The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

H is actions, Kit knew, were not one of a gentleman, yet he was supposed to be a nobleman, and that should mean something. A title to his mind should convey responsibility and respectability. So, flirting with an unmarried guest in his own home was hardly the image he wanted to cultivate. Then again, a great deal of the beau monde certainly did not act in an honourable manner. Yet when he gazed down at Elsie, he wanted to charm her, wanted her to feel the strength of his regard.

The problem was he was not sure what this regard entailed. Oh, he wanted her. He doubted he was alone in that; men would have wanted her before. Miss Elsie Keating was an adorable little package, from her curling chestnut curls, to the recently discovered dimple on her right cheek close to her mouth, or the changing shades of her chocolate eyes—displaying elements of wit, sweetness, and intelligence in their dancing depths. So, she was pretty, that was a given, but he’d seen other pretty girls previously, bedded a handful of them too when they’d been eager and willing although the memory of that seemed to have faded entirely. The answer lay not merely in her appearance but another aspect of her character, and that unnerved Kit greatly.

Besides which, given her tentative and admittedly blurred connections to his own household—a bond he was not entirely sure he understood or knew the whole story—the best course of action was, of course, to avoid any foolishness with Miss Keating. That was easier said than done, and temptation especially under one’s own roof was a challenge that Kit had not appreciated being as hard as it was.

Turning away from the sound of Elsie’s retreating footsteps echoing up the stairs, Kit set about straightening and ordering the contents of his desk. It was better to focus on his sister, and the plan that had been concocted with Elsie—convincing Flora to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, with strangers. It would include a new gown, a cake, and presents, as well as the promise of a trip to London—it should delight most young women. The problem was that Flora was not most girls. Still avoiding the topic would do no good.

Kit followed Elsie out of his sitting room and then up the staircase, towards his sister’s room. His household, despite repeated requests for the place to be aired and dusted, still retained that musty smell, and clogged atmosphere of dead air no matter what occurred.

On the landing of the first floor, Kit proceeded down the corridor until he stood in front of Flora’s bedroom. After a tentative knock, Flora opened it, her gaze mistrusting as she let him in.

It seemed as if Flora had banned the maids from coming into her chamber, as it was disordered at best, and at worst looked close to belonging to that of a madwoman. His messy desk downstairs was neat in comparison to the splutter of papers, torn curtains, spilled coals, and disordered bedding that made Flora’s bedchamber require a few hours of tidying to make the room habitable.

Kit looked across to his sister only feet away, she too needed some care and attention, and unwilling to see her awkward shuffling a second longer, he stepped closer and enfolded her in his arms.

To his relief, Flora came forward willingly and her hands closed around his midriff, and he held her as his little sister rocked against him. With a slow movement so as not to startle her, Kit leant down and rested his chin on the top of her head. More than anything he wished he could ask her to speak, to vocalise all the things that frightened her, and to let him know what could be done to help.

But instead, since he’d asked this countless times and only ever seen Flora shake her head, he said, “It is your birthday soon.”

Flora stepped back, her expression quizzical at his presence in her room. She shared the same blue eyes as he did, but her face was slightly similar to their mother’s softer feminine build that his harsher lines. Still if she were to rest, ideally away from the manor, perhaps in London, the bloom of colour might return to Flora’s rounded cheeks, and she would resemble the girl she had once been. “I was thinking a party might be in order.”

He watched her closely judging her reaction, and to his delight, she smiled. It gave him confidence to continue.

“I thought a new dress and a few invited guests.” He saw how dubious she looked, but he sailed on. “I will only pick out a few special people, and we will have plenty of time to prepare.”

Carefully Flora stepped back, her hands twisting together, and her body was huddled, but her face was brighter than he’d seen in a while, and then to his great delight, she nodded, and said, “If you think it wise.”

It had been so long since he’d heard her voice speak so, relief poured through him. That he had not entirely failed her—she was still in there, the girl, the sister he’d known all of Flora’s life.

Which was why he spoke the next fateful words. “And once you are comfortable, we can look at going to London. Not for some grand Season or anything like that, but perhaps to see a theatrical performance or visit a museum and hear a talk. I hear there are bookshops which one can get lost in, and boats that…” His sentence broke when he saw that Flora was shaking.

She lost all semblance of excitement or interest. Her skin was as pale as a ghost. Her body vibrated where she stood, her eyes unblinking as she gazed at him, and her head shaking with a silent, blanched no.

“We cannot ever leave here.” Flora took an unsteady step forward, grasping hold of both of Kit’s hands between her own. Her hold was hard and punishing. “Promise me that.”

“You know I can’t do that, Flora. You will have to leave here eventually. We cannot stay locked away from everything forever.”

She was shaking now, her entire body tight and her jaw set.

“Neither mother nor father would want that for you.” Kit carried on, desperate to say something that would break Flora away from whatever she was so fearful of. “We both should see more, witness the wonder of what the world might offer, not just the sadness that keeps us here. Would you not like to see London—have a chance beyond this place?”

It was then that she started to scream, his insistence apparently enough to tip her over the edge. Her scream continued until there were noises nearby, the sound of people running, coming towards Flora’s bedroom, but nothing broke the sound of his sister’s screeched pain.

When the doorway was flung open, and he heard the soft step of Miss Keating and her queries as she hurried closer, it could not penetrate or cut off what Flora said, “If we leave here, we die.”

With that she backed away from him, climbing into the nearest faded armchair, curling herself into the space before she started to cry. Her wails sounded around the bedchamber.

Elsie, who had reached him, took several steps back, moving away to the doorway, and closing it firmly as Kit watched her. At her heels was Lancelot, whose dark brown hair and warm eyes seemed as distressed as his mistress’s. Elsie returned to his side, reached out and touched his arm before walking over to the armchair where Flora was huddled up weeping. Elsie crouched down on the ground beside his sister, so that the two of them would be on the same eye level.

“Lady Flora.” Elsie’s voice was calm, far more level than anything Kit would have imagined himself capable of in that moment. “I have my dog with me, he’s called Lancelot.” Elsie bent and scooped up Lancelot. “When I feel upset, I take great comfort in stroking an animal’s fur. Lancelot has the most beautiful coat. Would you like to try it too?”

The crying changed, merging away from the hysteria, and slowed down into something softer—broken by the occasional hiccup. Flora raised her tear-stained face, damp eyelashes, and a wobbling jaw as her pained eyes moved from Elsie down to the dog.

Lancelot was deposited on the seat next to Flora. The pause as the three of them gazed at each other, whilst Kit watched—more hopeless and useless than he’d imagined possible. Was not the point of being the head of the household to have the power of the role? Yet Kit felt that tiny, determined Miss Elsie held more than him and oddly enough he was happy to cede it, if it meant his sister would improve.

A tentative hand emerged, and Flora petted the top of Lancelot’s head, and then to Kit’s relief, the little dog nestled closer and started to lick Flora’s outstretched fingers. A strange noise bubbled up in Flora’s throat, which sounded like a giggle—a sound Kit could not remember hearing from his sister in what felt like a lifetime. With little respect for anything, the dog scrambled over to settle in Flora’s lap.

“Lancelot seems to like you.” Elsie was standing up. “Perhaps you need him, more than I do at the moment. I found that, even though he is a small dog, he gave me a great deal of strength.”

She turned to move away, and without realising what he was doing, Kit raised his hand, silently mouthing at her an uttered “ thank you” as his fingers clasped hold of her elbow, keeping her rooted close. Elsie nodded, her eyes settling on his face, considering him in a manner that Kit could not fully understand.

“A party?” Both of them turned at the sound of Flora’s question. It had similar scratchiness as her laugh earlier, but she was clinging to Lancelot and watching them carefully.

“That is right,” Kit said. “It felt right to mark your birthday. There could be dinner, a cake… a new dress.” He offered out these temptations, hoping against everything he had experienced so far that it would whet his sister’s interest.

“Would I be expected to dance?”

Kit looked hopeless down at Elsie. He had not considered this, but presumably that was something that was expected of a young lady of Flora’s position. Certainly prior to their parents’ deaths Flora would have learnt. Yet, would the traditions of mourning prevent such occurrences? Society’s expectations pulled at him, and Kit’s frustrations twisted through him at anything that might hinder Flora’s desires.

“Given the circumstances, it would be your choice,” Elsie said. “I am given to understand the guest list will be small, intimate—only close acquaintances, and therefore unless Flora should suggest…”

“I read about a dance,” Flora said. She had leant forward, her expression wrapped, and bright with an interest that surprised Kit for it hinted at a previous aspect of her character which had been hidden for months. A glimmer of the girl she had once been—the little sister he remembered, who liked hearing of society, who giggled over fashion illustrations and would read poetry, giggling over the contents. Their mother had called her a romantic, and his father had laughed indulgently. “I’ve heard it is a very scandalous dance, but nonetheless, it is very popular in Town. It is called the waltz.” She looked at Kit and then to Elsie expectantly. “Do you know it?”

It was not the sort of thing that Kit had given much credence to, and yet this was the most engaged he had seen Flora in months. There was a returning warmth to her wan features. Suddenly he had a great desire to learn as much as he possibly could about the waltz and regretted that he had not read anything about the latest blasted fashion. “Well Miss Keating, I assume you know something about this wondrous dance?”

He fully expected her to say no, but to his surprise a spot of colour blossomed on Elsie’s face, and she said, “I have read about it. I regret to say it was considered a little scandalous.”

Immediately Kit felt quite certain that Elsie had done a great deal more than that. Even if the dance was considered risqué, he felt fairly certain Elsie was not the type to shy away from the temptation of learning as much as she could—as one of the perpetually curious, she was the type to read of something scandalous and wish to try it. He cocked an eyebrow at her expectantly and his suspicions were rewarded when she ducked her head in acknowledgement.

“It is allowed in Almack’s,” Elsie said, she drew a step closer to Flora, who leant a little forward in rapt attention. “The music that is played is much slower than…”

“Have you seen it danced in London?” Flora asked.

Kit wanted to know too and was a little sad when Elsie shook her head. A vision of him insisting they attend the elusive club together flashed through his mind, but how could that ever occur? Despite being a duke now, Kit was not sure he would be prestigious enough to be granted entry to such an establishment.

“I did practise it though, with my sister playing the music.” Elsie cut into Kit’s train of thought, and her admittance made Flora smile. His sister was still stroking Lancelot, seeming to gain much reassurance from the little spaniel. Then to Kit’s surprise Elsie started humming what sounded like a piece of music, low and melodic, it was certainly as different as could be imagined from the high paced country dances that both Kit and Flora were familiar with. It was hard for him to imagine quite how this music would fit with a fast-moving set of dancers. Clearly Flora had a similar idea because she frowned.

“Do you move between other dancers?”

“No,” Elsie said, “it is all danced with just one partner.”

“Show me,” Flora commanded. Her feet dropped to the floor, and her earlier fears seemed to have vanished, although he feared this might just be a temporary phase. “Use Kit.” She gestured towards her brother. “He won’t mind. He is quite a good dancer.”

On that point, Kit had his doubts. After the carriage disaster, he had not danced once, in part because he never had the opportunity, and with his injured arm, it would be unwise.

Two pairs of eyes turned towards him, and Kit felt a growing desire to protest—that he did very much mind being “used.” And yet the temptation of witnessing, of dancing, of touching Elsie intensified, and before he entirely knew what he was doing, he stretched out his hand with a mock little bow towards his partner.

Elsie eyed him dubiously, the chamber they stood in was messy, crowded with loose bits of paper, discarded clothes, and general debris, certainly not an especially opportune location for practicing dancing. Yet it seemed to be the thing that was motivating Flora and with a judicious eye, Elsie nodded and took his outstretched hand.

“Of course.” She looked at Flora. “You will have to mimic the sound so I can teach His Grace the steps.”

For a moment Kit felt sure that Flora would flinch, or resist given the use of his title, but his sister started copying the sound that Elsie was making. It took a few moments, but it seemed that Elsie was satisfied because she turned back to Kit and lifted her hand onto his shoulder. Her expression was set, immovable and were it not for the noticeable swallow she made, Kit would have felt sure she was not affected by him.

“We would, of course, be wearing gloves. And permission needs to be granted to ladies before they can take part,” Elsie said. Her voice was loud, carrying as she attempted to reduce the informality of how close she stood to him. “You need to place your hand on my waist.”

Stepping nearer, Kit did as he was told. Her back was warm, and he felt the gracefulness of her figure through the day dress she wore. Undoubtedly, her loveliness would be magnified, if she were dressed in a dazzling evening gown, but Kit rather liked the simplicity of what they were doing—perhaps artifice would draw away from how earnestly appealing Elsie was.

“Now normally you would lead,” she muttered.

Kit followed her steering as she manoeuvred them through the chamber, attempting to miss the larger items that blocked their way. Whilst it certainly was a far more intimate dance than Kit had engaged in previously, it was however a darn sight easier to learn than some of the country sets he’d been forced to memorise in his youth. His hand curled more closely around Elsie’s waist as they moved, bringing her nearer to his chest, her body swaying in deliciously close contact to his.

As they neared a discarded and overturned footstool, Kit took charge, overtaking Elsie’s lead, feeling that he now understood the one-two-three step well enough. He could hear Flora’s attempt to keep the pace as he started to control and swing Elsie through her steps. His dance partner lifted her eyes to his, and there was merriment there as he swung her more fully through the paces—she clung to him as they moved.

“Should we not go slower?”

“We are not in Almack’s yet,” he teased. For a moment, he feared she would be disheartened to hear this, as it was likely they never would be, but Elsie smiled instead, and tipped her head up as he pivoted through the room to the most uneven of beats. She, as Flora had done beforehand, laughed with true abandonment and went even further by angling her head back as if she was truly enjoying the movement of the dance. Laughing and losing the sway of the dance .

It seemed to Kit that he could hardly feel his injury when he looked at her upturned smiling face—there was such a possibility within this Elsie—true delight, and for him the chance to lose every bad memory. It shook Kit to his core, and he was grateful to end the dance so he could slip away from both his sister and the terrifying if tiny Miss Keating.