Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  Wily Harris opened the window and dumped his poison. “Let us attend the ladies.”

  The men blew out the candles and hurried away.

  In the drawing room, Lucere thought it odd that no other gentleman callers had arrived. Surely, Lesser Puddlebury possessed men of eyesight and natural desire.

  He mentioned the dearth of callers, and Estella replied, “As I had said, the summer has left us quite lonely. You are our only lodgers this evening.”

  He really shouldn’t complain to have such singular devotion.

  But then the night took a horrendous turn when Estella suggested the twins entertain the gentlemen with songs. One twin played, or more precisely pounded, the pianoforte while the other sang, staying a half note and half beat behind her sister. Lucere adored music and played several instruments. He shifted in his chair and quietly tapped his fingers and feet, trying to qualm his desire to yank the music from the twins’ hands and stop this sacrilege.

  He glanced at Estella to see if she suffered the same agony. She watched her sisters, a glow of pride in her face. Had she no musical sense, or was she blinded by love for her sisters? He hoped it was the latter. He remembered how patiently Catherine watched with the same pride as Lucere had sung the songs he made up for her. The silly ditties of a six-year-old.

  I love horses,

  I love the color blue,

  I love cakes with vanilla cream frosting,

  And I love you.

  He would have drifted into tender memories of Catherine had not the twins been mercilessly massacring Mozart. When at last they ended that torture session and were preparing to next brutalize Bach with equal vim, Lucere could take no more.

  “Let’s hear Miss Primrose sing,” he quickly inserted, before Amelia or Cecelia could do more damage to his sensibilities. Estella could hardly do worse. And if she did, at least he could seek solace in imagining taking off her garments one by one, until he reached the yet unseen delights beneath.

  “Oh, no, no, not me,” Estella demurred.

  “Estella has a beautiful voice,” Cecelia (or Amelia) said.

  “Do you sing?” Estella asked Lucere, deflecting the conversation.

  Harris piped up—the man had a nasty habit of piping up at unwelcome times. “Mr. Stephens has a fine baritone. In addition to tutoring languages, he is a master of the pianoforte.”

  Damn it, Harris!

  “Do sing,” Estella implored. “Please.”

  The expression on her face was so beguiling that she could have asked him to cut off a finger, and he would have responded, Which one?

  He sat at the pianoforte and thought for a moment. Outside, the rain was falling, tapping on the windows. He began to play and sing in a quiet voice that complemented the rain.

  He glanced at Estella. She appeared spellbound by his voice. Her lips were parted, displaying the edge of her wet, pink tongue. She had changed gowns for the evening, and this one, as tight and worn as the first, afforded a lovely view of her creamy breasts, which rose and fell with her enraptured breath. He deepened his timbre, his desire flowing through the words. She slid forward in her chair, her gaze fixed on his face. She made him feel like a musical god.

  He couldn’t defeat this woman. Why did he struggle? He was a starving rogue who hadn’t known a woman in weeks and who now was trapped in the lair of the most stunning light-skirts in England. His mind flew with rationales. He should just give in to her. Make love until he took her shine away. Until his thirst for her was sated. Then he would make haste to Scotland and chain himself to that saintly German princess.

  He continued to sing, using his voice to seduce. He watched her nibble the edge of her lip. Sensual, yet innocent. She made the moment feel brand new, as though she hadn’t known dozens of other men. Only him.

  She didn’t take her eyes from his face. He slowed his tempo to the one he would use when he whispered the lyrics in her ear as he slowly disrobed her, savoring every inch of her silken skin.

  Harris cleared his voice, reminding him that there were people present in the room who might not prefer to see Lucere madly frolicking with Estella on the floor. Lucere glanced around, breaking the powerful invisible tie that had kept his and Estella’s gazes locked together.

  Even the twins weren’t giggling, but staring, their jaws flapped open. Lucere quickly ended the song.

  “Now I’ve sung for your pleasure,” he said to Estella. “Now you must sing for mine.” He slid from the bench and bowed before it, gesturing for her to sit.

  “No, I—”

  “I insist,” Lucere said. Lovers should be generous and reciprocate pleasure.

  She approached the pianoforte and sat on the bench. “I’m afraid I don’t play or sing as well as my sisters. Or you, of course. Your voice is, well, I’ve never heard anything so wonderful.”

  “Come now,” Lucere said. “Let me be the judge of your talents.”

  She studied the keys. Lucere remained by the pianoforte, resting his hand on the top so that he might keep her face in his view.

  “I do not know an Italian song,” she apologized. “Or a German one.”

  “I assure you that I will love whatever song comes from your lips.”

  She colored. He enjoyed her touches of feigned modesty. They added to her allure.

  She pressed her finger on the middle C and then began to sing a cappella. Her voice was quiet, but sweet and smooth as satin. And all his plans of spending the evening frolicking in bed with her ceased.

  Dear God, why must she be a light-skirts? Why must she give her beautiful body to other men? Why must she be such a calculating liar beneath the blushes and easy smiles? Why must she sing Catherine’s favorite song—the one she sang him to sleep with—in that tender soprano? He could not bear to touch her now.

  He pressed his hand on the keys, creating a jarring chord. “Please,” he whispered.

  She gasped. “Is something wrong? What have I—”

  “No, I—” He looked at Harris. The stoic man’s eyes were watering. “I’m suddenly very tired,” Lucere muttered. “It’s been a long day.” He bowed and walked from the room, his insides quaking.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Did my voice really drive him away?

  No doubt, Mr. Stephens, being a learned man, was unimpressed with Estella’s low folk song. Alas, of the things that distressed her as she walked in the valley of the shadow of financial death, Mr. Stephens’s approval of her voice was rather insignificant. He was a strange man, his moods mercurial, and his words barbed. She didn’t know if he spoke in praise or ridicule most of the time.

  But he told stories the way her grandfather once did. His words had a mesmerizing cadence, lulling her. He mixed drama and comedy together, grounding it all in sensual details. She could feel the eddy of the gondola on the canal waters and the hollow enormity of the Coliseum.

  And when he sang, he lifted her heart from its moorings. She felt as though she drifted high above her worries.

  Had not she been sinking under the weight of a mortgaged home, an ailing mother, a failing business, two sisters who needed to be established, and a ruthless suitor, she might have allowed herself the luxury of exposing her heart.

  She had heard love was strong, but she doubted it was strong enough for a man to financially ruin himself and inherit three additional females with his intended. She could not conceive of marrying a man so foolish. Nor did she subscribe to the idea of rapturous love that obliterated all good sense.

  And he was a poor tutor whom she had known for only a few hours, and for half of those, she hadn’t liked him at all.

  She gave herself leave to enjoy the fluttering of her heart when he sang. And to allow his stories to take her back to a time when her world wasn’t so frightening. But she could not allow her affections to grow for this man. Her love would do neither of them any good.

  With his rich, glorious voice fresh in her memory, she extinguished the lamps in the now empty parlor and hum
med as she sauntered to the kitchens.

  * * *

  In the scullery, she found the dishes stacked precariously on the table. Still water waited in the sink, and the sounds of hiccupping sobs filled the room. Estella looked around and then under the tables. “Lottie?”

  She followed the sobs to the larder. Lottie was huddled on the floor. Her face was red and swollen from crying. “Oh, Miss Estella, I’m sorry.” She held up the remains of a broken plate. “Don’t make me leave. I’m sorry.”

  Estella knelt down and hugged the distraught servant. “Oh, Lottie, I’m never going to turn you out. Ever. It’s only a plate. Don’t be upset.”

  “Plates cost money,” Lottie stated, taking on Estella’s tones.

  How their lack of money tainted almost every aspect of their lives.

  “Don’t you worry about the plate,” Estella soothed. “Now go to sleep.”

  “But the dishes—”

  “Good night, Lottie. As your mistress, I’m sending you to bed.”

  Lottie hesitated, then hugged Estella again. “I love you.”

  After the servant left, Estella blew out a weary breath and gazed at the mountain of washing to be done. She felt tired down to the marrow of her bones.

  Avoiding the task only prolongs the misery.

  She donned her apron and picked up a towel. As she scrubbed, she listened to the rain and hummed Mr. Stephens’s Italian song. Her mind flew far away from the scullery to a Venetian piazza where she and Mr. Stephens danced.

  * * *

  Lucere, now stripped down to his shirt, pantaloons, and stockings, sat in Harris’s chamber of luxury. Both men stared at the cold grate, lost in old bittersweet memories as the rain pounded the windows. After an hour, Lucere spoke. “I don’t mean to be dramatic, but what cruel god has created such ethereal perfection and placed it in a crass light-skirts?”

  Lucere wanted Harris to say something like, Perhaps there is more to Miss Primrose than can be presently known, or Perhaps there is a reason for her deception.

  The man just stared at the fire, broken.

  Lucere could say nothing to lift the man’s despair. He had been the cause of his misery, after all.

  “I shall sit glumly in my own chamber now,” Lucere said after an hour.

  He crossed the hall and had almost passed the threshold to his chamber when he saw something white flash before him. A female giggled and then cried, “A ghost!”

  In dramatic fashion, Cecelia or Amelia crumpled at his feet, wearing only a shift and dressing gown.

  “What in God’s name?” he muttered, kneeling down. “Are you well?” he asked, inquiring more about the state of her senses than her physical body.

  “Don’t ravish me, phantom,” the woman cried. In a flash, her arm was around his neck, yanking him to her waiting lips.

  * * *

  Estella’s lantern lit the dark corridors. It was a little after one, and the house was asleep. Cold wash water had soaked through her apron all the way to her shift. She only wanted to sink deep beneath her piles of quilts, listen to the rain, and drift into a sleep filled with Roman ruins, gondolas, and Mr. Stephens’s beautiful voice. What had he done? Filled her head with romantic dreams that would never be realized?

  She first saw the two bodies after she crested the stairs. Her initial thought was that her mother had had an accident.

  Then she realized the vile truth.

  She rushed forward and smashed Mr. Stephens with her foot. “Away from her, you fiend!”

  “Bloody hell!” he spat, coming to sit against the wall, holding his side where she had kicked him.

  Amelia, wide-eyed with terror, scurried away from her lecherous captor.

  “Don’t you use that contemptible language in my home, you blackguard!” Estella shouted. She should have known. How sweetly he had turned up this evening, but now she realized his true motivations. She had gardened, cooked, entertained, and cleaned for this gentleman, and he had the nerve to attack her sister?

  “How dare you!” she screamed. “How dare you think you can practice your lusty appetites in my home? My genteel home! Get away. Now.”

  “My lusty… Wait, you are mistaken if you think—”

  “I have no minute, no second, no measure of time for a lying cad who thinks he can take advantage of innocent ladies.” She held up the lantern, illuminating his handsome face and those dark eyes that had enthralled her not several hours before. “For shame, Mr. Stephens. For shame. My first impression of you was correct. You are a wicked rogue of poor manners and poorer breeding. Truly, sir, you waste your fine voice and your education.”

  She felt a hand on her arm and whirled around to find Amelia, still traumatized from Mr. Stephens’s brutish embrace, and Cecelia. “My poor darlings, you go back to bed. I’ll take care of this matter directly.”

  “But—”

  “I said I would take care of this matter. Do not trouble yourselves.”

  Mr. Stephens dared to speak up. “I believe you are making a hasty and incorrect assumption—”

  “No one wants to hear from you, Mr. Stephens. I have caught you red-handed. And I’m not moved by your handsome face.”

  She strode into his chamber and, using her lantern, located his bag. Mr. Stephens was on his feet now.

  “Let us try to calm down,” he suggested. Oh, he sounded as patronizing as Mr. Todd. Soon he would say she didn’t know her own mind.

  “You’re angry and not thinking correctly,” he said on cue.

  She snatched up his bag and jerked open the window. The cold rain blew in on her hot face.

  “Put that down now,” he commanded in imperial tones.

  Who did he think he was to assume such consequence as to order her about?

  She gave him that look she usually reserved for her sisters. He instantly softened and held up his palms, carefully approaching her. “I have my important tutor things in that bag. My… my livelihood.”

  “Very well,” she conceded. He could never say she wasn’t just, or that she destroyed his living. She gripped his bag and brushed past him out the door.

  “Come now,” he pleaded, following behind her in the corridor. “It was an accident. You see, she thought I was a ghost.” He tried to grab at his bag, but she snatched it away.

  “A ghost? Do truly think I would believe such a pathetic lie? You must think I’m an idiot. And my sisters and I are…” She couldn’t utter the word prostitute or any of its synonyms. Her tongue and lips refused to form the ugly words. “… women of dubious morals.”

  “No, I think you are a very clever shrew. As for your morals, I can only judge by you and your sisters’ actions. Dubious indeed.”

  She gasped. The man must have conspired with Mr. Todd, no doubt sent by him to damage her reputation further. “I will not lower myself to speak to you further! You are beneath notice, beneath contempt, beneath—”

  Her mother’s door opened, and her hollowed, nervous face peered around the wood. “Darling, what is the matter?”

  Dear Lord, Estella would not allow Mr. Stephens to bring on one of her mother’s heart episodes. Estella halted. Mr. Stephens slammed into her. She forced a pleasant smile and thrust her elbow back, happy to hit his hard rib bones. He stifled a groan.

  “It’s nothing, Mama,” she said in the most calming voice she could muster given the circumstances. “Don’t alarm yourself. The new boarder and I are merely playing a little game. I’m sorry if we woke you up. Won’t you go back to sleep now and rest?”

  Her mother looked at her and then Mr. Stephens.

  To his credit, he remained silent.

  “Estella,” her mother said. “I do not approve of you wandering around the house alone with our gentleman boarders. Have Harold sent for immediately.”

  “Of course,” Estella said, knowing that their manservant had left months ago, after Estella couldn’t pay his full wages. Now he was in the happy employment of Mr. Todd.

  Her mother slowly returned to her
bed. Estella closed her door so her mama wouldn’t hear any more of this debacle.

  “There,” Mr. Stephens said. “Now that we have regained some semblance of rational thought—”

  Estella turned and hurried down the stairs with the bag.

  “You little vixen!” he cried.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she broke into a run, still gripping his bag and the lantern.

  He managed to catch up as she opened the front door. She tossed his bag into the rain before he could stop her.

  “No!” he protested. “You are being unfair. Will you not even listen to my version of the events?”

  She gestured like a butler to the black, wet night. “Good-bye, Mr. Stephens. I regret our brief acquaintance. You may slither back to Mr. Todd now.”

  “Who is Mr. Todd?”

  “Don’t you play games with me! I know your nefarious motives. Leave. Go away.”

  “What in Hades…” Mr. Stephens didn’t finish his thought, but ran his hand through his hair. He looked at her and then his bag being rained upon. He muttered something that sounded as if he were cursing the moon and stars. Then he stepped into the wet.

  She wasted no time slamming the door, hitting his heel in the process. She snatched the key from the table and quickly locked out the devil.

  “Of course,” she heard him shout. “Put me out in the rain without even my shoes. How considerate.”

  Considerate? Considerate was not molesting your landlady’s sister after she spent the night washing up from your dinner.

  Yet, through her fury, a pang of terror broke through. She needed the money. More anger quickly followed. She was a Primrose, for heaven’s sake. She would not compromise the moral course for the sake of vulgar money.

  She stomped to the window. “This is a genteel house,” she cried through the thick glass. She could see the rain pouring down his face and shoulders. “We are cousins to the fine, upstanding Duke of Lucere. You are mistaken if you think you can take advantage of my sisters or me because we’ve been reduced to run a lodging house. We may be poor, but we uphold the Primrose family motto of duty, honor, truth, sacrifice, and courage.”