Home > The Worst Duke in the World(9)

The Worst Duke in the World(9)
Author: Lisa Berne

Jane stared.

Why, he was quite ordinary-looking. In fact, he rather reminded her of a fellow one might see lounging around a Nantwich stable-yard, or herding a flock of sheep to the market square.

And so, when Cousin Gabriel introduced her to His Grace the Duke of Radcliffe, Jane smiled politely up into his long thin face, but with a mild sense of disillusionment which she tried very hard to conceal. Unfortunately, she had one of those countenances which—as Great-grandmother Kent had often remarked, in a rather sour way—could be all too expressive.

 

 

Chapter 3


Anthony sat down in a comfortable armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and looked around the room. Penhallow was talking to Miss Trevelyan, his wife Livia was chatting with Miss Humphrey, old Mrs. Penhallow had a faintly sardonic expression on her face, and the other person, a slim, flaxen-haired girl—what was her name? He’d already forgotten it—was gazing at him in a manner with which he was all too familiar.

She was looking disappointed.

Old Mrs. Penhallow said, “I trust, Duke, that you and Gabriel have between you resolved the pressing issue of your pigmen’s dispute.”

Her tone did not, in Anthony’s opinion, convey serious concern over the matter, so rather than regale her with a thoughtful, nuanced reply which encompassed the subtler aspects of this complex and exceedingly delicate situation, he merely said, “Well, we hope so, ma’am.”

Mrs. Penhallow nodded, in a way that could only be described as satirical. Anthony uncrossed his left leg from over his right leg, then crossed his right leg over his left, and began to gently swing his uppermost foot back and forth. It was really only the imminent arrival of the tea-tray that was keeping him here. If he wanted sardonic glances sent his way, he could just go home and talk to Margaret.

“I believe, Duke, that your son Wakefield remains at home, instead of going off to school?”

“Yes.”

“A rather unusual arrangement.”

“Perhaps.”

“Didn’t you yourself go off to school when you were that age?”

“For a while, ma’am.”

“I see.”

Anthony braced himself for further interrogation on that point, but Mrs. Penhallow went on:

“Wakefield is a pupil of Mr. Pressley’s, is he not?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And are you satisfied with his progress?”

“Quite.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, as Miss Kent’s going to begin lessons with Mr. Pressley tomorrow.”

“Who is?”

“My great-granddaughter.”

“Ah.”

Mrs. Penhallow gave him a slight, caustic smile. “I refer, of course, to the young lady sitting opposite you, Duke.”

Anthony looked across the low table to the sofa on which the gray-eyed girl sat, and tried to piece together what little he knew of the situation. Mrs. Penhallow had a great-granddaughter here at Surmont Hall, who, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, was going to have lessons with Mr. Pressley. Speaking of unusual arrangements, wasn’t this one as well? He vaguely remembered Margaret having a governess, or a series of them—it was difficult to recall as they all seemed to be tyrannical, severely dressed women who sported a deeply intimidating pince-nez.

“Will he mind?” said the gray-eyed girl—Miss Kent—and Anthony found himself jolted out of misty memory into the present again where, he was pleased to recollect, he knew no one who wore a pince-nez. He answered:

“Will who mind?”

“Your son Wakefield.”

“Mind what?”

“If I have lessons too.”

“Why would he?”

Miss Kent’s delicate dark brows drew together ever so slightly, as if she were puzzled. “I mean—will Wakefield object to sharing Mr. Pressley’s time with me.”

Anthony thought about it. “I can’t see why he would. But of course, you can ask him yourself if you like.”

“Duke,” said old Mrs. Penhallow, “you’re a most unusual parent.”

He gave her a wry smile. “So my sister says.”

“How is dear Lady Margaret?” In the old lady’s voice was the same satirical tone, which reminded him that between these two formidable women absolutely no love was lost. Just the other day Margaret made a waspish remark about how Henrietta Penhallow must have been completely addled to allow her only grandson to marry such an inauspicious person as Livia, and also to think herself (or her head gardener) capable of growing decent roses of Provins. To which Anthony had replied that he found Livia rather an auspicious person, a phrase which made little sense in retrospect, but a fellow couldn’t stand idly by and allow Margaret to go on snobbishly insulting a perfectly nice lady who, whatever her origins, was also a dab hand at raising Blue Andalusian chickens. An unpleasant scene had followed, which concluded with Margaret storming out of his library and slamming the door with such violence that two paintings had fallen off the wall.

Anthony now answered:

“Oh, she’s fine. Busy.”

“You’ve had houseguests, I understand?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Dear me, how inhospitable of you, Duke.”

Well, this was certainly putting him in a bad light. Nor did he particularly care to explain and so paint himself for the harassed, ruthlessly pursued single man that he was. “I say, here’s tea,” Anthony said with relief, especially as the conversation then became more general.

Miss Humphrey asked after Titania, Lucy, and baby Daniel, the three young children of Livia and Gabriel; Mrs. Penhallow mentioned receiving an interesting letter from her former companion, Mrs. Markson, who was traveling in Europe with her husband, Mr. Pressley’s predecessor, and with Miss Gwendolyn Penhallow, the younger sister of Gabriel’s cousin Hugo; and also Miss Trevelyan issued a scathing critique of Lady Caroline Lamb’s scandalous, gossipy novel Glenarvon, primarily finding fault with its sensationalist themes and its sloppy writing, which included the murder of a character who was later shown to still be alive.

Anthony listened as he made his way through several small iced butter-cakes, a plate he’d filled with delicious fish-paste sandwiches, and four sweet York biscuits. He noticed that Miss Kent wasn’t saying much either, and that she seemed to have quite an appetite. As he watched her take two more biscuits, he also noticed that she had long-fingered, capable-looking hands, with very slim wrists and a prominent, knobby bone showing in the delicate juncture between arm and hand.

Then he watched as one of those interesting and beautiful hands also took another sandwich. And saw with a little ripple of alarm that there were only two sandwiches left. So he took one, and ate it.

Then he saw Miss Kent take another butter-cake, leaving only three left. She ate it, without hurry but with great precision, and had a sip of her tea.

Surreptitiously Anthony glanced around. Everyone else—with the exception of Miss Kent, who apparently had at least one hollow limb—seemed to have finished their tea. So he took one of the three remaining butter-cakes, ate that, and took another one which he also ate.

That left one butter-cake, one sandwich, and three York biscuits.

He took a fortifying swallow of tea, then looked across the low table and into Miss Kent’s big, gray, dark-lashed eyes. And he saw that she was looking right back at him, on her face a determined expression. (Which, he thought, was preferable to a disappointed one.)

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