Page 37 of Hot Duke Summer
June 5th, 1829
A verford Court was buzzing with activity and with people. There was to be a wedding, and not an insignificant one. Lady Jane Bancroft, the half sister of the Duke of Avingden, was set to marry Harris Stanhope, Viscount Warrington, in what was said to be a great love match.
The Duke in question, Antony Bancroft, had his doubts. Stanhope was a boorish sort, loud and somewhat obnoxious. But Jane didn’t seem to mind him, and so there they all were, gathered at the family seat for a summer wedding, surrounded by family, friends, and a number of people who fit neither category. And Antony was close to banging his head on the nearest hard surface just to escape it all. In particular, he wished to escape the woman who was currently speaking to him. At length.
He was looking for an escape, or he might have never seen the surreptitious exchange between the two young ladies perched on a bench in his grandmother’s garden. For the first time, perhaps since the entire debacle had begun, he felt some stirring of interest. A little spark of intrigue that might, if he was lucky, sustain his sanity through the remainder of the summer.
Over the last few days, he’d developed a singular habit: to preserve his sanity, he’d taken to looking past Isabella when she spoke. Isabella, the woman he was likely going to marry—the woman whom everyone expected him to marry, certainly—and the sound of her voice were both torturous to him. Oh, the tone of it was dulcet enough. In truth, her voice was not displeasing at all. It was the cacophony of drivel that spewed from it.
He’d tried. God above, Antony thought, he had tried. But Isabella could rattle on about dresses and town gossip until it was a wonder her lungs didn’t simply deflate and wither in her chest, as it appeared she never paused to draw breath. It had been a truly remarkable discovery to realize that if he stared at a point just past her shoulder, the appearance of attentive listening could be maintained while his mind was free to focus on other things altogether.
That the thing he seemed to focus on more often than not was the companion of the prospective groom’s younger sister, Miss Caroline Davies, was a perturbing coincidence. She was a lovely girl, really. Too lovely to be in service, that was a certainty. She was a poor relation to the Stanhope family, though the exact nature of that kinship remained quite muddy. Of course, the lack of close connection could only be a bonus.
In fact, the very idea of her being in the Stanhope household when the whole family seemed lacking in manners and couth was simply intolerable. The notion that she might be forced to endure the unwanted advances in that home that so many young women in her position did was positively infuriating to him. He found himself feeling unaccountably protective of the young woman who, to his understanding, had no one else to look after her. It was only natural that he, as a gentleman, should feel some sense of obligation regarding her welfare, he reasoned. Of course, that sense of obligation did not quite extend to the degree with which she often occupied his thoughts. Or that his thoughts were very often of a carnal nature. But his thoughts were his own, he reasoned, and so long as he never acted upon them, then surely it was of little consequence.
That particular day, Isabella was droning on far longer than normal. No mean feat to be sure. And he had been watching Miss Davies in the company of her charge, Miss Ruby Stanhope, with more interest than two young ladies sketching in a garden likely deserved. But then he noted the way they bent their heads together and giggled. He noted the way that, occasionally, Miss Davies’ gaze would drift toward him and then she would look away, almost guiltily as she scribbled on the page before her. It sparked no small amount of curiosity in him. And curiosity when it came to Miss Davies was surely a terrible affliction.
“What do you think, Your Grace?... Your Grace?”
The repeated address was lacking enough in patience to pierce even his greatest efforts to practice willful deafness. Glancing more directly at Isabella, he said, “Forgive me. I was distracted for a moment.”
“Distracted by what... or is it a whom?” Isabella demanded, all but stamping her foot in annoyance.
“I’m not quite certain. How do you classify Caesar?” He’d seized upon his grandmother’s bulldog who did everything possible not to live up to his noble moniker as a convenient excuse. And indeed, the unfortunately dim-witted animal was roaming the garden.
Isabella’s lips twisted in an expression of complete hatred. For most, the dog was an annoyance. He was lovable, but stupid, and therefore often underfoot or in the way. But this was much more than simple irritation; she truly detested the beast. “That animal,” she said, “is a menace. Do you know that he drooled all over my new satin dancing slippers? Not simply on them, Antony, but in them. In them. ”
As he knew that Isabella had a habit of tossing her belongings about in her room as though she were trying to replicate the destruction of a typhoon, it was hardly a surprise. The dog would have had no trouble accessing them. “You cannot leave things lying about for him, Isabella. While it was terrible of him to do so, he is possessed of such limited intellect that we must assume the responsibility of ensuring that he does not do injury to himself or to our property... but what was your earlier question?”
“I asked if you thought it more romantic for people to wed by special license or to have banns posted and wait that wretchedly long three weeks?”
“I have no opinion one way or another. Has someone proposed to you, Isabella?” He certainly hadn’t. Even as he thought it, he saw Miss Davies get up from her seat and make for the house. A moment after her, Miss Stanhope did as well. But when Miss Stanhope rose, the sewing basket she picked up tipped over slightly, and the item that Miss Davies had hidden in it fell to the ground, missed entirely by everyone except Caesar, who trotted over and scooped it up with his shovel-like, protruding lower jaw.
“Oh, no! I was simply speaking in generalities. Special licenses do carry a certain amount of cachet, do they not?”
“I rather think they are indicative of inappropriate choices,” he replied. And then realized that she’d managed to back him into a conversation about matrimony—a subject he’d been attempting to avoid with her for some time. “Pardon me, Isabella. I believe Caesar is about to consume a plant that would not be the thing for him.”
Making a hasty exit, he headed directly for the dog and the purloined item. All the while, he was thinking that he would either have to break with Isabella entirely or marry her, but the limbo they were currently in could not continue indefinitely.
*
“You must have it! I put it in your sewing basket!” Caroline hissed. Her heart was racing with a kind of fear she had never known. “Ruby, please, tell me you have it!”
Ruby Stanhope, her cousin and her dearest friend, shook her head. “No, Caroline. I’ve checked the basket twice, and it’s simply not in there. Are you certain that’s where you put it?”
Caroline blinked in surprise at what was surely a stupid question. “Where else would I have put a sketch that you dared me to create?”
Ruby’s eyes widened slightly as understanding dawned on her. “It was that sketch?”
“Yes. It was that sketch!” Caroline wanted to drop her head into her hands and weep. What a disaster it all was! “Why would I have needed to surreptitiously pass you any other drawing? Ruby, if that falls into the wrong hands, I’ll be ruined. You will be ruined. Your mother will send me straight back to the Darrow School, and Effie will be so terribly disappointed in me.”
“Perhaps whoever finds it will fail to recognize him?”
No. That wasn’t even a possibility, Caroline thought, reflecting on the damning sketch in question. On the one hand, she was quite proud of her work. In terms of her sketching, it was one of the most detailed and well-executed pieces she had ever completed. On the other hand, sections of the drawing were painfully incomplete due to her own ignorance. But there would be little doubt for anyone viewing it that the subject of the sketch was none other than the Duke of Avingden.
He was a remarkably handsome man. From their first meeting days earlier, she’d been all aflutter at the very sight of him. Not that it mattered in the least. He was the Duke of Avingden, and she was the illegitimate poor relation of the man his half sister was set to marry. But even poor women could dream, and in her dreams, none of that mattered. He would look at her, fall instantly and hopelessly in love with her, and sweep her away from everything.
So when she’d set out to sketch him, she’d captured his masculine beauty perfectly. From the chiseled planes and angles of his face, to the sweep of his dark hair as it waved away from his forehead, it looked exactly like him. But that was the only part of the sketch that looked exactly like him, as the rest of him, at least without the well-tailored and elegant clothing he favored, was a complete mystery to her. The shoulders and chest hadn’t been so difficult. What she’d seen of classical art had filled in most of the blanks in regards to that portion of the male anatomy. The rest of it, however—well, she had no notion really. Well, perhaps she had some notion. But to say that she lacked detail was to put it mildly.
Ruby, knowing her secret tendre for the duke, had challenged her to draw him in a manner that reflected her feelings for him. And now, since everyone in the house knew of her love of sketching, the discovery of the drawing would reveal her infatuation to everyone. It was bad enough that the sketch was a very incomplete nude, but for the entire household to know that she had such great curiosity about how the duke would look beneath his fine clothes—it was an unmitigated disaster.
“I should just start packing now. It’s only a matter of time before they toss me out.”
Ruby had no great words of wisdom to offer, nor did she have the ability to offer any real comfort. Instead, her cousin simply took her hand and gave Caroline a gentle pat. “It surely won’t come to that.”
Caroline chewed her lower lip nervously as they made their way into the large drawing room where other guests were gathered for the afternoon’s games. It would come to it. She was certain of it. And the weight of everyone’s disappointment in her weighed upon her like a physical burden, as though she were hauling heavy stones about, balanced precariously on her shoulders. The slightest wrong move, and it would be naught but chaos and destruction.
“Miss Davies!”
Caroline’s blood chilled. Being called out by the duke or the dowager were not her only concerns. There was also him: Sir Percival Heatherton. The single most irritating and willfully obtuse man to have ever graced society.
Turning her head, she acknowledged, “Sir Percival.”
“Come partner with me in whist! I know you’d be crack at it.”
She was, in fact. But he didn’t know that. Not really. “I’m afraid I am otherwise engaged, sir, but I do thank you for the invitation.”
“Ah, well. I’ve no real wish to play whist anyway. What are your plans? Perhaps I might join you?”
Caroline looked at Ruby in desperation. And Ruby, God bless her, complied. Her cousin placed her hand to her forehead and swooned dramatically, falling against Caroline with enough force that they both stumbled.
“Oh, dear. I was outside for far too long. The sun has taken quite a toll,” Ruby bemoaned dramatically.
“Forgive me, Sir Percival. I must see my cousin upstairs.”
“Of course,” he said. “And once she’s settled, you can come back and enjoy a game with me!”
“Do not wait for me, sir. Find yourself another partner. I fear I will not be able to leave Ruby’s side until I am certain she is well.”
Sir Percival appeared quite taken aback. “Surely a servant can sit with her!”
Caroline’s temper spiked. “Sir Percival, my cousin needs me, and I intend to be there for her. Good afternoon, sir.”
Walking away, with Ruby still leaning heavily on her, though purely for show, Caroline muttered. “The man is insufferable.”
“He would offer for you. In a heartbeat. If you want a husband—”
Caroline shuddered. “Spinsterhood looks infinitely more appealing than marriage to him. Now, let’s go hide in your room for the remainder of this dreadful day.”
“I have a box of chocolates!” Ruby whispered. “I smuggled them in so Mama would not lecture me about my figure.”
“Then we shall make a strategic retreat and enjoy your chocolates well away from any prying eyes.” And far, far from Sir Percival, who gave her no peace at all.