Annabelle fluttered her hands. “Well of course not, dear, if you were a duke you couldn’t very well marry one.” She snorted. “The idea of you being a duke.”
Too late, Lily recalled her friend was far too literal.
“Even though I am not a duke,” and could she believe she was having this conversation, “I will not be marrying one myself.”
Hopefully that would settle it.
“Is he handsome?”
That had not settled it.
“I suppose so,” just as she supposed the sky was blue, unless you were in London during the winter, and just as she supposed that if she had to keep answering such questions she just might burst out with what she was truly thinking. Things like: Why did he have to be a duke and look like that? Wasn’t it enough that he had a tremendous title? Why couldn’t he have been short and plump, perhaps with a wart or two? It would make her work much easier.
“You’re not telling me anything,” Annabelle said with a sulky look.
Precisely.
Thankfully, Annabelle was as mercurial as she was literal—you just had to wait until she cycled to another topic.
“Is that gown new?” she asked as she began to recopy the reference. Annabelle was the most fashionable of them—her own downfall had begun in a hat shop—and she somehow contrived to look nice despite having very limited resources.
“Yes, the duke—” Lily hesitated, knowing that Annabelle would jump on this tidbit of information. “The duke purchased it for me, since I will be taking Miss Rose out, and he didn’t want my lack of a wardrobe to cause any comment. Because she is not—well, because she is illegitimate. He’s saying she’s the daughter of his cousin, to keep her from gossip, but she’s actually his.”
Annabelle narrowed her eyes and pointed the pen at Lily. “You need to be careful, if he is the type of man to . . . to . . .”
“Cavort?” Lily supplied.
Annabelle nodded her head vehemently. “Cavort, yes. It is one thing to know you are not a duke, but you are a young, attractive woman, and you cannot allow yourself to get in any kind of trouble.” They both knew firsthand what kind of trouble could befall a young woman with no resources. Thankfully, they had missed the worst possible trouble, but it only served to reinforce that Lily must succeed in her work, to secure the agency’s future.
The trouble she could foresee would be in allowing herself to even speculate about why the duke sounded as though his childhood wasn’t a happy one, or how they had a shared sense of humor, or what she felt when he spoke about his daughter.
Her concerns hadn’t entirely subsided by the time she returned to the duke’s house—her home, for the time being, at least—but she’d thought about what had to be done while she walked, holding her new, not-even-close-to-threadbare cloak around her in protection against the wind.
She needed to wrap herself up as tightly as she had the cloak, she thought, to protect her against any kind of danger of the dukely kind.
While knocking on the front door, she told herself she’d barely even noticed its magnificence. She rolled her eyes at her own foolishness, then schooled her features—prim, precise, methodical, so no one would suspect her of being less than a proper governess.
Thompson opened the door, his eyebrow raised in a pale imitation of his master’s, then it almost seemed as if he might smile, and he gestured for her to enter.
“Your cloak, miss?” he said, waving a footman over to take it. “And how was your afternoon?”
Excellent. I got false references, told my flighty friend I am not a duke, and spent far too much time trying not to think about a certain gentleman.
“Excellent,” were the only words that had run through her head that she actually spoke aloud, however. “Where is Miss Rose?”
“She is with the duke in the kitchens.” He sniffed. “I believe Miss Rose expressed that she was hungry.”
“I shall just run down, then.”
“Miss Lily,” Rose said, walking with the duke into the hallway. “You’re back! We had pudding, I ate so much my stomach is huge.” She clasped her hands on her belly and smiled.
Lily was glad to see the duke’s belly had not suddenly bellowed out in a similar way.
“Did you have a nice afternoon?” he asked.
“Thank you, I did, Your Grace.” She glanced at Rose, then spoke again to the duke. “I was wondering, do you have a conservatory? I was thinking that Rose and I would begin a study of flowers, and it would be very useful if we had actual specimens to see. Of course we could always go to a garden, but I was thinking—”
“Well, Thompson? Do we?”
The duke cut her off before she could meander any longer, thank goodness.
Thompson straightened his spine. “We do, Your Grace, but if you recall when first you took possession of the house—”
Now the duke interrupted Thompson. Perhaps it was his chosen activity this afternoon? Interrupting people?
“I do not recall, or I would not be asking. Do we have a conservatory?”
Thompson’s lips thinned. “We do, Your Grace, but it has not been maintained in the proper way. At the time, you stated that the study of flowers was a useless endeavor, and that the space could be better used for other purposes. I believe you mentioned putting all the cats in there, if they were so determined to stay?”
Rose turned accusing eyes on the duke, who crossed his arms over his chest and returned her stare. “I didn’t do that, though, did I?”
She seemed to consider, then nodded. “Mr. Snuffles likes it here.”
He bowed. “I am glad we have that settled.”
“About the conservatory,” Lily began, feeling as though the conversation had run entirely away from her, “could you tell me where it is, and Rose and I will go investigate?”
Thompson began to speak, but the duke—of course—cut him off. “Just point me where it is, I will take our young ladies there,” he said.
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Thompson seemed to hesitate. “Although it is not in a state I would wish it to be seen.”
“Haven’t you learned by now that kind of thing doesn’t matter to me?” the duke said impatiently. “Where is it?”
Thompson bent in a stiff bow. “Down through that door, then left, then right again.”
“Thank you, Thompson,” Lily muttered as the duke grabbed Rose’s hand again and took off to where Thompson had pointed, without any indication that he had heard him.
Lily followed, hoping she had not just earned the irrevocable ire of the butler.
“This must be it,” the duke said, grabbing the doorknob of the third room they’d passed through. He flung it open and stepped aside so Rose and Lily could see in.
In to where many, many plants were in their death throes. If not actually dead.
Lily paused at the threshold, suddenly feeling sympathy for Thompson. The room had large windows, but the glass was dusty, if not grimy. Random gardening tools lay scattered as though tossed, while varying sized pots of earth were placed on long tables.
“Well. No wonder Thompson didn’t wish us to see this.” The duke gazed around the room, his judging eyebrow lifted in disapproval. “It’s not his fault, though, since I told him I didn’t want to hear anything about it, and he told me until we got a new housekeeper he didn’t have enough staff to clean it properly.”
“There’s one growing here,” Rose said, poking a still living variety of rose. It wasn’t in the best of health, but at least it wasn’t yet deceased.
“That one is a rose, like you, Miss Rose,” the duke said, giving her an exaggerated bow.
Rose’s eyes widened, and she regarded the meager flower as though it were a bouquet of a thousand flowers. “It’s so pretty.” She reached her hand out and touched one of the blooms. “Soft,” she added, her expression as open and happy as Lily had yet seen it.
Lily nearly jumped when the duke spoke in her ear. He must have learned stealthy walking from the cats. “The con
servatory may be a disaster, but Rose doesn’t seem to mind.”
“No.”
They watched the girl slide her finger down the stem, then yelp when a thorn pricked her. She turned even huger eyes to them. “Ouch,” she said in a tone of righteous indignation.
“It is good to learn early on that very pretty things are not harmless,” the duke said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. What did that mean? she wondered. He took Rose’s hand gently in his and pressed the white linen against where the thorn must have pricked her. “Is that better?” he asked in a low voice.
“Mm-hm,” Rose replied, nodding. Then her face brightened and she pointed to a far corner of the room. “Oh, over there, can I go see?”
Lily looked at where she was pointing and saw a hoop leaning against the wall. “Of course.” Rose darted over and began trying to roll the hoop in the aisles between the tables, without much success.
Meanwhile, Lily walked up and down the aisles herself, noting the few plants and flowers that were still alive. It was obvious someone had enthusiastically gardened here, just as it was obvious that no one had for a long while.
“We found a rose for Rose, are there any lilies for you, Miss Lily?” The duke stood on the other side of the table from her, hands on his hips as he surveyed his domain. Rather like a lion looking for something he could devour, she thought, if the lion were dressed in a suit and the prey was vegetative in nature.
“I loathe lilies,” Lily admitted. Her sister had loved them, though, which meant there had been lilies at the funeral. “Their scent, their look, everything about them. Mostly their scent, though.” She shivered at the memory. “Too sweet and too overpowering. And of course when people give me gifts, they think it makes perfect sense to give me a lily.” She finished her sentence in a tone of mock outrage. Because if she didn’t make a joke of it, she just might break down and cry.
The duke looked at her with an amused gleam in his eye. “How very unfortunate. Do you think you dislike the poor flower because of your name, or was that just happenstance? What if you had been named Scone, or Lemon Custard? That would have been truly awful.”
Lily burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand, but still giggling into her palm. His eyes crinkled up in the corners, sharing the joke, and she felt the warmth between them—the dangerous warmth—unfurl inside her.
“Or Pudding?” she said when she could finally speak, then cursed herself as she had another fit of giggling.
The duke flung his head back in laughter, reminding Lily she was doing a terrible job of keeping that cloak wrapped around her emotions.
A duke must always remember that everyone, save for the Royal Family, is lesser than he, and likely to be inhibited in his presence. It is up to the duke to ensure anyone in his company is at least comfortable, if not relaxed.
It is not advised to take inappropriate actions toward this goal, however.
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 10
“You asked for me, Your Grace?” Lily paused at the threshold of the door, her heart beating faster than it ought to be. Given that she was just responding to her employer’s request that she see him after Rose had been put to bed. That’s all it was. Not that she wanted to actually see him.
“If I asked for you, do you think I want you hovering at the doorway? Come in.” He didn’t even raise his head to look at her, just uttered his command in that deep voice.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He did lift his head at that, both eyebrows raised.
Uh-oh. She had incurred the wrath of both eyebrows.
She entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. He didn’t say anything, just watched as she came in.
It was unnerving, being the object of his scrutiny.
Well, unnerving and rather flattering, if she were being honest.
“Sit down.”
Was this the Peremptory Command Room? Oh, wait, that was all of them. At least if he were in them.
She had been at his house for only three days, but it seemed more like three weeks. And of course every time she was in his presence she was acutely aware of him. The connection only went one way, thank goodness, because it seemed he didn’t spare her a thought after ensuring that she was properly garbed for her position.
The rest of her gowns had arrived the day after they’d been to the shop, and she was wearing the nicest one she’d gotten—it was blue silk, and made a satisfactory rustling sound as she walked.
Cotton did not rustle nearly as nicely. Did not rustle at all, actually.
But she didn’t have time for vanity. Not now, when it was time to do her duty and report to him, as they’d arranged. She glanced around the room, noting just how starkly different it was from the Pink Room. For one thing, it did not have a speck of pink in it.
It was an intensely masculine room, to match its current occupant, with large leather chairs and carts holding glasses and intriguing looking bottles of liquid.
But she couldn’t pay much attention to her surroundings when he was there. He sat in the largest of the chairs, of course, his long legs sprawled in front of him, the habitual stubble on his cheeks even darker than usual. He’d removed his cravat, and Lily felt herself start to flush at the sight of his strong throat and the intimation of the beginning of his chest.
Oh, goodness.
She sat down quickly in the chair nearest to her, sinking down into where someone—someone much larger than she—had worn a groove into the seat.
“What can I help you with, Your Grace? Oh,” she said, straightening in her chair even more, “I have my references upstairs, if you would like to see them.”
Annabelle had done an excellent job.
“Never mind that now. We agreed you would report on how Rose is doing.” He extended a hand in a summoning gesture. “So report.”
She drew a deep breath. “Rose is a lovely child, she already knows most of her letters and she can count to ten correctly nearly all of the time.”
Silence.
“That is it? I knew that already, from what Rose herself said. Nothing else to report?”
Lily felt herself getting flustered. “What else is there to say?” Was there something he knew about that governesses normally said about their charges? No, he couldn’t, he was as new to this as she was.
He shrugged. “What did you normally say to the vicar?”
“The vicar?” Oh, of course, the family she’d supposedly been with before. The one who’d given her the solid reference written in Annabelle’s hand. “The vicar! Of course. Well, I would report to the vicar’s wife, and we would discuss how the children’s studies were going, and what the plans were for the week ahead. The girls were older than Rose so there were more activities they were engaged in.”
“Wives do all that, hm.” He spoke in a musing voice. So she was not prepared for his next question. “Do you think I need a wife?”
“Pardon?”
“A wife,” he repeated in an impatient tone. “Would it be to Rose’s benefit if I were to find a mother for her?”
“That would be the only reason you would want to wed?” She paused. “And why are you asking my opinion anyway? I am your employee, not your marriage advisor.”
He grinned, even as she was appalled at herself for her outspokenness. “But I have the feeling you have an opinion, Miss Lily.” He rose and began to pace, his long-legged stride making short work of the walk from one side of the room to the other.
“You see, I have never felt an urge to wed. I don’t know about your romantic entanglements”—at that he caught her eye and smirked, as though he knew she had no romantic entanglements—“but to me, marrying for love is so shortsighted. Because people tire of one another, and they change, and it’s so messy. If I were to marry a woman who was well-aware of my feelings, or lack of them, before we spoke the vows, that would be far more realistic than if I were to profess an emotion I didn’t have, w
ouldn’t it?”
At that, he paused and stood just in front of where she sat, and she had to look away, anywhere but at him, with his virility, and his good looks, and his very practical reasons for wanting a wife.
“Well? What do you think?” He had that commanding tone again, so now she had no choice but to look at him. All handsomely tall, vulnerable, witty duke of him. All of that, wasted, because he had as much as said all he wanted was a woman to mother his child. Not someone to share his jokes, or caress his cheek, or find out more about this prickly, arrogant, intriguing gentleman.
She already felt sorry for the as yet unknown woman.
“I think, Your Grace, that you have already made up your mind.”
“Perhaps I have,” he replied. “Only—” He tapped a finger on his arm as he thought. “—that I might need some assistance in this process.” And then that dark gaze was entirely focused on her, so she felt there was nothing but him and her in the world.
“And,” he continued, repressing the urge to smile, “you will be just the person to aid me.”
His governess’s hazel eyes darkened, in dismay or anger, he couldn’t tell. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care which emotion it was, but he was lying.
“I am hired, Your Grace,” she said, emphasizing his title, “to be a governess to your charge. Not to help you find a wife.”
Anger, then. “I would hope I can select my own wife,” he said with a snort. Something he wasn’t planning on right away anyway, but she didn’t need to know that. “No, I need help with something else, something I can only practice with a lady.” He knew she couldn’t disregard orders from her employer. Plus he did need help, he wasn’t so arrogant to assume he didn’t. At least, not entirely arrogant.
“Practice what?” She was leaning forward now, her shoulders rigid, her mouth pursed, every aspect of her demonstrating her ire.
Was it wrong that it caused a very different type of reaction in him? That he was hoping for her to snap out one of those prickly retorts, one that revealed her wit, her intelligence, and her refusal to indulge his autocratic behavior? She was a challenge, for sure.
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior Page 8
