A Vixen For The Devilish Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 8

  He could scarcely keep his eyes off of Miss Raby even in the courtyard, thick with music and the scent of incense and roses, an iridescent sea of finery in many-hued colors. Yet she glowed in an otherworldly way in her grey gown, brighter than the glittering lanterns lighting the grounds, blotting out even the moon and the stars overlooking them from a jealous sky.

  Her curious eyes were drawn to the center of the courtyard, to a makeshift theater with a group of men behind a white screen. They headed toward the seats arranged around the theater and sat.

  The Duke pointed at one of the men. “That’s the puppeteer. He voices and controls all the puppets. His apprentices are tasked with handing him the puppets in precise order, and they also set the stage. A singer and a drummer accompany them.” He gestured to a small group of dancing musicians, “And they are the ensemble that entertains us before the show and during the interludes.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ve heard a lot about Punch and Judy shows.”

  “Some people disapprove of them because of the violence.”

  “Oh? I thought it was all in fun?”

  Harry smiled. “You’ll see.”

  A footman came by with a bottle of wine and some cold meats. He poured them each a full glass and left the bottle on a side table next to their seats. Harry held his glass out for a toast and they drank. The wine was sweet and Miss Raby did not hesitate to get a refill. Harry made sure to keep up with her; he could not let the lady drink alone after all…

  They were interrupted by a bell chime, signaling the performance was about to begin. They directed their attention to the screen as the adornment displayed disappeared. A wooden reed whistled through the air, piercing the night with its sound as the play began.

  Punch entered the room and after a few squeaks, he bowed three times to the audience; once in the center and once on each side of the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “pray how you do? If you all happy, we all happy too. Stop and hear my merry little play. If me make you laugh, me need not make you pay…”

  * * *

  “How do you find it so far?” the Duke asked. They were done with Act One and had been served another bottle of wine during the interval. After freshening up, they were heading back to their seats.

  “It is…not what I expected.”

  “What were you expecting?” He prodded.

  “I don’t know. I suppose my expectations did not match reality,” Adelia admitted when it was clear he wouldn’t drop the subject. “I thought you said it was crude and shocking? It felt rather tame to me. Why, I have seen much more crudity on the London streets at midday.”

  His Grace laughed sheepishly as he rubbed the nape of his neck. He lowered his head and mumbled, “The plays are all different and I think they took into account the sensibilities of their audience and may have skipped over the more risqué dialogue.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose I can understand that.”

  He kept his head down hiding his smile. “It was, ah, inappropriate seeing as you and many in the audience, including myself, are not married.”

  “I understand. I am just a little disappointed.” Adelia shrugged, her face flaming. “I have heard a lot about the shows over the years from cooks and watchmen at the orphanage, even these two extremely naughty twins named Fin and Freya once snuck out to Convent Garden to see them.” She sighed, “I was looking forward to seeing the inappropriate bits for myself,” her cheeks were flaming as heat pooled inside her belly. She lowered her voice. “For educational reasons only, of course.”

  He gave her a quelling glance. “Perhaps save that kind of conversation for less mixed company? If Mrs. Belvedere hears you I do not know how I would explain it away.”

  His eyes softened, the delicate brush of his finger on the skin of her lips undoubtedly meant to ease the effect of his words, caused her heart to race and her lips to tremble.

  Adelia groaned inwardly, cursing herself for her inappropriate reactions to this man, and his effect on her. He surprised her by abruptly pulling away and his hand shaking as though he was ill. He buried his head in his hands muttering something she could not hear.

  He’s blushing, she realized with a shock, observing the flush on the back of his neck.

  What is going on?

  Sometimes she suspected that she had the Duke as off balance as he had her.

  “Are you all right?” She nudged her knee gently against his as she resumed her seat next to him. The Duke started, his eyes flicking over her as though it hurt him to look. She grimaced as he recoiled.

  Chapter 9

  Escalation

  "Did I do something wrong? Is it the gown? You said it would be all right if I borrowed it…” Adelia dipped her head, chewing her bottom lip as she nervously fussed over her gown. She wondered if she ought to have worn a fichu, as the neckline of her borrowed gown was quite daring, drawing the eye with its iridescent beaded trimming. It was one of his mother’s old gowns that he’d had delivered to her chambers earlier. Perhaps he was regretting it now. It could not be easy for him to see her in it.

  His Grace sat down. “You have done nothing wrong. Furthermore,” he tapped at her chin so she would raise it and look him in the eye, “you look marvelous. The problem is mine. My mother is ill and I find that I am enjoying myself. It is…an anathema; I cannot help the guilt.” He looked away, his face troubled once again.

  Oh. She hid a chagrined look behind her fan. “Your mother would want you to be happy if you can. Surely you know this.”

  His head whipped around as he favored her with a narrow-eyed stare even as he attempted to smile. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just difficult.”

  “Finding joy where you can is not wrong and nobody would begrudge you that, least of all your beloved mother,” she smiled at him, quirking a brow. “You know she would not, don’t you?”

  He inhaled a breath and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I know. I apologize and I’ll do better with the second part of the show.”

  “Do not strain yourself, Your Grace…” Adelia stopped and rose up from her seat, as Mrs. Belvedere returned—their chaperone for the evening. She curtsied respectfully before taking a seat again. “Relax,” she continued in a whisper.

  “Miss Raby, dear, I hope you are able to follow the show. Is His Grace a gracious host?” Mrs. Belvedere asked.

  “Oh, yes, His Grace is very satisfactory.”

  She blinked a few times as she thought about what she had just said, her thoughts impure as what sounded like a squeak escaped the Duke’s lips.

  “What was that, Your Grace?” Mrs. Belvedere asked.

  “An irritation in my throat. I expect it is all the wine we have drunk,” he replied, coughing for emphasis.

  The air swelled with music as Punch and Judy entered the stage together with Scaramouch bearing a stick.

  “Hollo! Mr. Punch! What have you been doing to my poor dog?”

  Adelia found herself laughing uproariously, almost forgetting herself in her enjoyment of the show. She never lost sight of the Duke’s warm presence beside her but it was a companionable one and did not make her feel in the least self-conscious.

  On the stage, Punch retreated behind the side scene when he saw the stick in Scaramouch’s hand and peeped around the corner. “Ha! My good friend! How you do? Glad to see you look so well.” In an aside, he continued, “I wish you were farther away with your nasty great stick.”

  She fanned herself, the flicking of her wrists fueled by her amusement. The silver spangles of her powder-blue fan captured the dim light and glittered in the shadows. From there sparked a twisted thought.

  Why not have fun with this situation?

  “Your Grace?”

  He leaned back, a questioning expression writ on his face as she turned to face him.

  Over on the screen, Punch was asking Scaramouch what he had in his hand.

  “A fiddle,” Scaramouch said.

  Quiet laughter made their shoulders dance and in
that moment, the night was lighter, free of worry. She faced the stage although truthfully, Adelia could no longer focus on the puppets dancing in front of her, or the words they were saying. No, it was the Duke’s rare, sweet flustered smile that consumed her thoughts. The knowledge that she had the power to put it there. It was heady.

  Once the puppet show was done, the audience easily fell into different steps and separated in a way that could not have been more harmonious if it had been concerted.

  Adelia and the Duke spoke, at first, in the same easy vein, their camaraderie intact. Still, even talk of Punch and Judy was exhausted after half an hour of involved discourse. Especially when the interlocutors were in perfect agreement about the value of the story and how it fit into the modern narrative of marriage and relations.

  Much to their alarm, they found themselves falling silent. In the path behind them, they could hear the rest of the household, a purr of seamless serenity, and crunching the fallen leaves with their steps.

  But they refused to be defeated by awkwardness.

  “Your Grace...”

  “Miss Raby,” he replied, a fleeting but marvelous smile lighting his demeanor.

  They looked at each other through the luminous night’s air for a moment, until Adelia began again. “Your Grace...,” she said, tentative, “Should I address you in a different manner than before?”

  “How would you like to address me?”

  “Well—I can’t very well picture myself, timeworn and lined, audaciously arguing with Your Grace.”

  “Timeworn, lined, and audacious.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And calling me Your Grace?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is not much audacity about it is there? Rather proper,” he said, looking ahead.

  “Rosemond, then,” she said, entertained at the idea of them deciding on her address by its degree of impertinence. “If one cannot be audacious to Your Grace, it must be taken out.”

  “Michel uses Rosemond,” he said, smiling at her with a look in his eyes… and such a smile it was that she was just now getting used to. She considered that she had been, rather blind. “He is most certainly no respecter of persons.”

  “No, he is a charming friend from what I can deduce from our short meeting,” she said, thinking that perhaps it would not be so difficult to teach him to be laughed at.

  “He is,” he agreed, still looking at her. “But we must not stray from this most important topic. You cannot use Rosemond if you want to be perfectly audacious.”

  “Harry, then,” she said, coloring, but incapable of looking away. His eyes, she found, were even more distracting than his smile.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  They stopped walking.

  “It is only just,” she said. It was strange to sound out of breath when not moving. “You may call me Adelia. I do not mind.”

  “Is that your preference?” he asked.

  Adelia felt her face flame, wondering if she was overstepping her bounds. Their relationship was strange; not quite employer and employee but not really friends. It was difficult to know how to behave. If she went with her instincts, she wanted to fold herself around him, hear all the tales he had to tell, and tell him her own. Sometimes she thought he felt that too.

  “Whatever you prefer,” she blinked a few times, lashes shielding her eyes from view. Which was a departure from how she had been looking into his eyes for too long a time to be—truly demure.

  Did he take a step toward me?

  “I like... Adelia,” he said. And then, “It is a pretty name that I would be honored to use…but for now, only amongst ourselves.” He lowered his voice, and she closed the small space between them. “I think I very much prefer it.”

  She held her breath and looked down. Her gown brushed the lapels of his evening cloak. She was not two inches from him.

  He did not speak another word but instead took her hand in his. She threaded their fingers together, his own warming hers through the gloves, but she could not lift her eyes to his.

  “Adelia.”

  She looked up.

  The space seemed to expand until it felt like infinite emptiness lay between them.

  She took a daring step closer and was relieved when his arms encircled her. His warm body enveloped her; she felt giddy and daring, letting him touch her like this, so brazen and without a care for propriety. She knew the wine was partly to blame but only partly. Most of it was simply everything she had been feeling ever since she clapped eyes on the Duke.

  They stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact. Adelia felt as if she was floating, suspended in a bubble with the Duke; a bubble where anything was possible and therefore everything could happen.

  They were interrupted by a suspiciously loud conversation from somewhere behind them and immediately drew apart. He smiled as they widened the space between them and she could not look away.

  “This is not wise... I could hardly be audacious if you call me that,” she said, dazed and truthful.

  The laughter lit up his eyes as he regarded her with affection. “I would not want to check you.”

  If she had not been so already, she would have been won by him then. It was not enough to just smile, she had to laugh, the sound carefree and joyful. “I will endeavor to make a particular effort.”

  * * *

  The Earl of Cornhill was concerned about the Duke of Rosemond’s questions. They seemed strange and not at all indicative of an enduring passion for his daughter. Knowing full well that Dorothea was hoping for a proposal from the Duke, the Earl decided to take matters into his own hands. He summoned his steward, Mr. Martins. “I need you to write this down and have it sent to the Duke of Rosemond right away,” he said, pacing up and down his office.

  “Yes, My Lord.” Mr. Martins took his seat, prepared his quill and ink, drew a paper to him and awaited the Earl’s dictation.

  “Dear Duke,” the Earl began and proceeded to demand that the Duke meet with him at his earliest convenience to state clearly and succinctly his intentions toward the Earl’s daughter. Mr. Martins faithfully took down every word he said and then folded the letter and applied melted wax to which the Earl impressed his seal.

  “Deliver it right away to the Duke, and do not come back without a reply,” he demanded.

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Mr. Martins grabbed his coat and called for a horse from the stables, and then he was off to see the Duke.

  * * *

  The manor was just settling down after the uproar of the last few days. It turned out that Miss Raby’s extreme reaction to the rum was due to her catching the Dowager Duchess’s fever.

  The physician had been more than a little perturbed to be summoned to Rosemond to see to a servant but he carried out his duties with aplomb nevertheless. He was getting paid either way so he did not begrudge his care to the girl. Besides, he could see that she was indeed fair of face and he could not blame the Duke if he was enamored with her.

  Miss Raby was mortified once she came back to herself, and recalled her behavior.

  “Your Grace, I cannot beg you enough for forgiveness. I was not in my right mind! I—” she was almost crying with distress as she burst into the study to plead her case.

  He came up to her, putting a hand on her arm to soothe her. “Don’t worry about it my dear. I completely understand,” he said as gently as he could. Her bosom was still heaving with agitation and he found it most distracting. In truth, it hurt that she felt the need to apologize for her overly affectionate behavior. It might have been unseemly but it was not unwelcome.

  And he himself had no excuse of illness or drunkenness for his response to her. She seemed to have forgotten that.

  “Your Grace, I do assure you that I know how to behave in a decorous manner and that will not happen again.”

  What a pity.

  The thought flashed through his mind even as he hastened to reassure her that he did not think any less of her. A
s she was still tearfully entreating him to forget her behavior there was a knock on the door.

  “A messenger from Cornhill is here to see you, Your Grace,” his butler announced.

  “Thank you, Perry. Send him in,” Harry turned to Miss Raby. “You will excuse me, my dear?”

  “Oh,” the color flooded her cheeks becomingly, “Of course.”

  She scurried to the door and he watched her go with regret. A messenger of the Cornhill household walked in, holding a missive. “The Earl of Cornhill bid me give this to you and return to him with a reply, Your Grace.”