“She will be all right,” Graham said quietly.
“How can you be sure?” she countered, staring after the lady. Ainsley moved at a near-sprint for the lake, stocked with pink pelicans and swans.
Several passersby looked on with horror wreathing their features. The worry deepened in Rowena’s telling eyes.
How much of herself did she see in the lady now in her care? “I am certain because she is strong,” he said solemnly. “And because I’ll stand beside her when she makes her entry into Society.” And I want you there with me, as more than a servant on my staff.
A cinch cut off air from his lungs, trapping it in his throat. I want to marry her. Despite the fears of madness that dogged him. Where Jack had validated his worries of insanity and encouraged him to shape himself into a coldly reserved duke, Rowena matter-of-factly had refuted his madness. Instead, she’d challenged him, seeing his weakness not as insanity but a sign of his humanity. Can I marry her? Can I, knowing every day, my nightmares could see her hurt at my hands?
His mind in tumult, Graham glanced at her. Another breeze whipped about them, and it knocked her bonnet backward, loosening a curl in the process. She swatted it impatiently behind her ear. “You cannot protect her from hurt, Graham. You cannot make them accept her. If they find her lacking, they will never let her into their fold.” Did she realize she spoke of herself?
“Then they can go hang,” he vowed. It mattered not what Society believed about Rowena or Ainsley. It mattered who they were. And their happiness.
She gave him a sad smile. “The world is different for a duke than a bastard from scandalous origins.”
“Here!” Ainsley’s excited cry pealed through the park, attracting further looks from strolling passersby. She stood on the shore of the lake. Oblivious or uncaring of the disapproval around her, Ainsley lifted her arms above her head and waved.
The maid unfolded the blanket in her hands, and with Ainsley’s help, they snapped the white fabric open and lay it down by the edge of the water.
Rowena rushed ahead and joined the pair. Graham followed along at a more sedate pace, taking in her movements. The way she spoke to Ainsley. The laughter that spilled past his ward’s lips. How many of the ladies at Wilkshire’s event had stared on, coolly derisive of the girl? People who sought to transform her and quash her spirit. Whereas Rowena sought to smooth Ainsley’s way before polite Society, but retain the beautiful part of who she was inside.
She said something to the maid, and the servant dropped a curtsy and wandered off, leaving companion and charge alone. Opening a sketchpad, Rowena turned one over to Ainsley and retained the other. The young lady grabbed at it with a zeal that defied her protestations earlier that morn. Clasping his hands at his back, Graham continued to scrutinize them as they marked up their pages. An interloper in their moment.
With his father and brother’s passing, he had ascended into a life he’d never wanted. His value to the ton had risen, his presence desired for his title alone. What he would not give for the simplicity of the life he’d dreamed of—married to Rowena, with a child at their side.
And God help him, he was selfish enough he’d ask her to risk all and be his duchess.
Why should she want to? Why, with everything that had passed?
Rowena glanced up, over Ainsley’s head, and her gaze collided with his. She smiled, and motioned him over, a welcoming invitation that eased some of the tightness in his chest.
Returning that grin, his lips, for the first time in so many years moved easily into that expression of joy. Letting his arms fall at his side, he strode along the path; gravel crunched under his boots, and he came to a stop at the blanket.
Ainsley looked up briefly from her sketching. “Hampstead,” she greeted, and then devoted her attention to the lines on her page. “Did you know Mrs. Bryant can sketch?” she asked, her question directed at her page.
Graham claimed the corner of the blanket and stretched his legs out before him, hooking them at the ankles. “I do. She excels in her mastery of the human form and...”
The girl again picked her head up, eying him peculiarly.
“Uh...”
“I told His Grace as much in my interview,” Rowena neatly interjected and shifted her attention to the task at hand. Periodically she lifted her eyes from the page and gazed out at the lake. “When we sketch a landscape, we work in horizontal patterns, framing our work in a rectangle.” She waited while Ainsley marked a dark pattern around her page. The lady looked up. “Next, you must have a focal point.”
Ainsley chewed her pencil and scanned the horizon.
Graham leaned his weight back on his elbows as Rowena guided her charge. She was a master instructor, just as Mrs. Belden had pledged. In command. Confident. She was an older, more mature version of the girl he’d fallen in love with. There was something breathtaking in her absolute control. Ladies of the ton, like his own mother who’d died too young, hosted balls and soirees. They perfected pouring tea for guests. They neatly embroidered. And sang. Not a single woman he’d ever known, however, had managed to chart a future of her own. Working with her hands and mind to survive. And, though, she’d had little choice as a young woman but to march along this path, she’d not only survived but flourished.
The air caught in his lungs. And he loved her all the more for her strength.
“...And you must never make any two intervals identical,” Rowena was saying. She glanced up, and a look passed between them.
“Your Grace.”
And just like that the moment was severed. Graham whipped his head around. Then tamping down a curse, he climbed to his feet with Rowena and Ainsley following reluctant suit.
Lady Serena, on the arm of her brother, Lord Midleton, stared past her with bald interest. It was not, however, the woman Jack had handpicked for Graham’s bride who held his notice. He frowned. Midleton’s attention was trained on Rowena. A surge of irrational jealousy grabbed him in a tentacle-like hold.
“Lady Serena,” he greeted, capturing her hand for an obligatory kiss, all the while Rowena’s gaze bore into his back. “A pleasure as always.” He lied. It had never been a pleasure. It had been a responsibility. A chore, given her cold ruthlessness. And yet, he, with Jack’s urgings, had convinced himself that she was what he needed. How wrong he’d been.
“Hampstead,” Midleton drawled lazily, with a slightly insolent bow.
Lady Serena continued to look past his shoulder. Graham couldn’t make out anything from her cool expression.
Stepping out of the way, he revealed Rowena and Ainsley. “My apologies,” he murmured. “You recall my ward, Miss Hickenbottom, and her companion, Mrs. Bryant?” God, how wrong that word sounded rolling from his lips, leaving bitterness in its wake. Rowena was so much more to him.
Rowena lowered her head deferentially and sank into a perfect curtsy. “My lady.”
He balled his hands, hating that she should be subservient to people who were lesser in every way.
Lady Serena peered down her slightly up-turned nose. “Mrs. Bryant,” she said softly. “How do you do?”
Ever polished and graceful, Rowena lifted her head. “Very well, my lady.”
Surprise glimmered in Lady Serena’s pretty blue eyes when she looked to Graham. “You accompany your charge on her lessons. How very devoted you are, Your Grace.”
“Yes,” the lady’s brother continued in his bored tones, “how... devoted.” The slight emphasis made the words an accusation more than anything.
“This is his first time attending a lesson,” Ainsley piped in, and Rowena’s cheeks pinkened. “Since Mrs. Bryant’s arrived, he’s been far more devote—”
“We must return to your sketching,” Rowena squawked, as the Montgomerys widened their eyes with warring expressions of curiosity and amusement.
Graham’s fingers itched with the need to yank at his cravat. A drink. He needed a bloody drink. Nay, a bottle.
Lady Serena, however, proved even more
tenacious and brave than he’d credited. “You have an affinity for art?” she asked the younger lady. Uninvited, she drifted over.
Ainsley pursed her mouth, but Rowena murmured something nearly inaudible that raised a sigh from his ward. “Hardly. Rather, I enjoy certain artists and certain subjects.”
“Wouldn’t that be tantamount to the same thing?” Midleton asked with a dryness that deepened Ainsley’s scowl.
“You would think so.” At that slight emphasis, the marquess opened and closed his mouth several times.
Graham’s tamped down a grin, earning a sideways look from Rowena. “Miss Hickenbottom is working on a sketch,” she provided.
“It is a swan,” Ainsley clarified. “Do you know anything about swans, my lady?”
Lady Serena cocked her head. “Uh, no. Yes, well,” she looked to Graham. “Would you care to join me, Your Grace?” The glint in her eyes spoke of her determination.
“He wouldn’t,” Ainsley called out, eliciting a series of shocked gasps.
“Ainsley.” Graham and Rowena spoke sharply in unison, even as Midleton’s bark of laughter filled the park.
Society would be eager to destroy Ainsley for her parentage. Any missteps on the girl’s part would be fodder that fueled the unkind gossips.
“It would be my pleasure,” Graham easily put forward, smoothing over his ward’s awkward—if true—outburst.
Giving her brother a pointed look, Lady Serena looped her arm through Graham’s and allowed him to lead her down the graveled path away from the pair he left at the blanket. Of course, Wilkshire’s daughter would think nothing of leaving Rowena and Ainsley. To her, one was a servant, a suitable companion, and it hardly mattered if they were alone. Another wave of frustration at that station divide gripped him.
“She doesn’t like me much,” Lady Serena said tightly, and Graham slowed his steps at that unexpected honesty. “Your ward,” she expounded.
And, he, wholly unflappable found his world upended again. Resisting the urge to tug at his cravat, he cast a look about. The marquess, sipping from his flask, remained at the tree beside Ainsley and Rowena. Graham frowned. Why in bloody hell was the man lingering with the unattended ladies? Except there could be no mistaking the wicked glimmer in his eyes.
“I at least expected you would deny it,” Lady Serena said with an icy matter-of-factness, and his cheeks instantly heated.
“I assure you, Miss Hickenbottom”—he dredged up a lie—“respects you a good deal.”
“Hmph,” the young beauty on his army muttered non-committally. At the end of the trail, she slowed her steps and Graham was forced to either stop or drag her to the ground. Vastly preferring the spot where he still had view of Rowena and Ainsley now conversing with the marquess, he halted. The marquess’s booming laughter filtered down the path.
“My father was quite certain I could bring you up to scratch,” Lady Serena announced.
He stiffened. Now what to say to that? Mayhap it had been best he’d not allowed Jack to rush through a formal arrangement. For, with Lady Serena’s boldness, she demonstrated she was certainly not the staid miss he’d taken her for. Then, it was certainly not the first time he’d been so wrong in his judgment of a person. “My lady?” he began slowly, trying to make sense of her serene features.
“Which is it?” she asked, curiosity coating her question. She lifted her chin in the direction of Ainsley and Rowena. “I’ve been unable to ascertain if you’ve gone and fallen in love with your ward or her companion.” She paused. “Either is in bad form.”
Graham choked on his swallow. Undoubtedly. “My lady, I...” Giving in, he pulled at his cravat hard. “I have no designs upon my ward, I assure you.” She was nearly fourteen years younger than him and the daughter of a loyal, now dead, friend, and he had some scruples.
Lady Serena inclined her head. “Ah, the companion, then. How very... plebian of you, Your Grace.” He tried to seek out a hint of recrimination there, but again the duke’s daughter could have faced and beat any hazard partner.
Graham instantly shuttered his features. What she hinted at was the kind of scandal that would bring down not only Ainsley but Rowena, as well. “I’ve not confirmed your suspicions,” he said tersely.
“With your adamancy of any interest in Miss Hickenbottom, you most certainly did.” He winced at the accuracy of the clever miss. “Though...” She chewed at the tip of her gloved finger. “I didn’t expect you were one who felt... anything.”
The feeling had been mutual. It was why he’d single-handedly picked her out as his future bride. “It’s inappropriate for us to speak of such personal matters.” He’d not, however, deny his affections for Rowena.
“That, I expected,” she said with a sly smile that was gone as quickly as it had come. Lady Serena disentangled her arm from his and gave a quick snap of her satin skirts. “I promised my father I’d encourage your suit. That I would do everything within my power to see that you made a formal offer. Are you going to?”
Graham hesitated, and then gave his head a slight shake. “I can no longer do that, my lady,” he said somberly. “It was not my intention to mislead you nor to toy with your affections.”
She snorted and gave him a condescending once over. “You toy with my affections. Hardly, Your Grace. My father promised me my freedom of choice should I do everything within my power to encourage your suit.” Lady Serena steeled her mouth. “And yet, I’ve too much pride to ever encourage a man whose affections and attention is reserved for another.” The lady brushed an imagined speck from her puffed sleeve. “As such, I say I’ve fulfilled the agreement reached with my father.” She arched a blonde eyebrow. “Have I not?”
He tried to follow this unexpected flow of discourse. “You... have, my lady?”
“Is that question?” With her ease at commanding a discussion and demanding answers, she was a duke’s daughter in every way. Jack had been correct. With her domineering nature, she would have made a flawless duchess... just not in the ways either Graham or Jack had believed.
“You have,” he countered.
A small smile, the first real one he’d ever witnessed from her, turned her full lips. “I wish you all the best, then.”
With that, she yanked her skirts again, and wheeled off, calling after her brother. The marquess pulled his attention away from Rowena and Ainsley. Pocketing his flask, he rejoined his sister, and then they were off.
Graham stared after them, and a heaviness eased from his shoulders; a sense of rightness with his decision. Only, as he returned to his spot on the blanket, a thick tension clogged the air, killing the earlier joy. Studiously avoiding his eyes, Rowena periodically murmured instructions to her charge.
“That is the woman you intend to marry, Hampstead?” Ainsley demanded.
All the color seeped from Rowena’s cheeks, leaving her an ashen version of her spirited self. And the sight of her hit him like a fist to the gut.
Wordlessly, he shook his head.
Fortunately, Rowena possessed far more dignity than he ever had. “You were working on your sketch, were you not, Ainsley?” Graham, however, heard the hoarse timbre to her voice, and the blade twisted all the deeper.
He cursed his inability to tell her all and refute the conclusions drawn by Ainsley. Conclusions that would have been accurate not even a week ago.
Ainsley continued working in silence, with Rowena occasionally interjecting guidance. Oblivious of the underlying tension, she snapped her head up. “I’ve finished,” she said cheerfully, and turned the page around. He squinted, trying to make out the lines on the page. “It is a swan,” she clarified. “Because everyone should have a swan.” She tore the page out and handed it over to Rowena. “This one is for you, Mrs. Bryant. You deserve one of your own.”
Rowena accepted the page, and as the wind tugged at the corner of the sheet, she smoothed her fingers over the corners. “It is perfect.”
You are perfect. And Rowena Endicott deserved far more than
a swan, and if she were willing, he would be the man to spend his life trying to earn her love.
Chapter 19
Sprawled on her stomach in Graham’s enormous library, Rowena rested her chin atop her folded hands and stared into the hearth.
Of course, it had been inevitable. A duke, with one of the oldest titles in the realm, he would honor that centuries old legacy. Yet, knowing it was so very different from witnessing it. In the middle of Hyde Park. With the lady he’d one day wed, staring baldly at her, and his too-clever charge watching.
As Rowena had looked on at the flawlessly beautiful and regal Lady Serena, she’d considered her own origins. They could not have been any more different than had they sprung from altogether different universes. She, a courtesan’s daughter, had forever lived on the fringe of the world. When she was younger, she’d noted the sideways looks, but she’d been naively optimistic to imagine a world where people saw her as more than an extension of her mother. After Graham had left and his father had ordered her gone, her entire worldview had shifted. At that point on, she’d been forced to see that she was and would forever be different than members of the ton. Entering Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School, she’d been fueled to prove her own self-worth. She’d fashioned herself into a driven, relentless instructor who’d labored over her lessons and worked to shape women into spiritless young ladies. Rowena’s students had represented the possibility that one could be transformed into someone who was proper and in turn, into a figure whom polite Society respected.
Only realizing now... nothing she did, nor had, or accomplished would ever make her worthy in their eyes. Her students had been born to rank, and because of it, would always be afforded a respect that Rowena would never earn. Could never earn. To those who moved in Graham’s circle, she would only ever be lesser than the Lady Serenas of the world.
Rubbing her chin back and forth on her interconnected hands, she stared into the hearth. She braced for the same hurt, anger, and resentment that had riddled her for more than ten years when confronted with those reminders. Sentiments... that did not come. In the time she’d been here with Graham and Ainsley, she had been forced to look at Society in a whole new way... and more importantly, herself.
Schooling the Duke (The Heart of a Scandal, #1) Page 24
