Duke I’d Like to F…

by Sierra Simone

  Cecilia dipped her head. “You’re very kind. Not many employers look benignly on their staff napping.”

  “So long as you do not make a habit of nodding off when you are supposed to be educating my children,” the duchess said, her tone still gentle, but there was no mistaking the iron beneath her words.

  “I won’t,” Cecilia vowed, burning with embarrassment. “I never sleep during the day. Today was anomalous.”

  “You have been looking rather exhausted these past few days.” The duchess’s dark eyes, so very like her son’s, regarded her thoughtfully. “Are you not sleeping well?”

  “I…” She couldn’t explain to her employer that, for the last two nights, Cecilia had been busy shagging her son, and worse, entertaining dreams of things that were impossible. “The weather has been so warm, it sometimes makes it difficult to sleep deeply.”

  The duchess gave a small laugh. At Cecilia’s questioning look, she explained, “The difference between what is considered a warm day in England and what we call a warm day in Napoli is vastly different. You poor, pale creatures do not understand what it is like to have the sun truly beat down on you as though you were in the boxing ring, and the sun the favored champion. Oh, but you’ve been abroad.”

  “I was in Napoli,” Cecilia said with a nod. “I experienced the baking heat there for myself. The coolest day there was like the height of an English summer.”

  Smiling, the duchess offered Cecilia the bonnet. “I found this tumbling across the lawn.”

  “My thanks.” She took her hat and returned it to her head, tying the ribbons firmly beneath her chin. Noting the black trim on the duchess’s bonnet, and the dark circles beneath her eyes, Cecilia asked gently, “Forgive me if I am impertinent, Your Grace, but if you are feeling weary, you’re welcome to have a piccolo pisolino here. The girls aren’t due back for…” She consulted the timepiece in her reticule. “A quarter of an hour. I can keep watch while you nap.”

  A corner of the duchess’s mouth turned up in a wry half-smile. “It is not so easy to sleep without my husband beside me.” She shot Cecilia a look. “Perhaps in England it is not so usual to discuss with one’s governess one’s sleeping arrangements.”

  “It may be somewhat unconventional,” Cecilia allowed. “However, there’s many a custom in England that isn’t entirely useful.”

  “How true, Miss Holme.” The duchess exhaled as she smoothed out her black skirts. “We are all learning to exist without the duke. Mi scusi, without my husband. We have a new duke—my son.”

  Attempting casualness, Cecilia said, “Your Grace must be pleased with how he’s assumed the role.” Merely speaking obliquely about Owen made her heart pound. It wasn’t typical conversation to discuss one’s lover with his mother—at least, not amongst the British aristocracy.

  The duchess’s smile was bittersweet. “Povero bambino, though he is no longer a bambino. He is, as my father would say, un uomo forte.”

  Quite forte, Cecilia thought.

  “My boy is not a boy,” the duchess went on, and Cecilia was relieved that the older woman did not have the ability to read minds. “He compares himself to his father and tries so very hard. I think he will be a fine duke.”

  “He isn’t one yet?”

  “He is on his way—he requires experience, yet already in the last few weeks I sense a difference in him. A confidence, and though I am glad of it, I cannot say what has given it to him.” The duchess’s lips quirked. “I would say that it is precisely the sort of swaggering a man possesses when he has a new lover, but Owen has not left the estate since he returned, so that cannot be a possibility. Unless it is someone on the property.”

  Cecilia bent her head over her book and ran her hands across its pages, as if she could read what was printed there with her fingers. Every nerve in her body tightened in preparation to flee, yet she made herself sit calmly as though her paramour’s mother wasn’t discussing the probability that her daughters’ governess was sleeping with her son. Granted, the duchess was not English, and did not have the English’s rigid, narrow views about propriety, but even someone used to more lax ideas of respectability would condemn Owen and Cecilia’s affair.

  “Though,” the duchess continued, glancing back toward the imposing manor house, “he leaves for London tomorrow, so perhaps there he will find a fine widow or courtesan. Young men have so much fire, you know.”

  A strange buzzing filled Cecilia’s head, and with it combining with a sudden, peculiar hollowness, she could barely hear herself say, “Leaving for London?”

  “Later today,” the duchess answered. “There are more appointments and meetings, which is the lot of a duke. He has not the luxury of sequestering himself in the country, but I am certain the change of scenery will be good for him. He will have the chance to be amongst people his own age, and though his father is recently gone, he might attend some of the Season’s smaller gatherings.”

  “That will be most beneficial,” Cecilia said, manufacturing enthusiasm.

  She ought to have known that there would come a time when Owen would leave Tarrington House, and he would seek out the company of his contemporaries. After all, she was nine years older than him, and she was not of his class. A wide chasm divided them, and it was better to keep reminding herself that nothing would bridge that divide than persist in some foolish fantasy that things could continue in perpetuity.

  Everything changed. She was mature enough to know that.

  Still. She hadn’t anticipated that two nights were all she and Owen would have. After revealing her history to him, he’d been so open, so accepting, when many others would not have been. It showed her the support he’d offered had been genuine, that she could trust every part of herself with him. It had been a long time since she had been able to be vulnerable. Yet she’d done so, secure in the conviction that he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Though the physical pleasure they’d shared had been beyond anything she had ever known, the bond growing between them made her anxious and unsettled.

  She shouldn’t confuse their affair with something more meaningful and lasting. The present moment was all they had, and entertaining dreams of a future together was an exercise in frustrating, heartbreaking futility.

  How long had he known that he’d return to London? Why hadn’t he told her he was leaving? Did he fear her response, or worse, did he think she didn’t merit telling?

  She stared at the book in her lap, though reading it was impossible.

  A shadow fell across its pages.

  “Am I intruding on a lesson?” a deep, familiar voice asked.

  “Give me a kiss, il mio ragazzo,” the duchess said affectionately.

  Cecilia glanced up to see Owen bend and press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. His neckcloth hung in loose folds, as though he’d picked it apart. She could picture him absently undoing the starched fabric as he reviewed one of the many letters he received daily.

  As he straightened, his gaze touched on her. She must have appeared upset, because a small crease appeared between his brows.

  She looked away, ruffling a hand across the grass.

  “You have fled your work?” His mother’s tone was lightly jesting.

  “Petitions. So many petitions, all of them asking for funding. Granted, they use different words but the meaning’s the same.” He made a noise of aggravation. “Giving people money isn’t at issue—we’ve plenty to spare.”

  Cecilia asked, turning back to him, “Then why are you looking like a wolf about to chew off his paw to free himself from the trap?”

  “Cramming at Oxford was a pleasant idyll compared to this.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m contemplating running away and becoming an itinerant tinker.”

  “Il stagnaio?” his mother said in alarm. “Perché?”

  “Banging on pots and pans seems positively tranquil by comparison.”

  “The first tinker with a family crest,” Cecilia murmured.

  “Pfft.” The duc
hess waved her hand. “A fine use of your excellent breeding so you could fix someone’s soup pot.”

  The reminder of Owen’s distinguished bloodline—and that he was tasked with protecting that pedigree—made Cecilia’s stomach clench. Shopkeeper’s daughters-turned-governesses would never be suitable for a duke.

  He glanced warily at her. “In lieu of taking to the open road, might I join you?”

  “The master of the house need not ask for permission,” his mother said.

  He smiled, which, to Cecilia’s dismay, made her heart leap. “I’m supposed to do what I please with no care for the consequences?”

  “Of course,” Cecilia said tightly. “That’s what men do. Especially men who are dukes.” Realizing that she had spoken rudely to him, and in front of his mother, she pasted on a smile. “I am jesting, of course. But I’ll leave you two. Surely you want time together as a family before His Grace leaves for London.”

  She began to rise, and he held out his hand in a staying motion.

  “Do stay, Miss Holme. It’s a beautiful day and I’d hate to deprive you of it by chasing you inside.” Contrition flashed in his eyes.

  Settling back into place, she tried without success not to look at him as he stretched his long body out on the blanket, but it was difficult with the sunlight turning his black hair glossy, and the sleeves of his shirt billowing in the gentle breeze.

  “Is everything prepared for your journey?” his mother asked.

  “Mostly,” he answered, “though I think Chalmers is slightly displeased with me for such a sudden departure.”

  The word sudden caught Cecilia’s attention. It seemed deliberately spoken. As placidly as possible, she said, “Mr. Chalmers is remarkably adaptable and resourceful.”

  “Fortunately for me,” Owen said, “given that I only learned I was leaving for London after breakfast, and have been sequestered in my study since then.”

  She glanced at him, but was careful not to look too long, lest she attract the duchess’s notice. “Did someone dare summon a duke?”

  “I must make my first appearance in Parliament as the Duke of Tarrington. There’s a bill my father was particularly invested in defeating, a bill regarding increasing the number of prison hulks. My father was against the idea. He favored less punitive measures for minor crimes. One of the bill’s other opponents, the Duke of Greyland, has requested my support and so I must go immediately to appear tomorrow afternoon.”

  Anger fell away, replaced by remorse. “Understandable that you would need to make a hasty return to London.”

  His warm gaze met hers, as though he was grateful she appreciated his reasons for leaving so suddenly.

  “But as long as you are back,” his mother said, patting his hand, “you will take advantage of the Season, sì? Perhaps find yourself a fine girl from a fine family, someone you can court.”

  The small measure of peace Cecilia had grasped slipped away, and her limbs filled with restless, unhappy energy.

  Color darkened Owen’s cheeks. “Cara mamma, I’m not in the market for a bride.”

  “It is too soon after the passing of your dear father,” the duchess said with a small nod, “but there is no harm in, how do you say, getting the lay of the land?”

  “We can discuss this another time,” Owen said, an edge in his voice. He shot Cecilia a quick look.

  “If not now, bambino,” his mother pressed, “when?”

  “Try me in a decade.”

  Cecilia pressed her lips together to suppress an unbidden laugh. The situation wasn’t amusing, yet she needed some way to release the tension building within her.

  The duchess frowned in displeasure. “Owen—”

  “Madre, no.” His words were firm as he sat upright. “Give me time to learn what it means to be a duke before forcing me into the role of husband.”

  His mother opened her mouth, clearly about to give him a tart reply, but Cecilia got to her feet before anything could be said. As she did, Owen politely stood, which, to Cecilia’s distress, caught the duchess’s attention.

  “Do excuse me, Your Graces,” Cecilia murmured, gathering up her book. “I’ll meet the girls back in the schoolroom.”

  She curtsied before hurrying away, striding across the grass as rapidly as possible. The house grew nearer, and she quickened her steps to reach the shelter it offered. Her throat burned with the need to weep. Though Owen had rebuffed his mother’s attempts to make him court a potential bride, the very fact that it was a possibility was an acrid burn deep within Cecilia.

  Don’t you dare lose your heart to him.

  “Miss Holme.”

  She spun at the sound of Owen’s voice and dipped into another curtsy. “Your Grace.” When he was close enough, she made sure her expression remained neutral, and she schooled her voice to sound dispassionate. “It’s unwise to talk to me on your own, especially if someone might observe us.”

  “I told my mother that I intended to ask you if you required any books for my sisters.”

  “It was still a risk that should not have been taken.”

  His dark eyes were warm and beseeching. “I couldn’t leave without speaking to you alone. Cecilia, tesoro.” He lifted his hand as if to take hers, but dropped it before they could touch—but she could not let anyone see how this broke her heart.

  “The moment I learned I had to leave,” he continued, “I wanted to tell you. But there wasn’t time.”

  The longing in his gaze pierced her. “You plan on remaining in London, I imagine.”

  “There’s so much that needs attending to.” His jaw tensed.

  “Naturally.” She gazed at the house, a handsome structure of warm stone that had been built shortly after the Restoration and sat grandly atop a long, gently rising hill. It was the sort of home that proclaimed the family’s ancient lineage, the care and continuation of which would always be attended to by its lord. Which included preservation of the bloodline through the getting of legitimate heirs. Precisely the reminder embodied by the farthing Owen’s father had given him.

  She was a governess, while he, the duke, existed in the highest echelon, swathed in power and significance. What was she to him?

  Transitory. She was transitory—there was no alternative.

  “I’ve heard London is delightful during the Season,” she said.

  “I wish it all to the Devil,” he said fiercely. “If you aren’t there, it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

  Her heart clutched. “What you and I have—it’s fleeting.”

  “I know,” he said broodingly.

  More than anything, she wanted to close the distance between them. Her palm throbbed with the need to feel his cheek, and she craved the taste of him on her lips.

  She remained precisely where she stood. A tall hedge served to shield them from his mother, but someone in the house might see.

  “Go to London,” she said. “Live your ducal life and surround yourself with the kind of people you are meant to. We’ve known from the beginning that this was finite.”

  He looked agonized, his expression tight as he gave the barest of nods. Which fractured her heart, just a little, because even he, a duke, could not fight several centuries of tradition and responsibility.

  She took a step toward the house, her every movement away from him a source of agony. As was proper, she curtsied again, showing respect to her better. “Have a safe journey, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Seven

  Afternoon lessons concluded, Cecilia headed along the corridor leading to the narrow servants’ stairs. Hopefully, the glorious early summer weather would lift her mood, though given the way her humor had steadily plummeted in the past week since Owen had gone to London, the chances of anything stirring her emotions was close to nil.

  She passed a housemaid and tried to smile at the girl. It was important to maintain some semblance of good cheer for everyone at Tarrington House, yet the cost was far higher than she would have believed.

  Missing h
im was a palpable ache, yet it was the scope of the loss that surprised her the most. She walked Tarrington House straining to hear his footsteps. On her solitary rambles, she drifted past the stables, hoping to see Orion in his stall as proof that Owen had returned.

  Never with other lovers had she wished for more, or yearned for what might have been. Yet with Owen gone—likely flirting with dewy, genteel debutantes—pain took up residence in the hollow of her chest.

  There were no letters, naturally. He couldn’t write to her without arousing suspicion, and she feared what such correspondence might contain. Either he missed her as much as she longed for him, or in the whirl and excitement of the Season, he’d forgotten her.

  He’d sent letters to his mother and sisters—she’d known because Ellie and Maria sometimes chatted about him as they’d come in for their lessons—and once, when Cecilia had admired Maria’s new coral necklace, the girl had said it was a gift from her brother. For Ellie, he’d sent a book called The Tower of London’s Most Blood-Curdling Executions, which had made Cecilia smile. He knew his sisters well.

  She’d been unable to question any of his family for information about Owen, partly out of fear that they might grow suspicious of her interest in him, and partly because she didn’t want to know if he was having a grand time, whirling from private ball to theatre box to dinner party. She didn’t want to learn that young and eligible girls were paraded in front of the new duke, hoping to secure his attention.

  Continuing down the empty hallway, her steps slowed as her body turned leaden. It was a relief not to have to pretend her entire being was suffused with longing, if only for a few minutes.

  She straightened her slumped shoulders when quick, heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Thinking that it was one of the footmen dispatched on an errand, she manufactured another smile and turned to offer a greeting.

  Words shriveled and her face froze when she found herself looking at Owen.

  He was windblown, slightly disheveled. Tiny flecks of dirt marred his breeches and boots, and his neckcloth was rumpled. Dimly, she recognized that the state of his person revealed that he’d just come from the road—he hadn’t been in his carriage, but on horseback.