The Duke Diaries (4 page)

“But you just turned me down. So now I’m able to wash my hands of you.” He tilted his head ever so slightly and took a long look at her. He hadn’t ever heard so many words from a female Fitzroy. Then again, most of the five nearly identical sisters didn’t have very much to say unless it concerned mathematical concepts that put him to sleep.

She pursed her lips. “You could at least try a little harder to convince me,” she retorted. “This is your fault, after all.”

Women. Would he ever understand them? Then again, he feared he understood them all too well. And it appeared that a large brain box did not take up any of the space for all things contrary. “Look, V, I’ll not fawn over you. We’ve known each other’s families our entire lives, and even if ours hasn’t been a deep friendship—”

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered.

He stared at her clear brown eyes, which appeared sharp as a whip and yet just like liquid velvet.
What in hell?

“Cat got your tongue?” She looked at him with a slyness he’d never seen in a Fitzroy female.

“Absolutely not,” he replied. “I see you only take offense at others’ use of clichés.”

“I always allow myself one each quarter. I take care that it is one of the more offensive.”

“You know, V, I’m not surprised you and your sisters are still unwed if this is how your brother taught you how to listen to a man’s offer.”

“Oh, I can do that. When it is politely given.”

“I beg your pardon. I meant no offense.” He stopped. “Verity, do be serious. Give me the chance to correct the great harm I’ve done you. We must marry. You know it.”

“I most certainly do not. It’s as I said in Town,” she continued after a beat, “there is absolutely no reason to marry. Nothing will ever come of your stupid mistake in Carleton House—especially since any gossip generated will be far overshadowed by the tales of the royal entourage’s night of debauchery. Your only duty to me is to figure out a way to avoid dueling with my brother. You owe me that much, I agree.”

This was not at all going the way he had planned. And he knew how to plan. Obviously, he had gotten it wrong. He had thought that almost a week’s worth of silent contemplation would convince her of the necessity of wedding him. He had been so certain he had not thought it through. But, of course, she would want to be wooed, even if the end result was not in question. All ladies liked nothing better than wooing.

Even when they knew it would lead to what all gentlemen wanted. And that wasn’t wooing.

She looked at him with the oddest expression. One he hadn’t ever noticed on a young lady before. Why could he not make it out? He cleared his throat.

“If you will not have me, Verity, the least you could do is allow me the pleasure of your company for a bit each day, since I’ve taken the trouble to return.”

She said not a word. Her eyes still searched his face.

“Your siblings are in London or on their way to Cornwall as we speak. The neighborhood is much changed since I was last here. And I am rattling around the Hall, all alone, while you’re becoming a tad starkers wearing one-hundred-and-five-year-old but nonetheless charming hats. Shall we not—”

“You’re going to attempt to woo me, aren’t you?”

He had to force his jaw to close. “You know, most ladies like me.”

“I know.” Her eyes had that damn innocent look back in them.

He ground his molars.

“Fear not,” she continued. “We understand each other perfectly. Of course I shall see you. We’re neighbors. And we must stay until James’s ire cools and everyone in Town has forgotten this stupid business.” A tendril of her dark brown hair fell to her shoulder from the confines of her hat, which looked rather like a neglected haystack. “You do realize that once the surrounding families know you’ve come, why, there will be an endless round of routs, dinners, country balls, and the like in your honor to contend with.” Her eyes danced merrily. “It will be delightful!”

Rory sighed deeply. Routs, dinners, country balls, church on Sunday, and gossip on Monday through Saturday. “Delightful, indeed,” he murmured. He had to retreat before he lost the inch he had gained. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.

“Must be off. Lovely to see you.” She rose from her chair with her book in hand, and not waiting for him, Verity Fitzroy headed toward her horse without the tittering, coy hesitation of most ladies he knew. With a quickness that surprised, she placed her book in the saddlebag and ascended into the saddle with agility and grace. At the last moment she turned her mount’s head about and glanced toward him. “I’m glad you’ve finally come home. You were missed, Rory.”

His hand clenched involuntarily at his side.

Chapter 3

V
erity had always liked Robert Armitage, the very tall vicar of the parish. A mere five years her senior, she knew he had a certain admiration for her, even if it could never be expressed, given their respective stations. She respected him all the better for it, as it proved he esteemed her for herself and not her dowry. And while he was a bit shy when he was near her, from the pulpit he delivered his messages with vigor, passion, and sometimes even humor. Yes. She enjoyed spending time with him very well.

And she was sure Mr. Armitage’s sermon this morning had been inspiring. It was too bad she had not heard a word of it. Her mind was still whirling with thoughts of yesterday when Rory had appeared in full form. By the end of the service as she rose to leave, she had prayed that she would be able to hold firm to her convictions regarding matrimony. She had long ago accepted that she would probably never marry for many reasons.

1. Marriage without equal love on both sides would be hell on earth. And the chance of finding equal love was nearly nil.

2. Marriage with merely respect on both sides was perhaps tolerable but not worth it if it could be avoided. And she had tried very hard to avoid it.

And 3. Her one near-brush with matrimony had ended disastrously a decade ago. She was distinctly unmarriageable.

Verity came to a stop outside the stone church, which edged the picturesque green in this small village in Derbyshire she loved with all her heart. She watched the various villagers, tenants, and great families of the neighborhood pour through the yawn of the two open doors. Miss Woods, the schoolteacher, spied her and hurried forward.

“Miss Woods,” Verity said, smiling.

“Lady Fitzroy,” said the gray-haired schoolmistress whose stern manner masked a pudding heart. “Allow me to say how pleased I am to see you. Such a lovely surprise that you are returned from Town. Are your sisters returned as well?”

“No, I have come alone. Is it not a beautiful morning?” Verity could dissemble with the best of them, and managed to turn the conversation. “And how fares the school? Are the children still plaguing you to pieces? You may warn them that I shall send my two elder sisters to spend an entire day teaching algebraic equations, and science again if they play any further pranks.”

The smile on Miss Woods’s face was so brief, Verity would have missed it if she had blinked. “You are too kind, Lady Fitzroy. Actually, they have been behaving very well. Then again, they have reason.”

“Reason?”

“Yes. The promise of an early end of term. I’m needed in Dorset. My sister is in a serious decline and I must go to her. I take my leave of here in three days’ time.”

“My sincerest condolences,” Verity said with concern.

Mr. Armitage strode up holding his hat, while his black vestments fluttered in the strong breeze. He bowed deeply. “What a lovely surprise to see you up from Town, Lady Fitzroy. Are you come alone?”

It was well known that the Fitzroy ladies always traveled in twos, threes, fours, and most often fives, Verity thought with good humor as she acknowledged him. Again she deflected. “Yes. Miss Woods was just informing me that the school is to close earlier than expected. What shall become of the three boys preparing for Eton’s college program next term?”

Mr. Armitage and Miss Woods exchanged glances. “They shall have to wait a year. Their families are relieved, actually,” the vicar replied. “They’re needed for the harvest.”

“But they shall always be needed for the harvest,” Verity retorted. “That is entirely beside the point. My brother arranged to sponsor them, as they are the brightest of the parish, and our family promised them an excellent education.”

The handsome vicar scratched his jaw. “There is nothing that can be done.”

Miss Woods would not meet her eye. “I’m so very sorry to disappoint. But, I fear my sister is very ill, and there is no one to care for her. I took the liberty of writing a letter to His Grace and promised that I shall return as soon as I possibly can.”

“Of course you must go to your sister, Miss Woods. You misunderstand. We must simply find someone to continue teaching until your return. Of course, no one is as dedicated or as superior a teacher as you,” Verity added.

“The lesson plans for the three boys are prepared,” Miss Woods said cautiously. “But finding someone will take time.”

“Perhaps I could write to an employment agency in London to see if there are any potential candidates,” Mr. Armitage suggested.

“Could we be so bold as to prevail on you, Lady Fitzroy, to forward a letter to your eldest sister to ask her to interview possible candidates?” Miss Woods’s old blue eyes studied her like the hawk.

Verity knew what she should offer but held back a moment or two before plunging into the unknown. “Or . . . I could take on the task myself. If the lessons are planned and if it is only a temporary—”

“Oh, would you?” Miss Woods interrupted. The immense relief on the uncompromising schoolteacher’s face shone like a beacon of salvation.

What had she been thinking? She might be a capable hostess for her brother, but she was far from qualified to teach even a church mouse. Verity had been famous for shirking her studies as a child. Her sisters’ successes had usually eclipsed that fact. “Well, I’m not sure I would be—”

“We accept,” the vicar said, his blue eyes sparkling. “With the greatest honor and gratitude. You have always been a paragon of benevolence and selflessness, Lady Fitzroy!”

Well, she could blame no one but herself for wading into this quagmire. She had no more idea of how to teach a roomful of students than how to milk a dairy cow. And at this particular moment the latter held far more appeal. But glancing at the expectant faces of the two people she most admired in the village, she knew she had no other choice but to proceed.”

“I think we both know, Mr. Armitage, that I am anything but a paragon. However, I’m willing to very likely make a fool of myself as long as Miss Woods spends a day or two to prepare me to face the—ahem—angels.”

“Why do I have the distinct impression you were about to say ‘enemy’?” Mr. Armitage’s face was lit with amusement.

“I fear you have the right of it, sir. You see, I have the uneasy suspicion that I‘m about to be repaid in-kind.”

“In-kind?” Miss Woods examined her above her spectacles. “In what fashion?”

“The ghosts of governesses past come back to haunt their least favorite charge, Miss Woods.”

“Why, you shall be perfect for the post in that case, Lady Fitzroy,” the teacher insisted.

“How so?”

“Foreknowledge and preparation are the main tools of every good teacher. Those that have dished out trouble in the past know what to expect.”

Verity was suddenly overcome with a sinking feeling. “That is precisely why I am worried.”

Mr. Armitage laughed out loud. “Have no fear. I shall have a word before you start, and you forget the power of your family’s name. They shall each of them be quaking in their boots.”

“Speaking of which, Lady Fitzroy, the smithy mentioned to the butcher, who informed the draper . . .” Miss Woods took a breath. “. . . that we have the extraordinary good luck that Lord Rutledge—or rather, the Duke of Abshire—is returned to us. Can you imagine, after all these years? Have you seen him yet?”

Both pairs of blue eyes looked at her, wishing her to tell more. This was the life of a small village. Gossip was its life blood, and great pleasure. Even the vicar did not fear its ill-effects.

“Yes.”

They willed her to continue.

“He condescended to call at Boxwood.”

She could hear the birds chirping on the green.

“And?” The vicar and schoolteacher spoke simultaneously.

“And, he is well.”

Mr. Armitage looked at his hands, which held a Bible, in front of him. “Does he intend to reside here for any length of time? No one seems to know.”

“I have not the faintest idea of His Grace’s schedule. But I should not count on him to stay long.”

At their crestfallen exchanged looks, Verity could not help to reverse course. “But, then again, perhaps he will change his mind. You know how these great men are. Fickle. And no one likes to stay in Town the summer months after all.” And it was true. Brighton and Bath were the places to be. She certainly wished she could be there right this very moment.

How on earth had she managed to return to the schoolroom? Well, she had no one but herself to blame. Had she not complained about having nothing to do?

But it was hard to feel grateful for the answer to her prayers.

I
f he could be anywhere this moment, Rory would choose Brighton or Bath. Yes, that or a large house party in a quaint corner where the fast set gathered to privately wager staggering amounts at cards, get blindingly drunk, and do foolish things like fox hunting in a bog, sailing at midnight, and escorting ladies who knew how to flirt and be flirted with.

Instead, he was stuck right back were he began his journey on this godforsaken mortal coil: in Derbyshire. And it was very likely he would have to remain here for the duration of this campaign to convince a dark-haired, dark-eyed, extraordinarily perceptive Fitzroy female that she must marry him, if only to set to rights a chain of wrongs.

He had no desire to do so, and yet, the whole nonsense was not as terrifyingly distasteful as he had thought it would be. If their first private conversation was anything to go by (and if her brother didn’t ultimately kill him), the future occasions they would be forced to share together would not be entirely unamusing. Lady Verity Fitzroy was a refreshing surprise. There was not an inch of coquetry about her. And there was significant charm, and wit. Yes, he had not one doubt that she would never bore him. Her millinery creations were another story.

Balancing precariously on the back legs of an ancient, cracked-leather chair, he stared out the rear window of his father’s old study. The play of the late afternoon sun’s rays filtering through the verdant branches of the trees dotting the gardens was so familiar to him. And yet, he could not remember ever sitting here with his father. He had seen his mother only a modicum more. But it was the way of it with parents of the Upper Ten Thousand.

He had dutifully answered his parents’ few letters over the years, when they had reached him at some far-flung post. He had not returned for their burials. He felt little remorse.

A large shadow moved in the hazy distance, and Rory let the front legs of his chair drop awkwardly to the floor as a shiver snaked up his back. Good Lord. It looked like Nero, his long dead horse. Suddenly the rider slowed the powerful stallion from a gallop to a spirited trot and negotiated the turn to the stables.

Rory shook his head. This was why he had vowed never to return. Too many memories or ghosts and none of them good.

He forced himself to turn and face the small mound of ledgers and two London papers, just ironed, on the desk. But not before he spied the tiny initials he had carved on one of the legs facing the window: RL. He hadn’t even received a single lash for that great transgression. That was the problem, he had figured out during all those years following the drum. He had never been punished. For anything in his life.

And he had tried
.

Yet no one had bothered to notice.

He skimmed the
Morning Post
’s vast array of advertisements, taking up most of the front page, before he opened the pages to review more important matters such as Wellington’s progress, and, of course, given the situation, he finally turned to “The Fashionable World,” that outrageous corner of the paper, where the have-nots alternately praised and ridiculed the haves of which he was at the top. He stilled.

“The Fashionable World” is delighted to offer our esteemed readers another rare glimpse at the innermost goings-on of the crème de la crème of the aristocracy—the royal entourage. Just when we all thought there could be no greater evils than those witnessed the botched evening before the Duke of Candover’s wedding, we find these events were but a mere candied cherry atop a sinful confection as large as Carleton House. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. It is our pleasure to publish an excerpt from a mysterious diary every Tuesday and Thursday this summer, when things can be a bit dreary and thin of company in Town. Alas, we have unearthed a treasure trove of further proof of the royal entourage’s outrageousness. Truly they must each and every one of them be punished—starting with the Prince Regent. The French have shown us the way of it.

Excerpt #1:

There are times when boys will be boys. However, in this case, I must suggest that these gentlemen of my fond acquaintance are actually more like boys being infants.

For what is an infant but a mewling, ill-tempered person unable to speak, walk, and with a tendency to cast up its accounts at very poorly timed intervals in between long stretches of slumber at odd hours.

Yes, I am sad to say, Dearest Diary, that Sussex, Middlesex, Wright, and even Barry were acting thusly not last evening, no. At that time they were all spit, polish, and smiles for their partners. And all shrewd, outrageous bluffing, drinking, and boasting (well, perhaps Barry did not do the last, but we both know he is the stiffest of the crowd) with the gentlemen at Lord and Lady Creighton’s ball that kicked off the season.