What the Duke Doesn't Know

by Jane Ashford

  “I have several sons,” replied the duchess in a tone that might have frozen him into a block of ice where he sat. “Are you acquainted with one of them?”

  “I…no…not…but I have heard dire things about his treatment of my young relative.” Even under the withering scrutiny of two leaders of the ton, he rallied. “And I won’t let him get away with it.”

  The housemaid reappeared. She looked excited by all the activity and the stream of noble visitors. “Lord James Gresham,” she said.

  James walked into a small parlor crammed full of people, all of whom were staring at him with varying degrees of emotion. He was dismayed, but not surprised, to find his mother and Ariel among them. There was nowhere to sit.

  “Aha!” said Ronald Benson.

  He, at least, was negligible. James gave him his haughtiest, most discouraging gaze.

  “You see?” added Benson, as if he’d proved something.

  “Really, you cannot…” began Mrs. Runyon.

  James didn’t know if she was referring to him, but he was glad to see she didn’t have her parasol.

  “I see that my son has arrived to fetch us, as agreed,” said his mother coolly.

  He tried to look knowing, as one did when Mama sprang some idea out of the blue. She expected her offspring to be fast on their feet.

  “I hope he will stay for a glass of Madeira,” said Kawena.

  James nearly lost the thread as he met her eyes. It was as if, suddenly, there was no one else in the room—just the two of them. His whole body came alive with wanting her. This wouldn’t do. He looked away.

  “Indeed,” added Mrs. Runyon. “We must find a chair for you, Lord James.” She fixed Maria Benson with a stern look.

  The dismissal was no less strong for being unspoken. Mrs. Benson rose as if pulled by invisible strings. “Children,” she said.

  Kawena hoped for a moment that her newfound family would abandon their schemes after this. But it soon became apparent that her uncle couldn’t give up on the money. The calculation in his expression was almost comical. “We are staying a few days in Oxford,” he said.

  “But it is expensive to lodge a family here!” exclaimed Maria Benson.

  Her husband glared at her. They really were not very skilled at hiding their emotions. He rose. His wife and children clustered behind him. “We look forward to becoming better acquainted with our…dear niece.” He sketched a bow and led his brood out without waiting for the housemaid’s escort.

  For a few moments, the only sound was footsteps on the stairs. It gradually died away. The front door thudded closed.

  “What odd people,” said the duchess then. “I beg your pardon, Miss Benson, but…”

  “Odd scarcely covers it,” Kawena said. “I can see why Papa settled on the other side of the world.”

  “I think we really will have to set my husband on them,” she added. “We can’t have this fellow spreading stories about ‘dire behavior.’”

  James shrank under his mother’s speculative gaze. He waited for her to ask what Benson had meant, but for some reason she didn’t. Neither did Ariel, or Flora, or the formidable Mrs. Runyon. Encircled by apparently incurious females, he stepped over to pour a glass of wine from the decanter on the tray, then subsided onto the vacated sofa.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Mama concluded with a nod. She turned to Kawena. “But now, we finally have an opportunity to get better acquainted.”

  James observed Kawena’s tentative smile. He wanted to sweep her up and whirl her away to some secluded spot. He wanted to observe all the proprieties in order to protect her position and earn his mother’s respect and approval. And he was acutely aware that his best course of action was to sit still and keep quiet. It was one of the hardest assignments of his formidable career.

  But as he listened to the ensuing conversation, it grew easier. He’d thought his mother would like Kawena, and he could see that she did. The reverse was also clearly true. Not only that, despite her unique origins, Kawena seemed to fit in the group as well as Ariel or Flora did. Granted those two weren’t conventional society misses, but who cared about that? James felt a growing relief and joy as the talk ranged over plans for various future outings. Very soon, as soon as he could get her to himself for a minute, Kawena would be his, part of the family harmoniously represented here.

  “You are very silent, James,” said his mother after a while.

  “Just listening to all you charming ladies,” he replied. In a mellow glow, he raised his now-empty glass to her and smiled.

  The duchess looked briefly startled. Then she smiled back with a warmth that buoyed him even further.

  Nineteen

  Two days later, Kawena examined her reflection in the long mirror in the corner of her bedchamber. The choice of what to wear for her first official outing in Oxford since establishing her own household had taken time and careful thought, and much consultation with Mrs. Runyon, an expert in the nuances of dress. They wanted to dazzle everyone who saw her, in an extremely proper way.

  The resulting gown was a creamy white with a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. The cut emphasized her curves in an unexceptionable way. The color brought out the warm glow of her skin. And a lacy shawl in the same shade heightened the impression of decorum. She’d fastened a creamy rose in her black hair, which was once again in a knot at her nape. Any knowledgeable person could see that her clothes were expensive, the product of the finest modiste in town. No high stickler could find anything objectionable in its design. Kawena was satisfied that her goal had been achieved.

  They were attending a concert. When Mrs. Runyon had deplored the lack of regular assemblies in Oxford, Kawena had pointed out that she was not familiar with English dances. She hadn’t been able to resist adding that if she was going to dance, she liked to be outside with a fire, and drums. Flora had laughed. Mrs. Runyon had allowed her a smile and said she was sure she needn’t remind Kawena not to say so to anyone else.

  She came downstairs to find the two of them awaiting her. Flora wore a new blue gown that matched the hue of her brilliant eyes. Mrs. Runyon had persuaded her to have her dark hair done in a mass of ringlets, and she looked somehow softer and more approachable than usual. Their chaperone was grand in amber silk with a magnificent India shawl. Everything about her proclaimed the woman of fashion.

  The concert hall was already busy when they arrived. The singer, up from London, was much celebrated, and the university town was turning out to hear her. The rows of chairs near the front were filling, but many people lingered in the reception area, greeting friends and showing off their finery.

  The Bensons must have been lying in wait, Kawena concluded, because they rushed up to her as soon as she entered. Though they were only two smallish individuals, she felt surrounded, and they positively herded her toward a less occupied corner. She couldn’t refuse without undue fuss. This propriety could be such a wearisome thing, Kawena thought.

  Her uncle bent close and murmured, “Rumors are flying about the size of your fortune. I really don’t know what to tell people.”

  Kawena nearly asked, “What people?” She didn’t think her uncle was acquainted with anyone in Oxford.

  “We wouldn’t wish to be deceptive,” added his wife.

  Kawena smiled and said nothing.

  “There’s talk of piles of jewels.” The Bensons both leaned farther forward, waiting for her answer.

  “My father left me some gems,” Kawena conceded. It seemed to be common knowledge, after all. And she didn’t think she would get away without telling them something.

  “Valued at?” asked her uncle sharply.

  Kawena took refuge in the woolly-headedness the English, and particularly her uncle, seemed to expect of young women. “Oh, quite a bit.”

  Ronald Benson’s hands closed and opened in frustration. “Perhaps I
should speak to your trustees.”

  “My…?”

  He appeared to grind his teeth. “Where can I find them? Are they bankers? In the City?”

  “Papa did not trust bankers,” Kawena replied with perfect truth. “He said they were worse than leeches.” Of course her uncle would assume that there were men somewhere controlling her money, she realized. He wouldn’t be able to imagine any other arrangement. “Papa said that a skillful sea captain knew ten times as much about handling money,” she added.

  “Your trustees are sea captains?” exclaimed Maria Benson. “That’s ridi…very odd.”

  She hadn’t said they were, Kawena thought. Or even that they existed. But she felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like to come so close to lying. “Are you very fond of music, Uncle Ronald?” she asked to change the subject.

  She got no answer. The Bensons seemed to be searching the room, and in the next moment she discovered why. “Ah,” said her uncle, and made a beckoning gesture. “Here is someone I wish you to meet, Kawena.”

  Was he aware of the distaste that tinged his voice every time he said her “foreign” first name? Surely he couldn’t be. He must be making an effort not to insult her.

  “This is our friend Anthony Haskins,” he continued. “I commend him to you. Haskins, this is my niece.”

  “Miss Benson.”

  A gentleman of medium height and fashionable appearance bowed over her hand. With his pale blond hair dressed a la mode and his beautifully cut coat, he didn’t look like a friend of Ronald Benson’s. He had a handsome face, quite a pleasant smile, and an air of moderate consequence. Kawena put him in his midthirties.

  The Bensons had recruited their own tame suitor for her hand, she realized. Thwarted in their direct approach, they’d found a coconspirator. Doubtless this Haskins had agreed to divide her fortune with them once she married him. She examined the man more closely. If she hadn’t suspected a plot, she might have found him engaging. Her uncle was even more devious than she’d thought.

  “Haskins has a neat little estate in Somerset,” said Ronald Benson. “He and I have been working together on a canal scheme.”

  The man looked self-conscious. “Miss Benson will not be interested in canals. Are you looking forward to hearing Madame Santini sing, Miss Benson?”

  An unusual sort of fortune hunter, Kawena thought. He had a definite charm. “Of course,” she replied. “And you? Are you very fond of music?”

  “I have had little opportunity to hear really good performances.”

  “Oh?”

  “I live in the country and am most often busy with other things.”

  “But you would like to spend seasons in London,” put in Maria Benson. “Given the chance.”

  Haskins winced at the clumsy emphasis she put on the last word. He offered Kawena his arm. “Would you care to find a seat? It looks as if they are about to begin.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kawena took his arm, mostly because it was clear that the Bensons did not intend to accompany them. She also looked about until she caught Flora’s eye, and summoned her friend with an unobtrusive gesture. Mrs. Runyon’s expression suggested that she approved of this move.

  Kawena introduced Flora, and the three of them took seats in the middle part of the hall. Rather curious about how this newcomer intended to win her over, Kawena said, “What brings you to Oxford, Mr. Haskins?”

  “Ah, well, it was just an impulse.”

  “Perhaps you are a scholar?” Flora said. “The libraries here are very fine.”

  “No, indeed, anything but!”

  “You don’t think much of scholarship?”

  “Well, it’s rather a waste of time, isn’t it?” the man answered.

  “How so?” Flora’s voice had grown distinctly cooler.

  “There are so many more important things to do in the world.”

  Flora raised her chiseled brows. “My father was a dedicated scholar,” she replied.

  Haskins grimaced, and Kawena took pity on him. “You are busy managing your estate, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” He said it with the air of a man grasping a lifeline. “And caring for my family. I have a three-year-old daughter,” he continued, with the air of a man making a confession.

  Had she been wrong about her uncle’s scheme? “Your wife is not with you?”

  “She died soon after Annie was born.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He acknowledged this with a nod. As much as his situation, his self-deprecating expression won her sympathy. Yes, indeed, Uncle Ronald was a sly and skilled opponent.

  There was a stir behind them, and Kawena turned to discover that the Gresham party had arrived and was standing in a group near the entry. The sight of three tall, handsome, auburn-haired noblemen posed next to their even more distinguished parents had riveted the crowd’s attention. “He looks like a duke,” she murmured.

  “What?” said Haskins. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t quite hear.”

  Kawena shook her head. Her tongue still ran away with her on occasion, and produced comments that were not strictly proper. She didn’t even know what this one meant—only that her first sight of Lord James’s father had been oddly satisfying. Even in such striking company, his grace and assurance stood out. “Lord Robert is back,” she said to cover her lapse.

  “I see that he is,” replied Flora, her voice carefully neutral.

  And then Lord James’s searching gaze found Kawena, and drove every other thought from her mind.

  * * *

  James was nearly wild with frustration. It seemed a simple thing, to manage a few minutes of private conversation with a woman he knew well. A woman he’d traveled with, talked with for hours, held in his arms, by God, and watched passion drown her… He made himself uncurl his fists.

  He’d called at her house, several times, and been told she was out shopping. He didn’t think it was a polite lie, and yet… Was he really so unlucky in choosing his times? And now, finally, there she was, a few yards away, and it might as well have been miles. He wanted to see her alone, not in the midst of a dashed crowd. She must understand that.

  He gazed at her, sitting in one of the gilt chairs, exquisite in a pale gown with a rose in her hair. His pulse accelerated. She looked like a lily in a room full of nettles. She turned her head as if listening to the man next to her, a complete stranger. James bristled, wishing he could rush over, grab the fellow by his collar, and haul him away from her. That might relieve his feelings a bit.

  “James?” A hand gripped his arm, and he turned with something like a growl.

  “What the deuce is wrong with you?” asked Robert. His hand tightened on James’s sleeve. “You’ve been as surly as a bear for days.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have.” His brother released him. “But you aren’t going to pick a quarrel with me, so no point in trying.” He turned to follow the rest of the Greshams to a row of chairs. “Are you coming to sit with Mama?”

  “No,” said James again. He moved in the opposite direction, his whole mind concentrated on separating Kawena from all these people. He’d been half-mad already, and actually seeing her, looking so lovely, fired his brain with memories of kissing her, making love to her. Why had it taken him so long to realize that he couldn’t live without her?

  He edged between two rows of chairs. He would simply sweep her up and march her out of this blasted place. Then she would have to listen to him. Who cared what a bunch of Oxford biddies thought?

  His way was blocked by a line of projecting knees. Before he could shove past them, the musicians at the front struck up, and a buxom lady stepped out to face the audience. Fixed by a legion of glares and hissed protests, James was forced to drop into a vacant chair. He then had to endure a series of horrifying warbles in languages he didn’t understand. Punct
uated by rounds of applause that gave him a very low opinion of the taste of this audience. Several times during this torture, the unknown man next to Kawena made a pretense of craning to see better, making sure that their shoulders touched in the process. He smiled at her, too. Who did he think he was? Who, in fact, was he?

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity of caterwauling, the singer wrapped it up and made her curtsy. James rose, relieved, only to have the blasted listeners stomp their feet and shout bravas until she came back for an encore. James had to wait another ten minutes before she left the dais for good, and he was free to seek out Kawena.

  “Santini has a fine voice, doesn’t she?” said an old lady next to him.

  “I’ve gotten more amusement out of a pair of yowling cats,” James said, earning a shocked, admonitory glare.

  He slipped past her and wove through the flood of people leaving their seats on the way to the refreshment room. Unfortunately, Kawena and her escort exited at the other end of the row. James had to take the long way ’round to reach them. When at last he did, he found that they’d joined Ronald and Maria Benson, who had apparently been lurking at the back of the hall, like crows of ill omen.

  With the sketchiest of bows, he met Kawena’s dark eyes and said, “I’ll take you for some refreshment.” He tossed the unknown gentleman a glare as he offered his arm.

  “Hello, Lord James,” Kawena replied. “I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Haskins? Allow me to make a proper introduction. Mr. Anthony Haskins, Lord James Gresham. You know my aunt and uncle.” She looked around the group. “Oh, Flora has gone to Mrs. Runyon.”

  The Bensons glowered at him. Haskins surveyed him with raised brows. James didn’t care a whit. He and Kawena were known to be acquainted, and he was the son of a duke, by God. They couldn’t stop him from talking to her. “Lemonade,” he said. Whatever social skills he possessed had deserted him.

  Kawena gave an odd little smile and took his arm. He swept her away at once. “Who the dev—who is that fellow?” he said as soon as they were out of earshot.