The Worst Duke in the World

by Lisa Berne

He unslung the rucksack, which had a curious angular appearance, and carefully put it on the floor, then took off his greatcoat and hat; the coat she took to the tall pier-glass and draped it over one of the knobs in the frame. The hat she lay on top of her bureau. Then she gazed at him again.

  His hair was a little wet from the rain and lay tumbled about his face in the way she liked so much. His face was too thin, and in those deep-blue eyes of his was a steady look of earnest supplication.

  Jane felt her heart starting to melt like snow beneath the sun, but only let it melt into icy mush, not free-flowing water, because she was, like all good Nantwich girls, cautious when necessary. Taking refuge in a bit of hostess-like formality, she said to him:

  “Won’t you come sit by the fire, and get warm?”

  “Thank you.”

  So they each sat in one of the chairs set before the fireplace, and Jane saw that he was looking at her like a man who was hungry not for food, but for something else. She tried hard to steel herself against it, which was difficult as she was, in fact, very happy that he was here (especially after climbing up to her room with such dashing and romantic panache), so she summoned up in her mind the pain and sorrow that had been dogging her all these many weeks in London, and especially during the past three days. “Why didn’t you call like you said you would?”

  “I did call. Seven times, all told. You were never home.”

  “Why didn’t you leave a card?”

  “I don’t have cards. There was no time to have them printed up. Didn’t your butler tell you I was here?”

  “No,” said Jane, a further dangerous rush of happiness swooping through her. He had called, he had kept his word.

  “I was afraid he wouldn’t. He looks like the most awful stickler.”

  “That’s why my great-grandmother hired him.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Bunch is much better, in my opinion,” Jane said. “Were those pebbles you tossed against my window?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have good aim.”

  “Thank you. Years of practice skipping stones, I daresay.”

  “In the lake at Hastings?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I used to be quite good at skipping stones,” she said reminiscently.

  “Back in Nantwich?”

  “Yes, there was a little river behind my house. How did you know which window was mine?”

  “On one of my visits here I cunningly asked one of the footmen if the people whose rooms were to the front didn’t mind all the noise from the street. And he said that Mrs. Penhallow did, and had hers to the back, but that it didn’t bother you at all.”

  “That was clever of you.”

  “Thank you. I was getting rather desperate, you see.”

  Jane already knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway. Because she wanted to hear him say it. “Desperate about what?”

  “Desperate about not seeing you.”

  Another rush of happiness swooped through her. “Great-grandmother keeps us very busy.”

  “As I learned to my increasing dismay. I say, Jane, I wanted to ask you—if you’re—you’re in love with anybody, or—or engaged, or anything like that. I’ve read the papers every day, horribly afraid that in the announcements I’d see your name.”

  The Duke had leaned forward, his big attractive hands loosely clasped between his knees, his eyes fixed on hers, his too-thin face tense and rather pale now in the flickering light of the fire.

  “No,” said Jane.

  He took a breath. “You’re not engaged?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He took another breath, a deeper one. “Are you in love with anybody?”

  “Yes.”

  At this the Duke looked crushed and his hands tightened. But he said, steadily: “I see. I—I wish you very happy, Jane.”

  “Thank you. Don’t you want to know who I’m in love with?”

  “If you’d like to tell me,” he said, and she could see the effort it took him to remain so steady and so generous. Her heart melted some more. There was still plenty to be cautious about, but that didn’t stop her from saying:

  “It’s you. Your Grace.”

  “You’re—you’re in love with me? Still? After all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane watched the wonderment dawn in his eyes, and to her came a beautiful line from Romeo and Juliet. Only she changed it a little bit at the end.

  What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and the Duke is the sun.

  Chapter 20

  Anthony stared at Jane, who looked so lovely and voluptuous and desirable in the ruffled diaphanous white thing she was wearing which he only now just realized was a wrapper worn over a nightgown, and with her pale hair in a loose plait he longed to undo, that he could hardly stand it.

  Nonetheless, he tamped down the desire that crackled through him like a lightning strike, and focused on what she had just said.

  Was it really possible?

  That she still cared for him?

  Even loved him, after he’d been so beastly to her?

  “Jane,” he breathed, and slid from his chair which was set so cozily next to hers and knelt before her, he being sufficiently tall to have them, satisfyingly, exactly face to face. He took her hands in his own and he said:

  “I love you too. Oh, Jane, dearest Jane, won’t you please marry me? I’ll do my best to make you happy, now and forever.”

  She looked back at him, somehow managing to look both elated and resolute at the same time. She smiled and then she sighed and then she answered:

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  Anthony felt his brain launch into an extremely vigorous set of gymnastics.

  Jane hadn’t said “Yes,” which was naturally the answer he had been hoping for, so that was a blow, quite a painful one, but on the other hand, she did love him, which was amazing, incredible, and wonderful, and also she hadn’t said “No” to his proposal which would have been infinitely more terrible; so things could certainly be worse, and at the very least “Maybe” had a world of possibilities contained within it, and he knew Jane well enough to know that she wouldn’t be saying “Maybe” unless she meant it and she had a good reason for saying it, but, regardless, no matter how one looked at it, she hadn’t said “Yes” and it was hard to not get the answer he was urgently hoping for in every particle of his being.

  Anthony told his brain to calm down and be reasonable, and very quietly he said to Jane:

  “Is it because I’m the worst duke in the world?”

  “You’re not the worst duke in the world.”

  “My sister thinks so, and so does your great-grandmother, I suspect. The one thing they’ve ever agreed upon, in fact.”

  “Well, I think they’re wrong.”

  “Really, Jane?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. Actually, now that I think of it, there’s something else I daresay they would agree upon. A corollary of sorts. They wouldn’t like the idea of us being married.”

  “Because my great-grandmother thinks I’m too good for you, and your sister thinks you’re too good for me?”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they think,” Jane said. “What matters is what we think.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Margaret when she started kicking up a fuss. And then I told her she can go suck an egg—a phrase I’m not proud of, but it was a rather heated conversation. And it did relay my sentiments pretty plainly. That’s when she stormed out of my library and sprained her wrist. But what about you, Jane? Are you worried about your great-grandmother’s disapproval?”

  On Jane’s lovely face was more resolution than ever. “I’d be very sorry to disappoint her, but I hope that my happiness would matter to her more than her notions of who would make a good husband for me.”<
br />
  “Like that fellow you were dancing with the other night?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “He’s an awfully good dancer.”

  “Yes, he is. But he isn’t you.”

  At this Anthony felt his hopes getting themselves up, but he also felt in all honesty compelled to say:

  “He’s a much better dancer than I am.”

  “I’m not all that good myself. We could practice together.”

  With enormous courage Anthony said, “I’d like that.”

  She smiled at him, and his hopes irrepressibly went a bit higher, but then she said the words which all too often in life have a disturbing, even ominous ring.

  “We need to talk.”

  With even more courage he replied, “Then let’s talk.”

  “Yes, but you should let go of me. I can’t concentrate very well when you’re touching me.”

  “Oh, Jane, really? Because that’s how I feel about you.”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  It was a highly pleasing and reciprocal answer, and, suppressing an ardent wish to kiss each of Jane’s beautiful, capable-looking hands, obediently Anthony released them instead, and went back to sit in the other chair.

  He looked at Jane, and Jane looked at him.

  Finally she said, “What made you change your mind?”

  “I believe you mean to say, ‘How did you manage to stop being such a fool?’”

  She smiled just a little. “So how did you?”

  “It was an arduous process, I’m sorry to say. I got more and more miserable, you see, after you went away. But I was stubborn, and frightened. Horribly frightened. And then, one night, I was thinking about something Wakefield had said, about Romeo being stupid, and what a bad hero he is, and also—well, you already know about Puss in Boots inspiring me. When I woke up the next morning the answer was there for me, as plain as day. I realized I didn’t want to be the stupid hero in a sad love story. I wanted to be the brave hero in the story, even if I didn’t know if it would have a happy ending or not. The next day Bunch and I set off for London.”

  Jane took this in, and nodded. Softly she said, “Why were you frightened?”

  “My marriage to Selina was dreadful, and I was afraid of getting married again.”

  Her gray eyes went wide. “But you said you were still in love with her.”

  “It wasn’t true. We loathed each other, she and I, and I was wretched beyond words. But you asked me about it, that day in my library, having somehow arrived at the idea that I loved her, and cravenly I seized upon it in the most horrible way as an excuse to push you away. I’m dreadfully sorry. I was a fool, a sapskull, an addlepate, a chucklehead, and every other species of stupidity.” He added, filled with excruciating remorse: “I hope you can forgive me. Would it help if I got down onto my knees again, and literally groveled? I’d kiss the hem of your gown if you let me, too, but then I’d be most awfully tempted to kiss more of you.”

  “That does sound very nice,” answered Jane, going a little pink, “but it would distract me, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, let me know if groveling at any point would help.”

  “I will. So you’re not afraid to get married anymore?”

  “To be clear, I’m not afraid anymore of marrying you. Will you tell me why you’re saying ‘Maybe,’ even though you love me? I say, that is so marvelous to think about. Your loving me, I mean.”

  “I do. And I’m so, so glad you love me, too.” Jane smiled at him, revealing to Anthony’s deep delight those entrancing dimples, then went on: “Now that I understand about your first marriage, I have two reasons left. One has to do with my past in Nantwich. You already know that Titus Penhallow didn’t marry Charity, my grandmother. And that I grew up poor, and lived rough.”

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter to me, except that I hate thinking about how hard things were for you.”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you. You should also know that three years ago, I met a boy—a young man—who was traveling with his family from Ireland to go to America. They had to stop in Nantwich for a while until his mother recovered from a difficult childbirth. Declan and I fell in love and planned to be married, and—we became lovers. I was going to go with him and his family to America, but Great-grandmother Kent got sick, terribly sick, and of course I couldn’t leave her. She wouldn’t have survived the journey. So I stayed, and Declan went on.” Jane looked away, into the dancing flames of the fire, her expression for a moment distant and rather pensive. Then she gave herself a little shake, and turned her eyes back to him, resolute as ever. “I’m telling you this so that if you absolutely must have a virgin for your wife, you would know the truth and could change your mind. Your Grace.”

  “I do wish you’d stop calling me that,” Anthony said, momentarily distracted.

  “What should I call you?”

  “‘Anthony’ would do nicely.”

  “All right, I will. Anthony.”

  “How delightful it sounds, coming from your lips. Jane, are you—are you still in love with Declan?”

  “No. It’s a chapter from my past. An important one, but it’s a memory now, that’s all. Beautiful and a little sad. Does it bother you?”

  “Does what bother me?”

  “That I’m not a virgin.”

  “No,” Anthony said truthfully. “I’m just glad you’re in love only with me.” Then he added, shyly, “Would it bother you to know I’ve only been with Selina?”

  “No.” Jane was looking at him straightforwardly and also kindly. “I can’t imagine it was pleasant making love with someone you didn’t care for.”

  Anthony sighed. “No, it wasn’t. It was a miserably brief and mechanical act in which we both did our duty and couldn’t wait for it to be over. But it did bring forth Wakefield, and that was a great blessing.”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “Do you think he would mind having me for a stepmother?”

  “I think he’d love it,” answered Anthony, perking up at once. But then he drooped slightly. “Are you ready to tell me your other reason for saying maybe?”

  “Yes. This reason has to do with you.”

  “I knew it,” said Anthony gloomily.

  Jane leaned forward. Her expression was still both resolute and kind. “It has to do with your . . . inconsistency, Anthony. I noticed, back in Somerset, that you seemed to run rather hot and cold toward me.”

  He leaned forward also, in his mind secretly cursing that slippery, inconstant Duke of Oyster. “But that was before, Jane,” he replied, earnest, eager, urgent. “Before I got over my fears. And when I was letting Margaret torment me with an apparently infinite number of marital candidates. That’s stopped, naturally, and so I told Margaret.” He gave a sudden laugh. “Oh, Jane, you should have seen her face. She’s never seen me put my foot down like that. And while I was at it, I also told her I’m going to have the wallpaper in the family dining-parlor done over. Margaret screeched something about it being well over a hundred years old and therefore worth preserving, but I put my other foot down and said I was tired of eating in a room that looks like a two-day-old bruise, and then her face turned the exact same shade of reddish-purple. What would you think of a nice cheerful yellow instead?”

  “I think it would look very nice.”

  “Done.” Then Anthony leaned forward even more. “Jane, I won’t be like that anymore—running hot and cold on you. That’s over.”

  “I hope so. That’s why I think we should wait to see for certain.”

  “I’ll prove myself to you, Jane. I will,” he promised. “Would now be a good time to do some groveling?”

  “That won’t be necessary. But I do need for you to be sure. To be . . . there.”

  “I am. I will. I’m here.”

  Jane held out her hand, and he took it in his own, as one might receive something incredibly precious: reverently. Gratefully. She said: “Then we needn’t say anything to anybody—aside from Great-grandmother, who ought to know
—and we’ll take our time.”

  “Yes. I’ll wait forever if I have to.”

  She smiled. “It won’t be forever.”

  “Does this mean we have a—a private understanding between us?”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “Then may I give you something? A gift? It’s in my greatcoat pocket.”

  “No, not yet,” said Jane. “I’m afraid I’ll like it so much that I’ll lose my resolve.”

  Anthony smiled, and lifted her hand, and kissed it. “Then I’ll wait on that, too.”

  “Thank you, Anthony. Would you kiss my hand again, please? That felt so nice.”

  He did, and Jane smiled at him some more, and Anthony couldn’t help but feel his hopes getting up yet higher.

  “Do you still hate London, Anthony?”

  “I hate it less now that you’re in it.”

  “That’s quite a compliment. What have you been doing, in between coming to call here?”

  “That kept me pretty well occupied, but I did go to Parliament and listen to some speeches. I’ve never heard such a lot of rubbish talked about the Corn Laws in my life. So I decided I’m going to take up my seat.”

  “You are? How wonderful.”

  “Yes, for the first time since old lemon-sucking Myles Farr the fourth—or possibly fifth—duke was summarily ejected from London by Queen Elizabeth. I daresay I’ll get used to making fiery speeches, waving my arms about, and vehemently denouncing my opponents.”

  “You’ll be splendid,” said Jane warmly. “Does this mean you’ll be staying on here in London?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I’d love it.”

  “I say, I am glad. So do you like London?”

  “Oh yes. I wouldn’t want to live here all year round, but I’ve seen so many interesting things and met so many interesting people. My great-grandmother Kent said that Polite Society is entirely made up of rogues and degenerates, but I think she was exaggerating.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. Especially since I’d like to have Bunch go to Hastings and bring Wakefield back with him. He wanted to come with me, you know, and I promised to bring him another time.”

  “Oh, how delightful! I’ve missed him so much.”