The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  “I was going to invite you over, Jane, so we could go looking for rats today, but Aunt Margaret says I can’t. Because we have people staying, you see.”

  Well, Jane thought, Wakefield had beat her to it and spared her the embarrassment of saying, as if she were Wakefield’s age, I would have liked to come over, but my great-grandmother says I can’t. Then she suddenly remembered how last week, at luncheon, Lady Margaret had brightly announced the imminent arrival of her dear friend the Countess of Silsbury and her daughter Lady Felicia.

  Lady Felicia . . . who was the Duke’s intended?

  Lady Felicia . . . in the elegant barouche which yesterday had passed by her and the Duke?

  For a moment Jane wanted to say, in the most casual way possible, People staying? Oh, really? Who is it?

  But she took hold of herself, trying not to feel wretched at the thought of the Duke and Lady Felicia under the same roof, and said, “I understand. Another time soon, I hope. Would you like to hear another fly joke?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “There’s a man at a restaurant, very upset, and he calls the waiter over. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘there’s a fly in my soup!’ ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the waiter says, ‘that spider on your bread will soon get him.’”

  Wakefield grinned, then winced. “Ow.”

  “What is it?” Jane quickly asked.

  “My tooth just bothered me. Way in the back.” Wakefield poked an exploratory and not entirely clean forefinger into his mouth.

  “Oh dear. Have you told your father about it?”

  “No, this is the first time it’s happened. I’m all right, Jane. It went away.” Wakefield withdrew his finger and squinted up at the sky. “I was hoping to look for Orion’s Belt tonight, and show Snuffles the Dog Star too. But I don’t think we’ll be able to.”

  “No,” Jane said, looking up at the sky as well. Vehemently she wished that it would snow so heavily that—if her guess about the visitors was correct—the Countess of Silsbury and Lady Felicia would go away. Which of course was a ridiculous thing to wish for, because they could hardly travel in a blizzard. If anything, it would make them stay longer.

  So right away Jane wished for the sun to come out and warm things up.

  And that was ridiculous too, as then they would probably want to stay on and enjoy the lovely weather.

  Jane, she said sadly to herself, you’re a blithering idiot.

  “Well—goodbye,” said Wakefield. “See you tomorrow, Jane.”

  “Goodbye,” she answered, repressing a sudden urge to enfold him in a hug, as if tomorrow would take years to come and she would miss him all that time. She also had to repress a sudden urge to add:

  And do give your father my regards.

  Wistfully she watched Wakefield go over to the pony-cart and climb onto the front seat, where Higson gave him the reins, and then he jauntily waved his little whip in farewell.

  Jane waved back.

  Then she walked to the Penhallow carriage and got inside, and went back home to the Hall to get her hair cropped (just the ends, over which the friseur exclaimed in what Jane thought to be unreasonable horror about their frizzed state), have her very first lesson in dancing (a cotillion, which the dancing-master Monsieur Voclaine assured her was easy, but it wasn’t, at least not to her), and also to hear Great-grandmother mention at dinner that she had received from Lady Margaret a veritable spree of invitations.

  At this Jane looked up from her thick juicy slice of boeuf à la Bourguignonne, which she had been cutting into an appropriately sized mouthful with newfound confidence in her ability to navigate all the cutlery at her place setting. “What sort of invitations, Great-grandmother?”

  “A dinner-party tomorrow, to welcome their guests the Countess of Silsbury, her son the Viscount Whitton, and her daughter Lady Felicia. A tea the following day. Then an evening-party followed by an informal little dance. Possibly some amateur theatricals, some hunting, perhaps a ball, but certainly a soirée musicale.” Great-grandmother gave a grim little smile, and continued:

  “Lady Margaret says, in an additional note to myself, that she would of course entirely understand if I should find the prospect of any or all of these events too fatiguing and would wish to decline, and also that if you, my dear Jane, so newly arrived from such a very different sphere, would also prefer to decline, rather than submit yourself to a series of difficult, even daunting experiences, naturally that too would be most understandable.”

  Livia’s green eyes, usually so warm and friendly, were now flashing with indignation. “Why, how absolutely insulting!” she exclaimed, but Great-grandmother’s grim smile only widened.

  “I would have received these invitations with utter indifference, were it not for Lady Margaret’s note. I too aged to participate? And Jane socially inept? Now, of course, I shall accept them all.”

  Cousin Gabriel smiled. “I see that your dander is up, Grandmama.”

  “A vulgar colloquialism, but an apt one. Clearly Lady Margaret has made the dangerous mistake of underestimating me. How thankful I am for your dancing lessons, Jane, and that you have the beginnings of an adequate wardrobe. We’ll spend some time together going over the proper etiquette for such occasions.” Great-grandmother took a sip of her wine, her expression now one of both determination and speculation. “So Lady Margaret is hosting the Merifields. I know the family, of course. Or at least I knew the present Earl’s parents. Absurdly full of themselves. Their estate is in Shropshire and they claim it was a gift from a grateful Edward the Third in 1361, for services rendered to the Crown. Ha! A likely story.”

  She gave a contemptuous little sniff, and pensively Jane went back to her boeuf à la Bourguignonne.

  So the visitors Wakefield had mentioned were the Countess of Silbury and Lady Felicia. And Lady Felicia’s brother, too. What were they like? Was Lady Felicia pretty? Did the Duke think she was pretty? Did he want to kiss her palm? And more?

  It was likely that at this very moment, over at Hastings, they were all sitting down at dinner as well.

  Jane wondered how that was going.

  She would have loved to be a fly on the wall.

  Or even a fly in somebody’s soup.

  From his seat at the head of the table in the formal dining-room, Anthony looked down its long gleaming expanse—crowded with tall vases of Siberian irises, many-branched candelabra, a great deal of stemware, big baskets of hothouse fruit, and various other things that made it difficult to actually see one’s tablemates—and he directed his gaze to the foot, somewhere in the far distance, at which Margaret sat.

  It would not have been an exaggeration to say that she was sparkling with good cheer as animatedly she enumerated to her guests the various treats that lay in store for them. Her eyes glowed, she gestured emphatically, her voice rose and fell. She was like a human glass of champagne. Also, Anthony noticed in vague surprise, that while Margaret’s gown was its normal stygian black, her shawl was actually a soft, pale gray.

  Now that was odd.

  It had been over a decade since she’d worn anything that wasn’t black.

  Were all her black shawls in the wash?

  That would be entirely out of character for the exceedingly organized Margaret.

  Yes, very odd indeed.

  “—and I do hope you will all be sufficiently entertained,” she concluded smilingly, glancing both to her left, where sat the Countess of Silsbury, and to her right, at the Viscount Whitton.

  “I’m sure we shall be,” answered the Countess, smiling too, and Lady Felicia, from her place to Anthony’s left, added:

  “It all sounds too divine! Really, it’s just divine to be here. We’re so terribly glad you invited us.”

  “I’m so sorry the Earl couldn’t come as well,” said Margaret. “How unfortunate to break both his legs in a riding accident.”

  “Yes, yes, very unfortunate,” said the Countess, “very unfortunate indeed, and naturally the poor dear doesn’t care to be co
nfined at home, but of course we’re all terribly thankful that it wasn’t worse, because it easily could have been, you know. We still don’t know how the extra plank got onto that particular jump. People can be so terribly careless, can’t they? I scolded our groundsmen quite fiercely. And really, it was so fortunate that Charles happened to be at home just when it happened, because it meant he could accompany us here. Such a stroke of luck! He has so many, many other pressing engagements elsewhere, you know. Well! And so we’re to enjoy a dinner-party tomorrow evening, Lady Margaret. That will be simply charming.”

  “Yes, absolutely divine,” said Lady Felicia. “Don’t you think so, Charles?” she said across the table to her brother, leaning sharply to the left in order to get a good view of him.

  The Viscount made no reply, only lifting one broad shoulder in its perfectly fitted dark jacket, and gave her a smoldering glance from what Anthony supposed might be described as fine dark eyes.

  He wondered how Lord Whitton made them smolder like that.

  Did he have to work at it, or did it come to him naturally?

  And could he make his eyes smolder?

  Anthony tried. He narrowed his eyes, just a bit, and imagined that his pupils were on fire.

  “Charles thinks it’s divine also,” said Lady Felicia. “We simply adore dinner-parties, don’t we, Mama? Oh, Your Grace, is there something in your eye? You’re squinting quite dreadfully.”

  Anthony gave up on smoldering. “It’s nothing,” he said to Lady Felicia, who smiled and nodded.

  “Well, we simply can’t wait to meet all your charming neighbors.”

  “And to think,” the Countess said, “they include the Penhallows! How too divine. Such a storied pedigree! Not quite as distinguished as ours, of course, but whose is? And, of course, they’re so very, very wealthy. I had thought, once, that dear Felicia might—Gabriel Penhallow being so very eligible, and so very charming by all accounts—but of course Felicia was merely a schoolroom chit when he came back to England. And then he went and married a girl no one had ever heard of. How very bizarre. But of course terribly romantic.”

  “Too, too romantic,” agreed Lady Felicia. “Divine, really.”

  The Countess nodded. “And speaking of divine, Lady Margaret, I’m simply fascinated by this charming tale of yours—that of a new Penhallow come to stay at Surmont Hall.”

  “Not a real Penhallow, to my mind,” replied Margaret, “but certainly a relation of sorts.”

  “Yes, a little love-child, raised in poverty and obscurity! How very charming. Well, only think of the Duke of Clarence, and all his by-blows—quite fully accepted into Society. If Henrietta Penhallow has taken this girl in, it certainly signifies a great deal, and there are few people, if any, among the ton who will gainsay her. I daresay she’ll dower the girl quite generously. Do you recall when the Duke of Devonshire outfitted his oldest daughter with a dowry of thirty thousand pounds? An astronomical sum, to be sure, but that would be nothing to Henrietta Penhallow.”

  Viscount Whitton leaned a little forward, and Anthony wondered if he was going to say something, or at least make his eyes smolder again, but he only reached for his wineglass, and Lady Felicia said:

  “How simply divine. What a very charming tale.”

  Well, thought Anthony, this was certainly a divine and charming conversation. He wished it was over. He wished dinner was over. He wished this day was over. Actually, he wished the Merifields’ visit was over. But then he remembered passing their carriage with all that luggage strapped on top.

  The copious luggage of people who were probably planning on a long visit.

  Repressing a sigh, he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth, checking first to make sure there wasn’t a fly in it. He thought of Jane. And the enormous box of chocolate conserves looking very lonely upstairs in his library.

  It was strange, but he was finding it difficult to think of yesterday and how much he had enjoyed kissing Jane.

  It all seemed to have happened so long ago.

  And now it felt rather like a dream, getting hazier and blurrier by the hour.

  Anthony glanced around the table again. Margaret was smiling at the Viscount. The Countess was smiling at Lady Felicia. And Lady Felicia was smiling at him.

  He supposed he ought to be admiring her luxuriant dark curls, her pale translucent complexion, her cherry-red lips.

  He ought to be admiring her elegant figure, too, and how her gauzy low-cut white gown helped to highlight, even emphasize, just how elegant it was.

  But all he thought of was a cage.

  A cage with a door opened seductively wide.

  A door that would clang shut behind him were he fool enough to step inside it.

  And he a prisoner once more.

  Looking back at Lady Felicia, Anthony politely made his own lips curve upward. It was a thoroughly false and exaggerated smile, and he hoped he didn’t look like a clown in a circus performance. God, how he feared and hated clowns. How pleasant it was to be an adult and to be able to avoid circuses entirely, although in other respects being an adult was overrated. Then Anthony had another spoonful of soup (no flies), tried to think of Jane, thought of a cage instead, felt like getting up and going somewhere else, anywhere else, but made himself stay where he was, and docilely finish his soup, just as might a person whose ankles had been bound to the legs of his chair.

  Jane stood in front of her mirror, looking with pleasure at her reflection.

  She was wearing her fanciest gown from among her four new ones.

  It was made of a brilliant deep-red velvet, its long sleeves slashed with a silvery frilled lace which also ornamented the cuffs, the modest neckline, and the hem which flared just a bit, so that it swirled in a delightful way about one’s ankles as one walked. On her feet were soft silver slippers, all shiny and new, and Sally had dressed her hair high at the top of her head, with long wavy tendrils allowed to fall loose about her ears and frame her face. A delicate aigrette—made of tiny, sparkling rubies and diamonds and a single white feather—was tucked to one side of her center part, and around her neck was an equally delicate necklace, the mate to the aigrette, which Great-grandmother had just a little while given to her from out of her jewel-chest.

  Jane’s eyes had filled with tears of delight and gratitude, and Great-grandmother, clearly pleased by Jane’s reaction, had nonetheless ordered her—kindly but firmly—not to cry, as naturally she wouldn’t wish to arrive at Hastings with a red nose and a splotched complexion.

  So Jane had managed to pull herself together.

  With her eyes still fixed on her reflection in the mirror, she ran a hand down the bodice, along the curve of her breast, to her hip and thigh. The velvet was so deliciously soft and luxurious, she felt like petting it as she would a cat. (Not Lady Margaret’s cat, of course.) Also, Sally had had to alter this gown quite a bit, which she had, bless her, done good-naturedly, as Jane now had yet more flesh everywhere.

  If she kept it up, she thought with satisfaction, twisting left and right to see how she looked from different angles, soon she would actually have cleavage again.

  And so, not long after this—accompanied by Great-grandmother, Cousin Gabriel, and Livia—Jane stepped into the Great Hall at Hastings feeling rather good about herself, and bolstered, too, by a long and informative session with Great-grandmother about etiquette, some of which seemed practical, some of which seemed silly, but there it was. Jane had committed it all to memory.

  Lady Margaret came gliding forward to greet them, resplendent in a gown of pale blue satin and taffeta, and suddenly Jane remembered what Wakefield had told her earlier today after lessons were over.

  You’ll never guess what happened at breakfast, Jane. I was so surprised I dropped my spoon into my porridge.

  Why? What were you surprised about?

  Aunt Margaret was wearing a dress that wasn’t black. I almost didn’t know who she was.

  Oh, really?

  Yes, I’ve never not see
n her wear black. It made me think of something out of A Midsummer’s Dream Night. Or is it the other way around? I can’t remember. I’ll have to ask Father.

  What is A Midsummer’s Dream Night?

  Oh, it’s a play by Shakespeare. There are some muscheevious fairies, you see, Jane, and they put magic juice into people’s eyes, and then the people start acting like they’re not the same people at all.

  In a good way, or a bad way?

  A bad way. Because there’s all this talk of hearts, and love, and it’s absolutely foul and boring. And you’ll never guess what was even more surprising.

  What was it?

  Aunt Margaret didn’t even notice that I dropped my spoon in my porridge. So then I dropped my fork in, just to see what she would do.

  Did she notice that?

  No, she didn’t, and then I started thinking about what that girl Titania Penhallow said about fairies. What if she’s right, Jane? And maybe a fairy came in the night and put magic juice in Aunt Margaret’s eyes.

  Now, seeing Lady Margaret all wreathed in smiles, Jane found herself wondering if there might be something to Wakefield’s theory. Lady Margaret actually looked happy.

  The Duke, on the other hand, did not.

  As she greeted him, it came to her that the expression on his face was like a book tightly shut. He was everything that was polite, but there was no light in his dark blue eyes, nor even a hint of a smile on that delightful mouth which just two days ago she had enjoyed kissing very much.

  Her spirits instantly sank.

  Then she met the Merifields.

  The Countess was a pretty, exquisitely dressed middle-aged lady, wearing a spangled silk turban of astonishing height, and her son the Viscount, who looked to be around twenty-five or so, reminded Jane of an illustration she had recently seen in Ackermann’s magazine, that of the famous poet Lord Byron.

  The Viscount was similarly handsome—strikingly so, with his dark curly hair all perfectly arranged, and his dark flashing eyes, and also he looked very fine in his elegant dark evening-clothes which did little to conceal broad muscled shoulders, a trim torso, and powerful legs.