Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  The smiles she had given him before were nothing compared to the loving thing that curved her mouth—reminiscent of Catherine’s tenderness. “You are very kind.” She stared at him a moment longer, then slipped from the room.

  * * *

  Lucere stormed into Harris’s chamber. He gripped Leo’s genealogical charts. Under Lord Maxim were question marks for offspring. No one had cared to learn what happened to the man.

  Harris lay in bed, reading by candlelight a book of Marcus Aurelius’s philosophy. He rested the tome on his chest. “Do you require my assistance, Your Grace?”

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Lucere held up the charts. “You knew she was related to Uncle Maxim.”

  “I had an inkling.”

  “And you suggested I seduce her!? A last dalliance before I met the princess. Good God, what were you thinking?”

  “I was mistaken,” was the man’s unhelpful reply.

  Lucere paced. Harris rarely made a mistake. Why did Lucere suddenly feel like a puppet?

  “Did you tell her that you are the duke?” the manservant asked.

  “No, I couldn’t. Not yet. My family has been ignoring hers for years. And Fellows hasn’t been forwarding her letters. I couldn’t admit to being the heartless villain that, well, I am.”

  “You must speak to Mr. Fellows.”

  Harris was being unhelpfully obvious again.

  “Good night, Harris.” Lucere stalked toward the door. “And please let me know if you have any new inklings before I humiliate myself further,” he said over his shoulder.

  Harris raised his book. “Don’t tell her your true identity just yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Estella woke with a jolt in the cold morning. She had dreamed that the small brook threading through the nearby woods had flooded. When she opened the front door, foaming swift-moving currents had engulfed everything, forming a swirling ocean around her home. A huge wave rolled above the treetops. She tried to run but couldn’t move. Her scream made no sound. The wave had crashed on her, dragging her under. Swirling around her were household items such as dishes, petticoats, and candles. She looked up, seeing the sunlight breaking the surface of the water. But when she swam to the light, a gruff hand had grabbed her ankle and pulled her down, down into the black, frigid depths to drown.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. She drew her knees to her chin and rocked herself, humming Mr. Stephens’s lovely Italian song until her heart calmed and the break of dawn fired behind the trees.

  She quickly made her toilette with cold water. She didn’t bother to unbraid her hair but left it hanging long. She could pin it up in the kitchens. She donned her stays and dress, leaving them open in the back for Lottie to tie and fasten.

  Then she trudged downstairs to the kitchens where the tea waited, that life-giving nectar.

  Thinking herself alone, she vulgarly yawned as she opened the breakfast room door to find the wall sconces burning and Mr. Stephens holding a steaming teapot. The scents of cooked eggs, bread, and butter filled the room.

  “Good morning,” he said in cheerful tones as he poured a cup. “You are most beautiful.”

  She only stared at him in hazy confusion. Her eyes squinted as though she were peering at the bright sun. Was she still asleep? Then she remembered she was hardly dressed. “Oh heavens!” she cried. “Lottie! Help!”

  Lottie hurried through the opposite door with a basket of muffins. “Miss Primrose, did you know boys could cook? Mr. Harris says that cooks in London are Frenchie men!”

  “Lottie, please help me,” Estella squeaked.

  In the corridor, Lottie laced up her mistress, fastened her dress, and treated her to a fat hug. There was nothing to be done with Estella’s hair but keep it in a braid.

  When she reentered the parlor, Mr. Stephens said, “You look even more beautiful than before.”

  She smiled, flustered. “You and Mr. Harris need not have done this.” She gestured to the table. She was embarrassed that the gentlemen realized the extent of her reduced conditions. “You’re our guests.”

  Before Mr. Stephens could answer, Mr. Harris entered and bowed. “Good morning, Miss Primrose.” He was crisply dressed and held two papers, which must have been procured in town that morning when buying the eggs. “Care to read?” he asked.

  When she politely declined, he placed one paper by the chair at the center of the table and then walked around to the other side.

  “Let me wake my sisters.”

  Mr. Stephens waved his hand. “Let them come down as they will.” He pulled back the chair for her at the head of the table.

  A warm shiver radiated from where their skin touched when he helped her sit. He smelled woodsy, like pine and cedar in winter. She almost came undone when he simply said, “There now,” in a low, whispery voice.

  Then he and Mr. Harris took their places, picking up their papers in unison. Mr. Stephens was an animated reader. His paper rattled, and he screwed his face in the most disgusted, yet comical, expression. Every few seconds, he would utter something along the lines of, “Good God, Harris, England is slipping into Hades and taking half the world with it. We are selling our souls to the devil for cheap wheat?”

  To which Mr. Harris would remark, “So it would seem.”

  Estella hid her smile behind her teacup. How lovely to be allowed to think of something different than household accounts and village gossip.

  She could no longer remain silent when Mr. Stephens remarked, “Listen to this inane speech old Bippy—er, Lord Cylesford made in the House concerning the reform of boroughs. Sheer ludicrousness.”

  “You are against the reform of an openly acknowledged corrupt system?” she asked.

  Mr. Stephens lowered his paper and scrutinized her with a rather imperial expression, no doubt seeking to intimidate her. She would not bear it. Though her cheeks heated under his study, she kept her gaze level on his.

  “Those boroughs are bought and sold at a fair price,” he said in a haughty tone. “I believe you are interfering with an Englishman’s rights and our market.” He was ribbing her, an invitation to dance, so to speak, in the conversation.

  She accepted. “Ah, rights for the rich, landowning, British male citizen.”

  “Of course, the male citizenry, who have the most stake in the British government and its policies, should have the most say.”

  “Ah, because poor women, reduced to workhouses with their small infants, have no stake at all in English laws,” she quipped. “Nothing the government does affects her, so she should have no say in its policies or politicians.”

  “Precisely,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Our opinions are in harmony.”

  “They certainly are not!”

  And so the conversation exploded between them. She knew from Mr. Stephens’s smirk-like smile that he was enjoying baiting her, but it felt lovely to be outside her little shell of worry, to express her opinions to someone who would listen and encourage her, albeit under the guise of disapproval.

  Though she didn’t admit it in the midst of their mock battle, she was impressed by his detailed knowledge of politics and policy.

  Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of Amelia and Cecelia. Their eyes widened when they saw the table… and their sister merrily laughing.

  Mr. Stephens refrained from further political discussion. For the remainder of breakfast, he directed questions at her sisters. A “game of knowledge” he called it, and he kept careful score. Her sisters had to list the continents, conjugate irregular French verbs, and perform increasingly hard mathematical problems. Estella wanted to sink under the table at how poorly she had neglected her sisters’ education. Several times she tried to change the subject, but Mr. Stephens kept her sisters enrapt in his game, letting them try to outwit the other. No doubt, after years of being a tutor, he knew how to engage his pupils.

  His being enormously handsome, and the twins being sixteen, also had its
charms.

  Upon finishing his breakfast, Mr. Stephens rose and set his linen on the table. “Come, Miss Amelia and Miss Cecelia, let us begin our first tutoring session.”

  So that was his game.

  “No, Mr. Stephens.” Estella shot from her chair. “You are our guest. You needn’t feel you must tutor my sisters.” She wanted to say that she would exchange his tutoring services for his lodging, but she desperately needed the money.

  He paused for a moment to consider her. “I must do something to fend off the tedious boredom of Lesser Puddlebury,” he replied in an off-putting voice.

  She blinked. “Oh.”

  He turned, ending their conversation.

  * * *

  She and Lottie cleared the dishes with Mr. Harris’s assistance. Lottie was enamored of the idea of French cooks, and Mr. Harris kindly regaled the simpleton with tales of pear tarts and almond cheesecakes.

  Estella left Lottie to wash up and brought breakfast to her mother. As Estella helped Mama dress, she was required to tell more about last night’s rowdy game, especially of their handsome guest. There was a glitter in her mother’s eye as she asked the particulars of the gentleman and if he was the cause of Estella’s heightened loveliness that morning.

  Estella embarrassingly blushed more when she assured her mother that he was not. “He is but a tutor,” she said, trying to put her mother off the idea of an establishment between them.

  “But if you truly loved him, it would be no matter,” was her mother’s annoying reply. She was supposed to say something about him being beneath a Primrose and then not mention him again. Instead, she continued to badger her daughter about Mr. Stephens until Estella found emptying the chamber pot a relief.

  After seeing to her mother’s comforts, Estella picked up the sheets that required mending and repaired to the parlor, where Mr. Stephens worked with her sisters at the table.

  He had devised a clever game called “Going to Almack’s,” which the twins played with great relish. The girls had to give him their bonnets, gloves, and cloaks. They could earn their garments back one by one if they answered his questions correctly. If one of them dare giggled, they lost their Almack’s voucher and all the accessories they had earned back.

  Mr. Stephens was so humorous. If a sister missed a question, he would exclaim that the Prince Regent was appalled at her ignorance and she could not make her curtsy to the queen.

  The twins had lost their adolescence sullenness, although the giggling habit was difficult to overcome. Even Estella found herself giggling at Mr. Stephens’s clever quips. He shook his head. “Not you too, Miss Primrose.”

  The twins played the game with gusto and managed to learn a great deal without realizing that they were. Estella enjoyed watching their happiness. It had been so long since joy filled this home. She felt at any moment she would look up and find her grandfather at the threshold.

  How long would Mr. Stephens stay, and how hard would it be to let him go? He caught her watching him and smiled. The edges of his eyes crinkled. Her heart lifted, wanting to leave its cage of bones and fly to him.

  “There now, Miss Primrose, your sisters don’t know Pythagoras’s theorem. Can you help them?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t,” admitted Estella. “I think I used it once.”

  “Nooo!” cried Mr. Stephens. “Must I tutor you as well?” He seemed rather pleased by this prospect, and in truth, Estella would have loved to learn. She had had to drop her studies and help her mother when she had turned fifteen.

  “La!” Cecelia exclaimed, happy that her bossy elder sister missed a question. “What shall happen to her, Mr. Stephens? I know, she’s received an infamous set-down from our great cousin the Duke of Lucere. That will vex her.” She looked at Estella. “Now, you are too ashamed to attend Almack’s again. You must give Mr. Stephens your thimble, as you have no finery.”

  Estella colored and shifted her sewing work about, remembering Mr. Stephens’s acquaintance with the duke. “Our cousin would never do something so cruel. He is a Primrose.”

  Mr. Stephens’s head jerked up. She couldn’t decipher the curious look he gave her.

  “Primrose, cabbage rose,” Cecelia taunted. “I think the duke is horrid. If he was such a wonderful cousin, he would acknowledge us. He would invite us to London.”

  “What is that old story about the troll guarding the bridge?” Amelia asked. “Well, our cousin is a troll guarding London Bridge. Never mind dull geography lessons and such, we could find husbands fast enough if we could get to London.”

  “My dears, Mr. Stephens is known to our cousin,” Estella explained, to stop further disparagement of the man.

  The twins’ faces lit. The duke, who was an ogre not a half a minute ago, became the most charming and handsome man in all England.

  “Is he really as satirical as the journals say?” Cecelia cried, rising from her chair. “Will one clever cut from him destroy a person’s standing?”

  Mr. Stephens blinked.

  “Does he really have the physique and face of Adonis?” asked Amelia. “Did he truly seduce all the pretty ladies of the Theatre Royal?”

  “Amelia, that is not proper discussion!” Estella cried. “Apologize, at once.”

  Estella’s words were unheeded. “And his friends, the Moon and Stars,” said Cecelia. “Do you know them?”

  “Disreputable rakes, the lot,” replied Mr. Stephens, his lips thinned. “I would stay away from them and their kind.”

  “I think rakes are captivating.” Cecelia capped her words with a wistful sigh, Mr. Stephens’s wise counsel ignored. She began to dance around the room, swishing her gown. “I want to marry a rake.”

  “Me too,” agreed Amelia, joining her sister’s dance.

  Estella bowed her head. This was her fault. Had she more time to see to her sisters’ moral improvement, the twins wouldn’t dare spout such nonsense. Before she could lecture, Mr. Stephens stepped in.

  “No young lady of any sense or proper manners would want a rake. They are selfish monsters, incapable of love. They care nothing for the feelings of others and only for their own pleasure. No, you should desire a kind, rational husband who will endeavor to treat you with respect and tend to your comfort and well-being.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stephens,” Estella said.

  “But such gentlemen are dull,” protested Cecelia.

  For some reason, her sister’s words set Estella aflame. She jabbed her needle into the sheet. “How dare you say that?” she cried. “I very much wish I could marry a kind man who treated me with respect instead of… of…” She swallowed as all eyes turned to her.

  She had gone too far.

  Mr. Stephens was on his feet, coming to her. “Miss Primrose, you are distressed.” He slid beside her and grasped her hand. “What is this? Tell me at once.”

  The pressure of his touch was so reassuring. She yearned to lean into his chest like a small child wanting to hide under the covers to protect herself from the terrors in the night. But she couldn’t allow the humble man, so poor that he had to seek lodging from her, to become entangled in her staggering financial problems. She extracted herself from him and gathered her sewing. “I must see to Lottie.” She walked away, her heart thundering.

  Behind her, she could hear the twins begging to resume the game. One of them said something that caused them both to explode into twitters.

  “Giggles!” Mr. Stephens’s voice boomed. He sounded almost angry. “You are both banned from Almack’s for the entire season. No rakish husbands for either of you. Now go help your worried sister and learn some gratitude.”

  * * *

  Estella made a point to avoid Mr. Stephens for the remainder of the day, which wasn’t difficult considering the amount of work that needed to be done. However, she received some unexpected assistance. The twins joined her. Mr. Stephens’s admonishment had shamed them into obedience. She told her sisters to return to their studies or music, that they must be the ladies she cou
ldn’t be, but they insisted on helping. She sent them to read to their mother. Then she climbed into the attic and took down the clothes that had been hung to dry. In the kitchens, she ironed petticoats and table linens. It was hot, hard, and mindless work, and her thoughts soon flowed back to Mr. Stephens. Yesterday, as she’d cleaned dishes, she had imagined innocently dancing with him. But now she knew how an inkling of his touch felt, and she wanted more. Much more. She tried to keep her thoughts virtuous, but they kept straying to a fantasy of being nestled deep in his safe embrace, his mouth descending down, down, down to meet her receptive lips. How would his kiss feel? How would he taste? How would his powerful chest—that she remembered so vividly under his wet shirt last night—feel against her breasts?

  The acrid scent of burning cotton assailed her nose. She yanked up the iron to find an ugly brown stain on her second-best shift. And she had only three.

  “You deserved that.” She clicked her tongue. “Now, no more fancies or you won’t have any clothes fit to wear.” Yet, not a minute later, she was snuggled in his imaginary arms again as he whispered that he would make everything well. That she didn’t have to be strong for everyone.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Mr. Harris excused himself to his bedchamber after dinner, explaining to Estella that he was fatigued. She asked if he required any tea or medicine to help him sleep. He declined. As she walked to the kitchens to help Lottie, Estella thought how Mr. Stephens was lucky to have such a considerate friend. She wished she had a confidant, well, aside from the Duke of Lucere’s unfeeling secretary.

  After helping Lottie scrape the pots and then seeing to her mother’s needs, Estella headed for the drawing room. The corridors echoed with her sisters singing in harmony. She began to tiptoe and hid just outside the drawing room threshold, so she could watch the performance without disturbing it. Mr. Stephens sat at the pianoforte with her sisters standing to his right. Two candles burning on the pianoforte bathed the faces of the singers and player in gold light. The scene looked like an illustration in a journal.