Schooling the Duke (The Heart of a Scandal, #1)

by Christi Caldwell

  ...You are far more worthy than any other woman, regardless of station...

  She absently studied the fire’s glow. Flipping onto her side, she touched her gaze on the two books resting spine to spine.

  Proper Rules of Proper Behavior and Proper Decorum and Da Vinci’s Great Works.

  Rowena dusted her fingers over the faded words along Mrs. Belden’s book, read so many times, she’d the lessons committed to memory. And yet, ones she’d read anyway because it had merely served as a vital reminder of who she should be... who she needed to be in order to be safe in the world. Sitting up, she flipped open the yellowed pages, marked in pencil along the margins.

  Yet, it was who she’d thought she needed to be. All this time, she’d believed her spirit suppressed and dead and herself safe for it. Only, she’d not been living these past ten years because she’d never truly accepted herself with all her blemishes and imperfections. Just as Graham had shut himself away so, too, had she.

  Setting aside the copy, she picked up the other, Ainsley’s volume on artists and artwork. Rowena sifted through the unfamiliar pages, skimming her gaze over the artwork rendered there and the subtitles under them.

  Riveted. With every inked word and underlined detail, awe filled her.

  Rowena paused in the middle of the page, her gaze snagged on a heavily marked passage.

  ...The illegitimate son of notary, San Piero, and a peasant girl...

  “A peasant girl,” she murmured into the quiet. Not a marquess or duke’s offspring like the noble peer Graham would one day wed, but someone with her bastard blood.

  A log shifted in the hearth and the crimson embers snapped and hissed as though in fiery concurrence with her shock.

  Ainsley, despite Graham’s likening of the two, was not like her. Nor was Rowena truly like Da Vinci’s mother. She was a whore’s daughter, born of a nobleman whose identity could not truly be gleaned because of her mother’s promiscuity at the time. For that transgression, she had been forever marked, and any hint of even a dream with Graham Linford, the now Duke of Hampstead, had been an impossibility.

  Faced with the always-present reminder of her birthright, she’d shaped herself into the dragon that the students and Mrs. Belden had accused her of being.

  She’d seen her value as a woman inextricably linked to her birthright. Just as Graham had accused; and despite her protestations on that muddied road, he’d been correct. She just hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge that truth until a seventeen-year-old lady had helped open her eyes even further.

  You are far more worthy than any other woman, regardless of station...

  She allowed the memory of Graham’s quiet utterance to go through her.

  Somehow, in being with him, and in his household, she remembered who she was. She spoke her mind and skipped and even now lay on her stomach in his library without fear of recrimination... and there was something so beautifully freeing in it.

  Relinquishing the copy, she again picked up Mrs. Belden’s book and turned it over in her hands. Rowena drew in a deep breath and tossed the leather volume into the hearth. It struck the top log. The orange flames licked at the corners of the book, curling them, and then it went up in a great fiery conflagration. She watched on wistfully as the pages that had guided her all these years quickly burned into nothing.

  She briefly closed her eyes, and with a slow smile, she rolled onto her belly once more and recovered Ainsley’s book. When had been the last time she’d laid on a floor? It was a minor triviality to some, but to her it was an act that would have seen her sacked at Mrs. Belden’s. Reveling in the freedom found from that oppressive institution, she flipped through the book her charge was frequently studying.

  Footfalls sounded in the hallway, and Rowena paused in her study. She arched her neck around, glancing at the open doorway. The heavy tread marked those steps as the male sort. Those footsteps paused at the library door, and she reluctantly looked back to the owner of them, and froze. Had she conjured him from her musings? A glass of brandy in hand, Graham eyed her through thick, dark lashes.

  “Rowena.” That husky timbre sent butterflies dancing in her belly. The darkness of the room concealed all hint of emotion from those eyes she knew better than her own. Green with gold flecks that danced when he laughed and turned dark when he covered her body with his.

  I am my mother’s daughter.

  That truth would have weighted her with shame not even a week ago. Slowly, she was coming to see she was, as Graham had said, more than her birthright; and in this moment, she owned her desire for this man. Her mouth went dry, and she quickly stood.

  “Graham.” Her own wicked yearnings making her careless with propriety. But there was no helping it. Jacket unbuttoned, cravat now missing, the tall, muscle-hewn figure before her was, in fact, the same man who’d haunted her thoughts for more than ten years.

  He rocked on his heels. “Unable to sleep?”

  She gave a hesitant nod, and offered him only a partial truth. “I’ve been thinking of Ainsley’s recital tomorrow.”

  “I have as well,” he confided.

  How singularly odd to think a man as unflappable and even as Graham Linford should be driven to restlessness with worries over a young lady’s presentation to Society. It fanned warmth within her heart. This, however, was safe discourse. It didn’t require mention of his Lady Serena or the future he’d have without Rowena in it. It required only thoughts and talk of the young lady who’d come to mean very much to her in a very short time. “I also had to finalize the scheduling of her lessons and appointments for the week.”

  He grunted. “I’ll not have you losing sleep and devoting your every minute to work.”

  “That is my role here,” she said gently.

  “You are more than a servant.”

  More than a servant. Her heart kicked up a beat. That was the only purpose she’d served at Mrs. Belden’s, and for so long. How unlike Mrs. Belden he was. Nothing like the monster she’d taken him for. Forcing her thoughts back to his order, she sank back onto the floor in a rustle of skirts. “It is work, but not truly.”

  Graham immediately fell to his haunches across from the untidy stack she’d been going through. Reaching out, he sifted through the pile, skimming titles.

  “It began that way,” she clarified. “Ainsley, she is unlike any lady I’ve worked with, and I learned she is fascinated by Da Vinci and his experiments with flight and astronomy, and so I began looking for ways to make those interests relevant to Society.” For, she’d never given true consideration to why a lady must talk and walk simply to be a certain way, all to conform to Society’s rules. Until Ainsley.

  “She is a bluestocking,” Graham said with a small trace of surprise.

  “She is.” Rowena nodded excitedly. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “How do you explain to a young lady with a clever mind that she should conform? Unless you deceive her and destroy her spirit.” As she had done to so many of her students. Guilt assailed her. “What reasons do you give that are truly meaningful?” she asked, more to herself.

  Graham palmed her cheek, and she went still. “Is that what happened to you, Rowena?” he asked, hanging on to one part of her question. “Your spirit was crushed?” At his touch, her eyes slid briefly closed, and she leaned into his fleeting caress.

  When was the last time she’d been held by anyone, in any way? And how very wonderful it was to take the warmth he now offered. It was dangerous, but there would come time for logic and reason when the sun rose, and they carried on in their separate ways. “It was,” she confirmed, “because I allowed it to be.” She firmed her jaw. “I do not want that to happen to Ainsley. I want her to be truthful to who she is, but also to know respecting certain social customs is not exclusive to one another.”

  Graham roved a path over her face with his eyes. “Your spirit was never truly crushed. I’d wager it’s been dormant, but any woman to make her own way, despite all the world”—their families�
�“has thrown at you, could never be thought of as anything but courageous.”

  Those words were spoken with nothing more than a pragmatic delivery steeped in logic, and yet, for it, her heart sang. And with the shroud of nighttime privacy, all barriers came down between them. She was not a servant in his employ and he was not a mighty duke, descended from William the Conqueror. Rather, they were just a man and a woman speaking freely, with no constraints.

  A look passed between them, weighted with charged emotion that had no place being breathed aloud. Graham was the first to glance away, but not before she saw the strain still present in his eyes, his nightmares so much darker and deeper than she could ever understand. She hated it was just one more thing that divided them. Wanted to know what those monsters were and help him slay them. He stood. “I should leave you to your planning.”

  Yes, he should. And yet... “Would you join me?” The offer spilled forth before she could call it back. She did not want to call it back. Rather, she wanted him to remain here, at her side. For a long moment, he stood there, frozen. “Never mind,” she said finally. “I understand,” she dangled the bait, in certain ways still knowing him better than he knew himself.

  Graham arced a black eyebrow. “And just what does that mean, Mrs. Bryant?”

  Mrs. Bryant. Did he deliberately draw forth the use of her surname, no matter how false it was, to convey his annoyance?

  Rowena lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “It means you are a duke and have no place designing lessons for...”

  Graham reclaimed the spot he’d vacated. “Very well, madam,” he drawled, dragging over a book. “Let us begin preserving Miss Hickenbottom’s spirit, while preparing her for Society.”

  A short while later, Rowena and Graham lay shoulder to shoulder in the same spot. The leather books she had plucked from the shelves and her own leather folios scattered about them.

  “You are missing the point, Graham,” she chided, turning a glower on him.

  The proverbial point being the lessons which would most benefit Miss Ainsley Hickenbottom and smooth her entry into polite Society.

  “Whether the lady can paint a watercolor or sketch a floral arrangement will not prepare her for the ton,” he pointed out. There was no true preparation for the ruthlessness of that cold, calculated world. “Society will care that she can waltz, carry on a polite conversation,” Rowena made to speak. “Without cursing.” She immediately closed her mouth. “Tomorrow she’ll be greeted by some of Society’s leading matrons and their respective families.” He grimaced. A guest list which included the Montgomery’s and a no doubt livid Duke of Wilkshire.

  “What is it?” Rowena prodded with a concerned thread to those three words.

  Not allowing mention of Lady Serena to intrude on this shared moment with Rowena, he shook his head. “In time, you can cultivate proper interests in the lady.” He was not the man his father was. He’d not seek to mold his ward into an emotionless version of every other societal lord or lady. “But her recital is tomorrow evening. I’d have you spend the day readying her.” If one could ever be truly prepared for polite Society. “Instruct her again on respectable conduct.” Or Society would eat her alive. As it was, they’d already met the girl with, at best, tepid unkindness.

  She scowled. “What do you mean proper interests, Graham?” she demanded, focusing on the former part of his statement. “It is about finding who she is and accepting herself, finding pride in her accomplishments, despite what Society may say of her.”

  He angled his head to meet her gaze squarely and the challenge withered on his lips. The soft glow of the fire illuminated the earnest glimmer in her brown eyes. In shaping Ainsley into a young lady both polished and true to who she was, Rowena seeks to regain what she’d lost. Did the lady even realize it? “By your own words,” he began gently, “the girl already indicated she detests art.”

  “Because she is focusing on the wrong subjects.” She flipped onto her side and fished around for a sheet of parchment. Rolling back over, she waved it under his nose. “These are the interests Ainsley has expressed,” she continued, pointing to the neatly compiled list. “As such, I believe the best place to begin would be art instruction. We have an obligation to guide her.”

  We.

  How long it had been since he’d truly been with another person? The women he’d taken to his bed had been mere diversions with whom no real emotion had passed. Even his friendship with Jack these years had shifted where the strongest bond between them were his estates and Jack’s assistance with his slipping sanity. He and this woman, who failed to see a monster, and only saw a man. Had life moved along differently for the both of them, it would mayhap even now be their own daughter they discussed and debated the merits of childrearing about. We can still have all that, with a child of our own... A calming lightness filled him. Healing with an absolute sense of rightness.

  “Are you paying attention?” she asked, her voice rich with exasperation. Setting aside her list, she grabbed a book. “Here,” she pointed, jabbing at the page. That slight shift of her hand sent the pages fluttering, and Graham reached a hand up, and held them in place as he tried to make out the words in the dark.

  He squinted, taking in the lessons she wished to first pursue.

  “She hates art, but she adores Da Vinci,” Rowena persisted, releasing a frustrated sigh.

  “And do you truly believe fostering a love of art will somehow make her inclined to follow societal rules?” He’d simply settle for a ward who did not hike up her skirts and curse like a sailor in the King’s Navy. Or wear breeches. As much as he celebrated her spirit, he’d not see her hurt any more than she already would be by the ton.

  “Keep reading,” she ordered. “Aloud.”

  A half-grin snagged at the corners of his lips. “Are you instructing me, Mrs...”

  She swatted his arm.

  “Principles for the Development of a Complete Mind: Study the science of art. Study the art of science. Develop your senses—especially learn how to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, Rowena was already scrambling up onto her knees beside him. “Everything connects to everything else, Graham. Don’t you see?” She didn’t await a response. “Ainsley despises conforming to the rules and dictates of polite Society because she sees no connection between them and anything else. She doesn’t see how doing so can do her any good.”

  “And can there be?” he asked, pushing himself up onto an elbow.

  “Developing an understanding of societal ways does not strip her of who she is... it helps her to develop a complete mind.” As she spoke, a beautiful color filled her cheeks, so very different than the spiritless women who’d clamored for the title of duchess. And he’d never wanted a woman more than he did this one in this moment, defending the education of a young girl. “Art can help her do that,” she continued, when he sat up beside her. “As long as we do not expect her to lose who she is.”

  Rowena was magnificent. How could I have ever considered wedding another? And yet... he had. He’d resolved to marry, and had even been so emotionally cold that he’d let another hand-pick the woman who might be a match for him. Yes, Graham had handled all dealings with the lady and her family the way he did every business arrangement. In this instance, confronted with his past and realizing how very close he’d come to wedding Lady Serena for the Hampstead line, Graham didn’t much like himself. There were too many crimes he was guilty of that could never be forgiven, truths that had at last been laid bare. He owed Rowena Endicott one more so that mayhap now there would be no more murky shadows between them. He stood and put several steps between them.

  Rowena brushed a loose brown strand back behind her ear, and looked up questioningly. “What is it?” she asked cautiously, her earlier enthusiasm dimmed.

  “I wanted to speak to you,” he began, “about Lady Serena.”

  Chapter 20

  Rowena jerked, feeling bu
rned. She’d been expecting it. Had anticipated that truth since Ainsley had uttered it, and yet, even expecting it as she had, it still knotted the muscles of her stomach. Hearing him refer to the lady not as the Duke of Wilkshire’s daughter but by her Christian name deepened the realness of their connection.

  With slow movements, she came to her feet. “You need not explain yourself to me,” she said, calmly, even as her heart raced in an agonizing rhythm, wishing they could go back to the carefree talk of Ainsley’s preparation for Society. Anything but... this. How quickly he’d thrown her life back into upheaval. That had always been the explosive effect he’d had on her. A volatile passion that flipped her world upside down.

  Graham searched his eyes over her face. “I vowed to do right by the ducal line,” he went on, relentless.

  That all-important title had led his father to cut her from the thread of her own family. Peeling her lip back, she looked over at the broad desk owned by this man, and no doubt the one before him. He settled his hands on her shoulders, and she stiffened at that unexpected touch.

  “Not because of the title,” he said quietly. With his knuckles, he angled her chin up, forcing her gaze to his. “Because there are men and women dependent upon me for their livelihoods and security.”

  That had always been Graham. Always putting others first.

  I don’t want this discussion. Yet the question slipped forward anyway. “Is she... is the Duke of Wilkshire’s daughter the woman you’ve selected as your bride?” Those words came out so very steady. How, when she was so taut inside one wrong word would snap her?

  He hesitated. It was an imperceptible pause so small she might have missed it. But it was there. “She was. Jack identified the lady as an ideal match.”

  An ideal match? He spoke with such an emotionless detachment gooseflesh dotted her skin. Jack. That same man who’d known about Rowena’s bastardy, and in the ultimate act of deception had asked for her hand and forced a kiss. Rowena folded her arms, and then rubbed the limbs in a bid to bring warmth back to them. “What made her ideal?” she asked, asking him to admit the truth. “Her lineage? Her impeccably blue blood?” How was her voice so steady when inside she was breaking?