Mrs. Campbell shook her head. “This really is the most dreadful kidnapping. I expected more of a duke.”
“Oh? What, specifically?”
She thought for a moment, sipping her tea. “Well, have you got a dungeon?” He shook his head. “A torture chamber?”
“Alas,” he said dryly, entertained in spite of himself.
She sighed. “You see my point. You’ve spirited me out of London to a beautiful house full of servants, including a cook who is worth twice what you pay her, whatever that sum is.” She lifted the muffin in illustration. “If this is your idea of punishment, I should very much like to see your vision of pleasure.”
And I should very much like to show you pleasure. Jack bit his tongue to keep the treasonous thought silent. “It is a beautiful house—my favorite, in fact. But it is fairly new, and I doubt there are any medieval devices lurking in the attics.”
“Your favorite house.” She arched a brow. Her face was marvelously expressive; he could tell just from that brow that she was laughing at him, even though her tone was politely somber. “Have you got so many there’s a ranking of preference?”
“It only takes two to have a ranking of preference,” he pointed out.
“Have you only got two?”
“No.” He thought for a second. “Five.”
Now both her eyebrows went up. “Five houses. Good heavens. How could one possibly choose among so many?”
“Quite easily. This one is the smallest and coziest.” He said it to needle her, although it probably was true.
“I see.” Her eyes flitted over the room. “And how, pray, would you describe the others?”
“Drafty,” he said. “Cold. Dark, for the most part.” He turned to the windows and sighed at the vista of iron-gray rain clouds and fog. “On sunny days this room is bright and cheerful.”
“I shall have to take your word for it today.” She finished her tea and pushed back her chair. “Well. I think I shall explore the house and see why it’s your favorite. Since we’ve neither of us anything more important to do,” she added as he turned to stare at her.
It was probably the safest thing he could do with her. And oddly, it appealed. He did like this house, and yet it had been almost two months since he’d been able to visit. “I would be delighted to show it to you.”
Sophie had lain awake late into the night, trying to think of a way out of this predicament.
She absolutely had to return to London as soon as possible. Her absence would only confirm the wildest rumors, and there were sure to be some, thanks to the public display she and the duke had made of themselves. The duke claimed he had no designs on her, but he’d been stubbornly dismissive of her promises to avoid Philip. That was worrying. Sophie had learned to live on her personal charm and persuasive ability, and now more than ever she needed to convince the duke to see her point of view.
But he merely sat through all her attempts to reason with him, watching her with those cool blue-gray eyes and a faint smile, pointing out every tiny fault in her argument. The man was infuriating. She had no choice but to continue trying; he was lord and master here, and her only way back to town was by his command.
Exploring the house might allow her to discover more about him. He was unlike anyone she had ever known: reserved, cold, and a bloody duke. She had tried to ignore that last one, as it only reminded her how powerless she was in comparison, but there was no way to ignore the difference in their situations in life.
He led her through the formal entrance hall, which she had seen by lamplight when they arrived. The clerestory windows let in the gray light of the day, but even so the hall was magnificent. The robin’s-egg blue walls must glow like the antechamber to heaven when the sun was out, and the floors were polished to a rich sheen. Her eyes caught on the portrait of a lady in a richly embroidered gown of some antiquated fashion, hung high above the door the duke opened. The woman’s face was serene, almost regal. A small dog stood at her feet, the trailing end of her shawl in his teeth. Behind her were rolling hills and a building that was most likely Alwyn House itself. “Who is she?” Sophie asked without thinking.
The duke stopped and looked up. “My great-grandmother. The house was built for her, and she oversaw the planning of the gardens.”
“My,” she murmured, impressed. “Your great-grandfather must have loved her very much.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I believe they disliked the sight of each other. He built this house and exiled her to it.”
Disconcerted, Sophie jerked her gaze away from the portrait. “Oh.”
Ware clasped his hands behind his back and contemplated his ancestor. “I understand she was much happier here. He gave her free rein to do as she pleased with the house, so long as she remained in it.”
“Charming,” was all she could think of to say. It sounded like something her grandfather, Lord Makepeace, would do. The duke gave her an unreadable glance, then swept out one hand, indicating she should proceed through the door.
They went through the soaring staircase hall and into another room. “The Blue Room,” he said unnecessarily. The carpet was a luxurious sapphire blue, woven with vines and flowers in endless spirals. The woodwork was polished mahogany with gold accents, as was the furniture, which was upholstered in the same deep blue damask that covered the walls. Tall windows looked out onto a garden, now limp and bedraggled in the rain but exquisitely terraced and arranged. Sophie took her time strolling through the room, examining the paintings, all bucolic landscapes.
“Look up,” said the duke when she had finished her circuit. Obediently, she put her head back—and gasped out loud.
The ceiling was coffered in alternating octagons and squares of dark wood. That was unremarkable. What set it apart were the carvings. The whole ceiling seemed to be alive, as if a woodland had been captured in polished walnut. All sorts of creatures peered from every cornice, stags and hounds, birds, even mythological creatures. “How beautiful,” she whispered, craning her neck to see as much as possible as she circled the room again. “It’s incredible! How long it must have taken to carve all these!”
“My brother and I would lie on our backs as boys and try to locate various animals,” said the duke.
She gave a disbelieving laugh, as her eyes picked out a thin-faced weasel, a fat cat, and even an exotic elephant. “I don’t wonder!” She came around the sofa, still looking upward, and tripped on the fringe of the carpet.
With one quick step forward, the duke reached for her. Sophie yelped in dismay, expecting to hit the floor, only to be hauled up against him instead. She had instinctively grabbed his sleeve, and now their arms were tangled together. For a moment neither moved, and then the duke put her back on her feet without a word. With a murmured apology she stepped back. Her heart raced, both from the sudden near fall and then from the feel of his arms around her. She hadn’t realized she was that close to him, and now found it difficult to meet his eyes.
Which was foolish. He had done what any gentleman would have done. Sophie drew a fortifying breath and told herself not to be a ninny. “Which is your favorite?”
He was staring at her and blinked at the question. He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened to his usual poker-stiff posture. “Sorry?”
“Your favorite creature,” she said. “On the ceiling.”
He looked upward as if he didn’t understand what she meant. “Ah—the sphinx. Above the fireplace,” he added as she immediately looked up again, careful not to walk. “I believe it has my grandfather’s face.”
Yes, there it was. Mindful of her steps this time, she went closer. “How clever.”
“I always thought it was,” he said thoughtfully. “I believe my great-grandmother had his face—and the faces of all her children—carved into the ceiling because she almost never saw them in life.”
“Never!” she exclaimed. “Why not?”
“He and his brothers were sent off to school as soon as they wer
e old enough, and he was rarely here. The sisters were sent to live with other well-connected families or to finishing schools. One died, but the other two made their debuts and were married off by the time they were eighteen.”
There was nothing except calm contemplation in his tone, but Sophie felt a shadow fall on the room. This beautiful room suddenly became the solace of a grieving mother. “How many children?” she asked softly.
“Six. The daughters were permitted to live with her until they were twelve.”
“That’s beastly,” she burst out. “Who would deny a mother her own children?”
He sighed. “The same sort who would exile his wife, and only visit her once a year for the purpose of siring another child.”
Again that brought her own grandfather to mind. He’d disowned his son, Sophie’s father, and then exiled her to Mrs. Upton’s when she was orphaned. The fact that she was grateful for it didn’t change the fact that he’d done it to be rid of her. Her mouth flattened into a grim line before she consciously relaxed her muscles. “I hope the next room is more pleasant,” she said lightly. “Or I shall begin to wonder why you like the house.”
“Do you find it morbid?” The duke had been watching her, but now he tipped his chin up to study the ceiling again. “It was the way things were done.”
“Oh?” She eyed him. “Were you sent away to school then, and Philip?”
“Of course,” he confirmed. “Although my father never tried to separate us from our mother.”
“Were your parents kind and affectionate?”
This time he hesitated. A shadow seemed to pass over his face, and he didn’t reply. He walked on to the doors at the far end of the room and waited for her there. Sophie reminded herself it was not her concern and strode after him.
“The music room,” he said, opening the door. That was apparent, from the pianoforte at one side and the harp, under sheets, opposite it. But Sophie was transfixed nonetheless by the beauty of the room. Three sides of the room were tall windows, offering a spectacular view of the park in front of the house. The walls were soft yellow, with long draperies of flowered silk that matched the upholstery on the chairs, and when she looked down, she realized the carpet must have been specially woven for this room. Twined through the pattern was a scroll of music, and at intervals there were whimsical harps and lyres. Someone who loved music had decorated this room.
But the most enchanting thing by far was the pianoforte. It was the most splendid one she had seen in years, the sort a virtuoso would play. Reverently she opened the lid. The nameplate bore the name John Broadwood and Sons, whom Papa had believed made the finest pianofortes in the world. “Do you play?” She touched a key. It sounded a little off tune.
“No.”
“Do you sing?” She touched another key, not sure why she was persisting.
“Not well.”
She looked up in surprise. “Not at all? I thought all gentlemen were taught music.”
Instead of answering, he asked, “Do you play?”
“Yes. This is out of tune, though.” She closed the lid over the keys. What a shame, to have such a wonderful instrument in a house where no one played it. “The headmistress of my school insisted all girls learn at least one instrument.” She looked around the room. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t lived in. There was no music on the pianoforte, the harp was covered, and everything was arranged too precisely. A music lover had decorated it, but all the music had gone out of it. “I take it you don’t spend much time in here.”
“As I do not play,” said the duke, “no.”
What a waste, to have such a beautiful room and not use it. If this had been her family home, it would have been the most used room of the house. Her father would have played while her mother sang arias and lieder. For a moment she pictured her family, before the illness that destroyed it, arrayed in this lovely room. Papa at the pianoforte, her mother singing in front of the windows, Sophie reaching up to turn the pages of music for Papa . . .
She blinked to get rid of the image of what would never be. She went to the windows, turning her back on the pianoforte. From here one could see the colonnaded entrance of the house, even more intimidating in daylight than it had been in the dark of night. Sophie studied it, realizing how far they had walked in the rain. Across the graveled drive and manicured grass, the trees they had trudged through in the dark looked very far away. Sophie imagined she could see the wrought-iron gates, as well. It was a sweeping view of the park, but it somehow made her feel lonely. Everything was perfectly lovely but too still, too remote.
Like the duke himself, now that she thought about it.
She turned. “What is your favorite room?”
“The library, where we spoke last night.”
“Shall we go there?” If she wanted to gain insight into him, better to visit the rooms where he actually spent time.
With a nod, he led her back through the Blue Room, and they passed into a gallery. The tall, narrow windows didn’t let in much light, and the room was dim. “There’s little of interest in here.”
Her steps slowed as a small framed picture caught her eye. “This is Philip,” she said in surprise, regarding a pencil sketch on the near wall. “As a boy.”
“Yes.” The duke stopped beside her. “I drew it.”
She blinked in surprise. The boy in the portrait was unmistakably Philip, several years younger with longer hair and a more innocent grin. He looked joyful, sitting in the crook of a branch. The tree was a faint suggestion around him, but Sophie could just see him, climbing the tree to dangle his bare feet over a lake or a pond while he fished or threw stones in the water.
“He looks so carefree and happy.”
The duke gave her a long, measuring look. “It was a long time ago.”
“And now he’s not?” Sophie studied the sketch. It was drawn with affection. Philip had been laughing at his brother as he drew. “You must have been close as boys.”
The duke inhaled a deep breath. “Yes. As boys we were very much alike. We spent hours by the lake. It was our primary escape from lessons.”
But as men, they were very different. Sophie’s curiosity prodded her hard to keep asking. Why had they grown apart, and when? “I thought you went away to school.”
“Of course,” he replied evenly. “Between terms there were still lessons. My father insisted.”
“Oh?” This was interesting, and it was about him. “What sort of lessons?”
“Crop management. Keeping the ledgers. Architecture, when my father had a bathhouse built.” He made a mild grimace. “Very dull sorts of lessons.”
“Philip must have hated them,” she said with a laugh.
His mouth quirked for a moment. “Philip was excused from most of it.”
Ah—those were lessons for the heir. Sophie kept her gaze on the sketch, wondering if Philip had gone off to the lake while his older brother was kept behind to learn crop management. “He must have been required to do something.”
“A bit of ledger keeping. We both learned to drive at Alwyn House. Whenever we were here, my mother filled the house with guests, and we were required to participate in any events she held. She finds the country dull and quiet.” He paused. “My father liked it here.”
“Is that why you like it?”
He studied the portrait of Philip. “I like it for the same reasons he did,” he said at last.
There was something in his tone that warned against further discussion of that topic. “It’s an excellent drawing,” she told him. “You’re quite talented.”
His expression grew remote. “Thank you, but it was many years ago.”
“I’m sure you’ve not forgotten how entirely.” She smiled teasingly as she said it, but his face didn’t change. Sophie knew when to cut line; she changed the subject. “Shall we go on?” Thus far she hadn’t seen any reason he might prefer this house, unless his other properties were mausoleums. Even though Alwyn House was luxurious and beautiful, t
he tour so far had only made her miss her own cozy home in London. She had her father’s pocket watch and her mother’s hair combs there, reminders of happier times that made her smile.
The duke merely bowed his head and opened the door. He took her through the formal dining room, glorious in red damask, with three crystal chandeliers and an enormous painting of the wedding at Cana. “My mother expanded it,” he said as Sophie exclaimed over the size of the room in a country house. “She entertained a great deal.”
Because she found this beautiful house dull and quiet. Sophie suspected Philip took after his mother; he also was ever in search of society and gaiety, while the duke seemed far more restrained.
She reconsidered that thought when they reached the library. Despite the rain and general gloom of the day, the library was glorious. The room was a large oval, with walls of celery green and white woodwork. A pair of marble columns at either end of the room set off the shelves of books that filled both rounded ends of the oval. Last night it had been too dark, and she’d been too irate, to take it in, but today—
“How beautiful,” she burst out. “And I didn’t notice any of it last night!”
The duke walked to the tall windows and looked out. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Well, you were being terribly vexing,” she replied absently, wandering about the room in awe. “I was concentrating very hard on keeping my temper.”
“Oh?” He leaned one shoulder against the shutter and watched her. “What did you want to say that you didn’t?”
She glanced at him, startled. Thanks to the numerous windows in here, the light was better. His gaze was just as clear and focused as the night before, but somehow less piercing. The acid edge of scorn was gone, and it made her unfortunately aware again of how attractive he was.
No. Giles Carter was attractive, with his square jaw and the distinguished touches of gray at his temples. The Duke of Ware was magnificent. If she hadn’t landed against him in the Blue Room and felt for herself how alive and real he was, she would have thought him an artist’s creation of marble, standing there in the watery light in his perfectly tailored clothing and expensive boots and golden hair that had just enough wave to make him imperfect.
My Once and Future Duke Page 8
