An Ideal Duchess (12 page)

             
“Hello Papa, White,” She gestured towards the rear of the motor. “I’ve got my foot on the brake pedal, so you’d better hurry into the motor.”

             
White clambered into the rear seat and her father into the curved black leather seat beside hers, and she slowly lifted her right foot from the brake, moved it to the accelerator, and sped away from the wharf with a few warning honks of the horn. As she drove through Washington Square and down Touro Street, which then turned into Bellevue Avenue, Amanda caught the scandalized expressions of the ladies driving their phaetons and matched pair up Bellevue Avenue towards the Casino. Her father guffawed beside her, and even White laughed, though he covered his amusement with a few hearty coughs. She could only imagine tomorrow’s headlines, or next week’s issue of Town Topics, concerning her impromptu disruption of the sedate, mid-morning carriage drive, and winced a little at making herself even more conspicuous.

             
The dark blue and gilded wrought-iron gates leading to the elegant English-style cottage they rented for the summer were open, and Amanda drove through them and down the manicured courtyard to the entrance. There she was able to turn the motor off, and it rumbled and shook to a quiet halt. White stepped down from the rear entrance and disappeared through the servants’ entrance in the western wing, leaving Amanda with her father. She loosened the scarf holding her hat to her head as she turned to face him.

             
“Now Papa, before you begin scolding me—”

             
“It wouldn’t do you any good, would it, young miss?” He shook his head. “Motor driving!”

             
“You must admit I’m rather good at it,” Amanda preened. “Kincaid said I had a real knack for driving.”

             
“As long as you don’t take up racing these contraptions,”

             
“Of course not, Papa, though I must admit the prospect sounds exciting.” She grinned at her father’s reddening complexion. “But I promise I will not race.”

             
Her father shook his head again and slid his substantial bulk from the passenger seat. “Now where is this duke of yours?”

             
Amanda checked the levers, pedals, and the ignition switch before leaving the motorcar, and then linked her arm into that of her father’s as they entered the house. They were met by the sight of Lulu sledding down the spiral staircase on metal sheet and then skidding across the marble floor, where he promptly capsized his sled and crashed onto his side. Amanda looked up at the booming laughter to see Bron and Quintus grinning down at them from the second floor. Well, she thought with a pang of jealousy, His Grace seemed to get on quite well with her brothers. She glanced at her father, who was now puce with some suppressed emotion. Cornelius Vandewater’s unusually sharp faculties obviously failed him in the face of a ducal guest wreaking havoc in one’s home.

             
Lulu scrambled to his feet and lifted his sled—one of the old shields their father had purchased from a Roman art dealer—and pulled a face when she caught his eye. The laughter seemed to have fled the room as they awaited her father’s reaction, but then he burst into great bellows of laughter, grabbing Lulu by the arm and mussing his hair. Amanda joined in with the laughter, which drew her mother from whatever she was doing in the drawing room.

             
“My word—Cornelius, dear!” Her mother’s face brightened when she realized Papa was there, and they embraced, her father giving her mother a smacking kiss on the cheek.

             
Quintus had descended the stairs and was also playfully rubbed on the head by Papa.

             
“Now young sirs, what is this?” Papa gestured towards the shield Lulu held.

             
“His Grace, I mean Bron, he said he used to do this on his holidays at home.” Quintus replied. “It’s my turn Lulu.”

             
“His Grace, eh?” Her father lifted a brow.

             
The Duke of Malvern slowly stepped down the spiral staircase, and Amanda frowned slightly at the shaken, slightly unnerved expression on his face. His freckles stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin like copper blotches.

             
“I apologize for the disturbance, Vandewater,”

             
“No need,” Her father waved a hand carelessly. “How do you like Newport?”

             
The duke appeared even more taken aback, this time by her father’s abrupt change in topic. “I, ah, expressed my pleasure to Mrs. Vandewater earlier this week. It’s unlike any place I’ve seen before.”

             
“Has my daughter shown you around? I don’t get down here as often as I like, but I know there are many activities for you young people.”

             
“There’s a clambake tonight, Papa,” Amanda said quickly. “His Grace and I were invited by Douglas Warfield.”

             
“Excellent! I know his father well,” Her father looked pleased. “Pardon me while I go wipe a bit of my travel from my heels. It is a pleasure to see you here in my home, Your Grace.”

             
“Thank you for having me,” The duke said in a subdued voice before her parents began mounting the stairs.

             
“My turn, Lulu!” Quintus reached for the shield.

             
“That’s enough indoor sledding, Quin,” Amanda tugged the shield from Lulu’s arms. “We don’t want to press our luck regarding Papa’s good humor about this.”

             
“Oh bully, Amanda,” Quintus rolled his eyes. “Let’s go ride our bicycles to the Casino, Lulu.”

             
Amanda was left with the duke in the entrance hall, and she glanced briefly at him, questions about his brother, about his current thoughts, about everything concerning him, bursting on the tip of her tongue. But the memory of his earlier rebuff of her confidences stung her again, and she walked through the drawing room to the library, where she replaced the shield—a little more battered for wear—on the wall beside the Rubens. She turned and gasped with surprise, for the duke had followed her into the library, and stood just inside the door, staring darkly at the Rubens and the other paintings adorning the walls.

             
“I recall seeing that Lely in Chesterfield House a few summers ago,”

             
“Not this conversation again,” She said, exasperated.

             
“I’m sorry,” He said stiffly, piercing her with his silver-gray eyes. “Perhaps you might tell me about this…clambake?”

             
“I’ve actually never been to one,” Amanda admitted with a rueful smile. “This is the first summer at Newport where we’ve been deluged with invitations instead of polite snubs.”

             
He appeared stymied by her confession. “I find that rather difficult to believe, the way everyone seems to treat your family like old chums.”

             
“That, my dear duke, is because they cannot acknowledge you without acknowledging us.” Amanda said. “Wither thou goeth, I go, and so I am deemed an acceptable guest at various functions.”             

             
“What rubbish. You’re just as pretty, if not more so, and much more intelligent, than any of the other women I’ve seen here.”

             
She could not halt the flush of pleasure warming her cheeks, and they stared at one another for half a beat before he blinked, breaking the subtle spell of delight woven by his unexpected compliment.

             
She cleared her throat and briefly lowered her eyes from his face. “Yes, well, the clambake…is a rather amusing New England tradition where clams and quahogs and other seafood are steamed over a pit of heated rocks.”

             
“That sounds…unconventional,” He replied gravely. “I look forward, I think, to the experience.”

             
“I do hope so,” She smiled at him. “I know it will be such fun.”

*          *          *

              Amanda’s description of this unconventional mode of cooking paled beside actually witnessing the gathering of Newport’s young elite around a fire pit covered in stones and seaweed. Bron stepped across the sand on the cliffs overlooking Bailey’s Beach behind Amanda, and was amused to note how out of place he began to feel the closer he grew to the boisterous Americans. He joined Amanda beside the fire in a space made for them by the others, and glanced at her serene profile as she smiled at the casual greetings tossed her way. After overcoming his or her initial awe, no one seemed to care much that he was a duke, and he found himself in possession of a slightly charred stick, with which he was instructed to tend to the seafood wrapped in the seaweed and placed over the hot stones. The conversation ebbed and flowed over him in a shockingly frank manner unlike the gatherings he was accustomed to at home, and he was also a bit shocked by the lack of chaperones over this mixed group.

             
Could he bring this striking yet disconcerting informality into Bledington? Moreover, did he wish to?

             
The cool summer breeze stirred the sea-water soaked tarp spread over the pit and he held it in place with the stick before it could blow away. He looked up to see some of the group had begun to drift away from the orange-yellow glow of the fire pit, and the moonlight outlined more than one amorous couple kicking up sand as they made their way down the rocky coastal path towards the beach. Amanda had disappeared as well, he realized. He glanced around to discover her whereabouts, and dropped the stick beside the pit, uncaring whether the food burned, before going off to search for her.

             
The sand beneath his feet shimmered in the moonlight and shifted into shadowed furrows from the tracks of foot prints scattered across its silky surface. The breeze carried the sound of voices, and he skidded down the cliff, having caught the melodious soprano of Amanda’s voice directly beneath him. She stood near the water’s edge, laughing with the man standing beside her—too close beside her, in Bron’s estimation—and as he drew nearer, he recognized her companion as the American he’d met in the Golf Club earlier that week. He frowned at the uncomfortable thought that she might prefer Douglas Warfield to him, but when Warfield reached for her, she backed away with a laugh, and then lifted her skirts to break into a run across the beach in his direction.

             
“Bron!” She clutched his arm, breathless with laughter. “Save me.”

             
Bron stared down at her flushed face, and then at Warfield, who had stumbled to a halt a few feet away. The sound of more laughter briefly distracted him, and he saw other men and women running across the sand and in and out of the neat rows of lacquered beach huts encircling the exclusive Bailey’s Beach. He blinked, suddenly struck by the thought that he was thousands of miles away from everything and everyone he knew, and that right now, he was simply Bron Townsend. Not the impoverished Duke of Malvern, or a fortune hunter, or any other burden he’d acquired after the hellish last eighteen months of his life.

             
“I don’t know,” He said slowly, his mouth curving into a teasing smile. “I might want to catch you myself.”

             
Amanda’s eyes widened and her luscious mouth dropped open in surprise. A beat later, she released his arm and broke into a run. Warfield looked disconcerted as she rushed past him, and Bron took that moment to shed his lounge jacket and waistcoat, dropping them onto the sand, and tearing off after Amanda. Her chortle of laughter and her hat trailed behind her, and the lost hatpin loosened her masses of golden hair from its chignon. She veered close to the edge of the beach, where the gently breaking waves washed across the sand, eroding her footprints. He cornered her with a shout of triumph, and caught her in his arms, her loosened hair and white skirts and petticoats cascading all over him. He stepped towards the water, grinning down at her. Her eyes widened again when she realized his intentions.

             
“Bron, put me down!” She tightened her hold around his neck. “If you toss me in, I’ll make sure you come too.”

             
“That isn’t sporting of you, Your Grace.”

             
Bron turned, Amanda still in his arms, to see Warfield scowling at him. He narrowed his eyes at the American, but before he could reply, some of the others joined them at the water’s edge.

             
“A swim! What a marvelous idea!” Said a tall brunette with an upturned nose.

             
“Alice, you wouldn’t!” Came a scandalized cry.

             
Alice ignored the gasps and pleas and after removing her hat, plunged fully clothed into the ocean. After a moment, the others removed cumbersome items of clothing and jumped into the water.

             
“Oh dear,” Amanda murmured with a grimace. “I do hope the President doesn’t hear of this.”