The Duke Diaries

by Sophia Nash

  Was there anybody in the story of her life who could be original and go through their chapter without a cliché? These were the sorts of observations that her siblings never understood. Then again, most people did not either.

  Except Rory. The bloody imposter.

  No. He was really just a taker, instead of the giver she had originally taken him for. He took ladies’ hearts. He took people’s secrets, and worst of all, he took people’s blame that they had earned through years of toil and sweat. Well, maybe not sweat, but toil certainly.

  “Take your time, my child.” A teensy-weensy hint of an edge bordered the prince’s voice. “But not all day. I have things to do, places to go, and celebratory events to attend. And if you are to go with us, time . . . vast amounts of time must be spent on your appearance.” It was very hard to make out, but Verity thought the royal head suddenly leaned forward and rolled his eyes. “I had not believed him when he said three hours would not be enough time for your headgear alone, but I fear he was right.” He paused. “Then again I should know better. He is always right.”

  “Not always,” she said without thinking.

  A quick grin splashed across the only part of the royal face that she could see—the lower half. “Do you have proof he has ever been wrong? I should pay you handsomely for it if you do.”

  She thought long and hard. And then a little longer. “May I get back to you about that, sire?”

  “ ‘Get back to me’? Is that some sort of colloquialism from Derbyshire? Strange land, the Peak District. I often wonder if the thin air affects the mind. But I should not have told you that. Your brother becomes all puckered and starched up whenever I’ve hinted at it in the past. How is Candy, anyway?”

  Candy? The royal nickname for James was Candy? She nearly cried for the want to start scribbling again. “Uh, ‘Candy’ was doing very well last time we were together.”

  “Sent a note to him, by the by. Can’t have his nerves in a bundle at this moment. Why, the bachelorhood of the majority of the royal entourage hangs in the balance. And your brother is the key chessman on the board game of my life at present. Why, the fashion in which the last month or so has unraveled has made it patently clear that we must be on full alert for a return to chaos at any moment.” He yawned. “My life is in imminent danger.”

  She squinted her eyes and leaned in closer to try and see him better. “So you will still make them all marry?”

  He sat up straighter. “Do you have a better idea? He said you might. Something about dangerously creative with imagination run amok.” He belched.

  The devil. Well, Mr. I-love-you-even-if-you-are- stubborn-and-your-hats-are-hideous had just veered 180 degrees south in the complicated algorithm—or was it geometry?—that ruled her particular not-so-feminine mind. She put on her best demure smile, clutched her hands in a begging position. “Oh, no, sire. I think you are absolutely correct. There is no other way out of this sad, sad affair. They all must marry. Except my brother, of course. Two failed engagements is enough punishment. But as for the Duke of Abshire, my former betrothed, the self-proclaimed author of the Duke Diaries, the usurper of my—” She stopped. Prinny was famous for being fickle. Think before speaking. “—my . . . my . . .”

  “Innocence?” the prince offered with another yawn.

  Righteousness filled her. “No. Rory would never do anything like that.”

  The royal arm circled in the universal motion to indicate she was to speed up her harangue.

  “Well, I think, for this particular duke . . .” All the fury that had ignited within her upon reading Rory’s proclamation that he was, indeed, the infamous and—and—and tittle-tattling, gossip-mongering, prattling, blabby chatterer of the century . . . dissipated in the thick air of London’s upper stories.

  She bowed her head and whispered, “Did he learn how to listen from you or did Your Majesty learn it from him?”

  He chuckled. “I think you already know the answer to that. I would tell you that an old dog can indeed learn new tricks but I understand that you have a queer aversion to clichés. But why haven’t you asked me why I am willing to show patience, and, ahem, quite an extensive amount of time, to the real person behind the words that nearly caused a revolution not one week ago? Is that not the real question?”

  She exhaled roughly. “I fully accept any and all punishment Your Majesty decides in his royal wisdom to mete out.” She paused.

  “Go on.”

  “I would only ask if I could accept full punishment in a fashion that would not harm the reputation of my family.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. And so on and so forth. And all around the mulberry bush. The answer is no.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “No, there is no way not to harm my family, or no, you refuse to punish me even if I deserve and even demand it?”

  “Sacrifice is tedious, don’t you think? I know you do for it’s your brother’s favorite discussion. And I agree. Martyrs are not very successful at succession.”

  She didn’t dare say a word.

  “But perhaps I should go against C’s request. Perhaps I should exact some sort of punishment for your immensely foolish . . . what did he call it?”

  “ ‘Tittle-tattling, gossip-mongering, prattling, blabby chatterer of the century,’ Your Majesty,” she ground out.

  “Indeed, Lady V. He’s an absolute genius, don’t you think? You must ask him how he memorized every nuance of your handwriting, then spent hours writing new diaries he made look ancient. But the most brilliant part of his plan was taking the blame, and earning a fortune to boot, by selling the entire set to the Evening Herald.”

  “I would have thought that the brilliant part was how he made everyone, ahem, especially Your Majesty, into a veritable hero using my style of lexicon, and painted the columnist as a liar and a thief.”

  Prinny blinked. “I see why he likes you. Courage bordering on stupidity. Shall I confide the biggest secret of all, my dear? I only tell you this in the strictest of confidences, of course.”

  She blinked and then nodded, still surprised the future king wasn’t truly going to sentence her to a lifetime at Newgate for the embarrassing royal things that had been made public.

  “Do you know why that anarchist for a columnist retracted all he had quoted and printed?”

  She leaned in to hear him better.

  “Your intended terrified the little traitor. He told him that he would hang for trespassing and stealing from the Crown if he did not print an immediate apology, admitting to changing and embellishing Rory’s nonexistent diaries to incite chaos. Rory even made him suggest he was French.”

  “And he did it remarkably fast,” she said peevishly.

  “Oh, he is famous for planning, don’t you know? Arranged it all in advance. He only had to corner that weasel columnist when he returned.”

  She shook her head, both annoyed at her inability to plan as well as he—despite all her years of training—and also proud of Rory’s extraordinary abilities.

  “By the by, Lady V, was Sussex really Middlesex’s washerwoman for an entire month when he lost a wager?”

  “Every Tuesday and Friday.” She nodded gravely. “The Duke of Middlesex spent most of those days on the third story of his townhouse, facing the mews, while Sussex labored before him. The garden was fairly blue with interesting oaths I never could quite understand. Especially Fridays.”

  “Why Fridays?”

  “As far as I understood it, Sussex would have preferred to go to Tattersalls with my brother for the Friday auctions.”

  The Prince Regent clapped his hands together in glee. “You should have added that in your description.”

  “I daresay, it was bad enough,” she replied.

  The prince half lowered his lids over his eyes. “I should enjoy reading the rest of your writings, my dear. When may I expect to have them?”

  It was no idle request, and they both knew it.

  “I am so sorry, Your Ma
jesty, but in the interest of succession I burned them before I came here.”

  He leveled a glare that would have withered a bigger man. “Too bad.” Prinny readjusted his cap. “Let’s see, where was I?”

  “Punishment. Mine. ”

  “Right. Yes, I have it. You are to relearn the hazards of martyrdom from your brother, who will reeducate you on the importance of remaining who you are by means of regular beating, with a rod not more than one-inch thick, and solitary confinement in a dungeon.”

  She swallowed. “I see.”

  “I’m not finished, my dear. You demanded punishment and I shall gladly bestow it even if it saddens C. So the last part is simple. After your confinement, you shall enter a new state of confinement. You’ll marry the boy and bear his heirs. We need more C’s in the world. You’re on your own regarding his martyrdom. He’s in complete denial.”

  “Uh . . . Right. Um, and who is C?”

  He snorted. “With a naturalist mother such as yours, surely you know all about that creature with a prehensile tail, independent eyeballs, and the ability to blend into surroundings.”

  She stood stock-still.

  “You may tell him that he has earned his retirement.” The Prince Regent rubbed his nightcap, exposing an inch of graying stubble on one side of his head and long strands on the other.

  “Are you telling me—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But—”

  “My dear Lady V, if you say one more word, I may just change my mind and have you thrown in my dungeon with nothing to eat except . . .” He looked at her with a question in his wise but weary eyes.

  “Fig tarts?” she said with hope.

  “Excellent . . . another liar to add to my list.”

  At that precise moment someone—someone identified by his prehensile tail, independent eyeballs, and the ability to blend into surroundings—crashed through the royal door.

  He slapped one hand against the other. “Finally . . . I was getting a bit worried about my abilities in my declining years.”

  Prinny chuckled. “ ‘Act old later’ has always been my motto.”

  Their eyes met, and she could not feel her hands.

  The prince chuckled again. “All right, all right, enough of that . . . one could hope you have the Special License with you, C. I’m not sure I can stand one more round of gossip concerning C’s and V’s and so on and so forth, and round and round. My God, have neither of you any respect for my nerves at all? Scandalous. Find a chamber. But be ready in six hours. And find her a real hat to replace that bird’s nest falling to pieces, C. That is a royal command.”

  Chapter 20

  The return ride to Derbyshire was the exact opposite of his ride to Town. He would not let her gallop. And he would not leave her side.

  They stopped at every inn, as early in the day as he could wheedle from her. And she had let him. If only to prove that she could keep that Fitzroy obdurate nature in check now that she was a Lennox.

  Up to a point.

  Forty miles from Rutledge, to be exact. All evidence of an obedient wife in the making disappeared that late morning.

  Thank God.

  “Rory?”

  “Yes, my love.”

  “I’m not stopping anymore.”

  “Sorry?” He smiled to himself.

  “Look, I’m tired.”

  The smile fell from him and he rushed on, “Let’s go back to the inn. I’m tired, too,” he lied.

  “No,” she said. “You misunderstand. I’m tired of all these villages and stops in inns. I want to go home.”

  “I sent word on ahead to James that we’d arrive at Boxwood the day after tomorrow.”

  She halted her mare. “No. I want to go to your home.”

  “Our home,” he corrected. “But it’s five miles farther.”

  She smiled. “Then we’ll just have to race the last five miles. Last one there forfeits whatever the other wants.”

  He just couldn’t deny her when she looked at him with a huge smile on her face and the corners of her eyes crinkling with laughter in her heart.

  Of course he let her win. There wasn’t another option.

  As they rode past the end post, she wore the same expression. But said not a word.

  They rode side by side into the stable. Dawn was streaking pink tentacles in the sky.

  As they rounded the corner from the stables, a short distance to the main entrance, she stopped.

  Her mouth fell open.

  The door was gone.

  “Oh my God. We’ve been robbed.”

  He grasped her waist and pulled her close. “No we haven’t. I asked Cheever to do it when I left.”

  “Are you out of your mind? We’ll be robbed blind.”

  “Who in hell cares? It’s just things, Verity. Replaceable.”

  She shook her head. “Where are the servants?”

  “I sent word ahead from the last inn. I gave them leave for the next two days. I think they were glad to go, to be honest. They think I’ve taken leave of my senses.”

  “You have.”

  “Your cousin doesn’t think so.”

  “Pardon me? When was she here?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Be serious, Rory.”

  “She told me to open the door to my cage. And I find—unlike you, apparently—that she gives excellent advice. You would do well to listen to her.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Sweetest words in the English language.” He picked her up and nuzzled her head, relishing the feel of her in his arms and the scent of her in his mind. “By the by, I haven’t told you the latest gossip in the county.”

  She stiffened in his arms.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Really,” she retorted, doubt dripping from the word.

  “You’ll like it very much.”

  “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  “I’m trying to learn how to maintain suspense, in the same fashion you managed in your diaries.”

  “I see.” She did not go on.

  He waited. And waited. And finally sighed as he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber that was now hers. “I see I haven’t quite mastered the art of it.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she whispered.

  He stayed silent.

  She finally could not hold back her laughter another moment. “Enough. I can’t stand it. Tell me!”

  “All right, then.”

  When he did not go on, she beat his chest with her fists. She was stronger than she appeared.

  “Far too curious, in addition to being far too stubborn. A quite lethal combination.”

  “Very nearly, in your case,” she said dryly. She said not another word.

  He carried her down three more corridors, made a left past the Blue Room, filled with war trophies that boggled the mind. It was the only door he had not personally removed from the hinges. That one would stay locked. Forever.

  “Rory?”

  “Yes, my love.”

  “The thing of it is . . .”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “You see . . .”

  He sighed. “You’re so much better at this than I.”

  “It’s all in the timing.”

  He gently tipped her to regain her footing in front of the opening to his chamber. Then he kissed her. He gazed into her eyes and kissed her again.

  And once again with more feeling.

  “Stop.” She finally pushed against his chest. “I give up. You are much better than I could have possibly known.”

  “Well, you are a good teacher.”

  She smiled at him.

  “So shall I tell you finally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Rory?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “If you have any intention to make love to me before I fall dead asleep—and I think you know that when I say dead asleep you understand the full nature of the p
robability—then you had better just spit it out.”

  He smiled.

  “Is it that important?”

  “Well, I think so. If we are going to live on this gossip-infested peak, which puts London to shame, I had better learn how to whisper over scandalbroth with the best of them.”

  She arched a brow and leaned forward in the overt nature of a gossip of the finest water. “So?”

  “Miss Phoebe Talmadge is soon to exchange her name for another.”

  “Really?” She obviously did not believe him. “And who told you this?”

  “The ostler’s daughter at the last posting house.”

  “Then it’s true,” she said, quite serious now. “And who is the lucky, very rich man?” She paused. “If you tell me it’s James, I might have to go back to the posting inn and do bodily harm.” She stared at him with those big brown eyes of hers. “And then find a snake-charmer for James.”

  He finally let her out of her misery. “Mr. Armitage. Your vicar.” He shook his head like a seasoned magpie.

  Her eyes widened. And then she laughed. “Do be serious. Gossip has to resemble something that could actually happen. Plagues in jungles, revolution in London, me with you.” She whispered the last.

  He kissed her tenderly again. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait. He had been too long without her in his arms.

  “Seriously?” She began to laugh again.

  “That is not how I expect my wife to react to my kisses.”

  “No, Rory.” She wiped her eyes. “Tell me the truth of it.”

  He crossed his hand over his heart, just like Mrs. Greer had the night that was the best and worst of his life.

  “But how could it be?” Wonder filling her voice.

  He arched a brow and whispered in her ear. “I saw them talking by the water goblets in Boxwood’s alcove.”

  “You’ll do very well here,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  He watched her tug on one end of his neckcloth, which fell open. He felt her fingers on his skin and then her lips in the hollow of his neck.

  It was his undoing. He picked her up and carried her to his bed.

  “You know, Rory, you are going to have to stop this picking me up business. I’m beginning to feel like an infant. I do know how to walk.”