“Michael Arthur Baswich, the ninth Duke of Greaves,” the tenth duke’s low voice whispered into her right ear, from close enough to touch. “My late father.”
“Who painted him?” she asked, noting that her own voice had become hushed.
“Some say otherwise, but I say Gainsborough.”
“It’s disputed?”
“There are those who say only the devil could paint something that disconcerting. But they’ve missed the point. The devil is the subject. Not the artist.” He blew out his breath. “Dead for eleven years, and he still manages to plague me.”
That last part didn’t seem to be particularly for her benefit. Sophia blinked, tearing herself free from that gaze. Beside her, the duke wasn’t looking at the portrait, but rather at her. “It’s finely crafted,” she admitted, facing him directly and pushing back against the unhelpful curiosity that wanted to know why he seemed to feel about his father the same way she felt about her own. “Where’s your portrait?” she asked instead.
“As I’m not dead, it’s in the main drawing room.”
“So you won’t forget you’re the duke?” Sophia returned, hoping he would appreciate hearing sarcasm as much as he seemed to enjoy speaking it.
“So no one else does.” He sent a swift glance past her shoulder, toward the wall and the portrait. “My private rooms are at the southeast corner, and Eustace’s are at the southwest corner. Other than avoiding her, feel free to go wherever you wish. There’s no one else here to frown or look askance at you, so there’s no need for you to confine yourself to your bedchamber. Not that I imagine anyone else’s opinion would trouble you overmuch, anyway.”
Opinions didn’t matter, unless they could enforce them with something more substantial. “No, frowning faces don’t trouble me,” she said aloud. “I’m quite accustomed to them. In fact, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t recognize half of Mayfair if they actually smiled in my direction.”
A brief smile touched his own mouth. It drew light to his countenance, made him even more handsome than he had been previously. She wondered whether he’d smiled for his portrait; if he had, his likeness had to be even more compelling than his father’s.
“Do you always say precisely what you’re thinking?” he asked.
“You said you’d already figured me out,” she returned, “so I decided I might as well. Unless you object.” She’d learned how to comport herself properly; years at boarding schools had ensured that, whether she’d ever thought to make use of the lessons or not. She wanted to stay, to enjoy one grand Christmas before … before everything changed. If he required more propriety, she would make an attempt.
“I absolutely do not object.”
She blinked, surprised. He liked when she spoke without thinking? That was the last thing she expected to hear from an aristocrat. “Then do you ever say what you’re thinking?”
A faint scowl furrowed his fine brow. “Occasionally. I will admit that you just caught me flat-footed, for instance.”
Sophia grinned, absurdly pleased with herself. “And now you shall see me take advantage of that by asking if my run of the house includes the billiards room.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“I don’t know. Are you a challenge?”
“I suppose we’ll find that out. Give me an hour to finish my correspondence.”
That seemed like the end of the tour, but Greaves didn’t move. It was the first time in their admittedly brief acquaintance that she’d ever seen even a whisper of hesitation. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly, as though he’d made a decision about something. It seemed vitally important that she find out what, precisely, that something was, but before she could make the attempt he took her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
“We’ll dine at seven tonight, in the small dining room,” he said. “Since you’re seeking out your own wardrobe, I’ll only suggest that you speak with Mrs. Beasel, my cook. Her daughter is married to a solicitor in Hanlith; I imagine Susan Simmons will have something appropriate for you to borrow. The girl does like to dress well.”
With that he inclined his head and turned away to vanish through the door at the far end of the hallway. Sophia stood where she was for a moment. Feeling the gaze of the former duke on her back, though, she shook herself and left through the nearest doorway. How odd, that a painting of a former duke left her more unsettled than the presence of the current duke.
In fact, despite his wealth, power, and reputation, he’d never been anything but polite to her. And he was turning out to be more good-humored than she’d expected. She rolled her shoulders. Despite being dumped into the river and despite Cammy’s absence she found herself enjoying Greaves Park. It remained an adventure, with a bounty—so far, anyway—of interesting and amusing twists and turns. And a very handsome duke who’d been paying her more attention than she would ever have expected. Whatever might happen, she wanted to stay. Because this was also her last adventure.
* * *
“Mrs. Beasel.”
The cook jumped, spinning away from the stove and dropping what looked like a very promising meat pie onto the stone floor. “Oh, dear. Your Grace. I do apologize. You startled me.”
“Clearly,” Adam said dryly. “Your daughter, Susan. She still resides in Hanlith, yes?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the cook said, her expression becoming dubious. “She’s married these four years to John Simmons, esquire.”
As if he would pursue the daughter of his very fine cook for any reason. There were some things that one simply did not risk. “Good. I require your assistance. And hers. Send her a note asking that she have a … dark green evening gown made to her size. Send ten pounds along with the letter. The gown is to be finished by four o’clock this evening.”
“But Your Grace, you—”
“At four o’clock, Susan will receive a request from my guest, Miss Sophia White, to borrow an appropriate evening gown. Susan will send her the green dress.” He pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and set in on a cutting board. “Get to it.”
“I—right away, Your Grace.”
That done, Adam found Udgell overseeing the polishing of the silver. At least the butler still thought Greaves Park would be full of guests for Christmas. “Miss White will very likely request that you send a note to Susan Simmons in Hanlith. Agree to her request, but do not send that note on until four o’clock this afternoon.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The entire house was too damned quiet, and the blanketing snow outside only made him feel more like he was locked into a tomb. Of course when the bride parade arrived he would likely find that he preferred the solitude. Or relative solitude, anyway. Adam made his way into the upstairs billiards room. It stood empty. Shrugging off his unexpected disappointment, he walked forward and yanked open the half-closed curtains.
Though only half a mile distant, he couldn’t make out the line of ragged cliffs that cut Greaves Park off from the rest of Yorkshire, but he knew they were there. He had the paths, the best fishing spots, the few places where someone could climb up to the moors beyond, all memorized. Trees with branches bent and twisted into claws by the wind leaned off the clifftops, reaching for the boy he’d been to drag him off into the faerie realms. There were times he wished they’d done so.
And there were times now he wished he could be that naïve again. But someone of his position, with his wealth and power, couldn’t afford to be naïve. He couldn’t afford to trust more than three or four people in the entire world. The trade-off for that had been to have a large circle of acquaintances, people with whom he could share a meal or a house over the holidays, but never allow close enough to learn anything that could be used against him.
Large parties were grand for avoiding people when he wished, and finding companionship when he preferred. No guests at all meant being left to his own thoughts and devices, which he didn’t like but supposed he could tolerate. This year, however, the guests were a nece
ssity. His father clearly hadn’t had any more faith in his ability to be a man than his mother had—which would have been amusing, considering the contempt in which he held his father, except for the damned matter of the will.
His thirtieth birthday would fall on February first. And if he hadn’t married by then, most of his properties and a great portion of his wealth would go to twelve-year-old Jonathan Landen, Eustace’s son. That was unacceptable. If he hadn’t disliked the idea of being forced onto a particular path, he would have seen to his matrimonial state long before now. If he hadn’t stayed awake nights wondering whether he truly wished to allow another Baswich, even his own heir, to be born and roam the streets of Mayfair, he certainly hadn’t lacked for the opportunities to produce one. But now he’d very simply run out of time, and he had only this holiday to make his decision. It was ridiculous. It would be laughable, if it didn’t fall so far onto the side of tragedy.
And then there was Eustace. She wasn’t an ally; while she did have a fanatically strong interest in preserving the Baswich family reputation, her own version of what that reputation should be was the only one that mattered to her. He did not fall between the margins of her expectations, and generally that was intentional. The price of being someone of whom she approved was one he utterly refused to pay, whatever the consequences.
Which left his sole guest. Previous to yesterday he hadn’t known Sophia White well enough to classify her as other than pretty, good-natured, and an already obvious thorn in Eustace’s side. That had been enough to make her a welcome counter to his not-quite solitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find her interesting. And witty. And surprisingly, refreshingly forthright—with a dash of absurdity thrown in for flavor.
“Your Grace? Adam, I mean.”
He turned from his gaze out the window. The yellow muslin Miss White wore hadn’t improved its proportions, but she didn’t seem to note that any more than she had earlier. “Sophia.”
“I spoke with Mrs. Beasel as you suggested, and we sent a note to her daughter. I’m still perfectly content to wear this, or to take dinner in my room if my present attire is unacceptable for the dining room.”
“I happen to appreciate your yellow tent, but I refuse to give Eustace a reason to pick at either of us.” He sent another glance at the bleak view outside. “You don’t actually play billiards, do you?”
“I’m better at faro and whist, but I’ve played a game or two.” She grinned, the expression lighting the room. “That isn’t at all proper to say, is it?”
“Not in the middle of a ballroom, I suppose, or in front of the queen, but we happen to be in my billiards room. And you’re to speak your mind, if you’ll recall.”
Her smile resumed. “Excellent. I should ask if your sense of self-worth will be flattened if I should win, then.”
“Hm.” Striding over to the racked billiards cues, he took two down and tossed one to her, noting that she caught it without a single flutter of her pretty eyelashes. “I suppose we’ll discover that together. How about a small wager?”
Green eyes danced. “I have three pounds, eight pence, to hand at the moment, Your Grace. And a garish hat. I’m willing to put any or all of it to the test.”
And she was more gracious about her present circumstances than the very well dressed Eustace. It was damned charming. “Not for money. If I win,” he said slowly, considering, “you will owe me … a kiss, at the time of my choosing.” It seemed rather juvenile, especially for a duke of his reputation. But at the same time it seemed important that he give her the opportunity to refuse him. Now. Because otherwise he had the distinct feeling that he would be kissing her, regardless.
She eyed him for a moment, her lips pursing thoughtfully. “And if I win?”
Hm. He hadn’t thought about that. “If you w—”
“If I win,” she interrupted, “you will owe me a kiss at the time of my choosing.”
“Then you may break, Sophia.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
THREE
“Mrs. Brooks, you truly don’t need to help me dress,” Sophia commented, frowning. “I’ve seen to myself since I was six years old.”
“His Grace said that you’re to have a maid. And I’m the one who’ll be assisting you. Stop squirming now, dear.”
With a sigh, Sophia stopped wiggling and instead faced the tall dressing mirror in her large private bedchamber. The deep green silk gown looked completely impractical for the cold weather of Yorkshire, but then she imagined the assemblies here were as stuffy and close as they were anywhere else. And actually she didn’t much care if the gown might be inappropriate for cold weather. It was lovely.
Dark green lace turned the round neck into a pretty V-shape, while more lace flared out from the half-length sleeves. “I feel like Juliet Capulet in this gown,” she said. “I had no idea the assemblies here were so fancy.”
“It’s a bit much for a solicitor’s wife, isn’t it?” Mrs. Brooks agreed. “But it fits almost like it was made for you. Lady Wallace won’t be able to say anything against your attire, that’s for certain.”
“Just the rest of me.” The general disdain with which the world at large viewed her had truly never troubled her—until the moment a fortnight ago that the Duke of Hennessy had arrived at The Tantalus Club to deliver his terms for her surrender. And so tonight she would pretend to be proper and regal, because it amused her to do so. She might have agreed to her father’s demands—he’d left her no alternative—but before January fifteenth she meant to do as she pleased. And that had seen her to a grand holiday in Yorkshire.
“Don’t you mind that. I’m a housekeeper, Sophia. If the master of the house comes calling, there isn’t much a girl can do against it. And none of it’s the babe’s fault, for heaven’s sake.”
Evidently the story of her birth had traveled as far as the servants in Yorkshire households. Turning around, she gave the housekeeper a hug. “Thank you, Mrs. Brooks. I never expected to hear that here.”
“I’m just thankful that if only one guest is to be at Greaves Park, it’s someone pleasant, and not one of those fribbery females Udgell said would be descending on us. And us having to be so pleasant to all of them, as one of them will be His Grace’s choice for his duchess.”
That sounded like the beginning of a very interesting tale. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, we’re not to discuss it.” The housekeeper leaned closer. “But His Grace needs to marry, or he’ll lose most of his properties. He made a list of females he thought might suffice, and invited them all to holiday at Greaves Park. He means to choose one of them to be his bride.”
Sophia’s heart thudded in abrupt, surprised, hope, until reality crashed back around her ears. He’d invited her to Greaves Park as a kindness to a friend. She was not a marriageable female. Not to a duke. No amount of cursing or wishing would alter her circumstances.
Interesting as this conversation was, though, whatever effect the lovely gown was meant to have on her host’s reportedly frowny sister would be negated if she was late to dinner. “Wish me luck,” she said, giving a sleeve one last fluff and heading out of her bedchamber.
“I fear you’ll need it, my dear.”
Squaring her shoulders, Sophia descended the main staircase and made her way to the so-called small dining room. The duke had said seven o’clock, and so she walked through the open doorway at one minute before the hour. And found the room occupied only by a single footman who was bent over the table with a ruler and moving the silver utensils by minuscule amounts. “Does anyone ever check the measurements?” she asked, grinning.
The bony-cheeked young man straightened with a smothered yelp. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he gasped.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She took another step forward. “I simply had no idea there was such precision involved at the dinner table.”
“I— Excuse me.” Grabbing up the ruler, he fled the room.
Well, that was rude. But at
the same time it wasn’t difficult to imagine that the servants here had very limited conversation with the guests of the house. At The Tantalus Club the employees ate at four large tables in the attic common room. Since they all had varying duties and schedules, the food was set out on a sideboard and everyone served him or herself for every meal. Dealers, hostesses, servers, the Helpful Men who saw to it that none of the male membership took liberties they shouldn’t—rank and salary didn’t matter at the Tantalus. Each of them was a misfit, which made all of them a very odd family.
Clearly none of the diners at Greaves Park would be serving themselves this evening. She would have known that even without a man measuring how far each spoon was from the edge of the table. The room—the entire house that she’d spent nearly four hours exploring, in fact—spoke of formality and rules and … nobility, she supposed it was. And despite the generous fire in the hearth, that left the room feeling very cold, indeed.
Yes, she’d become accustomed to making the best of whatever situation in which she found herself, and yes, what she needed from this holiday was an adventure. But as she looked at the immaculate settings and the blemish-free soup tureen and the curtains hemmed with gold thread, it was difficult to believe that she wouldn’t have been better off remaining in London.
She’d originally accepted the duke’s invitation because she missed her friend. Well, Camille Pryce—no, Blackwood—wasn’t here. But all staying in London would have given her was a last holiday at the Tantalus, because one way or the other she wouldn’t be able to return. Stupid arrogant dukes and their overblown pride. With a sigh Sophia nudged a knife with her fingertip, setting it just slightly askew. There. That felt better.
Rules to Catch a Devilish Duke Page 4
