A Duke in Shining Armor by Loretta Chase
“Well, if I must spend most of my time in bed—”
“A bed is not strictly required,” he said.
“If I am to spend most of my time engaging in conjugal relations, it’s good to know you have a lively imagination. Fantasies.”
He grinned. “I do, my dear. Shocking ones. I imagine you as my hostess—”
“Your hostess?”
“I see you giving London’s grandest balls and its most tantalizing dinner parties,” he said. “I imagine driving you through the park and riding with you. I can picture the dashing ensembles you’ll wear as a leader of fashion.”
“I’m shocked, indeed.”
“A bachelor duke is one thing,” he said. “A married duke, however, has social obligations. And I do like to entertain, as you’re well aware. But henceforth, my soirees will be the talk of the town for entirely different reasons. Imagine the jaws dropping when the beau monde reads in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle of our entertaining the King and Queen.”
“I can see the gentlemen in the clubs, falling out of their chairs in shock,” she said. “Frankly, I should have fallen out of bed if you weren’t in the way.”
She leaned over and drew her fingers through his hair.
Her touch, her touch.
Her voice.
The feel of her skin and the warm curves of her body and the way she smiled and frowned and laughed. The way she looked at him, as though he were the whole world. Why had he waited for so long? Why had he been so stupid and blind?
“And shall we dance together, at last?” she said softly.
“We shall dance,” he said.
He thought of all the promises he might break, so unwillingly, depending on what tomorrow brought. He added, “In fact, let’s start now.”
“We’ll pretend to dance, you mean,” she said.
“No.” He sat up and kissed the top of her head. And her nose.
Then he climbed down from the bed. He found her nightdress and crooked his finger at her.
“It would be naughtier to dance au naturel,” he said. “But that would be asking too much of my paltry self-denial skills.”
She slid down from the bed and he tossed the nightgown over her head. Laughing, she pushed her arms through the sleeves and tied the ribbon.
He pulled on his dressing gown and tied the sash.
“You stand by the fireplace,” he said. “Pretend to be talking to your precious Mends, and be as pedantic as you can.”
“I need my spectacles,” she said. She snatched them up from the bedside table, put them on, and walked to the fireplace in the same way she might walk across a room at a ball. That beckoning hint of impatience. The Queen of Sheba must have walked like that. And Cleopatra.
She made her face very grave and began talking to one of the mantel ornaments. It was a porcelain gentleman wearing the dress of Ripley’s grandfather’s time, who sat at a desk, writing a letter. “I believe you are mistaken, Lord Mends. It’s my understanding that the Antonio di Siena Monte Santo di Dio, with the three rare engravings by Baldini, from designs by Sandro Botticelli, is judged the earliest Book with Copperplates.”
Ripley strode across the room to her. His right ankle gave a twinge, but he refused to let himself limp.
“Lady Olympia,” he said, “I’ve come to claim my dance.”
She looked up at him with a little frown of annoyance. “I don’t recollect your asking, duke, nor my consenting.”
“I didn’t ask. This is the dance I want. And I am a duke, recollect.”
From under lowered eyelids she regarded him up and down and up again, and he was aware of his temperature climbing. That look. Those eyes.
“So you are,” she said. She sighed and turned to the porcelain gentleman. “I beg your pardon, Lord Mends, but as you see, he’s a duke, and you know how they are.”
Ripley took her hand and led her out to the center of the room. He bowed. She curtsied. He began to hum a waltz from Rossini’s La Gazza Ladra, and swept her into his arms, and they danced.
His bad ankle protested from time to time, but half-heartedly. Nothing more than a small ache.
He ignored it, and they danced as easily and naturally together as they’d made love. As easily as they’d run away together.
He wished he’d danced with her before.
So many lost opportunities.
But they danced now, barefoot, whirling round her bedchamber while he hummed the music, and now and again sang a remembered Italian phrase here and there—probably the wrong phrase in the wrong place, but no matter. They danced from one end of the large room to the other. They danced into the dressing room and out again, Olympia giggling. They danced into the boudoir and round it, and out again into the bedroom. He didn’t want it to end, but the night was short, too short, in summer, and he hadn’t much time left.
At last he brought it to an end. He promenaded with her round the room, as though it were a ballroom, but instead of bringing her back to the gentleman on the mantelpiece, Ripley led her to the bed.
He bowed.
She curtsied.
They laughed, rather breathlessly.
He cupped her face. “I love you madly,” he said.
“I love you madly,” she said.
His heart beat hard again, and not from the waltzing. He thought it would burst from his chest. He thought he might weep. But he couldn’t indulge. She wasn’t to suspect and he wouldn’t be maudlin. He had a dragon to slay, that was all. It was no reason to spoil this night for her, their first night as a married couple.
He said, “Good. Now that’s settled . . .”
He quickly untied the sash of his dressing gown, shrugged it off, and threw it aside. She untied the ribbon of her nightdress and pulled it over her head.
He picked her up and lifted her onto the bed.
He made love to her again, as sweetly and tenderly as he knew how.
This time they slept afterward.
But the knowledge of what the coming day held never left him. It ticked steadily inside, like a clock, and he was awake when the sky began to lighten. She was still sound asleep, and scarcely stirred when he gently drew away from her.
Her breathing continued steady as he slipped out of the bed and found his dressing gown. He took out from a pocket the note he’d written and left it on the bedside table. Noiselessly he made his way through the passage joining their apartments and into his own rooms.
His valet, Snow, one of the handful of people aware of the morning’s appointment, brought him coffee and a biscuit.
Ripley drank the coffee and ate the biscuit. He wanted neither. But he’d done this before. One needed coffee and something light to eat. One had to be awake, alert, and above all, not shaky with hunger or fatigue.
He dressed in black. The wise duelist always wore dark colors, to make himself a more difficult target, especially on a typically overcast London morning.
At the appointed time, he went out of the house with Snow. They walked out into South Audley Street and on into Stanhope Street, thence into Park Lane where a post chaise waited. Pershore was inside. Leaving Snow to follow in another vehicle, Ripley climbed in.
The post chaise set out for Putney Heath.
Olympia was dancing at Almack’s.
In the gallery, Weippert’s band played a waltz from Rossini’s La Gazza Ladra. She danced, in her nightdress, with Ripley. He was dressed like a Turkish pasha, mustachioed and wearing a jeweled and plumed turban, puffy trousers, and slippers that curled at the toes. They were the only ones dancing. Everybody else watched and pointed, laughing. Then somebody shouted, “Stop them! Stop them! They’re getting away!”
The scene changed, and she and Ripley were running across Battersea Bridge, chased by an immense dog whose long fangs dripped foam. They vaulted into a hackney coach, slamming the door. The dog flung himself against it, barking furiously. Inside they found Ashmont, who held a pistol. While Olympia watched, unable to speak or move, he raised the weapon and
Olympia awoke, her heart pounding as though she truly had been running from demons and found herself trapped with a murderous former fiancé.
For a moment she couldn’t shake off the dream, and didn’t know where she was. Then, she realized the room wasn’t dark but filled with the pearly light of early morning. Her gaze took in the costly bed hangings, and she remembered.
She closed her eyes. Last night. Ripley, so passionate and so tender. It was like a dream, like the fantasies of her girlhood. He’d made her feel like a princess in a story. He’d made her wedding night perfect, as he’d promised. He . . .
. . . wasn’t here.
She sat up, chilled. She could see he wasn’t there, but she put her hand out to touch the pillow where his head had rested. The pillow was cold.
Yes, of course married couples had separate bedrooms. They shared a bed only for lovemaking. Of course. But did they separate on their wedding night?
He’d been so affectionate.
I love you madly.
She hadn’t dreamt that.
She hadn’t dreamt the barefoot dancing, or Ripley humming a waltz as he whirled her through her rooms. She hadn’t dreamt the lovemaking. Her body ached in places where it wasn’t used to aching. She hadn’t dreamt falling asleep in his arms.
All that was real. This was, too. Good grief, what a ninny she was! For all she knew, he’d only gone out to use the water closet. And if he’d gone to his rooms, maybe he’d only wanted to let her sleep undisturbed . . . which was perfectly normal and reasonable and even thoughtful. If not for the bad dream, she’d still be sleeping.
Set back from the busy streets on all sides, and with its extensive garden, the main part of Ripley House received more sunlight than many London town houses did. Though the sun rose at four o’clock at this time of year, and though it didn’t shine very brightly this morning, the angle of light and the quietness of the household told her she’d awakened hours earlier than she usually did. Her wedding night had extended long past midnight, she was sure.
If she didn’t want to look haggard, she ought to go back to sleep.
She remained as she was, sitting upright, staring at the mantelpiece, where the porcelain gentleman she’d pretended was Lord Mends sat at his little writing desk.
She told herself nothing was wrong.
Something was wrong.
She pushed to the edge of the bed and was about to climb down when she saw the folded piece of heavy paper on the bedside table.
My dearest girl,
By the time you read this, matters will be settled, for good or ill. You’ll be furious, I know, and call me a hundred synonyms for idiot. Believe me, could I behave in a more intelligent manner, I would. But my brain, you know. “Like his, more or less, though less defies the imagination.” You said that to me on Tuesday. Do you remember? I remember so clearly. I hear you saying it, your changeable eyes slightly unfocused, due to brandy, and I find myself grinning like a simpleton.
Had it been possible to avoid this morning’s imbecility, I vow I would have done it. However, I could not offer my friend the satisfaction he required. I regret betraying his trust. I regret the mortification he’s endured. For these I could apologize. But I don’t regret falling over head and ears in love with you. For all I know, I did this years ago, but was too stupid to realize it. At any rate, I know it now, and I refuse to apologize for failing to return you to him. When I think how close I came to doing so, and let myself imagine you as his wife instead of mine—but no. Let’s not imagine it. You’re mine, and I saved myself by the skin of my teeth.
Losing a friendship is certainly not too high a price to pay, when I would willingly lose my life for you. Not that I intend to, mind! But if things go badly for me, you must always remember that I regret nothing but any pain this day’s events may cause you. You must always believe that I would not give back a single minute of the last four days, for any consideration. You must always believe I love you, dearly, dearly.
Believe me, dear Olympia, my dear duchess,
Your adoring idiot,
Ripley
“You idiot!” Olympia cried.
She climbed down from the bed and rang for a servant. When nobody appeared instantly, she ran across the room, flung open the door, and shouted at the footman dozing in the corridor, “When did he leave?”
The footman Joseph stumbled up from his chair, blinking. “I beg Your Grace’s pardon?”
“The duke,” she said. “When did he leave?”
Joseph’s eyes darted back and forth, as though he expected to see Ripley pop out from under one of the corridor’s pier tables. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“Find out,” she said. “And have somebody rouse my maid and Wrenson. Now.” Wrenson was the house steward. It was his business to know everything about everybody at every minute.
Joseph looked panicked.
“Now,” she said. “Wrenson will know if anybody does. But if he doesn’t, or pretends not to know, you must make the porter tell you. And tell him I want a hackney cab—not a coach—waiting at the door in ten minutes. I don’t care if you wake all the household. We’ve not a moment to lose.”
She’d adopted the tone of voice she’d learned would quell males of all ages and ranks. The footman took off at a run.
She hurried back into her room and into the dressing room. She flung open wardrobe drawers and yanked out articles at random. “Jenkins!” she called. “Where the devil are you? How am I to find anything? Jenkins! For heaven’s sake, make haste!”
She was pulling dresses out of the drawers, and throwing them on the floor with their wrappings, when Jenkins hurried in, still tying her dressing gown, nightcap askew.
The maid’s eyes widened as she took in the destruction her mistress had wrought.
“I need something I can put on quickly,” Olympia said. “No bright colors.” If she wore bright colors they’d see her coming from afar, and she might be a fatal distraction. “Ten minutes, no more—and even then I might be too late.”
“Your Grace?”
“I’ll explain later. We haven’t time now.” Olympia looked out of the dressing room’s window. “We have a prayer of getting there before it’s too late. They wouldn’t start before six o’clock in summer. What time is it, Jenkins?”
“Close to half-past four, Your Grace.”
“Time enough,” Olympia said. “But I must be dressed in ten minutes—and that hackney had better be at the door.”
“Your Grace, you know it is impossible—”
“Make it possible, Jenkins. This is a matter of life and death. I’ll go in my chemise, if you can’t dress me quickly enough.”
The prospect of Her Grace of Ripley appearing in public in her chemise electrified Jenkins into doing the impossible.
It took a quarter hour, but Olympia had reckoned on twenty minutes at the very minimum for both the hackney and her attire. Jenkins had managed to dress both her mistress and herself in what amounted to no time because she insisted on joining Olympia, and Olympia said she wouldn’t wait for her.
And so the Duchess of Ripley and her lady’s maid left the house in good time—or as good as was humanly possible—perhaps not more than half an hour behind her husband, according to the porter.
The seconds would have to mark out and measure the ground, Olympia explained to Jenkins as the hackney made its way through the London streets. This could take time, because each second would want to place his man in the best position. A last-minute attempt to reconcile the combatants was possible, certainly. Though the meeting was likely appointed for six—the usual time in summer—it might be as late as seven. Either way, the actual fighting couldn’t start until all the formalities had been gone through and everything had been checked and agreed upon.
Olympia kept her mind on the technicalities of the duel, so as not to dwell
Fortunately for her nerves, her hackney made good progress. Since Ripley House stood not far from Park Lane, they traveled the wider streets of the metropolis. The market wagons were making their way into London, but Olympia’s hackney reached Hyde Park Corner without hindrance. Before long it was rolling upon the Fulham Road, headed for Putney Heath.
On the way to the place of meeting, Pershore offered Ripley a bottle of soda water dosed with a small amount of brandy.
Ripley took it with a laugh. “Ah, the bracing-up.”
“You may not need it,” said Pershore. “I do.”
“Whether needed or not, it’s an agreeable stimulant at this hour.” Ripley drank. “I should have liked another hour or more of sleep.” With his wife in his arms. But at least he’d had his wedding and his wedding night. And such a wedding night it had been!
“A duel on the day after your wedding,” Pershore said. “That was ill done of Ashmont.”
“He deems it ill done of me to have married his bride.”
“If he’d waited longer, his temper would have cooled.”
“Then what?” Ripley said. “He’s the talk of London, which is nothing new, except that this time he’s wounded in a man’s tenderest part, his pride. He needs the meeting—and I confess I do, too. We’ve no other way to put the matter to rest.” They had to fight. Otherwise there would always be bad blood between them. No other remedy but for one or both of them to put a bullet in the other.
Barbaric, Olympia would call it. But men were barbaric.
If the seconds had found a way to reconcile them, Ripley would have been amazed as well as glad. The task, as he’d supposed, had turned out to be impossible. Since they hadn’t succeeded in making peace, he needed to focus on fighting and winning.
He couldn’t go into this halfheartedly. Ashmont wouldn’t.