The Duke of Ice

by Lisa Andersen

  “No, but there is something you must—”

  Mother touched her elbow. “Daughter, look who it is!”

  Ruth was almost dragged into another group of smiling Lords and Ladies, one of whom was a girl Ruth had played with as a girl. She was married now. All of her childhood friends were. She was the embarrassment.

  She was the anomaly.

  *****

  It was some time before His Grace came over to where Ruth stood and asked for another dance. Ladies cast her suspicious glances, and Mother’s head snapped around with surprise, before she regained her composure. But was she going to refuse a Duke? His Grace led her once again to the floor. He led her around the floor with fluid steps and once again the two of them became segregated from the rest of the ball. It was just the two of them, alone upon the floor, alone in the universe.

  “You were going to tell me something,” His Grace said.

  “Yes,” Ruth muttered. “I fear it will not make you happy.”

  “My lady?”

  “I am being courted by a man,” Ruth said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. “Oh, Luke, I do not love him! I really rather despise him!” It was the first time she had voiced her real feelings for Charles to anybody but herself. “He is a brutal man. He makes cruel, salacious, scandalous comments. He asked me if I had ever been to a brothel!” Ruth wished she could forget that, but she had remembered it vividly. Mother and Father had been duped by Charles; they let him escort her alone around the gardens. He had smiled at her with a sickening glint of hunger in his eyes when he asked the reprehensible question.

  “Who is he?” His Grace asked; his voice suddenly mechanical.

  “Charles Stone. Lord Charles Stone.”

  His Grace bit his lip, and then nodded. “He is the son of Reese Stone, the silkman?”

  “That is him.”

  “He is beneath you, my lady,” His Grace said in confusion. “What would possess your parents to allow him to court you?”

  “I am six-and-twenty,” Ruth said. “I see it in their eyes, Luke. They are beginning to lose hope. They think I will become like Father’s auntie – God bless her – who never married and was quite miserable for it.”

  “They do not know you already love another!” His Grace said fiercely. His Grace had always been a passionate man. One spark could ignite the fire in him. But Ruth sensed a new intensity of passion with him, as though he had been boiled somehow, or was on the cusp of exploding. He looked into her eyes, and the earth-brown seemed to bury her. I will have you, those eyes said. You are already mine. This man is nothing. “Has a proposal been made?” His Grace said. “Did your parents give permission?”

  “No proposal has been made.”

  (And the steps continue; and the footmen circulate; and the groups of Lords and Ladies titter and gossip.)

  His Grace let out a sigh. “Then nothing is official,” he said. “That is something, at least. You must end it, my lady. You must end it with this man. I am going to contrive a reason to come to Wells in May. That gives you one month to end it with this man. Please, find a way. For us.”

  The dance ended, and once again Ruth was swept into the tumult of titters and gossip.

  *****

  A week after the ball, Lord Charles Stone wrote that he would be in town the following day, and would like to meet with Ruth. Ruth detested the way in which he presented himself in his letters. In them he was always polite and courteous and honorable. But when she was alone with him, she felt as though worms were crawling down her back. Once, he had even feigned falling as an excuse to touch her upper leg. “Clumsy,” he said, in his thick-voiced slur, and gave her leg a squeeze.

  Ruth knew she should just tell Mother about his conduct, but Mother seemed so excited that Ruth had finally found somebody to marry her that she didn’t have the heart. She knew that Mother was wrong – that her excitement was based upon a lie – but looking into her wrinkled face, so bright it was almost youthful, she just couldn’t.

  Before she knew it – before she was ready – Charles Stone had arrived. He emerged into the drawing room behind the footman with his usual arrogant sneer. But when he turned to Mother his features softened and he appeared respectable and thankful. He was a portly man, a man of ill restraint. His belly was large under his jacket and strained the buttons. The tail did not reach his thighs, obstructed by his rump. His britches always seemed on the verge of bursting open. He wore a thick, slug-like moustache and his eyebrows joined in the middle, creating a unibrow. Once again Ruth could not see why Mother had agreed to this man entering their home, even if he had money.

  “May I take—”

  And of course Mother with agree.

  She did, and Ruth and Charles walked the grounds together, unescorted. Scandal! He didn’t say anything for a long time, and then he stopped near a tree and leered at her, looking plainly over her body. “You look good,” he said bluntly. “May I touch you?”

  The worms started down her back again, and she shivered. “My lord, I really wish you would not say things like that.” Her voice was cold and calm. She would not allow a hint of outrage or emotion. She would not act in his play.

  “But, Ruth,” he said. (She had never given him permission to use her name.) “But, Ruth,” he went on. “I just want one touch you. Can you deny your future husband that? Oh, yes, I mean to ask your Father today! I believe he will say yes! Tut-tut, six-and-twenty and unmarried! What a prize!”

  “I will not marry you,” Ruth blurted, standing with a straighter back. “You are a salacious, sickening man.”

  “Yes,” he said, without the least hint of embarrassment. “And soon this salacious, sickening man will be your husband.”

  When he grinned he looked like a gargoyle; a sadistic one at that. Ruth had to fight an urge to retreat from him. “I will not marry you,” she repeated, with more firmness in her voice. “I will not subject myself to a lifetime of misery like so many women have endured at the hands of men like you. I weep for my fallen sisters, but I will not become one.”

  He regarded her with detached curiosity, like a student of the natural arts regarding a new species of flower for the first time. He tilted his head, and the fat on the side of his neck rolled into thick layers, each marked by a flapping of skin and fat. “What other choice do you have?” he said, the tip of his tongue showing between his gummy lips. “What choice do you have?” he repeated, though this time as though consulting with himself. “You are becoming old. You are a burthen upon your parents, and I fear for you that you shall not like how their behavior will shift if you refuse me. Plus, it is not your decision. It is your father’s.”

  “If you ask him,” Ruth said slowly, gauging the man her eyes, “I will tell him the full account of your inappropriate behavior. I will inform him of your comment concerning brothels, and the improper conduct you have displayed in my presence time and time again. The whole realm already sees you as an upstart, sir. Would you have Lord Eyre think the same?”

  “Upstart,” he mused. “Yes, I suppose I am. My father was a dealer in silk. We have not sigil, and our ancestry does not stretch back to King Arthur, like the oh-so-noble Eyres. But you have to know, my dear Ruthie, that a woman is often assumed to be complicit in such relations. I believe that is why you have not informed him so far.”

  “You are correct,” Ruth said, her voice still emotionless. “Yes, sir, you are correct. But if that is the price I must pay for de-masking you, then so be it. If my honor must be called into question to destroy yours, then I shall lay my head upon the block.”

  “You are feisty!” he exclaimed, clapping meaty hands together. Squelch-squelch-squelch. “I do believe I will have some fun with you on our wedding night—”

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  The voice was instantly recognizable to Ruth, and yet it seemed impossible. His Grace was early. All the same, he emerged from behind a nearby tree. He wore his military jacket and britches, with knee-high boots that accen
tuated his muscled legs. “What is the meaning of this, silkman?” His Grace barked.

  “Who’s this brave chap?” Charles said, turning carelessly to His Grace.

  “He is the Duke of Stunton, a Brigadier and a veteran of France,” Ruth said, trying to keep a smile from her lips as His Grace walked boldly up to them.

  Charles’ face changed immediately. He stared at his feet. Red bloomed in his cheeks and he fumbled at his collar. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice tight with barely-restrained anger. “I—I did not see you there, Your Grace.”

  “That is because I concealed myself,” His Grace said easily. He moved boldly between Ruth and Charles, and stared openly at the man. “I heard some frightful things,” he went on. “But I am not easily shocked. I suggest you take the lady’s advice, and scuttle back to the hole in which you dwell. On the border, isn’t it? Almost in Scotland? Yes, yes,” His Grace waved a hand, “I know where you reside.”

  “Are you threatening me, Your Grace?” Charles breathed.

  “Threatening you?” His Grace said, feigning shock by putting his face to his mouth. “Oh, no, my dear fellow. In France we learnt many things. Chiefly, we learn that threats are naught by courtroom baubles, and duels a joke. No, I would not threaten you for bothering my lady. I would simply end you.” He spoke in calm, measured tones. But Ruth could tell he was angry: even angrier than when he discovered he had to go to France and leave her, all those years ago. “Do you understand?”

  Charles didn’t say anything for a long time. A rabbit hopped by the scene, looked at them quizzically, and then hopped on its way. A wind blew from the south, disturbing the greening leaves. At length, he spoke: “I understand, Your Grace.”

  “Then I suggest you leave,” His Grace said, squaring his shoulders.

  Charles looked at His Grace, and then to Ruth, and then back to His Grace. Finally, he turned and fled into the forest, away from the Eyre estate and toward Wells.

  His Grace turned to Ruth. A light breeze disturbed his hair, which was short and curly and fell to just above his eyes. “My lady,” he said. “I can see that you are surprised.”

  “Surprised? Yes, yes, but glad, too.”

  “I have written to your father, but unless he has concealed the information from you – which I cannot see him doing – I must infer that the letter never reached him.”

  “There has been no letter that I know of,” Ruth confirmed.

  “Very well,” His Grace said. “I will take a room in town, and send a calling card on the morrow.”

  “Father and Mother will be awfully surprised!”

  “Do you think they will allow me to visit?”

  “Yes, of course, Your Grace. You are a Duke; you are above us all.”

  “Oh, no, Ruth,” His Grace said, and moved closer to her. “I am not above you, my lady. Never think that. I would ask to kiss you, but I see that this scene has distressed you. On the morrow, if there is a chance, may I kiss you? I know it is wrong of me to ask—”

  “You may,” Ruth said. A tinge of emotion touched her voice.

  “On the morrow, then,” His Grace said, and bowed extravagantly.

  “Wait,” Ruth said, as he made to turn.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “How did you find me?”

  His Grace smiled. His hard eyes softened with light for a moment. “Perhaps the Providence wishes for us to be together. I came through the war. A lark in the forest is a small thing after that.” He paused, and then added: “But a tête-à-tête with Lady Ruth Eyre is a heavenly thing, so I suppose events have a method of self-balance. On the morrow, my lady.”

  When Ruth returned to the house, Father asked where Lord Stone had gone. Ruth hated lying to her father, and she probably would have told the truth if it had not implicated His Grace is some minor dishonor. “He turned suddenly strange,” Ruth said. “All of a sudden, Father, he proclaimed that he must take his leave. It was rather embarrassing, really.”

  “How is that?” Father said, removing his pipe from his mouth.

  “Well—he said he had to tend to his silk.”

  Father rarely laughed, but a small smile lifted his lips. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, very well, then.”

  *****

  The next morning, just after ten o’clock, a messenger brought a calling card. Mother took it from the footman and peered at it; her lips moving slightly. The more she read, the more her expression changed from one of impassiveness to one of surprise. She turned the card over as though it might contain more pertinent information. When this didn’t work, she handed it to Father. He read it quickly and then said: “Hmm!”

  “What is it, Father?” Ruth said.

  “It’s from the Duke of Stunton,” Father said, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “He wants to come to lunch, today.”

  “Oh, my,” Ruth said, putting a suitable amount of surprise into her voice.

  Father said something else of little consequence, and Ruth’s mind was thrown back seven years, when His Grace held a party just before he left for France. He, Ruth, and Mother had walked the grounds at his invitation, and Mother had turned aside for a few moments to attend to something with her dress—a loose stich, Ruth thought. But that is not what she remembered about that day. What she remembered with a starkness and vividness that could not be matched was His Grace’s water-like movements when he reached across and touched her face. Mother was standing right there – a mere feet away – but in a crazy moment of improper indulgence he had brought her close to him and kissed her firmly upon the lips. She had closed her eyes, knowing that Mother could turn at any moment and find them. His lips were warm and her breath came quickly, and urges rose within her. And then he released her.

  “I must really get a new one made,” Mother commented.

  And then—

  Weeks before, when their blossoming love was fresh, she and His Grace were dancing together upon the floor. “I will ask your father for your hand within the week,” His Grace said. “I will make you my wife. You are the smartest, most astute, most respectable and endearing woman I have ever met. I truly believe our souls are matched.”

  The soul in question had flown, then. It had her body and flown through the clouds, light with joy. But the next day His Grace had received the news of France, and he had had to ready himself to leave England—and Ruth. There was no proposal. Neither of them wanted to be married if it meant a lifetime away from each other. Often, Ruth wished they had simply married before he left. It would have been awful, yes, but at least she could have spent the intervening years with the comfort of being his wife.

  “Ruthie?” Mother said, jolting her back to the present.

  “Sorry, Mother,” Ruth said.

  “I said, His Grace will be here just after noonday. Shall we make ourselves presentable? There is also the matter of instructing the kitchen for an impromptu luncheon. These Dukes and their ways! Quite a character, is he not! Not in a bad way! Oh, no, in a very good way!”

  “Fought in France, you know,” Father said, as though imparting a great truth.

  *****

  The calling card’s stated reason for visiting was friendly and social. His Grace was in town because, according to the calling card, he adored Wells and wished to spend some time there after the war. Ruth had never heard him speak of Wells with fondness, but Father and Mother did not know that. He stated that he would be amiss if he visited Wells and did not pay a visit to the Eyres as well. Mother and Father were very happy indeed and kept commenting upon how lovely if would be if her older brother and sisters were here for the honor.

  “Not that you are not enough, dearie,” Mother, in that condescending way of hers. “I simply meant that—”

  “You are quite enough—”

  “Yes, quite enough—”

  “A wonderful daughter—”

  “A treasure—”

  Father and Mother spoke other each other in their excitement, and then there was a knock at the door and the footman
entered. “His Grace has arrived, my lord, my ladies.”

  “Bring him in,” Father said.

  Father had changed into a fine jacket and britches. Mother and Ruth were wearing their best house dresses. His Grace arrived at the door, just behind the footmen, and walked into the room of smiling faces with a smile of his own. He caught Ruth’s eye for a moment, and a connection formed, a mutual conspiracy.

  He turned to Father and smiled. “I must thank you, my lord,” he said, taking the seat which the footman pulled out for him. “It is most gracious of you to allow me to visit at such short notice.”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Father said. “Not at all! We are esteemed by your presence, and thankful for the surprise. I am afraid our country life needs a bit of interruption from war heroes such as yourself.”

  “Oh, no, Lord Eyres,” His Grace said smoothly. “It is my life which needs interruption with lords and ladies such as yourselves.”

  Father inclined his head.

  Ruth could not stop thinking about her acquiescence to His Grace’s request. He will kiss me if he gets the chance. Oh, I do hope he gets the chance.

  The social niceties continued all through luncheon, and then they retired to the drawing room where His Grace and Father smoked their pipes. His Grace kept looking at Ruth, and Ruth kept returning his gaze. She could not help but wish that they were alone, even though she knew it was an improper thought. This seven-year-old kiss kept turning over and over in her mind before she thought she couldn’t think of anything else.

  “I heard some troubling rumors a week ago.” His Grace said, looking out of the window at the May sunlight. “Yes, some troubling rumors indeed. There is this fellow, Charles Stone, I do not know if you know him.”What is he doing? Ruth wondered, but she wasn’t about to interrupt him. He turned to Father. “Have you heard the name?”

  Father nodded and a flicker of worry passed across his face. His eyebrow momentarily furrowed and creases appeared beside his lips. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. He visits us sometimes.”