Chapter 2
Nightly Visit
Truth be told, the word plan was vastly exaggerated when Prim uttered it.
In reality, it was mostly a risky endeavor with minimal chances of success, stitched together by despair and sheer stubbornness.
The situation called for measures that polite society would faint dramatically over, but Prim was not ready to cower.
She refused to sit idly in her drawing room, leaving the initiative to a man who chased scandals the way Camilla chased lemon cakes, praying that the heavens graced him with a rare moment of decency.
If the Duke refused to call upon her during modest hours, she had no qualms to call upon him during decidedly unholy ones.
Granted, Prim had never tried to sneak out of her house in the middle of the night, but she was adept enough to form a secure protocol of action that would not land her name in the gossip sheets for two consecutive days.
Sneaking out of the house was one thing.
Securing a hack was also arranged for. So, this is how Prim found herself leaving London behind for the outskirts.
On the way there, Prim almost tore her handkerchief from how she was wrangling it.
But not once did she think of ordering the man to take her back.
“We are here, miss,” the voice of the driver made her jump up.
Prim looked at the Mildenhall estate. One look at the building, and Prim reevaluated her intentions and even slipped for a moment, weighing if loving her sisters meant so much as to venture forth.
The building rose out of the night like some golden colossus, its facade stretched endlessly, adorned with more windows than were strictly necessary for a single man.
The towers, because of course there were towers, stood like giant sentinels upon the land.
Even the shrubs were manicured to perfection, so much so that Prim felt judged.
This was the house of a man who had never once in his life needed to explain himself to anyone. And she was about to do exactly that.
“Wait for me,” she told the driver. “This won’t take long.”
Prim got out and finally let the poor handkerchief rest in her reticule and made her way to the imposing entrance. She was ready to knock when the door flew open. Prim took one step back to avoid being barreled down by a woman fleeing the building as if it were on fire.
Prim took one look at the woman, her face half-hidden by her hood. Even so, her trembling lips and rolling tears could not be hidden. The woman didn’t even look at Prim as she stormed away in a carriage that awaited her.
Prim stood there, stunned, looking at the carriage as it left the estate in the middle of the night like some medieval ghost story.
She didn’t need any explanation to know that this was one of the Duke’s many admirers who faced with the brutal consequences of dealing with a man like the Duke of Mildenhall.
But who was she to judge? She was here, in the same place, knowing pretty well what she was getting herself into. Minus the emotional entanglement.
“Miss?”
Prim jumped up. She turned and saw a butler with quite a nonchalant expression on his face. As if it were perfectly ordinary to usher out one crying woman, only to find a fresh one queued up on the steps.
“This way, Miss,” he said politely and guided her through the entrance.
Prim’s jaw tightened once more. This day has really tested the endurance of her teeth, seeing that she clenched them more often than not.
That rakish brute. What kind of a man is he, living in total sin, women coming and going freely as if this is some kind of immoral turnstile?
The house was the epitome of elegant opulence with marble floors, golden scones, and adorned pillars, a fact that somehow managed to anger her even more.
She painted the picture of a man who probably read the gossip sheet over breakfast and laughed, while indulging himself on some rare delicacy. And then forgot totally about it.
For a man like him, this would be nothing more than a trifle, while her reputation laid in ruins and her sisters’ debut hang by a thread. No wonder he didn’t call upon her.
“This is his Grace’s study,” the butler announced and pointed and the half-opened door.
And then bowed and left. Without even a flicker of concern for an unchaperoned young lady in the dead of night at the threshold of a gentleman’s private rooms. Prim stared at the butler’s retreating back, her mouth parting in incredulity.
Was it expected of her to simply march inside?
Alone? Unannounced? Was propriety optional in Mildenhall on Tuesdays?
Well, fine! She pushed to door open and stepped inside. She didn’t have to look for the Duke. He dominated the room with his presence and sheer size. Prim had one single moment to take in the man whom the sheets claimed called her “my rose”.
He was standing at the massive fireplace, one hand on the mantle, the other holding a letter between long, delicate fingers.
He was wearing his shirt, breeches, and boots.
Said shirt was rolled up, allowing two strong, veiny arms to show, catching the fire with carved precision.
No cravat meant a scandalously revealed collarbone that finally let her jaw loosen a little.
His hair was mussed, as if his fingers had travelled through it many times.
She had no other chance to take in anything more because her presence was noticed, and the Duke turned and looked at her. Yes, most definitely, dentistry would be added to Prim’s long list of problems.
She bit down hard when her brown eyes collided with his deep blue ones. She would of course vehemently deny it if asked directly, but she has never seen that shade of blue anywhere in nature.
“Good evening,” he said, throwing the letter in the fire. “May I help you?”
His eyes swept over her, quick, effective, assessing, as if she were a new puzzle to be solved.
“You never came,” she said coldly.
“This accusation might require further information so blame can be allocated.”
“You didn’t call upon me today.”
The Duke turned to her fully, and Prim thanked herself that they were confined in a rather civilized setting. Out in the open, she would have run for her life.
“I am terribly sorry, but I wasn’t aware I had tied myself in such an obligation. It would have made things easier if I knew who you were.”
Fury rose in her. She was right, of course. That man didn’t even know or care who she was. To him, she might as well have been some love-stricken admirer who threw caution to the wind just to look upon his collarbones.
“I am Primrose Jenkins,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
The Duke frowned for a moment, then raised his chin in realization. He had read the sheet. He knew. And yet…
“Miss P.J.,” he confirmed.
“Propriety and good manners dictated that you were to call upon me today. But it seems that the Duke of Mildenhall and his estate lack both.”
Her tone was sharp enough to draw blood, yet the only thing it drew was a faint smirk from him.
His look remained amused in that infuriating way that tempted her to slap him.
But Prim saw it. His blue eyes went a dark shade of midnight and hooded.
A predator was prowling in this study, and there was no other prey but her.
Prim realized the jeopardy she was in. This was not like the other lords of the ton, the soft-spoken, well-mannered men that were taught to either disregard, respect, or fear women. This man feared nothing.
Her feet moved on pure instinct and took a step back purely on survival instinct. Her gut screamed at her to run. Her mind had more resilience.
“So, Miss P.J.,” he said lightly, though the air was tightening around them, “did propriety and good manners guide you alone into my study in the middle of the night?”
“No,” she shot back, “but necessity did.”
He detached himself from the fireplace with an unhurried grace and stepped toward her. An intimidation tactic, Prim clung to dignity. Her heart, unforgivably, did not.
“Do you find yourself often in gentlemen’s studies out of… necessity?”
“I am not proficient in how to handle a scandal,” she said tightly. “Perhaps your extensive expertise could offer the right course of action.”
A chuckle. An infernal sound crafted to throw simpering women at his feet. Not Prim. She looked at him, obviously conveying the message that she finds nothing in the situation amusing.
“You have been in my home for,” he checked the clock on the fireplace, “five minutes, and you have insulted me twice. Surely one for the books.”
“I will try to do better next time,” she quipped. “Now, regarding the problem at hand-”
“Do you plan on being a frequent insulter, then?”
“Depends. Do you plan on being this insufferable?”
He tilted his head in interest. Which, for a man like him, was very akin to an open threat to one’s sanity. Still, Prim mirrored his gesture, and they stayed locked, measuring each other.
“Thrice in the span of ten minutes,” the Duke commented.
“I commend Your Grace’s ability to count while keeping track of time. Must be copious. We need to-”
“That was the fourth time. Sarcasm counts, am I correct?”
Prim took a deep breath and looked away for a few seconds like one does while trying to exercise patience with a toddler. Her look when she focused on the Duke again was the one she had when ready to chastise said toddler.
“I don’t appreciate being rudely interrupted, Your Grace.”
“Miss P.J.,” he said, his deep voice dripping peril, “I think that we are past formalities, wouldn’t you think? You invade my study, you insult me, and I interrupt you.”
“On the contrary, Your Grace. Given our situation, I think formalities are a necessary civility.”
“As you wish, Miss Jenkins,” he bowed his head, his eyes still in hers.
“If entertaining you has concluded, can we talk about the problem at hand? A discussion that we could have had over tea, in broad daylight, in civil hours in my drawing room, by the way.”