The Duke Can Go to the Devil (13 page)

She had to be the single most vexing woman he had ever met. What on earth was it about her that still managed to draw him in? She seemed dead set against everything that defined him. At this rate, the visit was sure to be an exceptionally long one.

After a few minutes of silence, she slipped her hand around his arm, surprising him. As he slowed to a stop, she released her hold and sighed. “Please accept my apologies. I've upset you, and that wasn't my intention. The house is lovely, the grounds are lovely, and you have every right to be proud of them. I was . . . shocked, and I reacted poorly.”

This time, she seemed in earnest. He nodded, accepting her apology. “Thank you. I'm sure it can be overwhelming to some the first time they see it. And for the record, it was built long before I was born, so I had no say, but it's part of who I am.”

She pursed her lips, glancing back over to the house. “It's hard to imagine having that sort of connection to a house. I've lived in several, and sometimes without one at all, when we lived aboard my father's ship for long stretches.”

“How unusual. I cannot imagine not having a place to truly call home.”

A gentle smile softened her features. “My mother once told me that home was where one's heart resides, not necessarily where one's head lies at night.” It was a telling statement. She spoke quietly, reverently, when she mentioned her mother.

“She sounds very wise.”

Miss Bradford nodded, keeping her eyes trained ahead. “She was. I miss her very, very much.” She seemed to wilt a little right before his eyes. It was clear the grief was still fresh in her heart.

He reached out and captured her hand to give her a consoling squeeze. “It never goes away completely, but it gets a little easier to bear as you figure out how to live with it.” The ache, he knew, would always be there.

For the first time since he'd known her, she seemed
almost fragile. It made him want to tug her into his arms and comfort her. He couldn't, of course, not with the unseemliness of such a thing, and certainly not with them in full view of the house, so he simply rubbed his thumb along the top of her hand.

She met his gaze, her own questioning. “Are you thinking of your father or your mother?”

“A little of both, I suppose, but more so my mother. My father was a decent man, but very distant. My memories of my mother are all very . . . warm.” It was the best word he could think of to describe the feeling her memory gave him. Most of the actual memories had faded, but the emotion was still there.

“How old were you when you lost her?”

It might have been an intrusive question at any other time—he never spoke of his mother to anyone—but in that moment, it seemed natural. “She died when I was six.”

“So young,” she said, her voice soft. “I'm sorry.”

He cleared his throat, attempting to stop the unexpected upwelling of emotion. The conversation needed to be returned to safer subjects. “Yes, much too young. But I survived, and I am certain that you will heal in time as well.”

Releasing her hand, he nodded toward the house. “Shall we? The others will be wondering what became of us.”

For a moment, she looked as though she might argue the change in topic. He kept his expression as neutral as he could, willing her to let it go. Finally she nodded and
offered a resolute smile. “Yes, of course. I'm positively rapt to see the inside. I do hope it comes with a map.”

He released a breath and chuckled. “I'll see what we can find.”

T
he house was a hundred times grander up close than May had feared it would be. Marble floors, statues, and tabletops, crystal sconces and chandeliers, frescoed ceilings and velvet-covered walls—it was really quite overwhelming.

Gold frames here, silver tray there, bronze figures crowding the mantel . . . It was as though the treasure from a dozen pirate ships had ended up in Radcliffe's public rooms. How did one live among so much stuff? It was gorgeous, all of it, but the clutter of it all was almost suffocating.

“It's very nice,” she said, as diplomatically as she could. After the way he'd reprimanded her, she was determined to be polite about the place. And after the surprisingly emotional turn of their conversation earlier, she wanted to show kindness toward him.

“Thank you,” he said wryly, obviously not fooled. “Would you like to be shown to your chambers now, or would you prefer to sit for a moment?”

She sent him a mock look of trepidation. “The way you say that makes me think that it's another quarter mile to my room from here.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's a fifth of a mile, at most.” He
was teasing her again, which was a good sign. “Would you like some tea? Or lemonade, perhaps?”

She followed him into what she imagined must be the drawing room, although it was big enough to fit a whole herd of elephants. She wouldn't be surprised if he considered the space cozy. “Any brandy?”

He shot her a look. “Perhaps. Not exactly the most refreshing beverage after our walk.”

“Yes, but tremendously refreshing after my carriage ride with Aunt Victoria.” Her father had never minded sharing a sip with her growing up—for medicinal reasons, he always claimed—so the drink was sometimes comforting to her.

Chuckling, he headed for the heavily laden sideboard. “Fair enough. Do you prefer vintage?”

“What do you think?” she replied, lifting an eyebrow. It wasn't as though she was used to having a huge selection to choose from. In fact, she was lucky her aunt stocked it at all, though it was entirely possible it had belonged to the old earl.

“The best of the stock it is.” He poured a small amount into a crystal tumbler and brought it back to her.

She accepted the glass and settled onto a plush settee that looked as though it had been borrowed from a museum. “None for you?”

“I'm not one for spirits.”

Of course he wasn't. It probably topped the list of Things a Duke Did Not Do. “No cursing, no spirits, no kissing willing females in the dark. At least I know you indulge in tobacco, or I might very well have had to turn around and go back to Bath.”

He rested a hand on the high wooden back of the impossibly rich-looking sofa and shrugged, very much a
master of his domain. “I do enjoy the occasional cheroot. One must do something at one's club.”

As intimidating as the room was to her, he looked very much at home in the space. He seemed exceptionally confident here, but still more relaxed than usual. He owned this space, literally and figuratively. He fit in among the rich baubles and furnishings, like a puzzle piece slipping into place.

It raised the question, if she had met him here, how differently would things have gone? Would she ever have guessed that there was more to him than the sum of his wealth and influence? In all honesty, she couldn't imagine she would have ever said a word to him.

She took a sip of her drink. Lud, it was as smooth as warm satin, rich and full of flavor. She made a soft sound of pleasure and leaned back onto the cushions. “I've smoked a cheroot.”

He crossed his arms. “Only one?” Humor sparkled in those golden eyes of his. Or perhaps it was the reflection from the weatherproof windowsills.

“Only one. Papa may condone a bit of brandy now and then, but I thought he might actually toss me overboard when he discovered me on deck one night, attempting to smoke my first one.”

“And that was enough to prevent you from trying again?” He seemed completely dubious. Apparently, he was truly getting to know her.

Smiling at the memory, she shook her head. “Not at all. But the feel of the grit coating my lungs was.”

He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “Why is it I find myself sympathizing with your poor father? The trouble you undoubtedly gave him must have turned him gray years ago.”

“Only his head. His beard was still plenty black the
last time I saw him,” she replied archly. She opened her mouth to say more when a crash erupted from the corner of the room, startling them both.

May wrenched around in time to see white-and-blue porcelain skittering across the marble floor and onto the enormous plush rug arranged beneath the conversation area in front of the fireplace. She put a hand over her wildly thumping heart as she turned to Radcliffe. “Bloody hell, that scared me near to death.”

A little blond-headed boy popped up from behind the sofa, his eyes huge. “You said a very bad word!”

May could not have been more surprised if a mermaid had appeared in the room. Who was this child, and where the devil had he come from?

Radcliffe, on the other hand, seemed completely unperturbed. Straightening, he settled his hands at his waist and said, “Have you been spying, young man?”

The boy was immediately contrite. “Yes. I know it is wrong and I'm ever so sorry.” Even as his chin dipped to his chest, his brown eyes darted back to May, his gaze bright with curiosity. He couldn't have been more than six or seven, and he bore an unnerving resemblance to Radcliffe.

May's own curiosity was piqued now. Surely the duke didn't have
children
. Wouldn't Charity or Sophie have said something? She turned a questioning gaze to the duke. He, however, paid no attention to her. Addressing the back of the room, he said, “Clarisse, I know you must be part of this as well. Show yourself, please.” His tone was stern but gentle.

Another head popped up from behind the sofa, this one belonging to a very mischievous looking little girl with strawberry blond curls and bright hazel eyes. “It was Julian's idea,” she said, the words completely
matter-of-fact. Pointing her finger at May, she added, “Who is she? And which word was bad?”

Radcliffe gestured for them to come closer, and the children did so without fear or concern. May's eyes darted to the broken porcelain on the floor, which thankfully had broken several feet to the left, and had sprayed out in the opposite direction from where they had been hiding. She bit her lip, squinting at what she felt sure was the remains of a priceless vase. It was probably an antique. And royal. And worth more than her father's ship. Yet, to the duke's credit, he didn't seem angry at all.

When the two children were standing guiltily before him, he said, “What are the rules about spying?”

The boy, Julian, spoke first. “Only at the bequest of the king, and only to save the country from traitors.”

May had to press a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Is that what Radcliffe had taught them? He answered the unspoken question when he nodded gravely. “And do you have good reason to believe that a traitor is in our midst?”

Julian shook his head, but Clarisse turned and pointed to May again. “What about her? She could be a twaitor.”

It was the duke's turn to bite back a smile. He turned to May then, pretending to size her up. “Hmm. Perhaps you are right. She does have a bit of a strange accent, in addition to saying bad words. And she came here on a great ship that had sailed the seven seas all the way from China.”

Both of the children's eyes went wide as saucers, and Julian muttered an appreciative, “Whoa.”

Tilting his head, Radcliffe said, “How shall we discover if she is a traitor?”

“Ask her!” Clarisse shouted, bouncing up and down excitedly.

Julian thrust both hands straight into the air. “Throw her in the dungeon and feed her crusts of bread!”

Just then, a woman came skidding into the room, wearing a plain gray gown and a white apron, her hair frazzled and her eyes wide with alarm. “Your Grace! I—”

But he cut her off with a single raised finger. “In a moment, Nurse Plimpton.” Turning back to the little girl and boy, he said, “Since she has not yet been charged with a crime, I think perhaps Clarisse's idea holds the most merit. Would you like to do the honors?”

She nodded with huge enthusiasm and stepped right up to May. Tugging on the dusty skirts of May's gown, she said, “Are you a twaitor?”

Bending down to the little girl's level, May looked her right in the eye. “No, I don't think so.”

Radcliffe pursed his lips and squinted his eyes dramatically. “Are you certain? I seem to recall that you dislike this great country of ours.”

Julian gasped, as though such a thing was the worst of crimes. “To the dungeon!”

Holding up her hands in surrender, May said, “I'm innocent, I swear it. I may not be a great lover of England, but I haven't a single state secret to betray, and I wouldn't know to whom to betray it even if I did.”

“Hmm,” the duke said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “I suppose she is telling the truth. Very well, Miss Bradford, you have escaped the dungeon this time, though watch your language or you may find yourself there yet. Which means you,” he said, pointing a finger back and forth between the children, “have no excuse to be spying. Nor do you have excuses for abandoning Nurse Plimpton and breaking that very ugly vase.”

Even as they tried to look contrite, they giggled at his
description of the vase. Little Clarisse looked up at him with those big lovely eyes of hers and said, “But you didn't come for us. We waited forever and ever.”

“Five minutes is not forever, Clarisse. Exaggeration is unbecoming of a lady. Now, come give me a hug before you go back to the nursery. I'll be up in a few minutes.” He held out his arms, and embraced both the children at once.

“But William,” Julian said when he'd been released, “isn't it rude not to introduce us to your guest before we go?”

William?
So definitely not his offspring, thank heavens. “I believe he has a point,” May said, winking in commiseration to the boy.

Sighing, Radcliffe stood and gestured to May. “Miss May Bradford, may I present to you my brother, Lord Julian Spencer, and my sister, Lady Clarisse Spencer.”

“I'm five,” Clarisse volunteered. “And my
real
name is Lady Clarisse Fleur Diana Dubois Spencer.” She said each name with careful enunciation, as though she had been practicing.

“Nice to meet you, Lady Clarisse. I'm twenty, and my real name is Miss Mei-li Britannia Bradford.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the duke's raised eyebrows. He likely had never heard such an exotic name for an Englishwoman.

“Twenty? William is thirty, so he is older, but you're still old,” Julian said, matter-of-factly. “I'm only seven.”

“All right, that's enough.” Radcliffe herded them toward the waiting nursemaid. “I want you to apologize to Nurse Plimpton for running away, as well as to Mrs. Curtis, since she will have to see to the mess you made. In the future, any spying will require a personal letter from the
king, and in no circumstances will that spying involve me. Understood?”

“Yes, William,” they replied together before scurrying off in the nurse's care.

For a moment, they both listened to the receding sound of their excited little voices, buzzing about the adventure they had just had. When the duke turned back to May, it was with a raised brow. “Mei-li?”

“Are we now on a first-name basis?” she asked, all innocence.

“How could I not know that was your name?”

“How could I not know that you had siblings?”

He glanced back toward the corridor a small smile on his lips. “They are my half siblings. Vivian—Lady Radcliffe—is their mother, which is why she accompanied me back to the estate.”

“She doesn't live with them?” May uttered the question before she considered how very intrusive it was. Cringing, she said hastily, “I beg your pardon. That is none of my business.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “No, she doesn't live with them. They are more or less my responsibility.”

“And you adore them. And they you.” She still could hardly believe the change in him when he spoke to them. Such kindness and gentleness, even when correcting them. She would have never imagined him having such a tender side.

“Yes. They are my family, and I am theirs.” A simple yet telling statement. Turning fully to her, he pinned her with a playfully reproachful glare. “And as such, I must implore you to refrain from cursing while you are here. I won't have you corrupting them.”

She winced. She did feel rather bad about that. “Yes, my apologies. However, if you had warned me that there
would be children present, I would have been more careful.”

“Or, you could simply refrain from such language at all, so such an issue would never arise.” There was that holier-than-thou tone, creeping into his voice again.

“Now what would be the fun in that? A life that requires no censure in the company of children doesn't sound like much of a life at all to me.”

“And there, Miss Bradford, is our fundamental difference.”

“I couldn't have said it better myself. In fact, since you and my aunt have so much in common when it comes to life philosophy, and you apparently suffer from a lack of family, I am more than happy to lend her to you.”

His lips twitched with repressed humor. “Thank you, but no. Clarisse and Julian aren't my only family, per se. Simply the closest, and the ones who matter most to me.”

Volunteering more information, was he? She leaned forward a bit, wanting to know more. “Oh?”

He nodded. “I also have two half sisters from my father's first wife. They are quite a bit older, however, and are both married with families of their own. Mary lives near the Scottish border and Elizabeth is in Belgium. There are also cousins, aunts, and one eccentric bachelor uncle, but I've never been particularly close to any of them.”