My Scandalous Duke Page 2

  What a warm day it was, wasn’t it? Her cheeks felt flushed. She should have opened the windows. “You flatter me, Nicholas.”

  “And it’ll likely be someone horrible,” he continued. “With me at your side, I can make certain no one comes near you unless they’ll make you a suitable husband.”

  Oh. Well. “You don’t flatter me,” she realized.

  “I like that plan.” Sidney nodded. “I’m worried about you, Ellie. Palmer…he wasn’t good to you. I wish I could keep you safe.”

  Brothers. This was what his hesitation was all about. The fake errands for her maid, to slow her packing. The pleas to remain at Athelney Place a bit longer.

  “I won’t be any less safe at the dowager’s house than I would be here,” she said.

  “She’ll be safer,” Nicholas replied. “The butler is an absolute terror, and the footmen are all former boxers. An eccentricity of my mother’s.”

  “I’m not worried about her physical safety.” Sidney looked strained again. “But…”

  He trailed off, and she knew that there were too many words and not enough breath to speak them.

  But I remember how carelessly Palmer treated you.

  But I remember how alone we were as children.

  But I’m afraid of you being hurt, and of me being alone again.

  Or maybe those were Eleanor’s words. For Sidney wasn’t alone now: he had a bright, sensible wife and a grumpy little week-old son. But for years after their parents had died—one of measles, one of influenza, and within three months of each other—Sidney and Eleanor had had only each other.

  And Nicholas, whose family held the neighboring lands in Hampshire and whose boisterous household seemed to offer everything their lives were lacking.

  “I’ll be fine, Sidney.” She smiled. “I promise.”

  Oblivious, Nicholas was tossing the remaining clothing from the coverlet toward the open trunk. “Three more gowns,” he said, “and then we can close this trunk and have you on your way. Sidney, are you going to help your sister?”

  Sidney’s worried expression persisted for a moment—then he wiped it blank and said, “I rather thought I’d ring for a servant.”

  Eleanor propped her hands on her hips. “Ha! You mean you didn’t send them all away on useless errands to thwart my departure?”

  Humor touched his mouth. “Ah…no, only yours.”

  And so they finished the tasks at hand. In a few minutes, the clothing was stowed, the trunk was shut, and it joined the other boxes and trunks and valises and cases to be transported to Her Grace’s residence in Hanover Square. It was near Nicholas’s grand Hampshire House and a short trip from Sidney’s home—a familiar part of London to Eleanor. Yet for all that, it felt like a momentous change indeed.

  She stood then in the grand entrance of Athelney Place, watching Sidney’s servants scuttle to and fro with her packed-up possessions. Nicholas joined her, a tall figure scented of the previous night’s scotch and smoke.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he said.

  “What’s that?” She turned to look up at him.

  “How quickly everything is changing.” He shook his head, all puzzlement. “Sidney a father, you and I wanting to get married.”

  “Um.” Her heart paused, as if to confirm it had heard correctly. “What was that?”

  “Oh. Not to each other.” He waved a hand with a careless laugh. “But separately. You again, and I…for the first time.”

  “Right,” she agreed. “I knew that was what you meant.”

  One might as well agree with a duke, because he would get what he wanted in the end.

  He really wasn’t right, though. This change wasn’t sudden; it had been happening for years. He just hadn’t noticed.

  He hadn’t noticed when, after three Seasons of wishing and hoping, Eleanor stopped waiting for him to fall in love with her.

  He hadn’t realized what a change it was for her when she wed the most flashy, dashing rogue in London. Adrian Palmer had made her laugh and forget. Nicholas had never known that she wanted to forget him.

  He hadn’t understood how much she’d tolerated after the first excitement of marriage was over. How straitened her life had been once the dowry was gone.

  But then, she hadn’t wanted him to know. And he was a duke, and dukes didn’t have to notice anything they didn’t wish to. They kept busy and yet more busy seeing to the needs of their tenants. Arguing in Parliament. Easing their leisure hours with food and drink and sex and gambling.

  Nicholas was a very good duke indeed.

  The scent of yesterday’s eventful nothings on him—the smoke and drink, the arguments and flirtations that had accompanied them—were too strong, and she stepped away from his side.

  A footman carried the last bandbox from the entrance hall. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, ringing through the great empty space as if neither she nor Nicholas were there anymore.

  “You’re right,” Eleanor said again. “How quickly everything has changed.”

  It hadn’t yet—but she was determined that it would. Beginning that night.

  Chapter Two

  Accompany me to a card party, Ellie had said to Nicholas. It’ll be calm and quiet and amusing, she said.

  Ha. Ellie must have been out of society longer even than Nicholas had realized if she thought a card party would be a calm and quiet affair. They certainly could be amusing, though. At the last one Nicholas had attended, there were more guests than cards and more liquor than anything else. The women in attendance wore few garments, and the men few inhibitions.

  Not exactly the sort of event at which one might obtain the perfect future spouse. But Ellie insisted, so they went.

  The late-spring evening wore a veil of warmth and starlight, unexpectedly pretty as he accompanied Ellie into Lady Frederick’s sprawling town house. When they reached the ballroom, yet more of the unexpected greeted him.

  “I can’t believe it.” Arms folded, Nicholas regarded Lady Frederick’s ballroom. “This really is a card party. For cards.”

  Cards, cards, and only cards. Tables and tables for play, scattered over the polished floor that ought better to have been used for dancing and revelry. Chandelier upon chandelier, holding scores of candles to wink at the dark sky outdoors. Quartet after quartet of men and women, laughing and conversing, yet intent on their games. A few others milled about the edges of the room, perhaps looking for an advantageous place to sit.

  “Surely cards are required at a card party. Did you expect it to be otherwise?” Ellie hadn’t left his side yet. Like Nicholas, she must be scanning the room. Looking for an empty seat, maybe—or a likely future husband.

  “I did expect that,” he admitted. Fondly, he recalled the quantities of liquor that had flowed at the last so-called card party. He had been looking forward to the liquor tonight, for this business of squiring an old friend about so she could find someone to marry was more than a little odd. It gave him a sort of protective feeling. As if he were as responsible for her choice as she was.

  Ellie let her shawl fall from her shoulders to settle in a graceful drape at her back. Her blue gown was a pretty shade. “If you’re intent on becoming drunk, I’m sure you could manage it. Look, the footmen are passing out wine.”

  Their hostess, a wiry widow of indeterminate age, was also circulating about the room—and looking as smug as a dog with a joint of mutton. Lady Frederick fancied herself a cornerstone of English society, and she must be pleased with the gathering she’d assembled. Mostly Tories, Nicholas observed.

  “Forgive me for not greeting you at once, Your Grace! Lady Eleanor!” Their hostess beamed. From the twists of her drawn-back hair of a faded brown, pert blue plumes wagged. “Such a crush tonight—I can hardly credit it!”

  Nicholas eyed the sedate movement of players to and from whist tables. “Indeed. I’m fortunate we could squeeze into the space.”

  Ellie cleared her throat. “I notice your decorations, ma’am.
You are enthusiastic.”

  That was putting the matter mildly. For the occasion, her ladyship had draped every wall of the ballroom with the new Union flag.

  “Those are to honor the king! England has conquered another country, and the best of Ireland belongs to us now!” Lady Frederick spread her hands, as if drawing in…well, entire countries, apparently.

  “Not quite what was intended by the Acts of Union, ma’am,” he replied. “But I am certain the king would appreciate the sentiment. When are you expecting him to arrive?”

  “Oh, no—is he to come?” Ellie wrinkled her nose. “I’m dressed too plainly. I ought to have borrowed some of Mariah’s jewels.”

  “Not at all,” Lady Frederick reassured. “His Majesty is not expected this evening—as far as I am aware, though he would be most welcome! Do not worry yourself, Lady Eleanor. You are perfectly suitable. We are only a gathering of good Tories here, such as His Majesty would approve.”

  Good Tories. Grumble. “Even mere Whigs such as myself can appreciate the sight of the new flag, ma’am,” Nicholas said.

  Lady Frederick gave a peal of laughter. “His Grace is so funny!” she exclaimed to Ellie.

  “He is,” Ellie replied gravely. “I am so often beset by laughter in his presence that I have had to loosen my corset-strings.”

  The older woman’s eyes went wide.

  “Lady Eleanor is also funny,” Nicholas said, speaking with the same sort of straight face Ellie had used. “As are you, ma’am. I much enjoyed your joke about the best of Ireland belonging to us now.”

  “Ireland? Was that humorous?” Lady Frederick lifted a hand to her throat.

  “Oh, very. Because the Irish Catholic majority still cannot sit in Parliament. By the dictate of the king.” He directed a small bow toward his hostess. “Surely the best of a country, as you put it, does not exclude the greater portion of its men.”

  “Or all of its women,” Ellie murmured in Nicholas’s ear.

  “Therefore,” he added with a bright smile, “I assume you were being satirical. Well done, madam. A clever jest.”

  “But if the king deems it preferable, then…” She trailed off, tugged between loyalty to the absent king and manners toward the present duke. “I am not certain…that is…”

  Nicholas didn’t entirely mind her discomfort.

  “His Grace was just telling me how much alcohol he had consumed before accompanying me here,” Ellie broke in. “He is completely inebriated. I hope you won’t worry about anything he says, ma’am. Even dukes talk utter rubbish sometimes.”

  Oh, fine. At this unmistakable prompt, he relented. “That’s true. Dukes do that.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Even the Tories among our number.”

  “If you insist, Your Grace.” Lady Frederick maintained a smile, but her expression was glassy. She then excused herself to become lost in the so-called crush of her gathering.

  “You are so funny,” Ellie said gravely in the wake of that lady. “How funny you were just now.”

  Nicholas shook his head. “If she loves the Tory party so much, why am I here?”

  “So that she might draw you into her web, of course, and suck the life from you.”

  His chin drew back.

  Ellie flipped open a delicate ivory fan. “Nicholas. Honestly. She invited me because she thought I was lonely. Then I asked if I might invite you. And she allowed it, because strong political leanings and graciousness are not mutually exclusive.” She eyed him with that you-are-an-utter-fool expression of hers. “Not always. Though in some individuals, they are.”

  “I do not mistake your meaning, you ungrateful woman.” When Ellie pulled a face at him, he asked, “How long must we stay? There’s no one fashionable here at all.”

  “Good,” Eleanor said crisply. “I made the mistake once before of choosing a man of fashion.”

  Palmer, she meant. Nicholas frowned. The memory of Palmer always made him frown. “Let me reword. No one useful is here.”

  “Useful to your ambitions in Parliament, I suppose you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You can’t expect Great Britain and Ireland to mash themselves together into a united Parliament without some struggles.”

  “Rather like a marriage, didn’t you say?” She tipped him a wink. “Nicholas, I’m proud of you. Only a year ago, you would have refused to accompany me. You’d have stayed out late with a woman in your lap.”

  “I held one on each thigh at Snodgrass’s gathering last week.”

  He wished at once that he hadn’t said it. Talking about such things to Eleanor didn’t seem right. Not because she was a woman—although she was—but because she was a Pearce by birth. Her brother, Sidney, would have looked scandalized at the very sentence.

  Eleanor didn’t look scandalized, merely amused. “Some things never change, do they?” She waved her fan at him, wafting a sweet scent of something floral in his direction.

  He drew in a deep breath. “And why should they? I can do as I please.” He unfolded his arms and offered one to her. “Or I ought to be able to, but sometimes my friends drag me off to cursed dull occasions.”

  She settled a gloved hand primly on his forearm. “True friends introduce each other to new experiences. And the same is correct of romance as of politics: graciousness goes a long way.”

  “Are you seriously giving me instruction in courtship?”

  “I would never!” She smirked. “Only, do not attempt to seat potential wives on your lap—at least, not upon first introduction. Now, shall we loom over a table of card players and attempt to join them?”

  Nicholas agreed, and he and Ellie made their way around the room slowly, eyeing all the players. Ellie’s eye seemed to be caught by one table in particular, where a middle-aged gentleman was finishing a hand of whist with an expression so blank his face could have been covered in paper.

  Impatience flickered within Nicholas. “These aren’t real games. No one is wagering.” Absent were the piles of coins and bills and vouchers that filled the center of a card table during an interesting hand.

  “Probably for the best,” said Ellie. “Palmer lost what parts of my dowry he didn’t squander at friendly card games just such as these. The stakes are high enough tonight, don’t you think?”

  “You mean finding a spouse, I assume.”

  “What else?” She nodded in the direction of Paper Face. “Do you know anything of him? Lord Barberry, is that not?”

  Ha. He’d been right about her attention.

  The realization didn’t give him the satisfaction that being right usually did. “I know nothing against him,” Nicholas granted. “He’s been married before, of course.”

  “As have I. I can hardly fault him for that.”

  “The ‘of course’ is because he must be in his fifties. He could almost be your father.” Nicholas paused, then added innocently, “His children are younger than you, though. By a few years. I think.”

  “Age doesn’t bother me. I’m looking for a sensible man who won’t be led astray.”

  “A sensible man isn’t led anywhere he doesn’t already wish to go.”

  “Then I don’t ask for too much, do I?”

  “You never could.” This was the perfect truth.

  She looked troubled. “Then…I am looking for a man I can respect and grow fond of. That is the sort of husband I will come to love.”

  She sounded so determined, as if saying the words could enflesh the theoretical husband and make the wished-for emotion real.

  “You’re describing an utter prig, Ellie.”

  She laughed. “A prig, you think? If it makes a man a prig to live within his means, to settle his debts without selling his wife’s pianoforte”—Nicholas coughed—“then by all means, I seek a prig. I seek the sort of prig who won’t stray from my bed”—Nicholas coughed again—“and who won’t skimp on servants while throwing away guineas on entertaining friends. Count me among the prigs, Nicholas, and send just another such my way.”

&nb
sp; The color had risen in her cheeks. But she looked perfectly calm, and her wry smile never fell.

  Still. He could tell that these words were momentous to her and that likely she’d been looking for an excuse to speak them. “That’s me told, then,” he said. “I apologize.”

  Her brows lifted. “I have a great deal of trouble keeping in mind all the things dukes do and do not, but surely apologizing is not one of them.”

  “The Duke of Hampshire never apologizes. But your old friend Nicholas does.”

  Her grin dimmed the candles. “Very well, old friend. You are forgiven.” She returned her attention to the card table at which sat Lord Barberry. “There is a prig, as you put it, for me. And near him sits a sweet young lady who might do for you.”

  “Sweet, you say? I hope she is not too sweet.” A woman lost her savor if she lacked a salty tongue.

  “Oh, please! I know what a rogue you are. You want your own way all the time. You’re no more interested in marriage to a spirited woman than I am in becoming the Prince of Wales’s third wife.”

  Ah, Prinny, the king’s dissolute firstborn. He was a source of endless entertainment. “He’ll take a third wife if he needs to. And I’ll take a first.”

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t looking forward to contracting a suitable bride. It was just…yes, all right, he wasn’t looking forward to that at all. A courtship, ideally, should be swooning and romantic. Instead, this was just another task to be ticked off his endless list, much like “persuade Addington to simplify the enclosure act” and “don’t tell Sidney his baby resembles a crumpled drawing of a cabbage.”

  At least he had Ellie with him. An old friend to joke with and make this whole business more pleasant.

  She looked up at him just then. Her next words were tentative. With a quick glance toward Lord Paper Face, a surreptitious smoothing of her skirts, she whispered, “Do I look all right?”

  A dangerous question, asked for unknown and likely nefarious reasons. He had best answer carefully.

  “I recognize that golden shawl,” he offered. “I put it on your brother’s head earlier, did I not?”