by Amy Jarecki
“Are you all right?” Danby raced to her side and kneeled. “Why the devil did you let go?”
Eleanor howled with laughter and rocked back onto her haunches. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?”
“A woman of seven and twenty? A duchess no less?” He laughed as well, sitting beside her. “At least your acrobatics were quite a sight to behold.”
She held up her palm and hissed. “Though I don’t remember leaping from swings hurting quite so much.”
Sher took her hand and examined the wound. “You’re bleeding.”
“Only a little.”
Removing his kerchief from his waistcoat pocket, he dabbed the scrape. “Naughty duchess,” he teased, his eyelashes appearing inordinately long as he tended her wound.
“Humph,” she said. “I thought you wanted to have fun.”
“Fun.” The word was spoken with an air of mystery. “There. I believe the bleeding has ebbed.”
“Thank you.” She started to pull her hand away but he held tight. Those fans of eyelashes raised while his vivid green eyes met hers. He kissed her palm, and for the second time since they met, it sent a shiver up her arm.
Again, Eleanor started to move, but Sher had ensnared her hand and didn’t seem about to release it. Instead, he kissed the inside of her wrist, his gaze unwavering. Up he kissed, while upward Eleanor’s pulse thrummed. Those practiced lips caressed her forearm, the crook of her elbow, her upper arm, only stopping when he reached her shoulder.
Her mouth parted while she sat mesmerized by those eyes. Would he kiss her lips? Outside where anyone might see? The idea was scandalous, yet she wanted him to kiss her with every fiber of her body. Taking a chance, she inched closer.
And closer.
Finally, the heat from his skin bathed her face like a ray of sunlight. Without another thought, she brazenly closed the distance and kissed him.
And, oh, did the duke kiss her back!
A feral moan rumbled from his throat as he moved his hand behind her neck, coaxing her mouth open with sweeps of his delicious tongue. She closed her eyes and matched his fervor while he gradually laid her on the grass. His firm lips played across her mouth until, dizzy with fevered passion, she arched against him, gasping for breath. “You are indeed a devilish duke.”
A chuckle, low and deep vibrated against the tender flesh along her jaw as he trailed kisses along it. “Devilishly romantic?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Sher nuzzled her neck and caused her to squirm before those wicked lips continued lower.
“Yes,” she sighed while his kisses toyed above the scooped neckline of her bodice.
His hand slipped over her breast.
Oh, heaven, it felt so divine.
She released one more satiated sigh before her eyes flashed open. “Danby! We are outdoors.”
The warmth of his palm slipped from her breast and meandered down to her ribs. “Oh, my, what will people say?”
“The duke is on the lawn fondling his wife?”
He glanced toward the house and waggled his eyebrows. “What if all the servants are lining the windows right at this very moment?”
She squirmed, to no avail. “They’re not.”
“They might be.”
Eleanor tried to move again, but with one more, mind-numbing kiss, she melted beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Margaret bobbled in Miss Repast’s arms while the spoon in the nursemaid’s hand somehow made it into the child’s mouth. She was so full of bubbles, it was amazing the porridge wasn’t covering the floor.
Eleanor ate her own oats, trying to set a good example for the babe while Sher sat hidden behind his gazette. With her next bite, her gaze shifted to the rustling paper. With nervous anticipation, she had waited in bed last eve, thinking he would walk through the adjoining door and consummate their marriage vows once and for all.
But he had not.
And this morning, he greeted her with a stiff bow as if only yesterday they hadn’t been kissing on the lawn for all to see. What was he on about? Did he want her to come to him like a Jezebel?
Eleanor nearly choked on her next bite. Never in her all her days could she imagine doing something so…so…unnatural. Yes, she was a force to be reckoned with in the world of privateering, but pleasuring a man was a completely different matter. When she had traveled, Weston or Earnest had always been with her. Earnest, her lady’s maid, and the coachman had escorted her to Brighton whenever she visited the pavilion. It was all very well-orchestrated, and few people ever questioned a spinster with no mother and an ailing father traveling as she did.
A spoonful of porridge went flying, smacked the paper, and oozed down the print with a trail of ink in its wake.
“Margaret!” said Eleanor. “You mustn’t throw your food.”
The baby laughed, flinging herself against Miss Repast’s chest.
Sher’s paper lowered as he leveled a stern gaze upon the infant, with one eyebrow arched. “Have you something against your guardian updating himself with the news over breakfast?”
Margaret squealed.
“It might be nice to forgo the paper whilst we are eating together. What say you?”
Danby examined the goo on the front page. “Your idea has merits. After all, some of the servants read this after I’ve finished with it.”
“Excellent.”
“One more bite,” said the nursemaid, holding up the spoon and opening her mouth wide, “Ahhh.”
Margaret tried to reach for the handle, but Miss Repast was faster this time, moving it from the child’s reach.
“Why not give me a go?” asked Sher.
The nursemaid gaped. “You, Duke?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I believe I am the only duke in this chamber.”
“But you have no apron.”
He took the spoon from the nursemaid and leaned toward the baby. “Hear, hear, Miss Margaret, there will be top marks if this manages to end up in your gob.”
Eleanor gasped. “Gob? Isn’t she a bit young for cant, sir?”
“Open your dainty little lips,” he said, making his voice childlike.
Margaret clapped and squealed again, obviously liking this game, especially her guardian’s awkward, elvish baby talk.
Sher went in with the spoon, only to have it smacked, the oats flying through the air and smattering on his navy-blue coat.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Repast. “Shall I call for your valet?”
“Absolutely not.” He stood. “I’ll take care of it. But next time do remind me, feeding babies is best left to those trained in the art.”
“I commend your effort,” Eleanor said, standing as well. “I thought I’d take the carriage to Rawcliffe later for a dress fitting.”
“The modiste is not coming here?” he asked.
“She visited when she took the measurements, but I feel it might be nice to see her shop. Besides, I haven’t been off the castle grounds since I arrived.”
“I’ll go with you, then.”
“Splendid. After luncheon?”
“Perfect.” He bowed. “I’ll see you then.”
Eleanor was off to a meeting with Cook, but first she went by her parlor to retrieve the list she’d made for their discussion. When she reached the door, she found Weston and Mrs. Temperance in a heated conversation.
“She is a flibbertigibbet,” groused the butler.
“How dare you insult one of my maids? You should know by now that Chadwick is a rogue. He never should have been assigned to hanging the new curtains in—”
“What is this about?” Eleanor asked from the doorway. “Has one of the servants behaved improperly?”
“I’ll say,” said Mrs. Temperance.
Weston simultaneously folded his arms. “Not at all. Chadwick was merely performing his duties.”
“Good heavens.” Pressing her hands against her temples, Eleanor moved inside. “What, exactly, happened?”
Mrs. T
emperance held up a finger, commanding the butler to hold his tongue, then threw her shoulders back. “I found Chadwick alone in here with Cassie. Behind closed doors, mind you.”
“Your Grace,” Weston started, spreading his palms. “I sent the footman up here to measure your curtains—as you asked. He didn’t skulk in here, looking to find an innocent maid with whom to trifle.”
The housekeeper clapped a hand to her chest. “Had I not arrived, the poor girl might have been ruined.”
“Were they found in compromising circumstances?” Eleanor asked.
“Being alone in a chamber above stairs with a man is compromising enough. And when I found them, they were standing not more than three feet apart.”
Weston tugged at his neckcloth. “Chadwick swears he didn’t lay a finger on the maid.”
Mrs. Temperance frowned, deepening the marionette lines from nose to mouth. “But I say, when the footman found Cassie in here cleaning the hearth, he should have excused himself and told you he’d take the measurements at a later time.”
“That is a plausible solution,” Eleanor agreed.
“Do you recommend I discipline him, Your Grace?” Weston thrust an upturned palm at the housekeeper. “The executioner here thinks I should sack the poor chap.”
Eleanor sighed, her head starting to throb. The rift between these two might be the death of her. “Speak to the footman and ensure he knows what to do the next time he encounters one of the housemaids above stairs, especially noting the error of working together behind closed doors. And let him know this is a warning.”
Mrs. Temperance sniffed. “He’s getting off easy, if you ask me.”
At times even a seasoned housekeeper needs to be reminded of her place.
“In the future, if I want your opinion on my directives, I shall ask for it.” Eleanor paused while the woman acknowledged the rebuke with a bow of her head. “And I want you to do the same with Cassie. She is not blameless in all of this. Any maid has options as well. She could have left and reported the incident to one of you.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Temperance clipped, “I’ll speak with her straightaway.”
Weston gave the housekeeper a wink. “You can always count on Her Grace to know the right course of action.”
If Eleanor hadn’t seen it, she never would have believed that the old girl not only blushed, she batted her eyelashes at the butler. Hiding her grin, Eleanor turned and spotted her list on the writing desk. “And let it be known, I admire both of you very much and I hope you will endeavor to sort out your differences.” She glanced at them over her shoulder. “That is all.”
Weston entered the library with a silver tray piled with missives. “The mail has arrived, Your Grace.”
A bit of heartburn attacked just below Sher’s sternum. “Good Lord, it looks as if the flood gates have opened.”
“Yes, sir. There’s quite a stack today.”
Sher motioned to the corner of his writing table where incoming mail was placed. “A man travels to the country to relax.”
“That once was the case, sir. But with the improvements to The North Road, I fear those days are long past.”
Sher examined the return address on the top missive, then sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his waistcoat. “How well have you been received by Mrs. Temperance?”
Weston tucked the tray behind his back, looking stiff as a plank. “The housekeeper? She runs an orderly house, I’ll say.”
“She does, though I understand the two of you haven’t exactly hit it off, so to speak.”
“I suppose it isn’t easy to introduce a new butler to an established home such as this.”
“No. But she mentioned something to me about daily ‘tea parties’. What do you have to say about those?”
“Tea parties, sir?”
“Yeeeees,” Sher said, trying to encourage the man.
“Ah. I have asked Mrs. Temperance to sit down with me every morning over a cup of tea—in the kitchens, mind you, where Cook can pipe in at any time. I feel with a house this size, employing so many servants, that it is good management for us to discuss the day’s events to ensure we are deploying our forces efficiently.”
“Were you ever in service to the king?”
“Yes. I served Lord Lisle aboard ship before his wife fell ill.”
“I see.” Sher eyed the stack of mail and decided it could wait. “And I do agree with your ‘tea party’ idea. However, I was wondering if you had asked Mrs. Temperance what she would prefer—tea, coffee, or something else, as well as if the mornings suited her, or if she might prefer another time of day.”
“I suppose I haven’t, though to me, mornings make the most sense—otherwise the day is half gone.”
“Evenings may be an option—meeting at the end of the day, for example.”
“I suppose that would work.”
“Why not ask her?”
“Thank you, sir. I will.” Weston took a step away. “Is there anything else you need?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” Sher moved to a high-backed chair near the hearth. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
“Me, sir?”
“Is there anyone else in the library?”
Weston perched on the edge of a chair, looking about as comfortable as a trapped pine marten. “Is something amiss?”
“No.” Sher eased back and crossed his legs. “But now that you are the butler of Rawcliffe, I thought we ought to have a chat.”
“I figured my post was temporary, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, you have Hartley. Will he not be joining us at the end of the Season?”
“I doubt my mother will leave London any time soon—unless there are grandchildren running about. But there’s no reason why Hartley can’t continue to stay on in London. He rather likes it there.”
“Does he?” Weston gripped his armrests. “And Miss El—er—Her Grace plans to stay now?”
Blowing out a whistle, Sher glanced to the windows. “Ah, the little agreement I did not agree to.”
“Sir?”
Sher didn’t care to venture down that rabbit hole—at least not with the butler. “Tell me, how long have you been in service?”
Weston shifted back, no longer looking as if he feared he was about to be sacked. “I was born into it. Started as an errand boy in the Lisle kitchens and worked my way up. My mother was a lady’s maid and my father was the butler before me.”
“I thought as much. Then you’ve known Eleanor for a long time.”
“Aye, sir, held her in my arms when she had the colic. No one else could settle her but me.”
“And you’ve stood by her side through thick and thin?”
“Indeed, I have. And we had some very thin times.” With a shake of his head, Weston shuddered. “Very thin.”
“What happened? And why did Her Grace not marry? Even if her dowry wasn’t up to snuff, she’s a beautiful woman.”
“I reckon you should ask her, Your Grace.”
“But I’m asking you. I respect your loyalties are to her, but I need to understand all this. Why the devil did she turn to smuggling? Why, when she could have snatched up a wealthy suitor?”
“She didn’t see it that way. You do know that in her one and only Season, she was courted by Baron Strange?”
“I do.”
“And he withdrew his proposal when he discovered Miss Eleanor had not a penny in her dowry and creditors were not only pounding on our door, they owned the deed of Kingston Manor.”
Sher nodded, though he hadn’t realized there had been a proposal.
“Eleanor was bereft. Moreover, she felt she couldn’t show her face in polite society—not as a marriageable candidate, anyway. Not to mention, she had no money for gowns, little money to pay the servants, less to ward off the creditors, and not much left to put food on the table.”
“She felt trapped?”
“Drowning in a sea of debt, she was. But m
ind you.” Weston thrust his finger in the direction of Eleanor’s parlor. “That woman has a backbone hewn of iron.”
“I’ve come to gather. So, our Joan of Arc awoke one morning and decided to become a pirate?”
Weston winced. “Something like that—I fear I may have had something to do with it.”
“How so?”
“We were discussing something or another. I can’t remember now, but it must have centered on prices because I said, ‘Whoever finds a way to reduce the price of goods like tea, cognac, and Madeira, and import them into the Pool of London, will own all the clubs in London.’”
“Then what?”
“Well, the viscount owned a small importing business that had never turned much of a profit. Shortly after our conversation, Eleanor set to meeting with the manager—”
“Mr. Millward,” Sher mused.
“Correct. About that time, she also discovered her mother’s dowry had included a partially ruined cottage in Scotland. It wasn’t much, but Her Grace used the funds from the sale of that bit of land to travel to France and make her first purchase.”
“I take it she doubled her money.”
“She did quite well. Over time, she was able to pay off the creditors and recover the deed for Kingston Manor.”
“Even though she will not inherit?”
“You must understand. The lady believes her father will one day regain his health and she couldn’t bear the thought of having him awake to utter poverty. And he’s a veteran of the wars, mind you.”
And she’s a saint.
Sher wondered what it must have been like to be so utterly poor and feel helpless. “It was very brave of her to travel alone.”
“I accompanied her on that first trip to Paris.”
“Astonishing. But surely once she was established, there were suitors?”
“If anyone were to know about suitors, it would be me. I oft tried to suggest she settle down. But Her Grace enjoyed the work and the challenge. She felt…” Weston swiped a hand across his mouth. “Forgive me. It is not for me to say.”
“Come, at least finish your sentence.”
“I say, Duke. If you were in charge of a successful venture and some dandy came along and wanted to take everything you had worked for and reduce you into the ranks of the insignificant, would you not resist?”
