by Erica Ridley
“I watched you make that sketch in less than fifteen minutes, and you managed to include a billiard table that was recognizably one of his. He won the proposal. Of course he thinks you’re brilliant.”
“John Thurston is going to build you a custom billiard table?” Her expression went from shocked to overjoyed. “Here? In Christmas?”
“Right there where you’re standing. I don’t know if you’re still interested in helping me remodel this dusty old room—”
“Yes!” She grabbed his hands and danced around him in an excited circle. “I could kiss you for this! It’s a dream come—”
His heart thumped.
Her cheeks went scarlet, as if just realizing what she’d said. “I didn’t mean…”
He wished she had meant it. There was suddenly nothing he wanted more than to pull her forward into his arms and lose himself in the taste of her lips.
“Well, then.” He forced himself to let go of her soft hands. “Let’s get to work. I’ll only be here for another month.”
“A month?” Her voice cracked “To tear out your old library, put in a billiard room, search for, interview, and employ fast, capable construction personnel, turn a haphazard sketch into actual, beautiful cabinetry, commission balls and cues and maces, somehow squeeze into the schedule of the most sought-after billiard table artisan in England… This will take several months.”
“Nothing to it.” Adam had faced far tougher deadlines in the House of Lords. He could succeed. They could succeed. “Billiards party in four weeks.”
Chapter 8
Carole hopped across her bedchamber rug as she tied her final boot. Every person in her household had needed her help this morning, and now she was running late to Azureford’s.
True to his word, the indomitable man had summoned draftsmen and journeymen out of the ether. Over the past week, a flurry of artists and experts had paraded in and out of his cottage, and Carole had been right by Azureford’s side through all of it. They’d spent long hours deliberating over designs and materials and proposals.
Today was the day the actual renovation was set to begin. Carole didn’t want to miss a single moment.
She skidded out her bedchamber into the corridor and nearly crashed into a maid carrying her father’s breakfast tray.
“Shall I take this to Mr. Quincy, miss?” Rhoda asked.
Every other morning, Carole’s answer to this question had always been, No, I’ll do it. Even though her father barely glanced up from his desk, at least he would know his daughter never stopped caring about him. The who-takes-the-tray dance was part of the ritual.
“Please do.” She curled her fingers about her reticule. “I must hurry.”
“You said… yes?” the maid stammered in obvious surprise. “That is, of course, miss. I’m happy to.”
Carole was always happy to, too. This uncharacteristic deviation was temporary. Soon enough, Azureford’s holiday would end and the Quincy household would resume its predictable patterns.
“Thank you, Rhoda.” Carole swept out the door before the maid’s shocked eyes could ask any more questions.
When all of this was over, she’d dedicate even more time to Father to make up for her absence. If it weren’t for Carole, he’d never come out of his study. Perhaps if she did more for him, he’d have free time… and spend some of it with her.
Before any early morning passersby could stop her, she sprinted from her front door to Azureford’s. It was wide open. Men in frequently patched work clothes streamed inside, or wandered around to the rear to squint at the pair of decorative windows Carole intended to replace with large, sunny panes to let in more light.
Inside, the chaos was perfection. The level of noise and the impossibility of walking in a straight line without bumping into someone made her feel like she was in the middle of Marlowe Castle’s ballroom at the height of the Christmas season.
“I need a measuring tape,” called out one of the men.
She yanked hers from her reticule and slapped the coiled white ribbon into his outstretched hand.
He grunted in response and climbed back up his ladder without a single word of thanks.
Carole’s spirits soared. She had never felt so much a part of something in her life. He hadn’t said, Wot, a woman?! or tried to explain in gentle terms that the very competent men were doing very important things right now, and maybe the little lady would like to retire to a pretty drawing room and mind her embroidery while they did the real work.
“Got a hammer and nails in there, too?” came a low, amused voice.
She spun to face Azureford, her heart pounding in excitement.
His dark brown hair tumbled across his forehead, as though he’d been up for hours. However, his polished black Hessians, tight-fitting buckskins, gorgeous jay-blue coat, and sharp white cravat made him look as if he’d been planning an outing with the beau monde, rather than a fortnight of sawdust and upheaval.
“All these big, strong men, and none of you thought to bring a hammer?” she teased.
His dark eyes narrowed as though he hadn’t liked the idea of her looking at other men. Her stomach fluttered in response. She could never tell him that the room could be filled with a thousand strapping dukes, and her gaze would still only be drawn to him.
“We’re about to find out if your plan will bear fruit.” His serious expression reminded her what they both had at stake. “Ready?”
Voice mute, she gave a jerky nod. She’d taught herself mathematics. Bested her father at billiards. Become head of her own household at nine years of age. She was capable of this.
“Good. Tomorrow, the woodworker arrives to take final measurements for the cabinetry you designed.” Azureford gestured behind him. “Today, we destroy perfectly sound shelves in order to make room.”
“No destroying!” She choked in horror. “You don’t need those shelves anymore, but the wood can be repurposed. Donate it to the castle if you haven’t any use for it yourself, and they’ll see it finds a worthy home.”
Without question, the Duke of Azureford turned and barked new orders to the men behind him.
They gestured their understanding and began stacking a pile of serviceable slats where the desk had once stood.
Joy threatened to overtake her. She looked around in wonder and pride. This wasn’t just another wistful sketch from her imagination. This was really happening. Azureford’s vast wealth and preternatural efficiency had turned her ideas from a sketch to reality in what felt like mere seconds.
Over the past week, she’d witnessed firsthand what it must be like to work alongside him in the House of Lords. No wonder everyone wanted him on their committees. He saw the big picture and the small details. Wrangled paper and people and projects without blinking an eye.
Carole’s eyes didn’t stop blinking from the dust flying in the air and the intermittent bang of hammers. The furniture was gone from the library, the workers were ripping shelves from the walls, and a team on the outside of the cottage were climbing up ladders next to the windows.
An older man in a battered cap drew up next to Azureford. “Need your approval for the changes to the design, Your Grace. Jimmy says—”
“Not me.” Azureford’s fingers grazed Carole’s arm. “Talk to her.”
Her chest thumped.
“Here.” The man shoved a sheaf of papers into her hands and jabbed at the topmost one with a dusty finger. “Them cabinets look pretty enough how they be, but Jimmy says if we make ’em a set of three and build back further into the wall…”
Carole nodded her comprehension as they went through each drawing. Her original design had been reworked several times to represent all angles. She’d been considering the cabinets from the perspective of someone standing inside the room, but now that the bookshelves were gone, they had a new understanding of how much extra space had been built between the back of the shelves and the outer wall. Jimmy’s idea was a good one.
“He’s right,” she said e
agerly, and fished a pencil from her reticule. Using the closest wall as a writing surface, she sketched new lines on top of the old ones. “If we increase the depth to that, and restructure the doors like this…”
“Aye. Hmm. I see. Jimmy, get your boots over here!”
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of explanations and activity. Noon had come and gone before Carole realized she’d been on her feet for so long she could no longer remember breakfast. She didn’t care. Let her stomach rumble. She was having the time of her life! She’d live in this room if need be until it was perfect.
“Come on.” Azureford looped his arm through hers and all but dragged her out of the library and into the dining room, which had become their makeshift base of operations.
She stumbled when she glanced over her shoulder toward the construction. “I—”
“—have to eat,” he finished firmly, and pulled out a chair for her.
Instead of their usual disarray of documents, the table overflowed with an abundant tea setting.
She sat, suddenly famished. “Thank you.”
Rather than preside from the head of the table, he took the seat beside her, as had become their custom.
“Pear tarts.” He placed two on her plate. “Not another word until you’ve eaten them.”
She grinned and picked up her fork. From the moment Azureford had discovered pear tarts were her favorites, tea hadn’t been served without them. Enjoying two at a time was no hardship at all.
When tea was finished, she turned to Azureford as the footmen cleared the table. “I was thinking...”
He held up a finger as if he’d been expecting precisely those words, and retrieved a small box from a side table. She laughed as he displayed his treasures: three new journals, two freshly cut plumes, and a large bottle of ink.
“I don’t think that much,” she teased him.
He arched his brows. “If I don’t keep my eye on you, all three of those journals will be fully illustrated by nightfall.”
“Then I suppose you better keep your eyes on me,” she answered lightly.
His voice turned husky. “I do.”
Her pulse skipped. Suddenly very aware of how close their bodies were to each other, she busied herself with the plumes and journals.
The moment passed, and in no time their heads were bent together over the designs for the billiard room and the timeline they needed to adhere to in order for all the pieces to fall into place on schedule.
Carole was no longer certain which were her favorite moments of the day: standing in the eye of the construction storm, or being elbow-to-elbow with Azureford amid a blanket of plans and sketches.
Despite being a powerful duke, he was neither arrogant nor imperious. He listened to her suggestions as though she were the one with the Oxford degree. Not that he hid his own opinions. Azureford was splendid to debate ideas with. His analytical nature was the perfect complement to her artistic imagination. Rather than argue, their conversations were liberally sprinkled with what if we and oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way!
They weren’t just a good team, she realized with wonder. Over a solid week of near-constant togetherness, they’d managed to become friends. She was free to be herself. Draw what she pleased, make as bold a suggestion as she liked. And as for him… what more could a woman want?
“This week,” he continued, “Thurston’s workshop is crafting the pieces for our billiard table. Next week when it arrives, they’ll install it directly in the new billiard room—”
“I’ll get to meet John Thurston?” she squealed.
“A pox on Thurston,” Azureford scolded with mock jealousy. “You’ll meet his contracted assembly team and that’s all.”
She feigned a lovesick swoon. “I’ll meet someone who has met John Thurston!”
“If I never hear that name again…” Azureford growled.
“Miss!” Jimmy poked his head inside the dining room. “Campbell wants to know if we can—”
“I’ll be right there.”
She leaped to her feet to gather their papers. Belatedly, she realized she must have set her teacup atop one of her sketches instead of in its saucer, for it had left a telltale golden ring around part of her signature.
Azureford was staring at it as though the stain foretold certain doom.
“Sorry.” She shuffled the sheet to the bottom of the pile. “I’ll draw a new one. Let’s go and see what Jimmy wants.”
When they reached the billiard room, she saw they’d finally completed the one modification she hadn’t yet shared with Azureford: a reading nook in the corner near the fireplace, with room for a chaise or sofa and a place of honor for his favorite books.
His jaw dropped. “Is that… Did you…”
She nodded. “The best light is supposed to be for the billiard table, but I know how deeply the old library kept you connected to your father. All his books are there, with room for more. You can hold them and read them anytime.”
His dark gaze swung to her and he stepped close enough to almost touch chest-to-chest. “The only thing I want to hold right now is…”
For one mad, dizzying moment, she almost thought the Duke of Azureford was going to kiss her. Right here. Right now. Amid the clanging of hammers and the tickle of sawdust and in front of a dozen burly witnesses. Carole wouldn’t have stood there and let him kiss her.
She would have kissed him back.
Chapter 9
The door to Azureford’s summer cottage swung open. With a sweep of his arm, Swinton welcomed them inside.
“Please,” Carole begged, keeping her voice low so only Judith would hear. “I know I told you that first day to keep the butler distracted elsewhere, but if you don’t physically restrain me from throwing myself at Azureford, God only knows what embarrassing thing I’ll… Judith?” Carole glanced over her shoulder in disbelief. “Judith?”
Both her maid and the butler had vanished into thin air as though the entranceway secretly concealed a trap door.
“Fair-weather chaperone,” Carole muttered under her breath.
She would have to keep her desires in check herself.
It shouldn’t be that hard. As long as she kept reminding herself that everything she and Azureford did was so that he would have a better chance of landing the diamond-of-the-first-water Society bride of his dreams. A fortnight ago, he’d told her he would only stay another month. He had an agenda to keep. The clock was ticking.
She strode into the billiard room with her heart under lock and key and her head held high.
Azureford was there waiting. He lounged on the satin-trimmed sofa in his reading nook with absolutely no regard to the wrinkles forming on his olive-green coat or the dent his chin was making in the folds of his cravat. When he saw her, his eyes lit up and he tossed the book he’d been reading aside.
Her heart melted a tiny bit.
He leaped to his feet, palms outstretched at his sides. “What do you think?”
About him? Gorgeous. Brilliant. Temporary. But she knew what he meant. By now, they barely needed to do more than make significant eye contact for the other to understand the meaning.
As of last night, construction was complete. This was the first morning without renovators everywhere. The billiard room contained absolutely everything but the billiard table. She stood in the center where the table would soon be and turned in a slow circle. The windows were large and sunny, the gilded cabinetry was intricately carved and its contents well-stocked.
In addition to the reading nook’s plush sofa, comfortable guest chairs dotted the perimeter of the room with small round tables between for spectators to set their canapés or glasses of champagne while they awaited their turn to play.
“It’s beautiful,” she admitted. “Your party is a foregone success.”
“You’re the secret to my success. I would’ve purchased the best table local carpenters could cobble together, but I wouldn’t have this—” He gestured at the cabinets, at the r
eading nook, at the bright windows illuminating his smile. “—without your help. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she mumbled, suddenly unsure how to take his praise. Was it just a compliment? Or was the subtext that they were finished now, and she should go home?
He pulled a small blue volume from the reading nook. “You left this behind. Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to keep it.”
Her sketchbook. He had placed it on the shelf where he kept his favorite books.
Cheeks warm, she accepted the worn volume. “I wanted to add one more illustration.”
“I know.” His twinkling eyes were unrepentant. “I peeked.”
She’d done it for him. She pretended to be miffed anyway. “A shocking violation of privacy.”
“You wanted me to find it.” He paused. “I’m not sure if you meant for anyone to notice the figures’ similarity.”
She shrugged. “I can’t draw people. Not from life or my imagination. I copied a random lady from a fashion plate over and over again until I had the lines memorized, and now I use her for everything.”
“As a substitution.” His fingers touched one of her stray tendrils. “I can’t help but notice the figure you chose looks remarkably like yourself.”
“What?” She paused in the act of shoving it into her reticule, and opened the book instead.
Was it true? Had she managed to draw herself into fun, outlandish situations that would never happen to someone like her after all?
She flipped through the pages. He wasn’t wrong. The ale-swilling, cheroot-smoking figure copied on every page shared every one of her physical characteristics.
“How did I not notice?”
“You noticed,” he pointed out. “You just didn’t notice that you noticed.”
“And that eloquence is what makes you the greatest orator the House of Lords has ever known,” she muttered.
“I’m not teasing you.” He touched a knuckle to her chin. “I like your sketches. I wished you’d drawn me into the last one.”