A Duke in Shining Armor Read online

  “Yes, I daresay you’d know.” She rubbed her face with the useless bit of lace. “Not that I care what you call it, and I wasn’t expecting sympathy or even comprehension.”

  “I’m doing my best,” he said. “But my brain, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “Like his, more or less—though less defies the imagination. All the same, I thought I was ready to make the sacrifice—though I know most people would say it’s preposterous to refer to becoming a duchess as a sacrifice.”

  “I would be one of those people,” he said.

  “I don’t care what you say,” she said.

  “I’m devastated,” he said.

  “I don’t know why I even try to explain,” she said. “I’m sure he said everything he ought, and he can be alarmingly persuasive, and I did have my reasons for agreeing. I thought I was ready. But marriage is a Great Unknown. You think you know them, especially someone like him, who’s been the talk of the town forever, but how can you? I know what you will say.”

  “I doubt it.” He still had only the remotest idea what she was talking about.

  “You will say, I ought to have asked him why he chose me—and don’t say he fancies me, because nobody ever did.”

  He was sure a great many men must have fancied her. What he didn’t understand was why nobody had claimed her by now. Not all men were like Their Dis-Graces. Any number actually wanted to get married, and spent a great deal of time and effort trying to find the right girl who’d have them.

  He drew out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “Yes, well, he isn’t like the other fellows,” he said.

  He looked out of the coach window. It was still raining.

  Bridal nerves, he told himself. That’s all this was, really.

  He looked at her mud-streaked dress and the toes of her muddy slippers. He calculated the distance, via the river, to Twickenham and the time it would take, barring difficulties, which he knew better than to suppose wouldn’t arise.

  Taking everything into account, her plan was workable. He reckoned excellent odds of putting her safely into her aunt’s hands in a matter of hours, well before nightfall. Her reputation would survive. In fact, running away from Ashmont might enhance it. As would Ashmont’s running after her, which he was bound to do. Being possessive and obstinate, he’d do whatever was necessary to get her back. And Society would be thrilled to see a lady bring him to order at last. Assuredly Lord Frederick would enjoy that.

  Accustomed to women of ill repute fawning over him, Ashmont had mucked up what ought to be the simplest business. He’d never had to make an effort, as Ripley and Blackwood so often did. True, none of them had much to do with respectable women, who were, evidently, rather more challenging. All the better. It was about bloody time a female made Luscious Lucius exert himself.

  This one had made him work at the courtship, clearly. And the wedding. And she’d make him work at the marriage, too.

  As to retrieving his bride, His Grace would need some guidance here and there, but that shouldn’t be difficult.

  Lady Olympia didn’t seem to be completely opposed to marrying him. If not for the brandy, she might have gone through with it. But intoxicating liquors affected some people in this way: small matters inflated to prodigious size. And bacon-brained solutions seemed like brilliant ones.

  Of all men, Ashmont knew how this could happen.

  And wouldn’t it be a laugh, watching him try to manage his bride—this bride?

  “Your aunt’s respectable, I trust,” Ripley said. “Not eccentric or excessively dashing? Doesn’t set fire to the pillows at odd moments? Carry on with footmen or grooms? In an obvious way, that is.”

  She wiped her eyes and nose. “She’s somewhat dashing—at least Aunt Lavinia and Mama say so. Still, Aunt Delia is respectable enough to entertain the Queen on occasion.”

  “Then why didn’t Auntie attend your wedding?”

  “She suffered an indisposition that prevented her making the journey. That’s what she wrote to Mama, at any rate. I’m not at all sure she wished to attend. She finds Newland House excessively noisy, with all the children coming and going. She feels the same about Gonerby House—which is even more chaotic at present, because of the renovations.”

  “But she will, in fact, be at home when we get there.”

  She nodded, and the headdress slipped farther. She winced. “You cannot expect me to answer prying questions while my hair is being torn out by the roots. Unless you enjoy employing the methods of the Inquisition. If you do not help me get this thing off my head—this instant—I cannot answer for the consequences.”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?” he said. “Because you look so very much the opposite of threatening that I might die laughing.”

  She pushed her glasses back up the minuscule distance they’d slipped during the tear storm. She gave him a steady look, or as steady as her state of intoxication would allow.

  “Never mind,” she said. “If it’s too complicated for you, I’ll do it myself. But if things fly off and hit you in the face, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

  “That’s what stopped you doing it yourself?” he said. “The chance of your coiffure exploding?”

  “I haven’t a mirror,” she said. “I can’t see the top of my head—or any of my head, for that matter. But never mind. Don’t let me disturb you.”

  She reached up and started poking her fingers into the crownpiece. This set off various gyrations, which created intriguing movement in the areas directly above and below the dress’s neckline. These brought to mind so-called Egyptian dancing girls he’d seen in a theater somewhere. Eventually, she managed to remove a single hairpin, which slipped through her fingers and into the straw. She muttered something.

  A lost hairpin was no calamity. Her aunt would have heaps of them.

  But the gyrations and visions of dancing girls reminded him of the way she’d squirmed when he picked her up from the mud—reminded his breeding organs, that is, and all too vividly, given the circumstances and the length of time since . . .

  Right. He would address the matter of the recent months’ celibacy later. This night, in fact. After the bridal complication was taken care of.

  Ripley would leave her safely with her aunt. Given a nudge and a few broad hints, Ashmont would recover her.

  It would all be a very good joke, the sort of thing Ashmont would appreciate, once he’d calmed somewhat. After all, he’d perpetrated plenty of jokes himself.

  “I’ve decided to help,” Ripley said. “I want to take a nap, and that’s impossible while you’re jumping about and swearing under your breath.”

  “I was not—”

  “I do understand French, you know. To a point. All the bad words are well before that point.”

  Thanks to the rain and the windows’ decades of accumulated grime, the coach was about as bright as the average tomb. All the same, Olympia could see the Duke of Ripley well enough. She could hardly miss him, when he took up most of the coach.

  She was more aware than she wanted to be of his long legs stretched out, inches from hers.

  She took her hands away from the headpiece and looked at him. Though his face was in shadow, she could make out the long, imperial nose and harsh angles of cheek and jaw. She knew his eyes were green.

  That much she’d ascertained during her first Season, when they’d been introduced, and she’d felt so deeply uncomfortable. This was partly because he was so . . . overwhelming. She knew he wasn’t any larger than Ashmont. All Their Dis-Graces were tall, athletic men. All, certainly, were not well-behaved. But Ripley’s was the gaze that had made her feel as though she wasn’t fully clothed. He was the one whose wolfish grin had left her tongue-tied.

  But back then she’d been naive and unsure of herself.

  Back then, the three dukes had been considered rather wild but highly eligible. They kept well clear of the Marriage Mart, though. Rarely were they to be seen near even the beautiful and far more popular young ladies.

  This was why, when Olympia had seen him over the years, it was usually at a distance. Across a crowded ballroom. Riding or driving in Hyde Park. At a public event like a regatta or horse race. In the past year she hadn’t seen him at all, because he’d been abroad.

  As far as she could determine at present, he hadn’t changed. He still had the sleepy gaze that made her feel prickly inside. It oughtn’t to, since it told one nothing. People believed the eyes were windows to the soul. In his case, the shutters were closed. That was probably for the best.

  Not that she was capable of gauging his mood even if he’d offered windows to his soul. Her brain at present was not trustworthy. When she tried to think, the thoughts danced away, out of reach.

  Besides, the headdress made it hurt to think.

  One thing at a time, she told herself. When they reached Battersea Bridge, she’d deal with the next thing, whatever it was. For now, all that mattered was getting away. From everybody.

  “Move to the edge of the seat and lean toward me,” Ripley said.

  Between the coach’s jolting and the brandy’s effects, she wasn’t at all sure she could keep her balance. She was not about to admit that to him. As it was, she felt sure he was laughing at her. But then, he was not renowned for being serious-minded. Furthermore, in all fairness, she hardly cut a dignified figure at the moment.

  Most important, she needed the bridal monstrosity off her head. It felt as though she was wearing a clock tower.

  She moved to the edge of the seat and leaned toward him.

  Then she nearly leapt straight up from the seat, because his long fingers went into her hair, touching her scalp as they probed. The ruffles at his wrists tickled her face. She detected the scent of wet linen and somet
hing else—cologne or shaving soap, excessively masculine.

  At that moment she remembered, with an inner repeat of the sensations she’d had at the time, his hands under her arms when he’d hauled her up out of the mud . . . the size of his hands and the way his powerful grasp felt . . . the size of him . . . and her back pressed to a torso like rock. Warm rock. Then those same long-fingered hands, linked for her to step on . . . then wrapped about her ankles.

  Her brothers had helped her over walls and fences, but he wasn’t her brother. He was the man who looked at a girl and made her feel she’d forgotten to put her clothes on. He was nothing remotely like a brother—and recalling Mama’s incoherent explanation of what happened on the wedding night did not contribute to a state of serenity at present.

  Olympia wanted to jump out of her skin.

  But no. She would not let herself think about what the Duke of Ripley might have seen when she stood on his shoulders. Merely thinking about thinking about it made her dizzy. Dizzier. And vastly uneasy.

  “Stop wriggling,” he said.

  “I wasn’t,” she said.

  “You’re not holding still,” he said. “I have to feel my way because there isn’t light enough in here for me to see properly. I can’t do it if you’re moving.”

  “I can’t help the coach’s jolting,” she said. “And I’m desperately uncomfortable.” There was an understatement. She felt prickly all over. And hot. And confused.

  “I’m working as fast as I can, but your maid or hairdresser has secreted the pins in the damnedest places. Is this thing glued together?”

  “No, it’s only a thousand pins and some pomatum.”

  “Hold out your hand and I’ll give you the pins,” he said. “We needn’t save the bits and pieces of rhododendron, I trust? At the moment, you put me in mind of Ophelia after she fell into the water.”

  “The veil caught in everything,” she said. Then she realized what he’d said. “You know Hamlet?”

  “I like Shakespeare’s plays,” he said. “Lots of violence and bawdy jokes.”

  No surprise there.

  She held out her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he dropped some pins onto her palm, and the fleeting touch skittered along her skin. She wished she’d put on her gloves before she left. The trouble was, she would have had to return to her room to get them, and somebody was bound to be waiting there: Mama, Aunt Lavinia. Olympia would have been trapped. No turning back then.

  Rightfully so. She should not have waited until the last possible moment to balk. She should not have balked. What was wrong with her?

  She watched flower petals, some cherry red and others palest pink, drift down into the straw. Shiny bits of green leaves fluttered after them.

  What had she done?

  Never mind, never mind. One thing at a time.

  She’d been wrong about the number of hairpins.

  Ripley reckoned there must be at least ten thousand. Still, once he ascertained the pattern, he was able to get at them more efficiently. From her thick, shiny hair rose the fragrance of lavender, with a hint of rosemary. It was a shockingly chaste scent. He was used to the rich fragrances with which actresses, courtesans, and dashing ladies of the ton infused their pomatums.

  He became aware of his head bending nearer. He drew it back.

  Even done efficiently, the process was a long one, not merely of removing hairpins but also of disentangling the orange blossoms and intricate lace arrangement without, at the same time, disarranging her hair completely.

  Bad enough for a woman to be running about in a bridal dress. In any dress, with her hair down, she’d be taken for a prostitute or a madwoman.

  A lady did not let down her hair until she prepared for bed.

  Loose hair meant loose woman.

  This woman would be fair game for sport, in other words, of one kind or another.

  Not for him, of course. He was the bloody bridesmaid.

  He couldn’t let her go anywhere without him.

  Not that this was altogether bad. She was entertaining. And he was looking forward to helping her drive Ashmont frantic.

  Yet Ripley did wish he had his hat.

  The most wretched of paupers managed some sort of head-covering, however ragged. Small wonder that the Duke of Ripley, who regarded Society’s rules as a joke book, squirmed inwardly because he was Out in Public without a Hat.

  Best not to think about his naked head.

  Useful as well not to dwell too much on the fragrance rising from her head and the way it conjured images of lazing in a sunlit Tuscan garden.

  No Tuscan villa in the vicinity. No naughty contessas.

  Only Ashmont’s bride-to-be.

  And this wasn’t Tuscany or anything like Tuscany.

  This was London, raining as was its custom, while His Grace of Ripley sat playing lady’s maid in a filthy hackney coach plodding toward Battersea Bridge.

  It was a new experience, at any rate.

  He managed to get the headdress separated from her head without too much screaming—hers or his. But it turned out that some of the plaits belonged to her, and the side curls had loosened, and in short, everything seemed to be coming down. He snatched hairpins from her outstretched palm and hastily got the dangling bits back up, not very elegantly, but up was up.

  Then at last he dropped the crown and attached veil onto her lap and sat back.

  She looked down at the mass of lace and orange blossoms in her lap.

  “It’s blond lace, so expensive,” she said. “It’s sure to fetch something at a pawnshop. More than enough to pay the waterman.”

  “I’m not taking your bridal veil to a pawnshop,” he said.

  “Did I ask you to? I’m perfectly capable—”

  “Yesterday you might have been capable of many things,” he said. “This isn’t yesterday. This is today. You’re inebriated. You’re wearing a wedding dress. If you stir a step without me, you’ll be assaulted. Whatever happens to you will be my fault, and there isn’t a strong enough word for or enough words to put with bored to tell you how bored I am with duels.”

  She opened her mouth—to argue, no doubt. Then she closed it and turned her gaze downward again, to the dismantled headdress.

  Second thoughts? He could work with that, although—

  “Do you have enough money for the waterman?” she said. “After you pay the coachman? Yes, of course you’re a duke, but in my experience, gentlemen don’t carry a great deal of money with them.”

  He gazed at her for a time, at the dirt on her nose and the spots on her spectacles from tears or rain, and the bizarre arrangement he’d made of her hair.

  Never since his unpleasant childhood had any woman asked whether he had enough money. For anything.

  It was rather touching.

  But it wasn’t his job to be touched. His job was to manage matters to come out the right way.

  Simple enough, really.

  Get her to her aunt, make Ashmont retrieve her, and make everybody believe it was all a typical Their Dis-Graces practical joke.

  “As it happens, I brought ready money for gratuities, bribes, and other odds and ends,” he said. “Ashmont, obviously, was too . . . excited . . . about getting married to think of mundane matters.”

  “Excited,” she said. “Is that what you call it? I would say he was extremely intoxicated when you three burst in upon me.”

  “And pot calls kettle black,” he said.

  The coach rumbled to a halt, as it had done numerous times on the interminable journey. Ripley looked out of the grimy window. Thanks to the scratches and dirt, the view might have been of anything. He pushed down the window. The rain had settled to a drizzle.

  The coachman called out, “Battersea Bridge, Yer Grace.”

  “We can still turn back,” Ripley said.

  “No,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  The voices Lady Olympia and the Duke of Ripley had heard in the garden belonged to her brothers, the youngest two of whom had set out to thwart the eldest. The conspiracy had proceeded as follows:

  When Lord Ludford left the nursery, Clarence shouted, “Drew, quick! Stop him!”

  Andrew burst out of the schoolroom and raced for the staircase, Clarence hot behind their eldest brother.

  “Let her go!” Clarence shouted. “You leave her alone, you great bully!”