The Duke Diaries

by Sophia Nash

  He stared at her. “Is that possible?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To live your own life. Do any of us really live our own lives, Verity?”

  “Of course we—”

  He interrupted. “And what of your sisters? Have you no concern for how this would affect your sisters’ chances, indeed your entire family’s good name?”

  “Of course I do. But the fact of the matter is that my sisters have shown far less interest than even I regarding marriage. And we both know James’s fortune and standing will not be affected by a sister gone astray.”

  He shook his head.

  “If the truth be known, my brother is secretly delighted we have no suitors. No evil brothers-in-law to rescue from financial ruin. No hanger-on relations. And my sisters and I realized long ago that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She gazed into his eyes and saw a flicker of sadness lurking. “We realized our enormous dowries were merely a device to weed out gentlemen courting us for the wrong reasons.”

  “I had not guessed your brother to be so soft. Marriage is nothing more than a uniting of two families—refilling coffers, strengthening influence, and acquiring land for future generations.”

  “Perhaps,” she said quietly. “It’s all that to be sure. But for one to be happy, marriage must feature a good deal more.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Kindness, respect, good humor, and above all . . . something I shall not say for I am in no mood to endure your disdain.”

  “Then I shall say it. You believe love is necessary.”

  “Yes, if one is to enjoy all the fruits of marriage—as my mother and father did. And before you change the subject by commenting on my excellent taste”—she nodded toward another of her collection of ancient bonnets tossed haphazardly in the tall grass—“I shall tell you why it’s important.”

  He eyed her hat that was an amalgamation of three of her sisters’s bonnets they had tried to lay to rest. “I can be persuaded to listen to you and to ignore your exquisite fashion sense if I’m allowed to liken your eyes to roasted December chestnuts.”

  She tried to ignore the pain of his wit, which he obviously used to retreat from the intimacy they had briefly shared. “If there is one thing I’ve learned, Rory, it’s this: everyone wants and needs love, whether they have the courage to admit it or not.”

  “And? I sense an ‘and’ coming.”

  “And if one doesn’t find it in their spouse, the person will either look for it outside the union or renounce love altogether. These two options promise nothing but heartache in the end.”

  “You are far more sensible than any woman I’ve ever known, V.”

  “Flattery?”

  “You would prefer wit?”

  “No. I would prefer brutal honesty. Something you are not prepared to give,” she replied.

  That gave him pause.

  “Fear not, I don’t expect it for the long term,” she continued. “But I do expect it now. For this one instance, so we understand each other.”

  “I understand you more than you think,” he replied softly. “But you have forgotten one thing, Verity.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You have. You’ve forgotten that friendship and respect far outweighs the uncertainty of love.”

  Her gaze darted to his.

  “How many people do you know who are happy five, ten, twenty years after a so-called love match? It is simply impossible. Love fades. Friendship stands a better chance. If we marry, I can promise you that I would always respect you, honor you, and endeavor to make you happy.”

  She could not figure the chess game he was playing now. She had already promised to enter into an engagement to stave off the worst of the rumors yet ensure permanent freedom. “Rory?”

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “I’ve promised to become your fiancée, but that is all. I’ve given you my reasons. You already know my stubborn nature, inherited from both sides of my family tree. I am offering the only thing I can. But do not misunderstand me. I will end this before vows are exchanged. This must erase any last remnants of your feelings of guilt. You will be helping me achieve what I have wanted for a very long time. And I will thank you. You will be relieving me from the burden of having to listen to an endless stream of people in the neighborhood clucking and asking if anyone has attempted to court me, while peering at me from pitying eyes. It is unbearable.”

  He was looking at her with those eyes she dreaded and knew far too well.

  “Verity, I will not allow you to mire yourself in such muck to—”

  “You heard me. Are we in agreement, then? No, I’ve changed my mind. You are not to agree. You are to consider yourself officially engaged to me from this moment on. I shall take care of the rest of it since you, as a gentleman, no matter how jaded, cannot possibly entertain the notion of a future rupture that would so wholly taint me.”

  “At such a cost,” he murmured.

  “I am more than willing to pay it.”

  “You know,” he said with a sad smile, “if you keep going on like this, I might very well come to the conclusion that I’ve been blindly existing under the delusion that I am irresistible.”

  “Then,” she finally allowed herself to smile, “all of this might be good for your soul.”

  Chapter 8

  He did not dare to give her time to change her mind. Not that Verity was the sort to do so. Rory had recently deduced that her intellect worked in a fashion that was more orderly than most.

  And so he took advantage of his elevated station, and did the unpardonably rude action of announcing their betrothal that very night—not at his own table—but rather at the long, well-polished rosewood antique of the Baron and Baroness Littlefield, where the established elite of the neighborhood dined regularly on a bounty of singularly inedible food.

  He at least waited to speak until after the dessert course—a very dry, indiscernible fruit fool. Grasping his glass of watered-down wine, Rory abruptly stood, the legs of his chair squealing in distress. Three guests down and opposite him, Verity sat; her eyes had not met his once during the meal. He dared not look to her now while the clattering of knives and wagging tongues stilled.

  “None of you can be at a loss for what I am to announce. I do beg your pardon, Baron, for snatching any of the good wishes during this celebration of the baroness’s birthday, but I take heart for I do believe she will like being the first to know—”

  Silver-haired Baroness Littlefield clapped her wrinkled hands in glee. “La! I fully anticipated this when the baron suggested—”

  A chorus of hushes prevented her from continuing.

  His eyes darted to Verity, only to encounter her bowed head. He inhaled. “As I was saying, you are all the first to know that Lady Verity Fitzroy has made me the happiest of men by consenting to be my bride.”

  A welling of excited sounds erupted all around. The baron exited his chair at the head of the table to personally pound him on the back with a great guffaw. “Oh, I say, Your Grace. This is famous.” He turned to address the baroness. “My dear, do we have a bit of absinthe to toast the happy couple? It is the duke’s favored brew, is it not?” Titters erupted all around.

  “Oh, how delighted the Prince Regent will be!” The baroness continued coyly, “Has he given his blessing?”

  So this was how the news was to be interpreted. An arranged marriage for a disgraced member of the royal entourage to save the monarchy. Well, at least it was better than what Verity had suggested. Rory glanced again toward her. Her face had finally regained an ounce of the color that had been lacking all evening.

  “How kind you are, Baron,” Verity finally said once the laughter had died down, “and all of you. His Grace and I thank you for your good wishes.”

  She was a proper lady through and through. Not that Rory did not know it. She instinctively knew how to endure the ribald ribbing while holding her head high. He made his way to stand behind
her chair. Rory raised his glass and the rest of the occupants of the dining hall followed suit. “To the health and happiness of my future duchess.”

  “To Lady Fitzroy,” the chorus of well-wishers echoed back.

  Rory’s gut was churning. No doubt due to the burnt quail with uncooked beets. But his heart was calm as he leaned down, kissed her cheek, and then whispered in her ear. “I have you now. No turning back.”

  She half turned in her chair and replied softly, “Say you. Everyone else thinks I caught you.”

  There was something about the moment. The way she looked up at him with her laughing brown eyes that made his soul expand just the slightest bit. He grasped her chin and in a wildly inappropriate fashion kissed her full on the lips, causing a roar of approval from everyone in the hall.

  With the exception of one person, who had exited unnoticed many moments before.

  Verity closed the last of the housekeeper’s seven ledgers. She knew she’d put off what she had been avoiding all morning at her desk in the Great Chamber, the cavernous room she appropriated for herself many years ago when she discovered that no one had any use for it except on the rare occasion of a royal visit. Her sisters refused to set foot anywhere other than the beloved library filled with twenty thousand volumes dating back nine generations. And James presided over all in his walnut-paneled study.

  And so Verity spent most of her late afternoons here, watched over by a veritable gallery of stern, brown-eyed ancestors staring at her from gilt frames. Limewood carvings on the polished dark walls, of birds, other wildlife, and the beauty of nature, surrounded the portraits. She glanced at the turbulent scene of archangels engaged in battle against Beelzebub’s minions painted above her before she forced herself to examine the freshly ironed stack of newspapers just come from London.

  It was the moment of truth. She had tried to ignore the growing tide of London gossip, deliciously whispered at every dinner, ball, and after church the last few days. But now that Rory had officially announced their engagement, she must begin the grand deception. If she had any last hope or impossible dream that the engagement would transform into a happy truth, these newspapers could effectively kill it. Verity had avoided all newspapers since arriving from Town but she had to forearm herself with the truth.

  She turned the brittle pages to the only one that mattered. The delicately scrolled edges of “The Fashionable World” column framed the gossip of Christendom’s center of the universe: London. Her gaze scanned and then came to rest on a strangely bolded series of paragraphs.

  Excerpt No. 7. In which the high and mighty once again show the depths of their depravity courtesy of a delightful, mysterious author whose words continue to inform us of the sinful past of our soon-to-be-former aristocracy.

  Her heart pounded erratically as the all too familiar words rushed at her.

  I daresay that the very pages upon which I write will go up in flames from the shame of the actions witnessed this last night.

  Fortunes were lost, fortunes were told, and a fortunate group of dukes made more than merry. Of course, they had little choice. A future king was in evidence and bade them to celebrate.

  At half twelve, in the midst of a game of Vingt-et-un with stultifying stakes, the butler entered to inform that three Gypsies had been apprehended stealing chickens. It seemed they had not anticipated the viciousness of this particular duchy’s hens. In a show of great condescension and, may I add, interference in what should have been the host duke’s own business, Prinny demanded the “visitors” be brought forth for punishment. Their fine was to read all of the royal entourage’s fortunes. They were then invited to go forth and raid all the surrounding neighbors’ henhouses with impunity.

  The game of Vingt-et-un recommenced, during which: seven horses, three phaetons, four paintings by masters, twenty-two thousand gold guineas, and a small estate in Scotland changed hands.

  Nine of England’s finest woke at half past two in the afternoon the next day only to find chicken feathers covering every last square inch of the gilt State Bedchamber in which the Prince Regent snored.

  Well.

  Her head spinning for lack of oxygen, Verity finally gulped for air. Where were her smelling salts when she really, truly needed them?

  Was there to be no end to the level of insanity overtaking her life at present?

  Hands shaking, she forced herself to examine the next edition.

  A quarter of an hour later Verity reached behind the portrait of the third Duke of Candover, he of the darkest stare of the bunch, and withdrew the key to the secret compartment of the burled wood desk. It was empty, of course, of her most recent diary as well as her favorite one from long ago. But beyond the other incriminating leather-bound volumes (soon to be burned), rested oblivion—the bottle of Armagnac her mother had secretly gifted to her from her great friend the Dowager Duchess of Helston.

  Verity had only tasted the pungent, fruity spirits one other time in her life, and on that occasion swore she would never do anything so stupid again in her life. And one would think that the only other time she had dabbled with spirits—the night she tried absinthe—would have solidified her vow.

  Then again, she could never have imagined her godforsaken life could drift into such unbearable darkness.

  She halfheartedly searched the drawer for a glass. Not finding any, she uncorked the green bottle, the color so very like his eyes, and lifted it to her lips for a very long moment . . . for one bloody long evening of respite from this hell of her own making. And then she tipped the bottle again. And again.

  Early the next morning, Rory placed two missives in the gleaming salver presented to him by the immaculately white-gloved hands of his butler. “The one to Candover is an Express, Cheever.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. And may I take this opportunity to extend the gracious good wishes of the entire staff here at Rutledge on the occasion of your betrothal?”

  “You may.” He bit back a smile. The old man was just as stiff as the day Rory had left.

  “And may I add that we are all much honored you have chosen to return?”

  “You may.”

  “And may I—”

  He interrupted. “You may say whatever you please, Cheever. And you may also inform the staff that I shan’t go away again for a long time.”

  The old man smiled. Beamed, actually. It was the first time Rory had ever seen the man’s teeth.

  “Now, run along, Cheever, I have far too many important things to do here than to spend the day flapping my gums with you.” He made a show of glancing at a ledger. “Why, apparently, there are eggs to count, sheep to fleece, and horses to be shod if I have the right of it. I do assure you the army was far more amusing. But first, you may show the duchess in.”

  Cheever bowed and left one hell of a lot more amused than he had ever been in service to the last duke. Rory steepled his fingers. What had come over him? He could not remember the last time he had felt so lighthearted.

  And now he had the pleasure of a visit from the new Duchess of Norwich. Aside from his recent fete champêtre, the last time he had seen Esme was when he had gone fishing at the age of eighteen and she appeared at the same fishing hole. The mysterious young girl had put a serious dent in his manly pride by catching twelve fish to his one.

  She had looked him up and down and announced, “Of course I have more fish. The females in my family know how to tickle trout onto a line far better than any silly boy.” That this lady had somehow become Seventeen’s duchess was not a surprise. There had always been something fishy about her.

  “My dear Esme,” he said, rising to greet her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Norwich doesn’t fish.”

  “I see.” He didn’t want to see at all. His virility was about to be called into question again; he was certain.

  She looked him over carefully from head to toe just exactly as she had done recently on his own lawn, and also all those years ago. “Can you still not tole
rate defeat?”

  She always had spoken her mind. Almost as much as Verity. Did the Peak District only produce this wild breed of females? He fervently hoped it was so.

  “Correct,” he replied.

  “Good. Because if you allow Verity to beat you at this game she will not discuss with me, but of your own making I am certain, then I will be forced to cast a spell on you and it will involve something far more terrifying than a duck.”

  He scratched his chin. “You still haven’t told him, have you?” He took pride in expertly diverting the conversation.

  “Of course not,” she murmured. “And you are not to tell Norwich either.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with false meekness. “But you are going to tell him one day, aren’t you? I hate to think of the misery he is suffering not knowing your relation to the lady who cursed his line.”

  “You love to think of the misery he is suffering. You don’t fool me, Rory Lennox. I’m glad you’ve finally come back, by the by.”

  “Are you going to sit down? Or are you going to keep me on my feet?”

  “On your feet. My driver has the poles.”

  “I hadn’t expected the pleasure. I’m afraid I have far too many ledgers to review to accept your very kind invitation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Excuses, excuses.”

  “You are the most terrifying creature I know. Have you shown this side to Norwich?”

  “Absolutely not. He can barely stand my painting alone.”

  He shook his head. “That does not bode well.”

  “Says a man whose engagement to my favorite cousin reeks of uncertainty.”

  A half hour later found the two of them standing on the west bank of his lake, with four plump trout in the grass to show for their effort. All hers, of course.

  “And the real reason for your visit, Duchess?”

  “Shhhh . . . I feel one, considering my choice morsel.”