A Hint of Starlight

by Connolly, Lynne

  Matilda took control, as she often did. “Blackridge and I have decided the matter between us. Dorcas is in no state to be moved tonight, and I do not wish you ladies to stay at an inn on your own. I am in charge of your welfare, in default of your brother. However, while the gentlemen should sleep elsewhere, I believe it would be churlish to push them out of the house.”

  She glanced at Blackridge. “And his grace’s strength has soothed Dorcas. She finds solace in his quiet conversation.” She slapped her hands together, as if brushing off society’s concerns. “Indeed, there is plenty of room for us all. I have dispatched a note to Gerald, informing him of Dorcas’ illness. The news will not surprise him, once he knows our reasons.”

  Damaris nodded. “Dorcas suffers from her headaches more than she would have us know.”

  “Do you have any idea what causes them?” Blackridge asked her.

  Damaris shook her head. “She sleeps well, doesn’t stay up late—” she broke off with an embarrassed laugh “Not as late as I do, at any rate. She doesn’t read as much as Delphi, but then, nobody does and she spends a lot of time in the fresh air.”

  The large man nodded. “There must be an underlying reason.” He motioned to the stairs. “I’ve ordered dinner served at four. You have time to freshen up beforehand. I suggest we dine informally.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The duke raised a thick, dark brow. “Please, let me show you to a room you can use.”

  Kilsyth, Glenbreck, Damaris and Delphi followed him up the elegant staircase. In this house, nothing appeared too ostentatious, but all the furnishings were carefully selected. The house was set on a rise, so many of the windows had lovely views of the river and others looked over the glorious Wren creation that was the Naval College. The late afternoon sun gilded the rooftops and the white stone of the buildings, the two towers that dominated the river appearing ethereal. “Wren was a genius,” she murmured.

  “So was Hawksmoor,” Kilsyth replied. “Architecture is a triumph of art over mathematics.”

  “I would say it was the other way around,” Logan said as they reached the top of the stairs. He rested his hand next to hers, as she placed it on the polished banister. Even that proximity made her shiver in reaction. He wasn’t even touching her. Lord, she was in trouble. Perhaps spending time close to him would ease that reaction, and she would not find her mind turning to porridge when he smiled at her. “When a building is precisely constructed, beauty ensues, and that cannot be done without mathematics.”

  “Architects will cheat the numbers in order to get the effect they want.” Blackridge led the way along a surprisingly spacious corridor. Windows opened off one side, and a row of white–painted doors with gilded door furniture faced them. Prints or drawings were set on the walls.

  Opening the door, he revealed an utterly delightful room. The bed was draped in light blue silk, but in the modern canopy style. The tallboy gleamed with polishing, its walnut surface enhanced by shiny gilt knobs. A landscape painting hung on one wall. The effect was one of tranquility, the perfect place to sleep. “Would this room suit you, Lady Delphi? If Lady Damaris would consent to take the next one, there is a communicating door between the two, which you may leave open if you wish. I apologize for the modest furnishings, but I have not spent a great deal of time here recently.”

  Delphi spun around, the skirts of her gown swinging. “Oh, this room is simply lovely.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Blackridge said, a smile quirking the corner of his firm mouth. “If I may say so, Lady Delphi, you are easily pleased.”

  “Not usually,” Damaris commented.

  Logan had not entered the room, but stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb.

  Damaris met his eyes. She said nothing, but she did not have to.

  Blackridge showed them another bedroom. Similar to the one Delphi now occupied, but the drapery had a charming pattern of spring flowers and an oriental rug so soft her instinct was to roll all over it as if she were a child again. Concealing her delight, Damaris walked into the room, claiming it as her own. As the duke had promised, a door connected this room with the next.

  “Your sister is resting in the room two doors along. Your aunt is next to you, but she has expressed the desire to stay with Lady Dorcas.” Blackridge moved to the door. “I will send a maid to bring you down when dinner is ready, if that suits you.”

  The others left.

  Damaris nodded her assent. Folding her arms, she crossed the room to the window and gazed out at the river. The Thames was never at peace. Vessels, small and large, bustled along its length, seemingly oblivious to the others sharing its space. They were certainly not aware of her, which was how Damaris preferred to conduct her life.

  The connection between Logan and herself was disturbingly potent. That was yet another reason why she could not consider the duke. Even if he wanted her, she was most unsuited for the role of a duchess. Though as the wife of a Scottish country gentleman she could manage perfectly well.

  Inwardly scoffing at her ridiculous imagining, Damaris turned away when the maid knocked at the door with a can of hot water.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was ready. She had washed, brushed out and repinned her hair, and smoothed her skirts. That was all she could do, so that would have to serve. She would not win any prizes for the magnificence of her costume, but she was neat and clean.

  In truth, although her clothes were better than they used to be, they still tended towards the simple.

  A small bookcase in the corner of the room yielded a new novel, one everyone was talking about. She sat down to read it. A dozen pages in, she understood why. The story was ostensibly about a girl entering society, who was ruined by the cynical, cruel people she met. Some of the figures were clever descriptions of people Damaris recognized, most of them prominent members of the ruling class. The writing was absorbing and she had not realized how much time had passed until she had to put the book down when someone knocked at the door.

  She had expected a maid, not Logan. He had changed into a velvet coat and breeches, with a cream silk waistcoat embroidered in the same shade of green at his outer garments. “I have come to escort you down to dinner,” he said.

  She laid her hand gently on his arm. “I thought dinner was to be an informal affair. You are dressed up for a meal—”

  “With a duke?”

  They began to walk. “You are laughing at me,” she accused.

  “Shall we say with instead of at? No, it is merely because I have stayed here before, and I have clothes to change into. I want to honor you.” His words sounded charmingly old fashioned and they made her smile, as she presumed he meant. Logan was good at diverting embarrassment, in this instance hers. Had he, perhaps, experience because the skill seemed to come naturally to him. An impoverished duke would have cause to use such an art.

  As the afternoon spread into the evening, Damaris became even more sure of her conclusion. He was not rejecting her, he was merely letting her know that he needed something else from a wife. Not that she would accept him, even if he asked her. Of course she would not. Damaris determined to keep to her plan of moving to a pleasant house in the country with her sisters. Unless her sisters found mates, of course, but that seemed unlikely.

  The Duke of Blackridge proved the perfect host for the informality they wanted. Matilda joined them, and said that although Dorcas was awake, Matilda had confined her to bed and requested a light meal sent up to her. “She is feeling better, but she is still weak. These spells are not mere headaches. They affect her whole body, and leave her faint. She shakes.”

  Blackridge frowned. “Something must be done. Nobody should suffer in that way. I will put my mind to the problem.”

  As if they had not. Indignantly, Damaris considered all the methods they’d tried over the years. “We tried laudanum.” She nodded as Logan offered her a spoonful of buttered carrots. They were tiny, hothouse vegetables, not the dried, stringy ones left
from last autumn’s crop, cooked in sauce to hide their quality. His concern for Dorcas was only that of a man who wanted to help. The Duke of Blackridge noticed, and acted on his observations.

  Therefore, Damaris would let him help. “The laudanum made matters worse in the long run. It cured her immediate problem, but her headaches came more frequently and with worse severity. Unfortunately, she could not immediately break the habit. Now that she has, she will not touch it again.”

  “Some women live on it,” Kilsyth commented. “Men, too. I prefer a good burgundy.” Lifting the crystal glass filled with red liquid, he swirled it slightly, making the facets glow with ruby intensity before he took a sip.

  “She loves gardening,” Matilda said. “Perhaps too much. She is always out in the fresh air. But that should help her condition, surely.”

  “It can do it no harm.” Blackridge put his glass down so gently that it didn’t make a sound, but determination lay in his action. “Although her loved ones have evidently worked long and hard to discover a reason for Lady Dorcas’ condition, perhaps a fresh head will help. If you will permit me.”

  “That is up to Dorcas,” Matilda said gruffly. She forked up a mouthful of lamb and chewed vigorously.

  “Then I shall ask her.” The duke returned to his meal.

  Next to her, Logan was eating steadily, but he attended to Damaris’ needs as well as his own.

  This situation was so unusual as to strike her as decidedly strange. Matilda was the only chaperone they had, but since she’d been busy with Dorcas, the others had spent the afternoon as what was, effectively, two couples. If society ever heard of that, it might decide to condemn them entirely. But by now, Damaris was beginning to understand society’s foibles.

  Nothing mattered so much as its approval, and that depended not on what one did, but who approved of it. That was the secret. Damaris could behave with utter propriety, and they would still condemn her if Lady Elizabeth Askew had her way. So she must cultivate the acquaintance of other influential people.

  She would accept all the invitations waiting at home. Every single one, and she would appear smiling and happy at them all. Because if she remained in Logan’s company for too long, she would eventually succumb. She knew that now.

  Resolutions were easy to make, and more often than not difficult to maintain, but she would maintain this one.

  Damaris smiled and made conversation, and minded her manners. Once the unfortunate subject of Dorcas’ illness was dealt with, they turned to discussing the latest on-dits, and the plays currently showing at the two theaters in London. Damaris suspected the men were leading the conversation, and she was sure of it when Delphi began to discuss a sensitive topic, only to be adroitly led in another direction by Logan.

  She knew him too well, and his name came too easily to her.

  They chatted long into the evening, only pausing to move to the drawing room, which was just as pleasant as the other rooms Damaris had seen. She had quite forgotten the exalted status of the men sitting on the wide sofas, arms spread over the back, laughing easily or leaning forward to make a point. She could discuss her particular interests without fear of interruption, or boring people.

  She could so easily get used to this. It was the way she, her sisters and brother had passed their evenings in Shoreditch. Yet another reason why the family was finding difficulty settling into their new, more public roles.

  The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven and Damaris stared at the hands, shocked by the time that had passed. At some point, Matilda had quietly gone upstairs, returning with the news that Dorcas was sleeping. That was normal when she was recovering. Damaris breathed a sigh of relief. Later, a maid had come in, quietly closed the curtains and brought them tea. Apart from that brief interruption they had been left alone. Damaris got to her feet. “I really must retire.”

  Immediately, Glenbreck—Logan—stood. “Allow me to escort you.”

  Tension returned to tighten her stomach uncomfortably. When he’d been sitting next to her, chatting about impersonal matters, she had relaxed in his company. Now, facing him, recalling how easily he could melt her every resolve if he so desired, awareness sparked between them. He knew. “There is no need, sir, but thank you. I know the way.”

  He did not demur, but held the door open for her.

  “I’ll come up with you,” Delphi said, although she had shown no inclination of retiring before. Damaris wanted to get out of this room and settle her mind. She could not think properly when her blood was racing hot and her heart was beating so quickly. She’d imagined the annoying reactions to the duke would have worn off by now, but her body reacted independently of her. It could not last much longer, surely, or she would have an apoplexy.

  Matilda rose, and then Damaris understood the proprieties of the situation. No single lady could remain in the same room as two men.

  As they bade the gentlemen goodnight and left, Damaris muttered, sotto voce, “I hate propriety sometimes.”

  “I completely agree,” the duke answered, just as quietly.

  She did not reply. She had said it for herself and her sister, not him. At least, she told herself that.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour later, Damaris discovered she was not as tired as she’d thought. She’d found a delicate lawn, lace-trimmed night rail on her bed, and a gorgeous pale pink wrapper. The outer garment was completely frivolous, but she could not resist trying it on. It was lined in ivory satin. After posing before the mirror, she removed the wrapper and climbed into bed.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, she flung back the covers and moved to climb out. Still wide awake, she climbed out of bed and donned the wrapper, tying the belt securely around her and fastening the pearl buttons at the neck. They could not be real; they were too large for that. Who would put pearls that size on an informal gown that nobody would see but the wearer?

  And the wearer’s lover of course.

  But what Blackridge did with this house was none of her business, even though he had assured them that he never used it for nefarious purposes.

  She strode to the window, enjoying the cool touch of linen and silk against her bare legs, and sat on the window seat. The deeply recessed window had a cushion laid on the deep sill and she sank into it, her attention fixed on the stars above. The clouds had drifted away and the glass in the sash window was clear enough for her to make out most of the details. Many glass panes caused optical aberrations, so usually she preferred to observe in the fresh air.

  Tonight would not be cold. If she dressed, she might find a way up to the roof. No, that was foolish. She should stay here. But the stars held their usual lure and she longed to lose herself in them.

  As she picked out Andromeda, now moving out of the sky as the season wore on, someone knocked softly on her door.

  Alarm pierced her. Was her sister worse? When she’d looked in on Dorcas, she’d seemed better, settled in sleep. She’d even managed to drink some broth, Matilda had told her.

  Damaris had the door open before she’d finished reasoning. But it wasn’t Matilda standing there. It was the Duke of Glenbreck—Logan. His warm smile changed to a look of alarm. “Is something wrong?”

  “No—no. I thought my sister might be worse.”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” He wore a soft coat, fastened with frogging at the neck in the banyan style. She dared not glance down as his legs and feet might be bare. “No, it’s not that.” He looked far too touchable. “I have something to show you.”

  “Are you mad?” As her chest heaved with agitation, his gaze flicked down, then immediately back up. “What if someone came?”

  “Shh!”

  Damaris put her hand to her breasts and forced her breathing to slow down. She had squeaked the word, with no attempt at quietness. When she had gained control, she spoke again. “What do you mean, you have something to show me?”

  “Would you like to do some star-gazing?”

  No other words would have impelled
her forward, but these did. She took a step forward and closed her door behind her, very quietly.

  “Come. The telescope,” he repeated to himself as if they held some kind of spell that would prevent him misbehaving. “The telescope.” He gazed at her. “Friends?”

  “Friends,” she said, taking the word as a promise they were making to each other.

  When he held his hand out to her, she took it, as if they had done it a million times before. Already his warmth felt familiar.

  He took her along to the end of the corridor and opened a small door. Stairs led upwards, narrows stairs such as servants used. Drugget muffled their footsteps as they ascended. They went right up to the top floor, while Damaris was wondering what imp had entered her and told her to do this.

  “A telescope?”

  “This is a much better place to view the stars than the dirt and smoke of London, so Grant allows me to keep a telescope here. I come here when I can.”

  She turned around slowly, mouth agape, viewing the contents of the room. This was more than a telescope. This was more than an attic room.

  On one side, the lead of the roof spread before her fascinated gaze and on the other, a wide window with a dormer above provided a huge expanse of glass.

  Logan opened the door leading out to the roof, but all of Damaris’ attention was on the telescope dominating the small space. She spared a quick glance at the tall case set against one wall, filled with rolled charts and papers. Excitement quickened in her veins. “I love this.”

  “I can see you do.” He pulled back a chair on wheels. “Sit. Feel free to adjust it.”

  She peeped through the eye-hole. The telescope was mounted on a tripod stand, so she did not have to hold it steady or balance it on a pile of books. When she reached for the polished brass barrel, the instrument swung to one side, so beautifully oiled that it only needed a touch to swing it to the desired position. Before her gleamed three stars, part of Hercules. Breathless, she traced the lines she knew so well from her charts. “I’ve never seen anything so wonderful before.”