His next memory was of Thomas, his brother's valet, standing at the end of his bed and telling him the duke and his son were dead.
"We will need you dressed and ready, Your Grace," Thomas had said, his lined face unable to disguise his disgust at the squalor of Raff's living conditions.
"I will be along shortly," Raff replied, waving a dismissive hand at Thomas, who dutifully left the room.
He had just reached over to his bed-side cabinet for the faithful bottle of Dover's Powder, when Thomas re-entered the room, with a bucket in hand.
"Did you not hear me?" Raff had blustered, "I said that I will be along—"
The lie on his lips had been cut short, as Thomas had dumped the bucket of cold water upon his head. Raff had spluttered, as icy rivulets of water had raced down his back, shocking him into awareness for the first time in weeks.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Raff had roared, "There'll be the devil to pay for this, Thomas."
"Aye," the older man had replied, unruffled at Raff's threats, "That may be, but I won't allow you miss your brother's funeral on my watch. Now, let's get you washed and dressed—you can't turn up looking like an opium eater, or the papers will have a field day."
Thomas had dragged Raff from his bed with one meaty fist, thrown him into a tub of water that was objectionably chilly, and wrestled with his tangled hair and stupefied sate, until at last he was presentable.
"I don't know why my brother liked you so much," Raff complained, his body already aching as the effects of his last dose of laudanum wore off.
"He liked me because, duke or no duke, I always spoke my mind," Thomas replied, as he took a scissors to Raff's overgrown dark hair, "And now I shall do the same for you, Your Grace Grace; you need to stop this childishness. You have to be a rock of support for your brother's widow and your niece—not another burden for them to carry. You have a duty to your family and the title, never mind the people who rely upon you for their living. No more of that laudanum, for I've seen it destroy men far stronger than you. And get rid of that nimby you have employed as your man, he's wearing half your wardrobe."
"Dudley?" Raff had questioned in confusion, and at Thomas's nod, he had turned to find his own valet hovering in the corner, decked out in all of Raff's finest clothes, including a pair of gleaming Hessian boots on his feet.
"His pockets are probably stuffed with your coin as well," Thomas had said sagely, "But we'll deal with that, once we're back from Sussex."
And so, under the watchful eye of Thomas, Raff had gone to the family seat in Sussex and buried his brother and his young nephew, who had both succumbed to scarlet fever. The wretched grief and guilt that he felt at their deaths was compounded by the agony of weaning himself off the laudanum. He ached, he cried, his attacks of breathlessness returned, but no matter the pain, he managed to resist the lure of the bottle.
Duty was what pushed him when his spirits were at their lowest. His niece, his tenants, the Kilbride line; if ever he was tempted to stray from his path of temperance, he pictured the faces of all those who relied upon him. The weight of his obligations, however, rested heavily upon his shoulders. Nowadays, when he woke up in the dead of night struggling to catch his breath, it was not memories of war that flashed across his mind's eye, but the list of his obligations and a suffocating feeling of shame—for how could a man like he be up to the task at hand?
You are no duke, he would chastise himself, once the attack had ended. What type of a duke woke up frightened and scared in the middle of the night? The weak kind, a mocking voice in his head answered.
Raff was weak. He was not fit to bear his title, and all that he could do was try his hardest to do his duty toward the line. Which of course, meant securing it as soon as possible.
"Does Lady Emily feel the same way? I can't imagine any of today's young ladies being so unromantic."
Coachford's question tore Raff from his deep reverie. He blinked once or twice, in an attempt to gather his thoughts, before giving an indifferent shrug.
"She has made no objections, thus far," he responded lightly, "Though her father has insisted upon a long engagement, to make certain we are capable of at least being civil toward each other. Thus far, it goes well; though my patience is wearing thin."
"I don't blame you for being eager to get a ring upon Lady Emily's finger," Coachford said with a smile, visibly relieved that his friend had shown some trace of enthusiasm, "She's a prime article, if my memory serves me rightly."
"Indeed, she is very handsome," Raff conceded, deciding not to share with his friend that the only reason he wished to march Lady Emily down the aisle, was so that she could produce an heir post-haste and remove one burden of worry from his shoulders. His mind cast back to a few days ago, remembering a pair of huge green eyes staring at him from beneath a white cap. The petite assistant in Mr Hobbs' had for a while been the object of Raff's late night fantasies, but she would have to remain just that; he was a duke, he could not have a love affair with a commoner, no matter how tempting they were.
"In fact, Lady Emily is so handsome that I dare not leave her unattended for much longer," Raff continued, downing the remains of his brandy in one gulp. He had imbibed just enough to get him through a short appearance in Lady Jersey's crowded ballroom. Though, even the thought of the crowds heaving and pushing against him had him on edge.
"Hold your horses," Coachford complained, as he too finished his drink, "I'll come with you; mother insists I show my face."
And so, the two men set forth for the ball.
Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, was the ton's leading social butterfly, and, as such, everyone who was anyone was in attendance when Raff and Lord Coachford arrived at the elegant townhouse in Mayfair. Among the glittering masses gathered, Raff spotted Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, who was said to be Lady Jersey's current lover. Raff recalled the rumour that when Lord Jersey was asked why he had never fought a duel, to defend his wife's honour, he had dryly replied that if he was to do so, he would be required to fight every man in London. Their indifference to their marriage vows was almost expected amongst the upper classes, where anything was permissible, as long as one was discreet.
Would Raff permit Lady Emily to take lovers once she had produced the required heir? He thought on this as he crossed the crowded room; fidelity was probably not something he could demand, when he had no intention of remaining faithful himself, he decided. His father had kept a bevy of mistresses throughout his marriage, and though David had been faithful to his duchess, Laura, Raff knew this was because David had truly loved his wife, and she him.
Love was an utterly abstract idea to Raff, though he had seen many men afflicted by it. The hopeless yearning, the pain, the anxiety—it all sounded so uncontrolled. As a man who strove to always remain in control of his emotions, Raff had decided that love was well for some, but most definitely not for him.
Did he think that he would ever come to love Lady Emily? The fleeting idea was so absurd that he almost laughed. He and Lady Emily would never be more to each other than a means to an end. She would be assured a title and he, an heir. What had sealed the deal, in his mind at least, was that Lady Emily's mother had borne four sons. If ever a bride was destined to produce him a male heir at the first attempt, it was she.
"Lud," Coachford said in a low voice, as they reached the far side of the ballroom, "Your Lady Emily is quite the popular girl."
"Pardon?" Raff, who had been holding his breath until he reached the less crowded space by the French doors, asked with confusion.
"I said," Coachford said, "That your Lady Emily appears to be the bell of the ball."
Raff followed the line of his friend's gaze and spotted his betrothed standing in the centre of a crowd of young-bloods, all of whom appeared enchanted by her. He blinked, for she looked a little different to his eye, but then he realised what it was that seemed to have changed her appearance so much—she was smiling. No, he took it back, she was beaming
. Even from a distance, Raff could see that Emily's green eyes danced with laughter and that her soft cheeks were flushed with excitement. She looked enchanting, and had managed to bewitch a number of her audience, if their braying for her attention was anything to go by.
Raff felt a stab of something, deep in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't certain what the feeling was, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Excuse me," he said shortly to Coachford, who, to Raff's consternation, merely replied with a smug, knowing smile.
Raff crossed the room in three long strides, and as he arrived at Emily's side, he bequeathed his customary ducal glare to the men surrounding her.
"Your Grace," one of the young men stuttered, as his friends' faces paled in unison. Each knew that they had been caught red-handed, flirting outrageously with a woman who was promised to a man with far more power than they. Raff watched with triumph as the group hastily dispersed, leaving him alone with Lady Emily.
"I see you got my invitation," he said, turning to her at last.
"Was that what that was?" came her tart reply and Raff was surprised to find his previously meek and timid fiancée appeared ready to spar with him.
"I rather think that five curt words upon a page could not be described as an invitation, Your Grace," she continued, her tone amused, "At a stretch, I might describe it as a sentence, but that would be too generous."
"I'm not the type of man to write flowery prose," Raff retorted, stung by her criticism, "What's the point in writing twenty lines when one will suffice?"
"Manners, Your Grace," Emily responded, her tone ice-cold, "You might find that a please or a thank you added to the end of a letter renders the tone more inviting than commanding."
"Lud. You're not promised to Lord Byron," Raff groused, ignoring the stab of guilt as he recalled his rather dictatorial missive, "And all the better for you. I will make you a duchess, while all that hellion would make you is ill with a dose of French Pox."
He had rather expected Lady Emily to gasp, for even uttering about diseases like French Pox was strictly forbidden in front of the well-bred daughters of the ton. Instead, she snorted in a most unladylike way and gave him a sickly-sweet smile.
"I am glad to hear that Your Grace equates being your bride as preferable to contracting the pox," she whispered, her eyes scanning the ballroom as though she was planning her escape route, "For I, myself, was beginning to wonder..."
Wonder what? Raff raised his eyebrows incredulously. Was she daring to suggest that she viewed being his bride as a sufferance comparable to a squalid disease?
"There are dozens of women who would kill to be in your place," he responded, his deep voice low with anger.
"If that is the case," Emily gave a Gallic shrug and threw him a challenging smile, "Then why don't you marry one of them instead?"
To Raff's surprise, his dainty bride sashayed away from him, swinging her hips in a way that he had never seen before. It was infuriating. It was rage inducing. It was also incredibly alluring.
What on earth had happened to Emily to make her change so much, almost overnight? It was as though she had been replaced by another woman altogether. A woman with spark. A woman with spirit. A woman with a bottom that Raff's eyes still lingered on, even though it was now on the other side of the room.
You do love a challenge, he thought, and despite having just told Lady Emily that a dozen other women would readily take her place, Raff realised with a jolt that another woman would not do. He wanted Lady Emily and, from the stirring of desire he felt, he knew he wanted her as soon as possible.
Chapter Four
"Gemini, is it really noon?"
Ava blinked as Sally, the chamber maid, pulled open the velvet drapes, allowing bright rays of sun to bathe her sumptuous bed chamber.
Emily's sumptuous bedchamber, Ava corrected herself sternly.
This was but her third morning to awaken on a soft feather-mattress, but already Ava had become rather accustomed to the style in which her twin sister lived. Emily's bedchamber, a large room with high ceilings and two bay windows looking out onto Grosvenor Square, was so palatial that on her first night there, Ava had pinched herself to make sure it was not a dream.
The room was decorated in shades of soft rose; from the velvet drapes upon the windows, to the hangings on her four poster bed, everything matched perfectly. A large fireplace dominated the far wall of the room, and in it a merry flame burned from dawn to dusk—such luxury!
"I have never slept so late in all my life," Ava continued, as she stretched her weary muscles.
"You always sleep 'till noon, my Lady," Sally replied with confusion, "At least you used to always sleep 'till noon. Did you want me to wake you earlier?"
"No, no, noon is perfect," Ava replied quickly, inwardly cursing her slip of the tongue, "You'll have to excuse me Sally, I am still a little tired after Lady Jersey's ball."
Which was the truth. Ava had not realised how demanding London's social scene would be. Last night Emily's eldest brother, Theo and his wife Beatrice, had kept her out until the small hours of the morning. And, even though the clock had been striking two when they had left, Lady Jersey's ball had remained full of revellers. Ava shuddered to think of the amount of work that would be required to clean it.
You don't have to worry about cleaning anything for now, a voice in her head reminded her, all you have to worry about is repelling the Duke of Kilbride and you did a jolly good job of it last night.
She frowned a little at the memory of her altercation with the intimidating duke. That Emily had given her carte blanche to act as she pleased around the man, did little to assuage her nerves at having spoken to one of England's most titled men in such a dismissive manner.
Still, she thought with another frown, he rather deserved it. Ava had struggled to reconcile the warm, smiling man she had oft seen in Mr Hobbs', with the man who had written the curt letter demanding her attendance at Lady Jersey's.
When she had berated him last night for not saying please or thank you, she had meant it. It was Goethe who had said that a man's manners were a mirror in which he showed his portrait to the world, and Ava had not liked the picture that Kilbride had painted for her.
Rude. Arrogant. Condescending.
She rather hoped that the duke was so infuriated by her dismissal of him, that he had already written a letter to her father demanding the engagement be broken.
Perhaps he'll let me know over breakfast, Ava thought happily, as she hopped out of bed and skipped forth into the dressing room to change for the day.
"Shall I call for Mary, my Lady?" Sally called after her, sounding a little distressed.
"Er, yes please," Ava popped her head out the dressing room door, "I just thought I'd get a head start."
"Yes, my Lady," Sally replied with a bob of a curtsy and left the room in search of the lady's maid.
"Lud, child," Mary said a few minutes later, as she bustled into the room to find Ava already washed and half dressed, "You shall give the game away acting like this. Tell me, what did you wash in?"
"The water in the basin," Ava shrugged, as she turned to allow Mary lace up her stays.
"Lady Emily never washes in anything bar warm water," Mary clucked in disapproval, "Sally will wonder why she wasn't called to fetch it."
"Tell her that I have been advised by a physician that a cold water bath is invigorating for one's health," Ava said with a smile, "Or that it's the latest fashion. Lud, all that the girls spoke of last night was what La Belle Assemblée had dictated as being the latest thing. If the Belle told them to jump off a cliff, you'd find a hundred ladies rushing to Dover."
"And what is the latest thing, for I know it's not cliff jumping." Mary queried as she slipped a soft, woollen day dress over Ava's head.
"Flounces," Ava replied miserably, "I never knew there were so many variations, nor did I care to know. It's like the ladies don't even notice that there's articles on the pages between the fashion plates
."
"A well-bred lady does not read," Mary said sternly, "And if she does, she most certainly does not discuss political articles she has read at a ball. Best stick to the fashion plates and where to buy the best trimming for your bonnet."
Ava stifled a sigh; how dull it was to find that the ladies of the bon ton, with every magazine and book at their disposal, seemed, for the most part, not to bother reading them.
"Now, aren't you a picture?" Mary said with satisfaction as she tucked the last strand of Ava's hair into a charming, loose bun. The overall effect of her hair and the soft, white day dress, was almost ethereal, Ava thought as she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked sweet, soft and innocent—a far cry from how she had looked three days before.
"Now, downstairs and take breakfast with Lord Fairfax," Mary continued, "Then repair to the drawing room to wait for your callers."
"My callers?" Ava replied dumbly—who on earth would call upon her?
"Lady Emily is quite the popular young lady," Mary explained gently, "Even more so, now that everyone knows she is soon to be a duchess. Her friends, acquaintances, and anyone she talked to last night might present themselves today for tea."
Gracious, Ava thought with alarm; the last few days had presented enough difficulties for her as she had struggled to remember dozens of names, now she was to learn even more?
"I shall be at hand to help you, if you slip up," Mary said, catching the frightened look in her eye, "Don't fear, you're doing a smashing job. Except..."
"Except?" Ava asked nervously.
"If you spill anything at dinner again, don't rush to get a rag to clean it," Mary said with a chuckle, "The poor footmen will think you're trying to do them out of a job."
With that sage advice, Ava departed for the dining room, already parching for what had become her favourite part of the day—a steaming cup of chocolate.
The Duke's Bride in Disguise (Fairfax Twins Book 1) Page 4