Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  “You came to call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I came to make your acquaintance and to extend an invitation to attend a supper and dance Thursday next. Of course, I did not leave the invitation when the footman informed me that your wife had disappeared and was presumed dead. I knew you would be in mourning.”

  Desire warred with correct decorum on the earl’s face. Desire won out. Of course.

  “Well, I certainly cannot have you thinking that we would not offer you a warm welcome in Cornwall, Your Grace. I will, of course, attend. But I shall not dance.”

  “Not even a quadrille?”

  The earl blinked. “Well, certainly not a waltz.”

  Another gentleman, whose corset did not quite meet the challenge of his substantial girth, cleared his throat. “Paxton, we shall release you from your engagement to dine with our family Thursday.” The pretty face of a young lady beside the man appeared crestfallen.

  “Nonsense,” the duke replied before allowing Paxton to attempt any sort of diplomacy. “I invite you and your family as well, sir. Indeed, I am sorry I cannot invite you all, but there will be other entertainments this summer, of that I promise.” That he might not attend them was something he did not feel he had to impart.

  A flurry of happy noises erupted all about.

  “But I am interrupting a solemn occasion. Please, I beg of you to continue. Now is not the time for us to discuss parties, and soirees, and summer balls.” He scanned the crowd and could not find a single person whose countenance agreed with his sentiments. All of them wanted to talk about parties, and soirees, and summer balls.

  Except one.

  A thin, older, less formally garbed fellow had wandered to the gravesite and was staring at the coffin that lay therein. His long salt-and-pepper hair was tied into a queue, and his matching moustache was drawn high on the ends.

  Alex wondered who he was but decided against drawing attention to him. He was sure, if Roxanne was still skulking about the tree trunks as he suspected, that she would tell him later.

  “Well, I suppose it is time,” the earl said with a deep sigh. “Will you do me the great honor of tossing the first bit of sod on my dearest wife’s coffin?”

  Alex looked down at the proffered hand shovel and pail of earth. He had the strongest desire to throw the bucket of dirt in Paxton’s face. “Oh, no, no. I can never accept such a privilege. Is it not a husband’s right to throw dirt on the coffin of the wife who served him dutifully for eight long years? Polishing his boots, laying out his journals, pouring his wine, and the like? That is what all good wives do, yes? Not that I would know the slightest thing about the duties of a wife. But you must honor her with this mud first, before the rest of your friends and neighbors.”

  The good earl paled. “I, uh, appreciate your good understanding of the matter. Thank you.” As if on cue, Roxanne’s husband allowed a fresh wave of waterworks to trickle down his face.

  Perfect.

  The assembled crowd offered murmurs of encouragement. And Lawrence Vanderhaven, the handsome Earl of Paxton, drew in an unsteady breath before he strode to the open grave at the same moment the gray-haired man sauntered away. Paxton stuck the shovel into the pail and sprinkled a large amount of earth onto the plain coffin.

  A few handkerchiefs unfurled in the slight breeze but it was mostly for show, the duke guessed. Whoever said people from Town were more callous than countryfolk had obviously never been to this corner of Christendom. Tin should never try to mix with gold—even tarnished fool’s gold such as all those before him. She had probably been considered lower than a governess, that poor creature who was neither of the servant class nor of the upper class.

  The great show continued, each person grasping at the chance to put a few more inches of sod on Roxanne’s false pyre. Whoever had thought of this grim custom was surely half devil.

  A chill raised the hair on his arms. And then he heard it. The one thing that could bring a smile at this moment.

  A dog barking.

  A very particular dog with a very particular sort of bark that melted into an earsplitting high whine. Eddie darted into view, a blur of white and black that weaved in and among the fake mourners until he reached the edge of the grave. He put on quite the show and howled like a lost soul at midnight.

  It was almost as good as the show that ensued by the Earl of Paxton.

  “Good lord, ’tis Edward. Come here, dog. Where have you been? Oh, I’ve been searching, and searching.”

  The canine evaded all the different assortment of arms attempting to capture him. He bounced and leapt and almost turned a cartwheel in the air. And each time the earl approached, he growled.

  Alex would bet his last farthing that Roxanne was enjoying it all, but he could not spot her.

  And then, in one last display of familial disloyalty, Eddie took a huge leap and landed in Alex’s arms whether he liked it or not. That was obviously his reward for secretly feeding the hound the French cook’s overly rich delicacies. He immediately placed the mutt on the ground.

  “Oh, do hold on to his scruff, Your Grace,” the earl implored. “I do beg your pardon. I hope he did not ruin your coat.”

  “Of course not,” Alex said, trying to nudge the dog aside.

  “Edward,” the earl said in an I-am-not-to-be-disobeyed voice. “Come here now.”

  The dog practically climbed up Alex’s leg.

  “You must be one of those sorts of people who dogs naturally like and obey.”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “You think?”

  “Will you not give him to me? He is my only link to my dearest, most beloved wife.”

  “I think you already used those words on the headstone. Repetition is tedious.”

  The earl squeezed out another tear and held out his arms for the dog. “I am in mourning, Your Grace.”

  “But, he doesn’t like you.” It was one of the perquisites of being at the top of the food chain of nobility—the advantage of speaking your mind. Plainly. Bluntly. Loudly.

  A few murmurs rose from the breathless audience now surrounding them.

  “How about if I keep him for you,” Alex said, trying to sound more kindly than he felt. “Until Edward is through his own mourning period at least.”

  Roxanne felt surely as cold as her hat residing under six feet of sod in the St. Ives cemetery.

  St. Ives cemetery . . . Not the family chapel at Paxton Hall. It was the final insult. He had so disliked the tin under her fingernails that he had not arranged for her hat to be entombed with generations of Paxtons under the stone floor of the hall’s private chapel. Nor had he chosen the cemetery near Redruth, where she had lived with her father. Obviously her husband had not wanted his name associated with her father’s home. And so Lawrence had planted her in a town neither of them visited overmuch. Oh, she knew she was being ridiculous to care.

  In truth, all this absurd rumination was just an excuse to avoid going downstairs. As soon as she had ridden hell for leather back to the Mount, she had locked herself in the chamber she had been assigned. This, despite the fact that the Comtesse de Chatelier had asked for her presence in the grand salon.

  The houseguests from town were trickling in at an alarming rate. Roxanne could hear the soft-spoken curses of each of the guests’ servants as they carted up the endless series of trunks and possessions along the treacherous winding path to the castle, for no carriage could make the trip.

  Roxanne glanced down at the list of names the personal maid of the comtesse had drawn up for her. Names, an impossibly long list of names, along with a few descriptions of some.

  There were so many lofty people on the list that she grew almost faint. There were three dukes, one duchess, and half a dozen lords and their ladies. But the largest contingent was the names of all the eligible daughters and sisters. She almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  She refused to pay any attention to the tiny voice that said sh
e did not feel sorry for him at all. She was feeling something entirely else. What it was, she could not say. Oh, perhaps she had a warm spot for him.

  How could she not? He had saved her. He had put her up; and perhaps most lovely of all, he had said just the right things to her arse of a husband at the funeral for her blue fanned-lace bonnet.

  She felt her hands meld into fists, her nails biting into her tender palms. She was not going to feel anything more than admiration for him.

  She knew very well where the other could lead. She was not going to make a fool of herself twice over. She would feel gratitude toward him. But that was where she would draw the line.

  And besides, there were plenty of reasons why she could never feel anything more than appreciation toward him . . .

  1. She was too old for him. Indeed, she was older than him by two years.

  2. He was a duke—a dyed-in-the-wool, outrageously virile, classically handsome duke.

  3. She was a tin miner’s daughter.

  4. He was under orders to marry a nobleman’s daughter with impeccable lineage and great fortune.

  5. She would never give up her fortune.

  6. Oh, yes. The most important thing: She was legally dead. Or married. Or, perhaps, both. Yes, she was both.

  7. He liked Town, she, the country (not that she’d ever been to London. Why, she’d never been north of Falmouth.)

  8. Most importantly, she would see to her own happiness, thank you very much. And not entrust it to someone who was most likely a secretly tortured soul unable to give his heart to anyone—even if he did seem to like her dog.

  9. And, she was . . . utterly ridiculous. She was after all, above all, #6, which discounted everything else on this blasted—

  A knock sounded at the door. She stumbled to her feet from her hiding perch near the window.

  It was he.

  “You know, you could show just a little appreciation by at least attending to my great-aunt’s request. I understand your inability to obey any gentleman, at this point—especially after that nauseating display by your darling husband. But really, is it too much to ask you to meet the hordes who seek my hand in marriage? I mean, if I can do it, surely you can, too.” His brown eyes sparkled with wit.

  She tried not to notice it. “Did you bring back my dog?”

  “What? You didn’t stay for the grand finale?”

  “I dared not.”

  “Well, you owe me a new coat.”

  She raised an inquiring brow.

  “Edward is partial to buttons.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And Weston’s finest worsted wool. He at least had the propriety to stop at the buttons of my pantaloons, but it was a near thing.”

  “My dog prefers to be addressed as Eddie.”

  “That was made clear in your husband’s presence.”

  “Did he bite him?”

  “No. But it was obvious each wanted to tear the other’s throat out.”

  “Good. Well, I thank you for bringing him back to me.”

  “I know how to play my part. It’s just too bad you refuse to play yours.”

  “And that would be?”

  “That of my mysterious step great-grandmother’s great-grandchild. My cousin many times removed. That hanger-on relation who will help me keep the more impertinent misses at bay.”

  “So that you have enough time to make your own choice.”

  “Precisely. Before one of them takes things into her own devices and makes it for me.”

  “All right. I can do that for you.”

  “Thank you.” He extended his forearm toward her, and she had no choice but to place her arm along the top of it. The fabric of his fine coat was warm to her bare cold arm.

  Without another word, they descended the two long staircases toward the salon.

  She could do this. No one would know her here. She could pretend to be the impoverished noble relation instead of the rich tin miner’s dead daughter. She could fawn.

  Well, perhaps not the last part.

  She could do this for the man who had most probably scared her husband out of at least one good night’s sleep.

  Just before they rounded the last corner toward the two French doors guarded by the hulking Cossack, he pulled her to a stop.

  “Be careful of Candover,” he murmured.

  “The duke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do I need to be careful of him?”

  “And also of Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry.”

  “He’s the Lord Lieutenant in Wellington’s army, correct?”

  “You’ve studied the list I see,” he said. “And, stay away completely from Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think it would be a good idea to spend any amount of time with him. He has a reputation for wearing ladies’ jewelry.”

  “I beg your pardon?!”

  “And he has a certain look about him.” He paused.

  “And what look is that?”

  “That wolfish, I-like-all-females look.”

  “Ah, I see. You mean kind of like the same look you sport?”

  “Precisely.”

  Chapter 5

  “Candover,” Alex said with the slightest of bows, carefully conducted to show neither deference nor offense. The other duke’s icy expression, just short of glacial, suggested that forgiveness for instigating the debacle in London was not in Alex’s near future.

  Candover glanced about the opulent salon, which had been quickly turned out for the august gathering. The upper echelon of London aristocracy graced the room in studied poses. Alex nudged Roxanne Vanderhaven toward Candover. “I should like to present to you my third cousin four times removed, Tatiana Harriet Barclay. Taty, James Fitzroy, the Duke of Candover.”

  Roxanne curtseyed very prettily in a made-over pale blue walking gown, Alex noticed. She appeared far more slender in the fine silk. And the delicate bones of her face accentuated her natural elegance.

  “Your Grace,” she said in a cultured, well-modulated voice, “I am honored to meet you.”

  Candover fondled his gold looking glass and raised it to his eye to peer down at her from his great height. “Delighted,” he said, without an ounce of delight in his tone.

  “I didn’t know your eyesight was failing,” Isabelle Tremont said to Candover, with a warm laugh. She stepped around the cool-eyed duke and curtsied in front of Roxanne. “I am the Duchess of March, but please, you must call me Isabelle. Allow me to escort you about, and introduce you to everyone here. There are far too many of us for you to remember all at once, while many of us have the advantage of knowing each other since we were in leading strings.” Isabelle paused. “Except for Candover, of course. I cannot imagine him ever in leading strings.”

  A lady who looked remarkably like a shorter version of the Duke of Candover in a gown laughed. “Isabelle, you’re altogether right. Mother always said my brother had such a tantrum the first time they were attached that the governess resigned her post on the spot.”

  “I’m certain Miss Barclay has very little interest in such things, Faith,” the duke replied with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Oh, I’m certain she does,” another lady said who also looked like Candover. The same prominent nose, dark hair, dark flashing eyes. She, just like her sister, had character—that dreadful term that bespoke of little beauty but high intelligence. She continued, “I am Hope, by the way. And those,” she nodded toward two other young ladies who obviously had the same parents, “are our other two sisters, Charity and Chastity. Our middle sister, Verity, is . . .”—she paused uneasily, when Candover made an impatient sound—“detained at the estate.”

  The two youngest sisters curtsied.

  Roxanne gained her ease with all the ladies. Very much so—if her smile was any indicator.

  Alex had always liked the lovely Duchess of March, but he did not particularly like what she said
next.

  “You must also meet Sussex.”

  The charismatic second Duke of Sussex, Edward Godwin, crossed to the mantel and grasped Roxanne’s hand to brush his lips against the back of her palm. Alex could see the man looking sideways up into Roxanne’s face with a devilish grin.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Barclay. I do hope I am not being presumptuous in asking if you would do me the honor of a tour of the Mount before someone else stakes a claim?”

  Roxanne’s smile widened, and Kress sighed inwardly. Blast the charmer. He had the same effect on every damned female—milkmaid and duchess alike. And the opposite effect on every man in possession of a sister, lover, or a wife. Kress had always liked him, until he watched the Englishman’s eyes rake down Roxanne’s form.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” she simpered.

  Where was the female whom he had had to coax from her room a mere quarter of an hour ago?

  “And”—Isabelle marched onward, as if she knew not to give Sussex too much more time to bedazzle and coo—“then, of course, there is Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry. Barry? Miss Barclay.”

  The other duke’s cockade-styled hat was tucked in the crook of one elbow as he bowed over her hand. The harsh, spare dark green of his military uniform left Alex ill at ease. He had seen too many of them during the war. The 95th Rifle Regiment had always been pointing weapons toward, not away, from him. For some peculiar reason, the other man must have sensed the French dirt under Alex’s nails for he was more aloof with him than he was with the other dukes.

  Kress wondered who Barry had shot the night of Candover’s botched bachelor evening. He’d been unable to discover more details since he had been the first to be booted from Carleton House the morning after. The English officer and duke was far too serious, and far too silent, since the event. However, this did not seem to bother the females overmuch in the salon. Each of them looked at the lord lieutenant’s even features with something akin to reverence in their silly countenances.

  “Miss Barclay,” the Duke of Barry said quietly.