Nothing Like a Duke Page 2

  Robert shifted uneasily in his chair. What the devil? That was not the sort of thought he would have had a year ago. It wasn’t the sort of thought anybody had. “It’s a relief to be back in my own, er, natural habitat among the haut ton,” Robert told the dog. “I should never have ventured out into circles where my gifts aren’t valued.”

  The dog stared. Not in a belligerent way, but as if he could see right through Robert to the very back of his head.

  “I’m not thinking about her,” Robert said. “That was simply a…glancing reference. To the past. I told you, I’ve given up thinking about her.”

  One of the little dog’s ears moved, just slightly, as if he’d heard something off.

  “This visit will be like relaxing in one’s own comfortable rooms after a long journey,” Robert added. “I am all anticipation.”

  The pup offered a soft response. Not a bark, or a whine, or a growl. Actually, it sounded uncannily like some ancient curmudgeon at the club clearing his throat. Robert waited, almost believing that some sort of crabbed pronouncement would follow. Of course it did not. He gazed at his new companion, who returned the favor with solemn, unwavering regard. “I shall call you Plato,” Robert said. “You seem to deserve the name.”

  He put the letter aside and rose.

  “I trust you will behave yourself,” he added, indicating the box of sand he’d shown the dog earlier. He had no idea whether the pup—Plato—would use it, should the need arise, but he hadn’t wanted to leave him in the stables. Who knew how the pack there would receive him? Heading for the door, Robert wondered whether he could enlist his valet in Plato’s care. Bailey would arrive tomorrow with some things Robert had wanted from London. Doubtful. Unlike his brother Sebastian, Robert had a strictly professional relationship with his personal servant. Better to tip one of the footmen to check on Plato now and then.

  Robert left his bedchamber, strolling toward the beautifully curved stairway that led to the lower floor, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he descended. He did not, of course, stop to ogle himself in the glass. He was well aware that his new coat fit him to perfection. Weston was an artist with the shears. Robert knew he had the shoulders to fill the coat out, too, even if he wasn’t as tall as some of his brothers.

  He showed a fine leg in his buff pantaloons, and the careful tousle of his auburn hair flattered his handsome face. The folds of his neckcloth would excite the envy of the young men—and many of the older ones—here. He looked, in fact, exactly like what he was, a pink of the ton. And he did not care a whit why people called it pink or what that might mean. He’d given up thinking of such stuff.

  There was a momentary hitch in Robert’s step as he once again forced his mind away from the subject of a certain young lady. If she was incapable of appreciating his gifts, then she could just…go hang. He’d had much more fun back when he didn’t think of her. Hadn’t he? Yes, of course he had. And he was here to have it again.

  Robert reached the bottom of the sweeping stair and walked along a lower corridor toward the buzz of conversation in the great drawing room. The tone was bright and excited, full of expectation. Gerald and Anne were known for their lavish hospitality, and for providing a perfect balance of planned activities and freedom at their house parties. Not here. They hadn’t lived in this house before the old earl’s death last year. But their established reputation as artists of diversion had lured guests all this way from town. Robert assumed there would be hunting, though he didn’t know the country, as well as walks and riding and indoor games and music and more. Or, guests could choose to lounge about with a novel in front of the fire on a crisp October day, or write letters, or whatever they liked. It was a familiar, beguiling prospect.

  Robert entered the drawing room, a large chamber that ran along the back of the house with a row of tall glass doors that gave onto a terrace above spreading lawns. Beautifully decorated in ivory and blue, the room was dotted with comfortable groupings of sofas and chairs that encouraged conversation. Just now at midafternoon, however, most of its denizens were clumped together discussing plans for the rest of the day.

  It was a promising gathering, Robert thought as he paused near the door. There were several young couples he counted as good friends and others closer in age to their hosts.

  The largest group, though, clustered around Lady Victoria, the daughter of the house. She hadn’t received a proposal during her first season, so her parents had invited a number of eligible young men to the house party, along with some of her female friends to balance the numbers. Robert ran an appreciative eye over the latter, noticing several very pretty faces that he’d seen about town. He thought he’d danced with one or two of these ladies. In a minute he’d recall their names.

  Robert’s closest friend among the Salbridges, the eldest son and heir, was not present. Laurence was off at his intended bride’s house for the hunting, Robert remembered. Some suspected he’d offered for the Allingham chit chiefly because her family had a huge estate in Leicestershire, but Robert knew that to be only secondarily true. Laurence had been quite taken with Marie as well. He’d told Robert so. Of course her enthusiasm for sport was probably part of the attraction. Robert smiled at the thought.

  Lady Victoria gave him a brilliant smile in return. He couldn’t have asked for a warmer welcome. Robert started forward to join the group.

  He’d hardly taken two steps when the sounds of an arrival behind him made him turn back to the door. Then, for a moment, he thought he was delirious. It couldn’t be. But the figure standing in the opening was solid flesh, not a phantom. “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “I’ve come for the house party,” answered Flora Jennings.

  She was as beautiful as ever. In a simple pale gown, her figure was a marvel of subtle curves. Her black hair was dressed in curls, wisps falling about the pale skin of her face, clear-cut as an antique cameo. She presented a serene picture—until you noticed the fire in those cornflower-blue eyes.

  “I was invited,” she added with a touch of familiar asperity.

  “You can’t have been.” He hadn’t expected to see her again, unless he sought her out. They moved in completely different circles of society. The sight of her here was like running into his mother at a bare-knuckles boxing bout.

  “Do you imagine I would push in without an invitation?” she asked.

  The snap of challenge in her voice brought back countless verbal jousts. She was inarguably, unmistakably, here. “I don’t think you could,” he replied. “I’m only surprised to see you among people you profess to despise. Don’t you have cuneiform tablets to translate in London. Or something?”

  She frowned at him. He was quite familiar with the expression.

  A sturdy woman in her mid-forties emerged from behind Flora. She had sandy hair, regular features, and a gown that proclaimed fashionable good taste. “Hello, Lord Robert,” she said.

  Here was the explanation for Flora’s presence. Harriet Runyon was related to a great swath of the nobility and received everywhere despite a marriage once thought beneath her. No doubt she’d managed the invitation. “Mrs. Runyon.”

  With her customary air of sharp intelligence, and of brooking no nonsense, she replied, “How pleasant to see you.”

  Robert’s refined social instincts signaled a whiff of danger, like the rustle in the undergrowth just before something formidable bursts out to surprise you. Which was odd. “And you, ma’am,” he said. He offered them an impeccable bow. “Welcome to Salbridge.”

  Robert resumed his walk over to the group of young ladies. Lady Victoria greeted him warmly as an old friend she’d known since her early teens. He set himself to entertain them, and soon elicited a chorus of silvery laughs. It wouldn’t hurt a bit to let Flora Jennings see how charming most females found him.

  Two

  “Do smile,” said Harriet Runyon.

  Fl
ora exposed her teeth. That would have to do for this crowd of lavishly dressed people who had all turned to stare at her when she came in, and then turned away again with cool disinterest. That was what they did, Mama would say. They turned their backs. Flora could almost hear her mother’s voice, retelling the story of her ejection from society after she defied her aristocratic family and married a poor scholar, a tale of fears becoming real and pain masked with truculence. All her life, her mother had assured Flora that they could expect nothing but disregard or snubs from the haut ton. That history had made walking into this room rather like stepping into the lions’ den. But Flora had been braced for it. She knew how to put up a brave front.

  And she didn’t care what they thought. She hadn’t come to make a splash in society. She’d come… Her thoughts tripped up here and came to a stop over the fact that Lord Robert had not been glad to see her. Through all the months of their close acquaintance this year, he’d greeted her so warmly whenever they met, with a smile that was nearly irresistible. She’d grown accustomed to the welcome in his intense blue eyes, had begun to take it for granted. She hadn’t known that until a moment ago, when she’d found it gone.

  On the other side of the opulent room, he was surrounded by a circle of pretty girls in gowns that cost more than any three of hers. He looked so very handsome, and utterly at ease. He was making them laugh; clearly they found him charming. He didn’t spare her a glance. Anger, and apprehension, flooded Flora. Now that they were in his exalted social circle rather than her much more humble one, he meant to snub her, just as Mama had foretold. Flora had thought she was mistaken about him, but what if she wasn’t? She’d had years of rigorous mental training; she was not prone to mistakes of judgment.

  And after all, who would believe that a darling of London society, and the son of a duke, was truly interested in the unfashionable daughter of a scholar? Of course she’d thought that his claim to be fascinated by her intellectual pursuits was some sort of jest. According to everything she’d been taught, men like Lord Robert Gresham were nothing but shallow posturing, through and through.

  And here came the sardonic inner voice that Flora both dreaded and appreciated. Lord Robert had actually buckled down and studied her father’s writings on Akkadian, it pointed out. He’d hung about her home in the dowdy precincts of Russell Square for weeks. He’d followed her from London to Oxford. He’d given her that melting smile whenever she encountered him. Until today. Until a minute ago.

  Flora felt an unfamiliar sinking sensation. She looked longingly back at the hallway, wondering if she could still escape.

  “Stop scowling,” murmured Harriet at her side. “Really, Flora. You must do better than this. We should go and say hello to our hosts. Come and meet the Salbridges.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Flora, this isn’t like you. Compose yourself.” Harriet moved to partly shield Flora from the other guests. “What is the matter?”

  “I shouldn’t have come,” Flora murmured.

  “Are we going to rehash all that again? Now? This is not really an appropriate time and place, my dear.” When Flora said nothing, the older woman sighed and quietly began to tick off points with the air of a woman who had cited them before. Which she had. “You enjoyed your brief taste of society in Oxford.”

  “Parts of it,” said Flora. It had seemed so pleasant, then, to wear prettier dresses and attend evening parties and…fritter away her time, Papa would have said. She’d met Lord Robert’s mother and discovered that a duchess could be both sensible and cordial, not the least high-nosed. But she saw now that a few outings in a university town were nothing compared to a true conclave of the haut ton.

  Harriet looked exasperated. “You decided you wished to increase your social experience.”

  She had wanted more from life than she’d accepted previously, Flora admitted silently. But for some reason, she hadn’t pictured a host of strangers from the upper reaches of society giving her sidelong glances, wondering who in the world she could be. There seemed to be so many of them. Well, who did they think they were, these…natterers?

  “And you were quite forlorn when Lord Robert left town with no plans to return,” Harriet added.

  “I was not!” She spoke far too loudly. Heads turned. Conversations faltered.

  Harriet gave the crowd an impenetrable smile. They subsided.

  “I was not ‘forlorn,’” Flora hissed. What a limp, pathetic word! She’d never been forlorn in her life. It was the opposite of all she’d been trained to be—acute, observant, active, and intelligent. “I may have missed his…conversation. I took Lord Robert at his word, you see…that he wished to be…a friend. And now I arrive here and find that he is quite displeased to see me.” Flora kept her voice rigidly steady. “He was not glad. At all.”

  “He probably wasn’t,” Harriet replied.

  “What?” She’d expected a denial, or at least some sort of excuse.

  “When one is running away from something,” her older friend said, “one often doesn’t like to be chased. At first.”

  “I am not chasing him!” Flora spoke more softly this time, but with utter revulsion.

  “I didn’t say he was running from you,” Harriet pointed out.

  Flora felt her cheeks redden. But curiosity overcame embarrassment. “What did you mean?”

  “We really haven’t time for a philosophical discussion.” Harriet gave the gathering another bright, general smile. “So, are we to do this or not? It would cause a minor scandal to simply turn and leave. And I must say that you won’t get another invitation as brilliant as this one, Flora.”

  What did she want? Across the room, one of the girls around Lord Robert gave a musical trill of laughter. He looked achingly handsome, and charming, and…inordinately pleased with himself. What was that slang phrase—a care-for-nobody? That seemed to apply. As far as she could see, that is, because he pointedly did not look in her direction. All the other times they’d been in a room together, he’d concentrated on her. It had been a heady, tantalizing experience. But the ton hadn’t been watching then, she thought. The idea hurt, but Flora faced up to it. If she’d been wrong to change her mind about him, it was best that she find out, once and for all. Then she’d know what to do.

  Flora put her shoulders back, her chin up. In any case, everything didn’t have to be about—was not about—one maddening man. She gave Harriet a nod.

  “Good girl. Come along. And, my dear?”

  Flora looked at her chaperone.

  “A smile is not a concession,” Harriet added with a lift of her sandy eyebrows. “It is a…a tool, shall we say. A rather versatile one. It can pry things out or smooth things over. Substitute for things one doesn’t wish to confide. Very useful.”

  The thought made Flora smile.

  “Much better.” Harriet led her over to a couple near the center of the large room and introduced her to Gerald and Anne Moreton, Earl and Countess of Salbridge. They were both about Harriet’s age, and Flora knew they’d been friends for years. That connection had made her invitation possible. The countess was also a distant relation of Flora’s mother. She strongly suspected that Harriet had reminded her of this when her hostess asked, “How is Agatha? I haven’t seen her in an age.”

  “She’s well,” Flora replied, not quite truthfully. Back home in London, her mother was fretting, as agitated as Flora had ever seen her. She’d admitted that it could be helpful for Flora to extend her social horizons, while being terribly worried about what might happen to her when she did.

  “You’re also a cousin of Robert Gresham’s, are you not?”

  Flora suppressed a start. She doubted that Harriet had provided this information. It seemed the countess had made her own inquiries. “Very distant,” Flora said, proud of the indifference in her voice. “Third or fourth, perhaps. We used to try to work it out when I visited at Langf
ord as a child.” There, let her noble hosts chew on the fact that she’d stayed at a duke’s home. They needn’t know that all the visits had been years ago. Flora felt her resolve returning. She’d decided to come here, and she’d been taught to trust her own thought processes, even when she didn’t quite fathom them. She would not draw back, and she did not feel Lord Robert’s presence at her back like a constant pulse of heat. That was irrational.

  “You must meet our daughter,” the countess said. At her signal, one of the young ladies left the circle clustered around Lord Robert and joined them. “Victoria, this is Miss Flora Jennings.”

  It was actually Lady Victoria, Flora thought, as they exchanged bobbing curtsies. The room was full of titled people, some of whom would certainly despise the daughter of an obscure scholar. Who’d been worth a dozen of any of these fribbles, she thought automatically. Flora caught herself. One did not draw conclusions before an experiment had really begun. She didn’t have proof of their witlessness. However certain she might be, she mustn’t overgeneralize. Papa had taught her more intellectual rigor than that.

  “How do you do?” said Lady Victoria Moreton in a soft voice.

  Everything about this daughter of the house seemed soft. She was a creature of rounded contours and wide brown eyes, several inches shorter than Flora, and garbed in a white muslin gown. Her brown hair was sculpted in gentle waves about her pretty face. There was something old-fashioned about her, Flora thought, though her dress was certainly the latest thing. She looked as if she’d never been denied anything in all her years.

  “You must present Miss Jennings to the young people,” the countess said. “I think we’ve gathered quite a lively group, Miss Jennings, even so far from town.” And then, her duty done, the hostess turned to talk to Harriet.

  Flora followed Lady Victoria back to the knot of guests that included Lord Robert. As they joined them, Flora was irresistibly reminded of a herd of horses, jostling and sidling when a new animal was introduced into their ranks. The idea made her smile. A medium-sized gentleman across the group smiled back.