What the Duke Doesn't Know

by Jane Ashford

  “And then I was kissing her.”

  “And ‘then’—just like that?”

  “Intellectual discussion can be quite stimulating.”

  It was the sort of thing his youngest brother would feel, James thought. “So you grabbed her, when you were arguing.”

  “I didn’t grab her,” said Alan indignantly. “You don’t just grab a lady. If that’s what you’ve been doing—”

  “It isn’t,” James interrupted. “And I know that.”

  “I should hope so.” The brothers frowned at each other for a moment, then Alan continued. “The kiss just…happened.”

  James nodded. He understood that.

  “And her father showed up,” continued Alan, “and I started arguing with him.”

  “There’s a good deal of arguing in this tale,” James objected.

  His brother shrugged and nodded. “Ariel told us to be quiet. And then her father said if she was going to be kissing young men in a forest—”

  “You were in a forest? What were you doing in a forest?”

  “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  James held up his hands in surrender.

  “She said that in that case, she’d better marry them…me. And I agreed. Emphatically.”

  James stared at him. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d asked for advice. “You agreed? So, technically, she offered for you?”

  “It was complicated,” Alan said.

  James shook his head. He’d heard men talk of marriage as if it was a snare one stumbled into at the least misstep. A few unwary words, and you were caught. Here he was, laboring to tie the knot and finding it damnably difficult.

  “I should get back to work,” said his brother.

  Dissatisfied, James left him to it. Alan had been no help at all. Besides the lack of a forest, which was irrelevant, he didn’t see much chance that Kawena was going to propose to him. She’d shown no sign of it. Quite the opposite, really.

  With no better goal in mind, he headed back to Alan’s house. He found his father there, alone, reading a letter in the parlor. “Nathanial and Violet have left Brighton for the country,” he said when James came in.

  “Ah.” That was too far away for consultation. He didn’t have time for correspondence. And Nathaniel’s offer for the earl’s daughter had been quite formal, and a foregone conclusion, as James understood it.

  “He’s decided to keep the Phaeton,” the duke continued. “Violet likes it. And so matters come to a delightfully unexpected conclusion.”

  An idea occurred to James. A novel, unsettling idea.

  His father looked at him, hovering in the doorway.

  His parents had had—still had—a long and happy marriage. That was clear to anyone who knew them. It must have begun well. His father did everything right. Why not ask him for guidance?

  The duke raised his eyebrows at the continuing silence.

  People did. James had heard any number of men pass along paternal wisdom over the years. Of course, their fathers weren’t the Duke of Langford. James had seen so little of his awe-inspiring father since the age of sixteen. Before that…well, they’d talked, of course. They must have, though he couldn’t remember specific conversations. He’d always dreaded the prospect of appearing foolish before him. But even this, he would risk for Kawena.

  “Is there something I can do for you, James?” his father said, as if reading his mind.

  “Some advice,” James managed.

  “Of course. I’d be only too happy. Will you sit down?”

  James came farther into the room and sat. “The thing is… I mean to offer for Miss Benson.”

  His father nodded.

  “Everyone seems to know. Robert said I’m transparent.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But after last night… Your regard for her was…quite apparent.”

  James brooded briefly over people’s infernal nosiness. “I want to do it…” He nearly said properly, then veered away from that word. “I want to do it well. I want to be sure she accepts.”

  The duke looked surprised. “Do you have some reason to believe she won’t? I would have thought…”

  He stopped just when James wished he wouldn’t. James waited a moment, then confessed, “I botched it the first…times.”

  “You asked her and she refused?”

  “She didn’t refuse, precisely,” said James, still smarting from that scene. “But she didn’t accept either. We were interrupted.”

  “Ah?”

  “She had time to say yes,” James complained. “She could have. It was…” What was Alan’s word? “Complicated.”

  “Was it?” His father looked fascinated, which both gratified and unsettled James. “That is a rather broad term. Complicated in what sense?”

  There was nothing for it but to tell him. “She was spouting some nonsense about proper husbands, and I said if she wanted a proper husband, she should take me.”

  His father gazed at him.

  “I know it was…maladroit.” That was a word he’d heard from Robert. “I was flustered. I’m going to do better the next…the last time. She’ll say yes. She has to. That’s why I need advice.”

  “On how to propose to Miss Benson?” the duke said, with the air of a man getting his facts straight.

  “Right. I thought if you told me how you did it, that might help.”

  “How I did it?”

  “Mama accepted,” James pointed out. “And you’re happy.”

  “We are.”

  “So.” Now that he’d gotten it all out, at last, James sat back and waited for enlightenment.

  “You want to follow our…scenario?” His father appeared to find the idea inordinately amusing.

  “You do everything right,” James pointed out.

  His father put a hand to his heart. “I’m touched.”

  A problem occurred to James. “Or, was it just a formality, arranged in advance, like Nathaniel’s match?” It probably had been. The heir to a dukedom wasn’t free to choose just any girl.

  “Not like that, no,” his father replied with a reminiscent smile. “Your mother never told you the story?”

  James shook his head.

  “I suppose it’s the sort of thing girls ask about, rather than sons.”

  With his father’s ironic tone and amused expression, James was becoming rather interested in this bit of personal history.

  “We met at a house party, in the winter of 1783. It was a sort of rehearsal for Adele. She was to come out in the next London season.” His smile softened. “The first time I saw her, she was wearing a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with peacock feathers, and a blue silk gown. It was a good deal harder to get close to a girl in hoop skirts, I can tell you. Her hair was powdered, so I didn’t know the color at first, and she looked like an angel. I enlisted in her cadre of admirers at once. They were legion.”

  It was odd to think of his mother besieged by a troop of suitors. “But you cut them out,” he said.

  “I did my best. We danced and flirted and managed one or two brief conversations. Manners were rather different thirty-five years ago.”

  James couldn’t ask his father to get on with it, but he wished he would come to the point.

  The duke went on as if he understood without words. “One afternoon, there was a riding party. You know how your mama loves to ride.”

  James nodded.

  “It was a large, lively group. Adele was surrounded by beaus, as usual. I was jostling in with the best of them when my horse ran mad and got away from me.”

  “What?” His father was a bruising rider. James had never seen him at fault on horseback.

  “I found out later that one of my rivals for your mother’s affections had bribed a groom to slip some nettles under the poor beast’s saddl
e blanket.”

  “Low,” commented James.

  The duke nodded. “Lightfoot tried to scrape me off with tree branches and toss me over his head. Finally, he managed to drop me in a large—a very large—mud hole. We’d had a week of rain to fill it.”

  “You?” James couldn’t picture it. His immaculate, never-at-a-loss father covered with muck?

  “I fear I’m ruining my reputation with you,” the duke said with a rueful twinkle. “Naturally, all of the other young men found my predicament exquisitely funny. The ladies were kinder, but far more eager to avoid the mud. Except for Adele. She rode to the rescue.”

  “Mama always comes up trumps.”

  “That she does,” agreed his father. “But when she tried to help me climb out, she fell in.”

  “You pulled her into the mud?”

  “I did not! I ordered her to stand back, to go and fetch servants to get me out. She refused to listen. She bent over and caught hold of my hand. I tried to shake her off, of course.” He shrugged. “You must understand that I was not in the best of moods at that point. Jack Stanley was using his riding crop to point out the slime dripping from my sleeve.” The duke’s eyes grew hooded. “He had an unexpected dip in the lake later, in his best coat.”

  “Mama fell in a mud hole, with all those skirts,” James said.

  “Right on top of me,” his father elaborated.

  “Was she very angry?” James had a healthy respect for his mother’s wrath.

  “She laughed,” his father said reminiscently. “We were absolutely plastered with mud, and she laughed. And then I did, too. We laughed like lunatics for a while, the rest of the party just gaping at us. And then I got her out, which involved rather a lot of…close work. That blasted hole was deep, and slippery.”

  James looked away. One didn’t wish to see desire burning in one’s father’s eyes, however glad one was for the two of them.

  “We ended up in each other’s arms, dripping clots of mud, and I said I adored her, and she was the only woman on earth I would ever wish to marry. And she said yes.”

  James appreciated his father’s tender expression, but really, how was he supposed to arrange for mud holes, any more than forests? It hadn’t rained here in days. He wasn’t putting Kawena on a horse again, either. Or…that had worked out rather deliciously the last time. But there were no wild coastlines or deserted houses around Oxford.

  “The important thing is to tell her how you feel, James.”

  “I feel a whole muddle of things,” he complained. “I don’t know what half of them are.”

  “How you feel about her,” his father amended. “You do love her?”

  “Yes.” That was he sure of.

  “Tell her that, and why.”

  “Why?”

  “What it is about her that you love,” the duke elaborated. “The unforgettable, unique things.”

  James was unconvinced. “That seems rather simple.” Hadn’t he heard you were supposed to kneel? Why couldn’t there be a set of instructions for these things, like the details in a packet of naval orders?

  “Is it? What do you love about Miss Benson?”

  “Just…who she is.”

  “Perhaps a bit more specific?”

  James latched on to this idea. “You think I should make a list? Use that as a kind of…crib sheet when I speak to her?”

  The duke seemed to struggle for a moment. Then he laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “But, James, really, a cheat sheet? We’re not speaking of an examination.”

  Sometimes it feels like one, James thought. You could study for those, however, tedious as that might be. Offering marriage seemed more like navigating without a compass. And he still didn’t have a plan.

  Twenty-four

  In her bedchamber at the end of the day, Kawena stood at the window, looking down at the scrap of garden behind the house. According to Mrs. Runyon, their campaign had done its work. Her social credit was restored. And she didn’t care a whit. She was wondering where Lord James had gotten to, and what she should do next, when she was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes?” she said.

  The housemaid looked in. “A gentleman has called for you, miss. He said it was important.”

  Kawena heard no more. She was already past the girl and on her way to the stairs. However Lord James began this time, she would find a way to discover his true feelings, she vowed. And at last, at last, things would be settled between them. Word had arrived that her project was complete. It was time to be on the move.

  She rushed into the main parlor and found Anthony Haskins standing there, looking thoughtful, hands clasped behind his back. “You.” Kawena was so disappointed that she could think of nothing else to say.

  “I apologize for the inopportune hour,” he replied. “I called earlier, but you were out. I felt I could not wait until tomorrow to speak to you.”

  He looked so very English, Kawena thought. His pale blond hair was perfectly in place. He was handsome, pleasant, and…thoroughly forgettable.

  “I wanted you to know that I deplore your uncle and aunt’s…behavior at the lecture last night.”

  “Were you there?” She hadn’t noticed him. But she had been rather occupied.

  “No. But I heard of it.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Kawena knew that Oxford society had been talking of little else.

  “Unconscionable,” said Haskins. “I wanted to assure you that I had no hand in it, no understanding of their…methods when I accepted their offer to make an introduction. I hope you will believe me.”

  Kawena nodded. She realized that she hadn’t asked him to sit down. You were supposed to do that. Haskins continued before she could speak, however.

  “I also came to offer you the protection of my name.”

  “Your name?” She was briefly confused.

  “I live quite retired in the country,” Haskins added. “As my wife, you would have a respected position in the neighborhood. People are unlikely to have heard of any…embarrassments in your history. Or dare to mention them. In any case, they would soon be forgotten.” He seemed to be reassuring himself.

  “You are asking me to marry you?” Kawena was incredulous. Did English women actually listen to these smug, pompous declarations? This one was even worse than the last. She thought again of her mother and father, of the passionate gestures and sacrifices each had made in order to be together.

  Haskins nodded. “We have not been acquainted long, I know. But I have formed a genuine regard—”

  “For my fortune,” she interrupted.

  Haskins reddened. “I admit it is a consideration. I am not ashamed to be taking thought for my estate and my daughter’s future. Indeed, I think it only natural. I can promise you I intend to be a good husband.”

  He stood before her like the very essence of English propriety—with its strengths and its limitations. He held out an idea of marriage like a cloak to protect her, to kindly, even perhaps affectionately, erase all her supposed disadvantages. Kawena could understand that for some women, this would seem a welcome refuge, with a real prospect of happiness. But to her, it felt like a cage held courteously open, with no acknowledgment that she was expected to abandon her spiky individuality as she passed through the door. In that instant, Kawena rejected the idea of propriety, once and for all. “No,” she said. “I don’t wish to marry you.”

  Haskins looked disappointed, and then, just a little, like a man reprieved. “Are, er, are you sure?”

  Kawena nodded. “Thank you,” she remembered to say. “But I am quite certain. You may give my uncle the news.”

  Haskins looked at her. “I don’t think I will, Miss Benson. I believe I will pack my things and go home.”

  “And very soon, you will thank the gods for your narrow escape,” she suggested.

  He s
tiffened. “I would never say such a thing.”

  “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Haskins gazed at her a moment longer, started to speak, then simply bowed and turned to go.

  Kawena wished him well. She hoped he found just the sort of wife he wanted, with plenty of money, too. It simply wasn’t her.

  * * *

  “You must!” said Horatia Grantham. She leaned forward in the armchair and fixed James with a fierce gaze. Rather like an erne spotting a raft of schooling fish, poised to dive and sink its talons into scaled flesh, he thought. The young lady—in an agitated and exigent state—had arrived at Alan and Ariel’s house just as the family had been about to sit down to dinner. She’d insisted on seeing him, so urgently that Ariel had finally summoned him to the garden parlor.

  “The Admiralty promised to send someone,” Miss Grantham continued. “But now he isn’t coming. And on the flimsiest of excuses! The ceremony is tomorrow morning.”

  James started to tell her that he’d resigned from the navy, and its obligations had nothing to do with him.

  “A number of sailors wounded in battle will be there,” she said. “I cannot believe the Admiralty means to insult them by ignoring our arrangement.”

  This gave him pause. “What is it again?” He’d hadn’t understood the details from her first, jumbled explanation.

  “We are unveiling a cenotaph dedicated to naval heroes lost at sea,” said Miss Grantham impatiently. “They promised me an admiral! I am sadly disappointed in the navy.” She glared at James again, as if it was his fault.

  “I’m nowhere near an admiral,” he pointed out. And wouldn’t be even if he hadn’t resigned. “Surely there’s someone else who could better—”

  “I can’t find anyone else!” Their visitor veered toward hysteria. “It will be a disgrace. A mockery of naval tradition.” She began to cry into her handkerchief.

  “Hold on,” said James.

  Ariel shot him a look—quizzical and encouraging.

  “All right,” said James.

  Miss Grantham looked up, instantly recovered. “Splendid!” she said, the officer in charge once more. “You must be at Oakthorpe Square at ten tomorrow. No, best come a quarter hour early, so we can be certain… You will give a short speech praising the heroism of navy men, and pull the cloth off the monument.”