Nothing Compares to the Duke

by Christy Carlyle

  “A few men. Not many.” She tensed her jaw.

  The names they called her, the things they’d said about her, he’d known it wasn’t true. But he hated that they’d hurt her.

  “I trust you know your own mind and had a good reason every time. And yet now you can’t see your way clear to simply telling your mother that this house party is a farce.”

  “Mama planned this for months.”

  Duty. She’d always bowed to it so much more easily than he had. He’d loved her moments of rebelliousness, the flashes of fire and boldness. But she had the same skill he had. The ability to pretend, to put on a facade of agreeableness or even joviality for the benefit of others.

  “I appreciate that your mother put effort into the event, but these men are wasting their time, are they not?”

  Bella blinked and her eyes widened in shock. Something snagged in the center of his chest, a flare of fear that she might actually be considering one of the men her mother chose to woo her.

  “Your concern is for these men rather than me?”

  “No.” Rhys let out a breath that turned into a chuckle. “You know that’s not true. But you’re a young lady who speaks her mind. At least you used to with me. You said you promised your mother you’d try. I simply wish to know why.”

  She swallowed hard, started to speak, and then shook her head.

  “Miss Prescott, I’ve come to claim our dance.” Lord Hammersley’s voice echoed loudly as he approached from the opposite end of the hallway.

  Rhys cast the man a glare that seemed to have no effect whatsoever.

  “Claremont.” Hammersley acknowledged him with a nod, then turned to Bella. “May I escort you back to the party, Miss Prescott?” He lifted his arm and wore a grin of smug certainty that she would agree.

  “I am returning in a moment, my lord. Would you be so good as to go and tell my mother? She’ll want to prepare her sheet music for the next dance.”

  The jolt of pleasure that rippled through Rhys wasn’t just pettiness at seeing Hammersley’s face fall. It was pride in Bella’s self-assurance.

  Hammersley blustered for a moment, as if on the verge of protesting. Bella stared him down, a cool smile on her face and her hands crossed in front of her.

  The two conducted their standoff for what seemed long minutes and just when Rhys sensed Hammersley would relent and return to the drawing room ahead of Bella, the man turned and reached for her hand. Bella pulled back but not quickly enough. The viscount clutched her wrist.

  Rhys’s vision dimmed to a pinpoint focus on Hammersley’s hand latched on to Bella so firmly she winced. He stepped forward and wrapped his own hand around the man’s arm and squeezed. The viscount let out a yelp and released his hold on Bella.

  “Don’t touch her again. Ever.” Rhys could barely get the words out past clenched teeth.

  Hammersley yanked his arm free from Rhys’s grip and glared at him. “You take an eager interest in Miss Prescott.” He spared a scowl for Bella. “I don’t know whether she welcomes such attention, but your reputation will ruin her before you ever have a chance to do so yourself.” Hammersley looked at each of them in turn. “Unless you already have.”

  “How dare you.” Bella’s cheeks flamed and she clenched her hands into fists.

  “Goodness, girl.” Hammersley barked out an offended chortle. “I interrupt your tryst with a notorious blackguard and I am the one to give offense.” All pretense fell away and Hammersley sneered at Bella. “They say you’re clever, Miss Prescott, but I can find no evidence of it in your choice of suitors.”

  “Get out.” The voice boomed to the high ceiling as Bella’s father shuffled out of his study. “Leave my home as soon as you’re able, Lord Hammersley. I won’t have my child insulted.”

  “Never in my life—” the viscount started in an affronted tone.

  “Go, man,” Rhys told him. “Save your pride. Whatever’s left of it.”

  The viscount pursed his mouth and puffed out his chest but said nothing more. He turned on his heel and shuffled toward the staircase. Midway down the hall, he turned back.

  “Everyone in London will hear of this.”

  Without thought or plan, Rhys strode past Bella toward the viscount. The older man reeled back, but Rhys caught him by the lapel and pushed him against the wall.

  “No, they won’t,” he told Hammersley quietly. “The party ended early. Make up whatever story you like, but if you try to harm her, spread rumors, I will ruin you.”

  “Won’t be necessary. Will it, Hammersley?” Bella’s father’s voice emerged raspy and hoarse, as if he’d been shouting, though his voice now was as calm as Bella’s outward demeanor.

  “Go, my lord.” Bella approached until she stood side by side with Rhys. “You will find a suitable bride. I’m sure of it, but you probably knew we wouldn’t suit from the day we met.”

  For a moment Hammersley gazed at her with an expression that was less than irate. Then he nodded.

  Rhys released him and retreated a few steps to allow him to pass. The viscount made his way up the stairs without looking back again.

  As they watched him, Bella’s father stepped closer.

  “Seems a long while since you two managed to get yourselves into this much trouble.”

  “Mother will be disappointed,” Bella said worriedly.

  “She will,” her father admitted. “But mostly that a man she invited to our home dared insult our daughter.”

  “I made it worse.” Rhys feared his threat would appear in some scandal rag in a few days’ time.

  “You convinced him to leave. That’s what matters most.” Bella stared at him a moment but said nothing more.

  “Shall we all return to the drawing room and salvage this party?” Lord Yardley sounded almost jovial.

  Rhys felt anything but. “Bella? Spare me one more moment.”

  Lord Yardley nodded at his daughter, patted her hand, and headed down the hall toward the drawing room.

  Being left alone with her was exactly what he’d wanted, but everything he thought he wanted to say was gone. The only thought in his head was that she looked lovely and entirely unhappy. He missed the mischievous twinkle in her eye that he’d seen every day when they were young.

  “You were about to tell me something before Hammersley interrupted.” He yearned to reach for her, to somehow bridge the distance that had opened up between them over the years.

  “The viscount is gone or soon will be. That hardly matters now.”

  She didn’t trust him. Until this moment, he’d never realized how much he’d missed being someone that Bella Prescott entrusted with her private worries.

  “I don’t want to disappoint my mother,” she said in her unconvincing I-must-do-my-duty tone that he’d never been able to master because he’d never given a whit about duty.

  “We’ll never talk easily again, will we? Like we used to.”

  For a moment, she looked at him with the same kind of openness as when they were young. Like a girl who liked him, trusted him, believed in him. Then it all shuttered and she turned as cool as the gossip rags claimed she was.

  “No,” she said in a soft firm voice. “I don’t think we ever will.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bella shifted on her mattress, pushed at her pillow, and told herself for the hundredth time to go to sleep. She often struggled to quiet her mind before rest would come. Puzzles filled her head when she closed her eyes, and she’d see the end like the center of a maze and have to wend her way back to the start. Or she’d conceive an idea and have to work out every step.

  Tonight there were no ideas. Just memories. Voices played over and over in her head. She heard Rhys asking in a raw tone if they’d ever confide in each other again. Hammersley blustering that she’d be ruined in the eyes of society for consorting with the infamous Duke of Claremont. Papa’s voice echoed in her mind too. He spoke earnestly of happiness, urging it upon her with an eagerness that stirred a flutter of panic in
her chest. Panic at the thought of being trapped in a loveless but practical marriage.

  As an only child, she’d always felt her parents’ desires for her keenly. She’d collected accomplishments and done her best to learn her lessons, and she’d always intended to fulfill their hope that she’d marry well.

  But marriage was far different from a deft hand at watercolors or having a clever eye for embroidery.

  Marriage was a contract binding two people. Forever.

  Just the thought made her shiver. The only men who’d ever offered for her were the sort with whom she could never imagine spending every day of the rest of her life. Or every night.

  She’d only entertained those thoughts about one man. He’d treated her as no one ever had, not as a child to be coddled and doted on but as if she was intelligent and capable. She’d imagined his affection for her might grow into deeper feelings, and it had, but only in her heart.

  Never again would she be foolish enough to give her heart where her feelings weren’t returned. If only she’d adopted her new practical mindset back then.

  Slipping out from under the covers, she lit a lamp and went to the long table where she’d laid out page designs for her book. This was practical. This made sense. The way she’d organized the drawings and notations fit together like its own enormous puzzle and it soothed her. But still there was a nagging sense in the back of her mind, as if she’d left something important unfinished.

  The house party had gone unlike any social event her mother had ever coordinated. Bella couldn’t deny her relief.

  In the morning, Hammersley would depart. As Rhys had pointed out, it was the only way for the viscount to salvage his pride. Nix would go too. Which left only Lord Wentworth, and Bella suspected the awkwardness of being the only gentleman remaining would drive him back to London too.

  And then?

  What had she truly won? Her mother had mentioned another Season. Bella’s stomach tumbled at the thought of more balls and dinners and whispers about her coldness.

  One of the pages she’d designed and pinned to her sitting room wall caught her eye. A matching game with various ladies and gentlemen drawn in a grid of squares. She’d written a riddle to accompany the game. The answer to the puzzle was marriage.

  Someone rapped softly at her bedchamber door. She crossed the room but before she could turn the latch Louisa slipped in and said quietly, “It’s me, Bell.”

  “You’re up far too late.”

  “Or far too early. Sun will be up soon, but I couldn’t sleep. I heard you moving about and knew you couldn’t either.” Louisa took one of the stuffed chairs near the fireplace and tucked her feet underneath her, as if she planned to stay awhile.

  Bella tugged a blanket from her bed, pulled a chair next to Louisa’s, and spread the blanket between them. “What’s keeping you awake?”

  Louisa glanced at her and then shifted her gaze down, running her fingers over the crisscross design of the blanket as if its knitted pattern fascinated her. “You first,” she finally said. “I’d think chasing Lord Hammersley away would put your mind at ease.”

  “Lord Wentworth is still here.” Bella had her suspicions about the man and Louisa’s interest in him, but the way she shifted uncomfortably on her chair told Bella her speculations weren’t unfounded. “You like him.”

  “He likes me,” Louisa said defensively. Then, less certain, “I think he does anyway.”

  “I’m sure he does. He’s been very attentive to you.”

  “And you.” Toying with the braid at her shoulder, Louisa shrugged. “He’s said nothing certain, but he is rather quiet in general.”

  “Very quiet. Perhaps he’s simply thoughtful and isn’t one to bluster.” Bella didn’t dislike the man, and if he had an interest in Louisa, she could at least concede that he had good taste.

  “You have no wish to marry him, then?” Louisa lifted one sandy blond brow, but the teasing twinkle in her eyes indicated she knew what Bella’s answer would be.

  “None at all.” Bella stood and pressed her hands to the small of her back, stretching and wishing the sun had risen enough for her to take a walk across the fields. “I’ve no interest in any of them.”

  “What about the Duke of Claremont?” Louisa asked in a mock-serious tone.

  Bella choked midway through a deep breath and coughed. She assessed her cousin with a narrowed gaze. Louisa was up to something. She was familiar enough with Rhys to call him by his given name, and she knew one other crucial fact too.

  “I could never marry him.”

  “Why not?” Louisa’s brows tented as if she was truly perplexed. “He’s a duke. The finest catch in the county. And you did want to once, didn’t you?”

  Bella willed her cheeks not to redden but she couldn’t find her tongue fast enough to reply before Louisa spoke again.

  “Isn’t it funny how time has turned everything around?”

  Bella crossed her arms over her chest. “What mischief are you concocting, cousin?”

  “Me?” She did that thing, eyes wide, shoulders back as if she was offended by the very notion that she’d ever put her clever mind to any sort of plotting. Bella knew the girl liked strategy almost as much as she did.

  “I recall that you were once infatuated with him. And now it’s clear that he quite fancies you.”

  “That’s absurd.” Laughter built so quickly that Bella chortled and cupped a hand over her mouth to keep from more unladylike sounds erupting. “He came to Hillcrest to apologize.”

  Louisa’s smile was irritatingly knowing. “That would explain the first visit.”

  “He came last evening as a favor.”

  “To make up for the falling-out you had years ago?”

  “Not exactly.” Bella rubbed at her temple. “We made an agreement. An exchange. He asked for my assistance with Lady Margaret’s coming out and some other matters at Edgecombe. I asked him to visit Hillcrest in the hope of putting off Hammersley and the others.”

  Louisa had been plucking at the knitted blanket over her knees and stopped to stare at Bella, her mouth agape. “But that’s a terrible agreement.”

  “Why? It worked.”

  “He’s expecting a great deal of you and all you asked was for him to come to a fine meal and dance with you in the drawing room? Hardly onerous.”

  Bella crossed her arms. Louisa possibly had a point.

  The idea of inviting Rhys to Hillcrest had been impulsive, and she’d known that even if every gentleman visitor departed, her one main dilemma still remained. Her parents wanted her to marry and sooner rather than later.

  Wedlock was beginning to feel like a pursuer she could neither refuse nor avoid.

  “There must be a great many ways your acquaintance with a duke could be helpful,” Louisa said thoughtfully.

  Bella’s mind began buzzing in that way it did when a new idea bloomed. She started toward her wardrobe, and called back to Louisa, “Perhaps there is one thing I could ask of him.”

  Mist curled along the ground and the soft gold of morning light gilded every dewy spike of field grass on the east side of Edgecombe. Rhys stood on the long veranda behind the house, surveying his ancestral lands. He drew in a deep lungful of country air and stifled a cough when he exhaled.

  Bloody bales of endless fresh air. It smelled earthy and green. Unlike in London, he couldn’t taste soot on his tongue or breathe in its dense fog. He rather missed both. And darkness. He squinted up at the sun-gilded clouds and thought for the umpteenth time that the countryside was far too bright.

  He’d become nocturnal over the years, loving when dusk came and his day could truly begin. Indulging through the night and rising in the late afternoon. That was how he lived his life.

  But for some cruel reason he couldn’t fathom, his body betrayed him since he’d arrived at Edgecombe. Every morning, his eyes slid open at the cusp of sunrise and once he was awake, he found he couldn’t bear to lie about being idle.

  Upon waking, he
craved heat in his muscles. Something to get his blood pumping.

  Twisting the hilt of the fencing foil in his hand, he lifted the blade and pointed it toward the copse at the far edge of Claremont land. He longed for a proper fencing bout. Not that he’d ever been terribly good. His favorite fencing opponent had been formidable and she’d rarely let him come out the victor.

  He lowered the foil and circled the veranda, his breath billowing in white puffs.

  Bella. It always led back to her. Every thought since he’d arrived was colored by memories of her. She’d been an essential part of every good thing about his life in Essex.

  Now she came to mind for other reasons.

  They’d made amends, but it wasn’t enough. For so long, guilt had ridden him. An apology, he’d told himself, would salve the ache whenever he thought of her.

  But the ache hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was more acute now and it wasn’t so much an ache as longing.

  No relationship had ever come close to the trust and closeness they’d once had. Not even his friendship with Iverson and Tremayne compared. They were good men and God knew they believed in him when few others in society did. But nothing compared to confiding in Bella.

  Rhys sliced the air with the foil, then again. He stepped forward, assumed en garde position, and imagined Bella standing before him on a fencing strip.

  “You’re out of practice.”

  For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined her voice in his head. But then he heard her footsteps on the stone slabs of the veranda.

  “I lack a partner to keep up my skills,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

  Her bodice buttons were askew and the knot she’d pulled her hair into had begun to spill strands along her shoulders. She looked as if she’d dressed hurriedly and he could tell from the hem of her gown that she’d walked to Edgecombe. Pink infused her cheeks and her lush mouth.