Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  “Without your book?” he asked.

  “My book?”

  “Didn’t you come to the library in search of something to read?”

  Was she blushing? It was hard to tell in the dim light offered by the fire and the sconces.

  “I didn’t find anything I wanted,” she said.

  “Or you no longer wish to browse the shelves because I am here.”

  He could tell by the crimping of both caterpillars that he’d annoyed her. “Good evening, Mr. Stirling.”

  She turned again to go.

  “I’m going down to the kitchen to see if there’s any treacle tart lying about,” he said. “Stratton’s cook makes a fine one. Why don’t you join me?”

  Her motion was arrested. He’d surprised her. He’d surprised himself. Apparently, he was prepared to go to odd lengths to avoid boredom.

  “I… er, no.” After a pause, she added with doubtless reflexive politeness, “Thank you.”

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No. A substantial meal was sent to my chamber.”

  “Did you find it substantial? My tray had fish, and whenever I eat fish, I’m always hungry an hour later.”

  She paused, and in that moment, her stomach gave her away, rumbling audibly in the silence. “There,” he said, “you can’t say you’re not hungry.”

  “I prefer not to eat sweets right before bedtime. They keep me awake.”

  “Then come have some of Stratton’s excellent cheddar.”

  He knew he had her when her stomach rumbled once more. “Oh, very well,” she said with ill grace. “I suppose a bit of cheddar would be welcome.”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  They brought a candelabrum with them to the kitchen, where a low fire was still burning in the hearth. Olivia supposed that the kitchen staff had finished their labors not long before, and she hoped no one else would be about. It was hardly appropriate for the two of them to be there alone together late at night.

  He seemed to know his way about the place, going directly to an area of the kitchen where several covered dishes sat on a shelf.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said as he lifted a lid and peered at the contents and grinned.

  “I’m accustomed to eating late at night.” He moved the dish, which contained treacle tart, to the large worktable that took up much of the kitchen.

  “The card tables?”

  “Of course. The best play develops as the night goes on, when people have been at the tables for hours.” A look of vague disgust passed over his face. “I suppose you prefer to rise early each day.”

  “I do.”

  He wasn’t someone she’d ever have chosen to spend any time with, and she couldn’t understand a person of their age who seemed not to have matured past the sorts of choices that would appeal to an eighteen-year-old. Yes, he was a handsome man, and tall, and his dark brown hair and chocolate eyes lent him an appealing air of depth, though she knew it was little deserved. He had a strong jaw, a set of manly shoulders, and a broad chest—all those attributes that made a man different from a woman and therefore interesting.

  He had wit as well, and she could imagine him being quite charming if he wished. But she didn’t like people who turned their charm on and off, using it like a talent. Charm reminded her of the sorts of women to whom her father had been susceptible.

  It had been Olivia’s mother’s signal grief that her husband could not resist a charming woman, whether he encountered her at a ball or behind the counter in a shop. Olivia supposed married life would have been easier for her parents if they hadn’t actually loved each other. Or, of course, if her father hadn’t been weak.

  But none of that mattered anymore, she thought, surprised to find herself thinking of such things. Her parents were both dead, and Olivia had gone on to experience for herself the happiness that a good marriage to a man like Harold could bring.

  Kit Stirling was in every way not the sort of man that a sensible woman should marry, though why she should be weighing such matters when she had no interest in marrying again, and certainly no interest in Mr. Stirling, she could not have said. Such wayward thoughts must have had something to do with the lateness of the hour.

  She just wanted some cheese, and then she was going to bed.

  He uncovered another dish, revealing the cheddar, and gestured for her to bring a knife. She cut a chunk for herself while he helped himself to a slice of the treacle tart, and they stood together, quietly eating in the silent house. After a few minutes, she realized that standing there with him was surprisingly companionable, and with a pang, she was reminded of many such quiet moments she’d shared with Harold.

  Even though Harold had been more than two dozen years older than she, Olivia had felt from the first that the two of them were as suited as two peas in a pod. They had both loved to lose themselves in piles of books, to pass companionable dinners with friends, to take brisk walks in the dusk of a late winter afternoon. They had both loved the life of the mind and valued their health and the contentment of their lives together.

  Standing in that quiet kitchen eating with this man she didn’t know, she felt lonely as she hadn’t in months. Years. Maybe it was simply the effect of being with Kit Stirling, who she doubted cultivated the kind of genuine friendships she valued. Certainly, if he wasn’t received in the homes of high sticklers despite being the heir to an earldom, he must have few enough friends. Although he was here at the invitation of Colonel Stratton, Mr. Stirling was hardly a considerate guest, speaking of how bored he was.

  “You engaged in a duel with Lord Candleford several months ago and wounded him,” she blurted. “There were rumors about you and his wife.”

  He was chewing, and his jaw stilled for a moment before he resumed. He finished his bit of tart while she wondered what had prompted her to be so rude.

  “I’m surprised you’ve even heard of it, all the way out in Fair Middling.”

  “I have friends. Besides, it was hardly a secret. You wounded Candleford.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly, “I am aware.”

  “You might have killed him.”

  “Always a possibility when dueling.”

  “And that didn’t concern you? That a good man such as Candleford might be harmed by such an affair?”

  He stared at her, then gave a little shrug, his dark brown eyes glittering with a light she could not read.

  “Candleford is not a good man,” was all he said.

  “I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. Lord Candleford is unfailingly kind to all he meets. I happen to know that he’s contributed a great deal of money to establish a new hospital near London.”

  “A man may be outwardly estimable but still beat his wife cruelly.”

  She gasped. “That is a strong charge. If you have knowledge of such treatment, why would you not say so?”

  “Perhaps because then it might be wondered how I came by intimate proof?”

  Her lips tightened. “I see.”

  He laughed. “If you could see your face, you would have the perfect example of outraged propriety.”

  “I am more concerned by the thought that Lady Candleford is being harmed by her husband.”

  “As to that, you need not worry. I believe he has been convinced of the benefit to his life of never again living in the same house with his wife. Or, for that matter, the same town.”

  She frowned and put the cover back on the cheese. His reason for dueling with Candleford, if it was true, was the defense of a vulnerable person at great risk to himself. Not what she would have expected of such a man.

  But he had also apparently had an affair with a married woman, and that was something she could never excuse.

  It was time to say good night and go to her bedchamber, where she should already have been, instead of lingering in the company of the Wastrel of White Horse Street.

  “There’s a plunge pool down here,” he said.

  “A what?”r />
  “A plunge pool. Stratton’s father had it built some time ago. He was much consumed with inventions for healthfulness.”

  “Oh.” Why was he telling her this? She was beginning to get the sense he was prolonging their encounter, for what purpose she could not have said.

  He put his plate down. “Shall we go look at it?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  For so many reasons, starting with the unsuitability of even being alone here with him. And she had other reasons for not wanting to visit a plunge pool. But she didn’t owe him an explanation.

  “It’s nearly midnight, and I wish to retire.”

  “Midnight is the best time to see such things. You don’t want to come down here during the day, when it’s full of servants bustling about.”

  “I don’t particularly wish to be down here at all.” Which was not exactly true. Being in the quiet, darkened kitchen was pleasant. The place was cozy, with that cheery air of purpose in repose. But his company made her feel unsettled.

  If she were being honest, she would admit that some of this unease had to do with her awareness of the warmth emanating from his body as they stood next to each other in the circle of candlelight. They weren’t touching, but she felt the presence of his bulk and warmth. His brown eyes had an intelligent light.

  And there was something lawless about him that she found interesting. Not appealing, she told herself, but interesting, like unexplored terrain.

  “Just come and see the plunge pool with me, then you can go up to your chamber. It will only take a minute.”

  She would feel churlish refusing such a simple request. But this had already been a strange evening, and she felt the pull of curiosity, not—definitely not— about the pool, but about something she could not have articulated.

  “Very well.”

  * * *

  The room was redolent of the mineral smell of wet stone. Kit supposed that the water would be quite cool, but that would have been part of the reason Stratton’s father had commissioned it, as there had been a mania at the time for the health benefits of cool-water bathing. There were several sconces around the room, which Kit lit despite Miss Thorpe’s protestations that it wasn’t necessary.

  The pool was made of neatly cut, pale stone blocks, and its water shimmered softly in the candlelight. Like everything else on the property, it was well maintained, so it looked fresh and, to Kit’s eyes, like some ancient water nymph’s secret grotto.

  He moved closer to the edge of the pool. “Care for a dip? No one need ever know.”

  “Certainly not.”

  He laughed. Of course he had not really thought she would agree. Everything about her bespoke respectability and self-control, and she knew enough of his reputation to know he had not, for a very long time, been on the list of men that mamas wished their daughters to know.

  “You really are utterly respectable, aren’t you, Miss Thorpe? It must be vexing to be down here, alone, with the Wastrel of White Horse Street. I wonder that you’ve indulged me.”

  “Why? Because you think I live in a spinster’s house full of cats and enjoy a very small life hemmed in on all sides by propriety?”

  “Do you?”

  “Just because I don’t spend all my time in pursuit of vice, in bilking young people and participating in duels, it doesn’t therefore follow that my life is an empty waste of dullness.”

  She had spirit, average though she was. Although his prolonged presence in her company was causing him to rethink the word average, because of those thick, strong eyebrows. Average suggested a woman with no distinguishing aspect to her face, but Miss Thorpe’s face, now that he had taken a second and third look, was not unremarkable. It was distinctive. Memorable.

  Her body might be interesting too, though it was hard to say because of that dark frock she wore. It was nicely tailored, but not designed to give a man ideas. He could see she was neither stout nor scrawny, neither tall nor short. Average.

  “You wound me,” he said dryly.

  “Is that possible?”

  He cocked his head. “There’s something bracingly forthright about you, Miss Thorpe. In fact, for a spinster, you are remarkably devoid of the fainting airs and feeble graces of the women left behind in others’ rush to marry. You seem quite at ease with the male sex. I wonder why that is.”

  He expected her to draw herself up in outrage at his words, but she made no immediate reply. After a moment, she said, “Cold all the way down to the depths, I suppose.”

  She had turned her gaze to the pool, but for a moment, he felt she was speaking of him. He was becoming as fanciful as a poet, but perhaps that was to be expected when he spent so much time with drunken verse-scribblers and actors and the like. “Sure to be. That is the point, for it to be cold and thus especially healthful.”

  “It’s quite lovely with the light shimmering on it.” She sounded surprised, as though the sight really was a wonder to her. Was it his imagination, or did she seem inclined not to draw too close to the water?

  “Many things look better by candlelight,” he said.

  A pause. “Ah,” she said. “Like plain women.”

  It was true, and he said, “Yes.” An appallingly ungentlemanly thing to say, but how long had it been since being gentlemanly was his first consideration? Oh, he knew how to charm, how to employ the finesse of the gentleman, even though it had been a great many years since he’d concerned himself with the constraints of the gentleman’s ways.

  She gave a little nod, and her calm acceptance penetrated him in a way that outrage or scolding would not have and touched an unfamiliar region within him. He ignored the sensation and moved to a bench behind her, causing her to step quickly out of his way, as if she meant to avoid being close to him, an attitude as irresistible to him as a red flag before a bull. He sat down and lifted one foot to the opposite knee.

  “I’m going to dangle my feet in the water,” he said, tugging successfully at his boot. “Why don’t you join me?”

  “No, thank you,” she said frostily, averting her eyes as he removed his other boot. “I’ll be going now. Thank you for showing me the pool.”

  She turned briskly to go, no doubt wishing him to know how little she desired any further time in his company, but she must not have realized how close to the edge of the pool she had moved. In the next moment, she was stumbling.

  He sprang up and reached for her, but he couldn’t catch hold as she cried out and dropped down. She landed on the stairs, luckily, and not all the way in the water. But she immediately began shrieking, and she remained huddled on the steps on all fours, as if frozen, even as he reached out to help her up.

  “Miss Thorpe,” he said sharply when she ignored his outstretched hand. She stopped shrieking then, but instead began keening. She did not look up, as though in the grips of something that would not allow her to lift her gaze from the steps. He grasped her shoulder, but it seemed to make no impression on her. She remained on all fours, her breathing ragged in between the keening.

  He stepped onto the stairs—the water was indeed quite cold on his stocking-clad feet—and said, “You must get out of the water, ma’am.”

  “Can’t move,” she said, her voice muffled, as though she’d spoken through clenched teeth.

  “Are you hurt?”

  A breath, two. “Can’t,” was all she said.

  There was nothing for it. He stepped farther down into the water and bent and began to slide an arm around her back, preparatory to guiding her out. Instantly, her arms clamped around his neck with astonishing force, so that she nearly pulled him down. He steadied himself and, by dint of some awkward maneuvering, was able to gain his balance and bring them both out of the pool.

  He set her down at a distance from the edge of the water, near the doorway and directly in the light of one of the sconces. He let his arms fall, but her arms remained tightly around his neck, as if this was the safest purchase she could find on him. Her face was buried
against the crook of his neck, and her warm forehead pressed against the bare skin under his jaw.

  “Are you hurt, ma’am?” he asked again, gently.

  “No,” she said into his neck.

  He waited for her to unclench her arms. With her head just under his chin, he noticed now that she did smell like something after all, though it was very faint. An evanescent whiff of a clean soap scent teased him intermittently. Her grip around his neck was rather uncomfortable, but he could not complain about the feeling of her body pressed snugly against his. Her arms and a good portion of her lower half were wet, and there was the awareness of cold fabric against warm flesh, both his and hers.

  After a moment, he said, “You are no longer near the pool, ma’am. If you step backward even five steps, you will not fall in. You are quite safe now.”

  “Too close,” she said hoarsely.

  He lifted her again and carried her out of the room and set her down in the kitchen, near the dying fire. She did not let go of him.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Olivia’s heart was still racing, though the panic that had consumed her was slowly receding. Only Mr. Stirling’s presence, the solidity, warmth, and sheer bodily bulk of him, was enabling her not to be hysterical. Her eyes were squeezed shut, though she knew she must now be in the kitchen, because she could smell a lingering burnt odor, and there was a little welcome warmth from the fire.

  Oh, how could she have been so stupid, so careless? She had long ago learned the wisdom of simply avoiding proximity to bodies of water however small, for the very reason that it was all too easy to fall in.

  This man had stirred a sort of hubris in her tonight that had made her agree to see the pool. What was it about Kit Stirling that had brought out this desire to go against what she knew was sensible and familiar? She supposed it must have been a reaction to his arrogance and his refusal to behave as a gentleman ought.

  She forced herself to loosen her arms and step away from him. It felt, absurdly, like abandoning something that she needed. What nonsense, she scolded herself. It was only that he was appealingly warm and she was now cold, with the unwelcome sensation of chilly wet sleeves and skirts.