Once Upon A Dream

by Mary Balogh, Grace Burrowes

  “Effie was right,” she said, which made no sense. “Come along, Your Grace. A hungry duke is not a patient creature.”

  She took him by the wrist and led him into the cooler confines of the shaded garden, where, as fate or a lucky duke would have it, not another soul was to be seen.

  * * * * *

  Sedgemere was a tease.

  Anne marveled to reach this conclusion, but what else explained that slight warmth in his eyes, the affection with which he complained about His Grace of Hardcastle, or the way he’d invited her to curse him?

  She preceded the duke into a garden redolent of honeysuckle and lush grass, for this was a cottage garden, not the manicured miniature park found behind the town houses in London’s wealthy neighborhoods.

  “I’ve never seen heartsease in such abundance,” she said, as the duke closed the garden door. “And the lavender is exquisite.” The border along the garden’s south-facing wall was thick with silvery - green leaves and vibrantly- purple flowers.

  “It’s been years since I took a moment to tarry in this garden,” Sedgemere said, taking off his hat. “There’s as much delight here for the nose as for the eye, and the quiet pleases even the weary traveler’s ear.”

  His pale hair was creased from his hat brim. Anne riffled the duke’s hair back into order, as she would have with her papa.

  “Better,” she said. “Can’t have you looking like John Coachman at the end of a hard morning’s drive, Your Grace. I must have a whiff of that lavender.”

  Anne marched across the garden, expecting her escort to follow. Sedgemere remained in the shade near the gate, his hat in hand, his expression chilly indeed. Perhaps one didn’t put a duke to rights, but Sedgemere would probably have expired of excessive dignity before running his hand through his own hair.

  Anne plucked several sprigs of lavender, squeezing the flowers gently to release their scent. “Have you a penknife, Your Grace?”

  He emerged from the shadows and passed her not a penknife, but a folding knife extracted from his boot.

  “Don’t you have outriders, lackeys, footmen, and such to carry arms for you?” Anne asked, cutting the lavender stems short.

  “A duke is a target, Miss Faraday, and thus the duke himself should be armed at all times. Do you travel to your father’s estate in Yorkshire?”

  He meant he was a target for more than matchmakers. That the ducal person would be endangered by wealth and status had not occurred to her.

  “Yorkshire is my final destination, and I hope Papa will join me there, but he takes his work seriously.”

  Anne had done it again, brought up her father’s work early in a conversation. She must learn to be more careful around Sedgemere, though nobody else had noticed her tendency to mention commerce so readily.

  “May I?” Sedgemere took the lavender from her and divided the bundle, passing half back to her. The remaining sprigs he attempted to tuck into the lapel of his riding jacket.

  “Let me,” Anne said, taking back the lavender and grasping the duke’s lapel. “You’ll break the stems, and it wants…”

  She fell silent, fashioning an informal boutonnière for His Grace. Standing this close to him, she caught the scent of horse, exertion, and something like the garden itself. Private greenery and summer flowers, with the lavender note more prominent.

  “There,” she said, smoothing the shoulder of his jacket. “You’re marginally presentable.”

  Anne was tall, but Sedgemere had nearly six inches on her. He stood gazing down the ducal proboscis, his expression much like it had been at the garden gate.

  “I’m sorry,” Anne said, stepping back, as heat rose up her neck that had nothing to do with the oppressive weather. “I don’t mean to presume, but my father has long been widowed. I’m more than of age, and thus I’m the lady of his house. He’d go about half-dressed, a laughingstock, unless I took him in hand, and I don’t—”

  A single bare finger landed gently on Anne’s lips.

  “My own duchess,” Sedgemere said, “who was very mindful of the appearances, never troubled herself over my attire. I am in your debt.”

  Was he teasing? Scolding? “You are not mocking me,” Anne concluded. “Papa is frequently the object of ridicule. The titled gentlemen, and even some of the ladies, will call upon him, all of them in need of money. They do not respect him.”

  Too late, Anne recalled that Sedgemere had called on Papa too, more than once.

  “Let us find a bench in the shade,” Sedgemere said, placing Anne’s hand on his arm. “I respect your father very much, and I suspect half the sneering, impecunious younger sons who seek his coin not only respect him, they fear him.”

  “Not only younger sons,” Anne said. “Papa has been summoned to call upon more than one royal duke, Your Grace.”

  The duke found them a worn wooden bench beneath a spreading oak, where the fragrance of honeysuckle was thick in the air. Propriety was appeased by a clear view of the open doors that doubtless led to the inn’s common.

  “I enjoy puzzles,” Sedgemere said, coming down beside her. “Two solutions present themselves to the riddle of why a royal duke would take tea with a lowly, if wealthy, banker. Your father was summoned to Clarence or Cambridge’s parlor either to buy a minor title for himself or a lofty title for you.”

  How easily Sedgemere divined the disrespect that characterized all of Anne’s days. “Well, no, actually. In exchange for the privilege of enduring an aging royal duke’s intimate company, Papa would be considered for the honors list, for a sum certain.”

  The intimations had been delicate, but clear: Papa had been invited to pay to ensconce Anne as the mistress of a royal duke. She’d laughed when Papa had come home fuming and sputtering, poured Papa a brandy, and calmed him down, then gone to her room and sobbed into her pillow.

  Sedgemere took Anne’s hand when she would have bolted from the bench. “Your tale confirms what most of the realm has long suspected: With few exceptions, the present royal dukes are parasites and trollops. On their behalf, I apologize, Miss Faraday.”

  How had she got onto this subject, and why did Sedgemere’s apology make her throat ache?

  “Papa said the entire conversation progressed by innuendo and intimation, and that he might have been mistaken.” He’d needed three brandies to concoct that bouncer.

  “But he warned you nonetheless,” Sedgemere said. “No wonder you have no patience with dukes or debutantes. You must consider the lot of us beneath your notice.”

  His hand was warm, and while Anne hadn’t held hands with a man before, she suspected Sedgemere was good at it. The duke had the knack of a grasp that comforted rather than restrained, a gentle hold that was in no wise tentative.

  “It’s worse than that, Your Grace. I have no idea what to do with any of you. I can’t afford to mistake a false smile for one that’s genuine, I can’t trust a gentleman to be a gentleman, I can’t say the wrong thing, and thus even what I don’t say becomes a means of judging me. I have decided that once I get home to Yorkshire, I will remain there. Papa can argue all he pleases, but I’m tired—”

  Effie marched through the French doors, two serving maids behind her, the Duke of Hardcastle bringing up the rear. When Anne would have snatched her hand back, Sedgemere held firm, patted her knuckles, and only then allowed her to retrieve her hand.

  “You have all the burdens of being a duchess,” he said, “but none of the benefits. I know of this weariness you mention, Miss Faraday, and the longing to retire to the country, for it plagues me as well. Don’t tell Hardcastle, though, for somebody must keep an eye on him in Town, and that somebody is me.”

  Sedgemere assisted Anne to her feet, while Hardcastle fussed the maids about where to spread the blanket, and Effie fussed generally. For a progression of astonished minutes, Anne remained arm in arm with the only titled person to ever, ever offer her kindness and understanding rather than judgment and ridicule.

  * * * * *

 
“I think she likes me,” Hardcastle said from his side of the picnic blanket. “I have an instinct about these things, and Miss Faraday likes me.”

  “She felt sorry for you,” Sedgemere replied, brushing his fingers over the lavender scenting his lapel. “Your entire conversation dealt with your prodigy of a nephew, your prodigy of a horse, or your nephew’s prodigy of a governess.”

  Sedgemere had been particularly interested to hear about this governess—Miss Ellen MacHugh—for Hardcastle’s rhapsodies on her behalf sparked memories of similar flights from him over the past several years.

  No wonder Hardcastle was so devoted to the family seat, poor sod.

  “My nephew and my horse are very intelligent,” Hardcastle retorted as the serving maids cleared away the detritus of the picnic. “Miss MacHugh is…”

  Sedgemere let the silence lengthen. Miss Faraday had followed her maid inside, and the fresh team of horses had yet to arrive. The meal had been delightful, with Miss Faraday gently teasing Hardcastle, and Hardcastle’s expression turning as dazed as Sedgemere felt.

  “Miss MacHugh is… my nephew’s governess,” Hardcastle said. “The boy is devoted to her.”

  “You are a duke,” Sedgemere replied as the last of the serving maids left them the privacy of the garden. “If you want to marry a governess, then marry her. Dukes have married serving maids, mistresses, commoners of every stripe. Marry your Miss MacHugh.”

  “Don’t be daft. A duke must marry responsibly, or gossip will plague his duchess all of her days.”

  Sedgemere got to his feet, for a commotion beyond the garden walls suggested the new team was in the stable yard.

  “That is your grandmother talking, Hardcastle. If you are plaguing your duchess all of her days and nights, and your duchess returns the compliment, what matters gossip?”

  Hardcastle was off the blanket in one lithe movement, dusting at his breeches and tapping his hat onto his head.

  “Your circumstances are different,” Hardcastle said, pulling his riding gloves from a pocket. “You married quite well, your nursery is full, and the rest of your days and nights are your own to do as you see fit.”

  Where had Miss Faraday got off to, and what was Hardcastle hinting at? “I’m in no mood to repeat the error of my first marriage, Hardcastle. No more need be said on that matter.”

  Hardcastle had no graces, but he was brave, as all dukes needed to be. “Miss Faraday likes you too, Sedgemere. She’s an heiress, she’s pretty, she’s situated not far from your family seat, and you are smitten. I can excuse you from the house party if you’d rather woo the fair maid this summer.”

  Sedgemere wandered over to the lavender border, cut off a fat bunch of sprigs, and stuffed them in his pocket. He wouldn’t know how to woo Miss Faraday if she wrote him instructions. Dukes were excused from the wooing portion of a young man’s education, which might explain why duchesses were a sour-natured lot.

  “Miss Faraday is justifiably unimpressed with polite society,” Sedgemere said, for Hardcastle had wandered right along beside him. “She longs for a life of peaceful spinsterhood, and has nothing but bad associations with titled men.”

  “You have nothing but bad associations with titled men and women,” Hardcastle retorted, “present company excepted, I hope. What would it hurt to ride over to Yorkshire and see how she’s getting on in a week or two?”

  It would hurt, to see Miss Faraday happily ensconced at her father’s lovely estate, relieved to be free of dukes, dowagers, and talk of her dowry.

  “We have a house party to endure, Hardcastle, and Miss Faraday is intent on a repairing lease at her father’s estate, if not a full retreat. I’d have better luck with your governess.”

  Dark brows drew down fiercely at that suggestion, while Miss Faraday emerged from the inn, her hair somewhat tidier.

  Which made Sedgemere want to un-tidy it.

  “I’ll see to the horses,” Hardcastle said, touching a finger to Sedgemere’s boutonnière, then taking his leave of the lady.

  Miss Faraday smiled at Hardcastle in parting, patted his shoulder, then his hand, and all the while, she didn’t seem to know she was taking liberties with a ducal person. She’d spoken honestly, then. She was simply accustomed to life as her papa’s companion, which struck Sedgemere as… wrong.

  “Your Grace,” she said, her smile dimming. “I must thank you for your company and for the loan of your team. I’ll send John back with them within the week.”

  “No hurry. My stables are extensive, and I’ve plenty for my own needs.” He also kept teams of his choosing at various coaching inns, as did Hardcastle. The loan of a team of horses was nothing to him.

  “Do you even know how dismissive you sound?” she asked.

  They were alone in the garden, and though they were in full view of the common, the midday hour had passed, and thus they had relative privacy for a few more minutes.

  “I’ve cultivated the ability to dismiss with a word, a silence, a lifted eyebrow,” Sedgemere said. “You have the same talent, though.”

  Ah, he’d surprised her. What a treat, to see confusion instead of a wariness in her eyes.

  “I am not a duke, sir. I don’t cultivate haughtiness.”

  Sedgemere leaned closer. “You, madam, have glowered at me from across a ballroom so loudly I was certain I had failed to button my falls, at the very least. Had perhaps even dribbled gravy on my cravat.”

  “I did that?” She was pleased with herself, as well she should be. “Are you certain I was looking at you? If you were standing near a royal duke, for example, or a certain viscount, or possibly—there’s nearly a regiment of earls I avoid at all costs.”

  “So you turn that glower on us all,” Sedgemere said, “and here I thought you cherished a special disdain for me. I’m crushed to know I merit not even your particular dislike, Miss Faraday.”

  Out in the inn yard, Helton called for the team to be backed into the traces. The time to part had arrived, and were Sedgemere another man, he would have admitted to anger. Miss Faraday would depart for Yorkshire, there to hide from polite society. He would travel on to the Lakes to dodge the matchmakers while keeping Hardcastle from their clutches as well.

  What a waste of a lovely summer, and of a lovely woman with whom Sedgemere had found an odd commonality of interests.

  “We should go,” Miss Faraday said. “Where’s your hat, Your Grace?”

  “You truly have to manage your father, don’t you?” Sedgemere said, retrieving his hat from a bench.

  Miss Faraday’s features arranged themselves into the expression he’d seen from her before. Banked distaste, not a sneer, more like controlled martyrdom.

  “Papa is hopeless. People seek his counsel either because they need coin, or because they need to turn two coins into three. He helps as many as he can, but the interest he reaps is disrespect. He doesn’t even see most of it, and has no idea why a man’s cravat ought to be a basis for judging him.”

  They ambled into the shade, pausing before the closed garden door.

  Sedgemere cast around for some encouraging words, some cheering sentiment he could leave Miss Faraday with. Her course was set: She would retire to the country, nurture her affronted dignity, and grow thorny roses—or something.

  “What’s the worst part of it?” he asked, settling his hat on his head. “What makes London unbearable?”

  For London was the only place he was likely to see her, assuming she ever again ventured south.

  “The money,” she said, in the same tones somebody else might have referred to the scent downwind from a shambles. “People don’t see me, they see the money. They resent it, they covet it, they gossip about it, and all I am is a means to that money. Papa doesn’t understand. I didn’t understand myself until the marriage proposals started.”

  From that pack of nasty, presuming earls, no doubt.

  “For me, it’s the title,” Sedgemere said. He and the lady were parting, their paths likely would never cro
ss again, and he could be honest with Anne Faraday as he wasn’t honest with even Hardcastle. “I never wanted a damned title, much less a ducal title. I’m not a man, I’m a title, a deep pocket, consequence, estates.”

  “So,” she said, straightening a wrinkle in his coat sleeve over his biceps, “you snarl and sneer, and arch the eyebrow of doom, lest any presume on your good nature. Good for you, sir. You’re entitled to your privacy, and to deal with the world on your own terms.”

  Anne Faraday addressed him not as a duke, who endured toadying and deference without limit, but rather, as a man who’d put up with enough, and had a right to order his affairs as he saw fit. Nobody else had spoken to him thus. Nobody else had dared.

  Nobody else had understood.

  Sedgemere meant to kiss her cheek, truly he did. Maybe she meant to kiss his too, for when Sedgemere lowered his head, lips at the ready for a chaste—if bold—buss to her cheek, she presented her lips, also at the ready, and a kiss occurred.

  Not a kiss to anybody’s cheek, but a collision of lips, surprised at first, then curious, then… enthusiastic.

  Wonderfully, lustily enthusiastic. Everything external fell away from Sedgemere’s notice—the inn yard commotion beyond the garden wall, the clatter and clank of dishes from a kitchen window ten yards off, the lowing of a cow in the pasture behind the inn.

  While everything inside Sedgemere, everything that brushed up against the slightest aspect of that kiss, woke up.

  And rejoiced.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Anne had three more days on the king’s highway before she reached her destination, three days of jostling, bouncing, and ignoring Effie’s prattle.

  Three days and two nights of failing to find the right words to describe the Duke of Sedgemere’s kiss. That single kiss had been surprising. Anne hadn’t realized she was capable of flaunting convention to the extent of putting her lips on the ducal person.