The Duke Who Loved Me

by Jane Ashford

  “Haven’t I just been telling you?” Impatience was an inadequate word for Lady Wilton’s expression.

  “Yes, ma’am. You have. I still don’t know why, however.” Cecelia knew she sounded sharp, but she couldn’t help it.

  “So you will make Tereford do something, of course! He is head of the family now. He must bestir himself. Percival never would, but James hasn’t the excuse of being half-mad.” The old lady grimaced. “Or completely mad. Percival saw no one in recent years, but the signs were there.”

  Cecelia was puzzled by her odd command. “You should speak to Tereford about this matter,” she replied. “Not to me. Indeed, I don’t know why…”

  “Because no one else has ever gotten James Cantrell to lift a finger.”

  This startled Cecelia into silence.

  “Ha, you know I’m right about that,” said Lady Wilton.

  “I have not…”

  “Don’t play missish with me, Cecelia Vainsmede. Everyone knows that your father was never his real trustee. Tereford will listen to you. You must make him track Ferrington down and bring him back to London. I shall take over after that.”

  “I have no particular influence over…”

  “Rubbish!”

  “What does the new earl look like?” asked Charlotte Deeping.

  Lady Wilton turned to glare at her. “He looks insolent, rather like you, young lady. I don’t know why you are speaking to me as I do not believe we have been introduced.”

  “Lady Wilton, this is—” Cecelia began.

  “I don’t care,” she interrupted. “I’ve no time for impertinent chits. You will do as I say, Miss Vainsmede. I expect to hear from you by tomorrow.” She rose with no sign of difficulty despite her age. And then, just when Cecelia thought this ordeal was over, she snapped, “Did you come to this ball alone? Again.”

  “No, Lady Wilton, I am here with the Finch party.”

  “Good! Valeria is utterly useless, you know.” With a final sniff, she swept away.

  Cecelia’s companions slowly drew closer again. Sarah reclaimed her chair. “I wonder if Lady Wilton is acquainted with your aunt Julia,” she said to Ada.

  “They certainly seem like sisters in spirit,” the girl answered.

  “Though Lady Wilton looks more like a buzzard,” said Charlotte.

  “Or an avenging harpy,” said Sarah. “Her hands are rather like claws.”

  “She is a good deal older than Ada’s aunt,” said Harriet. “There is time.”

  Cecelia bit back a laugh, and then found she was facing four pairs of sharp, interested eyes.

  “We are very good at solving mysteries,” said Charlotte. “We could help you find the missing heir.”

  “I like the sound of that,” said Sarah. “The search for the missing earl.”

  “I shan’t be doing any such thing,” Cecelia assured them. She didn’t have to imagine James’s response to such a request. She was certain he’d refuse. And she didn’t see that it was any of her affair.

  “But how can you resist?”

  “It would be much more interesting than parties and balls,” said Charlotte.

  “Not more,” protested Sarah. “But as.”

  “Ferrington,” murmured Harriet. “I’ve heard that name. Mama was drilling me… I think there is a Ferrington Hall not too far from my grandfather’s home.”

  “Drilling you?” Cecelia couldn’t help asking.

  “I’ve never been to Grandpapa’s house. There were…difficulties in my family that have only recently been resolved. We are going for a visit after the season.”

  “We will come with you!” said Charlotte. “And unravel the mystery of the missing earl.”

  “I can’t just invite…”

  “You told us your grandfather encouraged you to bring friends along,” Charlotte interrupted. “You should come too, Cecelia.”

  “I couldn’t…” She realized that James had returned to the ballroom and was gazing at her from across the floor. Even at this distance she could tell that his eyes were dancing. He’d seen Lady Wilton haranguing her, and he was relishing the fact that it had been her, and not him. She wished there was some way to punish him for that glee. And then she thought—perhaps there was.

  Three

  James pulled a small inlaid table from a towering pile of furnishings in the left-hand parlor of his ruinous town house. He had to jump back as a cascade of furniture threatened to tumble down around his ears. A small, glittering object bounced twice and came to rest near his right foot. He bent and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The silver sugar bowl was tarnished but richly embellished; it looked antique as well. This had to be worth a good deal, and it was one of the reasons that his first impulse—just to have everything cleared out and taken away—was impossible. The mess was seeded with valuable items, and he’d noticed documents stuffed into some crevices, too. His great-uncle had had no system whatsoever, meaning that James couldn’t leave this task to just anyone. Someone needed to evaluate each item and make a decision about its fate.

  “The devil!” he said, pushing the sugar bowl back into the pile. This task was colossal and unbearable. He’d tried to begin several times over the last week, and he could not tolerate the teetering chaos. Today, once again, he retreated, locking up the house to continue moldering, for now.

  A household was a woman’s job, he thought as he walked down the street and away. A chatelaine was the person to separate the wheat from the vast pile of chaff the previous duke had left behind. James felt certain of this even though he’d never experienced such a regime himself. His mother had died when he was three. He didn’t remember her. His father had remarried a year later and then lost his second wife in childbirth, along with James’s infant half brother. After that, they’d made do with a housekeeper. But she’d been a woman. Perhaps he could hire a supremely competent housekeeper? Where did one find such people? James employed a valet, but he had no other servants, and he’d found Hobbs through a friend’s recommendation.

  James shook his head. No, for this incredible labor he needed someone like Cecelia, an expert at organization and managing and an intelligent judge of what should be kept and what discarded. She would not be daunted by Uncle Percival’s detritus. She was tenacious as a bulldog. However, she’d made it clear that she did not intend to help him. He knew her; she would not be cajoled into it.

  The conversation from their waltz came back to him. It had been a relief. There was no other female he could talk to like Cecelia, no other that he knew so well. And with that observation came a startling idea. What if he married Cecelia? As his duchess, she would be obliged to set his house to rights. Ha!

  Immediately, he rejected the thought. He didn’t wish to be married! Oh, he would tie the knot someday to provide an heir for the title, but there was plenty of time for that. Years. Also he’d known Cecelia since she was a child. He’d never thought of her in that way. True at twenty-eight and twenty-two the disparity in their ages was effectively gone. But she was…Cecelia.

  And yet. Marriage to her would solve so many of his current problems. It would end the pursuit of the ambitious mamas. It would put a person of supreme competence in charge of his chaotic town house. And other properties. There were quite a few of them. James stopped walking, suddenly filled with horror. What if all the ducal estates were like the London house? A picture of decrepit, refuse-filled houses dotted over England rose in his mind. Clearly, Uncle Percival had done nothing for many years. It was all too likely that he had left such a nightmare behind. But Cecelia would plunge into managing them. She reveled in that sort of tedium. If experience was a guide, she would put all in order so quickly it made one’s head spin.

  Moreover, Cecelia knew his habits, and they had already established a way of dealing together during the years of his trust. A somewhat acrimonious method, but still… I
t was almost as if their youth had prepared them for this partnership. And finally, perhaps most of all, she wouldn’t expect him to make sickly protestations or constantly dance attendance on her. Had they not agreed as they waltzed that love was a silly illusion? Another—eventual—bride might look for all sorts of wearisome declarations and services. There was a dismal prospect.

  James walked on, nearly decided on offering for Cecelia. But, no. Marriage was such an irrevocable step. He wasn’t ready. He would think of some other solution. He turned to his club and the prospect of sporting talk or a game of cards instead.

  The following day, James received a formal letter from his great-uncle’s man of business resigning his position. The fellow claimed that he was retiring from active service, but James suspected that he simply didn’t wish to deal with the tangle Uncle Percival had left behind. Which he had allowed Uncle Percival to leave behind! Admittedly, James had shouted at him at their first meeting. And the second. But that was no reason to shirk his responsibilities.

  “Where shall I put the boxes?” asked his valet as James crumpled the letter in his fist.

  “What boxes?”

  “Seven large boxes were delivered along with the letter,” the man replied. “Containing documents, according to the carter.” Hobbs’s expression was neutral, but it was obvious he knew this was unwelcome news. The valet had worked for James for two years and was well acquainted with his moods.

  “Damn the fellow,” said James. “He’s running like a coward.”

  Hobbs said nothing.

  “Have them sent over to the town house.” James remembered there was no one there to receive them. Stifling a curse, he got the key and handed it to Hobbs. “Hire a carrier. Ride along and have the boxes put in the entryway.”

  The valet took the key without enthusiasm, but he did not go so far as to protest. However, James was aware that at some point, he probably would. Hobbs was not the sort of valet who gladly accepted tasks outside his area of expertise. He took superb care of James’s clothing, achieved an enviable shine on his boots, and dressed his hair in the latest mode. His skills had attracted attention, and more than one friend had tried to lure him away from James. Hobbs was not above hinting at this when asked to do more than he thought right. He would not be a help with Tereford House.

  James sighed as the valet departed. He needed a staff. He needed a new man of business. He needed help. This couldn’t go on. He must face the fact that drastic measures were required. And sacrifices. One had to make sacrifices for one’s heritage. James fetched his hat and set off to call on Cecelia. He knew he would find her alone at this hour. Her aunt would not be pulled from the garden for anything less than torrential rain in the afternoons.

  Cecelia received him in the drawing room of her father’s house, solitary as expected, a book open on her lap. James noticed that she looked exceedingly pretty in a blue cambric gown with a deep flounce at the hem. Her hair gleamed golden in the sunlight from the front windows, and her luminous blue eyes were soft when she greeted him. James realized that he hadn’t really been paying attention. Cecelia was lovely. He’d known that, and yet he hadn’t known it. He hadn’t fully appreciated the curves of the body beneath that smooth cambric. She was delectable. Marriage to her would hardly be a penance.

  He took the seat she indicated and accepted the offer of a glass of wine. There was a soothing sense of peace and order in the room, the sort of atmosphere a man wanted in his own home when he returned to it.

  “How is work going at the town house?” she asked him.

  “It is not.”

  “Have you come looking for sympathy then?”

  Seeing no reason to delay, James said, “I have come to ask you to marry me.”

  “What?”

  “I would like you to be my duchess,” he said.

  It was one of the few times in their long association that he’d managed to render her speechless. Indeed, she was gaping at him.

  “I think it a sensible plan,” he explained. “Offering advantages for both of us.”

  She still seemed unready to speak.

  Recognizing that he had surprised her, James went on. “You would be established with a respected position in society. That must be an important consideration for you. When your father is gone, your circumstances will be much reduced.”

  “Papa is quite healthy,” she replied in an odd tone.

  “For now. He is prone to overindulgence.”

  Cecelia bent her head so that he couldn’t see her face.

  James acknowledged that his last remark had been tactless. Yes, it was true. But a proposal should probably not dwell on a father’s death. Certainly it should not. What was wrong with him? He turned to another tack. “You enjoy having estates to run.”

  She raised her head and gazed at him, her eyes wide and unreadable. “Would you really go this far to have me do your work for you?”

  “You are practically trained to be a duchess already.”

  “Trained! Like a performing animal?”

  “What? Nothing of the sort. You are speaking as if I’ve insulted you.”

  “I’m astounded, rather.” She looked down again. “I–I had no notion you were contemplating marriage at this time.”

  “Well, I wasn’t, but this would thwart the ambitious mamas. And, you know, the dukedom requires an heir and so on.” James faltered as his mind was suddenly full of the process of gaining said heir. How had he failed to appreciate Cecelia’s lithe, lovely curves? They were right there, an arm’s length away.

  “So on,” repeated Cecelia with parted lips.

  They were quite enticing lips. Was she too thinking of marital embraces? The idea sent a flush of heat over his skin.

  She blinked and sat straighter. “But chiefly I would set the estate in order for you,” she said. “That is why you are here.”

  “I know you like to be useful.”

  “Is that what you know about me?”

  He couldn’t understand why she was being so prickly. “One thing. Do you deny it?”

  “No, but…”

  “There! I am offering a task you enjoy. And we are familiar with each other’s ideas and habits.”

  “Do you mean that I am accustomed to dealing with a vain, indolent man?” Cecelia asked. “Two of them actually.”

  “That is not the way I would put it,” James replied, nettled.

  “No, of course you would not.”

  “You are being tiresome.”

  “Am I? Perhaps it’s fortunate then that I am not going to marry you.”

  “What?” Taken up with his own doubts about this momentous step, James hadn’t considered that she might refuse. The possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “Why not?”

  “You’ve treated me like an annoyance nearly all my life, James. Why would I shackle myself to you?”

  “Nonsense.”

  She shook her head. “The very way you say that word. So certain. And condescending. Allowing no possibility of another view.”

  “Non—” James bit off the word. “Nothing of the sort.”

  “And now you come and say you want me to be your drudge.”

  “Drudge! Are you out of your senses? I am proposing to make you my duchess.”

  “So that I will be under your thumb. You’ve always delighted in tormenting me.”

  “Tormenting?” James didn’t know whether he was more angry or incredulous. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “When I was ten, you hid my essay on Shakespeare and told my governess that I’d been shirking. And that I’d said she was a fubsy-faced prune.”

  “How do you remember…?” James shook his head. “I was a sulky stripling. I meant it as a joke.”

  “I didn’t find it amusing. When I was sixteen, you told Reginald Quentin that I was m
ad about him.”

  James laughed. “That spotty toadeater!”

  “He followed me about for weeks trying to steal a kiss. I had to be quite cruel to make him stop. Which I do not like to be!”

  “Did he? I’m sorry. I apologize for all my youthful follies. But I can’t believe you’ve been holding grudges all this time.”

  “They are not grudges, James. They are…evidence that we would not suit.” Cecelia frowned. “Though I never did find my essay.” She looked around the drawing room. “I don’t suppose you remember where you hid it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she echoed.

  “What is the matter with you? You are always such a sensible creature.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, Cecelia, you are. You argue for curtailed expenditures and considered decisions. You are an excellent manager and a master of accounts.”

  In the face of these compliments, she looked chagrined. Perhaps even distressed? But why should that be? Thinking he must be mistaken, James pressed on. “As we have both decided that we are not going to fall in love…”

  “That is not precisely true.”

  “You said that love never came along,” James pointed out.

  “Yet,” Cecelia said, seeming to bite off the word.

  “And declared that you are on the shelf, so you must not be expecting it any longer.”

  “It is very irritating to have my words thrown back in my face in this way.”

  “I know,” said James. “You’ve done the same to me on many occasions.”

  “There you have it. We don’t get along. Haven’t you often called me the bane of your existence?”

  “That was another joke. I thought you had a better sense of humor.”

  Her blue eyes blazed at him. “And so you discover that you are wrong. Again.”

  James had never seen her so animated, or so beautiful. Cecelia had been a fixture in his life for years, useful or frustrating, tolerable or irrelevant. But in this moment he realized that she was a woman of passion as well as intelligence. The fire in her gaze, the taut challenge of her body, made his senses flare with desire. “I am not wrong,” he said. He hadn’t seen it until now.