The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  “Then it’s settled!” The Countess beamed at them both.

  “My sister is of course welcome to go,” the Duke said, “but I most certainly won’t.”

  “But Your Grace, whyever not?” exclaimed Lady Felicia. “I simply adore London! Don’t you?”

  “I detest it.”

  “But why? The shops—the parties—the parks—the theatre—Almack’s—oh, everything!”

  The Duke only shrugged, and Lady Felicia ventured:

  “But . . . you’ve been to London, haven’t you, Your Grace?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you detest it?”

  “I detest the idea of it.”

  “Oh, Your Grace, you must go. Truly! It’s absolutely divine, I do assure you!”

  “I mustn’t,” returned the Duke, “and I won’t.”

  His implacability was plain to see, and Lady Felicia looked rather helplessly at her mother, who quickly said:

  “Felicia, my dear, perhaps you’d favor us with a song?”

  “That would be delightful,” put in Lady Margaret, who didn’t look wistful anymore, but rather had the appearance of a volcano attempting to repress its own eruption.

  Lady Felicia rose to her feet and went to the pianoforte, where she played “Robin Adair” very skillfully, and sang with equal skill in a sure, pleasing soprano, and after that, when urged, played and sang “Greensleeves” and “The Last Rose of Summer.”

  Watching and listening, Jane had to suppress an unwelcome impulse to feel envious again. Also she forced herself, as objectively as possible, to acknowledge what a pretty picture Lady Felicia made in her charming—yes, it really was—white gown, with her dark and perfectly arranged curls glimmering in the candle-light as she sat very straight at the pianoforte, her bejeweled fingers moving confidently across the keyboard.

  But even so, the Duke wasn’t looking at her, either.

  If Lady Felicia was meant to be the Duke’s intended, it didn’t seem to be going all that well.

  The Duke looked aloof. Impossibly self-contained.

  Jane suddenly found herself thinking of something she, Wakefield, and Mr. Pressley had talked about today at lessons—the Bastille. The immense Parisian fortress and prison which had figured so importantly during the French Revolution.

  Somehow the Duke was reminding her of the Bastille.

  It was unpleasant, disconcerting, and painful to see him like this, so Jane stopped looking at him as well. She got up and, avoiding the Viscount, went over to sit next to Lady Stoke, and after a few minutes of labored conversation she hit upon a topic—poetry—which had Lady Stoke’s shyness melting away into something approaching vivacity, and they had a very nice chat about Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats, and Jane got to tell her how much she liked “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” and felt she had made a new friend when Lady Stoke immediately quoted, in her soft voice, all four stanzas.

  All things considered, though, Jane wasn’t sorry when tea was over and she and Great-grandmother could go home. She had started reading Pride and Prejudice, which she had indeed found in the Hall’s library, as well as Katherine Penhallow’s first book on maritime history, which wasn’t necessarily a subject of innate interest to her, but was so well written, and so beautifully illustrated, that Jane enjoyed it more than she thought she would. It was rather a relief to sit by the fire in the rococo drawing-room, toast her feet a little in its warmth, and lose herself in a book.

  Once or twice she glanced up to see that Great-grandmother was looking at her, on her handsome face a thoughtful expression, but when Jane asked her what she was thinking, Great-grandmother only smiled faintly and refused to say.

  Chapter 11

  Another day, another one of Margaret’s ghastly events.

  Yesterday was the tea.

  Today, an evening-party and a dance.

  And Margaret was still talking about a soirée musicale, some theatricals, perhaps a formal ball, more rides and walks, and even—good God, imagine the damned humidity—a breakfast in the conservatory which airily she described as un charmant petit pique-nique faux en plein air, as if saying it in French would somehow make it less horrific.

  Gloomily Anthony eyed himself in his long pier-glass.

  He loathed wearing evening-clothes, yet here he was, dressed up like an actor in a play he didn’t want to be in.

  Evans, hovering hopefully in the background, said: “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance, Your Grace?”

  Anthony knew that Evans was itching to retie his neckcloth into something more elaborate and buff his dark shoes to a glossier finish, but only replied, “Thank you, but no.”

  He thought he heard Evans sigh, very, very quietly, hardened himself against it, looked at himself some more in his dark trousers, his dark waistcoat and jacket, his disinterestedly tied white neckcloth which twenty minutes ago had been crisp, his tumble of hair which he had halfheartedly pushed back from his face, and then he sighed too.

  He looked bad enough standing still, but he would look infinitely worse when dancing.

  Because he was horrible at it.

  He could never remember the steps, the twists, the turns, the foot going here, the head turned there, hands clasping and unclasping, the bowing and the scraping, and all of that.

  If he were a betting man, which he wasn’t, as he considered gambling to be a complete and utter waste of time and money, he’d place a very large wager that Viscount Whitton was a dazzlingly good dancer.

  And no doubt he would win the wager, but it would be a hollow triumph nonetheless.

  Anthony sighed again and went to Wakefield’s room, where he read to him from Tales from Shakespeare—they were deep into the dark and twisty Merchant of Venice—and inquired after his tooth, which Wakefield admitted was bothering him just a little tiny bit more, but only when he had bitten into some toasted almonds Cook had let him have, and after that Anthony kissed him goodnight, promised to look in on him later, and made his way downstairs in search of Bunch, whom he found in the drawing-room supervising the shifting of furniture in preparation for dancing, and asked him to send to Bath for the family dentist Mr. Rowland first thing in the morning, and to request that he come posthaste.

  Then he went to the Great Hall, where Margaret and the Merifields stood chatting and loitering about in their finery as they waited for the guests to arrive—although to be precise the Viscount, suave and perfect in his evening-clothes, did very little chatting but a great deal of smoldering—and so Anthony passed the time leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest, suppressing random thoughts of Jane, replying monosyllabically (and possibly even curtly) to Lady Felicia’s lively attempts to draw him out, trying not to be envious of the Viscount, suppressing yet more thoughts of Jane, and also wondering how soon Mr. Rowland could get here.

  If it hadn’t been for the surprise arrival of a ball-gown from Miss Simpkin, made of a shimmering dusty-rose pink silk and so beautiful that it was literally impossible to not fly upstairs to her bedroom and try it on at once, Jane might well have manufactured an excuse not to go back to Hastings yet again.

  All day she had been feeling—as had little Lucy yesterday—unusually querulous.

  But when she saw herself in the rose-pink gown, and had time to admire more fully the cunning curlicued line of deep pink embroidery around the hem and the gently puffed sleeves and the rather low neckline, and to see that she really did have a bit of cleavage again, well, that decided her.

  Because she looked very good.

  Jane didn’t think she was a vain person, and she certainly wouldn’t have said that she was the best-looking woman in the world or anything like that, but it did seem fair to acknowledge that the shimmering pink fabric offered a lovely contrast to her pale hair, and gave her eyes an interesting glow, and that her figure looked very nice in it.

  If the Duke didn’t look at her in this, there was no hope.

  No hope for him.

 
; Jane was rather nervous about the dancing, but she had been practicing hard with Monsieur Voclaine, and Cousin Gabriel had promised to dance the first two dances with her, so that she could gain confidence, and as many dances as she liked after that, just in case she needed him.

  Also, Titania had wanted to see her in her new gown, so Jane went to the nursery when her hair was dressed and she had on her beautiful necklace and aigrette, and it had been very flattering to be firmly pronounced as looking exactly like a fairy princess who could ride horses and go fishing and fight battles.

  So, for the third day in a row, Jane went off to Hastings, feeling a little bit like a battle of some kind lay ahead of her.

  It was lovely to see all her new friends, less lovely to be among Lady Margaret and the Merifields, and not lovely at all to see that the Duke was avoiding her eye.

  Avoiding her.

  Even in her beautiful dress.

  It hurt her feelings.

  Quite a lot.

  Still, she mingled valiantly, doing her best to stay out of the respective orbits of the Merifields, but was nonetheless caught unawares when Lady Felicia came up behind her, because although one could try to be vigilant, one still didn’t have eyes in the back of one’s head.

  “Dear Miss Kent,” said Lady Felicia, “won’t you come upstairs with me for a few moments, before the dancing begins, and assist me with my hair?”

  Lady Felicia’s hair looked perfect to Jane, but she felt it would be churlish to refuse, and so they swept upstairs side by side and to Lady Felicia’s bedchamber. Once inside, with the door shut behind them, Jane said:

  “What can I do to help you?”

  Lady Felicia sank onto the little stool of the dressing-table, but with her back to the mirror, which made Jane suspect that she had been lured up here on false pretenses, especially when she noticed that Lady Felicia’s eyes were darkly glittering in a way she had never seen in her before.

  “Miss Kent, have you ever been so bored that you felt you were going to die?”

  So, it wasn’t about the hair. No exchange of girlish confidences either, not with the way Lady Felicia was glittering like that. Jane thought about her question. She had certainly been bored listening to yesterday’s hunting anecdotes, for example, and last Sunday at church, when Mr. Attfield the churchwarden had droned on and on, but not so badly that she would have preferred to be dead. “Why do you ask, Lady Felicia?”

  “Because I hate it here. I hate the country, I hate this place! There’s nothing to do—it’s the dullest place in the world. My God! I wish we had never come.”

  Jane looked at her in astonishment, and Lady Felicia went on:

  “I hope you don’t mind my telling you. But Mama won’t listen, and of course I can’t talk to Charles, because he doesn’t care in the least about me, and I had to tell someone.”

  “I—I had no idea you felt that way,” Jane said.

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t! Because everything must be charming, and divine, and wonderful! And I’ve got to make the Duke marry me, Mama says, or we’ll be ruined. More ruined than we already are, that is.”

  Feeling rather stunned, Jane sat on the edge of the big luxurious bed. “You’re ruined?”

  “Yes, because Papa has gambled it all away. His inheritance—all of Mama’s income—whatever can be mortgaged on the estate—my dowry. Everything. These emeralds are only paste.” Lady Felicia gave a bitter laugh and flicked a contemptuous finger at the beautiful necklace which lay sparkling on her white breast. “I was engaged to be married, you know, last Season. But he shied away before it could be announced. He didn’t want to marry a pauper, no matter how grand my title.”

  “I’m—I’m so sorry, Lady Felicia.”

  “And now I’ve got to try and make this awful duke fall in love with me. Ugh.”

  Even though the Duke had hurt her feelings very badly, Jane still said, “He’s not that awful, surely.”

  “Oh yes, he is. He’s the worst duke in the world! Haven’t you seen those terrible boots of his? All he cares about is this place, and that dreadful son of his, and those dull farmers, and—and that stupid pig, and apple blights!” Lady Felicia gave another caustic laugh. “And he’s old, and boring, and dreadful to look at, and when we’re married we’ll never, ever go to London, and I’ll for sure die of boredom, stuck here in this hideous, dreary, awful dunghill.”

  Jane found herself leaning a little backwards, as if Lady Felicia’s harsh words came at her like a forceful gust of wind.

  “But the Duke is terribly rich,” Lady Felicia went on, lip curled in derision, “and titled, and when Lady Margaret sent her letter inviting us here, Mama said it was the greatest stroke of luck there ever was. And I’ve been trying, and trying, to get him to propose, but he’s a great stupid block and I can barely stand to be near him.”

  Jane leaned back a little more.

  On the one hand, she felt a certain amount of sympathy for Lady Felicia, because it was obviously very difficult to be in her position.

  On the other hand, the Duke was not a great stupid block, he was very intelligent and very handsome and very easy to stand next to and not at all boring and certainly not old, and Wakefield was wonderful, not the least bit dreadful, and although Hastings did have dunghills, that was to be expected here in the countryside and it absolutely wasn’t a dunghill in and of itself, and the Duchess wasn’t stupid, she really was a terrific pig, and—

  Well, she could go on and on, with her own forceful gust of words if she chose to say them out loud.

  But should she?

  Even though she hated the idea of the Duke being tricked into marrying Lady Felicia, was it really any of her business?

  Lamely she said, “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy.”

  Lady Felicia shrugged. “I’ll be happier when I’m rich again. And I can kick that awful Lady Margaret out of the house, and send that dreadful child off to Eton where he belongs. Thank you for listening, Miss Kent. I can trust in your discretion, can’t I?”

  “What?” said Jane, still rather lamely, because her mind was going in all kinds of directions at once.

  “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said, will you? You must promise. Or Mama will kill me. Or Charles will. Maybe in a hunting accident.”

  Lady Felicia spoke in such a serious voice that Jane wondered if she meant it in an all too literal way. And yet Lady Felicia was also—obviously—a fluid dissembler. Now here was a terrible sort of puzzle. Jane could feel her brow knitting as she tried to sort through it, but Lady Felicia then repeated earnestly, “Promise me, Miss Kent. Please.”

  “I promise,” Jane said, though uneasily.

  “Thank you. Shall we go downstairs?”

  This time Jane trailed behind Lady Felicia, and when they got to the drawing-room the musicians had just begun to play. Cousin Gabriel came for her, and Jane had to concentrate on the steps, which gave her the opportunity to not watch the Duke dancing with Lady Felicia, but still, in the back of her mind she kept hearing Lady Felicia’s bitter, angry voice saying all those terrible things. And it didn’t go away, even when she danced next with Mr. Pressley, who not only was an excellent dancer, he kindly coached her through some of the more complicated movements; or when Sir Gregory claimed her hand after that, laughingly cutting off Viscount Whitton by claiming the privilege of age over youth; or when they had finished their quadrille and Jane thanked him, very sincerely, and felt rather strongly that she needed just a little bit of time to herself, to try and stop the endless and distressing loop of invective running through her brain.

  So she slipped out of the drawing-room.

  Where to next?

  She thought about it.

  Why not the billiards room, where she and the Duke and Wakefield had once had such a merry time?

  Anthony had fetched for Lady Felicia, at her request, a goblet of cool lemonade, and as he handed it to her she said, smiling, “Thank you so much, Your Grace.”

  “You’re w
elcome.”

  “What a charming little dance this is! And what a divine dancer you are. I’m enjoying this all so, so much. You have such charming neighbors—I’m so glad to be getting to know them all better. There’s something so real about country folk, don’t you think? I truly do believe the rustic life is far superior to any other.”

  Well, this was quite a turnaround, given Lady Felicia’s earlier remarks about London. For a moment Anthony wanted to point this out, and possibly in a sarcastic way, but then he only gave a slight bow, remembering how, when he was a little boy, he had overheard Mr. Pressley’s equally learned predecessor, Mr. Markson, say, Discretion is the better part of valor. Which had seemed like an incomprehensible aphorism back then, but somehow seemed to make more sense in adulthood.

  “And so tomorrow we’re all to try our hands at some theatricals! How charming that will be! What play should we do? Something romantic, don’t you think? Oh, I do hope that you and I will have a chance to perform together, Your Grace. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Anthony gave another slight bow.

  “I’m already planning my pieces for the soirée musicale. Do you sing, Your Grace? It would be divine if you could accompany me. Or perhaps you could turn the pages. That would be such a help. You really do have the best pianoforte I’ve ever played upon. Hastings is so very, very charming. I wish I could stay here forever.”

  He gave yet another slight bow.

  “I’m so fond of Lady Margaret. And dear little Wakefield! Isn’t he the most charming boy in all the world? I quite dote on him.”

  He would have bowed again, even if it made his back start to hurt, but luckily one of the neighborhood sprigs approached just then, and begged for the favor of Lady Felicia’s hand in the cotillion that was forming, and so, with a last smile and blushing glance, off she went, and Anthony seized the opportunity to quietly leave the drawing-room and go upstairs to peek in on Wakefield, who, he was very glad to see, was sleeping peacefully, one small hand flung up beside his head, and with Snuffles curled up next to him in a tiny ball, softly snoring.