The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

  Had he . . . had he left?

  Already?

  Jane abruptly recalled their final conversation together. In his library at Hastings. His deep-blue eyes, dead; his manner, cold and haughty. He had been awful to her and hurt her feelings and it had made her furious.

  Was she still angry at him?

  Or was she angry all over again at him for coming here and then, possibly, going?

  Just like a concertina, opening and closing.

  Letting her in, shutting her out.

  Well, she wasn’t going to put up with that ever again.

  Jane set her jaw, being careful, as she did so, not to gnash her teeth although she really would have liked to.

  She looked around the crowded room one more time.

  He wasn’t there.

  So, determinedly, she made her way toward the refreshments, and got herself a plate with the biggest piece of cake she could find.

  “I’m delighted you could come, Your Grace,” said Lady Jersey smilingly, and rather nervously Anthony replied:

  “It was awfully kind of you to send me the vouchers, ma’am.”

  “But of course! Your father was a great friend of mine, you know. How you do resemble him! Poor dear Bunny.”

  “Bunny?”

  Lady Jersey gave a little tinkling laugh. “My pet name for him. Such a sweet man.”

  Even more nervously Anthony answered, “Indeed,” and for a few moments wondered wildly if Lady Jersey had mistaken him for someone else, as “sweet” was quite possibly the absolute last adjective in the whole of Samuel Johnson’s authoritative Dictionary of the English Language he, Anthony, would have ever selected to describe his late father, but there was certainly no point in mentioning this, especially since the very reason he had applied to Lady Jersey for a voucher was because of a long-ago conversation between Margaret and Terence he had happened to have overheard, in which they both agreed there was a strong likelihood that Father was carrying on with Lady Jersey; and so he had hoped she might, if only for sentimental reasons, do him this favor and thereby obviate the need to go about importuning the other Patronesses for admittance to this much-vaunted and highly exclusive establishment.

  Frankly the place seemed pretty drab and dismal, or at least that was his initial impression before Lady Jersey had rushed up and drawn him off to this private corridor before he’d had a chance to look for Jane some more. He could have called at the Penhallow townhouse, but thought it might be better to appear unexpectedly (and perhaps even heroically) in front of a great many other people and impress Jane with how dukish he looked with his subdued hair and intricately tied neckcloth (which had taken him nearly an hour to do up properly and now felt like it was throttling him) and up-to-the-minute evening-clothes and his shiny new shoes which (incidentally) hurt his feet, so that Jane would instantly forgive him for being such a terrible ass and maybe even let him kiss her then and there in front of everyone—a highly improbable scenario, given that it would no doubt create a hideous scandal and he would hardly want to embarrass Jane like that.

  But a chap could dream, couldn’t he?

  “Yes, you do look so much like dear Bunny,” said Lady Jersey with that same coyly glinting smile, and Anthony, breaking out into a sweat and hoping with all his heart that she wasn’t—O God—flirting with him, wondered how in the name of all that was holy could he detach himself from this unnerving conversation and go back into the room with all of the other people, one of whom he wished very much would prove to be Jane.

  He resisted the urge to pluck at his neckcloth, which was horribly starchy and stiff, but the impulse did result in a helpful flash of inspiration: What would the clever, resourceful Puss in Boots do in a situation like this?

  Why, he’d smoothly extricate himself with a smile, that’s what.

  So Anthony made his lips curve upwards (hopefully not clownishly) and said with as much suavity as he could muster:

  “Thank you again, ma’am. May I escort you back?” He held out his arm, and to his pleased surprise and secret triumph Lady Jersey slid her gloved hand around it, and he swept them away from the corridor and back among the lights and the music and, crucially, all the other people. He bowed and moved away with a sudden spring in his step.

  Jane.

  She had to be here.

  Bunch had informed him that Almack’s on a Wednesday night was the place for Polite Society to congregate.

  So here he was, all dressed up as if he were the best duke in the world.

  Oh, Jane, where are you? he thought, moving among the crowd.

  There were so many people that he felt like an astronomer looking at a galaxy but seeking out one singular bright and perfect star.

  Then he caught a glimpse of shining wavy flaxen hair and for a moment it felt as if his heart was going to jump out of his chest.

  He strode toward that flaxen hair.

  As he got closer, approaching from behind, he saw that it was part and parcel of a woman wearing a brilliant deep-blue gown which demurely revealed a voluptuously ripe figure.

  Could it be . . . ?

  “Miss Kent,” Anthony said. “Jane?”

  She swung around, and he saw with another violent thump of his heart that it was Jane, that bright and perfect star, all beautiful and elegant and shapely and wonderful, with (he couldn’t help but notice) the neckline of her deep-blue gown revealing some incredibly delicious and fascinating cleavage.

  Happiness at finding her streaked through him and also desire which he tried to tamp down as it was completely impossible to do anything about it right now, and instead he stared down into her lovely familiar daisy-like face, wondered if he should quote poetry, or perhaps drawl with superb aplomb Fancy meeting you here, but instead he only managed to say, engulfed as he was with relief and happiness and desire:

  “Hullo.”

  “Hullo. Your Grace,” answered Jane a bit thickly. She swallowed, and he gleaned that she had been eating a piece of cake which (judging by the plate she held in one hand) was almost gone, and also he noticed that she had a small crumb nestling at the corner of her mouth which he would have liked to lick away, and he also observed that she was smiling at him but not very much and her big gray eyes had in them an expression which struck him as rather cool and wary.

  After its joyful acrobatic leaps his heart now sank low, as if exhausted, and all he could think to say next was:

  “There’s a cake crumb on your face.”

  “Where?”

  “At the corner of your mouth. On the left side.”

  She swiped it away with the tip of a finger. “Is it gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome. How—how’s that cake? Is it any good?”

  “Not really. There’s no icing.”

  “No icing? How beastly.”

  “Yes, it is beastly.”

  “Why are you eating it then?”

  “Because I’m hungry.”

  “Ah. I say, Jane, it’s marvelous to see you.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated, but so politely and coolly that his heart plunged so low he could almost hear the pitiful plop as it hit the floor. He labored on:

  “You look—you look marvelous.”

  “How kind.”

  “I mean it. I—uh—I—” He nearly ran both hands through his hair in his agitation and unease, remembering only in the nick of time that he wanted to appear dukish for once, and chaotically disordered hair wouldn’t help his cause in the slightest. “I—uh—I’m wearing some new clothes.”

  “So I see.”

  “Puss in Boots,” he blurted out, then nearly plopped onto the floor himself in his embarrassment.

  Jane was looking up at him quizzically, which was, perhaps, better than cool wariness. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Puss in Boots, you know. The—the moral—uh—one of them, I mean—was about wearing nice clothes in order to impress someone. Do—do you happen
to know the story?”

  “No.”

  “It’s—it’s an old fable about a very clever cat who helps his humble master become a marquis and get rich and marry a beautiful princess.”

  “I see. And the cat wears boots?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  “How many boots does the cat wear? Two or four?”

  “In the illustrations in Wakefield’s book, he wears two. Because when he goes on his quest to help his master, he’s suddenly walking upright.”

  Jane nodded. “How is Wakefield?”

  “He’s very well, thank you. How is your great-grandmother?”

  “She’s well also. I trust your sister is too?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  Jane was looking up at him inquiringly now, which, Anthony thought with a surge of hopefulness, was even better than being looked at quizzically. “Is Lady Margaret unwell?” she asked.

  “When I left Hastings she was in bed with one of her headaches. She didn’t want me to go to London, you see, and she worked herself up into the most ghastly rage. I told her she was welcome to go too, but—well, that’s when she slammed the door to my library so hard that she sprained her wrist.”

  “Dear me.”

  “Yes, and when Dr. Fotherham came to look at her wrist she insisted he bleed her.”

  “But he doesn’t bleed people.”

  “Of course not. But Margaret worked herself up into another ghastly rage, and that’s when her headache came on.”

  Jane took this in, and nodded again. “How is the Duchess?”

  “Oh, she’s splendid.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Yes, she’s fatter than ever.”

  “So am I.”

  “I noticed,” said Anthony, shyly, and made himself not look away from her face and to that glorious and enticing cleavage again. “You do look splendid, Jane.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So did it work?”

  “Did what work?”

  “Did my—my hair and neckcloth and shoes and all that—did it impress you?”

  Jane looked him over consideringly. “You’ve gotten very thin. Are you unwell?”

  Anthony noticed that she hadn’t directly answered his question, which was discouraging, but she had asked about how he was doing. “No, not really. It’s just that I—I—uh—I haven’t had much appetite lately.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It came on when you went away.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, I—oh, Jane—Jane, I—”

  “I believe this is our dance, Miss Kent,” suddenly said a voice, which, Anthony saw, belonged to a good-looking fellow in evening-clothes which were just as fine as his own, plus his short and nicely clipped hair lay incredibly flat and sleek against his head.

  Jane introduced him to Mr. Graham, whom he instantly envied and also loathed due to his having the privilege and honor of getting Jane all to himself via a dance together.

  “Well,” she said, “I must go. It’s been delightful to see you again. Your Grace.”

  “Have you—” Anthony took a deep breath and went on bravely: “Have you any other dances free?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She was still looking at him consideringly, he saw. As if assessing him somehow. Quickly he said, “May I—may I call on you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do that, then.”

  “You have the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How did you get the address?”

  “I asked Gabriel Penhallow for it before I left. May I call on you tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” Jane said, and try as he might, Anthony could detect only common civility in her tone, and nothing particularly warm or friendly. And then Jane gave her plate to a passing servant and Mr. Graham took her away. A horrible chill went through Anthony, and the truncheon inside him seemed to immediately double in size. So far it could not be said that his quest was going particularly well. Although Jane had smiled at him, it had seemed rather perfunctory, nor had her beautiful eyes twinkled or sparkled one tiny bit.

  Not a good sign.

  He stared at Jane for a few minutes as she danced with that rotter Mr. Graham (who of course danced very well) and then, worried that he might be staring conspicuously and even dementedly, looked away from her, right into the sharp blue eyes of Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow, who from halfway across the room was staring at him.

  She gave him a slight, sardonic nod, appearing to be not at all glad to see him, and he nodded back, in point of fact not particularly glad to see her either and be looked at so satirically, and after that he got himself a plate with some cake on it, but couldn’t eat a mouthful, surveyed and rejected the hideously thin slices of bread and butter, tried a swallow of the bad and lukewarm tea, and then he left Almack’s, wondering why people made such a fuss about it, and went home to the Farr townhouse in Grosvenor Square where Bunch was waiting up for him, and who listened with his usual inscrutable yet sympathetic demeanor as Anthony gloomily described for him precisely how his evening had gone.

  On their ride home from Almack’s Jane had mentioned, in a neutral voice, seeing the Duke there, and Great-grandmother had, with similar neutrality, acknowledged seeing him as well.

  Nothing more had been said, but for the three days following, Great-grandmother somehow managed to ensure that they were busier than ever and never home during the usual hours for receiving callers.

  Cards from their numerous visitors piled up, but none of them were from the Duke.

  So much for him keeping his word, Jane thought bitterly.

  Coming and going.

  Open and shut.

  That was just who the Duke was.

  Jane was angry with herself for worrying over how thin he had gotten.

  And for hoping to see his card among all the others.

  And for thinking how very long these past three days had seemed.

  She went to the window of her bedchamber and looked out. It was black with night out there, and also—exactly complementing her mood—raining.

  Just perfect.

  The hour was very late, and she was ready for bed, having changed into a nightgown and frothy silk wrapper, but instead of pulling back the covers and blowing out her candles, and finally putting an end to another bitterly disappointing day, she went to sit in one of the two chairs set before the fireplace, where a small cheerful fire still leaped and danced. She stared at the little flames and sternly ordered herself not to cry.

  Don’t look to the past, she reminded herself. Look to the future.

  Love or nothing.

  Look to the future.

  Love or—

  A sudden rattling noise against her window had Jane up and on her feet. What on earth?

  She hurried to the casement window and looked out—and down—and to the courtyard in the front of the townhouse.

  In the dim light of a gas-lamp alongside the street, she saw, below her on the paving stones which glimmered wetly, the Duke.

  He was looking up at her from beneath the brim of his tall hat.

  And he was holding something underneath his greatcoat, which made his chest look grotesquely bulky.

  Jane couldn’t help it.

  She felt herself breaking into a smile.

  Quickly she turned the latch on the window, opened it, and stepped out onto the narrow balcony enclosed by waist-high wrought-iron fencing. Luckily she was protected from the worst of the rain by the overhang above her. She leaned over the fencing and whispered loudly:

  “What are you doing here? Your Grace.”

  “I’ve come to see you,” the Duke whispered loudly back. “Can I come up?”

  “Don’t ring the bell, it will wake everyone up. I’ll go downstairs and let you in.”

  “N
o, don’t. I’m coming up.”

  “What? How?”

  “Watch.”

  Jane did, fascinated.

  First the Duke pulled out the bulky object from the shelter of his greatcoat. It was something in a rucksack which he hung around his neck by its rope cord. Then he went to the window on the ground level below her room, stepped up onto the ledge, and, taking full advantage of his great height and his long arms and legs, reached up with both hands to a length of horizontal stone above the window that jutted out a bit, just enough for him to take hold of it, thrust himself upwards with amazing strength and dexterity, and in a single fluid motion perch on the jutting stone and grab the bottom rail of the iron fence of the balcony outside the drawing-room, directly below Jane’s own balcony.

  His other hand came up to grasp the bottom rail, he drew himself upward and grasped the upper railing, one hand and then another, and after that he nimbly vaulted over the railing and onto the balcony.

  Then he did it all again and with equal nimbleness vaulted up and over the railing and onto Jane’s balcony.

  He looked at Jane, and she looked at him. She still couldn’t help it—she was smiling, and possibly even grinning. She said to him:

  “Puss in Boots?”

  “Yes, I’m enacting the other moral, about being resourceful. Also, of course, Romeo and Juliet.”

  By great good fortune Jane had happened to recently see a production of this very play and so after a moment she gave a laugh and said, “The balcony scene!”

  “Just so.”

  “You’re a very good climber.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to know I still can.”

  “I was very impressed.”

  “Were you? Well, that’s splendid, because I’m wearing my regular clothes tonight, so I can’t try to dazzle you with my stylish new evening-wear.”

  Jane looked down and saw with pleasure the familiar scuffed boots. “You’d better come inside before the Watch sees you and suspects you of foul deeds.”

  “That phrase always makes me think of chickens running amok,” he said, and followed Jane inside her bedchamber. Quickly she closed the window and turned to look at him more closely.

  “You’re soaking.”

  “Just my coat is, really. And my hat.”

  “Give them to me.”