Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  Harriet smiled. “I couldn’t make out what her speeches meant half the time.”

  “Just to cause laughter, I think. And perhaps the satisfaction of feeling clever—to hear precipitate in a similar word, for example.”

  “I prefer to work less hard for my jokes,” Harriet replied.

  The door opened. At first, it seemed there was no one there. Then a small black-furred creature trotted in from the hallway, stopped, and surveyed the chamber and its occupants with solemn care.

  “Hello, Plato,” said Flora.

  The dog came closer, sat, and fixed his unnerving gaze upon her. It was so hard to dismiss that piercing regard as mere animal habit.

  “How did he reach the latch, I wonder?” said Harriet.

  “I helped with that,” answered Robert Gresham, coming in and shutting the door behind him. “He wanted to come in here.”

  “Your dog did?” Harriet was clearly amused. “How does he convey his wishes to you?”

  “Sometimes I believe he has the power to plant ideas in my mind.” Robert appeared to be only half jesting. “I’ll be thinking of something else entirely, and then suddenly, there it is—take Plato for a walk, or order up a bowl of scraps.”

  Harriet laughed. “Would you—and Plato, of course—care to join us?”

  “Delighted, thank you.” He walked over to sit on the sofa beside Flora.

  He was not so very near her, but all Flora’s senses came alert. He was the picture of masculine beauty in his immaculate blue coat and pale pantaloons.

  “I must attend to my letters,” Harriet added. She looked around, then rose. “A writing desk. Just what I want.”

  Her expression was simply pleasant, with none of the arch consciousness of a chaperone allowing her charge some leeway. She crossed the spacious room and settled in a straight chair before the small desk. It faced a window, Flora saw, looking out over the autumn gardens. Harriet would be properly present, but with her back to them and unlikely to overhear a quiet conversation. They could talk about anything. Uncharacteristically, Flora’s mind went blank.

  “I hope your mother is well,” said Lord Robert.

  Flora nodded.

  “Is she pleased at the way your visit is going?”

  Meeting his sparkling blue eyes, she saw something new there. She couldn’t quite pin it down. His look was at once quieter, deeper, more penetrating, as if he could see right through her. It was almost as if he knew how difficult it had been to write her mother just now. She hadn’t told Mama about her most recent conversation with Lydia Fotheringay, because she couldn’t decide whether Mama would rather know she’d been mistaken about being snubbed, or not.

  “The parts you’ve told her about,” Robert added.

  A short laugh escaped her. “How did you know I haven’t included every detail?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Family correspondence is a delicate art. How best to share the details of your life without…overdoing? And still be certain to get in your side of the story, in self-defense.”

  “What story?”

  “Any of them.” He gestured gracefully. “With five brothers, there’s always something.”

  “Scrapes? Pranks? Didn’t I hear something about a wolfskin at your eldest brother’s wedding?”

  “Exactly what I mean. You jump in first to, er, set the tone of the discussion.”

  What had he been like as a small boy, a stripling? Flora wondered. Her memories from her few visits to his home long ago were fragmentary, and mainly concerned her mother’s anxiety at being back among her noble kin. “Your family are all active letter writers?”

  “Excessively so. Our correspondence will fill several shelves in the library at Langford, when it’s all collected.”

  “Would anyone do that?”

  “Tradition.” He gave her a charmingly rueful smile. Flora’s pulse speeded up. “I could show you three volumes of appallingly tedious letters chronicling a great-uncle’s grand tour in 1754. And two slender, leather-bound sheaves from my great-grandmother at the royal court, waxing silly and syrupy about James the Second. How I could have a forebear with such poor taste? Charles the Second, yes. Famously captivating. But his boorish brother?”

  “I suppose you make do with the king you have,” said Flora with a laugh.

  “In terms of loyalty and obedience.” He shrugged agreement. “But you do not describe a…a sow’s hairy ear as a shiny silk purse. I can’t understand why she didn’t chuck the letters after they threw him out in 1688.”

  “Perhaps someone else kept them.”

  “There you are,” said Robert with a nod. “I discovered a few years ago that my mother keeps all our letters, along with copies of her own, in some secret drawer somewhere.”

  “Secret?”

  “Well, I don’t know where it is.” He considered. “Must be a fairly large drawer. Six of us, from the time we were barely literate. You can imagine the pile.”

  Flora could imagine some fascinating reading.

  “She wanted us to add our letters to each other. And Nathaniel said he just might, the rogue.”

  “Shouldn’t he?” Flora liked his manner when talking of his family. It was full of warmth and affection under his careless charm.

  “He’s the one who got us—some of us—out of those long-ago scrapes. Mama doesn’t know about half of them. My father, even less.”

  “Would they be so shocked?” Flora knew that young noblemen engaged in all sorts of idiotic, even shameful, high jinks.

  “Not shocked,” Robert said. “More likely to laugh themselves sick.” He paused as if reviewing a mental list. “Maybe a bit disappointed, here and there. One hates to disappoint Papa.”

  His expression had gone neutral, but Flora heard the depth of respect and admiration in it, the determination to be worthy. It was a sentiment she thoroughly understood. She’d felt the same about her father. She’d met the Duke and Duchess of Langford briefly in Oxford. They’d been cordial and sensible and open-minded, not at all the judgmental figures her mother had led her to expect in the leaders of society. But they’d also been…formidable. “I hope your parents are both well,” she said.

  “Splendid, as ever. They’re in Scotland.”

  “It’s going to be more and more letters from now on,” Robert added pensively. “I’m about to be an uncle twice over. Nathaniel’s wife is expecting, as well as Alan’s. Everyone’s delighted that Violet’s to produce an heir for the line.”

  He said the line as if it was a perfectly ordinary notion. Flora felt an echo of her old scorn for the haut ton. “And I suppose they’ll be proportionally unhappy if it’s a daughter?”

  “Not at all. Nathaniel will worship at her feet.” Robert made an airy gesture. “And from what I’ve seen, they’ll be only too happy to keep trying.”

  Flora flushed and looked away. A wave of heat rolled down her body—face, neck, chest—and pooled in her lower regions as she recalled his hands on her as he carefully detached barbed thorns.

  “I’m clearly going to have a coachload of nieces and nephews, all of whom will be expected to produce letters.”

  “You’ll make a wonderful uncle. I’m sure they’ll adore you.”

  Her penultimate word seemed to hang in the air between them.

  There was an odd, guttural noise. At first Flora thought that Robert had cleared his throat. Then she realized that it had come from Plato. She looked down at the dog.

  “He doesn’t bark or whine or growl,” Robert said, shaking his head. “Not once since I pulled him from a roadside thicket. He just does that.”

  Plato was staring at her, as he also habitually did. “Do you think there’s something wrong with his throat?” Flora asked.

  The dog cocked his head without breaking eye contact. Flora would have sworn that he looked reproachful. She nearly
begged his pardon.

  “He seems healthy, more so every day.” Harriet Runyon shifted in her chair on the other side of the room, and the rustle of her silk gown reminded Robert that they weren’t alone. He’d nearly forgotten the older woman was there. And that he didn’t have unlimited time. How he wanted unlimited time with Flora! For the rest of their lives. But he had a plan for their next meeting. “Thank you for bringing that article,” he said. “The one by Stanfield. On the similarities between Akkadian and Aramaic. I read it with great interest.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Their shared scholarship seemed like an echo from a different world.

  “Quite an astonishing level of detail.”

  “Stanfield has devoted his life to comparative study of the two languages,” said Flora.

  “And to looking at every scrap of clay tablet in existence, it seemed to me.”

  “He claims as much.” Flora smiled.

  “I was impressed,” Robert continued, pleased with the way things were going. “Also rather amused. Stanfield seems unable to resist sniping at Aramaic. He treats it like an invader, or usurper, crowding in and taking the place of the far-more-admirable Akkadian language.”

  “I think he saw it exactly that way.”

  “That passage in the middle about the Assyrian scribe pressing his stylus into wet clay under a dusty sky orange with sunset—quite poetic, eh? And the later one contrasting our small single lives with the countless ranks of people behind us.” His expression encouraged her to enjoy the phrases with him.

  “Father always said that one’s personal feelings had no place in rigorous study, but I wonder if it’s that simple?” The thought was disorienting, as if some inner compass had flipped over, or turned inside out.

  Robert cocked his head, waiting.

  “Because they’re there, aren’t they?” Flora went on. “We can pretend otherwise, but it doesn’t change the reality.”

  “They?”

  “The feelings. They don’t go away just because we declare them inappropriate. They…sneak around the edges and push their way in.” Robert had shown her this.

  “No escaping them,” he agreed.

  Flustered by the warmth in his eyes, Flora rushed on. “For example, Papa despised the Sumerians. He positively…squirmed over their hymns to Inanna. One of their goddesses. He went out of his way to discredit anyone who wrote about them, no matter how meticulous their research. Because he felt that way.” It was as if she’d betrayed a secret and said something perfectly absurd, both at the same time.

  “It can be difficult to admit our prejudices,” said Robert.

  Flora stared at him. Sometimes it seemed he could actually read her mind. “They look so foolish when we hold them up to the light,” she agreed, dropping her eyes. “We’d… I’d rather pretend they never existed.”

  “Like a cat who leaps at some imagined danger, then starts grooming to convince the world that nothing happened.”

  Flora laughed. “Unlike a cat, I will own my discovery that the haut ton is not made up of worthless fribbles.” She shook her head as she remembered all the sweeping, intemperate judgments she’d uttered about society. “Or monsters of snobbishness. Or any one thing. They’re…just people, with strengths as well as flaws. Some likable, some not.”

  Robert said nothing, but she was hyperaware of his presence at her side.

  “Look at those involved in the play,” she went on. “They worked so hard, and some showed real talents, not to mention Mr. Trevellyn’s unsuspected compassion.”

  “What about our charm?” said Robert. His voice was light but perhaps just a touch unsteady.

  “Trust you to remind me of that,” said Flora. “The thing is, I could live happily among them, sometimes.” She met his eyes, offering up her gaze wholeheartedly. “Just as you found a place in Russell Square.”

  It was foolish to imagine that doors could open in a person’s expression, she thought. Yet it felt like that. And she suspected something similar showed on her own face.

  An indefinable interval ticked by. They reached a silent understanding, though Flora wouldn’t have been able to voice the details. The process was too nebulous, unlike the facts and proofs she’d been taught to trust. And yet she knew it was just as true.

  The sound of a chair scooting over the floorboards jolted them back. Harriet added a small cough of warning as she rose, before she turned from the writing desk. “We must go,” she said. “I promised Anne I would walk with her before luncheon, and I fear I cannot leave you here alone. A cozy parlor is rather different from a garden bench.”

  Flora let out a long breath.

  “Please don’t do that,” Harriet added. “You will tear the cloth. Stop at once!”

  Robert turned and saw that Plato had moved, in the silent way he had. The little dog stood by Mrs. Runyon. He’d taken a bit of her skirt in his teeth and was tugging on it, as if to keep her from leaving. “Plato! Come away from there.”

  Mouth full of cloth, his eccentric little pet looked at him. He must give up imagining he saw some urgent message in those brown eyes, Robert thought. “Now,” he said. “Drop it, sir.”

  A dog’s shoulders could not slump, Robert told himself. It wasn’t possible. Though he could not have said what else to call Plato’s movement as the dog opened his jaws and let Mrs. Runyon’s skirt drop.

  “Come over here like a proper dog,” he said. “And behave yourself.”

  Slowly, like a creature trying to demonstrate, with limited resources, the wisdom of his own schemes compared with the debacle before his eyes, Plato complied. He went to sit on the hearthrug.

  The two ladies took their leave. Robert gave them a bow and a smiling farewell, very satisfied with his morning’s work. “That lacked finesse,” he said to Plato when they were gone. “Not up to your usual standards.”

  Plato grumbled. He rose and trotted over to the door.

  “Yes, you want to go for a walk outside.” Robert followed the dog into the corridor. “I beg pardon for delaying you with my petty concerns. About the rest of my life, and so on.”

  Plato turned toward the front door.

  “We will go upstairs for my coat and hat,” Robert informed him, moving in the opposite direction.

  The small animal rumbled a response.

  “There’s a sharp wind. You may find yourself chilled even with all that fur.” Robert paused at the foot of the staircase. “And I’ve just spoken as if you complained to me. Really, it’s past time for me to set up my household and have a more…responsive companion to chat with. We’ll get you a couple of cats for company.”

  Plato stopped on the landing above him and stared.

  “What are cats, you ask?” Robert started up the steps. “I’m surprised you haven’t come across one or two on the property here. Lovely creatures. You have quite a bit in common with the average cat. Enigmatic. Stealthy. A shade tyrannical.” Feeling buoyant, Robert savored the taste of the words. “I’m sure you’ll be enchanted,” he told Plato.

  Thirteen

  Robert gave Plato all the walk any dog could desire. In his current mood, he would have thrown sticks for him, if Plato had been the sort of animal who deigned to fetch sticks. Instead, they made a great circle through the grounds, leaning into the wind and ignoring innumerable squirrels. Robert’s thoughts were exuberant, and the experience was pleasant until the very end, when they came upon Anthony Durand smoking on the terrace.

  “Our hostess doesn’t allow cigars indoors,” the man commented when they came near. “Except in a little hole-in-the-corner room miles from anywhere. Wretched stuffy place. And damned inconvenient.” The tip of his cigar glowed red in the wind; smoke swirled away above his head.

  One of the advantages of being in the play had been not seeing much of Durand, Robert thought, as he prepared to pass by with a nod.

  “So yo
u’re after the Jennings chit, are you? Seems rather spiky to me, but no accounting for tastes.”

  It took all of Robert’s self-control not to react.

  “Of course, you’re known for impeccable taste, aren’t you? I’ll have to look into her…appeal.” Durand’s dark eyes glinted, taunting.

  Rising to this sort of bait only encouraged more of the same. Robert knew this. He still came within an inch of reaching out and throttling the man. “Where did you pick up such a curious idea?” he replied, employing his blandest tone.

  “Observation. People like your father taught me to notice things. In my own defense.”

  He would write Papa about this fellow after all, Robert decided. It seemed he was going to have to do something about Durand, and one couldn’t have too much information about an adversary.

  “Do you think she’s so eager to worm her way into the ton that she’ll…accommodate you?”

  This was so far off the mark that Robert laughed. “Haven’t you anything better to do than gossip like a fishwife?”

  Durand scowled, clearly furious. Prodding him might not be wise, but it was satisfying.

  With a careless wave, Robert walked on. He was certain he appeared bored and dismissive—in every sense the opposite of his seething thoughts. A man like Anthony Durand shouldn’t be at this house party. He shouldn’t be anywhere near Flora. He would have to be eliminated.

  “If you should ever wish to bite anyone, that fellow would be my first choice,” he told Plato as they walked up the stairs.

  He found Randolph waiting in the hall outside his bedchamber. “I’ve been looking for you,” his brother said. “I have to get back to Hexham. Something’s come up.”

  Robert nodded and walked into his room.

  Randolph followed him in. “What’s wrong?”

  “What should be?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but you look just like Papa does when he’s discovered something intolerable. And is about to loose bolts of annihilation. Should I seek shelter?”