Chapter 11

The Duchess of Tenby did not expect it to be a good day. She was out of sorts when she joined her grandson at the breakfast table and she was feeling thoroughly disagreeable by the time he left her there, his tossed napkin on the floor instead of the table. He told her coldly that he would do himself the honor of joining her and Sophie for dinner and stalked off she knew not where for the rest of the day to do she knew not what.

The duchess was not accustomed to arguments. Most people crumbled before the power of her will. She had ruled her husband despite his sternness with his subordinates, and she had ruled her quiet, good-natured son. Her grandson was a different matter. He had been trained well and strictly, at least from the age of eleven, and had always been a dutiful boy, to give him his due. But he was stubborn. He liked to do his duty in his own time and in his own way. He was also a charmer and played mercilessly on her love for him—she loved him many times more than she had loved any of the other men in her life. He had always been able to avoid unpleasant confrontations with her. Until this morning, that was. She had not said a word the night before after all the guests had finally left.

“I do not consider it seemly or courteous of you, Tenby,” she began this morning when she entered the breakfast room and he sprang to his feet to greet her, “to appear indoors with muddy boots.”

“Muddy—?” He frowned down at his riding boots, on one of which was a small splash of mud or dust. “I do beg your pardon, Grandmama. I have been out riding. You are not usually up this early. Would you like me to go and change?”

She was further irritated by the fact that she had complained about a triviality. “Sit down,” she said regally, but of course she waited for him to come around the table first to seat her. She tilted her head for his kiss on the cheek.

“It is a fine morning,” he said. “Misty and a little chilly, but invigorating. I trust you slept well.”

“As well as could be expected,” she said. “Dismiss the servants if you please, Tenby.”

He did so and then smiled winningly at her. Just as he had always done when he was a boy and was trying to avoid a scolding. It had sometimes worked with her, though never with his grandfather. He was a handsome boy. There was no denying the fact.

“Were you satisfied with the evening?” he asked. “I thought it went rather well.”

“She is a pretty girl,” the duchess said, “and nicely behaved. Not that the prettiness has anything to say to the matter, but I daresay you would sooner have a pretty bride than an ugly one, Tenby. And she will give you pretty children.”

“She is rather lovely,” he conceded, sipping his coffee.

“I was extremely disappointed when you chose to break your promise to me and lead another lady into the first waltz,” she said.

His smile could almost be called a grin. The duchess stiffened her already straight back. She did not like the levity of his expression. “You must know, Grandmama,” he said, “that Aunt Sophie left me with no choice.”

“You might have explained,” she said, “that the dance was already promised to your intended.”

“But it was not,” he said. “And I don't believe Lady Phyllis need yet be described in that way, Grandmama.” 

“You intend breaking your promise to me, then?” she said. “And disgracing the girl when the whole ton is in daily expectation of an announcement?”

“If the ton is expecting any such thing,” he said, “then it has a powerful imagination, Grandmama. We have merely met with strict formality on a few occasions.”

“When you are the Duke of Tenby,” she said, “and she is Lady Phyllis Reeder, daughter of Barthorpe, a few formal meetings amount to a great deal.”

He sipped his coffee. She could see a pulse beating in his temple. He was wisely choosing not to argue with her.

“And I must protest that vulgar display to which I and your other guests were subjected during the first waltz,” she said.

“Ah.” He set his cup down none too gently on its saucer. “I wondered how soon we would get to the point. She was my guest, Grandmama. I was forced into dancing with her unless I choose to be extremely rude to both her and Aunt Sophie. I danced with her once. I danced once with almost every other lady guest. I danced with Lady Phyllis twice.” 

“It was not the fact of the dance,” the duchess said, her irritability at its peak, “but the manner of it, Tenby.” 

“Meaning?” He looked as angry as she felt. She did not like the impertinent abruptness of his tone. His grandfather would have known how to deal with that tone of voice.

“It was vulgar in the extreme, Tenby,” she said. “I can only describe the way you looked at her throughout the dance as devouring her with your eyes.”

There was a dull flush on his cheeks. “She is a beautiful woman, ma’am,” he said. “Perhaps you did not notice the way Travers and Sotheby were looking at her. And Yarborough too. Men appreciate beauty. There is surely no vulgarity in doing so.”

“There is when you do so openly in the presence of your own relatives and that of your intended bride and her parents,” she said. “Lady Wingham was entitled only to your condescension last evening, Tenby. She was invited specifically as a companion for Sophie.”

“She was a guest in my home,” he said harshly. “And she does not have employment as a companion, Grandmama. She is the widow of a baron. And a lady in her own right.” 

“The offspring of a country parson, I believe,” she said, “and for several years a paid companion.”

“Ah,” he said, “you have been making inquiries.”

“Of Sophie,” she said. “Sophie knows her well. She was going to employ the girl herself, but she managed to snare herself a wealthy husband in time to escape that fate. I do not blame the girl. She had every right to look after her own interests. But she cannot expect to look as high as a duke. At least not as high as Tenby.”

She watched his jaw tighten.

“I do not believe she aspires to my hand,” he said. “I do not believe she is in any way conniving, Grandmama. I believe she loved Wingham and was good to him.”

“I will grant you,” she said, “that the sweetness of her disposition seems genuine enough. And I believe she is a virtuous woman. If you cannot think of yourself, Tenby, and of what you owe your mother and me and your position, then perhaps you should think of her reputation. How do you think the ton will interpret the sort of glances with which you were favoring her last evening?”

“I don’t know, Grandmama,” he said. “Perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten me.”

She looked at him severely. “I do not expect impertinence from you, Tenby,” she said. “The ton will be well aware of the fact that you cannot offer Lady Wingham marriage. But she is no young girl. She is a widow. It will be thought, then, that your dealings with her are of another sort.”

“I will meet any man who dares say any such thing aloud,” he said.

“In order to defend the lady’s honor?” she said. “Would it not be better to defend it by never putting it in jeopardy, Tenby? For her sake, if not your own? I will not have you distracted during the very time when you are engaged in making one of the most important decisions your position will ever call upon you to make.”

“And Lady Wingham is a distraction,” he said, getting to his feet. “She is of no more significance than that.” That was when he tossed his napkin with vicious impatience so that it landed on the floor and when he stalked from the room after the iciest of bows and the assurance that he would do himself the honor of joining his grandmother and his aunt for dinner.

The Duchess of Tenby was far more discomposed than she had been when she came into the breakfast room. Then she had been merely angry. Now she was a little frightened. For perhaps the first time she realized that her grandson was a grown man and a determined and a strong-willed one too. She realized that he was a person quite separate from herself and quite capable of defying her and—more important—of defying his duty. She had held duty most dear since the day she had shut her mind to the man she had loved and married the Duke of Tenby in obedience to her father’s command. The situation was far worse than she had thought. Her grandson was not infatuated with Lady Wingham. He was in love with her.

The Duke of Tenby was in no better humor when he arrived home late in the afternoon with only enough time to get dressed for dinner. He had been at White’s and at Tattersall’s and at the races during the afternoon with Lord Bruce. But he carried with him his anger, which was only worsened by his knowledge that perhaps his grandmother had had a point. If he really had shown his admiration for Harriet the evening before, then he had put her in danger of becoming the subject of gossip.

“Bruce, my good fellow,” he had asked languidly at the races, eyeing through his quizzing glass a couple of ladies of doubtful virtue who had been momentarily abandoned by their escorts in favor of the horses, “would you say I was in any way, ah, indiscreet last evening?”

“As pretty a piece of horseflesh as I ever saw,” Lord Bruce had said, his eyes moving appreciatively over the favorite for the coming race. “Last evening? Oh, you mean dancing with the chit twice? Most indiscreet, Arch, my lad. I would say you are a goner. The sound of wedding bells is already deafening me. It’s a good thing you did not choose the horsy girl. She giggles so incessantly that one wonders how she catches her breath.”

“Ah,” the duke said. “Pretty, I grant you, Bruce. But lame in all four legs I would wager. And will wager. My bet goes elsewhere with better and surer odds. You observed no other indiscretion?”

“Did you steal a kiss behind a potted palm?” Lord Bruce asked. “No, it was not apparent, old chap.”

Ah. His grandmother had seen only what she was looking for, then. It had not been obvious to anyone else.

“If I were you, Arch,” Lord Bruce said, “I would reserve certain looks you were giving the little Wingham for the bedchamber. Is she good there, by the way?”

“What looks?” The duke raised his glass to his eye again the better to observe the parading horses. Inside he froze.

Lord Bruce chuckled. “Eyes that devoured her and undressed her and set her back to a mattress and mounted her,” he said. “You had me reaching for my cravat to loosen it, Arch. Is she good in bed? If not, there is yet another new girl at Annette’s. Very accomplished.” He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and extended the other fingers wide.

Eyes that devoured her. Exactly what his grandmother had said. Obviously he had been very indiscreet “Bruce,” he said softly, continuing his languid survey with his quizzing glass, “when you refer to Lady Wingham, old chap, you will keep a respectful tongue in your head. Unless you are prepared to name your seconds, that is.”

Lord Bruce threw back his head and guffawed. “Name my seconds!” he said gleefully. “Arch, Arch, you are head over ears for the woman. I never would have thought it of you. She must be very good indeed.” But he held up his hands quickly, palms out “My apologies. I have to say I admire your taste, old fellow. Yarborough was almost panting over her last evening. Did you notice?”

The race was about to begin at last. The duke lowered his glass. “Yes,” he said. “I might have to have a word with him if his interest develops in its usual manner. Lady Wingham is not for the likes of Yarborough.”

Lord Bruce chuckled and then whistled. “If he has four lame legs, Archie, my boy,” he said, “I will eat my hat.” 

“Bon appétit,” the duke said dryly as the race began.

By the time he arrived home much later, he was still feeling angry, but more at himself than at his grandmother. It was unpardonable of him to have exposed Harriet to possible gossip and speculation by the unguarded way he seemed to have looked at her while waltzing with her the evening before. Looks apparently that he should have confined to their bedchamber. He would not for worlds publicly compromise her virtue. And yet he seemed to have been in danger of doing just that.

His grandmother at least had put her mood behind her, he saw when he entered the drawing room later and found both her and his aunt there, ready for dinner. The duchess smiled graciously at him. “Ah, you are punctual, Tenby,” she said. “You know how I hate tardiness for meals.”

He knew it well. He bowed over her extended hand and then over his aunt’s.

“You are a handsome lad, dear Archibald.” Lady Sophia said loudly. “You look quite ravishing in pale blue. Like an ice prince.”

He grinned at her and winked.

His grandmother’s restored good mood was explained as soon as they had sat down at table and begun to eat. “Barthorpe and his countess called this afternoon,” she said. “It was very civil of them, Tenby.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, sipping his soup and wondering what his grandmother had said to them in his absence.

“They brought an invitation with them,” she said, smiling almost benevolently at him.

“Oh?” he said politely and waited for her to repeat what she had said to his aunt. His grandmother had always liked to milk a particularly good story. It must be a ball, he thought. It must be something more than a dinner to have brought that expression to the duchess’s face. Damnation. And he was going to be expected to lead Lady Phyllis into the first set in full view of the gathered ton. Well, he supposed the inevitable could not be postponed much longer. Not when his grandmother was at work on his behalf, anyway.

“We have been invited to spend a few days at Barthorpe Hall in the country,” the duchess said, “with a few other select guests. From Friday to Tuesday, in fact. It will be a splendid opportunity for you to fix your interest with Lady Phyllis, Tenby, and even perhaps to make your offer. There is no point in postponing the matter longer, is there? Barthorpe has certainly made his interest clear.”

The duke set his spoon down quietly. “You accepted the invitation on my behalf, I suppose, Grandmama?” he said. His first thought had been that he would be away on Monday. He would have to go a whole week, from this coming Thursday to next, without Harriet. And if a formal betrothal was effected during his visit to the country, perhaps she would not be willing to continue their liaison even until the end of July. Somehow he feared that Harriet would be strict about such matters.

“Eh?” Lady Sophia asked. “What was that, Archibald? You are mumbling, dear.”

He repeated his question.

“Of course I accepted,” the duchess said, a trace of impatience in her voice. “It is rather short notice, but I am sure you do not have any engagement that you cannot politely withdraw from, Tenby. Everyone will understand. Everything is proceeding wonderfully well.”

“Yes,” he said. “It seems I will have to have a talk with the earl sometime during our visit.”

“At last,” his grandmother said in some triumph. “I was beginning to fear that you were never going to commit yourself, Tenby.”

“That gel is going to be a handful, if you ask me,” Lady Sophia said. “No one can tell me that she has been on the town for two years because no one will have her. She is a stubborn little piece, I would not doubt.”

“I am sure she knows where her duty lies, Sophie,” the duchess said stiffly.

“I’ll have my little pet with me,” Lady Sophia said. “She will enjoy a few days in the country.”

The duchess looked at her blankly. “I beg your pardon, Sophie?” she said.

“Eh?” Sometimes, the duke thought, looking at his aunt shrewdly, he believed she pretended to be harder of hearing than she actually was. “Oh, it was all arranged while you were in the garden showing the countess the rosebushes, Sadie. Barthorpe would insist on talking in a whisper and turned somewhat purple in the face when he had to repeat everything he said. Sometimes twice.” She rumbled. “I told him that I can only ever hear my dear little Lady Wingham clearly.”

The duke would perhaps have been amused if he had not felt aghast at what he knew was coming. His grandmother knew it too, he could see from a glance at her taut expression.

“What are you saying, Sophie?” she asked. “What did you force Barthorpe into?”

“Force, Sadie?” A look of wide-eyed innocence did not at all suit his aunt, the duke thought, amused despite himself. “Barthorpe is a gentleman, I’ll give him that, even if he does whisper. He was most civil. He promised to invite the child into the country for my greater comfort.”

“She will feel remarkably out of place,” the duchess said coldly.

Lady Sophia chose to be deaf, and addressed herself to her roast beef. His grandmother had misplaced her good mood, the duke saw in one hasty glance at her. She looked decidedly grim, in fact. And he? Part of him rejoiced. He would not be entirely without her, after all. Another part of him cringed. It seemed that both his grandmother and Barthorpe would expect some sort of declaration during those few days, and he could not see how it was to be avoided. Or whether it was desirable to avoid it. But Harriet would be there. Perhaps she would be present for the announcement of his betrothal.

He remembered that only a few short weeks before he had been prepared to throw caution to the winds and offer Harriet marriage. He seemed a long way now from such a gesture of freedom and defiance. He had backed himself into that corner he had so dreaded.

“Perhaps,” his grandmother said distinctly, “Lady Wingham will have the good sense to refuse her invitation.”

“Oh, I think not, Sadie,” his aunt said. “Not when she reads my letter. She is such a tender-hearted child.”

The Duke of Tenby was at Mrs. Robertson’s rout that evening. Harriet, in conversation with Mr. Hammond and Lady Forbes, was relieved when she saw him arrive. Though it was not really relief she felt. Her heart beat painfully and she knew that color was flooding her cheeks. She fanned herself and smiled at what Mr. Hammond was saying.

The Duke of Tenby usually wore dark colors, which always looked striking with his very blond hair. Yet he looked equally distinguished in this evening’s ice-blue coat and silver knee breeches with sparkling white linen and lace. Harriet turned away from him so that she would not stare.

And then the Marquess of Yarborough was bowing over her hand and kissing it—on the palm—and gazing into her eyes and complimenting her lavishly on her gown and on her eyes. And yet all the time his own eyes were insolently seeing, not her gown, but her body beneath it. It was strange, she thought, how quickly one could lose one’s naiveté—and one’s innocence—when one ventured out into society.

The duke kept his distance, as she had expected he would. He would not have danced with her the previous evening, she knew, if Lady Sophia had not trapped both of them into it. He kept his distance because he wished to guard both of their reputations, especially hers, she liked to believe. Or perhaps it was because he no longer felt the need for social intercourse when he had what he wanted from her in private twice a week. She chastised herself with such thoughts as punishment for dreaming of love in his arms when it was merely sex.

Although there were several opportunities to put herself in his way, she left it so late that she began to fear that perhaps he would leave early, as he often did. She finally contrived to be alone approaching a doorway as he came through it in the opposite direction. He saw her, bowed stiffly, and would have passed on. But she caught at his sleeve.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, feeling the color flood her cheeks, wishing that the floor would open up to swallow her.

He looked displeased and withdrew his arm under the guise of reaching for the ribbon of his quizzing glass. He bowed again and smiled. “I think it unwise, ma’am,” he said softly.

“I cannot keep my appointment on Thursday,” she said hastily, wishing that for once she could be a blasé woman of the world.

“Ah,” he said. “Another more important engagement?”

“N-no,” she said. “I cannot come, that is all.”

“Smile,” he said. “It is wise when one is undoubtedly being observed. You are having your courses, Harriet?”

Not having a looking glass handy, she was not sure if there was a deeper color than crimson for her face to turn.

“My dear,” he said, “I have had dealings with women for many years and know that such an affliction has to be endured monthly. Smile. Ah, yes, and wave your fan too, my little blusher.”

“I will be well again by Monday,” she said.

“Alas.” His hands played with the handle of his quizzing glass. “It seems you cannot have had either your invitation or your letter yet. You and I will be at Barthorpe’s in the country on Monday, Harriet, you to save the earl from the tedium of having to repeat his every word—twice—to my esteemed aunt, me to move on to the next stage of my courtship of Lady Phyllis.”

“I shall not be there,” she said quickly. No, not again. She would not allow herself to be drawn into such an embarrassing and painful situation again.

“You have not yet read my aunt’s letter,” he said. “I do not doubt it will reduce your tender heart to spasms of pity. I do not doubt that it would do the same if your heart was as hard as rock.”

“I do not like it.” She raised her chin.

“But you like my aunt,” he said, the suggestion of a smile in his eyes. “We have conversed for altogether long enough. Your servant, ma’am.” He made her a courtly bow and strolled on to some other destination.

No, she thought. No, she would not be so manipulated. She was beginning to feel quite out of control of her life. She supposed that that was what she might have expected when she gave up one of the most firmly held values of her life in order to become his mistress. But that did not explain why she had become almost inextricably involved with his family and his courtship. It was not right, she told herself. It was most definitely not right. She remembered in some distress the confidences to which Lady Phyllis had made her an unwilling listener the evening before.

The situation was becoming quite bizarre. She longed suddenly, as she seemed so often to do these days, for the safety of Godfrey’s presence. She longed to be able to close her eyes and find her head comfortably nestled on his shoulder and his arms about her and her whole world secure.

Someone took her arm and patted her hand. “Gracious, Harriet dear, smile,” Lady Forbes said. “Whatever did he say to you to make you look so forlorn? Someone has replaced you in his affections? It was bound to happen, you know. You can do very much better, dear. You can find yourself a husband. What has happened to Mr. Hardinge?”

“I put him off,” Harriet said. “It did not seem fair to encourage him. I am being invited out to Lord Barthorpe’s country home, Amanda. Probably at Lady Sophie’s request. How can I go under the circumstances? It is like a nightmare. But it is so hard to disappoint Lady Sophia.”

“She is a veritable dragon,” Lady Forbes said. “Here comes Lord Sotheby.”

Harriet smiled brightly. If there had been one spot of brightness in her day, she thought, it was her discovery during the afternoon that she was not with child. She had worried about it, having no idea how conception was to be prevented. At least she would not have that particular concern for another month.