Nothing Like a Duke

by Jane Ashford

  Harriet kept gazing at her.

  “Do you think you should help the countess?” It was a diversion, but their hostess did look as if she could use an ally. Lydia Fotheringay had backed her into a corner and was berating her from inches away.

  “Oh dear,” said Harriet. She rose and went to the rescue.

  * * *

  Robert had meant to go directly to Flora and let her know the matter was settled. But Salbridge had wanted to discuss all that had happened and decide what to say to whom. There was also the matter of securing the incriminating chest. Who was to keep it? And where? Thus, it was nearly eleven before he found her in the drawing room and drew her aside for a private conversation. “Durand is gone,” he said quietly. He told her the story of their confrontation. “And he won’t trouble you again. I made sure of that.”

  “Thank you,” said Flora.

  “So all’s well,” Robert added.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Thank you,” she repeated.

  “And yet, you sound as if I’ve given you an ugly birthday gift. Well-meant but tasteless.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “In fact, you do.”

  Words seemed to pop out of her. “I wanted to save myself, you see.”

  “And despite all you did, you don’t feel that you—”

  “I’m being idiotic,” Flora interrupted. “Of course I’m glad that he’s gone and won’t make trouble for anyone else. You managed everything with your usual finesse.”

  This sounded oddly like criticism. He waited; she said no more. “So, we will announce our engagement and get married.”

  Flora nodded.

  “You don’t seem overwhelmed with joy.” The hurt was startlingly sharp.

  “I am! I want to marry you. Of course. It’s just… You never actually asked me, you know.” Perhaps that was behind this feeling of anticlimax—another occasion when important matters had been taken out of her hands and settled when she wasn’t even there. “You just assumed—”

  “I was under the impression that we both assumed.”

  Flora made a throwaway gesture.

  “You did tell Mrs. Runyon…” Robert began. Then he broke off. This was not an occasion for argument. Emphatically not. On top of all else, in his current emotional state, he was likely to say something cutting. “Clearly a situation to be remedied as soon as possible.” He sketched a bow and walked away.

  Watching him go, Flora was flooded with regret. What was wrong with her? Was she the most foolish, persnickety creature on Earth? She had everything she wanted. Why not simply reach out both hands and take it?

  * * *

  Robert strode along a path in the Salbridge grounds, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. The leafless trees and biting wind matched his mood. He’d thought to spend the afternoon writing letters with news of his engagement—to his parents first, and then possibly to a brother or two. He hadn’t even cared that he’d be teased over his earlier protests that he was not in love with Flora. But after their latest conversation, the letters had seemed premature. “Sebastian was positively buzzing with joy at his wedding,” he said aloud.

  Plato, trotting along beside him as swiftly as his short legs could manage, fixed Robert with his penetrating, liquid gaze.

  “Nathaniel and Alan…radiated contentment. No, that’s too dull a word. They were…smug…glowing.” Robert smiled to think how that label would revolt his eldest and youngest brothers.

  Plato kept pace without breaking his stare.

  “James, now… He was at his wit’s end for a bit. But not in a…sort of anticlimactic way. It was all storm and shoals with him.” Robert met his dog’s steady brown eyes. “I use an oceanic comparison for the navy man, you see. I am an acknowledged wit.”

  Plato gave one of his curmudgeonly harrumphs.

  “You might help keep my spirits up,” Robert complained.

  The little animal responded with a grumble that could only be interpreted as a stern admonition.

  “You know, Plato, sometimes you sound uncannily like my old mathematics master at Eton. That Indian fellow at Sebastian’s wedding—what was his name? Mitra. He’d say you might very well be old Cranston reborn.”

  Plato snorted.

  Robert walked faster. Movement was good, even in this gray November landscape. “Cranston always used to say, ‘You’re a smart lad. Figure it out for yourself.’ He wouldn’t hear excuses.”

  A gust of wind rattled bare branches. Otherwise, the scene was silent. Any sensible bird had taken cover, Robert thought. “Flora is not a mathematics problem, however. If I can’t reach her…” He refused to finish this sentence.

  Plato seemed to clear his throat, even as his small legs labored on.

  “Of course I’m not giving up. No question of that.” Robert noticed that the dog was panting, his tongue lolling out. “I’ve set you a blistering pace, haven’t I? I beg your pardon.” He turned back toward the house, walking more slowly.

  As they neared Salbridge Great Hall, a man emerged, waved, and hurried toward them. “They told me you were out walking,” Randolph said when he got closer. “Dashed cold for it!”

  “We’re headed back inside.” Sebastian had once remarked that being joined by a brother always felt like reinforcements. Robert decided that he’d described the feeling precisely. “Here for the fireworks, are you?”

  “I am. And full of anticipation. You’re well, I hope?”

  Robert surprised himself by saying, “I’m pondering how best to offer for a lady in a manner that, ah, dazzles her.”

  “You are?” Randolph looked amazed.

  “Yes, I know I used to say I wouldn’t marry till I was forty and buried in the country. One’s opinions can change.”

  “It’s not that.” Randolph shook his head. “You always know exactly what to say. I’ve admired your savoir faire for years. Never seen you falter.”

  “Somehow, in this case, my, er, powers have deserted me.”

  “May I ask who—”

  “Flora Jennings. And yes, the family was right about that. Too.”

  Randolph nodded, unsurprised. “A beautiful and accomplished young lady.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Robert enjoyed hearing his brother say it.

  “I wonder if I could help? I write a sermon every week, you know.”

  “A…sermon.”

  “Not the same thing at all, of course,” Randolph hurried to add. “But they are words designed to move people’s spirits, you see.”

  Robert was impressed, and touched. He never would have thought of it, but… “I’d appreciate your help,” he said.

  “Really?” Randolph looked astonished.

  “Yes.” What was the point of brothers if one didn’t accept their support, Robert thought.

  “Splendid. We’ll sit down for a planning session at once!” Randolph rushed ahead.

  A bit bemused at the flood of enthusiasm he’d unleashed, Robert followed him inside.

  Twenty

  “Now then, we can get to it.” Randolph rubbed his hands together like a man anticipating a good meal. He sat at the writing desk in Robert’s bedchamber. Robert watched him draw a notepad and a small pencil from his coat pocket and lay them out before him. “First, a list of the things you need. Some flowers, I think. I’ll take care of those.” He jotted it down.

  “You think flowers are necessary?”

  “Women love flowers, don’t they? And then privacy. This is a large house. We’ll find a spot.”

  Robert thought of the library, then wondered if a fresh place might be better.

  “So, what do young ladies expect from a proposal?” Randolph asked. “You have more experience with society. You must know.”

  “I’ve never actually offered for anyone before.” Which had been Flora’s point, Robert
noted. He hadn’t offered for her.

  “Nor I.” Randolph frowned, then brightened. “Literature is full of famous love stories. Let me see. We never hear precisely what Paris says to Helen to lure her away from Greece, do we?”

  Robert gazed at his handsome brother with budding fascination. “He started a war.”

  “True. Not a good example. There are problems with Romeo and Juliet. Hmm, Troilus and Cressida. A remarkable number of great lovers end up betrayed or dead, don’t they?”

  “More than I realized,” replied Robert dryly.

  “Tristan and Isolde. No, the Guinevere triangle problem. Heloise and Abelard—oh, definitely no! Quite inappropriate.”

  Robert gazed at him. “Because?”

  “Heloise’s uncle had Abelard castrated.”

  “Good God!”

  Plato added an emphatic harrumph. Randolph gave the dog on the hearthrug a startled glance. Robert pursed his lips. He tried to avoid addressing Plato in anyone else’s hearing.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t look to literature,” Randolph concluded.

  “I think not.”

  “Writers seem to sacrifice verisimilitude for drama.” Randolph considered. “I’ve performed many weddings of course and spoken with the couples beforehand. Though not about the proposals.”

  “Your dedication to my cause is flattering, Randolph. But…why are you so interested?”

  “Well, I intend to make an offer myself next season.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a bride in mind.”

  “I don’t, yet. I’m determined to find one, however, and…ah. Oh. That’s it.”

  “What?” Robert was increasingly rapt.

  “Never mind.”

  “No, no, you must tell me what has made you go white.”

  Randolph grimaced. “Mama took me along to a ton party a few years ago when I was visiting London. I sloped off to a quiet corner, because I knew very few people there, you see. A group of very fashionable young ladies congregated on the other side of this…arrangement of greenery and began dissecting their acknowledged and hoped-for beaus in, really, daunting detail. You can’t imagine.”

  “Ah, they compare notes. I’ve heard a bit of that.” It had been educational.

  “They might have been touts handicapping a horse race, or placing bets on a cricket match,” Randolph said. “Only more graphic and…ruthless. Also, they knew things that I had thought hidden from gently reared females. What they’d said about Colefax! And then cackled like a bunch of hens.” Randolph shuddered. “I thanked God that none of us were mentioned. If I’m to face girls like that next spring…well, as Sebastian would say, I need more ammunition.”

  Robert hid a smile.

  His brother let out a breath. “So, then. All young ladies like to be told they’re wonderful.”

  “Don’t we all?” Robert murmured.

  “And unique. That’s important, I believe. We…you should say there’s no one else like her.”

  Flora certainly fit the bill in that regard, Robert thought.

  Randolph scribbled on his notepad. “Mention that she’s changed your life, can’t live without her.”

  Also perfectly true, Robert acknowledged.

  “What else?” his brother wondered.

  “Actually ask her to marry me?”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “And yet, it doesn’t,” Robert murmured. “Which is the point of this rather odd exercise.”

  “I’m sure you can find the words for that. You’re a veritable tulip of fashion, aren’t you? Acknowledged wit and all that?” Randolph’s smile softened the comment.

  “I once thought so.”

  Randolph consulted his pad. “I think that covers it. So tomorrow then?”

  Robert discovered a thread of anxiety deep in his consciousness. He banished it and nodded.

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “The latter. Everyone is awake and alert.”

  “But people are often scattered on various expeditions,” Randolph objected. “Harder to pin down.”

  From the hearthrug Plato responded with a characteristic grumble.

  Robert weighed options. “The hour before it is time to change for dinner, I think. There’s an…atmosphere of expectation. And yet nothing much to do.”

  The dog’s curmudgeonly gurgle included a snort at the end, rather like an exclamation point. Robert nearly answered him.

  “Good,” said Randolph. “I will begin the arrangements at once.” He stood. “Roses, I think. Yes, must find some roses.” He hurried out of the room.

  Robert looked down. Plato’s brown eyes were not twinkling with amusement. It was merely a healthy shine.

  * * *

  On the following day, in the slack time before people went upstairs to change for dinner, Robert stood in his bedchamber once again, snipping the thorns off a single red rose with a pair of nail scissors.

  “Good notion,” Randolph said. He shifted from one foot to the other, seeming more nervous than Robert. “Better than a great armload of flowers,” he said, not for the first time.

  “Much better.”

  “The gardener in the greenhouse thought so.”

  Robert suspected the fellow was more interested in conserving his stock than a random guest’s wishes, but he didn’t say so. And if Flora chanced to throw her arms around his neck, accepting him, there would be no awkwardness about where to put a bouquet. There would be no bloody fingertips either, he thought as he finished his task, much as they might evoke his and Flora’s encounter in the brambles.

  “I considered ordering up a bottle of champagne,” Randolph said. “But I decided that looked like overconfidence.”

  “That seems wise.”

  “I’ll go and herd her then, shall I?”

  “Yes.” They—mostly Randolph—had chosen a small parlor on the south side of Salbridge Great Hall as the…Robert found himself thinking…stage. The room was little used but pretty, papered in a narrow green-and-white stripe and cozily furnished. He’d asked for a fire to be lit.

  Randolph departed. As Robert waited the prescribed quarter hour, he thought of his married brothers. James had bungled his first proposal, as he told it, blurting out, “If you want a proper husband, take me.” He’d come right in the end, however. Nathaniel had made a stilted offer in form, with Violet’s parents right there looking on. Smiling, Robert wondered what Alan had said to Ariel. Had he given her a scientific argument about why she should favor him? Sebastian had no doubt flailed in a morass of words. They tended to get the best of him. Georgina had probably had to offer for herself. They all would have expected him to show them how it was done, Robert thought. But summoning smooth phrases was rather different when one’s entire future was at stake.

  It was time. “Come, Plato,” he said.

  In the drawing room, Flora hid a yawn. She’d played a longish game of cards with Frances Reynolds and some of the other young ladies. It had broken up, and now she was sitting with a group including Harriet. She didn’t know where Robert was, and she felt a bit anxious about that. They’d hardly spoken five words since her impulsive request for a proper proposal. He hadn’t seemed annoyed. But then…where was he?

  Lord Randolph came in, surveyed the room, and came up to her with a polite bow. “Would you care to take a turn about the room?” he asked. “I think we’re all feeling rather cooped up on this wet day.”

  “The rain has certainly worsened,” she said, rising to take his proffered arm.

  “It was just a drizzle this morning when I was hunting down gardeners.”

  “You were—”

  “But it’s really pelting down now,” Randolph interrupted.

  Indeed, water ran down the long windows overlooking the gardens. The patter of raindrops masked the conversations ta
king place around the drawing room.

  They strolled along the outer wall, turned, and walked up the side of the chamber. “Very large room,” Randolph remarked. “Big enough to provide a decent walk on a filthy day. If you go ’round a few times.”

  Flora agreed, wondering what had come over Robert’s scholarly brother. These were the remarks of a witless rattle.

  “Shall we continue along the corridor?” he suggested as they neared the doorway.

  Increasingly mystified, Flora agreed. They walked. Randolph began a rambling story about the artifacts he’d found hiking along Hadrian’s Wall. When he repeated one of his sentences, she started to ask him what was wrong. But at that moment he drew her into a pretty little parlor. “Just remembered something I have to do,” he said. He rushed out leaving her alone. She stood there, astonished. Had he been taken ill?

  The door opened. Flora looked around, expecting Lord Randolph’s return. But no one came in. Then she caught a movement near her feet. Plato stood there. He had the stem of a red rose in his teeth, like a gypsy dancer.

  “What in the world?” said Flora.

  Plato sat. He stared up at her, solemn as a judge.

  Flora reached for the bloom. As she grasped it, the dog opened his jaws and set it free. “Thank you?”

  “I do hope you like red,” said a dearly familiar voice from the doorway.

  Robert stood there, in an immaculate coat and pantaloons, the picture of a polished man of fashion. He came in, smiled at her in a way that made her pulse accelerate, and went down on one knee.

  “Aren’t your knees sore? Mine are.” Flora nearly added to herself—idiot. Why had she said something so silly?

  “We are not going to discuss my knees, or yours. Lovely as they are.”

  Flora’s fingers tightened on the rose. There were no thorns, she realized. The implications of that fact nearly made her cry.

  “We are not going to discuss at all,” Robert continued. “Or argue. I hope. I am simply going to tell you that I love you with all my heart.”

  Flora swallowed the threatened, and unwanted, tears.

  “And why is that?” he said, as if in one of her father’s Socratic sessions. “You are lovely, of course. The determination and compassion with which you fight for justice inspire me. You ravished my mind, which no one ever did before. Having met you, I can’t imagine any other wife. Indeed, I won’t have one.”