The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  “I’m ready to go.”

  Together she and Great-grandmother went to the big elegant Penhallow barouche which was waiting for them in the street. A footman held open the door and helped them inside, and so they set off, arriving half an hour later in the quiet, stately offices of the Penhallow man of business Mr. Farris, an elderly, soberly dressed man who turned out to be equally quiet and stately. He had the paperwork ready for Great-grandmother to sign, which she did, then had Jane read it through so that she would thoroughly understand it, and just as Great-grandmother looked to be ready to get up and depart, he said in his precise way:

  “Given that you’ve brought Miss Kent here, Mrs. Penhallow, I assumed that in addition to formalizing the terms of her dowry, you also wished to share with her the contents of your late son Titus Penhallow’s will.” He indicated a burgundy document folder set before him on his desk.

  “Titus’ will?” echoed Great-grandmother, and Jane saw that she had abruptly gone rather white. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “I spoke with you and your husband about it, Mrs. Penhallow, shortly after your son’s death. It could be that in your shock and grief you retain no memory of it.”

  “Yes, that may be so,” Great-grandmother answered, pale but steady. “I was distraught beyond words. May I see the will, please?” She reached out her hand and Mr. Farris gave her the document folder.

  Great-grandmother read the will, then, silvery brows raised high, she looked to Mr. Farris. “My husband and I gave Titus a generous allowance—perhaps a too-generous one—and we know he lived extravagantly. I don’t understand how he could have amassed and thus left nine thousand pounds to ‘any progeny I might have,’ as he put it.”

  Mr. Farris answered: “When he came to my office to dictate his will, Mrs. Penhallow, your son made mention of having recently been quite fortunate at cards.”

  Great-grandmother nodded. “He was a gamester, a proclivity my husband and I both hoped he would eventually outgrow.” Then her look sharpened. “Exactly when did Titus come to you, Mr. Farris?”

  “A fortnight before his untimely death, Mrs. Penhallow.”

  “Then—” Jane leaned forward and said to Great-grandmother, “Then perhaps he realized—or knew it was a possibility that—”

  Great-grandmother nodded again. “That he would have progeny with Charity. Well, my dear Jane, it seems you have inherited a modest little sum from your grandfather.”

  Jane sat back in her chair, sudden tears welling in her eyes. There was no way to know if Titus had realized he was going to be a father, but that he had taken this decisive step to provide for his child (and thus his grandchild) made her feel all at once that her connection to him went deeper than the stunning resemblance between them. “Oh, Great-grandmother,” she said softly, “how I wish I had known him.”

  Great-grandmother only nodded again, tears shimmering in her eyes as well. Then she gathered herself, thanked Mr. Farris, and rose to her feet as regally straight and proud as ever, and then she and Jane very shortly plunged back into the social whirl that filled their days and nights: a tea, a dinner, a ball.

  It was while she was dancing with the Viscount Parfitt-Saxe that Jane found herself thinking at length about the nine thousand pounds that were hers and hers alone. To a girl growing up on practically nothing, making her increasingly cautious way along the mean streets of Nantwich, a sum like this wasn’t modest, as Great-grandmother had described it, but astronomical.

  She did some quick math in her head.

  Nine thousand pounds invested in the five percents would yield an annual income of 450 pounds. A Nantwich girl could live like a queen on that.

  It was, in short, an independence.

  No matter what happened, she would never have to marry someone for their money.

  It seemed unlikely that Great-grandmother would, say, throw her out of the house if she didn’t become engaged over the next few months or years, but it was nice to think that—thanks to the prescient generosity of Grandfather Titus—she probably wouldn’t be reduced to taking in mending to get by.

  Because that, of course, would be a disaster.

  “You smile, Miss Kent,” said the Viscount. “And you are preoccupied this evening.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. What are you thinking about?”

  “Oh, sewing.”

  “Sewing?” He looked at her with a quizzical little smile. “Is there something you’re working on at home?”

  “Oh no, quite the opposite. I’m horrible at sewing.”

  “Are you?” Deftly he guided her through a complicated chassé, murmuring, “Step—feet together—step again. Well done, Miss Kent. You say you’re horrible at sewing?”

  “Yes, and also I find it very boring.”

  “Well, perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “If you like, my mother could show you a few tricks. She’s very fond of sewing and is quite skillful at it.”

  “Thank you, but I’m afraid it would be a waste of her time.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. In fact, the other day she said she was hoping to get to know you better.”

  “How kind,” said Jane, bypassing the hint and also hoping it didn’t mean the Viscount was gearing up for a proposal, as she was just now realizing that although she liked him well enough, and she really appreciated how much he was helping with her dancing, and with such lovely tact, too, there was within her absolutely no desire to fling herself against him, or to have him fling himself against her, or even a longing to spend a great deal of time in his company without anybody doing any flinging at all, all of which struck her as a bad sign for potential marital bliss.

  Her heart, it seemed, was still stubbornly and pointlessly full with yearning for someone else.

  Damn the Duke!

  He was probably rejoicing in her absence, cherishing the loving memory of his late wife, eating a lot of chocolates, strolling up and down a lime-walk fragrant with the blooms she would never see or smell, and having the most marvelous time, all without her.

  The very idea of it made her want to fling herself against him, not in passion but in anger, and take him by his neckcloth, and—

  And rip it from around his neck, and nip him hard, then bolt up onto her tiptoes and press her mouth against his, and—

  Shut up, Jane, she sternly told herself, you’re a blithering idiot.

  So focused was she on lecturing her unruly self that she missed a step, bumped into the Viscount, still felt nothing upon coming into full bodily contact with him, hastily apologized, secretly mourned that she might never get the hang of the cotillion, and began to feel unreasonably low in spirits. Not even the recollection of her nine thousand pounds, cozily sitting in the bank, cheered her up much, if at all.

  Anthony kissed Wakefield goodnight and quietly left his room, crossing the hallway to his own bedchamber where he flopped onto his bed and lay there with his head resting on interlaced fingers and his elbows akimbo.

  So charmed had Wakefield been by the startling transformation of Margaret’s cat, which had actually curled sinuously and, more importantly, pleasantly around his ankles as he sat at the oak table in Bunch’s pantry eating sandwiches, that he had asked for “Puss in Boots” for tonight’s bedtime read.

  After the story ended with the lowly miller’s son becoming a wealthy marquis and marrying the beautiful princess, thanks to the dauntless efforts of his cat, there were two morals tacked on for the reader’s edification.

  One praised the importance of industry and cleverness in the attainment of one’s goals, and the other emphasized the importance of wearing the right clothes in winning the heart of one’s beloved.

  Wakefield had not been interested in the morals, and instead had asked if it would be possible to have four small boots made for Aunt Margaret’s cat, as that would be a ripping thing to see: an actual puss in boots. Anthony had agreed that it would be, but suggested that
they not push their luck, given that it was only recently that the cat had sunk its extremely sharp teeth into someone’s ankle and drawn a fair amount of blood.

  Wakefield had acknowledged the disappointing, but genuine wisdom in this perspective, and so had nodded off to sleep.

  But Anthony was interested in the morals—if he needed any further proof that he was, for better or for worse, an adult—and thought about them for a while.

  Then he thought about some of the other fables and fairy tales he had been reading to Wakefield.

  Things always wrapped up nicely in them: there was structure, order, form.

  Just like his own life, really.

  If somebody were to write it up as a fairy tale, it would go something like . . .

  Once upon a time, there was a boy who was destined to be the second son. And he didn’t mind it. But when he grew to adulthood, fate intervened and he became a duke. He was forced to marry a woman he despised, and who despised him, and so he fell into the slough of despair. Only the birth of a delightful little son brought light into the darkness. Then the woman died, which was dreadfully sad, but at least the duke could be alone once more.

  No: not alone, but free.

  . . . but at least the duke was free once more. Years later, fate intervened again and brought into his life another woman (who had the most beautiful gray eyes in the world) whom he rather liked. And who clearly liked him, too. But when the beautiful gray-eyed woman confessed her love for him, the duke turned her away, because he didn’t want to be married ever again and thus imprisoned, a perfectly logical, reasonable, and understandable position which made complete and total sense. After that, an evil fairy very unkindly caused a truncheon to be placed into the duke’s stomach, but he was fine anyway, and he lived happily ever after.

  That seemed pretty accurate.

  Anthony shifted on the bed.

  God, he was tired.

  Tired in every part of him.

  He could feel his mind slowing, drifting into a curious state between sleep and wakefulness. He should, he supposed, get up and take off his clothes and clean his teeth and all that, but . . . he didn’t.

  Instead, for some strange reason, Anthony found himself remembering something Jane had once said about fences. And about freedom, by implication. Or was he reading too much into it?

  It was the day after Wakefield’s extraction. And also the day after he and Jane had strolled around the Hastings ballroom and kissed each other so delightfully and lengthily, and who knew what might have happened after that if he hadn’t abruptly gotten uneasy about having his neckcloth removed and feeling rather exposed (in more ways than one), and put an end to all the kissing and caressing.

  At any rate, he had gone into Wakefield’s room the next morning and there was Jane, her pale wavy hair shining in the sunlight and her beautiful gray eyes twinkling in that very fetching way she had. She was sitting next to Wakefield’s bed and sipping her coffee and telling jokes and riddles. And she had said:

  If one horse is shut up in a stable, and another one is running loose down the road, which horse is singing “Don’t fence me in”?

  The one running down the road, Wakefield had answered.

  No, neither. Horses can’t sing.

  Now Anthony wondered, rather dreamily, if he would prefer to be the horse safely shut up in a stable, or the one running loose down the road to an unknown destination.

  And then—his mind drifting and slowing, lazily wheeling—he found himself also remembering how Wakefield had criticized Romeo for not making sure that Juliet was really dead, because if (according to Wakefield) he had been just a tiny bit more diligent, disaster might have been averted and (it therefore followed) Romeo and Juliet might have had a shot at their own happily ever after.

  What’s the point of reading a story if the hero is stupid?

  Anthony thought about his own little story.

  Surely the hero—the Duke—wasn’t stupid.

  He was being sensible and clear-headed.

  Wasn’t he?

  Perhaps his actions could be better explained by some additional text.

  So when the beautiful gray-eyed woman confesses her love for the Duke, this could come next:

  But the Duke’s heart still dwelt in the darkness from before. In bleak memory and in fear.

  So, the hero was trapped in the past and afraid.

  Honestly, it didn’t suggest fineness at all.

  But still, he wasn’t stupid. Right?

  Surely he, Anthony, wasn’t being stupid.

  He was being sensible and clear-headed.

  Wasn’t he?

  He didn’t know, because he had fallen deeply asleep, and was, at present, entirely dead to the world.

  Chapter 19

  It was shortly before the notorious hour of eleven, when Almack’s closed its doors to any latecomers after that. Jane was dancing a quadrille with the Archduke Karl Augustus, during which they were having a halting conversation and she was also hoping her stomach wouldn’t loudly rumble, as she was rather hungry and could only look forward to the meager refreshments the Patronesses annoyingly and inexplicably seemed to feel sufficient: cake without any icing at all, thin and not entirely fresh slices of bread and butter, and lemonade and tea.

  A week had passed since the momentous trip to Mr. Farris’ offices. The Viscount Parfitt-Saxe had indeed proposed and she herself had gently refused him, to the dismay of Great-grandmother who had reminded her that the Viscount would one day be the Earl of Tandermere, an old and distinguished holding in northern England, and although no earl could of course equal the Penhallows in standing and prestige, she had said, still it would have been a worthy match.

  So Jane had guiltily felt she was letting Great-grandmother down.

  And here she was with the Archduke.

  Of whom Great-grandmother also approved.

  Jane did a slow spin counterclockwise, rose up on her toes, dropped down again, then clasped the Archduke’s gloved hand. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Could she progress beyond mere liking?

  Frankly, it was doubtful.

  The Archduke’s reticence, she had come to realize, was less about shyness and more about the fact that he really had very little conversation. Which didn’t bode well for future marital happiness. One could only go so far admiring the elegant silken sash one’s spouse wore about his person at all times while in public (a thought which made her wonder if he wore it to bed, too, and it certainly would get rumpled, disarranged, or even torn during intimate moments which would not be ideal).

  Also she had realized, to her sorrow, that she had initially liked what she thought was shyness because it reminded her of the Duke.

  Who sometimes had been so charmingly shy and self-effacing.

  Jane removed her gloved hand from the Archduke’s, dipped a little curtsy, and took three steps backward, leaving room for the couple next to them to advance. Her stomach did rumble, but luckily not loud enough for anyone else to hear, and she fell into thoughts of what she might scavenge from the kitchen when she and Great-grandmother got back to the townhouse.

  Some leftover chicken if there was any. And some potatoes in their tangy mustard sauce. Oh, and a couple of those apple puffs which were good, though not as good as the ones she had had that wonderful day at Hastings—

  Movement by the door caught her eye and Jane saw someone coming inside, mere moments before the doors would be implacably shut. It was a man she didn’t know, dressed very fine in a black coat and breeches and dazzlingly white shirt and crisp neckcloth. Although—

  How tall he was, and with hair of a familiar tawny color, combed flat and sleek—

  Jane heard herself actually gasp, which would have been very theatrical of her if she was doing it for effect. But she wasn’t. It was a gasp of genuine surprise and possibly also of astonishment as well as shock.

  It was the Duke.

  The Duke.

  Her Duke.

&nb
sp; No—not hers, of course.

  What she meant was that the Duke of Radcliffe was here.

  In other words, the Duke.

  Here, in Almack’s, in London.

  Here.

  In London, a place he hated.

  Was it really possible?

  These disjointed thoughts whirled through Jane’s head like a storm.

  Another couple paraded in front of her and she craned her neck to look around them.

  Yes, it was the Duke.

  He stood very straight and tall, gazing searchingly around the room.

  Was he looking for her?

  Now she could see that Lady Jersey, one of the most affable of the Patronesses, was hurrying up to greet him.

  Jane also got a hasty glimpse of his elegant dark evening-shoes, polished to a high gleam.

  And she gave another gasp, a smaller one, but a gasp nonetheless, even though she could hardly have expected him to arrive at Almack’s wearing those familiar dark scuffed boots in which he looked so dashingly devil-may-care.

  But to be wearing such impeccably shined shoes!

  It seemed entirely out of character.

  Yet another couple paraded past, then stopped, entirely blocking her view, and Jane nearly gnashed her teeth in frustration, but then it was her turn, along with the Archduke, to sally forth along the line, and she tried very hard to concentrate, but she put out her left foot incorrectly and ending up barreling right into Karl Augustus which was mortifying, but also produced the useful information that she didn’t want to do any flinging with him, either.

  She hastily apologized, tried harder to concentrate, and had to impatiently wait until the quadrille was over, which seemed to take four or five thousand years.

  But it did eventually end, and Karl Augustus led her from the floor. Jane thanked him, adding politely, “I enjoyed our dance very much. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen someone from home whom I must say hello to.”

  She turned away and now she was the one searching the room with her eyes. Looking for that tall wiry form, that striking tawny hair.

  But the Duke wasn’t standing by the doorway anymore.