A Lady for a Duke

by Alexis Hall

contrary to Lady Marleigh’s wishes. “A child who can’t even make it past the age of seven without drowning itself in some brook or other,” she would have said, “is likely to make a very annoying adult.” And, to give Little Bartholomew due credit, he had managed to discharge his not-drowning duties thus far with admirable competence. So instead of interfering with the course of nature, she made her way down to the riverside to see what the matter might

“Hello, Bartholomew,” she said. “Where are you going?” Little Bartholomew continued to march. “I am running away.” He didn’t seem to be running, more going for a strengthening stroll, but stubbornness was another trait that Little Bartholomew had inherited from his mother, and if he had resolved to run away, away he was liable to run. At least until something distracted him. “Why are you running away?” “Because Mama is leaving and will not take me with

excuse. After all, she’d been similarly hesitant to explain who she was to Little Bartholomew, but Lady Marleigh had insisted. “Children are stronger than you think,” she’d argued. “Besides, they haven’t had years and years of silly people filling their heads with silly ideas about what you’re meant to do or say or be.” And she’d been right. He’d accepted Viola the same way he accepted that the sun rose or that audivi and auditum followed audio and audire. Which was to say he’d asked why about sixteen times but ultimately been satisfied with “because that’s the way it is.” “Your mother,” she tried, “has had a letter

and ran up her back and over her shoulders. “I’m afraid that Mr. Dowling is wrong. Wicked people often prosper, and the good often suffer.” “Then should I be wicked?” asked Little Bartholomew. From the look in his eye, the idea held a certain appeal. “It would make other people very sad,” she warned him. Little Bartholomew was briefly silent. Then he folded his arms. “Well, other people are making me sad. That is why I’m running away.” Looking down, Viola did her best to strike an auntly tone. “One should not repay sadness with sadness.” Unfortunately, Little Bartholomew remained unconvinced. “Why? Would that not be equitable? Mr. Dowling says we should strive to be equitable.” Viola

“Then he’s not worthy of it.” Viola made a noise she was not certain was ladylike. “That’s the sort of thing it’s easy to say. But much harder to live.” “Is it any harder than living in a world where your best friend thinks you’re dead, and you have no idea what would happen were he to learn otherwise?” “What do you imagine could happen?” The only thing worse, Viola realised, than being trapped in a small moving box was being trapped in a small moving box full of Lady Marleigh’s opinions. “We cannot be friends as we once were. He could find me repulsive or absurd

do you—” “I am the Viscountess Marleigh”—being all of five foot had never stopped Lady Marleigh from looking down her nose when she wanted to—“and you are a terrible butler.” “That’s because,” Viola put in quickly, “he’s a groom.” Janner’s expression grew wary. “Have we met, Miss? And we weren’t expecting company.” “That’s not my problem.” Before the poor groom could say another word, Lady Marleigh had not so much sailed as launched herself like an armada past him. “I wrote to your master several days

“His Grace,” said Janner slowly, “is not to be disturbed.” “He will be very disturbed indeed if he isn’t here to greet me in”—Lady Marleigh flourished an imaginary timepiece—“approximately the next ten seconds.” “Lady Marleigh is an old friend of the family,” Viola tried to explain. Janner frowned. “Lady Marleigh? But the Viscount

“You’re very kind,” said Lady Marleigh briskly. “However, if I don’t get some tea directly I will commit murder. I realise you’re not an officially designated butling person, but do you think you could find someone capable of making me some and someone else capable of bringing it to me? And, in the meanwhile, I shall rustle up the Duke for myself.”

head was full of mist. It used to comfort him. It used to soften the edges of the raw, empty places of his world, so he didn’t cut himself bloody on them. It used to help him forget. But the memories were too strong, the good and the bad, running together like the blood and the mud in the rain at Waterloo. “Too many ghosts,” he told the figure that stood in the doorway. Her mouth quirked upwards, eerily familiar as only phantoms could be, promising recognition and offering only heartbreak. “Perhaps if you took less laudanum, you would see fewer ghosts.” “Strange advice for a ghost to give.” “I’m

“I went back. I looked for him.” For hours, with the leg that they had insisted should be amputated burning like hellfire, surrounded by the groans of dying men and the bewildered torment of dying horses, most of the corpses already stripped of clothes, valuables, even their teeth. Rendered interchangeable: dirty skin and broken limbs, and Marleigh—that wicked boy, his laughing friend—unbearably among them. That was when he’d understood. All those bodies were someone’s friend. Someone’s brother. Someone’s Marleigh. He’d not only lost, he’d taken. And ever since, when the dead clustered close about him, in their blue coats and bullet wounds, they always wore his Marleigh’s face. A tear landed

“I’ll go first. Culus.” There was a pause. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe he was shocked. Maybe he thought she was unhinged. And then his voice floated back to her. “Verpa.” “Cunuus,” she offered. Another pause. And, finally, more hesitantly. “Testes?” “Testes? Really? You chose testes?” Even though he couldn’t see her, she curled her lip in playful scorn. “You promised I would be appalled.” “I sincerely apologise”—the echo caught his breathlessness and magnified it, but she could tell he was amused—“for having disappointed you with my inadequate obscenities.” “I suppose I shall have to forgive you yet again.” “Indeed. I am the worst of hosts. Can’t shoot my guests. Can’t swear at them properly.” Her laughter tumbled after him down the stairs. “Please don’t laugh, Miss Carroll. If you’re laughing, you must be smiling, and I don’t think I can climb back up to see it.” In truth, it was probably for the best he could not see her. He had made her blush

cup of chocolate. She didn’t quite dare look up, but she could feel Gracewood’s eyes upon her—his attention as sweet as spring rain. And suddenly she was nothing but questions, rushing about inside her like shoals of rainbow fish: Did he like the embroidery on her gloves, did he find the print of her morning dress becoming, did the curls she had left free from her chignon frame her face well, was any of this even the sort of thing gentlemen noticed? She always had, but that had been envy and longing and desperation. Oh God, this was a torment. Wanting so terribly to be seen, and terrified of what it might mean if she was. “I hope,”

slept well, Miss Carroll.” This earned an unladylike snort from Lady Marleigh. “Let’s dispense with the courteous lying, shall we? Probably she slept dreadfully, as did I, because you were in no way prepared to receive guests. The room was dusty, I have no idea when the bed was last turned down, and I had to light my own fire. That is not a euphemism.” “I apologise”—Gracewood’s tone was wry, but its sincerity was unmistakable—“for my poor hospitality. I will see chambers are properly prepared for you today.” “And don’t think I’ve forgotten you tried to shoot me.” “Actually, I’ve been reliably informed that I rather more… shot at you.” Lady Marleigh, perhaps fairly, did not seem any more comforted by the distinction this morning than she had last night.

probably learned their lesson.” “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.” A touch of pink crept across Lady Marleigh’s cheeks. “I’m not a very nice person in the morning. Wait, what am I saying? I’m never a very nice person.” “Your consistency, Louise, is part of your charm.” “And you

simultaneously.” “Do you mind if I ask”—Gracewood gave a soft cough—“and I’m aware this question is likely to compound your poor opinion of me, what are you doing here?” Lady Marleigh subjected him to one of her most withering looks. “I’m eating breakfast.” “More broadly?” “We came because of Miranda.” “Oh, Mira invited you?” He seemed at once bewildered

without sun I am silent. Except the garden is too dark, so it doesn’t work. Isn’t that curiously unfortunate?” “It’s certainly… something,” conceded Lady Marleigh. “I sketched it once. Do you want to see?” Lady Marleigh was clearly in no mood to indulge this girlish whimsy. “Not remotely.” Undeterred, Lady Miranda began turning

Miranda bundled her sketchbook away. “We have so much to catch up on. How is Uncle Badger? Is it right that I still call you Auntie Lou and Uncle Badger? I’m old enough now to understand we’re not properly related, even if it feels like we are. It would be such a shame to stop, though, wouldn’t it? Except Uncle Badger is Lord Marleigh now. Which must be such a strange experience, sad and happy at the same time.” There was a long silence. Until, finally, Lady Marleigh observed, “You do know, don’t you, that you don’t have to utter every thought that enters your head?” “Yes, I do know. I just don’t see why not. And Janner always says better out than in.” Lady Miranda paused, wrinkling her nose. “Although he was talking to a horse with indigestion at the time.” In other circumstances,

together. “Oh, I’m so glad. Arguing is such a bore. Why don’t I show you both some more of the grounds? There’s a tree—an apple tree maybe—where… Tiberius de Vere—I’m eighty percent sure it was Tiberius, but it might have been Claudius—hanged himself. Isn’t that diverting?” “Oh, it couldn’t have been an apple tree. They only live for about forty years and they’re neither tall nor strong enough to support a hanging.” Given the subject matter, the authority in Lady Marleigh’s tone was slightly disconcerting. As, for that matter, was Lady Miranda’s undimmed curiosity. “Is that so? What are the superior trees for hanging oneself? Well, let me show you this one and you can assess its merit as an instrument of self-destruction.” And so there was nothing for it but to follow Lady Miranda deeper into the gardens. As they went, Lady Marleigh maintained her part in a surprisingly detailed conversation about arboriculture, but Viola knew her too well to be deceived by it. She was scheming. She was surely scheming.

And all of a sudden, Viola knew exactly where this was going. “You’re about to suggest I fix Gracewood, aren’t you?” “Who else?” “Anybody else.” “Miranda has tried for two years and failed as, no doubt, has every servant in Morgencald. That means it is up to you, or up to me, and tell me honestly, Viola, am I the best person to gently soothe a fragile lordling back to health?” She wasn’t. There was probably nobody less suitable. “But I…” “You know him, Viola, better than anybody. You

“Good, now let’s talk sensibly. I’m not asking for miracles. Just guide him gently away from his more self-destructive impulses. Get him to have a shave. That kind of thing.” “I’m not sure the beard is his biggest problem.” “I respectfully disagree.” Lady Marleigh shuddered. “Can’t abide beards. But either way all we need is for him to… to be a little more stable. So that Mira will feel safe leaving him.” “Leaving

He was trying not to dwell on Miss Carroll, though when circumstances brought them together—usually at mealtimes—it was all he could do to behave with civility. He wanted to look at her like he wanted to breathe, like she was breath and he was drowning, and every moment of his not looking was a struggle towards the thing he most needed. Except once he looked, looking would not be enough. Then he would have to talk to her—draw the delicate spool of her thoughts from that smiling mouth, until he knew all the colours of her. Until he understood how a stranger could seem so familiar to him. How something in her could call to a part of him he had long thought dead. How it was possible she could feel like homecoming to a man who had never before had any sense of home. It had to be loneliness. Or opium. Or some delirious combination of the two. And he was mortified, even vaguely remembering

most people were discomforted when they noticed, or remembered, his injury, or when circumstance drew attention to it. And yet more so when he rejected the pity he knew it had become his duty to accept graciously. Miss Carroll, though, simply re-settled his cane within easy reach and asked, “Why were the 95th sent to hold the sand-quarry?” “Why were…?” The abrupt change of subject—and in such a specific direction—had caught him rather off guard. “Why were what?” “Why were the 95th sent to hold the sand-quarry?” “Well, because we were in position, and best suited to do it.” “I see. And did that reflect poorly upon the rest of the army?” At this point, he wasn’t sure how successfully he was concealing his bewilderment. “Of course not.” “I picked up your cane for you,” she told him, “because I was in position, and best suited to do it.” He hardly knew if he wanted to concede her point or not—how to separate his pride from his shame, from his fear, from the need for her to think well of him. “That… that is not how other people would see it.” “Then that is their error.” Her gaze held his, unflinching.

Gracewood cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” “You don’t need to apologise to me.” “I will also apologise to Janner.” He sighed. “It makes no sense does it? Every part of my life, from my house to my land to my wardrobe to the food I eat, requires the work of others. Yet whenever someone tries to help me… help me personally, I become monstrous.” “It must be hard, being reminded that there are aspects of yourself you can no longer take for granted.” “Nevertheless,

colours of the sky—“did you mean it?” She should have said something frivolous. Something to make them both laugh. Something to break this moment. “Of course.” “Because I need to tell you, Miss Carroll, that I like you too. I like your quick mind and your kind heart and your bold spirit. You make me think as I had forgotten I could and laugh as I thought I never would again.” “I… I…” Oh God, what was she to do? She had to stop this. But she couldn’t. She yearned for it too badly: so much she’d never dared want, now falling into her hands, as effortless as blossom in spring. “I know,” he went on hesitantly, “we have been acquainted for barely more than a week. But I would like to be the man you believe I can be.” “You already are.” She could not tell, in that moment, if she was arguing with him or pleading with him. If only he could see

always yearned for? “I’ve never… before…” He put an arm around her waist then and drew her even closer. And there was some magic inside her, as deep and inevitable as the sea, that made her body know exactly what to do—how to fit against him, where to nestle her hips against his, and anchor her shaking hands upon his shoulders. “Then, will you let me?” “I cannot. It’s… if you knew…” His smile was its own horizon—one she could have followed, through sunrise and sunset, until the end of her days. “If I knew what? Are you already married? A French spy? Have you murdered someone?” He leaned in, his breath stirring the soft curls at her temples. “Do you need my help to hide the corpse?” He should not have been able to make her laugh. Not when her world was as insubstantial as the tide at her feet. Not when her will was at war with her wanting and everything was collapsing down to this one instant of connection. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “and I can’t believe I’m saying this, for I am usually the one who needs to be told to stop thinking, it is enough to live in one moment, and let the rest take care of themselves.”

friend. And yet it was all a lie to me.” He rolled to one knee, and pushed himself upright with visible effort, hands scrabbling for purchase against the wet sand, before she passed him his cane. “And what of your lies, Viola? You let me believe you were dead. For two years.”

Omg he’s stilling her Viola! Even hurt and confused, he gets it on some level 😭

“What other reply can I give you?” Speech spilled free, as useless as sand from a shattered hourglass. “That I am sorry? That I was too afraid—too afraid for both of us—to tell you. That I did not know how I had hurt you and that I feared to hurt you further?” “Two years.” At last his eyes fastened onto hers. She had lived this scene a thousand times over in the darkest places of her mind, terrified of his disgust, his hatred, his contempt, his cruelty. Except now she was here there was only pain—hers old and deep and aching, his new and whiplash raw, turned against her like the guns at Waterloo. “You were my closest friend. The best part of my life. The best part of me. You were… my joy, my hope, my faith in better things. All this time, I thought I’d left you. And it was you, who left me.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks, sticky with kohl and

beyond their capacity to confront. “And it wasn’t nothing.” The words rushed through her like the waves at their feet. “Don’t you dare believe it was nothing. I know what I did, and I know what it cost—I know what it cost us both, and I did it anyway.” And all at once, the fury was gone, leaving her shipwrecked on the shores of her choices. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she pressed her hands against his chest. “You were everything to me, Gracewood. My oldest, closest, most beloved friend. Your happiness was my happiness. Where you led, I followed with all my heart. I would have died for you—and I nearly did—but I could not live for you.” Another silence, full of the restless silk of the sea as it swept back and forth across the sand. Her fingers curled into his waistcoat—clinging to him as a climber might, bloodying her nails against a cliff face. She felt the near-brush of his palms as his own hands lifted and then fell again. “I did not know,” he said at last. She stepped away, her hands heavy and ugly in their too-tight gloves. “You could not have known.” “I wish to… I wish to now. I’m trying to understand.” The way he was looking at her—confused and sincere and still so utterly betrayed. “But how am I to forgive you?” It

them away like scraps of paper. But Gracewood heard them nonetheless, heard them and shuddered. “My God, Viola. Was it not enough to let me believe you dead? Why would you come back? How many times must I mourn you?”

How many times must I mourn you? he had asked her. But he hadn’t stopped to think that she could well have asked him the same question. She had lived with the loss of her old friend, wrapped up the memories of him and put them carefully aside with the rest of her former life. The strangest thing was, she thought she’d known him then. And she had, she had. She’d known his father had hurt him. She’d known he hungered for adventure. She’d known he thought too much and laughed too little. She’d known he was a graceful dancer, a decent whip, an excellent shot. But she hadn’t known the way he looked at a woman he admired. She hadn’t known the intricate vulnerabilities of his throat beneath her fingers. Hadn’t tasted his breath upon her lips. Hadn’t seen him gather up the dust of his heart and make an offering of it anyway. She hadn’t known he would make her feel beautiful. Beautiful, and understood, and still herself, and wholly herself. Until he hadn’t. “I want

“There you are.” For all her unyielding confidence, Lady Marleigh was seldom a burster-in to places. A barger and a poker-of-noses perhaps, but never a burster-in. “Viola, you must stop keeping Bartholomew away from his lessons.” “Viola wasn’t keeping me away. Arthur was.” “Arthur is a mouse,” explained Viola. Lady Marleigh looked down at her son, hands resting on her hips. “Bartholomew. I would like to believe that your father and I have raised you better than to take educational advice from rodents.” “Arthur is a very sensible rodent, Mama.” “By rodentiary standards, he may be. But put him back where you found him. He’s probably getting tired.” At this, Little Bartholomew looked wounded. “May I not keep him?” “Where did

“Well,” drawled Lady Lillimere, “this is an interesting situation. And I should probably check on my horses. They’ll be restless.” A faint moue of bewilderment from Louise. “But you said it was an interesting situation.” “Yes, my dear,” returned Lady Lillimere, laughing. “That’s why I’m leaving. I’m not normally one for politeness, but there’s a fine line between irreverence and vulgarity.” “Really?” Lady Marleigh sounded heartbreakingly disappointed. “Badger, does that mean we have to leave as well?” Whatever happened next was communicated without further need for words. It was

sentence. “I don’t want to go back.” Gracewood reached for his cane and struggled upright. “I want to go forward. And I’m not looking for perfect. Only for you.” Her voice was hoarse from pain, and from speaking of pain. “You can’t mean that.”

“If those are your terms,” he said, “I shall content myself with them.” “Content?” exclaimed Louise, who had apparently retreated from sight but not from earshot. “How can you possibly be content with something so paltry.” Gracewood lifted a quizzical brow. “Your house has the strangest echo.” “It is not my house,” Viola reminded him. “It’s Badger’s.” “Loubear,” whispered Badger. “You have to be quiet when you’re eavesdropping. Otherwise it’s just a logistically difficult conversation.” “Or spirits perhaps?” suggested Gracewood, lowering himself back onto the steps. “Oh God,” said Lady Marleigh. “I forgot myself. Do you think they heard?” A nearby potted plant rustled with an air of Badger. “Haven’t a dashed clue. And, now I come to think of it, I haven’t a dashed clue what an eave is either. And how do you drop them?” Trying to retain a respectable distance, but not