What the Duke Doesn't Know (26 page)

It was odd to think of his mother besieged by a troop of suitors. “But you cut them out,” he said.

“I did my best. We danced and flirted and managed one or two brief conversations. Manners were rather different thirty-five years ago.”

James couldn't ask his father to get on with it, but he wished he would come to the point.

The duke went on as if he understood without words. “One afternoon, there was a riding party. You know how your mama loves to ride.”

James nodded.

“It was a large, lively group. Adele was surrounded by beaus, as usual. I was jostling in with the best of them when my horse ran mad and got away from me.”

“What?” His father was a bruising rider. James had never seen him at fault on horseback.

“I found out later that one of my rivals for your mother's affections had bribed a groom to slip some nettles under the poor beast's saddle blanket.”

“Low,” commented James.

The duke nodded. “Lightfoot tried to scrape me off with tree branches and toss me over his head. Finally, he managed to drop me in a large—a
very
large—mud hole. We'd had a week of rain to fill it.”

“You?” James couldn't picture it. His immaculate, never-at-a-loss father covered with muck?

“I fear I'm ruining my reputation with you,” the duke said with a rueful twinkle. “Naturally, all of the other young men found my predicament exquisitely funny. The ladies were kinder, but far more eager to avoid the mud. Except for Adele. She rode to the rescue.”

“Mama always comes up trumps.”

“That she does,” agreed his father. “But when she tried to help me climb out, she fell in.”

“You pulled her into the mud?”

“I did not! I ordered her to stand back, to go and fetch servants to get me out. She refused to listen. She bent over and caught hold of my hand. I tried to shake her off, of course.” He shrugged. “You must understand that I was not in the best of moods at that point. Jack Stanley was using his riding crop to point out the slime dripping from my sleeve.” The duke's eyes grew hooded. “He had an unexpected dip in the lake later, in his best coat.”

“Mama fell in a mud hole, with all those skirts,” James said.

“Right on top of me,” his father elaborated.

“Was she very angry?” James had a healthy respect for his mother's wrath.

“She laughed,” his father said reminiscently. “We were absolutely plastered with mud, and she laughed. And then I did, too. We laughed like lunatics for a while, the rest of the party just gaping at us. And then I got her out, which involved rather a lot of…close work. That blasted hole was deep, and slippery.”

James looked away. One didn't wish to see desire burning in one's father's eyes, however glad one was for the two of them.

“We ended up in each other's arms, dripping clots of mud, and I said I adored her, and she was the only woman on earth I would ever wish to marry. And she said yes.”

James appreciated his father's tender expression, but really, how was he supposed to arrange for mud holes, any more than forests? It hadn't rained here in days. He wasn't putting Kawena on a horse again, either. Or…that had worked out rather deliciously the last time. But there were no wild coastlines or deserted houses around Oxford.

“The important thing is to tell her how you feel, James.”

“I feel a whole muddle of things,” he complained. “I don't know what half of them are.”

“How you feel about her,” his father amended. “You do love her?”

“Yes.” That was he sure of.

“Tell her that, and why.”

“Why?”

“What it is about her that you love,” the duke elaborated. “The unforgettable, unique things.”

James was unconvinced. “That seems rather simple.” Hadn't he heard you were supposed to kneel? Why couldn't there be a set of instructions for these things, like the details in a packet of naval orders?

“Is it? What do you love about Miss Benson?”

“Just…who she is.”

“Perhaps a bit more specific?”

James latched on to this idea. “You think I should make a list? Use that as a kind of…crib sheet when I speak to her?”

The duke seemed to struggle for a moment. Then he laughed. “I'm sorry,” he said at once. “But, James, really, a cheat sheet? We're not speaking of an examination.”

Sometimes it feels like one
, James thought. You could study for those, however, tedious as that might be. Offering marriage seemed more like navigating without a compass. And he still didn't have a plan.

In her bedchamber at the end of the day, Kawena stood at the window, looking down at the scrap of garden behind the house. According to Mrs. Runyon, their campaign had done its work. Her social credit was restored. And she didn't care a whit. She was wondering where Lord James had gotten to, and what she should do next, when she was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes?” she said.

The housemaid looked in. “A gentleman has called for you, miss. He said it was important.”

Kawena heard no more. She was already past the girl and on her way to the stairs. However Lord James began this time, she would find a way to discover his true feelings, she vowed. And at last, at last, things would be settled between them. Word had arrived that her project was complete. It was time to be on the move.

She rushed into the main parlor and found Anthony Haskins standing there, looking thoughtful, hands clasped behind his back. “You.” Kawena was so disappointed that she could think of nothing else to say.

“I apologize for the inopportune hour,” he replied. “I called earlier, but you were out. I felt I could not wait until tomorrow to speak to you.”

He looked so very English, Kawena thought. His pale blond hair was perfectly in place. He was handsome, pleasant, and…thoroughly forgettable.

“I wanted you to know that I deplore your uncle and aunt's…behavior at the lecture last night.”

“Were you there?” She hadn't noticed him. But she had been rather occupied.

“No. But I heard of it.”

“I'm sure you did.” Kawena knew that Oxford society had been talking of little else.

“Unconscionable,” said Haskins. “I wanted to assure you that I had no hand in it, no understanding of their…methods when I accepted their offer to make an introduction. I hope you will believe me.”

Kawena nodded. She realized that she hadn't asked him to sit down. You were supposed to do that. Haskins continued before she could speak, however.

“I also came to offer you the protection of my name.”

“Your name?” She was briefly confused.

“I live quite retired in the country,” Haskins added. “As my wife, you would have a respected position in the neighborhood. People are unlikely to have heard of any…embarrassments in your history. Or dare to mention them. In any case, they would soon be forgotten.” He seemed to be reassuring himself.

“You are asking me to marry you?” Kawena was incredulous. Did English women actually listen to these smug, pompous declarations? This one was even worse than the last. She thought again of her mother and father, of the passionate gestures and sacrifices each had made in order to be together.

Haskins nodded. “We have not been acquainted long, I know. But I have formed a genuine regard—”

“For my fortune,” she interrupted.

Haskins reddened. “I admit it is a consideration. I am not ashamed to be taking thought for my estate and my daughter's future. Indeed, I think it only natural. I can promise you I intend to be a good husband.”

He stood before her like the very essence of English propriety—with its strengths and its limitations. He held out an idea of marriage like a cloak to protect her, to kindly, even perhaps affectionately, erase all her supposed disadvantages. Kawena could understand that for some women, this would seem a welcome refuge, with a real prospect of happiness. But to her, it felt like a cage held courteously open, with no acknowledgment that she was expected to abandon her spiky individuality as she passed through the door. In that instant, Kawena rejected the idea of propriety, once and for all. “No,” she said. “I don't wish to marry you.”

Haskins looked disappointed, and then, just a little, like a man reprieved. “Are, er, are you sure?”

Kawena nodded. “Thank you,” she remembered to say. “But I am quite certain. You may give my uncle the news.”

Haskins looked at her. “I don't think I will, Miss Benson. I believe I will pack my things and go home.”

“And very soon, you will thank the gods for your narrow escape,” she suggested.

He stiffened. “I would never say such a thing.”

“It wouldn't be proper.”

Haskins gazed at her a moment longer, started to speak, then simply bowed and turned to go.

Kawena wished him well. She hoped he found just the sort of wife he wanted, with plenty of money, too. It simply wasn't her.

* * *

“You must!” said Horatia Grantham. She leaned forward in the armchair and fixed James with a fierce gaze.
Rather like an erne spotting a raft of schooling fish, poised to dive and sink its talons into scaled flesh
, he thought. The young lady—in an agitated and exigent state—had arrived at Alan and Ariel's house just as the family had been about to sit down to dinner. She'd insisted on seeing him, so urgently that Ariel had finally summoned him to the garden parlor.

“The Admiralty promised to send someone,” Miss Grantham continued. “But now he isn't coming. And on the flimsiest of excuses! The ceremony is tomorrow morning.”

James started to tell her that he'd resigned from the navy, and its obligations had nothing to do with him.

“A number of sailors wounded in battle will be there,” she said. “I cannot believe the Admiralty means to insult them by ignoring our arrangement.”

This gave him pause. “What is it again?” He'd hadn't understood the details from her first, jumbled explanation.

“We are unveiling a cenotaph dedicated to naval heroes lost at sea,” said Miss Grantham impatiently. “They promised me an admiral! I am sadly disappointed in the navy.” She glared at James again, as if it was his fault.

“I'm nowhere near an admiral,” he pointed out. And wouldn't be even if he hadn't resigned. “Surely there's someone else who could better—”

“I can't find anyone else!” Their visitor veered toward hysteria. “It will be a disgrace. A mockery of naval tradition.” She began to cry into her handkerchief.

“Hold on,” said James.

Ariel shot him a look—quizzical and encouraging.

“All right,” said James.

Miss Grantham looked up, instantly recovered. “Splendid!” she said, the officer in charge once more. “You must be at Oakthorpe Square at ten tomorrow. No, best come a quarter hour early, so we can be certain… You will give a short speech praising the heroism of navy men, and pull the cloth off the monument.”

“Speech,” repeated James. He didn't like that part of it.

“Surely you have rallied your men before a battle?” Miss Grantham replied. “Or praised them for their actions after. You can say a few words.”

“I suppose so,” he grumbled.

Miss Grantham rose to go. “I do hope your whole family will attend. It would be such an honor to have the duke and duchess at our unveiling.”

James frowned, wondering if this was the reason she'd turned to him for this task.

“I'll inquire,” interrupted Ariel before James could speak. “I'm not certain of their plans.” She looked suddenly thoughtful. “May we invite other…friends as well?”

“Of course. We hope to have a good crowd.” Miss Grantham seemed eager to leave now that she'd accomplished her purpose. “I beg your pardon for calling at such a late hour,” she said belatedly as she went out.

“How could you have wanted me to marry her?” said James when she was gone.

“I didn't want it,” Ariel replied. “It was simply an introduction.”

“More like a lucky escape,” he muttered, and followed her back to the dining room.

* * *

When he reached the allotted place the next day, accompanied by all of his family, of course, James found a draped monument, a platform sporting the Union Jack and, in the center of it all, a massive old artillery piece. The kind of cannon Henry VIII might have used at Flodden in the fifteen hundreds. It looked as if it might have been sitting there since then, too. That would have been all right. But a fellow stood next to it, affixing a fuse. James started over to speak to him, but was intercepted by Miss Grantham and hustled toward the platform. “People are starting to arrive,” she said. “You must take your place.”

“Do you mean to fire that piece?” James asked her, indicating the cannon.

“Isn't it grand? It will be the perfect punctuation to the unveiling.”

“Punctuation?” Her strange choice of words sounded too much like “puncture” for his taste. “Has someone checked it over? Someone who understands artillery?”

“Of course. We have only powder in it, naturally. No ball.”

“Yes, but gunpowder—”

“It's time to begin,” interrupted Miss Grantham. She pushed him, rather sharply, toward the front of the platform.

James looked out over the people clustered before him. Along with the Greshams there were perhaps twenty others, many of whom had the look of old sailors. He noticed a peg leg and a missing arm among them. Off to one side, he spotted a slender figure in a worn coat and breeches, with a cap pulled well down over…her face. Kawena looked up briefly, grinned at him, and lowered her head again. James's heart began to pound, and everything else went out of his mind. What was she doing here, dressed like that? And why was he up here, so far from her?

He took a step toward her, and Miss Grantham's elbow thumped into his side, recalling him to his duties. He said a few words about the hazards of naval warfare and the stout hearts of English sailors. A rope was insinuated into his hand. He pulled, and the cloth fell to reveal quite an ornate cenotaph. He glimpsed flame in the corner of his eye, and turned to find the putative gunner setting match to fuse. “No,” James cried. “That's not a good—”

The fuse hissed into the hole. The crowd waited with indrawn breath, and then the huge old gun erupted.

The noise was deafening, obviously beyond what anyone had expected. Choking black smoke poured out over the onlookers. As James leaped down to help, he saw that the ancient piece had split down one if its seams. Bits of flaming powder spit from the opening. He'd tried to tell them that modern gunpowder was much more powerful than the stuff that gun had been built for.

James ran for the gunner first. The man was flat on his back, stunned, but he didn't appear wounded. James quickly checked his limbs, found them sound, and got him up and away.

Turning, he saw Kawena leading his mother to a bench on the far side of the square. Alan was doing the same for Ariel, an arm around her waist. The duke was escorting another lady, a stranger.

James went to find the wounded sailors. The man with the wooden leg was down, his arms wrapped around his head as if to shield it. Kneeling beside him, James gently loosened them. “It's all right,” he said. “All flash and no ordnance. We're all right.”

The fellow let his arms fall, revealing the eyes of a man who'd faced many a broadside, and the resulting carnage, in his time.

“All's well,” said James. The man pointed to his ears and shook his head. James nodded. His hearing was all right, but many would have trouble for a bit. That thing had sounded like the crack of doom.

He saw that Kawena had come back for Horatia Grantham, who'd collapsed in a heap on the far side of the platform, and was half-carrying her to the benches. He went to give her a hand.

Working side by side, with the help of a few others, James and Kawena attended to each member of the crowd and found places for them to settle. The ancient gun muttered and smoked. People cried or shouted or huddled, according to their natures.

When the area was clear, and the fire brigade had arrived to douse the cannon, James found Kawena and captured her hands. All thoughts of lists had fled from his mind, but words came spilling out. “That was…just splendid. You were splendid. I adore you, Kawena. There's no other woman like you. You're everything I could want, for the rest of my life. Please say you'll spend it with me.”

Utterly unaware of people staring and whispering, James amended, “Allow me to spend it with you, I should say. Whatever your plan. I don't care.”

She smiled up at him, teeth very white in a face somewhat blackened by the smoke. “Yes, I will marry you,” she said.

Almost dizzy with triumph and relief, James pulled her into his arms. Pent up longing surged through him. This was right, and so intoxicating, to finally hold her again. And to know that she was his. He took her lips, reveling in her eager response to his touch, and fell into a kiss sure to drive them both mad with desire. He let his hands roam over the body that had haunted his dreams and plagued his waking hours for a seeming eternity. She pressed against him, her fingers like trails of fire along his ribs, across the fabric of his breeches. James wished their clothes to perdition.

“Disgraceful!” huffed someone. James realized he didn't care a whit.

Kawena's cap fell unheeded to the ground. Her hair escaped its pins and tumbled down her back.

“It's a woman,” commented a male voice. “At least.”

At last, matters grew too urgent, and too obvious. They couldn't make love in a public square, beside a fuming cannon. Slowly, reluctantly, they drew apart.

“I believe that may trump a mud hole,” James heard his father say.

“In sound and fury, but not in romantic originality,” replied his mother.

The duke's laugh was filled with delight.

“Shall we head for home?” said Alan. “My home, that is. Where all of Oxford will be calling in the next few days to learn what the devil happened here.” He sounded resigned.

“Scientific geniuses are expected to be eccentric,” replied Ariel. “It's almost required, I think.”

“Is it?” But Alan sounded more amused than concerned.

Relieved, with an arm firmly around Kawena, James followed his family from the square.