The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne Page 4

  He slowly pivoted on his heels, his eyes boring into her, causing her to take a deep breath rather than let him see her flinch. “Our parents, Miss Winstead, behaved like alley cats for nearly four years, scandalizing all of Society and making total fools of themselves. I have spent these last years raising the Selbourne reputation up and out of the muck, only to have my father’s amour’s daughter thrust on me. Do I like you, Miss Winstead? To be frank, no.”

  Sophie relaxed, smiling at him. She needed the duke’s cooperation, if hers was to be a successful Season. Her task, getting him to like her, would be difficult, but not impossible. Especially if he felt as much emotion as that about her to begin with.

  “Well, it’s early days yet, Your Grace,” she said sunnily. “You’ll like me well enough in time. I’m convinced of it, and shall work very hard to bring you round my thumb. Men are so much more convenable when they are dazzled, you see, and Mama taught me just how to be dazzling.”

  “Is that right? Then I have nothing to fear, Miss Winstead, as I do not dazzle,” the duke gritted out from between clenched teeth.

  “Oh, of course you do, Your Grace. But it’s not to worry. I’m simply grateful for your kindness in launching me. Because I should marry at least once, as Mama did, so that I can be marginally respectable, yes? A fairly elderly, titled gentleman, I believe, who shouldn’t stay above ground long enough to prove inconvenient.”

  The duke braced a hand against the back of a side chair, shaking his head as he looked at her. “I’m not sure if I should admire your candor or toss you out of here on your ear. Why are you telling me all this, Miss Winstead?”

  Sophie shrugged. It was an artlessly deceptive movement taught to her by Desiree, and perfected by dint of practicing for years in front of her mirror until the gesture had become quite natural to her—and yet another weapon in her feminine arsenal. “I suppose because of your father’s involvement with my mother, yes? I shouldn’t want you to think I have similar designs on you. I cannot help being charming, you see. I’ve been taught too well, and have no notion of how to be unlovable or disagreeable. And I also shouldn’t want you chasing after me, or believing yourself to have fallen in love with me. That wouldn’t do at all, because I adored Uncle Cesse, and have no intention of breaking his beloved son’s heart. I am simply here to be launched, as it were. That’s all. Other than that, you really should ignore me.”

  She watched as the duke pressed a hand to his forehead, squeezing his brows together as if in real, physical pain. “I see,” he said, dropping his hand to his side and looking at her levelly. “You have been raised to be irresistible and have therefore warned me against the inevitable in order to keep me from the unthinkable. Is that about it?”

  Sophie considered this for a moment, then laughed aloud, a pleasant, tinkling sort of laugh that also had been practiced to perfection. “Why, yes, Your Grace. I think that just about says it all. So, are we agreed?”

  He spread his arms wide, shaking his head. “Agreed? Agreed to what, Miss Winstead? I still don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about! You don’t sound in the least interested in finding yourself a suitable husband. Just one titled enough and old enough and infatuated enough to wed you and then cock up his toes.”

  “Exactly!” Sophie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I don’t want to marry, not really. I don’t need to marry—I’m nearly odiously wealthy, you know. You do know that, yes? But it was Maman’s wish that I enter Society, and that I marry, at least the once. And I should like to have a child or two or three. I must think of them, yes? The daughter of a kept woman is difficult enough to launch, but bastards, I know, are never in season.”

  He was rubbing at his eyebrows again. “Refined young ladies do not say bastard, Miss Winstead.”

  “Well, of course they don’t! They don’t swear, they don’t play cards—well, not the way I was taught, I’m sure. They don’t drink port, they don’t enjoy the aroma of a good cigar circling in the air over dessert and male conversation. They usually don’t shoot better than most men, and they don’t, frankly, know their way around a man. But then, Your Grace, most young ladies were not raised by an assortment of uncles who taught them everything from thieves’ cant, to sailors’ chants, to some of the more delicious scandals of government service and the ton. They were not privileged to watch as the most beautiful, alluring, wondrously alive woman in all of England entertained her equally entertaining gentlemen. I miss the company of my uncles, Your Grace, and long to be among them again. I long for the dash and intrigue and excitement of Society. But, as I said, I must marry at least the once in order to be totally accepted, to remain in Society, where I wish to be. I cannot prevail upon your kindness forever, now can I?”

  “I should hope not!”

  She closed her eyes and gave herself up to a single, honest moment. “Oh, it will be so good to be out and about, having fun. I already can see why Maman enjoyed Society so much for, at the heart of it, it’s all just one mad, delicious game in which everyone wins, yes?”

  “I do not, Miss Winstead,” Bramwell said frostily, “believe I can in good conscience allow you to—to flirt, to hoodwink anyone into marriage.”

  “Oh, pooh!” she responded, still all light and sunny and really quite pleased with herself. “Everyone does it—flirt, that is. All of us females. I just believe I probably will do it better than most. You’ll see. And what’s the harm? As long as everyone knows the rules, of course. According to Maman, most do, and you must simply avoid the rest—or warn them away if you don’t intend to play the game to the end, whatever that end may be.” She opened her eyes once more, to see that the duke was once again in the process of removing himself from the room. “Where are you going, Your Grace? Never say I’ve frightened you away.”

  “You haven’t frightened me away, Miss Winstead,” he tossed over his shoulder, never slackening his pace toward the doors. “I’m simply off to inquire if any of my servants knows the whereabouts of a discreet armorer.” And with that he was gone.

  “Armorer?” Sophie mouthed quietly, then shook her head, tossing back her curls, and crossed to where Ignatius sat preening himself. “That went well, Ignatius,” she said, sticking her fingers through the bars to ruffle the bird’s feathers. “And to think it was only my first go at dazzling a man. The silly duke of Selbourne doesn’t know if he’s on his head or on his heels. Outraged over my plans. And yet interested. Confused. Confounded. More interested. Precisely where a man should be, in the gospel according to Constance Winstead.”

  “Kiss me, Connie!” the clever Ignatius shrilled as he heard Constance’s name, his voice now sounding much like Uncle Cesse’s. “Pucker up! Squawk! Pucker up!”

  Sophie sat cross-legged in the middle of the high, wide bed, fresh from her bath, dressed in new undergarments and wrapped in a warm dressing gown. She watched as Desiree busied herself loading clothing into cupboards. The Frenchwoman moved more slowly now, much more slowly than when she had been younger, and less devoted to her pastries. But she was still all bustle and business, her graying blond hair pulled back tightly in a bun and covered by a mobcap she’d considered to be “maidlike,” her expensive yet simple silk gown covered by a massive white apron she’d commandeered from the cook left behind in Wimbledon.

  Sophie had offered to help settle them in, but Desiree had declined. She was happy to be occupied and definitely did not believe Sophie could so much as place a night rail in a drawer without wrinkling it beyond hope of rescue.

  “He’s nothing like Uncle Cesse except in his looks,” Sophie said now in answer to Desiree’s questions concerning the ninth duke. “So sober. So staid. But more than passably pretty on the eyes, if that is what you’re wondering.” She grabbed on to her crossed ankles and began slowly rocking on the bed. “I believe he thinks me to be the Devil incarnate. In fact, he all but said so.”

  Desiree eyed her carefully. “You didn’t lose your temper with him, did you, chérie? Conk him on the he
ad with something heavy?”

  “I was everything you wanted me to be, Desiree, a patterncard of propriety. Polite to a fault, and overwhelmingly ingratiating. Although there were a few moments when I did wonder how much the compleat gentleman His Grace would look with a flowerpot dumped over his head.”

  “I see. But you did as I instructed? You remembered to tell him not to fall in love with you, oui? You warned him that you were raised to be irresistible? You explained why we are here? Left nothing out?”

  “Yes, Desiree, I did everything we’d decided, everything we’ve discussed—except for our deceit in writing the letter, of course. He took it all quite well, considering. I shouldn’t want to hurt Uncle Cesse’s son, even as I have not caviled at using the man so shamelessly in order to enter Society. At least now he has been warned, and I shall be spared any declarations of undying love from that quarter. But, oh my, how he did look! He was interested, even if he refuses to admit it to himself, even if he believes he detests me. He’s fortunate he’s off-limits.”

  “Ha! There is no reason to set your sights lower than a duke. Your maman got herself a duke, n’est-ce pas?”

  Sophie sighed, pushing back a curl that had fallen forward onto her cheek. “I know, Desiree, I know. But there are other dukes, surely. Besides, first I want to enjoy myself. Because that’s what this is all about, n’est-ce pas?” she ended, grinning.

  “Oui, my pet, life it is to be enjoyed, as you say. And love is a cheat.”

  “I know,” Sophie said, suddenly serious. “I know. Never fear. I’m my mother’s child, but I am also your student. I won’t make that mistake! Now, where is Giuseppe?”

  Desiree stopped in the act of picking up a pair of half boots and turned in a full circle, peering into every corner of the large bedchamber. “Giuseppe? He is not here?”

  Sophie bit her bottom lip. “No, Desiree,” she said, dragging out the two words, “Giuseppe is not here. I had charge of Ignatius, remember? And you had charge of Giuseppe.”

  “No, chérie, I had charge of the drowsy Mrs. Farraday,” Desiree countered, dropping the half boots onto the chest at the bottom of the bed and jamming her fists against her hips. “Now where do you suppose—”

  Both women looked to the door to the hallway as a female shriek sliced through the air. “Giuseppe!” they both exclaimed, racing toward the door, pulling it open, and turning to their left, to head in the direction of the continuing shrieks.

  They were met by the duke just outside the last door before the hallway widened. Stepping back, Sophie watched as Bramwell Seaton pounded a single time on the door, calling out, “Aunt Gwendolyn! What is it?” before throwing open the door and racing inside.

  “We should follow him, yes?” Sophie asked her friend, dread filling her heart.

  “You should follow him, oui.” Desiree shrugged, much more eloquently than Sophie ever could. “I am but the maid, mademoiselle,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “The maid who warned her headstrong mistress to leave the so-mischievous Giuseppe in Wimbledon. Now, I have the unpacking to finish. You can just go be charming.”

  “Wretch!” Sophie aimed the word at Desiree’s swiftly departing back as a mobcapped maid ran shrieking from the room. Sophie squared her shoulders and entered the bedchamber just as its occupant—Lady Gwendolyn was it?—let out yet another ear-piercing shriek.

  “Yours, I imagine,” the duke said calmly, pointing to the bundle of brown fur dancing about on the chandelier in the center of the room.

  Sophie sighed and smiled as she passed by him, then lifted a finger to scold her pet. “Giuseppe, shame on you! How many times must I tell you—no chandeliers! One of these days you’ll burn down the house.”

  “Get it out! Get it out! Get it out!”

  Looking to her right, Sophie spied the elderly lady just now plastered against the heavy mahogany headboard, her bare toes poking out beneath the hem of her rather lovely pink dressing gown. “Lady Gwendolyn?” she inquired, dropping into a flawless curtsy. “How delighted I am to make your acquaintance. I’m Sophie.”

  The lady looked to Sophie and then to her nephew, her eyes still as wide, her expression remaining one of abject horror. “Get her out! Get her out! Get her out!”

  Oh, dear. This wasn’t going well, now was it? Obviously the woman had made Constance’s acquaintance.

  Deciding to deal with Giuseppe first, Sophie gave a single clap of her hands and held out her arms, knowing the monkey would leap into them, which he did. “Naughty baby,” she crooned, as the monkey wrapped its long arms around her throat, threatening to choke off her air. “And where’s your hat? You lost it again, didn’t you? Now you can’t tip it to the nice Lady Gwendolyn and show her just how sorry you are to have frightened her. Give her a smile, Giuseppe, and prove to her that you’re nothing but a big, bad baby. Perhaps then she will forgive you, yes?”

  The monkey did as he was bid, pulling back his pale monkey lips and exposing two rows of very large, somewhat yellow teeth.

  Lady Gwendolyn shrieked again, covering her eyes with her hands. “Bramwell!”

  “No more party tricks, if you please, Miss Winstead,” the duke ordered from somewhere behind her. “Just take the animal and leave.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Sophie said, dropping into another curtsy, one equally as charming, even with Giuseppe clinging to her neck. She looked, in fact, very much like a Gypsy child, clad in her white, heavy cotton dressing gown, her corkscrew curls full and faintly wild.

  Although, if truth be told, she had given no thought as to what impression she might be giving the gentleman just now scowling down at her. Sophie’s mind was fully concentrated on Lady Gwendolyn, and on finding a way to that woman’s heart. “But if I might first apologize to your aunt? You see, I had Ignatius, and Desiree had Mrs. Farraday and, well, that left no one for Giuseppe. You can see how it happened, yes?”

  “I can see my aunt cowering in her own bed, Miss Winstead, while a jungle creature swings from a very expensive chandelier. I can see, Miss Winstead, that my aunt, already overset by this intrusion into her bedchamber, has been further agitated by the sight of your face. What I can see, Miss Winstead, is that if you do not remove that animal and yourself from this same bedchamber in the next three seconds I shall be forced to remove you myself. Do you see that, Miss Winstead?”

  Sophie’s hopeful smile faded. Her slim shoulders slumped. Her winsome eyes grew round and moist. Her full bottom lip began to tremble, then parted slightly, to let out the pitiful, soft, shuddering moan of a badly used child. She looked small, much younger than her actual years, and vulnerable. Definitely vulnerable, and easily crushed by the vehemence of the big, bad ogre who had so unjustly attacked her.

  At least that’s how she hoped she appeared, and Lady Gwendolyn’s reaction proved her right. “Bramwell! How unaccustomedly severe you sound,” the dear lady exclaimed, sliding from the edge of the mattress, her feet unerringly landing inside a pair of pink-satin slippers as she made her way across the room. “Shame on you, Nephew. Can’t you see the girl is sorry? What else do you want from her? Next you’ll be calling for boiling pitch and thumbscrews, I suppose. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “What?” The duke’s head all but swiveled in a full circle on his shoulders as he whipped about to glare at his aunt. “Aunt, do you have any idea what you’re—oh, my God!”

  He turned to stare daggers at Sophie, dropping into a low, fierce whisper, “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t been warned—and out of your own mouth! You’re being dazzling, Miss Winstead, aren’t you? Those tears are no more real than our new King’s tales of how he rode at the head of the troops at Waterloo.”

  His upper lip curled into a most unlovely sneer. “You disgust me,” he ground out, then looked to his aunt, who was tipping her head as Giuseppe tipped his, the two of them eyeing each other up. “And you as well, Aunt!” he exploded before stomping out of the room.

  “Well, that was certainly unca
lled-for, and most ill-mannered,” Lady Gwendolyn said, watching her nephew go. “Please accept his apologies via me, and my own as well. It isn’t as if I’ve never before seen a monkey, or a Winstead for that matter. Why, as a matter of fact, I do believe Lord Upchurch once brought a monkey to Lady Sefton’s, years ago. Yes, I’m sure it was he. The cutest little thing, with a red cap perched on his—oh, look!” she exclaimed as Giuseppe jumped down from Sophie’s arms, dug under a skirted table, and came out with a bright red cap he quickly perched on his head.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sophie said, winking broadly at the now-congenial-looking old lady. “Giuseppe was given to me by Uncle Dickie. Lord Upchurch, that is.”

  Lady Gwendolyn frowned for a moment, then her face lit in what only could be termed unholy glee. “Uncle Dickie? Oh, never say Lord Upchurch was one of your mama’s—well! If that isn’t delicious.” She took Sophie by the hand and led her to a small couch in front of the windows. “You know, my dear, I wasn’t very much for this arrangement when Bramwell told me of it this morning. But I now begin to see its advantages. And you’re just as beautiful as your mother. Mayhap even more so, and altogether more charming—probably because you never had your claws dug into my only brother. Oh, I believe this is going to be a most interesting Season. Yes, yes. Indeed I do!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sophie said, waiting for the older woman to sit down, then seating herself on the floor at her feet, the better to smile up at her. “Now, how shall we go about getting ourselves better acquainted? Perhaps if I told you of the time Uncle Dickie came to Wimbledon with the notion that Mama should ride up beside him, bare-breasted, on his way to the races at Ascot?”

  “Bare-breasted! She never did!”

  “Oh, madam, but she did!” Sophie replied, giggling. “And suffered the most painful burns from both the wind and sun for her folly. They never did make Ascot, which was a good thing, for Lady Upchurch had decided, last moment, to join her husband. Well, you can just imagine what a to-do that would have caused.”