The Duke’s Secret Wager: London Season Matchmaker Book Four

by Adams, Lucy

  “I am grateful,” Catherine replied, her hands tight in her lap as she felt an uncomfortable swirling rushing all through her at the sight of the duke’s smile and the warmth in his eyes. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble on my behalf, and I am certain this evening will be quite wonderful.”

  “I hope it will be,” the duke replied, before turning to the window and beginning to talk about what was just outside. Catherine found herself settling back against the squabs as he spoke, interested in all that he had to say and finding the tension she had felt upon stepping into the carriage beginning to drain away.

  The duke talked about the history of the estate, of the village and even of the stories that had been carried from one generation to the next. She found herself smiling at him as he continued to speak, realizing that she very much enjoyed the duke’s company and, from the expression on his face, it appeared that he felt much the same way as she.

  This ease of manner and contentedness in each other’s company continued on through dinner, which Catherine had to admit was quite wonderful. She had forgotten just how lovely it was to sit around a table in good company and enjoy the many delectable dishes that were brought from the kitchens. Jenny, of course, did as she had been bade and sat in the corner of the room, her back to them so that she could not watch them. Catherine was grateful for her presence although she was quite certain that the duke would do nothing improper. It was quite an unusual feeling to be sitting with a duke of the realm and enjoying his conversation, as though they were great friends and had been so for some time.

  At a small lull in their conversation, Catherine allowed herself to study the duke a little more carefully. He appeared to be quite relaxed, his expression giving off an appearance of contentedness and happiness, which she had to admit she had also. He was a handsome gentleman, of course, but Catherine had never believed herself to be affected by appearance alone. Now, however, an unsettling realization came over her. The reason her heart had quickened when she had seen him waiting for her at the gatehouse, the reason she had found herself looking forward to being in his company again was because she had something of a fondness for him.

  The realization took her breath away and she accidentally dropped her dessert spoon with a clatter.

  The duke’s eyes filled with concern. “Are you quite all right, Lady Wells?”

  Her face burning, Catherine nodded and muttered an apology, picking up her cutlery again and praying that she would not be so foolish again. She had to rid herself of such notions, for to have any sort of affection for the duke was quite ridiculous. His reason for having her here at his estate, his only drive to allow her to ride Beauchamp was so that she could win the Gold Cup and bring him the prestige that he so desired. There was nothing more to it than that. Yes, it was kind of him to show her such consideration and certainly she appreciated the friendship that had been struck up between them, but she could not allow herself to be at all clouded in emotion when it came to the duke. Their paths would part soon enough. She would have to return home whilst he would remain here, able to continue with his passion of horse racing without any restraint.

  “Tell me,” she said suddenly, as the plates were cleared away. “What is it about the Gold Cup that fills you with so much determination?”

  The duke did not immediately answer, telling the servants that he would take port in the drawing room and that a tea tray was to be brought there also for his guest.

  “Might we walk to the drawing room, Lady Wells?” he asked, rising from his chair and coming over to hers, where he waited with proffered arm as she rose. “I do hope you enjoyed your meal.”

  “It was delicious,” she replied, getting up as quickly as she could and wondering why he had not answered her. “I thank you for your invitation to dine this evening, Your Grace. It was quite lovely.”

  “Good.” He waited until she had accepted his arm and Catherine had to pray that he was not aware of the flood of heat that seemed to run from her hand, all the way up her arm and then into her cheeks as they began to walk together. The duke’s house was grand indeed—although the sight of the various ornaments and expensive tapestries did not detract Catherine from her original question.

  “The Gold Cup, Your Grace,” she said again, as he led her into the dining room. “What is it that makes you so very eager to be the victor?”

  A small sigh left the duke’s lips as she let go of his arm and stepped away from him, looking all about the room as she did so. It was quite lovely, with a large mirror above the fireplace which held a crackling fire to take away the chill of a summer’s evening. “You are eager to win, are you not?”

  “I am,” the duke admitted heavily. “It has long been my greatest wish.”

  “But it cannot be for the wealth that comes with winning the race,” Catherine said pointedly, not shying away from the truth of things. “The prestige you have mentioned before, as I recall, but you are a duke of the realm! What more prestige could you seek?”

  The Duke of Blackwell hesitated, then shrugged. “I suppose it must seem quite foolish to you, Lady Wells – and mayhap I am being so, but the desire to win the Gold Cup comes from an eagerness within me to prove to those that know me and those that know of me that I am not merely a duke.” His expression twisted, as if he knew that he was not explaining himself particularly well. “If I step into a room, then all and sundry know who I am, even if I have not been introduced to another one of them there. They know me because of my title and nothing else. I would not have it be so. I wish to appear as flesh and blood, Lady Wells, with hopes, desires, and achievements all of my own.” A wry smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, as one hand swept through his hair. “Although I do not jockey the horse myself.”

  “No, but you purchase the horse and hire the jockey,” she replied, beginning to understand what he meant. “You wish for people to see you as you are, not just as your title.”

  He nodded, the smile fading as his gaze darted away. “That is it precisely, Lady Wells,” he replied, a tad grimly. “In winning the Gold Cup, I wish to prove to the beau monde that I have my own abilities, my own strengths and achievements aside from being so titled.” Shrugging, he threw another glance towards her. “But you must think me foolish to do so when I am so blessed to already be so well thought of within society.”

  Catherine shook her head, surprised that she felt a good deal of sympathy rising up within her. “I quite understand, Your Grace,” she replied, with a small smile in his direction. “In a way, we are both trying to pull away from the mold that society has placed us in—although I suspect that you shall be a good deal more successful than I.”

  “Why should you say that?” the duke asked, swinging his gaze back to her and then taking a few steps closer. “You are doing as you have always dreamed, are you not?”

  She gave him a small, sad smile, feeling the weight of her sorrow in her heart. “For a time, yes,” she admitted, wishing that she could only feel joy within her but realizing that there was pain also. “I shall always be grateful for what you have given me, Your Grace, for there are not many gentlemen who would have behaved as you have done. However, the truth is that, once the Gold Cup is over, I shall leave Ascot Heath and return home, where my mother shall, no doubt, curb my activities all the more.” Wincing, she spread her arms. “My riding might be curtailed, for all I know. My mother will be quite determined that I am to marry for fear that I shall turn out quite wild if I do not. How am I ever to find a suitable gentleman who will allow me to be as I truly am?” A quiet yet harsh laugh left her lips, making her shake her head. “It is for a time, Your Grace, and I shall always be glad for the time I have spent here. You, however, shall be able to go on and continue on as you have done for some time yet. For as long as you wish, in fact! If I do not win the Gold Cup for you, then I have no doubt that someone else shall be able to do so without any difficulty.” Looking up at him, Catherine spoke from her heart. “I do hope that you will be able to achieve
all that you desire, Your Grace. Truly.”

  The duke held her gaze steadily for some moments before he turned away, running another hand through his hair and upsetting it completely.

  “The more I consider matters, Lady Wells, the more I think that your sex is often unfairly treated,” he admitted, his words slow and careful as though he were being deliberate with each one. “I had not given the matter any consideration until I met you, Lady Wells, and now that I know that not only can you ride well but better than many others, my mind struggles with the difficulties that you face.” His hand dropped to his side as he looked at her, appearing a little lost. “If only I could be of further assistance to you, Lady Wells.”

  Catherine’s heart leapt up into her throat, her mind filling with the one and only idea that would save her from either a life of spinsterhood or a life pushed down by her husband, battling against him to retain a sense of self. Shaking her head, Catherine let out a heavy sigh and forced those thoughts from her head. She could never be a duchess. The Duke of Blackwell had responsibilities and certainly had to ensure that he behaved with decorum and propriety. To even think that he would marry someone such as she, who wanted to throw aside her gowns and be able to ride astride whenever she wished, who desired to ride in the races and fight against the standards and rigors of her sex…no, such a thing was quite impossible.

  “You are sad, Lady Wells.”

  His voice was filled with a soft tenderness that she had not heard before, and Catherine felt herself respond to it at once. She could not look away as she turned her head to see him coming closer to her, one hand outstretched. The urge to reach out and take it, to grasp it and hold onto him grew so strong within her that she was forced to catch her breath and steel her determination.

  “I am sad, yes, Your Grace, but it is an emotion that often plagues me,” she told him honestly, seeing how he stood only two steps away from her now, his hand still out towards her. All she had to do was reach out and take it and then…then, she did not know what would happen.

  “You know that I would do all I could to remove such an emotion from your shoulders.”

  Her eyes closed and, without warning, she felt his fingers touch hers. He had not waited for her any longer. He had reached out to her when she would not reach out to him.

  “I am not the sort of young lady that anyone with such a high title as yours should have anything to do with, Your Grace,” she whispered, her heart thundering like Beauchamp’s hooves as he galloped across the duke’s gardens. “I am not a refined young lady.”

  “But what if such a thing does not matter?” he asked, his voice still holding that tenderness that sent an ache into Catherine’s heart. “What if I do not care?”

  She could not answer. Her throat was filled with sand, her mouth with dust, as her fingers twined with his. Looking at their joined hands, Catherine felt such confusion clouding her mind that it was all she could do to simply keep her eyes open. She wanted to back away, wanted to turn around and run from the room and return to her own quarters where she might be freed from such whirling thoughts, but at the same time, Catherine could not bear to separate her hand from his.

  “Lady Wells, I know that we have a good deal to each contend with, but I will confess that the thought of bringing our acquaintance – our friendship — to an end is something that brings with it a good deal of pain,” the duke continued, when she said nothing. “I do not think I can bear it.”

  “But you must,” Catherine replied harshly, the awareness of what he was offering her slamming into her with an almost bodily force. “I am not the sort of young lady that you should be considering, Your Grace.” Looking up at him, she held his gaze and tried to steady herself. “The night of the ball, I told you that I would step out once I had found my courage.” A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she saw him blink in surprise, evidently recalling their first meeting with a new, sudden awareness. “I have found that courage now, thanks to your generosity, Your Grace. I have stepped out, albeit in a most strange and unfamiliar manner. I have taken on the guise of another in order to fulfill my heart’s desire, and for that, I shall always hold gratitude for you in my heart.” Her eyes began to burn with tears, but she did nothing to dash them away. Instead, Catherine continued to allow herself to speak openly to the duke, knowing that she had to be honest with him. “But I am aware that your mother, the Dowager Blackwell, has expectations of the lady you will one day marry. Society has expectations also. You yourself, in your own way, will have expectations.” A tear slid from her cheek. “And I can fulfill none of them.”

  The duke shook his head, his fingers tightening on hers, but Catherine held up one hand, silently pleading with him not to say anything more. “You are much too generous, Your Grace,” she told him, her voice barely breaking a whisper. “Your consideration of me is more wonderous than anything I have ever experienced before, but yet I would refuse you in the knowledge that I am not the sort of young lady that would bring you any sort of happiness.” She shrugged and pulled her fingers from his. “I am much too headstrong, much too determined, and have none of the qualities that would be required as the Duchess of Blackwell.” Turning away, she hurried towards the door, ignoring the tea tray that had been left for her. “I must bid you good evening, Your Grace.”

  She did not look at him again but scurried from the room, knowing that she would have to find a way back to her room without being seen by any of the other staff. Her breathing was ragged, and she swallowed sobs, not wanting to make a single sound.

  “Here, Miss.”

  Jenny, the maid, moved silently like a shadow and reached for Catherine’s hand. Placing it on her arm as though she were an old, decrepit woman, Jenny began to lead Catherine here and there, seeming to go through all the corridors that the house had, before finally making her way to the one room that Catherine knew she would be safe in.

  “No one has seen you, Miss,” Jenny said, looking at Catherine with concern. “Might I help you undress? Or fetch another tea tray? I can do that without suspicion, really.”

  Catherine, who wanted to be left entirely alone, nodded at the second suggestion, her vision still clouded with tears. “Thank you, Jenny,” she answered, aware of just how badly her voice shook. “I would be most grateful.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, leaving Catherine to step into her room and close the door tightly behind her. Leaning against it, she buried her face in her hands and finally let the tears begin to flow.

  The duke had tried to offer her something that was more wonderful, more astonishing, than anything Catherine had ever been offered in her life before – and yet, she knew she could not accept it. What made it all the worse was the realization that she cared for the duke in a way that she had never expected. Her heart was beginning to fill with him, and even though she had turned from him, it seemed to do so all the more, as though she had only just discovered how truly wonderful he was. His kindness, his generosity, and his understanding were more than she had ever experienced, for none of her sisters, her mother, nor her cousin had ever been able to show any sort of understanding for her difficulties and her trials. Her friends had been few and far between, for no other young lady rode astride nor galloped like a fury across the gardens. She was not as every other young lady of the ton, that she knew, but she had never felt any sort of shame or mortification over such a thing, and especially not when she had spoken her heart to the duke. He had shown such understanding that she had wanted to lean into him and wrap her arms about his waist, feeling his strength and courage flowing into her.

  Instead, she had turned from him. They would continue with their training, she would race Beauchamp, and thereafter, their acquaintance would come to an end. There was nothing more that could be done, nothing more that could be offered her. She could not allow the duke to bear any sort of ridicule nor displeasure from the beau monde nor from his mother if he married her, not after what he had done for her. No, it was best to leave
things as they stood, even if it was not what she wanted.

  “I do not want to leave you,” she whispered, sinking slowly to the floor with her face still in her hands. “But yet I must.” The truth of those words burned into her, sending pain all through her as her heart slowly ripped into a thousand tiny pieces.

  Chapter Eleven

  “So you have a jockey then.”

  Matthew nodded, his heart not leaping with joy as he had expected. “I do,” he replied, attempting to sound confident. “Do you think you will be bold enough to place a wager on me?”

  His friend, Lord Brighton, laughed and shook his head. “I shall, of course, do so,” he agreed, waggling his eyebrows. “Although I may also put a bet on one or two others, just to increase my chances of winning.”

  Unable to help himself, Matthew chuckled wryly, knowing that his friend had a good deal of money and did not need to win more – and could well afford to lose a great deal and still be in perfect financial health. “You do not think I shall win then?”

  “I think you shall try very hard to win,” his friend replied, hailing the footman to bring them both another drink. “So, tell me of this jockey of yours. Inexperienced, I heard someone say?”

  Much to Matthew’s dismay, his thoughts did not go to Lady Wells as his jockey but rather Lady Wells as she had been only two evenings ago, when she had stood in his drawing room clad in a gown of deep emerald, her eyes fixed upon his. At the thought, his mouth went dry and his heart quickened, recalling just how beautiful she had appeared.

  “Blackwell?”

  Lord Brighton sounded a trifle concerned, and it was with an effort that Matthew had to pull himself from his own thoughts. “I do apologize,” he replied with a forced smile. “The race is only in a few days’ time and I find that I am quite caught up in thinking of it.”

  His friend nodded. “But of course,” he agreed slowly. “But your jockey. Is there some concern over him?”