It was early afternoon, well before the fashionable hour for promenading in Hyde Park. As a result, the Duke of Marchmont’s acquaintances were denied the entertaining sight of His Grace leaping out of a hackney near Hyde Park Corner, dashing across Piccadilly, and running—yes, actually running—into the Green Park.
He did not have to run far.
His legs were a good deal longer than his prey’s, and he was not encumbered with skirt, petticoat, and corset.
He caught up with her a short distance from the lodge. Most of the park was bare of trees. In the grounds near the lodge and the adjoining area near the smaller basin, though, they provided a degree of shade, as well as a shield of sorts from the observation of passersby in Piccadilly. Those on the footpaths, however, would get an eyeful.
Not that the duke cared who was watching.
He was far too irritated to care.
Though he’d caught up with her, she kept on running, obliging him to trot alongside—or throw himself on her and bring her down.
He was seriously considering the latter course of action when she slowed to a walk, one hand to her side.
She’d given herself a cramp, the little fool.
“You are an idiot,” he said, further annoyed to find himself breathing hard.
Though mentally lazy, he was a physically active man, and he’d run only a short distance. If it occurred to him that emotion was making him breathless, the idea did not get far before being thrust into the special mental cupboard with other unwelcome thoughts. “How far did you think you’d get, running uphill, wearing a corset?”
“If I were speaking to you, I would tell you that the corset does not fit properly.” She stuck her pretty nose in the air and walked on. “But I am not speaking to you.”
Whatever else he was prepared for, it was not this. For one of the few times in his life, he was taken aback. “Not speaking to me? Not speaking to me?”
“You promised you would give me a place in your world,” she said. “You said nothing could be simpler. A week ago you said this, yet you have done nothing.”
This was monstrous unfair. He’d attended the Princess Elizabeth’s wedding last night, where everybody behaved with the utmost decorum and where no one could expect any hint of fun. There never was any fun when the Queen was about. He could have been with his friends or with Lady Tarling, but no. He’d gone to the boring wedding, all for the prime opportunity it offered to enlist the Prince Regent in his campaign.
The campaign for Zoe.
But the Duke of Marchmont never allowed anyone but her father to question his actions. Even then, all he did was pretend to listen. He rarely paid attention and certainly didn’t explain or defend himself.
“I was busy,” he said.
“Perhaps the task isn’t as simple as you pretended,” she said. “Perhaps it’s a joke to you.”
It was no joke. Far from it. When a gentleman agreed to do something, he did it. He had been doing it. He’d been so busy on her behalf that he hadn’t had time to visit his mistress.
But the Duke of Marchmont never complained and never explained. He remained silent, seething.
She glanced at him, then away. She took a deep breath, apparently to calm herself. “I suppose I ought to remember that you are not very intelligent,” she said.
He watched her bosom rise and fall.
His anger seeped away.
She wore a pale yellow carriage dress trimmed with green. Under the bonnet’s brim, dark gold curls danced by her ears. Adderwood had called her a peach, and that was more than apt. The warm glow pinkening her cheeks made them seem like sun-kissed peaches, and her soft lips glistened.
If she hadn’t been the daughter of the only man in the world for whom he’d lay down his life, the Duke of Marchmont might have tried to find out exactly how innocent she was.
But she was Lexham’s daughter, and in a snit about something, and all in all, perhaps it would be wisest simply to humor her.
“I’m shocked, deeply shocked, that no one’s told you,” he said. “I am not intelligent. You had better explain carefully. And try not to use any big words.”
She shot him one of her sidelong glances, a flash of blue suspicion.
“Ask your father,” he said. “I’m surprised he didn’t warn you what a thickhead I am. I’m sure he’s mentioned it to me many times.”
“He did tell me so,” she said. “He told me not to expect too much.”
“Ouch,” he said. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.’”
She rolled her eyes. “I see how it is,” she said. “No matter. Some things even you can understand. I need clothes.”
“You do? Has my thick brain somehow overlooked the fact that you’re naked?”
“Not these clothes,” she said, drawing her hand down the front of the dress in the most provocative manner. “This is last year’s dress!”
“How appalling. You must take it off immediately.”
“Is that a dare?” she said.
He had replied without thinking. Now images from the past crowded into his mind: Zoe challenging and taunting her brothers, Zoe taking every “you mustn’t” and “you oughtn’t” and “you can’t” and “you wouldn’t” as a challenge or taunt.
What he’d jestingly suggested was a dare of the first order. For a lady to take off her dress in public was not merely unthinkably improper; it was practically impossible. Undoing the numerous and complicated fastenings—which were located for the convenience of the maid, not the mistress—would require the agility of an acrobat and a contortionist combined. No lady would get far unaided.
On the other hand, this was Zoe. She’d find a way to do it or die trying. And the process of her finding a way to do it was bound to be entertaining.
The temptation to dare her was almost overpowering.
But he collected his wits and said, “No, it was a joke.”
“This dress is no joke to me,” she said. “I shall get no respect in Society if I dress like a dowd. My attire must be in the latest mode. I should not have to explain this to you. You told me about Beau Brummell. Even my sisters admit you are fashionable, though it kills them to say so. And I can see it for myself: your dress tells me that you understand these matters.”
He said, “Actually, I leave it to my valet Hoare to understand.”
“And does Hoare go to the tailor to choose your garments as well?”
“No, I go to the tailor, but I leave the decisions to him,” he said. “He knows I don’t care. Still, any tailor would know that if he dresses me badly, his reputation will suffer and he’ll lose custom.”
This seemed to give her pause.
He watched her ponder, and something in her expression made him imagine her mind working, absorbing the few sentences he’d uttered, and filing the knowledge away for future reference. He pictured her mind as a miniature of London’s General Post Office, filled with lines of workers at the long benches, neatly filing letters into their proper slots.
“Do you mean to have your valet order my clothes?” she said.
“No.”
“Did you mean to leave the ordering of my wardrobe to my sisters?”
“Gad, no.”
She folded her arms and waited.
He waited, too, drawing out the moment, because sunlight kissed her nose and glanced off the curly tendrils escaping from under her bonnet, and because what might be a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
He stood, he was aware, some inches too close for propriety. A passing breeze carried her scent to him.
“I collect it must be me, then,” he said.
“Who else?” she said. “You’re the leader of fashion. I am to be your…protégée—that is the correct word, isn’t it?”
It sounded most incorrect and very naughty the way she said it, but he nodded.
“Then you must supervise my dressing,” she said.
He could see himself in her dressing room, saying, Take off your clothes. He could see himself helping her take them off, starting with…
He shook off the image.
Why must she make harmless words sound like the lewdest innuendoes?
“I believe you mean I must supervise your wardrobe selection,” he said.
She shrugged, and the motion seemed to travel the length of her body. She moved like a cat, he thought.
She walked on, and he became far too aware of the way she moved: the slow, beckoning sway of her elegantly curved figure. He walked alongside her, and he knew he was too close, because he could hear the brush of muslin against his pantaloons and he could smell the womanly scent, clean and warm.
It seemed to him that the grey spring day had turned into sultry summer.
“You oughtn’t to walk that way,” he said.
“What way?”
“That way,” he said. “An Englishman would get the wrong idea.”
“To desire me? But that’s the idea I want the men to get. I must be popular and receive many marriage proposals.”
He hadn’t thought of that—or had he? Other men, watching the way she moved her body. Other men desiring her. Other men, tempted.
“You’ll get other kinds of proposals,” he said.
“Like what?” she said.
“Like this,” he said.
He closed the small space between them and brought his arm round her waist. He only meant—or so he lied to himself—to teach her a lesson.
To his shock, she put up no resistance whatsoever. Not even a show of it. She simply melted into him.
She was warm and soft, and the scent of her was like a summer garden with a woman in it. He drew her against him, and the warmth and softness and scent enveloped him.
He slid his hand up her back and along her neck and drew his fingers along her jaw. He tipped her head back and she looked up at him. There was the deep blue sea of her eyes, and there was he, wanting to drown.
He bent his head and brought his mouth to hers.
It was only a touch of their lips, not even a proper kiss, but he felt it ricochet inside him: a stunning jolt of feeling. He didn’t know what it was and didn’t try to find out. He drew back. It was then, before he could shake off the surprise, that he heard a bird sing out lustily.
The sound penetrated the warm fog of his brain and called him back to his surroundings. The Green Park was far from deserted, and a public embrace was unforgivably, perhaps catastrophically, stupid. It would undo all the work he’d done thus far to make Society accept her.
He drew back. He took his hands away. Then he took himself a pace away, to leave a proper space between them.
He was furious with himself.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Why not?” she said.
He stared at her. “Why not? Why not?”
She brought her index finger to her lips and touched the place where he’d kissed her. “A little caress, a little teasing.” She studied his face. Then she laughed.
“It isn’t funny,” he said.
“That’s what you say because you can’t see the expression on your face.”
Expression? He didn’t wear expressions. “Zoe.”
“Did you not like it?” she said. “I did. I never kissed or touched any man but Karim, and that was like caressing furniture—soft furniture,” she said with a laugh.
“Zoe, you can’t talk like that.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “My sisters tell me. You cannot say this, Zoe. You cannot say that. But you aren’t my sisters. You’re a man of the world.”
“I’m a man,” he said, “and I am not at all accustomed to resisting temptation. If you wish to have a proper launch into Society and be sought after and marry well, you had better not tempt me.” A thought struck him. “Ye gods, Zoe, do you even know how to say no?”
She shook her head. “Not in the way you mean. Not to caresses and kissing. All I ever learned in that way was yes.”
“Oh, my God.” If he had been any other man, the kind given to emotional displays, he would have flung his hat on the ground and commenced tearing his hair out.
It was at this moment, finally, that the Duke of Marchmont fully grasped the enormity of the task he’d undertaken.
He could pave her way into Society, but she’d be undermining him at every turn, all innocently. Or perhaps mischievously. This was Zoe, after all.
But Zoe was the daughter of the man who’d stood in place of a father to him. In any event, Marchmont had said he would do it, and he never broke his word.
“Very well,” he said. “I can deal with this.”
Nothing could be simpler.
The words hung in his mind, mocking him.
He looked about him. Nobody who mattered seemed to be about. Perhaps they hadn’t been observed. The intimacy had lasted not a minute, after all.
He said, calmly, oh so calmly, “I attended the Princess Elizabeth’s wedding last night. The Prince Regent wasn’t there—he was ill. But the Duke of York—that is his brother—”
“I know,” she said. “I had to memorize all of them.”
“Good,” he said. “The Duke of York promised to speak to the Regent and see that you received an invitation. He said the royal family were deeply affected by the story in the Delphian. The Duke of York thinks it likely that you’ll be invited to the Drawing Room being held to celebrate the Prince Regent’s birthday.”
“On the twenty-third of this month,” she said. “This is not his birthday. But his birthday is in August, my sisters told me, and the Season ends in June and everybody goes to the country. No one would be in London to celebrate it then.”
Her sisters were the most irksome of women. Still, they’d saved him a good deal of tiresome explanation.
“Exactly,” he said. “It isn’t like ordinary presentations. You won’t be stuck among all the schoolroom misses.”
She nodded. “Then it won’t be so obvious how old I am.”
“Yes, there’ll be many other antiques attending.”
She smiled. “Good, because I have no idea how to appear young and naïve. It’s only a little more than a fortnight from today, and I have more than enough to learn as it is without having to learn how to act innocent.”
“Can you contrive not to do anything outrageous or scandalous before then?” he said without much hope.
“If I do not become too bored,” she said. “I’m becoming a little bored now.” She turned and started back.
He wondered if his hearing was failing. Bored? With him? No one was bored with him. Women never walked away from him. On the contrary, they did everything possible to prolong conversations.
He told himself she was merely being provoking. Bored, indeed. He should have kissed her until she fainted. That would teach her.
Oh, yes. And so much for his promise to make her respectable.
He went after her. “You can’t continue wandering about London on your own.”
“I am not on my own. My maid is with me.”
“A maid is insufficient, and she should not have let you bolt in the first place,” he said, though he doubted whether a cavalry could have stopped Zoe.
“I made her do it,” she said. “My sisters were coming to the house. They come every day and tell me how to talk and how to walk and how to sit and pour tea and what to say and what not to say.”
He felt a twinge of something that could have been the conscience with which he was only distantly acquainted. On the other hand, it could have been fear—far more reasonable in the circumstances.
Zoe let loose in London. Zoe, on her own. Zoe, who didn’t know how to say no.
He said quite, quite calmly, “You complained about being cooped up in the house. You’ve been cooped up in that filthy hackney. What you need is a drive in my new curricle.” He leant toward her and sniffed. She still smelled too deliciously like a sunny garden. He made himself draw away, before scent and sight and sound could lead him to another gross error of judgment.
“You badly need an airing,” he said. “I think you’ve contracted mildew.”
She walked on a few steps, then paused and looked everywhere but at him. “I know what a curricle is. An open carriage. Two horses, Papa said. It is dashing. And it goes fast.”
Marchmont discerned the gleam in her eye. She was not as indifferent as she pretended.
“I shall take you for a drive in my curricle,” he said. “We’ll air you out, then we’ll drive to the best dressmaker in London, and you may order as many frocks as you like.”
He certainly didn’t care how much they cost. He couldn’t have them billed to him, because word would get out and everyone would assume that Miss Lexham was his mistress. Still, he’d settle finances with her father. Whatever Zoe’s wardrobe cost, the price would never approach repaying what Marchmont owed his former guardian.
She continued down the hill. “I have sat in a carriage for long enough. The seats are hard and my bottom hurts.”
“You said you were bored,” he said. “You complained about your frock being unfashionable.”
“Did I?” She gave a dismissive wave, a precise replica of Aunt Sophronia’s. “I don’t remember.”
“Zoe Octavia,” he said.
She looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and looked away.
“You are as annoying as you ever were,” he said.
“So are you,” she said.
“I may be annoying, but I’m the one with the dashing curricle.”
After a moment she said, “Does it go very fast?”
“There’s only one way you’ll find out,” he said.
“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be a pest about it.” She let out a sigh. She tucked her arm in his.
The touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through him.
Gad, she was dangerous, he thought.
Still, he was a man of the world and a man of his word. He could deal with it. At the moment only one thing mattered: He was in charge of her, and while he was in charge, he could keep her out of trouble.
Marchmont House
A short time later
The porter, eyes wide, saw the pair crossing St. James’s Square, a female servant trailing after them. He summoned a footman and whispered in his ear. The footman hurried from the entrance hall and fairly flew through the green baize door and down the stairs into the servants’ hall, where he found Harrison, the house steward, reviewing accounts with the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunstan.
In appearance, Harrison was everything a duke’s chief of staff ought to be. He was tall enough to look down upon all the other servants and most of the house’s visitors. His long nose enhanced the effect. His black eyes resembled a raven’s: a little too sharp and too bright. The grey streaking his dark hair lent further dignity and probity to his appearance.
“Olney says His Grace is coming,” the footman said.
Harrison did not look up from the bill of provisions in his hand. He frowned, though, and the footman trembled at that frown.
As well he should. There was nothing out of the way in the Duke of Marchmont’s approaching his own home, even on foot. It was certainly not a matter requiring the attention of the man in charge of running the duke’s vast household.
The footman added hastily, “A female with him.”
Still Harrison’s gaze did not leave the column of notes and very large figures. “What sort of female?” he said.
“Lady,” the footman said. “Got a maid with her. Not one of His Grace’s aunts or cousins. Olney thinks she’s the one from the newspapers. Looks like the etching he saw.”
At this Harrison did look up. He exchanged glances with Mrs. Dunstan, whose lips pursed. “The Harem Girl,” he said.
Being servants, they were all aware of recent events. They knew their master had taken the Harem Girl under his wing. They knew about the thousand-pound wager with Adderwood. They knew about all of their master’s wagers. They knew all of his business.
The Harem Girl business was appalling. However, the nobility did have its whims, and working for the Duke of Marchmont was more lucrative than working for any other peer in all of Great Britain.
Nonetheless, Harrison could not be happy about the master’s bringing to the house a social anomaly.
A harem girl, as any servant would know, stood on a social par with ballet dancers, actresses, and courtesans: marginally higher in rank than a prostitute. On the other hand, Miss Lexham’s father’s barony was one of the most ancient in England. It was older, by a century or two, than His Grace’s dukedom, which was the kingdom’s third oldest.
Not that Harrison was ready to believe that the person who claimed to be Lord Lexham’s daughter truly was that lady. Others might be taken in by sentimental pieces in the newspapers, but he continued to take a dim view of the entire affair.
A proper lady would not visit a bachelor establishment without a suitable chaperon. A great many people would not deem a lady’s maid sufficient chaperonage in the circumstances. Having her mama by, or even one of her sisters or aunts, would have satisfied propriety. But no, the inconsiderate female strutted round St. James’s Square on the master’s arm, with only a nobody maid following!
Still, Harrison prided himself on never being at a loss in any situation. He couldn’t afford to be. The staff would interpret any sign of doubt or hesitation as weakness. In Harrison’s view of the world, servants were like dogs or wolves: They could smell fear and weakness. Then their fangs came out.
“I shall deal with the matter,” he said.
Marchmont’s entrance hall was a great, echoing cavern of a place.
The tall servant, Zoe noticed, did not echo as he crossed the checkered floor. He wafted in like an aroma—like the faint scent of beeswax emanating from one of the rooms nearby.
Her family’s London house was an elegant one and efficiently looked after. It was much smaller than Marchmont House, however, which sprawled over a sizable stretch of St. James’s Square. Lexham House, too, was more obviously the home of a large family. As diligent as its servants were, they could not always keep up with the endless comings and goings of Lord Lexham’s numerous offspring and their spouses and offspring. One might spy a shawl here, a book tossed there, a table or chair not precisely in the correct position.
Such was not the case at Marchmont House so far as she could see, though mainly what she saw was the entrance hall, a handsome public place, intended to awe visitors.
It was scrupulously—no, scrupulous was nowhere near the mark. It was fanatically maintained.
The mahogany doors glistened. The marble floor’s sheen gave it the appearance of pearl and polished onyx. The dark marble chimneypiece gleamed. The chandelier’s sparkle dazzled the eyes. Not a single speck of dust, she was quite sure, had ever been allowed to alight upon any surface in this room—or anywhere else in this great house.
The tall man presented to her as Harrison, the house steward, would be responsible for this state of affairs. Thanks to her sisters’ lectures on household management, Zoe knew that in the hierarchy of a great—or greatly rich—noble household, the house steward stood at the top of the ladder. He answered only to the master and his land agent. The house steward might be paid two or three times the salary of the next in status: the cook. Slightly below the cook and equal to the master’s valet stood the butler.
The structure was quite simple, actually, and Zoe had no trouble making a diagram in her head of all the positions, down to the very lowest ranks, of both indoor and outdoor servants, in Town or in the country.
It was simple, at any rate, compared to the intricate spider’s web and ever-changing alliances and hierarchies of Yusri Pasha’s household.
Harrison, clearly, did no actual work. The instant the duke removed his hat and gloves, a lower servant appeared, smoothly relieved the master of the articles, and vanished. Other servants hovered in the vicinity.
None of them showed curiosity or any other emotion. All seemed to be at their usual posts. All were correctly dressed and neatly groomed.
And all stood in a state of high tension.
Zoe could feel it. Marchmont seemed oblivious. No surprise there.
“We’ve only come for the curricle,” the duke told his house steward. “I’m taking Miss Lexham for a drive. Have the carriage sent round, and let Hoare know. He’ll want to give me a change of something: hat and gloves, I daresay. Meanwhile, we must remember our manners and offer the lady refreshment.”
He turned to Zoe. The afternoon light, which made rainbows dance in the chandelier, glittered in his pale gold hair. The one unruly lock had fallen over his forehead, making him look like a careless boy, and she had to fist her gloved hand to keep from brushing it back.
She remembered the touch of his lips. She had not yet quieted the urges the uncompleted kiss had stirred. She had enjoyed that teasing moment very much. She would have liked to enjoy it longer.
“I wish I could say I shall be but a minute, but Hoare cries when I hurry him,” he said. “And if I dash out with the wrong gloves or hat, he’ll slit his throat. Why do I keep him, I wonder? Any idea, Harrison?”
“I would not venture to say, Your Grace. One might observe, however, that replacing Hoare with a valet of equally high qualifications would consume a great deal of Your Grace’s valuable time.”
“Harrison always knows the answers,” the duke told Zoe. “There it is in a nutshell: It would be even more bother to replace Hoare than it is to put up with him. I shall leave you in Harrison’s capable hands.”
With that, he sauntered across the hall and through the open door and started up a magnificent stairway.
Harrison flicked a glance at one of the hovering footmen, who hurried toward them. “Escort Miss Lexham to the library—no, no, never mind. That won’t do. No entertainment but books. The lady will find it dull.”
It was sly, very sly: disrespect couched in a seeming show of concern for her comfort. But no properly respectful servant would presume to know what a lady would find dull or say anything that might be construed as slighting her intelligence. Jarvis, behind her, understood what he’d done, for she gave a barely audible gasp, which she immediately turned into a cough.
The footman comprehended, too. Though he kept his face blank, Zoe saw the smirk in his eyes.
Well, this was interesting.
She beamed at the house steward. “How kind of you,” she said. “I never would have guessed that the duke’s library was a dull, musty old place. I supposed his collection must be one of the finest in all of England, and his library most elegant and comfortable. But you would know. Yes, I should like to wait in a room that is more pleasant.”
The footman’s smirk vanished, and he turned pale.
Jarvis made a smothered sound.
Harrison’s expression did not change, though his posture became a degree stiffer.
“The morning room,” he told the footman. “See that refreshments arrive promptly.” He bowed to her and wafted out of the room.
Neither woman spoke until they were comfortably seated in the morning room and the footman had run away.
“Oh, miss, I never,” Jarvis whispered. “What he said and what you said. His library musty.”
“It is not his library but the duke’s,” said Zoe. “He will do well to remember that. He should remember his place, always, and treat all of his master’s guests with the greatest respect. This much I know.”
“Yes, miss. He needed a setdown and you gave him one. But…well.”
“Do not be afraid of him,” Zoe said. “He is simply a bully. There is usually at least one in a household, though that one is not always at the top. You must never let such persons cow you, whether they are men or women. You do not answer to anyone but me. Remember this.”
“Yes, miss,” Jarvis said, looking about her doubtfully.
“There is no need to be frightened,” Zoe said. “I do not believe he will try to poison us.”
Jarvis’s eyes widened. “Good gracious, miss!”
“It is most unlikely,” Zoe assured her. “In the harem, they were always plotting to murder Yusri Pasha’s third wife, so disagreeable she was. But they were too busy quarreling with one another to organize a proper plot.”
“Oh, my goodness, miss!”
Zoe brushed off the maid’s alarm with a wave of her hand. “When my sisters were teaching me about running a great household, it seemed like the most tiresome of a number of boring duties. In a house like this, though, it could be most interesting.”
The Duke of Marchmont did not notice anything out of the way among his staff. He scarcely noticed his staff except when, as at the present moment, they were annoying him.
A full quarter hour after he’d left Zoe in Harrison’s care, the duke stood in his dressing room in his pantaloons and shirtsleeves, watching his valet take up and reject yet another coat and waistcoat.
“Hoare, we shall not drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour,” said His Grace. “No one will be taking any notice of me but the lady—and that will not last long. The fashion plates and fabric swatches will soon absorb all her attention.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but the lady—what is she wearing?”
“Ye gods, you don’t mean for us to match?”
“Certainly not, sir. But it is necessary to achieve the correct tone.”
Marchmont silently cursed Beau Brummell. Valets used to be sensible fellows before the Beau came along and turned dress into a religion. “Carriage dress,” he said impatiently. “Pale yellow with green trim. A year out of date, she informed me.”
The valet regarded him with a panic-stricken expression.
Marchmont did not know or care what had thrown the man into a panic. He only wished he had not hired the most high-strung valet in London.
They would be at this all afternoon and into the evening if the master didn’t take matters in hand.
“That coat,” he snapped, pointing. “That and the green waistcoat.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “The green, sir?”
“The green,” Marchmont said firmly. “It will amuse Miss Lexham.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, Your Grace.”
“When the lady is bored, appalling things happen. We must strive for a little inconsistency, perhaps a hint of originality. We do not wish to be thought dull, do we?”
“Good heavens, Your Grace. Certainly not.”
And at last, Hoare began to bustle.