by Kim Bowman
His Grace smiled, lifting his cup to Lady Wotton, and her smile bloomed even as her eyes narrowed. Oh, he'd seen that expression countless times before, in the six years he'd lived in London: the assessing stare of a predator facing a new, previously unknown variety of prey — or a mother with a daughter of marriageable age, discovering an unmarried, rich, titled man staring at said daughter. The expression of a mother calculating his intentions to a nicety, without ever permitting anything so unpleasant as a frown to cross her face and potentially discourage his suit.
But then — and his glee quivered at her movement — then Lady Wotton lifted her gaze a fraction higher. Her smile twisted into a scowl.
She'd spotted the solicitor.
And nothing was going to save the lovers now.
Lady Wotton tugged on Anne's slender arm, and the two ladies prepared to abandon their teacups. But as they rose, His Grace started to his feet as well. They'd been introduced at Lady Forester's rout earlier in the year, so he wouldn't flout propriety by speaking with them.
Not that he'd ever allowed that to stop him. And indeed, no mother with a marriageable daughter would allow his attentions to come to naught without a fight.
And so the game began.
****
The man couldn't be serious.
Anne didn't dare breathe as the most notorious rake in the ton lifted her hand and kissed the air a hair's breadth from her glove. She couldn't feel the actual touch of his lips, but he may as well have scorched her with his heat, and her entire arm threatened to quiver in his hand. His admiration took in her hair, her face, the fur around the neck of her pelisse, her — attributes, and she would certainly die before he was done. The atmosphere in the coffee house thickened, deepened, and she didn't have to look to know every eye in the place followed his assessment, seconded his assessment, with avid interest.
Forget him. Her mother couldn't be serious.
And thankfully Mama's lips started to purse, her smile to wane, and her eyes to narrow. The Rake — well, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland to the world, but The Rake in effect — finally released her hand, murmured something — was it "Delightful" or "Delicious"? couldn't be certain — and asked—
—and asked Mama if they'd be at Lady Baldwin's concert tomorrow.
Had he ever actually pursued anyone before consuming them? Didn't he rather corner innocent young ladies (like her) in boxes at the theater or opera and there did whatever it was he did with them that utterly ruined their reputations? If he pursued her first, did that mean—
No. It couldn't possibly mean he was serious. He was a rake, The Rake, he'd earned the sobriquet as surely as Messrs. Harding and Howell of Pall Mall carried the most exquisite muslin within miles, and if she asked around doubtless she'd find herself provided with names and horrifying details. Why she hadn't asked before now, she couldn't imagine. She should already know all about him, and—
—and behind him, sweet, adorable Frederick watched the spectacle with agony etched into his brown spaniel's eyes.
Oh, it was all beyond mortifying, and seeing Frederick hurt gave it an extra layer of mortifying-ness. Truly, it was like something from a really good Gothic romance — standing in a coffee house under assault by a notorious duke, indeed — and once Frederick wrote that one, it would compete with The Romance of the Forest, The Castle of Otranto, The Old English Baron. With any of them. Frederick's romances were always the best. He could call it The Wicked Duke and the Baronet's Daughter. After he finished the one he was working on, of course. He'd described his current progress last week as "grimly pushing ahead" and the printer had been awaiting the completed manuscript for more than a week now.
Hopefully this agony would give him a stimulating creative push, rather than a push down.
And surely she contributed something, something somewhat intelligent, while Mama and His Grace exchanged banalities. But the very ordinariness of their conversation completed its transformation as it drifted past into a horrifying, distant, buzzing blur. His Grace was precisely the sort of match Mama had been seeking for her. As if she were incapable of selecting a suitable husband for herself. Merely because Mama was no longer willing to even discuss Frederick and had forbidden Anne to see or speak with him, making their assignations all too brief and far between. He'd met her behind some trees in Hyde Park last week, and for a few blissful minutes, it had been heaven on earth.
What was a duke, any duke much less this one, in comparison to Frederick Shaw, Esquire, barrister, solicitor, writer of the best Gothic romances in England, and future member of Parliament? And why could Mama not see how perfect their match truly was?
Then she blinked, and she was walking along Fleet Street with Mama, safe and anonymous among the bustling sidewalk pedestrians and with Gregory, their safe and anonymous footman, at their heels. The carriage awaited them down Fetter Lane, and as the corner opened before them, the coachman lifted the reins and his two matched chestnuts mouthed their bits and stepped forward.
She hadn't even been sufficiently aware to glance a goodbye to Frederick before she'd left. And that would hurt him most of all.
Under cover of their turn, Anne risked a look back toward the coffee house; Mama was too busy talking to notice. The pedestrians opposite the jeweler's shop parted like a curtain, and Frederick strode across that impromptu stage, his long restless strides clipping across the sidewalk, coattails flapping and his hat catching a brief flash of light from the fickle sun. Then the clouds closed in again, they turned the corner, and he was gone, leaving behind the usual dull, ugly, yearning ache in her heart.
And Mama continuing to talk.
"Oh, of course you know the sort of thing I mean, girl, you're no fool despite your silly ways. You know how to draw a man on without encouraging any nonsense from him."
Right. That explained everything. Whatever she was talking about.
Even without a word in response, Mama rattled on. "It's a matter of fluttering your eyelashes at him without — without fluttering your eyelashes. Meeting his eyes without your look devolving into a stare. That sort of thing."
Oh, well, yes, that sort of thing. She should have expected this topic of conversation to dominate, all the way back to Half Moon Street and probably for the rest of the year. As if Mama were Polonius and she Laertes, and His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, was the answer to all of life's mysteries. More to the point, as if Mama were serious but not as much as she could have been.
And Anne thanked her otherwise sleeping guardian angel for that small mercy.
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