To Love a Duchess EPB

by Karen Ranney

  He made it to his knees and she tried, once more, to pull away. She got one arm free and then the second. Just like he imagined, she made for the railing again. He grabbed her skirt as he stood. When she turned and went for his eyes again, he jerked the fabric with both hands, desperate to get her away from the edge.

  The duchess stumbled and dropped like a rock.

  He stood there being pelted by rain that felt like miniature pebbles, but the duchess didn’t move. Her cheek lay against the roof; her eyes were closed, and rain washed her face clean of tears.

  He bent and scooped her up into his arms and headed for the door, wondering how in hell he was going to explain that he’d felled the Duchess of Marsley.

  Chapter Two

  Adam’s luck ran out on the family floor. He nodded to the footman stationed outside the duchess’s suite, wondering what kind of training the man had received from the previous majordomo. The young man’s eyes didn’t reveal any emotion at the sight of Adam carrying an unconscious duchess, both of them dripping on the crimson runner. All he did was open one of the doors and step aside to reveal the sitting room.

  The lamps had been left lit inside the room. Adam expected the duchess’s maid to greet him. No one did.

  The scent of the duchess’s perfume was even stronger in the sitting room. He stood there uncertain, glancing over his shoulder only when the door closed softly behind him.

  He had never been in the duchess’s chambers before. The sitting room alone looked as if it took up half this wing. The walls were covered in a pale ivory silk patterned with embroidered branches complete with birds of different colors.

  Two sofas sat perpendicular to the white marble fireplace on the far wall. They, too, were covered in ivory silk. The crimson-and-ivory rug was woven in a pattern similar to the silk on the walls. The furniture was mahogany and crafted with feminine touches, like curved legs ending in delicate paws.

  The tenement in Glasgow where he’d been born and raised could be put inside this room and still have space left over. The cost of the ivory silk curtains alone could probably have fed his family for a year.

  The duchess lay like a black cloud in his arms, her head lolling against his chest. Her cheek still bore a red mark where she’d struck the roof.

  Should he attempt to apologize? Or explain? Or simply hope that she’d forget the entire incident?

  Why had she tried to throw herself off the roof? Had she loved the bastard that much? The Duke of Marsley didn’t deserve her devotion, especially two years after his death.

  He wanted to give instructions to the footman to keep her inside her suite, but doubted that would work. The duchess was their employer, the goddess in this little kingdom of Marsley House. None of the servants would go against her for fear they would be dismissed.

  Maybe the duchess’s maid was close enough to the duchess to be able to alter her behavior. She might have some influence. If she didn’t, maybe she’d know someone who would.

  But the maid wasn’t here, even though she should have been waiting for the duchess to return.

  He strode across the room, uncaring that his shoes squished on the expensive carpet or that the duchess’s skirt dripped a path to her bedroom.

  This chamber was as richly furnished as the sitting room. The bed was easily four times the size of his in the servants’ quarters and, no doubt, four times as comfortable.

  Here the ivory color was featured again, in the bed coverings and the curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows. Even the vanity was swathed in ivory silk.

  He glanced at the silver brushes and assortment of jars. His late wife, Rebecca, or his sister would have loved this room. He could almost imagine each woman sitting there, delight sparkling in their eyes as they used the downy powder puff or that pink stuff. What did women call it? Pomade? He really didn’t know.

  He pushed the ghosts of his past away and walked to the bed, depositing the duchess on the spread before stepping back.

  He’d thought she was marble, but it was all too clear she wasn’t. Not with that agony in her eyes.

  She’d wanted to die.

  He stretched out one hand and pulled the bell rope beside the bed. A night maid, in addition to a night footman, was on duty in the kitchen, ready to serve the duchess if she required anything. This time she didn’t need tea or digestive biscuits. Only Ella, the lady’s maid who should have been here.

  She wasn’t his responsibility, thankfully, but was disciplined by the duchess or Mrs. Thigpen, the housekeeper, if the duchess preferred.

  After opening the chest at the end of the bed, he found a blanket, which he draped over the duchess. She needed to be undressed, and quickly, before she caught a chill. But he wasn’t about to compound his sins of the evening by attempting that.

  Her lashes were incredibly long, brushing her cheeks. Her face was as pale as any of those poor souls they’d found at Manipora. Death, or almost death in the case of the duchess, had bestowed a marble purity to their faces. The duchess’s lips were nearly blue, and he found himself wanting to warm them, to bring back some color. If for no other reason than to prove that she wasn’t dead after all.

  At least she hadn’t died tonight, but what would happen tomorrow? Would she succeed in her aim?

  When the night maid arrived, he had her send for Ella. The girl was a gossip, but one quick glance at him froze any future words she might have spoken. If anyone talked about him standing in the duchess’s bedroom, or her looking nearly like a corpse, he knew where to go. The young maid knew it, too, if the wide-eyed stare she gave him was any indication.

  She nearly flew from the room to fetch Ella, leaving him alone with the duchess once more.

  He didn’t move from his stance beside the bed. Stand easy was a pose he’d learned as barely more than a boy in the army. He assumed it now, his hands interlocked behind his back, his legs spread a foot or so apart. His gaze didn’t move from the woman on the bed. If he’d looked away, he would have missed the fluttering of her lashes.

  “It’s awake you are,” he said.

  He cleared his throat, annoyed at himself. When he was tired, or under the effect of strong emotion, he sometimes fell into the Glaswegian accent of his youth, the same cadence of speech he’d been at pains to alter once he’d left Scotland. It returned now, as did his accent, belying the twenty years or so since he last set foot on Scottish soil.

  She appeared to still be unconscious, but he wasn’t fooled. The duchess was playacting.

  Should he apologize or simply pretend that the incident on the roof hadn’t happened?

  If he didn’t appease her, he’d probably be dismissed on the spot, and he’d have to go back and admit that he’d failed spectacularly at his mission.

  That was not going to happen.

  She turned her head slowly, her eyes opening reluctantly.

  He felt a jolt when she pinned him with her stare.

  “Who are you?”

  He’d been introduced to her when she arrived back in London a few days earlier. She hadn’t looked up from her task of removing her gloves, one finger at a time. He hadn’t even warranted a quick glance. He’d opened the door for her on two other occasions and she’d sailed past like a schooner in full wind.

  This was the first time she actually looked at him. He didn’t move from his stance, but he allowed himself a small, cool smile.

  “I am your new majordomo, Your Grace,” he said. “Your solicitor hired me two months ago.”

  She closed her eyes again and turned her head once more.

  “Go away,” she said softly, her voice sounding as if it held unshed tears.

  “I’ve sent for your maid,” he said. “She should be here any moment.”

  “I don’t want her here, either,” she said.

  He knew hell all about a woman’s relationship with her maid, but he suspected it must be a close one. After all, the latter helped the former dress, cared for her clothing, fixed her hair, and was no doubt the rec
ipient of confidences. Evidently, the Duchess of Marsley and her lady’s maid didn’t share that bond.

  He wasn’t going to send Ella away. In fact, he would feel much better if Her Grace had a companion at all times, especially if she got a yen to throw herself off the roof.

  She didn’t say anything further. Nor did he. Instead, they were separated only by a few feet, two silent people in different poses and in vastly different roles in society. They might as well have been on different sides of the world.

  He brought his feet together, released his arms, and took a deep breath. Walking to the opposite wall, he used a finger to lift one of the curtain panels, then stared out at the night. The rain was still falling steadily. The lightning was giving a show in the distant sky, but the thunder had been muted. Here, in this room, in this house, the silence was almost absolute but for the plaintive cry of a cat.

  The duchess didn’t have any pets, so he reasoned it was probably a stray cat that had taken up residence somewhere close by and wasn’t happy about the rain. When he finished with the duchess, he would go find the poor animal and give it some shelter. No creature deserved to be cold, wet, and probably hungry.

  The door opened, then closed. Footsteps heralded Ella’s arrival. A moment later she stood in the doorway to the sitting room, her attention first on the duchess and then on him.

  Ella was of an uncertain age, past the first blush of youth and slightly older than the duchess. She always appeared to be judging something, most often standing rigid with her hands clutched tight to each other at her midriff. She rarely smiled and although he’d heard other members of the staff laugh on numerous occasions, he’d never heard Ella. He didn’t think she was capable of it.

  The word dour had been invented to describe people like Ella.

  He didn’t like the maid, an instant judgment he’d made the third day after the duchess had arrived from the country. He and Ella had passed each other on the servants’ stairs and she’d given him a contemptuous look.

  He’d wanted to stop her right then and ask her why she thought she was so much better than the other staff. Was it because she served a duchess? Did she somehow believe that she possessed some power because she’d laundered a member of the peerage’s unmentionables? Or did her hair?

  As a real majordomo, he needed to be familiar with the various hierarchies in the world of servants. He wasn’t since he’d never employed a servant. Nor had he grown up around them, so he’d needed to do some research.

  A lady’s maid was a position that required some skill and experience. One needed to know—according to a book he’d found in the library—how to care for her employer’s clothing. She was to direct the staff that would care for her employer’s belongings, such as the maids who would clean the duchess’s suite. She ordered items of clothing, gifts, and other necessities as dictated by her employer.

  In Ella’s case, another one of her duties was to be as insufferable as possible.

  The maid’s expression was continually haughty. She didn’t dine with the rest of the staff, but planned her meals so that when everyone was finished she could eat in relative privacy in the small dining room set aside for the servants. No doubt she would’ve preferred to have a sitting room attached to her bedroom, but those two suites on the third floor had been set aside for the housekeeper and the majordomo.

  “Her Grace needs your assistance,” he said to Ella.

  The fact that he didn’t explain any further earned him a glance from the duchess.

  When he returned her look she closed her eyes, but not before giving him a quick impression of gratitude, which didn’t make any sense.

  Ella removed the blanket from the duchess. She shook her head when realizing the state of the younger woman’s attire. He didn’t know if the black silk dress was ruined and he didn’t care, but the duchess needed to change as quickly as possible and get warm.

  So did he, for that matter.

  “I don’t understand,” Ella said. “What happened?”

  He had a feeling that nothing would satisfy Ella but the absolute truth. However, she wasn’t going to get it from him. Let the duchess tell her maid whatever she wanted.

  He moved toward the doorway, wanting his bed and his solitude.

  “Airson caoidh fear gun onair a tha gòrach,” he said to the duchess before making his way out of her suite.

  He was rewarded with a frown from both women.

  Chapter Three

  “What happened, Your Grace? Why are you wet?”

  She really wished Ella wasn’t here. She could have done for herself quite well if the room wasn’t suddenly spinning. She needed to compose herself and take a few minutes to blink back the dizziness, but Ella had an arm around her back and was insisting that she sit up.

  “What happened?”

  Suzanne swallowed against the sudden sourness on her tongue. She still tasted the wine she’d drunk at her father’s dinner. Too much wine. How many glasses had she consumed? Too many if she couldn’t remember.

  “Your Grace, why are your clothes sodden?”

  Here she needed to be careful. Drummond had surprised her by not revealing the entire story. But if she wasn’t cautious now, Ella would summon her father to Marsley House and Suzanne would be forced to endure his scrutiny and lectures.

  She opened her eyes. Ella looked even more angry tonight than she normally did.

  “The storm was spectacular. I went on the roof to see it.”

  “The roof?” Ella said.

  “I wanted to see the display of lightning.”

  There, that was plausible enough. In addition, it sounded slightly idiotic, which wouldn’t disappoint either Ella or her father.

  “But on the roof, Your Grace?” the maid asked, her voice conveying some degree of skepticism.

  “The rain had momentarily stopped,” she said.

  “Your dress is wet, Your Grace.”

  “It started to rain again,” she answered as Ella began unfastening her clothes. She was wet and the cold was finally beginning to penetrate the gray fog that always surrounded her.

  “Where is your other hair clip?” Ella asked.

  “My hair clip?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ella said, her voice just this side of rude. “Your hair clip. One of two that you inherited from your mother. The ones that look like leaves, Your Grace, and are filled with diamonds.”

  Suzanne kept her eyes closed. She really didn’t want to see the maid right now. She didn’t want to see anything at all. How odd that she could still see the newly hired majordomo standing there in his militaristic way, his eyes heated with fury. How very strange to be hated by one’s servants.

  “Where is the hair clip?” Ella asked.

  Suzanne raised her right hand. Georgie’s mourning ring was still on her third finger. That, and her mourning brooch, were the only pieces of jewelry she cared about right now.

  No doubt Ella would inform her father of her laxity. The maid was fawning but only toward her father. Not a foolish thing to be, all in all. Had he encouraged her to spy on Suzanne? Sometimes she felt herself being observed by Ella, as if the maid were making mental notes of what to write at a later date. Did she journal as assiduously as her late husband, George?

  How odd that she didn’t know. Nor did she care. If she could have, she would have dispensed with Ella entirely, but her father would no doubt hire someone else in her stead.

  Ella was extremely proficient at her position. She hadn’t lost a collar, cuff, or corset cover since Ella had come to Marsley House six months ago. All of her lace was laundered to perfection. Her unmentionables were darned when necessary and replaced otherwise. A summons from Ella would bring all manner of tradesmen, seamstresses, and jewelers, each one of them eager to be recognized as providing trade to the Duchess of Marsley.

  If she cared about any of those things, she’d be quite content with Ella’s execution of her duties. Since she didn’t, Suzanne felt apathetic and wished she could
feel the same about Ella.

  She didn’t like the maid, and that feeling seemed to be growing every day. How very odd. She hadn’t objected to Ella at the beginning, but then she hadn’t felt much of anything. Now the only emotion she felt was antipathy.

  She looked at Ella, trying to figure out what it was about the other woman that was sparking so much sudden feeling.

  Ella’s hair was much lighter than Suzanne’s own dark brown. Instead, it was almost the color of honey and seemed to have a will of its own, one of constant disobedience, frizzing when it rained. The maid’s eyes were brown, almost the color of whiskey. Her lips were thin, the better to disappear in her face when she was in a critical mood, and her nose was slightly askew, as if it had been broken once. Or perhaps the Almighty, having seen Ella’s character as an adult, had tweaked it in remonstration.

  She’d never asked Ella about her parentage, her childhood, her wishes or wants, or anything remotely personal. She hadn’t asked if the other woman liked chocolate or had a dog as a child, or what kind of weather she preferred. She knew as little about the other woman as she could and only wished that she could say the same about Ella’s knowledge of her.

  She kept her thoughts to herself. At least Ella could not invade them. She never willingly confided in Ella. Instead, she watched every comment she uttered in the maid’s presence, which meant that she hadn’t spoken freely for months.

  Her majordomo hadn’t been as constrained, had he? What had Drummond said to her? Had it been Gaelic? How strange that her solicitor would hire a Scotsman, especially since her father didn’t like Scotland or its people. She’d often heard him complain about them for some reason or another. Either they were too penurious or they had a tendency to speak their thoughts too honestly.

  One did not challenge Edward Hackney without paying a dear price.

  “Your Grace?”

  She met Ella’s eyes.

  “The hairpin?”

  She didn’t know where the hairpin was. She didn’t care. But if she said such a thing, Ella would tell her father and she’d receive an involved speech about treasuring the possessions of her dear departed mother. As if she needed a lecture.