Once Upon a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  The duke was perhaps understandably hesitant. “What other beasts are in the menagerie? Bruce, the puma? Horatio, the puffin?”

  “Just Tim,” she said as the footman swept open the door. “We didn’t feel it safe to introduce other animals. Tim jumps onto everything.”

  “Rather, he doesn’t anymore,” the footman put in. “Tiny Tim arrived full of vim and vigor not a week before Mr. Marlowe took ill. At first we thought his weakened spirits were due to mourning his master.”

  “You thought a goat was in mourning?” Silkridge repeated, incredulous. “Over a man he’d known less than a week?”

  “Mr. Marlowe had a way of getting into one’s heart from the very first,” the footman said staunchly.

  Noelle stepped between them. “What’s happening now?”

  “Nothing’s happening.” The footman gestured at the small, white-and-black spotted goat lying listlessly in a shadowed corner. “He’s been doing this for a sennight.”

  The duke frowned. “Why summon Miss Pratchett? She was my grandfather’s clerk, not his animal trainer.”

  “She was his personal advisor. One of them, anyway.” The footman gave Noelle a commiserating glance. “We could have called Miss Underwood, but…”

  “I understand,” she assured him. This was not the moment for Virginia’s eccentric aphorisms. This was the time for action.

  She stared at the motionless goat.

  “Has he been eating?” the duke demanded.

  The footman shook his head. “Appetite is always the first to go when one suffers a depression of the spirits.”

  Silkridge looked as though he might throttle the man.

  “Has anyone else been summoned?” she asked. “A goat expert?”

  With an exasperated sigh, the duke stalked over to where Tim lay, and placed the back of his hand to the goat’s furry forehead as if checking the temperature of a child. “How much has he been drinking?”

  Noelle stared at the goat dubiously. At times like this, she wouldn’t mind a drink herself.

  “Not a drop,” the footman assured him. “Of anything. We have even been adding bits of ice to his bucket to keep the water nice and cool.”

  “Dump it out,” the duke said at once. “Goats require fresh, lukewarm water or they won’t drink.”

  The footman turned wide eyes to Noelle. “Is that true?”

  She had no idea, but it was as good a plan as any.

  “His Grace has no reason to dissemble,” she told the footman. “Please fetch a fresh pail of water. Mind that it is not too cool.”

  The footman nodded. “At once.”

  The moment he was gone, she turned to Silkridge. “Is it true?”

  “Of course it’s true,” he said. “I’ve better things to do than invent fake facts about pygmy goats. Nonetheless, you should have the footman send for an expert.”

  “It sounds like you are one,” she admitted. “How else would you know Tim’s preferred temperature for drinking water?”

  “One of my properties has goats,” Silkridge said dismissively, as if every land owner exhaustively researched all flora and fauna upon his property.

  No wonder he was phenomenal when it came to crafting laws. He was likely the only member of the House of Lords that truly understood whatever subject they were discussing.

  The footman not only returned with a pail of fresh water, but with three more footmen all bearing the same.

  Silkridge raised his brows. “What’s this?”

  “Wasn’t certain how lukewarm ‘lukewarm’ ought to be,” the footman admitted. “Brought four different varieties to ensure Tiny Tim received his preference.”

  To her surprise, Silkridge did not scoff at this notion. Instead, he knelt next to the goat and offered water from first one pail, then another, until at last Tiny Tim’s parched tongue lapped up more than a few drops.

  “He did it,” the footman breathed. “Tim’s cured!”

  “I suspect it will take several days to recover from severe dehydration,” said the duke. “You should send for a proper veterinarian all the same.”

  But he scratched behind Tiny Tim’s ears, rather than leaping to his feet and dusting the goat hair from his ducal breeches.

  Noelle’s heart thumped. Silkridge was softhearted, of all things.

  Perhaps that was why she had almost kissed him. Not because he was arrogant and bullheaded and about to disappear from her life before she would get another chance. But because he constantly surprised her with proof that he was so much more.

  She knew not to trust romantic emotions. Being kind to a goat, being nice to her, did not mean the duke was capable of falling in love with Cressmouth or anyone in it.

  Even if he could, it wouldn’t be enough. Noelle was never enough. Her own parents had left her. Was it any wonder a London lord would do the same?

  She knew this deep into her bones. Had sworn to never again put herself in a position to be abandoned. The very last person she should be gazing at with calf’s eyes was the Duke of Silkridge. He was destined to leave her. Danger incarnate.

  And yet she couldn’t look away as he held a water pail to the lips of an exhausted goat and stroked its bristly hair in comfort.

  The same skills he used to command Parliament were on display before her eyes. Smart and decisive, capable and compassionate. Silkridge’s ability to adapt to the moment was second to none. Anyone who chanced upon the duke engaged in such a selfless activity could be forgiven for believing him incapable of inflicting pain.

  He looked up at her. “You were somehow responsible for my grandfather, Fuzzy Wig, the counting house, the castle’s welcome biscuits, and a Christmas goat?”

  “I don’t mind,” she stammered. “Cressmouth needs me.”

  It had never seemed like a lot before. Or if it had, all the better. The more the village needed her, the less likely she would find herself alone.

  “You deserve a break,” the duke said firmly. “A holiday from this endless ‘holiday.’”

  She shook her head. “I would never leave Cressmouth.”

  He snorted. Of course he felt the opposite. He couldn’t wait to leave.

  His inevitable departure ought to fill her with relief, not emptiness.

  She knew better than to wish he would stay. It was impossible. He was a duke. He belonged in London. She was nobody. She belonged here.

  Yet she could not help but wish she could change his mind. About Cressmouth. About Christmas. About her.

  If he of all people admitted Christmas was magic, it might do more than prove her right.

  It could make him want to stay.

  Chapter 7

  By the third morning, the counting house was starting to feel less like a tiny chamber atop a tall, lonesome tower, and more like a shared retreat high above the rest of the castle. Noelle no longer feared Silkridge might be present. She secretly hoped he was.

  Her disappointment at finding the room empty was quickly eclipsed by her surprise at finding it changed.

  Mr. Marlowe’s side of the chamber was the same. Hers now boasted new sconces in addition to daylight from the tower window, and a cushioned chair designed for the comfort of someone of her height. The area looked positively inviting.

  She stepped around her desk to the new chair and eased onto the plush cushion. Firm, but not too firm. Comfortable. Not so high that her feet could not reach the floor, not so low that the desk was out of proportion. It was perfect.

  She grinned to herself as she rose to fetch the next journal in her quest to improve each one chronologically. She was almost done with the task. With the new chair and the sunnier lighting, it would be a joy to work in the counting house today.

  As she turned from the bookshelf, the scent of mint reached her nostrils.

  A footman stood in the doorway bearing a teapot, toasted bread, and cheese on a silver tray. “Shall I place this on your desk?”

  She nodded in wonder. The tower was too tall for bellpulls, so Mr. Marlo
we had never had one installed. As king of the castle, servants brought any repast or libation he might wish throughout the day.

  As junior clerk, Noelle was expected to take her meals in the communal dining rooms with the rest of the castle.

  The arrangement was more than generous. Mr. Marlowe did not charge a penny from his staff or his neighbors for partaking in the community refreshments. It had become part of her routine. Waking at dawn, trekking to the greenhouse for fresh mint, stopping by the breakfast room for a bit of toast and cheese before heading up the long winding staircase to the counting room.

  She had never wanted or expected more. She was still proving herself.

  Yesterday, Silkridge had casually mentioned the workers had been renovating the aviary since dawn. He had been there to oversee them. Noelle had not. Her absence had not been intentional. With both Mr. Fawkes and Mr. Marlowe, she was used to being the first to her desk in the mornings. Silkridge’s dedication was a surprise. In order to beat him to the counting house today, she had skipped her morning routine.

  He had anticipated far more than her early arrival.

  Instead of attempting to spoil her with plates heaping with meat and eggs and the finest tea in the kingdom, he had sent a tray bearing the items she actually preferred.

  But how? She hadn’t seen him in the breakfast room before. Noelle doubted herself capable of missing him. Whenever he was close, her skin tingled as if charged with electricity.

  Which meant the duke had been forced to actively go find out what she might want. Perhaps he remembered her love of mint tea from their youth, but her breakfast habits had changed after becoming clerk. Silkridge hadn’t relied on half-remembered memories. He had investigated to ensure he presented something she desired.

  And oh, did she desire! A shiver tingled along her skin. Try as she might to deny it, the kiss they had almost shared, the one they had no business indulging, was all she could think about.

  And now, blast him, every time she sipped her favorite tea she would think of him as well.

  Just as she lifted the steaming cup, he strode through the door.

  She did not tease him with Happy Christmas. It would break his heart to realize his many acts of kindness were very much in line with the Cressmouth spirit.

  “Good morning.” The low caress of his voice heated her more than the tea in her hands.

  She blushed. “Good morning.”

  He took his seat behind his grandfather’s grand desk as if he belonged there. As if they both did.

  “How goes the aviary?” she inquired.

  His blue eyes lit with satisfaction. “Almost done.”

  Her stomach twisted. His achievement should make her happy. Bidding him a final farewell was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

  He leaned back in his chair, his manner confident. “Shan’t be long now. The only missing piece is a ceremonial bird and a broken bottle of wine.”

  Noelle had never felt less like drinking champagne.

  “Thank you for the tea,” she said. “And the chair.”

  He shrugged this away as if such gifts were an everyday part of any man’s morning routine. “You are good at your post. You might as well be comfortable while doing it.”

  The sentiment was bittersweet. As she was helping him leave, he was helping her stay. Nothing had changed.

  “What are you working on?” he asked.

  She held up one of Mr. Fawkes’s old journals. “Deciphering this.”

  “Can I help?” Silkridge asked.

  She nearly dropped the book in surprise. “There’s only one left to do after this. It’s the last volume on the right. You’ll find fresh journals on the row beneath.”

  Without delay, he retrieved the old volume and its new replacement and returned to the desk to work.

  Noelle watched in silence for a long moment. Soon, she couldn’t keep the words back any longer. “Don’t you have more important things to do?”

  “Yes.” His clear voice was matter-of-fact. “But all the things I should be working on are hundreds of miles away. As soon as I return home, I will devote myself to catching up on all my responsibilities. Until then, why not be of service to you? After all, it’s just one more day.”

  Just one more day.

  The words were icy balls of bitter hail, pelting into her with each cold syllable.

  She tried to calm the erratic beating of her heart. Why now? Why like this?

  The distance between them had been so much easier when she could despise him. Now that she knew him better, she realized she had hated a version of him that had perhaps never existed.

  It wasn’t that Silkridge didn’t care about her. It was that he cared about everyone else more. The House of Lords. England, the collective. His duty to every one of this country’s noble citizens. His responsibilities to his dukedom. Noelle could never compete with that. She was an orphan, a clerk, a nobody. Their destinies could never entwine.

  But with every moment she spent with him, the more she wished for a future she could never have.

  Despite having no interest in Christmas or his grandfather’s castle, Silkridge was seated behind the old man’s desk performing the duties of a common clerk. Not because it would aid the castle, but because it would help her.

  That was only the latest in a long string of surprises. From the first, Silkridge had made no disparaging comments about finding a female at the helm of the counting house. The opposite. Rather than try to talk Noelle out of her choices, he respected them. Had gone out of his way to make the small room in which she spent the majority of her time into a cozier place. He was doing his best to make her life better.

  She would miss him all the worse.

  Her fingers trembled as she toyed with her plume. “Do you like London?”

  He looked up. “Have you ever been to the city?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s definitely not…” He glanced about the cold stone tower. “…this.”

  Noelle winced at the reminder that even if Silkridge weren’t expected in Parliament, he still would have no interest in staying here. But even if her village was all wrong for him, she wanted him to understand why it was so special to her.

  “I know you hate that Cressmouth is as far from London as possible whilst still being in England, but that’s what I like about it,” she said. “I live in a castle. I work amid a vista of snow-dusted mountains. I, a woman, can be a clerk.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” he said drolly. “Wouldn’t the social whirl of a debutante be more fun than the drudgery of a clerk?”

  “I don’t consider it drudgery,” she explained. “I have no particular love for mathematics, but I adore putting things to rights. Creating order. Organizing people and events. It does not matter to me whether I’m arranging welcome biscuits in the common rooms or the transactions that pass through this counting house. The point is helping. I would much rather be useful than useless.”

  A startled laugh burst from him. “Are debutantes useless?”

  “Not by choice,” she said. “They certainly don’t grow up to be clerks. They aren’t in charge of their lives at all.”

  He raised his brows. “Pray tell, who is in charge of debutantes’ lives?”

  She could not tell whether he was mocking her or genuinely curious. Perhaps he had never considered a female perspective. Now would be a fine time to start.

  “First, the wet nurse and then the governess,” she said slowly. “That covers the first sixteen or so years. After the come-out, the ruling parties become the sponsor and the chaperone. Once a courtship has begun, it changes again. Only her father has the power to accept a suitor’s request. And after that, her husband. The end.”

  He frowned. “Hardly the end. Any debutante who follows that path never has to work a day in her life. Once she’s secured heirs, she’s free to devote herself to fashion and parties and social calls. A life of leisure, by any es
timation.”

  Noelle ran a finger down the spines of the journals she’d worked so hard on these past four years. “Perhaps that’s not what I want.”

  “You are opposed to a life filled with pleasures?”

  “I’m opposed to an empty life,” she clarified. “I would not wish for idleness to define me. Work and play are not mutually exclusive. I may be up here in this tower six days a week, but seven days a week, I am out in the village with my friends and neighbors. We are all useful. And we all like fun.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fun like the annual house party with one of your many dukes?”

  She narrowed her gaze at him. That tradition had begun well after his last visit. “How do you know about the annual house party?”

  She could swear his cheekbones deepened with color.

  “Cressmouth Chronicle,” he admitted.

  It was her turn to burst into laughter. “You subscribe to the Cressmouth gazette?”

  “Of course not,” he protested quickly. “My grandfather insisted upon the quarterly journal being delivered to my home, quite against my wishes. I have never been able to cancel the subscription no matter how many letters I send.”

  She giggled at the thought of him responding to each circular with an angry letter for having successfully received it. “You should read the articles. They’re quite dreadful.”

  “I know,” he admitted. “Why do you think I wrote so many demands for my subscription to be annulled? Whenever the deuced rag arrived, I could not prevent myself from reading it cover to cover.”

  “All is well,” she assured him. “I have heard there are worse guilty pleasures a gentleman could have.”

  “Like building launch pads for dirigibles?” he said wryly. “Or stocking a menagerie with precisely one malnourished pygmy goat?”

  She could just imagine the duke’s incredulous expression as he read each article. “Was there no mention of Tim in the latest gazette?”

  “There was no latest gazette,” he said. “At first I thought delivery was a little late, then shockingly late, then began to fear my cancellation requests had been answered after all. As it happened, Grandfather had fallen ill and the quarterly fell by the wayside.”