He blinked, clearly taken aback by her audaciousness, if not her subtle evasion. Then he slowly grinned, mesmerizing her with the simple lifting of his marvelous mouth.
“Because, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he murmured softly, his gaze burning into hers, “you have a quick wit and smell like flowers. I like that.”
Vivian drew a sharp intake of breath, felt blood rush to her face, no doubt pinkening her cheeks to expose the heat she felt from such an intimate… confession? She had no idea what to say. Once again, he’d managed to stun her into silence. And God, how many times had he made her blush this day?
He saved her from further embarrassment, though, as he abruptly turned his attention back to the manuscript, recovering the parchment and then closing the bible, tucking it safely back into the bookcase with a shutting of the door and a click of the lock.
He turned to face her fully, hands behind his back. “I shall consider the reasons for your visit today, madam. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got estate matters to which I must attend. Wilson will show you out.” He nodded once. “Good day, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”
She’d never been dismissed more abruptly in her life. Still standing only a foot away from his distinguished form, her skirts still resting against his long, sturdy legs—though he didn’t appear to notice that—Vivian could do nothing but excuse herself.
Curtsying once, she pulled her reticule against her stomach. “As you wish, your grace.”
His brows rose fractionally at that, but he didn’t respond.
Turning, she walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, sir,” she mumbled as she reached it.
He nodded curtly. “Until we meet again, madam.”
Another shiver coiled up within her, and as Vivian quickly made her exit from the property, she couldn’t help but feel the Duke of Trent’s clever eyes on her back, ever watching.
Chapter 3
Vivian stood in her dining room. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the arrangement on her polished pine table—a red rose and white orchid pattern in a blue glass vase that she’d just completed for the Finley wedding that evening. After forty-five minutes of work, she’d finally attained perfection to her standards, as this arrangement would be on display beside the church altar, in front of some of Cornwall’s best families. This one had turned out lovely, if she did say so herself.
She only faintly noticed the rapping of the knocker on her front door, so caught up as she was with her project, but seconds later, the great stirring of her small staff brought her out of her concentration when one of her two maids dashed past the dining room door toward the kitchen, her skirts rustling with the quickness of her step.
A commotion had begun in the entryway, muffled voices carrying little distinction, though clearly both male and female.
Vivian started to call for Harriet, then thought better of it. Instead, she smoothed her auburn, lace-trimmed skirt and ran a palm over her pinned, plaited hair before walking with confidence toward the front of her house. As she turned the corner into the entryway, she stopped so quickly her gown swung out in front of her, forcing whalebone to smack against his knees. His knees.
Dear God.
Her mouth dropped open—in either shock that he’d ventured to the village in person, horror that he actually stood in her cluttered house, or maybe just that he looked so fabulously handsome despite his too-casual attire of a white silk shirt and unassuming brown pants. At this moment, he looked so unlike any nobleman she’d ever known. More like a person of the middle class ready to take a stroll in his small, private garden.
And what was he doing here? It had only been yesterday that she’d ventured to his estate with her proposal. Her heart began to race with possibilities.
“I see I’ve left you speechless once again, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he drawled.
That pronouncement from him jolted her from her thoughts and her mouth snapped shut. “Undoubtedly,” she agreed without argument, smiling flatly. “I don’t often entertain gentlemen of your… prestige, your grace.”
She regretted that statement as soon as she said it.
Slowly, without hint of implication, he replied, “That’s so very good to know, madam.”
Color burned in her cheeks. Then with the clearing of a throat, Vivian remembered Harriet still stood behind her and to her left, waiting for direction, hearing everything.
Reigning in her dignity, she turned toward her housekeeper.
“His Grace, the Duke of Trent and I will be discussing business in the parlor, Harriet. Please serve us refreshments there at once.”
Unable to hide her continued astonishment, a wide-eyed Harriet curtsied as required to the duke first, then her employer, then backed out of the entryway to do as ordered.
Turning again to her unexpected guest, Vivian drew in a slow breath and clasped her hands in front of her. “Well, then. This way if you please, sir.”
She brushed by him before he could comment, chin high, her stride expressing a self-assurance she didn’t feel at all, escorting him into her small parlor, the only room in her home decorated appropriately for the little entertaining she did.
“You do like your flowers, do you not?”
She couldn’t tell if he meant that with wit or sarcasm, though she did know he hadn’t asked it as a question requiring answer, and she didn’t feel the need to offer one. But her parlor was the one room where she shared with others her own vision of beauty, being rather conspicuously adorned with every imaginable display of sun-dried flowers. The plain, pink-papered walls and dark cherry wood furniture were covered with arrangements of assorted cultured roses, orchids, and carnations, as well as wild poppies, daisies, and sea lavender, in every shade that could possibly grow in southern climes. Dried roses framed the large, oblong mirror over the mantel, filled large crystal vases on the oriental rug and tea table, placed directly between a brocade settee in pale pink, and two matching chairs that faced it. Her parlor was a room she was quite proud of, and where she seated prospective buyers when they came to her for business.
“Flowers are more than a hobby of mine, your grace,” she explained after a moment or two of watching him gaze about the room. “They are my means of support.”
“Indeed.” He stopped in front of the large vase at the center of the tea table. “How do you get them to do that? Don’t they wilt?”
Vivian withheld a smile of satisfaction when she realized he genuinely wanted to know how one dried flowers without the flowers curling over when they died.
“We hang them upside down while still fresh. Depending on the weather, I usually hang mine from a line in my nursery, in the sun. But they can be hung from almost anywhere as long as they remain untouched and dry for several days.”
He nodded. “I see. Very distinctive.” He glanced up to her face again and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sure this is why we employ your services.”
Vivian felt a stab of embarrassment for giving more of an explanation than he likely wanted. For an awkward moment, they looked at each other from across the tea table, saying nothing. Then he gestured with an open palm to the settee.
“May I?”
“Of course. Please,” she replied, gracefully seating herself as he did in a facing wing chair despite the fact that the gown she wore today, while fitted in the bodice, had very wide hoops that got caught between the legs of the tea table and the chair. She tried to make adjustments to no avail. Finally she ignored her predicament, deciding not to move the chair so that she could fit, instead sitting rigidly, her hands folded in her lap.
At that moment her housekeeper entered the parlor carrying a white china tray with tea and accompaniments, cups and saucers, which she placed on the table in front of Vivian.
“I’ll serve us, Harriet. You may leave.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, curtsying again, her eyes on the man in front of them.
As soon as her housekeeper’s retreating footsteps faded, Vivian reached for the tea
pot, pouring with calm hands despite her suddenly clenched stomach. He could only be here for one thing.
“I’ve considered your offer for the manuscript, madam,” he said matter-of-factly, as if reading her thoughts, fingering the fine velvet at the end of one soft cushion, his brows drawn together in a slight frown.
Vivian placed his cup on the tea table a bit too harshly, ignoring the slight catch in her throat as she quickly replied, “In less than a day, your grace?”
The Duke of Trent stretched his long legs out and under the table, resting one strong arm across the back of the settee. “I’m very fast when something interests me. And very thorough.”
Vivian blinked, unsure how he wanted her to decipher that bit of babble. “Are you?” she replied with a forced little smile, replacing the teapot on the tray and reaching for sugar.
She added two teaspoons and began to stir gently. His cup remained untouched, and she could— without looking straight at him—positively feel his eyes burning a hole through her head. She did her best to ignore that by raising her cup to her lips.
“I will not be tricked, madam.”
He said the words so softly, so coldly, she almost dropped her cup. But her heart began to race again and she changed her mind about taking a sip. The tea was far too hot, and she would probably spill it anyway as rattled as she was. Slowly, she lowered the cup and daintily placed it on the table.
At last, she forced herself to look at him.
His eyes, as he stared into hers, were cool and direct, overflowing with a distinct forewarning he didn’t attempt to hide. If there was one thing she knew about this man already, it was that no one could ever take advantage of him and get away with it.
“Tell me how you learned of the manuscript,” he insisted, watching her.
She swallowed, but didn’t back down. “I told you, your grace. I overheard it rumored that you had it.”
His cheek twitched as his eyes narrowed. “I want the truth, Vivian.”
If he wasn’t so focused, so deadly calm, she’d probably waver from the oh-so-masculine way he said her name. Oddly enough, she couldn’t wait to hear him say it again.
“I told you—”
“Refresh my memory,” he said in a low, harsh breath.
The man was totally and utterly intimidating, even, absurdly enough, while he sat on a pink settee in a flowered parlor. She well understood at that moment why people assumed he was guilty of the crime of murder, just as something warned her he would know if she lied to him again. And as powerful as he was, he could make her life extremely difficult, probably more so than the lowly actor who knew her secrets. Still, she couldn’t risk it. Never in her life had Vivian felt so caught between two horrible outcomes.
Clenching her jaw, she said, “I can not tell you, your grace, and that is the truth.” She breathed deeply and exhaled, softly adding, “Please leave it at that.”
Perhaps it was her implied trust in him not to hurt her by forcing her to reveal the facts as she knew them, but she saw a flicker of… something shadow the planes of his face. His lids narrowed; his lips thinned and the muscles in his neck tightened with an irritation he couldn’t hide. But he didn’t press her.
After several uncomfortable seconds, his gaze very slowly lowered to her mouth, then her breasts.
Vivian didn’t move, though the heated stirring deep in her belly was difficult to deny.
“It seems we are at an impasse,” he murmured, his tone thick with indignation as he looked back into her eyes.
She didn’t know what to say to that.
Suddenly he leaned forward on the seat, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands, palms together, in front of him. “You don’t for a minute think I’ll simply sell you a piece of work signed by William Shakespeare, not without something valuable given me in return.”
Vivian began to tremble inside; tears of frustration and an instantly growing fear threatened to fill her eyes as his meaning began to dawn.
Boldly, trying to keep a passionately felt anger from her voice, she asked, “What is it you want, your grace? I have very little of value to offer you.”
It seemed to take a moment for him to gather the right words. Then he stared at her intensely and whispered, “You, madam, have exceptional value to me.”
She would not cry. She would not.
“I suppose you mean my person,” she stated, her voice sounding detached and distant to her ears.
He continued to regard her closely. “I do. I have lived far too long without the companionship of a beautiful woman.”
Her breath caught, but for a reason unknown to her, she couldn’t bring herself to slap him, dismiss him. Above all—her anger, every uncertainty—he intrigued her.
“And for my… companionship,” she continued, her nails digging into her palms, “you will give me the manuscript.”
He inhaled very deeply, holding her gaze with an intensity she could feel.
“I will,” he whispered.
The grandfather clock in the entryway behind her chimed four, startling her. Vivian jumped, standing abruptly, and quickly lost her balance with her skirts pulled to the side of her so awkwardly.
Immediately, he was there, catching her before she tumbled onto the tea table. But instead of feeling embarrassed or foolish, she felt a sudden jolt of desire, thick and strong, as he caught her under the arms, his hands firmly planted on the sides of her breasts.
Stunned, she looked up into his face, noting a shock in his heated eyes to match her own. His palms lingered on her curves for several seconds, feeling like flames to her skin, until she straightened and he dropped his arms, reluctantly releasing her.
Swiftly, Vivian scrambled to the side and back where her boned skirts fell smoothly around her petticoats, closing her arms over her stomach, turning away from him so that he couldn’t see her flushed face, her lust and confusion. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, placing one palm on her neck, wondering, absurdly enough, why her hand felt so cold.
This cannot be happening.
For a moment or two nobody said anything, nobody moved. Then she heard him step away from the settee, toward her.
“I will be otherwise engaged for the remainder of the week, but I would like to see you Saturday, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he said from behind her, his voice low. “For a noon luncheon at my home.”
She nodded minutely.
He walked past her, stopping when he reached the parlor doorway.
Turning his head to one side, he added, “For what it’s worth, I expected nothing less between us.”
And then he was gone.
He hated entering the village during daylight hours, and despised crowds with a passion. Socializing with various members of society made his skin crawl, which—aside from his very public trial and the acquittal only a few believed was just—remained the reason he lived most of the year in Penzance. He’d wondered before he made his surprise appearance this afternoon if he might shock the neighbors, and he was assured he had, as several people had seen him arrive, then leave. Of course he couldn’t care any less as his reputation had long since been ruined, but he was quite certain the Widow Rael-Lamont would. Her business was at stake, and yet she’d been the one to come to him with her damned proposal. She had to know he would want more information. And did she think he was so reclusive that he never ventured from the house?
Will leaned back against the cushion inside his coach as his driver meandered the dirt path toward home. He’d requested an understated rig without crests and high fashion, to keep a low profile as he rode into the village, but in doing so, he’d sacrificed luxury as well. This one rattled, which did nothing for his nerves.
God, what a beautiful woman she was. She had pale, satiny skin, an oval face still free of wrinkles, stunning blue-gray eyes, and silky dark hair that he would gladly pay a thousand pounds to see brushed long and loose about her pale shoulders, down her bare back. Closing his eyes, he imagined it, thinking again how physically exc
iting it was to hold her, even for a few seconds, his palms clasping the sides of her breasts. Through the fabric of her gown he could feel their soft roundness, and it had immediately charged him with a lust he hadn’t felt in ages. It had shocked them both, and she knew it as well. There was an energy between them, thoroughly undefined, but there nonetheless. It had been evident the moment their eyes met in the library yesterday, and in some very odd manner, he now considered it a miracle that she’d come to him with such a strange proposition.
And what of that? There was a great deal more to her visit than she’d disclosed. Will now felt certain she was being bribed, or even blackmailed. But by whom? And why? One of the reasons he’d wanted to surprise her in her home today was to get a good look, or at least a decent look, at the way she lived, her sense of style and to what social class she belonged. It had become immediately apparent that she was from good family. She treated her staff with standard distance and respect, kept her entertaining room very formal, even though her home was terribly small. She spoke in perfect English and her manners were impeccable. If Will didn’t know better, he’d swear she came from nobility, or at least the well born. She certainly conducted herself well enough.
What positively fascinated him, though, was her attraction to him even with the suspicion abounding that he’d killed Elizabeth. Very nearly everybody in the country knew of the sinful Duke of Trent, feared him, suspected him of murder as well as corruption of his own trial, thought him a scoundrel in need of a good hanging—except Vivian Rael-Lamont. Why didn’t she cringe from him, draw back in fear when he neared her? Hell, she even came to visit him, regardless of her intentions. Nothing in years had astonished him more than watching her walk up his front steps yesterday, looking dazzling and lovely with the sun on her shoulders and shiny, neatly dressed hair.
But really, all that was irrelevant, at least for the time being. What mattered now was that he find out what the devil was going on with her, how she came to know about his prized manuscript when so few in the country did. There was indeed a puzzle here in need of a good solving, and he had every intention of solving it, with or without her help, though he intended to have her in his presence frequently.
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