by Olivia Drake
That event ought to have inspired his gratitude to Abby. She had prevented him from making a dastardly error of judgment. Instead, her presence in his house had caused a knot in his gut that was equal parts antipathy and attraction. Good God, he couldn’t still be drawn to Abigail Linton, not after so many years—
“… Miss Linton.”
He was startled to hear her name spoken by Mrs. Chalmers. The woman was looking inquiringly at him, and for one mad moment he feared he had uttered Abby’s name aloud. “Pardon?”
“I said that it was a pleasure to meet Miss Linton, Your Grace. She was in the picture gallery this morning as we were touring the house.”
“We came upon her admiring the painting of you with your parents,” Elise added. “I must say it is a lovely family portrait. How old were you?”
Max gathered his thoughts. “Sixteen, though I haven’t viewed the canvas in years. What was Miss Linton doing in the gallery?”
“Watching at the window for your sister’s return,” Pettibone said. “She made quite the pretty picture herself.”
“It’s those big blue eyes and the charming blush,” Ambrose added with a lecherous waggle of an eyebrow. “In London, she’d put all the ladies to shame.”
Max had known these two scoundrels since they’d bonded as boys at Eton, planning pranks while everyone else was asleep, then later, at Oxford, landing themselves in scrapes that generally involved either gambling or the muslin brigade. It made him livid to think of either of them ogling Abby.
“Miss Linton is my employee. You will stay away from her. I trust I make myself clear.” Hearing the vehemence in his voice, he made a conscious effort to assume a more affable expression. “There are plenty of other pursuits to keep you occupied—billiards, cards, shooting. Go for a walk or a ride. There used to be a rowboat down by the lake if you care to fish.”
“I’m curious,” Ambrose persisted, “did you know Miss Linton when you were children? Surely it would be impossible to forget such a charming female living nearly on your doorstep.”
Max gave him a cool stare. Though he had never mentioned Abby by name, he’d been a surly beast fifteen years ago. His father had kept him in London for the autumn term, studying with tutors, and when Ambrose had come to express condolences over the duchess’s death, Max had let slip an unguarded reference to the thwarted romance.
Now, Ambrose must be speculating that Abby had been that mystery girl. Worse, Elise appeared keenly interested in Max’s response, for her speculative gaze was fixed on his face.
Max took a sip of wine before answering. “My father frowned upon me mingling with the locals. So, there is your answer.”
“I should guess she was too young for you, anyway,” Mrs. Chalmers said. “Miss Linton surely cannot be a day over five-and-twenty.”
“She’s certainly no ape leader,” Pettibone concurred.
“Then I shall be the one to disagree,” Elise said, motioning to the footman to remove the plates. “I would put her age on par with Rothwell’s. Do tell us, Your Grace, which of us is correct?”
They all looked to Max for confirmation. Finding himself the subject of four pairs of prying eyes did little to improve his disposition.
“Far be it from me to reveal a lady’s age,” he said. “But she is younger than I am. Beyond that, kindly leave me out of your guessing games.”
His testy manner served to put a damper on their speculations, and the conversation turned to other matters for the remainder of the meal. Elise, in particular, seemed intent on making herself agreeable to him, batting her lashes and smiling winsomely. When at last they arose, Mrs. Chalmers suggested they enjoy the fine weather by taking a tour of the gardens. Elise would have lagged behind with Max, but he put a firm stop to it.
“Go with the others,” he said, removing her dainty hand from his arm. “I have estate business to attend to this afternoon.”
“But darling, I’ve scarcely had a moment of your time. Might I not accompany you?”
She stood very close, her soft bosom brushing his upper arm, her lips forming a moue of distress that he should have found enchanting. But today he felt only an impatience to be shed of her, for if he could not seduce the beauteous widow just yet, there was no purpose to enduring her insipid company.
Insipid? When had he begun to think of her in that way?
“A long session with my man of business would bore you to tears,” he said. “It cannot be postponed, alas, but I shall see you for drinks before dinner. Now you had better hurry or you’ll lose sight of the others.”
Max gave her a little nudge toward their friends, who were already far down the corridor. Elise presented him with one last glimpse of her pouty face before she flounced after them, her hips swaying.
He headed in the direction of his study. He was looking forward to the meeting with Hammond. His dealings with the man on estate matters usually were handled by correspondence, and he relished the opportunity to discuss things face-to-face. Then afterward, he had something else to do.
He would ride out to visit Gwen’s old governess, an encounter that by necessity must be kept secret.
Chapter 8
As they started down the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vastness of the entrance hall, Lady Gwendolyn cast a nervous glance at Abby. “Are you quite sure that people will like me, Miss Linton?”
The girl had been unnaturally quiet during luncheon in the sitting room where they always took their meals. Now they were heading out to deliver baskets to a number of infirm and needy tenants on Rothwell land. Abby looked forward to the outing, for she had grown up visiting the people of the parish. Yet she could imagine how daunting the task must seem to a girl who had spent her life sheltered in a gilded cage.
She gave Lady Gwendolyn a warm smile. “Of course they’ll like you, darling. You’re a lovely, warmhearted young lady. In truth, they are far more likely to be worried that you won’t like them.”
“Oh my, I wouldn’t wish anyone to think such a thing. But what shall I say to them?”
“When at a loss for conversation, the best course is to ask questions. Most people are happy to chat about the things that are of interest to them. You might ask a farmer’s wife what type of crops the family is growing, or what the names and ages of her children are. The trick is to ensure that the other person does most of the talking.”
“How clever! Yes, I can see where that would be very helpful.”
As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Abby noticed that the front door was already open. A footman in blue livery stood at attention while Finchley spoke to a pair of women who stood on the portico. As the old butler stepped aside to allow them entry, a shock of recognition struck Abby.
“Pray excuse me!” she told Lady Gwendolyn, before hastening forward to greet the visitors.
Finchley’s squinty eyes gleamed with interest. “Mrs. Rosalind Perkins and Miss Valerie Perkins,” he intoned.
“So I see,” Abby said, brushing a kiss to her sister’s scented cheek. “Rosie, whatever are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to call, of course! I should think you’d have expected us.”
Rosalind looked the picture of fashion in jonquil muslin with a fluted bonnet that sported a trio of egret plumes. Her daughter, Valerie, wore a demure gown of pale Saxon green, a yellow sash tied beneath her bosom. A jaunty straw bonnet crowned her strawberry-blond curls.
Squealing with delight, Valerie hurled herself into her aunt’s embrace. “Aunt Abby! I can’t believe you’re living in such a magnificent house! Why, it’s like a palace!”
“Hush, my sweet,” Rosalind murmured. “Did I not warn you to mind your manners? It won’t do to behave like a hoyden.”
“Of course, Mama.” Valerie instantly assumed a modest demeanor. She dipped her dainty chin, though her blue eyes sparkled beneath a siren’s long lashes. That fetching expression looked as if it had been practiced in front of a mirror.
Abby returned her atte
ntion to her older sister. “Surely you must know that I’m not allowed to entertain guests.”
“Oh, but we are not your guests,” Rosalind said. “We’re fortunate to see you, but we’ve actually come to call upon the duke. It’s only proper that we should welcome him back to the neighborhood.”
Abby choked off a groan. She ought to have realized at once what her ambitious sister desired—for the Duke of Rothwell to fall head over ears in love with seventeen-year-old Valerie. How imprudent of Rosalind! Had she given no thought at all to the awkward position in which she’d placed Abby? Very likely not. Rothwell was bound to be provoked by a request to receive relatives of the governess, no matter how well bred they might be.
Finchley, she noticed, was already disappearing down the long corridor. The ancient butler looked in a hurry to inform the duke of his unexpected visitors. And he was too far away for her to stop him without creating a scene.
Unclenching her teeth, Abby murmured, “Might I remind you, Rosie, you don’t live anywhere near this neighborhood any longer. In fact, I would have thought you’d have gone home to Kent already.”
“Oh, la! Peter had business in Dorset, so it made more sense for us to await his return before setting out for home together. Clifford invited us to prolong our stay, and Lucille has been very glad for our company since you left her without a companion. How auspicious it was when we heard that His Grace’s coach had been sighted in the village yesterday. Why, it is almost as if it were ordained by the fates!”
While speaking, Rosalind was eyeing the gilt and marble appointments of the entrance hall, the high domed ceiling, and the large murals that depicted scenes from Aesop’s Fables, as if she were imagining her daughter reigning over all this splendor as the Duchess of Rothwell. Meanwhile, Valerie’s inquisitive gaze was fastened on Lady Gwendolyn, who hung back shyly by the newel post.
Abby wrestled with the awkward situation. It wasn’t her place to introduce Rothwell’s sister to anyone without his consent. Yet she could hardly be rude, so she brought her charge forward. “Lady Gwendolyn, may I present my sister, Mrs. Perkins, and her daughter, Valerie.”
Both visitors curtsied to the duke’s sister, whose lips curved in an uncertain smile. In a hesitant voice, the girl murmured, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Her dove-gray eyes flashed to Abby, silently begging for help. “Perhaps,” Abby suggested, “you could escort the visitors to the antechamber to await Finchley’s return.”
Lady Gwendolyn led the way through an arched doorway and into an elegant room with apricot-painted silk on the walls, Sheraton chairs, and porcelain vases on pedestals. Bringing up the rear, Abby prayed that the butler would return swiftly with the news that the duke was not receiving today. How cringeworthy to imagine her sister boasting of Valerie’s ladylike accomplishments to Rothwell.
He might be an incorrigible rogue, but that didn’t mean she wished to give him ammunition to mock her or her family.
“Oh, I do adore your gown,” Valerie told Lady Gwendolyn. “I have been looking for a length of muslin in that very shade of peach. And the ribbons are so pretty, too. Who would have thought to use fawn, but it is absolutely perfect! You must tell me the name of your modiste. I shall turn eighteen in January, so I am to make my bows next spring, and Mama and I are already planning my trousseau. May I tell you about it?”
Lady Gwendolyn looked a trifle bemused by the prattle, but she readily agreed, and the two girls sat down on a chaise near the window. They soon had their heads together in a tête-à-tête, with Valerie doing most of the talking while Lady Gwendolyn smiled and nodded.
“How perfect, they soon will be fast friends,” Rosalind confided in a murmur. “It is precisely as I had hoped!”
“Hoped?” Abby said, frowning. “What do you mean? I thought you’d come to charm the duke.”
“Half an hour’s visit is scarcely adequate. That is why I intend to suggest to His Grace that Valerie would make a suitable companion for his sister. James put the idea in my head when he mentioned that Lady Gwendolyn spends most of her time cooped up in this house with only her aunt and a few servants for company. Do you know how long Rothwell plans on staying?”
As the local vicar, their brother James knew the comings and goings of everyone in the parish, but Abby doubted that he would have suggested such a brazen ruse. No, this had all the earmarks of one of Rosalind’s madcap notions. “It’s my understanding he’ll be in residence for no more than a week, perhaps less,” she said dampeningly. “And since you too will be going home to Kent soon, there is scarcely time for a friendship to form. You might as well abandon this scheme.”
“Abandon it, bah. When the most eligible man in all of England is right here on our doorstep? Rothwell is past thirty and he must soon be turning his mind to marriage. And why not to my dear girl? Just look at her. Is she not the most taking little thing you’ve ever seen? Such charm! Such beauty!”
Abby flicked a glance at her niece, who was indeed the essence of the peaches-and-cream young lady. Valerie was personable and lively, and despite her modest portion, she doubtless would attract a great deal of male attention when she made her debut. But she was also a complete widget with little experience of the world.
“Of course she’s lovely, but do be reasonable. There must be flocks of girls with grander connections. Besides which, the duke is nearly twice her age and he’s a hardened libertine as well. In fact, he has brought several rakes and questionable females here with him—along with a prizefighter out in the stables.”
“Oh, la! If Rothwell deems them acceptable company for his sister, then it must be so for Valerie, too. As to marriage, she will have him twined around her pretty little finger in no time. But first, she must have her chance to catch his notice. That is where you can help, Abby.”
“Me?” The very notion of being recruited for such mischief appalled her. “I want no part of this scheme. Lady Gwendolyn and I were just on our way out, anyway.”
Rosalind frowned. “Where are you going?”
“We’re spending the afternoon visiting a number of tenants on the duke’s estate.” Abby glanced out the window. “I see that our carriage is already waiting outside.”
“Ah, I did wonder if someone else had come to call. But you mustn’t leave just yet. If Lady Gwendolyn isn’t at home, it will ruin everything!”
“All the more reason for us to depart at once. Then I won’t have to witness you pitchforking my niece into Rothwell’s lap.”
As Abby turned away, intending to collect the girl, Rosalind caught hold of her arm. Abby found herself the subject of her sister’s sharp brown gaze. “Perhaps there is another reason for your refusal to help,” Rosalind whispered. “Is it possible that you still harbor a soft spot for His Grace?”
The question rattled Abby. Rosalind was the only one in the family who knew about that long-ago romance. Abby had been obliged to confide in her sister since there had been no other way to smuggle out letters to Max. It was strictly forbidden for a young girl to correspond with an unrelated male, and so she had not dared to ask her father to frank the letters. Instead, she had sent them to her sister, who was ten years her elder and enjoyed more latitude as a married woman. Since Rosalind had always reveled in clandestine plots, she’d gladly forwarded them to Max.
Now, that inquisitive stare made Abby feel defensive—especially in light of her own disturbing flash of desire at seeing Rothwell stripped to the waist. “Don’t be absurd,” she said firmly. “That was a mere childhood fancy, and it is long since finished. I can assure you, I’ve no interest whatsoever in him anymore—nor he in me.”
Seeing that Rosalind looked satisfied by the answer, Abby realized belatedly that she ought to have pretended to still carry a torch for him. That might have better served to thwart her sister’s plan. But it was too late now.
“I have always envied you for not being of a disposition for marriage,” Rosalind said, while checking her reflection in a gilt
-framed mirror. “It is quite a trial to fret over one’s children, you know, and to always worry that one is doing what is best for them.”
“Not of a disposition for marriage?” Abby latched onto that startling statement. Was that how her family viewed her? As a spinster by choice? She’d had no alternative but to spend her youth looking after their parents without ever enjoying a London season. She had loved them dearly and had made the best of matters, yet that didn’t mean she had not yearned for more.
“Why, yes, you always seemed so cheerful living with Mama and Papa. It made me glad to see you content to remain at home when none of the rest of us were able to do so. You have always been the kindest and most caring in the family.” Rosalind gave her a woebegone look. “Are you certain you cannot find it in your heart to aid your niece on her journey to happiness?”
“I don’t understand what it is you expect me to do.”
“It’s quite simple. I shall seek His Grace’s permission to leave Valerie here for the afternoon. Then, when the storm strikes, you must convince him that the roads are a quagmire and beg leave for him to allow Valerie to spend the night.”
“Storm?” Abby blinked at the golden beams of sunshine streaming through the windows. “Don’t be absurd, there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”
“Lucille’s arthritis kept her abed this morning, and you know how her aches and pains always portend rain. You may be certain the weather will turn foul by nightfall.”
It was true, whenever Clifford’s wife suffered an attack, it foretold inclement conditions in the near future. But this once, Abby didn’t believe it. “Perhaps she’s still feeling the effects of yesterday’s rain. You surely cannot pin all your plans on such a flimsy hope.”
“What I hope is that I may count on you, dearest sister.” Rosalind clasped Abby’s hands. “Please, if you love Valerie, you must promise to do everything in your power to help her.”
Abby hardly knew how to respond. Her sister had placed her in an untenable position. She certainly didn’t wish for Valerie to end up a spinster like herself. Yet the mental image of her niece clasped in Rothwell’s arms, the subject of his ardent kisses, was simply too much to bear.