She pasted on a smile as Torquil halted in front of them with a bow. “Miss Deverill, have you seen my library?”
“I have not,” she said, but she had the feeling she was about to be afforded that opportunity, whether she wanted it or not.
“I have many fine books. Would you permit me to show you?”
“Certainly.” Keeping her smile fixed in place, she set aside her cup and saucer and stood up. When he offered his arm, she took it, but neither of them spoke as they strolled side by side past the crowd gathered around the piano and through the wide doorway into the library.
“I am sure you wish for a report on my progress,” she said as he led her across the room. “But as yet, there is little to tell.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to have made any progress in merely one evening,” he replied, bringing them both to a halt in a far corner. “I wanted to talk with you about something else, and I think you can guess to what I refer?”
She had a pretty fair idea. Irene slid her hand from the crook of his arm, turning to face him. “If this is about my work, you must see that one cannot simply stop printing a newspaper whenever one chooses?”
“I do. Which means you shall have to determine which member of your staff might best be trusted with your responsibilities until your return.”
She almost laughed. “Just when I begin to think you might have some qualities I respect and admire, you display such breathtaking arrogance that I realize I must be wrong. It’s amazing.”
“You shall be moving in society, Miss Deverill, a place most unforgiving of professions, particularly for women. Carlotta might have been wrong to underscore the fact at the dinner table, but nonetheless, her concern was valid. Ellesmere will not look upon your continuing to work with favor, nor will all the other people who have been subjects of the gossip printed in your paper.”
“As you said, your lot should be used to being talked about.”
“But they don’t like it, especially not in print, and certainly not by someone who is expecting them to welcome her into their circle.”
“I don’t care if I am ever welcomed into your circle.”
“But your sister does, and what you do reflects upon her.”
Irene pressed her lips together, refusing to be manipulated by guilt. “I cannot help that. And my sister understands the publishing business well. She understands the demands the newspaper makes upon my time, and that no one can run it for me as well as I can run it myself, particularly now, since we recently lost our most important source of advertising revenue. She also knows that I cannot and will not risk our livelihood for the sake of others’ sensibilities, especially when I have received no indication of support from my grandfather. I would be happy to see him do something for Clara—a dowry, perhaps—but either way, if I am successful in what you have demanded of me, both my sister and I will be returning to Belford Row, where I shall continue to run my newspaper to the best of my ability, for I have no intention of depending upon Ellesmere for our support.”
“He is your grandfather, and though it might sting to accept help from him, but—”
“Sting? He disowned my mother, disinherited her, refused her a dowry, and never spoke another word to her again for the remainder of her life.”
“An action he might have come to deeply regret by now.”
“I don’t care if he has. Do you think I would ever, ever, allow that man to support me or my family?”
“Your pride is considerable, I understand that, and your desire to do right by your loved ones is commendable. I am not asking you to give up your paper, Miss Deverill. If you did, you would have no reason to help me. But I hardly think your paper or your family are put in jeopardy if you hand over its day-to-day operations to someone else for the coming two weeks.”
“To what end?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” But his gaze slid away from hers to pretend a sudden interest in the titles lining the nearest bookshelf, belying his words.
“You know what I mean. It is you, Duke, who has put me in the position of watching my beloved sister stare longingly at the glittering life you dangle in front of her, a life she is unlikely to ever have.”
“She could have this sort of life, if she wanted it, with the proper connections and her grandfather’s support.”
“Oh, could she?” Irene folded her arms. “Even though her sister runs a scandal sheet?”
His lips pressed tight together, confirming that she had a valid point. “Even then, it might be possible, if you were to do as I suggest and be discreet about its ownership.”
“So I should hire people to run the paper for me, pocket the profits—discreetly, of course!—and pretend for the world I’ve nothing to do with it? I should brush my occupation under the rug, relax, and just enjoy the entertainments your connections and those of my grandfather shall provide for me? Is that what you mean?”
He met her gaze again with a level one of his own. “Yes, I suppose that is what I do mean.”
She shook her head in refusal before he was even finished speaking. “Never. I created Society Snippets. It’s my brainchild, my work, my lifeblood. It’s as much a part of me as your estates are to you.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”
With that question, any softening toward him she had felt over dinner crumbled to bits. Her temper—a thing she had never even known she possessed until she’d met this man—began flaring up. “Why?” she demanded hotly. “Because I’m a woman?”
“No—that is, not entirely. The suffragist cause aside, Miss Deverill, it cannot be disputed that my estates are a far greater responsibility that a sixteen-page newspaper.”
“Bigger, perhaps, but not greater. Not more important. I have no doubt,” she added before he could reply, “that you will now demonstrate the same disdain for my paper that your sister-in-law displayed at dinner and, like her, deem my creation less than meaningful.”
“If I did, could I be blamed for it?” he countered, sudden anger in his voice that matched her own. “Am I not entitled to some degree of disdain for a publication that prints gossip and innuendo about my family and friends and calls it news? Am I unfair for asking that you not flaunt that paper or the fact that you support it with your own labor in my house? Especially at dinner with my family—a family, which you well know is right now being profoundly impacted by what has been written in its pages?”
“I am not flaunting anything,” she said fiercely. “Your mother was making plans for my sister and me, making it necessary for me to inform her of which plans for me would not be possible. As for my paper, I refuse to feel either guilt or shame for creating something that saved my family from destitution and provides us with our living. Furthermore,” she added before he could get a word in, “I love my work. Nothing in this world gives more pleasure or satisfaction than producing my newspaper and carrying on the publishing business that has been my family’s lifeblood for fifty years. I am proud—yes, proud—of what I do and of what I created, and I know my other grandfather, the one who actually cared about me and my welfare, would be proud of me, too. I will not hide what I do and what I have accomplished as if I am ashamed of it in order to ingratiate myself with a relation who has never displayed the slightest regard for me. I will not even do it to elevate my beloved sister to a higher station in life. And I certainly will not do it because you demand it of me.”
She stopped, breathing hard. The soft, lovely notes of a sonata floated through the room as she and Torquil stared at each other, the anger between them rolling like thunder. When the music stopped, neither of them moved or spoke.
“Well done, Angela,” Sarah said over the smattering of applause. “Do let me play. I want to do this duet with Torquil. Where is he, anyway? Torquil?”
The duke glanced toward the door and back to her, then he stepped back and gave her a bow, and when he straightened, there was no hint of anger, or anything else, in his face. It was as if she
had just seen a slate wiped clean. “Miss Deverill,” he said so politely that no one would imagine a single angry word had passed between them. “If you will forgive me?”
He turned and walked away, leaving Irene alone with her anger, which was probably all for the best. If he’d stayed, she might have hurled a book at him.
Chapter 10
As Henry walked away from Irene Deverill and left the library, desire and anger thrumming through his body with equal force, he saw that there was a facet of his own character he’d never acknowledged before. As he strode past the members of his family gathered around the piano and departed the drawing room, oblivious to their voices calling his name, he saw this perverse aspect of his nature with a clarity he’d never before possessed.
He was irresistibly attracted to impossible women.
It was a galling thing to admit. Until now, he’d been able to regard his passion for Elena as a tragic, once-in-a-lifetime incident, a folly borne of lusty youth and romantic ideals that would never be repeated. He thought he had learned his lesson, that he’d become not only an older man, but also a wiser one, and that he was beyond being tempted by women for whom his life held no appeal.
Irene Deverill, however, was forcing him to admit that he’d been lying to himself for an entire decade. For even as she had scorned the civilities and discretions that were a given in society, even as his anger and defenses had arisen in response, so had his desire. To know that he could once again want a woman who had no use for him or the world he inhabited was a shattering, humbling realization.
Henry strode along the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the house, grappling with this truth about himself. What was it, he wondered in exasperation as he stepped out into the fine summer night, that made him yearn for women who were so clearly not for him?
Damn it all, he knew hundreds of suitable girls, girls who would be happy to have him, girls who understood his life and could share it. Why couldn’t he lust after one of them? Why this attraction to women so below his station, so outside his circle, so wrong for him?
Perhaps, he thought with a hint of desperation, it was just physical. If so, he ought to acquire a mistress, he supposed. The notion did not appeal. He’d had two since Elena’s death, but both had been short-lived, empty affairs, borne of the need for release and nothing more. But even as he hoped that was the case here, he feared it was not. This seemed a deeper yearning, one that lurked in the dark places of his soul. A yearning for something . . . more.
He stopped on the sidewalk, cursing his own greed. Good God, he’d already been blessed with more gifts than most men could dream of. To be unsatisfied showed a callous disregard for the many who were not so fortunate as he. And yet, even as Henry stared into the inky depths of Hyde Park that lay beyond the street lamps and reminded himself to be grateful for all that he had, he felt that same pull within him toward something else, something he wanted and could never have. And he didn’t even know quite what it was.
Whatever the reason, Miss Deverill aroused in him passions that he feared could lead both of them down a path he’d walked before, a path that could not bring anything but misery to either party, a path he had no intention of walking ever again.
He rubbed a hand over his face and worked to put things into proper perspective. This situation would only exist for one fortnight. He could withstand even the darkest of desires for two weeks, surely.
With that reminder, Henry resumed walking, his steps carrying him down Park Lane, across Mount Street, up Duke Street, and around Grosvenor Square. He didn’t know how long he was away, but by the time he once again emerged onto Upper Brook Street and reentered his own home, the yearning within him was banked beneath his usual surface civility, and he was once again the master of both his body and mind.
Still, he reflected, pausing on the sidewalk to stare up at his well-lit drawing room and one unmistakable, laughing face amidst the others framed in the window, perhaps he ought to avoid being alone with Miss Deverill, if possible. Just to be sure.
The following morning, Irene’s day began the same way it always did—with a light tap on her door and the clink of porcelain on a tray. She opened her eyes, but when she did, she found the view a bit disorienting, for the slim girl in cap and apron who bustled in with morning tea was definitely not their rotund parlor maid, Annie, and it took Irene a moment to remember where she was.
In the duke’s house. Ugh. She rolled onto her back with a sigh, remembering the events that had brought her here. It might seem like a ghastly dream, but unfortunately, it was all too real.
“Morning tea, miss,” the girl said in a soft voice, setting the tray on the table beneath the window and pulling back the curtains just enough to let in a bit more light.
“Good morning,” Irene answered, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She felt terribly groggy, which was understandable, given that it had taken her hours to fall asleep with that man’s dismissive opinion of her work ringing in her ears. “What time is it?”
The girl, already by the door, stopped and turned. “Quarter past eight o’clock, miss.”
Stunned, Irene shoved back the counterpane and turned, rolling her legs over the side of the bed to stand up. “Heavens,” she mumbled, starting toward the chiffonier, “I’m terribly late. I must dress.”
“Very good, miss. I’ll send Mrs. Norton to you, shall I?”
Irene paused in the act of opening a drawer and straightened, looking over her shoulder at the girl, perplexed. “Mrs. Who?”
“Mrs. Norton, miss. She’s lady’s maid to the duchess. Her Grace gave instructions that Mrs. Norton was to tend you during your stay since you’ve not brought your own maid with you.”
“No, no, that’s all right.” She returned her attention to the contents of the cupboard in front of her. “My thanks to the duchess,” she added, pulling out a white shirtwaist and dark blue skirt, “but I wouldn’t dream of depriving her of her maid.”
This seemed to baffle the poor girl. “You don’t want her at all then?”
Honestly, Irene thought in exasperated humor, as she closed one door of the chiffonier and opened another, what did these people find so baffling about dressing oneself? It wasn’t that hard. “No,” she answered, adding underclothes to the pile in her arms. “Is my sister awake?”
“I don’t know, miss. I brought your tea first, of course. When you’re ready for breakfast, you’ll find it in the morning room. The footmen start bringing it in about half past eight, but you’ll find the warming dishes on the sideboard until half past ten.”
Irene’s stomach rumbled at the mention of breakfast, but she knew she didn’t have time for it. “Thank you,” she said, setting her clothes on the bed. “You may go.”
“Very good, miss.”
The maid departed, and Irene went into the bathroom to wash her face, hands, and neck. She then began to dress, glad that for her own daily uniform, she didn’t have to corset herself as tightly as she’d had to do for her evening gown last night. Fashionable clothes required such tight lacing, and she wasn’t accustomed to that anymore.
After she’d finished dressing, she gulped down her tea, pinned up her hair, and slid a light blue jacket over her shirtwaist. She knotted a tie around her throat, placed a straw boater on her head, and skewered it in place with a hatpin, then crossed back through the bath, intending to say good-bye to Clara. But with her hand raised to tap on the door, Irene changed her mind. Sleeping in was a luxury they hadn’t been able to afford for years, and it wasn’t as if her sister had to be across town in less than an hour. Why disturb her?
Letting her hand fall, Irene turned away. She left her room, reaching for her handbag and gloves on her way out the door, and strode down the corridor and stairs at a rapid clip. When she reached the ground floor, however, she’d barely taken two steps toward the foyer before the unmistakable scent of bacon wafted to her nose.
Her stomach rumbled again, and she stopped, sorely tempted. What was i
t the maid had said? Something about warming dishes on the sideboard. Perhaps, if she was the first one down, she could wrap some toast and bacon in a napkin and eat it on the omnibus?
Irene hesitated, but when she saw a footman emerge from behind a nearby baize door carrying a tray laden with warming dishes, she made up her mind and followed him down a short corridor to a room of sunny yellow walls, white plaster work, and dark mahogany.
The footman noticed her behind him, and immediately moved to the side of the doorway to allow her to enter first, but she’d barely taken a step across the threshold before she discovered she was not the first arrival. Torquil was seated at the head of the table, knife and fork in hand, reading the newspaper folded back beside his plate. “Oh,” she said and came to a startled stop.
He looked up, and at the sight of her, he was on his feet at once, setting aside his utensils and napkin to offer her a bow. “Miss Deverill.”
After their heated exchange last evening, she had not seen him again, nor had she had any desire to do so. Recollections of his resentment regarding her profession and her own simmering frustration had kept her up half the night. Encountering him now made Irene acutely uncomfortable, and she wished she’d stuck to her original decision to forgo breakfast.
He seemed to be having similar feelings, for he shifted his weight and glanced past her, as if he hoped more people would begin arriving.
“Duke.” She bowed, a perfunctory nod of her head and dip of her knees. “I was just coming in search of food.”
She grimaced inwardly at her choice of words, appreciating that she’d just described herself as something akin to a scavenging animal, but if Torquil noticed, he gave no sign. Instead, he gestured to the seat to his right. “Will you not sit down?” he asked when she didn’t move.
“I . . . no . . . I just . . .” She paused, unable to think of a way to explain her intent had been to take her food with her. Her idea seemed terribly gauche all of a sudden. The clock behind her in the corridor chimed once, and she seized on the sound as the perfect excuse. “Heavens,” she said in a strangled voice, “half past eight already? I’ve no time for breakfast now.”
The Truth About Love and Dukes Page 14
