The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife

Chapter Three

“As you wish, your grace,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “The salon is not far. Walk this way.”

“I assume there won’t be another coven of schoolgirls lying in wait for me there,” he said as he followed her hurried steps through the hall.

She drew a deep breath through her nostrils. It must be hard on the poor fellow, having women hiding behind doors wherever he went. “I apologize if the girls have embarrassed your grace. I shall guard you against any such further intrusions on your privacy.”

“You shall guard me?” he asked, looking her up and down in interest. “You won’t need a shield or teaspoon to defend us?”

“I have other weapons at my disposal.”

He smiled. “Do you, indeed?”

She marched her fastest to lead him into the room at the end of the hall reserved for special guests. He outpaced her with ease, his manner infuriating. “And what is my guardian’s name again, if you don’t mind refreshing my memory?”

“Miss Gardner. Harriet Gardner.”

He stared at her. “And do you have a guardian? Or are your hidden weapons enough?”

Heat stole into Harriet’s cheeks. Had he just asked her if she had an arrangement as a mistress to another man? Who did he think he was, asking her such an improper question? Did being a peer give him the right to pry into her personal affairs? And on the first day they’d met, too. She bristled to think what he’d want to know next week.

“It was a joke, Miss Gardner,” he said, shaking his head with the rue of a man accustomed to being misunderstood. “I was trying to put you at ease.”

“At ease,” she echoed.

He frowned. “It appears that I make a fearsome first impression. I don’t know how I do it. It isn’t intentional. But… I do.”

She nodded cautiously. “Yes.”

“And I am hard to please.”

She swallowed. “Well, I do hope our brandy meets your standards.” She flung open the door to the private salon, which she had previously visited only as part of her academy training. She had never entertained an important visitor by herself before. However, as the daughter of a drunkard, she knew how to pour a measure of liquor when it was demanded. And she could bluff her way through most situations. “Does your grace-”

“Dear God!” he shouted, in a voice that took a year off her life. “The blasted room is on fire!”

Harriet gasped. So it was. She slipped around him to seek out the source of the noxious banks of smoke swirling around his tall form. The duke coughed, rather dramatically, in Harriet’s opinion, and rushed to open a window. Harriet winged to the fireplace, having quickly perceived the problem.

One of the academy’s staff, obviously terrified of displeasing the “Duke of Thunder,” had hurriedly lit a fire to warm the infrequently occupied room. In his or her haste, this well-meaning servant had tossed a wad of newspaper onto the grate as kindling, with disastrous results.

“Nothing to worry about, your grace,” she called over his discordant gasps for breath. “I’ll have it put out before you know it.” And she waited until his back was turned before falling to her knees to beat down the inferno with a brass shovel.

Horrible idea.

The smoke not only billowed, it blew soot everywhere, including into the unfairly beautiful face of the man who was suddenly bending over her in an apparent effort to help.

His voice thundered in her ear. “How could anyone possibly be so inept?”

That was it. Thus tested for the first time, she failed. She dropped the shovel onto the hearth, muttering, “Well, I beg your stinkin’ pardon.”

He picked up the shovel, leaning around her to smother the rest of the flames. He completed the task with an efficiency that made her efforts look like a pantomime. He laid the shovel down on the hearth. Then he settled onto his knees beside her.

Silence then.

Foul smoke and silence.

She sank onto her heels. Her eyes burned like… hot coals. Could she hope he hadn’t heard her impolite outburst? Should she distract him by pointing out that rain was splashing through the window he had opened and was saturating the wool peacocks that were woven into the elegant Brussels carpet? How was she going to land a position as a governess or stay on at the academy if she couldn’t hold her tongue?

She knew the rules. They had been drummed into her head often enough. If the duke wanted to admonish her, she was supposed to listen meekly and think of… well, of anything except how handsome he was or that, if he kissed her, she would at least have a plausible reason to accuse him of ruining her debut.

He turned his head. It was obvious by his expression that kissing her was the last thing on his mind.

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say to me?” he asked, looking like Lucifer in the dissolving drifts of smoke.

She lifted her gloved hand to her heart, replying steadily, “I said that I beg your pardon for your grace having to breathe in such a… stink.”

A glimmer of understanding lit his face. The transformation reminded Harriet of that deceptive lull during a storm when the sun glances out through the thunderheads and gives false hope.

False proved that hope, indeed.

In the next moment she was staring into inscrutable darkness. His gaze dropped in slow deliberation.

She glanced down and immediately discerned the source of his enrapt scrutiny. Her battle with the fire had left an ugly smudge on her lavender bodice. The forget-me-nots that had sweetly adorned her bosoms stared up at her sadly with filthy, accusing faces. Their disgraced state dealt her the final blow. She had spent a pretty penny for this dress to celebrate her debut as a reformed member of Society. What a waste. She couldn’t let the girls see her like this. With a sigh, she pulled off her gloves and balled them up in her fist.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” he said, examining the rest of the room.

Harriet did not see how, at least not from her perspective. “Let me make sure that there’s a clean spot for you to sit,” she said quietly. “The smoke tends to settle everywhere. I do hate coal.”

“I should probably close the window.” He grasped her hand, an act she was too flustered to protest, and lifted her from the hearth. “And I shall take that brandy now, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded, staring past him to the marble-topped sideboard. If the glasses were dusty, she’d have to wait again until he wasn’t looking to give one a quick swipe with her sleeve. A drink would not help her dress, but it might put him in a better mood.

“Right. Brandy.”

“A double measure, please.”

She was only too eager to put a safe distance between them. From the corner of her eye, she watched him close the window. Odd how the mundane act suddenly absorbed her attention. How many times had she seen the footmen at the same task? Not once had she admired the pudgy butler helping to hang pictures on the wall, either.

But then, none of them claimed good shoulders and a lean torso that tapered into parts one presumed were equally strong and nicely proportioned. The duke’s muslin shirt had gotten damp. So had his black hair. No doubt it was her fault for blowing soot all over him, but suddenly she thought he looked a little slovenly. Perhaps even decadent. Still, he was as fine-looking as any man ought to be without causing a riot in the streets.

She carried a brandy to him. “Is this enough?”

“For four or five sailors.” He took a few sips from the goblet, then set it on a low folding table. “Are fires a usual occurrence in the academy?”

“Absolutely not. But then, neither are dukes,” she added before she could stop herself.

His chiseled mouth curled at the corners. “One relates to the other in exactly what way?”

“Unpredictable elements of nature.”

“In that case, it’s fortunate you know your way around a shovel.”

“I’m sorry,” she said ruefully. “I’ve never greeted a duke before-not properly, I mean.”

“I can tell.” He sighed and let a moment elapse. “But we are human, you know.”

Harriet’s heart pounded in her throat. The sultry humor in his eyes suggested he was too human, indeed. She might have noticed if she hadn’t been trying so hard to please him.

“Well?” he said, clearly expecting a response.

She swallowed. “Well, what?”

“I think you were supposed to make a reassuring remark to soothe my wounded feelings.”

“Are your feelings wounded?” she asked in surprise. “An influential man like you? A man who has to hide from his hordes of admirers?”

He cleared his throat. “You see, that is exactly what I mean. No one has sympathy for a person of my position.”

“Your grace must suffer greatly.”

“You have no idea,” he said wryly.

He subsided into a thoughtful silence. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand. Harriet should have known he was up to something. Soft as night, he traced his thumb across the smudge that was emblazoned on her breast. She didn’t dare breathe. Demon. If she even flinched, he’d be touching improper territory.

“It is quite a mark,” he mused. “I am not a laundress, but I’d venture a guess that the dress is ruined for good. I suppose you can’t afford another. Ask my cousin Charlotte to have a new one billed to my account.”

Quite a mark.

Not as indelible as his touch. It was a good thing she had put down that shovel.

“I’m ruined,” she whispered. “If I knew how to cry, I’d be gushing like a fountain, not that it would help. It’s all ruined: the tea, my dress, my gloves-”

“If you’re going to prattle and expect my sympathy, you’ll have to speak so I can hear.”

“This is all your fault,” she said loudly, deciding that if he was even indirectly the cause of her dismissal, he should at least be named.

He put his hand to his neatly folded neckcloth. Which, upon closer inspection, Harriet realized was not meant to be a dirty shade of gray. “You’re the one who brought me into this smoking Hades.”

Funny, she’d have thought he would feel right at home. “Your grace is right, of course. It is all my fault: the fire, the smoke, the-”

“The fire was lit before we entered the room,” he said matter-of-factly. “If anyone is to blame, it should be the idiot who stuffed the grate with newspaper.”

Thunder. Lightning. Rain pummeling the roof. There were certain powers it was useless to resist.

Harriet took her soiled gloves and efficiently swept up the ashes that had fallen on the hearth. Everything else, disregarding her dress, looked in order. The duke had left the curtains parted to emit only a flattering glow into the room. The flocked chinoiserie wallpaper, the delicate armchairs, the Queen Anne clock, appeared to have survived the conflagration unscathed.

The duke reclined, his eyes half closed, on the red tufted couch. Except for the bitter tang of cinders in the air and a brand upon her breast, there was little evidence to raise suspicions when, a half minute later, Charlotte Boscastle escorted Lady Primrose Powlis, Lady Dalrymple, and the duke’s young niece into the room.