by Darcy Burke
Quince cradled her arm and ran a finger over the puckered flesh. "I'm sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you."
"Well, I did goad you into it."
"That's no excuse for my behavior."
"Come now, your grace. I wanted you to fight me and I've told you that I always get what I want."
That only served to remind him of what she had most recently said she wanted. Would she let him pull her down onto this table as he wanted to? Would she raise her skirts for him?
She must have sensed his desire because she blushed and drew back. "If I may be excused, your grace?"
"Of course," he said thickly.
He sat back at the table and picked at his breakfast while the household continued to buzz with activity around him.
TEN
Sabre was sure that her plan would work with the duke. Twice now he had looked at her in a way that made her heart race, as though he had found her naked. Any gentleman would offer for a lady after he had Compromised her. That was how mama had always made it sound, as though it should be capitalized. Compromised. It was exactly how Jack and Gideon had ended up married. They had barely kissed in the library before Lord and Lady Wynders had found them. Gideon had covered the awkward discovery by announcing their engagement. And Gideon was hardly a prime example of an English gentleman. His nickname was Lord Lucifer, for the love of goodness. Sabre wondered if the Duke of Beloin had a nickname. If so, she had never heard it. She was tempted to call him Lord Primandproper. But there was another side to him, too. The side that was succumbing to her flirtation.
After spending most of the day at it, she and the maids had set the bedroom to rights. The fabrics were freshened, the wood polished, and all of the glass glistening. Having investigated the layout she found that the suite had its own dressing and bathing rooms, and adjoined the duke's bedroom through a sitting room that also had its own double-doors into the hall. The staff had apparently stopped questioning her place in the household and seemed content to let her decide where she should be and what she should be doing. She had her luggage brought up to the newly freshened room and ordered a bath so she could be presentable for supper. While waiting for the bathwater to be brought up, she checked to ensure her coachman was being treated properly and went over the evening menu with Mrs. Caldwell, an activity that the housekeeper seemed surprised that anyone would be interested in. It made Sabre wonder if the duke was often in residence at this estate at all.
Finally, after hours of dirty, grueling labor, she was able to sink into hot water scented with her special oils. She started thinking of the things that would need to be done tomorrow, not the least of which was to express her gratitude again to the servants who had helped with this suite. It had ultimately been four maids, three footmen, and Mrs. Caldwell herself. They had all swept, dusted, polished, mopped, and straightened until the room was habitable. She had left the drapes down for now, the tall windows with their view of the gardens that circled the house were too beautiful to cover again just yet. In the morning, when the sunrise brightened and woke her up early she might regret it. But the room needed the light and air.
She heard a bump in the next room, followed by a knock at the door.
"I'm not ready yet," she called out.
The door pushed open, revealing the duke. "Then that is poor planning on your part," he said.
With a gasp she crossed her arms over her bosom. "Your grace!" she exclaimed.
He ignored her at first, intent on inspecting the bathing room. "I've never been in here before," he finally commented.
She huddled down into the tub as best she could to avoid the gaze that he periodically passed over her.
At last he seemed to have completed his review of the room and stood over her, hand clasped behind his back. "When I inquired after what rooms were being cleaned, Mrs. Caldwell informed me that you were having the duchess's suite cleaned for your own use. That seems presumptuous, don't you think?"
"I assumed you would want me to feel comfortable."
He laughed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Miss Bittlesworth, whatever am I to do with you?"
"Let me finish my bath in peace would be my suggestion."
"I will be as clear as I possibly can. It is unseemly for you to reside in the duchess's quarters as they adjoin my own. If you have only the slightest care for your reputation certainly you understand that."
"You lecture me as though I don't have a mother."
"Your actions indicate you have a neglectful one. You arrived here without so much as the protection of a maid, tried to seduce a man in his own bed, and have now taken up residence in a room that adjoins his. Were you my daughter I would lock you away until you started to show some sense."
"How fortunate for me that you're not my father."
"Indeed, I am not. However, I am your host and with such authority shall be moving you to the south wing. Before you think to argue with me, do know that it could be my preference to have you board your carriage and return to London this evening instead."
"As you wish, your grace."
The duke paused, looking at her shrewdly. "I do not trust your acquiescence."
"I'm likely to say anything to get you to leave the room," she admitted.
At that he nodded and left without further comment.
Sabre sighed. The water had gone cold during her exchange with the duke. No matter, it was time to dress for supper. And prepare her items to be taken to the south wing.
Quince only made it to the shared sitting room before he needed to sit down. Gods, what had possessed him to do that? Yes, he had been angry when he had heard of her presumption. She seemed bent on being intrusive, bossy, and managing. But to intrude on the girl's bath was beyond the pale. Not only was it untoward, it had been very dangerous. If she had been bold enough to stand up when he had entered, he would even now be making love to her on the floor of that room. It had been distracting enough to see her bared shoulders, the globes of her breasts barely covered by her small hands, the hint of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs beneath the soapy water. That was why they absolutely could not share this suite. Tonight he would be thinking about what he had seen, what she might yet let him see. To know that she was barely a room away would drive him to distraction. If she were any other woman he would consider it. But Bittlesworth's daughter? Never. No matter her attraction. No matter her willingness. That she was the only woman he had ever felt this attracted to seemed a petty and cruel joke by a vindictive god.
ELEVEN
Sabre set herself to being the ideal guest after settling into the south wing. She was always timely to meals, always pleasant, always smiling. The duke did not require much in the way of entertainment and she ended up with a great deal of time on her hands. As it seemed the duke primarily ignored his staff, she began to see to their needs. Nothing significant, of course. Nothing, heaven forbid, presumptuous. But it was apparent that it had been some time since anyone of the Quality had taken an interest in their welfare. She listened with interest to their stories and helped them with their chores as was appropriate, such as washing and slicing fruit in the kitchen. She insisted that Mrs. Caldwell take an afternoon off since it was something the older woman did with such infrequency that no one on the staff could remember the last time she had done so. By the end of the third day, acting as the de facto housekeeper while Mrs. Caldwell was in the village, Sabre felt she had made sufficient progress with the staff. Having always looked forward to running a household, she was relieved to know that the servants here were as likeable as the ones at home, if perhaps a bit more peculiar. But she had made a place with them where they looked to her as both lady of the manor and friend.
If only it were so easy to sway the duke.
After three days of observing him in close quarters it was clear to her that Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, was not one to share much of himself with others. He was a loner, preferring to spend long stretches of time in solitude. Although he d
id possess the wit that her friend Jack had complimented him on, it was apparent that he primarily used it to push others away rather than to entertain or commiserate as some do. Perhaps that was because he wished to rid himself of his current company, but she didn't believe so. Honestly, she was surprised that he had not yet insisted that she pack up her carriage and leave his home. It made her think that although he seemed to prefer solitude, he was lonely. Even an unwelcome guest could be better than no guest at all.
But she did not see where she was making progress engaging his affections. She could go that most direct route to her goal by depositing herself naked in his bed. She didn't think he would resist such an advance. However, her lesson from the first day here was that even her boldness had its limits. Merely considering such a thought had her heartbeat racing again painfully in her chest.
She was also surprised that for a man who used the sword so proficiently he did not seem to practice. On the third day she asked if he would like to practice together and received a scowl and polite refusal. His eyes had strayed to her injured arm shortly after that and she knew that he was still bothered by the fact that he had hurt her.
Plagued by all these thoughts, on the morning of her fourth day at Belle Fleur, she decided to go for a ride and clear her head.
As breakfast wasn't a formal affair, Quince didn't feel that he needed to wait for Miss Bittlesworth to arrive before eating. But when she still hadn't arrived thirty minutes later he found himself concerned. She seemed to be an earlier riser than himself, not that it was difficult to be, but for the last two mornings had taken breakfast with him. She had seemed bent on being an affable guest, though why she thought he would believe her to be anything other than the domineering harridan she had exposed herself to be on the first day, he had no idea. He waved over a footman. "Did our guest already eat earlier this morning?"
"No, your grace. She left for a ride earlier this morning and has not yet returned."
Although happy to have his question answered so quickly and completely, he wondered why the dining room footman already had that information. Belle Fleur was far from his largest estate but it had a fairly large complement of staff. At least fifty, he thought, though he wasn't quite sure. Had the staff already been talking among themselves about her absence?
At luncheon she still hadn't arrived and Quince found himself a bit perturbed, but refused to worry about it overly. He allowed her to stay here because in his opinion people ought to be able to do as they liked. Surely he had to allow her the latitude to do as she wished with her time. In the afternoon as he sat in the library staring at a book but not reading a single page, Havers came to him.
"Your grace, the lady has still not returned from her ride."
"I see." Quince had known that the Bittlesworth girl hadn't returned yet due to the deathly silence of the house. What had seemed a peaceful quiet before her arrival now seemed dull. As though the entire household awaited her return to breathe life back into it again.
"The men would like to search for her. With your permission, of course."
"Of course. It would not be seemly to lose a viscount's daughter. Have them search."
"Very good, your grace," the butler responded, withdrawing quietly from the room. Quince returned to staring at a book he had yet to read a word in.
Sabre reared back from the sharp scent that assaulted her nose. As she shook her head to clear it she heard scuffing on a wooden floor and the creak of someone sitting in a chair. She was sitting as well. Tied to a chair, in fact. She struggled with the ropes on her wrists while tossing the hair out of her eyes to identify her captor. Who she saw made her stop struggling immediately.
"Robert, what is this meaning of this?" She looked around the room, which appeared to be a cellar in a run-down house.
"Hullo, little sister. Shouldn't I be asking you that? I thought you were going to Jack's house."
Her brother had seated himself on a wooden chair a yard away. Just far enough away to avoid any kicks if she should manage to get her foot free. His chair was turned around and he rested his folded hands and chin on the chair-back as he studied her. She began to struggle against the ropes again and he held up a finger.
"Ah-ah. How will you explain rope burns to your lover?"
Sabre blew out a frustrated breath. "He's not my lover."
"Really? Then why have you been at his house for three nights? The house where his father planned all his trysts?"
"Trysts? I find that hard to believe. There was a veritable shrine to the former duchess there."
"Be that as it may, why were you there? If you hadn't come out soon I was going to come in after you."
"I wanted to... to help him. How did you figure out where I was?"
"I always know where you are, Sabrina."
Sabre felt her eyes widen. "You knew about the duel?"
After a short pause, one too brief for anyone who didn't know him to notice, he said, "Of course." She knew her brother well enough to know that his pause and lack of reaction was an indication that in fact he hadn't known, but had decided to gamble on appearing omniscient. She was glad that her riding habit hid the healing scar she still carried from where the duke's sword had sliced her arm.
Knowing that she had gone down a path that needed a story before he decided to dig and find the real one she said, "I know it was foolish of Jack and me to duel, especially while in London, but she had made me so angry. And, well, once a challenge is issued..."
"It cannot be withdrawn," he answered.
She nodded.
"However, you still haven't answered my question."
"Yes, I did. I want to help him."
Robert sighed. "Don't play games with me, Sabrina, I know you're not obtuse. Why do you want to help him?"
"Perhaps I like him."
"Not good enough."
"Fine," she said, tossing her chin up in the air. "I plan to marry him."
Her brother stared at her and she could tell that his mind had engaged the possibilities. "Does he plan to marry you?"
She smiled. "He's made no mention of it as of yet, but you know I can be very convincing."
He sat up and continued staring at her. "There are complications," he finally said.
"Like what?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"We won't discuss them as yet. How do you rate your chances?"
"Good." She mused a bit and smiled. "Very good."
Now it was Robert's turn to narrow his eyes. "This is a dangerous game you're playing, Sabrina. What makes you think you will win?"
"I always win."
That made him smile in return. "Always?"
"Almost always," she corrected.
He shook his head. "Sabre, although I know you would adore being a duchess, I'm not sure I can recommend that you marry the first duke you can talk into the idea. You will need more challenge than that."
Putting her nose in the air she said, "Once I'm a duchess I will outrank you and you won't be able to say such hateful things to me."
Robert laughed. "In your dreams."
Sabre chuckled as well. After a moment she sobered and said, "Robert, I really do care for him quite a bit."
"You mean you care for Quincy Telford, not just the fact that he's the Duke of Beloin?"
She looked down at the floor, furrowing her brow, and nodded.
"Well," her brother finally said. "Will wonders never cease?"
She looked back up at him with a questioning look.
He shook his head. "Never mind. If I let you go back to Beloin-"
"Let?" she asked acidly.
"Indeed, if I let you. Note that I ensured you were well secured before we had this conversation. If I let you then you must promise me two things."
"Perhaps."
"First, if anything seems dangerous you will leave."
"Why would things be dangerous?"
"Just promise me."
Sabre blew out a frustrated breath. "Very well."
&nb
sp; "Second, if anything interesting happens you will tell me about it."
She looked at her brother for a long moment and realized that although the Duke of Beloin thought that he had engaged Robert's help, there was something else afoot entirely. "Of course," she finally said.
In her own mind she reassured herself that she was to determine what rated as dangerous or interesting. It might not be the things that Robert would hope for.
TWELVE
Late in the afternoon the house began to buzz again. Quince set aside the correspondence he was essentially ignoring anyway and went out to the front hall. Miss Bittlesworth was there, surrounded by well-meaning staff who fluttered around her like butterflies over a flowering bush. The young miss was a bit the worse for wear. Tired, dirty, and disheveled. When she saw him she dropped a curtsy and his staff followed her lead.
"Your grace," she said.
"You have been returned to us at last."
She nodded. "I'm very sorry to have caused trouble, your grace. My horse had a stone in his shoe and I needed to walk him. I assumed he would know his way but I think we ended up walking in circles for hours. We would most likely still be out there if John hadn't found us and brought us home."
Quince nodded his understanding, although he had no idea who John was. Perhaps a footman or stable boy. It was also a bit troubling to have Miss Bittlesworth referring to Belle Fleur as home, but after a long, hot day walking in a velvet riding habit she would probably be content to call a dirt-floored hovel home. She seemed close to tears. "Perhaps after a bath you would like to take supper in your room to rest?"
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, your grace."
"Think nothing of it," he reassured.
She turned to ascend the steps, her bevy of maids still around her, and then turned back to him. At first it looked as though she was going to say something, then she simply dashed forward and burrowed against his chest, wrapping her arms at his waist. He hadn't been expecting that and his arms reflexively came around her. She didn't sob, just gave a shuddering sigh as she clung to him. After a few moments she backed away, damp-eyed and miserable. They stood there, hands joined and staring at one another for a moment. Then she turned and slowly trudged up the steps.
