Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  “No, as something fresh and new. Never seen at a house party before.” Flora was pretty sure this had to be true.

  “Do you really think so?” Lord Philip perked up a bit.

  “You might set a new fashion.”

  “For mayhem?” But he smiled.

  “For originality and…ingenuity. For a wish to offer your guests novel entertainments.”

  Lord Philip considered this. Then he laughed. “You’re out of the common way, aren’t you?”

  It was the third time she’d been called unconventional, and she hadn’t been at Salbridge two whole days. Her notion that she could slide into the company with scarcely a ripple, just another young lady, an unremarkable creature of society, was proving dubious. “No,” she said. But she very much feared that it was too true to be concealed.

  Four

  Robert’s valet brushed a tiny bit of fluff off the shoulder of his evening coat and stood back to survey the results of his work. He said nothing; nor did Robert. Small, wiry, and taciturn, Bailey was an artist who didn’t wish to be personally involved with his creation—any more than a painter wanted to converse with his canvasses or a sculptor with his busts. He didn’t scorn an occasional word of praise, but otherwise he kept his distance. Which was fine with Robert. He didn’t want a load of chatter when he was trying to achieve a grand effect with his neckcloth. Bailey went out, carrying the one Robert had spoiled before he got the look he wanted.

  A stir at the fireside caught Robert’s eye. From his blanket on the hearth, Plato was gazing at him. As he always was, whenever Robert looked. It was almost as if the dog was waiting for Robert to recognize some quite obvious fact. Robert leaned down to pat the small furred head. “It’s true I am not quite sure of my next step,” he told the dog as he straightened.

  Plato responded with his weird curmudgeonly gurgle.

  “None of it has made any sense, from the very beginning.”

  It’d been those fiery-blue eyes first of all, Robert thought. He’d walked into the Jennings’ house in Russell Square, trailing his brother Alan on a quest for information, and there Flora had been, daughter of the house. Something in Flora’s gaze had set him alight, right to his fingers’ ends. A revolution that could not be explained. He’d had to pursue that irresistible connection. But he’d let it unravel into an argument. “I shall do better here,” he declared.

  Plato rose from his blanket. He was much steadier on his feet now that he’d had a few good meals. His unusual coat was already glossier. He approached, and for a moment Robert feared the little dog would put a paw on his polished shoe, an act that would further alienate Bailey. The valet had not been pleased to find a mongrel in his employer’s bedchamber.

  But of course Plato did nothing of the kind. He walked deliberately past, his uncanny gaze fixed elsewhere for once. Following it, Robert saw that a moth had gotten inside and was fluttering around the candle flames. Plato sat down just beneath the spectacle, watching.

  “A tired metaphor,” Robert said. “And quite inappropriate in this case.”

  Plato cocked his head.

  “Unless I’m the flame,” Robert said.

  The small animal gazed up at him. It was alarmingly easy to see skepticism, and perhaps even amusement, in those dark eyes.

  Robert snuffed the candles. “You’ll have to make do with firelight,” he told Plato, and possibly the moth, as he left the room.

  Flora stood in the crowd of guests waiting to go in to dinner and tried not to feel self-conscious about her evening dress. There was nothing wrong with it. The cloth was good; the color and cut became her. Harriet’s superior dresser had helped with her hair. But she didn’t have the kind of sumptuous, extremely fashionable garments the other young ladies here wore. Most of them looked as if they’d stepped right out of a pattern book.

  Also, she had only two formal ensembles, and as of this evening, she’d worn them both. Harriet had suggested tricks to make them appear slightly different—a shawl, a branch of artificial flowers. But these would fool no female in this house, and Flora was finding the thought of Lady Victoria’s scorn surprisingly irritating. Was she actually going to begin caring about this sort of thing now? After a lifetime of disdaining fashion and all it represented? She’d vowed before she came that she would visit here on her own terms. The trouble was, she hadn’t been completely clear on what those terms were.

  Lord Robert strolled into the room, rivetingly attractive in his evening dress and, unlike her, completely at home. Flora saw the envious glances he attracted from many of the younger men and the admiring ones from the ladies. The distance between them felt far greater than a stretch of parquet flooring. There was so much more to him than she’d realized. She hardly knew how to approach him in these…foreign surroundings. Had he been as uncertain when he plunged into a discussion with her father’s crusty old scholar friends? Flora wondered. She hadn’t thought of that before.

  The countess gave the signal, and the party went in to dinner. The dining room was huge, and yet nearly filled by a long table sparkling with crystal and silver and gleaming with candlelight. Flora found her place about halfway down, between Mr. Edward Trevellyn and Lord Philip. In Flora’s newly acquired geography of dinner parties, this suggested that Mr. Trevellyn was not a favored suitor for Lady Victoria’s hand, since he was far from her. Yet he was not out of the question, because Flora couldn’t be seen as a rival. He was the son of a baron, lower in rank than many here but much richer. Lord Robert was many seats away, near Lady Victoria but not at her side. Sir Liam Malloy sat on the other side of the table.

  “I asked to sit beside you,” Lord Philip confided, “because you were so good about the game.”

  Soup was put before her. As the guests ate, footmen placed a vast variety of foods down the center of the table—from great roasts ready to be carved to all manner of side dishes.

  Flora wasn’t accustomed to such a feast. She and her mother had much smaller meals, even when entertaining. Mr. Trevellyn clearly had no such qualms. He finished his soup in record time and accepted a great portion of roast beef from the earl’s carving, then piled his plate from every dish within reach. Each time, he held heaping serving spoons over Flora’s plate, saying, “Have some of this, Miss…er?” She told him her name three times and then gave up, concentrating on fending off small mountains of food.

  At last, he seemed satisfied and dug in with a gusto that would have gratified the cook. If he kept this up, Flora thought, he was going to become one of those fat, red-faced Englishmen who wheezed when they exerted themselves. Rather like the Prince Regent, as she had heard him described.

  “So you’re a great friend of Lady Victoria’s?” Mr. Trevellyn asked when he had made significant inroads on the first course.

  “We’ve only just met,” Flora replied.

  “Ah.” He looked disappointed and returned to his dinner.

  Clearly, he had no interest in her except as a way to get closer to the daughter of the house. Flora didn’t care in the least. But his rudeness did not excuse her from social duties. “Do you live in Northumberland, Mr. Trevellyn?” she asked.

  “No, Cornwall,” he replied, emptying his wineglass and signaling for more.

  He’d come the whole length of the country to be here. Flora was impressed. “Cornwall is very beautiful, I believe.”

  He shrugged.

  Really, he might make some effort. For all he knew, she had delicate sensibilities. “I suppose you met our hosts in London?” she said.

  He nodded, drinking from his refilled goblet. Gazing down the table, he said, “Caught sight of Lady Victoria across a ballroom. Felt as if somebody had heaved a rock at my head.”

  “You were struck by her beauty,” Flora said.

  Mr. Trevellyn turned to look at her, which was more than he’d done up to now. “Struck by something,” he replied. “There are
prettier girls. I daresay you are prettier, by some people’s measure. But there’s just something about her.” He shook his head like a bull goaded by pesky flies.

  Flora forgave him, wryly, for the way he said you. It was mildly insulting, but then, she didn’t want his admiration. And perhaps there was more to him than was immediately apparent, which was interesting.

  Still, conversation remained hard going, and she was grateful when the table turned as the servants set out the second course, as rich and various as the first.

  “Are you enjoying your visit so far, Miss Jennings?” Lord Philip asked her.

  Flora found herself absurdly grateful that he’d remembered her name. “Of course,” she replied, placing courtesy above absolute honesty in this instance.

  “I shan’t be arranging any more ‘special’ entertainments,” he added, seeming younger than his tall frame would suggest. “One mob scene was quite enough for me.”

  “Did you see me whack Lady Victoria’s ball right across the lawn?” put in Edward Trevellyn across Flora. “That was jolly funny!”

  Lord Philip seemed startled at this breach of etiquette. He blinked, his mouth a little open.

  “Sending her off into the brambles in a lace gown?” Flora said, saving Lord Philip the necessity of answering. “She didn’t think so.”

  Trevellyn gaped at her. “Eh?”

  “A chivalrous man might have fetched it for her,” she added. And now that she thought about it, why hadn’t some of the gentlemen rushed to do just that? Too involved in the chaos of the game, she supposed. “Even if he was the one who hit it.”

  “Chivalrous,” said Trevellyn, still staring.

  “You could have managed a bit of private conversation with Lady Victoria at the same time,” she pointed out.

  He blinked, finally closing his mouth.

  “I would like some of that blancmange,” declared the young lady on Mr. Trevellyn’s other side, pointing to a dish out of her reach. Her tone was openly irritated. When the man continued to ignore her, she elbowed him in the ribs. He gave out a surprised uff and turned to her in astonishment. “Blancmange,” she repeated.

  Flora searched her memory. Frances Reynolds—that was the girl’s name. She looked younger than the other young ladies, more Philip’s age than Victoria’s.

  The second course was cleared away and replaced with nuts, fruits, sweetmeats, and dishes of ice cream. By the time the countess gave the sign for the ladies to withdraw, Flora was sick of racking her brain for suitable remarks. “Making” conversation was worse than knitting. Wistfully, she remembered her talks with Lord Robert last summer. Those had swooped and dipped and…crackled. Her mind had flooded with words. And she’d wasted so many of them.

  Later that evening, Robert found himself passing Mrs. Runyon in the spacious drawing room. She nodded and smiled. He grasped the opportunity. “A pleasant party, is it not?”

  The older woman agreed that it was.

  “I hope Miss Jennings is enjoying it. I know she has…reservations about the ton. Did you persuade her to come?”

  “I wouldn’t say persuade,” Mrs. Runyon replied, her gray eyes glinting.

  Here was a woman who appreciated a verbal joust, Robert saw. But not, he thought, an adversary. “Coax,” he suggested. “Cajole, urge, wheedle?”

  She laughed. “Perhaps those terms apply more to you, Lord Robert?”

  “Oh, I am a fixture at house parties. Miss Jennings is the novelty.”

  “She is certainly distinctive.”

  Robert looked across the room. Flora sat on a sofa talking to a very young lady with pale-blond hair and a look of being unformed somehow. They seemed engrossed. “Undoubtedly.” The word came out a bit too strongly.

  “As are you, of course,” said Mrs. Runyon.

  Meeting her shrewd gaze, Robert saw understanding and amusement there. Definitely not an adversary; quite possibly an ally, under the proper circumstances.

  “I am here to support her,” she added, confirming his conclusions.

  “And advise her?”

  “Should she need, and want, my opinion.”

  “She is fortunate.” He gave her the bow of a worthy sparring partner. Mrs. Runyon nodded acknowledgment and moved on.

  Robert surveyed the chatting guests, noting budding flirtations, knots of gossipmongers, a hint of gentlemanly jostling. He’d always had a greater talent for society than any of his brothers. James might sail the seven seas. Sebastian could very well command his regiment one day. The others had worthy tasks—on the ducal estates, in the church, pursing elusive scientific knowledge. But Robert knew this world. He started toward Flora.

  Young Victoria caught his arm as he passed her. “Oh, Lord Robert,” she said, “do tell Susan that story about the balloon. She is longing to hear it.”

  She tugged at him like the child he’d first met five years ago. He smiled and conceded.

  * * *

  A grand house party was more like a theatrical performance than a simple visit, Flora thought as she got ready to go down to breakfast the following morning. She felt as if she was preparing to go onstage. Life at Russell Square and in Oxford had been much more like…life. She rejected an impulse to sigh and headed downstairs.

  There was the question of what to do next. She didn’t want to go out to the hunting stands. Even if she was placed with Lord Robert, which was extremely unlikely given Lady Victoria’s attitude, they’d be surrounded by booming shotguns and dying grouse. Did people actually talk in such circumstances?

  Flora passed the half-open door of an elegant parlor. From inside, a cultured voice declared, “She invited herself, Gerald.”

  It was her hostess speaking. She sounded irritated.

  “Well, you must write back and tell her it isn’t convenient,” replied the earl.

  “Would that I could. She sent word from the road, giving me no opportunity to refuse. They arrive tonight.”

  “What insufferable cheek!”

  Flora couldn’t help slowing a little, curious at this peek behind the scenes of an aristocratic household.

  “She is your aunt,” Lady Salbridge replied.

  “She is married to my uncle. Barely.”

  How could one be barely married? Flora wondered.

  There was a momentary pause, then the earl added, “I don’t suppose we can turn her away at the door.”

  “No,” said his wife heavily. “But they don’t fit with the group we have staying. At all.”

  “I expect they will keep each other…entertained.”

  The Countess of Salbridge uttered a quite unladylike oath.

  Startled, and a bit amused, Flora moved away. She didn’t wish to be caught eavesdropping on a conversation that had nothing to do with her.

  She found the breakfast room sparsely populated. The hunters had gone out earlier, and others were still abed. She was helping herself from the row of silver chafing dishes when Frances Reynolds entered. The younger girl’s face lit up, and she hurried over. “Oh, Miss Jennings, you didn’t tell me that you were a great scholar. You must know that I have ambitions in that direction myself. I hope you will tell me all about your studies.”

  Meeting her glowing eyes, Flora felt a strange disorientation. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing not her present face, but her younger self—ardent, opinionated, determined. “That is an exaggeration,” she said.

  “But I heard Lady Victoria telling Miss Forster that you are terribly learned.”

  Making certain the information would reach all the guests, Flora thought. “My father was the great scholar,” she said. “I learned a little from him.”

  “How I envy you!” Miss Reynolds cried. The beginnings of hero worship shone in her face. “Is it true that you can interpret hieroglyphics?”

  “No.” In other circumstances, Flo
ra would have explained the difference between ancient Egyptian writing and cuneiform. She would have pointed out that her skills applied to a much earlier period. She would have been a bit of a pedant in fact, she thought wryly. Now, she took her plate to the table and began to eat.

  Miss Reynolds would not be discouraged, however. She didn’t notice that others in the room looked bored and supercilious. Flora did her best to balance opposing interests, but as soon as she finished her meal, she rose and excused herself.

  Slipping from the room, Flora walked down the corridor and straight out a glass door that led into the gardens. Circling behind a line of shrubbery, she stopped and took a deep breath of the fresh autumn air. It was chilly, but not intolerably so.

  Feeling liberated, Flora wandered, and marveled at the grounds surrounding Salbridge Great Hall. Her enjoyment of nature had been limited to London squares and parks—verdant, pleasant places, but crowded and tame compared to this. She gazed at beds of autumn blooms, swathes of trees gone golden or orange. Each new vista seemed lovelier than the last.

  She turned a corner and came upon Lord Robert strolling toward her, a small, odd-looking dog at his side. She stopped short. He kept walking. “You’re not out shooting,” she said.

  “I am not.” Though he was hunting, in a sense, Robert thought. He even had a faithful hound. The idea made him smile slightly. “You have no wrap. You’ll be cold.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Robert knew there were high sticklers here who would criticize her for walking outdoors without a pelisse, and a bonnet and gloves. Such people lived on disapproval, and if they decided to snub her, they could make her visit quite unpleasant. How to tell her this without having the storm of her wrath break over him? Actually, he had missed that fiery onslaught, a bit. “I know how low you rate fashionable folk,” he began. “You’ve said it a hundred times. But—”

  “Too many times, I believe.” Flora stood straight, her hands at her sides. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Robert blinked. Had he heard her correctly?

  “I regret the…repetition of my opinions. And their…intensity. I may have overstated the case.”