***
The next day, after Sunday services, William found her in the gardens, walking in the afternoon sun. She started at the sight of him.
She still did not want to be alone with him. He struggled to keep that in mind, and to keep himself at a distance from her when all of him wanted to draw closer.
“May I join you, Miss Reynolds? ”
She nodded, her eyes cast down and her hands twisting before her.
He turned and took up a position a yard away from her, walking parallel, keeping his steps close to her stride length. She fell into step with him but appeared closed off and tense.
“I—I actually have wished to speak to you about something, Your Grace.”
“I am all attention, Miss Reynolds.”
She held her hands tightly before her. He kept silent, not knowing how to put her at ease.
Finally, she spoke. “Your Grace, you said you go about in disguise as Will Grant in order to check on your estates?”
William raised his brows at the topic.
“Yes, I work, and I listen to the talk of the staff and townspeople.”
Her brow furled. “But—” She stopped.
“Yes?”
“How did you find Clayden Hall, then, Your Grace, when you visited it in disguise?”
“Ah, not entirely satisfactory. Young Mr. Mitchell was letting some things slip he shouldn’t. But in general I feel as he gains experience, he will become an excellent steward. I found him, while not perfect, a good manager. And he treated the day laborers with care.”
“How do you know?”
“I worked under him as a day laborer.”
“You?” She looked at him with shock.
“Yes, it is what I do for all my estates, if I know they will not easily recognize me.”
He had found a surprising pleasure in a hard day’s labor, a satisfaction that being a lordly gentleman did not have, in creating something, in seeing the results of the work of his hands. But also, muscle aches and exhaustion. He was glad he didn’t need to do it every day.
Working underneath the men he employed as managers and supervisors gave him the clearest view of how they treated their people. He had rooted out more than one bad egg in this way.
Beauty’s eyebrows furled with concern. “Then he must have recognized you and changed his tactics for that day. Once one knows you as the duke, it is hard to not recognize you always, Your Grace.”
“I do not think he did. I watched his countenance. There was no flash of recognition.” He had looked for it. “I have written letters, and I’m sure those issues I found will soon be rectified.”
“Are you sure the problems at Clayden Hall can be solved merely by letters?”
“Do you know of the problems I speak of, Miss Reynolds?”
“I do not know what you saw when you were there, Your Grace. And I am glad Mr. Mitchell was good to the day laborers. But—”
“But?”
“But the tenants, those that work with him all year, they report a different story. My friends, the Owenses, have told me details of why they do not feel well treated by the steward.”
“What have they told you?”
“They’ve told me of unrepaired, leaking roofs, and flooded fields from neglected floodgates. Of rents being taken, and then the steward coming by again, claiming they did not pay enough. That he has increased the rents twice since being put into place. And that he has not been kind.”
William frowned. “I have not increased rents.”
“But they have increased.” She pinched her lips tightly closed. She looked away from him. “I would not presume to give you advice, Your Grace, but . . .”
“I have heard your words, Miss Reynolds. I will look into it further.”
She drew in a breath, and exhaled, her tense stance relaxing. “I thank you.”
They fell into step once again. He felt the tension ease between them.
“Forgive my impertinence at saying . . .” She paused, seemed pensive.
“I would enjoy some impertinence. Please say on, Miss Reynolds,” he encouraged, his mouth lifted in a half-smile.
Her face darkened his favorite shade and she looked away from him. “Forgive me for bringing up painful things. I have wanted to tell you how saddened I am to hear of the tragedies that befell your family the year of the small pox.”
“Yes, it was a very difficult year.” He pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to dwell on the pain of that time, but he craved connection with Beauty. If he wanted her to become comfortable around him, if he wanted her to open to him, then he ought to open to her.
He gave her a tight smile to keep her at ease. “Losing my father was very hard on us, my mother especially. Her sight, her younger children, and her husband, all lost in the space of a few weeks. That she does so well now, I find a miracle.”
“I greatly admire her. She is so kind.”
He smiled genuinely. “She is the best of women.” He resumed walking. “But that year, it made a very sick and miserable thirteen-year-old boy the duke, owner of and responsible for vast estates, and the people who depended on them.” He drew in a breath and confessed, “I almost wished to die rather than face the responsibility, especially after my eye never recovered.”
“Oh, Mr. Grant!” She reached out to him. She seemed to catch herself and her blush deepened. Her hand retreated. “I apologize. I should not call you that, Your Grace.”
His heart warmed within him. That was an encouraging slip. “We did not spend much time together, but that is how you knew me before.” He risked more confessions. “And I am glad I met you before as Will Grant. Though you may not agree with me, you may think the advantage was all on my side. But I saw your kindness in a way the Duke of Rosden would never have.”
She looked away. “I can be kind to a duke as well as to a working man.”
He sought to capture her gaze again. “But a duke may appear to be in less need of your kindness. But I assure you, I am in need of kindness from you ever as much.”
***
Beauty did not know how to respond. Her heart increased its beat, and nerves fired over her body. She had to deflect, to calm this heightened situation. She raised her brows. “Did you get mauled by a cat again?”
A slow smile overtook his face, laughlines crinkling on the side of his free eye and spreading out from behind the eyepatch. “Should I seek one out, just to give you the pleasure of bandaging me again?”
“I’m sure we can find another activity with which to demonstrate my kindness. Perhaps you could fall into a nettle patch and need a salve.”
He chuckled. “If it would please you, Miss Reynolds.”
She found herself inexplicably wanting to pull the eyepatch away and reveal his full face, dead eye and all.
She clasped her hands in front of her, and sternly pushed such thoughts away.
Chapter 13
Beauty fell into a rhythm of days.
In the morning she practiced on the pianoforte and harp. With the duchess’s demand for music in the evenings, Beauty was quickly regaining her former mastery of the instruments.
At midmorning, she would read to the duchess: a half an hour from the Bible, a quarter of an hour from the latest newspaper or periodical.
On Mondays and Thursdays the duchess was at home to visitors. Beauty and Lady Judith attended the duchess as local gentry visited. Though the neighborhood was not extensive, it was populated enough that visiting hours were busy with callers and conversation.
At luncheon, letters arrived. Beauty sent letters to her family weekly and her heart let go of some of its homesickness every time she received a letter from them.
After luncheon, then and only then, was the current, delicious novel brought forth. That was the time Beauty savored. Whether the story was thrilling, enthralling, or heart wrenching, the tension of whether the people populating the novel would reach their worthy g
oals, overcome their adversaries, be destroyed for their hubris, or find love in the end was a joy she relished.
Before dinner, the duchess would nap, and Beauty would have some time to herself. Often she wanted to continue reading and would sneak the novel into the gardens to walk, enjoy the leaves budding forth, and secrete herself into a nook to enjoy more of the story.
Sometimes, she would meet the duke there, but not always.
In the evening, she played for the company, which often expanded to include the local gentry, and the rector and his wife. The duchess liked variety in her company.
Beauty heard the low-voiced whispers about her. Who was she, this young girl under the duchess’s wing?
Whispers that it was a danger to keep such a pretty miss of no birth near the bachelor duke. Either ruination or marriage would be the end result.
She kept her countenance smooth, pretended she did not hear. She knew she was not worthy of a duke.
And he did not show further pointed interest. He was cordial when they met and in company. He did not seem to seek her out. No, what she might have thought of as interest from him had subsided.
For which she was glad.
For she was not marriageable, no, not to a duke, and further attention from him would indicate he wanted to pursue a relationship which was dishonorable and unworthy.
That she would not allow. She would be no man’s mistress.
***
The duke appeared at her elbow as she practiced one morning. “May I interrupt your laborious practicing, Miss Reynolds?”
“It is not so laborious. Though I admit, with the practicing in combination with reading to the duchess, I seem to sit for long amounts of time. I am no longer used to sitting still so much. I feel like my limbs are losing strength from a mere few days’ less activity!”
He gave her a surprised glance.
“I should not say such things. Forgive me.” Her face flamed hot.
He burst out laughing, a deep, glorious rumble. He smiled down at her.
She looked away and grasped her hands in front of her. She was a lady again—a prim, upright lady. She should not refer to limbs, let alone the less-than-genteel work she had been doing for the last three years.
“A walk, or better yet, a ride, should put you to rights, I would think. You do ride, do you not?”
“A ride. I do. It has been so long since I have.”
“I’m sure my mother could supply a riding habit.”
“She shouldn’t have a riding habit! Riding for her would be most unsafe.”
“Perhaps she has an ancient one.”
“I should not—”
“You should. I will arrange it. Expect to go riding tomorrow.”
She held out a hand to forestall him. “Your Grace, you are doing too much.”
“I wish you to be happy here, Miss Reynolds.”
“But—” She broke off in confusion.
He turned away, clasped his hands behind his back. “Happy workers lead to good workers, and to loyal ones. Loyalty is the valuable prize of being, we hope, good masters.”
“Good masters?”
“As I always seek to be.”
“Yes, well. Then I thank you.”
“It is my pleasure.”
***
The duke joined her as she rode the next morning.
It was a glorious day. The sun shone through clouds; the world, though sodden from a recent rainfall, was lushly green with new growth.
They explored the park, the deer leaping away from them and birdsong filling the trees.
Afterwards, a groom helped her dismount the pretty mare that the duke had granted her the use of.
She walked towards the castle, the train of her woolen riding habit over one arm. She stepped in a muddy patch and felt herself skidding, despite the good, sturdy boots on her feet.
Strong arms caught her, stopping her fall.
“Oh, my!“ She was breathless.
The duke held her. “It is quite muddy. Perhaps you should take my arm, Miss Reynolds?”
“I thank you, Your Grace.” And she did, her face hot from her almost tumble. “That was an admirable catch, sir. You quite saved me.”
“Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.” The rich timbre of his voice, combined with her arm looped in his, turned his comment into something more, she was sure, than he intended.
A warm, coursing thrill went up her arm. Though they were wearing thick clothing, she was aware of their connection with every brush of cloth against skin, in the nearness of his solidity and strength.
Though he had yet to speak a loud or harsh word to her, his presence was a palpable weight that pressed on her awareness.
This was the duke. A powerful man. One who had brow-beaten her father, neglected his tenants, and let them be taken advantage of.
This was the duke, who held her against him with gentleness and showed her every kindness and courtesy.
And had done so, even when posing as a common laborer with uneducated speech.
He had seemed, as Will Grant, to be shy. And at odd moments she had seen that again in the powerful duke.
A shy duke.
Her mind spun with the contradictions.
***
“William, would you not sing? I miss your fine voice,” the duchess said after dinner two weeks into Beauty’s stay at the castle. Beauty, who had just finished performing a nocturne by John Field, was still at the pianoforte. She paused her playing.
“I have a voice only for villainous roles, Mother, or for buffoons. I doubt Miss Reynolds has anything in my range in her repertoire.” The duke’s eye connected with Beauty. “A tenor I am not.”
“You sing, Your Grace?” the visiting Mrs. Killnare asked.
“Only if my mother insists.”
“I do.” The duchess smiled.
Beauty suppressed a blush and pushed back all nerves. “I’m sure I can find something here, Your Grace.” She stood and went to the sheet music cabinet in the drawing room. The selection in it was eclectic, meant to meet the varying moods and skill of whoever might be in company.
He stood and joined her at the cabinet. “But then you would not have practiced it.”
“I have regained much of my former skill in the last few days. I can make a valiant attempt, at least.”
“Very well.”
They found an arrangement of Robert Burns’s ‘My Luve is like a Red Red Rose,’ which he could sing an octave lower.
“Mind, I have not practiced either.”
“Go on, go on, William,” the duchess encouraged.
Beauty struck the first notes, and he began to sing.
A deep, beautiful rumble emerged from the large man who stood over her shoulder, reading the music along with her. Goose flesh erupted along Beauty’s arms and neck. Oh!
She stumbled over two notes. He stopped.
“Pardon.” She started the refrain over and forced herself to concentrate on the music as the duke sang beside her, a deep powerful sound that seemed to vibrate through her.
Beauty found the song not too complicated to play—a blessing—but a struggle to focus on.
When the song ended, she let the last notes linger. She looked up at him. The duke looked down on her with a guarded expression.
She could not keep hers contained. Wide-eyed wonder overtook her face. His eyes softened.
She looked away, back at her hands on the keys.
Her body had reacted to the deep resonance of his voice, his nearness, his masculine power beside her, the lyrics he sang that spoke of love and devotion, his voice . . .
She did not know where to look, or what to do. Her face was hot. She swallowed and tried to gain control of herself.
The company clapped and cheered. “Most excellent, Your Grace,” seemed to be the general consensus.
But from the duchess came, “You must practice, William, to be truly super
ior.”
“Yes, Mother.” He smiled with a twinkle and bent, speaking only to Beauty with a low voice. “I do not believe them. How was it truly?”
She blushed, and her fingers fumbled when she tried to straighten the music on the stand before her. “Very . . . impressive. It wasn’t perfect, but very . . . Your voice is wonderful.”
She caught sight of his face lighting from the compliment, delight making him look boyish and dear. She looked away.
“My mother encourages me to practice. Would you play for me? Perhaps we can truly impress next time.”
She dropped her hands in her lap to hide their shaking. “It would be an honor.”
“A mere honor, that is not encouraging. I do not want to obligate you in this, Miss Reynolds. If you do not truly wish . . .”
“It is fine. I am here to serve.”
He frowned.
Time with him was so dangerous.
“If cousin Judith would care to join us? To turn pages?”
Beauty let her shoulders relax. “If she is willing.”
“She will be so willing, I am sure.” His eye twinkled with mischief. “We’ll meet you at your morning practice tomorrow.”
***
The next morning the duke came into the music room, a dark-clad, hulking presence with his rough limp. “Good morning, Miss Reynolds.”
His deep voice rolled over her. She steeled herself against it. She stood and curtsied. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Cousin Judith should join us any moment. Oh, there she is.”
Lady Judith gave him a frosty glare but entered with a good morning and sat on a nearby settee, pulling out her knitting.
“Well, then, we can begin. Do you know any vocal scales? I am not in my best voice in the morning, I’m afraid.” His voice was rougher than usual.
“Yes, of course.” Beauty put her hands on the keyboard, and then she thought better and said, “I have heard an excellent way to warm up the vocal cords is to laugh.”
“Laugh?”
“Yes, deep belly laughs, using the diaphragm.” She awkwardly tried to demonstrate. “Ha, ha ha ha!”
The duke’s mouth upturned at the corner. “They must be faked, then? Fake laughs?”
Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Page 8
