Her Night with the Duke

by Diana Quincy

  She said nothing, but he saw that his intention to prolong their affair pleased her. They reached their balls, which were a few feet apart, and within close proximity to the target. Hunt lined up with his club and with a gentle tap, ushered the ball into the hole.

  “You make it look so easy.” She rolled her eyes and then stepped up to take her turn. The ball fell short of the mark. It took two additional tries for her ball to finally join Hunt’s.

  Hunt turned to his caddie. “That will be all, Martin.” He gestured to the aides stationed farther out along the green. “And tell the others, will you? Lady Devon and I will manage on our own from here. We’ll just practice our putting.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” The caddie went off to join the others.

  Hunt bent to retrieve both balls from the hole and lined one up for Leela. “Just tap the ball gently. Don’t force it.”

  She focused and hit the ball. It sputtered to a stop about a foot from the target. Leela shook her head. “I should just give up. I clearly do not possess the necessary skill for this game.”

  “Nonsense, you’re coming along quite nicely. Besides, you do have at least a decade to perfect your golf swing.”

  That prompted a smile from her. “I rather like the idea of having several years with you. But I should probably just stick to writing.” She kicked at the grass. “Although that may not be an option for much longer.”

  “How can that be?” He lined up and tapped his ball, sending it in a straight line into the hole.

  “I cannot find a publisher for the third volume.”

  He frowned. “Surely, Travels in Arabia has been successful enough to merit a third volume.”

  “One would think. But apparently the objection to women who not only work, but also demand to be paid their worth is greater than a thirst for money.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Once my publisher discovered that D. L. Chambers is in fact a woman, he declined to pay me what I think the third volume is worth. He also found it distasteful to be forced into discussing business concerns with a female.”

  “Why not take your book to another publisher?”

  “I tried. But they all turned me away. They are shocked that a gently bred lady wants to publish books that might bring her fame.”

  “That’s ridiculous and bad business. They stand to make a great deal of money off volume three. You’ve already proven you can sell books. Isn’t volume two coming out in a few weeks?”

  “Yes, but my publisher purchased the second volume before he discovered my true identity. Once he learned that I am a female, he declined to pay me what I believe volume three is worth.”

  He felt a surge of pride in her. “You asked for more money.”

  “Given the success of the first volume of Travels in Arabia”—a defensive tone crept into her voice—“I believe I deserve it.”

  “I agree,” he said quickly, wanting to reassure her of his support. “The publishers are foolish. There’s almost no risk involved in taking you on, and you were correct to ask for more money.”

  “There’s a risk if anyone discovers that D. L. Chambers is a woman. Apparently, my lack of a male appendage is a problem.”

  “Not for me.” He came over and pulled her close for a lengthy kiss, his tongue lazily, tenderly playing with hers. “I thank God that you are a woman.”

  “You are just trying to distract me to get me off my game.”

  His hands dropped down her lower back to squeeze her behind. “Is it working?”

  “Most definitely.” She nestled in his arms. “I wish there was another way to get volume three published.”

  “Why not publish by subscription? Surely, enough subscribers would sign up to purchase the book in advance of publication.”

  “I’d still need someone to actually print the book. All of the reputable publishing houses in London have turned me away.” She sighed. “If only I could publish the third volume on my own.”

  An idea came to him. “Maybe you can.”

  “How would I manage that?”

  He took her hand. “By taking your future into your own hands.” He turned and began striding back toward the house with Leela in tow.

  She stumbled along after him before righting herself. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “We can produce up to four tons of paper per week,” Mr. Rutledge said loudly, clearly proud of this accomplishment. He had to speak over the noisy machines. “The installation of cogs and rollers of the Fourdrinier steam powered machine has made us very productive indeed.”

  Hunt’s surprise turned out to be a visit to Mr. Rutledge’s paper mill, located in a rural retreat about an hour away from Eaton Park. Fascinated, Leela watched the moving belt receive a mixture of clumpy wood pulp and water.

  “It’s the latest technology.” The paper mill owner addressed Hunt and all but ignored Leela as they stepped away from the machine and into a quieter section of the mill. “Very few paper mills have this machine. The newspapers have been able to expand their production due to this papermaking technique.”

  As the water was suctioned away, steam-heated rollers evenly distributed the fibers, forming a continuous sheet of paper, which was further smoothed by more rollers. The sheet was then dried by the combined forces of heat, suction and pressure. The machine was enormous and very noisy.

  “What about novels?” Leela asked. “I imagine large print runs of books are also possible?”

  “Yes indeed.” Mr. Rutledge directed his answer to her question at Hunt. “Combining the fourfold method of wetting, pressing, drying and finishing paper into one mechanized format has made printing books far more efficient that the old processes when each of those steps must be painstakingly performed on its own.”

  “Remarkable,” Hunt said.

  “Do you print many books?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He finally spared a glance at Leela.

  “You will address the Countess of Devon as ‘my lady,’” Hunt instructed the man.

  “Countess?” An obviously dubious Mr. Rutledge studied Leela more closely. She’d chosen to wear a simple white day dress with a matching pelisse rather than one of her imposing countess gowns. “Forgive me, my lady. As I was saying, we print mostly Bibles and prayer books. As you can imagine, there is great demand for religious texts.”

  They took their leave of Mr. Rutledge a short time later, crossing over to the local tavern appropriately named the Paper Mill, to get something to eat.

  Once they were seated and served, Hunt took a long draught of his beer. “What do you think?”

  “Of the paper mill? The Fourdrinier machine is very impressive.” She registered the eagerness in his eyes. “You think I should engage Mr. Rutledge to print the third volume of Travels in Arabia?”

  “Actually no. As it happens Mr. Rutledge is selling the mill.”

  “Oh.” Her mood dimmed. “There is no telling if the new owner will take kindly to dealing with a woman. Mr. Rutledge could barely bring himself to address me.”

  “I could buy the mill for you.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “It would be a good investment for me.”

  “It’s a generous offer and really very sweet of you.”

  “Why does it feel like a ‘however’ is coming?”

  “However,” she said, “having you buy a paper mill in order to print my books is still giving someone else power over the publication of my writings and it could complicate matters between us.”

  “Surely you cannot think I would ever cheat you or try to stop you from publishing your books.”

  “Of course not. But that sort of an arrangement would mean that I still have to be dependent on someone else to get my books out into the world. I prefer to keep our relationship strictly personal.”

  He sat back in his chair, his disappointment clear. “I thought it was the perfect solution for you.”

  “I appre
ciate the offer, truly I do. Besides, your future wife won’t take kindly to any arrangement that keeps your former lover in your life. And I would not blame her.”

  He scowled. “I’m not even wed yet, but this imaginary future duchess is already making a nuisance of herself.”

  “If I had the funds, I would buy the paper mill myself.”

  “I could lend you the money, but something tells me you would not accept it from me.”

  Leela smiled. “You have the right of it.” She grew pensive. She could ask her brother for a loan, but Alex was nowhere to be found at the moment. Stokes knew how to reach the marquess in case of an emergency, but securing a loan to purchase the paper mill hardly qualified as an emergency. She reached for her pewter mug. “I’ll just have to find another way.”

  “I would never bet against you once you set your mind to something.”

  She clicked her mug against Hunt’s. “You are a smart man indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The following week, Leela was back at her brother’s London townhome plotting her Morocco trip when Stokes appeared with a surprise visitor.

  Seated at the desk in her mother’s sitting room, Leela twisted in her chair to speak with the butler. “Who is it?”

  A familiar face wrapped in a hooded black cape popped up behind him. “It’s me,” Tori said warily. “If you will receive me.”

  “Tori!” Leela bolted from her chair and rushed over to her stepdaughter. She pulled the girl in for a tight hug. Stokes quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “I’ve been so worried about you.” Relief flowed through Leela to have Tori’s slight frame safe in her arms, the girl’s familiar floral scent swirling around her. “Are you well?”

  “I’m perfectly fine.” Tori hugged her back hard. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

  The vulnerability in Tori’s voice made Leela’s heart squeeze. She pulled back, her hands firmly on the girl’s shoulders. “I am not angry with you. But I do need to understand what happened.”

  “And I so want to explain.” Tori removed her cloak, exposing a simple brown gown with a white fichu tucked into the wide square neck. The hem stopped at Tori’s ankles, as was common for women of the working class, revealing sturdy leather shoes.

  “Why are you dressed like this?” The rough fabrics were far from the silks and muslins with intricate lace and embroidery that Tori normally wore. “Where are your clothes?”

  Tori smiled ruefully. “I left my brother’s house with nothing but the gown on my back. And I have sold my betrothal gown to help support Mr. Foster and me.”

  “Why isn’t Mr. Foster working to provide for you? Are you . . . Mrs. Foster yet?”

  Tori’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, I am an old married lady now.”

  “Are you content?”

  “I have never been more so.” The young woman’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. She was radiant. “Mr. Foster is everything to me.”

  “And he treats you well?”

  “He is all that is good and agreeable. I could not ask for a better husband and life companion.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear it.” Relief loosened the tight muscles across the back of Leela’s shoulders after weeks of worry. “Now you must ask Edgar for your clothes.”

  “I already have. He has declined to give me anything, including my clothing.”

  “You saw Edgar?”

  “Yes, just now, before I called here.”

  “Why won’t he give you your things?” She tucked an errant tendril behind Tori’s ear. “He has no use for them. It will cost him nothing to restore your possessions to you.”

  “He said he would rather burn my things than return them to me after how I embarrassed and humiliated him before all of London.”

  Leela looked heavenward. “Leave it to Edgar to make your jilting Huntington all about him.” She took the girl’s hand and guided her to the sofa.

  “How is the duke?” Tori’s voice was subdued. “I feel terrible about running off like that and leaving Hunt to face the scandal I created. Have you seen him?”

  Leela settled beside the girl. “Yes, he was very upset at first, but he isn’t angry with you.”

  Her eyes widened. “He isn’t? Why not? I would be if I were in his position. He’d be well within his rights to hate me.”

  “He understands that you might have felt pressured to wed him. He does not fault you. However, he does feel some animus toward Mr. Foster.”

  “That explains why no one will hire Mr. Foster. They do not want to incur the duke’s wrath.”

  “Mr. Foster is without employment? How are you surviving?”

  “He has some savings, but spent most of it to cover the costs incurred by our journey to Gretna Green. I sold my betrothal gown for more than one hundred pounds so that has been very helpful.”

  “But Edgar had the North Road watched. You were not spotted.”

  “We left the main road as often as possible. And Mr. Foster decided we should travel mostly at night.”

  “You are accustomed to having every luxury at your disposal. The route you chose will bring you down in the world,” Leela warned, even though it was too late to change anything. “You will face hardships you could never have imagined.”

  “I didn’t intend to form an attachment to Mr. Foster. And we both fought it. But it grew more and more evident to me that he is indeed my naseeb. I tried to ignore my growing love for Mr. Foster because I thought any formal attachment between us was impossible.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I actually proposed to Mr. Foster because I knew he would never presume to ask for my hand. He confessed to loving me but said he would not allow me to ruin my future by wedding him when I was destined to become a duchess.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “When we visited Weston House, Huntington’s London home, that first time. You will recall that Mr. Foster was showing me around His Grace’s library. It was fortunate that you and the duke were so engrossed in conversation that you barely paid us any attention. Do you recall that afternoon?”

  Leela flushed. “Vaguely,” she lied. In truth, she remembered that afternoon most vividly. Hunt had promised to look after Victoria after revealing he would never love his wife as much as he cared for Leela.

  “After Mr. Foster declined my offer of marriage, I was determined to do my duty to my family by marrying Huntington. The duke was kind to me but I did not experience the same intensity of feeling that I do for Mr. Foster. I realize that might sound silly.”

  “It does not. You felt an attraction for Mr. Foster that you did not feel for the duke.”

  “Exactly! Mr. Foster came to me the night of the betrothal ball. He climbed up that old tree by my bedchamber window. He said he was a selfish fool to compromise my future, but that he loved me and couldn’t bear to live his life without me. He begged me to consider marrying him.”

  “And you accepted.”

  “Not right then, no. How could I? The guests were all there waiting for the announcement. Hunt and Edgar and you expected me to go forward. And I am not the sort of girl to cause a scandal.”

  “No, you certainly are not.”

  “And then you came up to my bedchamber. And I know you naturally assumed I was speaking of the duke when you urged me to fight for love.”

  “But you were referring to Mr. Foster.” Tori’s strange mood just before she ran away now made perfect sense.

  She nodded. “I thought about our conversation while Edgar and Hunt announced the engagement at the ball. That’s when I spotted Mr. Foster watching me through the doors that lead to the garden. Suddenly, my future flashed before me. I could do what was expected and wed the duke. I’d live a life of leisure and luxury as Hunt’s duchess, with warmth and fondness, certainly, but absent of true romantic love. With Mr. Foster, I’d have a husband who understood my very soul. And would it have been fair to Hunt for m
e to wed him when I loved another?”

  “No, it would not have.” A new wave of remorse swept over her for having pushed Hunt to wed Tori. “What will you do now?”

  “We have let apartments on Holborn Street. The money from my gown should see us through for several months if we live modestly.”

  Leela was familiar with the neighborhood. Holborn was a respectable area, but it was a far cry from the elite West End, where Tori had grown up. “Are you truly prepared to live a modest life?”

  “I do not need mansions or castles to be happy. Our house is quite cozy. What makes it a home is that Mr. Foster is there with me.” She paused. “There is only one luxury that I shall miss.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Books. Mr. Foster tells me they are very dear and that we shan’t be able to afford them just now.”

  “I have some money. You must take whatever you need.”

  “No,” Tori said, with a firm shake of her head. “I won’t take charity. Mr. Foster and I will have to make do. We put ourselves in this situation and we will have to see our way through it.”

  “Then at least accept a loan of books from our library here.”

  “Do you think your brother would approve? Society will see me as a pariah and he is a marquess.”

  “Alexander does not give a wit about what society thinks. I’m certain he would not mind.”

  “Very well. It would be difficult to live without reading and discussing books with Mr. Foster.”

  “And you must accept a wedding gift from me.”

  Tori set her jaw. “I won’t take money.”

  “I am gifting you a subscription to the lending library.”

  Tori’s face brightened. “I would be able to read the latest books. I am so looking forward to volume two of Travels in Arabia. As is Mr. Foster.”

  Leela smiled. One day soon, she would reveal the truth about her book to Tori. But this didn’t seem to be the time. They had so much more to talk about at the moment.

  She rang for Stokes and met him at the door to the sitting room. After asking for the tea tray, she quietly instructed the butler to prepare a generous food basket for Mrs. Foster to take with her when she departed.