War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  “My aunts bought new clothes every season,” he said. “There are trunks full in the attic. Select a few. Take six.”

  “Six!” She had never owned so many garments in her life. “I’m sure I won’t need that many.”

  “Nevertheless, take them. I wish to recommence our dinners, and you should dress decently, so use three for that. You know how to dress for dinner?”

  She nodded. Neatly, but with a lower neckline and longer skirts than she used for the daytime. Without drawing too much attention to herself, of course. That, her mother had told her, ignoring the efforts of her youngest child to be noticed everywhere she went, would be vulgar. Perhaps she’d find fine lawn for neckwear, and even a ruffle or two.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Obediently, she followed him. He strode along a wide corridor and then up a flight of stairs and into a room she had never entered before. It looked like a private sitting-room, although the furnishings, like many in this room, were shrouded in Holland covers.

  He dragged down a cloth, revealing a portrait. “That’s my mother,” he said. “You see why I cannot consider her clothes suitable for you.”

  The portrait showed a delicate blonde lady, sitting on a bench under an oak. She wore a broad hat, a pale blue gown with wide hoops and a disapproving frown. “She was lovely.”

  “Yes, she was. I took after my father. She was short and blonde. Not at all like you.”

  “No.” Of course, Ruth was tall and mousy. She would never make a society beauty. “I am built on different lines.”

  He stared up at the portrait in silence, a frown between his dark brows. Ruth did not want to interrupt his memories, but his studied silence made her uncomfortable.

  “She was a devil,” he said.

  What did that mean? Had she been unfaithful? Was that why her son put so much stock in honesty?

  With a decisive movement, he turned his back on the portrait and met her gaze. The frown smoothed out. Ruth tried not to fidget.

  He studied her in silence until he eventually said, “I’m keeping you from your duties. Do not forget those clothes. In future, I will expect your appearance at dinner to be much more suitable than it was on your first night.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she was perfectly suitably dressed, but recalling he was her employer, not her equal, she merely bowed her head.

  “Go then, see what you can find. I can see you’re eager to be gone.”

  She turned and left as quickly as she could.

  * * * * *

  Ruth ventured into the attics later that day. She found them eerie, but in reasonable order. Furniture from centuries ago lined the walls, covers tossed over them, and as she went through to the other areas, she discovered trunks lined up as if waiting for the coach that would never come. Lifting the lid of one, she discovered the clothes his grace had promised. These were the clothes of a woman long dead, twenty or thirty years at the least. They smelled of camphor and lavender. Some of them looked unworn.

  Ruth chose a few items. Three for evenings, as the duke had instructed, and three more for the daytime. That was as many gowns as she’d ever owned in her life.

  The garments were made of fine silks and linens. She ventured to take a pair of stays, since she had left home with only one pair. Another unworn pair, of cream cotton with terracotta pinks printed on them, outmoded and they probably would not fit as well as her own, but she would have something to wear while her others were being laundered.

  She put them aside and passed on to the other rooms. Eventually, in a corner she discovered much of what she required for the nursery.

  She carried her bounty to the entrance in triumph. She would ask one of the footmen to carry down the furniture for her, but the smaller items she could take herself. Some pap feeders, essential for weaning, more linen cloths, and some gowns for the boys, loose and comfortable in this hot weather. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. Here, under the leads, the heat stifled her. She’d be glad to get out of here.

  She needed something else—sewing materials. She’d brought but a small set of needles and silks with her, more suited for minor mending tasks. Perhaps she could mend some household items for the duke while she was here. Who on earth did the mending and the laundry here? Surely not those housemaids, whose work must be cut out keeping the house clean and orderly.

  She had so many questions. That put her in mind of what the duke wanted for that night. The thought of his game sent butterflies rioting in her stomach. After a few days when he did not demand her presence, she assumed he had forgotten his whim, but it seemed not.

  Picking up the clothes she’d selected, she scurried down the stairs, glad to get out of the heat.

  She spent the afternoon altering a gown and supervising the installation of the replacement cradles. The gown was old-fashioned, the box pleats at the back only sewn down to the shoulder blades, so she completed the stitching in the modern style, sewing them down to the waist. She fitted them over her smaller side hoops, and although the material billowed a bit, it was acceptable. It was in a lightweight silk, the fabric a pretty blue and much more suitable for the weather. She found a stomacher to match, the plainest she could discover.

  Andrea nodded when Ruth reappeared in her new gown. The nursemaid behaved perfectly amicably to her, but at no time did Ruth believe she could make a friend of her fellow worker. A colleague, perhaps. Andrea kept her private thoughts to herself and Ruth could not break through that final part.

  So she was alone, but what of that? She’d spent most of her life solitary, in the midst of her family. Apart from Rhea.

  At the appointed hour, neatly attired in the blue silk, she went downstairs, this time arriving on time. Light still streamed through the broad windows on this side of the house as she tapped on the door to the yellow drawing room and went in.

  Not a trace of yellow marked this gracious room. Instead, the walls were draped in green silk, and the sofas upholstered in darker green. The oriental carpet on the floor held no yellow, either. She knew she was in the right place because the duke stood to greet her.

  He stood to greet her.

  That small act made her believe she was a lady again. Nobody ever focussed his attention on her in that way. She swallowed.

  He smiled. “Would you like a drink while they are setting the table? By the way, that is not my question. I’ll tell you when I’m asking that.”

  He’d forced a smile from her. “I would appreciate a glass of wine, sir.”

  “There is some tolerable madeira. Will you take a glass?”

  “Yes, please.” Her voice had grown small and quiet. She cleared her throat.

  He handed her a glass with just enough of the fortified wine, not too much. He’d judged her requirements to a nicety. Then he took her to a sofa and waited until she took her seat before he took his own, on a chair close to her, picking up a glass of brandy already by his side.

  “Miss Carter, I have to compliment you on your fine looks. That colour suits you. I’m pleased you took the opportunity to select something better and more practical for this weather.”

  Even in the late afternoon the warmth permeated the old stones of the house. Her own gowns would have become oppressively hot.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The door to the dining room opened, and Henstall announced dinner was ready. The duke let her precede him and she did her best to glide in the approved manner, but she was not sure she managed it. Certainly not in the manner of a great society lady. She had no illusions about herself.

  He helped her to sit with his own hands, and then took his seat next to her, at the head of the table. Like yesterday, they were seated together and also like yesterday, they were alone. The little silver hand bell stood accusingly between them, daring her to ring it.

  She wouldn’t do it.


  “Shall we see what pleasures we have in store tonight?” He lifted the nearest lid. “Fish in sauce, what a surprise!” He winked at her. Leaning forward, he sniffed. “Cod, I believe. I’m rather partial to sea fish. Shall we?”

  “If you please, sir.”

  He helped her to the food and then she found new potatoes to go with it. After shaking her napkin over her lap, she set to. He poured them crisp white wine that must have come straight up from the cellar. When she failed to stifle her moan of appreciation, he gave her a smiling glance and sipped from his own glass. “You like dry wine?”

  “Yes, sir, and I like cool wine.”

  “In this weather, so do I.” He sipped again, his throat moving as he swallowed.

  Unfortunately he turned his head as he put down his glass and caught her watching. He said nothing, but kept her gaze for a fraught five seconds before he returned his concentration to his food. She knew it was five seconds because she counted, not daring to look away. In that moment, she’d imagined she’d seen something buried inside him, a deep trouble that he could not dismiss.

  It must be her imagination, surely. She hardly knew him and she had little reason to indulge him. Except—she still had a mystery to solve and her time here was probably the only opportunity to solve it.

  They moved through the meal with her account of her discoveries in the attic, but not the clothes. “I asked one of the footmen to carry the cradles down. They are not swinging ones, sir, and the sides are high enough to keep the babies in at night.

  He pushed aside his plate. “Fascinating though this is, Miss Carter, I possess little interest in discussing my wards, unless you encounter a problem. If you need anything else for them, let me know and I’ll arrange it.”

  “Yes, sir. Babies grow quickly, so they will need new garments soon.”

  “Babies wear gowns, do they not?”

  “Yes, sir. We can fashion them ourselves, but we may need to send for materials.”

  He frowned. “I won’t hear of you slaving over infants’ gowns. Send out for them. There is a sewing-woman in the village. I’ll send for her and you may tell her what to do. She may alter the clothes you chose for yourself too.”

  “Thank you, sir, but we can manage the work. Do you not want us to be busy?”

  “No,” he said bluntly. “It is not necessarily. I want you to do your work to the best of your ability, and then the time is your own. I am not a harsh taskmaster.”

  He frowned. At that moment he looked like the harshest taskmaster in the world, fierce and forbidding. A flash of apprehension crossed her mind and the notion he could do anything. He was unpredictable, volatile, like the wind in autumn. She needed more time here. Although these dinners made her uncomfortable, he had ordered it and he must have what he wanted.

  She feared she would do something wrong and not know what it was.

  “Do you read?” he said abruptly.

  “Of course, otherwise what kind of governess would I make?”

  He dismissed her answer with an irritable wave of his hand. The light had mellowed since they’d entered the room. How long had it been? This time of year it wouldn’t become really dark until about eight o’clock. It couldn’t be anywhere near that. She had not noticed the aspect of the house.

  “This room faces east,” he said softly. Startled, she met his gaze. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are remarkably easy to read, Miss Carter.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t realised. Her family certainly never read her accurately. Or not cared to. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise. I find it refreshing.”

  He reached out, and then drew his hand back. Just as if he wanted to touch her. A frisson swept over the back of her hand, just as if he had, although he came nowhere near touching her skin.

  Deep, deep inside, where she confessed her most embarrassing secrets, she wished he had. She wanted to know what his touch felt like, especially in such an intimate situation. Not she would ever let her desire go any further. Why would he want to do it? Certain he had not thought he could resist her all too easily, she only smiled, but her lips trembled the tiniest bit.

  “Miss Carter, this is my question for this evening. Do you read for pleasure?”

  The breath gusted out of her, relief at such an easy question. “Yes, sir, I do, given the opportunity.” He watched her and she realised she could continue or not. “I read anything I can find. It’s my solace. I can enter a different world when I read.”

  “I see. We shall see what we can do about that.”

  He commenced discussing subjects she might be interested in, starting with history. When he reached French and she shied away, he moved on to something else, almost seamlessly, but not enough for her to confess, “I find languages difficult. I learned enough to teach young children, but I have problems with the subject.” She paused. “I shouldn’t be confessing that to you, should I?” She pushed her wineglass away.

  “I won’t tell anyone. Perhaps you need more practical experience. Talking with a Frenchman, for instance. How about your Italian?” He gave her a smile easier than any she had seen in him so far. Shock made her stop her breath. Was that smile what seduced her sister? Had he turned that on her? Because she feared she would be lost too, if he did that to her with intent.

  “I speak no Italian, sir. Only what I can glean from my knowledge of Latin.”

  “Do you read essays? How about the Oration on the Dignity of Man?”

  “Short, to the point and beautifully expressed.” She smiled. “I used to read it aloud to myself. Quietly, of course, not like Pico would have done.” She did not tell him that she’d fallen in love with the portrait of the philosopher in her copy of the writings of him and his friend Ficino. That, rather than philosophical concerns, had attracted her initially. But the essay was not a difficult read. “Profound in what it has to say about the creation of macrocosm and microcosm.”

  “But outdated, don’t you think? Does it really have any relevance today?”

  Plunging into a discussion of the essay, she forgot who she was in relation to him, only the joy of finally finding someone who had something interesting to say about the topic. Her reading had taken her into many unexpected avenues, but she had never tested her knowledge, too afraid of being labelled a bluestocking. But his grace didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to find it unusual that she enjoyed reading so much.

  He broke into their discussion as if suddenly tired of the topic.

  “Now it’s your turn. Ask me your question.”

  “Are you the father of the babies?” she blurted, without allowing herself to think.

  Chapter Four

  Marcus almost laughed at her appalled expression. Clearly he’d succeeded into luring her out of her shell, so well she asked the question that must have nagged at her since she entered the house. He had told no one, except for Henstall, of course. He could rely on his butler’s discretion with his life. He could not say the same about this woman, however appealing he found her.

  “I must trust you not to tell anyone else if I answer that.”

  She stuck out her chin, making him want to use it to draw her closer. All evening he’d been watching her sweet lips, and her eyes sparkle as she drank more wine and began to enjoy herself. When had she last done that? He wanted to know more about her, suspecting there was much more under the surface. Teasing her, bringing her out proved good sport. He would not cheat by spreading out his senses and reading her mind.

  Shock rippled through him. He had not thought of his predicament since they’d sat down to dinner. The remains of the food were cold, sauces congealed. They should have left the room long before this, but he was concerned he’d break the spell, that she’d retreat once more and he would be unable to reach her again.

  She enchanted him. That fresh naïveté, so rare in the people he knew intrigued him
, as did her intelligence. He did not need to know her full story to know that. She showed it every time that flash of apprehension shaded her eyes, and her mouth clamped shut, as if she’d said too much.

  He owed her the answer to that question.

  “I promise I won’t tell,” she said.

  He waited for her to cross her heart in childlike fashion, but was disappointed when she did not. “No, I am not their father.”

  Did he want to say any more? He did not. She could believe him or not, as she chose, but the truth was too raw and too new for him to easily share it with someone he’d barely met. Even if sometimes he felt he’d known her for years.

  “Come, Miss Carter. Time for us to part, I fear. I have estate business to attend to, and you must attend to your duties.”

  She rose gracefully, and curtseyed, her movements unconsciously elegant. He bowed in return, because she deserved it.

  After she left, his demons returned.

  He went to his room, tried to read, but it reminded him of the conversation with her earlier and subjects he still wanted to discuss with her. He paced the room, turned and paced back. He stripped off his neckcloth, which was positively strangling him, tossed it aside, and since the evening still held considerable heat, followed it with his coat and waistcoat. Damned inconveniences. What would whoever set fashions think of next?

  He’d set one. He’d appear in public in a thick, shapeless tunic and breeches. No neckcloth, ever.

  Grumbling, he wandered around his apartments, looking for something to do. He found nothing to hold his interest. Only that damned pixie woman. She looked at him as if he had the answer to everything, then gave him a cool response that knocked him sideways. He could never tell what she would say next, whether it was when she was doing her best to behave in a subservient manner or forgetting herself and answering back with something so impertinent it made him smile.