The Duke's Dilemma (4 page)

She could just imagine the cut direct such a man would give a little nobody who had dared call him a…looby for heaven’s sake.

Her pulse was still fluttering wildly when thirty minutes later a footman led them to the Grecian salon where the guests had gathered before dinner. Emily immediately espied Mr. Rankin conversing with the Earl of Chillingham, a veritable peacock in orange and blue satin, and a handsome man in elegant black, whom she recognized as Beau Brummell—the commoner whose caustic wit and flair for fashion had made him a favorite of both the
ton
and the Prince Regent.

The three blond ladies who aspired to the duke’s hand were dressed, like Lucinda, in virginal white. As a result, Lady Sudsley’s red-haired daughter, in pale pink with tiny pink roses threaded through her auburn tresses, looked entirely unique. Lady Hargrave’ s ponderous bosom heaved with agitation. “We are undone by that shrew, Lady Sudsley, and her brazen off-spring,” she moaned to the earl.

“Never so, madam.” The earl’s eyes held a malicious gleam. “The chit has no chin. She may be appealing straight on; from the side, she looks like a chipmunk. Not at all the thing for a fellow as particular as Montford.”

Emily barely had time to digest this enlightening bit of information when a footman opened the door and the Duke of Montford, flanked by his two elderly maiden aunts, made his entrance. Like Mr. Brummell, he was resplendent in black satin with pristine white linen, but even the elegant Beau paled before the imposing splendor of the tall, regal duke.

All conversation instantly ceased.

“Good evening. I trust you are all settled comfortably in your respective chambers.” The duke’s rich voice echoed in the silent room, and a chorus of eager assents rose from the people ringing its perimeter. How clever to hold this first reception here, Emily thought, noting the huge circular divan in the center of the room which forced the guests to line up along the walls for the duke’s inspection.

She watched him progress from one group to the next, chatting briefly with each and raising his quizzing glass to peruse each of the young ladies offered up to him with the same concentration she’d seen potential buyers inspect the horses for sale at a country fair. Any moment now, she expected the arrogant coxcomb to ask to see their teeth.

She was so incensed by this display of autocratic insensitivity she forgot her nervousness and before she knew it, the duke was approaching the Earl of Hargrave’s party.

“I am going to faint, Mama,” Lucinda protested in a strangled whisper.

“Do so and you will answer to me, miss,” the earl hissed, as Emily made a grab for, one of Lucinda’s arms, Lady Hargrave the other. Lucinda’ s eyes glazed over and her head rolled forward to her chest but between the two of them, they managed to keep her upright.

“May I present the Earl and Countess of Hargrave, your grace,” Lady Cloris cooed, “and their dear little daughter, Lady Lucinda.” In concert, Emily and Lady Hargrave dipped Lucinda into a semblance of a curtsy.

“Charmed,” the duke said in an apathetic monotone, and never blinking an eye, raised Lucinda’s limp hand to his lips. “And…” His gaze swept Emily.

“My niece, Miss Emily Haliburton,” Lady Hargrave supplied, wagging her eyebrows at Emily to signal her to curtsy. Emily curtsied, or at least came as close to it as her hold on Lucinda would permit.

“Charmed,” the duke repeated, raising her left hand to his lips since her right was busy supporting Lucinda. Emily studied him closely, but not a sign of recognition did she see in his cold, silver eyes.

Surreptitiously, she glanced at his left hand. A massive signet ring adorned the third finger, but it was nothing like the plain gold ring the stranger had worn. This one was far more ornate and heavily encrusted with gemstones—exactly the sort of ostentatious ornament she would expect a foppish duke to wear.

She released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Praise God. There
were
two of them! They might look as alike as two fleas on a dog, but there the resemblance ended. She could no more imagine this icy-eyed duke teasing a simple country girl or hooting with laughter than she could imagine that wicked-tongued country fellow disporting himself in polite society. She was so relieved, she favored the duke with a brilliant smile, which caused him to raise his quizzing glass and give her a disapproving stare before he moved on to inspect the pretty but vapid daughter of the Earl of Pembroke.

Her first dinner at Brynhaven was an unqualified success as far as Emily was concerned. Never mind that she was pointedly snubbed by the young ladies and treated as if she didn’t exist by their mamas—or that she was generally ignored by the dashing Corinthians.

True to his word, Mr. Rankin had arranged to have her seated next to him and they had such a marvelous conversation about Greek myths and Mesopotamian legends, she almost forgot to devote part of her time to the Earl of Sudsley, who sat on her other side. But it scarcely mattered, since he had imbibed so freely of the duke’ s excellent Madeira at the reception, he was already well and truly foxed by the time the soup course was removed.

She didn’t even have to worry about Lucinda, who had recovered nicely from her swoon. She was seated next to the Earl of Chillingham, who looked so pleased with himself Emily was certain he, too, had effected some last minute changes in the seating arrangements.

Except for one dreadful moment when the lamb was served and she found herself thinking it could well be the poor little nipper she had rescued early that morning, she thoroughly enjoyed every bite of the most delicious meal she had ever consumed and every sip of the wines which accompanied each of the seven courses.

The balance of the evening was just as successful, albeit a bit more nerve-racking. Each of the young ladies, in turn, performed for the duke and his guests. Two of the young blond ladies sang quite prettily, one of them played a simple piece on the pianoforte and Lady Sudsley’s daughter, staring directly into the duke’s eyes all the while, recited a long and soulful rendition of Sir Walter Scott’s popular poem,
The Lady of the Lake
.

“Lud, I hope she don’t swoon,” Lady Hargrave whispered when it came Lucinda’s turn to perform. For one moment it looked as if that was exactly what she was going to do.

After handing her music to Lady Sudsley, who had volunteered to accompany the young singers, Lucinda clutched the edge of the pianoforte in abject terror. But the Earl of Chillingham, his face a mask of concern, rushed forward to stand behind Lady Sudsley and turn the sheet music whilst he gazed at Lucinda with adoring eyes—and surprisingly enough,
she sang her simple little country song in a clear, sweet voice that brought enthusiastic applause from all but the disgruntled mothers of the other two singers.

When the applause subsided, there was a brief moment of silence until the duke said, in that chilling way of his, “Your turn, I believe, Miss Haliburton.”

“My niece does not perform,” Lady Hargrave said quickly.

The duke scowled. “How odd. I was given to understand all well-bred young ladies performed.” He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed Emily with a look of profound distaste, as if her very presence insulted his tender sensibilities.

Emily felt her hackles rise and ignoring her aunt’s frown, returned the duke’s haughty stare. “As a matter of fact, I do play the pianoforte…a bit,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Any little thing will suffice,” Mr. Rankin murmured, taking her hand to lead her to the pianoforte. “It won’t do to refuse the duke, you know.”

Settling onto the bench already warmed by Lady Sudsley’s ample posterior, Emily contemplated what she should play. She was tempted to perform an excerpt from Mr. Ludwig von Beethoven ‘s wonderful
Eroica
symphony. One of papa’s academic friends had brought the sheet music back from the Continent, along with a case of French brandy he’d smuggled past the excisemen. But she decided it was a bit heavy for an informal occasion. Instead, she decided on a little-known piece by Mr. Mozart, which had been one of papa’s favorites.

As always, once she began to play, she lost herself in the music and when the last note died away and the room burst into applause, she looked up in surprise and straight into the eyes of the duke. This time, they were not cold; they fairly glowed with appreciation for Mr. Mozart’ s unique genius—but only for a brief instant. Then once again, like a lake in winter, a film of ice hid the tiny fragment of human warmth she had glimpsed in their depths.

Mr. Rankin was not so loath to show his enthusiasm. He praised her effusively, and wonder of wonders, that notorious cynic, Mr. Brummell, did the same.

All in all, she decided as she discarded the despised dress and prepared for bed, it had been a remarkable day.

As was their habit, whenever circumstances brought the two of them together under one roof, the Duke of Montford and Edgar Rankin ended their day’s activities with a quiet brandy in the library of whichever of the duke’s houses they happened to be at the time.

Tonight they were joined by George Brummell, which meant that Edgar, proper fellow that he was, would adhere to the rigid protocol which was commonly observed between a duke and his amanuensis.

The duke sighed. After an evening of being “your graced” to death by the pack of ninny-hammers his aunts had inflicted on him, he was in no mood to listen to Edgar do the same. Edgar Rankin was the one man he counted as a true and trusted friend. When they were alone, they slipped into the easy camaraderie they’d formed as boys growing up together and it was “Edgar” and “Jared.” There would be none of that tonight, and he found himself regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision to invite the charming Beau to join them in their nightcap.

On the other hand, Brummell’s presence would save him from one of Edgar’ s confounded lectures. The scurvy fellow had already managed an aside in the Grecian salon. “Doing the ducal thing up a bit brown aren’t you, your grace?” he’d whispered as he’d passed on his way to escort Miss Emily Haliburton in to dinner.

The duke poured the brandy, handed the snifters around and set the decanter on the table next to the leather armchair that had once been his grandfather’s. For some minutes the three sat in comfortable contemplation of the fire crackling in the stone fireplace. Finally, Brummell broke the silence. “Interesting evening, your grace, although I suspect Rankin had the best of it.” He smiled lazily at the man sitting beside him. “Dare I ask what subject you and the fascinating Miss Haliburton found so engrossing during dinner?”

“Mesopotamian myths and legends; her father’s research into the God-King Gilgamesh, to be precise.” Edgar Rankin sipped his brandy. “It turns out Miss Haliburton is the daughter of Farley Haliburton, the scholar who wrote that treatise on Orestes you liked so well, Jar…your grace. She was most pleased to learn it was in the library of your London town house.”

“Unless my memory has failed me, I believe Orestes was a Greek, not a Mesopotamian,” the duke said dryly. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen Edgar so enthusiastic about any female. It was a little disconcerting.

“According to Miss Haliburton, her father spent the greater part of his life researching Greek and Roman mythology. It was only after the British Museum staged that exhibition of the Nineveh tablets a few years ago that he became interested in Middle Eastern mythology. She hopes to complete the Gilgamesh work and publish it in his name.”

“So Miss Haliburton is not only an accomplished pianist, but a bluestocking as well.” Montford poured himself another brandy and handed the decanter to Rankin. “Has this original any other talents that you know of, or should I ask that question of you, Brummell? I noticed you spent a considerable time conversing with her later in the evening.”

“That I did,” the Beau admitted. “I was attempting to ascertain why a discerning fellow like Rankin was so drawn to a woman with such execrable taste in clothing—as well as one whose chief function appears to be bear-leading her lovely young cousin.” He smiled his famous, caustic smile. “Although your heir presumptive appears to be relieving her of some of her duties in that quarter.”

“And was your curiosity about Miss Haliburton satisfied?” the duke asked, pointedly ignoring the reference to the way that young fool, Percival, had ogled Lady Lucinda all evening.

Entirely. The lady informed me both idiosyncrasies stem from necessity rather than choice.” He chuckled. “When I complimented her on the originality of her dress, she flat out accused me of dealing her Spanish coin. I believe her exact words were ‘It is one of Lady Lucinda’s done over. It probably suited her admirably. I, however, resemble an overstuffed Christmas goose.’”