Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  He was halfway through the refrain when she opened her window. The briefest glimpse of white sleeves appeared before a cascade of cold water dowsed him.

  He awoke the next morning in damp clothes, with a thick head, a roiling stomach, and a profound—and profoundly unaccustomed—feeling of self-disgust.

  * * *

  Colonel Stratton had reported to the ladies that the extensive repairs needed to their coach would likely require a good two weeks to fix, and Francesca in particular seemed happy about the ladies’ prolonged stay at Rose Heath. Mary Alice was, thankfully, recovering from her injury. The estate was beautiful, and it was peaceful to be there in the guise of Olivia Thorpe—as long as she could avoid Kit Stirling. Fortunately, the manor was large enough that only sensible precautions were required. The morning of the fifth day, for instance, found her enjoying a tray in her room, then productively writing letters to both the housekeeper at Brookleigh and one of her aunts.

  She hadn’t even thought of him once that morning, she told herself smugly as she stood after addressing the second letter and shook out her cramping hands. And why should she be thinking of him? The man was nothing to her, beyond being an annoyance. She had far better things with which to occupy her time than thinking of Kit Stirling.

  Eventually, she became aware that she was pacing rather vigorously on the pretty blue carpet that stretched between the two windows in her bedchamber and, with a groan of exasperation, forced herself to stop. She was failing miserably at not thinking. She didn’t want to think back on those moments in the kitchen—she had in fact decided that they must be scrubbed from her memory. But memory was famous for not being cooperative when given such orders. And she could not forget how she’d urged him on.

  Let me warm you, he’d said. He’d been referring to her wet, cold state, and she hadn’t wanted him to talk, hadn’t wanted reality to intrude in the form of words spoken between them. But then afterward, he’d continued, Well, you are warm now. Quite warm. And she had felt pierced by unwanted tenderness.

  How could one be pierced by tenderness? The notion was nonsense. And certainly, to think of the Wastrel of White Horse Street being tender was foolish. He was a gambler and a rake, a man accustomed to taking his pleasure with actresses and mistresses aplenty. Of course he was adept at bringing pleasure to a woman, part of which surely involved speaking soft words at the right moment.

  She had offered him what he liked to have that night, and he had taken it and enjoyed it and then wanted more. Such was the force that was male desire; she’d been married to a healthy man, and she was well acquainted with male desire. And her own. She and Harold had enjoyed satisfying marital relations.

  And she had, for that one encounter with Mr. Stirling, wanted the same physical thing as he did.

  But she wanted no more. She was sated. Whatever had been lurking in her that had wanted to touch him and be touched by him must be finished. Of course it must; she valued serenity and quiet walks and books and good friends. She valued the life of the mind. Such things as she and Kit Stirling had done were not to be thought of.

  He was not to be thought of.

  And she needed to get out of this room if she was to avoid making herself into a lunatic.

  The rain had stopped for the moment, so she put on her sturdiest shoes and collected a hat and a thick woolen shawl. Checking outside her door (while feeling that she was becoming a little ridiculous), she found the hallway deserted save for two maids polishing the woodwork.

  Despite the chill and damp of the gray afternoon, stretching her legs in the fresh air felt wonderful. She set out on the path that she’d taken the second day, which wound around the property before passing, at the farther reaches of the circuit, through a pretty wooded area that stood a good half mile from the manor. The woods opened up onto a pond, with a little wooden boathouse, that she’d seen from a distance while walking a few days before.

  She made her way there now, barely sparing a glance for the little boathouse as she passed it. Keeping a good distance between herself and the edge of the pond, she stood quietly, and soon the sunlight dappling the water and the peaceful sound of the tiny waves gently lapping the shore began to work some magic on her. What need had she of swimming or even going right up to the water when she gained such pleasure from standing close enough? Mr. Stirling was wrong.

  Thinking of him, though, set her teeth on edge with contrariness, and she recalled how he’d mocked her cautiousness around water and her lack of interest in learning to swim. She was not a coward. She was not! Why, she could go as close to the water as she liked, she told herself, and inched a little nearer. There. She was quite close.

  And closer still, she moved, even as she felt a corresponding rise in the rate of her heartbeat. But she wasn’t a coward. She was a woman, and a duchess, and by God, she was not afraid to stand at the edge of a peaceful little pond.

  She succeeded ultimately in challenging herself to move so close that the tips of her black half boots were kissed by the water. Only the very tips, and her heart was hammering. But she was there. She was there! She was standing right at the edge of a pond, and she was not crumpling in fear or shrieking, and she was perspiring only a very little bit.

  She could not have said how long she had stood there when she heard it: the sound of a throat being cleared. She started in surprise and stepped forward with a splash and a cry, only just catching herself from tumbling into the water.

  “You’ll say that’s my fault, I’ll wager,” came a voice from behind her. Mr. Stirling’s voice. She gasped and wheeled around in outrage, wetting her skirts further before she stepped out of the few inches of water in which she was standing, sloshing it clumsily over her shoes.

  “You! How dare you startle me like that?”

  He was sitting on the wooden floor of the little covered verandah of the house, which was odd since there was a chair right next to him. One of his legs was bent, the other straight, and he slouched carelessly against the wall behind him, his pose just as insolent as she would have expected.

  “I suppose it was your intent for me to fall all the way in,” she said. “And then you could rescue me.”

  “I assure you it was not my intention to turn you into a damsel in distress today. I do beg your pardon most earnestly.” He did not rise, as any gentleman would normally have done, but why should she be surprised?

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  She gave her skirts a vigorous shake in a vain attempt to relieve them of the bits of debris now sticking to them.

  “You went right up to the water of your own accord. Bravo.”

  As if she desired his praise!

  “Now perhaps you will wish to reconsider the swimming lessons.”

  She did not even deign to make a scoffing sound. Instead, she lifted her chin and marched toward the side of the little house, intent on returning immediately to the peace of her walk. Though already he had spoiled her solitude and peace. Why did he have to be there? And why, she thought, with a sinking of something inside her, did he have to be so handsome?

  Even though he was a scoundrel, he was a very handsome scoundrel, and one to whom she had already—there was no other better light to put on it—succumbed. It was as if there was a vein of wickedness in her, a wee little vein whose existence she’d been able to overlook for her entire life, and then in one strange evening, she’d let it rule her.

  Fortunately for her self-respect, she now recognized this weakness in herself. Wasn’t there some saying about knowing your enemy being half the battle? Though she wasn’t certain if the enemy was that little vein of wickedness, or if it was simply Kit Stirling, who seemed to have brought it to the fore. Probably both.

  “I suppose you were not particularly wishing for my company just now.” He spoke as she was nearly past him.

  Despite her wish not to engage with him, she could not resist a tart reply, and she paused to deliver it properly. “No, I was not.”

  He nodded. F
or the first time, she noticed that his face looked pale, as if he was in pain or ill. And was that a note of strain in his voice?

  “Is there something the matter with you?” This was a rude thing to say, especially to someone who might not be feeling well, but she did not trust that he wasn’t playing some game to gain her sympathy.

  “I seem to have injured my ankle rather spectacularly.” He jerked his chin toward the leg that was stretched out. “Stepped into some animal’s hole just around the back of this house and twisted it. It was, er, a bit ghastly.”

  “Oh.” He must have sprained it badly, if indeed that was all he’d done to it. “I’m sorry.” She moved close and dropped to her haunches, her eyes going to his lower leg. He was wearing a pair of smart Hessians. “I’m surprised your foot was able to turn in those.”

  “I managed to do so by losing my balance and falling while my foot was stuck in the hole.”

  She winced. “That sounds painful.”

  “It was.” He attempted one of those arrogant grins that she found so annoying, but just now it looked more like a grimace. Clearly, he was in pain, and she would be the last person he would want to see him vulnerable.

  “I shall go back to the manor straightaway and get someone to help you.”

  “Actually, I’ve been sitting here since late morning, wondering what I was going to do, until you showed up. If you wouldn’t mind assisting me,” he said, “I will attempt to return to the manor now.”

  “Me, help you all the way back to the manor? I’m not sure how much help I could possibly be.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, pushing himself more upright even as his mouth drew into a tight line, “you’ll do fine. If you could position that chair so it’s braced against the wall, I can use it to pull myself up.”

  Olivia was not at all convinced this was a good idea, but he seemed insistent, so she pushed the chair into position as he had asked.

  He managed to raise himself above the seat, and then he put the bent knee of the uninjured leg on the seat and, with a heavy grunt, pulled himself upright. He leaned against the wall of the cabin, clearly trying not to put much weight on his ankle, and attempted another grin.

  “I’m afraid you’re not going to like this part,” he told her. “I should like to use you as a crutch.”

  She gave him a look. “I suspected that was to be my role. I don’t think I should be very good at it.”

  “I’m sure you are successful at whatever you put your mind to, Your Grace.”

  She was not one to give up easily, though she would not have expected him to know this about her.

  “Now, if you would come around to my side, like so.”

  She came to stand where he directed her, aware that she would be allowing him to touch her as she had not meant for him to do again, but this was different. And he seemed different. Despite her initial fury at finding him there and her suspicion that he’d delighted in her accidental entry into the pond, he had not in fact said or done a single coarse thing since she arrived. He’d been, actually, fairly polite.

  He put his arm across her shoulders and leaned a little on her, though only a little, and she imagined it must be costing him something not to lean more heavily on her.

  “And we’re off,” he said. Only because they were so close did she hear his indrawn breath as his foot touched the ground.

  “Aren’t you worried that you might injure yourself further by walking back to the manor like this?” she asked as he took a step and she moved to keep pace with him.

  “I don’t much care for worrying.”

  “Perhaps you ought to.” They passed the enormous trunk of an ancient elm tree. “Then you might not be injured.”

  “You’re right, of course. I might instead be sitting safely in my room, reading a book.”

  She couldn’t imagine him sitting quietly with a book, though she had already seen him thus in the library a few days before. She had supposed at the time that he was there only out of boredom, had in fact doubted that such a man could have any real interest in books and ideas at all.

  She experienced a twinge of remorse. She did not like to think of herself as judgmental. Of course, she had heard many bad things about him. And he had lived up to his reputation for being a rake; he had certainly been very forward with her that night in the kitchen.

  But then, her own behavior that night would have to be judged as well, and she would be in danger of being a hypocrite.

  “Do you even like to read?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” he said, with the barest trace of a smile in his words. “I am fully capable of it, despite my reputation. I rather think you imagine that I’m never not doing something wicked. I do have to eat sometimes, and there’s nothing very wicked about drinking tea or buying an umbrella. Or walking alone down the street on a beautiful summer night.”

  Olivia liked to walk in the garden at Brookleigh late at night sometimes. She loved the way the darkness did away with distraction and heightened her senses, making her fully aware of the scent of lilac that she noticed only fleetingly during the day, or of the sound of her shoes on the grass. An image of Kit Stirling strolling alone by moonlight came to her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and almost shared her thoughts.

  Such poetic musings would sound silly spoken aloud.

  “Also,” he said, the words slightly labored, “I am always unfailingly considerate toward dogs, and cats quite adore me.”

  “And that is all the proof I am to require that you are not pure evil?”

  “I think so.”

  Another stolen glance revealed perspiration beading on his brow. Had she been in such discomfort, she would have wanted to shut out the world and curl up in a ball. But he seemed to want to distract himself by talking.

  “Convincing people that you aren’t wicked would be far easier if you simply did not do wicked things.”

  “And what would be the fun in that?” he said lightly.

  “Well, it might be quite fun not to be the subject of gossip. Unless, of course, you like having people speak ill of you.”

  “What I like, Your Grace, is doing just as I please. As, I imagine, do you.”

  “We are hardly speaking of the same sorts of things.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Much to her surprise, and irritation too, she was enjoying his company. At the same time, she felt quite frustrated with him. He was not so purely bad as she had thought, or at least, he had some redeeming qualities. So why did he cultivate a reputation as a rake?

  She could only be grateful when their arrival at the manor cut off further thought.

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Kit hobbled into the library with the assistance of Stratton’s butler and sank gratefully onto the settee, having ignored the duchess’s suggestion that he have a pair of footmen carry him to his room immediately. She clearly thought he was being foolish in not taking to his bed, but she simply gave an abrupt nod and, with the ease of a woman accustomed to being obeyed, asked the butler to see that a doctor be sent for. Then she ordered tea.

  His leg was on fire. Not only the ankle, which had burst into agony the moment he twisted it, making a revolting popping sound, but his whole leg. He did, however, feel fairly certain that it was not broken since it could bear his weight, if painfully. At least, he profoundly hoped that it was not.

  To his surprise, though the duchess might now in all conscience have left him—she’d certainly made no secret of her wish to avoid his company before—she lingered, fussing over his ankle. She brought over a footstool and gently lifted his leg onto it.

  “The doctor may be some time,” she said. “It would perhaps be best to remove your boot now. It could be that further damage is being done to your foot, or perhaps even to your circulation.”

  “You look sturdy enough, ma’am, but I don’t think you will be able to assist me in removing my boot. And I’m sure I’m not capable of pulling it off myself just now.”<
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  “I don’t propose to pull it off, sir.” A maid was just arriving with the tea tray, and the duchess dispatched her to fetch a pair of shears.

  “You propose to destroy my boot?” It was his favorite pair, and while it had occurred to him that it might be necessary to cut off the boot, he had not reconciled himself to the loss of it.

  “Yes.”

  His foot was throbbing painfully, but talking to her distracted him wonderfully. “I believe you are enjoying the idea of ruining my boot.”

  “It’s only a shoe,” she said as the maid returned with the shears. The duchess took them, dismissed the girl, and came to stand by his leg, holding the scissors up as she considered his boot.

  “You look diabolical. I begin to think your true purpose is to seek revenge on me.”

  “Revenge? Why should I want revenge on you, sir?”

  He was accustomed to merry widows, to giddy actresses and willing mistresses— women who did not regret their sexual adventures. But the Duchess of Coldbrook wasn’t a merry widow. He would have said she was a prude, but that didn’t seem right either.

  “Because you regret succumbing to your carnal desires, and I was the one you succumbed with. People always dislike those they associate with their own weakness.”

  “I expect that’s something about which you know a great deal.” She paused, the shears raised, and lifted her eyes to him with directness. “And who said it was weakness?”

  With that, she nudged his leg a little to the side, positioned the shears at the seam on the back of his boot, and snipped, leaving him temporarily speechless on more than one account.

  “And here I offered you the perfect opportunity to deal me a blistering set-down, and you didn’t take it.”

  Was she softening toward him? He wanted her again, quite badly, even now. He had in fact had the thought, when they were walking together toward the manor, that being able to put his arm around her shoulders had made injuring his foot worth the pain. He had not stopped wanting her since that night in the kitchen. But she had so far been adamant that she would not have him again, and he could not read her expression now.