Page 19 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter fourteen

Your Grace

B el wondered why Mrs. Brownlee had come to call this afternoon.

It was not that their plump neighbour was unfriendly to Bel and Lucy, but she tended to keep to her own home, busying herself with the upkeep of Mullhill Manor and her own appearance.

Today, she clearly had some news of import to convey.

Bel could sense that the woman had spent the last quarter hour dancing around whatever it was.

But it was not until the appearance of a second carriage outside the window that she came to her point.

“My dear,” she said, looking furtively at Bel, “I see Mr. Lymington is coming to call as well. I trust you have heard the news about him?”

“I don’t believe so.” Bel kept her tone impassive, determined not to show curiosity, especially not in front of her aunt.

Aunt Lucy had dropped far too many hints to Mr. Lymington about how well her niece would suit him and how well he would suit her niece.

There was no point in giving her further fodder to concoct a romance out of a stranger’s overtures of friendship.

Mrs. Brownlee leaned in closer to Bel on the sofa. From the other side of the room, Aunt Lucy lifted the edge of her cap to enable her weak ear to hear better.

“I had it from Mr. Brownlee who had it from Mrs. White who had it from Mr. Coleman at the Jester’s Arms that Mr. Lymington is no mister at all. He’s a titled peer. A duke!”

“Good heavens!” squealed Aunt Lucy, almost leaping out of her chair. “One of the royal dukes?”

“No, not quite as exciting as that,” said Mrs. Brownlee. “The Duke of Wanlington, I heard.”

“That’s certainly not a duke I’ve ever heard of,” said Bel, her eyes sliding towards the window where she could see Mr. Lymington disembarking from his carriage. He was followed by his spindly valet, Archie Garrick, and his clothing was finer than anything he had worn in the last three weeks.

“You’ve barely been outside of Derbyshire,” said Aunt Lucy with a scoff. “I daresay there are two dozen dukes you’ve never heard of.”

“Have you , with your vast knowledge of London, heard of Wanlington?” asked Bel pointedly.

“Well, no,” admitted Aunt Lucy.

“But still,” said Mrs. Brownlee. “A duke! Even if it is a duke that no one has ever heard of.” Her eyes flitted back to Bel. “How many times has he called on you?”

“Nearly every day,” said Aunt Lucy proudly, answering for her tight-lipped niece.

“Oh my,” said Mrs. Brownlee faintly, agog at the distinction that had been paid to her neighbour. “And to think he dined with us at Mullhill Manor—and it was I who bade him take you in for dinner.”

Bel heard the front door of the house open as Jenny admitted their next guest. Mr. Lymington—or, should she say, his grace the Duke of Wanlington—would be entering the parlour any moment.

Aunt Lucy must have recognised the same.

She began to twitter about the weather to Mrs. Brownlee, trying to manufacture the illusion that they were not talking about the new arrival.

That illusion was doomed to failure, however, for Mrs. Brownlee’s shining eyes were fixated on the door as she gripped the armrest of the sofa.

The door opened. “Good afternoon,” said the duke breezily, still unaware what had just been divulged.

Mrs. Brownlee rose to her feet and dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, your grace.”

The dark-haired man fell silent, and his face fell into a grimace while Mrs. Brownlee held her curtsy far longer than was necessary.

“Oh, dash it all, please don’t do that.” Bel saw his lips set in a disappointed line.

He looked from Mrs. Brownlee to Aunt Lucy to Bel, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall by the doorframe.

“Won’t you sit down, your grace?” simpered Aunt Lucy, jumping to her feet as well. She gestured to the place on the sofa that Mrs. Brownlee had vacated and pulled their plump neighbour over to the window. “Mrs. Brownlee and I were just admiring the…landscape.”

“Yes, it is so picturesque this time of year,” remarked Bel dryly. Anyone with eyes could see that the December garden was particularly barren and colourless except for the boxwood hedge .

Warily, the duke uncrossed his arms and walked over to the sofa, taking a seat next to Bel.

She could see that his mulberry coat framed his shoulders impeccably, no doubt the product of one of London’s most exclusive tailors.

His dark waistcoat was patterned with whorls of gold thread, and his cravat was the kind of snowy white that didn’t exist in Derbyshire.

Bel took a deep breath. But he was still the same gentleman who had called on her all this week.

The same gentleman who had offered her a carriage to keep out of the rain.

The same gentleman who had brought her biscuits when she was crying in the hayloft.

She would not do him the discourtesy of either sudden disgust or sycophantic worship.

“Mrs. Brownlee tells me that you’re a duke, Mr. Lymington.” Miss Morrison arched an eyebrow and spoke with the same straightforward confidence that she had always possessed.

“Does she indeed?”

“Mmhmm.”

Nigel looked at her sharply. She did not seem the least bit angry or awed.

As much as he had worried about the former, he had absolutely dreaded the latter.

To see Miss Morrison furious with him for his lie of omission would be a shame, but to see Miss Morrison kowtowing to his title would be the end of his admiration of her.

“Well, are you?” she demanded. Nigel could see the plump neighbour over by the window craning her neck to listen in—while Aunt Lucy kept Mrs. Brownlee from rejoining the couple on the sofa, ostensibly giving them a tête-à-tête .

“Yes, I was elevated to the title two years ago, at the demise of my brother.”

“My condolences on the death of your brother.”

He gave a slight shrug. He had already told Miss Morrison that his brother was dead. They had not been close. Or even fond of each other. Not like a more generous family of siblings. Not like Belinda and Charles Morrison.

The Duke of Wanlington?” she said, continuing her interrogation.

“Warrenton, actually. But I can see how those meddling with my mail could have mistaken the direction on the letter. My correspondent has shockingly poor penmanship.”

Indeed, everything about his correspondent was shocking, and he wished fervently that Lady Maltrousse had never written to him.

The elder Miss Morrison could contain herself no longer and flitted back to stand near her niece.

“Letters are always of interest in a small village,” said Aunt Lucy.

“I’m afraid Mr. Coleman—and Mrs. Coleman—have no qualms about sharing word of whatever arrives in the post bag.

No, pray, do not get up from your seat, your grace. ”

“And the rest of us have no qualms about sharing the gossip from the Colemans.” Bel pursed her lips at her aunt, and Nigel noticed how the soft winter light caught the sprinkles of red and gold in her brown hair.

“But the Colemans are such dear people,” Mrs. Brownlee hastened to add, coming over to have her share in the conversation, “and so accommodating about the preparations for the Boxing Day ball at the inn. I do hope Your Grace will still be able to join us? ”

Lady Maltrousse would have encouraged Nigel to squash Mrs. Brownlee like a presumptuous mushroom, but somehow, Nigel could not find it in himself to snub her.

He rose to his feet as a gentleman ought.

“I am not sure, Mrs. Brownlee. It is possible I may need to leave the neighbourhood sooner than that.”

If Mr. Digby sent men looking for him, he would be leaving Upper Cross as fast as a hired horse could take him. Curse Simpson and his itching palm!

“I imagine a duke has many responsibilities at Christmas time,” said Miss Morrison, rising from the sofa to make a fourth in the conversation.

“Er…yes, I suppose. To which responsibilities do you refer?”

“Why, it is not only Christmas for you, but also for all your servants, your tenants, and their families. Surely, some gesture of largesse is warranted?”

“Ah. Yes.” Nigel had never considered the matter before. “Of course. My steward, naturally, takes care of such things. I leave everything to him, so that I don’t have to be bothered.”

“How convenient,” said Miss Morrison, as if she had seen right through him. “So, your only task is to procure a Boxing Day gift for your steward.”

“Just so.” Nigel wracked his brain trying to remember the name of the man whose letters he had ignored. He crossed his arms once again and decided to curtail the visit that he had looked forward to all day. “How late it is. I must be on my way now. If you could ring for Archie, Miss Morrison?”

“We have no bells here,” she said, “but I can fetch him from the kitchen.” Nigel made his adieu to the two older woman and then followed Miss Morrison out the parlour door and down the staircase to the kitchen, seizing his beaver as he went.

There, on a stool by the countertop, Archie was enjoying a biscuit, head bent close to the Morrisons’ maid-of-all-work.

“Jenny,” said Miss Morrison brightly. “Our guests are leaving.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, turning red as she saw Nigel following behind her mistress. She slid from the stool and bobbed a curtsy in the messy kitchen, the steam from the kettle causing her dishevelled hair to fall into ringlets. “Your grace.”

“I didn’t tell ‘er,” said Archie, red in the face. “She already knew, Mr. Lymington…er…yer grace.”

“No,” said Nigel smoothly. “I’m certain you didn’t. The cat is out of the bag now, is it not, Miss Morrison?”

“Out of the bag entirely,” agreed Miss Morrison, “and roaming wherever it wishes.” She laid her hands on the flat, wooden surface of the countertop, and Nigel saw that in contrast to the callouses on her hands there were two perfect half-moons on her thumbnails.

The desire to trace them with his own fingers was overwhelming, but a new distance had grown between them like an overnight hedge of thorns.

“Good day, Miss Morrison,” said Nigel, trying to paper over his frustration.

“Good day, you grace,” said Miss Morrison, eyebrow lifted in ironic humour. It was only after he had left the kitchen that Nigel noticed she had not bothered to curtsy to him.

It was something.