In Bed with the Duke(62)

‘They’ll all say I can’t get you presentable,’ Milly continued. ‘Let alone I haven’t treated your blisters yet. They’ll say I ain’t up to the job. And then I won’t be your maid no more. And I did so long to be your maid. And go to London and dress you for balls and such.’

Prudence wasn’t ever going to go to London—not as the Duchess of Halstead anyway. The very idea was preposterous. She’d thought she was going to be marrying the rather hard-up and ordinary Mr Willingale—a man who made his living somehow by righting wrongs and sticking up for the underdog. Not a duke who went about the countryside in disguise as a means to alleviate his boredom. For he’d admitted he’d been leading a dull life, hadn’t he?

But she did thank heaven that Milly had had the courage to speak her mind. If she’d gone barging into the Duke’s room while she was so angry with him that she’d forgotten she had her hair wrapped in a towel she would have definitely embarrassed herself. Oh, yes, she could just see him lounging back in his tub, looking down his imperious nose at her, while she stood over him screeching her complaints.

‘That’s a good point, Milly,’ she acknowledged. ‘Thank you.’ And she meant it. It was going to be much better to marshal her arguments so that she could break off their betrothal in a dignified manner. ‘You had better dry and style my hair so that I shall look my best when I next speak to His Grace.’

‘I shall run and fetch a comb and some scissors,’ said Milly with evident relief. ‘I won’t be but a twinkling.’

‘I will put some ointment on my feet while I’m waiting,’ said Prudence, going to the dressing table on which Mrs Hoskins had placed the pot.

The minute she’d gone Prudence plonked herself down and plunged her fingers into the pot of greenish salve. Right, then. She’d use the time until Milly had made her presentable enough to appear in public to prepare a speech in which she’d explain that she couldn’t marry Gregory, not now she knew who and what he really was.

But she hadn’t come up with anything much before Milly returned with the scissors. And also a maid with a tea tray. And Lady Mixby.

‘I hope you don’t think of this as an intrusion,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘I just thought I would check that you have everything you need. Particularly that cup of tea you didn’t drink downstairs. And just one or two little sandwiches and cakes, since you looked close to fainting. There is nothing worse, I find, than a hot bath if one is already a touch light-headed.’

There was nothing Prudence could do but say thank you.

Lady Mixby beamed at her. Then went across to the little table on which the maid had set down the tea tray. ‘I shall just pour you a cup and bring it to the dressing table while Milly makes a start on your hair. And then you can sip it and nibble at these few dainties while she works. Oh,’ she said, setting the cup on the dressing table. ‘I see Mrs Hoskins has found you a gown. I hope you don’t mind that it appears to be dreadfully behind the fashion.’

Milly pulled her lips together and carried on doggedly combing out Prudence’s tangles.

‘Oh, no, I am very grateful for the dress. It is lovely to be in something clean and respectable again.’

Which was the absolute truth. Milly’s Sunday best had turned out to be a rather lovely gown of mossy green wool, with a demure neckline and long sleeves. Since it was exactly the sort of thing she was used to wearing, it made her feel much more like herself instead of some kind of impostor creeping in where she had no right to be and pretending to be something she wasn’t.

Milly flashed her a grateful look in the mirror as Lady Mixby went to the window seat.

‘I am sure it must be,’ said Lady Mixby, hitching herself up onto the cushions. ‘I cannot tell you how shocked I was to see you and Halstead standing on the threshold of my drawing room looking like a pair of gypsies. Oh, but only for a moment. For then, you see, I recalled the Hilliard portrait of the First Duke. And saw that Halstead wanted only a pearl earring and a lace ruff and he would have passed for an Elizabethan privateer.’

He would, at that.

‘Though I hear he has shaved now,’ Lady Mixby continued, ‘which is a great pity. He looked dangerously attractive with that hint of a beard.’ She sighed. ‘Milly, are you sure you should be using the scissors quite so freely? Poor Miss Carstairs will not have any hair left at this rate.’

‘I have given Milly leave to do what is necessary,’ Prudence explained when Milly’s nimble fingers stilled for a second. ‘It is much kinder for her to cut out the worst of the knots than attempt to remove them with the comb.’