The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  To Jane the so-called Marriage Mart had sounded bizarre, frankly, and reminded her of Nantwich’s biweekly livestock auction.

  Still, people needed livestock, and lots of women wanted to get married, so maybe there was something useful and efficient to it after all.

  But what about herself?

  Did she want to be married?

  There was a time, three years ago, when she had. (But she had made her choice, painful as it was, knowing she was doing the right thing.)

  And now?

  What did she want now?

  Jane thought about the deep enduring love clearly shared between Livia and Cousin Gabriel. It was beautiful, and inspiring, to see—especially as Livia had told her how, at first, she and Gabriel positively disliked each other and didn’t in the least want to be married. Too, Livia had mentioned Gabriel’s cousin Hugo and his wife Katherine: how they had, after a similarly inauspicious beginning, fallen madly in love with each other. There was another Penhallow cousin, the one who lived far away to the north in the Scottish Highlands, who had been forced to marry because of an arcane and ancient decree, but apparently he and his wife had found unexpected happiness together.

  Which just went to show, happy marriages were possible.

  Mentally Jane tucked away this interesting nugget, and thought again about the phrase someone suitable.

  For some reason it made her think of Betts Johnson, and how she, Jane, had naively let herself be lured away to that dark alley.

  Well, like a proper Nantwich girl, she would be alert and wary and awake to danger and also for any opportunities that came her way. Not a big greasy delicious turkey leg waved in her face, of course—hopefully she’d moved beyond that sort of easy temptation.

  She would look for opportunities for happiness.

  All these thoughts flashed swiftly through Jane’s head.

  Great-grandmother went on smilingly, “Yes, thrilling indeed. As a cherished member of the Penhallow family, my dear Jane, you are to look as high as you please. And, naturally, you’ll be dowered just as you ought.”

  For a fleeting moment Jane thought about the Viscount Whitton and his dashed hopes in this regard. A brief urge to snicker came and went.

  Cousin Gabriel said, “Jane, you know you can say no, don’t you?”

  “Say no?” Great-grandmother’s blue eyes—suddenly anxious, even pleading—turned to Jane. “Oh, but my dear, you’ll not deny me this opportunity? This very great joy of introducing you to the world, and letting everyone see how proud I am of you? If my darling Titus had lived—if your poor grandmother Charity had too—why, this would all be happening as a matter of course. It gives me so much happiness, thinking how Titus would have wanted this for you, and how I’m able to provide you with what you deserve. I can’t give you back your childhood in Nantwich, with all your challenges and hardships—the deprivations and uncertainties—but I can give you a Season worthy of your bright beauty and good heart.”

  Great-grandmother’s eyes were now shimmering with tears and her voice had gone all soft and shaky. Jane was entirely taken aback to see her usually doughty relation like this. Well! She’d be nothing less than an ingrate, a cruel selfish terrible ingrate, to refuse, and besides, that irrepressibly curious and defiant part of her really did want to go. Even though there was yet another part—which felt stubborn and fearful and also full of longing—which wanted to dig in its heels and stay here in order to ignominiously patrol around the Duke like a vigilant guard dog (though it was not a part of herself of which she felt at all proud).

  While Great-grandmother was at Hastings yesterday, had she told Lady Margaret about the London plans, and that was why she’d gotten all strangely and suddenly amiable?

  Because she, Jane, would be out of the way?

  Jane Kent, with the irregular connection, with the low sordid background, who wasn’t good enough for her brother the Duke?

  Jane set her jaw, and said:

  “When will we leave, Great-grandmother, and for how long will we be in London?”

  Great-grandmother smiled, blinking away her tears. “Is that a yes, my dear?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Great-grandmother’s smile broadened swiftly into cheerfulness. “Oh, how marvelous! I should like to leave in a fortnight. It will be a trifle early in the Season, but as Madame Hébert will be very busy with our numerous commissions, which will take some little while, I do believe the timing will work out nicely.”

  Two weeks! So soon. So very soon. Jane took this in. “And when will we come home?”

  “It depends,” answered Great-grandmother. “The Season ends in early July, but afterwards we might like to visit some friends of mine at their country estates, or go to Brighton, perhaps, and enjoy the sea for a while.”

  Jane nodded, as if this all sounded delightful, which it did on the one hand, while on the other hand, inside herself she was thinking that Lady Margaret could deftly produce multiple candidates while they were away, and also it seemed there was a strong likelihood that they would miss this year’s fête, which meant she wouldn’t be able to cheer on the Duchess in the Fattest Pig competition or root for the Hastings pumpkin to finally receive the first-place gilt cup.

  Something she had really been looking forward to.

  She needed a plan, Jane thought to herself. And a little time to think.

  So she said nothing more, and that, apparently, was that. Livia and Cousin Gabriel exchanged a look, then he picked up his book again and Livia went back to her sewing, and Great-grandmother spent a very animated hour describing to Jane in great detail all the many pleasures and diversions that awaited her.

  Jane smiled and nodded.

  Nodded and smiled.

  Part of her was happy, part of her was uncertain.

  Later, before going to her bedchamber for the night, she walked with her candle to the Picture Gallery, and stood for a while looking at a portrait of Grandfather Titus when he was just about her own age. He seemed to be looking directly back at her, in his gray eyes a merry, devil-may-care sparkle. Hey ho! she fancied him saying. Love or nothing, my dear girl.

  Love or nothing.

  And just like that, Jane immediately knew what she was going to do.

  She was going to take a big risk.

  It made her feel frightened and exhilarated both at once, as one might feel standing boldly on the edge of a high cliff.

  Was she going to jump?

  Love or nothing.

  Yes, she was.

  So fortified was Wakefield by his hearty breakfast that by midday he had been up and about again, and off to the stables to see his pony, polish some tack, and help the grooms muck out stalls, this last being an activity he enjoyed a great deal and always ended with him being absolutely filthy and reeking of manure, Margaret screeching, Nurse also screeching, Wakefield screeching back in self-defense, a bath during which there was more screeching as well as water being splashed on every available surface including the ceiling, and general unpleasant mayhem.

  Anthony took a moment to drop a word in Martha Lawley’s ear, and she promised to do her best to divert Wakefield up the backstairs and into a brief but comprehensive bath before anyone else was the wiser.

  Thus reassured, Anthony went for a long stroll up and down the lime-walk, dreaming of summer and the tiny, white, sweet-smelling blossoms among which the bees danced and hummed. Dreaming, too, of Jane and her incendiary kisses. When could they meet again? And, hopefully, find some private time together?

  As he paced, Anthony mused upon the difficulties in actively seeking a way to be alone with a woman (beyond the unexpected opportunity provided by one’s child’s tooth extraction, not that he ever wanted to repeat that).

  This was certainly quite the reversal.

  Usually he struggled to find ways to not be alone with a woman.

  He remembered, with a chill of horror snaking down his spine, the panicky agony of practically being shoved into the conservatory wi
th Miss Preston-Carnaby, and Lady Felicia’s determined attempts to corner him in some shadowy place, and Miss D’Arblay’s rabid urgings to go traipsing deep into the woods hunting squirrels together; and into his mind rose the alarmingly vast specter of all the other matrimonial candidates whom Margaret had over the years brought to Hastings.

  He had dodged and hidden and evaded and skulked.

  Now, however, he wanted to be alone with Jane.

  But how?

  He bent his mind to this knotty problem.

  Could he have his own extraction, as an excuse to bring her back to Hastings for a couple of nights?

  Unfortunately, all his teeth were in excellent condition, and as much as he longed to kiss Jane again, he drew the line at sacrificing a perfectly good tooth (and of course it would be impossible to persuade the scrupulously ethical Mr. Rowland to join him in this devious conspiracy).

  Plus, one could hardly kiss well, or want to be kissed, having just had a tooth pulled.

  He could ride over to Surmont Hall, on the pretext of talking to Penhallow about some question of estate management, and arrive just around tea-time. But having tea with Jane, especially under the sardonic eye of old Mrs. Penhallow, was hardly the same thing as—say—the two of them being deliciously alone in the Hastings ballroom.

  By the time he finished his walk Anthony still had no answers, but all the same, it seemed like a good problem with which to wrestle, and his mood was sanguine.

  This cheerful state of mind persisted all throughout the rest of Friday—especially since Martha proved to be as good as her word, and the day passed entirely without any screeching at all, at least within his own earshot—and lingered through Saturday morning, up until, Anthony having gone to visit the Duchess, Johns had come stumping over, looking so buoyant that Anthony was sure that he had gotten into the most gruesome fight with his nemesis Cremwell and royally bested him. Johns announced:

  “Well, that’s one less thing to worry about, guv’nor.”

  Anthony gave the Duchess a final scratch, smiling as she gave a loud grunt of satisfaction, then put down the big stick, resigned to hearing a macabre and painstakingly detailed account of every injury Johns had dealt the hapless Cremwell. “What is?”

  “She’ll be gone soon. Never did like her hanging about the Duchess. I always did say, you can never be too careful, and I’ll tell you this, guv’nor, I’ll be sleeping better at night once the coast is clear.”

  “Who will be gone soon?”

  “That Miss Kent.”

  Anthony had been leaning his elbows on the balustrade, watching the Duchess meander over to her trough to poke around with her snout at the scattered remainders of an enormous breakfast, but now he abruptly straightened and stared down at Johns. “What do you mean?”

  “That Miss Kent,” explained Johns. “She’s leaving.”

  “What? Why?”

  “To London, guv’nor, for that there Season as they call it, which don’t make no sense, do it? Give me spring, summer, autumn, and winter! ’Twas good enough for my pa, and his pa, too, so it’s good enough for me and mine, I reckon! Anyroad, old Mrs. Penhallow’s a-taking that Miss Kent to London, so she can get her leg-shackled to some high-and-mighty nob. Leastways, that’s what the missus says.”

  “London? Leg-shackled? To a nob? How does Mrs. Johns know this?” In his shock and dismay Anthony felt as if he’d been in a gruesome fight and royally bested, and he put out a hand to the balustrade as if to steady himself against further blows.

  “Why, her niece Abby’s a kitchen-maid over at the Hall, guv’nor. Tells the missus all the news. That there young shaver Daniel’s cut a new tooth, you see, and Mrs. Livia lost two of her best layers last week, and one of the footmen came down with the collywobbles, right bad he did, and—”

  “When is Miss Kent leaving?” Anthony interrupted.

  “A fortnight. Cheer up, guv’nor, there’s no need to be Friday-faced! I’ll keep good watch over the Duchess, see if I don’t, these next two weeks, just in case that Miss Kent tries to—”

  “Johns, you’re being—” Anthony broke off just before he said “redonculous.” He went on, “You’re being absurd.”

  Johns bristled. “Oh, I am, am I? Now look here, guv’nor, do you want that first prize again this year or not?”

  “You know I do,” said Anthony, but before he could be drawn into a spirited verbal competition with Johns as to who wanted it more, and possibly a nasty debate about the probability of Jane actually sneaking over to the pig-cote and doing harm to the Duchess, he let go of the balustrade and said, “Give her some fresh straw, will you?” Then he gave a loud whistle for the dogs, turned on his heel, and walked quickly back toward the house, Breen, Joe, Sam, and Snuffles following him in an affable ragtag pack.

  Having diverted them to the stables, he went inside and up to his library where he found that even Dinkle couldn’t distract him from the reality that was not only staring him in the face, it was shoving a fist into his gut, meanly tweaking his entrails, putting its hands around his throat, pounding a mallet on his head, squeezing his lungs, and also—it being a reality rather like a malevolent many-armed octopus, able to inflict discomfort on multiple fronts at once—pressing down so hard on him he half-wondered if he would ever be able to get up from his chair.

  Maybe it was just as well.

  Eventually he would die, rot, get extremely smelly, and then turn to dust, which might actually be a relief.

  Jane was leaving.

  In two weeks.

  For London.

  For the Season.

  During which old Mrs. Penhallow would exert herself in marrying Jane off.

  And it was well-known in these parts, and possibly all over Somerset, and perhaps throughout the entirety of England, that Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow was a person who got things done.

  Anthony could not have said just how long he sat there, immobile, stunned and hurting; it was only a shout—“Jane!”—from outside which galvanized him into pushing himself up from his seat to go to the windows that looked out to the front.

  It was Wakefield who had joyfully shouted. There he was on the graveled sweep below, going to meet Jane, who was riding a small, neat bay, behind her trailing a groom who quickly dismounted to help Jane down from her horse.

  Just as quickly Anthony stepped away from the window, not wanting to be seen.

  He plunked himself back in his chair, ran his hands through his hair, got up again as if to go somewhere else, then went back to his desk, sat down, ran his hands through his hair a second time, plucked at his neckcloth, needlessly shuffled the papers on his desk, and desperately wondered how he should behave toward Jane.

  Who was leaving.

  Who was leaving him.

  To go off to London and marry someone else.

  Someone better than him, no doubt.

  A high-and-mighty nob.

  A viscount, an earl, another duke?

  Maybe the best duke in the world.

  Some urbane, polished fellow, sophisticated and graceful, all broad-shouldered and heavily muscled and perfectly dressed and with a crisp, beautifully tied neckcloth, who always knew exactly what to say on all occasions, and of course was also a marvelous dancer who loved to hunt and go to London parties where he transfixed everyone with his witty quips and smoldering eyes, quoted poetry, and basically did everything right.

  Well, and what of it, old chap? said a voice in his head, sounding an awful lot like his late brother Terence. Breezy, careless, self-assured, authoritative. Dukish. You don’t want to marry her anyway. Why should you care if she goes away?

  Anthony sat up straighter.

  By Jove, it was true.

  He didn’t want to be married.

  He wasn’t going to be married.

  He would never be married again.

  Not only that, he had, in fact, been reasonably content with his life before Jane came, and when Jane left, he would go on being reasonably content. And that
was enough for any man. What was the point of reaching for the stars? None. A silly endeavor (practically speaking as well as metaphorically). And so life would soon resume its accustomed course. He would be peaceful once more.

  Anthony folded his hands together on top of his reshuffled papers, exactly as would a man who was satisfied with his life as it was. Who had fought back against the nasty, grasping octopus-reality coming at him with flailing tentacles. He could breathe, he could swallow, he could stand up as he liked.

  He was fine.

  Take that, you wretched octopus-reality, he said to himself, then suddenly remembered a dream he’d had earlier in the week. Himself as the Duke of Oyster, lording it over his fellow denizens of the deep. A seahorse, a crowd of sardines, an octopus who, he recalled, had seemed friendly at the time.

  Good God, what an odd dream.

  What on earth had brought it on?

  He cast his mind back to the time and place.

  Oh yes: it was the day of the extraction. In the soft burgeoning twilight Wakefield and Jane and Snuffles had been napping, and he had been sitting in the chair next to the bed, exhausted and half-asleep already.

  He had felt himself—how had he put it?—opening up to Jane.

  Like an oyster.

  He had smiled a little, imagining himself as a giant oyster.

  His Slipperiness the Duke of Oyster.

  But what he had forgotten, that day, was that if an oyster could open up, it could close, too.

  Tightly.

  So that nothing—no one?—could get in.

  Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and Anthony heard them with newfound serenity. He was a closed-up oyster, a door slammed shut, a drawbridge brought up. No one would ever know that on his throat were the marks of Jane’s sweet love-bite; they were fading away, day by day.

  Soon they would be gone.

  There was nothing to panic about.

  He was fine.

  He was safe.

  He was fine.

  “What do you want to talk to Father about, Jane?” asked Wakefield, who had volunteered to show her to the Duke’s library where, Bunch had informed them in the Great Hall, he was to be found. Now they were walking along a long hallway. “Can I be there, too?”