Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess

by Violet Hamers

  “You’re too modest. These are quite good. Really,” he said, flipping through a few small sheets that all bore a drawing of the same view of a pond. The child’s frustration with his own ability was evident there.

  “Miss Peaton is an artist. I want to be as good as her someday.”

  Gerard looked up at the governess. “Miss Peaton. I take it, that must be you?”

  “Ah,” the governess’ pale cheeks flushed slightly. “Yes. Elizabeth Peaton, Your Grace.”

  “An artist?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  She shook her head modestly. “No, Your Grace. Just a governess.”

  “Do you really think my drawings are good?” Thomas piped in and Gerard, who saw that praise seemed a sure way to the child’s good side, was quick to answer.

  “Yes. I certainly do think your drawings are good.”

  Thomas lit up at this, his wary face cracking into a wide smile.

  “Would you look at that! My boy, are you aware that you’ve misplaced a tooth?” Gerard said, pointing out the gap in the front of the boy’s smile.

  Thomas laughed. “It’s not misplaced! Mother has it in a little box on her shelf. It fell out when I was eating dinner last week. She says they are all going to fall out!”

  Gerard felt himself relaxing as the boy seemed to warm to him. This wasn’t so terribly hard after all.

  “All of them? But how will you chew?” Gerard asked, furrowing his brow in an exaggerated expression of concern.

  “Not all of them at once!” Thomas exclaimed.

  “Oh! I see. I see. Well.” Gerard slid the papers back into the portfolio and handed them back. “I shouldn’t get in the way of your studies anymore. The lady has been patient thus far but I fear she may report me to your mother if I interrupt any further.”

  He glanced back over at the stern little governess. She was watching the two males with bemused interest, her hands laying gently in her lap.

  “No, she won’t. Miss Peaton is a good sport, Uncle. If you asked her, I bet she would let me have the rest of my lessons today outside. I could show you the fishing pond Father made for me.”

  “Is that the pond from the drawings?” Gerard asked, pointing to the portfolio.

  “Mm-hmm,” the boy nodded.

  Gerard, eager to wheedle his way even more into his nephew’s good graces, cast an appraising look at the governess. One of her shapely brows was raised slightly as she gave her student a chagrined look.

  Would annoying the governess be worth it to make a good impression on the boy?

  “Well, Miss Peaton? A dandelion might be painted and its parts labeled in the wild as well as at a desk,” he asked.

  The governess exhaled. “I suppose that’s true, Your Grace.”

  “Hooray!” Thomas cried, leaping into action as he began shoveling his supplies into a canvas sack that hung off the back of his chair.

  While he was thus occupied, Gerard met the governess’ eyes and tried to give her an apologetic smile. Her expression was neither happy nor unhappy. She looked merely...curious. Her dark eyes pierced his in that oddly direct way again.

  What does she see in me?

  The day was bright and damp, the sunlight illuminating the dew that clung to the grass. The glittering gardens dazzled his eyes and Gerard adjusted his hat lower on his brow. Thomas surged ahead of the lagging adults, his young legs carrying him in crisscross paths ahead of them as they walked through the gardens.

  The governess was silent next to him, walking placidly with those curious eyes trained on her student. She really was a slight creature, her head coming up only to his shoulders. Though with that small frame she carried herself in such a calm, almost regal bearing. Her chin was pointed down demurely, but that submissive posture was markedly at odds with the rest of her demeanor, which might have seemed haughty if she were not so plainly spoken and dressed.

  “You must have come highly recommended, Miss Peaton. My sister is very particular about the quality of upbringing her child receives,” Gerard began, hoping that bringing the woman into conversation might lighten the tense mood he sensed between them.

  “On the contrary, Your Grace. Her Grace took a chance on me. The Marquess is my first student since leaving the school I both attended and taught at.” Her answer was plain, and she did not look at him as she spoke. Gerard studied her profile as she walked. Was she beautiful? He wouldn’t quite say so, though he found her face strange and difficult to look away from.

  “And how do you enjoy governessing? It must be quite a change from teaching in a school.”

  She smiled then. Not at him, but to herself, as she studied the grass below her feet.

  “I enjoy it very much, Your Grace. I feel fortunate to be afforded the opportunity to wake up every morning in a place as beautiful as this. And the Marquess is a joy to me.”

  A thought occurred to Gerard, that perhaps that air of curious aloofness about her spoke to a foreign nationality. He looked at her again. Perhaps she was French.

  “Where do you come from, Miss Peaton?

  “Here, Your Grace. London. I was raised in St. Anne’s orphanage and taught at the city school for girls.” Her plain-spokenness took on a very slight edge of defensiveness as she said it. Though Gerard second-guessed himself that perhaps he had imagined that.

  “I see,” he answered, clasping his hands behind his back. So much for that hypothesis. “This must be the pond.”

  The pond had clearly been dug there at the back of the gardens, though the foliage planted around it was a good attempt to make it appear natural. Lily pads floated atop the greenish water and sapphire blue dragonflies flitted about along the glassy surface.

  “If the Duke had known how much his son would love this pond, he would have had it dug years ago, I think,” she replied. Her expression softened as she watched the boy run to the little pier that jutted into the water, and falling to his hands and knees, peer into the depths.

  “I’ve forgotten my rod!” Thomas cried.

  “We aren’t here to fish, we are here to have your lessons,” the governess corrected gently. “Come, let’s begin again.”

  Chapter Six

  Elizabeth’s heart was racing as she and the Duke walked side by side down to the pond. Normally, when Elizabeth met someone who was taller than herself, she thought of them as giants. But with the Duke of Hadminster, she found that his size only made her feel miniature, as if she were in the wrong for being this height.

  She could well understand why he had the reputation of being cold. Everything about him felt formal. He stood with his shoulders back and his spine so straight he looked like he’d been born to be a soldier. His face, well, she supposed he couldn’t help his bone structure, but his face could only be described as sculptural.

  His mouth was held in such a way that gave him a permanent expression of mild discomfort bordering on actual displeasure. He appeared perfectly ill-at-ease. Especially in speaking to his nephew.

  But that was interesting, what made it so hard for Elizabeth to mask her interest in him. Although the gentleman looked so uncomfortable, he seemed to be making a Herculean effort to please the Marquess. The contrast of so haughty a gentleman and his evident desire to befriend a child was fascinating.

  His attempts at teasing fell embarrassingly flat, and Elizabeth had felt compelled to help the poor gentleman.

  She harbored no illusions that taking Lord Limingrose’s lessons out into the garden would yield favorable results academically, but the chance to study the Duke further was impossible to resist.

  Elizabeth settled herself on a blanket that she spread onto the damp grass, arranging the student’s pencils and paint box as the boy pulled his uncle around in search of dandelion specimens.

  They made an odd pair, the little boy with his flyaway hair and school clothes leading the tall, aristocratic gentleman in his impossibly crisp jacket around the garden. Holding her hand up to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun, she watched them gath
er dandelions. And daisies. And violets.

  By the time the two returned to the blanket, they were each clutching a fistful of tiny flowers.

  "We were only meant to do dandelions today," Elizabeth said.

  "Oh, I know. I got this," Lord Limingrose said, pulling a slightly crushed dandelion from his pocket. The gnarled roots twisted with clumps of dirt and Elizabeth pitied the state of the boy’s pocket lining.

  "Ah," she said, bemused.

  "This is for you," he continued, thrusting the bouquet of weeds and wildflowers towards her. "Uncle said I should thank you for allowing me to have my lesson outdoors this morning."

  "How lovely," she said, taking the flowers from the boy. As she did so, the Duke also extended his own little bouquet towards her. Elizabeth hesitated before taking it.

  "Thank you," she murmured, making glancing eye contact with him before looking away. As she wrapped her fingers around his offered bouquet, his hand brushed against hers in a way that she fervently wished she hadn’t noticed.

  He really was jarringly handsome. Being near him only brought to mind her own shortcomings, and she felt more self-conscious as she sat there instructing Lord Limingrose than she had in her whole life.

  As the Marquess applied himself once again to the faithful depiction of the dandelion root system in his journal, the Duke removed his hat and leaned back on his hands, looking thoughtfully out across the landscape.

  The garden was sprawling, at least by London standards. Lush flower beds lined a winding stone path that meandered towards a grassy knoll at the back which abutted a small wooded area. Knowing that the Duke had come from his country estate, Elizabeth wondered if the views in the garden made him more at ease. As he gazed across the pond, his expression did, finally, seem to relax somewhat.

  Or perhaps that was merely owing to the fact that he was not currently being prevailed upon to speak. Elizabeth wondered if his rumored coldness was really just a quiet nature. She herself had, on more than one occasion, been misconstrued as haughty and aloof when really she was merely given to daydreams.

  The Duke seemed content to sit quietly with them as Elizabeth led Lord Limingrose through his assignment, though Elizabeth felt increasingly ill at ease. The mere presence of the Duke, even as he sat there silently, was distracting. Knowing that he was listening to her, even if he wasn’t looking at her, filled her with an odd sense of stage fright. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking of.

  Feeling fidgety and antsy, she laid out the flowers that they had brought her, and aligning them in a pattern, she began to twist the stems together, one at a time.

  "What are you doing?" Lord Limingrose asked, watching her.

  The Duke looked down as well, to observe her hands.

  "You shall see. Finish your work," she answered.

  Elizabeth had not woven a flower crown since she was a very small child herself, but after a couple false starts, her hands remembered the movements and soon a delicate chain of wildflowers began to form. The Duke, she noticed, was pretending not to watch her. His face was still turned toward the pond, but if she glanced up, she would see that his eyes were turned down, observing her discreetly.

  Her heart thumped in her chest.

  As Lord Limingrose proclaimed that he was finished, Elizabeth dropped her work and looked over his journal. For a child’s drawing, it was pleasantly precise.

  "Very well done, My Lord," she praised.

  "How did you make that?" he asked, immediately forgetting his lesson in favor of her flower chain.

  "I’ll teach you, if you like," she answered, and lifting the chain, she wrapped it around his head and secured it over his brow. "It’s a crown, see?"

  The Duke had given up pretending not to pay attention to them and had turned his body to face Thomas.

  "A prince!" he exclaimed.

  Thomas smiled his gap-toothed smile, but then seemed to have second thoughts.

  "Princes don’t wear flower crowns," he said, lifting the delicate wreath off of his brow and standing up, to place it instead on Elizabeth’s head.

  Elizabeth laughed, lifting her hand to gently adjust the crown. She looked at the Duke, then wished she had not done so. His expression as he regarded her was unreadable, but intense. She felt suddenly as though he could see some secret about her. Something she had been keeping hidden without even meaning to. She felt exposed. She looked away quickly, sobering.

  "Well, My Lord," she said, eager to get the Duke to stop looking at her so. "How would you like to show your uncle your progress in French? You could recite that poem you've been learning."

  Thomas acted discouraged that his impromptu coronation did not distract her from her purpose for very long. As the dew on the grass evaporated and the morning faded into afternoon, Thomas provided a welcome buffer between Elizabeth and the discomfiting Duke. After he had warmed up a bit more to his uncle, Thomas seemed eager to show off his learning and even looked like he was enjoying having an audience to perform for. An unlikely development for the shy child.

  As the lessons ended and the young student began to complain of hunger, Elizabeth proclaimed the school day sufficiently completed. The supplies were collected and the blanket folded neatly. The Duke carried the blanket as they walked back to the house.

  "He’s normally terribly shy, even just with me," Elizabeth confided as Lord Limingrose bounded ahead of the adults. "I’m surprised he was so willing to do his recitations for you. I should have you sit in on our lessons more often."

  The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them. The Duke had been so quiet and companionable during the lessons that she had nearly forgotten that he was so far above her own station, and speaking casually to him might be seen as impertinent.

  Thankfully, he did not seem to notice.

  "Is that so? I cannot imagine where he gets his shyness from. His mother has always been a gregarious one. I know the Duke less intimately but he seems to be cut of the same cloth."

  Elizabeth chanced a glance up at the tall gentleman. She wanted to suggest that Lord Limingrose’s shyness could come from him, but she held her tongue.

  "Yes, the Duke and Duchess are very popular in the city. I’ve never known a couple with so many friends."

  "They seem very happy together," he responded, his dark eyes scanning the manor as they approached it. "The pace of London suits them well."

  Elizabeth wished to ask him if he missed the country, but his openness with her still felt forced. She felt as though she were balanced on a beam, suspended between polite idle chatter and improper conduct for a hired hand. So she merely nodded silently and kept walking.

  The length of his legs made his strides quite long and Elizabeth had to walk quicker than her normal gait to keep up with him. Once, she stumbled slightly over an exposed root of a tree that grew along the path. She caught herself deftly, managing to avoid a spill, but the Duke seemed to notice her difficulty and slowed down noticeably.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. At the steps to the manor, the Duke made his excuses to his nephew and with a nod of thanks to Elizabeth, he disappeared into the house.

  * * *

  The fresh air must have invigorated Gerard. As he left the company of Lord Limingrose and the governess, he felt more refreshed and alive than he had in weeks. Perhaps months. He certainly had not expected to feel this way during his stay in London.

  He wandered through the manor at a quicker pace, now that he did not have to make allowances for the young woman’s abbreviated legs. He wasn’t sure where his sister and her husband would be at that time of day, now that he had abandoned them for the entire morning.

  He stopped a housemaid in the hallway, nodding curtly to her. The girl stopped short, her ears going red.

  "Where is the Duchess?" he asked.

  "Oh. She’s in the library right now, Your Grace. With the Duke and the baby as well, I believe," the girl stammered.

  He thanked her shortly an
d went in the direction she had suggested.

  "Oh Gerard, there you are. We were about to send out a search party for you!" Bridget exclaimed as he came into the library. She was arrayed on the couch, her small slippered feet propped up on an embroidered footstool and the baby Anne nestled in her arms.

  "Where ever did you run off to this morning?" Jonathan asked, closing the book he’d been reading with a snap.

  "I happened upon Thomas at his studies and decided to go along. We went out to the pond. Your gardens are really a sight to behold this time of year," he said, coming to sit near his sister.