Chapter 2
“This must be the room…” Peter’s bedchambers, yet he was not here.
Maria had never been inside a gentleman’s bedchamber before. This would be the first time, and a bold venture. Even though she herself did not quite understand the consequences of such an action.
She stood very still and listened to the house. In the corridor beyond the door, a footman’s shoes went past, then faded. Maria pressed both palms to her skirts to stop them from fidgeting.
Five days. She had done her best for five days: walking the rooms with Violet, sitting where she was put, smiling until her cheeks ached.
She had tried to talk to men. Her throat had closed each time.
She had managed to ask one gentleman whether he liked books and then, when he asked which, said “the… rectangular kind” and wanted to die on the spot.
Another had merely turned his body toward her, and she had backed into a potted palm.
There were only so many ways to fail before one chose a different way.
She had not understood the mechanics of scandal, not really. People whispered as if it were a recipe: one bedchamber, one shriek, one forced wedding. But she was only still trying to wrap her head around all of it.
She told herself again that she would be the only one to pay. If she was ruined, then very well: she had been a burden long enough. A husband would solve it. She could not stay forever in Nicholas and Violet’s house, feeling like an extra chair nobody sat in.
He is kind, she reminded herself fiercely. Mr. Morton is kind. If the trap sprang, he would not let her bleed.
But the guilt returned to her anyway. A door somewhere closed. Her pulse found her throat. Maria crossed the carpet and tucked herself behind the painted screen, where the cranes looked disapproving.
The handle turned, and then the door opened. She watched through a thin seam of light, hiding herself behind one of the panels.
A gentleman entered the room. She squinted her eyes to make sure.
That did not look like Peter. This gentleman was taller and had a more rugged appearance in comparison to Peter’s more delicate, boyish features.
Something caught in her throat. Had she entered the wrong room?
She watched as he shrugged out of his coat. Broad shoulders, impatient. His hair looked as if fingers had already been through it. His jaw was roughened by a thin shadow of a beard. She clapped a hand over her eyes.
The move helped nothing. She could still hear him. And as she tried to place the face to a name, she knew who this was.
The infamous Duke of Verwood. Stephen was his name, if she was not remembering incorrectly.
Maria’s heart lurched up and slammed hard against her chest. He is not Mr. Morton.
Somewhere she had made a great miscalculation, and now the only thing to do was make her as small as possible so that she might go unnoticed. Otherwise, trouble loomed above her.
“Come out,” the man said lazily, without turning. He was speaking as though he knew she was there all along. “If you mean to rob me, you will be disappointed. If you mean to stab me, I advise haste. I am very quick.”
Maria bit the inside of her cheek. Perhaps if she kept very still, he would decide the house creaked and she was a dream.
Or a ghost, even. Yes, that would be very much suited to her.
The duke turned then. His blue eyes swept the room and landed on the screen. His mouth did a dangerous, amused thing.
“I can see your shadow on the wall behind you,” he muttered. “Now if I were you, I would suggest a better hiding place the next time around.”
He came toward the screen, unhurried, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rucked high over strong forearms. When he rounded the panel, she was stupidly there. She looked at his throat first, by accident, and her face went hot. She dragged her gaze up to his face.
“Your Grace,” she said faintly.
“Good evening,” he returned. He examined her as one might examine a puzzle. “I generally keep my women in other places.”
“I am not… I did not….” Words fled in all directions. “Th-this is not…”
“I am not sure if we have made our introductions?” he said, smirking.
A hot flush covered her face, and she stood up.
“Miss... Havenford,” she introduced herself, wanting the ground next to her to open up and swallow her whole.
What was he doing here? He was not supposed to be here.
“Stephen,” he said in return, eyes never leaving her, “Though some refer to me with the title of a Duke, however, my name on its own sits just as well with me.”
Immediately, Maria was taken by the confidence with which he carried himself. Charming was the word that came to her mind, and she found herself biting on her lip.
“Now would you tell me what you’re doing squatting over in my chambers?” the smirk returned on both his face and his voice. “I have to say, not a place one would expect a young lady like yourself to be in. If anything, the bed would be much more comfortable.”
“Good God,” she whispered, mortified.
“Quite,” he said.
“I thought…” She swallowed. “This is Mr. Morton’s room.”
Something like delight touched the duke’s expression, quick and sharp.
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she said, and then began to second-guess herself. “Yes?”
“It was,” he corrected, gently. “My cousin and I exchanged rooms after supper. His window takes the wind. I dislike being kept awake by draughts.”
Cousin. Of course.
But how on earth was she meant to know that before?
She had chosen a kind man because kindness might force itself to the altar for her. Instead, she had found the kind man’s cousin, London’s most notorious rake, smirking back at her.
“You meant to be found,” he said softly. “Is that correct?”
“I did not… I mean, I hoped… I thought only…” Panic battered her ribs.
He exploded into laughter, wiping the sides of his eyes. “Oh, my my.”
“No one will be hurt. Only me. That is…th-that was the idea,” Maria was rambling now.
“That is a novel interpretation of scandal.”
“I don’t…” Her breath hitched. “I don’t know your rules.”
In truth, she hardly had any real understanding of what the word scandal even denoted. For all she knew, it was a way to secure a match. And Violet had said that the ton talks about everyone anyway, so it should not come at that much of a personal cost.
But what she did know was that rakes were notorious for not holding up their end of the promise, assuming that there ever is a promise to begin with. She had not meant to meet one. It was Peter whom she was after. The kind one, the one who would offer her his hand in marriage.
“My rules.” He repeated the phrase, smiling. “I suppose I have them.”
He set the candle on the mantel and leaned a shoulder against the bedpost.
“Why me?” he asked. “Curious, of course. You seem like an awfully good type of lady, and I would like to know what drew you to me.”
“I already told you….I thought you were Mr. Morton.”
“Ah.” He considered. “So you preferred him.”
She was not sure if she was imagining things, but he almost sounded a bit offended by the prospect.
“He is kind,” she blurted, then winced.
The duke did not. He looked amused. “He is. But he would likely sleep through the event of you ever sneaking into his chambers. You could knock over a vase, and he would not be any wiser of your presence.”
“I cannot be caught with you,” she said desperately, forcing herself to look only at his face. “You would— you would never— You are a rake.”
“How industrious the house has been on my behalf.” He pushed away from the bedpost and came nearer. "Your education is insufficient, Miss Havenford. Rakes may be many things; some of us are particular about what we ruin.”
Her back found the screen. “I should go.”
“You should.” He did not move aside. “But not because I wish to keep you. Because every step you take toward the door increases the chance someone sees you leave.”
Her breath stuttered. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t,” he said, not unkind. “You came to throw yourself on the right man’s mercy and landed on mine. The trouble is, I have very little mercy and a very great deal of pride.”
Her chin rose. “I did n-not come to throw myself anywhere.”
“No?” His gaze dipped. “You are in a gentleman’s bedchamber at midnight. You were hiding behind a screen and praying for providence to trip a latch.”
She flinched. He had made the inside of her public. It felt unfair.
“Why,” he asked, softer, “would you do this?”
“Please don’t ask me that.”
Something in his face changed.
“Very well. Let us keep to the practical. Since you detest the idea of being caught with me, we must ensure we are not.”
Her mouth parted.
“We?”
“I have no wish to marry, Miss Havenford,” he said. “Certainly not by force. And yet I am the one standing half undressed while you tremble at my sleeves. We must be grateful to Fate for her sense of humor, and then we must outpace her.”
“I thought…” She swallowed. “I thought only the woman is…affected.”
He laughed once in disbelief.
“Did you. Who taught you that?”
“No one,” she said, and had the dreadful sense that he heard the truth in it: the nun who had never been taught. How was she to know society’s ways when she had been far from it for too long?
“You act rather innocent for someone who is bold enough to pull off such a trick,” he said, amused again.
“But I am,” she argued, though it felt silly. But in her head, this was not meant to be nefarious. She really did have the right intentions, even though her methods of execution were far from perfect. As she was just discovering.
Would it have just been easier to play the long game and wait for Peter to ask for my hand instead?
“Is that what you believe?” he challenged. “Then perhaps the two of us have that in common.”
“I cannot imagine having anything in common with you,” the words came out before she could stop herself. She thought he would get angry, but instead, his amusement only deepened.
“Well, we both seem to think of ourselves differently than how others view us,” he replied. “Because from where I am standing, what you are attempting here seems to me the furthest thing from innocent.”
“And what is it that you think differently about yourself than the others?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her chest.
“They call me a rake,” he repeated. “As you have so delightfully referred to me as.”
“And you do not consider yourself one?”
She thought over what he was trying to say for a moment. Could it be possible that he was not a rake? She had, of course, only heard the rumors. This was the first time that she was actually meeting him.
“I do,” he laughed, killing the little hope that she had sprouted. “But I consider myself to be more than that.”
“And that would be?”
“Would you wish for me to articulate everything that I am to you?” he raised a brow. “I would think that it would be much more fun for you to find out on your own.”
“But I am not here to have fun,” she found herself blushing profusely.
The house party was meant to be her chance to find a match. And not only did she not do that, she instead ruined things for herself.
If Peter were to find out that she met his cousin alone at an hour like this… heavens, she was positive that he would want nothing to do with her.
“I must leave,” she picked up the frock of her gown and began to make her way towards the door.
“Already?” the duke teased. “But I was only beginning to grow used to your company.”
She turned to shoot a retort towards his direction, but before she could do so, a knock on the door startled her.
Maria jerked from the screen as the door opened. The duke’s head turned sharply. He did not reach for his coat.
Violet stepped into the room and then stopped as if she had struck glass. Her hand tightened on the knob. She took in Maria first, then the man beside her: shirt open, sleeves to his forearms.
“Maria?” Violet whispered.
They were seen.
Maria’s stomach fell away, and with it the ground. Ruined, she thought, cleanly, and shut her eyes.