The Duke Is a Devil

by Karen Lingefelt

  He solemnly nodded his head, almost but not quite bowing, as she paused on the threshold of the dining room. He gestured to the empty chair on his right.

  She took a deep breath, hoping that would steady her voice. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she quavered—the deep breath did not help. “But I’m afraid I cannot stay for luncheon, after all.”

  He continued gazing at her as if nothing was the slightest bit amiss. As if her face didn’t look bruised from dried ink stains and burned from vigorous, futile scrubbing with the strongest soap the maidservant could find that wouldn’t remove Cecily’s skin all the way down to the bone.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Surely you know why not.” Her voice still trembled. Blast it all, but she trembled all over. “Why did you not say something?”

  “I did say something. I’m saying something now. Is there something I’m supposed to say that I’m not saying?”

  She slapped her fingers against her beleaguered cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me that I had stains on my face?”

  Now he looked at her as if to ask, What stains?

  “Please, Your Grace. I might be a fool, but I know you know what I’m talking about. These things on my face.”

  “Oh, those things!”

  “Yes, those things. I thought surely you might say something about them.”

  “Dear me. I seem to have utterly bungled something here, haven’t I? Was I supposed to say something about them, Miss Logan? Are you vexed because I pretended not to notice them? Would you rather I had sent you away, with strict orders not to darken my portal or set foot on my property again until you presented yourself to me with a clean face? And after you walked all that distance to Bradbury Park?”

  Flustered, Cecily didn’t know what else to do except place both hands over her face.

  “You may as well lower your hands, Miss Logan. It’s too late now to hide your face when I’ve already seen it.”

  Cecily kept her hands over her face. “Had I known about the stains, I never would have come over here. I’ve never been so mortified in—” She broke off her words.

  “Your life?” he prodded.

  “Let’s just say in years,” she clarified.

  “Obviously you came here in some distress,” Bradbury said, “or you might have taken the time to scrub off the stains before setting out and allowing the open air to further dry them. I wouldn’t fret if I were you. I am quite sure they will fade with time. Mishaps occur. You needn’t explain. Now kindly lower your hands and sit down. If I found the sight of you at all offensive, I would not have asked you to stay for luncheon, nor would I have even addressed you outdoors just now.”

  She slowly lowered her hands, but did not meet his eyes. “I heard you laugh.”

  “I won’t deny it. I had a feeling all along that somehow you weren’t aware of the stains, and I wondered how you would react once you realized they were there and that I’d seen them. I take it that’s why you screamed, at which point I couldn’t help it. I had to laugh.”

  “You knew that’s why I screamed?”

  “Pray, why else would you have screamed? Because you saw a mouse? Not you, Miss Logan. You strike me as the sort who would make friends of the mice, in hopes that someday your fairy godmother might turn them into horses.”

  He was right, blast him. Only how could he know that?

  “Maybe I saw a large spider,” she countered. “I certainly don’t make friends with those.”

  “I don’t see why not. They’re more useful than the mice. They catch insects. The mice will eat your foodstuffs and even your important papers should they find a way into your desk. Believe me, I know.”

  Alas, Cecily did, too. A pity they hadn’t enjoyed a feast out of that manuscript before Harry found and stole it.

  “But it wasn’t a spider you saw,” the duke went on. “Had that been the case, you would have burst out of that room and rushed out of the house still screaming as if you had some axe-wielding berserker on your heels. And I don’t think you found one of those, either. No, you went into that room, you screamed, but took quite a long while to come out again.”

  “I do beg your pardon for making you wait, Your Grace, but I—”

  “Yes, I know, you were doing all you could to remove the stains once you saw them. I don’t begrudge you that. But I do begrudge these lamb chops getting cold and the gravy congealing before we have the chance to eat them, so will you please sit down already?”

  As embarrassed as she was before the duke, and not for the first time, Cecily had to concede that he was being quite gracious about this, as if he truly wanted her company. And she had yet to persuade him that he should not want that book published. It seemed he didn’t suspect she was the author, and she preferred to keep it that way, if possible.

  Maybe with some food in his belly, she could prevail upon his present kindness to see the matter from her perspective—if only she could just tamp down her panic! She was screaming the very thought inside of her head.

  Cecily sat.

  The duke sat.

  The footman served.

  The duke took a bite.

  Cecily took a bite.

  Then the duke spoke. “After luncheon, I shall take you back to the dower house in my phaeton, where I shall prevail upon Harry to surrender the manuscript to me so that I may see it returned to your friend. You need only tell me her name and direction.”

  Cecily clamped down on the bite still in her mouth, for fear she would either choke on it if it went one way, or spit it out the other way. She didn’t want the duke in possession of this manuscript any more than she wanted Harry to have it. She didn’t want anyone to have it. Suppose he read it and found out she really did have a foolish tendre for him? Her ignominy over the smudges on her face would pale in comparison to the humiliation she was bound to suffer if he read it.

  But only her ignominy. No amount of mortification would ever lighten those smudges. She needed that aforementioned fairy godmother for those.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Logan? Does the lamb not agree with you? I suppose if you make friends with mice, then you’re also bosom bows with the little lambs that frolic in the meadow. Mayhap you think eating lamb is baaa-aad!” That interjection came out high-pitched.

  Cecily continued to clamp down on that bite, this time so she wouldn’t choke or sputter in laughter, despite her inner turmoil. She’d have to remember what he said. Perhaps she could use it in a future story.

  “Miss Logan...?”

  She finally deemed it safe to swallow, and said, “I neglected to tell you that it’s already in the hands of the publisher, Your Grace.”

  “In that case, I suppose I can’t see it returned to your friend.”

  Or learn her name and direction, Cecily silently added. She sincerely hoped to resolve this matter without revealing she was the author in question. “I thought you might use your ducal powers to demand the publisher cease and desist and return the book to its rightful owner.”

  Bradbury set down his knife and fork as he studied her. And then he lifted his hands and waggled his fingers. “Ducal powers? Do you sincerely believe in such things?”

  “More than I do the fairy godmother who could turn my mousy little friends into horses.” She took another bite. The lamb was very succulent, though a small part of her—not her tongue or stomach—felt baa-aad for enjoying it.

  “In that case, allow me to use my ducal powers to make you tell me the name of the author.”

  Cecily was once again in the position of having to clamp down on her bite of lamb to avoid choking or otherwise spitting it across the table.

  “Why does your writer friend not petition me herself?” he asked. “Why does she send you in her stead?”

  Swallow. “Because I happen to live with the thief who stole her manuscript.”

  “But you can’t get it back from him. So why do you not tell her so, and prevail upon her to appeal to me directly? Does she not live in the villag
e or surrounding district? If she lives elsewhere, then how was he able to get his hands on it? If you can’t give me her name, then at least give me a general idea of where she resides.”

  “She’s very shy and reclusive, Your Grace. Many writers are. That’s why they write.”

  “You speak as if you’re an authority on the subject.” He eyed her as he inserted another forkful of meat into his mouth.

  Cecily berated herself as she concentrated on her own plate. Why didn’t she just tell him the truth? He was bound to find out, in any event.

  But for reasons she could explain only to herself, she was afraid to tell anyone she was a writer. The few who knew—in her own immediate family circle—laughed and scoffed at it. They believed she was wasting her time, as if embroidering a pillow slip or painting with watercolors were more useful occupations, if just as pointless. A pillow slip didn’t really need to be embroidered. And granted, if watercolors were spilled, they were easier to clean than ink. No one laughed at a woman who embroidered or painted with watercolors. Yet why did they laugh at a woman who preferred to write?

  Therefore, it made sense to Cecily that if the Duke of Bradbury ever found out she was a writer, let alone the author of a book that made sport of him, he’d laugh at her just as everyone else did. And he’d probably use his ducal powers to stop her from writing any more stories.

  Yet she couldn’t help herself. She felt compelled to write.

  And just as compelled not to confess it to him. The risk was too great. She was rather surprised he hadn’t figured it out already. Those ink smudges were like criminal brands.

  He tore into her reverie. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter who she is, since the book will surely be published anonymously. I only wonder why she wrote a book about me. Do I know her?”

  She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He looked quite serious as he gazed straight back at her with eyes of turquoise, a shade of blue with just a hint of green, a hue too deep to be aquamarine.

  “That’s just it. She didn’t really write a book about you, Your Grace. It’s a story in which the—the—”

  “Hero?”

  She gulped and shook her head slightly.

  “Protagonist? Or is that the same as a hero?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. That is, I wouldn’t say that he’s a hero or protagonist. He—I suppose he is what one would call the titular character.”

  “So what you’re trying to tell me without really telling me is that he’s the villain? Or am I the villain?”

  She forced herself to look at him. As long as he wasn’t scowling, she might survive this encounter. And he wasn’t scowling. Yet.

  “Truly, he could be any duke,” she quavered.

  “Then why does Harry want me to pay him an astronomical sum to keep it from being published? Why does he not issue a similar demand to, say, the Duke of Fairborough? Or even the Duke of Colfax? Or Ainsley? Halstead? Lanchester? I could tell you a scandalous thing or two about any one of them. Maybe he’s issuing demands to all of them, and you’re here on your friend’s behalf because I happen to be the only one in proximity.”

  “It has to do with the titular character’s name.”

  Bradbury buttered a roll. “The name is eponymous, the book’s title, or part of it. Do you know the title?”

  “Your Grace, let me assure you again that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know your friend has no wish for the book to see the light of day. What is the title? What is his title?”

  “Those are two of many reasons she doesn’t wish to see it published. Not to mention it’s also why you shouldn’t wish to see it published.”

  “As I believe I’ve said already, perhaps you should allow me to be the judge of that. Come, Miss Logan. It can’t be that bad.”

  She concentrated on using her fork to move her food from one side of the plate to the other. “The book is titled The Duke Is a Devil.” Her heart skipped a beat at that last word, for she’d never said it aloud before.

  “A devil, you say?” He burst into laughter. Cecily didn’t know if she should be relieved at that, or chagrined that he would laugh at a title that she likely would have changed, along with a great many other details, to something less scandalous before daring to show it to anyone else, especially a publisher.

  “The devil, you say!” he exclaimed. “As it happens, I’ve been called infinitely worse things. Things I wouldn’t say in a lady’s hearing. At least your friend didn’t title it The Duke Is a Dream. Then I would have no choice but to halt its publication. I wouldn’t be able to show my face in London again.”

  Somewhat relieved that he wasn’t put off by her shocking title, but still curious about his objections to something more romantic, she asked, “Why not?”

  “With a title like that, the debutantes might be swooning all over me. Their mothers, too. Especially their mothers.”

  Cecily was surprised they weren’t doing that now. Perhaps no one wanted to land the Duke of Bradbury for fear of being labeled “unsuitable”, only to jilt him for a lesser mortal.

  She considered herself unsuitable. But she would never jilt him.

  Then again, he would never offer for her—certainly not if he learned she was the author.

  “And who is the duke that readers will fancy is me?” he asked.

  “The Duke of Madfury,” she mumbled.

  Now she’d done it. His expression as he stared back at her was unmistakably appalled. “Madfury? So because it rhymes with Bradbury, everyone will think it must be about me?”

  “Anyone with even a partially functioning brain box will assume that Madfury must be Bradbury,” Cecily said. “That would conceivably include Harry.”

  “Why Madfury? Why not Baddreary? Or Sadworry? Come to think of it, I might prefer a name that incorporates the word cad. Why not Cadbury?”

  Cecily had actually thought of that at the outset. “Perhaps because it’s already taken? After all, there’s Cadbury Castle, which some people believe was once the site of King Arthur’s Camelot.”

  “Ah, then people might think it’s about King Arthur, and not the Duke of Bradbury.”

  How Cecily wished now that she’d called her duke Cadbury.

  She finished her meal as she contemplated telling him the truth. How would he react if he found out she was the author? What if he roared with laughter at that? What if he roared in rage, and plied his ducal wrath or powers to cow her into abandoning her writing in favor of watercolors or embroidery or even marriage to Mr. Eastman? As it was, she couldn’t understand why he hadn’t figured out already that she was the author.

  How to explain to Bradbury—or anyone, for that matter—that writing was a form of catharsis for Cecily, who had no other means of expressing herself, of easing all the aches and pains in her soul? She needed more than a fainting couch, a vinaigrette of hartshorn, and a string of pearls to clutch.

  Those things seemed to be enough for all the other women of her acquaintance, but not Cecily. Maybe if she wasn’t always treated as if she were a nuisance. She’d been left in the care of Uncle Willard and Aunt Thea after her mother died. Her mother and Thea had been sisters, daughters of a misogynistic marquess, while her father, the younger son of an earl, was always away in the Royal Navy until he died in the Battle of Trafalgar. Cecily barely remembered him.

  Yet the duke wasn’t treating her as a nuisance, or she wouldn’t be sitting at his table and at his behest. He daubed his lips with a napkin, only to crumple it up like a page of blotchy, bad writing and throw it down next to his plate before sliding his chair back with a piercing screech.

  He stood up. “Frankly, Miss Logan, I just don’t see how your friend’s dilemma is any of my concern—or yours.”

  She rose from her chair, her cheeks suddenly aflame with the all too familiar embarrassment. She should never have come over here. If her uncle and aunt ever found out—

  “I do understand Your Grace’s point of view,” she heard herself say. “I should n
ever have imposed upon you.”

  “You’re not imposing on me. I invited you to take luncheon with me.”

  “But I should not have come here in the first place, without an invitation.”

  “Or a clean face, but—”

  “Ohh!” Cecily clapped her hands over her cheeks, having forgotten that particular shame for a few moments.

  “Drop your hands, Miss Logan, those smudges are still there. They will fade with time. How badly do you want my ducal intervention in this matter?”

  How badly do you want it back, Cecily? Harry had asked her barely an hour ago.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the duke added, “How desperate are you to help your friend and save her from ruin as a result of her own folly?”

  “She has no wish to be ruined as a result of that book’s publication,” Cecily declared.

  “I daresay we’ve already established that. Now I’m asking how far you would go on her behalf. What would you do to stop its publication?”

  He smiled slowly, as slowly as melting butter in a pan. Cecily could almost feel that melting sensation, deep in her core—or more specifically, her heart, which seemed to act up in all sorts of disconcerting ways in his presence.

  How could she possibly tell him now that she was the author of what he referred to as “her own folly?”

  “What would I do?” she asked. “I’m doing it now, and it doesn’t seem to be enough. What more can I do?”

  “Then how do you feel about being ruined as a result of something else?” His smile was now—and this was the only word she could think of—devilish.

  The duke was a devil, for he could only be referring to one thing.

  She tried to back away from the table, but bumped into her chair, almost falling over it. She grabbed the edge of the table as the chair crashed to the floor. A footman appeared on the spot to right the chair, and only then did she realize that he and the maidservant must have heard the entire conversation, and would probably repeat it to the rest of household.