Duke and Duplicity (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 15) Page 9

  “Are you staying for the ball tomorrow night?” the girl pressed, her voice breathy as she stared up from under those thick lashes with a shy expression. Archie wondered if she practised such expressions in the mirror. Yes, she decided. For sure. The soft yet flirtatious look in the girl’s eyes suggested she’d be pleased to dance with Archie, if asked.

  “No,” Archie replied, returning her attention to her dessert and racking her brain for a conversation she could begin with the earl. At this point, she’d become his most beloved friend in the world if it meant escaping Miss Preston. Did men actually fall for this… this balderdash?

  Would Ranleigh be swayed by those pretty eyes?

  “We could, if you wanted to?”

  Archie cursed as she found Ranleigh addressing her. He was watching Archie with curiosity, his gazing shifting between her and Miss Preston.

  “No, I thank you,” Archie replied, feeling a sudden rush of impatience with the man. “Some of us have to work for a living.” She tried to soften the rather barbed comment with a smile, as though she’d been joking, but she knew she was too tense for the expression to look the least bit genuine, and so it only made the comment worse.

  “As you like,” Ranleigh replied, his tone mild, though he frowned a little.

  Archie did her best to concentrate on her food, but every time she looked up one or other of the girls was all over Ranleigh, flirting and batting their eyelashes, tapping him playfully with a fan—Oh, stop it, you naughty man—Merry trills of laughter and flirtatious comments filled the air. Just breathe, she told herself. He’s just being polite. He’s lonely, he said so. These girls mean nothing to him; this isn’t what he wants. He could have married any one of them if that was what he desired. Yet, Ranleigh seemed perfectly at ease, amused and amusing.

  The beauty to Ranleigh’s left leaned into him and whispered something in his ear. Ranleigh’s eyebrows rose just a little.

  Jealousy raged, and the urge to throw something grew exponentially.

  Before she could do something rash that would cause an almighty scene and embarrass everyone, most of all Ranleigh, Archie pushed to her feet. She bowed to the assembled company, aware she appeared stiff and ill tempered.

  “If you would excuse me,” she said, and retreated as fast as she could.

  “Where are you going?”

  Archie pretended she hadn’t heard Ranleigh call after her and hurried to the public bar.

  She felt sick, sick with jealousy and longing and bloody angry too. What the hell had she been thinking? She ought never have come. It was hardly a surprise that being in his company was torment. Why in the name of everything holy must she persist in punishing herself?

  At the bar she ordered a glass of brandy and downed it, demanding another and cursing as she noted her hands were shaking. This was ridiculous, the last straw; she was behaving like a bloody fool. God alone knew what Ranleigh thought of her appalling manners. The next drink she took slowly, forcing herself to sip when she wanted to swallow it and demand the bottle.

  She looked up as the barkeep returned to tidy up behind the counter, clearly hoping to find his bed soon. It was growing late.

  “Know of anyone London bound in the morning?” she asked. Please. Please say yes.

  “Aye, as it happens,” the barkeep replied, nodding at a ruddy faced fellow sitting alone at a table near the door.

  Archie thanked him and walked over.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, careful to be appear a respectful young man, a good travelling companion.

  The man looked up, a little surprised.

  “The barkeep said you might be London bound tomorrow. Any chance you have room for a passenger?”

  She was looked up and down before being given a nod.

  “Might have,” he said, smiling a little. “You got money?”

  Archie nodded. “I do.”

  The fellow shrugged his agreement. “I leave at first light,” he warned, which suited Archie down to the ground. The sooner she was away from Ranleigh the better.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  They shook on it and Archie returned to pay for her drinks before heading for the stairs. A good night’s sleep and back to London, and this time she really would stay away from Ranleigh, before she lost her bloody mind.

  “Archie?”

  Damnation. It simply couldn’t be that easy, could it?

  She took a deep breath. One last conversation, she could do that, surely? Probably. Three steps up the flight of stairs, she turned to look down at Ranleigh, her hand still on the rail. It was an effort of will to relax her face into something pleasant, something that didn’t look full of misery and green-eyed monsters. She wasn’t certain how successful she’d been.

  “Everything all right?” he asked. There was no humour in his eyes now, only concern and she wanted to curse him for that too. He was so damn nice.

  “Of course,” she said, striving for a normal, even tone of voice. She didn’t dare attempt anything amused or light-hearted, she’d never carry it off. “Just a little tired. I’ve had a busy week.”

  Ranleigh nodded. “Those of you that work for a living,” he said, smiling.

  It wasn’t a condescending smile, nor was the comment intended to insult or cause offence. She knew that. He was mocking himself and doing so to put her at ease, aware that something had offended her. Yet Ranleigh worked, she knew that. She knew the daunting amount of work Will faced running his vast estate. Ranleigh was no different, and so the comment irked her.

  “Quite so,” she said, her tone brittle as she turned away again.

  “What’s wrong?” The words were soft, cautious, and full of a willingness to help, to make it better.

  Bloody hell. Archie closed her eyes. Why couldn’t he let her be?

  “Nothing.”

  Her tone was terse enough for that to be a blatant lie.

  “Tell me,” he pressed, and she heard him put a foot on the first step. “If I’ve said or done something to offend you—”

  “You haven’t, God damn it!” Archie swore, swinging around as her temper flared, turning to glare at him. Too full of hurt and jealousy and longing to think about how it looked, or what she was saying. “Why do you always have to push, Ranleigh? It’s not your affair. Just because you’re a bloody duke doesn’t give you the right to poke about in my problems. They’re mine. Not yours. Go back to your pretty companions and their admiration. Go and enjoy your evening. I’m sure they’re missing you.”

  The acid behind the comment was unmistakable. It was the wrong thing to have said and she knew it.

  Ranleigh jolted, looking a little like she’d struck him. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to pry, and I’m sorry you got stuck with Miss Preston,” he said, the words careful. “She’s determined, I know, and a dreadful snob. We could switch places if you like? If it’s her that offended you?”

  “No!” Archie replied, horrified by the idea. “I don’t want to change places, besides which, those girls would trample me in the rush to get to the other side of the bloody table.”

  Ranleigh looked a little awkward. “The perils of a dukedom.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. He was unsure what was going on, what he’d done, why Archie was so bloody furious with him. She could see that, she could see it all. Yet it would be better to push this silly row further, to offend him, to make him so bloody angry he’d not want to see her again.

  Problem solved.

  “Well, I’ll make my excuses,” Ranleigh offered, doing his best to be accommodating as ever. Archie wanted to howl at the unfairness of it. “I know you didn’t want to socialise with them. Neither did I, if I’m honest, only they’d already arranged it. It’s devilish hard to refuse sometimes, isn’t it? But I’ve brought cards. We can play in my room and you can beat me at Piquet.”

  “No. I’m going to bed.” Archie bit the words out, refusing to contemplate spending the evening in Ranleigh’s bedroom. God, wasn’t she
in enough trouble already? She was heartsore and angry, frustrated by the ridiculousness of the situation. “Go back to your girls. Have a nice evening. You said you wanted a wife, didn’t you? Perhaps you’ll find one.”

  It might have been a perfectly acceptable comment, if not for the snide tone of her voice.

  Ranleigh stilled and Archie knew what he’d heard in her words. She’d heard it too. He stared at Archie, his confusion obvious.

  “Are you… jealous?” he demanded, blurting the words out in a rush.

  Archie started, the shock of the accusation like being doused in icy water. Her cheeks blazed with mortification and fear. Oh, good Lord, now he thought—

  Her only recourse was angry denial.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, furious that she’d been so bloody transparent.

  She could lose everything, and for what? For a man she could have never had in any case. What an idiot. Archie turned away, too close to breaking down, to losing her temper, to doing something.

  “Archie….”

  Ranleigh’s voice followed her as she hurried away, climbing the stairs as fast as she could.

  “Archie,” he said again, her name called out, heavy with remorse. “Please, forgive me. I’m sorry. It doesn’t….”

  Archie ignored him. She continued to ignore him a little later when he knocked on her door, and she left at dawn… without leaving a note.

  Chapter 8

  “Wherein the ton whisper gossip and scandal.”

  Christmas came and went, and then Easter. Spring eased into summer, and Archie tried her best not to think of Ranleigh, not to dream of Ranleigh, and most of all, not to hear news of Ranleigh.

  It was impossible.

  Erasmus was an avid reader of the scandal sheets. He’d pretend he only read them to ensure no one was talking about him, but he’d read bits aloud at the breakfast table to amuse her and Rupert, and Rupert’s sister, Lizzie, plus whatever waif or stray happened to be staying at the time. Erasmus collected them like lost buttons.

  For the past weeks, they’d been full of Ranleigh. It appeared he was besotted… with the Duke of Rothborn’s wife.

  It was just the two of them this morning. Rupert and Lizzie had attended the theatre and were not yet up and about, and for once there were no guests. Erasmus was reading again, unaware that each word cracked open another fissure in her heart. She hadn’t seen Ranleigh since that fateful evening last year, and though many months had passed and she ought to have forgotten him, she hadn’t. He’d written to her. Twice. The first time apologising for his words, firstly for having said them, and secondly to imply in the most delicate language that he held no judgement if perhaps he’d been right. It was a painstaking letter, written with care and showing her, as if she’d needed proof, that Ranleigh was a good and open-hearted man. One that was not quick to judge.

  The second letter had been chatty, friendly, expressing the hope that he might receive a reply. She’d never sent one.

  Rothborn’s wife.

  It wasn’t just the knowledge that he’d finally fallen in love, which was quite painful enough. It was the disillusionment she felt. The honest, decent man she thought she’d known, the one whose words were so careful and kind in his letters… that man was set on stealing another’s wife? When the woman could never even give him the heir he required. Was it just loneliness that had driven him to it?

  He liked Rothborn, though, he’d said so, and yet the fellow had been married for mere weeks, and Ranleigh was pursuing the man’s wife? How could he?

  It was said he was enthralled by her.

  Archie’s stomach roiled and she pushed her breakfast away.

  “I’m going to work,” she said, and left as fast as she could manage.

  “You are going to stop this moping about,” she scolded herself under her breath as she walked. It was a beautiful day, though still cool as the morning had barely begun. The sun was rising against a blue sky however and Archie chastised herself for being such a wet blanket. She had no cause for complaint, no reason to feel so… so… bloody miserable.

  Yet, the feeling lingered all the same.

  ***

  Ranleigh stretched, scratching at his chin. He’d slept late this morning, feeling no desperate urge to get up and get on with the day. He felt no urge to do anything at all. A sense of lethargy had taken a hold of him and he was damned if he could shake it. The future stretched before him, dull and empty and devoid of anything remotely surprising. The day ahead held no challenges, nothing to spark his interest. Nothing.

  It was happening more and more of late, these sudden plummets into depression which were totally at odds with his usually cheerful outlook. Yet he had the disquieting sense that time was passing him by at a rate of knots and he was no better off that he’d ever been.

  Oh, not financially. His estates were well kept and in good order and the dukedom secure for whoever came after him. He closed his eyes, grimacing.

  Bloody Bagshot.

  He could not, in all conscience, allow the title to go to such an ill-mannered gapeseed. Perhaps he’d not care once he turned up his toes but, for now, he cared very much. It was a devilish thing really, because it meant he had to hurry up and beget an heir, and there was not a single woman of his acquaintance that he could imagine taking to wife.

  Oh, there were plenty of candidates. Beautiful young women fell over him at the idea of becoming his next duchess, and Ranleigh was perfectly ready to accept that the fault was his own. For he didn’t doubt it was possible to find—among the empty-headed debutantes desperate to snare a duke—some perfectly amiable and intelligent, good hearted women. He’d met them, all of them. Every single blasted one. Yet he’d not managed to stir himself to take an interest in any of them. He was sure he’d tried. He’d done his best to make conversation, to get to know the one or two young ladies who had seemed likely candidates, and yet they’d left him… if not cold, then certainly in no hurry to rush them down the aisle.

  The only young woman he’d met of late who’d piqued his interest had been married. He smiled a little at the memory of her. She was an extraordinary young woman. Too young for him, in truth, but full of fire and so dreadfully courageous. He’d admired her, and grown fond of her, but she was married to young Rothborn and there was no way he was going to step between the two of them. No, despite what the scandal sheets might have implied, he’d been working for Ella Rothborn’s benefit, with the sole object of making her dolt of a husband jealous so he’d realise what it was he might be about to lose. Lucky bastard.

  It had worked, too. Admirably. So admirably that Rothborn had even thanked him when he’d realised what Ranleigh had been trying to do. The trouble was, Ranleigh had been tempted, and was now horribly jealous—again—on seeing the happy couple glowing with love and contentment when he was still alone. God, he was going to end up a bitter old man at this rate.

  Once suitably attired for the day he made his way downstairs to find the Earl of Tindall already installed at the breakfast table. The young earl had accompanied him back to London last night and Ranleigh had invited him to dine rather than face his cavernous house alone. Pathetic really but finding company of one sort or another had become a pressing concern. Left alone with his own thoughts for too long and this bloody cloud that was hanging about him was likely to swallow him up.

  “Morning, Tommy,” Ranleigh said, sitting himself down and accepting a cup of coffee.

  Tommy raised his fork and smiled in lieu of a greeting as he was chewing with an air of contentment. The earl was a goodhearted young man, and convivial company. Just the sort of fellow that Ranleigh liked to have about him. He frowned as he reached for a freshly baked roll, remembering another young man who had disappeared off the face of the earth. Not for the first time.

  Ranleigh acknowledged a sense of guilt over what had happened that night. He ought not to have spoken so rashly. He ought to have known there was a risk Archie might be offended by such an accus
ation. Ranleigh could have qualified his remark, implied he just meant Archie was jealous of the lack of his attention, not jealous in the romantic sense, but he hadn’t.

  He hadn’t because it wasn’t true, and he suspected Archie knew it as well as he did.

  In hindsight bloody dangerous thing to say and he’d been well out of line. Yet, it had been so bloody obvious. Hadn’t it? Had he been wrong? It was just there hadn’t seemed to be any other explanation and… damn it. At the least he could have trodden with more care. He’d messed things up by opening his mouth and putting his blasted foot in it.

  Nothing new there, then.

  Worse than that, however, was the inexplicable certainty that the young cub was in trouble as he’d first supposed. Ranleigh was certain of it. The weight of that trouble had seemed to lie heavy on the lad and… and why in blue blazes was he still this concerned? He hardly knew the fellow, and certainly had no responsibility for him. Archie had told him to his face to keep out of his affairs, to stop interfering. Yet he couldn’t shake the concern he felt, or the desire to make it right. All of it. From his own clumsy remarks to whatever it was the foolish boy was hiding or running from.

  Selfishly, he also regretted the loss of a friend. He’d liked Archie a good deal, and there were few people he could say that about with any real honesty. In truth, he’d enjoyed his company more than anyone else he’d met in… well, in forever. Guilt and regret were uneasy weights in his chest.

  “Do you remember that night in Newmarket, last October?” Ranleigh said, picking his roll to pieces without really noticing. “After the Town Plate?”

  “The Rutland Arms?” Tommy replied, reaching for his coffee. “Yes, I remember. I won a packet on Rothborn,” he added, grinning.

  Ranleigh snorted. “Never mind that,” he muttered, still a little annoyed that Rothborn’s Virago had beaten Miss Skirmish when they’d finally met this year, though the competition had been ridden by a rather extraordinary jockey. “That evening, you were sat beside a Mr Archibald. Do you recall?”