The Duke Diaries (5 page)

But why was any of the former remarkable? Really, when one looks at the events quite closely, one must admit that it was but a repeat of a thousand nights before it.

No. The pièce de résistance was when Middlesex insisted on waltzing with one of the scullery maids in full view of Lord and Lady Creighton, with whose daughter he had refused to dance, saying she had far too many names dangling from her wrist and “she should give other fair maids a chance.”

Of course, Middlesex cannot be blamed. How could he possibly remember that Miss Gwendolyn Creighton was the reason for the ball? It was, quite simply, her come-out, and on that one day in her lifetime, she should be able to drown in public adoration. Then again, the royal entourage is more often noted for its self-adoration, so they can not be held accountable to us mere mortals.

Rory’s fingers were numb, and the newspaper fell from his hand. Rory snatched it up again to look at the paper’s date—a mere six days after the infamous evening. At this rate, with the promise of twice weekly additional timber to the revolutionary fire engulfing Town these days, it would be a miracle if the underclasses did not rise up in arms before the end of the summer. Prinny would be a cooked goose if this continued.

Who in bloody hell was the author of this muck?

A tap at the door intruded, and Rory looked up from his musings to encounter towering Towareq, the nephew of a former king of Timbuktu. Stolen by traders and taken to Cairo, Rory had found Towareq as a boy cowering behind a pile of rubble and freed him during the Egyptian campaign against Napoleon.

“Yes, Towareq?”

The young man who had nearly given his life to Rory twice in the intervening years bowed deeply and crossed the polished oak floor. “For you, Your Grace.”

Rory pushed aside the newspaper and grasped the edge of a calling card in the highly polished silver salver. “So it has begun.”

There was a reason Rory would not travel anywhere without Towareq. He never asked questions. He did not disappoint this time.

“Now that the knocker is up, the hordes will ignore a man’s privacy and preference for quiet, all in an effort to ensure that he not grow bored by the country life and so return to London in all haste. Lord, if they only knew how lovely it is to be bored. Show them in, then.”

He had hoped to avoid these particular inhabitants of this corner of Derbyshire. He rose as the pair stepped through the open door.

“Miss Talmadge and Mr. Talmadge.” His gaze bypassed the blond young man who had most likely just attained his majority, and he nearly started at the sight of Miss Phoebe Talmadge.
God. She was a living, breathing incarnation of Catharine.

Talmadge bowed as his sister curtsied. “So good of you to see us, Your Grace,” the brother began.

Rory steadied his hand and then gestured to the other two chestnut-colored leather armchairs in front of the swept out hearth, and joined them there. “It is my pleasure, of course. Towareq, I’m certain Miss Talmadge should like tea.”

The towering dark presence of the Egyptian faded away.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Miss Phoebe Talmadge began, a bit breathlessly. “My brother and I hope you will do us the great honor of accepting this invitation to a ball we are planning Wednesday eve.” She extended an elegant envelope, and he grasped it. When he met her glance, he had a difficult moment. Her pale blue eyes were so familiar he felt a drench of sweat under all the cloth layers on his back.

“Wednesday next?” Rory repeated, to gain time to consider.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Talmadge began, with awkwardness written all over his young face. “My sister and I hope you will do us the great honor. We wish to formally celebrate your return to the neighborhood. You were once close to our family, especially our dear departed sister before you left . . .” He abruptly stopped after glancing at Rory.

“I should be delighted to attend,” Rory lied, wishing he could scream the opposite to the docile gentleman ten years his junior. He continued, “May I ask if the inhabitants of Boxwood will be present?”

The two exchanged glances. “They are in London,” Talmadge finally stated.

“Actually, that is not altogether correct,” Rory murmured. “Lady Verity Fitzroy is in residence.”

“How very odd,” Phoebe Talmadge exclaimed, uncertainty coloring her face. “I suppose I heard a vague rumor to that effect.”

Rory paused, considering. He knew why she had been excluded. It was due to his own well-known dislike of Candover. “Lady Fitzroy is a treasure of the neighborhood.”

Mr. Talmadge glanced at his sister. “She must be included.”

“Of course, if it is His Grace’s wish.” Phoebe looked at him with great expectation.

The brother scratched his chin, uncertain of how to address the obvious. “But we cannot guarantee that she will accept, Your Grace. I am certain you understand that she or her brother might be, ahem, rather put out at the idea.”

“Miss Talmadge?” Rory continued.

“Yes?” she said, her eyes huge in her pretty face.

“I would ask the honor of the first set with you, as I’m certain
your brother
will ask Lady Fitzroy for the same.”
Would this infernal conversation never end? The silent guard at the palace offered more amusing give and take.

A shy smile full of lingering coquetry infused Phoebe Talmadge’s face. “Of course we will accommodate your wishes, Your Grace.”

The way the young lady’s eyes lit up with delight unnerved Rory. She was so much like Catherine physically, but her demure demeanor was jarringly different. And he had the distinct impression that she was hiding her true nature. Did she actually possess her sister’s wild, high-flying sensibilities?

Talmadge pursed his lips, his brow furrowed slightly. “But it’s very odd that Lady Verity Fitzroy returned just before you, and unaccompanied by her sisters.”

Allowing an awkward pause to enter, Rory stared at the young gentleman. “I would take great care in voicing your observations, Talmadge. Nothing can wreak havoc, particularly in a small village, as effectively as gossip. I do hope you are not succumbing to the favorite pastime of the idle.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace!” Phoebe laughed in the identical fashion as her sister, and it was all Rory could do not to climb out of his skin. It was like hearing haunting echoes of days gone by.

Rory’s sudden silence cut short any further meddling nonsense.

Talmadge was properly chastised.

The lukewarm tea Towareq served, prepared to Rory’s exact specifications to discourage visitors from lingering, had the desired effect, and the brother and sister left in short order. Thank God.

Alone at last, he slumped forward and rested his head in his clenched hands.

He should never have left Wellington in Portugal after all. It was too bad he had not had a say in the matter. But when Prinny made up his mind, there was little to be done to sway him. There were depths to the prince that very few knew.

Behind the royal’s dissolute, extravagant mask, the future king’s conniving intelligence thrived.

Chapter 4

V
erity should have taken the other way to the village, via the lane, but instead she cut through the neighboring property, her mare easily popping over the stile. It had taken longer than expected to ready herself for the first day in front of the class. It was silly how anxious she was.

She attempted to concentrate on the thing about riding that she loved most . . . getting lost in the pure joy and excitement of the moment, forcing all her mountain of worries to fly away with the wind. She urged her mare into a gallop as they mounted the western side of the prominent slope of the Duke of Abshire’s property.

A rider and big-boned dark gray horse crested the eastern edge not ten feet in front of her. With extreme luck on their shoulders, each jerked in different directions and avoided collision. Verity’s mount kicked out in fright and only a steady stream of soothing words slowed the panicked creature. She finally heaved to a stop.

There were times in Verity’s life in which she would have liked to disappear into thin air. Usually those periods had been while her ear had been pressed against an abominably thick door, behind which her brother and his friends communed on the altar of bachelorhood. This was one of those times that thin air appeared very breathable.

Rory’s horse reared, and he almost tumbled backward as he wrenched his mount’s head to avoid her mare’s kick. It had taken considerably more effort to bring his horse under control.

Verity prepared for the barrage. She knew she was at fault. She did not have permission to cross his land, and she should not have been galloping up the slope, as she could not see the other side. But, most days the most exciting thing that would have been revealed over the ridge was a rabbit or two nibbling on rolling hills and hollows of green clover. And it was one mile less to the village than if she had taken the lane.

Reluctantly, she opened one rein to urge the mare toward him. “I’m so very sorry. I’m completely at fault,” she stated plainly. “I know I should be horsewhipped for trespassing and for going at such speed without view of the other side.”

She could not stop the torrent of words tumbling from her mouth when he would not reply. His face was drained of all color; the pallor reminded her of death. It was embarrassment that drove her speech into the absurd. “In fact, my brother always keeps a coiled whip just for such occasions, I am sure he would let you borrow it. Although, perhaps this incident renders our scores even in terms of disastrous events. And upon further reflection, spooking your horse does not compromise you in any way. Perhaps if you had fallen—in which case it could be argued that it might have bruised your notion of masculinity. But that would not be nearly as bad as the possible blemish on my—” She finally paused to take a breath. “Rory? Are you all right?”

Color had returned to his face. The slow curl at the corners of his lips hinted at his amusement as his beautiful horse pawed the ground. “Do you always talk so much? I mean, before all this sleeping together business.”

Shock and surprise paid a call, and Verity suddenly wanted to disappear. “I beg your pardon?”

“As you should. And I accept, even if you have not the faintest idea that a proper apology should not be littered with excuses. But there is one condition if I am to accept your apology right and proper.” His words were measured as he dismounted and finally turned his full gaze in her direction.

She sucked in her breath. “Of course,” she whispered as she followed his suit by dismounting as well.

“Yes, you will agree to it, or yes, you want to hear it?”

“The latter, unless the former doesn’t include marriage,” she continued, fiddling with the reins of the bridle. “If it does, I choose the horsewhip. Although, I’ve never heard that proper acceptances of apologies include conditions.”

He glanced at her, and shook his head as he closed the distance between them.

At least he wasn’t furious with her. It was always a shock to see him in the flesh. Her cousin Esme might have captured his essence on a canvas once or twice. But it was the grace and surety of his movements that enthralled her. That, and those pea green eyes and the lazy way they gazed down at her, all the while razor-sharp intelligence lurked in his black pupils.

“I do not remember you being quite so vexing when you were an infant.”

“Thirteen is not an infant!”

He hooded his eyes further. “And when were you three and ten?”

She sighed in exasperation. “When you were one and twenty, and thought any lady younger than six and ten was an infant.”

“Actually, any woman younger than seven and ten was considered an infant when I reached the advanced age you suggest.” He paused for a beat. “By the by, V, you are no novice at changing the course of a conversation yourself.”

She would not allow smugness to hollow her cheeks. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. And now I am very nearly late. I must be on my—”

“You will paint something as penance,” he spoke softly.

“Paint?” Why she was the absolute worst artist not only in her family, but in the whole of Derbyshire, she was convinced. “But, I am very ill-trained, I—” She stopped and reversed course. “Of course. I will paint whatever you like. But really, I must be on my way, I—”

“Actually, there are three things to be painted. Two signs, on either side of this hill, warning riders to slow down.”

She laughed in relief. That was nothing. “Of course, if you like.”

“And I’m certain you’ve accepted the invitation to the Talmadges’ infernal entertainment? You will dance the second set with me, of course.”

“Well, I wasn’t actually certain I would attend—” She stopped mid-sentence when his face darkened. “Of course I shall, if only to make amends.” She took care not to agree to dance with him—only to attend the event.

He nodded. “Very good. And lastly, the wood fence surrounding the south field. It needs a good whitewashing.”

She widened her eyes. “But it’s . . . it’s millions of miles long.”

“No need to delve into details here and now. I believe you mentioned you’re late.”

She glanced at his boots to regain her composure. Was it her imagination or were his feet becoming a bit cloven-like?

“Do see to the fence in the next sennight, Lady V.”

“I cannot,” she replied with more force than she wanted. “I have far more important things to attend to.”

“Really?” He raised his brows. “Such as menus for one, horse collisions for two, and embroidery for many?”

“I will have you know that that is entirely not the case.”

“I see.”

“By that look on your face it’s obvious you do not see at all.” She knew she sounded like a pretentious ninny, unsalted by the smallest trace of wit. Why was she arguing with him? She just could not stop herself. “I’ll have you know that I, alone, am cultivating the next generation of great minds in England.”

Not even the smallest muscle of his handsome mouth moved, but she just knew he was laughing at her.

“I see,” he finally replied. “Well, then perhaps you will not have time for the next generation of paint on the fences of the south field.”

“Precisely,” she said, quite proud that not a hint of smugness discolored the word.

“Perhaps, then, you should choose the alternative, less time-consuming penance.”

“Obviously. I shall do the signs for your amusement, and I shall write a very formal note of apology to you to promise not to trespass in future, and I shall even condescend to dance with you at the
infernal
Talmadges’ as you demand. This is, by the by, far more than you have done for a far greater offense.” Her nose rose in the air without conscious effort.

“Perhaps. But I have proper manners, and do not suggest my own penance when transgressions occur. Now then, Lady V, you are in the unenviable position of having to decide if you should prefer to paint, dance, and whitewash—according to you—
millions
of miles of fence, or . . .”

She closed her eyes, and knew what he would utter.

“. . . marriage. To me. So I can clean one small corner of my nearly inexistent conscience.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’ve already told you that I will not—”

“I thought you said you were late,” he corrected with exasperating good humor. “I cannot bear the thought of taking any time away from the cultivation of the next generation of great minds in England.”

She did not know when she had been more exasperated.

“So we’re agreed,” he continued. “Do let me know your choice at the Talmadge affair tomorrow evening. I should offer to help you remount, but I find myself rather put out in the face of your intractability.”

Speechless, she watched him remount his own magnificent animal. She finally found words just as he wheeled about and nodded to her with great condescension.

“I’m so glad you noticed, Your Grace. You are forewarned it’s a troublesome trait our children would very likely inherit.”

He blinked.

She turned her back to him as she crossed to her horse in an effort to hide the prick of anger that was most certainly mottling her face. “Oh, you needn’t look so worried, Rory. You know very well we will never have children together, as I will never accept you.” She quickly remounted her mare. “Not even if you ever truly wanted me, begged me even. You’re not the marrying kind, Rory Lennox . . .” She paused and concluded with emphasis, “And neither am I.”

She had thought that would render him speechless, but it did not. Just as she turned into the wind, quite brisk now, she heard his words float back to her.

“I do hope you honor your debts, V. Visible pasture fencing or connubial fencing in. It matters not to me. Although, one might be hazardous to your well-being if the past is any indication.”

S
urreptitiously, he turned his horse about when he was certain she was well on her way to the village. He had hated to say the last, but it was the fair thing to do. She would marry him in the end. Neither had any choice in the matter. There was that sliver of honor that he could not extinguish no matter how hard he tried to smother it. And he had tried. But while they must marry, he would brook no false hope of some fairy tale ending. Love was nothing more than a wisp of a notion soon lost to truth, familiarity, or worse.

V
erity felt as rumpled, and her nerves as frayed, as all the governesses had complained whilst attempting to govern her in her youth, which she, of course, had never believed. The truth was always painful, she mused as she gazed at the twenty odd heads bent over the books her forward-thinking, generous brother had provided. There were not many who subscribed to the notion of educating the underclasses.

Oh, it had been a joy to take aside the three young men destined for Eton next winter. Their superior intellect was inspiring as she listened to their lessons. But the second half of the day had involved teaching a large group of the tenant children to read. She had thought she would go mad after three hours of childish primers.

But at least it had distracted her from thinking about Rory . . . and his absurd campaign to do the wrong thing for the wrong reasons when she would only ever do the right thing for the right reasons. And honor had no place in this. It was love or it was nothing.

As long as she could withstand the siege by the very man to whom she would most like to surrender.

Verity glanced up just in time to catch a young boy in the back of the room passing something to another boy, his brother, if she remembered correctly. She gave him a speaking glance, and pointed a finger toward his primer. He immediately complied.

She turned her attention to the next day’s lesson plans in front of her at the desk. The vicar would not approve of her sensibilities right now if he knew how she was praying for Miss Woods’s sister’s quick recovery, all for very uncharitable reasons. She stared out the one window of the simple schoolhouse with the peaked roof. She had one final half hour of this impossible, never-ending day.

The livery stable was suddenly all hustle and bustle when an elegant burgundy and gold barouche conveyed by a matched quartet of gleaming bays came to a halt in front. Who could it be? No one of the neighborhood would travel locally in so fine a vehicle. She craned her neck only to see a ravishingly beautiful lady emerge and accept the aid of a servant while descending.

Verity abruptly pushed back from the desk, causing the chair’s legs to make a squealing noise, which drew the attention of the entire class. She quickly crossed to the window without explanation. She knew the lady. She was certain. And yet . . . what on earth was Lady Mary Haverty, best friend of her two older sisters, doing in Derbyshire? She was supposed to be in Scotland, where she was to meet her soon-to-be-husband, Laird MacGregor, for the very first time. Mary’s remove from London, the first meeting, the wedding, and the procreating were all to be accomplished in very short order. Then again, Mary had taken a mere fortnight to come to the decision to accept the terms of an arranged marriage to an unknown maternal cousin and powerful Scottish laird. It had been a source of intense debate between the elder Fitzroy ladies and their friend.