The Wicked Duke (11 page)

Just as Marianne moved toward the terrace doors to disappear, Mrs. Wigglesworth appeared with Mr. Peterson in tow. She made introductions. Mr. Peterson asked Marianne for a dance.

Everything about the man made her want to yawn. His expression seemed incapable of animation. The way his eyelids lived at half-mast gave the impression it was all he could do to stay awake.

Unable to politely decline, but wishing she had made it to the upper terrace doors, she accompanied Mr. Peterson into the line forming for the dance.

“Mrs. Wigglesworth says your family is well known in the area,” Marianne said.

“We have been here for generations. I knew your
father, although it was my own father with whom he was friends.”

The dance began.

“Are you not also the coroner?” she asked when they came together again.

“I am indeed. I have been for three years now.”

More dance steps.

“That must be a sad position.”

“At times. It can be very interesting, too, and require careful thought.”

It took some time before she could speak to him again.

“I have heard people mention how the last duke's death still occupies you. How distressing it must be, to be unable to determine the rightness of a decision after all this time.”

He said nothing in reply. When the dance ended, he escorted her back to where he found her. “Do you have a particular interest in a coroner's duties, Miss Radley? Few people do.”

“I think it must be fascinating. I hope you do not think me morbid for saying so.”

“I am not morbid myself, so I would never think that about you. Death comes to us all. Like birth and marriage, it involves documents. I merely ensure those legal papers are accurate.”

“Much like a vicar.”

He almost smiled. “Yes, that is a good way to put it.”

“Perhaps on occasion, at assemblies and such, you will regale me with your more interesting cases. Such as that of the last duke.”

Half alert now, he stepped closer and spoke in a smug
voice. “I would be happy to. As it happens, on that particular matter, I will confide there may be a resolution very soon.” He put a finger to his pale lips.

She made the same gesture and nodded. “I assure you, I am very discreet, sir.”

“Miss Radley, I had no idea you were so sympathetic. I would have begged an introduction days ago. Would you accept my escort to the dining room for some refreshments?”

Elijah Tewkberry should be elated to agree to that escort and the resulting half hour of conversation. Miss Radley, however, did not want to go at all.

“I hear there is a wonderful cake,” Mr. Peterson cajoled.

“She does not want cake, Peterson,” a voice interrupted. “She promised me a dance, and I am claiming it now.”

Aylesbury loomed at Mr. Peterson's shoulder. Without another word, the duke held out his hand to escort Marianne back to the dancing.

“It is a good thing I spied you over in that corner,” he said as they waited for others to take their places. “Peterson is bad for one's health, he so lacks vitality.”

“No one could accuse you of that, Your Grace.”

“Aylesbury. I told you. Did you not believe me?”

“I noticed your rescue deprived me of the opportunity to decline this honor, Aylesbury.”

“If you had truly wanted to decline, you would have found a way, even if it meant eating cake with a man much less interesting than I am.”

Marianne tried to pretend she did not notice the attention they garnered as they joined the line. In order to
avoid the eyes aimed her way, she had to look at the duke, however. He, on the other hand, smiled left and right to whomever he saw watching.

He asked after Nora as they danced. He complimented her dress. He admired her mother's impressive presence. Soon enough the dance ended, and he escorted her back.

Peterson was gone. Nor did the duke stop in that spot. Rather, with her hand still resting on his, he kept walking, right through the doors to the upper veranda.

Their dance ceased to interest people as soon as it began. Marianne trusted not too many eyes saw them leave. Nor was the veranda deserted. Two women chatted at one end, and three men enjoyed cigars not far from the doors.

“You might have asked me if I wanted some air,” she said.

“And risk having you decide you did not? That is not the way I do things.”

They stood near a lamp. It sent amber light up onto his face. A handsome face, remarkably so, but the scar appeared harsher and deeper in that abrupt chiaroscuro.

He noticed her looking at it. He touched it lightly with his fingertips. “Do you find it repulsive?”

“Not at all.”

“Some people do.”

“It cannot be ignored, but when someone notices it, that does not mean they are repulsed.”

“For many years, when I was younger, that was all I saw in their eyes.”

“And now?”

“I learned not to give a damn what people think.”

“Then why did you ask me what I thought?”

He smiled. “You are not supposed to be more clever than a duke when you talk to him. It isn't done.”

“Since you don't give a damn what anyone thinks about you, you will not be offended when I say that I do not care if you are a duke.”

“Far too clever now.”

“Then I will leave you, and return to my seat by the wall reserved for women on the shelf.”

She turned to leave. He stepped away from the lamp and stopped her with a hold on her arm. “Do not go. If you stay, I will tell you how it happened. Almost no one knows.”

She looked at his hand on her, and then at where those women had been talking. They were gone now, as were the men. They were alone on the terrace.

“Did you tell everyone to go inside?”

“Did you hear me do that?” He looked around. “Perhaps they were cold. Or maybe they preferred to give me wide berth. Or wanted me to have privacy with you. It does not seem fair, does it? For the whole county to be deprived of the terrace because a duke has use of it. Let us remedy that.” He crooked his finger, beckoning her to follow him.

Her sense of caution at high mast, she followed him to a set of stone stairs that led down to the lower terrace. “I am not such a fool as to go down there with you. I do care what is thought of
me
, and you play fast with my reputation now.”

“It is in clear view of anyone up there, but out of hearing. I daresay others will venture down if we do.”

She looked up, then down. The upper terrace was a shallow balcony overlooking the larger lower one. Although only the full moon illuminated that terrace, anyone up here could see it.

Swallowing her misgivings, she ventured down. He brought her to the terrace wall near the garden, the part most visible from above.

“So now you will tell me the secret of that scar? Is it from a duel?”

He did not appear inclined to speak. She glared at him boldly, daring him to renege on his promise.

He lounged against the wall, with his arm and elbow resting on its top. “Since your return, what have you heard about my brother?”

“That he was not as bad as you, and perhaps even good.”

He laughed at that. “I would not go so far as to damn him with goodness. He could be very careless at times.” He touched his cheek. “He did this, for example.”

“Were you practicing with swords?”

“Percy ceased being serious competition at swordplay by the time I was twelve. No, this was a game gone awry. Two boys up to no good. I matured before him, and began to sport hairs on my chin and face. Just a few, but enough to annoy him.”

“I expect he did not like that at all, to have a younger brother becoming a man first.”

“One day, when we were together, having fun for the first time in memory—he and I had long before begun avoiding each other—we found ourselves in a servant's chamber where we should not be. Percy liked to snoop on
people. So there we were, and we opened the box with that man's shaving materials. The razor fascinated my brother. He suggested he play valet, and shave off those hairs.”

She suddenly knew where the story would end. She held up her hand. “Please. Do not describe it. Such an accident must have been horrible.”

“It was very dramatic. Blood everywhere. I staggered out of there screaming, blind from it. It took a surgeon to stitch it up, and I almost died from an infection before it was over.”

“How terrible for you. For both of you. He must have experienced terrible guilt.”

He gazed over at her. “Such guilt you have never seen. He cried until my mother insisted we never speak of it to him again. Poor Percy. All that grief. All those apologies. Begging my father's forgiveness. Such a sorry lad.”

“It is understandable that you did not feel bad for him.”

“I knew him very well, better than my father or mother ever would. I did not see guilt or sorrow in his eyes when he looked at me and no one watched. As I relived that afternoon over the years, I realized he had done it on purpose. He would look at my face when we were alone, look at that scar, and smile
.
”

“Surely you misunderstood.”

He stood straight. “I misunderstood nothing, pretty flower. I may be bad, but he was evil.”

He was not joking. Her demand for the story of the scar had changed him. Altered his presence. Darkened him.

“That is a strong word.”

“One that I avoided using for a very long time too. As a
boy, I merely thought him mean. He was the heir, and he loved using that in any way he could. To get his own way. To separate us from our mother by requiring all her attention. As I got older, I realized he hated me, and Ives, too, although Ives was young enough to miss the worst of it.”

“Why should he hate you? As you said, he was the heir.”

“He was smaller than us. He took after Mother in that, and in his frailty, and even in his features, which did not flatter him. He did not look much like our father, as we do. By the time I was ten I could beat him at any physical sport or game. When I put my mind to it, I could beat him in schoolwork too. So he set about getting back at us. There were many accidents such as the one with the razor, you see. And Percy was always involved.”

She wished she had not encouraged this topic. The mood between them had turned serious. Also intimate. His darkness and her sympathy met in the space between them, each trying to absorb the other.

He looked to the upper terrace. “Now you have to share one of your secrets.”

“I have no secrets.” She had one, but if she revealed her correspondence, she would commit social suicide. No one could ever know about Elijah Tewkberry.

“Everyone has things they do not want to admit. Failings, or sins, or regrets.” He looked over at her and smiled. “Private yearnings, or forbidden plans.”

She shook her head, but each of his words called forth her inner thoughts and emotions. He was correct. Everyone had secrets in their hearts.

“Then I will have to guess.” He cocked his head and
examined her. “I think in your heart there are many reasons you preferred that cottage to coming back here. I do not deny you your kindness in being concerned for your cousin's welfare. However, I think you came to enjoy your lack of expectations.”

“What nonsense. Who prefers no expectations?”

“I speak of the ones others lay on your shoulders. People like your mother. Like them.” He gestured toward the ballroom's door. “Marriage, for example. My guess is in Wiltshire there were no assemblies and balls where you sat on the wall reserved for ladies on the shelf. Nor did such as Mr. Peterson dare familiarity, all the while thinking you would never do since you lack a fortune.”

She felt her face getting hot. And her head. “Thank you for articulating my situation with such precision. I might have missed its full implications without your help.”

He touched her left cheek with his right hand. No one on the upper terrace would see.

“I have hurt you. I can be careless that way.”

“No. Fair is fair.” She turned her head enough for his fingertips to fall away. “After how I pressed you, I cannot complain if you try to bare my soul.”

“I also think that there is a memory that sustains your heart,” he said quietly. “A tendre from when you were a girl, for a man you could not have. Whatever the pain, you are content you were not deprived of that emotion. Better to have loved and lost than . . .”

She refused to react. She would be damned before she let him know he had been right twice.

“I also think—”

“You are not done? You will owe me more secrets if you tip the accounts.”

“I also think that you enjoy where fate has placed your life. You must have learned the benefits of independence while away. You may not like sitting on the shelf for all of society to note and pity, but if it means keeping that freedom, you will do it.”

She had a scold all ready, so as to end this when he finished this additional intrusion on her private life. She could not speak it. She could only look at him, both astonished and touched that with so little knowledge of her, he had surmised so much.

He stepped closer and took her hand in his. The ones not visible from the balcony. “I also think—no, I know—that you secretly like that I am bad, pretty flower. You enjoy my stolen kisses more than you are supposed to. The pleasure enthralls you.”

He stood so closely she had to angle her head back to see his face. His expression sent excitement dancing through her. His intentions showed in his eyes. She looked up to the balcony. Not a person could be seen. She could not be sure they had complete privacy, however. She dare not allow another of those stolen kisses.

He moved, keeping her hand firmly in his. He pulled and coaxed at the same time, taking her toward the end of the wall where the building blocked the moonlight and created a black patch of shadow.