The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (25 page)

A general rustling and clatter as teacups were put down, ladies stood up, and a queue—with Marcus and Lady Lucinda at its head—was formed.

He felt like a damn parade leader. At least no one had given him a banner that said Unmarried Duke Here to carry.

“I do apologize, Your Grace,” Lady Lucinda said in a low voice as they walked down the hall. “My mother is . . . not subtle,” she concluded in a wry tone.

“It is of no matter,” Marcus replied.

They were silent for the remainder of the walk.

A short, earnest-looking man waited at the end of the hall, standing in front of a massive door, a telltale smudge of dirt on his face indicating that he was the gardener. He beamed as they all moved past him. The countess brushed past Marcus as she made her way to the front, and Marcus bumped into Lucinda, catching a hint of her scent. It was floral, naturally, and smelled lush and fragrant. She smelled nothing like Lily, the only other woman he'd been close enough to sniff lately.

If he thought about it, he would have to imagine Lily did not wear scent, as that was something proper ladies of fashion did, not governesses
serving at the whim of their charges and their employers.

Something about that thought made him angry, but he brushed it away as the countess began to speak.

“Our conservatory will be, I hope, something special to see, and I am so glad all of you”—at which point she looked right at Marcus—“were able to join us for this little party.”

She nodded to the gardener, who turned and opened the doors, then stepped aside so the countess could enter.

They all filed in, with nearly everyone exclaiming in delight as they walked into the room.

And it was impressive, Marcus had to admit; like his conservatory, the room had a multitude of windows, but that's where the comparison ended.

There were tables in a variety of heights set in clearly well-planned ways around the room. Statues were scattered throughout, young men and women clad in not very much clothing, all of whom looked absolutely delighted to be captured in stone and set in this room. Pillars were set in each corner, with hooks hanging from them, from which were suspended plants whose flowers cascaded down the sides. There were pleasant-looking benches on which to sit, a large cabinet holding an assortment of gardening tools—all of which looked to be kept in impeccable shape—and on a side table, trays with attractive looking pastries and other confectionary delights.

It was the kind of undertaking only a family with means and purpose could achieve. It was the
kind of undertaking he would have scoffed at six months, or even six weeks, ago. But he could see now that in the right family, it would be a wonderful accomplishment, a delight and tribute to the passion of the family members.

The thought sent a stab of poignancy through him. He wanted the kind of family, the kind of emotion, that would inspire an effort like this one, even if the work was primarily done by the Queen's former second assistant gardener.

“It is wonderful,” he said to Lady Lucinda, who was still at his elbow. Thank goodness she was not a talkative person, because he wouldn't have heard her anyway, so engaged was he in absorbing the beauty of her mother's conservatory.

He'd never paid much attention to plants, beyond the fact that they were the source for foodstuffs. But he had to admit, standing in all this splendor, that there was more to them than being the basis of bread, peas, and even onion custard.

“Mother is very proud of her work.” Lady Lucinda paused, then cleared her throat. “I am very proud of my mother, even though she has been driving me crazy with her obsession.” She chuckled. “I wish never to hear about the distinction among roses ever again.”

Roses. Rose. His daughter, his bloom among the thorns of his life.

Dear God, when had he become so melodramatic? It must be the picturesque setting.

Or a bad poet had been lurking inside of him all this time. No wonder his cravat felt snug.

“Shall we find a place to sit?” Marcus didn't
wait for her answer, just drew her away from the crowd of chattering, delighted women and helped her sit on a small wooden bench tucked away between a statue of some nymph or another and what appeared to be a centaur. Or a badly sculpted thick-legged man.

“Thank you, this is nice.” Lucinda turned her head to him. “How are you enjoying town? This is your first time in town as the duke, is it not?”

He nodded. “Yes, although I spent some time here in the past, before I inherited.”

“It must be very different, to be here as the duke.” She likely didn't mean to sound superior, as though it was infinitely better to be a duke, but it had to be inherent in someone who was raised in this kind of rarified atmosphere.

And she wasn't wrong, of course; it was on balance nicer to be someone who was deferred to, had power, wealth, and privilege. But it would be too easy for him to just have that and not do anything with it. As he'd nearly done before Rose came into his life.

Being a duke was work as well as rewarding. In the time since he'd paid attention, he'd realized just how much more he had to do. It was a challenge, and he hadn't had a challenge since . . . well, since that spoon-balancing time. And since meeting Rose. And Lily.

Meanwhile, Lady Lucinda was waiting for some sort of reply, even though he barely recalled what she had said to him in the first place. Oh, yes. Differences in life.

What could he say that wouldn't make him
sound like a pompous ass? Lily's voice came into his mind as clearly as if she were speaking into his ear:
Nothing, you already are a pompous, not to mention arrogant, ass
.

He smiled at the thought.

“I am older than I was, and so the things I do now for pleasure,” he said, such as walking in the park with my daughter, or coercing her governess to lose her lemony demeanor, “is different from what I did five years ago, before I was a duke.” He wouldn't mention what he used to do before. She was a lady, after all.

Although some of those activities had brought him Rose.

“I presume the same is true of you?” Nicely played, he imagined Lily whispering in his ear. Turning the conversation back to her, as though he were engaged in her reply.

Which, he reminded himself sternly, he was. She was so far the best option for a wife he'd seen thus far.

“Yes,” she replied, on a laugh, “when I was here many years ago, all I wanted to do was to go to the music halls. I was mad for the pianoforte, and I even had dreams of becoming a musician myself. Can you imagine?” she said with a trace of bitterness in her voice.

He drew back and regarded her. “I could, actually. You are definitely more than you appear, Lady Lucinda.” Well, that certainly, nearly, made his intentions clear. Not that he knew what his intentions were, precisely.

What were his intentions?

He felt a sudden wave of panic, glancing around the room, desperate not to continue the course of the conversation. “Tell me,” he said in a different tone of voice, “which of your mother's flowers are your favorite?”

She hesitated, as though she were as confused as he by the sudden change of topic. Well, at least they had that in common.

“I do love delphiniums, and of course roses. In spite of my mother's obsession with them,” she said in a wry voice. “But I would have to say that my favorite flowers of all are lilies. They're so triumphantly exotic, and colorful. And their scent! For my birthday last year, my father got me a perfume that smelt of lilies. It is my favorite.” She chuckled a little self-consciously. “I am wearing it now.”

As she spoke, she raised her wrist, inner part up, and he had no choice but to lower his nose down to her arm and sniff.

It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, if asked, he would have to say it was pleasant.

“Very nice,” he said.

“And my mother promised we would devote a whole corner to the conservatory to lilies.” Another self-conscious laugh. “No doubt that seems foolish . . .” she began.

“Not at all,” Marcus murmured.

“But apparently lilies are difficult to grow, and Mr. Ball is one of the foremost experts in them, so that was one of the reasons Mama wanted him so badly. For me,” she added.

“That is wonderful. Not foolish at all,” Marcus said.

She smiled. “It is one of the privileges of our position, is it not? And you, you are in such a good position, you can do whatever you like.”

Marcus smiled in return. “Such as commanding lilies to grow, or to demand strawberries in winter, or for the furn—”

He froze, mid-sentence. Strawberries in winter. Swapping all the furniture from one side to the other.

Having Lily. Marrying Lily.

Why hadn't he thought of it before? He was a duke, and with all the power his title entailed, he could do what he liked, even though it might—for a brief while—shock members of a society he'd only recently joined. Lily was the best possible choice for a mother for Rose, not to mention the best possible choice for someone to share the rest of his life with without loathing.

He should marry Lily.

He could make it right with the world he wanted for Rose. Just give people enough time to adjust, and then when a fresher scandal arrived, his marrying her would just be another oddity about him.

He could marry Lily.

And then he could garb her in his nightshirts all he wanted, and have the very distinct pleasure of stripping them off her, and sharing a bed with her, and maybe even bringing other little children into the world with her.

He would marry Lily.

Suddenly, he needed to leave, to be out of this house and on his way home, to speak to her, to
tell her how he'd solved the problem in one easy solution.

She cared for him, or at least she liked being kissed by him—and she would not hesitate to argue with him if he were doing something that would be harmful to Rose. To their family.

She was the perfect wife.

A duke should utilize all of his available resources when in pursuit of a ducal goal. Not just his financial ones, although those may also be utilized. He should employ his position, his eminence, and most importantly, his eyebrows, to achieve what requires achieving
.

—T
HE
D
UKE
'
S
G
UIDE
TO
C
ORRECT
B
EHAVIOR

L
ily stepped out of the agency, closing the door behind her. She had just enough time, she'd figured, to go to the apothecary and purchase the condoms. That had been one of her duties at the brothel, in addition to reviewing the accounts and, for some reason, handling the purchase of tea.

Her job skills when she left were balancing ledgers, knowing where to buy items for the prevention of pregnancy, and how much tea an establishment catering to a vast amount of men would go through in a month.

Not exactly skills for which she would be immediately hired.

Another reason to be grateful for the agency's formation. She was on her way to utilizing at least two out of the three skills. It only was left for a haberdasher or gentleman's tailor to hire her for her tea-gauging skills.

Something to look forward to, at least.

She rounded the corner to the shop, the memory of the last time she'd gone there fresh in her mind. By then she'd become a regular customer, so the
owner of the shop knew to take her into the back office and conduct the transaction there. At first, when she went to the apothecary she had been heckled, not only by the shop's customers but by the assistants. The owner, Mr. Davies, knew the brothel was a good source of income, so he and Lily had swiftly worked out how they could best work together without embarrassment on either side.

A lady could not just go buying such things on her own, not without a lot of difficulty. Never mind the injustice that if a lady did not take care, she could find herself abandoned and with child. Men were the ones who were considered best able to purchase birth control, even though they were the sex less damaged by not having it.

She knew if she thought about it too much, she'd end up grouchy, and she didn't want that. Not when she had so many other things occupying her mind.

She opened the door and stepped inside, breathing in the aromas of the shop—camphor, turpentine, and the other smells from the various potions the apothecary carried. There were only a few people in the shop, and her eye was caught by a container with the words Cold Cream of Roses on it. She smiled, and took it down from the shelf, then headed to the counter.

Mr. Davies's back was turned to Lily as he reached up to a bottle with some green liquid inside. He placed it on the table in front of him before turning around, then his eyes widened in surprise, and old instinct, no doubt, made him glance to either side of her to ensure discretion.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Davies,” she said. “It has been a while.” Nearly two years, in fact. She was grateful to find him here after all that time.

“Good afternoon, miss,” he said in a quiet voice. “Are you—”

She shook her head. “No, I am no longer employed there, but I do wish to purchase some items,” she said, equally quiet. “And this,” she added, holding up the jar of cold cream. Rose would be delighted to have something with her name on it, and Lily did like the smell of roses, if not that of her namesake flower.

“Of course,” Mr. Davies said. He turned to one of his workers nearby and told him, “I am taking this customer to the office for a moment, please stay here.”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant replied, his expression unchanged. Not for the first time she reflected that Mr. Davies must have instructed his employees to maintain the utmost discretion, regardless of what was transacted in the shop.

Lily walked around to the side of the counter, waiting as Mr. Davies pulled out a large set of keys and jiggled the right one out. He unlocked the door, then held it open for her to step through.

It was more of a storeroom than an office, boxes and papers everywhere, filed in a way that only Mr. Davies, presumably, could figure out. He gestured to indicate she should sit in the only chair not filled with something, and she picked her way through the boxes, hoping she wouldn't accidentally knock something over. Especially not a box of condoms, because she knew she would
blush so much she might accidentally catch on fire.

“Just over here, I think,” Mr. Davies mumbled. “How many?”

Lily drew the money from her pocket. “As many as this will buy me. Plus the cold cream,” she said, holding the bills in her hand.

He assessed what she held, nodded, and began rifling through one of the boxes. “Four, then,” he said.

He turned back around, holding four condom packets in his hand. “I am glad to see you, miss, I was hoping you were doing well. It appears you are, and for that, I am glad.” He sounded sincere, and it warmed her heart. She had left her position unexpectedly when her mother finally succumbed to her illness, the one that required expensive medicines, and she hadn't thought to let anyone beside her employer know where she went.

Another reminder, so soon on the last one, that she had friends and acquaintances who would help her and who cared for her. She felt her eyes start to tear up again, and had to immediately squelch the urge to cry.

Mr. Davies would likely be far more embarrassed to have a crying female in his office than to sell condoms to her.

He put them into a plain, discreet sack and handed it to her as he took the bills. He gave her some change, then went to the door and waited for her to follow.

“Thank you, Mr. Davies.”

“Thank you, miss. Your custom is always welcome here,” he said. He opened the door and Lily stepped through, holding her purchases close to her chest.

And saw Mr. Haughton's face, his expression changing to one of startled recognition as she walked around the counter.

“M
iss Lily,” Mr. Haughton said, his tone not nearly as polite as it had been when he first met her.

“Mr. Haughton,” she replied, clutching her package tighter. As though he would take it from her.

He smirked at seeing that, and in narrowing his eyes Lily knew what he was probably thinking—that he knew what she was clutching. As he opened his mouth to speak, she felt her heart fluttering against her ribs. Was this what she'd feared?

“I knew I'd recognized you when we met before, only I couldn't recall where. Now I do.” Well, at least he got straight to the point. “And you have the charge of the duke's ward?” And he stuck to his point, she had to give him that. “And you have been in company with my daughters and nieces?” His tone was outraged. “Does the duke know? Is that why he hired you? So you could be his—his—” With his voice rising, the growing panic in her chest blossomed into full-blown panic.

“No, of course he doesn't know,” she interrupted.

Mr. Haughton straightened himself up as he
stepped closer to Lily, who had to remind herself not to step back.

“Listen, young woman,” he said, his jaw tight. “I do not wish to cause a scandal for the duke, especially since . . .” He paused, and Lily could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he figured out how to phrase it. “. . . since he has just entered society and he is very properly looking for a wife.” A wife who, if Mr. Haughton could manage it, would be Miss Blake. “So if you leave his employ within the next twenty-four hours, I will pretend you never existed.”

Lily swallowed as she absorbed the import of his words. She could threaten him with exposure as well—after all, if he'd recognized her from the brothel, that meant he had been in the brothel as well—but somehow she knew that the damage would be done to her, no matter how others reacted to Mr. Haughton. She could threaten him, but a powerful man in Society would be able to damage her reputation, her future, the agency's future, far more than his brief moment in the sun of scandal.

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours to disappear. From proper society, at least; she didn't think Mr. Haughton would care what she did, as long as she was no longer in his world.

“Well?” His tone was impatient, clearly irked at having to wait for a reply from someone so worthy of contempt. And she was ruminating again, wasn't she? She didn't have time to think.

She bit her lip and nodded. “Yes,” she said in a whisper.

And darted around him and out the door before bursting into tears.

O
f course, it was one thing to decide one was going straight home to propose to one's daughter's governess immediately, and another to actually do it.

First of all, she was not there. That was his first impediment. It was generally assumed that the person to whom you wished to propose should actually be in the vicinity for the proposal to occur.

Second, now that he was home, he wasn't sure what he should say.

Third was that she was not home yet. It had been at least five minutes since the last time he looked at the clock.

Couldn't she sense that he needed her here? That he wanted to change her life irrevocably, for the better?

Again, not that he knew what he was going to say.

A knock on the door interrupted his— Well, he wasn't thinking of anything at all, so perhaps it was interrupting nothing. “Come in,” he said, straightening in his chair. If it was her, he still had no idea what to say.

Thompson opened the door and stepped inside. “Your Grace, Miss Rose has woken. Etta said you asked to be informed.” Thompson accompanied his words with a bow, and then left, shutting the door behind him.

“Yes, thank you,” Marcus said to the closed door.

He stood and stretched, feeling the slight soreness from having earlier crouched in a hiding position for over ten minutes. He hadn't been able to figure out if Rose knew where he was and was just extending the game or if she really could not see a six-foot-tall man hunched near a tree.

It was fun, no matter what. He hadn't played many games as a child, and so he was looking forward—probably more than most parents—to playing games with his daughter. To hearing her shrieks of delight as they played together.

And he'd shared his past with her, as well. That had been another new experience. He didn't speak about his parents, or Joseph, with anyone he was close to. In fact, he wasn't close to many people anyway. Except now he could say he was close to Lily. To Rose. Even to Smithfield.

So much had changed in his life. So much was about to change.

And all for the better.

He was smiling as he walked out of the library and leapt up the stairs to see his daughter.

L
ily's steps slowed as she walked toward the duke's mansion. Her mind had been in a tumult since leaving Mr. Davies's establishment. Not only would she have to leave the duke's employ, and therefore him, but she would have to leave Rose. That would hurt her as well as Rose, who had suffered enough abandonment already. How would
she tell the girl that she had to leave? She knew what she would say to him—she owed him the truth, difficult though it would be to tell him—but how could she tell Rose that not only was she not going to take care of her anymore, she was going to be gone within a day?

And how would she tell Caroline and Annabelle that their brilliant future was going to be jeopardized by her past? It was what they had always feared happening. That didn't make it any easier.

She walked up the steps to the no longer intimidating door, feeling as though her feet weighed as much as ten of those massive books on farming the duke had been reading.

The door swung open before she could raise the knocker, and Thompson poked his head out. “Miss Rose is awake, and she and the duke are asking for you. Come in,” he said, in nearly a friendly way.

And she would have to leave Thompson, too, although that didn't sting quite as much. But still. She liked this house and the people who lived and worked in it. She didn't want to go.

But she had to.

She felt as though she was thinking in circles, starting with Mr. Haughton's accusatory tone, then cycling through all the people she would be disappointing, and back to Mr. Haughton.

She put her package under her arm, resisting Thompson's move to take it (because it seemed that would make her currently horrible situation even worse), and took her cloak off, allowing him to take that, at least.

“Miss Rose and the duke are upstairs?”

“Yes, miss.”

She ascended the staircase, her feet now only feeling as though they weighed the same as five of the duke's farming books. She would get to see him, to see Rose, one last time. One last evening before she had to leave.

“G
ood night, Miss Rose.” Lily tucked the covers around the little girl, feeling her throat tighten. As it had all evening, every time she thought about what was to come.

But she wouldn't waste her last few precious hours here with throat-tightening or chest-constricting or any other of the physical signs of duress.

She'd decided what she had to do, it was now just a question if she would be bold enough to do it. And if when he heard, the duke was so shocked that he wished to immediately relieve her of her position—well, it wasn't as though that would be a problem.

Rose turned onto her side and let out a soft sigh, the one that indicated she was more than halfway asleep already. Lily bent down to kiss her forehead, and smoothed a few tendrils of hair away from the girl's face.

And then returned to her room to prepare.

M
arcus had spent an enjoyable if frustrating evening. He still couldn't figure out what to say, and
then there was how to get her alone to say it—he didn't want to summon her to his library, as he usually did, because he didn't want to order her anywhere, even though she was his employee. He didn't wish to treat her as one.

So at the end of the night he was alone, in his bedroom, totally perplexed as to what to do. Go knock on her door? Slip a note into her room asking her to meet him somewhere? Wait until he blurted out some words or another, no matter where they were or what they were doing?

The last option seemed like the most likely one.

He was halfway through shrugging out of his coat when he heard the knock at the door. “Come in,” he growled, resisting the urge to bite Miller's head off when he came in. He'd told Miller he would see to himself this evening—the last thing he wanted was company for his foul mood—so he didn't see why the—