A knock sounded, and before he could utter a word, the bedroom door swung open and his valet marched in. Raphe had forgotten about him. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?” the man asked.
“Err . . .” Raphe scratched his head. Christ, he sounded daft. Not to mention that he was naked—a fact that didn’t appear to faze his valet in the least. Raphe stepped behind the still open wardrobe door and put on his trousers. “What’s yer name again?”
“Humphreys, Your Grace. Max Humphreys.” Raphe pulled the shirt he’d selected over his head. “Right. Well I shan’t be needin’ ye, Humphreys. Now, if ye don’t mind . . .”
“But—”
“I’ve been dressin’ meself since I was a lad, Humphreys. T’would be bloody strange to let another man manage it fer me now.”
Humphreys stared at him for a fraction of a second as though he were some rare artifact one might discover on an anthropological dig. “Of course.” He didn’t budge.
Running both hands through his hair, Raphe let out a strenuous sigh. It wasn’t Humphreys’s fault that his new master was undeserving of his title—that he’d likely embarrass the Huntley name and everyone associated with it. It wasn’t his fault that Raphe felt more comfortable talking to washerwomen and laborers than with ladies and gentlemen.
The unbidden image of pale blue eyes framed by long dark lashes floated to the front of his mind. She’d been stunning, the lady he’d met on the street outside his new home yesterday, even if she had tipped her arrogant nose at him. But she hadn’t been quite as insufferable as her friend, whom Raphe had been sorely tempted to punch.
Instead, he’d enjoyed the sport of unsettling the lady, which in turn had riled the gentleman most effectively. He could still envision her creamy skin and her golden curls—the flushed lips that had somehow reminded him of the strawberries he’d once enjoyed as a child. Best of all, they’d had no idea who he was. That bit made him laugh.
“Your Grace?”
Collecting himself, Raphe focused his eyes on Humphreys, who still hadn’t moved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude to ye just now. All of this—it’s still quite fresh, an’ . . .”
“Frustrating?” Humphreys prompted when Raphe failed to finish his sentence.
“Quite.”
A pause followed. Humphreys gave a curt nod. “If that will be all, Your Grace, I would like to ask your secretary to make arrangements for a tailor to be brought round, along with a seamstress for your sisters.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Raphe said as he slid his foot inside one of the woolen socks that Amelia had knitted, “Have ye seen them yet today?”
“No, Your Grace, but—”
“Do me a favor an stop callin’ me that. Me name’s Raphe. Matthews if ye prefer to be more formal.”
“I . . . I’m afraid I cannot call you that, Your Grace. It wouldn’t be seemly.” He averted his gaze and Raphe decided to drop the issue since the man was looking horribly uncomfortable. “As for your sisters, I do believe they are presently having their breakfast in the dining room.”
“Well then,” Raphe said as he put on the other sock and his shoes, “Ye’d better lead me to ’em.” He was eager to see them both, to talk to them about the drastic change in their lifestyle and to hear their impressions. He also wanted to get on with the day, mostly because he was bothered by the way in which he’d left things with Guthrie. In order to have a clear conscience, he would have to ensure that the one hundred and fifty pounds he still owed the man on account of his father’s poor judgment was paid off as soon as possible—with an additional sum to compensate for walking away from the deal they’d struck regarding the fight. It was imperative that Guthrie found the amount large enough to forgive him the slight.
“Are you quite certain that it is wise of us to come here at this hour?” Gabriella asked her mother as they made their way up the front steps of Huntley House together with Gabriella’s aunt. “According to Anna,” she added, in reference to her maid, “the duke only just arrived yesterday. Should we not allow him more time in which to get settled before requesting he see us?”
“Nonsense, Gabriella. He will know to expect callers, and as his neighbor, I should like to see him first.”
“What your mother means is that she’d like to sate her own curiosity before Lady Hammersmith has the opportunity to do so,” Aunt Caroline remarked, while Gabriella’s mother gave the knocker a solid rap. “Gossip is, after all, such a valuable commodity.”
Gabriella’s mother huffed. “Must you be so dramatic all the time, Caro? All I want to do is issue a dinner invitation.”
“What you want,” Aunt Caroline countered, “is to show off the duke as though his presence here reflects directly on you.”
“I am merely trying to be polite.” The front door opened and Gabriella’s mother immediately produced a brilliant smile. “Pierson! How lovely it is to see you again.”
Gabriella found her mother’s over-joyous demeanor a trifle too sugary. Perhaps Pierson did too, for he did not look the least bit pleased. “Lady Warwick,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I hear the new duke has arrived.” Gabriella’s mother craned her neck as though hoping to find the man hiding behind Pierson. “Frankly, I was a little disappointed to discover it from my maid, since I would have thought that you would have had the courtesy to send me a note yourself. No matter, though, since we are now here. Please show us in.”
Pierson looked as though he might choke. “I . . . er—that is . . .”
“Good heavens,” Aunt Caroline said. “You look unwell, Pierson. Whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing!” He stared at them stiffly, his body firmly wedged between them and the foyer, as though he was facing a tidal wave that he was intent on holding back.
From behind him came the sound of approaching voices. Men’s voices. Pierson closed his eyes for a brief second, as though willing the sound away. “Ladies, this really isn’t a good time.” He moved with the distinct intention of closing the door on them.
“Our apologies,” Gabriella said. Coming here had clearly been a mistake. She turned to her mother. “Come, Mama. We can return at a more opportune time.”
“Very well.” Lady Warwick sniffed. The approaching voices grew louder. Pierson’s face went stark.
“I think that may be him right now,” Aunt Caroline remarked.
Gabriella’s mother craned her neck again and rose up onto her toes. “Oh yes. I think you may be right.”
“Lady Warwick,” Pierson clipped. The man seemed to grow in height. “Please step away from the door so that I may close it.”
Gabriella groaned. He really wasn’t acquainted with her mother’s tenacity when it came to satisfying her curiosity. A fact immediately made clear when the lady in question turned swiftly about and appeared to lose her footing. One moment she was standing elegantly at Gabriella’s side. The next, she was complaining about the pain of a supposedly sprained ankle. All so that she could be the first to tell her friends about the new duke. Gabriella dropped her gaze. She wished she’d stayed home and away from all the drama.
“Would you like me to send a footman to inform your husband of your mishap?” Pierson asked.
Gabriella couldn’t help but admire the man’s unwillingness to bow to her mother’s machinations. He’d obviously seen right through her.
“No,” her mother said. “What I would like is a chair on which to sit and rest for a while.”
Pierson frowned. He studied her. Assessed her. Appeared to be on the verge of denying her request, when a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped up behind him, his eyes as dark and unyielding as they’d been the day before when Gabriella had met him in the street. “What’s all the fuss about?” His gaze swept over them, and Gabriella felt her heart tremble a little when it paused on her before moving on to her aunt.
“Your—ahem, that is . . .” Pierson looked thoroughly out of sorts. He drew a breath, then cleared his throat
. “These ladies have come to call on the duke.”
A second passed. The man tilted his head. Gabriella tried not to stare. He looked just as imposing as he had done yesterday. He had to be a servant, just as she and Fielding had surmised, considering his clothing. But why on earth would a servant be interfering with Pierson’s duties? A thought struck her. He must have been in the new duke’s employ before arriving here—perhaps at some smaller country estate—and had simply arrived ahead of his master. Yes. That explained it!
“Well then . . .” The man’s gaze returned to Gabriella. The edge of his mouth tilted, not quite enough to form a smile, but enough to do silly things to her knees. She looked away, annoyed that someone like him should have any effect on someone like her. “Let’s show ’em to the library.”
Pierson’s head whipped around to stare at the man. “But—but . . . you cannot possibly—”
“Do it,” the man said before turning away. “And ‘ave some tea brought in,” he shouted before disappearing down a hallway.
Gabriella had no idea what to make of such an encounter. Neither did her mother, it seemed, for she just stood there, blinking as though the world she knew had just come to a screeching halt.
Aunt Caroline, however, allowed a faint chuckle as they started forward. “I do believe this is turning out to be one of the most memorable visits I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying in a long time. Thank you for suggesting it, Portia.”
“I must confess that I am wondering if it was wise of me to be quite so insistent,” Gabriella’s mother muttered as they followed Pierson toward the back of the house.
“As the saying goes, curiosity did kill the cat,” Aunt Caroline murmured.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t kill us,” Gabriella’s mother said. “That servant who granted us entry looked positively savage, with that bronzed skin of his and those ill-fitting clothes. One would think he was more at home in a mine than in a duke’s employ. Really, I cannot believe such a . . . a . . . filthy man is living right next door to us.”
“He did not look filthy, Mama,” Gabriella couldn’t help but say. She was feeling a little bad about all the criticism the poor man was getting, first from herself and Fielding and now from her mother. Even though he really should make more of an effort if he meant to live in this part of town. A haircut and a shave would certainly be a good start.
“Here we are,” Pierson said, arriving at a large oak door. He knocked once, waited for permission to enter and then opened the door wide so the ladies could file into the room beyond.
Gabriella glanced around the impressive space, where books lined shelves from floor to ceiling, row upon row. It was a while since she’d been inside it last, for she and her family had usually been admitted to one of the parlors or the dining room whenever they’d come to call. But a few years ago, while having tea with the duke and his sons, the Marquess of Shirring and Lord John, the conversation had turned to Gabriella’s interest in entomology and Lord John had kindly offered to show her the Huntley collection on the subject. He’d never judged her for it and neither had his brother, perhaps because they’d been childhood friends, their difference in age not too great to stop them from playing catch with each other in the garden. It seemed so strange to be here now when they were all dead—a horrible intrusion that sent a shudder down Gabriella’s spine.
Shaking off the depressing sensation, Gabriella looked around in search of the duke, wondering if he would be young or old. Perhaps he’d be married? She really had no idea.
“I don’t see him,” her mother whispered. “Do you?”
“Not yet,” Aunt Caroline said.
“Try lookin’ behind ye.” The deep rumble, so close that Gabriella felt the air shift as he spoke, made her spin on her heels. Her lips parted at the sight of the man she’d now seen twice before, and air rushed into her lungs, expanding her chest against her thrumming heart. She shook her head, determined to hide her surprise.
It was just like the time when her father had told her that her sister was gone. And she knew now, just as she had then, that things weren’t as they should be, and that somehow, in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, her life had become more complicated than it had been before. “You?” She tried to look past him. “I don’t understand. Where is he? Where is the duke?”
The edge of his mouth tilted, and then he simply stepped around Gabriella, her mother and her aunt, and went to the sideboard. To Gabriella’s astonishment, he calmly poured himself a drink. “I’d forgotten how blind the nobility can be,” he said, eyeing them as though they were gnats he wouldn’t mind swatting. “Ye’re a superficial lot.” He sipped his brandy. “Ye care only for facades and monetary worth.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gabriella’s mother asked in the same superior tone that had made many servants wither. It seemed to have no effect on the man she was presently addressing—a man who appeared surprisingly at ease in the duke’s library, sampling his liquor.
Gabriella frowned.
No.
She shook her head.
Surely not.
It just couldn’t be. Could it?
“The worth of a title,” he was saying, “yer property . . . yer appearance . . . yer daughter’s dowry.” His gaze flicked to Gabriella without hesitation. “Yer daughter’s ability to elevate yer social status by marryin’ well.”
Gabriella’s mother gasped. “Now see here—”
“Mama,” Gabriella hissed, her hand going to her mother’s elbow in an urgent attempt to stop her from saying another word.
“I will not allow you to—” Gabriella’s mother was saying just as a maid entered carrying a tray.
“The tea, as you requested, Your Grace,” the maid said, confirming Gabriella’s suspicions.
The silence that followed was so acute, it reminded Gabriella of a still winter’s day in the country—fields blanketed by thick snow, muting all audible sound. And then the duke moved, the heel of his shoe scraping the floor as he stepped away from the side table. The effect was a piercing reminder of both time and place, producing a sputtering sound from Gabriella’s mother and a light chuckle from Aunt Caroline who seemed to be the only one in the room who found the situation amusing.
The maid departed, barely managing to close the door behind her before it swung open again and two young women tumbled into the room—the same young women whom Gabriella had seen in the duke’s company the day before. She eyed them both with interest, watching as they became aware of their guests. Their eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Blimey,” one of them said smoothing her gown while the other one made a funny movement that might have been an attempt at a curtsy. “Ye look mighty fine.” And then her gaze drifted past Gabriella and her mouth dropped open. “Bloody ‘ell! Would ye look at the size of this place?” Gabriella heard her mother take a sharp breath and couldn’t help but sympathize. Such unrefined manners must be terribly taxing on her nerves.
“Me sisters,” the duke explained. “Amelia an’ Juliette.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Gabriella said. She couldn’t help but feel slightly sorry for the pair, who would now have to interact with her mother over tea with no apparent training to help them. It would not be the least bit enjoyable for them, not to mention the work that lay before them if they were ever to stand a chance of fitting in. She was just about to introduce herself to the women when her mother leaned a bit closer to her and whispered in her ear, “This is a disaster. We ought to leave at once.”
But then the duke strode forward and gave them each a hard glare as he waved in the direction of a seating arrangement. “Will ye sit?” he asked.
Chapter 4
Forcing a stoic expression, Raphe waited for the ladies to make their decision. It had taken a great deal of effort not to laugh in response to their wide-eyed dismay when he’d told them who he was. But he’d refrained. Even he knew better than to try and ease the mood with a touch of humor. No. Against these three Society women, intimidation would b
e his best ally.
Hesitantly, one of them stepped forward. “I don’t believe we were formally introduced.” Her cool gaze assessed and considered him in a manner that might have forced a lesser man to retreat. Raphe stared straight back at her without flinching. “I am Lady Warwick,” she continued, “And this here is my sister-in-law, the Dowager Countess of Everly.” She then waved her hand toward the youngest of the three—the woman whose face had haunted his mind since he’d first laid eyes on her the day before. “My daughter, Lady Gabriella.” The three then dipped into graceful curtsies while Amelia and Juliette stood gaping in awe.
Tilting his head, Raphe considered the trio, their perfect posture and elegance. It must have taken years of training to achieve such fluidity of movement. But to what avail? What did they really gain by it? Admiration, perhaps? What an inane notion.
Which was why he chose to ignore their efforts by arching a brow, crossing to the sofa and taking a seat. Leaning back, he crossed his legs and nodded to the other available spaces. “Well?”
Lady Warwick’s face appeared to turn a shade of green. Clearly, she was not accustomed to such ill treatment. After all, a gentleman did not sit while a lady remained standing. He was perfectly aware. But then again, Raphe mused, he was not a gentleman. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And his sisters . . . well, they were bound to cause a stir, he mused, as they plopped down next to him.
His gaze flicked to Lady Gabriella again. Rather than looking alarmed or angry, as he’d expected her to in response to his poor manners, she looked intrigued and . . . pensive. It was almost as though she considered him a puzzle—one that she was presently trying to solve. The thought did not agree with him in the least. He shifted in his seat, aware that he was probably scowling now.
“Thank you,” Lady Everly said, her voice jostling the momentary silence enough for it to shatter. Smiling as though nothing were amiss, she crossed to an armchair and lowered herself into it. “Tea would be lovely right now. Shall I pour?”
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 4