Raphe stared down at the thing, unsure of how to react without causing offense. He raised his eyes to her face, seeing the stiffness there, the slight trembling of her lower lip as she held herself rigid, the puckering between her brows. She was nervous, but with the spider in her hand she made no effort to retreat as she had done before. Perhaps the creature gave her comfort, as strange as that thought seemed. “Yes,” he told her softly. “I see.”
Her eyes, swimming with uncertainty, met his. Impossible to resist. And he found himself not thinking. Instead he said the first thing that came to mind, “Would you like to take it home with you?”
She beamed then, a brilliant smile as dazzling as any star. “If you don’t mind.”
Raphe chuckled slightly, amused by their odd conversation. “I’m sure we can manage without him.”
She laughed as well then, her demeanor more relaxed than he’d ever seen it before. “I believe it might be a her, Your Grace.”
He wasn’t about to ask her how she might know—not now when they were once again enjoying an easy bit of conversation, devoid of the usual tension that whirled between them. So he crossed to the bell-pull instead. “I’ll ask a maid to bring a small box for it then.”
“Eleanor,” Lady Gabriella announced.
Raphe glanced back over his shoulder at her. “What?”
“I think I will call my new spider Eleanor. What do you think?” But she wasn’t looking at Raphe any longer, she was addressing his sisters.
A spark of something—something Raphe didn’t care for at all—squeezed at his chest with unbidden force. He gave the bellpull a disgruntled yank and crossed his arms.
“I think it suits her,” Juliette said.
“It’s the perfect name,” Amelia agreed. She took a seat in one of the armchairs and Raphe couldn’t help but notice that she did so with a bit more elegance than usual. “Do you ’ave a very large collection of insects?”
“Have,” Juliette reminded her sister.
“I like to think so,” Lady Gabriella said as though commenting on a painting she might have made. There was pride in her voice, and a sort of intensity about it that conveyed great passion for her hobby. “I’ve been gathering samples since I was seven and . . .” She bit her lip, shook her head and eventually shrugged a shoulder. “Never mind.”
Curious.
“Do you go out into nature often then?” Juliette asked. “With a net?”
Lady Gabriella chuckled. “Well I—”
“What about your friends? Do they ever go with you?” Amelia inquired. “I think it would be a wonderful way for us to make their acquaintance. Much better than over tea and cake. It’d be less formal, see? That is, if you’d like for us to meet your friends.” She paused for a second and Raphe watched as his sister’s smile slipped from her animated face. “Or perhaps you’d rather we don’t meet them. I mean, we’d hate to impose.”
Frowning, Raphe moved so he could get a better glimpse of Lady Gabriella, surprised by how stunned she looked. But it wasn’t just that. There was that touch of fear again. “My lady?” he asked. He didn’t want to force an explanation, but he wouldn’t let her hurt his sisters either, by allowing them to think that they weren’t good enough to meet her friends.
“I err . . .” Lady Gabriella looked at them each in turn, her hands still clasping the spider.
Where in God’s name was the maid?
“To be perfectly honest, I have none.”
Juliette and Amelia both frowned at that while Raphe instantly bristled. The least she could do was be honest, but to lie to them . . . The door opened at that moment and a maid entered. Raphe asked her to bring a small box, then turned back to face Lady Gabriella. “A word, if you will.” He waited for her to join him at the other side of the room, his voice a low whisper when he spoke once more. “They’ve taken a liking to you. Don’t ruin it with falsehoods. They might lack your upbringing, but they’re not stupid, Lady Gabriella, so as long as you’re in this house, ye’ll treat them with respect.” Damn it. He’d let the last you get him.
Her eyes had gone wide, her lips parting as she stood there staring up at him. And then she took a breath and managed to say, “I would never lie to them about such a thing. If I had any friends, which I do not—”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. She blinked, averted her gaze, blinked some more. He saw her throat work as though she was finding it difficult to breathe. So he bowed his head, moving it closer to hers and asked her gently, “How can a pretty society lady with a kind disposition, such as yourself, possibly be without friends? It makes no sense.”
Twisting her mouth until a web of fine lines began distorting the feature, she stood as though he’d just asked her to make an impossible choice. Indecision warred behind those pale blue eyes of hers, so clear and liquid now, like a pair of water-droplets just waiting to spill over.
But they didn’t. Instead, she found a safe point of focus, somewhere just to the right of his shoulder. “First of all,” she told him quietly, “I am not pretty, I am—”
“Daft,” he murmured. “If you truly believe that.”
Her mouth opened, closed again. She turned more fully toward him, her brow now puckering while her eyes—oh those innocently tempting eyes—implored and chastised while her hands balled tightly into fists at her side. “No, I am not, but I do own a mirror, Your Grace, and I am also aware of what others have said about me.”
He drew back, almost as though she’d struck him. His eyes widened, allowing her to spot another nuance to their coloring. Not just brown with flecks of gold. No, there was a subtle ring of amber toward the edge—a gradual transition toward the darker tones at the center. They held her now until she felt like squirming. He prepared to say something, but she wouldn’t let him, would not allow him to try and convince her that she was something that she wasn’t. “I know that I am strange and peculiar. I am keenly aware that everyone thought my sister would be the one to . . . to . . .” She took a gulp of air. Enough. She’d said enough. “I did not lie to them, Your Grace.”
When he said nothing in response, she turned away briskly and walked back to where Amelia and Juliette were still sitting, resuming their lesson by asking each of them to take turns reading from the Mayfair Chronicle. Patiently, she corrected their pronunciations while doing her best to ignore the large man who stood like a looming shadow to one side. Eventually, she heard his feet move across the floor, and then the clicking of the door handle as he made his exit. She breathed a sigh of relief, her hands still trembling from their encounter.
Put him from your mind, Gabriella.
Focus.
As wise as her own advice was, however, she had to concede that she was only human and that the Duke of Huntley represented every craving she’d ever wished to indulge in.
Chapter 11
“So if a gentleman asks me to dance I ‘ave to accept? Even if I don’t like ’im?” Amelia asked the following day.
“Unless you have a very good excuse,” Gabriella told her, “like another offer from a different gentleman or a sprained ankle, though this would likely remove you from the dance floor altogether.”
Amelia shook her head. “What daft rules.”
“There are many more, but I suppose the point is that a lady should always be polite and treat other people with respect. Don’t make the mistake of supposing that a gentleman is incapable of feeling slighted or hurt by your disinterest in him.”
A sudden crash in the hallway made Gabriella jump. She glanced toward the door, which stood ajar, but saw nothing. And then, “No more,” was bellowed with such force that the windows in the parlor almost rattled.
Huntley.
“I’m done with this nonsense—this imbecilic madness.” His voice was steady and clipped. “Don’t do this an’ don’t do that. Not to mention all the useless information ye keep pilin’ onto me brain. My brain. God damn it!”
“Your Grace,” Richardson spoke with endless degrees of p
atience. “Perhaps we should try again.”
Eyeing Amelia and Juliette who were sitting completely still, eyes wide and lips pressed together, Gabriella got to her feet and crossed to the door. She peeked out and saw the duke standing in a wide stance with his hands on his hips as he faced his secretary. The remains of what appeared to be a vase lay at his feet.
“No,” Huntley said. “Not as long as you expect me to treat a teacup as if it’s a precious relic. I refuse to hold it the way you want me to, Richardson.”
“Is everything all right?” Gabriella asked, even though it clearly wasn’t.
Huntley turned to her with a glower while Richardson hastily bowed, “My lady,” he said. “I am simply trying to educate His Grace in taking tea correctly.”
“To be precise,” the duke grumbled, “Richardson thinks I’m some effeminate creature with a delicate touch when I actually ‘appen”—he winced—“happen . . . to be a rather large man.”
“Really?” Gabriella murmured, hoping to lighten the mood while ignoring the increased beat of her pulse. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Richardson coughed while the duke’s eyes darkened. He turned more fully toward her and crossed his arms while shards of porcelain crunched beneath his feet. The edge of his mouth kicked up, and then he allowed his gaze to drift over her with a slowness that sent ripples down her spine. “Is that so, my lady?”
Shifting, Gabriella drew herself up to her full height. She was still upset by the accusation he’d made yesterday about deceiving his sisters, and although she wished to address the issue and defend herself more fully, she’d no desire to do so with Richardson present. So she called upon her most affected tone and said, “What I see is a brutish individual who just wrecked an antique vase.”
He dropped his gaze to his feet and studied the mess there. “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t knock it over on purpose.”
Gabriella raised an eyebrow. “Well, your frustration with Richardson’s teaching methods has just cost you five hundred pounds by my estimation.”
His head whipped up, eyes widening with incredulity. “Five hundred pounds?”
“Six, actually,” Richardson said. “I’ll call for a maid to clean it up.”
“In the meantime, perhaps Your Grace will allow me to show you how to hold that infernal teacup that has you so overwrought?” Gabriella suggested as she gestured toward the parlor where his sisters sat waiting.
Huntley eyed her with suspicion, but then relented with a nod, though he did not look the least bit pleased. “Very well.”
“Is everything all right?” Juliette asked when Gabriella returned with Huntley on her heels.
“Quite,” Gabriella assured her. She smiled as she resumed her seat. “Your brother is simply having a bit of difficulty handling the china.”
Muttering something inaudible, the duke took a seat next to Gabriella, which prompted her to look at him. To her surprise, he didn’t look the least bit annoyed but rather . . . amused. Pleased by his reaction to her dry sense of humor, she struggled to refrain from smiling too broadly herself. Instead, she tried to set her mind on the task at hand, which was to teach Huntley the art of taking tea with the innate skill of a true Englishman. Lacking a spare cup and saucer, she offered him her own, setting it down before him with as much professional poise as she could manage.
I am a rather large man.
She willed her thoughts to remain sensible by sitting back stiffly with her chin held high and her hands neatly folded in her lap. Meanwhile, the duke stared at the delicate cup and saucer like some might stare at a venomous snake. “Go ahead,” Gabriella urged. “Pick it up in whichever way you find most comfortable.”
He leaned forward hesitantly, frowned a bit and then placed one hand on either side of the cup, lifting it as though it were a bowl. Mission accomplished, he raised his eyes and looked at Gabriella with a hopeful expression and a lopsided grin. “This feels right.”
“Hmm,” she tried to think of how best to help him. “Keep holding on to the cup’s ear with your right hand, and let go completely with your left.”
He did as she asked, two fingers curled through the ear, braced against his thumb, while another two fingers rested beneath the cup, propping it up. “Like this?”
“Not quite. Perhaps if you could . . .” she gestured toward him in an effort to show how his fingers ought to be placed, but he wasn’t getting it.
Knowing what had to be done, she got up and walked around to his other side. “Like this,” she said as she proceeded to maneuver his fingers into the correct positions.
Her ability to think straight immediately faltered at the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, and although she stood at his shoulder with some measure of distance between them and both his sisters present, she became instantly aware of his masculinity. It flowed toward her, compounded by an earthy scent of leather and sandalwood, until she found herself surrounded and overwhelmed.
So she drew away and took a hasty step back. “Like that,” she said, surprised by the gravelly tone of her voice. “That will do.”
Tilting his chin, he raised his gaze to hers. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose. “But Richardson said that I was supposed to straighten the ring finger and pinky.” He tried to do as the secretary had advised, but the cup simply slipped from between his fingers, thudded against the carpet and rolled beneath the table. The tea that had been inside it went flying in every direction.
The duke’s jaw hardened as he looked down at the spillage, his mouth drew tight, and he suddenly looked as though he might slam his fist against something in pure frustration. Until Gabriella hastily distracted him by saying, “Never mind what Richardson told you about how to hold a teacup. I’ve seen several gentlemen struggle with this particular exercise over the years.”
“Really?” Juliette sounded fascinated.
“It is understandable considering the superior size of a man’s fingers when compared to those of a woman’s.” Returning to her seat, Gabriella told Huntley, “The way you held it before—as I showed you—is good enough. Nobody will fault you for it.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Huntley said as he reached beneath the table and retrieved the fallen teacup. “I’d hate to be judged on the proper position of my fingers alone.”
“Then you needn’t fret,” Gabriella told him frankly, “for I can assure you that you will be judged on a great deal more than that.”
By the time Friday afternoon arrived, bringing with it the delivery of fresh evening attire, Raphe began having second thoughts about his stubborn determination to show up the ton.
Perhaps he ought to send an excuse?
“So a viscountess, countess and marchioness are addressed as, ‘Your Ladyship’ or Lady title,” Humphreys was saying, while Raphe buttoned his cuffs. “Their husbands would naturally be, ‘Your Lordship’ or ‘My Lord,’ or simply their title, while their daughters would be ‘Lady’ plus first name.”
Sighing, Raphe took a seat on the brocade-clad chair that stood in his bedchamber and reached for one of his shoes. “Yes, Humphreys. I remember.”
“What about their eldest sons?”
Having pushed his feet inside the shoes, Raphe began doing up the laces. “Lord honorary title,” he said with the confidence of a man who’d spent the last week cramming his head full of what he considered to be the stupidest details in the world.
“And their youngest sons?”
“They would be Mr. last name.”
Humphreys nodded. A spark lit in his eyes. “And the youngest son of a duke or a marquess?”
Raphe stilled. A second passed, and then he got to his feet. “Also Mr. last name.”
Humphreys groaned. “I knew you weren’t ready!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Raphe said as he grabbed his cravat and began winding it around his throat. “Of course I am.”
“Not when you don’t know that the younger son of a duke or a marquess should be addresse
d with, ‘Lord first name.’” He looked about ready to throw up his hands with exasperation. “How many times have we been over this?”
“Too many to count,” Raphe told him dryly. And then, “Don’t worry. It will be fine.”
Humphreys stared at him. “How can you say that when your cravat looks like something a laundry woman just rung out?”
Muttering an oath, Raphe stepped away from the mirror and faced his valet. “Can you help?”
A bright smile stretched its way across Humphreys’s face. “I’d be delighted to.”
One hour later, following a few thorough reminders on etiquette from Pierson, Humphreys, and Richardson, Raphe climbed into the Huntley phaeton and began the short ten-minute drive that would take him to Fielding House. His sisters, whom he’d seen before leaving home, had assured him that he looked more handsome than any other man they’d ever seen, their eyes shining with admiration when he’d demonstrated his newly acquired bow to each of them in turn.
“You look like a bloomin’ prince, Raphe,” Amelia had declared.
While Juliette, the quieter of the two sisters, had smiled prettily before saying, “I barely recognize you.” Both had managed to drop their ye’s and replace them with you’s.
“It’s your turn next,” he’d told them with a wink.
The carriage swayed slightly as it turned out onto Piccadilly, the springs easing the uneven rhythm of the cobblestones below. Tugging gently at his cravat, Raphe silently cursed Humphreys for tying it so tightly. Hell, he’d be lucky if he’d be able to swallow his food and drink, considering how restrictive the bloody thing felt.
Another five minutes brought the carriage to a gradual stop in front of a mansion that stood secluded on the fringe of what appeared to be a large park. Reaching for the tiny brass knob beside him, Raphe prepared to open the door, when it swung open, almost causing him to fall out. Halting his progress, he stared down at the footman who stood at attention and quietly cursed himself for forgetting that he was expected to depend on servants to see to his every need now, no matter how much that bothered him.
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 10