Forever and a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  “Lady Althea has a particular ear for scandal, and she has heard mention of a decent family brought low by a talented painter’s attempts to dabble in forgeries. What had been a gentlemanly reputation was ruined overnight.”

  He recited Grandfather’s history, but not the whole of that history. Very few people knew the whole of it.

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “I recall your family dimly from my tragically blighted boyhood. Your grandfather could sketch anything.”

  Grandpapa had done so to amuse the neighborhood children, and he’d also sat in the local pubs doing caricatures and portraits in pencil for small change.

  “Many people have artistic talent.” Jack certainly did, not that he’d put it to any useful purpose.

  “I don’t. I see how things operate, like you see how finances work, but I can’t make art.”

  You can make me anxious. Ellie held her peace rather than admit as much. The dratted man probably enjoyed making her worry. If his objective was blackmail, she hadn’t much personal wealth to give him. Though she did have access to the bank books, and now to Elsmore’s books.

  Oh, dear. “Earning a living as an artist is difficult,” Ellie said. “You have other talents.”

  “Talents like wasting your afternoon when you’d rather be snuggled up with Elsmore’s books?”

  His lordship’s smile put her in mind of a wolf contemplating a fricassee of lamb. “My lord, I do have work to be about, as do you.”

  “Jane adores you,” he said, “and I adore Jane. I do not always adore Jane’s husband.”

  The last squabble Ellie would involve herself in was sibling rivalry in a ducal family. “His Grace employs me at generous wages. Discredit him at your peril.”

  Lord Stephen shifted his chair back, farther from the hearth. “Oh, for God’s sake, settle your feathers. I don’t always like Quinn, nor is he unrelentingly fond of me, but we are loyal to each other. The point of this digression is to make you aware of several facts.”

  Don’t tell me to settle my feathers, you arrogant popinjay. “I do enjoy being lectured, my lord, particularly in my own home by a man who knows me but little. One might even say the trait is amusing.”

  “There is my dear Mrs. Hatfield, sporting her true colors. I blame Elsmore for your temporary docility. Your family is steeped in scandal. Your grandfather was utterly ruined and should probably have swung for his crimes, but some wealthy patron or other hushed the whole business up, and Jacob Erasmus Naylor was permitted to slink off into penurious obscurity.”

  With numerous dependents and a wife to feed. “Mr. Penrose and His Grace of Walden are acquainted with my family history.”

  “No, they are not. They are acquainted with your grandfather’s history. I’m sure there’s much more to the story, Eleanora, and you can either tell me that tale, or allow me the pleasure of discovering it through my own means, for I will.”

  Ellie had known this day would come, when somebody—it would be a titled, wealthy, male somebody, of course—unveiled a past she’d worked so hard to leave behind. She had the means to move to the Continent. She had skills that the more enlightened French would likely pay her for, and she even had a few words of French.

  But she did not want to go, not in disgrace, not on terms dictated by this preening meddler, not before she’d untangled the web of incompetence and deceit wrapped around Elsmore’s finances.

  I will kill Mick if I ever see him again. “Why?” she said, rising. “Why destroy my life simply because you can? Is that your idea of amusement? Will your lofty brother thank you for running off the single greatest claim to integrity Wentworth and Penrose has?”

  “The greatest claim to integrity the bank has is my brother’s damned honor. You are the greatest claim it has to trustworthiness, though you mistake my motives entirely.”

  “Then for the sake of all that tallies accurately, tell me your perishing motives before I pitch you out the window, my lord. I am not my grandfather. I am not my cousins. I have done nothing to earn anybody’s distrust, and you are no gentleman to imply otherwise.”

  Ellie paced, battling back more angry words. For years, she’d kept her temper in check, but what was the point, if all that self-restraint was to be rewarded with another aristocrat playing God with a commoner’s life?

  Lord Stephen turned his chair to face her. “You daft, demented woman, I am not your enemy. You are without allies, you hold a position of immense trust, you’ve taken on the thankless business of laundering Elsmore’s financial linen, and you do this while balancing on a tightrope over a flaming pit of family scandal. I thought you could use a friend.”

  He held out a white square of linen with a crest and initials embroidered on one corner.

  Ellie snatched the handkerchief from him and wiped her eyes. “Do you always make your lady friends cry, my lord?”

  “Never having had a lady friend before—in the sense you intend—I cannot answer that query. Sit down and let me know how I can help.”

  “Stop telling me what to do.” Outside the snow had gone from pretty to purposeful. For the first time, the prospect of a snowy Sunday on the morrow struck Ellie as dreary rather than cozy. She sank into the chair by the fire and forced her mind to focus.

  Lord Stephen was right: She was without allies and she was balanced over a flaming pit of scandal. He had no reason to blackmail anybody—he was wealthy in his own right and his brother’s heir.

  “Shall I get the wine?” he asked.

  “Please.” She began arranging the story in her head, which details to include, in what order to present them. “You can do nothing to help, by the way. Matters as they stand are quite acceptable. I’m gainfully employed and respected by those whose opinions matter.”

  He retrieved the wine bottle from the window and two glasses from the sideboard, putting the lot in his lap so he could use both hands to wheel his chair about.

  “Respect can be lost in an instant,” he said, “as can employment. Friends, I’m told, are more durable.”

  Ellie accepted a glass of wine rather than point out that he’d apparently not spoken from experience. Maybe she wasn’t the only person to regard the first snowfall bleakly.

  “My grandfather never set out to be a forger,” she said. “Circumstances not of his making controlled his fate, but once ruined, an artist cannot be un-ruined.” That much was true. That was the old scandal. Ellie sipped her wine and promised herself the Naylor family’s more recent tribulations could remain private, at least until she’d finished repairing Elsmore’s accounting.

  * * *

  Rex enjoyed the Sabbath in part because Sunday socializing was limited to the churchyard and those friends who merited an invitation to supper. The churchyard had been filling with yet more snow, which curtailed that penance.

  For the Sunday meal, Lord Jeremy Bledsoe and the Honorable Phineas Hornby graced the table. Rex’s sisters kept the conversational shuttlecock aloft, leaving Rex free to smile graciously while he brooded over one luscious, ill-advised kiss.

  Eleanora Hatfield kissed with her whole body. She’d wrapped Rex in her arms and in her rosy scent and plundered his every asset, from his reason to his restraint, until he’d been roaringly aware of the bed and of the manly humors he’d been neglecting for too long.

  “Elsmore, haven’t you anything to add to this discussion?” Lord Jeremy inquired.

  Rachel, who was wearing a blue walking dress sprigged with gold embroidered fleur-de-lis, sent his lordship a toothy smile. “Elsmore is being diplomatically silent, as a good brother will be when the topic of ladies wearing trousers is aired on the Sabbath.”

  Mama held her wineglass up for Mr. Hornby to refill. “Such a topic ought not be aired on any day of the week. My guests will think I’ve reared a trio of hoydens.”

  Mr. Hornby next offered the wine to Samantha, Rex’s middle sister. “I have always preferred the company of ladies who can speak their minds,” Hornby opined. “On
e needn’t be as cautious with one’s own words in their company.”

  Samantha saluted him with her refilled wineglass. “Precisely, Mr. Hornby. What is the purpose of spending time in company if all we’re to do is prose on about the weather—which is obvious to all—and the health of one’s elders, which topic the elders happily broach at any gathering?”

  Samantha—green ensemble with gold piping—punctuated her observation with a sidelong glance at Rex.

  “Do I qualify for elder status?” he asked. And why was Hornby aiming such a calf-eyed smile at Samantha?

  “Of course you do,” Rachel replied. “You are the oldest sibling, the head of the family, and your well-being is of great interest to all of polite society.”

  “Not all,” Kathleen, the youngest, replied from Rex’s right hand. “I’ve heard a bachelor or two wish our dear brother to the Pit, and the concern mentioned most often among the ladies is a great worry that Elsmore might be lonely.” She drew out that last word for the sake of melodrama, and provoked a round of laughter. Her attire today was cream linen with fanciful flowers embroidered on the bodice and cuffs. She’d made her come-out the previous spring, which had left Rex feeling ancient and protective.

  Had even Kathleen learned to return her dresses for coin?

  Mama rose, wineglass in her hand. “Let’s do our part to lend credence to the concern regarding Elsmore’s loneliness, ladies. It’s time we abandoned the menfolk while we enjoy a respite in the drawing room.”

  The ladies rustled out on a cloud of silk and laughter, Hornby offering them escort.

  “I asked Hornby to give us a moment,” Lord Jeremy said. “Seemed more discreet than trying to find you at your clubs.”

  Rex left off wondering about ledgers, kisses, and returned dresses. “You have the look of a man with something to say, my lord. Speak your piece. If you need a second, I can be counted on to serve with discretion, though I insist on an attempt at reconciliation before battle is joined.”

  “Oh, my goodness me, not at all. On an occasion such as the one I contemplate, one is supposed to make an appointment with the head of the lady’s family.” Lord Jeremy had become fascinated with the half serving of trifle that remained in a bowl before him. “Except that my family will know if I make any such appointments, and I haven’t mentioned my ambitions to the lady, and one wants to be spared unnecessary humiliation.”

  Blooming, blasted hell. “You aspire to court Lady Rachel.”

  Rachel was entirely deserving of courtship. She was gracious, kind, well read, dear, and also patient with her siblings and mama. Rex could thus not explain the impulse to grab Lord Jeremy by the lapels and heave him out the window, for Rachel was more than of age to marry.

  “I seek permission to ask the lady if I might pay my addresses. I realize some fellows start by presuming to approach the lady herself, but Lady Rachel’s rank is superior to my own. I am a younger son, and she can afford to be exceedingly particular in her choice of husband.”

  “My lord,” Rex said gently, “the daughter of a duke can afford to be exceedingly particular regarding everything.” Just how particular, he’d only lately come to realize.

  Lord Jeremy was the third son of a marquess, and Rex knew nothing unflattering regarding the would-be suitor or his family. Before giving his lordship permission to court Rachel—assuming she approved—Rex ought to make financial inquiries. Shortly thereafter, financial inquiries would also be made of him.

  “What makes you think Lady Rachel will look with favor upon your suit?”

  Rachel’s swain was a pleasant-looking fellow. Sandy-brown hair, friendly blue eyes, a ready smile. His complexion was ruddy, his build muscular. On a football team, Rex would have played him as a goalie or defensive back, where minding one’s post and quiet, vigilant courage could win the day.

  Not bad qualifications for a man who sought the hand of Rex’s sister.

  “When I am with Lady Rachel,” his lordship said, “the time passes as if on wings. I forget what day it is, I forget where I am to be that evening. We talk about everything—books, sports, the proper rearing of children, favorite memories, and difficult memories. I have never encountered her like, and I know, Elsmore, I know in the tenderest and most private part of my heart, that I will never encounter her like again.”

  Ye flaming arrows from Cupid’s bow. What was a conscientious brother to say to such twaddle?

  “I will confer with Lady Rachel before you and I explore this topic further. You do understand that the solicitors will make both of our lives merry hell over the settlements, should the matter progress that far?”

  Lord Jeremy’s smile was high summer on a dreary winter afternoon. “You aren’t saying no.”

  “I’m not saying yes, either, my lord. I’m saying, I will confer with her ladyship and give the matter some thought.” Though I would rather toss you out the window headfirst into the snow. His lordship’s timing was awful, dangling a sword of urgency over the whole accounting mess, which was growing more complicated the longer Rex and Mrs. Hatfield explored it.

  “My parents just fired off both of my younger sisters,” Lord Jeremy said, downing half his wine. “The finances will present no difficulties on our end. Hornby said I should approach you directly, but then, Hornby is hardly disinterested.”

  Hornby was a popinjay, a flirt, an heir waiting to inherit his papa’s considerable wealth. He was from an old and respected family, but not exactly…

  “Hornby is hardly disinterested?”

  Lord Jeremy studied a heaping spoonful of trifle. “He gets on rather well with Lady Samantha, wouldn’t you say? Should Lady Rachel accept a proposal, then Ladies Samantha and Kathleen would doubtless follow her up the church aisle in short order.”

  The prospect of three sets of solicitors pawing through the ducal books had Rex’s digestion turning queasy.

  “One doting hopeful at a time, my lord. I will find a moment to have a private discussion with Lady Rachel. Until I do—and my schedule is quite full—you are to make no assumptions.”

  Lord Jeremy slurped up his trifle. “Wouldn’t dream of assuming. Your mama would box my ears from here to Brighton. Rachel will be every bit as formidable, I’m sure.”

  That’s Lady Rachel to you, puppy. “I don’t suppose you know of any gentlemen who might have caught Lady Kathleen’s fancy?”

  “She’s such a fetching little thing. Half the bachelors still in Town seem happy to stand up with her. The gents are probably waiting for the older sisters to find matches, lest you take exception to their aspirations.”

  Half the bachelors in Mayfair…Kathleen was pretty and diminutive, with an impish sense of humor, and ferocious skill with the violin. She was also wickedly accurate with a bow and arrow.

  “Get your sisters launched,” Lord Jeremy went on, “and your mama can devote herself to the happy task of finding you a duchess. What more could a duke ask for?”

  A man longing for holy matrimony was not a creature in possession of all of his wits, apparently. “I can think of a few things I might enjoy more than having my mother turn her matrimonial gunsights in my direction.”

  Hornby rejoined them before Rex could elaborate, as did a pair of footmen, who began clearing the table.

  “Her Grace told me that we gentlemen are not to linger overlong in here,” Hornby said. “I do believe the ladies are intent on making some music later on, and I volunteered to turn pages for Lady Samantha.”

  He looked more pleased to contemplate that honor than he had been at any point during the previous two hours of good food and witty conversation.

  “Splendid,” Lord Jeremy said. “And I will perform the same office for Lady Rachel.”

  The beaming bachelors finished off the last of the wine and the last of the trifle, while Rex contemplated schemes by which he might leave London before the course of true love revealed to half the realm’s solicitors the scandalous state of the Dorset family finances.

  * * *

/>   “What in fourteen purgatories is Lord Stephen doing with that lift?” Elsmore asked over the incessant pounding reverberating through Ellie’s dwelling.

  “He warned me that he’d be making some modifications,” she replied, tossing down her pencil. “He failed to point out that the entire building would be subject to an unrelenting din.”

  Elsmore paced Ellie’s parlor, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “How can you work with all this noise?”

  The pounding grew louder, which ought not to have been possible.

  “I can’t. I made an error this morning. Added 263 and 432 and got 795. If Voltaire hadn’t tried to climb into my lap I might not have caught it.”

  Though if Elsmore hadn’t been prowling about in the back of Ellie’s mind, she probably wouldn’t have made the error in the first place. He’d kept her awake last night—again—and he’d rendered her day of rest more of a day of moping.

  Him and his kisses.

  And his scent.

  And the feel of his embrace.

  All of which had been of no moment.

  “How much longer will this racket go on?” Elsmore asked, tossing himself into Ellie’s reading chair. “I cannot think amid such noise.”

  “Installing the lift took weeks. Lord Stephen doesn’t do things by half measures.”

  Somebody started singing in rhythm with the hammers, two somebodies, judging from the wretched attempt at harmony.

  “Bedlam would be a more productive environment than this,” Elsmore muttered. “And now is no time for Lord Stephen’s queer start to be…”

  He fell silent. Today’s version of His Grace was not the charming aristocrat with a few inconsequential peas tucked under his downy financial mattress. Elsmore hadn’t smiled once, hadn’t assayed a single flirtatious aside.

  Ellie should have been relieved. Instead she was hard put not to stare at his mouth, or his hands, or the breadth of his shoulders beneath his exquisitely tailored maroon morning coat.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said, rising and gathering up the ledgers strewn about the room. “How soon can you pack a few frocks?”