The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke

by Caroline Linden

  Of course, London would hold a new host of trials. It wouldn’t be so bad if only William and his wife, Emily, would be there. William respected her desire to forge her own way, and Emily would never dream of coercing her into attending balls and soirees where the ladies would discuss nothing more important than how one was ever to learn the latest fashions from Paris, given the rude impositions of war. But this time Louise would be there, full of determination to establish herself among the ton. Louise would insist that she go to balls and masquerades and Venetian breakfasts; her sister couldn’t fathom how any female could be utterly indifferent to fashions and gossip. Tessa had tried to explain that she chose her clothing based on what appealed to her own eye, not what other women were wearing, and that she only cared about gossip if the scandals involved would impinge on her life, but she might as well have been speaking some African tongue. Louise waved her hands and said she understood perfectly, and then went right on trying to coax her into new dresses and hinting that certain gentlemen didn’t mind a lady well past her youth.

  That last thought always made Tessa scowl. A patch of bluebells caught her eye and she waded into the field to pick some. She didn’t feel old, except when Louise started with her hints. Why must a woman be old when she wasn’t yet thirty? It wasn’t even half of her life, most likely. Her great-grandmother had lived to the glorious age of eighty-three, hardly allowing that she was old then. Tessa picked her flowers, tugging firmly to get them up by the roots so they would stay fresher longer when she put them in water. And what did it matter to Louise if she married or not? It would be one thing, she supposed, if Louise had been happily married and merely wanted the same joy for her sister, but no; rarely had a day gone by during Lord Woodall’s life when Louise didn’t complain about him in some way. Tessa thought many of her sister’s complaints were valid, but then, that was also Louise’s fault for marrying a boring, unintelligent man whose main interest in life was shooting whatever bird happened to be in season. Far better to be unmarried than wed to someone wretchedly dull, in Tessa’s opinion. At times, in her darker humors, she thought Louise wanted her to get married just so she wouldn’t be the only one unhappy.

  But now Louise was happy. She was moving her family to London, free at last of Lord Woodall’s parsimonious drudgery and away from William’s rather nervous oversight. She was a widow with a plump jointure, still attractive and relatively young. She would have all the fashions she could afford and all the gossip she could stand, and Tessa hoped she enjoyed every minute of both. She was only sorry Louise had decreed she must go, too. The one true disadvantage of being unwed was her dependence on her family. Louise usually managed to wear William down when she set her mind to something, which meant he had eventually agreed that Tessa could be spared from Rushwood for a few months; that Tessa ought to make an effort to widen her circle of acquaintances beyond their small village in Wiltshire; and that Tessa would find a husband if she only made herself look for one, preferably in London where she might have a clean slate with eligible gentlemen and no one would remember that terrible business with Richard Wilbur. With no money of her own, Tessa had little choice but to give in, just as she’d had to give in and bring Eugenie with her to Somerset, even though Eugenie didn’t want to come. In many ways she and Eugenie were in much the same boat. They were both dependent on William’s support, and both of them must abide by his wishes. The fact that she was his sister, while Eugenie was only a distant cousin, didn’t change the fact that William’s word was the final one.

  She stood and stretched her back, clutching her wild bouquet in one dirty glove. The sunlight was beginning to slant; it was growing late in the afternoon, time to return to the inn. She looked around to get her bearings, and realized with a start she was just down the road from Mill Cottage, where Lord Gresham had said he was staying.

  For a moment she stood there, the wind ruffling the grass and wildflowers around her. She had no reason to go to Mill Cottage, and it was improper for a lady to call on a gentleman anyway. Not that she wanted to call on him; no, she wanted him out of her mind. She repeated this to herself as she tramped out of the field, climbed up the bank to the road, and headed back toward Frome . . . past Mill Cottage. It was the most direct route, after all, and merely walking past his house meant nothing.

  In spite of herself, she couldn’t help slowing for a cautious look at the house as she passed. It was a rustic but charming cottage, built of weathered stone with a gravel drive leading to it. As she walked, an old mill came into view, set behind the house on the stream that burbled along parallel to the road. It was peaceful and quaint, and for a moment she envied Lord Gresham his retreat. Being able to sit in the sunshine by the stream must be very pleasant on a day like this.

  Which, she told herself a moment later in embarrassment, was probably why he was doing just that. A slight rise had blocked her view, but out on the sun-drenched lawn by the old mill sat the Earl of Gresham. He was lounging in a chair, one booted foot propped on another chair as he read a book. He wore no coat or hat, and as she watched, he ran one hand through the dark waves of his hair and tossed his book on the table beside him. He put up both his feet, and reclined even farther in his chair, letting his head drop back as if he wanted the sun on his face. Tessa stood rooted to the spot. He was blindingly handsome even when being arrogant and proper; lounging in his chair, relaxed and easy, he was irresistible. Even she, who was never blinded by men’s looks, couldn’t look away. And some small part of her heart wondered again, with a pang, what she’d done that ended his interest and attentions.

  Another man came from the house, carrying a tray with a pitcher. A servant, she guessed. He placed the tray on the table and stacked up several books alongside it. He must have said something to Lord Gresham, because Tessa caught the impression of a grin on the earl’s face, and a whisper of his laugh drifted to her on the breeze. But then Gresham lifted his head and looked right at her, and she jerked around, flushing at being caught staring. She started walking again, clutching her bluebells and fixing her eyes on the road in front of her.

  “Mrs. Neville,” he called. “Mrs. Neville!”

  She stole a sideways glance from under her eyelashes and grimaced. He was coming toward her, striding across the grass at such a clip, he’d be upon her before she could scurry around the spinney of trees ahead. She was caught. She forced herself to stop instead of breaking into a run, as her instinct urged. “Lord Gresham. How do you do?”

  “Very well, now.” He grinned at her and made a brief bow. “Are you out walking?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have circled Frome three times and finally needed a new vista.”

  He laughed. “How delightful you came this way! Won’t you sit down and rest a moment? My man Barnes has just brought out some fresh lemonade.”

  Tessa hesitated. Louise would probably say it was improper, but Eugenie would say the earl could do no wrong. Sitting outdoors in full view of the road was hardly a scandalous tête-à-tête. And she was very fond of lemonade, which was quite a luxury in so rustic an area. “Thank you, sir. Fresh lemonade is too tempting to refuse.”

  “I knew I would find something,” he murmured. “Come—Barnes, fetch another glass,” he called to the servant, who had followed him halfway across the drive. Barnes nodded and went back into the house.

  Tessa ignored his comment and walked beside him, a careful distance apart. “A very peaceful spot,” she said. “And such a lovely day to enjoy it.”

  “Indeed. If only I were free to indulge in a walk, as you did.” Tessa snuck a glance at the books on the table as they reached it—rather musty looking journals of some sort—but he didn’t mention them. “I see you are taking some of Nature home with you.”

  “Oh.” Tessa looked down at her bluebells, already beginning to wilt. “Mrs. Bates is fond of bluebells.”

  “Is she well?” He pulled out the chair he’d been lounging in and gestured
to it. Tessa sat, feeling awkward and self-conscious. She really oughtn’t to be here. Now she would have to talk to him.

  “She is well,” she replied to his question. “Frome doesn’t offer many entertainments, though. I fear we are both beginning to languish.”

  “Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve found any entertainments in Frome?”

  Tessa smiled ruefully. “I didn’t expect to.”

  “Ah, yes; you came on business.” The servant brought out a tray with glasses, and Lord Gresham said nothing while the man poured lemonade for them. “Has Mr. Scott answered your questions?”

  “No.” Tessa ran one finger down the side of her glass, then picked it up and took a small sip. It was bracingly tart and cool, exactly as she liked it. She closed her eyes and took another, longer sip. “Not yet.”

  Lord Gresham didn’t reply, and she looked up to see him staring at her, his eyes dark and intense. She sat a little forward in her chair, beginning to fear he was in the same grim mood he’d fallen into at the ironworks. “Has he satisfied your doubts, sir?”

  He blinked, and a vaguely bitter smile curved his mouth. “Not at all.”

  She shot him a puzzled glance—it sounded almost ominous, when he said it that way—but he didn’t say anything else. She sipped more lemonade, wishing for once that she could chatter as easily as Eugenie did with him. “Have you really come to see the canal?” she said, unable to hold back the curiosity any longer.

  His eyes brightened and he leaned back in his chair. The sun was full in his face, gleaming on his dark hair and flashing off the signet ring on his finger as he propped his chin in one hand. “Of course. As you yourself noted, Frome has few other attractions.”

  She nodded. “You didn’t seem deeply interested when we visited Mells.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t expect him to show me any troublesome parts.”

  “So you think there are some?”

  “I’ve never built a canal,” he said, stretching out his long legs in front of him, “but I’ve yet to hear of any large engineering project that didn’t have troublesome spots.”

  That confirmed her own feeling. She put down her glass of lemonade and turned her full attention on him. “Where do you think the problems lie?”

  He took his time replying, but for the first time Tessa didn’t feel uncomfortable at his regard. His dark eyes moved over her face thoughtfully, without teasing or laughing. “I expect the money is a problem,” he said at last. “Scott wouldn’t travel so widely in search of investors if he had plenty of funds. And more than one canal company has brought bills before Parliament seeking more funding authority.”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “They’re usually successful, aren’t they? Has this canal applied for a new act?”

  Again he hesitated. “Not that I know of.”

  “Nor have I.” That was reassuring. Lord Gresham, with a seat in Parliament, would surely know if this canal had lobbied for a new act to raise more funds, or even if there had been rumblings of it. And he wouldn’t be here at all, considering an investment himself, if he knew of serious shortfalls. She ought to have thought of that sooner. “Other canals have been built with the original authorization. Mr. Scott assures me this one will be as well.”

  “It would be in his interest to say so, wouldn’t it?” murmured the earl. “He wants to persuade you his canal is a sound investment.”

  “Which is why I won’t agree until I see the account books,” she pointed out.

  He nodded. “One wonders why Mr. Scott hasn’t produced them promptly, then. I presume he knew before your visit you wished to see the books.”

  “Yes, I told him at Rushwood when he came to see my brother, and I told him again in Bath a week ago.” Her mouth tightened as she thought about it. “It’s a trifle annoying he hasn’t got them ready yet.”

  “Yes. It might make one wonder what he has to do to make them ready.”

  She tipped her head to one side and studied him. He lounged very easily and informally in his chair, but with none of the lurking laughter she was accustomed to seeing in his face. He was regarding her as curiously as she was watching him, she realized. Of course, they were having a remarkably serious conversation. “Do you think I’m odd to want to see the books?” she asked on impulse.

  “Odd?” His eyebrows flew up.

  “Yes, for a woman to care so much about money.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think we are all born with our own talents and interests, male and female. If you have the intellect and the interest for investing, I see no reason why you wouldn’t wish to see the account books. I presume Scott wants a handsome sum from your brother.”

  “Yes, six thousand pounds.”

  Gresham inclined his head. “There you are.”

  “Most men find it odd that I have either the interest or the intellect,” she said, then wondered why she’d told him that. She might as well have embroidered the words “prosy bluestocking” across her bodice. She forced a smile. “Most women find it odd, as well.”

  “Most people have frivolous interests, and intellects to match, as my father used to say.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I doubt he would have said it of you, though.”

  Tessa warmed, feeling as though he’d just paid her a true compliment. “Thank you, sir.”

  He chuckled. “At last! A compliment paid, and no charges of flummery.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Thank you,” she said again, just as Louise had instructed her to reply to any kind word.

  Something changed in his eyes as he looked, becoming more contemplative, almost as if he had just realized something about her. Uneasily, Tessa picked up her lemonade and drank some more. It was warm now, not as cool and refreshing as before, but still delicious. She set the glass down with some regret when it was gone. “I should return to town. Mrs. Bates will wonder what’s become of me.”

  His gaze dropped. “Alas, your wildflowers have wilted.”

  Tessa looked down at the clutch of bluebells, lying limply in her lap. “Oh. And I picked them all. What a waste.”

  With a quick motion, Lord Gresham dashed the lemonade remaining in his glass onto the ground. “We can put them in water and revive them.” He got to his feet. “Come.”

  Tessa obeyed, trailing behind him as he strode to the stream, glass in hand. She watched in mild surprise as he stepped onto a rock jutting out of the bank, then to another large rock amid the swiftly running water, and carefully stooped down to fill the glass. He glanced up at her and grinned. “You must jump in and save me if I slip,” he called. “This water is freezing cold.”

  Dumbly she nodded. Balanced on a rock amid the rushing water, paying no heed to the water spraying his white shirtsleeves and spotless breeches as he filled a glass with water for a bunch of wilted bluebells, the Earl of Gresham was mesmerizing. He didn’t look indolent or arrogant at all, but rather . . . gallant. He rose and cast a measuring eye toward the bank.

  “Stand back,” he said.

  “What?” She wrenched her gaze from his shirt, thoroughly dampened to his skin. “Why?”

  “In case I fall,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet a moment before taking one giant, lunging step toward the bank. His polished boot hit the stone he had originally stepped from, but it was slick with water and Tessa realized with horror that he was about to take an ignominious plunge into the stream.

  “Oh!” She leaped forward and flung out her hand. He grabbed it just in time, balanced precariously for a moment, then leapt nimbly onto the bank, not seeming to care that his polished boot landed ankle-deep in the mud.

  “You saved me!” He grinned at her, giving her hand a light press before letting go. “Did I injure your arm?”

  “No.” Her fingers tingled. Had she really leaped out and grabbed him? �
�Not at all.”

  “Good. Put the flowers in,” he said, holding out the glass. Tessa held out the bluebells, and he took them, poking the roots down into the water and draping the drooping stems over the rim. “They’ll revive in a bit,” he predicted. “I shall send them into Frome when they do.”

  She looked up at him in wonder. Dark hair tumbled forward over his brow after his jaunt into the brook. Up close she could see the faint shadow of stubble beginning on his jaw, and smell the crisp scent of his shirtsleeves. That signet ring on his right hand flashed as he pushed the stems deeper into the glass. Her hand felt warm, remembering the clasp of his fingers around hers. “That’s quite a lot of effort for wildflowers,” she said before her brain could rein in her tongue.

  He looked up from the flowers. “Not if they are dear to you.”

  She forced her gaze back to the bluebells. “They are just wildflowers,” she said softly. “Small and insignificant and common.”

  He was quiet, and she stole a glance at his face. He had that probing look again, as if he were trying to make out something essential about her. She was accustomed to seeing that sort of look on people’s faces, but Lord Gresham’s expression was . . . different. He didn’t seem confounded or alarmed or even dismayed by what he saw in her, but curious. Surprised. Almost . . . intrigued.

  “No bit of beauty is small or insignificant,” he murmured. “And as for common . . . I’ve never seen the like.” He touched one dainty flower head, less wilted than the rest, and turned it up toward her. “Don’t belittle it. Marvel, instead, that such a creation sprang up out of a common field, with no one around to appreciate it until you walked by.”

  “And now I have pulled it out by the roots,” she said.

  He grinned, and the air between them lightened noticeably. “Only to share it with others. The bluebells would have wilted anyway, in a day or two. Now they will have brought joy and beauty to others before they do.”