Ravished in Rose: The Brothers Duke: Book Four

by Felicia Greene

  Ravished in Rose

  by Felicia Greene

  Cecile walked up the stairs of the Barton townhouse as the rain beat down outside. Stopping to straighten one of the many china ornaments crowding the side tables, nodding to a maid who passed her with an armful of fresh linen, she knocked gently on the door of the study. Once allowed entrance, she chose her most crisply professional tone. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, my lady.’

  ‘A gentleman?’ Margaret Barton looked up from her desk, which was strewn with the gossip columns of all of London’s premier papers. Several names had been circled with a pencil, while others had been underlined. ‘Lord Pearson?’

  ‘… No, my lady. He declined to continue his appointments. Do you remember?’

  ‘Oh, lord. Yes. Then Mr. Grey?’

  ‘No, my lady. He sent a note not twenty minutes ago, saying he couldn’t attend today’s appointment.’

  ‘Well that’s–that’s a deplorable lack of organisation on his part. He’ll be charged accordingly.’

  ‘Quite, my lady.’

  Margaret looked guiltily at her maid. There had been four similar cancellations over the previous month, from gentlemen and ladies alike. Although Cecile would never be so impolite as to suggest a pattern, and Margaret certainly would never speak of such worrying signs to a member of staff, it was becoming abundantly clear that the famed Barton matchmaking services had apparently lost their shine.

  Of course they had. How could they not, after the carefully crafted union between Charles Weldon and Anne Fletcher had fallen to pieces? That was going to be the jewel in her crown, a perfect blend of similar temperament, childhood friendship and economic good sense—and they had thrown one another over at the last possible moment. She loved Anne to death, and still did despite this decision—but oh, Lord, what a blow!

  A perfect Barton courtship was meant to lead to a perfect Barton marriage. It had worked twenty-nine times before Anne and Charles—and Anne and Charles were meant to be the easiest union of the lot. Its public failure, combined with the whirlwind romance between Anne and John Duke an inappropriately short time afterward, had left Margaret bleeding clients without any way of staunching the wound.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’

  ‘No. He said he already knew you.’ Cecile looked troubled. ‘Perhaps I should have sent him away immediately.’

  ‘Oh, goodness. I doubt he’s here to murder me in my study.’ Although, given the way things were currently unfolding, perhaps an unhappy suitor was here to exact revenge. ‘Did he seem dangerous?’

  ‘No.’ Cecile paused. ‘A little abrupt.’

  ‘Well, abruptness can be dealt with. Ask him his name again, and bring him up.’

  She could keep her mind under control on any normal day. Memories were cunning creatures, slipping into the most normal of activities and making the past shine anew, but her defences were normally strong enough. Now, with her failure concerning Charles Weldon bleeding into the wider public and cancellations happening right, left and centre, she found herself seized with images of what had been–and worse, what could be.

  Everyone would find out about her. Her carefully constructed imaginary past would be picked to pieces, lie by lie, and her true name would be revealed. Her true self. Margaret Barton, the most respectable matchmaker in London, would be talked about all over the city as a–as a–

  Courtesan. Light-skirt.

  Whore.

  She had hidden her previous life so very carefully. Her hair was dyed, her complexion deliberately paled through days and days spent indoors in windowless rooms, trying to attain an aristocratic whiteness. She had changed her accent, listening with intense focus to the ladies of quality that occasionally wandered through Covent Garden, practising her vowels after dark. So much planning, so much dreaming, so much fierce, painful will… and then the six months hidden away in Whitby, whittling away the last of her funds gained through the sale of pleasure, waiting until no-one missed her.

  It had worked. It had kept working. But the minute her careful façade of invincibility began to crack, the fear of discovery made her throat dry and fingers tremble.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, my lady? You look a little pale.’

  ‘Thank you, Cecile, but I’m quite well.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’ Cecile curtseyed. A maid of real quality–and one who would undoubtedly leave her if the past came to light. ‘I’ll bring the gentleman up.’

  What gentleman had impetuously decided to call on her? It certainly wouldn’t be a suitor; Margaret kept men at a very firm arm’s length, sure that romantic entanglements would make her subject to gossip. Neither would it be a friend–she had no male friends to speak of. It would be a prospective client; one who didn’t have the foresight to make an appointment.

  Such a casual approach to one’s domestic life wasn’t promising in terms of making a good match. Margaret allowed a little coolness into her expression as she sat behind her desk, pretending to read documents that she’d read a thousand times before.

  ‘She’s in here, sir.’ Cecile’s voice alerted her to her guest. ‘My lady, it’s—’

  ‘Mr. Duke. Mr. Henry Duke.’ Margaret was shocked as she rose, very shocked, but didn’t allow it to alter her face. She curtseyed quickly, her eyes firmly on her desk. ‘We are acquaintances.’

  ‘Miss Barton.’ Henry bowed crisply. ‘We need to talk about my marital prospects.’

  Cecile’s eyes widened. Margaret looked carefully at her, warning her without speaking that any surprise on her part would be most unwelcome. With a near-imperceptible nod and a perfectly professional curtsey, the maid went and sat on her stool in the corner with a piece of needlework.

  She never had a meeting with a gentleman unchaperoned. Not in her private rooms. Margaret stared at Henry as he sat down, before sitting carefully back in her own chair and steepling her hands beneath her chin.

  She had seen Henry at Anne and John’s wedding. More accurately, she had looked at him at Anne and John’s wedding–stared, even, before remembering where she was. She had always had a weakness for serious-looking, square-jawed men with golden hair, and Henry Duke was just about the perfect example of such a type.

  She hadn’t understood why he was alone. Men who looked like that normally had at least three marriage-minded girls dropping their fans and turning their ankles wherever they went. Yes, perhaps he stared a little too intently, and yes, he had looked distracted during the ceremony–but those weren’t qualities that made a man unmarriageable. It was only three days later, sipping coffee with her friends that made up the formidable gossip network that covered all of London, that she had heard all of the rumours that swirled around him. Moonstruck. Addled. Strange.

  He didn’t look strange. He looked, above all things, definite. He stared at Margaret, unblinking, his stare as clear as water.

  ‘Well, Mr. Duke.’ Margaret swallowed. Being stared at so intently by a man so very close to her specific type made it difficult to speak elegantly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Marriage. I want it. I already told you.’

  Ah. Perhaps he was a little strange.

  ‘You wish to be married. Of course.’ Margaret made a small, useless note on the piece of paper in front of her. ‘And why have you decided to make such a change to your domestic arrangements?’

  ‘Because my brothers are getting married. One by one they go. If one has any knowledge of destiny at all, it seems clear that I’m next.’

  Cecile’s hands twitched as she sewed. Margaret shot her a warning look, fighting her own urge to smile at th
e same time. ‘You consider marriage a foregone conclusion?’

  ‘No. One of my brothers is an inveterate rake–I doubt he’ll ever marry. He doesn’t have the will. But destiny appears to be working on all the brothers that are inclined to marriage, and… and I’m inclined.’ Henry looked at her with no small amount of defiance. ‘If will and destiny meet, they can’t be ignored.’

  As strangely as the thought was phrased, he wasn’t wrong. She had forged the will to leave her life of sin, and destiny had met her half-way. Margaret paused for a moment, lost in the dark certainty of Henry’s eyes, before coming to her senses. ‘Quite.’

  ‘And I decided to come to you because I’m widely known to be unmarriageable, but wish to make a love-match.’

  A small, strained cough came from Cecile’s corner. Margaret glared; apparently her maid wasn’t the best quality that could be found. There was no point in having a chaperone if said chaperone was laughing into her sewing. ‘I’ve never met a gentleman who could truly be considered unmarriageable. And as for love-matches—’

  ‘I know. They’re like alchemy, they can’t be planned for, so on and so forth. My brothers have told me ad nauseam. But if every other possible point of compatibility can be planned for, elemental attraction and tenderness can be as well.’ Henry frowned. ‘At least, I assume they can.’

  ‘It’s a very difficult task.’

  ‘But you can do it. Can’t you?’

  At that precise moment, staring into Henry’s uncommonly handsome face and taking in his uncommonly… well, uncommon manner, Margaret wasn’t sure if she could. She also wasn’t sure which way was up, what her name was and what she was doing in front of the man. She sat silently, trying desperately to catch any thread of a helpful thought, before Cecile’s cough brought her gratefully back down to earth.

  ‘Cecile.’ She looked directly at her maid, trying to strike a balance between cool authority and concern. ‘Is your throat troubling you?’

  ‘I–A little, my lady.’

  ‘There’s barley-water in the kitchen. Perhaps you should have a glass.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Cecile rose gratefully from her stool, her shoulders already shaking with suppressed laughter as she put her needlework down. She practically ran to the door. ‘Very good, my lady.’

  Now, at least, she didn’t have a laughing maid to deal with. Unfortunately, she still had Henry Duke to deal with—and apparently, he couldn’t be dealt with all that easily.

  ‘Is the maid all right?’

  ‘I—I think she will be. Her throat has been troubling her for quite some time.’

  ‘I know she was laughing at me. You don’t need to lie.’

  ‘I—oh.’ Thank goodness she wasn’t the blushing kind. ‘I’m sure she wasn’t—’

  ‘I’m sure, and I don’t mind.’ Henry shrugged. There really did seem to be no unpleasantness in his expression. ‘Laughter is really the least of what people can do to you.’

  This was already the most unusual matrimonial investigation that she had ever been called upon to conduct, and it had barely even begun. Margaret mentally shook herself, leaning forward slightly as she spoke again. ‘Then we won’t speak of her. We’ll speak of your marriage prospects instead.’

  ‘Good. Yes.’

  ‘Before we begin a more general discussion, are there any ladies that you have in mind?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘… No.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’re keeping a name in reserve, Mr. Duke.’ Margaret leaned further forward. She didn’t know why she was being so curious, but the man was so compelling. So honest, yet so secretive–as if there were walls within him with large parts missing, a stunning landscape visible through the gaps. ‘Unless the lady is married or not yet available, anyone is permissible.’

  ‘Anyone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’ Henry didn’t blink. ‘You.’

  She had managed to keep her composure in all sorts of situations, but this was unprecedented. Margaret blinked, a shiver running through her. ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘You. Why not? You’re very beautiful, you’re clearly intelligent. You’re interested in wider concerns.’

  ‘How—how do you know I’m intelligent, or interested in wider concerns?’

  ‘You have four daily newspapers on the table in the entrance hall, all of them specialising in different current events. You have seventy-five books in this room, and nineteen of them were only published this month. Seven of those nineteen run the gamut from physics to creatures found in the South Seas. That, at least to me, speaks of both intelligence and a healthy interest in the wider world.’ Henry paused. ‘I don’t think I’m wrong.’

  ‘You’re… you’re not.’ She’d never met anyone quite like this. ‘But—’

  ‘But it’s impossible. I know. You don’t want to marry me.’

  ‘It’s not that I—well, I wouldn’t say it like—’

  ‘Would it help if I tell you the effect you have on me?’

  ‘The effect?’

  ‘The physical effect.’

  Thank God Cecile wasn’t in the room. ‘That isn’t a conversation that a lady and gentleman can reasonably have.’

  ‘I know. But we’re unobserved. I would have said it with the maid in the room, but you seemed quite embarrassed by her presence.’

  ‘... Well, then.’ A faint, giddy thrill of the forbidden ran through Margaret. How long had it been since she’d done something that couldn’t be classed as respectable? ‘I suppose I can’t stop you.’

  ‘Of course you can stop me. All you have to do is tell me to stop.’ Henry leaned forward. ‘But you haven’t.’

  It was true. She hadn’t. She’d danced around it, but not actually put a stop to anything she said. Almost as if, in fact, she wanted to hear it.

  Oh, Lord. Margaret bowed her head. This is a bad idea.

  ‘As soon as I walked into the room, my heart beat faster at the sight of you.’ Henry spoke with an almost clinical detachment, which made the hackneyed sentiment shine with new, compelling truth. ‘It rarely happens to me with anyone. Perhaps it’s the shape of your face, or your body–I know I’m not supposed to speak of your body during the course of what’s essentially a business meeting, so I won’t. But it made my heart beat faster, as did your face. Still does. And then you opened your mouth, and your voice did nothing to dispel the feeling–if anything, it exacerbated it.’

  Margaret opened her mouth and closed it again. There were no possible words that could encapsulate the flattered, shocked, strange feeling that washed over her like water at Henry’s words.

  ‘I’m still not quite sure what to do about the physical effect. Combined with your clear intelligence, it—it’s very powerful indeed. I’m not sure what will happen if I dwell on it. I certainly won’t be able to get on with my work.’ Henry shrugged. ‘If anything, marrying you would be a practical solution. It would mean I could turn my mind to other things immediately.’

  Margaret blinked. ‘Immediately?’

  ‘Hmm. Possibly not immediately. I imagine I’d want to know more about you.’ Henry’s voice lowered a little, as if he were considering the problem. ‘I’m not sure I’d ever know enough about you. I want to know more about you sitting here now, even though I can’t.’

  ‘And–and why can’t you?’

  ‘Because you look a little frightened.’ Henry paused. ‘I don’t want you to be frightened of me.’

  ‘Mr. Duke.’ Margaret spread her fingers carefully on the desk, needing something solid under her hands as she addressed him. ‘You don’t frighten me. Not in the slightest.’

  ‘You look frightened of me.’

  ‘I’m uncomfortable. I’ll readily admit that. But that’s because of the–the public nature of this conversation, which is extremely intimate.’

  ‘But it’s just us.’

  ‘No. We are in a townhouse in daylight, with any number of servants moving abo
ut.’ Margaret paused. ‘Conversations like this… they’re for more private moments.’

  ‘Ah. Excuse me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You see? You’re more intelligent than me. You know what conversations are for when.’ Henry smiled. The soft pleasure of his expression was delightful. ‘We should have met long ago.’

  ‘We’ve already met.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes. At your brother’s wedding. Well, not—not met. We weren’t formally introduced. But I was there. I—I saw you.’

  ‘I didn’t notice you at the wedding. I didn’t notice anyone in particular.’ Henry shrugged. ‘I generally don’t. But now I’m here, noticing you, and… and I know I want to marry you. In fact, I’m certain.’

  Such a laughable sentence should make one want to laugh, but Margaret didn’t want to. She had no excuse whatsoever for the tumult of feeling in her breast. ‘You can’t be certain that you’re going to marry me.’

  ‘I know. But I’m certain that I want to.’

  ‘How can you be certain of something that’s meant to take so very long?’

  ‘I’m faster than other people. I always have been. I look at you, and I know.’

  It was as if she’d invited an earthquake into her office. Something that would shake her to the very foundations, leaving only the most vulnerable core of her being. Margaret pressed her palms more tightly into the wood of her desk, trying to conjure up a single thought with at least a kernel of good sense.

  ‘Mr… Mr. Duke.’ She spoke quietly now, unable to summon up a pretence of brisk cheeriness. ‘You came here intending to engage my services. Do you still intend to do so, despite this… this certainty, on your part, that we should be wed?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Henry blinked. ‘Should I?’

  ‘… Yes. Yes, I think you should.’ Margaret slowly clasped her hands together. ‘I consider it very important to–to gain an understanding of the general terrain before choosing a particular part of it. In fact, such caution is vital to an eventually successful union.’

  ‘If you say so. You’re the expert in these matters, after all.’ Henry paused. ‘And—and could this general understanding of the terrain be considered a trial period for our own union?’