The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (4 page)

He acknowledged that he could be oblivious to other people, but there was no mistaking the tension in her face. In her entire body, in fact; her hands were coiled around each other and her posture made it appear as though she were going to leap out of the chair.

But she didn't do anything, just took a deep breath and met his gaze. “I was employed by a vicar's family in Littlestone. The Turnstones.” The expression in her eyes got distant, as though she were recalling something. “It is a small village, but the vicar's wife wished her daughters to be able to make their way comfortably in London. I believe they are distantly related to a baron, they had hopes of arriving in town for the Season.” She nodded, as though for emphasis.

And now what did he do with that information? He'd never actually hired a servant before, he'd left that up to whomever had taken care of it before he inherited. But this couldn't be entrusted to anyone but him.

“Hm.” That seemed like an appropriate reply.

“I can obtain my physical references on my afternoon off.”

As though they both knew when that was. Was it something that was understood? How had he gone this long—even being as feckless as he was—without knowing when servants had their free afternoons?

“Yes, of course.” He was feeling more and more out of his depth in dealing with this woman. Perhaps there was a good reason he'd left the hiring to other people.

“When would you prefer me to take my afternoon?” she asked after a moment.

Aha! So it was not understood! He felt much better. “Tuesday.” He said it as though there was no other possible day that would be nearly as satisfactory. He hoped it wasn't part of the unknown servant covenant that one never had Tuesday afternoons off.

“Yes, thank you.”

Apparently it was not. He wanted to show how proud he was of this moment, but if he admitted his ignorance, his whole triumph would be rendered meaningless.

“And, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, biting her lip, “what have you said about Miss Rose?”

“Said about her?” He didn't think he'd said much about her, except not to throw her out and to escort her to one of the upstairs rooms. Had he already done something wrong?

“About her being here. With you. So—so unexpectedly,” she said, nodding with a significant look.

Ah. They were to have the illegitimate child conversation already. He hoped she wasn't on the verge of leaving when she hadn't even begun.

“She's my daughter.”

Miss Lily rolled her eyes and exhaled. As his aunts used to do as well. “I understand that, Your Grace, but what will you
say
about her?”

“That she is my young daughter?” He wasn't trying to be difficult, but he didn't see where it was anyone's business.

“Perhaps, if I might suggest, you could tell people that she is the daughter of one of your cousins. One who died in India, or somewhere else far off. Then your—then Miss Rose would not have to suffer as a result.”

“Ah.” The thought of having to even consider something like that made him furious, made him want to yell at her, but it wasn't her fault that the world chose to be so narrow-minded. “I see.”

“Good, then.” Her eyebrows knitted together in thought. “Not that anyone should judge where it is not their concern, but people will talk.” From the way her face tensed, he wondered what people had said about her.

“Thank you.” At least she wasn't offering her notice, not immediately, at least. And it seemed as though she might sympathize with Rose's situation. “Well, then.” He rubbed his hands together the way he'd seen his father do when he was little—signifying the end of a conversation, or a wrapping up of a moment, or something so he didn't have to come out and say “Get out.” Not that his father, and later Joseph, had ever hesitated to tell him to get out. But they were varied in their rudeness, he had to give them that.

“If I have your permission to return to Miss Rose, Your Grace?” she asked, rising from her chair.

That was the way to say one wished to leave another's company. He'd have to remember that the next time he had an inclination to be polite.

Marcus inclined his head. Feeling as though he had somehow wrested control of the moment from her, as though it had been at issue.

She nodded as she made a slight curtsey, then took herself and her prim lemon face out of his sight.

He gazed at the ceiling—replete with adorably pink cherubs—and thought about what he'd learned: that Tuesdays were acceptable for servants' days off, that his new governess was definitely a lovely woman, and that he had decided on a new best friend.

Not to mention he had a child in his possession, a child for whom he was purportedly responsible.

When confronted with an acquaintance who might become a friend, a duke must always ask himself: Is this person someone who might jeopardize the duke's standing? (And the duke must always refer to himself in the third person.) If the answer is yes, the duke will then have to decide if the person in question is worth the risk. Most times the answer is no
.

—T
HE
D
UKE
'
S
G
UIDE
TO
C
ORRECT
B
EHAVIOR

T
he duke, Lily could tell as she ascended the nearly-as-impressive-as-the-foyer staircase, had no idea what he was doing. Perhaps he was living his life according to
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior,
but he was definitely not a parent. Not surprising, given that it appeared he had only become one a few hours earlier.

Since she had never been a governess before, it seemed they had a lot in common. Not necessarily
good
things, but things in common.

She would not be sharing that information with him anytime in the near future. Or distant future, for that matter.

Thank goodness her father's estate had come equipped with a vicar, and that she could draw on her own memories to recall her mythical employer's family. She wished she could have pointed it out to him as an indication of just how clever she was, but then that would be counterproductive.

It would probably be even worse than arriving without a reference.

She felt herself start to smile, then realized she
was still walking. Really? All that thinking and she hadn't gotten there yet?

Maybe the duke should have hired a navigator instead of a governess. Should she have packed a snack for the journey? She really had to eat something, she did tend to get a bit . . . snarly if she was hungry.

The Snarly Governess and the Dangerous Duke. She stifled a snort of laughter as she reached the room, opening the door to a scene that stifled any laughter altogether. Rose was sobbing on the carpet, looking as though her entire world had just fallen apart.

“Y
our Grace, one of the gentlemen from earlier today has returned. Should I tell him you are at home?” Thompson ended his sentence with a disdainful sniff.

Marcus heard that sniff often, and suspected his butler did not appreciate his master's less dukelike moments. Which were most of his moments, if he were honest. But since Thompson was his servant, he didn't care. Much.

He waved a hand in response. “Certainly, send him in.” Which one would it be? he wondered.

Within moments his question was answered as Smithfield strode in, an amused look on his face. “Your butler was not pleased to see me, I believe. And here I thought we had a bond, I do believe I gave him a coin when he returned with more brandy.” Smithfield had a dry edge to his voice, an acerbic wit that matched Marcus's own.

He'd made a good choice in new best friends, at least. Although— “I don't have time for brandy today. Besides, aren't you tired? I know I am, and I got a few hours of sleep in. I was going to go rest, but then the child arrived.”

Smithfield ignored Marcus's obvious hint and sat on the chair the governess had so recently vacated. Only instead of settling himself neatly down, he sprawled out in it and leaned back, balancing on two of the spindly pink legs. Hm.
He should try that position sometime,
he thought. It might be more comfortable.

“She is still here?” Smithfield sounded surprised.

“Yes.” He paused as he remembered what she said. “She has just arrived, she's my cousin's child, and now my cousin is dead.” He and Smithfield both knew it was a lie, but he had to start practicing. “What else should I have done with her?”

Instead of replying, Smithfield just gave him a knowing look, a look that said everything in both of their minds—aristocrats didn't usually take in their bastard offspring, they were far more likely to fling them out on the streets with a denial of their paternity, and what was he doing being responsible anyway, it wasn't as though he'd ever shown an iota of responsibility in his life, except for being responsible to his own comfort and ease of living. That it happened to coincide with his staff's ease of living was merely coincidental.

Or perhaps, Marcus reflected, that was just going through his own mind.

“I didn't think you were planning on being
a—a
cousin
anytime soon,” Smithfield remarked, “at least not according to what you said last night.” The way he spoke made it clear he knew the truth. And that Society wouldn't think twice about him casting her off, given the reality of the situation.

Why didn't that make him feel better?

Marcus shrugged. “It seemed impolite to toss her out, what with her mother having died and all.” He winced inwardly at how callous he sounded.

Funny, he couldn't even remember Fiona's face, though he'd had her in his keeping for two months, at least. He did recall her remarkable ability with her mouth. And she'd been most reasonable when they discussed the babe. She hadn't even argued with the sum his money manager proffered as reasonable for the child's upkeep.

He would not share any of his memories of her mother with Rose, however.

“What are you going to do with her?” Smithfield sounded only mildly curious, as though Rose were an extra chair to put away or an out-of-style waistcoat. Plus he was questioning a duke. Apparently the “not questioning dukes” precept was less widely known than Marcus presumed. He'd have to speak to whoever compiled the ducal precepts.

“I've hired a governess.” A beautiful woman. Not to mention, a woman who seemed as though she wished to challenge him. But someone who was also clearly competent to be in charge of a small child, judging by how Rose had responded to her, and how the child's face had grown more
at ease seeing her. Was hiring a governess the first unselfish thing he'd ever done, or did it just feel like that?

Plus he'd felt a tingle of something in her presence, an awareness of what it was like to be in conversation with someone who wasn't intimidated by him. Might not even like him that much, actually.

What would it take for her to like him?

More than two minutes, he'd guess.

So perhaps he wasn't entirely unselfish.

“So you plan on keeping her?” Smithfield sounded startled. Hearing it so definitively made Marcus chafe at the permanence, and he had to squelch the urge to deny keeping her at all.

But the look on her face. He couldn't do that to her just yet, not until she'd gotten a bit more settled. Then he could decide.

“Is there anything I can do to assist?” Smithfield now sounded genuinely concerned. He'd even lowered himself back down so he was seated on four respectable chair legs rather than a shocking two. “My sisters are both married, they live in town, and both have offspring, I believe. If you need any advice or anything, I can ask them.”

Perhaps he had made a good choice in a new best friend.

Although it wouldn't do to get all confiding in the man, given how they'd only recently met. But still. It touched him.

“Thank you, I will bear that in mind. For now, I just want her to get accustomed to being here. Her mother has just passed, I understand, and
everything she's known is gone.” She was like him, only his parents hadn't actually been dead. They had just paid so little attention to him that he felt as though he didn't have parents.

“Of course.” There was a moment of silence, and then Smithfield spoke again. “You didn't happen to see my snuffbox, did you? That is why I originally stopped by, not just to question you about your plans in regard to your newly arrived urchin.”

“Of course. Come with me to the ballroom.”

Marcus flung the door open so he and Smithfield could enter. Unfortunately for Smithfield's property, the room was still in the postparty deshabille they had left it in. The servants hadn't yet been in to clean, what with Rose's arrival and his subsequent need to interview the governess.

It was, once he really looked at it, almost appalling. There were brandy bottles, half-eaten plates, and other indications of their time together. He focused his eyes on the larger table, the one with cat prints studding its white tablecloth.

“I'm certain my staff will locate it once they've had a chance to straighten up. Meanwhile,” he said, almost before thinking, “since you mentioned it, would you and your sisters and their husbands like to come for dinner one night this week? I would be glad to have a mother's opinion on my charge and her governess. It would obviously be a small party, given the circumstances.”

“That would be nice, thank you.” Smithfield's expression turned rueful. “I apologize in advance if my sisters are dumbstruck by your presence—
they've never been within spitting distance of a duke, much less dined with one.”

He hoped it wouldn't come to spitting. “Wednesday, then? Eight o'clock? Hopefully we'll have located your snuffbox by then.”

“Yes, thank you.” Smithfield unfolded his rangy body from the chair and stood, holding his hand out to shake Marcus's hand. “I admire what you are doing with regard to the child. It isn't every man in your position who'd take on that responsibility.” He sounded genuinely impressed.

“Mmph, yes,” Marcus agreed, feeling uncomfortable. When was the last time he'd been praised for something other than his ability to hold his liquor or play a hand of cards?

Never
sprung to mind.

Did he really wish to change that?