Nothing Like a Duke Page 3

  Lady Victoria introduced her and recited a list of names, moving around the circle. Flora memorized them with the automatic precision of a trained mind. The task offered no difficulty to one who’d been drilled on cuneiform symbols from the age of seven. She was received with politeness as a minor novelty. She wasn’t someone they knew, and people like this expected to know everyone important, Flora thought. There was a stir of silent speculation when Lord Robert mentioned that they were already acquainted. “Cousin of mine,” he added.

  With three words, he’d slotted her into a recognized category, Flora saw. She was a visitor from the far edges of a great family. Possibly a poor relation, considering her gown. She couldn’t dispute such a verdict. It was perfectly true. And Lord Robert Gresham was perfectly free to point it out to his grand friends, if that was what he wished to do. Never mind his claims, this spring and summer, to value other measures of worth—intellect and education and industry. It was a very good thing she’d come here, Flora thought. If she hadn’t, she might have kept on believing him.

  Everyone returned to their previous conversations. It was actually a relief not to be the center of attention any longer. At first, Flora thought they were playing some kind of geography game, naming prominent places in London. Then she realized they were establishing where they’d last met—weeks ago, during the season—with bits of reminiscence about certain balls or evening parties. As she had attended none of them, she had nothing to contribute. Members of the haut ton were rather like butterflies, she thought. They hovered, vividly colorful, above the lower reaches of society. They flitted from one gorgeous locale to another, oblivious to the misfortunes that befell others not so very far away. They were stunningly decorative. After a few minutes, she caught Harriet’s admonitory eye and remembered to smile.

  Flora stood and listened. She was accustomed to being the center of lively discussions at home, but she didn’t really mind being left out of this one. The topic was dull, and anyway she would be better occupied observing and analyzing the people who were to be her companions for the next month. Now that she had their names, she could put faces to the descriptions Harriet had provided on their long journey up to Northumberland.

  The room was dotted with attractive young men. Wellborn, well-heeled, well-bred, Flora thought. Well-behaved, well-set-up. No, she was stretching now. But they were all those things. Harriet had told her that the young men were here for Lady Victoria. Or perhaps vice versa. Good matches, in any case, lured in by the hunting and hospitality toward a possible settlement of the girl’s future. It was a common thing, Flora knew, and she couldn’t summon quite the level of derision she might have expressed in earlier years. People had to meet, after all.

  Her gaze lit on Lord Robert and skipped away before he could catch her looking. He was the handsomest of them all, in her opinion. Harriet had said he wasn’t considered a likely suitor, though he’d be welcome if he decided to show interest in Lady Victoria, ten years his junior. Only three years separated the two of them, thought Flora. Harriet had warned her to avoid mentioning her age, as some would consider twenty-five to be nearly on the shelf. Lord Robert turned to smile at a young lady with copper-colored hair. He looked delighted with her. Lady Victoria joined them. Flora felt a pang in the region of her heart. With fierce discipline, she dismissed it.

  The young female guests were Lady Victoria’s age, her particular friends, Harriet had said. Flora noted that they hadn’t been chosen to make the daughter of the house shine in comparison. Several had to be judged much prettier than Lady Victoria; she must be generous or confident, or perhaps both. Flora banished a sneaking wish that she’d been less magnanimous. All the girls looked so assured and graceful in their pale muslin dresses.

  Flora realized that Lord Robert was coming toward her. Her pulse sped up as he stopped by her side.

  “I’ve come to beg your pardon,” he said. “I was rude. Please accept my apologies.”

  Flora could only nod. He hadn’t spoken to her so curtly even when they’d been mired in one of their running debates last summer. He seemed different in other ways as well. His clothes looked more—she groped for a word—complicated than they had in Russell Square and Oxford. His neckcloth was more intricate, his waistcoat more opulent. More than that, though, he had a larger presence. If she’d thought of it at all, she would have predicted that he’d be less impressive surrounded by the cream of the haut ton. Outshone or overshadowed with other noblemen all around him. In fact, it was the opposite. He stood out—polished, assured, every inch a duke’s son. And just, perhaps, the tiniest bit intimidating?

  “I was startled to see you,” he went on when she didn’t speak. “Knowing how you hate the fashionable set.”

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  “We can dispute my word choice, but you cannot deny that you’ve expressed contempt for the ton. Emphatically and often.”

  “Contempt is—”

  “Another strong word. Indeed.” He smiled at her.

  Abruptly, treacherously, Flora was ambushed by a memory. It had been late, at her home in Russell Square. A group of her father’s old friends were making their farewells to her mother. She and Lord Robert had lingered in a dim corner of the drawing room. She couldn’t recall how that had come about, but it was one of the rare moments when they hadn’t been arguing. Indeed, they’d been in charity with one another, for once. And he’d looked down at her with admiration, and tenderness, and longing. She couldn’t have mistaken it. His gaze had sent shivers through her body. She’d wanted to step into his arms and lose herself in a wild kiss and let passion take them where it would.

  Flora blinked, and swallowed. She’d shoved that simmering desire away, out of sight, almost out of mind. She’d been so sure that he’d walk out of her life as easily as he’d walked in, that he would make a fool of her. Then, recently, she’d wondered if she was mistaken. Now, she faced a new version of this unfathomable man.

  “Am I right in assuming this is your first house party?” Lord Robert asked.

  “Yes.” One word was all she could manage.

  “I think you’ll find the Salbridges’ arrangements very pleasant. There’ll be shooting tomorrow, I understand. Ladies often come along to observe.”

  “Observe men shooting? Isn’t that unwise?” Flora pictured strolling groups straying into the line of fire. Shouting would be the least of it.

  “Everyone stays behind the butts.”

  “The butts?”

  Lord Robert shaped a waist-high barrier with his hands. “Short stone-and-turf walls.”

  “But how can they find any game if they just stand there?”

  “The beaters flush the birds.”

  Flora realized she’d heard of this. Wasn’t it just like the ton to have their targets hustled to them by servants? “I don’t care to watch a lot of birds herded to slaughter,” she answered.

  “Yet you enjoy eating a fat partridge,” Lord Robert said. “I’ve seen you do it. Very daintily too.”

  There was that warmth in his eyes. “When?” she challenged.

  “The first time I was invited to dinner in Russell Square.”

  “You remember what we ate?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Flora couldn’t look away. Their many conversations seemed to rush back into the space between them. “I have that article you wanted to read,” she said before she thought. “The one by Stanfield. About the similarities between Akkadian and Aramaic.”

  “Ah.” Lord Robert’s blue eyes flickered with…something. She couldn’t tell what it was.

  “You were very eager to see it.” When he didn’t answer at once, well-worn words popped out of Flora’s mouth. “You said. Back when you were claiming to be interested in Papa’s scholarship.” His jaw tightened. She’d always been able to goad him, if nothing else.

  “Fl— Miss Jennings. Allow me to give yo
u some advice. Talk of ancient inscriptions will do you no favors here. People won’t understand. They’ll find you odd. And that can make things difficult at a gathering like this one.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t wish to embarrass you!” she replied, hiding hurt under an acerbic tone.

  “This isn’t about me,” he said. “Everyone knows me. It’s you who would suffer.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because you wish I wasn’t here and hope I will go away and leave you to your grand friends.” Her voice sounded petulant and childish in her own ears. Flora flushed, mortified.

  Lord Robert raised one auburn eyebrow. He gave her a disturbingly understanding smile. “No, I don’t.” With an elegant bow, he moved away.

  Flora stood very still. She’d found that was the best way to contain a strong emotion. Especially when she didn’t know what it was. Or, rather, what a bewildering mixture of things it was. She resisted closing her hands into fists, forced down her wish to follow him.

  A young man behind her gave a shout of laughter. Flora started and turned. But no one was looking at her. She was not the focus of a battery of stares. In this opulent drawing room she wasn’t the respected expert on her father’s work, or the admired head of a charitable organization. She wasn’t the least bit important. It was a kind of safety.

  She encountered the gaze of the medium-sized man who’d smiled at her during the introductions. His name was Sir Liam Malloy, she recalled. He looked a bit older than the gaggle of suitors around Lady Victoria, somewhere between them and the host and hostess in age. When he saw that he had her attention, he approached.

  “Miss Jennings,” he said with a small bow. “How do you do?” His voice had a faint lilt. He was stocky and tanned by the sun, probably an avid sportsman in this place and time. “Looking at you, I wondered if we might have a bit of heritage in common. Are you by any chance black Irish like me?”

  They shared black hair and light-blue eyes, she noticed. It wasn’t a common coloring. “No, not so far as I know.”

  “It’s a bit of a tale where the ‘black’ part came from,” he began.

  “The wreck of the Spanish Armada,” said Flora automatically. “The foreign sailors washed up on Irish shores.”

  Her companion looked startled. “Well, you’ve quite stolen my thunder, Miss Jennings. Not many people recall that bit of history.”

  Flora flushed. Despite her resentment, she knew that Lord Robert was right. No one here cared for learning, and they would find her strange if she paraded her knowledge. Not that she ever did. She wasn’t some sort of pedant. Facts simply…popped out when you knew them. Was she supposed to try to reply stupidly? But she didn’t intend to make a point of it either. Flora planned to slide into society unobtrusively, stealthily—a dispassionate observer, an explorer of new realms. That was the way to look at it, she thought. It wasn’t all about him. “I just…happened to read of it somewhere,” she replied.

  “A great reader, are you?”

  Flora met his bright, interested eyes. She would tell no outright lies. But there was no need to recount her entire biography either. “Not lately,” she said. Indeed, it had been more than three hours since she had opened a book.

  Three

  Robert didn’t join the shooting party the next morning. Instead, he requested a mount from the Salbridge stables and set off early for the village of Hexham, some ten miles away. It was a longish ride for pleasure, but Hexham was the site of his brother Randolph’s church, and he knew Randolph was eagerly anticipating a visit.

  The ride also gave Robert ample time to mull over a topic that interested him deeply. Flora Jennings hadn’t traveled all the way to Northumberland to criticize him. She wasn’t insane. She hadn’t come because she loved tonnish house parties either. Her distaste for “fashionable fribbles” had always been clear. Thus, she must have other motives. Which meant that he could have…revivified hopes.

  All well and good, Robert thought as he rode along the banks of the River Tyne in the crisp October sunshine, but he did not intend to revive their continual disputes. He’d had quite enough sniping, an experience unique in his life so far. His unexpected fascination with the ancient Akkadian language had started it, he thought. Who would have imagined that he’d enjoy studying cuneiform symbols? But it had meant that he entered Flora’s world as an apprentice where she was expert, and this inequality had colored all their relations. She’d felt free to doubt and dismiss him. But Salbridge Great Hall was a different matter altogether. And he meant to manage rather better.

  Robert had a sudden memory of a summer evening when they’d sat together in her father’s study, the windows open to the green scents of the back garden and the sound of crickets. They’d been struggling over a difficult bit of cuneiform, and he’d suddenly gotten an inspiration. When he told her his idea, Flora’s eyes had positively flamed with triumph and delight. She’d nodded, and smiled at him, and touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. A mere brush, and he’d become so aroused he didn’t dare rise from his chair for half an hour. Who could have predicted that a fine mind would be more stimulating to him than a daring neckline or a froth of petticoats? A reminiscent smile curving his lips, Robert rode on.

  Hexham turned out to be a pretty village on the banks of the Tyne with quite a grand church in the center. The building’s size and style surprised Robert; he’d gotten the impression from Randolph that it was a paltry place. Robert left his borrowed horse at an inn and asked directions to the rectory. He found it to be a neat house not far away. Knocking, he was admitted by a maid, immediately joined by a housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. Yates. From this unusual courtesy, Robert deduced that the lady kept the village informed about everything that went on in Randolph’s home.

  Randolph appeared at the back of the hall and rushed up to shake his brother’s hand. “Robert! I didn’t look to see you so soon. Come in. You can help me—” Randolph broke off with an oddly furtive expression. “My study’s back here,” he continued, instead of whatever he’d been about to say.

  In a few minutes, they were settled in a cozy book-lined room overlooking the green. The housekeeper, not the maid, brought a tray with wine and cakes. When she’d gone, trailing promises of luncheon, Randolph rose, tried the door, found it not quite closed, and remedied that lapse. He returned to his chair with a sigh and poured wine. “You can help me celebrate,” he said as he handed Robert a glass. “I’ve had some good news.”

  “Which you don’t wish to share with the whole village?”

  “Nothing gets past you,” replied Randolph with a smile.

  It was always a little strange to see him in his clerical collar, Robert thought. Not that Randolph was unqualified for his position. But Robert could remember him as a small boy slathered in mud, with a collection of beetles.

  “I have a new parish,” Randolph said. “The bishop that Nathaniel found for me was very helpful. The letter came yesterday.”

  “Farther south?” Well, it would have to be, Robert realized. They were practically in Scotland up here.

  “Derbyshire. And a larger town.”

  Robert raised his glass. “As you wanted. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I’ll tell them here once my replacement is arranged,” Randolph added, as if Robert had questioned his reticence.

  “I wonder if you’ll have as impressive a church.”

  Randolph shook his head. “Hard to match Hexham Abbey. It’s Norman, you know, but there’s been a church on the site for well over a thousand years, since Queen Etheldreda of Northumbria—”

  “Was it built to ward off curses? As in Hexham?”

  His brother only smiled at the interruption. It was an established joke in the family that if Randolph was let loose, he’d give you the history of a thing going back to
Noah’s flood. “Nothing to do with curses.” Randolph’s smile grew broader. “The word derives from Old English, Hagustaldes ham, related to the Old High German hagustalt, which refers to a younger son taking land outside the settlement.”

  “I see,” Robert said.

  “William Wallace burned the town in 1297,” Randolph added. “The Scots patriot. As you know, of course.”

  “Naturally,” said Robert.

  “Various Scots kings marauded about as well.” Randolph smirked at him. “Robert the Bruce, King David II.”

  “As they do, in these parts,” Robert said blandly.

  “King David sacked the Abbey. In 1346, I believe that was.”

  “I’m certain you’re right.” Robert pressed his lips together.

  “During the Wars of the Roses—”

  Robert threw up a hand. “I yield,” he said. “No more.”

  They burst out laughing together.

  “I enjoy following a trail of facts all the way to the end,” Randolph observed.

  “I know you do,” replied Robert fondly. “I remember the family chronicle you assembled for Mama. A hundred pages.”

  His brother nodded, grinning. “And so I must tell you that Hexham is active in the leather trade, famous for gloves known as Hexham Tans.”

  “I must procure a pair,” said Robert.

  “I know several shops where you can do so.”

  They shared another laugh.

  “It’s good to see you,” Randolph said then. “Of all my brothers. I’m going to want your advice particularly. I have some leave between postings, and I intend to go to London next season.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I want a wife,” added Randolph, sounding wistful. “The rest of us all have ’em. Nathaniel and Sebastian and James and Alan. And you have dozens of flirts.”

  Robert ignored the latter exaggeration. “Aren’t you surrounded by, er, worshipful female worshippers?”