What the Duke Wants

by Amy Quinton

  She looked at Dansbury, noticed his amused grin, and gave him a questioning look.

  “All right, I confess,” he replied, “I convinced your escort to change seats with me at the table as well as in the lineup. Alas, Stonebridge expects nothing less out of me, and it wouldn’t do for me to disappoint, right?”

  “Besides,” he continued, “I expect the conversation here will be infinitely more interesting than what I would have endured in my previously assigned seat. You wouldn’t have wanted me to resort to drastic measures to break the monotony, would you?” He grinned a devilish grin as he unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap.

  “Perhaps not,” she said, “though my father always said laughter was good for the soul.”

  “And, I thank you,” she added with a twinkle in her eye. She couldn’t believe the audacity of this man, but she was pleased with the results. Dinner was going to be a much more pleasant affair with the company of this charming man.

  “Please, don’t mention it. I must say, I am delighted to enjoy your company for dinner this eve.” He said it with a wink and a smile. Such a charmer, that man.

  Like a magnet seeking its other half, she looked down the table at the duke. He was watching Dansbury, and he looked both angry and confused.

  * * * *

  The first course of dinner proceeded nicely, and with the excellent company of the marquess, who kept up a steady flow of interesting conversation, Grace began to relax and enjoy herself. Alas, all good things do eventually come to an end, and for her, that especially held true when it came to moving about with refinement.

  It started when she dropped her napkin near the end of the first course. The napkin fell—nothing shocking in that—however, Grace, who was quite used to retrieving fallen napkins with none being the wiser, was not prepared for an overly efficient footman, who being assigned to watch over her in light of her general clumsiness, readily moved forward with a replacement, only to be halted with a jab in a most awkward location by her elbow as she bent to retrieve said fallen cloth. To the footman’s credit, a slight sheen of perspiration across his forehead was the only outward indication of what had transpired.

  She froze. What more could she do than that really? She glanced furtively about. As long as the others proceeded to talk and eat as usual, she could assume no one else had noticed, and then, she could focus on keeping the telling blush from stealing across her face. Not to mention actually eating her food.

  She heard the duke choke down some water and couldn’t help but look down the table at him.

  Why do I keep looking at him? Did he see my mishap? It would be just my luck. Wait. Was he trying to mask a smile? Surely not. He’d be scowling at me if he had seen anything.

  Right. Keep calm. Take a deep breath. This does not mean more accidents are destined to follow.

  Sadly, her relief that the incident had passed unnoticed was short lived; as the second course was being delivered, she put her hand down to the table a little too forcefully such that her hand actually hit the tines of her fork…Just. So. How did it get turned around in that direction anyway?

  However it happened, her fork flew up in the air. Fortunately, the fork was snatched, literally, from out of the air by her guardian footman and another embarrassing situation was narrowly averted.

  I Must. Remain. Calm.

  She took her advice and slowed her breathing to calm herself. In and out. In and out.

  “Your fork, my lady,” said a soft, friendly voice from behind.

  She blew out a long breath as she accepted the proffered utensil.

  “Thank you, Bertram,” she said quietly. She didn’t dare look up lest anyone take note of their exchange.

  Unfortunately, her eyes were, again, drawn to the duke. He was focused on his plate, though it seemed as if his shoulders shuddered briefly.

  Was he stifling a laugh? No, definitely not. All right. Relax. Focus. Breathe in and out.

  It was hard to relax with ‘His Perfection’ seated down the table, but really, she could do this.

  1, 2, 3…

  She counted to ten in order to restore her equilibrium. Then, fork in hand, she pulled herself together and refocused on her plate: prawns. Still shelled. Her worst nightmare. But there was nothing for it. It would be rude to leave the little buggers untouched; therefore, she simply must persevere.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  Right. Think delicate gentility and the meat shall simply slide right out.

  Ha! Success!

  Grace looked around to see if anyone noticed her extraordinary glee over the success of such a simple task, and again, could not stop her eyes from straying to the duke near the head of the table. Had he looked away just as she looked up?

  Ha! Not likely. Right. I can do this.

  The next prawn was even larger than the first. Excellent. No problem then. Delicately hold the prawn steady, thus, and with gentle persuasion using the explicitly designed prawn fork, simply pull…

  “Oh. My. Goodness.”

  Of course, she said it under her breath so as not to draw attention to herself, but she did say that out loud. She watched with horror as her little prawn soared through the air. She didn’t dare move her head as her eyes followed its progression, which seemed to arc down the table in slow motion. Alas, there would be no rescue from her guardian footman this time.

  And, oh dear, it was headed straight for Stonebridge. This could not end well.

  * * * *

  Stonebridge, who had been conversing with the dowager Duchess of Lyme, froze in horrified amazement as he watched Miss Radclyffe’s flying prawn make its way down the table. Miss Radclyffe truly was a walking disaster. It amazed him how he could continue to be shocked by anything he witnessed happening within her presence.

  After commiserating with the poor footman’s pain and watching the flying fork, he still could not believe how things could possibly continue to go so completely wrong for Miss Radclyffe. Now this.

  Plop.

  He returned his gaze to the lady seated next to him whilst drawing forth his napkin from his lap. The Dower Duchess of Lyme, who had been talking incessantly up until now, froze, her eyes widened in shock. The prawn had narrowly missed her great beak of a nose, and she didn’t even know it. He, however, wasn’t so lucky.

  “You were saying, Your Grace?” he prompted. He refused to acknowledge the feel of prawn in red sauce sliding down the side of his face. He casually wiped his cheek with his napkin as he encouraged the dowager to continue whatever it was she had been saying.

  “N-Nothing, Your Grace. I was q-quite finished.” The dowager blinked once in quiet confusion before looking down and attending to her plate. She studied it as if she had never seen one before today.

  Stonebridge calmly folded his napkin and placed it next to his plate. He glanced down and noticed prawn sauce splattered all over his cravat and waistcoat. He ground his teeth as he drew on every ounce of his self-control; then he looked up and bored into the eyes of Miss Radclyffe.

  She grinned (grinned!) in return and wiggled her fingers as if in greeting. He couldn’t believe her audacity. She’d just flung a prawn into the side of his face, from down the length of a dining room table no less, and now she sat there, without a hint of apology twinkling in her eye, laughing and waving merrily as if they were simply acquaintances passing by on the pavement outside.

  No one but he, and now the dowager, seemed to be aware anything was amiss, thanks to her sentinel footman and pure, dumb luck. He noticed she had placed her napkin on the table, a sign that she was finished eating. Good. It would be better for her to risk being rude and not eat, or even pretend to eat for that matter, rather than continue to tempt the hand of fate with additional opportunities for victual mayhem.

  * * * *

  Stonebridge was on his way to his rooms to refresh and change his clothes as a result of the disastrous dinner when the butler approached with a note from the earl, summoning him to his study at his
earliest convenience. It wasn’t an unusual request; he was supposed to propose marriage to Swindon’s daughter after all, but it was unexpected nonetheless.

  Swindon was a garrulous man, yet the note was succinct and therefore completely out of character. Fortunately, for everyone else’s ears, he rarely left his home, or more specifically, his dining table. He expected people to come to him. On his terms. And this meant one seldom had to suffer through one of his lengthy monologues in public. Maybe he only saw people in his own home because it gave him a feeling of power over his guests while expressing his unsolicited opinion on every topic known to man, and he was certainly that—opinionated, to the point that he infrequently, if ever, considered someone else’s point of view. Despite all this, his personality was rather weak, but this lack of character was unimportant in the grand scheme of things since he rarely ventured out in society anyway.

  It was too early in the week for any kind of proposal, or lack thereof, to raise any sort of concern on Swindon’s part, so the requested meeting should prove to be curiously interesting.

  Chapter 7

  The Earl of Swindon’s study…

  “Your Grace, come in, come in,” beckoned the earl. “I presume the courtship is proceeding as expected?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Stonebridge cautiously as he walked across the room. He said no more, though he was interested to see where this discussion was headed.

  “Excellent. Excellent,” continued Swindon, somewhat fretfully. The earl rubbed his hands on his trouser legs several times before he attempted to stand as manners dictated; the nervous action betrayed his discomfiture. It was sad, really, to watch the earl rock a few times in his chair before he could use the generated momentum to heft his bulk into a standing position. Needless to say, Swindon was a large man. And that was an understatement, if anything.

  Ambrose was patient. He knew Swindon would not push for details regarding the courtship even if he had every right to do so. And so it was with patience and confidence that he took a seat in front of the earl’s desk and waited serenely in silence. He used the disquiet to his advantage, silently prodding Swindon to get to the point of why he was summoned.

  It worked. Only a few moments of awkward silence passed, while the earl poured both of them a drink, before he spoke. “I’m not quite sure how to broach this subject delicately; so, I'd like to be blunt…if I may…” His voice trailed off as he looked questioningly at Stonebridge, silently seeking permission to continue.

  “Of course.”

  “I noticed you were introduced to my niece, Miss Radclyffe, this evening before dinner. She is, of course, not a blood relation of mine. She is the niece of my first wife and first cousin to Beatryce.”

  Stonebridge did not respond to the obvious pause to confirm or deny the statement, but he did sit forward, wary of the topic being introduced.

  Swindon continued, still hesitant. “I’m sure you are curious as to why we have not mentioned her to you before now…not intentionally to deceive, mind you,” he was quick to add, “but as you might be aware, we are cautious to whom and how we introduce her, for as I’m sure you know by now, she comes from trade, regrettably.” The earl spoke slowly, choosing his words with care despite his request to speak pointedly.

  Stonebridge acknowledged what was said and prodded Swindon to continue with a simple nod of his head.

  “Not to mention she is a bit awkward; though quite friendly, I might add…” The earl’s voice trailed off again.

  Get to the point, man.

  “I had hoped to give you time to become reacquainted with our family and see that we are upstanding members of society before we discussed the, um, situation with the Radclyffe girl, er, my niece…”

  Another dramatic pause from the earl and Stonebridge was ready to beg him to spit it out.

  “You see, her father owned a bookshop in Oxford—owned the entire shop and the apartments above outright, actually—and it was, all of it, bequeathed to Miss Radclyffe upon his death. Currently, the apartments have a tenant, and the shop is being leased to a former apprentice to her father, who continues to sell books there. At a healthy profit, I might add. I have been managing the estate on her behalf, of course, and as you might expect, it is all being held in trust to be given over to Miss Radclyffe upon her twenty-first birthday, which is in two months’ time.”

  The earl hesitated again, nearly panting as if he was out of breath. As if he had run for miles and miles at top speed. After a minute or two and a mop of his brow with his handkerchief, he continued, “However, we fear she may be planning to take over the space and start her own business there after her birthday.”

  Finally. It was all out. The earl had spit the last bit out in a rush and was anxiously awaiting some sort of response. No wonder the man was so on edge. It must be killing him to have to announce his tie to someone in trade.

  He must be afraid I am going withdraw my suit should I find out about Grace’s plans.

  All was quiet as both men considered the ramifications of Miss Radclyffe’s potential actions. Stonebridge was relieved the topic wasn’t about his encounter with Miss Radclyffe this morning. This scandal was easy, child’s play, but he waited in silence still, knowing Swindon would continue to talk if only to fill the silence. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “We’ve tried talking with her and demand she give up her ridiculous notions. Ultimately, I think she will obey us on this; she really is a reasonable girl otherwise, but I-I just wanted to make you aware of the situation…just in case…you know…”

  “I see.” Stonebridge was relieved this was all the earl wanted. It was easy to promise to take care of things and much more difficult to explain his actions from this morning. “Not to worry, Swindon. This situation is easily remedied, should the need arise, of course. If Miss Radclyffe is as reasonable as you claim, she will see the folly of her ways, and it will not be an issue. And if not, she won’t ignore a more substantial offer of compensation if it means providing her with a comfortable life in the country or in some other capacity, such as that of a companion to a lady of means.”

  The look of relief on Swindon’s face was palpable. Clearly, the earl had worried he would call off the engagement over the threat of scandal and was relieved to know the duke was prepared to assist should the need arise. If that were his fear, Swindon really didn’t know him at all, which, he admitted, was by design. He carefully kept his own council in public. In actuality, he couldn’t care less whether or not Miss Radclyffe wanted to go into trade, so long as it was respectable, but now was not the time to delve into such broad social issues as class distinction. If keeping Miss Radclyffe out of trade was all that was required to keep Swindon happy, so be it. It mattered little to him either way.

  * * * *

  Much later that evening…

  Grace cautiously opened her bedroom door. It was late, well after midnight, and most, if not all, of the guests were asleep. Or, at least, they should be at this late hour. Still, in an attempt towards secrecy, she did not light a candle. The only illumination for her to see by was the glow from the banked fire and what little moonlight filtered in through her bedroom window; thus it was in near darkness that she peered left and right down the hall, squinting into shadows and looking to see if anyone else was about.

  Concluding that the hall was indeed empty of guests, she tip-toed out of her bedroom. She pulled her door closed, carefully, with both hands, until it shut with a soft click. She let out the breath she was holding on a soft sigh then squared her shoulders and made her way toward the servants’ stairs with purpose—albeit as quietly as possible.

  She had left her spectacles lying somewhere around the house and needed to retrieve them. Despite the late hour and her every intention of getting a good night’s sleep, she found herself unable to settle her mind. She was too wound up from replaying the events of the day and altogether too worried about her future in light of her destroyed journal. She knew the best way to calm her fears w
as to throw herself into some work—something tangible that would help her resolve her worries. Then, the elusive sleep might come with blessed relief. To do that, she needed her glasses.

  Unfortunately, she was inappropriately dressed for her furtive trip, for she had already dismissed her maid after Bessie had helped her disrobe. Therefore, she knew her foray was risky, but the chances of coming across another guest at this time of night were slim to none. Besides, she wasn’t looking to dally about, but rather to quickly make her way out and back to her room in all haste with none the wiser. To that end, she took the servants’ stairs, just in case. It wouldn’t do to run into a guest along the way on the off chance someone else was still up and about so late.

  * * * *

  Stonebridge stared off into the fire as he sipped his brandy and thought over the day’s events. Swindon had retired much earlier, but bade him to remain in the library for as long as he desired. What he desired, in truth, was freedom from thoughts of Miss Radclyffe which seemed to plague him persistently throughout the day.

  To make matters worse, Cliff had enjoyed his dinner with Miss Radclyffe and couldn’t stop singing her praises, the bastard. In his eyes, she was a paragon, with all her optimistic ideals, and apparently, she had a quick wit to boot. Too bad she was a wreck in every other way, or at least, every way that mattered.

  Stonebridge was disturbed by how jealous he was over the ease with which she and his friend conversed over dinner. He was supposed to propose to Lady Beatryce this week and all he could think about was the walking disaster that was Grace Radclyffe.

  Damn…

  He slammed his fist on the table before he took another swallow of his brandy. He almost didn’t recognize himself; he was behaving so out of character today. He relished the burn as the brandy warmed him from within. He couldn’t settle his thoughts long enough to even enjoy a quick read before retiring, as was his ritual for the past fifteen years. Not only was Miss Grace Radclyffe physically dangerous to be around in person, but she was wreaking havoc on his orderly existence even when she wasn’t around.