Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  “I think I hear my valet weeping,” he said as she advanced the scissors farther down his boot. She might have been irritated with him, as she generally was—and he expected that she now was, though he was finding her maddeningly difficult to read—but she was not proceeding roughly, as she might have done, careless of paining him further.

  She ignored him and gently but determinedly snipped. Each inch of progress at first generated intense pressure in his swollen ankle and then relief as the tightness of the boot eased.

  Her attention on her efforts allowed him to watch her unobserved. Average, that had been his first impression of her. Average hair color and height, average face, except for those too-strong eyebrows. Average figure too, he’d supposed.

  He had been an idiot.

  * * *

  Who said it was weakness?

  Had she really said that to him? Immediately after that first night, she had certainly felt terribly weak and foolish. She had told herself that she should never have allowed herself to do such a thing, and with this man, of all people. But now—and perhaps this had something to do with what she’d managed to do at the pond today—her initial regret had faded, to be replaced with something far different: amazement. In allowing herself to do what she’d done with Kit Stirling, she had done something deeply impulsive and out of character. Just as she’d done by putting her toes in the water of the pond.

  All her life, she’d done the sensible thing. Growing up in a house as chaotic as her own, she’d learned early to look out for herself. Learned that if she wanted good things for herself, it would be up to her to choose them and pursue them.

  Sensible. Measured. Thoughtful. That was how her friends thought of her, and how she strived to be. What she’d done in the kitchen with Kit Stirling had been wild and impulsive, and yes, brilliantly exciting.

  She had not known she was capable of being like that.

  She’d reached his ankle, and she went very slowly now. He had gone quiet, and she supposed he was in pain, though he made no complaint. She snipped, he gave a grunt, and the boot drooped loose enough that she could slip it off.

  “Your ankle does look quite swollen,” she observed, regarding the thickened area showing through his white stocking. “It must be painful.”

  “It is. Do you know what would make it less painful?”

  She glanced at him. “A glass of brandy?”

  “I had a different sort of distraction in mind.”

  A blush warmed her cheeks as the meaning of his words penetrated. Nobody said such things to the Duchess of Coldbrook. But then, the men with whom she was generally in company were gentlemen, and Kit Stirling had made no secret of his intention not to be gentlemanly. He seemed, rather, to go out of his way to not be gentlemanly.

  “It’s one of your main entertainments, isn’t it?” she said. “Trying to shock people with your wickedness.”

  “I can be a beast sometimes, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

  His words surprised her, but his tone affected her more, with its hint of vulnerability. Was this a sign that he wished to be other than a beast? Something in her leaped at the idea. But looking at his handsome features and carefree smile, she immediately crushed it. No good would come of trusting such a man.

  The doctor arrived then, saving her from the necessity of a reply. She had every intention of leaving now that Mr. Stirling would be in capable hands, but Dr. Hannibal, whose vigorous smile and upstanding tufts of thick white hair gave him the appearance of an imp, apparently assumed she was a concerned friend of his patient and folded her into the conversation.

  “I was told, sir, that this happened while you were out walking and that Miss Thorpe was obliged to rescue you?” The doctor winked at Olivia as he set his bag down and drew close to Kit.

  “Oh—” she began.

  “Most fortunate for me, Hannibal,” Mr. Stirling said. “It’s not every day a fellow is rescued by a lady.”

  “I merely happened upon him while out walking and assisted him in making his way back to the manor,” Olivia said. “Hardly a dramatic rescue.”

  “But much appreciated by me,” Kit said.

  “Quite right,” Dr. Hannibal agreed. “A very convenient thing, having a friend who’s such a practical lady.”

  Kit smirked at her. “It certainly is.”

  She gave him a withering glance. But before she could excuse herself and leave, the doctor had whipped out a small pair of scissors and removed Kit’s stocking. No Town doctor would have done that in a lady’s presence out of respect for her sensibilities, but Olivia had a feeling Dr. Hannibal did not much concern himself with such niceties.

  “A most impressive sprain, sir,” he said with a cluck of his tongue. “Fortunately for you, sir, you’ve got friends around to visit you and see that you’re properly cared for, because you’ll need to keep off that foot for at least three days.”

  Kit looked so dismayed by this statement that Olivia almost laughed. “Can’t you just wrap it up and send me on my way, Hannibal?”

  “Certainly, sir, if you wish for the sprain to worsen and for your ligaments to become feeble. You will then risk making the entire ankle unstable and weak.”

  “I can’t just sit around for three days! What nonsense.”

  Olivia could easily imagine that the ever-restless Kit was utterly maddened by the idea of being confined to a room for days. As her eyes skimmed over muscled thighs that were clearly used to exercise, she could not resist saying, “Mr. Stirling, I’m sure you don’t mean to suggest that Dr. Hannibal has given you poor advice.”

  “Quite right, ma’am,” the doctor agreed. “Why, any sensible fellow would be delighted to rest and recuperate in the company of such friends as Miss Thorpe.”

  A sly look came over Kit’s face. “You’re right, of course, Doctor. I shall look on my recuperation as an opportunity to enjoy Miss Thorpe’s company.”

  She gave him a falsely sweet smile for the benefit of Dr. Hannibal and stood patiently by while the doctor applied a liniment and wrapped a bandage around the injured ankle.

  No sooner had the doctor left than Kit said, “I hope very much that you’re planning to read to the invalid now, Your Grace.”

  “I’m planning to go to my room and rest there for several hours. This has been a most trying day.”

  “But you heard the doctor on the importance of my friends aiding in my recuperation. Surely you’re not going to abandon me here, a poor, incapacitated fellow?”

  She plucked a book off a nearby table, scanning the title as she handed it to him, and smiling when she saw that it was a treatise on land management. “Here. You like to read, remember?”

  She swept out of the room wearing a completely inappropriate grin and retreated to her bedchamber quite happily with a book and a tea tray.

  That evening, she joined Sir Greyville, Francesca, and Kit for dinner. Mary Alice and Stratton were dining elsewhere on the estate. A burly footman helped Kit hobble into the dining room amid much teasing from his friend and expressions of concern from Francesca. The dinner conversation was remarkably pleasant, and Olivia began to see the bond between Kit and his old friend. They teased each other affectionately about travels and ideas, and they laughed easily.

  They lingered only briefly afterward in the drawing room because Sir Greyville had to leave to take up some pressing work with which Francesca was helping him.

  Which left Olivia alone in the drawing room with Kit as his presumptive companion. He was reclining on a settee, his leg stretched out on a stool.

  “You really ought to retire to your bedchamber,” she said. “Surely you will wish to rest.”

  “The hour is but a quarter to ten, Your Grace. I should find myself staring mutely at the walls in my chamber were I to retire so early.” He was wearing a black coat and a fresh cravat and neat buff trousers. And a single shoe, on his uninjured foot, per Dr. Hannibal’s instructions. She entertained unwelcome musings as to how Kit had managed to change out of his
earlier attire, whether his valet had simply brought clothes down to the library, rather than having Kit helped up the stairs.

  “Well, I do not find it early to retire,” she said, meaning to seek her chamber. Though she had not spent the afternoon with him, still her thoughts had strayed to him again and again, and at dinner, her eyes had been drawn to him often. He was funny, and clever, and whether she approved of him or not, he made her heart beat faster. She was hardly the first woman to be attracted to a man she could not respect, but ignoring his appeal had been easier when she didn’t like him.

  And she did like him.

  “But what about your promise to Dr. Hannibal that, as my friend, you would keep me entertained while I am incapacitated?”

  “I made no such promise.” She laughed. “And I don’t know how you can call us friends with a straight face.”

  “Come now, Duchess, surely we can be friends of a sort? Or at least not enemies.”

  It was so easy to see how countless women must have fallen into his arms. He was an utterly charming rogue.

  When she didn’t reply, he said, “I know that I’ve behaved badly toward you in any number of ways. I... have grown accustomed to behaving thus, I’m afraid.”

  His unexpected admission of fault surprised her. But words were easy to say, and he was doubtless very good at saying what he thought others wanted to hear.

  “So it would seem,” she said.

  He frowned, as though he hadn’t expected she would simply agree with him. “Well, according to the good doctor, I’m supposed to recuperate in your company, Your Grace. And how will I get better if I’m stuck here alone? Why, I might become frantic from inactivity and begin pacing the room out of desperation and do myself further injury. Or perhaps even swoon from boredom.”

  “I would like to see a man swoon from boredom. I suspect there are many ladies who’ve done so, when forced to stand about listening to some man drone on about his prowess at the hunt or his latest acquisition of horseflesh.”

  “I assure you, swooning would be preferable to accounts of recently purchased draperies and the glories of the latest coiffure.” He grinned boyishly, and a little corner of her heart melted. “Come, isn’t there some improving volume you’d like to read to a rake such as myself? You have before you a helpless invalid unable to flee even should you read a book of sermons to me.”

  “Why would you wish me to read to you when you can do it yourself?”

  “Because it will be nicer if you do it.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why, to provoke him into one of those coarse things he said and thus give her a pretext for leaving, but she didn’t do it. The truth was, she was enjoying his company. What was the harm in that? He could hardly seduce her with his leg injured and propped on a stool. And she did want to linger there with him. It was fun.

  Fun was not something she thought much about. Oh, her life was fulfilling. As the hostess for Harold’s nephew, the current Duke of Coldbrook, Olivia retained many of the duties she’d always had in regards to the estates and the running of the manors. And she was happy to do so until he found a bride, which he seemed in no rush to do. Seeing to practical matters was immensely satisfying.

  But is that all you really want? a traitorous voice now whispered.

  Her gaze dropped to a stack of books someone had placed on the table by the settee—Gothic novels, along with a few books of philosophy and poetry.

  “Very well, but I’m indulging you only because you’re injured. And only for half an hour.”

  He inclined his head. “You are all kindness, Duchess.”

  “I don’t credit meekness in you for a moment.” She plucked one of the Gothic novels off the table.

  “What, no sermons?”

  “I’m not foolish enough to think they would do any good.”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  The duchess closed the book, her hand coming to rest on top of it with finality. “Well, I’ll bid you good evening, sir.”

  She was about to leave. Kit couldn’t let her go, and this no longer had anything to do with avoiding boredom. Somewhere between her fear and stiff pride after falling in the pool and the way she’d brought her toes to the very edge of the pond that morning, he’d started looking at her differently. Those strong eyebrows had become like old friends, her lips and cheeks and eyes no longer average but hers alone. He ached to touch her.

  “Don’t go yet,” he said.

  Her brows drew together. “Are you in pain? Would you like a pillow for your foot?” She reached for a pillow at the other end of the settee. He didn’t want a pillow and in fact had forgotten the throbbing in his ankle as he’d listened to her read.

  “I don’t need a pillow.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she insisted in a calm, considerate voice, moving closer to his foot.

  She was a good woman, a woman who’d been raised to roles that she’d accepted and fulfilled, who’d not made grand stumbles and indulged in endless vices as he had done, but had done worthwhile things with her life so far. He did not deserve to even be thinking about her.

  He let her lift his foot and place the pillow under it, then set his foot down, which she did with remarkable gentleness. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

  He cursed that he must sit, that he couldn’t simply sweep her into his arms. Though he was not so foolish as to believe that he would be at any greater advantage if he could physically take her into his arms, because she did not want to be there. Or rather, she did not believe she ought to be there, however much she might want to be. He should not even think of wishing for her to be there.

  But he did.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?” Her face was in shadow, and he couldn’t see her eyes. “Is your bandage uncomfortable?”

  “It’s fine, thank you. But if you wouldn’t mind, a pillow behind my back would be most comfortable.” He didn’t need another pillow.

  “Of course.”

  He imagined her making the rounds on her estates, offering kindness and hospitality to her tenants. Bringing baskets to homes with new babies, placing a cool compress on a feverish child’s head, listening to a neighbor’s troubles with real attention.

  She found another pillow and touched his shoulder. “Lean forward.” He did, and she pushed it behind his back.

  “If there is nothing else?”

  Just you, he wanted to say, but he could not. How could he say such a thing when he was a wastrel and she was a good woman? She didn’t respect him, and with good reason. But he couldn’t let this go.

  He took her hand.

  Her gaze snapped to his. “What is it?”

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She said nothing for a moment. “Why?”

  How could he answer? He could not tell her that he burned for her—he’d done so already, crassly, and she’d rightfully rejected him. She had no reason to believe anything had changed in his intentions, or in him. But something had. And he did burn for her, body and rotten, ruined soul.

  “Just come here,” he said, and tugged gently. She allowed him to draw her closer. He reached up and curled his hand behind her neck and gently drew her downward. She acquiesced, letting her hip come to rest near him on the settee. He wasn’t going to question it if she would let him pull her close, and he tugged her nearer still, toward his mouth.

  She came. Her lips, soft and unbearably sweet, met his with no protest. He brushed his lips against her mouth, willing her to understand his change of heart, his hope. Her lips parted and let him in, and he poured affection into his kiss and took heart at the quickening of her breath as the kiss deepened.

  After a few moments, she pulled back and looked at him, her expression unreadable. It took everything he had not to tug her close again by the hand he still held. She wanted him, he knew this, but she did not want to want him. Yet. So he had to tread carefully. He let her hand fall, and confusion warred with vexation on h
er face.

  “Why did you kiss me?” she asked.

  “Because I could not resist you.”

  She made an impatient sound. “And you don’t believe in resisting your impulses, do you?”

  “Where you are concerned, it seems that I don’t.”

  She pressed her lips together, and he told himself that her frustration was about more than simply thinking him unworthy. She made for the door without another word.

  “Good night, Your Grace,” he called softly after her.

  * * *

  Olivia marched punishingly up the stairs, furious with herself. Kit Stirling was a rake, and a scoundrel, and completely adept at getting women to fall into his arms. Why had she allowed herself to be one of their number just now?

  Because she was weak. Because she loved being with him. Because he was handsome and charming and funny. Because she was weak.

  She felt things for him that she did not want to examine. She liked making him laugh, and she loved the way he kissed. He was temptation personified.

  She knew about the wrong turns into which temptation could lead a person. She’d had frequent examples throughout her childhood, in the loud rows that would ensue whenever her father strayed with a new woman.

  Olivia was no innocent—she knew it was common for gentlemen to have mistresses. But her father could have chosen to be faithful despite temptation. Marriage to Harold had taught Olivia not to believe all men were as weak as her father. She had chosen well when she’d married him, and there had been trust between them, along with love.

  But to care for a man like Kit Stirling? She would be a fool.

  * * *

  The following morning, as she was on her way downstairs, Colonel Stratton waved to her from the bottom of the steps, where he was speaking with his butler. As she drew near, he dismissed the man and greeted her.