Four Nights With the Duke (12 page)

“Anyone can shove me over.”

“Not if you had a dagger or a rapier,” Vander said, giving him a wolfish grin.

“A
rapier
?” Charlie’s face lit up. And fell just as quickly. “How would I hold a rapier? I’m always carrying my crutch.”

“We could put a concealed dagger in your crutch. They do it with walking sticks all the time. Not that you want to stab anyone, but a man needs a weapon.”

“You should stab Sir Richard with a rapier!”

“It’s best to avoid manslaughter except when absolutely necessary,” Vander said, the thought crossing his mind that perhaps he wasn’t the best model for a boy. He was hardly peaceable in his temperament.

Neither, it seemed, was Charlie. “You should kill
Mr. Reeve as well. Aunt Mia says that sometimes men are not as courageous as one would hope, but I think he was horrid to leave her like that.”

“I’ll consider it,” Vander promised. “Your aunt’s fiancé is definitely a scoundrel. He blamed his inadequacies on you, which is a shameful thing to do.” He leaned over and poked Charlie in the stomach. “Don’t you agree with me, Crip?”

Color washed Charlie’s thin cheeks again and he lurched to his feet, his crutch thumping the wooden floor. “I don’t wish to be called that name!”

Reeve’s loss was his gain. Vander genuinely liked this boy. He rose and then crouched down in front of Charlie so their eyes were on a level. “All right, I won’t.”

“Never?”

“No. Can I call you Gammy?”

“No!”

“Peg-leg?”

“No.”

“I must address you as Lord Carrington?”

Silence. Then, “I suppose you can call me Charlie.”

“Does that make me Uncle Vander, in private at least?”

A tiny smile played on Charlie’s mouth, the first Vander had seen. “I think I’ll call you Vulcan in private.”

Vander snorted. “You call me Vulcan and I’ll call you Crip. That way you won’t give a toss by the time you get to school.”

Charlie blinked. “
School
! I can’t go to school.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a cripple. You don’t understand. It’s like going to the fair. I might be pushed over.”

“So what? You’ve shown me that you know how to
roll. You can’t stay in this room like a fairy-tale princess asleep behind her briars.”

“I’m not a princess,” Charlie said, scowling.

“Then let’s go downstairs and fetch some food from the kitchens, and after that we’ll set out for my house. There’s an art to raiding the larder, Crip, and every young lord needs to know it.”

They made their way to the top of the stairs, and stood for a moment looking down the rounded sweep.

“Is this one of the reasons you spend so much time in the nursery?” Vander asked.

The boy nodded. “It takes me too long to get down. I have to cling to the rail and I feel as if the footmen are laughing behind my back. Mr. Gaunt used to carry me down, but I’m too big for that now.”

“I agree.” Vander put Charlie’s hand on the magnificent mahogany banister. “Do you feel how smooth this is? It is meant for sliding down. I’ll take your crutch this time, but next time you can tuck it under your arm.”

Charlie’s eyes grew round. “Aunt Mia would
kill
me.”

Vander pretended to look around. “Aunt? Any aunts here?” He grinned at Charlie. “I’ll catch you at the bottom. Turn around and slide on your stomach.”

Charlie was clearly apprehensive, but he was a brave fellow. When Vander reached the bottom and shouted, “On you go, Crip,” he clambered awkwardly onto the banister.

“Let go!” Vander hollered.

He did, with just a little squeak.

Vander watched as the small body slid toward him, black hair flying. He caught Charlie easily before the newel post could inflict damage. “At my house we’ll post a footman at the foot of the stairs and tell him it’s
his job to catch you. When you’ve had more practice, you’ll be able to stop yourself.”

Charlie’s cheeks were red and his eyes shone. “That was terrific!”

“Good,” Vander said, grinning at him.

“Aunt Mia will hate it.” Charlie’s smile was reckless and delighted.

“Mothers, and aunts, are generally vexed when their children discover speed. Wait until she sees you galloping.”

“She won’t permit it,” Charlie breathed.

“A man can’t let himself be governed by a woman, can he?”

The boy’s thin chest swelled. “No.”

“Right. Time for bread and cheese. I’m tired of calling you Crip. What do you think of Peg-Legged Pete?”

“I don’t like it,” Charlie said happily.

“Hop-Along Harry?”

“No!”

From Miss Carrington to Mssrs. Brandy, Bucknell & Bendal, Publishers

September 9, 1800

Dear Mr. Bucknell,

I expect you have seen this in the
Morning Post
, but you should learn of it directly from me as well: since our last exchange, I have become married to the Duke of Pindar through a series of misunderstandings that could enliven the pages of one of Lucibella’s novels. It is but a temporary arrangement; we shall soon have all this bother unraveled, but it does make it even more imperative that no one discover my identity as a novelist. There may be those who would find the Pindar legacy tarnished by Lucibella’s literary efforts.

I assure you I am working diligently on the novel, and not in the least distracted by my new circumstances. I am sending this missive with one of the duke’s grooms, who will be happy to wait for your response. I would be grateful to receive the Quiplet novels as well.

Miss Carrington
. Her Grace, the Duchess of Pindar

M
ia spent the afternoon fuming over her husband’s presumptuous ways. She would rather have introduced Charles Wallace to Vander herself.

And what was taking this long? It was a mere hour’s coach ride between their houses, and after three hours turned to four, she began to fret. Perhaps Charlie had objected to leaving home with a stranger.

In an effort to distract herself, she began to write notes toward her novel, working on the little desk in her bedchamber. An hour or so later, she took her writing materials down to the drawing room and, after clearing away a herd of glass rabbits, set herself to writing at a table that faced the courtyard.

Poor Flora was being excoriated by the unpleasant owner of a lace-making establishment when she finally heard the rumble of carriage wheels coming up the drive.

Nottle and two footmen were loitering in the entry when she dashed out of the drawing room. “Open the door, if you please,” she said.

“I shall fetch your pelisse, Your Grace,” he said, managing to convey just what he thought of a duchess with ink-stained fingers and—she glanced down—ink stains on her cuffs as well.

“The door, Nottle,” she said, between clenched teeth.

A groom in splendid livery was just opening the door of the carriage. Vander descended, then he stuck his head back into the carriage and stepped back. Before she could dash down the steps, Charlie appeared in the carriage door, crutch under his arm, and hopped down.

Mia didn’t make a sound, though a scream was caught somewhere in her chest. Of course, it wasn’t a great distance from the carriage to the gravel. But she had always been careful to have a footman place a handy step and hold Charlie’s elbow.

At any rate, Charlie was swinging toward her, his eyes shining. She caught him up when he reached her, swinging him in a circle so that his hair flew into the air. “Charlie, my love!” He tolerated three kisses, but then he struggled away and turned to look up at the ducal mansion.

His mouth fell open. “Is this where we’re going to live?” Vander had caught up with them, and Charlie turned. “Is this your house?”

“Never show astonishment, Crip,” Vander said. “But yes, this is Rutherford Manor.”

Mia frowned. “What did you call Charlie?”

“I told you she wouldn’t like it,” Charlie said to Vander.

“Charlie and I are trying out nicknames to decide which one he likes the best,” Vander said. “So far he’s rejected Hop-Along Harry and Peg-Legged Pete, but I have high hopes that he’ll get used to Crip.”

“That is
not
acceptable,” Mia said, low and fierce. She glanced down to see if Charlie was scarred by this calloused treatment, but he had tipped his head back to see Vander’s face and there was an unmistakable look of hero-worship in his eyes.

Vander shrugged.

Mia opened her mouth to elaborate, but Nottle
was standing in the doorway, and Charlie had three marble steps to climb, as well as the sweeping round of stairs leading upstairs. “Let’s investigate the nursery,” she said instead, making up her mind to discuss the subject with Vander when they were alone.

Vander squatted down and said, “Charlie, old man, it’s been a long day, and I think you should take a ride upstairs. Give your crutch to your aunt.”

“Charlie hates to—” Mia began.

“On your back?” Charlie said eagerly, passing her his crutch.

“Yup. The same way we came up from the kitchen.”

As she watched, dumbfounded, Vander turned about, and Charlie wound his thin arms around Vander’s neck and his legs around his waist.

Vander’s embroidered coat probably cost more than a cottager made in three seasons. But he showed no signs of worry about damage from Charlie’s boots.

It took time to settle Charlie into the new nursery, and all the while Mia was awash in contradictory feelings. Part of her was still incredulous about Vander’s demand that they remain married. Another part was fearful. A third was grieving for the husband she had hoped to have someday.

And the marriage she’d hoped to have too: a partnership with a rational, honorable man who would love, cherish, and respect her.

She only had herself to blame.
She
hadn’t been honorable so, of course, a merciless fate had handed her Vander as a husband. It was like something out of the great myths, the ones in which an awful blunder led to a catastrophic end.

With a proverb at the finish, something about deceitful women, no doubt, and dishonorable men.

Not that Vander was dishonorable. So it went:
around and around in a vicious, maddening circle, all afternoon and into the evening until Mia was so desperate that she promptly downed a glass of sherry on entering the drawing room.

Vander was already there, looking none the worse for wear for having engaged in a round of fisticuffs with Sir Richard. Susan had told her the details as Mia dressed for supper, and reported as well that the downstairs was galvanized by a sense of vicarious triumph.

Mia heartily approved. Frankly, if she had been strong enough to pummel Sir Richard, she would have done so long ago—perhaps the first time that he assured her that Charlie had little chance of living more than a few years.

There was no sign of Chuffy in the drawing room, which gave Mia a prickling feeling of unease. Nottle had taken himself away to supervise preparations for the evening meal, and she and Vander were alone.

Vander had changed into a plain black coat. His hair tumbled around his ears in a style that bore no resemblance to the latest fashions but was fifty times more sensual for that. His cravat—well, it was tied. That was about all you could say for it.

Still, she was uncomfortably aware that she couldn’t take her eyes from him. It was preposterous: she was a civilized young lady of the brand-new century, and yet an errant part of her soul was thrilled by his rough edges and brutishness. According to Susan’s account, he had knocked out Sir Richard with one blow.

“More wine?” Vander asked, eyeing her empty glass.

“I shouldn’t,” Mia answered. “I become tipsy very quickly.”

“Chuffy has the monopoly on that particular sin,” Vander said, taking a drink of brandy that smelled far better than the bitter sherry Nottle had handed her. Without asking what she’d prefer, she might add.

She wandered over to say hello to the glass menagerie on the mantel. “If you dislike the animals, have you thought of boxing them up?”

“They will soon perish as clothing flies through the air.” There was something about the way he drawled that which made her pause. What on earth did he mean?

She turned. “Do you often disrobe in the drawing room?” she inquired.

“Only when driven to do so.” His eyes had a truly wicked glint. “I have high hopes for marriage.”

Mia choked. “That sounds like a man who thinks four nights with him are worth a king’s ransom.”

“I suppose that disrobing in a public room is akin to bedding: I shall do so only if my wife implores me.”

“Your valet will be happy to know that I have no plans to disturb his labors,” Mia said, taking a deep breath of the mixture of horse and sunshine that hung about her husband. It made her long to fly into his arms and simply breathe him in. Absurd.

“I am curious to know more about the fiancé who preceded me,” Vander said, just as Chuffy wandered into the room.

“Oh, had you a fiancé?” Chuffy asked genially. He was already equipped with a glass of brandy.

Mia smiled at him, relieved that he had joined them. “Good evening, Sir Cuthbert. Indeed, I did have a fiancé before His Grace was kind enough to come to my aid.”

“Don’t beat about the bush, gal,” Chuffy advised. “Vander didn’t come to your aid as much as you
forced him to marry you. I like the turn on an old story. Why, if this got out, it would gladden the hearts of maidens everywhere. Like one of my novels.”

“Your novels?” Mia’s heart bounded. She had never met another novelist, let alone formed a friendship with one, for obvious reasons.

“Chuffy has a weakness for gothic novels,” Vander said. “He reads every one he can get his hands on. The more disreputable, the better, isn’t that right, Chuffy?”

“My taste is not entirely respectable,” Chuffy confided. “I imagine you’ve never read anything so paltry. I say, do you mind if I call you Emilia? I find ‘Your Gracing’ right and left to be taxing. Hard to remember. You’d better start calling me Chuffy now, because I’m getting on in years. In no time I won’t remember my own title.”

“I would be honored, if you called me Mia. But truly, as I have been trying to persuade the duke, our marriage is one of convenience only, designed to safeguard my nephew’s inheritance. I shan’t be here in five years.”

“Convenience!” Chuffy’s eyes rounded. “My favorite plot device! Tell me, my dear, have you read any of Miss Julia Quiplet’s novels?”

“I have read one,” Mia said. “I liked it very much, and—”

Chuffy interrupted her. “There’s another novelist who’s just as good. Though I can’t seem to remember her name at the moment.”

Despite herself, Mia stiffened. It would be disappointing if Chuffy was referring to Mrs. Scudgell’s novels; in Mia’s opinion, those books were hurt by their reliance on implausible situations. Not that her own plots were particularly credible, but at least in her novels it never snowed in July simply because the heroine’s tears affected Mother Nature.

“I have all her novels bound in calfskin editions tooled with gold, with silk inserts and marbled endpapers,” Chuffy said. “Dang it, I cannot believe I forgot her name! In my favorite, the heroine is almost guillotined.”

“Given the fact that you have told me the plot of each and every book you buy,” Vander put in, “I would venture to say that you are speaking of Miss Lucibella Delicosa.” He turned to Mia. “The travails of Miss Delicosa’s fictional heroines are generally our primary subject of conversation for at least a week after a new novel arrives.”

“I only wish it happened more frequently,” Chuffy lamented. “My favorite authors are horribly lazy. I’m sure they could write more quickly if they truly applied themselves. At any rate, Vander is right. Miss Delicosa is my favorite novelist, so I order her novels in special bindings. They cost a pretty penny, but they’re worth it.”

Mia felt herself grinning. She knew to the penny how much her publisher charged for those special editions, because she had authorized production of the three-volume editions at two guineas and five pence, a veritable fortune in the world of publishing.

“I gather you have read those novels,” Vander said.

In that moment, it struck Mia that she had an inspired way to convince Vander that she was not duchess material. “I have a secret identity,” she announced.

“Are you a French spy?” Chuffy asked, his face lighting up.

“Don’t be absurd,” Vander said, scowling at his uncle, and then at Mia. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“I write novels.”

“You do?” Chuffy was clearly delighted. “My dear,
I couldn’t be happier to hear that. I adore novels. Live for them. I can be your muse!”

“
You
a literary muse, Uncle?” Vander was obviously on the verge of laughter.

“You don’t understand my point,” Mia said, nettled by his amusement. “Novels are scandalous, and duchesses definitely can’t author books of that nature. Some of my fellow novelists have quite irregular lives.”

“Really?” Chuffy cried. “Do tell me everything you know! What about Miss Quiplet? I imagine that she is a young lady of great refinement, but of course I have no real idea.”

“I know nothing of her personal circumstances,” Mia said, “but I can tell you that the author of
Ellen, Countess of Castle Howel
—”

“I adored that novel,” Chuffy said eagerly. “It was one of the first I ever read, over five years ago now.”