Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  “Why must you?”

  “I don’t wish to marry you,” she replied gently.

  His shoulders slumped. “It’s to be Gresham then?”

  Flora could hardly share her intentions with Sir Liam when she hadn’t even told her mother. “I’m not sure why you say…”

  “He’s made it rather obvious—to a rival.”

  Flora said nothing.

  “Or perhaps there is still hope?”

  “Sir Liam,” she said again.

  He rushed on. “I’m not one of those insufferable fellows who thinks that a lady means yes when she says no. But perhaps you haven’t absolutely made up your mind? I’m very rich, you know. It is a silly cliché that all Irish estates are ruins. Mine is not. It’s a fine old place.”

  “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

  “You’d like Ireland, although we would come to London as often as you wished.”

  Flora shook her head.

  “Ah…well.” He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his black hair. “It’s too bad. I insist upon a sensible, intelligent wife, and you fit the bill more than any other woman I’ve met.” He tried a winning smile. “As well as being beautiful and charming and elegant, of course.”

  Flora was relieved that he didn’t seem crushed, or speak of a grand passion. “I’m sure there are many such women in England, and Ireland too.”

  “You’d be surprised. Your species is, in fact, quite rare.”

  “Not rare but hidden,” Flora said. “Because women are encouraged not to reveal their intellect, to be decorative, and not to outshine the men.”

  “You speak your mind.”

  And the result has sometimes been complicated, Flora thought.

  “Hidden,” Sir Liam repeated. “How does one flush them out?”

  “By treating them like reasoning human beings,” replied Flora a bit tartly. “We are not speaking of a hunting expedition.”

  He smiled. “It would be a deal easier if I could use beaters and dogs.”

  Flora stifled a laugh at the outrageous picture.

  “So many women natter on as if reason had no place in their existence,” Sir Liam complained. “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?”

  Flora frowned at him.

  “Sorry. I won’t plague you. I’m just heartbroken, you know.”

  “I don’t know anything of the kind,” she said. “Let us be done with this and part friends.”

  “Ah, the death knell, when a lady you admire wishes to be friends.” But he was smiling.

  “Better than enemies surely?”

  “Ah, but one avoids enemies, reducing the possibility of pining away.”

  “I don’t think you’re in danger of that.”

  “I could pine, if it would help.” He assumed a woebegone expression.

  “Sir Liam, I wish you very well and hope you find the sort of wife you want, but please do stop.”

  He bowed his head, then turned the movement into a nod.

  Who would have imagined it, Flora thought when Sir Liam left her. At the age of twenty-five, practically on the shelf, an acknowledged bluestocking, she’d received two extremely eligible offers of marriage. It was surprising and, admittedly, gratifying. Harriet would be proud of her. Mama would be… Well, this would be another amazement for her mother to absorb.

  Flora looked for Robert, and found him deep in conversation with their host. They looked as if they’d be involved for a while. She would go to the library, she decided. She’d had enough company, and he would know to find her there.

  The corridors were empty of guests. Flora saw only a footman on some errand. She reached her familiar refuge without incident. Lighting several branches of candles from the library fire, she settled before it. As always, some part of her spirit relaxed in solitude. She’d spent her life in rooms like this. Papa’s books had spread through their home. She’d been taught to love them.

  When the door opened, she looked around with a welcoming smile, expecting Robert. The smile died when she discovered Anthony Durand in the doorway. His penetrating gaze and sardonic expression were like a slap in the face.

  “So this is where you hide when you slip away. I followed along to see.” He looked around. “A pleasant private place. Ideal for an assignation. Perhaps you have one.”

  “No.” He stood blocking the door. Flora felt a wave of despair at this ruin of her refuge. She’d never be able to feel safe here again. And then, as always, Durand’s presence evoked dark memories that threatened to rise.

  He strode over and sat down beside her.

  She started to rise. “If you will excuse me, I must—”

  “But I won’t.” He grasped her wrist with crushing force and pulled her back down. “You will sit.”

  “Let go of me!” Flora tugged. His fingers felt like steel bands.

  “You will speak to me,” the man said, “one way or another.”

  Flora looked at the door. Robert would be coming.

  “Salbridge has recruited some of the younger men to help with his Guy Fawkes scheme,” he told her. “They’re huddled with him in his study. Likely to be there for some time. So no rescue coming, I fear.”

  Galled by the word, repressing her fears, Flora repeated, “Let go of me.”

  This time he did so. She started to rise.

  “Lydia has been telling me that your mother was involved in a scandal years ago,” Durand said as if they were simply conversing.

  Anger cut through Flora’s desolation. “There was no scandal,” she said.

  “Well, Lydia must have had some reason to cut her.”

  “Oh, she’s finally remembered that, has she?” As soon as she said it, Flora wished she hadn’t. Durand had been goading her to get more information, she realized. And she’d fallen into his trap.

  “With a bit of prodding. She is extremely stupid.”

  “You speak so of your—?”

  “Lover? I don’t choose my bedmates for intelligence.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not at all salacious. “If I tell her to, Lydia will spread the story about. She’ll enjoy it actually. She likes the excitement.”

  “There is no story to spread,” Flora replied through clenched teeth.

  “Can you be so naive? I’ll lead her on to recall something that suits my purposes.” He smiled at her. “We will make it up, Miss Jennings.”

  Flora’s heart thumped painfully. “Mrs. Fotheringay has professed undying friendship for my mother.”

  Durand shrugged. “She’ll do as I say. That is one of her attractions. And she doesn’t like me paying attention to other women, you know, particularly younger, prettier ones. It’s the one area where she’s quite acute. She’s growing wary of my questions about you.”

  Indeed, Mrs. Fotheringay had been shooting Flora venomous glances now and then. These were now explained.

  “Any number of people will do as I ask, Miss Jennings. I can rouse a storm of gossip with very little effort.”

  “Why would you wish to?”

  “Ah, now we come to it.” He spoke like a man who had won all his battles and was settling down to negotiate the surrender. “I have a use for you.”

  The phrase and the tone were equally insulting.

  “I should very much like to see Lord Robert Gresham humiliated. Or, at the least…discomfited. You are a perfect instrument for my purposes.”

  “I? What have I to do with—”

  Durand held up a hand. “Please. Don’t pretend stupidity. You fool no one.”

  Flora said nothing. Her mind was racing.

  “That’s better.” He looked disgustingly complacent. “You and I are about to begin an intense and public flirtation, Miss Jennings. You will show this exclusive house party that you are utterly taken with me, and that you’ve quite gone off Gresham.�
�� He sounded calm and reasonable, as if they were talking of commonplace things.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” It would have been laughable, if the idea hadn’t been so distasteful.

  “You will join me in entertaining our fellow guests in this way—with not a word of explanation to Gresham, mind—or Lydia and I will amuse them with tales of your mother’s transgressions.”

  “There were no transgressions!”

  Durand looked amused. “You cling to the idea of truth. As if it made a difference. People prefer a juicy story to mundane reality, Miss Jennings. They would always rather hear the salacious, and it’s what they remember when all is said and done. Even if it’s been proved false.”

  “You are despicable,” she said.

  He laughed. “I’ve been called worse. And endured worse. I’ve had whispers spread about me by Gresham’s holier-than-thou father.”

  “I’m sure they were completely accurate.”

  Durand’s expression hardened. “Go along, and your mother won’t have to endure humiliation.”

  “Mama lives quite out of society.” Flora’s voice sounded weaker than she liked.

  “And why does she do so? Because she can’t endure sniping?” Flora knew her face had betrayed her when he added, “I thought as much.”

  Flora could imagine her mother’s bewilderment and pain. It was wretched to think of. Even so, she couldn’t join in his bizarre charade. Her mother wouldn’t want her to. “No.”

  “You prefer promoting your own chances to your dear mama’s feelings? I certainly understand that. But you weren’t thinking that the son of a duke would marry you?” Durand’s voice dripped with feigned pity. “A mere nobody?”

  Flora almost rose to his bait again to set him straight. She stopped herself in time.

  “You might even enjoy our little flirtation. Find you wish to make it more than that. I have certain skills.” He slid an arm along the sofa back as if to pull her close. Flora jerked away and jumped up. “It is very dangerous to thwart me,” Durand added softly. “I can ruin your family. I can make certain no gentleman will associate with you, in public.” His dark eyes drilled into hers. “Disgrace is very isolating, Miss Jennings.”

  He looked so smug, so certain she’d give in. They were all like that, the people who thought they had the right to take whatever they wanted, who felt no remorse. Durand thought he could destroy people—over and over, with impunity—because so many others fell into line and let him get away with it. She hated the idea and system.

  The locks Flora had set in her mind rattled and tossed and fell open. A storm of terror and anguish came roaring out, stronger for having been pent up so long. The girl of eight, with a wild mane of red hair, whose small body had endured a savage beating. The small boy curled into a ball of perpetual fear, unresponsive. Children who only cried at night, alone; those who fought like feral cats. But instead of drowning her, this time the stories merged into a pulse of fury. Flora couldn’t change the whole world, but she could fight the battle at hand. She would defeat this man, who brought injustice right to her door and crowed about it.

  Some of this must have shown in her face because Durand actually pulled back. But he immediately stood and stepped close to her, too close. “You’d be a fool to oppose me. Stronger people than you have tried and been sorry.”

  He had no notion of her strength or her capabilities. But Flora didn’t say so. She’d learned her lesson about being goaded into speech. She didn’t bare her teeth either, much as part of her wanted to snarl.

  Durand grabbed her around the waist and yanked her against him. “You do know that young ladies who lurk alone in dim rooms invite a man’s attentions?”

  Flora kicked at his shins. She twisted violently in his grip. She raked her nails down his cheek.

  Durand shoved her away so hard that she stumbled and fell, hitting the side of an armchair with bruising force. “You really are a vixen, aren’t you?”

  She did snarl this time.

  Durand backed away. “You may have a few days to consider my demands. Till Guy Fawkes, shall we say? And then all…explodes.” He turned and walked swiftly out.

  She’d defeated him, Flora thought as she pulled herself up. Temporarily. She didn’t think he’d be back here any time soon. Still, her refuge was ruined, and she felt battered. She’d won a battle but not the war. In solitude, with no one to see, she huddled in the chair to recover.

  When Robert entered the library half an hour later, he found his love sitting stiffly in an armchair beside the hearth, staring at the wall of books as if she saw none of them. The fire was nearly out. One of the candles was guttering. Her face was in shadow. “What’s wrong?”

  “Anthony Durand was here.”

  “What?” Robert started forward.

  “He had some demands.”

  Flora’s voice was an unsettling monotone. Her blue eyes burned with a different sort of fire than the zeal he was accustomed to. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and comfort her, but he could see this was not the moment. “Tell me.”

  She did. As she spoke, Robert’s rage built until it was nearly intolerable. Though she mentioned no physical attack, he saw marks on her wrist. “I’ll kill him,” he said when she was done.

  “No.”

  “Flora.”

  At last, she held his gaze. “We must take away what he values most—his power. We must leave him with nothing. That’s what he does to others, and that’s what he deserves.”

  Robert was transfixed by her intensity.

  “Some might say that this plot over a flirtation is a petty thing. Silly, really. To be shrugged off,” she continued.

  “I do not.”

  “But it’s all of a piece with worse things,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard. “He thinks nothing of hurting my mother. Or anyone else. He doesn’t regard them as people like himself. They…we are mere pawns. You see?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The conviction in his tone appeared to reach her. Flora sat back; she took a deep breath. “Do you know what your father did to him?”

  “Quietly let it be known that he was a cheat, I believe. Papa certainly told me never to play cards with Durand. But there was no proof.”

  “Then that is what we must find,” she replied. “The proof. Exposing his secret card games was never going to have much effect.”

  “No.”

  “But if he’s shown to cheat, society will reject him.”

  “He’ll be ruined,” Robert said.

  “We can’t help what he might go on to do after that, but he’ll have much less power to harm.” She looked up at him.

  “Then that is what we will do.”

  Flora jumped up and ran to him. Robert caught her and held her. She was shaking. Not with fear, he thought. Or not mostly fear. She was also angry and determined and fierce. She was everything that he’d admired in her from the beginning and everything that he’d come to love.

  Sixteen

  Robert was on his way to breakfast the following morning when Philip Moreton rounded a corner ahead and hailed him. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over. I’ve had some great news.” He waved a densely written letter before Robert’s face.

  “Have you? Splendid.”

  Robert had been touched and encouraged when he learned that Flora had sent Philip to him for help with the lad’s studies. He’d done his best with an extremely reluctant student. He’d written his brother Alan in Oxford to arrange a welcome. Philip’s main response was a growing hero worship that occasionally became burdensome.

  “It’s from an old school friend of mine,” Philip went on, pacing alongside Robert toward the breakfast parlor.

  Philip was of an age to be completely absorbed in his own affairs, Robert thought. But he was always so eager and confiding that one couldn’t snub him. Rob
ert did continue walking, however.

  “He is heading up to Oxford next term as well,” Philip said. “He wasn’t going to bother, but he’s changed his mind.”

  “So you’ll have a…ready-made acquaintance,” Robert said. Lack of friends had been a concern of Philip’s.

  “Exactly! And Samuel’s full of schemes. He always was.” Philip laughed. “I remember one time at Harrow, there was this new assistant cook who was serving us the most dreadful porridge. Full of disgusting lumps, and it tasted odd. I don’t mean just unpleasant. Truly inedible. Well, Samuel got hold of some brown dye. I can’t think where he found such a thing. And he sneaked it into the great pot of porridge at the serving table. Made it look exactly like… Well, you can imagine. With the lumps.”

  Revoltingly, Robert could imagine.

  “And he played the best prank on the Latin master! Latin is bad enough, of course, but old Sproul would cane you as soon as look at you. Found a hundred excuses to beat us boys. You could tell he enjoyed it, too. So Sam spread some really strong glue on the chair behind his desk. If you could have seen Sproul’s face when he tried to get up and his trousers stuck to the seat!” Philip waited, clearly expecting admiration.

  “Your friend should make a lively companion at college,” Robert said. There would be little scholarship involved, he suspected.

  “Absolutely.” Philip grinned at him like a much younger lad. “Look here, he says we should share the cost of a carriage in Oxford.” He pointed to lines in the letter, smiling. It was too far away for Robert to read.

  “There you are.”

  Philip nodded. His smile faded. “I’m still worried about my Greek though.”

  “Let’s have a look later.” Robert didn’t specify a time because he was impatient to find Flora.

  “Right.” As they continued along the corridor, Philip’s expression shifted from enthusiasm to self-consciousness. “I rather went on and on about that porridge.”

  “It was an amusing story,” Robert assured him. He remembered how easy it was for a youth to veer into embarrassment and self-doubt.

  “Like some annoying small boy. What you must think of me!”