A Duke's Desire (The Duke's Club Book 1)

by G. L. Snodgrass

  “Yes Sir, Freddy Goodwin, sir,” he said as he bowed at the waist.

  “Well Goodwin, fix your top button and then take my horse to the stable and have … do we have any stable hands?”

  “Yes sir, Old Jack, is still here,” he said, his fingers shaking as he fixed his top button.

  “Then have ‘Old Jack’ care for my horse, I’ll be out to check on him later.”

  “Right away Your Grace,” Freddy said, looking relieved to be able to escape.

  “And you are?” The new Duke asked the pretty maid

  “Gwen, Your Grace,” she answered, giving a quick curtsy.

  Was that a hesitant answer, he wondered, and that curtsy. He studied her closely, her intelligence was obvious, and she sounded educated. Not at all like a common downstairs maid.

  While he didn’t have a lot of experience with pretty maids, something wasn’t right. She didn’t shy away, but she wasn’t forthcoming with information either. Her ability to look him in the eye and hold his stare was unusual, but then everything around here was unusual.

  “Well Gwen, Mrs. Morgan, What’s been going on here?” He asked,

  The two women looked at each other; Mrs. Morgan said, “Sir, I have a meat pie that is due to come out of the oven, and I was hoping to start some raspberry tarts. I’m sure that Gwen here can answer all of your questions. She’s been taking care of everything since that bas… I am sorry, since Mr. Evans left.”

  “Of course Mrs. Morgan, you are dismissed,” he said.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” the cook said, curtsied and gave Gwen a look of apology as she left.

  He focused on the maid again, God those eyes. He had to be very careful here. He knew next to nothing about being a Duke, but he did know that one did not dally with the help. Any man who did so was a cad and a scoundrel. A man without honor. One of those unwritten rules, and like the military, in society unwritten rules were more strictly enforced than the written ones.

  Leaning on his cane, he returned to his Grandfather’s … no, it was now his desk.

  “Please have a seat Gwen, this may take a while.” Strange, he thought, one did not normally instruct a servant to sit down. Why did he feel uncomfortable sitting while she stood? It was a thought he did not wish to explore. When he reached his chair, he turned and saw that she hadn’t moved.

  “That was not a request, please sit down.”

  “Yes sir” she answered and scurried to a seat across the desk.

  She gracefully sat. Everything she did was graceful; even that scurry to the chair. Again, why was this woman here?

  He studied her. She appeared to be about twenty-one years old. Petit, a few inches over five feet, blond hair that kept trying to escape from her maid’s cap. It was the eyes that struck him, bluer, and deeper than any he had ever seen. They reminded him of a high mountain lake on a beautiful summer’s day.

  Her figure was exceptional, the dress a little tighter than the normal uniform, but it did nothing to distract from her perfect feminine curves. God, get your mind on your duty, focus.

  “So Gwen, what happened?” He said calmly, folding his hands and resting them on the desk, determined to remain calm.

  Whatever happened it wasn’t her fault, in fact, it was more than likely his fault for not being here to solve everything. He mustn’t take it out on her he reminded himself, determined to withhold his parade ground voice.

  She jumped a little when he asked his question. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him for a second before deciding to go on.

  “Sir, the old Duke was sick for a long time,” she began hesitantly. “And though I was only a downstairs maid, I think he was not always aware of what was happening. We must be forgiving his problems at the end sir.”

  My God is she defending the bastard. The old man would be turning over in his grave if he knew that a lowly downstairs maid was sticking up for him. It said something that the only person who’d ever defended the old man was a maid who barely knew him.

  “Please go on,” Thomas said.

  “No one was paid the last quarter before he died sir, and then after he died, and no one came to replace him, no one was paid again. Mr. Evans started telling people they should find employment elsewhere. I know he wrote to someone, but I don’t know if he heard anything in return sir.” She looked at him, waiting for the explosion

  “How long have you been here, on staff I mean?”

  “About eight month’s sir.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been working for eight months without being paid?” He demanded.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” She answered “And Cook and Freddy, I mean Goodwin, also.”

  “My God! Well, please be assured that everything will be made right.”

  “Yes Your Grace, I was sure it would be.”

  What a mess, He wasn’t supposed to be the Duke. In fact, a few months ago it looked like he wasn’t even supposed to be alive. Now here he was, no longer a Major in the King’s service, but a Duke of the realm. Responsible for things he didn’t even know he was accountable for.

  He hadn’t been trained for this. That was supposed to be his Uncle John’s fate, and after him, Cousin Winslow’s served as the spare. But to have the Duke’s son John killed by a drunk during a card game on the lower east side. Then to have his older cousin die of the fever all within a month of the old Duke passing, just remarkable.

  Being a Duke meant managing vast estates, overseeing the crops, dealing with tenants, attending balls and such. Managing this house, or marrying someone to manage the household. It meant sitting in Parliament and advising the King on important issues of the day.

  Dukes were important people doing important things. They were men like the Iron Duke himself. Wellington was what people thought of when picturing a Duke. Not a mere Major, someone without political connections, not someone who’d been trained as a soldier, a damn good one, but still a soldier. What did he know about estates, and agriculture, and pretty maids?

  He looked at her again, trying hard to avoid those eyes. Unfortunately, his glance drifted to that shapely figure, and he had to force it back to her face. He settled on her lips, plush and enticing.

  “So, you have been keeping house for that entire time?”

  “Yes, your Grace, when Mrs. Fischer, Mrs. Evans now I assume, left, she told me that I was the new housekeeper and to keep everything ready for when the new Duke arrived.”

  “Well, it appears you’ve done a very good job, please continue, at least until I can figure out how to fix everything. And please prepare my rooms. My bags should be arriving later this afternoon. Have Fre … I mean Goodwin put them into my room. I’ll unpack them myself. And tell Cook that I’ll have my meals here in the study for the foreseeable future.”

  She hesitated, but gathered herself and said, “The accounts at both the butchers and mill are very past due Your Grace. They say they won’t send anything more to the main house until the past bills are caught up. They will only talk to the Duke or his secretary. I don’t think they trust Mrs. Morgan. She’s tried, but they won’t extend anymore.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, surprised that the house didn’t do its own butchering. It must have been another of his Grandfather’s crazy ideas. A penny short and a pound foolish if you asked him.

  “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. And, Gwen … what is your last name? If you’re to be my housekeeper, I can’t keep calling you Gwen, it Miss? ...” God let it me Miss and not Mrs. He thought.

  “Miss Harding, Your Grace, Gwen Harding,” she said, hesitating a little at the last name.

  “Well, Miss Harding, thank you for doing such a wonderful job keeping everything together. I’m sure I’ll have many more questions for you later. Until then, that should be all for now.”

  She stood and curtsied, “Very well Your Grace,” she then turned and left, quietly shutting the door.

  He watched her go and marveled. The house had, what? Twelve formal bedrooms? He remembered
counting them when he visited one summer. Plus library, dining rooms, parlors, and such, probably twenty-five rooms total.

  The house should have a staff of fifteen to twenty people just for the house itself and the kitchen. Then you needed to add the stables, gardeners, and any personal retainers such as valets and ladies maids, it could take more than thirty people to run this place the way it should be run. Truly remarkable, three people thinking they could hold it together.

  Thank God for loyal retainers he thought, shaking his head in amazement.

  He looked around the room, hoping to spot his Grandfather’s account books. This room had always been off limits to him as a boy. He remembered being bored and poking his head in to explore a new room when he was very young. The old bastard had been sitting at this very desk with several account ledgers before him.

  An old man even then, he’d spotted the little boy sticking his head round the corner and immediately started yelling that little boys were not to be seen nor heard. Period, end of story. The young Thomas had run away. He hadn’t been in this room since.

  He found the old leather-bound books and started digging through them. It was going to be a long night, in fact probably a long few nights just to figure out what was what. And in all honesty, it was going to be even harder keeping Miss Harding from intruding into his thoughts.

  Chapter Two

  Gwen woke the next morning, tired and late. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, worried about the future. Things had been going so well. A false sense of hope had started to seep into her. Maybe, just maybe she could put London behind her.

  She loved Brookshire and had felt so safe here. Why did everything have to change?

  Dressing quickly, Gwen rushed to the kitchen to help Cook prepare breakfast. Running a quick brush through her hair before putting it up under her cap, she thought about the new Duke. She wanted things to go well this morning. It was important that he be happy, it might mean fewer changes. More importantly it might help her stop any more dreams like the ones she’d had last night.

  How did he get wounded she wondered, where did he come from, what type of family? All of these thoughts and many more continuously ran through her mind.

  No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop them. Maybe seeing him again, establishing a routine and the familiarity of his presence would enable her to gain control. Something she so desperately needed to accomplish. She couldn’t continue here at Brookshire unless she could control her actions and to some degree those around her.

  “Good Morning Mrs. Morgan,” Gwen said as she entered the kitchen.

  “Good morning my girl, or should I be calling you ‘Miss Harding’ now that you’re the housekeeper for His Grace,” she said with a smile from ear to ear.

  Gwen was shocked, she hadn’t told anyone what His Grace had said the night before. Seeing her confusion, the cook smiled.

  “His Grace informed me when I went to clear his dinner things last night,” she said. “He said you were to be his housekeeper for now but that he would be sending to the London agencies for more staff. That us three would not need to worry and that our loyalty would be rewarded.”

  The cook smiled. “And then he said anyone who could keep this place presentable all by herself could probably run a staff of maids and that you’d be the housekeeper.”

  Gwen was amazed, he’d acted so quickly. A warm glow spread through her as she realized he’d been pleased with her performance. It wasn’t just about the security of the position. More about how he saw her, her value and what she’d accomplished.

  A warm feeling filled her stomach. He might see her as only a maid, someone “In Service” but he valued her. That was a rather unusual thing for someone in his station in life.

  “Did you know the Duke before? I mean before he was the Duke,” she asked the cook.

  “I knew him for a short while when he was a young one. Used to come for visits during the summer with his mother and father; the old Duke’s youngest son. But that stopped when his father died around the time he was eleven or twelve I think.”

  “What was he like as a little boy?”

  “Oh! A holy terror, but in a good way, never mean. Always good with the staff and such. Always into new adventures, used to drive the old Duke crazy. Secretly, I think the old man liked it. The cousins were not very adventurous, mostly kept to themselves and out of the Duke’s way.”

  Turning, Cook removed a pot of water from the stove.

  “His Grace, the new one I mean, was never supposed to inherit. There were two sons and a grandson between him and the title. The Old Duke bought him his commission at seventeen, and he was off to follow the drum as they say. That was almost ten years ago.”

  Gwen thought about what Cook had told her as she made up a breakfast tray and started for the door, then stopped.

  “I can’t take this to his room,” she said, “have you seen Freddy?” she asked in a panic.

  “His Grace is in the study, has been all night,” answered Cook.

  “All night?” Had something been wrong with his room?

  He sat behind the large desk, now covered in papers and books. Sometime during the night he’d removed his red uniform tunic and draped it over a chair. He looks tired she thought. His pale face and furrowed brow made her heart ache. His cane rested against the wall behind him.

  Standing in the middle of the room with the tray, she waited to be told where he wanted it. After a few moments, The Duke looked up and saw her. Quickly standing, he grabbed his tunic off the chair and put it on.

  “By the fire Miss Harding,” he said. “I’ll get to it in a minute, just need to finish up these figures,” he said, staring at the ledgers.

  “Yes sir,” she said, putting the tray on a table next to a large chair. She knelt and tended the fire placing a log and watching it catch.

  She turned and looked at him as he concentrated on his work. He’s so handsome, she couldn’t think how to explain it, but he was so male, all of the positive things about being a man. His size, quiet confidence, and a physical presence that said he’d seen it all before and could handle anything the world might throw at him.

  His wide shoulders tapered down to narrow hips. His hair was cut short in the military style. She wondered what it would look like long and hanging to his shoulders. She stood there for several minutes watching.

  He continued his work. Looking up, he was surprised to find her still there. He raised an eyebrow, “is there anything else?” He asked.

  Embarrassed at getting caught. She stood up straight.

  “Cook said I was not to leave until I saw you eating Your Grace,” she said. A little lie, enough to give her some cover. She watched his eyes to see if he’d get mad, looking for any signs of a pending explosion. She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t over react. He might be loud and commanding at times, but always in control of himself.

  She was surprised however when he smiled. It transformed his face, making him look younger and a little more approachable. She breathed a short sigh.

  “She did, did she? Well then, I guess I’ll take my break now. She’s probably worried about her food getting cold.”

  He walked to the large chair next to the table, leaning on his stick. He caught her looking at it, hesitated a moment, then shrugged and continued on.

  “I should have eaten in the dining room, probably would have been easier on everyone,” he said as he raised the doomed silver serving dish. His brow rose in surprise at the plate of fried eggs, and four large slices of toast liberally smeared with raspberry jam.

  “It appears I’ll have to take care of the butcher situation today, A man can’t continue to have breakfast without meat, preferably several different types,” he said to no one in particular.

  She saw that he was smiling and realized he wasn't critical, just making conversation.

  “Yes sir, and now that I see you are truly breaking your fast, I can safely return to the kitchen and report to Cook.” She smi
led and gave a quick curtsy before turning and walking to the door.

  She could feel his eyes following her all the way across the room and out the door. Once safely on the other side, she leaned back against the oaken door and sighed. Get hold of yourself Gwen. He’s just a man and we all know what they’re like.

  .o0o.

  Gwen joined Cook in a light breakfast and then scurried upstairs to His Grace’s bedroom to make sure everything was acceptable. Knowing the Duke was still in the study, Gwen assured herself that it would be safe. Entering the room, she saw that he truly had spent the night working. The big master bed had not been slept in.

  An old beaten leather trunk sat in the middle of the room where Freddy had left it the afternoon before. She felt a strong urge to peek inside and learn more about the man. Looking over her shoulder at the empty doorway, Gwen knelt down and undid the buckles and slowly raised the huge upper half.

  A warm, manly smell of wood smoke and soft pine needles greeted her. The trunk was filled with red uniforms and a set of evening, dress clothes. She ran her hands over the fabric, imagining where they’d been. What battles had they seen? Briefly closing her eyes, she imagined him marching across a field, leading his men into battle.

  It couldn’t have all been battles and blood. There must have been good times too. Oh, how he must have looked dancing at an embassy balls.

  She closed her eyes again and heard the soft music, could see him dancing the waltz with a beautiful Parisian lady. Maybe someone who’d lost her husband in the war. A charming brunet, looking at the British Major with bedroom eyes. A spurt of jealousy flashed through Gwen, and she laughed at herself, these flights of fancy had a way of getting away from her.

  Deciding that His Grace would not be upset, she started hanging up the clothes. It bothered her to see them folded up in the trunk.

  At the bottom, she found a small wooden box. Placing it on top of his dresser, she glanced over her shoulder again at the empty bedroom door. Lifting the lid she saw two gold cufflinks, a diamond stick pin, and four gold medals attached to colorful ribbons. Hesitating a moment, she lifted out each one, examining the engravings, fingering the ribbon. Trying to imagine what he’d done to win them.