In Bed with the Duke

The plump woman uttered a piercing shriek when she saw them, and clapped her hand to her ample bosom.

Mr Bodkin started to his feet, took half a pace in their direction, then halted, saying, ‘Mr Willingale...?’

The bracket-faced lady froze, a sandwich halfway to her mouth.

‘Mr Willingale!’ said the plainly dressed young man again, this time with more certainty. ‘It is you. Thank heaven. I was that worrit when I got here and you hadn’t arrived. I was sure summat bad must have happened to you.’

‘I told you there was no need to worry,’ said Hugo, sauntering into the room and closing the door firmly behind him. ‘I told you we weren’t expecting Halstead until the end of the week.’

‘Halstead?’ Mr Bodkin frowned. ‘Who’s Halstead?’

‘I am,’ said Gregory.

‘But you told me you was Mr Willingale,’ said Mr Bodkin, looking as bewildered as Prudence felt.

‘Well, he ain’t,’ said Hugo firmly. ‘He’s Halstead. Duke of.’

So she wasn’t the only person he’d lied to about his identity. It should have been of some consolation. Why wasn’t it?

The youth in homespun glowered at Hugo. ‘Beggin’ Yer Lordship’s pardon, but I know what he said.’

Hugo was a lordship? Well, naturally! If Gregory was a duke all his relatives were bound to be lords and ladies, too.

‘Never mind that for now,’ said Gregory firmly, as the two younger men squared up to each other. ‘Miss Carstairs is in dire need of tea and a seat by the fire. Miss Carstairs,’ he said, addressing the plump lady on the sofa, ‘is my fiancée, Lady Mixby.’

The lady in lavender uttered another little shriek, though this time she clapped both hands together instead of clasping her chest as though she’d suffered a severe shock.

‘Oh, how wonderful! You are going to marry again. At last! Come here, dear,’ she said to Prudence. ‘And tell me all about yourself.’

Gregory held up his hand repressively. ‘You are not to pelter her with questions. None of you. Miss Carstairs has been through a terrible ordeal.’

And it wasn’t over yet. This had all the hallmarks of being a continuation of the nightmare that had started when she’d woken stark naked in bed with a stranger. Since then nothing and nobody had been what they seemed.

‘Oh, my dear, how selfish of me,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘You do look somewhat...distrait,’ she said, kindly choosing the most tactful way to describe her dirty, dishevelled appearance. ‘Come and sit here on the sofa,’ she said patting the cushion beside her. ‘Benderby!’ She waved at the bracket-faced lady. ‘Ring for more hot water and cake.’

Benderby put down her sandwich, went to the bell-pull and tugged on it. Prudence collapsed onto the sofa opposite the one occupied by Lady Mixby. Gregory sat down beside her. And took her hand.

What with being in a room full of titled people—not to mention Mr Bodkin—all of whom were already shocked by her appearance, she didn’t have the nerve to create a scene by tugging it free. The only way to express her confusion and resentment was to let it lie limp and unresponsive in his.

Bodkin stomped across the room until he was standing right in front of the sofa, glaring down at them. ‘Why does he keep saying you’re a duke?’

‘Because,’ said Gregory calmly, ‘that is what I am. The Duke of Halstead.’

‘You’re not!’

‘I am afraid,’ he said, apologising for his rank for the second time that day, ‘that I am.’ He gave her hand a slight squeeze, as though including her in the apology.

She didn’t return the pressure.

‘I am the Duke of Halstead,’ said Gregory. ‘The owner of Wragley’s. To whom you wrote.’

‘But you can’t be! I mean we—’ Bodkin clenched his fists, which were grazed about the knuckles, just like Gregory’s. As if he’d thought the same thing as her, he glanced down at them.

‘Yes, I do recall the incident,’ said Gregory. ‘Though why you think that precludes me from being the Duke of Halstead, I fail to comprehend.’ He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.

‘Well, because dukes don’t go visiting mills and getting into fist fights with the foreman, that’s why.’

‘Is that so?’

Gregory drawled the words, looking down his nose at the poor man. Even though Bodkin was standing over them. But then he’d managed to look down his nose at her when she’d been kneeling over him in the lane, hadn’t he? And now she knew how he’d managed it. He’d clearly spent his entire life looking down from a lofty height on the rest of the human race.