The Perfect Rake by Anne Gracíe

“For…for reasons that are rather complicated—but altruistic—I allowed my Great-uncle to come to a certain conclusion about you. And me.” She felt her face heat further. It was not like her to dither, but the situation was truly fantastical, and the way this man’s gaze kept slipping over her was very disconcerting. He flustered her.
    “A certain conclusion?”
    She cast him a look of entreaty, putting off the horrid moment of truth yet again. “You must believe me, Your Grace. I never meant to land anyone in a pickle.”
    “No, of course not.” His eyes were dancing now, she noticed. How could he be amused at a time like this!
    He stood up, strolled across the room, and pulled at the cord hanging by the fireplace. In a moment the door opened and the butler stood there.
    “A brandy, if you please, Bartlett. And something for the lady. Ratafia? Tea?”
    Prudence was appalled. “You cannot possibly mean to be drinking spirituous liquor at this time of the morning!”
    The duke nodded at Bartlett. “Tea for Miss Merridew, then, and brandy for me. And Bartlett, bring the decanter.”
    “But you cannot greet Great-uncle Oswald with a glass of brandy in your hand!”
    “My dear girl, I am afraid I cannot greet him any other way. It is not morning for me, you see, but the end of a particularly long and tedious night. And if I am to be thrust into a pickle without the fortification of a brandy, I cannot answer for the consequences.”
    Guilt stabbed Prudence at his words. She rallied. The situation was difficult enough to explain without the duke getting drunk. “But Great-uncle Oswald abhors the evils of liquor!”
    “He can have tea, then.”
    “Oh, will you please be serious! You cannot imagine what is about to happen!”
    He laughed at that, a deep-throated chuckle that filled the room. “I have not the faintest notion what any of this is about.”
    Just then Bartlett arrived with a tea tray on which stood a pot of tea, a plate of cakes, a cup and saucer, a fat crystal glass, and a tall crystal decanter containing a mellow golden liquid. As he placed it on a side table, the front-door knocker sounded thunderously. Prudence squeaked. “Oh no! He is here! Great-uncle Oswald!”
    “I believe it is the lady’s great-uncle at the door, Bartlett,” the duke said. “Show him in, if you please.”
    Bartlett bowed, thin-lipped, then left the room in a stately manner to answer the summons.
    “The thing is,” Prudence gabbled, “for reasons I have no time to explain just now, I told him that you and I were secretly betrothed—”
    The smile on his face froze. “Betrothed!”
    “Yes, I am sorry. It was all I could think of to make him see reason about Charity and the twins making their coming-out—for which the need is urgent, though I cannot explain why. But Great-uncle Oswald will not let them come out with me—”
    “I imagine he has good reason—” the duke said ironically.
    “Well, yes, because—” She flushed. “The reason does not matter. What matters is that they cannot enter society until I am out of the way and I thought you would suit my purposes perfectly, being a famous hermit—”
    “Are you really?” he interjected interestedly.
    “Am I what?” demanded Prudence, confused.
    “A famous hermit.”
    “Not me, lack-wit—you!” she snapped. “Oh, I do beg your pardon—my nerves are shredded! But you are the famous hermit! Except you’ve emerged from your hermitage, and some wretched busybody put it in the paper, and now here is Great-uncle Oswald come to demand that you marry me! Immediately!”
    “What!”
    That wiped the smile from his face, she noted with satisfaction. “I told you it was serious, Your Grace.”
    An expression of unholy glee flashed across the dark-visaged face. “I can see it is.” He chuckled. “And I definitely need that brandy.” He strolled across the room to the tray with the decanter. “Would you care to pour your tea, Miss