Ten Days with a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  Safe from whom, if he was her enemy?

  The answer came to her just as quickly. Safe from his father. The marquess would not have liked his son exhibiting charity to the daughter of his rival.

  Weston reached up as though to touch Olive’s cheek, then dropped his hand without making contact.

  “You don’t need a medallion to prove how remarkable you are.” His eyes were fierce and unwavering. “But I’m glad you have it again.”

  She curled her fingers around it. Pressed it to her heart.

  He didn’t have to return the medallion. She hadn’t even known he possessed it. He’d dug it from the muck, kept it in perfect condition all these years. Just in case he saw her again.

  In horror, she realized she was smiling without covering her face.

  He didn’t look disgusted. His eyes were still locked on hers. This time, his hand did rise to cup her cheek.

  “You were beautiful then,” he said quietly. “And you’re beautiful now.”

  Lies.

  Obviously.

  And oh how she wanted to believe him.

  He still held power over her, no matter how hard she tried to deny it.

  She didn’t want his approval. She wanted him to be attracted. She wanted him to kiss her and not be embarrassed by it.

  But she couldn’t fall for pretty words. No matter how long she’d yearned to hear them. He hadn’t come for her, but for her farm. She couldn’t let him possess either one.

  Weston hadn’t taken his hand from her cheek.

  She didn’t move away.

  Her heart flailed against her ribs in alarm. She was fearless with external risks, but when it came to her feelings...

  She smiled for him. Tentatively. On purpose this time. She didn’t show all of her teeth, but... yes, her lips were definitely parted.

  It was the most terrifying feat she’d ever attempted.

  He smiled back at her. Not a cruel smile. A slow, pulse-fluttering smile that sent shocks of awareness across every inch of her skin.

  “I’m Elijah,” he said. “And I would have brought that medallion years ago if I’d known it would bring this smile to your face.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you through the door.” It was true. It had taken her father’s machinations to make her think of Weston as anything other than a monster. She was no longer certain of much at all. “I’m... Olive.”

  His thumb stroked her cheek.

  She was no longer smiling. She was practically purring.

  His voice was low and husky. “I want to kiss you more than anything.”

  Yes. That was a fine idea. Exactly what Olive wanted, too.

  “But we shouldn’t,” he continued. “Not unless you’re absolutely certain this is the path you want to take.”

  The farm. He meant the farm.

  He was reminding her of her reasons not to let him close.

  These were not the actions of a monster.

  Perhaps he’d been one, a decade ago. He had been her worst nightmare, and ruined London for her forever.

  But he had also been sixteen when they met. Barely older than her.

  Years had passed since then. She was different. Why wouldn’t he be, too?

  Perhaps she ought to judge him by the man she saw before her now, not the boy that she remembered.

  Her throat tightened.

  She would never forget, and she was not ready to forgive, but she could no longer hold her grudge against him. It was time to stop allowing the past to define her life.

  “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “Not that my feelings change anything.”

  Didn’t they?

  What were feelings for, if not to change things?

  “Let me think about the right path.” She took his hand from her cheek and placed it on his chest. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “You have seven days.”

  Chapter 7

  The Fourth Day

  Olive’s father was arranging cinnamon biscuits on a tray when she carried her dirty breakfast dishes into the kitchen.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You two seem cozy this morning.”

  The back of her neck heated. She was glad the dishes in her hands gave an excuse not to immediately respond. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hold onto them forever.

  “Weston... isn’t as villainous as I remember.”

  “Weston?” Papa’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t you mean ‘Elijah?’”

  Her mouth fell open. “You were spying on our breakfast?”

  “I wanted to offer biscuits,” Papa said innocently. “I couldn’t see his response, but I could guess.”

  Heat traveled up from her neck to her cheeks.

  Papa had been deaf since birth, but he could read Olive’s lips very well. She had no doubt he had “accidentally” understood a fair portion of the morning’s conversation.

  “Teach him hand signs,” Papa suggested. “Then I won’t have to struggle to read lips.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be part of the conversation,” she reminded him. “Besides, a week isn’t long enough to learn the signs.” Olive had learned her first signs before she could crawl. For her, it was just as easy as talking. For the servants, rudimentary signs had taken months to master. For Elijah, fluency in one week would be impossible. “This is Day Four. Soon, he’ll be gone, and he won’t be back.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Because I’m not marrying him,” she said in exasperation.

  “And you only speak to people you’re married to?”

  She glared at him. “That’s not what I...”

  Very well, it was a fair point.

  If she could be friendly with Elijah for the remaining six days, what was to prevent them from becoming actual friends?

  “Because I’m still angry at us both,” she admitted. “He didn’t defend me to his father or the other children, but I also didn’t stand up for myself. I ran away from him, just like I ran away from London during my failed Season.”

  “So now you’re trying to chase him away?”

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “It’s instinct. I would run from a viper and I would chase away a rat. Even if it appeared on my doorstep brandishing a marriage license. I was foolish once. I won’t be that stupid again.”

  “You were never stupid.” Papa’s eyes filled with love. “You were young. You were in pain. None of it was your fault. Leaving a situation that causes you pain isn’t cowardice. Refusing to forgive yourself as an excuse not to fully live... is.”

  She scrubbed her dishes to avoid having to respond.

  Her father’s words stung. She’d been angry with herself over her shocked inaction for so long, it hadn’t occurred to her that her cowardice was her behavior now, rather than back then.

  She’d replayed the moments so many times in her mind. The perfect set-down for Weston and his father. So sharp and cutting, the children would not have dared to make a titter.

  Without that moment, that infamy, she might have had a Season. She might have been granted a voucher for Almack’s, might have danced at a ball, might have taken a promenade in Hyde Park on the arm of a handsome gentleman.

  She had cursed her own weakness just as much as she’d cursed Weston and the marquess.

  But Papa was right. She wasn’t to blame.

  Weston and his father were.

  She’d been a child. A frightened girl shouldn’t be expected to parry the spiteful vindictiveness of a marquess and his heir. For as long as she berated herself about events she’d had no control over, she wasn’t fully living.

  It was time to forgive herself.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault. We know who is to blame. You’ve feuded with that family since before my birth, and for good reason. They’re loathsome. You taught me early and often: Forgive nothing.”

  “Fathers can be wrong, too.” Papa’s expression was serious. “A lifelong feud helps no one. Hate eats at the so
ul until no joy remains. If I can try to heal my rift, why shouldn’t you?”

  It wasn’t that easy.

  She returned her attention to the dishes.

  After yesterday, she’d been determined to judge Elijah by what she saw, rather than what she remembered. But deciding was one thing and doing was another.

  For the first time, Olive felt like she might be failing her father as a daughter.

  She had always done everything Papa had ever asked of her. It had never been much, because all he wanted was for her to be happy, just as she wished happiness for him.

  So now what?

  If she had the opportunity to heal a decades-old rift between her father and the person he’d once counted as his dearest friend, shouldn’t she do it? Even if it meant giving up her own dreams to make someone else’s come true? Someone she loved?

  No. It was asking too much. She could forgive her younger self for having no defense against stronger foes, but she could not sacrifice her current self like a pawn on a chessboard. She was older now. Stronger. Able to stand up for herself. Not a pawn, but the castle, steadfast and strong.

  When on Twelfth Night she still believed she and Elijah did not suit, then these ten days of togetherness would have to be enough.

  “Good faith,” Papa reminded her, as though he could read minds as well as lips. “You can’t poison yourself against him on purpose.”

  “He poisoned me,” she said automatically.

  But it was only partly true.

  Elijah would always be the boy who destroyed her dreams. Twice. But that didn’t have to be all he was.

  He was also the man who had brought her a medallion she’d believed lost forever. The man who wouldn’t steal a kiss without her express permission, because he wanted her to be in charge of her own life.

  Elijah hadn’t asked for this courtship either. He’d been sent by his father, thanks to the manipulative tactics of her own. If there were battle lines in this strange new predicament, she and Elijah were on the same side.

  The thought was unsettling.

  “Very well,” she said. “I forgive him for being a horrid pestilent canker when we were younger. He has six days to show me who he is now. But when I discover he’s still a knave hoping to play games with—”

  “Oh!” came a startled male voice right behind her.

  She spun around. Thank heavens they hadn’t been speaking aloud.

  Elijah made a chagrined face. “I smelled biscuits, and I...” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with your father. I can go and entertain myself. I’ve neglected my research long enough.”

  She blinked, then interpreted this for her father. “Research?”

  “Oh.” A flush crept up his cheeks. “That’s nothing. It’s just...”

  She waited.

  “...botany,” he finished.

  “Botany?” she repeated, unsure she’d heard him correctly.

  Flowers didn’t sound like the domain of Gothic villains.

  “How you feel about horses is how I feel about cinchona officinalis,” he said in a rush. “I’m a small part of the procedure, but I’m working with a chemist interested in furthering the experiments I’ve been conducting with dozens of important gardens, and I...” He took a breath. “...have been talking too much about botany. I’ll go.”

  As she interpreted for her father, Elijah turned toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  With a wink, Papa handed Olive a plate of biscuits and returned to the kitchen.

  She held it out toward Elijah. “Tell me about your gardens.”

  “Well...” He began a head-spinning explanation of the various public and private gardens in London, what flora might be found in each, as well as their potential alternative uses.

  She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. She’d seen gardens, of course—Cressmouth wasn’t covered in snow all year round—but she didn’t know a Strichno-thingummy from a Carapi-whatsit.

  In the space of a half-dozen biscuits, it became charmingly clear that Elijah was right: He knew as much about plants as Olive did about horses.

  Here was another intriguing contradiction.

  She had thought him a fribble who looked like a farmhand, when in fact both were costumes disguising a studious, enthusiastic botanist.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m boring you.”

  “You’re not boring me.”

  He was making her realize there was a lot more to him than she had believed. Facets she might like to get to know. It felt like the earth was tilting.

  “I’m missing an important appointment. I was meant to present a detailed plan for next year’s research to a well-respected chemist. Now there’s little time.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not used to not working. I have all my notebooks, but without any plants to observe...”

  “Well,” she said slowly. “That’s not entirely true.”

  “I saw the evergreens,” he assured her. “And I’ve jotted detailed notes on the phleum pratense—that is, the Timothy grass—your horses are consuming beneath the snow. I wouldn’t call it a garden—”

  “—but I know where one is.” She leapt to her feet. “Come with me.”

  He jerked back, startled. “Where?”

  “Outside.” She pointed at the extravagant borrowed greatcoat hanging from its hook and slipped her arms into her own fur-lined pelisse.

  She had meant to walk the mile up the road to the castle, but they exited her front door just in time to catch one of the local sleighs.

  “Come on.” She motioned him to join her on the rear bench of the wide, open-air sleigh.

  Elijah approached with caution, his eyes not on her or the bright red sleigh, but the glossy black gelding standing proud at the front.

  “He looks like one of your horses,” Elijah said suspiciously.

  “He was.” She flung out her palm. “Meet Prancer.”

  Rather than nicker in greeting at the sound of his name, Prancer’s eyes tracked Elijah as though sensing his reticence.

  “He’s not going to fly off like Rudolph, is he?” Elijah whispered as he joined her on the padded seat.

  “Maybe,” she said cheerfully. She lifted her voice to Mr. Anderson, the driver. “How fast does this beast go?”

  “You should know,” answered Mr. Anderson. “He came from your farm.”

  Elijah turned to Olive with wide eyes. “Is it too late to throw myself from the sleigh in a dramatic, yet heroic effort to save my own life?”

  “Too early,” she whispered back. “We haven’t started moving yet.”

  He nodded gravely. “Let me know when it’s time.”

  She hid a smile. Blast him. She liked him far more than she wished to.

  He wasn’t trying to impress her, which was in itself impressive. By admitting his fears and perceived flaws, he was giving her power over him. On purpose. She could mock him if she liked. Make him feel bad for being who he was. He was putting the choice in her hands.

  Trusting her with his true self.

  Prancer ambled forward. Anderson glanced back over his shoulder. “I can scarcely believe you dragged this lady away from her farm during the busy season.”

  Elijah blinked and turned to Olive. “I can’t believe it either.”

  She swallowed hard.

  She’d like to believe this outing together had been spur of the moment. The consequence of her father’s not-so-gentle insistence. But she was wearing a pretty morning gown, not her riding habit. From the moment she awoke, she’d been looking forward to seeing Elijah.

  Of course, she hadn’t planned on parading through the village with him in the back of an open sleigh.

  Anderson was right—this was Cressmouth’s busiest season. Witnesses abounded. Even though Olive intended to turn down Elijah’s suit, his interest in her—mercenary though it may be—was now public.

  She wished he were here because he wanted to be, not
because their fathers had commanded it. She wished she had been brave enough to accept a second kiss.

  Three different friends had already waved with expressions indicating this incident would not pass by without comment.

  Olive wished she and Elijah weren’t incompatible opposites in every way.

  “Here we are,” said Anderson.

  Elijah wiped imaginary sweat from his brow as they exited the sleigh, then lowered his voice. “Someone should attend to Prancer.”

  Olive looked at Elijah in astonishment. She’d planned to review Prancer herself once she deposited Elijah in the castle. “You noticed him favoring his front leg?”

  “I noticed a weakness in his extensor tendon leading to over-reliance on his suspensory ligament,” Elijah replied.

  Her mouth fell open. “What did you just say to me?”

  He widened his eyes. “Was it confusing?”

  “It made me tingle in places I didn’t know I could tingle.” She crossed her arms. “You made me think you didn’t know anything about horses.”

  “I told you I preferred not to ride them.” He offered his elbow. “I didn’t say I was unaware of what they are.”

  “That’s not common animal knowledge,” she stammered. “Extensor tendons and suspensory ligaments are—”

  “...the sort of pedantic details one might pick up in a book, rather than a hands-on examination?” His expression was amused. “I am a gentleman and a scholar. You have found me out.”

  No, Olive was beginning to doubt she’d cracked the surface. “How familiar are you with your father’s business?”

  He gave a dramatic shudder. “Intimately.”

  “You understand the care of horses?” she pressed.

  He lifted a shoulder. “Relevant to the southern half of the country, as you’ve made clear.”

  “The feeding of horses?”

  He tapped his chest. “Plant scholar.”

  She glared at him in consternation.

  He’d allowed her to believe him useless in all of the things that mattered most to her, when in fact their talents were complementary.

  “You wouldn’t ruin our farm,” she said, forced to revise once again everything she thought she knew about Elijah. “You still can’t have it.”