by Lisa Berne
“Yes, isn’t he terrifying? Old Myles Farr, the fourth duke. Or was he the fifth? I can never remember. Apparently Elizabeth Tudor disliked him so much she forbade him to ever come to court again.”
“Why did she dislike him?”
“Anyone would,” answered the Duke. “Just look at that phiz. Looks like he’s been sucking lemons, don’t you think? When I was a boy I would scuttle past the old blighter as if the hounds of hell were at my heels.”
“I used to also,” said Wakefield, “when I was little.”
A proper adult, thought Jane, would probably feel obliged to say, When you were little? But you’re still little, you know. And even if the adult said it kindly, with all the best will in the world, it would still come out sounding utterly patronizing. Jane was very glad she hadn’t said it. She was glad that the Duke didn’t either.
And so they passed into the family dining-parlor, where they saw that the chair at the foot of the table was empty. “Bunch,” said the Duke, “where’s Lady Margaret?”
“I believe she’s in her room, Your Grace, recovering from a headache.”
“More macaroni for us then,” said Wakefield, with a cheerfully callous disregard for his aunt’s suffering, and sat down at his place.
Of course Anthony would never have said it out loud, but it was an undeniable fact that luncheon was a lot more fun without Margaret. Nobody glowered, nobody made pointed negative remarks, and nobody looked at anyone else as if they suspected them of using the wrong fork or sneaking rolls into their pockets.
Rather, they had a delightful time speculating about King Richard the Third and whether or not he was the victim of nasty Tudor gossip-mongering, and Anthony told Jane and Wakefield about Perkin Warbeck, a young man who claimed to be the son of one of the princes who had disappeared while being held in the Tower, and how it had cost the reigning king, Henry the Seventh, over 13,000 pounds to put down Warbeck once and for all, which turned Henry into an even greater skinflint who already didn’t like spending money on wood to keep his family’s rooms warm.
Jane mentioned the bedchamber at the Hall that Henry might or might not have stayed in, which made them all wonder if he had, did he insist that a fire not be lit for him, or did he take advantage of his hosts’ generosity and keep a fire blazing at all times, which would, really, have been rather disingenuous of him.
After that Wakefield wanted to talk some more about haggis, which they agreed was certainly a peculiar dish, although, in fairness, England’s own jellied eels was a peculiar one too, and Jane told them about her great-grandfather’s dubious pamphlet on the use of dried eels to make hair grow faster, a topic Wakefield found riveting, so she shared with them a few other equally dubious remedies having to do with pills made from cobwebs (to treat gout) and also the one about dipping bread in wine and putting the bread up one’s nose (to improve a lagging memory and also cure stubborn pustules located anywhere above the waist), and Wakefield had to be dissuaded from trying that one at once using water rather than wine.
By then all the macaroni was gone, and most of everything else, too, and dessert was shortly brought in.
“Apple puffs!” exclaimed Wakefield joyfully.
“I asked Cook to make them again,” said Anthony to Jane, “in case you did come over. After church yesterday you said they sounded good.”
She smiled at him, and it occurred to Anthony to wonder when was the last time he had been so happy. He couldn’t remember, so he repressed a sudden paradoxical impulse to feel incredibly sad, and simply smiled back as best he could.
“Thank you. How very thoughtful. Your Grace. Yes, please,” Jane said to the footman who was at her side with the platter filled with apple puffs. She took two, along with a giant dollop of whipped cream, as did Wakefield, and he himself did the same.
Jane took a bite and said, “This is delicious,” and Wakefield answered rather blurrily through a mouthful of whipped cream:
“Isn’t it just!”
After that a contented silence filled the dining-parlor like bright sunshine, and Anthony found himself noticing, for the first time in years, the wallpaper above the wainscoting, which was a ghastly dark reddish-purple color, and thinking that maybe he would tell Bunch to have it papered over in something more cheerful.
“I feel like having another puff,” observed Wakefield, “but it’s as if my mouth wants it and not my stomach.”
“I’m fairly sure I would explode if I had a third one,” Jane said.
“In solidarity, I’ll refrain from eating another one also,” said Anthony. “We’ll be the very picture of sensible moderation. Although, given how much macaroni we all consumed, it may be rather a stretch. Shall we take a turn about the topiary, and remove ourselves from further temptation?”
“Yes, let’s,” said Wakefield, and so he and Anthony went to put on their coats and Jane her pelisse as well as a bonnet Anthony had never seen her wearing before, with a high poke and a shimmering pink lining and also pink roses on the top which, distractingly, reminded him of her lovely mouth.
Together they went outside onto the back terrace and into the gardens and to the topiary, where they stood for a while looking at McTavish’s masterfully clipped Aphrodite shrub. It was a little scraggly given that it was wintertime, but still rendered everything pretty well including Aphrodite’s long tendrils of hair and also her breasts and hips and legs, and Anthony found himself wondering what Jane would look like with her hair unbound like that and—once again—without any clothes on either.
He wanted desperately to glance at Jane, who was standing next to him, to reinforce his breathtaking imaginary vision of her, but had an uneasy feeling that if he did, she would know exactly what he was picturing and would think much the worse of him for it. So he shifted on his feet, readjusted his hat, and said, a little too loudly:
“Shall we move on?”
They did, and went to view McTavish’s long line of shrubs which he had crafted to look uncannily like pumpkins, and Anthony confided to Jane his hopes for this year’s fête, and Jane wished him good luck and also recalled another one of her great-grandfather’s pamphlets which said that ordinary household dust was the world’s best fertilizer (when combined with a small amount of flat beer) and was also an excellent remedy for night terrors when put into a small pouch and worn around the neck at bedtime.
“That sounds silly,” remarked Wakefield.
“You’d think so,” agreed Jane, “but I remember Great-grandmother Kent saying it was one of their best sellers.”
When they finished strolling around the topiary, Wakefield, by now rather bored, said:
“I say, let’s go play billiards.”
So they all went inside and to the billiards room, where Wakefield explained to Jane the rules and generously let her have first crack at it. Jane only tore the green baize a little bit, and Wakefield poked both Jane and Anthony in their respective backsides with his stick, just for fun, and then (accidentally) ripped a truly magnificent hole in the baize after that, and Anthony made quite a good shot in a corner pocket, and throughout all this they laughed a great deal, and when they had finished their fourth game, Jane glanced out the window, gave a little start, and said:
“Oh, it’s getting so late! It will be dark soon. I should go.”
“Must you, Jane?” said Wakefield. “I thought we could go down into the basement rooms and look for rats.”
“That does sound delightful,” Jane answered, “but I’m afraid I really should go home.”
“There aren’t any rats,” Anthony said.
“Yes, but it’s fun to look for them, Father. Also, there are odd things down there. Do you remember the time I found that big copper tub and got into it, then couldn’t get out?”
“What I chiefly remember is the hours of panic when I couldn’t find you.”
“Were you very afraid for me, Father?”
“Yes.”
“I was a little afraid, too.”
“I
know.”
“I cried like anything when you came.”
“Well, I cried also.”
“Aunt Margaret said that only girls are allowed to cry.”
“What rot,” said Anthony. “We men have feelings too.”
“Yes, but she also said it was very poor form for a duke to cry.”
“That may be true, but as I am, apparently, the worst duke in the world, I daresay it doesn’t matter.”
Jane said curiously, “Why are you the worst duke in the world?”
He shrugged. “Ask my sister.”
“You’d better not, Jane,” said Wakefield. “She’ll talk your ears off.”
“All right, I won’t,” replied Jane. “I’m fond of my ears.”
Wakefield laughed. “That’s funny, Jane. Do you like jokes, then?”
“Oh yes, very much.”
“I do too. Here’s one. A man is eating his salad, and he finds a button in it. So he says to the waiter, ‘Look here, there’s a button in my salad.’ And the waiter says, ‘Yes, but sir, it’s part of the dressing.’ Part of the dressing—isn’t that funny, Jane?”
Jane laughed. “Very. Do you know the one about a man finding a fly in his soup?”
“I don’t! How does it go?”
“Well, a man is having his soup, you see, and when he finds a fly in it he’s very upset, and he makes a great fuss about it, and he says to his wife, ‘Look, there’s a fly.’ ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry,’ says the wife, ‘it won’t drink much.’”
“Ha! That’s a good one, Jane.”
“I’m glad you like it. I know some others—I can tell you them another time.” She glanced again at the window, and Anthony promptly said:
“Miss Kent, may I drive you home?”
“If you’re sure it’s not a trouble?”
“Not at all,” he said, and she smiled at him, and now, with the prospect of twenty minutes alone together, Anthony forgot all about being the worst duke in the world and instead felt his whole mind being blotted out by the glorious white light of happy anticipation. But not before he remembered to get something from his library and tuck it into the pocket of his greatcoat.
Chapter 8
They were barreling along on their way back to the Hall, and Jane said to the Duke, “It must have been terrible when Wakefield went missing like that.”
“It was. He was only six at the time.”
“Did he have any aftereffects? Like—well—night terrors?”
“Oh no, he had a good cry and was back to himself the next day. I was the one with the aftereffects. I noticed that I wanted to keep my eye on him all the time. So I had to be careful to not—what was the word we used yesterday? Yes, not to hound him, and make him feel confined. I was a roamer myself, you see, as a boy.”
“Hastings seems like a nice place to roam.”
“It is.”
Jane nodded, thinking what a lovely caring father the Duke was. She also was noticing how very snug and cozy it felt, sharing the high front seat with him again. Their legs were practically touching. She wished they were. Would he notice if, very slowly and subtly, she slid his way? She pictured herself doing just that. Then, suddenly, she realized it was her turn to say something. What had they been talking about? Oh yes: Hastings. “It’s a very nice place.”
“Yes.”
“For roaming, and so on.”
“Yes, very good for roaming about,” he said. “Also for pigs.”
“Oh yes, I could see that.”
“For topiaries, too. And for lime-walks.”
“Oh, do you have a lime-walk?”
“Yes. It’s splendid.”
“Good for walking, I expect.”
“Yes, very good for that.”
“Do you go there often?”
“Frequently. For a walk.”
“I like walking also.”
“Do you, Miss Kent?”
“Oh, yes. Your Grace.”
“A pleasant form of exercise.”
“Yes, very. I did enjoy walking through the topiary today.”
“I did also. McTavish is awfully clever, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Imagine making art that keeps changing on one.”
“I say, that’s such an interesting perspective.”
“Is it? Thank you.”
“Well, when one paints a painting, for example, when one is finished, that’s it. It doesn’t change at all.”
“Yes, very true.” Jane found herself thinking that they were both blithering again, just a bit, and also about that somewhat scraggly Aphrodite in the topiary. She rather envied the shrub’s lush curves. What, Jane wondered, would the Duke think of her naked with her hair loose like that?
Furthermore, what would he think of her for thinking things like that?
“By the way,” said the Duke, and Jane looked at him a little nervously. Had he guessed what was on her mind?
“Yes?”
“I—uh—I have something for you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” The Duke transferred one of the reins into his other hand, then reached into his greatcoat pocket and pulled from it a flattish, rectangular pasteboard box, which he gave to her.
She looked at him, surprise and pleasure intermingling in a rather intoxicating way, and then at the box. “Thank you very much! What is it?”
The corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly. “Open it.”
Carefully Jane put the box on her lap and lifted the lid. Inside were dark, square confections on a bed of crisp white paper. “Chocolates?”
“Chocolate conserves. Do you like chocolate?”
“I love chocolate. What a kind gift! Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss Kent. You see, there was—that is, there was something—uh—in our conversation yesterday, you know—well, you were so—I mean—that is, I—well, I just thought about getting you some chocolates.”
He was stammering so adorably that Jane was a little sorry when he stopped. She said:
“They look absolutely delicious. How very, very kind of you. Your Grace.”
“Have one.”
“I think I will.” Jane pulled off one of her gloves, picked up a conserve, and put it in her mouth. It was dense, sweet, moist. Melting on her tongue in a glorious burst of flavor and sensual texture. “Oh, it’s wonderful! Won’t you have one too?”
“Thank you, but it might be difficult. Gloves, driving, and so on.”
Jane had an idea, and knew that if she thought about it for any length of time, her concerns about her goodness (or lack thereof) might overcome her. So she picked up another one of the conserves and held it close to the Duke’s extremely attractive mouth. “Here. Your Grace.”
He flashed a surprised look at her, his lips parted, and Jane popped the chocolate between them.
“Thank you very much,” he said, a trifle thickly.
“You’re welcome.” Jane watched as onto the Duke’s face came an expression of blissful enjoyment. O to be savored like that. Imagine, being envious of a little chocolate square. But there it was. He swallowed and she said, “May I give you another one?”
“I don’t think I could stand it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Oh, Jane.” The Duke slowed his team and gently brought his curricle to a halt on the side of the deserted road. Afternoon had begun to wane, drifting slowly toward twilight, and overhead, the sky was a vast canopy of deepening violet. A flock of dark chattering birds arced up, down, and past them, leaving sudden soft silence in their wake.
The Duke turned to her, and Jane suddenly felt breathless. It wasn’t just her too-tight gown, either. She said, a little shakily:
“Why couldn’t you stand it?”
“I couldn’t stand not doing this.” As gently as he had slowed his horses, he took her hand, the one without a glove on it, raised it to his mouth, and pressed his lips to her palm.
His flesh on her flesh.
Warm, and probably tasting of chocolate.
Pure pleasure streaked through Jane like lightning and she inhaled sharply, her eyes fixed on the Duke’s mouth—his large and perfectly straight nose—the lionlike mane of his hair—
He lifted his head and looked into her face, a questioning expression on his own, and Jane saw that his deep blue eyes had darkened in that delightful way they had on their previous ride together.
“I—uh—I hope you don’t mind that I did that, Miss Kent.”
“No.” Her voice was still breathless and shaky. “Not at all. You can—you can do it again if you like.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to,” he said, and kissed her palm again. Jane shuddered as pleasure swept through her again. She could even feel her toes curling inside her boots.
“I say, Miss Kent, are you cold?”
“Quite the opposite. Your Grace.”
“So you’re not cold.”
“No. I’m feeling very warm, actually.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Yes, it is. Are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Your Grace.”
“Actually, Miss Kent, now that you mention it, I’m—uh—feeling rather warm myself.”
“In a good way?”
“Rather.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Jane smiled. They were definitely blithering again. They sounded like idiots, and she couldn’t have cared less. Because she was sitting so close to the Duke, and he had kissed her palm, and was still holding her hand, and she felt like a twig merrily burning up in a fire.
“Dimples,” said the Duke.
“Yes,” she answered, breathless.
“They’re marvelous.”
“Thank you.”
“Exceedingly marvelous.”
“Thank you again.”
“There’s just something about dimples.”
“Is there?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely, Miss Kent.”
“I’m glad you think so. Your Grace.”
“I certainly do.”
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome. Well, I suppose we—uh—that is, we ought to be—wouldn’t want you to be—I mean, you were right, it is getting dark, and—and I should be—I should be getting you home, shouldn’t I?”