The Duke Who Loved Me

by Jane Ashford

  Their circle reacted with varying degrees of alarm. James wondered if his grandmother’s footman had developed some inconvenient initiative.

  Ned jumped up. “That’ll be Felks.”

  “Who?” asked James. He had not sanctioned any visitors.

  “He’s a champion ratter,” said Ned over his shoulder.

  “What? I didn’t…” James glanced at Mrs. Gardener. She shook her head, looking frightened.

  Ned returned with a squat, seedy-looking man who held the leashes of three short-haired terriers. The little dogs vibrated with energy. “I told Felks we got rats here, and you’d pay to have them killed,” said Ned.

  “Penny a rat,” said the newcomer.

  “Well, but…”

  “My boys is the best in the business,” continued Felks, indicating the eager dogs. “They’ll find your rats and bring them back to me, dead. Every last one.”

  “Commendable,” said James. “But I do not think that this house is suit…”

  As if feeling his payment slip away, Felks bent and released the terriers. They sprang away and out the kitchen door.

  “Wait,” said James, far too late.

  The scrabble of paws faded. There was a pause that James felt to be ominous. Then, somewhere in the house, a large object hit the floor. A clatter of smaller items followed the thud, punctuated with excited barks.

  “What the devil?” said Felks.

  The sounds of toppling furniture nearly drowned him out.

  “Was that a pianoforte?” asked Cecelia.

  There had been a trill of notes as if from a keyboard. James had not noticed an instrument, but a small animal could go where he could not.

  The cascade of noise continued. James pictured three trails of mayhem.

  “My dogs do not knock things about,” said Felks. “They’re trained right, they are. No climbing on the sofas or pulling at draperies.”

  “As I tried to say, this house is unusual,” said James. “Not…not suited for dogs.”

  “How many rats is in here?” asked Felks, scowling.

  Cecelia choked. On a laugh, James thought. “Can you call your dogs back?” he asked their visitor.

  “I’ll go and fetch ’em!” Felks went out. “What the hell?” came floating back in his wake.

  There was a good deal more banging and crashing and creative cursing before Felks returned with the terriers leashed once again. One held a large rat in its teeth and did not seem inclined to give it up.

  “Ugh,” said Jen.

  “What sort of place is this?” Felks glared at Ned and then at James. “It’s no better than a rubbish heap.”

  “Thus the rats,” James couldn’t help but say.

  “My dogs couldn’t keep from knocking into things,” Felks went on, belligerent. “This ain’t their fault.”

  “No. I don’t think this is a good place for them to, er, work,” said James. “Too constricted.”

  “Well, they can dig through most anything,” replied Felks, recovering some of his balance. “But there might be damage, like.”

  “I think we will try another method.”

  “You owe me a penny for this ’en.” Felks pointed at the dead rat hanging from the terrier’s mouth.

  “Take this for your trouble.” James handed him a sovereign.

  The man looked delighted. “Thank your lordship and no hard feelings about the misunderstanding, I hope.”

  “None.”

  Pulling on the leashes, Felks made his way out. James turned to Ned.

  To find that the boy looked absolutely terrified. “I’m sorry,” he cried, cringing under James’s gaze. “You kin throw me out, but let Mam and the girls stay. It’s not their fault. I never said anything to them about Felks.”

  Mrs. Gardener stepped in front of her son. “If you try to beat him, we will all go,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “I’m not going to beat him,” said James, shocked.

  “You have no right to touch him. You ain’t his father.” Mrs. Gardener trembled and blinked back tears but stood her ground, a thin, careworn woman in an ill-fitting muslin gown. But adamant.

  “James would never beat a child,” exclaimed Cecelia. Her tone held absolute certainty. It was a voice that left no room for question or argument.

  “Of course not,” said James. “Not under any circumstances.”

  The change in the atmosphere was marked. All the Gardeners slumped with relief. Ned was clearly fighting tears with all his might.

  “Let us sit and have our tea,” said Cecelia.

  Mrs. Gardener wrung her hands. “It’s likely gone cold.”

  “I will make a fresh pot.” Cecelia put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Sit down.”

  “That ain’t right.”

  “Of course it is.” Cecelia took up the teapot and turned toward the fire.

  “Jam,” said James. “We all require a good deal of jam. Don’t we, Effie?”

  The smallest Gardener nodded tearfully. They settled again at the table. Muffins were buttered and slathered with raspberry jam. Large bites were taken.

  “So,” said James after a while, and wished that his staff did not stiffen and shy at the sound of his voice. “Your impulse was right, but the method was wrong, Ned.”

  “Yessir,” replied the boy, eyes on the tabletop.

  “You should have consulted me first.”

  “Yessir. Milord, I should say.”

  James could not understand why the lad looked so deeply anxious. “In the future, you will do so about any arrangements that, er, occur to you,” he continued.

  The mention of a future seemed to hearten Ned. He looked up. “Yessir. Milord.”

  “So here is what I think we must do.”

  Ned crouched, and the whole family froze again as if awaiting a blow. Even though he’d said he would never hit a child. What did they expect was going to happen? And then an answer occurred to him, and James decided that it might be a good thing the father of this family was gone. What had Mrs. Gardener said—that he had no right to touch Ned as he wasn’t his father? Did she think a father had such rights?

  James felt a sudden fierce longing to show these children, and their mother, too, that there were other sorts of men in the world. He almost said so. But words were cheap, and often deceptive in their world. Only actions would convince them, over time.

  Ned straightened and raised his chin. “I’m ready to take my punishment,” he said.

  “Not a punishment,” exclaimed Cecelia, who had brought hot water to warm the tea.

  “Rather a change of strategy,” said James quickly. “Or is it tactics?”

  His small audience stared at him. Jen’s mouth hung open.

  “In either case, I think a stealthy approach is better suited to our…situation,” he continued. “So, Ned, you should find us some cats. Large fierce cats who are accustomed to hunting rats. Several, I should think. Though not vicious, of course.”

  Ned didn’t look much heartened. “I’m not partial to cats,” he muttered to his half-eaten muffin. “Can I get Effie to help me?”

  “Effie?” James glanced at the smallest Gardener. She had raspberry jam smeared all around her mouth.

  “She loves cats,” Ned explained. “And they all love her, even the meanest, scraggliest ones.”

  Effie nodded enthusiastically. She clawed the air with her hands.

  “I suppose,” said James. “If you take care.”

  “Course I will.” Some of Ned’s customary spirit resurfaced. “She’s my sister.”

  “I kin do it,” declared Effie. “I’ll find proper mousers and bring ’em back. I can’t do much work, like, in the house. But I kin do that.”

  James felt an odd tremor in the region of his chest. “Right. Good. Well, you may c
ommence the, er, cat hunt when ready.”

  Ned stood at once. Effie followed suit, with a mournful glance at her remaining muffin.

  “After you have finished eating of course and are, ah, fortified for the task ahead,” James added.

  They brightened like the sun and sat back down.

  Cecelia walked out of the kitchen. Startled, James followed her. He found her in the room they’d first cleared, with its table of curiosities. Her eyes were bright with tears. “What is it?”

  “I couldn’t bear to see them look so happy about something so simple. A muffin, James. Some jam.”

  “Not being beaten for making a mistake,” added James.

  Cecelia nodded. Her breath caught on a sob, and she began to cry.

  James moved to put an arm around her. She turned within it, buried her face in his shoulder and wept—a thing she had done only once before in all the years they’d known each other.

  He put his other arm around her and held on while she cried. He hoped it was a comfort. Oddly, her tears were a comfort to him, because they were right. The scene they’d just witnessed ought to be mourned. It had left him raw—having children flinch away from him in fear, thinking of the circumstances that had made them act so. It was wretched, outrageous, insupportable. They deserved tears.

  Cecelia’s didn’t last long. James could feel her struggling to shake them off. She stopped on a long, shaky breath and took another, deeper one.

  James expected her to pull away, but she didn’t. She lingered a moment in his arms, nestled there. Triumph shot through James at that small confiding motion. He felt as if he’d won a great prize he hadn’t known he was vying for. He hadn’t even been aware that it existed. Which made the gift even more precious.

  They stayed together. Cecelia sighed, and the feel of her body changed, softened. Her hand moved on his back.

  James’s arms tightened of their own accord. Need flamed through him. He wanted Cecelia as he’d never wanted a woman before. She was all a man could desire.

  Cecelia straightened, drew back, and stepped away. She didn’t meet his eyes. He had to let her go. She brushed at his coat. “I’ve soaked your shoulder.”

  “No matter.” He looked for a sign that she’d felt what he did. She pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and blow her nose with a ladylike snuffle.

  “Our fathers were not easy,” she said then. “But…”

  James nodded. “Words can lash, but my father was merely cold and dictatorial.”

  “And mine distracted and self-centered.”

  “Beatings are something else entirely,” he finished.

  “Yes. Despicable!” She tucked her handkerchief away. “Do you think it was only Ned?”

  “From the way the family reacted, I would guess so. I’ve gathered from other things they’ve said that Ned’s father did not approve of him.”

  “Approve? What do you mean? He is an eleven-year-old boy.”

  “Who is interested in types of fabric and details of design. He let drop that he knows how to use a flatiron, and the whole family blanched as if he’d admitted to being a murderer. Such a clamor to change the subject!”

  “But why?”

  “I cannot say. But after today, I judge they were expecting an explosion of temper from me.”

  She shook her head. “I suppose Mr. Gardener was one of those who despises anything labeled women’s work.”

  “Perhaps.” James remembered incidents at school, when sensitive boys had been teased and bullied. So often the victim of his father’s sarcasm, he’d never joined in. But he hadn’t helped them either. “I do know one thing,” he added.

  “What?” asked Cecelia.

  “I shall prove to them that their late unlamented father is not the only kind of man in the world.” James was surprised at the ferocity of this resolve.

  “What sort will you show them?” she wondered softly.

  With such a strong feeling, he should have an immediate answer. But he did not. James struggled to put words to the impulse and realized that it had been spurred on by many things that had happened in the last few weeks. A proposal and a humiliation and a change in perspective. He spoke slowly. “One who knows that strength includes, is rooted in, kindness.” He remembered Ned cringing away and nearly cringed himself. “One who appreciates those who are not like him.”

  Cecelia put a hand on his arm. She looked up at him with a tenderness he’d never seen in her eyes before. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

  He bent his head. She raised her chin. They moved as one.

  The kiss was soft and confiding at first. Gradually, it grew deep and exploratory, inflaming James to the core. It seemed that she did want to kiss him, noted the tiny part of his brain that still functioned. He certainly wanted to keep on kissing her—today, tomorrow, and for the rest of his life. James pulled her against him, every line of their bodies melting together. She laced her arms around his neck and matched his ardor. This was what he’d been looking for, James thought. This was the missing piece.

  “Mam wonders can we order a roast beef from the butcher,” declared a small female voice.

  Cecelia jerked back. James protested wordlessly, but she stepped out of his arms and away. He turned to discover Jen standing in the doorway. She didn’t seem shocked by the kiss. But neither did she make any allowance for privacy. How could it be so hard to achieve with only six people in a large house?

  “She says it’s more economical, like,” added Jen. She waited, unconscious of awkwardness.

  “I must go,” said Cecelia. Her face was flushed. She looked gloriously disheveled, even though her clothes were scarcely mussed.

  “Not yet,” commanded James. He had to speak to her.

  “No, I must.” Cecelia turned and rushed out.

  He started to go after her, then conceded that he couldn’t settle matters between them while chasing her through the streets.

  “Mam reckons a big roast would last us four days,” said Jen. “With a stew at the end iffen we get more taters and carrots.”

  He would not be angry. Hadn’t he just vowed as much? Or at least he would not show it. He could manage that. “Tell her yes.”

  Jen’s eyes shone. “I never had a roast beef before.”

  “Then you are in for a treat.” James made a shooing motion, and the girl ran off. He went to relieve his feelings by chucking some large items out the window.

  Eleven

  Though Cecelia sat in her familiar drawing room, hearing the usual scratching of her aunt’s pen in her notebook and occasional carriage passing in the street, her mind and heart were not there. They remained some streets away with James and his kiss. She could think of nothing else. His touch, his manner, his passion—these were all that she’d dreamed of. She felt that the heat in his eyes had been tinged with tenderness. Might she dare to love him?

  Or, that was a silly question. Rather, might she admit that she did? Because the issue was beyond dispute. Her feelings were stronger than ever. His touch had ignited them.

  She’d hidden her love in self-defense to keep from being hurt, but deception was becoming impossible. When she saw him again, she would want to kiss him again. And more than that. He seemed so changed. Perhaps they could…

  “Lawks!” cried Aunt Valeria.

  Cecelia jumped and turned to stare at her.

  “I’ve spoken to you three times, and you have not answered,” said her aunt. “What is the matter?”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Indeed? I approve of cogitation. What weighty matter occupies you this morning?”

  “I was…wondering about…” She certainly couldn’t speak of melting kisses. And she didn’t want to mention James, since all paths led from him to…melting kisses. Only one subject was guaranteed to divert Aunt Valeria. “About, ah, whether bee
s can…fly in the rain.”

  This earned her a look of blank disbelief. Well deserved, but she was launched on this course now. “I have seen raindrops almost as large as their entire bodies,” she went on.

  “True.” Her aunt’s thoughts were being pulled into her favorite topic. Cecelia could almost see it happening, like the ineluctable pull of gravity.

  “They fly easily enough in light rain,” she said. “Though from my observations I would say they don’t like it. Well, who can blame them? A heavy rain is another matter. A very large drop is capable of breaking a bee’s wing.”

  “Goodness.”

  “There is nothing good about it if they are caught out during a downpour. They must scramble then!” Aunt Valeria nodded emphatically. “Individual bees have been known to shelter under large leaves.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “Of course.” Clever was the nature of bees, her expression said. And apparently not the nature of nieces, it implied.

  Cecelia was groping for something more to say when her father walked into the drawing room.

  This was practically unprecedented. Papa’s daily routine encompassed his study, the dining room, and his bedchamber. He might be seen in the corridors or on the stairs between these stations, but almost never anywhere else.

  “I came to speak to you about the roast of pork at dinner last night,” he said without preamble. He fixed Cecelia with a censorious glare. “It was not up to your usual standard. One might even say tough as old boots.”

  This explained his visit. Food and philosophy were her father’s joint obsessions. Cecelia could not have said which was the more important to him. “It was rather,” she acknowledged. “I did suggest a ragout, you know, because the joint seemed…”

  He waved this excuse aside. “No dinner is complete without a decent roast. I trust this lapse will not be repeated. I would rather not send a reprimand to Cook.”

  “Please don’t, Papa.” That would cause an uproar and upset the household for days.

  “There will be no need if you see to the matter,” he answered loftily.