by Syrie James
Lance was at a loss for words.
Everything she had described was elegantly illustrated in her sketch. It was difficult to believe it was the same room. The cluttered, gilded look was gone, replaced by sleek, streamlined furniture and a nautical theme. Half of the bookshelves had been replaced by modern-looking cabinets and built-in drawers. A ship’s wheel hung over the fireplace. A life preserver and the cheerful image of an anchor adorned another wall. A model of a sailboat rested on a small table, a globe on another. The overall effect was light, bright, open, masculine, and . . . very appealing.
“I reimagined this alcove as a sailor’s berth,” she was saying, “thinking you could use it as a reading space or a place to nap. We could build in a narrow bunk or even hang a hammock.”
Lance nodded slowly. Somehow, this woman who had known him for less than an hour had hit upon exactly what he would want to do with this room, without him even knowing it himself.
“I don’t know what to say, Miss Atherton,” he began, finally finding his voice. “Your ideas are clever and your skill and speed with a pencil is most impressive.” Before he could go on, a knock sounded on the study door. “Enter!” he barked.
His gray-haired housekeeper hobbled in. “Forgive me for interrupting, Your Grace.” Mrs. Morgan darted a confused look at Miss Atherton, and went on: “A trunk has been delivered. John insists the cart man said it belongs to a lady. I said he was mistaken as you were expecting a gentleman down from London today.”
Lance paused, glancing at his guest, who was still standing beside his desk with such hope in her eyes. The hell with it.
This woman had come all the way from London and just sketched her heart out for him. She obviously, desperately, wanted this job—perhaps needed it for reasons that were as yet unclear to him. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her. The estate might be in debt up to its ears, but he had some money of his own put by.
With any luck, he might be able to renovate this place someday. If everything went south, a set of plans might add to the castle’s value when he sold it. No matter what happened, it would be fascinating to see what else this woman could dream up.
In the meantime, it was an excuse to keep her around a little while longer.
“Miss Atherton,” he announced, “may I introduce to you my housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan? Mrs. Morgan: this is Miss Kathryn Atherton, an architect from London.”
Mrs. Morgan’s jaw dropped in astonishment. To her credit, she recovered just as quickly as the two women exchanged polite greetings.
“Set a place at dinner for Miss Atherton,” Lance directed, “and tell my grandmother that I would appreciate it if she would join us this evening to meet our guest. We will begin with sherry in the drawing room at seven-thirty.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Miss Atherton darted him a questioning look. “Your grandmother?”
“The dowager duchess has occupied the same suite of rooms on the fifth floor for over thirty years,” Lance explained. “She generally prefers to take her meals upstairs on a tray. But if I know my grandmother, she will be delighted to make your acquaintance.” To Mrs. Morgan, he added, “Send up Miss Atherton’s luggage straightaway. She will be staying with us about three weeks, I should think.”
“Three weeks, Your Grace?” Mrs. Morgan echoed with a curtsy.
“Yes.” He glanced back at his guest, whose eyes widened in surprise and delight. “As I recall from your employer’s letter, three weeks was the stipulated time required to assess any improvements I might wish make to the castle and complete preliminary drawings. Is that not so, Miss Atherton?”
Kathryn stared out the window, admiring the way the setting sun colored the sky and shimmered across the rise and fall of the deep blue sea.
She had changed out of her traveling clothes into a fresh blouse and a gray silk skirt and jacket, which a maid had kindly pressed for her while Kathryn had unpacked the rest of her clothes.
Turning from the window, Kathryn surveyed her room. It wasn’t large, the furnishings were old, and the striped wallpaper had faded to a dingy yellow and brown. But it was comfortable. Its aspect was pleasing. And she was thrilled beyond words that she’d been allowed to stay and work on the drawings for the castle renovation.
The Duke of Darcy had been so adamantly opposed to the project for nearly the entire length of her interview. She couldn’t help but be proud of the fact that she’d managed to convince him to proceed. This was all new territory for her, and undeniably exciting.
Lord Darcy had seemed pleased by her suggestions for the study. The full scope of the work wouldn’t be determined until after she’d had a complete tour of St. Gabriel’s Mount and they’d engaged in further discussion. But based on the little she’d seen, she was already bursting with ideas and could hardly wait to begin.
There was one thing about the job that troubled Kathryn, however, and which could be a problem in the weeks ahead. She was attracted to the duke. Too attracted.
It wasn’t just that he was good-looking. As a New York City debutante, Kathryn had probably danced with hundreds of men. She had attended classes in London with hundreds more. Many had been just as handsome, in their own way, as the Duke of Darcy.
So why, every time their gazes touched, did she get all tingly inside? So inconvenient.
She sensed that he was smart and observant. He was a man in a rare position—a Navy captain who’d been obliged to give up his commission to become a duke. Maybe it was the brief flashes of frustration that she’d noticed a couple of times on his face that had made her feel drawn to him. She’d certainly experienced her fill of those exact same emotions over the years.
She sensed, from his expression a few times when he’d looked at her, that he might be attracted to her as well. Which was even more inconvenient.
This attraction and admiration—mutual or not—could go nowhere. There was no place in Kathryn’s life for a relationship with a man.
She hadn’t always felt this way. Growing up, although the youngest of three sisters, she’d been the most adventurous and the first to be kissed by a boy (their art instructor’s son, at age eight). Kathryn had looked forward to love and marriage, had even been a little envious at Lexie’s wedding, wishing that her new husband, Thomas, had a brother.
All that had changed when Kathryn entered architectural school. The only woman in classrooms filled with men, she’d been regarded alternately with suspicion, amusement, and disdain. A few men had asked her out—one had even proposed. But no one had taken her quest seriously. They’d considered it a bit of absurdity that she’d give up when she married, their sense of masculinity seemingly threatened by the idea of a woman joining their ranks, or worse yet, having a wife who worked.
It had become clear to Katherine that if she were to pursue this career, no man would ever marry her. So she would have to choose: marriage or career.
She chose career.
She’d had a brief affair once, while on vacation in Paris. To check a box, so to speak. To satisfy her curiosity about certain . . . things. She had no desire to indulge in another. She had a reputation to maintain. Most importantly, Lord Darcy was her client as well as her employer. Under no circumstances could she get involved with him. She was here to work. And she never mixed business with pleasure.
Should any more tingling occur while in the presence of His Grace, she was simply going to have to ignore it.
A knock sounded on the door. A young redheaded housemaid named Ivy announced that it was seven-thirty and sherry was being served. Kathryn followed her downstairs.
The moment Kathryn entered the drawing room, her eyes were drawn to the duke like a magnet. He was standing by a window, sipping sherry from a crystal goblet. He had changed into formal wear—a gorgeous black dinner jacket with waistcoat and bow tie—and, if possible, looked even more handsome than he had at their earlier meeting.
At the sight of him, the now-familiar sparks started zinging again through Kathryn’s
body. Her heart raced while her mind warned: Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
“Ah, Miss Atherton. We were just speaking about you.” The duke gestured to the tiny, elegantly dressed woman who sat on a wingback chair nearby, her snowy hair swept up in a becoming, old-fashioned style.
“Grandmother, may I present Miss Kathryn Atherton? Miss Atherton, this is my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Darcy, Honora Granville.”
The dowager duchess turned in her seat, her pale blue eyes gleaming with interest as she studied Kathryn. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Atherton.”
“The pleasure is mine, Duchess,” Kathryn replied with a curtsy. It occurred to her that Lord Darcy’s grandmother might be his only close living relative—he’d said his parents had died years ago, and now his only sibling was gone. How sad, she thought, that both of these people were so alone in the world.
The dowager duchess’s brow furrowed as she looked up at her. “Atherton,” she murmured, letting go of Kathryn’s hand. “I feel as though I have heard that name before.”
Kathryn froze. With all that had happened that afternoon, she’d almost forgotten her desire to remain unrecognized. If the duchess realized that Kathryn was an Atherton heiress, it could change everything. The duke might only see her as a woman with a fortune, instead of an architect. He’d think it nonsensical that she was bothering with a career. Every conversation would come back to that; it almost always did. He might even end their association.
Desperate to redirect the conversation, Kathryn glanced around the room. It was a good-sized chamber with elegant architectural details, but the blue silk wallpaper was faded and the furnishings were in need of refurbishing. “The ceiling and crown moldings in this room are lovely,” she commented abruptly. “They are Wedgwood, I believe?”
“Indeed they are,” the dowager duchess replied with a proud smile. “One of Wedgwood’s earlier commissions. The fifth duke had them installed in 1774. The room itself dates back to the time that St. Gabriel’s was a monastery in the tenth century.”
“The tenth century!” Relieved to have successfully changed the subject, Kathryn accepted a glass of sherry from the footman and took a sip. It was of fine quality and truly delicious. “In America, we think a place ancient if it’s a hundred years old.”
The duke laughed. It was a deep, hearty, gloriously masculine sound, and it seemed to resonate through Kathryn’s entire being. Their gazes caught and held for a moment. The interest in his sent another shiver up her spine. Look away. Look away.
“I understand you are here from London to make alterations to St. Gabriel’s Mount, Miss Atherton?” the dowager duchess commented. “Something my grandson Hayward set in motion?”
“Yes,” Kathryn replied, grateful for the distraction. “That is my hope.”
Her eyes suddenly grew misty. “He was such a lovely man, our Hayward. I miss him dearly.”
“I am very sorry for your loss, Duchess,” Kathryn replied with sympathy.
“Thank you.” Composing her features, the dowager duchess went on, “How marvelous that your firm sent you, my dear. It is high time women were given a chance to show what they are capable of in the professions.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” It was unusual, Kathryn had discovered, for anyone, man or woman, to be so open-minded about such things—most people still clung to the old ways of thinking. She found it refreshing and pleasant to have an ally.
“I admit, I had no idea Hayward was contemplating anything of this nature,” the duchess added.
“Perhaps he intended to surprise you,” Kathryn ventured.
Lord Darcy’s features hardened at her statement, and he downed a long swig of sherry. Kathryn wondered what was behind his reaction, but had no time to contemplate it, for his grandmother went on:
“Lord knows, something needs to be done with this place. The last time any alterations were made was in 1832, not long after I married the seventh duke and came to live here.” Turning to her grandson, she added, “I do hope, Lancelot, that I will finally get new carpets in my room.”
Lancelot? That’s his first name?
The duke’s face reddened at the appellation—but Kathryn smiled to herself. In some ways, he did resemble a knight in shining armor. He had hired her, after all, seemingly against his better judgment—and she had a sneaking suspicion he’d done so not just because he’d liked her drawing of the study, but because he liked her.
“Do you require new carpets, Grandmother?” the duke was saying.
“I have been badgering Hayward about it for years.”
Kathryn wondered again if the family had financial issues. But earlier, when she’d asked Lord Darcy about it, he had firmly insisted that was not the case. And Mr. Patterson had specifically mentioned the former duke’s generosity. Maybe, she reasoned, he had simply been parsimonious when it came to home improvements . . . until now. She made a mental note to ask, tomorrow, if the duke had a budget in mind.
“Just promise me you will not touch my conservatory,” the dowager duchess went on, turning to Kathryn with an imploring look.
“Your conservatory?” Kathryn asked.
“My husband built me a wonderful sunroom, and it is perfect to this day. I am fond of tropical plants and flowers—all growing things, really.”
“I share that enthusiasm,” Kathryn confided, “although I admit, I cannot abide cut flowers. A bouquet always make me sad—knowing that the flower’s life has been cut short, simply to sit in a vase for someone’s brief enjoyment.”
“I could not agree more,” the dowager duchess responded with a smile.
Dinner was announced. The duchess picked up her cane and took the duke’s arm as they proceeded to the dining room, a chamber that was lovely but also decidedly dated.
A massive table that could easily seat a dozen people had been set for three. Fine china, crystal, and silver glistened beneath a chandelier festooned with lit candles and ropes of many-faceted crystals. The footman and a maid stood at attendance, and soon began serving the meal with grace and efficiency. The first course was a fish soup that came with a bottle of white Burgundy.
“My brother was very proud of his wine cellars,” the duke commented. “We have thousands of bottles down there waiting to be consumed.”
“Lucky us.” Kathryn smiled. The wine was an old vintage and quite delectable.
It had been a long time since she had indulged in nice glass of Burgundy. Over the past four years, while in school and then working, Kathryn had often been obliged to draw and sketch late into the night. To stay as clearheaded as possible, she had avoided drinking at dinner. That is, when she had bothered to actually take time to eat.
Tonight, Kathryn decided, she needn’t restrict herself. She’d had a long day of travel. She wouldn’t be working and could retire soon. She deserved a glass of wine or two.
“Miss Atherton,” the dowager duchess said as they ate, “my grandson has informed me that you attended architecture school in London.”
“I did, Your Grace.”
The duchess beamed at her. “You give me hope for the future, my dear. I pray that you and others like you will achieve more than women of my generation ever could.”
“That is my hope as well.”
“How long have you been interested in architecture, Miss Atherton?” inquired the duke.
“Ever since I was a young girl. I remember we were visiting New York City, and I stared up at the new structures that were ten or fifteen stories high. They seemed to reach the sky. I asked my father, how can a building so tall stand on its own?”
“What did he say?” asked the dowager duchess.
“He said, ‘Don’t bother your pretty head about that, little girl. It’s a man’s problem.’”
“And so says every man ever born,” the dowager duchess retorted with a frown. “They see us as decorative objects without a thought in our heads, which could not be further from the truth.” She raised her glass to Kathryn. “Cheers to you for
not listening to him.”
“I had no choice,” Kathryn responded as they all sipped their wine. “I was too curious. So while my sisters were reading children’s books, I asked my teachers for books about buildings and architecture. I just had to find out what made a skyscraper stand.”
“How does a skyscraper stand?” the duke mused, finishing his soup. “I imagine it has to do with the depth of the foundation?”
“Yes, among other things.” Oh, how she loved the cadence of this man’s voice. It was like gentle music blended with a ring of authority. Kathryn’s gaze landed on his lips as he swallowed. Such beautiful lips. She wondered suddenly what it would be like to kiss those lips. Dear Lord. Censor that thought.
“Um,” Kathryn continued, polishing off her glass of wine as she struggled to recall what he’d just asked. Something about foundations. “There are many challenges to keep in mind when designing a tall building, from overcoming gravity and wind to ground that is far from solid.”
“I never thought of such things,” the dowager duchess remarked. “What a fascinating business.”
The soup plates were cleared away and the fish course was brought in, poached salmon with cream sauce paired with a very nice Bordeaux. A meat course followed, roast lamb with rosemary potatoes. They continued to eat, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and Kathryn’s journey to Cornwall, as another bottle of vintage French wine was uncorked and served. This time, Kathryn asked for just half a glass. She really had better pace herself.
“Miss Atherton.” The duke gave her a pondering look as the footman refilled his glass. “Earlier today, you mentioned that you are awaiting the results of the architecture licensing exam. Enlighten me. Are there any licensed women architects in Great Britain?”
“There are not.”
“None at all?”
“Not yet, Your Grace.”
The duke nodded slowly, taking that in.
