“Nonsense. The public schools exist for the sole purpose of beating the creativity out of children.” If she also teased, the edge in her voice undercut the humor.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Quite literally, I’m afraid. And in any case, you couldn’t bear to be parted from your daughter.”
“No,” she confessed and smiled weakly. “You know me too well.”
“I will speak to her,” he said, leaning forward to pat his stepmother’s hand.
“Thank you. She is not quite old enough for a formal dinner, so I did not ask for her to join us tonight.” Perfectly proper, of course. He hid his disappointment with a nod of understanding. “But Vivi hopes to see you upstairs for breakfast, I know.”
Guilt prickled along his spine, forcing him to sit up straighter. How could he have forgotten their schoolroom tête-à-têtes, mornings of toast and marmalade and giggling schoolgirl confidences? “Of course.”
“The sight of your trunk had her in raptures—the fortnight between its arrival and yours was agony. I ordered the servants not to open it until you gave orders, but I learned later that she was so eager to imagine you here, she saw to its unpacking herself. Truth to tell, I could not fault her enthusiasm. Oh, it is good to have you back.” With a sigh of relief, she looked him up and down, taking in every detail of his appearance, lingering over the showy trimmings of his uniform. “And home to stay.”
The last words rose on a questioning note, but he made no answer to them. Though the matter of the trunk suggested she knew something of the secretive nature of his mission, as had his father, his stepmother could not be expected to understand his current dilemma. His disdain for the role that had been thrust upon him, as opposed to the one he’d chosen for himself. The irresolvable tension between society’s expectation that an officer would of course resign his commission in favor of his obligations as a gentleman, and what Tristan had come to see as his greater duty.
The Duke of Raynham safeguarded the well-being of hundreds of tenants.
Major Laurens, however, safeguarded the nation.
And from the moment he had set foot on Hawesdale lands, he had felt the difference like a weight. While his father had buried himself beneath weighty tomes of Arthurian legends, other men had managed Hawesdale Chase admirably. Doubtless they could continue to do so. To replace an intelligence officer’s unique knowledge of the French army’s movements and intentions would be considerably more difficult. Perhaps impossible. Considerably more was at stake than Tristan’s family could ever know.
He had come home, yes. Duty—and his commanding officer—had demanded it.
But he could not promise to stay.
“I hope you are not angry with me?” she ventured.
“For what cause?”
Once more, she cast her eyes downward. “It is no longer my place to invite guests to this house.”
“Into which house ought you to invite them, then?” he asked dismissively. “Hawesdale is your home, and Vivi’s, for as long as you wish it to be.”
“Your future bride may have her own ideas.” She glanced up. Wondering, he supposed, whether he knew of Lord Easton’s plan to marry him to his daughter. Worry clouded her bright eyes.
His first reaction to Vivi’s announcement had been a huff of laughter. As a second son with a proclivity for finding himself in dangerous situations, he had adopted a philosophy of detachment where women were concerned. Lust was an inconvenience to be dealt with in the most efficient manner possible. Love—messy, unpredictable, unnecessary—was to be avoided. Marriage had never entered into his mind.
“Why do you suppose Percy never came to the point with Miss Pilkington?” he asked, skirting, but not entirely avoiding, the subject.
“Oh, you know Percy,” she demurred, although truth be told, neither of them had known his brother especially well. Percy had always kept a rigidly respectful distance from his stepmother, refusing even her suggestion that he use her given name within the family. An attempt to punish their father for marrying a woman younger than his elder son, perhaps. But the shadow of pain that crossed Guin’s expression as she spoke now made it clear she had also felt the slight. “He always was set in his ways.”
A less charitable analysis would suggest that his brother had simply been too much like his father—focused on gratifying his own desires rather than fulfilling his responsibilities, despite the rapid approach of his fortieth year. But surely Percy had known that marriage would not require a duke’s heir to give up the comforts of town life, his clubs, his mistress. “Perhaps he came into the country in the spring intending to propose,” Tristan ventured.
The merest hint of skepticism played around her lips. “Perhaps.”
“Did you ever hear him express any dissatisfaction with the match?”
“No, never. Anyone would say she is an ideal choice for a man in his position. She comes from ancient and impressive families on both her mother’s and her father’s side.”
“And a substantial dowry, I suppose.” Percy would have made sure of everything.
Guin nodded. “I believe so. She’s also quite lovely,” she added, not meeting his eye. Clearly, she did not relish the task of matchmaking, yet she plowed bravely on. “Both in temperament and, er, form.”
He could not call Miss Pilkington’s face to mind, nor anything else about her, but his brother had been nothing if not particular. He doubted Caroline would disappoint.
Upon reflection, he could really think of no rational objection to Lord Easton’s scheme. Percy was gone; no need to wax sentimental upon that point. A woman of Caroline Pilkington’s impeccable breeding and upbringing could prove a useful addition to the corps that managed Hawesdale. In practical terms, a duke needed a duchess. And an heir.
But if today had shown him nothing else, even he could not always be practical.
“Not if she dares to suggest that you and my sister belong anywhere other than Hawesdale.”
Color burned into Guin’s cheeks and disappeared as she rose and moved toward the door. “She had suggested nothing of the sort, and I daresay she would not. You will—you must judge for yourself.” Almost over the threshold, she added, “You shall have ample opportunity to get to know one another—this infernal rain seems determined to hold us all prisoner here forever.”
Though his stepmother had given him much food for thought, her mention of the weather sent his mind straying once again to Miss Burke. Years of gathering information on behalf of the Crown had taught him to be curious. Even, at times, suspicious. No doubt the secrets she kept were perfectly mundane. Nevertheless, he should tell Mr. Armitage, the butler, to post a footman at the entrance to his rooms. He wanted no future intrusions. No surprises.
No tantalizing glimpses of soft linen and softer skin beneath.
With a sharp tug, he straightened a perfectly straight sleeve. If he needed a woman—and obviously he did if he was foolish enough to feel a surge of arousal not just at the sight of Erica’s bare shoulder but, earlier in the day, at even her muddy rump—perhaps he’d better focus his thoughts on Caroline Pilkington after all.
Half an hour later, he descended to dinner. Three steps from the bottom of the staircase, he heard a noise behind him and paused. A rustling sound, the irregular patter of hesitant footsteps, a quiet “oh, dear.” Erica emerged into the sconce’s light, looking over her shoulder as if fearful someone might be following her.
She was wearing a shimmering blue gown, something Guin must have put aside during her mourning. When compared to how Erica had looked in her mud-stained traveling dress, the transformation was extraordinary. And he’d been attracted enough—dangerously so—to the dirty, disheveled version.
He tried to shift out of her path, but too late. Another few steps and they collided.
“Oh. Your Grace. I’m dreadfully sorry. Sorry for bumping into you… Although…w
ell, actually, I’m rather glad I bumped into someone.” As she shifted slightly from side to side, her skirts swayed and caught the light. “I wonder if you could…or rather, if you would, for of course you must know the way to the dining room in your own house…”
He fought the urge to mutter an imprecation against Guin’s generosity. Who was this woman in the garb of a duchess with titian curls tumbling down her back? Half lady, half…he hardly knew what. Siren, perhaps.
Erica caught him studying her. “Is everything all right, Your Grace?”
Perhaps he ought to be grateful for the opportunity to keep an eye on his unpredictable guest. “It would be my pleasure to escort you,” he said, holding out an arm.
True to form, she did not take it. “I am sorry about this afternoon,” she said as they walked along the first-floor corridor toward the west wing. “It must have seemed as if I were snooping. You have every right to be angry with me—”
“Nonsense,” he said, a little more adamantly than he had intended. Many things in life were out of a man’s control. All the more reason to keep a tight rein on those things that were well within it. Anger was a reckless emotion that could be easily exploited by one’s enemies.
He was, however, frustrated. Frustrated with himself. He had laid out his life with the utmost care. He didn’t need any diversions. Any distractions. If only he hadn’t… Or she hadn’t… Damn this rain.
“Because of your stepmother’s invitation, then?” she prodded.
“Nonsense.” A surprisingly useful response where Miss Burke—and his interest in her—were concerned. He would repeat it until he was convinced of its truth.
“I have no wish to intrude on a family party. If you’ll make my excuse to the duchess, I’ll gladly return to my room,” she insisted. Panic flickered through her eyes as she cast a glance toward the footmen who stood ready to open the dining room doors. Despite the elegance of the gown, she looked like a wild creature caught in a trap.
Why subject her to the Lydgates’ stares or the tight-lipped disapproval of the rector’s wife? Why compare her side by side with Caroline just to remind himself of the sort of woman a man in his position ought to desire? It would be kinder just to let Erica go.
But he was a duke now. And if he’d learned anything at all from his father, he knew that dukes were rarely kind and sometimes—often—selfish.
“Nonsense,” he told her, his voice softer now. Draping her hand over his arm, he led her across the threshold.
Chapter 6
After the earlier exchange with Mr. Davies, Erica had known better than to hope he would let her go. But she did not know what to do with the part of herself that had been hoping he wouldn’t.
Partly, of course, because she might have wandered about the mansion aimlessly for hours—days—if he had. And partly because of the unexpected thrill of entering a grand, high-ceilinged room on the arm of a duke.
Some long dormant corner of her heart, steeped in foolish feminine fantasy, clattered into wakefulness and sent a rush of blood through her limbs.
Slowly she lifted her gaze from the intricately patterned marble floor to her hand, where it lay along Tristan’s sleeve. Mama would scold her for forgetting her gloves. But at least she had scrubbed and pared her nails. No grime remained, though her skin was still rough and nearly as red as his coat. Not quite a fairy-tale princess, then. But as close as she would likely ever come, and anticipation squeezed through her tightly corseted ribcage.
When at last she worked up the courage to raise her eyes and survey the room, she found herself drawn instead to Tristan’s profile, the Roman nose of an English aristocrat and the strong jaw of a man accustomed to getting his way. The meager glow from the stub of a tallow candle had already revealed those traits to her. But the brilliant light of the dining room’s chandelier made it far more difficult to deny how attractive he was. She found herself wishing after all he were merely handsome. At least then her fascination might have been easier to understand, if not accept.
But no, she could find no more fitting word than attractive to describe him. In the sense of magnetic. Compelling. Undeniably so, though she did so want to deny it. Surprisingly dark brows and dark stubble—although surely he must have shaved not long ago?—shadowed a face carved by a sculptor who favored sternness, as she herself never had. His hair, which gleamed like polished bronze, more golden than brown, could do little to soften those granite-hewn features, tied as it was in a ruthlessly neat queue at the nape of his neck.
As if he felt her studying him, he dropped his gaze to hers, and at last the candles’ glow revealed something she had not known. His eyes were not black nor even brown, but blue. Dark as sapphires and inscrutable as the night sky.
“Miss Burke.” The Duchess of Raynham swept toward them, across a room even statelier than Erica had feared. Erica released Tristan’s arm and curtsied, while the duchess surveyed her critically. “That color suits you better than it did me.”
Generally, Erica chose her garments based on practical considerations, dresses and shoes and even stockings that could be worn out of doors and would withstand the strong soap and vigorous scrubbing her work sometimes made necessary. The last four months, in particular, had demanded the darkest, dullest colors she could find—not just because of the dirt, but because of Henry. Not widow’s weeds, for her mother had forbidden it, as they had not been married. But as close to it as she could manage.
She had forgotten, or perhaps had never known, that dyed silk could compete with Nature’s palette. How difficult it must have been to capture the precise blue-violet of the cornflower at its peak, the moment before the delicate blossom began to fade.
“Come,” the duchess said. “Let me introduce you to my guests.”
With a quick, shallow curtsy to Tristan, whose attention had been drawn by a pair of gentlemen standing nearby, Erica dutifully followed his stepmother to a loosely grouped trio of two women and a man.
“Lady Lydgate, may I introduce to you Miss Erica Burke? Mrs. Newsome, the vicar’s wife. Lord Beresford.” Someone else signaled to the duchess and she tipped her head to those standing before her. “If you will excuse me…”
When she had gone, Erica made another round of curtsies, conscious each time of the maid’s promise that her bosom would not, in fact, overspill the top of the dress, though it threatened every moment to do so.
Lady Lydgate’s quick, bright eyes took in every detail of her appearance. “So you’re Raynham’s waif.”
Waif? She sucked in her breath in embarrassed surprise, forgetting for a moment how tightly the maid had insisted on lacing her corset. At home, she rarely wore one at all. “If you will have it so, ma’am. I would say rather, a stranded traveler. Like yourselves, I understand.”
Lord Beresford’s lips twitched at her pert reply. He was a man of middle age who might still pass for handsome, his dark hair only beginning to silver at the temples. Before he could speak, however, Mrs. Newsome broke in. “You were fortunate in his delay.” The stress she laid on the first word made it clear that she did not consider herself similarly lucky. “A fortnight…” She shook her head sharply, lips twisted as if to prevent them from speaking words better left unsaid.
“Doubtless Raynham could not help it,” Lord Beresford chimed in, one hand smoothing his embroidered waistcoat over the beginnings of a paunch. “We must all be grateful for the inscrutable workings of Providence, mustn’t we, Mrs. Newsome? Certainly He must be held responsible for the rain, at least.” The vicar’s wife looked chagrined by his mocking rebuke. “And Miss Burke might have been troubled by vagrants, or worse, if Raynham had not happened by when he did.”
His words echoed Mr. Davies’s. Perhaps there were greater dangers in Westmorland than she had imagined. Or perhaps Tristan had taken care to circulate a version of events in which he had rescued her, rather than risk having others learn the truth: She had
stumbled upon his hiding place.
A general move toward dinner began, and she found herself seated at table between Sir Thomas Lydgate and the vicar. Sir Thomas was a sportsman, busily bemoaning how the rain had curtailed his shooting. “Knew Raynham wouldn’t begrudge me a few of his birds—a chap must do something to pass the time.”
When Lord Beresford on his left claimed Sir Thomas’s attention, she turned to Mr. Newsome. “Did I understand your wife to say you’ve all been at Hawesdale Chase for a fortnight?”
“The duchess kindly invited her neighbors to a modest celebration of Raynham’s homecoming,” he explained. “When he did not appear, Sir Thomas elected to wait for him. Of course, no one had any notion he would be delayed so long. As the Lydgates were kind enough to carry us with them from Summerfield, we were obliged to stay as well.” Although he did not seem to share his wife’s obvious displeasure at the protracted visit, nor did he seem to be entirely pleased by the situation. “One does not wish to take advantage of another’s hospitality,” he said, choosing his words with care. “I suppose the storms kept Raynham from leaving London when he intended.”
“But it is not raining to the south,” she corrected unthinkingly. Across the table, a fair-haired gentleman whom she had not yet met took in her reply with interest. Quickly, she amended her words. “That is to say, it was not raining in Shropshire the day before yesterday.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Newsome said, absently. A half-smile lifted his lips. “Well, if the weather were more predictable, on what should we depend for conversation?”
For a homecoming celebration, the whole affair proceeded with unnatural solemnity and stiffness to Erica’s mind, perhaps because the family was still in mourning. Or perhaps because she was accustomed to the boisterous dinners of home, enlivened by her little sisters’ chatter and tales from her father’s most interesting cases. Her mind rattled about, searching for the rules her mother had cautioned her to observe on more formal occasions; most, however, had disintegrated through disuse into a sort of mental dust.
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