the nearest exit from the Park. “I also remember that you’re extremely proficient at steering the conversation away from any subject that might be unpleasant to you. Muddy up your happy waters, as it were. Now answer me, Sophie, please. What will you do when a man tells you he loves you, loves you as a man loves a woman?”

  “I won’t believe him, of course,” she answered frankly. “There are all sorts of love, you know, Bram. Love of country. Love for your parents. The love of good friendship. Love of even your pets, like Giuseppe and Ignatius. A love of good food, fine drink. But a man’s love for a woman? No,” she said, shaking her head. “That doesn’t exist. Or, if it does, it doesn’t last. And I didn’t learn that from Desiree. Not entirely. I learned that, Bramwell, from the uncles. Mostly,” she ended, knowing she was about to shock him down to his toes, “I believe in desire. Desiree says it is the most common of emotions, both in its frequency and in its sad lack of depth, its short life. But I do think it nice that you say you love Miss Waverley. As I believe she loves you—rather in the way I love Giuseppe, yes? Now, shall we go back to Portland Square, or do you want to speak with me privately some more?”

  Bramwell’s posture had grown more and more stiff, rigid, with each word she’d spoken, so that Sophie did her best not to flinch, knowing she had pricked and gored him several ways and that he would not allow her to escape from him unscathed once it was his turn to speak again.

  But luck—good or bad she couldn’t know—intervened before Bramwell could say a word. Because a man was calling the duke’s name, loudly, shrilly, in a way that could not be ignored. Bramwell pulled the horses to a stop just outside the Park and waited for the man to approach from across the wide street.

  Sophie watched in fascination as the man progressed toward the curricle. He stepped in horse offal, twice—once with each boot. His curly-brimmed beaver took a nip in the brim from a passing coach, and toppled into a puddle. He whirled about to rescue the hat, and his cane smacked a rather starchy-looking matron flat on the buttocks, eliciting a very ungenteel squeal of shock and protest.

  Bowing to the woman in apology, the man’s cane nearly impaled another gentleman making his way across the street. This second gentleman looked quite angry, and ready to retaliate, then suddenly stopped, his eyes wide as he looked to the first man, and he quickly scuttled away, seeming happy to make good his escape.

  And the man, the poor, poor man, was still only halfway across the wide street.

  “That would be Sad Samuel Seaton, I imagine,” Sophie said, trying not to giggle as the very tall, painfully thin man, now all but bent double, looked to his right and then to his left, then quickly raced toward the curricle—only to jump back at the last moment as a high-perch phaeton came whizzing by, its off wheel catching the man across the toe of his left boot. “Oh, the poor dear thing!”

  “No!” Bramwell warned feelingly. “Don’t do it, Sophie. I forbid it!”

  “You forbid what, Bram?” Sophie asked, already fishing in her reticule for a handkerchief, for Mr. Seaton would definitely need one to wipe the mud from his face. Heaven only knew how the mud had gotten there, but, then, Sophie had also already decided that it probably would be best not to inquire, for the sad man might just tell her.

  “I forbid you to be nice to Sad Sam—er, to Samuel. To be nice
to him, to smile at him, to dazzle him. If he were to take a liking to you, he’d want to be in my drawing room all day long, and I don’t think the mansion could stand up under the strain. The last time he was in Portland Square he set fire to the drapes.”

  Now Sophie did giggle, at the sight of Bramwell Seaton, ninth duke of Selbourne, all but quavering in his boots because of a poor unfortunate and obviously helpless soul like his cousin—well, she just hadn’t expected ever to see such a sight, that’s all.

  “But on the other hand,” Bramwell was saying as the congested flagway became much like a deserted island, as other pedestrians had spied out Sad Samuel and were making good their escapes as best they could, “this might just prove interesting. You say, Sophie, that you were born and raised to please. To make people happy. That you do it effortlessly. All right, then. Do it,” he ended challengingly. “Make a giddy silk purse out of that sad sow’s ear. I dare you.”

  “Hullo there, Selbourne!” Samuel Seaton said, frowning as he beat at his curly-brimmed beaver in an effort to push it back into shape even as he approached Sophie’s side of the curricle. He was a man, Sophie quickly deduced, who had difficulty doing one thing at a time. Frowning, brushing, and walking were obviously two things too many. She watched, greatly intrigued but not at all surprised, as he tripped over the curbing and fell to his knees.

  “A walking, talking disaster,” Bramwell said quietly, and Sophie tended to agree.

  “Thought that was you, Selbourne,” Mr. Seaton continued once he’d clambered to his feet and brushed off the knees of his ruined pantaloons. “Someone said you’d sailed off to Jamaica. Your butler, I think it was. Last week. He must’ve had that wrong. Servants are like that. Can’t keep a good one m’self. I’d come to tell you about my hip, in hopes you’d know what to do. Couldn’t walk straight for days. Don’t know why. Started off heading in one direction, ended up somewhere else entirely. But it’s better now. Of course,” he ended, looking much like a whipped puppy, “the other one hurts now. I’m thinking of letting the leeches at me, being bled, but wanted your opinion.”

  “Samuel,” the duke said, his lips moving although his jaw, Sophie noticed, remained firmly clenched, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Sophie Winstead. Miss Winstead, my cousin, Mr. Samuel Seaton. Make your bow, Samuel—and try not to spook the horses while you’re about it, all right? There’s a good fellow.”

  “Mr. Seaton, hello!” Sophie trilled, as the man unbent himself from a most awkward bow. “I’ve heard so much about you from His Grace. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Truly. But, oh, your poor face. Here, let me wipe that spot from your cheek.”

  Samuel looked to Bramwell, his watery blue eyes all but bugging out of his head, and said, “Winstead, you say? The Widow Winstead’s daughter? Think I heard something about her being in Town. Oh, it is, it is! I can see that now. Looks just like her. Except maybe for the hair. Don’t remember all those curls. Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch! Why, look at the both of you! It’s the Winstead and your papa all over again, stap me if it ain’t! And in public, too, just like them. I say, Selbourne, does Miss Waverley know?”

  Sophie touched a corner of her handkerchief to her tongue and leaned over, gently dabbing at Mr. Seaton’s cheek, even as she itched to slap that same hangdog face. Not that she would, for Samuel Seaton wasn’t being deliberately mean. She didn’t think he possessed the brainpower to be deliberately mean. “Don’t be naughty, sir,” she warned with a smile. “There, that’s better. Now, as it’s coming on to mizzle again—dreadful weather, yes?—and we can’t keep the horses standing, may I ask you to dine in Portland Square tomorrow evening? I’m sure His Grace was just about to invite you.”

  She straightened up on the seat once more, and knew her eyes were dancing as she looked at Bramwell. “Weren’t you, Your Grace?”

  As she saw it, Bramwell had more than one option open to him. He could continue to sit there like a beached fish, his mouth hanging open, all but gasping for air. He could bellow out a resounding “No!” and look like even more the fool. He could sail for Jamaica on the next tide. Or he could invite Mr. Samuel Seaton to dinner.

  “Don’t look back, Sophie,” Bramwell said a few moments later, as they drove off, “but the fool is still back there, bowing his thanks to the both of us. You know, of course, that I haven’t had that man’s knees under my dinner table since my first week in London, three years ago. He knocked over the salt cellar, spilled his wine, and Aunt Gwendolyn had to flee the table when he started telling us, in some detail, of the purges he’d taken to help with his recurrent dyspepsia.”

  “Poor man,” Sophie said, then coughed into her fist. “But you did dare me, Bramwell. I suppose you already know you shouldn’t have done that, yes? However, I’d much rather we made the thing into a wager. We should make it much like the wager you and your friends entered into concerning me. A forfeit of some kind, yes? If I cannot make Sad Samuel happy, I shall—what?” She looked at him searchingly, knowing they were both remembering their conversation before the arrival of Mt Seaton, and knowing that hers was to be a two-edged question. “What do you want from me, Bram?”

  She watched as a small tic began in his cheek, and knew that he understood all the layers of her question. He was silent for some moments, very tense moments on Sophie’s part, much as she hated to admit it, even to herself. “All right, Sophie. A wager it is. If you lose, you’ll promise to stop deliberately setting out to dazzle people. You’ll promise, for two weeks, simply to be Sophie. No pouring of wine, or fetching of footstools, or—or of spending your days reacting to what you believe someone else wants from you. I simply want you to be Sophie. Not Desiree’s notion of who you should be. Just yourself, just Sophie. If you have any idea of who you really are.”

  How dare he! He didn’t think she was real! He thought she was some sort of toy Desiree wound with a key, as she used to do with a mechanical rabbit she’d owned as a child, then set off to hop about, to amuse and delight. Sophie’s bottom lip began to tremble, which she hated, because she knew she should be laughing at his silliness, teasing and coaxing him into thinking anything save what he was thinking. And yet, all she wanted to do was cry. She was in pain, had been in terrible pain since the moment he’d told her about her maman, her Uncle Cesse. Because, much as she didn’t want to believe it, the actions of others did have the power to hurt her, and there were some things she couldn’t change, some problems her grins and shrugs and agile tongue couldn’t make go away.

  She rallied, not without having to call on years of experience in believing—oh, please, believing—that she could never be hurt by what others thought, what others did. Because she, as Desiree had always told her, would remain heartwhole. What Bramwell had said the other day had hurt her, even as he’d tried to comfort her. When he’d held her, she’d nearly been destroyed. Now, knowing that he held such a low opinion of her—when she was becoming almost painfully aware of how much she liked him—was devastating to her. Simply devastating. Not that he’d ever know!

  “I still believe you’re deluding yourself, Your Grace,” she said at last, as he turned the curricle into Portland Square. “However, a wager is a wager. And when you lose, you will spend two weeks doing what I say. Going where I want you to go. Doing what I want you to do.”

  He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, as he swung her down from the seat and onto the flagway. “Even for you, Sophie, I don’t believe I can agree to go to Hell.”

  “Hell?” She lifted her gloved hand to his cheek. It was a studied movement, a practiced one, and she knew now that he probably hated it. “Actually, Bramwell, I was thinking more along the lines of Bartholomew Fair. You see, I don’t think you’re being the real Bramwell Seaton, yes? I think the real Bramwell Seaton likes to laugh, to enjoy himself.”

  She dropped her hand, and her smile as well, becoming serious. “We’re very much alike, Your Grace, if what you think about me is true, and what I see in you is likewise true. We both give
the world what it wants to see, what we believe it needs to see. I believe I’d like to see the real Bramwell Seaton. Now, excuse me, please, while I go roust out Aunt Gwendolyn, for I have a mission to accomplish before Mr. Seaton arrives for dinner tomorrow night, and must make plans.”

  She brushed past Bramwell, stopping at the top of the marble steps to turn back and smile at him, even though it drained nearly every last drop of her composure to do so. “Oh, and Bram? Tell Reese to leave a little of the starch out of your cravat, please, will you? That way, you’ll he much more comfortable at the Fair.”

  You look rather rash my dear

  your colors don’t quite match your face.

  — Daisy Ashford

  Chapter Ten

  Bramwell was just leaving his ground-floor study when he heard the knocker go, and he stepped back, out of sight, to wait for Bobbit to see who was requesting entrance. He felt ashamed of himself, but if his cousin had arrived early, well, he just might have to return to his study for another bracing glass of wine before facing the man.

  “Bobbit, my good man! Where is she?” Sir Wallace Merritt boomed, stepping into the foyer, tossing his hat, cane, and gloves at the butler, who expertly snagged them out of the air and placed them on the table. “Where is the little darling? I’m here to worship at her feet.”

  “Wonderful news, sir! I’ll straightaway tell Miss Winstead that you’re here,” Bobbit said, and Bramwell watched as the butler stood his ground, smiled, and held out his hand, palm up.

  “What?” Sir Wallace asked, then grinned sheepishly. “Oh, of course. Put it on my tab, would you, old man? I’ll get you before I leave. Probably owe you another small fortune by then anyway, eh? There’s a good fellow. Now, take me to her, if you please.”