Authors: Christina Dodd
“More perfect?” Jude suggested.
“Not quite that.” Nevett’s mouth settled into a grim line. “You are Frenchified.”
Jude sat up straight. “Do you really think so? That is the finest compliment you’ve ever given me, sir! When I visited France, it was as if I found my cultural home. The food! The art! The fashion! So superior! So grand! On the grounds of Versailles, I swore I would live the civilization as it was meant to be lived.” Drawing his fan from inside his coat, Jude snapped it open and fanned his face in simulated excitement, hiding a smile.
The duke of Nevett was a man who had been taught from his cradle the traditional English contempt for the French. The English and French were now allies, of course, united in their struggle to keep Russia from taking the lucrative continent of Asia under its control, but Nevett remembered Napoleon and the trouble he caused across Europe. Nevett eschewed the rage for French chefs and served good English beef at every occasion. Only English tailors dressed Nevett. Now his son, his adult son, raved like a madman about French culture and its superiority, and only Nevett’s vaunted English reserve kept him from shouting his hostile opinion.
Jude wondered if this would prove the breaking point, if His Grace would give his honest opinion at last.
He did not. He ground his white teeth like a frustrated bear and fixed Jude with a hostile gaze. Folding his newspaper, he dropped it beside his chair. “You know why I called you here.”
“No, sir,” Jude said in all truthfulness.
“I want a grandson.”
Jude blinked. “Sir, I’m unwed.”
“That is painfully clear. And how you’ll manage to attract a bride in your current condition is beyond me.”
“In my current condition?” Standing, Jude strolled languidly across to the mirror and considered his own reflection. Dark brown hair, swept into a careless, dashing style. Black tailcoat. Plaid trousers. White ankle boots, polished to a blinding shine. The yellow waistcoat, so bright even he blinked. And in his blue eyes, an amusement that he quickly veiled.
After all, his father was not stupid.
As Jude adjusted the orange silk scarf tied about his neck and draped over the expanse of his chest, he said, “Any woman would be proud to call herself the countess of Huntington.”
“Of course she would!” the duke said with unfeigned impatience. “After I die, your wife will be a duchess, and that’s not a position to be taken with a pinch of snuff and a hearty sneeze.”
His father did not, Jude noted, consider Jude himself a good catch, only the title.
His Grace rumbled on, “But until you apply yourself to the process of obtaining a wife, I fear you shall remain single and I grandchildless. So I have taken steps to remedy the situation.”
Little surprised Jude, but he was surprised now. Swinging around on his father, he surveyed the man whom he resembled so greatly. With an unconscious return to his own crisp intonation, he said, “You don’t imagine I’ll marry a girl of your choosing.”
Nevett raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t imagined that, no. A man should choose his own wife from among the panoply of young ladies presented to him. But you’ve proved woefully inadequate in your ability to woo these young ladies.”
Jude had been busy in quite another manner, but he did not admit that to his father. He already knew what Nevett would say about a Durant lowering himself to deception for the sake of God and country—and it wouldn’t be flattering. It wouldn’t be flattering at all. “Find me a young lady worth wooing, and I will do so at once.”
“There are at least ten maidens of unexceptional birth and fortune on the market right now.”
“I said find me one worth wooing. One with conversation and intelligence and—” He caught himself. “Not a pockmarked, unfashionable lady, but one whose sense of style matches my own.”
“Lady Amelia Carradine dresses well.”
“Too short. Clothes do not drape well on her.”
“Miss Richardson is tall.”
“Her complexion! She should refrain from sweets until the blemishes have diminished.”
“Lady Anne Whitfield is young and trainable.”
“Too young.”
“Lady Claudia Leonard.”
“Too old.”
“Miss Naomi Landau-Berry.”
“Please! Can you imagine being married to a woman named Naomi?”
“Then you wouldn’t want to wed Lady Winnomena Bigglesworth.”
“Actually, Winnomena falls upon the ear like a tune well played.” Jude frowned. “It is her deplorable habit of eating shellfish when it is presented to her that must be the deciding factor.”
Nevett sputtered, “Eating…shellfish? Why shouldn’t she eat shellfish?”
“I saw her eat scallops. Scallops are
round
.”
“Round? Well, of course they’re round. Square scallops would be ridiculous.” Nevett realized he was being ridiculous, too, and he hissed in fury. “Who in hell would you wed?”
“A lady of France would be most acceptable.”
“You’re taxing my patience.”
And Nevett was taxing Jude’s. Reining in his own annoyance, he seated himself once again and said in a softly apologetic voice, “Sir, I would never wish to do that.”
Nevett dragged in a deep breath and choked, “Of course not. Not
you
.” He was freezingly polite, when actually he loved nothing more than a good fight, especially with his sharp-witted son.
But His Grace wasn’t helpless. He had his ways of calling Jude to heel. “I’ve hired you a tutor.”
“A tutor.”
What was the old man talking about?
“To teach you how to woo a woman.”
“How to woo a woman.”
Nevett struck the arm of his chair. “You sound like a prating parrot.”
Jude
felt
like a fool. “You’ve hired me a tutor to teach me how to woo a woman?” For the first time since he’d started carrying his fan, he actually needed it. With a flip of the wrist, he fanned his hot face. “What will he use? Diagrams on a slate?”
“
She
will demonstrate by example.”
“You’ve hired me a whore?” Not even in his untried youth had his father hired him a whore.
A rustle sounded from behind the screen. Jude registered it. Saw his father glance toward it, and realized he was not surprised. Realized Nevett had planted someone there, and that that someone had heard every word spoken.
His father looked outraged and thunderously angry. “Son, for a dandy, you’ve a nasty mind. I hired a tutor from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. The young lady is recommended by Lady Bucknell herself.”
Who was behind the screen? What possible reason had his father for concealing someone there? Jude glanced sharply at his father. Nevett was relaxed, so…ah, it must be the female his father had hired.
Yet Jude wondered if she could be more than Nevett realized? Was there suspicion about Jude? Could she be someone sent to spy on him? On Nevett?
For the rest of his life, would Jude see danger in any situation? It was a grim consideration—and a real one, yet a quick review of the conversation eased his worries. If she had been sent to report his activities, she had heard nothing that would incriminate him.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Jude said with an airy laugh. “Why would you hire a governess? Women adore me.”
“Not enough to wed you.”
“A man has to have standards!”
“You have to be wed!”
“Who is this person?”
“What difference does that make to you, boy? She is the person I hired.”
Catching at his fraying temper, Jude managed the correct question. “What does she look like?”
“She looks well enough for this task,” his father said dismissively. “She’ll flirt with you. You’ll flirt with her. She will show you how to win a wife. Then you will go out into society and put your lessons to good use!”
“Tell me one good reason why I should submit to such a humiliation.”
“For my peace of mind.”
“That’s not nearly good enough.”
His father rose from his chair, a slow, majestic rise that brought him to his full height of six-foot-two and displayed not only the broad-boned frame which Jude had inherited, but also the imposing authority he could exhibit as he wished.
Jude rose, also, but at that moment, he knew he had met his match. Jude might be younger and stronger, but he respected his father too much to go head to head with him. So it was with a rare sense of defeat that he heard his sentence.
“Very well,” Nevett said with freezing courtesy, “if you don’t care about my peace of mind, you’ll care about this. If you don’t accept this tutor, if you don’t give this tutor your full cooperation, I’m going to find you a maiden, arrange a contract of marriage, and let’s see you get out of that one, my lad!” Nevett lifted his fist. “Let’s see how you’ll manage to avoid an energetic mama when I’ve promised her you’ll make her daughter the next duchess!”
Jude recognized defeat when it stared him in the face. And this was defeat, a complication unlike any other he could imagine. Lowering his head, he gazed at his very shiny boots. “Very well, sir, you win. When will the lessons commence?”
“Tomorrow. She’ll meet you in Hyde Park. You’ll know her by the red rose she wears in her lapel.”
“Good God, sir, how trite!” Jude said, irritated beyond measure.
“Trite or not, willing or not, you’ll do as she instructs, or b’God I’ll sic the entire Fairchild family of females on you, and you’ll be lucky to escape with your sanity, much less your freedom.”
Knowing the Fairchilds as he did, Jude took that threat seriously. “I’ll do it.” Feebly, he flapped his lace handkerchief as if whisking away an evil smell. “But I won’t like it.”
I
n high dudgeon, Lord Huntington removed himself from Nevett’s study, and Caroline walked around the decorative screen. She met Nevett’s gaze directly. “His lordship seems displeased.”
“It’s to be expected. He is…or rather, he
was
strong-willed.” Sinking into his chair, the duke groped for his glass of brandy. “I don’t threaten him often, but when I do, I mean what I say. He’ll do as he’s told.”
“He didn’t sound as much of a dilettante as you painted him.” Indeed, for a good portion of the interview, Huntington had
sounded
like a vigorous man of action. More than that, he had sounded…magnificent. His deep, melodic voice had resonated in her soul like a declaration of strength and security.
“Did you
see
him?” His Grace demanded.
She had. After listening to his voice, she had peeked through the holes in the screen and laid eyes upon the most striking man she’d ever had the good luck to view. The impact of his form, his visage, remained with her still.
Huntington was tall, taller than she by at least six inches, and he sported a pair of shoulders that gave a woman a sense of shelter. His body was strong-boned and sturdy, not willow-thin like so many stylish aristocrats. His hair was a luscious, dark brown, with kisses of gold, and he wore it long and tied at the base of his neck, like some aristocrat of old. His face was sculpted from the finest clay God ever created, with jutting cheekbones, an authoritative nose, and a jaw too pronounced to be called anything but obdurate. The sun had toasted Lord Huntington a lovely brown, providing a striking setting for a pair of eyes so blue they shocked with the impact of his gaze.
And he hadn’t truly looked at her. He had seen only the screen behind which she was hidden. Yet she had drawn back in alarm.
He didn’t fit in the modern age. If he were stripped of that silly costume, he could easily stride from the mists of myth, a warrior who conquered by the strength of his body and the skill of his arms. He would have looked at home in a glittering suit of armor, with a sword clutched in his broad hands, or in a kilt, holding a claymore…or as a druid, clothed in secrets and magic. He sported a fierce male beauty, and she feared he would see all the way down to her silly, shallow core.
“He’s very handsome.” With the words came the memory of the time, only a few days ago at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, when she had said much the same thing about Lord Freshfield.
Lord Freshfield, who had set out to ruin her and succeeded beyond all hope of redemption.
Lord Freshfield, who despite Caroline’s assurances to Adorna, stalked her still. Caroline had to make this job work. She had to, for with each failure Lord Fresh-field pursued her more closely, his soft white hands outstretched to touch her…
With a snap that made her jump, His Grace asked, “What did you think of my son’s clothing?”
“Ah, his clothing.” She had a vision of that yellow waistcoat, that orange silk scarf, the plaid trousers that mingled the two colors.
“Those boots.” His Grace’s voice vibrated with contempt.
“Yes, the boots.” She fought the desire to laugh as she recalled the incongruity of those huge feet in those shining white boots.
“You have to admit, he looked absurd.”
“
Absurd
is too strong a word.” She gave a faint gurgle of amusement. “A better word would be
silly
.”
“And that fan! And his handkerchief!” Nevett clutched the arms of his chair. “And his manner. Be truthful and tell me what you think of it.”
Truthful? She stared at His Grace. He looked like his son—or rather, his son looked like him. Nevett had been a duke most of his life, and he sat in his thronelike chair in stolid dignity, a big, strong man who demanded the truth as if it were his right. As if anything he desired was his right—and probably it was.
“He’s frivolous, but that should not preclude a wealthy, handsome man from marriage.” Heaven knew she’d met enough frivolous men during her Season. Her best friend had married the biggest fool in society, but money had soothed Edith’s distress and Caroline had to admit the fool had a kind heart, for he’d uttered not a word of reproach when Edith had assisted Caroline in the darkest days after the scandal.
But His Grace had a single goal, the marriage of his son, and he drove toward that event relentlessly. “Huntington’s title and wealth attracts the ladies. His manners and his interests drive them away.”
“Not completely. I can’t believe they are completely repulsed.”
“No. Regardless of his idiocy, they try valiantly to win his regard. But he doesn’t seem to notice, or care. The ladies might as well be…be…invisible!”
If that were the case, the problem might not be so easily resolved.
But Nevett noted her silent, questioning glance, and said with a snort of impatience, “I’m not a man given to dreams for my son to which he is unequal. From his tenth birthday, he displayed an eager interest in the fair sex. The lad visits actresses on a regular basis. Never the same one twice, mind you, but he’s still got the needs of a, er…” His Grace seemed to remember he spoke to a lady, albeit a lady he had hired. “Never mind.”
“You’ve had him followed.”
Lord Nevett viewed her forbiddingly, and she understood him. He was a duke. He would do as he wished, and a chit like her should not question him.
With a scornful twist to his mouth, he said, “Lady Bucknell recommended you as the best flirt to be had, but now that I’ve met you, I have my doubts. You seem light-minded and inexperienced. Do you think you can do it?”
“Teach your son how to flirt?” Could Caroline teach Huntington how to flirt? Of course she could!
For the first time since she had been compromised, she allowed herself to submerge into the sweet and downy personality of Miss Caroline Ritter. Her eyelashes sank down to rest on her cheeks, then up to gaze adoringly at Lord Nevett. A small, secretive smile lifted her full lips. Her posture changed; she leaned against the desk, and her shoulders developed a seductive slope. She took a deep breath, bringing her breasts to his attention, then in a low, husky voice, she said, “I have no doubt I can teach Lord Huntington how to flirt.”
“By George.” The duke’s gaze fastened to her in masculine appreciation. “If I were twenty years younger and unmarried, I’d hire you to teach
me
how to flirt.”
She answered automatically, as he—as any man—would have wished. “You, my lord, need no instruction. Not now. Nor, I wager, not twenty years ago.”
He chuckled deeply, and she realized with a shock she probably had spoken the truth. He was a very attractive man.
“You’re very good,” he said. “Very good indeed.”
She
was
good. She knew it in her heart, for although she had been careful, these past four years, to appear plain and capable, she had been playing a part. As she once more plunged herself in the role of a flirt, she returned to her true persona. As her father had repeatedly told her, she was born to be a coquette, nothing more, nothing less—and that was a lowering reflection, indeed.
His Grace bobbed up from the depths of his appreciation. “As impressive as was that exhibition, I would have to point out that that is feminine flirting. How will you teach Jude to act like a man?”
“He will not act, he will react. In my experience, when a man is confronted with a lady who calls forth his sentient male predatory instincts, he responds appropriately. My task, as I see it, is to hone that instinct in Lord Huntington so that every time he sees a skirt, he automatically flirts.”
Nevett’s remarkable brows rose to his hairline. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I have, indeed. If I am to be a success in this position, it will take more than a simple tap of my magic wand. I’m gathering all my forces, all my intellect…such as it is…all my experience.” With every intent of impressing him, she removed the green leather-bound journal from her bag. She showed him her graceful penmanship marching its way down the pristine white page. “I’ve planned every lesson with care.”
With a frown, Nevett took the book from her. “Planned…you said you were going to cultivate his instincts.”
“Absolutely, but flirting is a fine art.” She waxed enthusiastic on this, her area of expertise. “He must know how to flirt in every situation, how to flirt with an unknown yet desirable lady in the lending library…how to judge a lady’s station in life and therefore her suitability as a prospective mate. This is no small project, Your Grace. It took me eighteen years to learn the subtleties of flirting, all of which I must teach your son by the end of the Season.”
Nevett donned his glasses and read her first entry aloud.
“Week 1: Test Lord Huntington to see if his command of basic social skills are tolerable. Improve if necessary.”
With a frown, he looked up. “He knows some of it, or at least he used to, before he went to”—loathing filled his tone—“France.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, that he could lose his skill in France seems unlikely.” A light smile played around her lips. “The French I have met seemed not only experts at the art of light romance, but at the same time extraordinarily pragmatic about marriage and fittingness.”
Nevett handed back her journal. “They have corrupted him.”
In her experience, corruption involved more dire cruelty and carelessness than Huntington had shown. But she kept that information to herself.
In a whiplash tone, Nevett asked, “How are you going to make sure he doesn’t fall in love with
you
?”
“With…me?” She laughed. It had been a very long time since she had been under the misapprehension any man loved her. “Your Grace, I can’t imagine anything more daunting to a man than discovering that every languishing glance, every coy compliment has been paid for by his father.”
“You’re right.”
Caroline suspected few people had ever heard those words from the duke of Nevett.
He surveyed her critically. “That gown is last year’s fashion. To play the part, you’ll need to wear different garments.”
She looked down at the plain blue skirt. “Sir, this is the best I have.” The best by far, provided by Lady Bucknell.
“Very well, I’ll provide what’s needed. My butler will arrange for you to visit a couturiere for day wear. We’ll add more as necessary.” With his gaze, Nevett dispassionately weighed and measured her. Then his eyelids drooped, and he tapped his fingertips together. “We’ll do as they do in the nursery. We shall teach Jude by arranging situations such as he will encounter in society. Tomorrow the park. The next day, an encounter in the lending library.”
She knew she had to take her role as a teacher seriously, so she made her protest respectfully yet with great seriousness. “I will assess Lord Huntington tomorrow in the park. The next day, I’ll start his training according to my schedule.”
At this contradiction of his plans, Nevett’s eyes bulged, and his voice rose. “What?”
Hastily, she backed off. “If that’s all right with you, Your Grace, that’s what I’ll do.”
He picked up Adorna’s letter and studied it. Then he nodded, and in a grudging tone, said, “Yes. Well. Yes. Of course. You’re in charge.”
“Yes, I am,” she said faintly. Although she didn’t quite believe it herself.
“How long do you think it will take you to get him whipped into shape?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He gestured impatiently, his hand rolling as he urged a reply.
She guessed, “If we work together every day, perhaps a fortnight for afternoon affairs, more for evening events.”
“The duchess will host a small party with a few of his cronies and a few select young ladies.”
“Who won’t object to my presence among them, I trust?”
Nevett’s lip curled haughtily. “The young ladies will do as they’re told.”
Caroline hated to break it to him, but he needed to know. “I…I can’t go into society with his lordship. I don’t know if Lady Bucknell made my circumstances clear, but it is impossible.”
“Lady Bucknell did make your circumstances clear.” He pshawed as if the scandal was of no matter. “If I say you shall go into society, then into society you shall go. Let anyone who disagrees carry their complaints to the duke of Nevett.”
She stared in fascination at the aristocrat so sure of himself he feared neither society’s censure nor judgment. “Sir, with all due respect for your influence, I’ve found that society will gossip about a single woman who is unprotected by her family regardless of who is her patron, and in fact the higher the prestige of the patron, the greater the delight in the gossip.” She could imagine how Lady Reederman would harrumph, how Mrs. Gibben would hide behind her fan and smile as she spread the most vile rumors conceivable.
After all, they had done it before.
With finality, Nevett said, “I need you to accompany my son into society. Every facet of society. How else will you supervise and correct him?”
The situation was fast escaping Caroline’s control. If she weren’t careful, she lose this position before she even started. “I’ll create situations like the ones he’s going to face at the theater, at balls—”
“No.” Nevett struck the arm of his chair. “You’ll go
with
him to the balls and the theater. I depend on you to introduce him to the right young women. The ones who’ll engage his interest. And at the same time you’ll guide him in the correct behavior for a gentleman seeking the delights of matrimony.”
The very thought of going to a ball made Caroline shudder with horror. To face those outraged matrons with their freezing contempt, those smirking men with their lascivious eyes—she couldn’t do it.
Wouldn’t
do it. Not even for Lady Bucknell. Not even for this job. “I can’t,” she said faintly. “It won’t work.”
“I admit it,” he said. “You’re right.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Like a charging bull, Nevett continued, “You need parental approval bestowed upon you. So I’ll make your father approve of you at once.”
Had Nevett run mad? “Your Grace, my father and I haven’t spoken since he threw me from his home in a theatrical production worthy of Shakespeare.”