Was that all it was? He did not know for certain himself, but he did not think so. There were better ways to take revenge than that. He’d spent years itemizing them. Nor did he feign desire for Lady Clara. He had wanted her since that day on the hill.
He wasn’t even sure yet that Lady Clara’s father had been at the heart of those rumors. Even this new evidence that he encouraged them did not prove he had been.
All the same, he could not deny that more than desire had initiated his pursuit of her. Remaining in her attention allowed him a chance to learn what she knew, if anything, about the matters he now discussed with his friend. And, yes, seducing her would also partially settle the score for the late earl’s old sins, and perhaps more recent ones, he had to admit. He could not deny there would be some satisfaction in that even if he enjoyed a more significant kind too.
If that made him a scoundrel the way Brentworth thought, so be it. It was past time for the son to fulfill his obligations to the father, no matter what that father may have done.
“Do you have any theories about how the supposed disloyalty took place?” he asked Brentworth, since he needed to clarify the accusations if he were to ever finish this.
His friend shook his head, but his expression reflected deep consideration. “I have never put my mind to it. However, if I now do—money, I assume. Money sent to France to finance the new army. Not to Napoleon directly, would be my guess. That would be both difficult and risky. However, to his supporters. It would not have been hard to get it to them.”
“I have combed through the ledgers of the estate and found no large disbursement of money at that time.”
Brentworth shot him a hard look. “So you went looking for it? I think my revelations today are not news to you, then.”
“They confirm conclusions I had drawn. He could not be disloyal in his person, nor was he in his words. What was left but money?”
“Not a lot, I suppose.” Brentworth gave his shoulder a firm grasp. “I am sorry I had so little for you. Perhaps as you go forward, you should not focus on what was said back then, but why it would be said. The rumor lived for a reason, even though not true.”
Adam accepted the advice as sound. Of course, both he and Brentworth knew the biggest reason the rumors had thrived. She lived in France now, while her son tried to clear her husband’s good name.
Chapter Eight
Clara’s arms rebelled at the weight of the chair. Across the upholstered cushions, her maid Jocelyn’s face reddened from the strain.
“Could this not wait until you hire some strong men?” Jocelyn asked in a strangled voice.
They inched along, finally dropping the chair at the spot Clara had chosen. Jocelyn took out her handkerchief and blotted at her face, then reached over and did the same to Clara’s. “You will look a fright by the time you leave to meet your sister.”
“I am impatient to see if my ideas about this chamber will work, and that chair kept interfering with how I wanted to see the space. I begin to think that I will have enough room for an extra divan. Once we move this other chair, that is.” She walked over to the second chair and bent to lift it.
“I am a lady’s maid, ma’am. We do not move furniture.”
“Until I hire more servants, you are a house servant, Jocelyn. If you could cook us dinner last night, you can help me with this now. It is not a chore I was born for either.”
“It is too heavy for us. Please wait until you have a man or two to do it.”
That might be a week hence. Notices had been placed for a few servants, but it would take time to receive responses and complete inquiries.
Clara had made good on her intention to move out of Gifford House. Yesterday morning the servants had piled her trunks onto the town coach and she had been driven away. No one bid her farewell. The dowager and Theo remained in their apartments, and even Emilia was forbidden to come down.
Clara had not minded one bit. A brief spell of nostalgia fell on her spirits as she rolled off, mostly due to fond memories of time spent in the house with her father. Once the carriage moved through the town, however, joy and excitement took hold.
She and Jocelyn had spent the ride to Bedford Square debating which servants to hire. A cook and coachman for certain, and a housekeeper and chambermaid. Jocelyn insisted a manservant would be necessary too, to serve as butler and footman, but Clara was not so sure. While of good size for her purposes, this house was not some grand town house in Mayfair. Nor did she want a male presence there all the time, interfering with the feminine goals of her new home. She had no space to house a manservant, anyway. The coachman would have to take lodgings nearby.
With four bedchambers above and four more in the attic for servants, this household could never grow very large. The bedchambers were unlike what she had known at Gifford House. She had no apartment here. No sitting room and little private library. No huge dressing room and separate wardrobe. Here she used just one chamber and an attached dressing room, where she also stored her garments.
This library was of good size, however, as was the dining room. There was no drawing room as such, but instead a nice sitting room that also served duty for breakfasts.
Well, she was only one woman. How much space did she need? And the public rooms would do nicely for her other plans.
Jocelyn finally approached the chair. With a heavy groan she pretended to try and lift her side, only to let it fall at once from her grasp. “I fear I used all my strength on the last one.”
Clara was about to scold her when a knock sounded on the front door. “Go and see who that is, please, while you recover from your sudden weakness.”
“Ladies’ maids do not answer the door, ma’am.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Clara marched out of the library to tend to the door herself.
She grasped the latch, expecting to find a neighbor or soliciting tradesman. Instead she opened the door on the Duke of Stratton.
“Oh. You.” The lack of welcome slipped out before she could catch it. She blamed that on her surprise to find him on her doorstep. And on her dismay at the way a beam of joy shot through her unexpectedly. “How did you find me?”
“Langford, his brother, and I called on your family, only to learn from your brother that you no longer resided there.” He gazed up the façade. “I have always thought Bedford Square attractively designed, with houses most fitting for its size and scale. It is a good distance from Mayfair, however.”
“You explained how you learned I was not at Gifford House. You did not explain how you discovered I was here instead.”
“If you invite me in instead of expecting me to converse across the threshold, I will tell you.”
She held the door wide. “Of course. Please, come in.”
He did so, proving at once that the more modest scale of houses on Bedford Square made men like Stratton appear all the bigger. He so dominated the small reception hall, and her, that she led the way to the library mostly to give herself more space. She found it empty. Jocelyn had taken the opportunity to disappear.
He took in his surroundings, as if assessing whether they would do. For him or her, she could not tell. She did not sit because she did not want him to stay. She had things to do, and his arrival promised nothing but trouble. She almost never felt nervous, but increasingly this man caused a cautious jumpiness inside her. Unfortunate memories of allowing his embrace affected even the simplest conversation between them.
“Are you going to explain now? How you found me?”
“Many coachmen are not opposed to receiving gratuities in return for their helpfulness.”
“In other words, you bribed my brother’s servant.”
“I suspect your brother would have told me for free, but I did not want to create trouble between the two of you.” He once more surveyed the chamber. “It is a handsome library.”
“Thank you. I like it. I have some changes to make and was attempting to do so when you arrived. Actually, you can help.”<
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“I would be happy to do so.”
She pointed to the second chair, then the new spot where she wanted it to go. “I need that moved to there. My maid and I managed the first one, but she rebelled at lifting the second.”
“She showed more sense than you did. You should not be lifting furniture.” With two strides he faced the chair. He moved it right where she told him.
She should thank him, and be more polite. Only he had accompanied his help with a scold, and she thought that negated her obligations. Only it didn’t. She wished she could pretend he did not fluster her. Only he did. Enough that she had some trouble maintaining her cool disdain and thinking clearly enough to find a way to get him out the door.
“Thank you.”
He acknowledged that with a bare nod before pacing the length of the library and gazing out the back French windows. “You bought this, I assume.”
“Why do you think so?”
“The furniture is too fine for a house that you let. No one would risk these drapes to the care of tenants. They are not utilitarian but speak of the taste of a woman denied the indulgence of her wardrobe for a while.”
His interpretation of the drapes proved very accurate. She had relished the chance to choose the fabric and trim and consult on the style.
“The furnishings also mean that you have owned it a while too, even if you only now have taken residence.”
“I do not know why you are wasting your superb talents of perception on me and my humble abode, Duke.”
“I am wondering why you bought this house if you did not intend to live in it. It is idle curiosity on my part, nothing more.”
Not too idle, from the look he gave her.
She really shouldn’t. Truly she ought not. But—“You have found me out. I needed a secret place to meet my lover.”
“Ah. Well, we cannot have that now.” He walked back through the room, his attention all on her. “I will have to post a guard at the door to discourage such visits. Should no lover arrive, I am left with the conclusion you spoke of the future, and of me.”
He stood too close now, looking down in a way that did not bode well for her composure. She was determined, however, not to make a fool out of herself the way she had in the park. “That is a shocking thing for you to say. It is bad enough for you to make assumptions regarding a marriage. It is far worse to imply what you just did.”
“If you would prefer marriage to a love affair, the offer still stands. However, if you are set against it, as you claim, I will accommodate your desire.”
She never found herself speechless, but she did now because she could not conjure up a good response. How had she allowed him to trap her between two options that consisted of the same thing, only one was honorable and one not? It did not help that his eyes all but glowed when he added that accommodate your desire part. She could not ignore the double entendre, nor the way an unhelpful thrill streaked through her body.
He appeared amused at her predicament. “This house will be convenient in either case.”
“It would not be appropriate for you to call on me here with any frequency, if that is what you mean.” She stammered it out. She felt as though a cloud had entered her head.
He reached out and softly stroked her lips. Only then did she realize they were trembling. She was being an idiot again but could not stop, especially since that feathery touch felt very nice and made her face and neck tingle.
“I will be very discreet. There will be no scandal. However, I like the idea of visiting you here, where the dowager and your brother cannot interfere.”
Interfere with what? She had no idea if she said it or thought it.
“With this.” He bent until his lips met hers.
That kiss stunned her in the best way. Marvelous little sensations multiplied while vague observations floated in her dulled mind. She marveled at how surprisingly soft his lips were, and how he did not merely press her mouth but made impish nips and movements that increased the enchantment. She noted when he took her head in his hands and held her to his exploration. She enjoyed too much when those hands dropped and embraced her until she pressed his body and felt the tension in him. Then she was accepting kisses to her neck and chest and caresses down her body.
He intends to seduce me. She did not know how that thought emerged, but it was in her head while Stratton lured her deeper with pleasure. Stratton. The Duke of Stratton. Some of the cloud dispersed while that name fixated in her mind.
Just then, when a modicum of rationality tried to stake a claim, he escalated his tactics and slid his tongue into her mouth.
She liked it. She did not lie to herself about that. It stirred her deeply and hinted at intimacies to come. However, it also startled her enough that her mind actually found itself. The Duke of Stratton is trying to seduce me.
She turned her head. She pressed against his hold, hard. She stumbled out of his embrace and turned away to compose herself.
She heard his breathing, and her own, and knew she had permitted too much to occur. This man had been impossible already. She did not think he would get any better now.
“You should go,” she said.
“No.”
No? Rather suddenly she felt very much herself again. She turned to face him.
A mistake that. He smoldered there, his gaze on her, his jaw and mouth hard. He looked dangerous and sensual and too handsome to bear.
Too much passed between them in the silence. That she had lost ground and he had gained it, that she might hate his family but she did not dislike him nearly enough, and that something had started here that he at least intended to finish.
“You must go,” she said firmly.
“Why?”
Oh, he was bold. “Because I must too. I am to meet my sister at a dressmaker’s, and I need to start out.” She brushed past him and walked to the door. She stepped into the reception hall and called up the stairs to Jocelyn to bring down her pelisse.
“At least you do not live here all alone,” he said, following her out.
“Of course not. There will be more servants soon. The notices have been published. I expect to hire an army. In a week I daresay I will be tripping over them.”
“I assume that means you do not yet have a coachman. I have my carriage here. I will take you to your sister.”
She had planned to hire a hackney. “I will permit that because I am late. However, if you so much as try to touch me, I will stab you with a hatpin.”
Jocelyn came down and handed her the pelisse. She donned it, tied on her bonnet, and allowed the duke to escort her to his carriage. Only because it was more convenient, she told herself. It had nothing to do with the sensual haze that still threatened to descend on her.
* * *
“This color should be unexceptionable,” Clara said, tapping a fashion plate in a consulting room at Madame Tissot’s shop. “It is not nearly as dark as the other gray. More dove colored, but still subdued.”
“Not too boring and old, you mean.” Emilia’s excitement about shopping for a few new dresses had been almost ruined by the commands she carried to the shop from their grandmother. Dark purple or gray had been the decree. Emilia blurted it out as soon as Clara entered the shop and had almost burst into tears too.
“I am sure Grandmamma does not want you to look like an old woman,” Clara said. “We will find a lovely fabric similar to this in color. It is almost silver. Perhaps we can find one that even has a tint of lavender in it too. I am sure that Madame Tissot will have some ideas.”
“I should order a good muslin as well. Does that have to be gray too?”
“I don’t see why you cannot wear white, or cream, in a muslin. It is hardly the color of festivity, and you are still a girl.”
“I am so glad that Grandmamma did not come. And that you did. Now if we could just get him to leave.” She angled her head toward the door, beyond which one would find the reception chamber.
Clara glanced in that direct
ion even though she could not see through the door. She knew to whom Emilia referred. Stratton had insisted upon waiting, to bring her back when she and Emilia were finished.
Emilia pondered three plates, unable to decide on that muslin dress’s design. “I don’t want to look too much a child, but I fear Grandmamma will never allow me to wear this one here unless it is remade.” She pointed to a dress with a neckline that showed rather more of the chest than a girl in mourning might reveal.
“One of the new fashionable high necks should take care of that,” Clara said. She gazed at her own set of plates, none of which had been painted white. One, however, showed a color much like that of a pale, muted hydrangea. “Look here at this, Emilia. The color is mostly blue, with a tint of purple. I would want the color on this other design here, but wonder if it would pass as still respectable for the daughter of man buried just over six months ago.”
“I am hopeless and cannot help you. Perhaps he could.” She again angled her head toward the door.
“What would he know about it?”
“He would know what his mother did, wouldn’t he? And if dukes do not raise eyebrows, why should anyone else?” Emilia said. “Not that you care much about that.”
She did not care about eyebrows, but she did care about being seen as not respecting her father. On impulse she stood and opened the door.
Stratton had made himself comfortable in the reception salon. Legs extended, boots and arms crossed, his lowered lids shielded his eyes from the feminine frippery that surrounded him. Clara could not tell if he napped or not until she saw the smallest gleams beneath those lids.
He straightened and stood. “You are finished?”
“Hardly. You really should go about your day. This could take some time still.”
“I do not mind. Furthermore, as afternoon passes into evening, you should not be crossing town alone even in a hackney.”
If this man knew how often she did things alone in town at all hours he would probably become more of a nuisance. “If you are going to be here, you may as well help. Both Emilia and I could use a gentleman’s opinion about a few things.” She held the door wide.
The Most Dangerous Duke in London Page 8
