The Worst Duke in the World (The Penhallow Dynasty #5) - Lisa Berne Page 0,1

by the river.”

“And look how you turned out. When Wakefield returns, I expect you to discipline him with the utmost stringency. He’s a marquis, after all, and ought to act like one.”

“He’s eight.”

“And in line to inherit one of the most illustrious dukedoms in the country.”

“Very well, stale bread and water for a week. Maybe a few turns on the rack, too.”

In the silence that fell between them after this last utterance, Anthony watched with the same mild interest as Margaret’s face turned so vehemently and comprehensively brilliant a red that she gave the appearance of one wearing an odd (and off-putting) theatrical mask. Finally she hissed:

“You—you’re—you’re . . .”

“Yes?” he said, politely.

“You’re a very bad duke!”

“Am I?” he said, still politely.

“Yes! In fact, you’re the worst duke in the world!”

“Well then.” Warm and cozy in his wool greatcoat and tall hat, his hands stuck comfortably into his pockets, Anthony stood looking up at Margaret on the portico. The black hem of her gown fluttered in a sharp wintry wind, her eyes were watering in the cold, and her teeth chattered ever so slightly. He knew from extensive experience that she would go on standing there until she gained her point, no matter how long it took. Little did he want on his conscience the nasty bout of pleurisy that might develop if she stayed like this much longer, so he said:

“I’ll talk to Wakefield, Meg. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll stop by the stables to tell them I don’t want my horse after all. Then I’ll come back for tea.”

She eyed him narrowly, then nodded and turned around. A footman had obviously been awaiting her return to the house, for the door swung open wide to admit her, and then was closed very, very gently by the same invisible hand within. Had it not been beneath her, Anthony knew that Margaret would have loved nothing better than personally slamming the great oak door shut in a way that would have made her sentiments known to everyone within a fifty-foot radius.

He gave a little sigh.

Poor old Margaret.

He wished she would marry again.

At eighteen she had been wed to Selina’s older brother, who had died after only two years of marriage. His heir, Selina’s younger brother, had promptly booted the widowed Margaret out of the house, and so she had come back home to Hastings where she and Selina had—beneath a brittle veneer of civility—lived under the same roof as might two queens jockey for the same throne, an uneasy state of affairs which lasted until Selina’s death, five long years later.

Now here they were.

He a widower at thirty-one, she a widow at thirty-three. She still wore black for the late Viscount Peete, which was a mystery to Anthony, as Skiffy Featherington had not only been exceedingly stupid, he had also been vain, arrogant, and among the most extreme of the so-called Dandy set—notorious throughout half of England for the immense shoulder-padding in his coats, the soaring height of his shirt-points, the half-dozen fobs jangling from his waist, and the jeweled quizzing-glass he carried with him everywhere including (it was rumored) bed, bathtub, and privy.

Well, life was full of mysteries, wasn’t it?

By way of further example, why had blight returned this past autumn to the northeastern apple orchards after a full decade of untroubled health and productivity?

And was it true that the long white blurry swath in the night sky wasn’t a celestial sort of exhalation, as he’d been taught in his youth, but was instead, thanks to the revelations of modern telescopes, an immense grouping of distant stars?

Too, recently he had found himself wondering why the self-styled village oracle, Mrs. Roger, had come up to him the last time he was in Riverton and said, nodding her head in a highly significant manner, You’re next, Yer Grace.

Also, would Margaret ever stop presenting him with marital candidates, or would this dispiriting parade of hopeful females go on forever?

Anthony turned away from the marble steps and began walking toward the stables, and as he passed a large and perfectly rounded shrub, a small form leaped out from behind it and onto the graveled path, shouting in a high-pitched childish treble:

“Boo!”

Anthony paused and calmly regarded his son, who in turn looked very disappointed.

“Oh, Father, you never jump.”

“Nerves of iron,” explained Anthony. “Only way a chap could survive in this family. How long have you been hiding behind that shrub?”

“Ages. I heard everything you and Aunt Margaret said. I say, Father, are you