Tempting The Ruined Duke (Steamy Historical Regency Romance)

by Olivia Bennet

  “I assure you, it will exceed your expectations,” Americus said proudly.

  Louisa closed her eyes and shook her head. If her father wasn’t careful, he would give them away.

  Chapter 8

  Seeing is Believing

  Jeremy escorted his mother to her chambers and turned her over to her abigail before he went back downstairs, poured himself a glass of brandy, took up a cheroot and lit it, and then went to sit outside on the verandah.

  There were plentiful insects in the hot summer night, but they were deterred from Jeremy by the smoke from his cheroot. He had a lot to think about. A footstep on the step had him turning around.

  “Gilbert. Is there something you need?”

  The steward bowed respectfully, “I just wanted to find out if everything was all right. I notice that you had tea with my brother and his daughter. I was enquiring if the work was proceeding to your satisfaction?”

  Jeremy arched an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were so concerned.”

  “I am your steward. It is my duty to be concerned.”

  “Mmm,” Jeremy said noncommittally. Gilbert had been his Father’s steward but Jeremy was not sure he trusted him. He had just begun to look over the books and he could not point to any particular thing that was amiss. And yet…

  Gilbert took a step closer and gestured to the other chair. “May I sit?”

  Jeremy wanted to shrug sulkily and ask if he could even stop the other man, but he remembered in time that not only was he an adult, but he was the Duke. “Listen, Notley, if you wish to discuss business, you can find me in my office bright and early. At the moment, I wish to enjoy my cheroot and the night. Alone.” He bit the last word out with all the emphasis he could.

  Gilbert got the message and bowed out. Jeremy gave an irritated sigh. He wasn’t even sure why he was discomposed. The Notley family had really twisted his emotions on this day and he hardly knew which one to worry about the most.

  He pumped on his cheroot and reflected on a herb he had encountered on his travels in Jamaica and Indonesia. The people of those nations had smoked it and it was said to have a very calming effect. Jeremy had tried it once and he had to say that he agreed. Unfortunately, he had not brought any with him.

  He wondered if it might help his mother if she smoked it. She had seemed quite calm today in the company of Louisa and her father. He wondered what they could possibly have found in common to discuss. As far as he knew, their lives were worlds apart and yet they had been engaged in lively conversation when he stepped in the room. He could not remember the last time he’d seen his mother so calm.

  It would make him exceedingly happy, except for the fact that he did not know what use the Notley’s would put to the knowledge of his mother’s mental state. They seemed like decent people but that was no guarantee that they would not seek to exploit it.

  “Would you like anything else, Your Grace?”

  He looked up to see Miles hovering by the bay windows that led out to the verandah. He smiled, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. You may retire for the evening, Miles.”

  The butler nodded. “Well, goodnight then, Your Grace.”

  “Goodnight, Miles.”

  Jeremy listened to the other man’s footsteps fade away and then gave a long sigh. Off in the trees, an owl hooted. A little closer to the manor, a dog barked. The house settled into sleep around him. Jeremy stood up, drained his glass and went to bed.

  * * *

  Louisa walked forward again to arrange the Duke the way she wanted him to sit. She had noticed he was self-conscious about the scars and did her best to minimize their appearance. She wanted him to be able to enjoy his portrait once it was done. She was busy sketching him and writing notes on the curvature of his clothes and where the light and shade should go while her father outlined today’s area of focus. They would do his feet and legs, the floor around it. She knew that her father wanted her to proceed from the easier to the more difficult. It made sense. Of course, he would want to be sure she could handle the more difficult portions before he allowed her to tackle them.

  Louisa was busy drawing his silver buckle, and wondering if there was a story behind it. The buckle was more outlandish than the average gentleman would wear. He had a very nice ankle, however, and the cut of the shoe showed it off quite becomingly.

  She felt like a voyeur peeking at a suitor’s ankles and almost let out a giggle. She bit her lip instead, keeping her head down lest he read her thoughts on her face.

  Sooner than she wanted, the Duke’s hour was up and her father was telling him that he could leave. She looked up then and gave him a smile. He nodded in her direction but did not smile back. Nevertheless, she watched as he walked out of the room, her eyes skidding along his derriere before slipping away, her face flaming.

  “Are you all right, Louisa?” her father inquired.

  “Y-yes of course I am.” She stood up and moved to the canvas as her father took the armchair, imitating the Duke’s pose in case it jogged her memory for how best to paint him. But she could see the Duke clearly in her mind’s eye and had no need for visual reminders. Soon she was lost in her work and she could hear her father’s gentle snores as he took a nap. For a moment, she peered worriedly at him. The shaking was getting bad again. She resolved that once they were finished here, they would call upon Mrs. Marni and see if she could help him again.

  * * *

  Eleanor Harper, Dowager Duchess of Munboro opened her eyes. For a moment, as she lay on the soft featherbed, everything was clear to her. Her husband was dead; her son was back from the sea. She blinked, feeling the weight of grief and pain settle upon her like a blanket. The grief of a mother who still felt in her heart that her son was lost to her. Who knew that her husband was gone forever.

  The reality of it was so painful to face.

  She turned her head, looking at the second pillow on the bed. She and her husband had defied convention by sleeping always in the same bed. Now that bed was so empty that it seemed to seep into her being and leach from her any remaining desire to live.

  She gave a long shuddering breath, wondering if today was the day she would give in to the tears. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them, the fog had returned. The one that stood like a guardian between her and her emotions, making it possible for her to sit up and then get out of bed.

  A delicate knock on the door signaled the entrance of her abigail bearing hot water for her morning bath. Once she was done with her ablutions, she slowly descended the stairs, knowing that the rest of the household had long started their day.

  Miles was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to escort her to a breakfast of honey cakes and dark chocolate.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” She looked up to see Gilbert smiling down at her. She brightened, glad of the company.

  “Notley, won’t you break your fast with me?”

  He sat without argument, and with a smile, as if he was happy to be there. “And how did you sleep?” he asked as he poured himself some tea.

  “Very well, thank you.” The lies slipped off her tongue effortlessly. If it wasn’t for the laudanum she took every night, she doubted she would get a wink of sleep. Even then, she wasn’t sure the nightmares were worth it.

  “That is good to hear.” Gilbert took a bite of honey cake before smiling at her, a few crumbs falling on the table as he chewed.

  They ate in silence for a while before Gilbert leaned forward, a frown on his face. “Your Grace, I need to ask you a question.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Am I still steward here? Your son treats me like I am some kind of nuisance.”

  The Dowager snorted. “I think he treats us all like that.”

  Gilbert sighed irritably. “However in my case, it means I cannot effectively carry out my duties. I don’t suppose you could speak to him?”

  The Dowager shrugged. “I shall try. I cannot promise that it will help your case.”

  “Tha
nk you, Your Grace.” Gilbert set his napkin delicately aside, nodded to her and took his leave. And then she was alone again.

  * * *

  After his session with the painter and his daughter, Jeremy went to the office, to continue reading through the records. He was expecting the other Notley in his life to make an appearance and ask him questions he had no answers to.

  He was looking over shipping records from the sale of sheep’s wool to the New World. On the surface, it seemed satisfactory but…Jeremy could not put his finger on why he was uneasy.

  He put the papers aside, searching the study drawers for his father’s journal. Perhaps he had written something in there that would give him clarity. He was still sifting through papers and books, looking for it, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened and sure enough, Gilbert poked his head in. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, do. Now tell me, where is my Father’s journal?”

  Gilbert looked taken aback for a moment before he shrugged. “I would not know, Your Grace. Perhaps your mother has an idea.”

  Jeremy narrowed his eyes at the steward. As if he would mention such a thing to his mother when she was having such a hard time already.

  “Never mind. What can I do for you?”

  “I…well, I have some reports that I have compiled for your perusal on some day-to-day operations at your properties. Would you like to go over them?”

  Jeremy stared at him. “Well, yes I would. Why don’t you leave them on my desk and I will get to them?”

  Gilbert cleared his throat. “I was hoping we could go through them together.”

  “Perhaps later. If I have questions. For now, just leave them on my desk.”

  Gilbert bowed his head, possibly to hide the sour expression on it. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  He produced a stack of paper from somewhere and placed it – rather forcefully – on the desk.

  “I’ll just leave these here then,” he snapped.

  “Thank you.” Jeremy did not look up as his father’s steward slammed out of the room.

  He sighed deeply and went back to his search for his father’s journal.

  * * *

  She wanted to get the silver of the buckle just right. It was a delicate balance between her blue, black, and white paint. Too much of one or too little of the other and the color was wrong. Louisa thought she enjoyed the process of mixing to come up with just the right tint as much as she enjoyed the painting. She dabbed a bit of paint to the corner of the shoe she’d drawn and stood back, studying it critically.

  She shook her head.

  Too much blue.

  Again, she added more black and half as much white and mixed it then tried again. This time she nodded, delicately tracing the buckle, deciding where she would add some white so it looked like it was shining. She was so absorbed that she did not hear the door open. She did lift her head, startled, when it slammed shut.

  The Duke was standing by the door, staring at her in shock. She opened her mouth and closed it like a landed fish, unable to think of a single thing to say. Her father started out of his sleep, not with the slamming of the door but at the resultant silence that followed it. He scrambled to his feet in confusion, coming forward to stand next to her.

  “What is this?” the Duke’s voice was low, disbelieving.

  “I–” Louisa began before her throat locked.

  What will we do now? She felt the bitter acid of self-recrimination clogging her throat. This had been her idea and now her father would pay for it.

  “Your Grace, forgive me. This is absolutely my doing. My daughter simply sought to help me.” Americus said coming to stand in front of her and block her from the Duke’s view.

  He was still looking between them as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

  “Explain yourself,” he croaked.

  Her father took a deep breath. “It’s my hands you see. They are failing me.” He held them out and it was easy to see the tremor that ran continuously through his fingers. The Duke looked his fill before his eyes rose to her father’s face as if to say, ‘Continue.’

  “Well, my daughter…” he turned to gesture at her, “Louisa is quite as accomplished and talented a painter as I am. So…I thought that we could use that because otherwise, I would not be able to finish the painting. But with her help, I could finish it.”

  Louisa stepped out from behind her father’s back. “That’s not true. It is I who suggested that I should paint the picture. He would have worked himself to the bone to do it otherwise. I could not stand by and watch.”

  The Duke was grinding his teeth together, looking from one to the other. Then he stepped forward so that he was standing in front of the painting. He stared at it for a long time.

  “How much of this did you do?” his eyes were still on the painting and so Louisa did not know to whom he was referring but she answered him anyway. “Father did the outlines and some of the background and…I…did the rest.”

  The Duke nodded slowly, still staring at the painting. He had called it exquisite just yesterday…had that opinion changed now that he knew a woman painted it? Would he despoil her father’s reputation among the ton in revenge for this subterfuge? Louisa’s hands were shaking with fear. She wanted to say something…beg him. But there were really no words she could think of, to make this better.

  He turned to face them pointing at the door. “Get out of my house,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  Intervention

  Louisa turned immediately to her father when they got home and opened her mouth to apologize to him. Before she could however, he held up his hand in a quelling gesture.

  “No, do not say a word. It was not your fault.”

  “I should have been more careful. Furthermore, it was my idea.”

  Americus sighed. “Yes, it was your idea, which I agreed with and which was the only way – frankly – for us to keep the commission.” He sighed, “I did not want to tell you this so early but we are in dire straits.”

  She stepped closer, taking hold of his hand. “I know that, Father. Don’t think for a minute that I have not been paying attention. But don’t lose hope yet. We shall think of something.”

  He tried a smile on for size. “Yes, we will.” He nodded, and then looked away from her, not wanting her to see the despair in his eyes. The only solution he could think of was to get Louisa married as soon as possible. It was a pity; with the looks the Duke had been shooting her, she might have had a chance with him…in other circumstances.

  “I’m going to bed,” he said in a low voice.

  “All right. Good night, Father.”

  Americus walked slowly out of the room, trying not to let his shoulders droop too much. He could feel Louisa’s anxious gaze like a fire brand on his skin and sighed deeply, stiffening his spine.

  Whatever he needed to do, he would make sure his daughter did not starve.

  * * *

  Louisa sat on the kitchen stool, biting her lip as she thought frantically about what to do.

  There has to be a way to salvage this situation!

  She stood up and paced, up and down, frantically trying to think of something. Nothing useful occurred to her, but then her eyes fell on a vase of flowers she had gotten from Betty. Snatching up her shawl, she decided to go and talk it over with her friend. No doubt, Betty would have a few good ideas.

  She walked slowly in the gathering dusk, watching the traders closing up their shops, street vendors shouting their wares, trying to make one more sale. There were no ladies about…undoubtedly they were already safely ensconced in their houses or on the way to early dinners, balls or soirees. She quickened her step, not wanting the night to catch her outside. Luckily Betty’s house was not far away and when she arrived, she caught Betty at the door, just arriving from her last delivery.

  “Louisa!” her friend’s eyes brightened, “this is a surprise.”

  “Yes w
ell, my business could not wait.”

  Betty immediately became somber. “Come in.” She opened the door and ushered Louisa inside, leading her to the kitchen where Betty pulled out a stool for Louisa to sit. She busied herself at the counter, cutting up a loaf of bread and spreading it with butter as she waited for Louisa to speak.

  Louisa inhaled sharply and then began to explain her predicament. Betty listened attentively and did not interrupt.