The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  Wakefield looked so sweet and vulnerable that Anthony gazed at him for a long time, worrying about his tooth all over again, and it took a tremendous effort of will to keep himself from going over to the bed and kissing him on the top of his head and telling him that he loved him very, very much.

  But he didn’t want to disturb his sleep, and so quietly Anthony closed the door and went away.

  Slowly Jane paced around the billiards table, trailing her hand along the smooth polished rail and thinking hard.

  Lady Felicia had extracted a promise from her, but still she felt a powerful anxiety on the Duke’s behalf. On Wakefield’s behalf. She even managed to worry a little bit about Lady Margaret.

  Could she possibly drop a warning hint—without betraying her word?

  Maybe she could write a letter.

  Dear Your Grace—

  Is that how one would begin? It sounded a little odd somehow.

  Dear Duke—

  That was how Great-grandmother addressed him—“Duke,” and not with the “dear,” because Great-grandmother didn’t seem to like him very much, if at all—but would it be appropriate for her to start her letter this way?

  Oh, Jane, she chided herself, does it really matter?

  Your Grace—

  This salutation sounded a little curt, but seemed safe enough.

  Your Grace,

  It has come to my attention that there may be a possibility that someone within your sphere is, perhaps, not the most straightforward in their—

  “Their” was bad grammar. However, all Jane could ethically do was to hint, so the vagueness might actually be helpful.

  Your Grace,

  It has come to my attention that there may be a possibility that someone within your sphere is, perhaps, not the most straightforward in their dealings with you. I confess to some concern as to their intentions, both in the near future and later on. Far be it from me to interfere in matters that do not involve me, yet it is my sincere hope that—

  That what?

  —THAT YOU REALIZE WHAT IS REALLY GOING ON, AND THAT YOU DON’T MARRY LADY FELICIA, BECAUSE I’M NOT AT ALL SURE ABOUT HER, EXCEPT THAT I DO KNOW SHE’S DEVIOUS, AND ALSO YOU SHOULD START LOOKING AT ME AGAIN, BECAUSE . . .

  Jane realized that she was shouting at the Duke in all-capital letters. In an imaginary note which she didn’t even know how to finish. Well, this wasn’t going well.

  “You’re avoiding me.”

  Quickly Jane swung around. Viscount Whitton stood in the doorway leaning against the jamb, all muscled and exquisite in evening-clothes, gazing at her with those dark, lambent, sensuously heavy-lidded eyes.

  “And you,” she said, “are interrupting me.”

  “Interrupting you at what?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Of me, I hope.”

  “Not really.”

  “Miss Kent,” said the Viscount, caressingly, “you’re killing me.”

  More talk of killing! What a curious (and possibly bloodthirsty) family these Merifields were.

  The Viscount came into the room and closed the door behind him. Softly he said, “Can’t you see how much I want you?”

  Jane was a little ashamed to notice that she was actually glad for the distraction, so that she could stop worrying about the Duke. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Let me show you then.”

  “How would you do it?”

  The Viscount came closer, gazing into her eyes with such focused intensity that she found herself thinking of how raptors paralyze their prey before pouncing on them. Or did she mean snakes? Not that snakes pounced, of course. Although—maybe there were snakes which pounced and she just didn’t know about them. There was a great deal she didn’t know about wildlife. Maybe Mr. Pressley could help her with that.

  Also, did the Viscount routinely stare like this in order to get what he wanted? He looked, frankly, a trifle catatonic. But perhaps it was a technique that worked well on some women. He certainly gave the impression of someone who was used to having his own way. A sweet, musky scent filled her nostrils and suddenly Jane realized that the Viscount was wearing cologne.

  She wrinkled her nose a little.

  She didn’t care for it.

  It was heavy. Cloying. Artificial.

  The Viscount said, softly and deliberately, “I’d like to lift you up onto that table, Miss Kent, and lay you down upon it. I want to pull up your pretty gown, and draw your legs apart, and—”

  “Why should I have to be on my back?” interrupted Jane. “That would be uncomfortable. I think you should be on your back.”

  “What?”

  Jane resisted the urge to snicker. She had thrown him off his stride. “A true gentleman,” she said in a prim sort of way, “would offer to be in the least comfortable position.”

  “I—what?”

  “I could perch on the rail, I suppose, but if you were vigorous I might fall backwards, and that would be uncomfortable too.”

  “Miss Kent, I—”

  “Really, I’m not sure a billiards table is the best idea. What about standing up?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Also, what if someone came in and found us? Then we’d have to get married, I suppose. Isn’t that how things work in your circle?”

  “But—but that’s exactly what I do want, Miss Kent.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I want to marry you.”

  “Why?” She was a little sorry to see that the Viscount clearly felt himself to be on firm ground again. He was confident, suave, polished. Just like his shoes.

  “Because you enchant me. Entrance me. My heart throbs for you.”

  It wasn’t only his heart that was throbbing for her, evidently, if he wanted to have her on top of a billiards table. “Really.”

  “Yes. And consider—you’d be a viscountess. And the future Countess. The pater, you know, nearly got himself killed in a—er—accident. So maybe sooner rather than later. Won’t you allow me to announce our engagement tonight? You’d make me the happiest man in the world.”

  Goodness, he really meant it. Or at least the part about wanting to marry her. Abruptly, into Jane’s mind came again Lady Felicia’s bitter voice.

  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.

  She looked speculatively up into the Viscount’s face. “Do you want to marry me for my money? Because I haven’t any, you know.”

  Plainly caught off-guard again, he said, less suavely, “But your great-grandmother—everybody knows she’s as rich as Croesus. Surely she’s going to dower you generously.”

  Jane didn’t know who Croesus was, nor did she have any idea about a possible dowry, but she said, lying through her teeth and in a conspicuously self-pitying way, “Oh, she won’t. She doesn’t mind getting me some new clothes, but that’s where she draws the line, she says.”

  “But—your jewels.”

  “A loan,” said Jane promptly and mendaciously.

  “But surely—”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not at all certain she’s going to let me keep on staying at the Hall. For one thing, I’m costing her an arm and leg with all the food I eat, and also I’m absolutely useless at sewing. Who knows? I might end up living in Lady Margaret’s ruin. Although I shouldn’t like to wear a canvas sack,” she went on musingly. “It would be drafty, don’t you think? Still, in summertime that might be nice.”

  A crimson flush of blood was mantling his perfect face. “You’re mocking me.”

  For the very first time, the Viscount, red and upset and angry, seemed to Jane to be an actual human being. It was a decided improvement. Although she still didn’t want in the least to marry him. She gave a small, unapologetic shrug, and he took a step closer.

  “You damned little spitfire,” he said. “You vixen. How in the hell do you know about all those positions? My God, I want you.”

  “Standing up or on
the table?” Jane said, sweetly inquiring, and he took another step closer, so that they were practically touching, and the heavy, cloying smell of his cologne was making her nose all stuffed up.

  “I’m going to kiss you, Miss Kent, until you’re breathless. I’m going to kiss you until you scream for mercy, and beg for more. I’m going to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Oh, but I am,” the Viscount said, very silky and deliberate, his eyes burning into her own.

  “Really, I don’t think you should.”

  “I’m going to.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You know you want it,” he said silkily, and put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down, his mouth coming closer . . . closer . . .

  Just before their lips touched, Jane neatly brought her knee up and into his groin.

  The Viscount let out an undignified squawk, his knees buckled, and he lurched away from her, his handsome face gone white and twisted into a grimace of shock and pain.

  “You—you kicked me,” he said in a strangled, high-pitched voice.

  “I told you not to do it.”

  “You kicked me,” he repeated, as if he was having trouble assimilating the fact.

  “It’s probably more accurate to say that I kneed you,” said Jane thoughtfully. “I daresay I should spell it out for you, too, just to make sure you don’t confuse it with N-E-E-D and get your hopes up again. It’s K-N-E—”

  “I know how it’s spelled,” he snarled, but still rather weakly. He staggered to the nearest armchair and flopped into it, legs sprawled out without any suavity at all, and glared up at her. “How dare you, you little—”

  “If you call me a damned little spitfire or a vixen, I may do it again.”

  The Viscount blanched and sank deeper into his chair. “You, Miss Kent, are no lady.”

  “And you aren’t much of a gentleman, if you can’t hear when a woman says no.”

  “I suppose you learned how to attack men back in that uncivilized little muckheap you came from.”

  “Nantwich.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And if you mean by ‘how to attack men’ that I learned to defend myself, you’re quite right. Nantwich girls are tough, you see.”

  “Yes, I certainly do see,” he said, but unpleasantly.

  Jane continued to look thoughtfully at him. “If you really want to get married, you may be overlooking someone who is, perhaps, genuinely interested in you.”

  “Oh, you mean the revolting Margaret, who follows me around like a hungry old dog? No, thank you. I’d sooner go jump in that lake of theirs. And you—you impudent little nobody—could have had me if you’d only played your cards right.”

  Jane shrugged again. “Well, this certainly has been charming, and possibly even divine, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving you now.”

  “Good,” said the Viscount, still quite unpleasantly. “Goodbye and good riddance.”

  For a moment Jane wondered if he might like to know that his formerly perfect hair was somewhat disordered. Personally she thought it looked better that way. But neither the information nor the compliment was likely to be received with any gratitude, and so she merely began strolling toward the door.

  Anthony had just come downstairs when his eye was caught by a gleam of yellow far along the corridor, in the opposite direction from the drawing-room, and he paused, squinting.

  It was Margaret in her sunny yellow evening-gown.

  For some reason she had left her own party, and was standing in front of the closed door to the billiards room, statue-like in her immobility.

  What the devil, he thought, and began walking toward her.

  He was some ten paces away when the door opened and Jane came out, almost bumping right into Margaret.

  “Oh, excuse me, Lady Margaret,” she said, looking rather uneasy. “Have you—have you been here long?”

  “Long enough,” said Margaret stonily, and stepped aside.

  Jane moved past her and into the corridor, then saw him and looked even more uneasy as she began walking his way.

  What the devil and what the hell, Anthony thought. “Hullo,” he said when she came close.

  “Hullo. Your Grace.”

  “Everything all right?”

  She stopped and looked up at him, so lovely and beautiful and beguiling and desirable in her rose-pink gown that he nearly keeled over with a sudden renewed surge of longing and also with despair.

  “Well,” Jane said, “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Christ, an audience,” somebody said from further down the corridor, sounding very irritable, and Anthony glanced past Jane to see that Viscount Whitton had emerged from the billiards room. He saw at once that while the Viscount was still smoldering like anything, he was also noticeably ruffled in his appearance.

  What the devil and what the hell and what the devil.

  Plus, what the hell.

  Had the Viscount been making love to Jane?

  And had Jane been doing the same to him?

  Anthony looked again at Jane, his despair instantly multiplying by a factor of ten. Or maybe a hundred. She was still neat as a pin, although that was hardly conclusive, and he would have given a great deal to know why she seemed so uneasy. Was he making her edgy? Or was it due to being, well, discovered by Margaret? And why did Margaret look so miserable?

  God, what a scene.

  The Viscount stood frowning and frozen just past the doorway, Margaret was stiff as a board just a few feet away with her head turned toward the opposite wall, Jane stood stock-still, and altogether Anthony’s earlier sensation of being an unwilling actor in a play returned in full force, only now it was worse because it felt as if he was an actor who had completely blanked on his lines. He had no idea what was going on, except that everyone, himself included, seemed very uncomfortable.

  He took a step closer to Jane, and whispered:

  “I say, has that fellow been bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” It would have been easier if she had said yes, because then he could go and—do what? Say nasty things to the Viscount? Kick him out of the house? Challenge him to pistols at dawn?

  All of these were appealing options, but unfortunately without basis in grounded fact. More wretched than ever, Anthony ran a hand through his hair, suppressed an impulse to clutch at it, and blurted out to Jane in a low voice:

  “Has he been kissing you?”

  Jane’s expression abruptly changed. Her big gray eyes went cold like a wintry sky, and her lips pressed together. Then she answered, in an equally low voice, but fiercely:

  “Why should you care?”

  She had never talked to him that way before, and Anthony immediately felt himself devolve into hopeless confusion. “I—uh—well, I—I mean, that is—”

  “Also, what right do you even have to ask me that?”

  “I—none—but I—I was just—”

  “Just interfering where you shouldn’t, you mean.”

  “Jane, I—I didn’t intend—uh—it was just that I was worried about you—”

  “It’s yourself you should be worried about. You infuriating man.”

  “What? Why? About what? Oh, Jane, I’m awfully sorry if—if I’ve offended you—”

  “Never mind,” she whispered fiercely. “Just—never mind.”

  Then she walked around and past him, and he stood there in the corridor with his hands hanging loose and empty at his sides, feeling helpless and unhappy and bewildered, and quite entirely full to the brim with despair.

  Chapter 12

  It was Monday morning, and Jane and Wakefield were sitting across from each other at the large rectangular table in the vicarage study, both of them working on some math problems. In his seat at the head of the table, Mr. Pressley was silently reading essays that they had written about the English astronom
er John Flamsteed, who in 1675 was appointed the very first Astronomer Royal, and ended up cataloging over three thousand stars, a very impressive achievement for the time.

  Soft white winter sunlight poured agreeably into the study, the fire in the hearth crackled in a cheery way, and Jane should have been pleased that she was making excellent progress in the art and science of long division, but her mood was not good and had been not good since Friday evening’s party and dance.

  Every day, every waking hour, she had been bracing herself for news from Hastings. About the Duke’s betrothal to Lady Felicia.

  To add to her anxiety, nobody from Hastings had shown up at church yesterday morning, and Jane had had a hard time concentrating on Mr. Pressley’s succinct, insightful sermon on the topic of forgiveness.

  Instead she had been busy imagining the Duke and Lady Felicia kissing and hugging and so on (it was the so on part that was bothering her the most), and also feeling terrible to be entertaining such thoughts while in church. She had hoped that God, unlike herself, was paying attention to the sermon and was Himself in a forgiving mood.

  Jane now figured out what the remainder would be if one divided 5,487 by 23, and was just about to write it out neatly when Mrs. McKenzie poked her head into the study to dourly announce that a parishioner had arrived in dire need of counsel, and could Mr. Pressley please come?

  “Of course,” answered Mr. Pressley, getting up at once. “Carry on,” he said to Jane and Wakefield. “I’ll be back directly.”

  As soon as the sound of his footsteps had faded away, Wakefield set aside his pencil and said:

  “I say, Jane, the most tremendous things have been happening.”

  Jane put her pencil down too. Of course it was wrong to gossip but she was going to do it anyway, because she was dying for news, and hopefully God was still in a forgiving mood. “Really?”

  “Yes. First of all, on Saturday morning Aunt Margaret was wearing black again. I asked her why, but she told me to be quiet and eat my breakfast. And then I got ready to drop my spoon into my porridge.”